#where it's very quiet and meandering for almost the entire song

[apollosbirthdayplaylist]

The Dresden Dolls - The Perfect Fit

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

The Sound of Gladness

Pairing: Umino Iruka x GN!Reader

Summary: Iruka thinks that, because you're his best friend, you're essentially his girlfriend - spurred by a moment of jealousy, he professes his feelings.

W/c: 2.3k

Warnings: Swearing, brief jealousy (and trashing on Kakashi (in a world where he is a whore)), sexual toward the end (mentions of masterbation and heated kissing)

Notes: this fuckass ask had me in stitches, so here you go. you guys are about 19/20 in this. also, lmk if this sucks.

Masterlist💿

Iruka always loved the way you laughed. He would listen to you laugh all day long, if he could. No music, from lute nor lyre, could compare to the silver touch your laughter held. Not even the most charming bird's song could hold a candle to the beguilement that accompanied your joy. He had always loved your laugh, even more so when it was of his doing, be that from a tickle, from a joke, or even from his embarrassing mistakes.

When he first heard you laugh, every single intonation had burnt into Iruka's brain forever-more. That was the first time he distinctly remembered thinking, everything's going to be okay.

It came from a distance, then your sweet melody neared, still indiscernible from an angel's hymn. With the softest chuckle, closer to him than Iruka had thought, you asked, "What are you doing out here?"

Slowly, Iruka opened his eyes, only to be met with the breathtaking twinkle in yours. As he lay in the tall grass, hands behind his head, all he could see was your gorgeous, young face, looking down at him. You smiled wider as he smiled up at you, and Iruka couldn't believe his luck. What ever had possessed you to wander so far into the forest that day, Iruka had always been grateful for.

"Watching the stars behind my eyes," he murmured, taken by your beauty. Iruka's mind had quieted for the first time in a long time, and he didn't want to disrupt the peace. He sat up as he added, "But I'd much rather watch the stars in yours instead."

To Iruka's immense pleasure, you widened your eyes and sat on the grass beside him. "We should be friends."

He agreed wholeheartedly, and that was that.

The two of you became attached at the hip, the best of friends.

You would come with him the monument where his parents' names were engraved, and you would take him to your house, where your parents would be waiting with open arms, always wide enough for Iruka too. Each Saturday, you two would spend the mornings in the hot springs, the afternoons tucked away in one of your bedrooms, and the nights meandering the streets and the forests of Konoha.

Eventually, the two of you were promoted to Chunin in the same exam, and the Third Hokage noted your chemistry - he began sending the two of you on missions together, exclusively, and Iruka couldn't have been happier. As you both aged, you grew together, closer than atoms.

Being your best friend in the entire world, Iruka got almost every perk of a relationship with you. Almost.

Your voice came from his kitchen, keeping his thoughts in check. Over the sounds of sizzling, you called out, "Iruka!"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He called back with a grin, the pet name rolling off of his tongue as easily as it had for years. He stood up from his desk and drew to the kitchen.

Iruka came in, immediately affronted with the decadent smells of spices and vegetables, and he saw you standing before the stove, moving the stir-fry around quickly with a wooden spoon. The grin on his lips only stretched when your turned your head to look at him. A beautiful glint occupied your eyes as you smiled back at Iruka sweetly, beckoning him with your wordless spell.

It was all very domestic. You two were practically married.

"You're up to serve," you said kindly, moving away from the pan after you flicked off the burner. Given Iruka had drawn so near, you bumped against him, stumbling and stepping on his foot as you moved to get the plates from the cabinet. Iruka's steady hands came to your hips, pulling you flush to him, ensuring you wouldn't fall. Your face tinted rose and you squeaked, "I'm sorry."

"It's quite alright," he mumbled, absolutely taken by the fragrance that occupied his nose. "Did you get a new perfume?"

"N-no," you stammered, getting warm under Iruka's touch. "It's two of the regulars, layered."

He should have known. Now that you confirmed it, Iruka could make out one of his favourite scents of yours. The sweet floral you were wearing consistently made Iruka's mouth water, but his absolute favourite perfume of yours was one a tad more citrus.

"Iruka."

"Yes, my sweet?" He inhaled deeply, eyes heavily lidded. The way you squirmed against him made Iruka's knees weak, but he stayed strong, pressing you infinitely closer to his body.

"Dinner."

"Okay."

Iruka relented, allowing you to get off of his foot. You got the plates out while he got behind the pan.

Everything Iruka wanted, he had in Spades, thanks to you. Well, almost everything.

You went to sit at the table that he had set a few minutes ago, while Iruka doled out the food and brought out the plates. He slipped back into the kitchen to get two glasses of water before, finally, sitting down with you.

Tucking your chairs behind Iruka's small table, you and he sat on opposite ends to indulge in the meal that smelled so decadent. As you inhaled deeply, Iruka sighed heavily, and looked at you as you took in the setting of the table. Goodness gracious, were you ever a sight to make Iruka's heart swell.

"This smells so rich," he hummed, making you look up at him with appreciation. "I must be crazy, 'cause I swear I can smell saffron."

"Mhm, I went to the spice trader today," you admitted. Iruka's eyes widened and he looked down at the golden-brown hued dish before him. You giggled, reassuring him, "Don't worry, I only got a hundred yen's worth. I didn't drain my cheque-book for a spice."

While he knew extremely well that a hundred yen would only translate to a pinch of saffron, Iruka couldn't help but to simply smile. You were laughing, and you had made a special effort, for him.

"So, what did you do today?" You asked, picking up your chopsticks.

Mirroring your movement, Iruka smiled and told you, "Absolutely nothing."

"Piss off," you grinned, shaking your head as your nose scrunched a little bit. "What about the mission report for Lord Third?"

"Handed it in this morning," he replied casually, waving his chopsticks a little. "So I got to laze around, until you came to brighten my day."

The way your cheeks tinted and you dipped your head drove Iruka crazy. It was like you didn't know what kind of effect you had on him. But there wasn't a way in Hell that was the case, not when the two of you were so domestic. You knew that you were biding time until-

"I wish I would have known you were home all-day; you would have loved the spice dealer, Kakashi definitely did."

"Hm?"

"I said I wish-"

"No, no, I heard you," Iruka said, feeling his heart threaten to stop beating. "What... what are you talking about Kakashi for?"

"He came with me today," you answered, seemingly unsure. "It wasn't planned or anything, we just met on the road, and we were going to the same place."

"Oh." Nothing to worry about. "Okay... well, what did you guys get, other than saffron?"

"Mm, I got some paprika, cumin... some cardamom, and then parsley, oregano and thyme," you listed, eyes traveling to the ceiling as if it would help you think. "And then Kakashi got... well, nothing."

"Nothing?"

You shrugged, returning your eyes to the meal, grinning a little as you said, "Yeah, I guess I was dragging him around too quickly. But... ah, never mind, I'll just have to take him back as an apology."

No, no, no. You didn't have to do that. Not at all. Kakashi knew goddamn-well that you were Iruka's soulmate. Who the fuck was he? Cripes, the village bike, the man who strikes fear into the heart of every boyfriend within the leaf. And Iruka wasn't even your boyfriend.

Kakashi was such a good friend of Iruka's, which was how Iruka knew, for a fact, his intentions were likely less than saintly.

"You two aren't... y'know..."

"What...?" Then realization washed over your face and your lip curled in disgust. "You must be joking. Seriously, that better have been a joke."

"I'm not," Iruka hummed, tilting his head to the side.

Putting your hands flat on the table, you looked deeply into Iruka's eyes. So deeply that he could feel the rest of the world melt, if only a little. Your face was dead serious, and there wasn't a trace of laughter in your tone as you said,

"Kakashi is my friend, and a very, very good friend, at that. Just like you are."

There it is.

Carefully, Iruka asked, "So, you hold me and Kakashi on the same level? There's not even a slight difference?"

"Of course there is, Iruka," you answered quickly, though it brought him no swift relief. "I've known you since we were fourteen, and I just gotten to know Kakashi. The thing is that Kakashi just left the ANBU, and needs a friend right now, and you've had me... aren't you a little sick of me?"

"Fuck no, I'll never be sick of you." Iruka could have overdosed on you and been happy. "You can't leave me for him."

"What are you talking about?" You laughed. "Leave you? How could-"

"You'll start spending more time with him, and he'll start taking you on nicer dates than I could ever afford, and you'll forget-"

"Dates? Iruka, what are we talking about right now?"

"You'll forget about me, because he'll be everything you want-"

"That's not true-"

"Yes, it is. Kakashi-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

Both of you stared at each other, lips drawn together. You were breathing quickly, while Iruka hardly felt like he was taking in air at all. He didn't want to.

After a moment, that stretched into eternity, you took a deep breath and said, "Let's start over. Today, I-"

"I love you."

"I love you too," you responded, dipping your head as if Iruka had just apologized. "So, today-"

"No, I love you, love you."

Your head tilted back, eyes widening crazily. Fuck it, he was already in the hole. It was a great seven years. With a breath that took up his whole chest, Iruka confessed what he had, stupidly, assumed was shared knowledge.

"I have since we were fourteen... I've only ever imagined marriage with you, sex with you... everything with you. It's always been you, always, always, always, and I kinda... just thought you knew it, and you were with me."

Your silence was like a bed of roses.

Sure, he got your beauty, for a few seconds longer, but the thorns were impaling him without discretion.

"I love you," he whispered, just happy to finally feel so very light. Iruka looked at the table and chewed on his lip. "If you want to go, I get it."

"I love you too."

Cripes, maybe he had passed out in the exhilaration.

Iruka couldn't believe you, not immediately, he had to remember how to breathe first.

"Have you ever touched yourself to the thought of me?"

That breath was ripped clean out of his lungs.

His head snapped up. Iruka couldn't tell where the question was coming from, but the embarrassed smile on your face eased him considerably. But, as eased as he was, Iruka stammered, not wanting to tell you his most well-kept secret.

Before he started choking on an answer, you pursed your lips and looked down, before mumbling, "I have, to you."

Hhhhhhhhhh. "What'd'y'think 'bout?"

"Sucking your cock, all the time," you admitted without reservation. Fuck. Iruka was rock hard under the table. "I know your cock is huge, and I really, really wanna know how much I could fit in my mouth."

Fuck. This had to be a dream. Or an inhumane prank. He took a shaky breath and hummed, "How d'y'know that?"

"'Cause a woman can tell, Iruka." You sounded hungry.��Starving. "And," you continued with a shy giggle. "We've had our sleepovers, I've woken up to your morning wood a few times."

That should have been mortifying. But it wasn't. It just made Iruka's cock throb beneath the table.

"I love you, love you, too," you grinned, taking Iruka's hand over the table. He could have melted then and there, and you only made him hotter when you added, "Let's go to your bedroom, I want to love you, love you."

Your wish was his command.

Neglecting to ever have a bite of the wonderful dinner that you had done so much to prepare, both you and Iruka stood.

For another heartbeat, the two of you stared at each other, and Iruka felt as if he woke up from the dream. Everything became real, tactile, and he needed to ensure that it was.

Taking a step so swift your eyes didn't even catch him, Iruka came to you and pulled you in by the waist. You didn't stutter for a second as your soft hands came up, one on Iruka's neck and the other cupping his check.

Immediately, you leaned in, but Iruka held you back, just observing you with a grand smile etched into his face.

You pouted, "Please, please, kiss me, at least. You've made me wait so long."

"I'll do more than kiss you, and I've waited just as long," he reminded you in a hum, one of his hands traveling down the small of your back. "I want to savour every second of right now, every star in your eye."

"You're so fucking cute," you chuckled before widening your eyes comically. "How's this? Can you see the twinkle of arousal?"

Your goofy ass, goodness gracious - Iruka loved you so fucking much. Damn it, yes, he could see the twinkle of arousal in your eyes.

He couldn't resist any longer, crashing his lips to yours so suddenly that you let out a small exclamation. Quickly, you filtered yourself into the kiss, and a distinctly spiced taste overtook Iruka's senses, giving him an insight into the dinner that was about to be abandoned. You were such a good cook.

Craving your taste, Iruka's tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you graciously parted your lips. Your tongue tasted so savoury, of cardamom and saffron - so expensive, so divine. He had to have more. More, more, more.

Without much experience, sexual or romantic, apart from his dreams of you, Iruka did as his instincts instructed. And he couldn't have been more glad that he had.

[quindolyn]

hi can i request the maurauders going to see the reader do a musical like heathers or mean girls and they are just confused and turned on bc they didn't expect it to be this dirty (can lead to smut or not). luv you and hope you are taking care of yourself, if not go get something to eat, drink some water, take a nap, or do somthing you enjoy. or dont not trying to be pushy :)

Creature of the Night || Poly!Marauders

Word Count: 3029 (excluding song lyrics)

A/N: I think I liked how this turned out? I didn’t make it smut but it’s certainly suggestive, I went with Rocky Horror, I know that the musicals mentioned in the request are more modern but I fucking love Rocky Horror and I think it works with the request. When I first read this request I smiled so much because I love live theater, I don’t perform as much as I used to because as I progress with my education I’m focusing more on the stuff I can use to pad my resumes for college and stuff but I still love going to see productions. One of the worst parts of the pandemic for me has been not being able to go see shows, I miss it so much.

Warnings: theatre enthusiast reader, erections, suggestive material, song lyrics, slight teasing, wearing very little clothing in front of an audience, I believe that that is it

Masterlist

500 follower celebration

antici-

The magic of the stage was second to none. Sure, Hogwarts may have had witches and wizards, subjects like Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and ghosts that spent their time meandering about the halls but there was always a part of you that looked forward to the summer between your years at Hogwarts. Because no matter how magical Hogwarts was, the theater always made you feel completely and utterly alive. 

Every summer since the one after your first year at what all of your muggle friends thought to be a very prestigious boarding school up in Scotland, you’d taken part in your local youth theater’s productions. Your parents both being muggles thought that it would be a great way for you to be able to stay in touch with your muggle origins. 

The first year you’d been far too nervous to actually audition for a role, the very thought causing bile to churn in your stomach and threaten to make you sick all over your kitchen floor when your father first pitched the idea. So instead you’d done costumes and it was the most wonderful experience of your life. 

Who needed drugs when you had live theater? The hustle and bustle behind the scenes was electrifying but after two summers of costuming, of quick changes in the wings, learning how to use the ancient sewing machines they stored in the depths of the storage rooms, and pulling pieces for the actors to try on you decided that you wanted to try something more.

The moment you had stepped onto the stage it was like you’d come to life and you cursed yourself for not taking the risk earlier. You belonged on the stage, with the harsh stage lights on you and pounds of makeup plastered onto your face you could feel the magic thrumming through your veins and it was addicting.

If it was possible, you were even more excited to perform this summer, the previous school year you’d finally gotten together with your long time best friends the Marauders, turning them from friends to your boyfriends.

When your mother had sent word of the production being put on this summer you’d squealed while seated next to James and across from Remus, who had Sirius hanging off of his side. After explaining to them, mostly Sirius and James really, just what live theater was their first reaction was to ask if they could come see you perform.

“I don’t even know if I’m going to be cast,” You had explained gently, not wanting to get their hopes up in case you weren’t cast this year.

“Bull shit of course you’re going to be the cast,” Sirius had contested through a mouthful of jam and toast, waving his hand theatrically through the air, watching him that day was not the first time you’d considered how the way he acted often reminded you of an over enthusiastic theatre major.

Remus, the only one with any knowledge on muggle theatre had snorted, wrapping an arm around Sirius’ waist to pull him closer to his body, “She’s not going to be the cast Pads, she’s going to be casted,” He’d corrected gently, pressing a kiss into his long, dark tresses.

“Whatever,” The smaller boy had grumbled, taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

Which brought you to where you were right now, five minutes to curtain touching up your make up in the mirror of the shared make-up room.

“Hey (L/N),” One of your cast mates called settling into the makeup chair next to you as she plucked a tube of dark red lipstick from the small canary colored makeup bag she had previously abandoned on the counter, “Your boyfriends coming tonight?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Yeah, they are,” You responded, applying mascara to your lashes.

“Excited to meet them, that photo you showed us,” She smiled, fanning her face with her hand, “Smoking,” She smiled, making eye contact with you in the mirror.

Rolling your eyes you ignored her comment, “It’s five minutes to curtain, you’re just now doing your make-up?” You chuckled, noticing her black face.

“Oh, shove it,” She laughed as you pushed yourself from your chair, traipsing out of the room, giving her the middle finger on your way out.

“Break a leg!” She called after you as the door latched shut.

You weren’t usually this nervous before a performance but knowing that your three boyfriends were sitting out there somewhere in the audience had you pacing back and forth backstage wondering what they were going to think of the whole production.

“Rocky Horror?” Sirius’ confusion evident in his voice as he plopped down in his seat next to Remus, throwing his arm around the werewolf’s shoulders, drumming his fingers on his clothed shoulder hidden behind his knitted cardigan.

“Yeah,” James collapsed into his chair on the other side of Remus, tucking one leg under his body, “No clue what it’s about but I’m sure our angel will be wonderful. Can you guys see her?” He straightened himself up in his seat, craning his neck in attempts to catch a glimpse of you.

Remus being the only one with any ties to the muggle world knew a bit about the show and had to do his very best to suppress a smirk from overtaking his face as he knew exactly what he and your other two boyfriends were getting themselves into. 

“Just hush up you two, the show’s gonna start any moment,” He scolded, patting his large, scarred hand on James’ thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Rem,” Sirius whined, puckering his lips and closing his eyes, signaling to his boyfriend that he wanted a kiss.

“My needy baby,” He crooned, leaning in to connect his lips with Sirius’ in a quick liplock before pulling back, allowing Sirius to drop his forehead to smear against his shoulder.

“That’s mean,” Sirius murmured discontentedly.

“Poor baby Pads,” James cooed mockingly.

“Both of you,” Remus hissed as the lights in the theatre dimmed, “The show’s about to start, be good for me and be quiet yeah?”

Their response came in their silence as the crowd started settling down and the music from the orchestra pit began a voice coming from somewhere out of sight as it was played through the speakers,

“Michael Rennie was ill

The day the earth stood still

But he told us where we stand”

Not 20 minutes into the show all three of them were as hard as rocks, James had already made Remus check the playbill for the name of the character you were playing, not being able to remember what you’d told them as all of his concentration was focused on a certain place.

Janet Weiss.

Remus couldn’t remember either, but he was almost certain that’s the name he could make out in the dark theatre, printed next to a picture of your smiling face.

When you’d stripped down to your underwear the boys could barely focus on the plot line of the show, only being able to watch the way your bare skin shone under the harsh light of the spotlights. Watching as sweat glistened on your skin, making you shine as you moved about the stage. 

Enchanted by the melodic cadence of your voice they all felt a certain jealousy burning deep in the pits on their stomachs at the thought that there were dozens of other people packed into that theater, all observing you in your vulnerable state of under dress. Only they got to see you like that.

Sirius missed much of the first act glaring at members of the audience who he deemed as looking at you for too long for his liking, but if you were being honest a 4th year smiling at you in the hallway was sometimes too long for his liking.

It wasn’t like any of them had never seen you naked before, in fact they’d all seen you naked more than their fair share of times but something about you on that stage in a white bra with a matching slip was driving them all crazy.

Especially Remus, whose ultimate weakness was seeing you in anything white which was one of the reasons you’d been so excited to invite them in the first place, knowing that they would be horny messes the entire time.

On stage you did your very best not to look out into the audience looking for them, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to stop a ginormous grin from forming on your face and you couldn’t afford to break character. Not if you wanted the night to go your way.

As the opening notes to “Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me”, rose from the orchestra pit you had trouble stopping a small smirk from pulling at your lips as you opened them, inhaling deeply before singing the first words of the song,

“I was feeling done in, couldn't win

I'd only ever kissed before”

Despite yourself you caught a glimpse of long dark hair in the audience, quickly taking a glance at Sirius’ face, eyes glazed over in lust, legs shifting uncomfortably with his mouth hanging wide open. 

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed another raven-haired boy’s mouth dropping as you shrugged off of your robe

“I thought there’s no use getting, into heavy petting

It only leads to trouble and, seat wetting

Now all I want to know, is how to go

I've tasted blood and I want more”

It was impossible to miss the way Remus’ jaw clenched as you laid your palm against Rocky’s chest, he was being played by your good friends who’d been working with the same theatre company as you since forever, he was like a brother to you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t lay it on extra thick tonight with your boyfriends in the audience.

Tracing a dainty finger down Rocky’s chest you pushed your body against his singing out the next lyrics of the song,

“I've got an itch to scratch, I need assistance”

You turned you and your cast mate so that looking over his shoulder you were able to meet Remus’ eye, sending him a quick wink before focusing back in on Rocky.

“Toucha, toucha, toucha, touch me

I wanna be dirty

Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me

Creature of the night”

Pressing your back up against Rocky’s chest you guided his hands with yours to your breasts, squeezing them as you followed the choreography you knew by heart.

You ripped your slip from your body with the help of Rocky leaving you in only your white bra, matching panties and a pair of small heels as you paraded around stage, belting the suggestive lyrics into the theater.

“Then if anything grows, while you pose

I'll oil you up and rub you down (down, down, down)

And that’s just one small fraction, of the main attraction

You need a friendly hand, oh i need action”

You smirked, thinking about all of the action you’d be on the receiving end of later that night as you sunk to your knees in front of Rocky, your hands grasping his thighs. Deciding to tease them perhaps a little more than necessary as you went through the number, curling your leg around his and pressing your bodies together so that there was no space between your two questionably clothed bodies.

As the number was brought to a close it was impossible for you to ignore the excitement bubbling up inside of you as you continued your way through the show you kept throwing glances at your boyfriends, always finding their eyes already trained on you. More often than not, on some body part other than your face.

If your boyfriends thought that they had a bit of a problem before that song they were in a terrible predicament now.

Remus caught Sirius on multiple occasions trying to move the hand that he was holding to grope at his crotch as he tried to buck up into his boyfriend’s hand. And much to his own dismay, Remus would pull his hand away, thinking it probably wasn’t the best idea to give his boyfriend a hand job in a crowded theater. Knowing that he wouldn’t have to worry about James touching himself because he would never dream of disobeying him, Remus divided his attention between you on the stage and keeping Sirius in check.

Each of the boys were counting down the seconds until the show came to an end and they could get out of there and relieve some of their tension.  As the curtains were pulled closed they all breathed a sigh of relief before they reopened, leaving all three of them bewildered and slightly annoyed, even more so when they noticed everyone around them standing as they applauded the actors.

Remus forced both of them up when you rushed to the front of the stage, curtsying as the crowd went wild, your boyfriends most notably. As you took your bow you blew a kiss to your boyfriends taking note of the uncomfortable way they all stood, trying to adjust their erections to make them less noticeable while simultaneously applauding you.

As you cleared the stage after curtain call you took your time, doddling towards the dressing rooms where you had left the clothes you’d arrived at the theater in along with a special outfit you’d brought for after the show. Usually you were one of the first actors to clear the theater after a show but tonight you took your time. Hanging up your costume with more care than anyone really should treat any garment with and certainly more than what it needed. 

You smirked mischievously as you pulled the you’d brought outfit from your bag and shimmied it up your legs before slipping the delicate straps up your shoulders. You glimpsed yourself in the mirror, the red satin of the dress clinging to your curves in an attractive manner, short enough to display miles of legs and low cut enough to show off a decent amount of cleavage and perhaps a sighting of the matching red bra you were wearing beneath it.

Slinging the back of your black heels over the heel of your feet you snatched your purse from the armchair in your dressing room before striding out to go meet your boyfriends in the lobby, where you’d told them to wait for you.

Their heads all turned as they heard the clacking of your heels against the tile of the floor, “Boys,” You greeted as they unabashedly took in your new appearance.

As he most often was, Remus was the first one to collect himself, “Puppy, you were wonderful,” He praised, walking to meet you as you approached him, leaning down to smear a kiss against your cheek, “You did amazing up there, so proud of you,” He threw his arm around your waist as you walked towards Sirius and James.

“We got something for you,” He explained, his grip on your waist tightening, “Jamie give it to her, yeah?” 

“Oh yeah,” The smaller boy grinned, remembering the bouquet he held cradled in his arms as he handed it over to you, “Here you go angel.”

“Thank you Jamie,” You said as you took it from him, closing your eyes as you buried your nose in the sweet smelling flora. As you opened your eyes you made eye contact with Sirius, who stood across from you, practically drooling as he took in your appearance without any shame, “They smell wonderful.”

“You okay Si?” You asked, looking up through your eyelashes, batting them innocently.

“Like you don’t know exactly what you did up there to us (Y/N/N),” Remus whispered in your ear, pressing his nose into your temple.

“You guys are the ones who wanted to come,” You lilted, rubbing one of the velvety petals between the pads of your thumb and forefinger.

“Could’ve warned us,” James mumbled, his eyes not leaving your thighs as he licked his lips, if it were anyone else you would’ve been uncomfortable but you couldn’t help but feel flattered whenever any of them ogled you. 

“And what’s with the dress Pup?” Sirius nodded his head appreciatively towards your dress, obviously admiring the way it hung on your body.

“What, you don’t like it?” You asked with fake hurt in your voice, knowing that he more than liked it, he fucking loved it. 

“S’not that,” Remus mumbled, nosing at your jugular, “Just that whole show, got us a little bit worked up. We didn’t expect it to be so sexual Puppy,” He nodded towards James and that’s when you noticed the erection he was still sporting. 

“Got us really worked up, can we go home now?” James asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to distract himself from his little problem.

“Jamie,” You whined, smiling wickedly, “I wanted to celebrate, I was thinking we could go eat somewhere, I was thinking maybe Thai food?”

You watched as Sirius ground his teeth, conflicted between needing to get home and not wanting to deny you from what you wanted. 

“Having fun teasing us Bunny?” Remus asked you with a sly smirk, knowing exactly what you were doing.

“M’not teasing,” You insisted, turning indignantly to your other boyfriend.

“Sure you aren’t,” He chuckled, “Thai sounds great (Y/N), wanna talk with you about the show,” The idea of teasing Sirius and James even longer was very appealing to Remus and he was ready to make the sacrifice of being teased himself, knowing that he’d be able to get back at you later that night.

“But-” James began.

“You wanna argue with me Jamie?” Remus challenged, raising a singular eyebrow.

“No,” He moped, “Of course not.”

“Good,” Remus said, nodding his head approvingly, “We wouldn’t wanna deny our Princess would we?”

James shook his head, eyes pleading, desperately seeking Remus’ approval.

“Pads?” Remus challenged, turning his attention to the other raven haired man.

“What? Oh um, of course not,” He agreed distractedly, dragging his eyes from your form to meet Remus’, his reluctance evident in his voice.

“Good,” Remus said pointedly, his eyes cold, daring Sirius to question him. When he didn’t the werewolf continued, “Let’s get going then, there’s a nice little restaurant a couple blocks away yeah?”

As you all hummed your consent you made your way to the exit, “Ten galleons if you can make James cum in his pants at dinner,” Remus whispered in your ear quietly enough so that  James and Sirius trailing behind you wouldn’t be able to hear you, you could hear the smirk in his voice as you exited the theatre.

“Deal.” This was going to be fun, you considered that you might have to invite them to come see the show again.

-pation

tagging: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @kittykylax @amourtentiaa @superbturtlemakerathlete

[seeyalaterinnovator]

Notes Between Sleep and Awake - Alex Turner Imagine

Word Count: 2K

Synopsis: Reader wakes up and Alex isn’t in bed, they set off to find him. 

A/n: This is pure fluff. I have a sweet tooth for sickeningly sweet fluff. I need it like I need air. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Your mind slowly came to, drifting in between the realm of sleep and awake for some time before growing more aware of your surroundings. Tiredly, you stretched your tight limbs out, half expecting to hit Alex in the process. You frowned though, when you soon realized that his side of the bed was unoccupied and cold, the covers settled indicating that he probably hadn’t been there for some time. 

Instinctively your fists rub over your eyes and you try to blink away the blur of sleep that lingered as you attempted to see the clock. 2:17 a.m blared in bright red numbers, and you sighed wondering where Alex was this late at night. 

A shiver ran up your spine as you peeled yourself from under the covers and out of the bed. The room while normally tidy, was slightly disheveled from your earlier antics, clothing littering various surfaces. Thankfully one of Alex’s button ups was slung over the back of the chair adjacent to the bed. You grabbed it and tugged the soft fabric over your torso, buttoning it up only half way so that it hung loosely around you without slipping off. 

There was still a bite to the air though, and the thin fabric wasn’t quite enough to keep you as warm as you’d like. So you opted to take the throw blanket from the end of the bed and throw it around your shoulders before setting out to find your missing boyfriend. 

Carefully you managed to meander through the hallway, checking each room along the way, all completely dark. Once you reached the top of the staircase was when you could see a distant light shining through. Carefully you bunched up some of the excess fabric from the blanket and began to tiptoe down the stairs, willing yourself not to fall still in the haze of being half asleep. 

At the bottom of the stairs you peered to the left and the right, trying to figure out where exactly that light was coming from. It wasn’t the living room, where you half expected to find him asleep on the couch with the tv still flickering - he did have the habit of taking a ‘nap’ and then not waking up to actually get in bed. But the couch was empty and you were stumped. 

That’s when you heard the muffled sound of piano chords through a mostly closed door, and you finally knew exactly where Alex was. Your bare feet quietly carried you toward the back of the house, this time with a final destination - the music room as you affectionately called it. Hands clutched the blanket around you tightly, snuggling in further as you nestled yourself into the door frame. 

Alex was sitting on the piano bench, hunched over slightly as he scribbled down something with a pen on a little pad you had stuck in there a few days ago. You admired how peacefully soft he looked, a few stray tendrils of hair fell in front of his face while he worked. His eyes were bright as his fingers moved back to the ivory keys, deft fingers pressing down and playing a few chord progressions before once again jotting them down. 

You wished you could bottle these moments and savor them forever. Watching Alex completely in his element, alone with his thoughts and an instrument which was nearly a continuation of himself at this point, was your absolute favorite thing in the world. Some of your favorite musical elements have come from this very scenario and you were curious to see what would come next. “What’cha workin on?” You asked, clearing your throat as you spoke. 

Alex’s attention quickly flittered over to you, spinning around from the piano with a concerned look pulling on his features. “Oh sorreh, did I wake yeh?” He inquired, his voice growing quiet as his expression softened. 

“No, I woke up and you weren’t there so I thought I'd come see what you were up to so late at night. I should have known.” You smiled, quickly diminishing the gap between you. 

Now hovering over Alex, you reached one hand out to thread through his hair, tenderly smoothing it down as you caressed the back of his head. Your expression was gentle and warm as you beamed down at him, locking loving gazes for more than a moment. “New song?” You hummed, leaning over to get a peek at his notes. 

“Yeh, I was layin’ there an’ had the idea, wanted ta write it down while it were fresh.” He mumbled shyly, eyeing his notes once again. It was very much his style to come up with something on a whim in the middle of the night, or first thing in the morning. It wasn’t all that rare of a moment to find him fiddling around with an instrument late at night, perhaps softly humming a little tune. 

He leaned back into you briefly, his back pressing up against your tummy while he glanced back at his notes. You hummed contently, reveling in the warmth he provided. “Can I hear?” 

“’S not really ready, but for yeh, anythin’.” Alex patted the seat next to him, shifting over a little so that you could sit comfortably beside him. You happily obliged, stepping over and taking a seat. Your bare thigh brushed up against Alex’s as you lowered yourself down and a rosy blush spread across the apples of your cheeks. 

Deft fingers began to play a little melody he had come up with, his voice incredibly quiet as he sang the words in hushed tones. You couldn’t have peeled your gaze from his lips even if you had wanted to, mesmerized by the way the words dripped past them so effortlessly, his voice ever rich. His talent never ceases to amaze you, but even more so at two in the morning when he was tired and in the haze of creativity. 

“I think it’ll sound better when I play it on me guitar.” He rasped, nodding over the few guitars that littered the wall. 

“I quite like the way it sounds now, but what don’t I like that you do?” You chuckled lightheartedly, allowing yourself to slump against him a bit, resting your head atop his shoulder. As you lay there, you could feel the way his chest vibrated with each hum and note he sang, effective in almost lulling you back off into sleep. 

Alex continued to mess around on the keys for a while with you snuggled into his side. Every now and then he would peer over at you, admiring the way you succumb to the sleepy feeling that fell over you. “Babeh..” He cooed, his hand reaching down to rub tenderly across the top of your thigh. You stirred for a moment, still not fully aware that you had even fallen back asleep. “Babeh let’s get yeh back to bed.” He suggested with another nudge, this time his hand squeezing lightly to stir you awake. 

“Mmmm...”You breathed in with another small stretch.

“C’mon.” He said, standing and pulling you up off the bench with him. Your limbs felt heavy when you stood, and for a moment you doubted if they would even be able to carry you all the way back up the stairs. “Alright...”

The two of you began the journey back to your shared bedroom, except that you had managed to start shuffling in the wrong direction once you were at the end of the hallway, heading back toward the living room. “Where yeh goin’ love?” He laughed, a suspicious eyebrow cocked in amusement. 

Instead of answering, you responded with a dazed groan, not entirely sure yourself. Alex’s hands snaked around the back of your hips, allowing himself to steer you back in the correct direction, and fortunately for him you didn’t put up too much of a fight. 

This continued on all the way up the stairs, much to your tired protests that you wouldn’t be able to make it. About halfway up you paused, blinking back at Alex, unable to will your body any further. “Alexxxx, I can’tttt...” You whined. 

“’S that so? Wha’ would yeh like me to do ‘bout it?” 

You didn’t really need to answer that question for Alex to know exactly what you wanted, he just wanted to hear you beg. He secretly found it adorable when you were tired and clingy, a bit stubborn. “You knowww..” You said with another pout.

“Hmmm, wha’s that?” He asked, feigning innocence, yet there was a sappy smile pulling at his lips. 

“Please, carry me.” You blinked up at him shyly, too tired to even care just how pathetic this was. All you wanted was to be close to Alex, and who would blame you for that? 

“Thank yeh, and of course.” He smiled, casually slinging you over his shoulder, not the way you had thought he was going to carry you. A sleepy, amused giggle left your lips as you settled against him, trying to prop yourself up against his back for support. “Alexxxx”

“Wha’ darling?” He responded, one of his hands giving the back of your thigh a playful squeeze. 

“You are impossible.” 

“Impossibly yours.” He noted, and your heart swelled. He was right, and that was all you could ever ask for. As long as it was you and him at the end of the day, that was all that mattered. Alex crossed back over into the bedroom and managed to flip you back over, easing you down onto the mattress before making quick work of his shirt, tossing it aside. 

You contently watched him as he moved about the bedroom, plugging in his phone or walking over to grab a pair of sweatpants to pull on. He looked so incredibly beautiful in the dim light, the shadows accentuating his features in a way that made your stomach flutter. You continued to watch, confused as instead of crawling in on his side, he decided to round the corner over to yours. His hands flitted down to his shirt which was hanging around your torso loosely, biting his bottom lip slightly as his gaze flickered over you. 

“Yeh are not goin’ to be needin’ this.” Alex spoke lowly, making work of the buttons util the fabric slipped down your shoulders, and he was able to tug it off of you. You felt the warmth creep over your skin, an unseen blush that he undoubtedly knew was there. 

Instead of going back to his side of the bed, Alex managed to crawl over you, hovering over you for a moment. His hair tickled your face as he leaned in, planting a warm kiss first to your forehead, and then to your lips. He stayed there, admiring how you blinked up at him with a sappy sleepy look on your face. He could stay like this forever, forget about the rest of the world to just spend it with you. 

Eventually he rolled over and tucked himself into his side of the bed, adjusting a few times before lifting the covers on your side to allow you to scoot in closer to him. “C’mere lovie.” He said, nodding toward his chest. Happily, you rolled over so that you were flush against his chest, face resting atop where his heart beat rhythmically. Naturally your legs entangled with one another’s, and his hand began to stroke over your head in a soothing pattern. You sighed happily, noting the warmth of your skin on his, he was always your little heater. It wasn’t long before you were all settled together, and the sleepy haze began to envelope you again. 

“I love you.” You mumbled, not even sure if you had actually said it out loud or if you had thought it in your head. 

“I love you most.” He smiled back, giving you a quick squeeze. “Now get some rest.” 

Alex began to hum the little tune he had been singing earlier, effectively lulling you to sleep. He wouldn’t rest until he knew you were well asleep and safe, opting to card his fingers through your hair gently until he felt your breathing steady and a soft snore huff against his chest.

[tobiosmilktea]

high fidelity — kuroo tetsurou

3.9k words | genre: fluff | warning/s: terrible writers block writing, ooc kuroo cause i suck | pairing: kuroo x gn!reader

↪︎ in which being the only two employees at a small record store meant that you and kuroo worked together almost every day. and not a single day has passed that you didn’t find your coworker absolutely insufferable. you think he’s annoying, and he thinks you’re cute. in reality, kuroo just sucks at flirting.

a/n: is the plot a bit of a mess? lowkey yeah, but ykw that’s okay cause i needed something stupid to write. this was also a bit self-indulgent cause homegirl just got employed at a record store (yay)

fucking tired—is what you would tell kuroo in the means of his grand intervention to mess with his favorite coworker of all time. granted, you were his only coworker in the infamously meager record store down some random alleyway in downtown tokyo.

those six words were how you would describe how you felt at that very moment. busy with doing what you were employed on doing rather than sitting around and snacking on some trail mix. one would assume that working at a rather small establishment meant little to no work, especially in hours where it was slow with no customers roaming up and down the aisles, but god were you wrong. you were the only one on the shift actually busting your ass off on the floor and at the register while all kuroo does is change the music playing on the store’s overhead speakers and hangs out.

sure, he does do his fair share of work here and there. occasionally he would even take over most of the manual labor of carrying all the new shipments of heavy vinyl records for the sake of courtesy, but at the end of the day, it was always you who would have to restock the displays every time.

so much for being a gentleman.

your feet hurt, your legs ached, your arms were sore. you were just glad that kuroo finally decided to get his ass up and actually walk around for once. he probably wasn’t planning on doing any work, simply just meandering through the aisles of vinyl just to see what to buy next with his 20% off employee discount. you honestly couldn’t care less. what you did care about was that the stool behind the cash register (aka the only place to sit inside the entire building) was finally free.

you settled yourself behind the counter, a sigh escaping your lips as your chin rested atop the palm of your hand.

you finally had a chance to rest. yet despite taking this rare opportunity, you couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit bored now that the store was practically deserted. then again, what did you expect from working at a small business? not to mention, it’s the twenty-first century and all forms of media was digitized and easily accessible by a single internet search. there were, however, a few old souls out there, still in love with the idea of having a physical copy of their favorite artist’s work.

you were easily one of those people.

there was something so endearing listening to strangers talk about their love for music—it’s why you started working here at TRAX in the first place as a sorry excuse to surround yourself with the physical embodiments of the best invention mankind has ever made. hell, you still had the old walkman that your father gave to you. it was from the 90s with its gray plastic chipping at the corners and scratched-off lettering. you even had his old cassette tapes always in your bag whenever you go out.

regardless, the quietness of the store wasn’t at all bad at times. if anything, you were fortunate that kuroo wasn’t annoying the shit out of you like he normally does—poking at your cheeks and teasing you to no end. in fact, it was a nice break from the overstimulation of the occasional busy hours that come out of the blue. from old men mansplaining how record players work to annoying middle schoolers trying to blast their terrible soundcloud songs on the store’s bluetooth speakers. perhaps the slow hours were a godsend.

it was absolute hell trying to chase those annoying thirteen-year-olds out of the store with the help of kuroo. causing a ruckus or not, the situation was a bit funny at the end. it was one of those rare moments you and kuroo shared a genuine laugh together.

a sigh escapes your lips then as you take out your walkman, plugging in the old headphones that came with it. the black, plastic ones with thin muffs whose wires tangle no matter how much you try not to. you place them over your ears.

today’s mood was classic 80s rock, something along the lines of queen, guns n’ roses, and journey beating into your ears as you let your eyelids rest for a few seconds.

however, your means to relax was immediately shut down when a hand snatches your headphones off of your ears.

“ouch,” you groan as the plastic of the headset scratched at your temple. you look over your shoulder at your coworker with confusion plastered all over your face. “what was that for?”

kuroo blinks with a sly smile on his face, “those things still exist?”

you flick him a look, “what do you want?”

“you don’t get paid to sleep on the job, you know.” kuroo gives you a pointed look as he hands you back your headphones.

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. the audacity. “i get paid by the hour and the store is literally empty right now,” you defend as you click your walkman on pause, “besides, aren’t you the one slacking all the time?”

“only when the boss isn’t around,” he hums.

“the boss is never around,” you huff.

“speaking of an empty store,” kuroo starts once again, watching you wrap the thin headphone wires around the body of your walkman. “d’you got any spare change?”

your eyes peer at him slightly, “what for?”

“to get a drink from the vending machines down the street, obviously.” replied kuroo.

yet another sigh left your lips, licking at its dryness as you reached into your pocket to reveal a few fifty-yen coins. it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t like anything from the vending machines in the city was that expensive. just anything to get him off your back again for peace of mind. “get me a one too while you’re at it,” you mutter, tossing the coins into his palm.

“why don’t you just come with me?” he asks, curious.

you shake your head, “i can’t leave the store unattended.”

kuroo clicks his tongue, feigning himself from rolling his eyes and just tugging you along with him. “come on, it’s not like there are any customers.” he gestures onto the barren floor as if its emptiness wasn’t already obvious enough.

“do i have to?” you groan. you just got comfortable and you weren’t exactly in the mood to walk all the way down the street either.

“yes,” he said sternly, hoping that it was enough to sway you, but surprise surprise! it didn’t. his unsuccessful (and oddly pitiful) attempt at convincing you to come with him caused the corners of kuroo’s lips to dip into a slight pout.

no matter how annoying your coworker was, thinking he wasn’t at all cute or the least bit attractive was a lie. when you look at kuroo, you’re not entirely sure what it was about him that made your heart skip a few beats despite your brain thinking the opposite. was it his sleek obsidian hair that was always styled perfectly? perhaps it was his eyes that were so pretty that if you looked at him for longer than a few seconds, you would be entranced? or maybe it was his witty charm that despite being annoying, you still found his presence nice to be around?

whatever it was, you hated to think there was even the slightest possibility that you liked kuroo more than you would like to admit. and the worst part of it all? perhaps you did like him more than a friend.

and that was the biggest problem.

how annoying, you think.

“pretty please,” he begged, his warm hands suddenly finding yours in the midst of your internalized dilemma and pulling you out of your thoughts.

the action catches you off guard as you snatch your hands back from his abrupt contact. eyes wide and heart beating heavy, you gulped when you noticed how close he was to you then. the action of you pulling away from him only brought kuroo closer like some odd twist in fate.

your thoughts pondered a bit as you looked up at him, still patiently waiting for an answer as he gives you a comforting smile. perhaps kuroo stepped a bit out of line this time, and there’s no doubt he feels a bit bad about it. he was about to pull away and apologize but after your thoughts spiraled for a few seconds you gave in with a nod.

“fine,” you say, lifting yourself off the stool as kuroo steps away from you with a grin. you follow him around the counter, taking your walkman with you as you pass it.

you just hoped no one came by while you two were out. the last thing you wanted to do was get fired all because your annoyingly handsome coworker wanted to get a mid-afternoon beverage.

your shoes muffled gently against the store’s floor—tap, tap, tapping in some form of patterned unison as you and kuroo left the building.

the backroads of downtown were quiet. considerably so compared to the main streets as there was nothing but tweeting birds, whistling cicadas, and an occasional bicycler whizzing by. it was such a nice day, perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to go out after all.

there was something incredibly calming about afternoon strolls down the street, feeling the rays of sunlight beaming down on your face as you further melted into an earth-smearing mood while you unpaused your walkman.

your headphones laid around your neck with the volume set on max this time just so kuroo could listen in. the corner of his lip quirked up a bit as you did so. it was like a nod of approval within a minuscule gesture. then again, you and kuroo always had a similar taste in music—messy and all over the place, but the classics are where you and he truly had the most in common.

the walk there was short and quiet. usually kuroo doesn’t mind being the one to strike up a conversation, but right now, it was as if he was trying to savor something at the moment that you couldn’t really pinpoint.

upon arriving at the rows of vending machines, kuroo slips in a few coins before pressing one of the buttons. he opted for a calpico, watching the can fall from behind the glass before bending down to pick it up. kuroo doesn’t even give you a look before he puts in the rest of your change, let alone ask what you wanted. the boy presses on the button right below a matcha drink—the exact one you were planning on getting.

he bends down when the drink dispenses and hands it to you on beat with the music emitting from your headphones.

“thank you,” you say, a bit dumbfounded as you opened up the can.

the slight confusion was evident on your face as kuroo couldn’t help but find your curiosity absolutely adorable. “i always see you with that drink whenever you come in for work,” he explains, chuckling as he takes a sip from his own. “assumed you liked it a lot.”

you couldn’t help but blush at his words, feeling your heartstrings suddenly tug at the thought that he knows you enough, let alone care to even remember such a minor detail. letting out a shaky breath that you hoped was drowned out by the music, you lamely attempted to hide the crimson red hues on your cheeks as you take a drink.

“i’m surprised you’d even remember something so insignificant about me,” you mutter as you two walk back to the store, yet this time your pace slowed along with his.

it seemed as if you weren’t the only one wanting to spend a little more time like this.

“i mean, it’s you.” kuroo replied, fingers nervously fiddling. “you are my favorite coworker after all.”

which wasn’t at all a lie. it was true. you were his favorite, but it was nothing more than a panicked and questionable explanation in the means of nonchalance. he couldn’t exactly expose himself out of the blue ever since you two talked about what you looked for in a partner. he recalled your words of wanting to find someone who cares about you and can remember every detail about you regardless of what it was. and much of his dismay of explaining his type to be the exact same of your own traits and characteristics, his sorry excuse of casually flirting completely flew over your head.

and if he’s coming to think of it now, all of kuroo’s sorry excuses of flirting probably went over your head. he mentally faced palmed himself. god, you probably thought he was the most irritating guy on the planet.

yet to his rapidly beating heart, you laughed, practically beaming at him. kuroo swears you could literally send him into cardiac arrest. “i’m your only coworker, idiot.” you tease before taking another sip.

he grins.

“gives me an even better reason to care then,” he hums, pulling the door to the store open just to be met with a thunderous shout.

you two were met with the owner of TRAX record store aka your boss. the short, pudgy old man with a receding hairline and a scowl on his face stood by the counter, arms crossed over each other like a disappointed parent.

“where have you two been?” he grunts, his familiar adenoidal and croaky voice ripping through your eardrums as you hurried to pause your walkman. “leaving the store unattended just to get drinks? you two are lucky i got here when i did because a customer just came by!”

your lips purse together nervously as the grip around your can tightened. kuroo notices your unease, giving you an apologetic look. he turns to face igarashi, your boss, “sorry sir, that’s my bad. i was the one who convinced (y/n) to come with me even after they said no.”

“oh really?” your boss tested. his hand came up to his chin to scratch the few strands of beard hair he even had. he scoffs, “of course it is.”

your neck swivels up towards kuroo as guilt melted into your bloodstream. knowing igarashi, he wasn’t the type to lay easy on simple mistakes. it was the only reason why you were glad he wasn’t here often in the first place knowing that he was like a ruthless hawk with eyes that followed you everywhere.

“it’s not entirely his fault, sir. i knew better but i still decided to go.” you muttered, refusing to look kuroo in the eye as he looks at you surprised.

igarashi lets out a huff as his eyes closed for a few seconds, “my therapist told me to take deep breaths whenever i feel as if i am about to lash out,” he explains before pulling himself together. he opens his eyes, tone much calmer now but the words were still like venom. “since you two were at least truthful about it, i will let it go this time, but know it won’t be the next time around. alright?”

you and kuroo nod, “yessir.”

“good. now, i want this place spotless by the time i come back.” with that your boss disappears into the back where he would be for the rest of the night–not helping at all. he stays in the backroom just to nap and to get away from his own unhappy marriage. you just hoped he stayed there until the end of your shift.

with your pulse calming, you took a sip of your matcha drink out of comfort, finishing all of its contents before throwing it into the trash bin. kuroo does the same thing, this time out of the fear of getting in trouble again as for the first time in a long time, you hear him ask you, “should we get to work then?”

you almost wanted to laugh. you were oddly giddy about working alongside him rather than vexed, nodding in response. both of you grab one of the grates of newly shipped records from behind the counter, ready to be put on display as you and kuroo worked down the same aisle.

with your walkman still on hand and your headphones wrapped around your head, you decided to play the cassette tape again just to ease the underlying awkwardness that was still in the air.

when you paused your walkman earlier, it stopped near the beginning of good old fashioned lover boy by queen. and the moment freddie mercury starts vocalizing, you could practically feel the ice around the two of you melt, heads bobbing to the beat as you two worked your way down the jazz aisle.

it went like this for the next hour. songs ranging from artist to artist, humming lightly to the beat of every drum. usually, kuroo wouldn’t last two minutes without complaining about doing work, but for once he didn’t mind knowing that you’re right next to him, mumbling the lyrics together in incoherent unison. if he knew working with you was going to be like this, he wouldn’t have been such a slacker after all. you could honestly say the same thing.

the cassette tape pulls to a stop, reaching the end of its duration as you and kuroo reach the bottom of the crate of vinyl records. as you reach inside to take out the last few albums, a gasp escapes you as your eyes fall onto one of the records. it was one that you have been dying to get for years now.

you put your walkman and headphone set down, grabbing the album.

“no way,” you grinned, capturing kuroo’s attention as he looks over at you curiously. “look, look!”

“tears for fears?” he says as a small switch flickers in his brain. “isn’t that your favorite 80s album?”

you nod, happy to think he even remembered that about you as you rush over to the cash register. you buy the album without a moment of hesitation, already freeing it from its plastic wrap as you reach kuroo again. you open the cover, beaming at its beautiful design. you couldn’t wait until you got home to listen to it.

at the end of every other row, there was a record player display that customers were able to use. taking out the delicate vinyl, you carefully placed it on the player’s mat with delicate fingers. you pick up the needle, hovering it over the edge of the record before placing it down gently.

on either side of the record player, there were hooks to hold headphones. each of which was connected to the machine as you quickly pull kuroo over. taking the headsets from the hooks, you put one of the pairs on before placing the other over kuroo’s ears, tiptoeing just to reach his height. almost immediately one of the most iconic songs of the decade stream into his ears. it was everybody wants to rule the world—one of your favorite songs.

you two stood there in silence, listening to the song’s nostalgic beats as your bodies faced each other. while you were looking over at the spinning black vinyl, kuroo eyes fell on you.

there was absolutely nothing in his wake to be able to take his admiration away as this, this beaming expression on your face had something special about it. it was as if his entire world was right in front of him, just an arms reach away.

his heart couldn’t slow for a minute as he could practically hear it over the music playing in his headphones. his breath gave way then, at the moment you turned to look back up at him with glowing eyes as if you struck gold. you consider yourself lucky being able to get your hands on such a rare vinyl, but kuroo considered himself the winner as he had you.

“do you like this song?” you asked him curiously, ignoring the way your heart started beating rapidly from the way he was looking at you with such care and admiration.

you were so close, you were literally right there. all of kuroo’s emotions that battered onto him like a cumbersome downpour can be relieved if he were to just say the words. a simple phrase, three short words, and a heavy heart beat. ready to leave his tongue and all would be done.

come on, just say it!

“I like you,” he says out of the blue, but his voice was a bit muffled due to the headphones.

your eyebrows furrow slightly, mouth suddenly running dry as your eyes widen.

did he just say what you think he just said?

you are not entirely sure what he said considering his words were partially drowned out by the music. you wanted to think that he did say the words of the impossible, but you couldn’t be so sure of yourself.

“sorry, what did you say?”

kuroo’s hands wrap around your headset, pulling them off of your ears and placing them around your neck. “i said i like you and i wanted to know if you wanted to go out sometime!” he says ratherly loudly. his headphones were still on him blasting tears for fears.

you couldn’t help but laugh, the back of your hand coming up to cover your reddening cheeks. warmth surrounded your heart, like a hug that squeezed at your chest in the most comforting way possible. you raise your hands up, cupping around the shell of his headphones as you pull them off of kuroo.

“you’re so loud,” you mutter.

as if fate decided to push you into the unknown with a strange burst of confidence within you, you got up on your tiptoes and leaned it. pressing your lips against his, soft and light, your skin ignited ablaze.

in a mere moment of serendipity just to test out the waters, you were pulled in deeper, mind blurring in satisfaction. yet it was nothing more than temporary as the sound of infamous footsteps gradually got louder and louder. panicked, you pull away quickly just seconds before igarashi emerges from the aisles, staring bullet holes into you and kuroo.

“i suppose you two are working?”

you nod, pulling your wrists out of kuroo’s grasp.

kuroo quickly answers, “we are, don’t worry.”

your boss lets out a suspicious hum as he gives you two one last look. he turns back around again, disappearing into the back.

a sigh of relief leaves you as you turn back towards the boy in front of you. he still waited for an answer, almost desperate to know as his eyes searched for an answer.

grinning, you pause the record player and kuroo watches it spin to a slow stop. “you’re an idiot,” you say with a laugh.

kuroo doesn’t seem to care at that moment, if anything he was just glad there were no one else was around. his hands wrap around yours again, “well, is that a yes or a no?”

“so that kiss wasn’t obvious enough for you?”

liking someone you found annoying was impossible, but liking your annoying coworker? now, that was a different story.

general taglist: @yongboxerrr @rosepetalhaven @tvwhoresblog @tanakaslastbraincell @kellesvt @kitsunetea @milktyama @anejuuuuoy

[gingeralepdf]

Walk On By - Part 2

A/N: yay!!!!!! another installment in the shroomrry cinematic universe is here!! i want to say a huge thank you to el ( @harrytheehottie​ ) and brailey ( @daydreamsofh​ ) for being excellent beta readers and supporters. <3 <3

and thank you to everyone who has shown my writing love. i truly appreciate it so much. i hope you like this part just as much as the first one. :-)

if you haven’t read part 1, catch up here!!

🍄✨🌈✨🍄✨🌈✨🍄✨🌈✨🍄

****CONTENT WARNING**** alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use

You’re simply buying magic mushrooms from Harry. However, if you keep running into each other, is it going to stay that simple?

word count: just under 5k

**September 15th, 1977, Los Angeles, California**

The brakes on your car squeal as you pull into the last empty spot along the curb and shift into park. The music from your radio comes to an abrupt stop when you turn the key back to shut the engine off. Your head hits the headrest behind you before you empty your lungs into the silence.

Cars drive past on the street to your left. It’s just past five thirty, so all of the after work traffic is in full swing.

You’ve been avoiding this errand for two weeks now. There’s a record that you’ve been wanting to get your hands on ever since one of your coworkers played it at a work function. After looking through shelf after shelf in all of your favorite shops in L.A., and even making some calls to shops in surrounding areas, they’ve all come up short.

This seems to be your very last resort. Right across the street, sandwiched between a donut shop and a hair salon, is Jupiter House Records. From what you remember, this shop has a really good selection and variety, but the handful of unpleasant interactions you’ve had with the owner have been enough to make you look somewhere else. You’ve been stubbornly avoiding this place for years. Now you have a whole other reason for not wanting to spend hours in this store digging through to find your favorites or discover new ones.

Harry works here.

You haven’t seen him since he showed up on your doorstep to return your address book. The conversation you had with Jenny when she came home from work that evening plays through your mind again.

Both of you plop down on opposite sides of the couch in your living room. You sigh and take a big sip from your glass of wine before explaining the whole interaction to her, starting from the moment you opened the door to the moment you saw him drive away in his car.

Jenny grins. The only sound in the room comes from the ticking of the clock on the wall as you wait for her response. “I think he likes you.”

You squint. “That’s what you’re taking away from all of that?”

Her eyes widen and she springs forward, almost sloshing the wine out of her glass when she sets it on the coffee table. “Oh, so you’re telling me he saw the ‘If lost please return to..’ in your address book and decided to make a trip to our house to return it to you in person, when he could have just sent it in the mail?”

You can feel a crease forming between your eyebrows and you take in a sharp breath, fully prepared to counter her point, but she barrels through.

“And he wanted to ‘make sure you were okay’. Out of all the dealers that we’ve met, how many have just shown up at our houses to check up on us? Zero.”

You press your lips together. You can’t argue the fact that this alone sets Harry apart. However, this doesn’t mean he likes you. Maybe it just means that he’s the kind of person that goes the extra mile for the people he does business with. He could have easily left you and Jen sitting on the sidewalk after the concert, but he decided to help, to do what any other good-natured person would do.

“And let’s not forget how he threw the paper on the doorstep so you wouldn’t have to walk all the way down the driveway.” Jenny clutches her chest and swoons.

Scoffing at the way she’s adding dramatics, you challenge, “How do you know he didn’t show up here to see you?”

“He didn’t ask about me, did he?”

“No,” you begrudgingly mumble into your glass.

She grabs her glass from the coffee table and gives you a knowing look. She’s made her point, and the more it lingers like the aftertaste of wine, the more conflicted you become.

You’ve spent more idle moments than you’d like to admit since then thinking about the night you were sitting outside of the Forum. Thinking about what possessed you to lean in and study his face so closely. Was it solely the effects of the drugs? If that’s the case, then why do you want to go back to that moment so badly? And why didn’t Harry pull away? Did he really blush when you were staring at him? Was his heart really racing when you gave him a hug, or was that just your wild imagination?

The honking of a car brings you out of your thoughts. You take a deep breath and trill your lips. There’s a slight break in traffic. If you don’t get out of your car and cross the street now, you fear you’ll stay here stuck in your thoughts all evening.

With a huff, you rip your keys from the ignition and push your door open. You cross the street, walking with a purpose, and make it to the sidewalk.

The full strength of your nerves doesn’t hit you until you’re just in front of the store and the glass door swings out with a simultaneous chime of a bell. Your heart drops from your chest to your stomach and you freeze on the sidewalk to avoid colliding with the man exiting the shop.

When he stops to hold the door open for you, it takes you a moment to gather yourself. You mutter a ‘thank you’ as your hand firmly grips the cool metal of the door handle. Almost like you’re using it as a crutch to get you through the threshold.

Your shoes meet the shaggy mustard yellow carpet, matted down by years of customer traffic.

A woman that looks about your age greets you from behind a counter to your right. You return her half smile and she goes back to flipping through the magazine on the counter in front of her. The nametag on her floral shirt reads ‘Nora’. Behind her is a door with a red ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY’ sign taped to it.

Underneath the counter that she’s leaning on is a glass case holding records and cassette tapes, all marked ‘deluxe’ or ‘limited edition’. Spread out next to them are a few t-shirts, buttons, and stickers with the store logo printed on them.

You weren’t expecting it to be so quiet. Right now it seems like you and Nora are the only people in the store. The coast is clear. You can relax a bit. The adrenaline rush you were feeling on the other side of the door has now been replaced by the whirring of the air vents and David Bowie’s “Queen Bitch” playing over the speakers.

You turn to your left to take in the rest of the store, meandering into the first row of record shelves.

The large window taking up the entire front wall lets in plenty of evening sun that warms your skin through your shirt. More shelves, each one three tiers deep, line the rest of the walls and create aisles in the middle of the room.

Signs hanging from the ceiling above each section indicate the genre. The one you’re standing next to is labeled ‘new releases’ with a smaller font that reads ‘alpha by artist’. Other sections are labeled country, rock, disco, classical. Your eyes land on the back corner of the store where the funk, soul, and jazz sections are.

You make your way over while pulling your sleeves up to your elbows.

Unsure of which specific section the record you’re looking for will be in, you decide to start on one end of the corner and search all the way through to the other in hopes of finding it.

You fall into a familiar routine of searching through the first tier, then the second, leaning over to search through the top tier, and then taking a step over to start the whole process again.

Once you’re about halfway through the soul section, the bell on the door chimes again. You can’t be bothered to look, not wanting to lose your place.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Goddamnit. Your hands freeze their movements and your heart begins to race all over again. You know exactly who just walked through that door.

“Harry,” Nora admonishes, “I finally have a date after two months and you’re gonna make me late.”

Harry’s mumbled response is drowned out by the loud creak of the door behind the counter, but judging by Nora’s gasp and the unmistakable thwack of a magazine, maybe it’s better left between the two of them.

You begin to slowly file through records again, this time not paying much attention to what you’re doing. More-so to give your hands something to do and appear busy while trying to hear the rest of their conversation.

Nora sighs, “It’s been really slow today. Hopefully it’s a slow night for you.” All you hear is some shuffling before she adds, “Oh, boss wanted me to remind you not to play the music too loud.”

“Did he? Dunno what he’s talking about,” Harry says, feigning innocence.

Nora laughs, “Whatever.”

The next thing you hear is the jingling of keys and footsteps across the carpet.

Harry raises his voice from the back room, “Are you gonna punch out?”

“Will you do it for me? I’ve gotta go.”

“Sure.”

The bell on the door rings and Nora yells from the doorway, “I left three boxes in the back for you to restock!”

“Oh thanks,” Harry yells back with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“Bye,” she sings as she walks out.

The door slams behind her. The bell’s high pitched ringing seems to hang in the air.

Silence falls on the room when the song playing over the speakers stops suddenly, making the room quiet enough to hear the traffic outside. You hear a needle drop and after a few seconds, the opening guitar notes of “Can You Get to That” by Funkadelic begin to play. The corners of your mouth turn down to fight a smile when the volume is promptly turned up much louder than what it was when you walked in.

You take a sharp breath in, realizing that you’re going to have to turn around at some point. Surely you can’t just stay in this corner and keep your back turned to him until the place closes. You don’t know what you’re going to say to him. Will he even recognize you after not seeing you for weeks?

There’s not much time to decide what to do when the sound of footsteps approaching on the carpet is getting closer to you.

Your heart leaps into your throat when you hear his voice.

“Finding everything alright?”

You turn your head to the left.

Harry is standing a few shelves apart from you with a box propped between the shelf and his hip. The sunlight from the window shines through the ends of his hair and the sleeves of his white t-shirt when he grabs a record from the box and reaches out to carefully wedge it back into the right place. You scan down to where his shirt is tucked into a pair of dark brown corduroy pants, and further down to see a pair of dirty white sneakers peeking out from the ends of the flares. When he turns his head to the box again, you notice that his mustache is significantly thinner from the last time you saw each other.

Heat rushes up your neck and onto your face when he glances up at you.

His hand pauses in the air and his eyebrows raise slightly before the corners of his mouth do the same, revealing just a hint of his dimples. His head tilts back and he blinks in surprise. “Oh… hi.”

You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding when he addresses you by name. Mirroring his smile and turning your shoulders to face him, you reply, “Hi. I… didn’t know you worked here.”

A flat out lie, but thankfully he doesn’t seem too suspect about it.

He frowns and looks down at his shirt, pulling it out in front of him to reveal his nametag. “Hm. M’ afraid I do,” he says flatly.

A breathy chuckle leaves you, amused at the way he’s effortlessly making sarcastic remarks like this with you and his coworker. Quite different from the stiffly awkward interactions you’ve had with him. It’s like you’re seeing him in his natural environment. Him being at ease is having the same effect on you.

“Do you need help finding anything?” he asks, continuing his previous actions, this time with a soft smile.

“Actually, yes,” you clear your throat, “I’m looking for this specific record. I’ve looked all over for it by now. I’m pretty sure it should be in one of these sections if you have it, but...” you trail off as you cast a glance over your shoulder to the shelves you have yet to go through.

“I can take a look in our inventory. Save you some time?”

Of course. Why didn’t you just ask about that when you first walked in? “Sure. That would be great.”

Harry hoists the box into the crook of his arm with a faint grunt and you follow him over to the counter. After setting the box at the end of the countertop, he walks to the other end and reaches underneath the register, pulling out a large beat up binder with ‘inventory’ written on the spine.

It lands on the counter with a plop, probably due to the huge stack of paper inside, separated by multicolored tabs.

“What’s the artist’s name?” he asks after opening the binder to the first page.

“The Equatics.”

He pulls on the ‘A’ tab and folds it over.

“Oh, sorry, it’s Equatics with an ‘E’.”

He tuts and shakes his head before tracing his finger down and pulling on the ‘E’ tab. “Equatics with an ‘E’,” he mumbles.

You fold your lips between your teeth.

Now you’re thankful for the loud music filling the room as you’re standing wordlessly in front of the counter watching him flip through the pages of the inventory binder. Hair hangs in front of his face as his head is tilted down to scan over the pages, all filled with scribbles, arrows, and notes in the margins written in blue, black, and red ink. It all means nothing to you, especially looking at it upside down. You can only imagine how tedious it must be to keep up with.

With his left hand pressed flat against the counter, the expanse of his arm is right in front of you. Hopefully he can’t feel your eyes surveying his tattoos, at least the ones you can see from this angle. A small cross on his hand, an anchor on his wrist, the tail of a mermaid, a delicate rose near his elbow, a heart just beneath the hem of his t-shirt.

He inhales sharply and clears his throat into his fist, “Looks like we do have it. It’s actually in our as-is section.” As he’s speaking, he spins the binder in your direction and slides his finger almost to the bottom of the page to point out where it lists the artist, album title, and the section it’s in.

Despite the relief that comes with finally finding something you’ve been searching for, your face falls a bit. You know that ‘as-is’ is often just a nice way of saying that something is heavily used. “Does that mean it’s… damaged?”

Harry hums and tilts his head to the side, not meeting your eyes until he responds.

“Not always. Honestly we’re pretty much required to put stuff in that section even if it’s just the sleeve that’s messed up. Sometimes the record itself is still in great condition. You can still find some good stuff in there.”

“Okay. Where’s the as-is section?” You don’t remember seeing a sign for it when you walked in, unless you just overlooked it.

“Right. It's, uh, down this hallway here. Kind of hidden.”

Harry rounds the end of the counter and you follow him over to a doorway covered with a ruby red beaded curtain. Harry pulls it to the side and steps through first, pausing to hold the curtain back for you. You mutter a ‘thanks’ and step into a long hallway that extends to your right.

He releases the curtain, letting the beads crash together, before starting down the hallway.

Both walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves full of cassette tapes, with each row of shelving just tall enough to fit their size. There’s so much packed in this long stretch of narrow space, like a condensed, fluorescent-lit cornucopia.

“I had no idea all of this was back here,” you comment, slightly dumbfounded that you probably would have overlooked this hallway entirely if it hadn’t been pointed out to you.

“Yeah, lots of people think it’s off limits because of the curtain. I need to put some signs up or something.”

As you’re walking behind Harry, you realize you were too distracted before to see print on the back of his shirt, let alone make out what it said. Bold purple font reads ‘MY MIND IS UP ON THE MOUNTAINS’ with a smaller font at the bottom that reads ‘(and i didn’t even have to climb)’. The words are surrounded by a sun, a few flowers, a picture of a mountain, and two mushrooms on the bottom.

A smirk creeps onto the corner of your mouth at how incredibly on the nose it seems for him. It makes you wonder if anyone here knows about his other job, or if he’s hiding in plain sight.

Once you’re both about a third of the way down the hallway, there’s a gap in the shelves on the right filled by a nondescript doorway.

“Here we are.” Harry stops and reaches on the other side of the doorway to flip the light switch before stepping back and gesturing for you to walk in first.

You step into a small room. It only contains two long folding tables pushed against opposite walls. Rather than fancy, neat shelves, the records here are stored in milk crates and cardboard boxes lined up on the tops of the tables. It almost looks like you’ve come across a garage sale.

You furrow your eyebrows and purse your lips to the side as you walk up to the first box at the end of the table closest to the door. When you reach in, Harry speaks up.

“I could help you look for a bit, if you want.”

Harry’s now leaning against the doorframe, running a hand against his jaw. Do you see a slight tinge of pink creeping onto his cheeks as well?

“I don’t really have anything better to do. Plus this section... isn’t really organized,” he continues.

You bring your attention back to the box in front of you, a sharp breath escaping your nose when you turn the Johnny Cash record back to reveal a Mozart one behind it. “I can see that.”

“But if you want to look around by yourself I understand, I can leave you to it,” he says, already slightly backing up into the hallway.

“No, I wouldn’t mind the company. You could take that table and I’ll take this one?” Your own words surprise you as you’re speaking them. Moments ago you had been dreading crossing paths with him again, but now that you’re having a moment that feels comfortable, you find yourself wanting him to stick around longer.

A curiosity is growing in your mind, wondering if Harry is feeling the same way, if that’s why he offered to help, if that’s why he slowly joins you in the room and mirrors your position at the table behind you so you’re not standing back to back.

You both search through the crates without a word, only the faint sound of the music from the front room coming down the hallway. Meanwhile, your thoughts are going back and forth between Jenny insisting that this man likes you and talking yourself out of that idea, insisting that he’s simply being nice, doing his job.

“How have you been?”

The question catches you off guard, taking a moment to realize that he’s actually said it out loud. “Um. I’ve been good. Nothing exciting going on, just working a lot. You?”

“I’m alright, thanks. I’ve been working a lot too. Where do you work? Don’t think I’ve asked you.”

“Do you ever listen to KIIS-FM?”

“Yes?” He responds, possibly thinking that you’re trying to shift the subject.

You smile to yourself, “You’re welcome. I’m a sound engineer there.”

“Oh shit,” he says enthusiastically. “That’s really cool. Do you like it?”

Briefly turning to look at him, your smile grows wider when you read the interest and excitement on his face. An expression you’re seeing for the first time in him, and it's because of something about you. Your heart flutters and you turn back to your table.

“Most days, I do. It can be a real dick fest sometimes though. Not in a good way.”

Despite mumbling the last sentence, Harry seems to still pick it up.

He barks out a laugh. You turn, eyes wide, to see his shoulders shaking and him covering his mouth with his hand.

When he turns back to you, clearly making a lot of effort to compose himself, he places his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh yeah, the way you laughed really convinced me,” you lightheartedly roll your eyes.

“No it’s just… the way you said it was really funny,” he says, chuckling through his words. He continues, “So you studied engineering at UCLA then?”

Your eyebrows crease as his words hang in the air. You guess it’s not wild to assume that people who live in L.A. have attended UCLA. However, since you’ve never mentioned any kind of schooling to Harry, you can only gather that he’s making that assumption from the UCLA t-shirt you were wearing when he showed up at your house.

“I thought I remembered Jenny mentioning that you both went there.” His tone is cautious now, hesitant even. Like he’s picked up on his own blunder.

You decide to brush over it and simply nod, “Yeah, that’s how we met, actually.”

You return to looking through the crate in front of you. You gasp when you see the familiar red cover of the album you’re looking for.

You feel Harry turn around behind you. “Find it?”

You pull it from the crate. The bold red cover with a blue-grey circle in the middle, running your finger over the lines and arrows creating rings around it with a few stars placed here and there. You turn to smile at Harry, holding up the record in place of an answer, too excited to form words. The paper dust liner crinkles as you slide the plastic disc from the sleeve. Holding it by the edges, you tilt it to the left, to the right, and hold it up closer to the light to inspect it. Your shoulders visibly fall when you spot a long scratch running from the middle to the edge.

“Oh no,” you whisper, bringing the record closer to your face. You lightly run your finger over the scratch. It doesn’t feel rough, you actually can’t feel it at all. A fraction of hope is restored knowing that the scratch isn’t too deep into the grooves. However, there’s no way to know if it’s unplayable unless you actually try to play it.

Harry seems to read your mind. “You could test it out on the player up front if you want.”

“Really?” You spin around, seeming to shock him judging by the way his upper body slightly jerks back. “I mean-- I would appreciate that. If it’s not too much--”

He shakes his head, “It’s not a problem.” He walks toward the door where he waits for you to gather everything up.

The front of the store quiet once you both emerge from the other side of the curtain.

“I liked your choice of work music, by the way,” you say once you’ve both made it back to the counter, hugging your record to your chest.

“Oh yeah, Maggot Brain. S’ a fun album.”

You lean forward to rest your forearms against the smooth wood of the counter, waiting while he takes the record off the player to make room for yours. “Do you listen to a lot of funk music?”

“I do. I’ve never really understood why some people aren’t into it. What’s not to love, right?”

“Exactly! My coworker showed me this album and I think it’s one of my favorites now. It was recorded by this group of high school students in seventy two. They won some studio time in a contest or something and they really made the most of it.”

“Hm. M’ excited to listen to it now.” He stretches his hand out, “I’ll take that.”

You hand over the album. “Could you start it on track two? I think that’s my favorite one.”

“Sure.” He places the record on the player and carefully moves the needle in place.

A warm feeling washes over you when you hear the familiar soft guitar and drum beat at the beginning of the song. You both stand in place as the bass line comes in and all of the instruments’ parts crescendo.

Once the beat drops and the main guitar comes in, Harry turns to you with raised eyebrows and an impressed smile.

“Amazing, right?” you ask through a chuckle.

“It’s really good.”

“I know! And I don’t notice the scratch at all. It sounds perfect.”

“S’ exciting. I’m glad you found it.”

He walks over to where you are and starts to inspect the sleeve, turning it over to read the back. He adopts a similar position as you, forearms resting on the counter as he taps his fingers on his bicep to the beat of the song.

“That guitar part is amazing.”

He’s leaning close enough now that you can see a hint of stubble along his jawline and his upper lip. His cologne, a swirl of vanilla and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. He looks up when you don’t respond and you avert your eyes immediately.

“I think so too,” you mumble.

“I find it crazy how something really amazing can be right in front of you for so long and you never notice it or you just keep missing it.” A pause. “This has been in the back room for… I don’t even know how long, and I probably never would have listened to it if you hadn’t been looking for it.” Another brief pause as he scratches at his chin, seeming to be in deep thought. He shakes his head, “I don’t know. Maybe that’s weird, but I think about that kind of thing a lot.”

“I don’t think it’s weird. That can happen with… so many things, too.”

“Like people.”

His eyes quickly dance over your face. You swear they linger on your lips for a second  before returning to meet your eyes.

“Like people,” you repeat. “And I think it is good to think about that stuff from time to time but… it can get overwhelming. Sometimes it could even distract you from the things you’re enjoying now.”

Your eyes do the same motions, glancing all over his face, lingering on his lips, and then back to his eyes. This feels extremely reminiscent of the night you were sitting outside of the Forum, when you were practically nose to nose after you had taken a whiff of his hair. You had been telling yourself that the gravitational pull you felt that night was solely induced by the shrooms. However, you seem to be feeling it again now as your eyes trace over the plane of his cheek, the tip of his nose, the arch of his lip.

A slight crease between his eyebrows slightly contradicts the almost tender look in his eyes. He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak.

Unfortunately he’s interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone on the wall behind him.

You flinch at the sudden noise and Harry huffs in annoyance before clearing his throat into his fist.

He walks over to the player to turn the music down before answering the phone with a simple, clipped “Jupiter House.”

He covers the receiver with his hand and mouths ‘sorry’ to you before holding up a finger and going into the back room, closing the door until it's just cracked behind him.

You release a heavy sigh and rub your temples.

After a short conversation, Harry comes back and hangs up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, untangling the cord from his fingers. “Are you happy with this, then?” He asks, pointing to the record player.

“Uh- yes. Yes. I am.”

You go through the transaction in silence, watching the way Harry slides your record into a brown paper bag and the way he makes your change. At this moment, you’re wishing Harry came with a cartoon thought bubble over his head so you could know what he’s thinking right now. What exactly did he mean when he said ‘like people’? What was he about to say before he was interrupted?

He carefully folds and creases the paper, but instead of handing it over, he pauses, hands poised on the top of the bag.

“Sorry, I forgot something.” He opens the bag again and crouches down behind the counter.

“What--”

Before you can get your question out, his hand reaches into the glass case between you, hovering over the merchandise that you noticed when you first walked in. He picks out a button and a sticker. You hear them drop into the bag before he pops up from behind the counter.

“You didn’t have to--”

“I know.”

His smile and his voice are reassuring, absolving your confusion in a matter of seconds. 

“Thanks for your help. It was nice running into you,” you smile, taking the bag and holding the record to your chest once again.

“Take care. I’ll see you around.” He smiles.

You back away from the counter and push open the door. The bell rings in your ears one last time.

*********************************************

thank you so much for reading!!

if you enjoyed part 2, please remember that reblogs and/or nice messages mean the world to fic writers. <3

you can find my masterlist here and my inbox here

-> STAY TUNED FOR PART 3 <-

[pedros-mustache-main]

l'oiseau chante

“au where the reader is a singer instead of a painter?” for anon

to close out sd!deaky night(s), here’s 3k words of an au of my own au. i got incredibly carried away but had so much fun writing this.

the duet reader sings is called “duo des fleurs” from the opera, lakmé. i recommend you listen to that as the song is described for the full ~experience~. thanks for indulging me the last few days! much love! xoxo!

suggestive content below (discussions of a sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship & a few suggestive moments/language). please be mindful if under 18!

april, 1985.

“no, really! i’ve got to go!” she’s laughing as she says it, pulling out of his arms to make for the door, but john is quick to catch her waist, spin her on her heels, and press his body flush with hers.

he works his mouth along her jaw and mumbles, “but we’ve only just started having fun.”

he can feel her relax against his ministrations, fight the urge to leave. she wants to stay, he knows that. why wouldn’t she? their arrangement is new and exciting, each moment a new opportunity to discover what makes the other tick. thus far, he knows she likes to dabble in gardening and running. she prefers opal over diamonds and shoes over handbags. she’s as luxurious as she is grounded, but she knows what she wants, and she isn’t afraid to go after it. he likes that assuredness. it’s part of why their arrangement works. she’s not looking for anything other than pampering and a roll in the hay, and he can give that to her in heaps, but not much else. his heart is far too guarded after all these lonely years to really hope in anything more.  

still, she’s a hell of a good romp, and he’d rather spend the evening in with her than attend the blasted party freddie planned for—what was it?—the arrival of spring.

“john, please.” she pushes on his chest with the palms of her hands and lifts her brows. “i’ve got this gig, and if i’m late the conductor will flay me alive. you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

he considers, tilting his head to the side. “i’d rather be the one to flay you but—”

aghast, she hits his chest, though bell-like laughter belies her amusement. “john!”

finally, he releases his hold and moves to hold open the front door. “fine. if you must leave me...” he swings his arm toward the crowded street outside.

she grabs her handbag from the catch-all table beside the door. “i’ll ring you in a few days, alright?” she hesitates on the front stoop, her eyes roaming over his face, lower lip between her teeth. she looks... guilty, and he knows why.

“[y/n], we’ve talked about this. i’m fine with it.” he waves to the street. “go on. you shouldn’t be late.”

the worry on her face eases, and she releases a breath. pressing her lips to her finger tips, she waves, manicured nails wiggling in the air. “thanks, love.” she’s already half-way down the steps and to the curb when she looks over her shoulder and says, “i’ll call you!”

nodding, john waves once more then shuts the door with a gentle shake of his head. 

he has his rules for this set-up. 

his number one requirement? don’t ask about queen. he doesn’t like to talk about it, not with her. that’s too intimate, and their relationship is strictly physical. in the six months they’ve been together, they’ve done little more than fuck and smoke cigarettes afterwards and laugh about inconsequential things. they are not dating, not even friends with benefits. there’s a clear line—almost professional—that neither is willing to cross, and he likes that. she makes him feel good, spoils him with attention and fluttering eyelashes, and he pays her rent and buys her expensive things. there’s no need for her to know about his life outside their moments together, and there’s certainly no need for his life outside their moments together to know about her.

like him, she has her own rules for the set-up.

her number one stipulation? no kissing. when she first laid out her terms and conditions for the arrangement, he hadn’t been expecting that. it struck him as odd originally, but the more he’s gotten to know her, the more is makes sense. she’s a professional through and through, both in her singing career and in her pleasure arrangements. for her, kissing is too intimate like talking about queen is too personal for him.

it works. they work. he’s happy, and he thinks she is too. it’s nice to have someone to spoil, someone to hold. it’s been a long time since anyone ever—

he rids himself of the melancholy and starts up the stairs. no reason to mull over it now, not with her at his relative beck and call. 

the party fred has planned for the evening is scheduled to take place at the ritz hotel. it’s the most unreasonable thing john has ever heard of—a party for the beginning of spring—but it’s freddie’s own money, and john doesn’t have the luxury of not showing up. so, he showers, dresses in a tailored suit and tie, and washes down his dread with a shot of scotch before leaving his darkened flat. 

it’s not that he doesn’t like parties. it’s just that he doesn’t like parties where he hasn’t got anyone to be his buffer, and he hasn’t had a buffer for a very long time. she couldn’t very well be his buffer. people would ask questions—fred would ask questions—and the entire thing would fall apart before it even got started.

no, he’d go to the party alone tonight. maybe he’d call her after or wait until the morning. they could go to that little shop on the corner. he knows she’s been eyeing a pair of earrings and—

“mr. deacon?” he’s pulled from this thoughts by the driver. “we’re here, sir.”

john mumbles his thanks and slides from the car. bright and flashing lightbulbs greet him, and he manages a pinched smile for the photographers. a sigh wells within him, but he pushes it down. it’s going to be a long night.

the ballroom set aside for freddie’s party is magnificent, john will concede that. the whitewashes walls are draped in faux-ivy and fresh flowers. the crystal glasses and china plates on linen-covered tables sparkle beneath the light of the chandelier overhead. a golden statue of a woman, twisting to look over her head at trumpeting cherubs, is ensconced in the wall, but fitting for the evening’s theme. at the far end of the room, a wall of frosted mirrors towers over a small orchestra playing to a lilting, classical tune. 

“oh, deaky, i’m so glad you’re here!” ever the man of the hour, freddie meanders through the tight crowd waiting to be seated at their dinner table to pull on john’s arm. “come on, we’re sat near the orchestra.”

john takes freddie’s offering of a champagne flute. he doesn’t normally like champagne, but he’s desperate for anything to take the edge off his sour mood. he feels stiff in his suit, and aside from fred, he hasn’t seen anyone he knows yet. 

“the place looks—”

“smashing, right?” freddie beams and points to an empty chair at the circular table. john drops beside roger and tries not let the fact that there was only a sole chair saved for him be a bother. it shouldn’t bother him, really. it’s just been him for a long time.

“here.” roger hands john a stiffer drink. “it starts to get fun when you’re a little buzzed.” he slings his arm around dominique’s chair and looks over his shoulder, returning to conversation with his partner and jim.

john remains quiet for some time. freddie is the perfect host, darting from table to table in his white coattails, laughing and smiling and kissing the back of any hand he can grab. he is in his element. roger, too, seems at ease. he likes the lavish lifestyle, and any party that is dripping in jewels and rich wine and expensive food is good enough for roger. even brian, who once was so awkward and gangly, leans back in his seat and chats with someone who looks much smarter than john and much more eloquent than anyone else at the table. 

not for the first time, john shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. he doesn’t have a buffer. he could really use a buffer—or a smoke.

he’s about to excuse himself for a cigarette break when freddie steps to one of the two microphones in front of the orchestra. he taps on it, and a sharp boom followed by a squeak fills the room. john leans back, close as he is to the speaker, and cringes.

“oop, sorry about that, dears. well, don’t you all look marvelous from up here? really, never seen such a group of attractive people.” after a smattering of laughter, freddie continues, “i want to thank you all for coming tonight. i know this isn’t some of your scenes—mostly you, roger.” 

more laughter; john just takes another sip of gin. 

“before dinner is served, i have a little treat. to accompany our lovely orchestra, we have two singers here to bless us with their fabulous voices. please give a warm welcome to iona buckley and [y/n] [y/l/n]. now, i’ll get my fanny off the stage to let them work their magic.”

fred slips the microphone back into its stand and scurries to the table, clapping along with the rest of the audience. well, the rest of the audience save john. his hands are occupied with gripping onto the edge of the table for fear he will fall out of his seat in shock.

trailing behind her duet partner, she takes her place behind the first microphone, the one closest to john. she—his paramour, his lover, his baby. she looks radiant, like one of the roses in the table centerpieces. her red satin gown is simple, the straps thin and back open. he swallows hard as his eyes trail to the necklace resting on her sternum. he bought her that. it was his first gift, and there she is standing not twenty feet from him, wearing it, and not a soul knows how he took her in the shower his afternoon. 

john doesn’t catch her eye before the orchestra begins to play but surely she knows he’s there. is her heart in her throat like his heart is in his? are her palms sweating? he twists to grab his drink, needing something tangible to curl his hand around lest he clench his fist to his chest like a damsel in distress. as his back is turned, she begins to sing.

he’s never heard her sing, and the clear, soprano voice that flows from her throat is not what he expected. when she told him she was a singer, that she regularly sang at different gigs, he assumed she must be one of those bar singers floating from venue to venue. never this, never this. he doesn’t understand a word that she sings, but he thinks she must be singing about love. her face is soft, devoid of any worries or cares. for her, the only thing that seems to exist are the words flowing from her mouth and filling his ears. she sings with ease, even the highest and strongest of notes. like the back of her hand, she follows the melody, the roll of the foreign tongue, and the timing of the conductor’s wand. john doesn’t even realize the song is a duet until she pauses, allows a moment for her partner to shine. in that brief pause, her eyes flick to him, and her smile widens. he loses his breath. then she’s back in the spotlight, easily shining over her partner with the clarity and force of her voice. 

tears prick the corners of john’s eyes, and he bites hard on the end of his tongue. fuck—she could be the ruin of him. he’d let her ruin him too—happily.

the party-goers sit enraptured by the singers, by her. even roger has shut his mouth, his eyes wide with interest. john has to hand it to freddie: he’s outdone himself. the decor and the setting and the song—john can practically feel the warmth of spring curl around his frozen heart, and it’s all because of her and her voice. he could listen to it forever; he could listen to this song forever and nothing else.

but the song winds down, ending on the final note of her just voice echoing in the room. there is a moment of expectant silence. john holds his breath, watches as she turns to hand the conductor something then glance over the crowd, glance at him. he starts the applause first, and he is the last to stop clapping, even after she’s taken her seat across the room.

“fuckin’ hell, they were good!” roger hits his palm against the table as dinner is brought out from the kitchens. he reaches over to squeeze john’s shoulder. “i thought deaky was gonna pass out.” 

freddie practically bounces in his chair with glee. “they’re divine! like angels!”

john nods without realizing he’s doing so. “m’yes, she is.”

“she?” roger laughs, tossing his head back. “got a crush there, john? ‘s okay. i wouldn’t blame you.”

john looks up sharply, but says nothing. maybe he does have a crush, as silly as the term is. he’s not fourteen. he’s nearly thirty-four. but, god, if she doesn’t make him sweat like a fourteen year old boy. god, if just the sight of her and the sound of her voice doesn’t send his blood pumping anywhere but his brain. it takes all his willpower not to stand up from the table, stalk across the room, and drag her into the hall. 

he manages to make light conversation with brian about some business related things throughout dinner. several different times, he feels her eyes on his back, and he’s reminded of what they did on his living room carpet two nights ago. he needs her badly, and he’s starting to worry he’ll need her in more ways than one sooner rather than later.

the orchestra strikes up more classical music as dinner ebbs into dessert, and couples begin to float on the cramped dance floor. john waits, biding his time until everyone is good and distracted before he slips across the room. 

she’s sitting alone, scribbling something down in a small, black notebook. before john can say her name, roger beats him to it, appearing as if from thin air. john clenches his jaw and resists the urge to deck his bandmate. she turns at the sound of her name and meets john’s eyes first. she stands and greets them both, accepting roger’s praise with a modest nod her head. 

“i think someone’s fancies you a little,” roger says, squeezing both of john’s shoulders this time. “never seen him so shocked as when you started to sing.”

john openly glares at roger. he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels then meets her eyes. “you are very talented,” he says.

she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, looks away, as though bashful. “thank you, mr. deacon.”

“john,” he says—and his voice is throaty, deep.

she looks up, smiles, licks her lips.

“well, i can sense sexual tension as good as the rest of ‘em. i’ll leave you to it.” smirking, roger slinks away, surely reveling in the match he thinks he’s made.

john speaks first. “i didn’t realize this was your gig.”

she shrugs. “i didn’t want you to feel obligated to come.”

“i was obligated to come.”

“i didn’t want you coming for me.”

he hesitates. “i meant what i said: you are very talented.”

“thank you.” on a chuckle, she adds, “i’ll warn you next time if i’m to sing at another one of freddie’s parties.”

“after tonight? i’m sure you will sing at them all.”

they stare at one another, eyes searching, hands twitching. it’s all john can do not to grab her wrist and slam his mouth against hers. he wants to taste her, taste the mouth that can cast such a spell over anyone who hears her voice. he wants to claim that mouth as his before everyone, before the world.

but she has her rules, and he respects that.

“come with me,” he says and takes her wrist.

he leads her to a darkened hall near a coat room and, wasting no time, presses her against the wall. he latches his mouth to the exposed skin of her neck, sure that if he doesn’t kiss something—anything—he will go insane. his hands roam her curves, her back, her ass. likewise, she runs her hands along his back, his shoulders, his arms. she’s gasping, even though he is the one kissing and sucking her sweet skin.

“i thought—oh my god, don’t stop—i wasn’t sure if—if you would like seeing me here,” she confesses. her voice is thick, and it drives him wild.

he pulls away long enough to meet her eyes. “everyone is inside the party talking about you,” he says. he presses his palm against the side of her face, runs the pad of his thumb over her lip. “and i’m out here about to fuck you senseless. i’d say i liked seeing you up there.”

she laughs, and the sound is almost as nice as the sound of her singing. winding her arms around his neck, she draws him closer, pressing her hips against his. “why don’t you take me home, then?”

he doesn’t have to be told twice.

later, when she is asleep, naked beneath his sheets, he lights a cigarette. the embers glow in the darkness of his room, and he sighs. this time, he sighs in contentment. he reaches over to rub his hand along her back, feeling the ridges of her spine. she’s good for him, and so long as she’ll have him, he’ll be hers. even if this is all they are—a shag here, a present there—he’ll be happy. just so long as he can worship at her feet.

he’s got it bad. he knows that now. he’s on the verge of losing himself to her, and he doesn’t even mind. it just makes him smile into the night, happy for once not to go to bed alone.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

So uhm, Ruri if it's not a problem 🧍(for the writing thingy)

Hop House, Jazz Club, L.A.

The club was tucked in the middle of a historic Los Angeles neighborhood, dimly lit by sputtering street lamps. In the alley, black garbage bags sheltered three homeless people who peered out at the long 90s era tan and blue-grey Buicks that rolled up, flashing white stripes on their tires. Old black men in their seventies, wearing sharp suits, ties and fedoras got out in groups of three and four, loudly laughing at the lively conversations they were having in the car. The door was left open for them and they were invited inside, removing their hats and tossing their coats over their shoulder.

The Hop House should have been labeled as a historic building by the city metrics, but history was written by people other than the owners of this place. Signed photos of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Charlie Parker decorated the walls. These men eulogized in movies and popular culture, but the men filing in now had come to pay homage to their actual persons. In their  seventies, eighties, and nineties, some could even boast that they’d heard these legends in person. From a young age, they’d came to the Hophouse to listen to jazz, drink beer and strong spirits, smoke liberally and listen to some of the finest musicians the world had to offer. 

At this point, it was almost a private club. They put out no advertisements, there was no sign beyond the plain street address, there was no schedule for the artists. If you knew where the place was and who tended to play there, that meant that you were part of the club’s history. The audience’s wrinkled and mole-spotted faces was their price of admission.

To receive an invitation from this club was just as legendary. They were simply phone calls asking for a name, “Are you so-and-so?” Then they explained that they saw them play in person at some venue. And it was always in-person. The bookie was too ancient to bother learning how to use the internet. The invitation was “We’d would like you to play at the hop house at such-and-such a day and time. Don’t be late.”

At the very mention of the Hop House, those who knew or who bothered to investigate would understand what an honor this was, that they would be playing on a stage that hosted the legends of jazz before people who grew up with jazz and could appreciate it. They trembled like athletes before the Olympic trials. Just being invited was an honor that only an idiot would refuse…

You were no idiot. You walk into the open door and the smell of sweet cigar tobacco, blended with menthol cigarettes and booze. The carpet was bright red and gold despite the constant pollution that rained down on it every night. There were white covered tables stuffed into every available space, but the waiters and waitresses navigated the network of gaps with practiced ease, dressed in tight tuxedo vests and bow ties, their hair slicked and pinned back. Walking in here was like walking into a time machine and immediately you feel transported back to the 1930s.

The men who walked in before you had already taken their seats, pulled out a weathered deck of cards and started shuffling them without so much as breaking a pause in their conversation. Then they dealt out a quick hand for a round of spades.

“Yo, Piano. Over here.”

You turn. A man was dressed in a well fitted black suit, his coiled salt and pepper hair mounded like a cloud on his head. He looked slender and had bright dark brown eyes. This was the bookie and though aged at 87, he looked more like a man in his fifties. He smiled with bright straight teeth. You remembered that he was at a concert of yours, seated in the front row as you played your set. You felt empowered, on fire as you had set yourself into the melody. Your fingers tickled up and down the piano, but the ones to react were your audience who whooped and hollered. But it wasn’t enough, you teased them with a brief key change and dove back into the melody with a vengeance, like pulling them into a fierce kiss. 

The audience screamed with glee and you had to play louder to be heard over them. This man had looked at you with a stern expression the entire concert, not reacting at all. When the set had finished and you were bowing to a standing ovation, he remained seated, staring at you intensely.

That intensity stayed with you and when he told you where he was from, your heart beat further. You were not fooled by his charming smile. The Hop House expected no less than perfection out of its talent.

You’ve been playing piano as long as you can remember. Your house was hung with photos of your grandfather and great-uncles who traveled the highways playing anywhere who would pay them. Though time went on and the band broke up, the tradition of music remained in the house. Her father worked as a night repairman for the city government, yet owned a piano. It was you who sat down and picked up a piano learning book so old the pages were falling out of the staples and started to play.

Soon you were learning pieces by heart, blending them together and making your own tunes. Your father never got you any lessons, he just gave you music to learn and you learned them all by heart. It wasn’t until you were in the fifth grade that you learned that what you were playing was called Jazz. Specifically, a type of Jazz known as BeBop. Like different languages, BeBop was just one way of playing the same song. It was characterized by the manner that one note led to another. Instead of playing the tune straight, it meandered towards the notes like a river, flowing by its own intuition and internal logic. There were no ‘wrong notes’ in this kind of jazz… unless the note was wrong in your heart. If your heart was not in it, every note was the wrong note.

So there was no room for nerves, for stiffness. You knew this, and yet looking at this man, all your inborn talent and confidence seemed inadequate. He’d seen you, and hundreds of musicians just like you.

Instead of taking you to a fancy VIP room, he took you out through a weathered yellow swinging door, turning into a hallway just outside the kitchen with no lights save a sputtering bare bulb. He opened another hollow door to an office full of file cabinets and a scratched up wooden desk. There are green plastic chairs but you stay standing, watching him walk around the desk and open a drawer. “I wanted to give you this before you performed.”

He reached in and handed you a photograph.

You look at it and instantly experience a shock. In the photograph was your father and the bookie, your father at the piano, smiling in a handsome three piece suit and shining dress shoes. “He played the Hop House in 1969. He was one of the greats.”

“He … never told me he played here.” You say, in complete awe.

“That was the kind of guy he was. He played here once, and quit the jazz game all together. He said he’d never met a better audience and probably never would.”

You accept the photograph. “He died of cancer three years ago. There were a few strangers at the funeral I didn’t recognize. They were from here?”

“You can go out there and see for yourself. I couldn’t make it. But I had to at least go and see you.”

You feel a sudden weight lifted. This was no longer just an honor and a privilege to play with the greats. It was if your father had appeared from heaven to offer you a hand to come on up to take your place among the saints of music. You fill with joy, like the sun was shining on your face. “Thank you.”

The bookie grinned and he was no longer threatening. That aura was gone, the velvet rope had parted for you.

You were the VIP now.

The moment you stepped out on the stage you were the true center of attention. The tables were crammed so close you could smell the mint liqueur wafting from the drinks on them. A haze had settled over the venue. You take your seat and glance at the drummer.

You begin to play and the crowd quiets. You were tapping out a tune familiar to them. It was the tune your father liked to play “All the Things that You are.” It was a soft, sentimental tune with an almost marching band-like beat that you played around, weaving the notes like vines around an iron fence. Soon the audience was present. They had already relaxed, accepting that this young artist did know where they were going with the sound and they only had to be along for the ride, a scenic route of hills and valleys, loud and soft notes. They didn’t have to make sense to outside ears, this was music all their own.

Thus introduced you paused and then glanced at the drummer, this time rattling out notes like a freight train, but the experienced drummer knew exactly what you were putting out there and leaped in with a rapidfire beat like the chuffing of a smoke stack. The audience was now nodding their head, glancing at each other and smiling.

You’re smiling too. You felt like you could play forever. Your father was right. This was like no place you’d ever been. You’d found your people. You’d gone home. You were speaking and you were understood. There was not a single disinterested person there. You gave and they thanked you. And you just wanted to keep on giving.

Soon it was you the one whooping and hollering from a cheerful heart, launching into tune after tune. Throwing out this and that to the audience. All of your admittedly brief years of study was being laid out on the stage, since you first lifted out the wood panel cover over the keys at your childhood home and straightened the dog eared pages of the ratty piano lesson book all the way to the day.

At the end of the set, you wave to the audience and bow and they nod and hands as knotted as treebark and dangling with golden rings and you walk off the stage, head up and eyes straight. The bookie is waiting for you.

“Good job up there. Real good. In fact… there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Who could that person possibly be. “There are a few clubs over seas and we got someone who came here today and wanted to see what we had to offer. He liked you.” He was leading you backstage towards the actual performers area. The place was so small he only had to open a single door to be led to the dressing room. It was draped with old feather boas and a gaudy pink vanity crouched in one corner. All was all in dark paneling but that only served to make the person in the room seem more brilliant.

The bright red kimono they wore was long enough to rest on the floor. You’d seen this kind of kimono before in period dramas like Memoirs of a Geisha, but this was the first time you’d ever seen one in person. The dim light revealed darker colored red flowers in this pool of red silk. It covered a slender body with an elegant snatched waist and thin shoulders.

You’d seen pretty people before. Angelina Jolie with her gorgeous high cheekbones. Gal Gadot with her bright dark eyes. This person standing before you looks to be a man but you can only compare his features to beautiful women you’ve seen. His black hair is long, down his back, even though lifted in a high ponytail.

“Mr. Kazama.”

You hesitantly introduce yourself.

“You played beautifully tonight.” Mr. Kazama whispered.

You turn your head slightly as you start to hear the sounds of a long guitar coming from where you just stood.

“Your father died recently. I came to give condolences and also an invitation to play in Japan.”

“Japan?” You can barely keep your mouth open. It wasn’t enough that you had the best concert of your life. You had to stand before this stranger and accept an invitation to Japan?

“I know it may seem like too much. I’m sure you have your own concerns.”

You glance again towards the stage. This far flung place out in the middle of nowhere that held your past and had melded its way into your heart without you even knowing it. It was like this whole experience like a jazz note - unplanned and yet as full of intention and design as all of Creation. You turn back to him and smile.

“What concerns?”

[bitchardhendricks]

Well I’ve Never Been to Heaven (But I’ve Been to Oklahoma) Pt 10

So. The last couple weeks have been...A Lot. Both personally and y’know from an entire racial equity uprising perspective, and I’ve felt very much that my responsibility was to read, learn, understand, listen, and be quiet. No one needs to hear a white girl writing about white nerd boy problems right now. But I realized after a couple weeks that when I got overwhelmed, or when I needed to relieve the pressure valve on my emotions, I turned to the same form of comfort I always have - stories. Stories about characters I love, whether they’re in tv, movies, fic, whatever. The comfort of those stories allowed me to rest just enough that I could wake up the next day and keep reading, learning, listening. So it may seem silly, this meandering tale of these two flawed men confronting the past and the future together, but reading stories like this helps me feel sane enough that I have the energy to keep trying to do better. I hope this one helps you, too. Catch up on previous entries here, and come say hi in my inbox and let me know what you think.

***

After lunch, they head 1 mile east until they reach an unremarkable long, squat building with a faded green roof hanging down nearly halfway to the ground and obscuring the store front, held up by a series of flared white cinderblock columns. This elongated hut takes up the better part of a city block, and as they pull into the cracked parking lot, Richard spies Jared’s face lighting up as he reads the sign.

“Gardner’s Used Books, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Toys, Comics, Records, Collectibles, Gifts...my goodness, that’s quite a treasure trove!” 

“You have no idea,” Richard says, bounding out of the car and up to the front door in quick strides. The tables set up under the roof’s overhang hold boxes and boxes of books, lining the entire front of the building, but Richard doesn’t stop to look at these. “Bargain books,” he explains as Jared pauses to scan some of the titles. “You find some great stuff, but you can pay outside so I usually do that last.” He points to an old Folgers coffee jug with a slit cut in its plastic lid. A sign above it says 50 CENTS OR 3/$1, but Richard’s attention is now focused on entering the front door, the familiar jingle causing a rush of nostalgia that works its way into his guts. 

He’s 16 again, acne-riddled and knock-kneed, and his new driver’s license is burning a hole in his velcro wallet. The dusty scent of old paper and ancient carpeting is commingling with the aroma of hot oil, onions, and sizzling meat from the bookstore’s attached Mexican restaurant. He has $37 in his pocket, and a whole day of summer vacation to burn. 

As present-day Richard takes in the familiar organized chaos, Jared nearly walks into a gargantuan statue of the Hulk because he’s looking around at the stacks of books piled everywhere, muttering a sheepish, “Excuse me!” to the statue. A bubble of warmth seems to rise from deep within Richard’s belly, and he grabs at Jared’s wrist to redirect him - that thin, elegant wrist, so delicate, almost like a bird, maybe that’s why Jared likes birds so much, because he feels a kinship with them? - and tugs gently. “C’mon. I wanna show you around.”

Richard leads them to the left, past rows and rows of new arrivals and fiction. A coffee shop has been added on; all the decor is aggressively Parisian in a very bland Hobby Lobby-type way. There are wire shelves hanging off the walls holding the top 20 best selling mysteries of all time. Tall wooden shelves in the middle of the room stretch from floor to ceiling, arranged in small mazes that take up their respective corners, crammed with colorful paperbacks. Jared pauses at the Mary Higgins Clarks for a moment, but Richard urges him on by saying, “Wait, there’s more!” 

Another archway, this one opening up into a cavernous beige room with a little more natural light. Small rolling footstools are perched in every aisle so customers can reach the tops of the towering shelves, and with each new shelf, Jared’s eyes seem to grow wider. “Does it just go on forever?” he asks, and Richard nods, steering him past Romance and Horror to the seemingly endless Nonfiction shelves. Cookbooks, humor, foreign language - the section names are taped to wooden beams that extend between the tops of the rows of bookshelves until finally they reach the Computer Science section, which Richard presents with a grand flourish. 

“This is where I got my very first coding manual. Python, it was--” he scans the shelves, squints, but, “oh, um well they don’t have it now. Duh, why would they, that was, anyway, this is where it all started!”

Jared takes in the shelves with a look of absolute wonder lighting up his face. He looks young and carefree in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen before, like he’s about to burst into song in a musical or something. Before he can say anything, Jared has his phone out, the sound of the camera shutter in his face making Richard jump. “Aw, c’mon Jared, don’t,” he says, but his voice is teasing, soft, and there’s a pleasant whispering at the back of his mind at the idea of this place meaning something to history maybe. Where the first seeds of Pied Piper took hold, and the genius coder Richard Hendricks took his first step toward...toward having everything taken away from him by Hooli and Gavin Fucking Belson. His insides are suddenly doused in ice-cold water and he shakes his head, scowling. 

He’s just about to tell Jared to browse by himself for awhile when he’s stopped short by Jared gasping loudly, “Oh my goodness!”

He’s turned to look at the shelf opposite the Computer Science section and is now holding a light green cloth-bound book in his hands as if it were something made of exquisite, delicate glass. The cover has what looks like colored pencil drawings of two yellow birds sitting together on some branches, and Richard leans closer to read the title out loud - “Birds That Every Child Should Know. By,” he pauses, looking up at Jared for confirmation, “Nelt-yah Blanchan?” 

Jared nods, dumbstruck. He looks positively bowled over, and all thoughts of Gavin have fled Richard’s mind completely because he wants to know what could possibly have made Jared so flabbergasted. “So...what is this book? I mean, why’s it - what’s so special about it? Is it rare or something?”

“It is rare, yes; this book was published in 1907. But, that’s not exactly...” he swallows, then looks at Richard with those terrifyingly blue eyes, the ones that root Richard to the spot and peer inside him and refuse to let him squirm away. “My mother had a copy exactly like this. We would go birding together, you see. Just in the woods behind our apartment complex, nothing too exotic. I would spot robins, orioles, blue jays, but ah - “ his smile grows shaky, like it’s trying unsuccessfully to hold up the weight of all those memories, and he says, “I just never thought I’d see this book again, that’s all.”

“Wow,” Richard says, his upper lip caught in his teeth at his own awkwardness. He never knows what to say when Jared mentions his past. Real helpful, Richard, Jesus fuck. “You should um, you should definitely buy it. Right?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly afford, it’s an antique--”

“Jared, come on. You have to. It’s - look, I’ll buy it for you, ok? As like. A thank you present. For coming with me. You have to deal with my parents, deal with me, and it’s just...it’s the least I can do.”

Jared splays one enormous hand over his chest, aghast. “Richard, you don’t have to--”

“Bup bup bup!” Richard says, easing the book out of Jared’s grip and peeking inside the front cover at the price. $26 is penciled in the top right corner of the title page, which seems more than fair for how happy Jared is to have discovered it, so he snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm to carry. “Done and done. No arguments, Jared. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jared says quietly, his cheeks pink and his eyes shining, looking at Richard like he’s some sort of miracle, some unexpected wondrous hero, come to slay dragons and save the kingdom from wreck and ruin. It takes longer than strictly necessary for Richard to wrench his gaze away. 

“Come on, there’s a lot more of this place to see.”

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 03/04/2021 (Lil Nas X’s “MONTERO”, Mimi Webb, Russ Millions & Tion Wayne)

So, we have a #1 debut, and that’s pretty much the only story here in the UK Top 75 as we get a filler week before Demi Lovato, Olivia Rodrigo and Lil Tjay run in and cause havoc. As for now, “Wellerman” is replaced at the top by Lil Nas X’s controversial “MONTERO (Call Me by Your Name)”, spending its first week at #1 after making pretty sudden gains assisted by the video and alternate versions – the mid-week projection had this at #15. Elsewhere, we just see the fall-out from Bieber. Welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS.

Rundown

It’s a quiet week – only seven new entries, and none from Rod Wave, 24kGoldn or AJR as I had predicted. That doesn’t mean there isn’t some stuff to talk about within the chart, or particularly off of the chart, as we have a fair few drop-outs switching their places with returning entries. In particular, we have Justin Bieber’s “As I Am” featuring Khalid being swapped out for “Anyone” at #25, as well as drop-outs for “Arcade” by Duncan Laurence – slightly premature, I’d think – and all of Lana Del Rey’s songs from last week. We also “Anxious” by AJ Tracey, “Heat” by Paul Woodford and Amber Mark and “Toxic” by Digga D exit the chart, but the only real notable loss was “34+35” by Ariana Grande ending its 21-week run on the chart. Returning to the Top 75 in its place – which I cover – we have “Mr. Brightside” by the Killers of course at #73, as well as “Midnight Sky” by Miley Cyrus at #72, “You’ve Done Enough” by Gorgon City and DRAMA at #70 (really hope this one becomes a hit) and “Don’t You Worry About Me” by Bad Boy Chiller Crew at #66. In terms of climbers and fallers, we do have some notable gains and losses. For songs travelling down the chart, we have “Patience” by KSI featuring YUNGBLUD and Polo G tanking a sharp drop in its third week to #18, “Streets” by Doja Cat shaking off the video gains at #22, “drivers license” by Olivia Rodrigo continuing to collapse at #27, another sharp drop for HVME’s remix of Travis Scott’s “Goosebumps” down to #34 probably due to ACR, which was probably the fate for “Get Out My Head” by Shane Codd at #46. The same probably can’t be said for Drake’s losses, as “What’s Next” is at #40, “Lemon Pepper Freestyle” featuring Rick Ross is at #41 and “Wants and Needs” featuring Lil Baby stalls at #55. We also see falls for “Money Talks” by Fredo and Dave at #50, “Bringing it Back” by Digga D and AJ Tracey at #51, “Sweet Melody” by Little Mix on its way out at #57, “Headshot” by Lil Tjay featuring Polo G and Fivio Foreign down to #61 off the debut (although it’ll rebound thanks to the album as soon as the next week rolls around), “Ready” by Fredo featuring Summer Walker at #62, “You’re Mines Still” by Yung Bleu featuring Drake at #63 and “Day in the Life” by Central Cee at #69. Where it gets interesting are our gains, such as outside the top 40 with “What Other People Say” by Demi Lovato and Sam Fischer which could very well get even higher next week thanks to the album. We also have “Track Star” by Mooski at #53 off of the debut and a couple of tracks entering the top 40 for the first time, those being “Heartbreak Anniversary” by Giveon at #39 and Majestic’s remix of “Rasputin” by Boney M. at #38. Elsewhere in the top 40, we have “Let’s Go Home Together” by Ella Henderson and Tom Grennan at #13 and two songs marking their first week in the top 10, those being “Little Bit of Love” by Tom Grennan at #10, a song continuing to sour on me, and “Your Love (9PM)” by ATB, Topic and A7S, an EDM song at #8 that I initially mocked for its soulless repackaging but has honestly got me pretty hooked since. I’m excited to see how this one does. For now, however, let’s get on with our new arrivals.

NEW ARRIVALS

#64 – “Cloud 9” – Beach Bunny

Produced by Joe Reinhart

Beach Bunny is a power pop band who last year released their album Honeymoon on Mom+Pop and it’s basically a modern r/indieheads staple in that it’s an accessible, airy pop-rock record fronted by a woman. It’s not anything unique, really, or different if you look further into it but that’s fine because there’s a lot of vaguely “indie” or music snob releases pushed out every year that miss the charts entirely. It’s a different story, however, when a year later, it gets viral on TikTok and streams its way onto the chart. In that case, we have “Cloud 9” by Beach Bunny, a pretty simple but sweet love song about a guy who just makes her feel a lot better about herself in times where she can’t pick herself up from the rut she’s in. Again, it’s a simple track but enhanced by the wonderful and unique vocal performance from front-woman Lili Trifilo and some pretty great production making sure no guitar lick is missed in this mix, especially in that chorus which is such an ethereal blend of the electric guitar dubs. I would argue that this actually should end at that second chorus even if it ends feeling abrupt as the transition to the final chorus feels a lot less cathartic than it does awkward, especially if the bridge is going to be a simplistic, quirky instrumental meander that doesn’t go far enough to be a guitar solo and hence feels kind of like a worthless addition. As is, this is a pretty great song still, just not the most fully realised once it loses that initial tight surf groove, though I’ll let it pass if we’re going to get rock this good on the charts again. I know this won’t really get more traction for Beach Bunny – or power pop for that matter – but more of this, please.

#52 – “You All Over Me” (Taylor’s Version) (From the Vault) (Remix) (feat. DaBaby) (Part 2) (Radio Edit) – Taylor Swift featuring Maren Morris

Produced by Taylor Swift and Aaron Dessner

Sadly, this does not feature DaBaby and is not the remix, radio edit or sequel to any previously released song. Jokes aside, I guess brackets are the next big comeback for pop music, which goes hand-in-hands with remixes and re-releases, hence why Taylor Swift is dusting off this leaked Fearless-era cut for a new recording with country singer Maren Morris, who you probably know from her contributions to Zedd’s “The Middle”. Now whilst Swift is a great songwriter, I do often find myself frustrated by how she treads common ground all too frequently without establishing much different with how a song is structured or how it emotionally connects. This is true not just lyrically but especially sonically as of recent, as despite being written in 2008, it has too much in common with the less interesting cuts off of folklore for me to really care that much. That’s especially if Taylor’s going to undercut the clean acoustic guitars with flourishes of harmonica and crow sound effects, showing some genuine intrigue here before refusing to let any of that develop past a couple stray melodies or notes further back in the mix. I’m trying really hard to be compelled by these re-recordings and re-releases of her back catalogue as I do consider myself a fan, but it’s tough to pay attention when any new compositions we get sound like folklore leftovers with Maren Morris only put to use as decoration, much like HAIM on “no body, no crime” – and we already got an album full of folklore leftovers. I’m not a fan of this, sorry – I can see the appeal, and I do think this has enough of a country tinge to it to make it at least somewhat interesting – but this goes in one ear and immediately out of the other.

#48 – “Tonight” – Ghost Killer Track featuring OBOY and D-Block Europe

Produced by Ghost Killer Track and Kenzy

Screw the formalities and screw the analysis because D-Block Europe are back to add another D-Block to their EU collection – and since they’re Londoners, their only – and that’s Paris, and contrary to the British nature, we’ve let French rap chart in the top 50 out of the fact that they collaborated with two of the most comical rappers in British history. They’ve also linked up with producer Ghost Killer Track, also from France, as this is ostensibly his song even if he intends not to prove himself with this dull piano-based beat and oddly-mastered bass and percussion, which are really just DBE staples. Unfortunately, past the initial comedy of that first line in the chorus, neither Young Adz or Dirtbike LB deliver any stupid lyrics or funny inflections, instead just resorting to being as boring as they can in their constant flexing as possible. I guess the French guy here, OBOY, commands a higher energy in his verse if only through his comical “no, no, no” ad-libs, but he’s the only French speaker in an otherwise basic British trap song that I just cannot see the appeal in when we’ve had song after song from these guys for three years now. This won’t be the last we see of cookie-cutter UK rap this week though so brace yourselves for that.

#47 – “Last Time” – Becky Hill

Produced by LOSTBOY

It’s almost as if the charts are trying to send me off to sleep as here we have Becky Hill, a singer hedging the line between a non-presence and mildly annoying, which is arguably more frustrating than downright infuriating as her slightly smokier voice does not sound bad, just lacking in texture in every way, especially if the multi-tracking is going to be this minimal on a royalty-free deep-house beat produced by Getty Images with a pretty worthless drop, a generic and simple melody of piano stabs for major chords, and a whole bunch of reverb on the vocal take... but it still ends up feeling dry as there’s nothing here to quench that thirst for a tighter, bass-heavy house banger or even a more ethereal, dreamy trance track, deciding to stick to a healthy medium of boring and utter garbage. Yes, that was a singular sentence. I’m not awake enough to form a cohesive sentence less than 40 words long, and this new Becky Hill track is just worsening that if anything. Speaking of...

#21 – “Body” – Russ Millions and Tion Wayne

Produced by Gotcha Bxtch

Who’s Russ Millions? He’s Russ. No, not that Russ. British Russ – or Russ Splash, stylised as Russ splash on Spotify and nowhere else. This confusingly-named fellow appeared on the charts a couple times and possibly most famously with “Keisha & Becky”, a song also featuring Tion Wayne that is referenced on this very track. Sigh, I usually like Tion Wayne but even he can’t be bothered to delivery his usual brand of suave charm or sinister menace, instead opting for a more growling but ultimately completely monotone cadence that doesn’t flatter him or Russ, who one of my friends described as sounding like one of the aliens from Toy Story. This is a pretty by-the-numbers drill beat too, and it’s pretty safe to say that neither Russ or Tion Wayne here are going to bother with wordplay, even when they start pretty smoothly trading bars and Tion Wayne goes for a more unique chopper flow in the second verse. This is just not of any note. Once again, speaking of...

#17 – “Good Without” – Mimi Webb                        

Produced by Freedo

I assumed Mimi Webb debuted this high because of a talent show she won or something because I’d never heard her name but instead, she just happened to have a major label deal before her unreleased song just happened to go viral on TikTok and just happened to be supported by one of the women who just happened to be the biggest creator on the platform. Yeah, and this song just happened to be garbage, suffering from every possible millennial pop trope and then some, from the mix dressed rather too overtly in reverb, the ugly guitar pluck, a generic indie-girl voice that you swear you’ve heard before in one of those dreadful piano covers of popular songs they use in adverts, as well as this ballad being undercut by badly-programmed trap percussion. I can tell this label is trying to create somewhat of an Olivia Rodrigo phenomenon from this and I for one am terrified of the Poundland knock-offs to come. Screw this.

#1 – “MONTERO (Call Me by Your Name)” – Lil Nas X

Produced by Roy Lenzo, Omar Fedi and Take a Daytrip

At least Lil Nas X will bring some passion into this chart week? Well, not really, as when I hear this I recall that Pitchfork review of his EP, a much-maligned critique that featured the ever-so pretentious questioning if Lil Nas X really enjoyed making and listening to music. It reminds me because I think I now fully get it – at least when Lil Nas X was making slap-dash pop rock with Travis Barker or meme-worthy country rap with Billy Ray Cyrus for less than two minutes apiece, there was something invigorating in the execution or at least in concept. That 7 EP is still not a bad debut at all, but this new single “MONTERO”, a long-anticipated record that went from constantly-teased demo to Super Bowl commercial to Satanic-panicked videos of Lil Nas giving Satan a lap-dance to own the conservatives, has the same remote dreariness to it as “HOLIDAY” did late last year. The acoustic, Latin-flavoured guitar loop reminds me of his much better track “Rodeo” from that aforementioned EP that used its energy for similarly lighthearted subject matter but with some genuine energy, a Cardi B feature and a lot less subtle moombahton creeping in. With that said, I can’t say Lil Nas X didn’t try, as his vocal performance, whilst largely insufferable and strained, gives some energy to an otherwise aggravatingly stunted beat, and makes it a lot more infectious than it has any right to be. Content-wise, the song is essentially about a full circle where Lil Nas X becomes increasingly desperate for a man who starts off lonely and in a bad place, and the irony is that Lil Nas gets more explicitly sexual and crazed due to a combination of the LA life-style surrounding him and the fact that he’s simply, for lack of a better term, “down bad”, despite the fact that this guy doesn’t seem particularly desirable. Lil Nas knows this, though, and acknowledges it in the pre-chorus where he outright says that this guy is living the cocaine-addled celebrity life, but not living it right without Mr. Bullriding and Boobies in his life. I’m happy about the video and the outrage it seems to cause not just within conservative spaces but also amongst the hip-hop community, particularly Joyner Lucas, and I’m pretty happy with how out and proud Lil Nas X is about his sexuality, even if it leads to lines like “Shoot a child in your mouth while I’m ridin’”. I’m just really not a fan of this song past its content, which could really be interesting but falls flat with this plucking production that wastes time in barely two minutes with humming interludes. It’s not bad at all, just not for me.

Conclusion

And that concludes our week, and wow, what a bad week this was for new arrivals. Admittedly, it’s a filler week so only “MONTERO (Call Me by Your Name)” will probably last – or at least we can hope as even if I don’t like the song, I still have to give out an Honourable Mention to someone, and it may as well be Lil Nas X trying to put the effort in. Best of the Week easily goes to Beach Bunny for “Cloud 9”, far and away the only good song here, with Worst of the Week also going out pretty easily to Mimi Webb’s “Good Without”, which is the type of soulless, unmemorable garbage that makes pop music look uninspired, and as a person who writes about the charts constantly, it’s a misconception I don’t want proven or revisited. Dishonourable Mention is a toss-up but I guess I’ll give it to Russ Millions and Tion Wayne for that sprinkle of drill disappointment that is “Body”, and that’ll be it for this week. I predict some impact from Demi Lovato, Lil Tjay and especially Olivia Rodrigo next week, but for now, here’s our top 10:

Thank you for reading – sorry for the grouchiness on this one – and I’ll see you next week!

[haledamage]

Only the Dead Never Change

(I just wanted to write a little something with Kira/Adam and music, since I realized the other day he’s the only one she hasn’t had that with (though I guess Felix’s and Mason’s weren’t romantic moments… hmmmm), but because it’s them it had to turn into something complicated because that’s what they do. since Rebecca Lovell from Larkin Poe is Kira’s singing voice claim, this fic is brought to you in part by their cover of Hard Time Killing Floor Blues)

A brusque knock sounded at the door. Kira’s hands paused in mid-chord. “It’s open.”

The door opened at her call to reveal Adam, arms crossed over his chest and wearing his grey wool peacoat. He seemed to fill the doorframe entirely, to fill the room with his sheer force of presence. He watched her almost cautiously, though his expression was completely unreadable.

“Good evening,” Kira said, when Adam didn’t immediately speak. “Or good morning, I guess. Depends on how you want to look at it.”

He gave her a cursory once over, and though nothing showed on his face she got the distinct impression he was making sure she was okay. “You are up late, Detective.”

“It happens.” She shrugged one shoulder and finally finished the chord he’d interrupted. “Am I making too much noise? I can keep it down.”

“No.” She had to fight a smile at how quickly he said that. “That will not be necessary. I was simply passing by your room and I heard music.”

“That happens, too.” She huffed a laugh and started plucking aimlessly at the strings, a song with no rhythm or melody to it, just trying to fill the quiet. “Are you heading out or did you just get back?” she asked, nodding toward his coat.

“I just finished my patrols around town.”

She nodded again and silence fell. She kept plucking at her guitar, starting to find some semblance of a tune to what she was playing, and waited for him to speak again. He didn’t, just hovered in the doorway, watching her hands move along the strings with enough focus to make her stumble a few times.

“Is something wrong?” she asked finally.

“Not at all.” He tore his eyes away from her, and even across the room she could see the way he clenched his jaw. Abruptly, he added, “You are quite talented.”

“Oh. I…” Now it was Kira’s turn to look away, feeling heat rise in her cheeks and an absurdly pleased smile spread across her face. “Thank you.”

“I apologise if I’ve invaded your privacy, Detective,” Adam said, a trace of hesitation in his voice and the set of his shoulders.

“No!” she blurted out, too quickly. She ran her fingers through her hair nervously, pushing it back from her face. “No. I just… I’m not used to having an audience. Do you play?”

He scoffed. “No. I never had much skill at… creative pursuits.”

“I could teach you,” she offered with a grin.

“That will not be necessary,” he said, but he chuckled quietly. 

“Then… I could keep playing. If you want to come in.” With how quickly he stepped into the room, it was obvious he’d been waiting for the invitation. She bit her lip to stop another smile. “Do you have any requests?”

“Whatever you would like to play will be sufficient.”

Her first note immediately went sour as her fingers stopped listening to her when Adam shrugged out of his coat. She wondered vaguely if he always took his coat off that slowly, or if he did so only for her benefit; even if she were bold enough to ask, her mouth was too dry to form the words. Instead, she just let her eyes roam the muscles of his arms and shoulders, only barely contained by the t-shirt he wore, in much the same way she wanted to do with her hands.

Kira dropped her eyes away quickly when he turned her way, trying to pretend she still remembered how to play guitar.

She meandered through any songs that popped into her head, paying less attention to the music than she was to the man in her room. Adam looked relaxed in a way she had only rarely ever seen, sitting back in her armchair with a small smile tugging at his lips. Content, almost, or at least closer to it than usual. If he noticed her attention, he didn’t comment--but then, he never did.

It didn’t take long for both of them to notice a theme to the songs she was playing.

“Do you sing a lot of love songs, Detective?” She couldn’t tell if the tone to his voice was amusement or disapproval.

“Well, most of the stuff I know is blues.” She tried not to look too proud of how quickly that reply came to her, or let on that it wasn’t entirely accurate. “Blues music skews toward pain and death and heartbreak. It’s not really a crowd pleaser.”

He cocked his head to one side, but it was the only sign he gave of his curiosity. “Why do you listen to it, then? You do not strike me as someone with much pain and heartbreak in your life.”

She took a deep breath, debating how much of herself she wanted to share, but the words started spilling from her lips without waiting for her permission. “Dad played the blues. There’s a video of him with this guitar playing ‘Hard Time Killing Floor Blues’ by Skip James, and me, maybe a year old, sitting on the floor in front of him just… hypnotised by it.” She played the intro part to the song in question, the first thing she ever learned how to play. “Mum never talks about him. I don’t begrudge her grief, but I just…” 

“You wanted a connection to him.” His voice was soft and understanding, and it should have grated on her but instead she found that it eased some of the tension from her shoulders.

“Exactly. Something that he and I shared besides the eyes and the freckles.” She stared into empty air, eyes distant and full of blurry, half-obscured memories, fingers still moving across the strings on auto-pilot. “It’s strange, to miss someone so much when you don’t even remember them. All I remember is the space where he should have been.”

He didn’t say anything in response and, not knowing how else to fill the silence, Kira started singing, picking up the song where she left off. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sang in front of someone, actually sang rather than just mumbling along with the radio. It felt nice to let that part of her out. It felt nicer to do so with Adam. She tried not to think too hard on why it mattered so much that it was him.

The song ended, and the room fell quiet once more. She slid the guitar’s strap from her shoulders and set the instrument carefully on the bed next to her.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Adam said softly, his voice shattering the stillness before it could take hold. “I am under the impression that you do not let many people see this side of you.”

“You’d be right about that.” She smoothed her hands over the pale green shirt she wore, not sure what to do with them now that she didn’t have the guitar to use as a barricade. “Thank you for listening. And not--not just to the music. I’m…” she chuckled, mostly to herself. “If someone had told me six months ago that you’d be the one easiest for me to talk to, I’d have called them something that would get me scolded by Nate. A lot can change in a few months.”

“Yes, it can.” He scowled at nothing in particular, apparently unhappy about all the recent changes in their lives.

“Change isn’t a bad thing, Adam.” His scowl got deeper and Kira smiled in response. “I guess maybe you’re in the habit of assuming all change is negative, as long as you’ve been around, but… change just means we’re still alive. Only the dead never change.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But it gets more difficult as you get older.” His frown turned contemplative and she got the distinct impression there was something specific he was referring to.

“Does it?” She uncrossed her legs so they could dangle over the edge of the bed and she could lean forward. Her knee pressed to his. He didn’t move away from the contact. He didn’t even tense at it. “Because a few months ago I literally shot you, and now you’re sitting in my bedroom in the middle of the night and I’m telling you things I don’t tell anyone.”

Adam chuckled and his frown gave away to a very brief but genuine smile, though he still wouldn’t look at her. “That is your influence, Kira. Not mine.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

For the first time since he’d arrived at her door, his full attention fell on her and Kira gasped under the weight of those pale green eyes. Anything else she may have said evaporated like mist at dawn. She was suddenly very aware of where his knee touched hers; she was even more aware of all the places their bodies weren’t touching, and all the things they could do to change that.

If she could weaponize the way he made her feel, she would be fucking unstoppable.

As soon as the moment began, it ended again as he tore his gaze away. Slowly, he rose to his feet. “I should let you rest.”

“You don’t have to go,” she said quickly. She felt blush rise in her cheeks as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she didn’t try to take it back. She knew she meant it exactly as she’d said it.

Adam raised an eyebrow at her, but he didn’t call her on it; she really wished he would. Eventually, he whispered, “Yes I do.”

It was starting to become a familiar exchange between them.

A long moment passed where neither of them said anything. Kira could feel the heavy tension in the air, a tension she was starting to get used to feeling around him. It made her hands almost itch with the urge to reach out to him. Instead, she broke eye contact again with a barely stifled sigh, closing her eyes as if it could calm the racing of her heart. “Good night, Adam.”

He was gone when she opened her eyes, but his presence lingered in the room like a ghost.

[a-patheticapathetic]

Rishloo - Feathergun: Review

New year, new me. Let’s repeat that until it becomes true. 

There seems to be a pattern with how I discover music. At a very young age, I hear a song in a very specific circumstance. It has a big impact on me, but I make absolutely zero effort to check out any of the artist’s other music and instead meander onto another earworm. Then, years later, I have another chance meeting with the same song/album/artist and fall completely down a rabbithole that foundationally changes my taste in music. It happened with Radiohead (High and Dry as one of the default songs in the original Rocksmith), Queens of the Stone Age (Lost Art of Keeping a Secret in a stick figure animation), and Nine Inch Nails (Hurt (Quiet) on Spotify radio). Then, there was this strange song called “Scissorlips” that I saw on a very small Rock Band 3 drum channel. I showed it to my brother because of how fun the chart looked, and made the mistake of watching his reaction to the video. His disinterest embarrassed me enough that I never chased the music. That is, of course, until many years later, when I was introduced to Tool. The rest is history, and is frankly stalling me from starting the actual review. Let’s get to it.

Scissorlips - 8/10

The strange, dark jungle the album begins with is a nice representation of the album cover, although it won’t rule over the entire runtime. Don’t let the de-tuned guitar under the vocals deter you; the rest of the guitarwork here is beautiful. As we reach the pre-chorus, the percussionists may hear why I was interested in this song as a kid. This is also where the sonic background really opens up, swallowing you for a moment before the intro verse comes back. The lyricism here is also very abstract, yet isn’t impossible to follow. A couple of metallic bites taken out of the mostly psychedelic walls of guitars, then, the first of many beautiful delay effects. The build-up got me pretty good when I heard this so many years ago, and It’s still damn good. For the love. There are so many guitar lines here that just intertwine and enlace you. Then, something a bit heavier (yet oddly hopeful) to round the song out.

Turning Sheep into Goats - 7/10

This intro is more of what can be expected for the rest of the album, sonically speaking. A lone guitar with delay playing a complicated and alluring line in a strange time signature, then built upon. The path you may assume this song will follow is extremely suddenly changed at the chorus, the vocals really driving it home. Then, back into that nice opening riff like nothing happened. The next time that chorus comes thundering around, listen to that low guitar and the way it combines with the drums. Then drop out the ugliness into a floating mesh of palm mutes and synthetic strings. And don’t miss the fl

Systematomatic - 7/10

awless transition into the next song. Immediately, a new riff rises from the pond of reverb. You may not identify it immediately, but don’t worry, you’ll get more chances to. Very fast guitar-work that somehow doesn't sound so frantic, although the chorus definitely has a certain desperation to it. The mood gets heavy again, before quickly sliding into a strange, feverish haze. Some hits of percussion, then a recontexutalized and slower return to the riff at the start of the song. Weave us back into war.

River of Glass - 8/10

Now this is an ear-catching introduction. What seems to be a calm wave of delay is punctuated by war drums and a grimier lead. The mood builds, then crescendos into the song proper. The chorus is hear damn near immediately, and is extremely catchy for prog. This album is really just full of extremely memorable vocals, and the instrumentals complement them perfectly. We get two goes-around before we fall into these twisting and sliding strings. The drummer is also on his A-game here. Then, the guitars push into the clouds before coming back down with another short but heavy low. Then it all cuts out for a second, juts to make the burst into the final chorus that much more effective.

Keyhole in the Sky - 7/10

This one is simpler, but also very filling and peaceful. Unfortunately it does begin to showcase my only problem with this album; the vocals are mixed too loud at times. And while the singer is absolutely incredible, sometimes I’d like the instrumentals to breathe a bit more. The walls of high guitar come back around, this time feeling much more friendly and familiar. One last chorus, closing on a quiet note. Though it’s not over; an alien feedback loop and somber, echoey horn passage lead us into the next track

Downhill - 10/10

This song has two main phases, and is absolutely perfect throughout. An easy start; a relatively simple and serene riff fed through a pleasant delay pedal, with some subtle synth and bass backing. The vocals shine through, as clear as ever. And wave, goodbye. Then, like stepping through a portal into phase one. A very interesting, rhythmic and almost bluesy instrumental accompanies the title-drop. Then, we fall for miles down a well of piano. The bottom greets us with a moonlit key solo, then an incredible Floydian guitar solo. Hanging on the last note, phase two begins with an ominous drone and repeating guitar line. The drums rise, give a false start. then... perfection. I cannot do phase two justice with words. Just close your eyes, listen, and be swept away in what I believe to be one of the greatest vocal performances of all time.

Lost.

Feathergun in the Garden of the Sun - 9/10

Not to be outdone by the previous masterpiece, the title track opens with another wonderful soundscape, before the distortion comes in. The drums pick up the tension, bringing us into the pre-chorus. That riff is going to be impossible to tap your foot to at first, but the next ones should be easier. And here we have perhaps the best chorus on the record; extremely powerful in writing and execution on the parts of every band member. The second time around is just as good as the first, then the brdige begins. Ready, aim... The heaviest riff on the album, and an abrupt switch into the last chorus. Fade out.

Dreamcatcher - 7/10

A nice break from the intensity. This feels like a peaceful tidepool on an alien world, with creatures and colors beyond the world floating around my head. Short but sweet.

Diamond Eyes - 6/10

By no means bad, I do feel like this one may be the weakest track on the album. While it’s certainly beautiful, I feel like it doesn’t do a whole lot that’s new or interesting. Also, when listening at high volume (which is the proper way to listen to this album), the faults in the mixing really rear their ugly heads during the choruses. Still, there are some very pleasant rolling delay loops here during the bridge, and a nice and satisfying buildup towards the end.

Katsushika - 7/10

While the guitar opening this track may be the most straight-forward and least effects-driven riff we’ve heard so far, this song will eventually become the most alien one of the entire lineup. In a good way, of course. I can barely even decipher exactly what’s going on in the instrumentation during that build. The chorus also ends with a nice drop-off into the next verse. You may be noticing a pattern with the songwriting, where the chorus usually leads into the second verse, following the pattern of the first one but with more layering. I like it; it gives the ideas present more time to mature and develop. Anyways, here comes the bridge, where everything changes. Out of everything going on here, I feel like the drums and the background vocals are the most striking thing about this outro. What a fantastic progression and dropout. Beautiful monsters.

Weevil Bride - 8/10

The finale. This riff here is extremely well-done. The tone here is somehow piercingly bright and concerningly dark at the same time. The lyricals themes of the album also come to a head here. This chorus is another incredibly written and performed beast; just wait until it’s modulated. The second verse lays away with the subtleties and strikes at the head. And I just need to know that everything is fine, and everyone’s alright. This bridge also kicks ass, with its heart-pouding combination of guitars and toms. Then, comes the heaviest part of the entire album: Yes, please. Then we are snapped out of the masochism and lifted back to hear the main point of the album, before the intro riff carries us into an uncertain but complete conclusion. After the “true” song ends, there is a long passage of somber horns and a tranquil, almost lullaby-esque keyboard. There’s something extremely nostalgic about this outro to me, but I still can’t put my finger on where it comes from. This section almost feels like the music they play after the end of a play, as the lights come on and you make your way down the dimly-lit theater steps on slightly numb and shaky legs. The story is over; this is your time to reflect.

The main reason I wanted to write about this album in particular is because I feel like it hasn’t gotten the attention it’s deserved. It truly feels like a masterpiece worthy of widespread recognition and praise, but despite being released over a decade ago, few people have even heard of this band. It feels like injustice, not only for Rishloo’s efforts, but for the people who would connect with this album as much as I have. Also, there’s the slightly selfish hope that increased attention would incentivize the band to work on more new stuff, or better yet, remaster their older works.

In any case, It’s very late, my back hurts because my spine hates my nervous system, and I need to actually get to sleep tonight so I can heal the godforsaken nerve that wedged itself in my inner workings yesterday. On a scale from “Your all-time low just lowered again”, to “Want some? Yes, please”, I give Feathergun a “Oh, what beautiful monsters”.

[nicole-lynne]

You’ve Never Heard of Them?

Hey y’all! Recently, I’ve been very obsessed with Greta Van Fleet. A lot of people compare them to Led Zeppelin and every time I listen to them, I get this idea in my head of listening to them with Dean. I hope you enjoy this little, teeny tiny story. Please like, comment, and reblog, I really appreciate the feedback! 

Summary: Dean gets introduce to Greta Van Fleet by an unexpected guest.

Pairing: Dean x Reader (kind of)

Dean was laid back in his bed, reading some gun magazine, his feet crossed lazily as he relaxed into his pillows. It had been a quiet few days at the bunker and he wasn’t minding the free time one bit. 

As he turned the pages, the sounds of rock music flowed down the hallway and into his room. Immediately his ears perked up at the familiar sounding music. It was close to Led Zeppelin, but he couldn’t place the song. 

He tossed the magazine down haphazardly and sat up, listening intently to the melody. He was utterly baffled. No one in the bunker listened to his kind of music willingly. Sam and Cas both had sticks up their ass and they just didn’t know when to appreciate talent. 

The next song flipped on, and again, he couldn’t name the song. What the hell was going on. He bolted off the bed and followed the direction of the music. 

Dean turned the corner into the library and froze in his spot as his eyes fell on a gorgeous woman. You were curled up on the reading chair, typing away on her laptop and nodding her head along to the beat. 

“Ahem,” Your eyes snapped up to meet his anxiously. “Who the hell are you?” 

Cautiously, you turned the music off and unfolded yourself from your position. His face was hard, waiting for a good explanation. This guy had scared the bejeezus out of you and you wouldn’t put it past him to break something if you gave the wrong answer. He was definitely not the charming guy Charlie had originally described. 

“Hello there, I’m Y/N, a friend of Charlie’s. You must be Dean?” 

“Charlie’s here?” He asked gruffly. 

You were taken aback at how direct he was. “Um no... I had some issues and Charlie said you and your brother would let me stay here for a few days. Sam got me set up and said I was welcome to the library.” 

The tension is Dean’s shoulders dissipated a bit at knowing that Sam was aware you were here. Surely he’d done all the tests to make sure you were who you said you were. 

“Okay, sure. Well, if Charlie vouches for you then I’m sure it’s fine.” He mumbled as he meandered into the room. You bit your bottom lip timidly, unsure of what would be safe to say next. “So...”

“So?” You nervously tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The room fell silent between the two of you, the absence of your music making the whole thing all the more suspenseful. Dean was walking around the room, looking at the shelves attentively, as if he didn’t live here. 

It did pose the opportunity for you to unabashedly check out his ass, which was perfectly round and tight. Truthfully, it was impossible for you to notice how attractive he was in his entirety. His biceps were tight in his black t-shirt, his jeans hugged his thighs in just the right way, and god, what you wouldn’t give to run your fingers through that hair. 

“What was that you were listening to?” His voice interrupted your thoughts and you looked away sheepishly. 

“Hmm? I’m sorry, I missed that.” 

Dean’s brow shot into the air, completely aware that he’d just caught you checking him out. “I asked what you had been listening to. Ya know before, when you were alone.” 

“Oh,” your nose wrinkled in thought, and Dean thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, “oh, I was listening to Greta Van Fleet.”

“Who’s Greta Van Fleet?” 

Your jaw dropped, “you’ve never heard of Greta Van Fleet? They’re only the best new-age band.” Dean shook his head as you kept babbling on about the sound and influences of the band. “Come here, you’ve got to listen to them.” 

You patted the companion reading chair enthusiastically, beckoning him to sit next to you. Before he realized, his feet were carrying him towards you and plopping him down. You flipped your laptop back open and clicked play on the album. 

You rested the computer on the chair arm and settled back. Without delay, you were mouthing along to the words, your head bobbing up and down, your eyes closing instinctively.  

Dean couldn’t deny that the band was good. It was exactly his kind of music and the guy’s voice sounded just like-

“He sounds so much like Robert Plant, it’s crazy.” Dean couldn’t believe his ears. It was almost like you’d read his mind.

“Wait, you listen to Zeppelin?” 

You popped one eye open to look at him, “yeah of course, doesn’t everyone?” God where had this girl been all his life.

“Not the people I live with.” He snorted, thinking back to the bitch face Sam gave him the last time he’d turned on Physical Graffiti.

“You must live with some boring-ass people if they can’t even appreciate Zeppelin.” 

You had closed your eyes again so you couldn’t see the huge smile that had grown on Dean’s face. “You honestly have no idea. They never value the genius that is classic rock.” 

“Their loss then.” You said and turned up the volume on the next song. 

You and Dean sat together, listening to the entire playlist. Occasionally one of you would bring up a technique they were doing or an influence you recognized, but for the most part, the only sound was the music. When the playlist ended, you clicked pause and the entire room echoed in silence. 

“What did you think?” You questioned. He could feel your eyes on him as he thought about his answer. You held your breath as you waited and the longer he took, the more nervous you got. 

“If you want the truth...” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, “I loved them.” 

You grinned up at him, pleased with his response. “You really had me going for a second. I thought you hated them or something.” 

“I definitely didn’t hate them. And if that’s your taste in music, then I’d love to show you some of my favorite stuff.” Dean stood up and held a hand out to you. “Come on, I’ve got a record player in my room.” 

After a hesitant moment, you let your hand fall into his and he pulled you up out of the seat. “Alright, but I swear if you play Africa by Toto, you’ll lose all credibility.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and gave you a smirk, “Do I look like the kind of guy who listens to Toto?”

You giggled at the question, loving that you were teasing him. “You definitely look like you have a soft spot for the song.” 

“Yeah right, I’m tougher than nails, baby.” Dean squeezed your hand and winked at you, before leading you to his room for another music appreciation session. 

[gillywulf]

Soft and Slow, Watch the Minutes Go

AO3

Summary:

The bird, the fish, and the place where they live.

or

Clarke Griffin, international pop star extraordinaire and her very soft girlfriend Lexa carve out a piece of the world just for themselves.

~~~

The stars were an old comfort.

It was easy to gaze at them over the dusty roads as they rose just above the tree line. It was easy to get lost in the magnitude and implication of their mere existence and simply block out everything on earth that was just terrible.

Mostly, Lexa liked to use them to imagine the good. Clarke’s smell and warmth always came easier to her when she looked through the massive skylight in their new apartment. She could practically feel her body weight pressed against her like she wasn’t on the other side of the country.

The front door opened and proved that, thankfully, she wasn’t.

“Babe?” Warmth flooded Lexa’s chest and she grinned.

“Bedroom,” she called, not shifting from her position. She closed her eyes and listened for Clarke’s movements. The twin thumps of her sneakers hitting the floor, the soft patting of her steps traversing the halls, the swift intake of breath as she launched herself into the spot beside Lexa.

“Hey,” Clarke murmured as she tucked herself along her girlfriend’s body.

“Welcome home. How was shopping?” Lexa shifted her arm so that Clarke could lay her head over it and pulled her closer.

“Riveting.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I missed out.”

“Absolutely. Nothing better than the glamorous adventure of grocery shopping,” she paused to kiss Lexa’s cheek as she laughed. “They were out of the peach flavor of that yogurt you like, though. I got another flavor for you try and if you don’t like it, I think I will.”

Lexa’s mind flashed back to sitting on top of her truck, her eyes glued to the whirling dust above the canopy that lined the road. Anya’s encouragement and later warning about timing and it all seemed ridiculous and so long ago. How did she almost let this slip away?

“You’re the best.”

~

The bar quieted the second the door closed behind them. The street was still wet from the earlier rains, the scent overtaking the alcohol and vomit from overzealous patrons earlier in the night. Lexa patted down her pockets to ensure she still had her keys, wallet, and phone before turning her attention to Clarke.

“Clarke, can you check- oh, no, babe, your shoes,” she groaned. Clarke had removed her heels about an hour ago and now they lay in the gutter as she swayed tipsily down the sidewalk towards their apartment.

“They were free, no big,” Clarke replied with a wave of her hand. Lexa huffed and scooped them up, then jogged to catch up.

“Wait, wait, that’s not the point,” she tugged Clarke’s hand and then stood in front of her, draping the hand over her own shoulder, “there’s all kinds of shit in the street, climb on. There’s no need to hurt yourself.” There was a long moment of silence as Clarke seemed to register what she’d said, just long enough to make Lexa self-conscious. Was that weird? Oh no, that was weird. Clarke was going to break up with her-

Another hand found a grip on her other shoulder and suddenly all of the superstar’s weight was leaned against her back. Lexa breathed a sigh of relief and tucked her hands under the knees at her hips. A gentle humming vibrated against her cheek as they set off. She was composing.

“I’m writing my next album about you, you know,” Clarke admitted quietly into her ear a few minutes later.

“Yeah?” Lexa asked. She couldn’t have stopped the disbelief from leaking out if she’d tried. All these years of knowing her and Clarke still surprised her. Still found ways to show just how much Lexa meant to her and it baffled her.

“Yeah. I’ve got a few songs written already. I think they’re really good,” Clarke melted further into Lexa’s back with each step and the warmth of her almost made the alcohol in Lexa’s system spread that much faster.

“Can I hear one?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. I was going to play one for you tomorrow when I was a little less drunk, but I will sing for you now. Soft skin's soft as, all of these beautiful lives and beautiful thighs. They always kept me up at night, but I can't change my appetite, 'cause your pussy is a wonderland and I could be a better man-”

Lexa laughed, her whole body shaking. “I love it. Number one hit on the radio, calling it now.”

“I’m going to have Alanis Morissette do the chorus,” Clarke announced.

“I’m sure she will be delighted to sing about my vagina.”

“I know I will be.”

~

Lexa sighed as she approached her front door. Her new job was good, but just because it was more desk work and overseeing that her last job, didn’t make it any less exhausting. Talking to people left her tired on a good day, whatever the situation. She slid her key in to the lock and froze. Through the wood came a sweet melody from the piano in their living room. A soft, lilting thing that accompanied the gentle tone of Clarke’s voice. She twisted the knob slowly so as not to alert her girlfriend.

“... your cheeks says that you bleed like me and the 808 beat sends your heart to your feet. Left my shoes in the street so you'd carry me through a breakdown.” The lyrics trailed off into humming as the melody meandered through a part she hadn’t written lyrics for yet.

Clarke was sat at the piano, her hair piled into a messy bun and the rest of her wrapped in her coziest hoodie. A notebook, loose papers, a pen and her phone were scattered over the top of the black wood and she reached for the pen to scribble in the notebook when she paused her playing. Lexa leaned in the doorway to watch. Her exhaustion was immediately gone. 

The song picked up from where she’d left off with more humming. Lexa wasn’t often privy to Clarke’s songwriting process. She kept things private and close to her chest until she had a finished product. Patience was a virtue Lexa was still learning. Midway through the next play-through, Clarke’s eyes met hers and - with a brief smile - she continued on. They didn’t speak until she had gone through two more times, adding lyrics with each play.

“You were quiet,” Clarke said as her fingers continued to move over the keys.

“I don’t get to see you play very often and it was very pretty. It would’ve been a crime to interrupt,” Lexa pushed off the wall and slid in beside Clarke. “I don’t tell you often enough how much you astound me.” The song cut off abruptly. Lexa looked up to find blue eyes boring in to her.

“I’ve been asked to debut a new song at the Grammy’s. Will you go with me?” Her voice was soft and vulnerable and despite what Lexa felt about crowds, there was no world where she would deny Clarke.

“Yeah, of course.” Clarke kissed her soundly before she’d finished.

Later that night, her arms pulled Lexa close, like she was trying to absorb her. “I am amazed by you every day,” she whispered into the skin of her shoulder. Lexa hugged Clarke’s arms tighter around her.

~

“Well, as an adult, I have to work tomorrow. I’m going to head out before I let you pay for any more of my drinks,” Anya pulled her coat over her arms and patted her pockets to check for her belongings.

“You mean you’ll start waxing poetic about Raven once you’re drunk enough,” Clarke teased.

“Hey, don’t put words in my mouth. Get home safe, you two. Good night.” The couple watched as Anya disappeared around the corner and followed suit not long after, pulling on jackets and double checking for their belongings. When they hit the street, Lexa felt Clarke reach out and try to lace their fingers. Her hand remained stiff.

“Hey,” Clarke tugged them to a slow stop, “are you okay?” She frowned when Lexa looked anywhere but her. “Talk to me. Please,” she pleaded softly, running her thumb over the skin in her grasp. For a moment Lexa tried to find the words, to piece together something that wasn’t entirely emotion and that wouldn’t cause undue pain, but she shook her head and turned back towards their apartment.

“When we get home. I need to think before I speak.” Clarke’s lips tightened, but she nodded and stayed beside Lexa the entire way. The walk allowed the words to settle with each step. She wasn’t mad at Clarke- couldn’t be mad at her. It was irrational and her girlfriend had proved time and time again that what she felt for Lexa was real and there was no getting rid of her.

She was endlessly grateful for the quiet, for the chance to organize herself and the affection swelling in her chest helped ease away some of the frustration with herself. Lexa remained silent until the front door was locked and their coats were hung up in the hall closet. Then, at length, she turned to face Clarke.

“You are very successful and you’ve worked very hard for that. I couldn’t be more proud of you and the effort you put in every day. I want to start with that,” she finally made eye contact and Clarke nodded to encourage her to continue. “That being said, I don’t want you to pay for every bill willy-nilly like it’s nothing. When you wave away my offer to pay for something I feel like I’m not contributing anything to us,” Lexa explained. Her shoulders were tense and almost up by her ears by the time she finished. She watched Clarke’s heart immediately break on her face.

“Oh, baby, no. That’s not- I never meant- I’m so sorry, come here.” She held out her arms and folded Lexa into herself. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“I know you don’t need me, but I’m frustrated any time I’m reminded of it,” Lexa breathed into Clarke’s neck. She felt the full body laugh and the hands tightened around her.

“No one needs anyone, but by god do I want you.” Tears began to form in Lexa’s eyes without her consent. Trust her to start crying in the middle of their argument. “Hey,” she felt Clarke pull back enough to see her face, but kept her eyes closed. She didn’t want her to see how red they were. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

Her arms were suddenly empty and her eyes flew open to catch Clarke dart across the room to the expensive stereo system she’d moved in with. She pushed a few buttons and came back to Lexa, settling her arms around her neck as a slow song filled the room. Lexa tried to ignore the way her hands so automatically fell to her hips.

“Do you remember prom? We danced more with each other than our dates,” Clarke laughed. Lexa remembered. Clarke had gone with Finn and she’d gone with Costia, a girl she knew had been crushing on her the whole year, in a vain attempt to get Clarke off her mind. They’d spent maybe fifteen minutes with their respective dates before finding one another like magnets.

“I can’t believe we didn’t know then.”

“Excuse you, I certainly knew. I was just worried you didn’t. Turns out I was right,” Clarke countered. Lexa hummed.

“Let me rephrase; I should have known.”

“Yes, but I’ll forgive you as long as you know now.”

~

The new suit was incredibly comfortable. It was custom cut and designed just for her to match Clarke’s own enchanting dress. The label had insisted on it and Clarke had worked with her to find something she’d like that wasn’t too loud, but didn’t look a wash next to Clarke. Lexa privately believed everything looked awash beside Clarke, but who was asking?

They had walked the carpet with flashing lights and rising panic. Clarke’s hand firmly clasping hers was the only thing keeping her grounded and present. And it was hardly a hardship when the press asked her to stand away for individual photos of the singer. Looking at Clarke was her favorite thing, especially when she was as dressed up as she was.

She leaned back in her assigned chair. Clarke had been pulled a few minutes before to prepare for her performance and Lexa was beginning to get antsy alone. All at once, the lights came back up and a host walked on stage.

“And now, three-time Grammy nominee with her new single, Clarke Griffin,” he gestured to the center stage and Clarke’s figure was lit with a spotlight. She’d changed clothes again and had her oldest guitar slug over her shoulder. Lexa remembered her playing it at the school wide talent shows that she always seemed to sweep. She began playing before the applause died down.

“Your eyes, so crystal green, sour apple baby, but you taste so sweet,” Lexa felt her face redden immediately. Clarke hadn’t been joking when she said she’d written about her extensively. And so obviously. She couldn’t help but laugh quietly. 

Twenty minutes later Clarke found her way back to her seat with a nervous grin. “What did you think?” she asked, her pinky pressing to Lexa’s hand. Lexa laughed again and took Clarke’s hand in her own.

“I love you, but if there is actually a song about my vagina on the album sung by Alanis Morissette, I will scream,” she replied. The quiet admission in the crowded theater wasn’t lost. Clarke’s eyes shown with nearly-there tears as she pulled Lexa’s hand to her lips.

“I love you too, but it’s staying.”

~

Clarke burst through the door and Lexa nearly dropped the dish she was holding.

“It’s done,” Clarke announced, ripping off her heavy coat as she crossed the apartment, jabbing her finger into the buttons of the stereo system. Lexa blinked, bewildered.

“What’s done?” She set down the dish carefully. There was no need for more property damage than Clarke’s excitement would cause. She watched her girlfriend shove a before unseen disc into the player and whirl around, arms wide and a grin stretching across her face.

“My new album.” She pulled the blanket from their sofa and  laid it out over the floor. As soon as it was flat, she marched over to Lexa, pecked her cheek, then tugged her down to the blanket with her.

“I get to hear?” Lexa asked, making herself comfortable.

“I said you could when it’s done. Now without further adieu, may I present; Clarke Griffin’s Untitled Third Album.” Clarke pressed the play button and after a few moments of silence, sound filtered through the speakers.

It was always a surreal experience listening to Clarke’s new music. She put so much of herself into every track that Lexa was always left feeling like she’d learned something new about the girl she’d known most of her life. And she wasn’t stupid; she knew songwriting was very personal for a lot of people - Clarke included - and to be let in like this was a show of trust unlike anything else.

Lexa smiled and found Clarke’s hand as she listened.

~

“Can you guess where I am right now?” Clarke asked from thousands of miles away. Lexa chewed her lip and tried to recall the schedule tacked to the fridge. She would get up and look, but she was comfortable in bed and Clarke would surely call that cheating.

“I want to say Florida.” Her answer was met with a laugh.

“Which stop in Florida?”

“Tallahassee?”

“You know sometimes I think you memorize that thing, but no, that wasn’t what I meant, guess again,” Clarke demanded. Lexa hummed and made a show of trying to really put her brain into it, but she was so exhausted by work that day that she couldn’t get beyond ‘not in bed with me’ and decided to groan like she was stumped.

“I couldn’t even begin to track the life of an international pop star. Where are you?”

“On the roof of the bus.” Lexa’s eyes - which had slid closed over the course of the conversation - snapped open.

“Oh yeah?” She forced the nerves and panic out of her voice.

“Mhmm. Found a step ladder and went up the hatch at the back. Gus is standing just below like he’ll be able to ninja catch me as I start falling,” the singer laughed.

“You never know with him. Can I ask what you’re doing up there?”

“I was missing you, so I wanted to see the stars.” Lexa’s world stopped and narrowed down to one thought; I will marry this woman. There was no other choice. After all the years of pining and missed opportunities culminating into the life they had built together, anything else would be a disservice to themselves. It wouldn’t be soon - she could handle a little bit of waiting - but it was going to happen. The revelation knocked the wind out of her and she sat up in bed, then, struck by the image of Clarke under the stars, moved to their bedroom window and pushed it open.

“What a coincidence, me too.”

[paradise-of-guilty-pleasures]

Shattered Reflections {2}

[Helsa RP- Fanfic]

Fandom: Frozen

Genre: Post-Frozen/ Canon Divergence

- Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Romance

Pairing(s): Hans/Elsa, Kristoff/Anna

Prince Hans is a mirror at heart, but wishes to shatter his reflections and correct his past mistakes. He returns to Arendelle, willingly surrendering himself to Queen Elsa’s judgement. Uncovering truths, unforeseen circumstances and a bit of je ne sais quoi, bring the Ice Queen and the Mirror Prince together in a way neither of them would have imagined.

A/N:

(( This is a collaborative RP Fic written by lovely fellow Helsa shipper FOW and myself. We RP for fun and just wanted wanted to share this story with fellow shippers, especially all my lovely shipper buddies over in the Helsa Discord Server. Long live the Province of Helsa! Thank you, Beta Reader Friends, your help is much appreciated. Hope you enjoy~ ))

P.S: ((This is the shortest chapter so far, I have a few more chapters ready to post, but I don't want to spam, posting them all at once, so I'll try post one chapter daily or every other day until the story is up to date.)) Previous Chapter: Chapter 1. Double Jeopardy 

--

Chapter 2. Burn After Reading 

Hans accepted the journal and his return to the dungeons without complaint, always polite. He was right: He never made a sound when he walked. He moved as silent as a shadow, but for the clink of his chains, which even then were quiet.

Given enough pen and ink, he proved to be a voracious writer. It helped that he had nothing better to do with his time, but he certainly took more time in getting his words down. He had to choose them carefully. He knew they could be used against him. For the moment, he wanted to stick to uninteresting topics. Just to test the waters. Yet, in spite of himself, his thoughts kept turning to his situation.

He never gave complaints. He rested without concern, and waited to see who would come for his letters.

Anna had NOT taken the news of the the 13th Prince's return to Adrendelle well, and far less knowing he was to be staying in the kingdom, even if he was to remain in the dungeon. Anna wished to go pay him a visit in the dungeon, just to punch him in the face again, but was prohibited from doing so. She was relieved that Elsa was not wasn't planning to contact the Prince either (at least outside the required daily journals to her).

Anna asked her sister why she even allowed the Prince to return to their kingdom, but even Elsa didn't know the answer to that herself.

Hans seemed to remain entirely neutral in the presence of the messenger. He insisted on folding over his journal pages and putting a wax seal on them (or rather, a splot of wax from the candle he wrote by, with 'XIII' scratched into it) to send to Elsa.

Whether the seal remained intact or not, he supposed he had no control. Perhaps it was better if he didn't know.

'Please burn after reading.'

'It's much different, writing a journal or letter that you know someone will read. Every word weighed like ounces of gold and scale often checked for accuracy. When one flake can tip the balances of someone else's opinion.'

'That is the way by which I lived in the Isles. Words spoken have echoes through later conversations, everything comes back as a scathing remark, or nitpick. Some days the picks go so deep or come from so long ago, one questions if they had any merit at all, or if they are going mad. I much prefer the dungeons. Would you believe, they echo less in Arendelle.'

'I said I was a prince 'in name alone', in truth all that means is that I have access to the castle grounds. I have found that the castle dungeons and the castle rooms are equally grim, and each echo their secrets to all in sundry. Neither prisoners nor princes are allowed their secrets, apparently. My father and brother are both ill, and have been for many years. My family didn't want to cut me off from visiting them, even if I am a treasoner. At least, not after they decided not to hang me I suppose. That proposition was short-lived. They have seen too well that scene, and they have no desire to see it again.'

'How grim. The Isles has a grim sense of humor. Or maybe it's just my family. I should never know, I imagine. I would hope to be there when my father dies, great man as he is, but I can't expect that time of mourning to be respected. Better to have taken my chances here. But chances at what? I don't believe in any gods. I don't imagine there to be a soul for me to save. My own peace, perhaps, but that's selfish even for me. My own inner stupidity, perhaps.'

'A tolerable first entry, I suppose. Have a nice day, your Majesty. My sincerest apologies to Her Highness for being inflicted upon her vicinity again. The Princess is welcome to throw things. -Hans'

Hard to say of that last part was a joke. It was a meandering, but that was simply what one got, with a journal.

Elsa read over the letter multiple times. It was not what she had expected, but it had given her a glimpse into his life, even if it was minimal. She had asked him for his thoughts and feelings, though she got more of the former rather than the latter.

The journal entry felt so stiff, but she thought since it was the first one that someone was reading it was understandable.

She read his request at the top of the page 'Please burn after reading'. She contemplated if she would fulfill his request, she had a candle at the ready, but she could not bring herself to burn it. Not yet at least, instead she folded the letter back up and placed it in her desk drawer under lock and key.

The next was sent with the same 'seal' as the first.

'Please burn after reading'

'Good morning, or whensoever you should read.'

'It would almost be easier if these were letters to and from, but then I could not stop myself from afflicting some persona on you.'

'My mother is an actress, you see. A very good one, but that is all she is good at. Acting, and picking one apart like a carrion bird. I have memorized Macbeth, and say the cursed play's name without fear, knowing I am more cursed than it could hope to be. For every character, an act. "For all the world's a stage and its people merely players," writes the Bard. It must be nice to not have to pretend, to be content. To not have to pretend to be content.' The repetition was no typo, nothing was crossed out or uncertain there.

'And yet, it all feels real at the time. It always does, no matter if the decision is conscious. Broken mirrors are unlucky, and I am by trade unlucky. But there are some things I would never admit to feeling, and some things I simply feel I cannot.'

'I have often wondered how Her Highness feels so much all at once. The Princess seems so full of life. Never take her to the Isles, it would be a shame to drain that charming nature. I wish this could have been avoided so to never temper her enthusiasm with jaded realities. But alas, Reality is a bastard.'

'Wishing you well,

-Hans'

So the Queen was actress? That was something Elsa had not known. She had studied much of the Southern Isles after the coronation, but much like information on Arendelle during the closing of the Gates, there was not much it (at least regarding the Royals).

Now she knew where Hans got his acting skills from.

There was so much dejection in his words, that it almost made her feel sorrow herself.

She wondered if he really incapable of feeling or if was another charade of his. If Anna was truly right that he had a frozen heart.

Again as she did with the previous letter, instead of setting it ablaze, she set it in her drawer with the other under lock and key.

She had pondered whether to have made his punishment writing letters rather than journals, but decided against it. She really shouldn't be writing letters to him, no matter how curious she was to get questions answered. She chose journaling because it was more informal and open for him to write the thoughts and feelings she requested, since it seemed to have been the way avidly written in his confiscated journal.

Though she should have realized upon her request that he probably wouldn't be as open to her as he was to himself and there was no way of knowing if what he wrote was truly himself or just another persona he hid behind.

The next letter was a trifle less organized. Still, however, with its carved seal.

'Please burn after reading.'

'Good whenever, Your Majesty. Assuming you read these at all. That sounds rather like a greek punishment, writing letters to one who never reads them. Although, it sounds a bit like a religion, too, doesn't it? Ah well. Philosophy is the act of asking a thousand questions and debating about answers none will ever have.' What an opener.

'I had thought this story to be one I and my crew had made up in a collective fever, utter nonsense brought upon by unfamiliar waters and frayed nerves. Reflecting on Arendelle, however, I think perhaps it may have been entirely real.'

'Once upon a time, I and my crew met Sirens.'

'We were on the Conch Cat, my ship, as a captain some years ago, shortly before my admiralty. I have since kept the Conch Cat, though it now likely has a new captain, in light of my removal from the Navy. That stung worse than any sentence for treason, but I digress...'

' We had traveled some way through a storm somewhere in the Pacific, and that storm was hellacious. It threatened to rip the mast down even with the sails pulled up, but as we sailed on, soon it halted. As if someone had snuffed a candle, it had gone, replaced with a fog so thick that one could not see the forward bow from the stern. We could only drift slowly and pray that both fog and storm relented before we found somewhere to become a shipwreck, but the fog was, at least, peaceful. Some minutes into our silent crawl across the water, we began to hear ringing laughter and singing. We could all of us understand the language we heard, but the voices sounded foreign- indescribably so. They sang a familiar song, about a woman missing her sailor fiancée. '

'My heart is pierced by cupid,'

'I disdain all glittering gold,'

'There is nothing can console me'

'But my jolly sailor bold.'

'We looked into the water, and found there a woman, with lily-white skin and long waving hair under the water, graceful as any fish, and with a silvery tail of shimmering scales in our amber lamplight. It was bizarre and curious, so of course every man leant to see (and likely, a part of that being that she wore no scrap of cloth, but mine was a purely scientific curiosity, if you'll believe it).'

'There was more than one, but it was one with long raven hair that I could best see from my position. Every man listened to their singing, and each looking over the sides, before I alone realized what was happening.'

'I called to the men to get back to their posts, and barely managed to grab the helmsman and drag him back by his collar, before one of the sirens leapt up to try and grab him. He still has scratches on the side of his face (that he swears to others were from a jealous lover). I recall that one having ringlets of red-gold hair, though I caught only a glance as she tried to nab him. Men jumped back from the sides, some grabbing others, and returned to their posts. I, however, remained curious. Why had they not affected me so much as they had affected the men? Some men had to be tied to rails, why should I be different? So I ventured forward again with a lantern, foolish as I am.'

'Your heart is pierced by cupid'

'If a man may be so bold,'

'But I have nothing for you,'

'For mine is beating cold.'

'They did not care for this addition, and our Barrelman managed to pull me back this time.'

'I ordered my men to pull the sails down and speed through the fog, damn the consequences and the mast as well, so we did. Someone launched a canon, it sounded as if it hit rocks but we had seen none. We survived the sirens, fog and storm with shredded sails but an intact mast by only the grace of any god listening, and escaped. We all drank ourselves to sleep that night, and spoke of it as a fiction the next day.'

'I think perhaps, after all, it was no fiction. But I only tell the story to men of the sea, who are used to a little fabrication and strange stories. I never tell it as a fact, but it is. Who would believe? I'm glad to tell it as a truth to someone."

'My best to you, always; -Hans'

His writing was less elegant than it had been the day before, with perhaps some scratching-out and scribbling that was uncharacteristic of his writing. The handwriting seemed less tight and controlled, the writing less thought-through. The send-off seemed almost careless in both its words and its handwriting. There was a curious section near the header of seemingly aimless hatch marks, to no real purpose. He just seemed a little less controlled and rigid than before. And perhaps, his topic of choice was stranger than usual. Getting a thought out that he would seemingly never otherwise have shared.

Elsa tapped her pen against her desk. His opener doubting whether she even read his journals made her want to send him a note of reassurance of her readership, now she was debating whether that was the right course of action or not.

His sea story though different than his previous entries, had piqued her interest. The tale of Sirens only a myth to some, but to her it read so real, for she knows Trolls are real and even her own powers were something that would seem like fiction to someone that hadn't witnessed them with their own eyes. The possibility of more Magic out there made her wonder if there was someone out there who's a little bit like her in the great unknown. Yet the sirens weren't the only thing that caught her attention in this letter, his lyrics of the song stood out to her

'Your heart is pierced by cupid'

'If a man may be so bold,'

'But I have nothing for you,'

'For mine is beating cold.'

It was mention of a frozen heart yet again.

A blank piece of paper sitting in front of her as she continued tapping her pen.

How would she even address him, even in a simple note? She kept hovering her pen over the paper ready to start writing, but pulling away as her mind went blank yet again.

Maybe she need not tell him, but show him that she read his words. Without much of a second thought at the center of the page she wrote:

' I believe.'

Short and simple, but to the point. She folded the paper, like he did his and now it was time to seal. She placed the wax, but the Arendelle seal didn't seem right. She poured more wax and this time with her magic made a snowflake to replace it.

The note was done, now it was whether or not she would choose to send it.

She cleaned off her desk, placing his recent letter with the rest under lock and key. The note she just wrote in her hands, she played with the edges as she looked at her snowflake insignia. She was lost in her thoughts, when a knock at the door startled her.

"Your Majesty," The head guard seemed uncertain at first. "Your prisoner seems... off, today. He hasn't expressed any change in particular, he just seems off in a way I can't place, my instincts say something is wrong. Do you have any thoughts or direction? He also insists that he would like to wash his own clothes, but I consider that too dangerous, and frightfully curious for a previous prince." The head guard frowned. He had been doing his job for some years, but something about all this felt wrong, and he couldn't quite say how. Something beyond the laundry.

Elsa sighed. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention Captain."

She had noticed a change in Hans in the way he had written the journal, but had not thought much of it, but now that the captain voiced his concern there was no ignoring that there was something definitely off with Hans today.

"I think I have to go see him myself, in order to decide a proper course of action." It was something she had not planned on doing, but she felt she had no choice now, she had allowed Hans to return so he was her responsibility.

She still had her note in hand as she stood up from her desk and walked towards the Captain.

The guard nodded. "Excellent plan, your Majesty. I will be there to maintain your safety." The Captain assured. That was what it always was, his job. But he took pride in it.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin

I have been so touched by your guys’ reaction to this story. These two are a departure from my usual take on Jamie and Claire, but I love them all the same.  Thanks for sticking with me and for sharing your love of them. 👑💜

small bit of ;nsfw beneath the cut

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XVI: Market

Claire hopped from foot to foot at the edge of a murky puddle as Jamie attempted to strong arm the shed door into sliding open.  His abashed declaration that he did not have an umbrella, bent at the waist in the front hall closet, led them to become creators together.  On the front porch, they tented a blanket over their heads before darting across the front lawn to the shed. It had been a completely ineffectual attempt to stay dry.  Laughing, he had fixed the blanket in her small fists before braving the rain to fight the door. It protested viciously before finally relenting with a groan.  Giving him a firm pat on the bottom, Claire slipped into the shed and groped along the wall for a light switch.  When she found it, the room sizzled to life beneath a yellow glow, revealing a seafoam green pickup with a chrome grill.

“It’s no’ much,” Jamie opined, rising to the door’s stubbornness with his own and pushing it the rest of the way open. “Pre-war, a bit rusty, but dependable. It should have a full tank and working heat.  Ye’d no’ thank me for a motorcycle ride in this weather.”

“It’s perfect.”  

He made a responsive Scottish noise of disbelief, followed her gaze to his father’s truck, and dried his hands on his trousers.  

“I mean it.  It’s perfect.”  

She ran a finger along the hood of the pickup, trying to remember the last time she had been alone in a car with a man.

Never.  

Drivers.  Staff.  Never even with Lamb or her father.

The answer was that the Queen had never been alone in a car with a man. 

And quite suddenly all she could think of was being Claire alone with Jamie.  In another life, her real life, there was always someone else there. Breathing and occupying her space.  Someone waiting to dote on the Queen. To select a wardrobe and costume her for events in gowns or well-tailored skirt suits. To whisper the names of politicians in her ear as she feigned a detached recognition of parades unremarkable faces. To select the courses of her meals for her, to serve them on historied porcelain and in cut crystal.  

She wanted to tell Fraser that it had been an entire weekend of firsts, but the notion seemed soppy and overly sentimental.  So she kept it tucked away in her mind’s file folder, where she was going to keep the memories of this weekend.

The first morning waking up to his eyes studying her, hand hovering over her cheek. Realizing what his first arousal of the day looked like.  (Hazy blue, pouting lips, sluggish fingers.)  The first shower with a man, slippery hands and soft noises becoming heavy in billows of steam.  (His arms around her. The fact that he did not bother to ask if she needed the water hotter, just knowing and turning the hot tap full on.) The first weekend afternoon with a lover –– no umbrella, pouring rain, a pickup truck, the hastily constructed grocery list of two people who rarely were called upon to make their own meals.  Though chilled to the bone by the rain, the soft, warm domesticity of a weekend in a kitchen had her floating. (The negotiation of a pair over what was for breakfast, the touch on a lower back when passing utensils from a drawer to a hand.)  

Though Claire lived a life defined by the constancy of others’ presence, this was the first stretch of days through which she had not felt lonely in a terribly long time.

Rather than divulging all of these firsts, she commented instead that he looked to be soaked to the bone.  He smirked, commenting that he was in good company.  

He opened the door for her, gave an exaggerated bow, and earned one of the laughs that sounded so sweet to him.  The ones that overwhelmed her small frame –– lifted her shoulders, tipped her head, made her touch her belly as though there were something there to contain, fighting for release. The laugh made her eyes go iridescent –– the color of approaching autumn and a dusky moment of silence before a thunderstorm, the burnt leaves escaping a bonfire to crawl over velvety night to meet sky.

He rounded the front of the pickup, slipped into the driver’s seat, and let the keys drop into his palm from their hiding spot in the sun visor.  With a silent prayer on his moving lips and a turn of the key, the truck roared to life.  

“Will everyone in town know who you are?” she asked quietly, suddenly a little self conscious despite her bravado in declaring her ordinariness the night before.  She squeezed the rainwater from her dress, giving him an apologetic smile as it dribbled onto the floorboard.  “I mean, if they know you, they’ll know I’m not your wife.  Where you work.”

“No.”  His voice was firm, sure, but she asked again.  Are you sure?  I mean, really sure?  Angling his body, he looked at her, really studied her.  She was nervous.  It glowed through her usual formality.  Became apparent in cider, whisky, and firelight. She was stanzas of poetry begging to be written in his hand.  “I’ve no’ been to this town since I was a lad.  I was a tall, skinny thing wi’ spots enough to make a firehouse dog jealous.”

“I am having great trouble picturing that.”

“Believe it,” he hummed as he put a hand on her knee, rubbed a finger across the small, silver scar that he had identified there earlier that morning.  (“Three stitches.  Breaking out of the girls’ dormitories after curfew with a few other girls.  I was fifteen.  I thought Lamb would kill me, but he laughed.”)  She shivered. “Do ye want to go back inside?”

“No, I––”

“––to warm up?  I can go to the market––”

––she shook her head, licked her lips––

“––just pop in quick for a few things.  Come back.  It’s twenty minutes there, another twenty back.”

Though her dress had become a plaster cast over her thighs and the peaks of her breasts, he had gravely misinterpreted the shiver.  It was his familiarity that made her tremble, not nervousness. It was the sensation that they were meant to be together.

“Turn the vents on full blast.”  She shook her head again, this time almost violently.  “I’ll be better than fine.”

Unconvinced, he shrugged, turned up the heat, and pulled out of the shed.  

In the twenty minute ride to town, Claire learned a lot about Fraser.  He could not sing, hum, nor whistle. He could not find the rhythm in a song or carry a tune in a bucket. When he tried to wink at her, it was such a garish contortion of his usually beautiful features that she collapsed backwards into the seat in a fit of giggles. The laughter made the very core of her body ache.   He set his jaw every time that he slowed to a rolling stop, carefully looked both ways, and held his breath before he again accelerated.  He draped an arm across the seat behind her as he backed into a parking spot as he finished off a story about the family dog giving birth behind the Christmas tree one year.

In the overbright, lightly populated market, Jamie learned that common things awed the Queen of England.  So common, that Jamie imagined that shopping with her was a lot like what it would be like to shop with a readily impressed child.

Tinned peaches. (“My father loved them with cottage cheese; he ate them for dessert, and I haven’t had them in years,” she explained as she pulled three cans off of a shelf in her small hands, spilling them into the trolley.)  Icebox cookies speckled with candied cherries and nuts. (“I could eat a thousand,” she declared with a guilty look and an easy tilt of her head.)  A butcher’s case stuffed with various cuts of meat, the front lined with vibrant green paper grass and the trays sitting on lacy paper doilies. (Her fingers pressed against the glass as she turned to look at Jamie over her shoulder, face cracked apart in a smile. “A pork chop supper? It’s all I know how to cook that’s at all special.  It was La-” she paused, offering a smile at the butcher who was taking a bit too much of an interest in his delighted patron. “It was my uncle’s favorite.”)

She became wistful as they meandered down an aisle of baking supplies.  “My mum had the best hand at baking,” she declared, voice pitched low.  He pushed the trolley, bent forward at the waist, resting his weight on the handle and watching her.

“Mine, too. Hated it, but she was the best.”  

Her fingers traced the front of heavy bags of sugar and flour, the scarf in her ponytail swishing with each step.  “I was too young to remember much of it.  But cakes and biscuits, fudge at the holidays.  We had our own house… still Crown property, but not… well, not anything like....”

She faded away.  The quiet, rubbery click of her stacked heels stopped, and her wandering fingers suspended just over a can of sweetened condensed milk.

He took another step, pushed the cart out ahead of her, surveyed the aisle.  

Alone.

“Jamie, I do not know what to say. I am afraid that I am a little sentimental for some reason. I have not been in a market in years.  I remember my mum boiling cans of this.”  She studied the label, brows furrowed. “It sort of turns to a caramel.”

He closed the distance, took a can from the shelf.  “Let’s give it a try.”

This time, she was the one to survey the aisle, then went to her tiptoes and placed the most delicate of kisses on his lips. “You aren’t the least bit worried that I’ll burn down your cabin?”

Grimacing in mock confusion, he shook his head.  “No. Ye’re goin’ to do this over a campfire in the back.  Really roughing it.  I willna let ye near the stove after the mess ye made of those sausages yesterday.”

Laughing, she kissed him again.  When they got home, something inside Jamie roared to life and easily became wild for her. After braving the rain from the shed back to the cabin, her dress had become a second skin. It made her into a statue. An exceptional Bernini, the sensual weight of her limbs barely contained by fabric draped and carved of marble. The curls that had been so warm and dry in his bed and beneath his fingers only hours earlier were cemented against her cheeks, coiling around her throat, charting a perfect map for his mouth to follow.  With the bags tipped over, spilling contents onto the floor, he came up behind her and drew her backwards, followed that map, went off course, and poured into her all of the need that dwelled inside of him.

They made love there in the entryway, her body molding over the back of the couch and his hand on her spine.  He wrapped her in a flannel shirt after, kissed the tip of her nose.  In the late afternoon, she made her pork chops, boiled potatoes, and a green salad as he poured them each a drink.  Afterwards, they had fallen back into bed together. Her tongue was earthy with sage and whisky, her lips swollen and her mouth emitting tender sounds.  He tasted her beneath the hem of the flannel, her thighs clamped around his ears.  She returned the favor with a gusto that made him gnaw a bite mark over his knuckle.  

They talked for hours until the slow rise and fall of his eyelids fell, throwing his words into a slowed stupor that eventually stopped.

The rain did not abate overnight.

Claire listened to the landing of every drop, her touch molded to muscle (chest, bicep) and his face tucked close to the curve of her throat.

She did not sleep.

In the earliest part of morning, he woke slowly, eyes still sleepy.

“Hi there,” she whispered, pushing a curl back from his forehead.  Bees buzzed in her mind.  A thousand (a million) thoughts came to life, knocking against the edges of the hive. With an exhaled “hmmmmm” deep from his belly, his eyelids drifted closed again.  “Are you going back to sleep?”

“I’ll no’ ever sleep again now that I ken ye’re awake,” he slurred into the pillow.

His breathing slowed and she gave him a gentle jab in the ribs. “Sleepy little liar.”

“I’m just resting my eyes, Sassenach” he mumbled, cracking one eye and looking up and down her thin form.  “Did ye have something in mind? To keep me awake?”

“Once more,” Claire whispered, bringing a knee over his hips and settling against him.  “Before we go.”

Once more.  Before we go.

He hadn’t the heart to tell her that he had planned on having her at least twice before they packed up, but the surprise of waking to her wanting him was like Christmas morning and his birthday all at once.  

The curtain of her curls that fell forward from her top of her head painted a shadow across her face in the waning moonlight.  Tightness in his belly made him shift just slightly beneath the slight weight of her.  The naked parts of her radiated wet heat through the thin cotton of his briefs.  He reached for the buttons on the flannel shirt (he would pack it and bring it home; he would not wash it, it smelled like her now), but she shook her head and pushed away his fingers.  She made a meal of undressing –– a slow, seductive disrobing.  The last button undone, the fabric fell open and exposed nothing more than the midline of her torso.

A roving hand slipped into the back of his shirt to find her lower back, urging her forward.

“I need you inside of me.”  

He grunted quietly in response as she slipped the band of his briefs over his hips, her fingers struggling between the sheets and his bottom to free him completely.

“Insatiable, are ye, lass?”  Sleepiness made his voice syrupy and his accent thick, but his eyes.  Those glowed blue in the dark, awake and sparkling as though somehow lit from within.  She smiled, through the uncomfortable thought that had roused her (going home) and led her to straddle him (not having him there like this), still dwelled at the front of her mind.  

“I am.  Insatiable.”  For you.  For this.  For us.  

“I can see right into yer mind, Claire.”  A single hand on the center of his chest as she rolled her hips along the length of him, her throat creaky as she swallowed.  

‘Can you?’ she thought. ‘Everything changes at first light. Sunday morning. This life in this cabin isn’t real.’

He guided her body so he could feel her (exquisite, slick, and soft; clearly having been ready long before he woke), and found the ache of his horrible yearning morph into a painful need.

“Is that so?”  

“Aye,” he said evenly, eyes focused on hers as he surged into her. She worried what he could see on her face as they joined and she bowed herself forward, burying her face where his shoulder met his throat.  On top like this, she was almost too full with him, yet needed more.  Her hesitancy made his hips lift, pressing them even closer.  

“Christ,”  she hissed as she ground back down over him, wondering if he could see the words at the back of her mouth or if he saw only images flashing across her brain.

All of their waiting.  

Their nights with Brimstone and Donas.  Their thinly-veiled innuendos dropped easily for the other to pick up from horseback.  The separations at the end of the night that ached, long glances as steady fingers readied the horses for a night of rest, and incidental touches that gathered a multitude of meanings like arms full of wildflowers.

“Okay?” he asked, one hand on her waist and another reaching for her cheek when she pulled back up, straight, and started to move.  

She relocated his hand from her face to her breast, and moved against him slowly.  “Perfect.”

All of their hesitancy.  

The day he stood before her in the stables and told her in no uncertain terms that he did not know if he could wait for her.  When he laid bare his conclusion that what they were doing was wrong as long as she had promised herself to another man.  For her part, unfaithfulness to another seemed to be only a petty crime then.  To be unfaithful to another, just so she could know Fraser in all that he was.  To wear an affair like a second skin for a summer (the season that she said they could use to sate their hunger for one another before she married), and then to wear it from her wedding day onwards forevermore as a crown of thorns.  

Her name fell from his lips, pleas to the God on whose name she was Queen, and hisses of profanity followed.

(Claire.  Oh God.  Oh fuck.)

She fell forward again.  This time into his mouth, breasts crushing against his chest as she kissed him.  He rolled them, taking her wrists and pinning them above her head as he took from her the sensations she had withheld. Crying out beneath him (last name first, first name last –– Fraser, then Jamie), she let her hands go slack, cinched her eyes shut.  She had thought very little of what would happen if she had him without an expiration date occasioned by a marriage.  He released her wrists, kissed her, tucked a hand between their bodies, and slowed his hips as she finished.  

Pulsing. Gasping.  Weeping.  Finally.

Her fingers found his face, held it as his universe burst moments later.  

Spent, he laid heavy over her, marveling that he could feel her fingertips travel the length of his spine.  Feeling remained there when he had convinced himself long before that the mangled, puckered flesh was beyond sensation.  Goosebumps broke out along his forearms and he nuzzled his face closer to her.

“What are you thinking?” she asked eventually before placing a single kiss in the space between his clavicles.

“That ye’re no’ ever so beautiful than ye are when ye’ve been loved.”  She felt so small against his chest, his hand cupping a single buttock.  “Tell me what is in that curly heid of yers.  I ken it’s sittin’ somewhere far, far from here.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, adjusting.  “I said on Friday that I did not want this to end.  Now…”

When her voice trailed away and her face dipped, he took her gently by the chin.  He finished for her.  “Now it is.”

“Exactly.”  

She could have washed her face in a new round of tears at the way that his lips quirked into a half-smile.  “Och, weel, we’ll be back.”

“But until then… how?”  

Loving him seemed like a felony.  Subjecting him to her life.  The flash bulbs.  The adulteration of this place, the quietness of the cabin and the sleepiness of the town that they had visited. The expectations that would be foisted upon him.  She had little doubt that he would take it all for her.  That he did love her, but the fact that this weekend was not an infinity rattled her.

He swiped away the line of tears accumulating at her lower lashline.  “Ye’re thinking too far ahead, Claire.  Wondering if this can work. How it can work.”  

She just hummed in response, closing her eyes.  “Sassenach.  What does it mean?”

At this, he snorted, kissed the tip of her nose.  “An English person.  An outlander.”

Seemed right to her.