#✧ ❛ guitar solo fuck yeah ! / ic.

[origidick]

it's hard to say exactly what he is doing ― but it certainly reads as some pitiful attempt to impress her. strumming at his guitar , a remnant of time in eden [ his time with lucifer . ] adam shoots @hellshoard a grin ; that same cocky look he had all those years ago. ❛ oh ! hey , lil ― didn't notice you there. ❜

[beautifulpersonpeach]

BPP I have been thoroughly wrecked by Yoongi. HIS VOICE? HIS CHARISMA??

My god. He's been your bias since debut?! You're strong woman. How did you do it?? One concert and I'm ready to bear kids for him. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

/gen

*

Ask 2: I'm sorry!!! But look at this!!!! twitter com/sujimschim/status/1652517741226790913 looolll I think army's gonna be okay (pun intended lol) Sorry I think I'm having a post wlive high right now. lol Also did you hear about that insanely lucky army who got Yoongi video on their phone AND got to sit next to Jimin during the concert?! Like WOW. I'm amazed. Isn't that harder than the lottery?? lol Ok I'll really stop. Have a good night!!

*

Ask 3: A TO THE G TO THE U TO THE STD

*

Ask 4: Yoongi looks SO GOOD IN WHITE T WALKING DOWN THE HALLWAYYYYYYSSSSSS?!@#@!K?!@! THANK YOU JIMIN FOR SCOLDING YOOOONNNNGGGGIIIIII!!!!!!!!!

*

Ask 5: I love how Yoongi sticks to his first iteration of Sorry for being cute choreo. That choreo is becoming a lore of its own. yoominforlife lol Also OMGGGG his concert haegeum performance is gonna be LIT. I personally really love the name of the song and all the word play that's hidden inside it

*

Ask 6: i want to fuck yoongi till the paint peels off the walls i need to suck his thick fat cock clean empty, gobble his midas balls till i gag and after that read him my deontological critique of neitzche's assertion that god is dead. because god is well and truly alive and i just sucked his balls dry. i was lost and stupid in the wilderness of my ignorance of his divine hotness. i doubted your mind for your esteemed love for him. i was foolish but he has made me a believer. i want to be shoooshed by yoongi. then fuck him till he blacks out. consensually.

sorry. pls don't hate me bpp yoongi just drives me so fucking insane.

*

Ask 7: D-Day tour setlist is INSANE. Banger after friggin baanger Bpp! Have you tried to rank Suga's songs before? All his solo songs too can you rank them Bpp?

***

Hi Anon(s),

Anon in ask 2, your link. And yeah, that person was super lucky. 💜

I need to confess to y’all. I caved and got myself an earlier ticket. Usually, I buy my tickets for later in the tour to give myself time to calm down and adjust. I’d have spoiled the setlist for myself, listened to it ad infinitum till the lyrics were ingrained and my hormones were in equilibrium. But this time I couldn’t wait till the Cali dates, (still going). I had to see Yoongi tonight.

And Christ, I have ascended.

I know I will not be coherent, I’m already trying to self censor as I write , but I want to get this out here because many of you have sent me asks about him, some I know I can’t post ever, so I’m hoping someone else gets it whatever it is I’m tying to say.

…

Yoongi is so beautiful.

Yoongi is a rock star, and I mean that in a literal sense. He makes rock music, thinks like a rock star, and sings like a rock star. His live renditions of Amygdala are the perfect example of this. Pairing screamo rock in the chorus with the guitar solos in the outro, everything about Yoongi's vision for that song is centered around liberation, a value that's inherent to a rock star.

*

(Yes. That’s the objective correct answer.)

I laughed reading all your asks btw. (Anon in ask 6, I see you, I get you, and I don't judge you.) Ranking Agust D's songs is impossible for me. My personal taste is screamo rock and dirty trap or drill, I like songs with distinct percussion, lots of guitars, and/or distortion, voice cracks, autotune, etc. Artists like Nirvana, ONE OK ROCK, Kendrick Lamar, Twenty One Pilots, and Jimin give me bits and pieces of that sound, but no one in BTS knows how to scratch that itch for me better than Yoongi.

He’s just the right kind of insane to speak my language.

The duality that shimmers around Jimin like a mirage and is central to his magnetism, where you can’t be sure of who, what, exactly you’re looking at - man, woman, child, king, snake, panther, cat, metal, silk, fire, ice - all in one. That duality, lives in Yoongi’s music.

It’s elsewhere too, but it lives in his music. Even underneath all of that, he just makes some of the best music around.

That beat change at the end of Shadow? That's music tailor-made for me. Cypher Pt 3, AGUST D (the song), What Do You Think?, Trivia: Seesaw, the live performances of HUH?! and Amygdala are a revelation. All his music sounds perfectly made for me.

I honestly have no choice but to love him.

(I have no words when it comes to Yoongi.)

I won’t exactly rank his music here. I’ll discuss some of my favourites based on things like production, message, flow, feel, etc. Maybe.

Production

724148

This song is criminally underrated. I mean it's a crime more people aren't screaming from the rooftops about how crisp this track is. Listening to 724148 was the first time it really hit me how brilliant Yoongi is as a producer.

So Far Away ft Suran

You need to listen to this song on good speakers. It will change your life for the better. Do that, then come back here and tell me how you feel.

Burn It ft MAX

You know, when I heard the live performance of this song, I called a friend to help me re-calibrate my speakers. To recreate that feel. The production on the song is insane. Not to mention Yoongi's flow in the second verse.

Amygdala

The guitars are placed and layered perfectly. I love how forward the drums are in the mix. The autotune is one of my favourite things about it too. The entire song is perfect.

Daechwita

Am I the only person who hears the same static in the song intro that continues faintly in the foreground for the entirety of the song? As though you're entering a glitch. It's so sick. The main/central beat doesn't vary much, all the texture comes from Yoongi's adlibs. And he does an excellent job elevating it to something more.

*

(It truly embarrasses me that I cannot allow myself to talk about him. He’s that… much.)

Flow / Delivery

You've all seen me go on and on about Jimin's vocals. About how much Jimin's voice is the catalyst for ecstasy when I listen to BTS's music. But Yoongi's voice affects me just as strongly, if not more, in a very different way.

I’m a sucker for the kitten. That insane high pitched thing he does drives me to the limits of my sanity. But he’s also a natural baritone. A nasty one at that. You can hear it in the music he makes. And that’s my kryptonite.

Have you listened to HUH?! Like, really listened to it? Do you hear his flow from 1:08 - 1:15?

Do you hear how disgusting this brat is?

Fuck.

Let’s just move on.

Some favourites where his flow, delivery, switch-ups, is frankly ridiculous:

Shadow

Burn It ft. MAX

AGUST D

HUH?! ft j-hope

Cypher Pt. 3

Aside, the instrumental of this track, along with Cypher Pt. 4, Dionysus trap remix, Danger MMA 2019 version, and We Are Bulletproof Eternal, is incredible.

*

Feel

Honsool

Making a list based on pure vibes, Honsool has to show up. Yoongi captured the unmoored, untethered feeling of drifting through haze, distilled and crystalized into Honsool. Genius.

Give It To Me

What Do You Think?

HUH ft j-hope

Tony Montana ft. Jimin

I'm a sucker for the grit in their voices in this song. The live version specifically.

(He’s such a problem for me y’all…)

*

Not to get into this, but he also does sweet, poppy songs too. Some faves being That That, Amygdala, People, Trivia: Seesaw…

He is a true artist.

And nothing is hotter than that.

*

Message

I started writing this long paragraph about the themes in his music and stopped because I’ve really gone on long enough. I’m barely keeping it together here. I just saw him lose his mind with happiness at the ARMY who disguised her iPhone as a Samsung. That wide smile on his face is still replaying in my head. I’m happy he’s happy, because he’s made me so happy.

Anyway, some fave tracks I reach for, for their message:

5 - Strange ft RM

4 - UGH

3 - Snooze ft Ryuichi Sakamoto & Woosung

2 - Amygdala

1 - People

In a class of its own, I have to mention The Last. That song is a reckoning and wake up call. It's everything and I'm forever proud of Yoongi for making it.

*

Have y’all imagined what the concert will be like in 2026? Have you really sat down to think about what it could look like? Because I have. And it looks like pure bliss. No matter what is happening in the world at that time, I must see BTS.

It’s a decision I made last June, but Yoongi on this tour has breathed fire into that desire. He’s made me want him, crave his sound, daydream of his music playing in my head…

If I could I would’ve sued this man already.

Anyway, Anon in ask 1, welcome to getting wrecked by Yoongi. He is layer upon delightful layer of loyal, creative, tortured beautiful genius hovering just on the edge of insanity. I’m hopeful that he completes his tour as planned, enlists as planned, serves as planned, and is discharged and back to BTS as planned.

In the meantime, I’ll fully enjoy the time he’s spending with us and the music he’s making for us. I’m happy y’all are joining me in this too. 💜

[mollymauk-teafleak]

top gun/daisy jones and the six au

So like the little magpie I am, I have once again stolen one of my lovely gf's hyperfixations in a piece of media I haven't even consumed. Because what better way to consume media than just having your gf @hangsters tell you all the best bits and then help you make a top gun au?

So there is an up and coming rock band in the 70s music scene called Top Gun, consisting of Nicholas 'Goose' Bradshaw on drums, Ron 'Slider' Kerner on bass and Tom 'Iceman' Kazansky on lead guitar and vocals. They've recently added a relative unknown called Alice Duong on keys to round out their sound (who keeps drawing the eye of their bassist) but they're struggling to climb the charts.

Their success and their struggle is all down to their lead and originator, Iceman Kazansky. Fellow musicians can't stop raving about the technical flourishes in the songs, the skill and effort put into every solo, the way Kazansky seems to live and breathe music. But that experimental nature is struggling to capture people who'd just be listening to the radio on their way to work.

So their manager has an idea. Guess who he also represents, whose was a massive hit before the drugs and alcohol and partying caught up with him, who works a crowd like no one else and just oozes raw charisma and just got out of rehab and needs a comeback? Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell. And he could be just what Top Gun needs.

Instantly, Mav and Ice struggle to get along. Mav comes into the recording studio like a hurricane, messing up Ice's perfect riffs and technical genius with improvised solos, lyric changes and a general disregard for anything Kazansky (or anyone who ins't him) has to say. The rest of the bad worry that this could wreck the band entirely rather than save them. But the songs that come out of this battle are genius and sell like gangbusters.

So they tour and Ice and Mav are still butting heads but it seems to have...shifted. Like they hate each other but they love it? So no one is really surprised when one of their arguments over a song turns into the hottest sex.

But there's a problem. Maverick has never ever had a relationship like this where it's with someone he actually might love? And he panics about not being good enough, about letting Ice down and the pressure of having a gay relationship in the 70s. And yeah, he's always bucked gender roles (he's trans but not out publicly) and played with sexuality in his music but Ice feels real and he's so scared.

So one night Ice finds him high and shaking in the bathroom after a show. And he just helps him into the bath, washes him, gets him to drink water and takes care of him. But he tells him 'you have until December 1st when the tour ends and then you're done with this. you're going to get clean and be a good man for me'. And Maverick does.

Meanwhile, Goose is struggling being away from his high school sweetheart and love of his life Carole. They get the whole adorable 'if I say I have a record deal will you marry me?' thing and they have a cute backyard wedding when they realise she's pregnant and then along comes little Bradley who Goose loves more than anything (I have hangster stuff in this AU also but this post is getting long)

And eventually, after show after show of Slider staring at her, Alice finally confronts him. She's met guys in this industry that see her as a muse, see her as a skirt and nothing else and she's so done with all that. She just wants someone who treats her like a person and if Ron's gonna be that person he'd better hurry the fuck up and kiss her before she gets sick of waiting. And slider was just scared to be like one of those guys so he was holding back but now he has the go ahead he's kissing her like there's no tomorrow.

But yes I'm so deep in this AU it's not even funny and I'm looking how I can get some fics or maybe even a multi chapter thing out of it so! Ask questions, send requests, please enjoy!

[pitbullwithaship]

DOCTOR WHO LIVEBLOG 2009 SPECIAL THE WATERS OF MARS

It has been a moment since I've watched, but in my defense I have 7 different personal projects right now including learning the guitar and finally doing drivers Ed. And a cross stitch project and an embroidery project and a song I'm learning for open mic and my band solos and the book I'm reading. AnyWHO yeah I have a whole bunch of stuff happening Coolio. Let's watch.

STATIC

Aww is a baby

STATIC

Oh look Mars

Aww he has the spacesuit on

Lol I like this dude he's funny

And he's a killjoy

Lol no trespassing

THE DOCTOR. DOCTOR. FUN.

Aww cute gadget

Carrots

Oof he ate the carrot and now he's weird

Weird sounds

OH FUCK

MY HEAD IS SO STUPID that is a mood

Wait they all die? No that's sad?

TODAY

Awww nerd sad nerd

Ooh roaring

Oof now he's all entangled

Cute robot

Aww don't get all deep on her right now Doctor

That's poetic

Don't bicker y'all

Well they're still alive lol

Manipulative monster?

Oof there he is he's very soaked

Oof she's seizing?

Oh dear is her mouth weird now

SHES DRIPPING

oh do the Mars creatures want water cuz their planet dried up

That's scary as hell holy crap

Those are really obviously contact lenses in that shot

Oh wow they're trying to get in with water

They look so funny running like that

Wow

Poetic indeed

BUT BIKES I love him

Funny noises language

Ooh ice frozen creature virus

OooOOOOOoooooOo ActIoN PrOceDurE ONe

This is making me thirsty

He's a runner he's a trackstar

Ooh medical breach thats not good

He knows your death

Something wonderful

OOF? SHE WAS THERE?! OH POOR HER

It saw her

I love her she's wonderful

I fully agree doctor. Remarkable

AWW THATS SO CUTE HER GRANDAUGHTER THATS SO CUUUUTTTEEE AAAHHH

She made a difference? People remember her?! I want to be remembered!

THEY CAN LEAVE

Aww but history says they all die anyway why

Climbing ladder?

Controlled chaos indeed

He is conflicted

Boop boop boop boop boop

They're on the roof!!

Maybe they can

He is still conflicted and sad

Okay but there's 20 minutes left I bet he changes just mind and what fun that would bring

Awww sadness sadness I hate sadness

DOCTOR YOU NEED TO PROCESS TOUR GODAMN TRAUMA

IF YOU CRY I WILL CRY THATS NOT ALLOWED

Final option

Doomed by the narrative

That's a lot of water

HE HAS TO WALK AWAY AND LISTEN TO IT ALL

Awwww her peoples that's really sad I'm gonna cry

IM CRYING

HE HAS TO HEAR ALL OF IT WHILE HE WALKS AWAY AAAAAAHHHH ITS NOT FAIR AAAHHHH

OH NO I FORGOT ABOUT HER NOOO NOW THEY CANT LEAVE

EXPLOSION

I'm crying this is torturous and an amazing axample of being doomed by the narrative and by fate and everything and all

Oh shit he's doing the thing is this the thing I've seen oh fuck has he snapped

YOURE NOT IMMORTAL BECAUSE OF A PROPHECY ABOUT KNOCKING YOURE STUPID

DONT BREAK THE TIME LAWS

NO THE LAWS DONT OBEY ANYONE YOU FUCK I GET THAT YOURE A TRAUMATISED DUDE BUT YOU DONT WIN AGAINST TIME EVER EVER EVER EVER FUCK

This is getting philosophical, it's lucky I have Philosophy this semester

Doomed is doomed by dude

THE ICE IS BREAKING

His brain is incredibly broken, this is why you should process your trauma kids

EXPLOSION SHIT

7 minutes left apparently

They're alive?

Dude you know the rules, I'm glad she has sense

TIME LORD VICTORIOUS MY GUY NO

See this is what happens when your brain gets broken don't let it get this far kiddos

Fuck this is hurting my heart he's not supposed to be like this

GIRLIE JUST DIED ANYWAY SHES BRAVE I LOVE HER FUCK

YES MY DUDE YOUVE GONE TOO FAR DID YOU ONLY JUST REALISE IT

Hello Ood

HES SO TRAGIC HIS HURTS MY HEART

FUCK

Technically I could watch another but I want to watch the part 1 and part 2 for The End Of Time all at once. Cool. This will definitely not cause me horrible emotional pain and heartbreak, nosir.

[the-archangel]

The Interview - Part Two

I finished it!

If you read part one then firstly thank you and secondly, this will make more sense, but if you didn't then that's fine, it's still fun!

“Keep recording, just…give me a minute.” Nancy is uncharacteristically flustered by the current turn of events. She stands, arms folded defensively over her chest, watching as Johnny weaves through the equipment and wires and takes a seat next to V on the couch, perched on the edge leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees and hands clenched together.

Having him here should be a gift, a reporter’s wet dream, but Nancy is struggling to think of anything beyond the obvious just for the moment. He should be an old man by now, but he looks like the man in his thirties that she remembers, except he has a new chrome arm replacing the original that gave him his name. How the fuck is he here? What does it have to do with Kerry and V and why didn’t they fucking mention it before?

“Johnny, this is a surprise to say the least,” she finally manages regaining her composure and her seat, “have you been back for long?”

“’Bout eight months give or take, pretty out of it for the first few weeks, but been making up for my absence ever since.” V chuckles at the truth of it whist Kerry rolls his eyes.

“Can you share with the audience how you made it back to the land of the living?”

V interjects, “Turns out Arasaka had been keeping him on ice for the last fifty-four years, finding him was the easy part, finding someone who could fix him and put him back together is what took the time and the eddies.”

“Yeah, he was pretty fucked up,” Kerry picks up the narrative, “kinda in two pieces with his brain on a chip. Wasn’t easy but V was pretty determined, and when he sets his mind on something there’s not much can stop him.”

“So all of this was your idea V? I was presuming it was down to Kerry.” Nancy knew better than most how badly Kerry had missed Johnny when he disappeared, more than one night had been spent with him curled up on her couch sobbing himself to sleep, it wouldn’t have surprised her one bit to find out that he’d spent the last fifty years trying to find a way to bring him back. Looking at him now however, he seems ambivalent to the man’s presence, his eyes fixed on V alone. “Wait, if Johnny’s only been back a few months how did you even know him before you met Kerry?”

The three men exchange glances, knowing she was bound to ask the question that they couldn’t really answer, “That’s complicated and kinda classified,” V explains, “let’s just say that he could make himself heard for a while before he got his body back.”

“Or maybe my natural charisma is such that it transcends death?”

“Yeah, whatever Johnny.” V replies rolling his eyes.

Nancy thinks back to seeing V at the Red Dirt a couple of years ago. She’d been struck by how many things about him that night reminded her of Johnny, right down to his walk and the way he played the guitar, even the way he and Kerry bickered was the same, she’d never thought it about him before or since, but that night he could’ve been Johnny Silverhand. But that was a gonk idea right? Johnny couldn’t have been living in V’s head.

“Do you still play the guitar V?”

The change in direction throws them all for an instant, fortunately Kerry can see where this is going and manages to jump in, “He still dabbles, I taught him A Like Supreme for the gig at the Red Dirt but he prolly couldn’t remember it now.”

V glances at him gratefully, “Nah, can barely hold it the right way up, spent weeks learning to play that one tune and it still wasn’t great.” He smirks at the glare Johnny gives him,

“I’m sure you were fucking awesome V, I imagine the crowd loved you, especially the preem solo you played that sent them all wild.”

Nancy decides to move the questioning on to bring the focus back to Johnny, “So what do you intend to do with your second chance at life Johnny? Going back into the music biz?”

“Nah, it was never about the music I’ll leave that to Kerry, was about the message. No one listened though, corpo’s still run the world, everything’s still going to shit, not going to waste my time on that again. Been working with V, learning some skills y’know? Honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

Knowing as she does the business V is in Nancy doubts that there’s anything particularly honest about how Johnny has been spending his time, “You seem in a good place, calmer, less volatile than you once were, is that fair to say?”

“I guess yeah, V kinda rubbed off on me, sure I’m still capable of grand dramatic gestures when it’s necessary though.”

“You and V seem very close for someone you’ve only known a few months.”

V squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, he wasn’t really enjoying where this was going, Johnny met his eyes briefly before plunging in, “Yeah, we’ve got a connection for sure, I understand the way his mind works, we work really well together.”

Nancy quirks an eyebrow at Johnny’s words, had Kerry finally got just what he wanted after all these years? “So are you three…together?”

“Shit no,” declares Kerry emphatically at the same time as Johnny who is equally emphatically shaking his head and scooting further away from them on the couch leaving V in the middle laughing. “He’s V’s project, not mine, doubt we’ve said more than a couple of dozen words to each other since he came back.”

“Yeah,” agrees V, “getting them talking is still a work in progress, ‘sides I’ve got Kerry and one prima-donna Rockerboy is enough for anybody.”

Kerry gives him a dig in the ribs with his elbow for that but is grinning indulgently at him at the same time. “Better believe it baby,” he tells him planting a kiss on his cheek.

There are so many things that Nancy wants to ask like how did he die? Does he remember it? What was his part in the Arasaka tower bombings? But Johnny is such an egotist his recollection would be unreliable at best, so with time running out she opts for something else, “It’s a rare thing to get a second shot at life, what are you looking forward to doing?”

Johnny has to think about that one, he’s been so used to just living life in the moment and being fuelled by anger that looking forward to things was never really on his radar, this time though it’s different, “I guess I’m looking forward to enjoying life rather than just living it, to being more laid back, more thankful, more forgiving.” Kerry tries to hide an incredulous look and V grins, patting Johnny on the arm with the back of his hand.

Nancy thanks them and the cameras stop rolling, the crew begin to pack away their kit and leave, Nancy waits until they’re out of earshot to confront the resurrected ex-rockstar turned merc, “You might be a changed man, but you still know how to bullshit Silverhand.”

“You better believe it Nance, I’ve got a reputation to fix and the sheep’ll believe whatever crap the TV tells em to.”

Kerry and V are still on the couch, quietly chatting and laughing together, Nancy is pleased that they’re not letting Johnny spoil what they’ve got, it’s something rare and very special.

“That’s a real gonk move that you pulled there boys, if it wasn’t the story of the year I’d be seriously pissed off at you.”

“Ah, c’mon Nance, you handled it like a pro. I can feel another Pulitzer coming on.” Kerry tells her. “We’re heading out for food and a couple of drinks, you in?”

“You bet I’m in, not ever going to pass up a chance to tell Johnny the millions of ways he’s pissed me off over the years,” she laughs.

[razorsadness]

My Ancestral Homeland, Southeastern Wisconsin

Once upon a January night, I drank all the whiskey in Kenosha and almost punched three dudes.

The evening began with me donning babe-layers, black denim jacket layered in patches (Punk’s Not Dead, We Just Smell That Way) over hoodie over t-shirt, tight pants, boots; the weather was cold as shit but I wasn’t gonna wear a heavy winter coat, cos you can’t dance in a heavy winter coat. Then a slick of red lipstick, and off I went. South down Highway 32 to Kenowhere, snow falling fast from the sky and the wind blowing it across the road in swirls, me shouting ragged-voiced along with Naked Raygun: what poor gods we do make. I grabbed Beagan, and we headed to Hattrix. Hattrix is one of the focal points of the punk scene in Kenosha; it has been for years, even back when it was called The Cavern. I’d never been there before, despite the fact that I’ve been going to punk shows in Kenosha for half my life.

Hattrix is still sorta like a cave, with walls made to look like red rock, and it was chilly, damp, voices echoed and bounced through the near-empty bar. Not many people showed up, the weather was bitter-wind and snow, but there were some of us true believers there. Punx from colder climes are way more hardcore than our cousins from warmer lands, cos we have to brave polar vortexes and snow-covered streets to go out to the show. The crowd was small, but most of the people there were rad as fuck. Most of the people there, I wanted to hug or high-five - not counting those three dudes I almost punched. I got my first drink, doublewhiskeycoke (with ice, sorry), and the bartender was an old friend of mine, so he poured the double more like a triple. First drink all sweaty in my hand, a few sips in, I was feeling good, and shitty dude number one walked up to us. He squeezed Beagan’s breasts by way of greeting. He’s someone we’ve both known for years; he’s a gay guy and he thinks it’s okay to grope women and people he perceives as women because when he does it, it’s not ‘sexual.’ Unwanted touching is assault, dude, whether you mean it in a sexual way or not; I’ve tried to tell him that and he’s never listened, and I was not gonna put up with it that night. You grope my best friend and I’ll fucking drop you. Beagan grimace-smiled and backed away, someone else he knew entered the bar, and he walked away to talk to them before I had the opportunity to break his nose. I sipped some whiskey’n’coke, said ‘hey’ to some familiar faces, was about to go watch the first musician, then some punk rock fuckboy spotted my Against Me! button and made a transmisogynistic comment about Laura Jane Grace, and yeah, I wanted to break his nose, too, but instead, I said: “You’re just jealous cos she’s into girls, and you know you could never get a woman as hot or talented as she is, cis or trans.” I hadn’t even been there an hour, hell, I wasn’t even drunk yet, and I’d already wanted to fight twice, ugh. Bartender, gimme another triple-double, I’m gonna go listen to the music.

On the stage stood a solo kid from Chicago, with the ubiquitous midwest punk look: silly hairdo (half-shaved, floppy, mint green) half-hidden under a black Carhartt stocking cap, plaid flannel shirt, dirty black jeans, scuffed black steel-toe boots. They were super cute, and though I only caught the last few songs of their set, I loved the music: stripped-down, plugged-in yet kinda folky-punk, Billy Bragg-style; raw and open-hearted. I’ve become disillusioned with folkpunk as A Thing, but when I first heard folkpunk I said it was more punk than straight-up punk and I still have a deep love for us solo punx (cos I’m one of ‘em): when we get up there on stage, whether we play electric or acoustic, whether we play guitar or accordion or a fucking pickle-tub drum, it’s just us and our instruments and our voices and our hearts that we’ve made into jackets and if we fuck up everyone hears it cos we don’t have a band to back us up or distract from us and we are so vulnerable and so brave and we do it because we have to, we so need to play music that we’ll do it even without a band.

Between bands, another drink, I started feeling the whiskey and it was good, good to be whiskey-drunk, fuel and grease loosening my limbs. Going outside to smoke, collars up against the wind and hands cupped around flickering flames. Inside, talking to old familiars and new faces. I talked with the solo mint-haired punk, told them I liked their music; we talked about Chicago, turned out they live in one of the neighborhoods I used to live in. Then there was the third dude who came close to having my fist in his face - another guy I’ve known forever. He’s a decent dude when he’s sober, but when he’s fucked up he gets stupid, and that night he was drunk and on some kind of pill-high; he tried to hit on both me and Beagan and didn’t back off even when we told him we weren’t interested, and I was getting annoyed. He was saved from my wrath cos he got distracted by another old friend of ours, and he stumbled away.

The second band, I couldn’t get into. The frontman was trying so hard to be a funny, cool rockstar, and the music wasn’t my bag, so I concentrated on drinking. More rounds of drinks, rounds and round and round, more cigarettes. Then Republicans on Welfare. They were great, reminiscent of all my old favorite Kenocore bands but not totally derivative. Good, raging hardcore with a side of garage-y punk. I danced up front for most of their set, and the pit (such as it was, there were too few people for it to truly be a pit) was mostly made up of girls. A couple dudes bounced in and out, but most of the time it was us girls slamming, skanking, pogoing.  I’d run to where Beagan sat, have a sip of my drink, run back up, dance, fist in the air. I picked up the words to choruses on the fly and shouted along. Toward the end of their set, they did a blistering cover of “Blank Generation” and then I really shouted along. I love anytime a band covers that song; it was written, what, like 40 years ago and is forever the perfect anthem for anyone disaffected. I was sayin’ “let me outta here” before I was even born… It’s such a gamble when you get a face. Everything was great, the gals in the pit were so welcoming, though none of them knew me. “I love your jacket,” they said, or, “your hair kicks ass,” and we threw our arms around each other and did high-kicks like some kind of punk rock chorus line. But then, this one girl who’d been standing in the back came up near the stage to take some pictures, and she started giving me death glares. She looked at me like she thought I was trying to get with one of the band members, like she thought I had my eye on the same fella she did. I wanted to reassure her that wasn’t the case, that I was there to sing, to slam, to sweat the winter blues away. I wanted to say: “Honey, we can both do so much better than any of these boys. Let’s forget them, join forces, and smash the patriarchy.” I couldn’t shout all that over the noise from the PA, so I smiled at her, hoping that would convey my message, but that made her glare harder. It bummed me out, so, for the last couple songs of the Repubs’ set, I returned to Beagan and my booze.

When the music ended, we stayed on a while longer, drank more, stood outside smoking more cigarettes. I was drunk enough by that point that the biting wind didn’t faze me at all. I talked with this cute punk kid (mussed-up hair, striped shirt, Army-issue jacket covered in patches). He flirted with me, all: “I haven’t seen you around here before.” “Well,” I said, “I’ve never been to this bar before, but I’ve been coming to punk shows in Kenosha since 1998.” He said: “Uh, I wasn’t going to punk shows back then. I was eight.” We talked about music; I scoped the patches on his jacket and nodded at the bands I know and like. I was curious about his backpatch: “Who’s that one for?” -“Mouth Sewn Shut.” I didn’t know who that was, he told me it was the singer from Toxic Narcotic, I got stoked cos I used to love Toxic Narcotic and I didn’t even know he had a more recent band. We talked about where we were from, where we’d lived. I said I was born in Lansing, Michigan, and he said: “Oh, the Crucifucks are from Lansing. Did you ever see them back then?” -“Dude, how old do you think I am? I know I’m older than you are, but fuck. The Crucifucks broke up when I was, like, six!” He blushed and said: “I didn’t mean you were old, I’m sorry, I just, I didn’t know when they broke up, I wasn’t thinking about that!” I told him it was cool, I knew he didn’t mean anything by it.

Beagan and I went back to her apartment, stayed up until four a.m. drinking and talking. Five hours of fitful sleep later, I found my way back north. A week or so before, I’d been feeling bleak about where I was living, that old feeling that comes on when I’m unhappy with my life, like Maybe life would be better elsewhere. Maybe I should move back to a bigger city, or leave the midwest for good. What’s that one pop punk song about hating your hometown but knowing you’ll never escape it? That’s how I’d felt a week before. But that Saturday morning, driving up Highway 32, on the icy roads, along the frozen lake, I felt a deep and abiding love for southeastern Wisconsin. I thought about Highway 32, that road I’ve spent more of my time on than any other road in the world, and how I want a stick&poke tattoo of the highway sign, and how I’d like to write a whole mini-zine about that road. I thought about Kenocore, and how I’ve been thinking of writing a zine-book about the history of Kenocore for over a decade now. I thought about a conversation Beagan and I’d had the night before. We were talking about someone we knew from Kenosha who moved to Chicago several years ago and now says he’s from Chicago, as though all his years in southeastern Wisconsin never happened. “Why be ashamed of where you come from?” she asked. “I agree,” I said. “Besides, it’s more impressive when someone from a little town or mid-sized city like Racine or Kenosha does something cool. Why pretend you’re from Chicago? There are a million cool people in Chicago, but not so many in Kenosha.” I thought about the previous night’s show, and how, to paraphrase World/Inferno, the kids do still sing and dance, drink and fuck, smash it up. It’s my homeland.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, originally appeared in Reckless Chants #21 (autumn 2014), in slightly different form

[audible--silence]

Sayu/GDL quotes / promises to self while drunk as shit

Que eres un baño?!

“Im so used to shit going wrong that it just doesnt phase me anymore”

“If i go into an office job id have to wake up in the morning, which i just don't wanna do”

A bar without a manager

Nothing feels better than going home but nothing feels better than leaving home too.

“Be a traveler not a tourist”

“I been keepin busy! No idea what with though. I just been smokin joints playing guitar and surfing”

One more bus

One more uber

One more hostel check in

One more round of storytelling how we got here

One more gig

A few more beers

Una mas cerveza

One more night

Una mas noche

No more waves

No more taco stands

No more in jokes

No more calling directions in spanish

No more setting up the tent in excitement

No more packing down the tent in a hurry

No more Duolingo sessions in a hammock

No more chess games

No more joints rolled at the last minute

No more joints smoked at all hours of the day

No more “you hungry?”

No more tracking down vegetables

No more long bus rides spent sharing snacks

No more movies on your shit tablet

No more pringles, principe and stoner snacks

No more reminding each other to get our shit together

No more jamming guitar

No dancing while doing simple tasks

No more of your tunes

No more guac n beer

No more two aussie dickheads

“Phone wallet shoes nothing on my head that im gonna lose”

“Adios Cabron”

“His drip dope, you gotta be 70% homeless, 20% gay to be fly”

“Whats the 10%?”

“Opium”

“Stoner! I choose you!!”

“Yeah well, fuck off” on cross cultural relatability

hope is a hell of a drug

The enemy was defeated, in a valiant battle with three little Mexican girls with long hair and cute gold glasses, not far from the stargazers, at midday, with ice cream. Or the youthful romantics, an archetype that seems to transcend every culture since society itself. Watched on in silence by the cute, erratic yet robotic, overly friendly squirrels. A picnic without snacks, soundtracked by Jeff Buckley in the shade of a well watered bush

Manifestation is gaslighting yourself

The heat of hell is ever so slightly warmer for you isnt it”

“You sound like a constitution”

“We need to rebrand politics but with much more sex”

“Dont smoke”

W dart in mouth

“A bar for a football team that never wins, for fans that never succeed”

“If you commit suicide you cant go to the pub”

a british guy

“Yeah but if you commit suicide, guess where we go? The fucking pub”

another british guy

A game of football can mean two very different things depending on who’s watching

A taco is only as a good as what you can put on it

Am i going to regret not going out? Enjoying it all? Being young n stupid in Mexico and everywhere else?

Will I regret not knowing what any of these drunk messages to self mean? Probably.

Booze is fuel for survival. I am a bartender who hates going out. A socialite who cannot stand socializing.

words from a drunk aus fuck in Mexico, solo, with a kiss on the cheek and a cuddle”

“Its fuxkin mexixo ya prick”- on uber eats, n walkin for street food

2.12 - the minute of the end of the phonecall w ya nan, the only pure soul left in ya life

Thanks for finding me phone - from a welsh cunt who likes flashing his dick

I love thinking while drunk because I don’t have to deal with the realizations

Chinga su madre but with a car horn

“We’ve literally sat down all day”

“Thats what traveling is about. Traveling halfway across the world just to sit down”

dive bars, tacos with drunks and adele on the roof till 4am

“I dont identify as American I identify as a marxist”

The more decrepit and dilapidated the restaurant looks, the better the food is.

Weathered hands make the food, not fresh paint on the walls

“Theres more to life than dating everyone you meet, i guess”

“I either need tequila or a sweater and im not sure which it is”

“The cartels comin” shoot ya drink

“You look good bro!”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, he’s just happy”

deja vu from a rooftop w some beautiful Mexicanos in GDL

“How dare you show so much grace so many time zones away”

feel like we gon spend the rest our lives searching for the thrill of skating to the ellenbrook hungry jacks at midnight for snacks while on a videogame bender

Lessons from seeing your favorite band in a new place: It’s better with your friends. In the place you came to love them, even if its less fun

“We have this saying in Mexico that says “Las bonitas tambien quiermbaila“ which means “the pretty woman also wants to dance”

[beautiful-and-terrible]

dazed ‘n‘ confused (part 3)

A/N: 3500 fuckin’ words y’all lmaooo i am so stupidly invested in this dumbass and his hot neighbor.

Ship: Rodrick Heffley x OFC

Warnings: underage drinking / drug usage, dubious consent (both parties inebriated), swearing, etc.

---

Nicole shouldn’t have worried so much about what to wear. When she showed up in Rodrick’s garage, his friends Ben and Chris were there, both dressed in ripped jeans and flannel shirts paired over band t-shirts. By comparison, Nicole’s black skater skirt and combat boots felt almost fancy.

“Hey, I’m Ben,” the dark-haired one holding a red electric guitar came up to her and gave her a fist bump. She almost laughed, not having fist-bumped anyone since she was 13. “Nicole,” she replied, smiling.

“I’m Chris!” the blonde called over, waving, before turning back to adjusting his microphone and checking the settings on their audio.

Rodrick seemed to appreciate her style, at least. He came through the garage door, carrying a four-pack of Monster energy and whistled, giving her a quick up-and-down glance, “Hey, groupie.”

Nicole punched his arm as he walked by. “I came here to listen to you play, so… play.”

“Your wish is my command,” Rodrick said with a dramatic bow.

Nicole found a relatively comfortable spot as far from the speakers as she could get - this wasn’t a concert, but loud speakers could still be painful after an extended period of time. The clack of Rodrick’s drumsticks alerted her, and before she knew it there was a blast of noise and a blur of limbs.

Honestly, he wasn’t bad, Nicole thought to herself after they had played a few songs. He could use a little more control, but what musician didn’t get caught up in their music? Glancing outside, Nicole saw that it was finally growing dark out. The sky had turned a soft purple, and she could see a few fireflies flashing in the cooling grass. She checked the time on her phone - 9:15.

“Hey, do you guys know Caitlin?” she asked the group. They turned to look at her.

“Caitlin Irving or Caitlin Peters?” Ben asked, taking an impressive gulp of Monster before burping loudly. The boys fell into fits of laughter. Nicole couldn’t help laughing, too.

“I don’t know her last name, she works at Starbucks, though.”

“Ohhhhhh, Caitlin! Yeah, we know her. Why?”

“She invited me to a party tonight, but I don’t really know anyone but her. Would you guys wanna be my plus-three?”

Ben and Chris high-fived each other, and Rodrick saluted her with his drumstick, whacking himself in the head in the process. Nicole hid a laugh behind her hand, not wanting to embarrass him. “For sure, Nikky. As long as there's drinks, we’ll be there,” Chris said. 

“C’mon, we can take my van,” Rodrick said, shoving his drumsticks in his back pocket and running inside to grab his keys. The other boys started down the driveway toward the white van, garishly painted with the band's name on the side in bold, black letters.

When Rodrick returned, Nicole gave him a smug look. “I thought it needed repairs?”

Rodrick stopped walking mid-stride, looking like a puppet caught on its strings. “Uh. Yeah. Well. My dad helped, when you were over at your house. Getting ready. It’s fine now. He’s the best mechanic I know.”

“Uh-huh. You sure you didn’t just… want to ride home with me from work?”

Rodrick scoffed. “You wish.” But as he rounded the front of the car to the drivers side, you caught the scarlet color of his cheeks against his tan skin. As if he could be any more endearing, he even offered Nicole shotgun. Chris grumbled the entire time, but begrudgingly gave you the seat he had worked so hard to acquire. 

“First stop - Capital. Ben has a fake, so we can BYOB,” Rodrick said, practically peeling out of the driveway. Nicole clutched the seat for dear life, heart stuck in her throat.

“Are you sure this thing is secure?” she squeaked, feeling the seat shaking a little in its bolts.

“No one has been ejected yet, Nikky,” Rodrick laughed.

“Go-go gadget get me the fuck out of here,” Nicole groaned, planting her feet on the floor to try and stop herself from flying forward as Rodrick squealed to a stop in front of a seedy looking liquor store.

Ben barely avoided taking the sliding door off its tracks when he opened the door. Chris lit a cigarette in the back, the acrid scent wafting to the front of the van. Nicole didn’t mind the smell much - honestly it reminded her of her Grandmother's house - but she hoped the smell didn’t linger on her clothes. That would be hard to explain to her mom. Speaking of, she sent off a quick text to her parents telling them that she’d be back late. Luckily, Nicole had always been the responsible type, so her parents trusted her to make good decisions and as a result, let her have free reign of her life (especially now that she was 18).

Ben returned after a few minutes, carrying a 24 pack of Natty Light and lighting his own cigarette.

“You have the address?” Rodrick asked, and you showed him Caitlins text.

“Yo, that's in Heather Hill’s neighborhood. Maybe we can tee-pee her house later,” Rodrick said, already zooming off again.

“Heather Hills?”

“Major bitch,” Chris called from the back of the van. Rodrick shrugged. “She’s not a bitch she’s just… not very nice.”

Nicole laughed, “You don’t have to defend the honor of all women by not calling her a bitch. If she’s a bitch, I believe you.”

Rodrick looked at you out of the corner of his eye, thinking briefly.

“Yeah, she’s a stone-cold bitch. She ran over my foot once. With her car.” 

Nicole grimaced in sympathy.

“Last year, we played at her Sweet Sixteen party, and Rodrick broke her ice sculpture bust. It was awesome,” Ben said.

“Oh, so you aren’t always perfect?” Nicole teased. Rodrick flipped her off.

Soon, they pulled up in front of Caitlin’s house. Nicole could already hear loud music from outside the house, and there were rainbow strobe lights flashing in the windows. Swallowing her nervousness, she followed Rodrick, Chris and Ben up the front walkway.

As they walked in the house, Nicole was hit by the fragrant, herbal smell of weed. From far away, the music had seemed loud, but coming in the house the music seemed to vibrate her ribcage - it was something with a repetitive bass, stuff Nicole didn’t normally listen to but she enjoyed it nonetheless. She followed Rodrick further into the house, trying to find the kitchen, weaving between people dancing and couples making out.

There were people surrounding an island in the center of the kitchen, decorated with colorful bottles of liquor and sodas to mix with. Nicole spotted Caitlin talking to a tall black guy, drinking out of a red solo cup. Nicole gave her a wave, and Caitlin excitedly came over to greet her.

“Hey! I’m so glad you made it.”

“Yeah, me too. I haven’t actually ever been to a high school party.”

Caitlin’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Well, you’re gonna have one hell of a first high school party experience, girly. Let's get you a drink.”

Caitlin turned to the kitchen island and poured about four shots of rum and filled the rest with coke in a red solo cup. Nicole took a sip. She could barely tell it was spiked, so she took a few more chugs and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. 

“Do you wanna dance?” Caitlin asked, and Nicole nodded before following her back to the living room. Already, the rum was making her limbs feel looser and her brain fuzzy. She finished the rest of it in one go, enjoying the feeling of her nervousness and insecurities fading away. Nicole had never been unpopular, per say, but she tended to stay to herself and only had a few close friends at her old school, anyway. It was refreshing to feel included, and she couldn’t help feeling that this was the way her teenage years were supposed to be - loud and exciting and living moment to moment.

As they danced, Nicole swaying in place and occasionally spinning around, she couldn’t help but feeling a little awkward. Caitlin was actually a really good dancer - she knew how to move her body in all the right ways so they hit on beat with the music. Nicole envied her easy grace, but was quickly relieved when Caitlin accidentally bumped into someone, causing them to spill their drink. Nicole stifled a laugh, not at Caitlin’s expense, just at the irony of the timing. At least Nicole wasn’t the only clutz. 

They had been dancing for only a few minutes before Nicole felt a hand on her waist, making her jump slightly.

“Hey, the guys and I are gonna smoke some weed in the backyard. Do you wanna come?” Rodrick said. His voice was almost in her ear, close enough that she could hear him over the blaring music, his breath tickling her sensitive skin. 

She turned around to face him - in the dim light of the house, he looked much more appealing than usual - she hadn’t even noticed he had put eyeliner on, but it made the dark of his eyes look even more obsidian. Nicole nodded, giving a thumbs up, and pulled Caitlin along with her.

“I need you for moral support,” Nicole said, making Caitlin laugh.

“Have you ever smoked weed before?” Caitlin asked.

“Nope.”

Caitlin raised her eyebrows and pulled her closer as they walked to whisper in her ear.

“Okay, take a small hit the first time, don’t try to impress anyone. But breathe it fully into your lungs - I like to start by pulling it into my mouth first, and then inhaling fully. And if you cough, don’t worry, almost everyone does their first time.”

Nicole gave her a grateful look as they approached the circle of people sitting on lawn chairs in the backyard. Ben and Chris were already there, with two other girls Nicole didn’t know. However, there seemed to only be two more lawn chairs available to sit on.

Nicole was about to plop down on the grass before Caitlin grabbed her hand.

“You should sit on Rodrick’s lap,” she whispered, and Nicole almost choked on her drink.

“What?” 

“Dude, he’s totally into you - I don’t know what your sitch is, but I think he’s probably a little nervous about making the first move. Just do it, and if he asks, say ��sorry, there weren’t enough seats and I don’t wanna get bug bites from the grass.”

Nicole stared at her, mouth agape. The alcohol in her brain was telling her it might not be the worst idea ever. And you know what? Fuck it. You’re only young once. Nicole made up her mind, and squeezing Caitlin’s hand, she walked over to where Rodrick was sitting before primly making herself comfortable on his thigh.

She felt him tense beneath her immediately, before his hand came up to her waist to steady her. Before he had the chance to say anything about it, the joint was passed to him, and he took an impressive hit, the cherry glowing red at the end for several seconds. Nicole watched him with interest, hoping she wouldn’t mess up too badly and embarrass herself. 

Rodrick looked up at her as he exhaled the smoke, holding the joint out to her. Not paying attention, and entranced by the eye contact they were holding, she reached out to take the joint without looking and promptly burned her hand on it.

“Fucker,” she hissed, shaking her hand to try and get rid of the pain. Rodrick just laughed.

“Do you want help?” Rodrick asked, before taking another hit of the joint. He reached up behind Nicole’s head, threading his fingers through her hair, before pulling her down close to his face, their lips inches apart. Nicole instinctively opened her mouth, half from surprise and half in anticipation of being kissed. But Rodrick simply blew a steady stream of smoke into her mouth, - their lips didn’t make contact. Belatedly, Nicole realized she was supposed to be inhaling, so she did quickly, trying to hold the smoke in her lungs for as long as possible. 

Somebody wolf-whistled in the group. Nicole was pretty sure it was Caitlin.

Eventually, she ended up coughing it out, Rodrick rubbing her back but still laughing.

“You’re a green at the green, huh?” Rodrick asked, and Nicole rolled her eyes.

“That obvious?”

“Yeah, but it’s cute. I’m glad you’re having your first high with me,” Rodrick said, smiling sweetly. Nicole’s stomach fluttered. Already, she could tell that this wasn’t alcohol she was feeling anymore - the buzz she had been feeling earlier was replaced by something much slower and velvety, like the world was moving through maple syrup.

“Dude,” Nicole said after a minute, realizing she had been staring at nothing. Rodrick looked at her. She looked at him. They both started cracking up laughing.

“What are we laughing at?” Nicole hiccuped through her laughter.

“No idea,” Rodrick said, wiping his eyes free of tears of mirth.

“Rodrick, pass the J,” Ben called out, breaking the two of them from their trance. Without thinking about it, Nicole leaned back onto Rodrick’s chest, enjoying the warmth of his body. It wasn’t a cold night, per say, but Nicole was only wearing a skirt and a t-shirt, and she had always had poor circulation. She shivered involuntarily.

“Do you want my flannel?” Rodrick asked, already taking it off. Nicole sat up, ruffling his hair playfully.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you just want to show off your arms,” Nicole said, slipping on the warm blue flannel and resting her hand on Rodrick’s exposed arm, once again in a cut-off tank top. Rodrick gave her a funny look.

“What do you mean?”

Nicole suddenly found herself tongue tied. “Uh. I mean. You just wear a lot of tank tops.”

Rodrick raised an eyebrow, but said nothing else. Nicole leaned back against him again, feeling simultaneously self-conscious and exhilarated. They had never touched for this long before. She wasn’t sure exactly what was happening between them, but she liked the direction it was going. Even though they hadn’t known each other long, Nicole felt more comfortable with Rodrick than she did anyone else - even though most of the time she had known him, he had been a nuisance to her. Well… maybe not a complete nuisance.

It was funny to think that only a few days ago, Rodrick was just an annoyance she dealt with at her job and admired from afar, and now she was sitting on his lap, wearing his flannel. She leaned her head back, looking at the stars. She hadn’t noticed that Caitlin had left, but suddenly she appeared over her line of vision, grinning.

“Do you want a beer?” she asked, holding a cold can over Nicole’s forehead. Nicole reached out to take it, sitting up before cracking it open. She wasn’t in the habit of enjoying beer for the flavor, so she’d rather get drunk off it quickly. It tasted like wet cardboard, but Nicole managed to chug it down.

“Damn, girl, where’d you learn to drink like that?” Chris asked, laughing as Nicole belched loudly. 

“Years of rigorous practice and intense concentration, young padawan,” Nicole replied.

“Do you wanna shotgun one with me?” Chris asked, half-joking, but Nicole was feeling overly confident from the buzz she was feeling and readily stepped up to the challenge.

“Whoever spits it out owes the other ten bucks.”

“Fuckin’ deal,” Chris grinned, Ben cheering him on as he threw a beer toward Nicole. She (surprisingly) caught it.

“Wait, gimme one,” Rodrick said, making grabby hands in Ben’s direction, who threw him a beer.

“On three, okay?” Ben counted. They all started to crack open their beers, Nicole with her house keys, Rodrick with his car keys, and Chris with his pen knife.

“One.. twoooooo…. Three!” Ben yelled, and they all tipped their heads back, drinking from the hole in the side of the can. Nicole’s eyes watered, but she was too competitive to back down now. Foam spilled out of the side of her mouth, but she kept drinking. She could hear people chanting her name as she finally threw the beer can down on the ground, raising her hands in victory. Both Rodrick and Chris were covered in beer foam, but Nicole somehow stayed relatively clean, minus the beer she wiped off her face.

“Ten motherfucking bucks, Chris,” Nicole slurred slightly, grinning at him as he pulled out a crumpled bill from his pocket and threw it at her. 

“Rodrick, how the fuck did you lose, dude? You were the one who taught me how to shotgun,” Ben said, causing Nicole to throw her head back in laughter, before letting out another massive burp that lasted for several seconds. The whole group dissolved into laughter. 

Eventually, the joint got finished, and people started to move back inside. However, Rodrick and Nicole stayed outside, talking about whatever came into their heads.

“Were you ever into Greek mythology as a kid?” Nicole asked, watching Rodrick’s eyes go comically large.

“Does Percy Jackson count?”

Nicole pretended to consider it deeply for a moment, before shaking her head. Rodrick pouted. 

“I only got into Greek mythology because of Percy Jackson. So, I think it still counts.

“Fine. But do you know shit about the constellations they’re associated with?”

Rodrick pointed at the sky, at a random cluster of stars.

“For sure - that's Dingus Humongus, he was a Greek hero with the fattest ass known to man.”

“Sounds like my kinda guy,” Nicole replied, sticking her tongue out as Rodrick squawked in indignation.

“Besides a fat ass, what do you look for in a guy? Not, like, that I care. Just. Wondering.”

“Very good English, Rodrick,” Nicole laughed, “I guess my type is… someone kind. And funny. Someone who tries to be cool and is actually a huge dork. And musical, that's always a plus,” she said, feeling very bold as she looked directly at him. It took Rodrick a moment, but eventually his mouth formed a small “oh” as he realized who she was talking about. His eyes flicked down to her lips. Then he frowned, “I am not a dork.”

Nicole rolled her eyes, “And I’m totally not waiting for you to kiss me right now.”

Nicole watched as the color slowly rose in Rodrick’s cheeks, turning them rosy pink, visible even in the shadow-drenched backyard. Nicole decided to pull yet another risky move, and adjusted herself on Rodrick’s lap so that she was facing him, her thighs on top of his arms around his neck. For such a seemingly confident boy, Rodrick seemed more nervous than she had ever seen him, even when he asked her to come to band practice earlier. Hell, he hadn’t even been that nervous to shotgun the joint into her mouth.

“Sorry, I just… I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. I don’t wanna be bad at it,” he confessed. Just as Nicole thought she couldn’t be any more endeared by this boy. She slid her hands into his hair, thick and soft. She leaned in and gently nosed at his jawline, placing small kisses against his warm skin. Right at his jugular, he smelled like cologne and nighttime and boy, the right mix of clean and sexy. Seemingly gaining his courage, he grabbed Nicole by the back of her head and brought her up to his lips.

It was soft, at first, merely a press of skin to skin, but the two gradually deepened the kiss, moving against each other like they were made for it. Nicole felt like her heart might beat out of her chest - or maybe she was just that high.

Feeling emboldened by Rodrick’s enthusiasm, she slipped her tongue between his lips, gently tangling their tongues together. He let out a low moan, and Nicole could’ve blacked out from how turned on she was by that simple sound. The warmth of his body against hers and the slickness of their mouths together caused a rush of liquid heat to form between Nicole’s legs. Goddamn, he was good at this. Nicole wasn’t sure how many girls Rodrick had kissed before this, but if he was a rookie at this she was damn impressed.

Rodrick’s hands, which had been resting on her waist, slowly moved down her ass and under her skirt, causing Nicole to gasp as he started to knead and grab at her cheeks - not hard, but enough to get her even more hot and bothered than she thought possible.

“Is this okay?” Rodrick asked, his voice low and rough. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Nicole replied, running her fingers through his hair and scratching her nails down his neck. She felt him shiver beneath her, sending a heady rush of power to her stomach and lower. He pulled her closer to him by her ass, so that their crotches pressed together. Nicole was taken aback by the sensation of his bulge pressed against her, but didn’t pull back, instead grinding down on him.

“Are there still people out here?” Rodrick asked shakily. Nicole pulled back and looked over her shoulder - the backyard was empty, thank god.

“No, just us,” Nicole said, turning back and bringing her lips to his ear, biting and licking the sensitive flesh. Rodrick whimpered, grinding up to meet her, and Nicole almost lost it then and there.

The alcohol and weed in her system were slowing her reactions, but also kept her from thinking too much about what she was doing - all she could think about was how much she wanted this. Sober, this might’ve never happened - she was too nervous about what he would think if she ever made a move, constantly overthinking her every word and action. This dumb boy, who rode with her to work, who stayed to the end of her shift and bought her slushies, had wiggled his way into her every thought and every beat of her heart. She knew she was fucked.

She only wished it was literally.

Nicole opened her eyes briefly to catch Rodrick’s gaze, and out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed the red-and-blue flash of police lights. Rodrick caught sight of the lights at the same time.

“Oh, fuck.”

[harrysgoldenline]

Can’t Help but Love Him - Part 2

Hi!!! I’m so glad you all liked the first part of this story! Here is the second :) Sorry if it’s kinda messy, I didn’t fully proof read because I just really really wanted to get it out to you guys! Let me know what you think! <3

Part 1

Tags: @harriemelonsugar 

WORD COUNT: 4,235 

“How was staying at Harry’s last night?” Sarah teased once Y/N sat down across from her in the booth of the tiny cafe, “Did you guys cuddle?”

“Shut up.” Y/N groaned, rolling her eyes, “this whole getting over him thing is not working, the party should have made it easier but then he took me home instead of that girl, and to answer your question, no we didn’t. He slept on the couch.”

Sarah let out a long coo, causing Y/N’s cheeks to turn bright red covering her face with her hands, her friends hands coming across the table and playfully hitting them away, giggling as she sees Y/N’s rosy cheeks.

Sarah was the only person who knew about her crush on Harry, of course not on purpose. Sarah found it on her own, after seeing the two interact she thought that something was already happening between the two after closing observing their behavior when she came to visit Harry on tour. Sarah would always see the two laughing, Harry leaning into her ear and whispering different jokes and stories, as well as the two messing around on the stage together before and after the show.

Harry and Y/N met awhile back, running into each other in the studio back when Y/N was just starting her own career as a singer. She of course, then and now, still has not reached his level of fame, but she was currently in the works of planning her first solo world tour, something Harry has really helped with and supported, which she of course really appreciated, but she often felt guilty by. With his high profile reputation, just going out with Sarah can cause headlines and she never wants any of them to feel like she is using them for her own benefit, which leads them to this moment of going to small hole in the wall places. Y/N, also like Harry, preferred to be more private, working around personal interview questions and posting any kind of photos having to do relationships.  

“You two are the cutest.” Sarah giggles, both of them thanking the waitress as she comes by and drops off their drinks and takes their orders, “Seriously though, I wouldn’t worry about that girl from the party. It was random and like you said, he took you home and took care of you. Clearly cares about you a lot more.”

“He just felt guilty” Y/N laughed, “that girl literally dragged him away right in front of me and he ignored me all night until Nick showed up.”

“Oh yeah! He was so cute!” Sarah exclaimed, the thought also being a forgotten memory from that blurry night of too many drinks, “like really, REALLY cute. Mitch said you guys exchanged numbers, have you texted him?”

“No, I’m so embarrassed.” Y/N grumbled, covering her face with her hands again, “he came up to me because he saw me sitting alone, blankly staring at Harry as that girl was practically on top of him, he profanely just felt bad for me.”

“Oh stop.” Sarah demanded, slapping her friends wrist, “why are so convinced that no guy could actually like you? You’re hot, you’re sweet, you’re talented, you’re the whole package!”

Y/N shakes her head, staring down at her drink, swirling the straw around her cup, watching the ice spin, “I just… I don’t know. I mean… Nobody’s ever liked me before.”

“Oh c’mon, that’s not true.”

“It is, Sarah…” She softly admitted, shyly looking up at her older friend, her fingers still stirring the ice with her straw, “I’ve never been in a relationship, like ever.”

“What? But what about Be-“

“Nope… nothing happened… just can this stay between us? It’s so embarrassing.”

“That is nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart.” She frowned, reaching across the table and squeezing her friends hand, “And yes of course! Does Harry not know? I thought you told each other everything?”

“He doesn’t know this and the… more obvious secret.”

“Of course, but please don’t feel bad about this how about you and I-“ Sarah explains, stopping once her phone goes off, pulling out and talking a bit before putting back and her purse and smirking at her, leaning closer to her friend, “Let’s text Nick.”

***

“Fuck, that was really good. Can we run that again?” Harry asks, standing in the middle of the studio with Mitch, whom he gets a chuckle and a nod from, starting the new song from scratch.  

The sounds of Mitch’s guitar fills the room, Harry closing his eyes as he drums away on his lap, humming a tune to himself, scribbling some words messily onto the notepad in front of him.

The two have been working on a new song, Harry calling him to get over to the studio as soon as possible after Harry had a sudden spark of inspiration, so for the past few hours they have been working on that.

“I’m hoping they go just as crazy for this one as they did for Medicine.” He smirks, loving how crazy he can make his fans go. He knows just how to mess with them, loving to rile them up by preforming unreleased songs.

“Based on these lyrics” Mitch chuckled, looking over the explicit lyrics and setting the instrument next to him and slowly rising, going to the mini fridge in the studio, “They’re gonna lose their minds.”

Harry arrogantly smirks, catching the water bottle Mitch throws at him and giving him a quick thank you, taking a quick drink before scribbling more on the paper, crossing things out, drawing arrows, trying to make his vision clear as it all comes together. When Harry starts writing, all he can think about is writing and hardly anything can pull him out of his trance as he transforms himself into a new word. So much that Harry didn’t even his phone ring, Mitch watching comically as it rang out, neither of them reaching for it and the mystery person being eventually being sent to voicemail as Harry never sets down his pen, his other hand rubbing at his bottom lip and pinching it together as he sat in focus.

So focused in fact, he doesn’t notice the phone ringing again, only after a few brief moments of silence. Harry still scribbles away, pulling back and rubbing at his temple as his eyes scan the contexts of his paper and Mitch things he notices the ring as he looks away and to the side, only to grab the water and take a quick drink, scribbling away for a few more moments, the phone going back off as the mystery person is sent to voicemail, causing Mitch to let out a laugh.

“Wha’ you laughing at me for?” Harry chuckled, throwing one of his pencils at Mitch who quickly swats it away.

“Your phone rang twice, Rockstar. Didn’t even flinch. Whose calling you up?” Mitch taunted, trying to peak over at the screen and see the name, “Is it that girl from last night? Mallory?”

Harry looks over at his phone, clicking the side button and the screen light up and he reads the name, “Yes, actually.” He nods, raising the phone to his ear and listening to the voicemails she had left for him, hearing her request for the two to meet up tonight.

Mitch sits quietly, observing his friends behavior and he tries to carefully listen in to what the message the girl left behind. Mitch was also torn, of course wanting Harry to find the person of his dreams. Yet, he wanted Y/N to be with Harry. He didn’t know ‘officially’ about Y/N’s feelings for Harry, but he caught on quickly, not needing a word from her or Sarah… but he had listened in to some of their conversations when Y/N had come over to their place, thanking the stars he had never been caught, yet he sometimes (all the times), wishes he could be invited into girl talk… just once.

He watched as Harry takes the phone away from his ear and back down into his hands, typing away for a few moments before he set the phone back down, his focus going directly back to his pad of paper, a pen going between the man’s pink lips as he stares at the page blankly, his focus seeming to have evaporated and Mitch isn’t sure which of his friends that reaction is better for.

“What’s going on with you two?” Mitch asks, trying to act casual by picking up his guitar and strumming at random chords, “You two like a thing?”

“Hm? Oh, uh… Not sure, what we are right now.” He shrugs, “asked me if I wanted to get together tonight.”

“Well? Are you going to?”

“Just texted her if you and Sarah could come, make it a lil double date” He shrugged, making eye contact with Mitch as he sits across from them, “if you want of course, just casual. We could just hang out at my place.”

“Sounds fun, I can call Sarah right now. She’s with Y/N- You wanna ask if Y/N wants to come?” Mitch suggested, already digging through his phone and going to favorite contacts, ready to press on Sarah’s number.

“That would be really fun…” Harry nodded, scratching the back of his neck, “I just don’t want her to feel left out, ya know?”

“She could ask that Nick guy if he wants to come. She got his number, right? Before you swept her away from him back to your place.” Mitch teased, throwing his pencil back to him and hitting Harry square in the chest.

“She needed to get home, she drank too much, anymore and she would’ve been puking all night. I was just taking care of her.” He nonchalantly explained, “Needed to make sure she got home safe.”

“How’d Mallory feel about that? You two disappeared for a while.” Mitch smirked, raising his eyebrows at Harry, causing him to laugh, “What were you youngsters up to?

“Shut up.” Harry spoke, cheeks turning a bit red, “Don’t worry about it, can we finish up this last verse please?”

“Alright, alright.” Mitch laughed, “Let me call Sarah first and then we can, when should they come to your place?”

***

“Thanks again for coming, sorry it was kinda last minute.” Y/N started, smiling up at Nick as they both walked into Harry’s house, “And once again, I am so sorry about the other night. You made some really good drinks and I guess you I didn’t eat enough.”

“Don’t worry about, Y/N.” He laughed, his arm resting on her hip as they walked in the front door, “I have seen a lot worse, trust me. You’re not even a bad drunk, just a good dancer.”

“Oh god!” She giggled, covering her face with her hands, which he quickly pried away, “That is so embarrassing, I am so sorry you had to see that.”

“I enjoyed it.” He teased, “but to make it up to you… I will show you my dance moves tonight if you want me to.”

“Yes please!”

The pair laughed, entering the living room seeing the other couples sitting around laughing together. Sarah and Mitch sitting next to each other on the loveseat as Harry and Mallory sitting across from them on an armrest, Mallory wearing a tight black dress as she sat on Harry’s lap, an arm around his neck and making her feel extremely underdressed, even though she was the only one dressed for the occasion. Everyone else wearing a variation of jeans or joggers and different graphic tees and band shirts.

“Y/N!” Sarah smiled, seeing the pair walk in the room, kicking the couch next to her and signaling them to sit, “Hi Nick! What’s up guys?”

Harry looks up, squirming a bit in his seat and moving Mallory to the side and he quickly stands, walking over to his friend and pulling her into a tight hug, “Y/N, I’m so glad you could make it!” He smiles pulling back before looking over at Nick holding his hand out to him which Nick takes, “Nice to see you again Nick, thanks for coming, would you two like a drink?”

“Thanks for having me!” Nick smiles saying his hellos to the others, “and yeah that’d be great!”

Y/N agrees, both of them giving their orders to Harry and he nods, giving them their orders before he gives them a thumbs up, going back to the kitchen, “Can I have another, babe?” Mallory calls for him, “Same thing please!”

“Sure thing!” He calls out, and she smirks towards the kitchen, her plump, deep red bottom lip between her perfectly white teeth, “anyways, hi you two! We were just talking about Harry’s album and tour!”

Sarah hides behind Mitch’s back, making eye contact with Y/N and rolling her eyes before taking a long drink before turning back toward Mallory. Both her and Nick notice and they giggle to themselves, his arm going around her shoulder as they both relax into the couch, his other hand softly resting on her knee.

He leans into her, using his arm around her shoulder to pull her closer, “Was I supposed to dress black tie?” He chuckled softly into her ear, and she blushes playfully slapping his arm and gigging, her eyes widening after hearing a throat clear above her.

“Oh sorry.” Y/N blushed, “thank you for the drinks.” She added, looking up at Harry and giving him a soft smile, Nick also giving him a quick thank you.

He nods and smiles, walking back over and sliding back onto the armchair, Mallory crawling quickly back into his lap and pressing a kiss onto his cheek, arms going back around him as she continued to talk about Harry’s tour and all the places going to be, telling stories of some places that stuck out to her from previous modeling shoots.

He smiled and laughed along, nodding when she would turn to look at him, but then he would turn his attention back to Y/N, watching as he sat diagonally from him as she looked up at Nick laughing at a story he was telling her and he could almost see the star in her eyes, but he couldn’t help but feel the looks coming from across him. Sarah was staring deep at Y/N watching her friend and now being invited into the conversation with her and Nick. Mitch, although was staring at Harry, pretending also to listen to the conversation as he gave Harry a weird look, trying to read his friends mind.

“So, Nick! Tell us about yourself!” Harry explained the second Mallory paused, his eyes glued on Nicks hand who he swore was an inch or two higher on her leg then it was now, “You bartend right?”

“Yep!” Nick smiles, “Bartender at night and an actor during the day, mainly doing commercials and smaller TV roles right now, nothing as exciting as a world tour.”

He adds, subtly making fun of Mallory causing everyone to let out a laugh, except for Mallory who she thought was praising her and Harry, and Harry who also didn’t laugh, trying more to analyze his every word.

“No, that is exciting!” Sarah encourages, wanting the new man of the group to feel more comfortable, especially after noticing Harry’s intense stare, “Really cool actually, I think acting is so cool, you get to be so many people! Do you have a favorite kind of role?

She looked up at him as he explained, a smile covering her face and her heart skips a beat, a feeling she hasn’t felt in a while with someone other than Harry and she looks down at her lap, biting her lip and trying to hold back her smile as she sees his hand on her thigh. She slowly looks up, being met with Sarah’s wide smirk and wiggling eyebrows and Y/N rolls her eyes back at her before continuing to listen to Nick explain.

Conversation goes on from there, bouncing from person to person as each start sharing different stories and experiences that they’ve all gained throughout knowing each other, trying to get Mallory and Nick more familiar with their dates friends.

“Harry, baby, can you help me get another drink please?” Mallory smiles, batting her eyelashes up at him, thumb running over his cheek.

“Sure thing, let’s go.” Harry nodded, soon standing and she quickly grabs his hand, intertwining their fingers and giggling as she begins dragging him through the door and into the kitchen.  

The pair soon disappear and the remaining four all release a sigh of relief, the room feeling much more light now and the four begin a much more casual conversation, feeling much more comfortable as they start telling funny stories and jokes, being able to poke fun at one another, soon turning up the music in the room as they all begin messing around.

“Can I see those dance moves now?” Y/N smirked as they both stood up, downing their drinks and giggling, “please please?”

“I guess.” He chuckled, hands falling on her hips before moving a hair out of her face, “Just because you’re cute.”

Her face turned bright red, heart rate picking up as he leaned in a bit, winking before pulling back pressing a kiss in her cheek before jumping backwards and suddenly dancing wildly. Y/N, Sarah and Mitch all laughed, watching the man jump around and do a very over dramatic air guitar, Mitch jumping in and doing the same.

“C’mere!” Nick shouted over the loud music, reaching out his hand and quickly grabbing Y/N’s quickly spinning her into him and rocking them back and forth before spinning out again, “Don’t worry, I know I’m very advanced, just follow my lead.” He joked, doing childlike dance moves as he finished the last drink of his beer.

“You want another? I’m out too, I’ll grab us both another and then you can teach me some moves.” She giggled, grabbing her empty cup along with is bottle, “Be right back.”

“You sure Harry won’t mind? Feel bad taking all of his alcohol.”

“He’ll be fine.” She giggled, “Be right back.”

She blushed as she flashed him a smile, turning back and giggling as she watches Mitch and Sarah start copying his moves, her heartwarming at the idea of the four of them hanging out again. She forces herself to turn away, and ignore her heartbeat picking up speed as she wonders where this night will all take her with Nick, especially considering they’ve only known each other a couple of days at this point but she really thinks she’s starting to really like him.

She smiles to herself, looking at the floor as she pushes the door into the kitchen, opening a garage door and recycling Nicks bottle before going back to the bar area, taking her cup with her to refill. She quickly pushes the door open, turning up the dimmed lights and squinting as her eyes adjust, not expecting her heart having to.

She lets out a gasp, seeing before her Harry sitting on the couch in lounge, Mallory straddling him as she can practically see her tongue going down his throat as she grinded her hips into him, her dress seeming to ride up farther, before both of them adjust to the light. The pair jumps, Mallory quickly trying to fix her hair before sending an innocent, yet devious smile towards Y/N as Harry clears his throat, sliding the model off his lap.

“I-I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, um I didn’t know you guys were-“ Y/N stuttered, both her heart and mind going a million miles a minute, “I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just t-trying to get Nick and I another drink.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart!” Mallory smiled at her, “Would you mind making me a rum and coke?”

“Sure” Y/N replies, scurrying off to the bar behind them, letting out a quiet shaky breath that thankfully was drowned out by the sound of Mallory telling Harry another story.

Y/N tried to ignore, staring at the back of her head and making awkward eye contact with Harry as he kept staring back at her, the uncomfortable tension filling the air that only 2 out of the 3 people in the room could feel.

That’s when she hears Harry stop her, asking if they could rejoin the party outside as he was going to help make more drinks, feeling bad that they left everyone. She lets out a whine before agreeing, giving him another hard, long kiss, making Y/N grimace and force her eyes away, looking down at the drink she was making herself causing nausea to fill her.  She soon hears Mallory’s heels click away and soon she felt the strong presence beside her, Harry standing shyly off to the side as he watches Y/N grab another beer and a can of coke.

“Here let me.” He muttered, taking the coke from her hand causing they’re fingers to brush, making the drink for Mallory himself, “I’m sorry, Y/N, I didn’t mean to um... sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for kissing your girlfriend.” Y/N deadpans, avoiding eye contact focusing on making a drink for Sarah she knows she will want, “I’m sorry I walked in, I figured you went upstairs.”

“Are we still on for tomorrow?” He softly asks, referring to the studio session they’ve had planned together.

Y/N and Harry have always loved writing and recording together. Of course, they’ve never released a song together, but they have always found a great deal of comfort of having the other person there when recording on a new project, especially Y/N. She felt like Harry had been there for her throughout so much of her career, helping her record, write, with interviews, red carpets, everything. Harry taught her everything she needed to know, he was the one that helped her learn how to come into her sound and truly become the artist she has always dreamed she would be.

“I don’t know…” She started, trying hard to think of an excuse, “I might go see that new movie with Nick.”

“Are you serious?” Harry bitterly chuckles, “You’ve known me for how long and you’re just going to ditch me for this random guy you hardly know?’

“That’s awfully rich coming from you, Harry.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Y/N slammed down the cup, a few drops spilling on the counter and she finally looked up at him. She could feel her hands shaking and she clenched her jaw tight, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back from releasing too much emotion.

“I came here to New York on my time off to hang out with you and the first thing you do is-“ She started; each word spoken more bitterly then before.

“You love New York.” He interrupts, his face softening, “I thought you would want to come and explore with me like we used to me.”

“Let me finish!” She desperately cries out, “Please… And the first thing you do is talk to me for 5 minutes before you literally let her drag you away from me. I met Nick because I was sitting all alone at that party, if it wasn’t for him, I would’ve been alone all night. So, don’t talk to me about ditching a friend.”

“Y/N, please. I’m sorry-“

“I think I’m going to go home.” She whispers, setting the drinks down on the counter and sniffling a bit, forcing herself to keep it together as he was still around.

Harry quickly stops her, grabbing her arm and turning her to look back at him, “Y/N please, I am so sorry. I just got so caught up in the moment and the party… Please, how can I make it up to you? Do you want me to tell everyone to leave? We can order a pizza and I got Disney Plus because I knew you would want to watch it… It can be just us if you want.”

All she wanted to do was say yes.

In her wildest dreams she would on him, pressing kisses all over his face and tell Mallory to leave, tell Nick she’s sorry and tell Sarah how much she really, really likes Harry and how excited she was to spend the night with just him. Just the two of them.

But she couldn’t.

If this did happen, he would tell everyone to go, making her feel guilty. Then they would stay up just the two of them and she knows, although nothing was going to happen between the two of them, that she would cherish every single moment and think about it as she lays awake at night. How she would call Sarah the next day and tell her everything, and then they could go to the studio together and write a beautiful song.

But all of these things will only get her worse. She would only fall in love with him more, ruining her for any kind of future relationship will come her way. She knew Harry was just being friendly, not asking her to stay because he was interested, but because he felt guilty for what he did and since he was such a people pleaser, there was no way he wouldn’t offer.

So, she knows what she has to do.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

[pedros-mustache-main]

when your love reaches me (ii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 8.5k+ (once again, i got carried away)

warnings: screwed up historical timeline, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), language, innuendo, slight angst; truly, this chapter is mostly fluff which is surprising coming from me and probably explains why it was so hard to write :)

a/n: thank! you! for such a lovely response to the first part of this mini-series! truly means a lot. :) also: mega shoutout to @deacyblues​ who really helped me with this one; she’s the mvp of this chapter! this one is formatted a little differently than the first and the last part (which for some reason i’m ~nervous~ about), so let me know what you think. xoxo!

part i

in this chapter: snapshots of what life is like on the road alongside the one you love.

october, 1978—new orleans

as much as it can be, life is bliss.

you’ve been on the road for days, slept on a bus more than in a proper bed, survived the flagrant display of hedonism in new orleans, argued with brian about how long he hogs the bathroom in the morning, and barely eaten anything of substance, but still you’re happy.

he makes you happy. you make him happy. that’s all that matters.

you’re on the bus, headed for the airport. the next leg of the tour is florida—two nights there—then two nights on the east coast—maryland and connecticut. it’s late, nearing midnight, and the bus hums down the highway at a consistent and comfortable speed. for the most part, it’s quiet. there’s a soft conversation somewhere at the front of the bus; you think it’s gerry, yet again going over the schedule, but you could be wrong. flashes of light stream through the windows as you pass under street lamps, and you curl a little closer into brian’s side. he shifts in his sleep, mumbling under his breath.

he’s tired. they all are. it’s only been a few days, but after the party in new orleans and with the waning energy after the initial concerts, the boys are settling—settling into tour life and the long nights and early mornings. life on the road isn’t easy, and you don’t blame them for catching whatever sleep they can when they can. 

you’re settling too. it’s been nearly two months since you left home. you’d thought you’d be more desperate than you are. sometimes, you see a trinket in a shop window or hear anna say something that reminds you of your baby sister. other times, crystal will make a joke that reminds you of your brother. in those moments, you miss home more than anything in the world. but then brian will walk by, headed for the stage, and trail his fingers across your shoulders in a silent moment of affection, and you’re happy where you are. 

so long as you’re with him, you’re happy.

brian’s eyelids flutter open when the driver skips over a pothole. he groans, rubbing at his temples. “fuck,” he breathes. 

you push yourself off his chest, enough to meet his gaze. “feeling okay?”

he peeks through his fingers. “i think i got run over by a train.”

“well, that’s what freddie’s parties will do to you.” you poke his ribs, grinning. “you’re lucky you lot have a few days off to recover.”

“trust me,” he says plainly. “it was built into the schedule.” for a moment, his eyes scan your face. one long finger comes up to brush your cheek. “how’d you manage to get out unscathed?”

you shrug and resist the urge to lean into his touch. you can’t tell him the truth. he wouldn’t understand if you explain that your grandmother once read you an article about “saturday night in sodom” and the night freddie mercury almost broke louisiana. instead you twirl a lock of his hair around your index finger and say, “i’m good at moderation.”

leaning back against the headrest, his arm circles your waist, squeezing at the flesh below your hip. “remind me to get a few tips next time.” he closes his eyes, his lips parting as he falls back asleep. you smile, snuggle against him, and pinch yourself.

nope—still not dreaming. thank heaven.

november, 1978—detroit

by the time you reach michigan, the rhythm of the tour is set. everyone has their role to play, and each part is played to perfection. your part is slightly more fluid than most, but, alongside anna and john’s wife veronica, you manage to find your way most of the time. 

it can be awkward, though. you have no musical talent, no ability to haul or set up lighting rigs. really, your role is very clear: you’re around to keep brian entertained and as relaxed as possible. whatever he needs, you do it—even if that means letting him muss your hair or mark your skin too much during a lengthy drum solo. 

at first, you can’t stand knowing everyone else knows when you’ve had a quick shag in the stairwell or showed up late to sound check because brian got too handsy in the lift on the way out of the hotel. you’ve never been so open about a relationship before, least of all the physical aspect of it. you like to keep private things private, but that doesn’t work so well when you live hotel to hotel with the same thirty people. any bit of juicy gossip can fuel the band and the roadies for days on end. they’re worse than a group of church-going busy-bodies.

but that was a week ago, and you know better than most that much can change in the span of a week. brian’s lingering kisses or the quickes in a broom closet don’t make you nervous anymore. you don’t care if you get caught because lord knows roger and anna or veronica and deaky or any number of the crew are doing the same a hallway over. it’s all a part of the thrill of being with him, loving him (you refuse acknowledge it—the love—even to yourself; it’s too soon to love him, though you know you do). 

on the first night of the two gigs in detroit, you catch brian in the hallway before he goes out on stage. you’d stepped out to grab a bottle of water and nearly missed him in the process, but when he sees you, he lights up with a smile. he pauses. roger quips for brian to make it quick as he rushes after john, drumsticks in hand. 

“go get ‘em, tiger,” you say, slugging his shoulder with your fist lightly.

he catches your arm and lifts your hand to kiss the bone of your wrist. god, he makes you melt. “you gonna come watch from the side?” he mumbles against your skin. he’s looking at you through his dark lashes, thoroughly enjoying the way you squirm from side to side.

you nod and untangle your hand from his grasp. “eventually, yeah. crystal said he wants to show me the view from up top.” 

brian rolls his eyes with a good-natured huff. “watch out for that crystal. he’s trouble.” 

“sorry—what was that, mate?” crystal, rushing down the ramp toward one of the dressing rooms, pauses behind brian. “did you say i’m trouble?”

brian glances over his shoulder. “would you deny it?”

crystal hesitates, runs a hand over his beard. “no, but i don’t think my contract includes taking slag from my boss.”

shaking his head, brian laughs and heads up the ramp toward the stage. you call after him, and he turns as he continues walking, red special over his back, eyes wide and expectant. lifting the camera that’s perpetually around your neck with one hand, you blow him a kiss with the other. the camera captures his reaction: a wide grin, flushed cheeks, legs mid-stride. he disappears around the corner, and the hallway fills with the sound of cheers and applause when queen finally takes the stage.

you meet crystal’s eyes and wait for him to say something. you don’t have to wait long.

“you two are disgusting.”  

“you know, if you had actually brought me my drink at the disco, we might not be here.”

“to think i could have been saved the horror of having to go to bed each night scrubbing my brain of all your disgusting happiness.”

reaching out, you touch crystal’s elbow and pout your lower lip. “oh, crystal, are you lonely? do i need to find you a friend?”

he scoffs and twists to shake the hand on his elbow. “please,” he drawls. “i’ve got no issue there.” 

you stick out your tongue, and he moves down the hallway, but you follow close at his heels. “so, will you really show me the view from the scaffolding?”

“aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“absolutely, but i want to see it anyway. ratty said it was the best seat in the house.”

it takes a modicum of more effort to convince him—you have to promise to buy him a bowl of ice-cream next time the group goes out—but eventually he gives in. after leading you through a maze of wires and boxes, he climbs the lighting rig suspended over roger’s drumset. you hesitate at the ladder. you are afraid of heights, but you based on the way ratty went on and on about how “fuckin’ amazing” the show is from above, you’d like to think you can put your fears aside for the experience. palms sweaty, you wipe them across your jeans then scramble up the ladder. crystal sits on the narrow walkway, laughing, legs dangling over roger’s head. he pats the spot beside him, and you shuffle closer. 

“what do you think?” he asks, spreading his arms toward the view.

once you’re settled and able to calm your racing heart, you look out over the stage. your breath catches in your throat. “ratty was right—for once,” you whisper. 

you can see everything from here. most of the time, when you’re confined to the wings, you can barely see brian or barely see deaky. you never see roger, and you can rarely see the audience. from the scaffolding, you can see it all: freddie strutting across the stage, roger pounding the drums, deaky bopping in a tight circle, brian tearing into the guitar. from this angle you catch the way they work as a well-oiled machine, perfectly in-tune with one another. you can see the audience, too, and the way their faces shine with joy. the crowd looks like the sea, the way it moves up and down and side to side with the time of the music. it gives you a whole new appreciation for the roadies, too, and the way they work tirelessly to make this happen, often without proper thanks.

crystal nudges you with his shoulder. “take a picture,” he says. “to remember.”

you don’t have to be told twice. you raise the camera, peer through the viewfinder, careful to get your feet and crystal’s in the frame, and snap a shot. when you pull back, you see brian looking up at you from below, and you hope you got him in the frame, too.

november, 1978—philadelphia

“[y/n]! get over here!”

at the sound of ratty’s frantic voice, you pause in the stairwell and look over your shoulder. he’s hunched over a smoking amp, waving toward crystal and another roadie—phil, you think. when he catches your eye, he points to the spot beside him. you’ve never seen him so alarmed and, as much as you want to get away from backstage and find a couch to nap on, you hurry to his side.

“what is it?”

“the fucking amp broke! deaky’s muted and so’s brian.” 

you cringe. “his amp’s gone bad, too?”

“no! something else. i don’t fucking know. he just needs this wire.” ratty shoves a wire in your hand. it hangs loosely in your palm, and you get the feeling you know what he’s going to ask next. “you gotta go give it to him.”

you shake your head, mouth gone suddenly dry. “ratty, you have to be joking.”

he straightens. “do i look like i’m joking, [y/n]?”

he looks, truthfully, like he’s on the verge of tears. but you don’t say that. you just grimace and mutter, “please don’t make me do it.”

“sorry, gotta be done. just make it quick!” he takes a hold of your shoulders and pushes you out of the safety of the wings before wheeling around on his heel at the sound of crystal calling his name. 

legs frozen, you stand just to the right of deaky, still partially obscured by the walls of the wings. deaky continues to play, despite the fact that no one can hear him. you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. he looks to the left and the right, searching for someone—anyone—to come and solve the issue. when he looks to his right, he sees you and his face relaxes for the briefest of seconds. he shuffles closer.

“is that for me?” he asks, nodding to the wire in your hand.

“no, sorry! it’s for brian. he’s got issues, too.”

“fuck! this is a fucking shitshow!” he cocks his head toward the other side of the stage. “go give it to him then!”

you realize belatedly as you run across the stage that you’re not wearing shoes. your socks slide against the slick floor, but you manage to stay upright, your vision tunneled on brian. you try not to think of the hundreds of thousands of eyes watching your every move, wondering who on earth you are and why you’ve taken to the stage like an invader. 

roger and freddie are still going, riffing off one another to keep the energy high. they’ve started some sort of call-and-response game with the audience, so when you make it to brian’s side, you have to shout to be heard. 

“ratty told me to give you this!”

brian’s angry, in rare form. his jaw is clenched tight, his temples throbbing. he looks ready to burst, and you wince when he grabs the wire from your hand. “for fuck’s sake, [y/n]! what is going on tonight?” he rips a wire from his guitar and replaces it with the new one.

you can only offer him a paltry shrug. “couldn’t tell you.”

fiddling with an amp behind his back, he gives his guitar a few experimental strums. sound blasts through the amps, and you resist the urge to lift your hands and cover your ears. relief surges through your veins; you give him a thumbs up. at the same moment, deaky plucks at his bass, which fills the stadium with its deep tones. 

oh thank heaven. you did not want to be in the greenroom after the show if everything hadn’t gotten fixed.

before you can turn to leave, brian grabs the back of your neck and kisses you hard. your cheeks feel like they’re on fire, well-aware of the way the audience cheers as the touch lingers. you pull away first.

“thank you,” he whispers. he gives your rump a solid tap as you turn to make a beeline for the wings.

you think you’ll curl up and die when you rush past freddie and he says into the microphone, “ay, that’s brian’s girl!” he grabs your wrist and crushes you against his side, and you have the wherewithal to laugh even though you really want to stamp on his foot and run away. “she’s our little savior tonight, huh? a good luck charm!”

you finesse your way back to the wings, your skin hot with embarrassment, and flip ratty the bird as you make your way to the greenroom.

november, 1978—st. louis

there’s a show on thanksgiving day—sold out, much to everyone’s surprise—but after the concert, you gather around a long table in the hotel conference room. the carpet beneath your shoes is a pale purple, the table flimsy, the chairs uncomfortable plastic. someone’s laid a brilliant white tablecloth with a traditional thanksgiving meal, and the smell of roasted turkey and sweet potatoes and stuffing warms any of the cold still lingering on your body. you sit, squeezed between brian and crystal, across from anna, who winks at you as she lifts her cup to receive a helping of red wine.

“i’m fuckin’ famished.” crystal doesn’t wait for everyone to be seated or gerry to say a few words of toast. he grabs the basket of rolls and hands you one.

rolling your eyes, you take it and place it on the side of your plate. it’s the hotel’s china, a cream with mint trim. “you could wait and try to pretend like you have good table manners.”

beside you, brian snickers into his cup—a mug, really—of wine. his arm is slung over the back of your chair, his fingers circling lazily on your shoulder. you shift in your seat to lean into his touch. 

crystal pulls a face. for a moment, you think you’re staring into the face of your elder brother. that’s exactly something marcus would have done. your gut clenches, and you have to look away, reach for brian’s knee, before you begin to cry. how long’s it been? three months? you miss the sound of your mother’s voice, the way your father worries after you in your flat. you miss it all; you always will.

“excuse me, excuse me. i’d like to say a few words.” gerry stands at the head of the table, tapping his fork against his cup. lingering conversations fade as everyone turns to face gerry. “not one for speeches,” he starts.

“then sit down!” it’s john, from the end of the table, who interrupts. veronica elbows him hard, and he doubles over in a combination of a laugh and a wheeze.

gerry smiles through tight lips. “thank you, veronica. as i was saying, i’m not one for speeches, but i think tonight’s as good as any to tell you how happy i am to be a part of this. we’ve got a hell of a lot more to do, but i’m thankful for what we’ve accomplished so far. anyway, that was shite, but it’s how i feel. eat up. happy thanksgiving.”

there’s a chorus of happy thanksgiving and glass clinking against class. you sip at your wine and smile to yourself. you’d thought of what it would be like to celebrate thanksgiving before, but never imagined it would be like this. you wouldn’t have it any other way. not with roger slingshotting a green bean across the table or freddie grilling dennis about what type of butter he used for the mashed potatoes. 

you fill your plate, thankful, among other things, for the chance to eat a full meal alongside your new family. there’s a deep satisfaction in your chest. though there’s some part of you that still feels ridiculous wearing checkered trousers and dark turtlenecks, you think you feel more at home here than anywhere else.

“[y/n]?”

lifting a bite of cranberry sauce to your mouth, you turn your head to meet brian’s eyes. he’s leaned forward, his chin dipped. beneath the table, his fingers settle on your thigh, and he squeezes gently. you quirk an eyebrow as you chew, waiting for him to speak.

“i’m glad you’re here.”

you swallow, put your fork down, press the hand that’s on your thigh, smile. “i’m glad i’m here too.”

something stiff and slimy hits your forehead. you jostle in your seat with a gasp. a green bean lands in your lap, and you look up, eyes wide. across the table, anna’s laughing behind her hand, roger grinning widely.

“roger!”

he shrugs. “sorry, love, couldn’t help it. perfect target!”

“if i didn’t respect all the hard work poor dennis put into this meal, i’d shove your face in that bowl of potatoes,” you warn, pointing to the bowl of starch in question.

roger frowns, though his eyes sparkle with mischief. “brian, control your woman! she just threatened me!”

brian, wisely, lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back in his chair. “oy, she can handle herself, mate. don’t drag me into this.”

from his place beside roger, freddie slaps a hand on the table. “no fighting at my thanksgiving or i’ll kick you all out and eat by myself!”

“would you all please shut up and pass me the turkey?” crystal leans into your arm space, reaching in vain for the plate of meat just out of his grasp.

rising, you hand him the plate and cross to the front of the table. you clap your hands together to grab everyone’s attention then place your hands on gerry’s shoulders.

“i think you all know what time it is,” you say, grinning as a few of the roadies groan and duck their heads. you lift your camera. “squeeze in and look pretty.”

heart clenching as you look through the viewfinder at the collection of people you hold so dear, you snap your picture and sit down. without hesitation, brian takes your hand in his, and you sit together, hand in hand, for the rest of the meal.

december, 1978—london

you would be lying if you say you aren’t surprised when brian invites you to his parent’s home for the holidays. the tour has a month long break now that the american leg is over. once it starts up again in january, they’ll be off, gallivanting over continental europe. truthfully, you’d assumed you wouldn’t go back on the tour. you’d assumed you’d continue to crash on anna’s couch, make a few extra dollars at the diner, maybe look into enrolling in a few classes come spring.

you’d assumed the fairytale would be over.

there’s nothing official between you and brian. sure, you love him to bits. when you wake up in the morning, roll over, and see his sleepy eyes already looking at you, you know that for the rest of your life you will never feel for someone the way you feel for him. if he asked you to stay with him forever, you would. if he asked you to marry him, you would. you’ve known him for only a handful of months, but, fuck, he owns you. time doesn’t seem to matter when love’s involved. still, he’s never really put a label on what you are. not that he needs to; you’re just as fine without one. but with the break and then the touring starting up again, you’d just thought that would be it. he’d find another tagalong because lord know he’s could have his pick of the litter.

but he seems genuinely offended when he asks you to come home for christmas and you confess, “oh! i thought that you wouldn’t want me now.” the words sort of fall out of your mouth in a tumble, before you can really consider what you’re saying, and your hastiness shows because his forehead creases in a deep frown.

“why would you ever think that?” he asks it in the middle of the airport baggage claim, with the crew and band milling about, waiting for their luggage. it’s quiet, some ungodly hour in the morning, so you wince when he speaks a tad too loud for your liking.

“i just thought that...” you shrug and look away when his frown deepens. “don’t look at me like that, brian.”

“like what? pissed?” he scoffs. “i’m pissed ‘cause you know how i feel about you, [y/n]. at least i thought you did.”

you’re saved having to make a response by freddie dropping the last of your bags at your feet. he kisses your cheek, wishes you a happy christmas, and asks you take a dramatic photo of him leaving the airport, headed out for a night on the town all by his lonesome because his friends won’t join him in the fun. you oblige, though your heart isn’t in it because brian radiates frustration at your side and you’re jetlagged. you just want to go to sleep, really. it’ll be better in the morning.

after wishing well to the rest of the group, you follow brian out into the cold. it’s frigid, and a gentle snow has begun to fall, glittering in the harsh lamplight. you stamp your feet to try and generate some warmth in your legs as you wait on the curb for the cab. the tension between you grows thicker with each passing moment, but you can’t find the words to say. 

in all honesty, you figured he looks at you as nothing more than a good time. and that’s okay with you because it makes things less complicated. you aren’t sure what you will do if he actually wants you, wants you for good. because it’s always in the back of your mind—how you don’t belong here, how you don’t belong with him—and if he feels something more than a general liking for your kisses or your ass or your tits, you don’t know what that will mean for your future. it scares you. so you say nothing, and he says nothing.

the cab pulls up the side of the road, and the trunk pops open with a soft whoosh. the driver hops out, rambles something about how big of a fan he is and how brian is such an inspiration, and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you lug your bag to the trunk and dump it in unceremoniously. you slide into the backseat of the car, cross your arms over your chest, and sulk. brian follows suit, sulk and all, seconds behind you. 

the driver either ignores the tension in the backseat or is oblivious because when he takes the driver’s seat and turns to ask you both where you’re headed, he’s all smiles and flushed cheeks.

brian doesn’t answer. neither do you.

the driver’s smile begins to fade as the moments pass by. 

“you really didn’t realize that i love you?”

you suck in a sharp breath at brian’s confession, eyes darting to his, which bore so deep into your soul you wonder if he can see into the very depths of your heart. you wonder if he can see the way you’re at war with yourself. there’s part of you that wants to jump his skinny bones and forget everything you left behind; that part is dangerously close to breaking through the surface. but you care for him enough to shake your head in an honest answer. he sighs.

“well, i do.”

“oh,” you whisper, turning your face to your lap. “sorry.”

there’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again, and it makes you squirm. “that’s it? just sorry?”

you force yourself to meet his eyes. it’s hard to make out exactly what he looks like in the dim lighting of the cab, but you know he’s not happy. “i didn’t want to assume anything,” you admit. “this is all terribly out of character for me.”

“what is?”

you know he won’t give the driver an address until you speak the truth, so you close your eyes and grit your teeth. “all of it—you, queen, the tour. i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing or how i’m supposed to act.”

“you’re supposed to act like yourself, [y/n]. that’s what i love: you, not what you think you’re supposed to be.”

swallowing hard, your eyes slide back to him. his shoulders have dropped from their tense hunch, and the lines in his forehead have smoothed. he looks more tired now than anything else.

“if i’m being honest,” he continues. “i think i’ve loved you since you called crystal out on the tour bus that first night.”

you smirk, remembering the way you thought he’d turned to glance back at your after your outburst. lip caught between your teeth, you shift in your place to face him better.

“if i’m being honest,” you say. “i think i’ve loved you since i stepped on your stupid clog in that disco.”

he doesn’t laugh like you thought he would. his eyes just dart back and forth between yours for a moment before his hand slides across the bench to skim your splayed fingers.

“so, christmas at mine?”

you nod, chest soaring when he scoots closer, his warmth invading your cold bubble. “christmas at yours.”

december, 1978—london

freddie throws a new year’s eve party, and you all but have to drag brian to it. all he wants to do is stay home and fiddle with the telescope his father got him for christmas, but all you want to do is go to freddie’s party with the man you love and kiss him as the clock strikes midnight. you end up cutting a deal: you’ll both go to the party but leave right after midnight so he can catch what’s left of the night sky. 

as you dress in a decidedly not-winter-appropriate outfit, you tease and tell him he’s such a grandpa. he just pushes his hips against your backside, pushing you into the bathroom counter, and you gasp at the feeling of his desire pressed against your leg. you have to brace your hands on the countertop when he leans over your shoulder and nips at your ear, muttering, “don’t think grandpas get riled up like this, love.”

now at the party, leaning against the wall with a flute of champagne in your hand, half-listening to veronica’s story about john attempting to cut his own hair, you can’t stop ogling brian from across the room.

he stands beside roger and some business executive from the record label. he’s wearing the suit jacket you like: it’s black with white pinstripes. it’s buttoned halfway up his chest, but, as is customary, the crisp white dress shirt beneath his jacket is barely buttoned at all. you can make out the outline of his sternum, a silver necklace dangling against his skin. his trousers are dark and tapered along his narrow waist and legs. he looks good enough to eat, and you still hum with the electricity he’d shot through you back in the cramped bathroom at his parent’s home.

mumbling an half-hearted apology to veronica, you set your empty champagne flute on the marble mantlepiece and cross the floor with purposeful steps. it’s rare you get like this—so worked up you might explode—but with the recent revelation of his feelings for you and the way he stands there, so nonchalantly beautiful, you think you might burst if you don’t do something.

sidling up beside brian, you curl your arm around his elbow and smile at the men with whom he’s in conversation. roger grins right back, like he can read your mind and knows what you’re up to; the business executive’s eyes falter a moment too long on your chest, but that’s fine because at least it means you look good. you can work that to your advantage.

“mind if i steal him for a moment?” you ask, already tugging at brian’s wrist, question dripping with sugar and honey. 

the business man’s eyes flick up from your cleavage to your face. “well, we weren’t exactly—”

“go ahead, love.” roger waves you off with a wink. “i can finish up with mack.”

mouthing a thank you to roger, you curl your hand around brian’s and pull him down the crowded hallway to a small coat closet. there’s heavy jackets and fur-lined coats strewn about the room, bags and purses and briefcases too. it smells slightly musty despite it being the largest coat closet you’ve ever occupied. you don’t waste a moment. with one hand, you shove the door closed and with the other you grab the lapel of his jacket and pull his mouth down for a bruising kiss.

brian laughs against your teeth, his hands skimming around your waist to settle in the small of your back. “what on earth’s gotten into you?”

you shake your head. the strap of your dress, thin as it is, falls down your shoulder as you trip over your own feet in an effort to perch yourself on the single bench in the room. “nothing,” you huff. “just want you ‘s all.”

he helps you with the stubborn zipper that runs along your spine, his mouth working on your throat, still chuckling. “i can work with that.”

january, 1979—berlin

anna studies you from across the room, one leg dangling over the other. she picks at her nails while she stares, her eyes narrowed in thought. you let her inspect you for a few moments, but her stare soon becomes too much to handle. her eyes are heavy and intense, so you slam your book shut.

“what?” there’s an edge on your voice, but she doesn’t take notice, just shrugs.

“do you think you’ll get married? you and brian?”

with a sigh, you toss your book to the coffee table and swing your legs to the carpet. “that’s a ridiculous question.”

“no it’s not!” anna’s eyes follow you as you pad across the floor to grab an apple from the buffet along the wall. “it’s obvious you love each other.”

leaning against the table, you bite into your apple. music from the stage filters through the air vents, attempting to drown out the thoughts swirling through your head. you might let it, too, but anna’s question pricks at the girlish ideas of marriage you’d buried so long ago.

“me and roger,” she continues. “i know we won’t get married. he’s an epic shag and almost too much fun, but i don’t love him. i mean, i do, but not the way you love brian. and he definitely doesn’t love me the way brian loves you.”

you arch a brow. “i didn’t realize everyone had so many opinions about my relationship.”

“sure we do. crystal’s started a pool on when brian will actually pop the question. my money’s in the spring. i think i picked april fifteenth. we’ll be in tokyo then and they’ve got gorgeous cherry blossoms. can you imagine how romantic that’d be?” 

you do imagine it for a moment—him bending down to one knee, cherry blossom trees swaying with a gentle breeze, your hand clasped in his, finger weighed down by an engagement ring. you fiddle with your ring finger, feel the emptiness there, and wonder what it would be like to actually, truly marry him. you’d say yes, if he asked, but that would also mean giving up any lingering hope of returning to your natural life, wouldn’t it? you still aren’t sure if you can do that. 

besides, you know he isn’t going to ask. there’s no reason for him to. he loves you; you love him. that’s it; that’s all it needs to be.

february, 1979—zurich 

you’re walking hand in hand along a quaint street in zurich’s city center. the air is cold, but brian’s hand is warm, and you feel impossibly safe by his side. not for the first time, you have to pinch yourself. before leaving home you’d rarely traveled and never extensively, but in the six months you’ve been away, you’ve seen more of the world than you ever dared dream you would—and it’s all because of him.

you slide your hand from his palm to the crease of his elbow and lean against his side. he glances down at you and moves his arm around your shoulders. he smells like laundry detergent and roger’s cigarette smoke. the scent makes your head dizzy with affection, so you have to ask him to repeat himself when he speaks.

“how much film have you used up? for your camera?” he asks again, drawing you out of the path of a jogger. 

you tally the sacred tubes tucked neatly in your suitcase. “four canisters so far.”

he smiles, clearly proud of himself. “i guess i did pretty well with that gift, then.”

rolling your eyes, you poke his side, but the grin on your face is secure. “don’t flatter yourself. i don’t want your ego getting too big.” looking away from his pretty face, flushed with chill and sparkling with amusement, your steps falter. “oh, that’s nice!”

you say it before you can stop yourself, but the jewelry displayed in the window of a small accessories shop truly is nice. there’s a wide array of necklaces, bracelets, and rings sparkling in the overhead light. just the sight of a diamond ring makes your heart flutter, and you think back to your conversation with anna in berlin. you pull your eyes away from the wedding bands and focus on the necklaces. 

brian steps behind you, circles his arms around your stomach, and settles his head on your chin. “do you want something?” his breath tickles your ear, and you immediately shake your head.

“no, just looking.”

he squeezes you against his body in protest. “come on. let me get you something.”

“brian, it’s too much.”

“it is not! you haven’t let me get you anything this whole time!”

you turn around in his arms and plant your hands on his lean chest. “i don’t need anything. you’re present enough as it is.”

he huffs. “that’s shite. we’re going in there and we’re not leaving till you pick out something you want.”

in the end, you choose a necklace with a pearl set against a fanned-out silver flower. it’s dainty, light against your collarbones, but it reminds you of brian. pearls are formed out of grit and determination, just like he is. it’s a silly metaphor, but when you see the necklace for the first time, that’s what springs to mind. you don’t tell him as much. you just let him pay the shop woman and hook the necklace around your neck.

later, when you’re lounged around the hotel lobby, waiting for the boys to finish changing from the show so you can go to dinner, crystal points to the necklace.

“new bling?”

you touch the pearl with your fingers and nod. “he insisted.” you level him a pointed stare. “i heard you’ve got a bet going on as to when brian will ask me to marry him.”

crystal has the decency to blush, and he swings his legs over the arm of his chair so he can sit straight. “yeah, well, we gotta do something to keep entertained.”

“i want in.”

he laughs, loud and echoey in the sparse lobby. “what?”

“you heard me: i want in.”

“you think he’s gonna ask?”

you shrug. “maybe. a girl can dream.”

shifting, crystal unearths a square notebook from his back pocket. he reaches for a discarded pen on the glass coffee table at his feet and puts the cap in his mouth while he flips through the pages of his notebook. “what day you want?”

“what day’s not taken?”

“uh... march first. we’re in paris then.”

“fine. put me down for march first.”

crystal pencils your name in and opens his palm. “it’s forty pounds to enter.”

you startle forward, sputtering, “forty pounds?!”

“you’re getting in pretty late, sweetheart! take it while you can.”

“how much do i stand to win?”

he calculates slowly, mumbling, “forty times twenty-eight... about five thousand.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “i don’t know whether i should be offended or impressed.” withdrawing your pocketbook, you slap the forty pounds in his palm. 

he curls his fist around the money and shoves it in his pocket. “thank you and good luck.” he winks as the boys round the corner from the elevators, talking quietly amongst themselves.

brian comes to stand behind your chair, his hands on your shoulders. he glances between you and crystal. “what’s going on? you look like you’re up to no good.”

rising from your seat, you grasp his wrist and kiss the back of his hand. “oh nothing. crystal was just brushing me up on my maths skills.”

buzzing with giddiness, shocked at yourself but not unpleased, you grin wider when you hear crystal whisper to freddie, “she took march first” on your way to the car and freddie says, “dammit it! i got february twenty-eighth. he likes the first of the month.”

february, 1979—madrid

you stare at the calendar tacked to the dressing room wall. it’s your birthday.

you didn’t expect to feel so sad. freddie’s planned a party for this evening, something outrageous and ostentatious, and you’ve been anticipating it all week, but now that the day is here, you don’t feel excited or thankful or even the slightest bit happy. you just feel empty.

if you were home, where nature intended you to be, you’d likely have woken up to a flurry of happy birthday text messages. your roommate rachel might’ve made you breakfast in bed, and you’d have gone to dinner with your family before returning home to open presents. it would have been simple, easy and uninspired, but just the way you like it.

this morning you’d woken to brian pressing a kiss to your temple as he rushed out of the room, already late for a day set aside for brainstorming the new album. he couldn’t help the schedule; that’s just the way it fell. so you’d gotten ready by yourself, eaten by yourself at the hotel’s cafe, read by yourself on your room’s terrace. crystal had shouted his well-wishes on his way out of the hotel by the time soundcheck rolled around; anna had brought you a muffin as you slid into the car beside her. you knew you would celebrate later as freddie had promised, but that didn’t stop the ache, the yearning, in your chest for something more familiar. now standing in brian’s dressing room, alone and in silence, it takes everything you have in you to not break down and sob.

you miss home. you miss your parents. you miss your brother and sister. you miss your phone and your keurig that takes too long to pour and your subscription to netflix. as much as you love brian, you miss where you belong, the time in which you belong.

you don’t realize you’re crying until the door opens with a click, and brian steps in. he’s halfway through a sentence about wanting to find something to eat before the show starts when he sees your tears and stops talking. rushing to your side, he takes your shoulders in his large hands and bends to catch your eyes.

“[y/n]? what is it? what’s wrong?” he sounds worried, painfully so. this must be the first time he’s seen you cry in such earnest. sure, he’s seen you shed a few tears on occasion—when you’re irritable and he’s being stubborn; when roger and crystal’s antics make you double-over in laughter; when he does something particularly endearing—but he’s never seen you like this.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and shake your head, tears flowing all the more. you wish you could unburden yourself and tell him the truth. he deserves that. but you can’t answer his questions. you don’t know what’s brought you here or why, and he’ll probably only think you’re crazy. you think you’re crazy.

he stops asking you what’s wrong and leads you to the couch. the faux-leather squeaks as he sits, drawing you to his lap, your head cradled beneath his chin. he rubs soothing circles up and down your back, humming, until you’ve settled enough to blow your nose and wipe what little makeup remains from your eyes.

you exhale, sitting upright in his lap. he has one arm draped over your hips, the other still working along your spine. you can feel his eyes searching your profile, as if he’s trying to discern the cause of your turmoil from the patterns on your skin. 

you don’t say anything. you just twist and press your mouth to his. 

god, you love him. it’s not the fact that he’s brian may and that’s he opened up a world previously unknown to you. it’s him: his height which makes you feel safe, his hands which love you so well, his intelligence which dazzles you day after day, his kindness, his vulnerability with others, his wit. you love everything about him and more.

but you don’t belong here. the thought has been plaguing you since you arrived, and you suspect it will haunt you until nature returns you home—if nature returns you home. you are meant for the days of roaming wifi and overpriced coffees on every street corner. you are meant for skinny jeans and simple eye makeup, youtube and internet shopping. 

you miss it all, but you love him so dearly—would marry him, and have his children, and die by his side if he asked—but you don’t belong here.

your mouth moves rough across his as you straddle his hips, hands clawing at the hair around his shoulders. you’re crying again. you can taste your tears, salty and warm, and you wonder if he tastes them too. he kisses you despite the tears or maybe because of them. whatever; it doesn’t matter. you just want to forget, to feel good, to feel him.

pulling back, you breathe heavy, chest brushing against his. his eyelids are heavy with lust, his throat flushed. he lifts a hands, brushes his palm down the side of your face, his thumb swiping out to wipe away a tear. 

“what do you want?” he asks.

you take the moment to memorize his face, every line, freckle, and marking. you run a finger long his lower lip and whisper, “you.”

he frowns. “you have me.”

a lump rises in your throat, and you push it back before meeting his gaze. “always?” you aren’t sure what you mean by always. your head is so muddled, so torn, it likely doesn’t matter what you really mean. just as long as he answers the way you want him to.

he does. 

“always,” he says, and you sigh in relief before kissing him again.

march, 1979—paris

march first, the day you picked in crystal’s proposal bet. 

it’s drizzling, but you insist brian accompany you to the louvre on your last afternoon in france. together, you race to the museum, hair damp and frizzy, laughing as you check your coats and grab maps of the exhibits. you wind your way from room to room, commenting on the masterpieces hanging along the walls. brian listens as you spout the wealth of useless knowledge you’ve stored in your head for a later date. he asks questions; he nods and hums in approval; his hand rests in the curve of your back.

by the time you reach liberty leading the people, you’re sure he’s as bored of hearing your voice you are. you pause, study the painting, and sigh in contentment. the room is quiet, only an older couple in the far corner, standing side by side. the man is much taller than his wife, like brian’s taller than you. the woman leans into her husband’s touch when he presses her shoulder, and you wonder absentmindedly if you will experience old age alongside brian. 

“i want to give you something.” brian breaks the silence with a voice that is on the edge of trembling. 

you look up at him, brow furrowed. “you know i don’t like when you give me things.”

“i think you’ll like this.” he gasps his right hand and twists at the ring on his pinky. as you watch his movements, shaky and unpracticed, your heart stops in your chest. 

oh my god.

oh my god.

oh my god.

the words thrum through your veins like a mantra. the air in your throat goes cold, your eyes glued to his hands. you think you might faint when he grasps your left wrist and places the ring in your palm. mouth open, you stare at it: it’s silver with a flat face, small and plain. there’s something engraved on the smooth circle and, after you blink your tears away, you see it’s a flower with three drooping bell-shaped buds.

he notices your inspection and nods to the ring. “it’s lily of the valley, supposedly may’s flower of the month, or so my mother has always believed. you saw our house. she’s obsessed.”

you swallow past the moisture gathering in your throat and look up, unable to form a sentence. he shoves his hands deep in his pockets and shrugs.

“it’s not so much of a proposal as it is a promise.”

“a promise?” is all you can manage to squeak.

“i want to marry you one day,” he says matter-of-factly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it’s what he was born to do. “but you know how things are right now. we’re busy and money’s tight and—”

“okay,” you breathe. 

his brow puckers. “what?”

“i said okay. i’ll marry you—one day.”

his lips spread in the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile, and you know for a fact that you are doomed: doomed to love him forever and always, until you’re both dead and buried and the world continues to turn even though you’re gone.

“well, mr. may, are you gonna make me put it on myself?” you wiggle your hand and pass him the ring which he dutifully slides on your middle finger.

still holding your hand in his, he leans down to kiss your forehead. “i’ll put a proper ring on your finger one day,” he mumbles against your skin, clasping the back of your head to his lips. “promise.”

as you stand in the middle of the louvre, held in the arms of the man you love, you remember: you’re five thousand pounds richer now. you won the bet. the thought makes you laugh and hug him all the tighter.

april, 1979—toyko

if you had known nature would choose that day make her mistake right, you likely wouldn’t have gone back to your hotel room for your sunglasses.

but you didn’t know, and it was painfully sunny outside. 

freddie suggests the group takes a walk around toyko to enjoy the sights and the last of the cherry blossoms before the evening’s soundcheck. though you’re tired from a late flight, you aren’t going to turn down an afternoon of simplicity, not when the tour is so close to finishing and you might never experience this feeling of family again. you’re walking with crystal out of the hotel, bag slung over your shoulder, camera around your neck, arguing with him about whether or not the clouds in the distance mean rain. he says yes; you say no.  

“it’ll just pass over us,” you say, shielding your eyes from the sun. “it’s too bright to storm.”

“clearly you’ve never been to japan before.” he pauses when you stop walking, turning to look over his shoulder while you backtrack toward the entrance.

“i’m gonna pop back inside for my sunglasses anyway. i’d rather have them.” you wave your hand. “don’t wait for me. i’ll catch up. tell brian i’ll be there in a minute.”

he shrugs and pops a toothpick in his mouth. “you know freddie’s a fast walker so be quick.”

nodding, you turn fully on your heel and rush back into the building. the lift is too slow, so you take the stairs two at a time. by the time you reach the door to your room and finesse the key into the stubborn lock, it’s raining. you groan, thumbing your nose at the rain-stained window, but grab the sunglasses anyway before racing down the stairs.

your camera bangs against your chest, your bag slapping against your hip. the stairwell is cool concrete, and the sound of your shoes echoes on the stairs as you wind down the floors. 

thunder booms overheard, and you gasp, stalling on the steps. it sounds close. maybe you should have grabbed your umbrella...

reaching the bottom of the stairs, you pull the door to the lobby open and stumble into an empty concert hall, all too familiar and entirely unwelcome.

your heart plummets to your stomach.

“oh fuck.”

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay​ @grigorlee​ @teenagepeterpan​ @just-my-sickly-pride​ @perriwiinkle​ @ubernoxa​ @anunknownnebula​ @coincidence-ithinknots-blog​ @captvinswaan​ @ineloqueent​

[origidick]

❛ yeah , i'm in a band. ❜ not that you asked , of course. you didn't have to ― adam can tell from the way @heaven-said eyes his guitar that he's totally interested. ❛ we're playin' this friday , you should come check it out. gonna be sick. tons of babes. ❜

[rovewritesit]

Angel Of My Dreams (Chapter 4) John Deacon x Reader Series

Series Summary: After reluctantly joining a band with your childhood best friends, you are thrust into oncoming stardom with no sea legs and an overwhelming sense of anxiety. But you just might find your way, thanks to some seasoned pros by your side. And the interest of one particular bassist.

This series is a work of fiction, and is loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3

Pairing: John Deacon x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Strong language. Feelings of anxiety.

Chapter Notes: This one was a doozy! Don’t start your very first fic with only a vague idea of where it’s going, friends! Quick reminder that this is a slow ass burn. Gonna take us a bit to get there but want to point out there will be no infidelity. Also fun fact: my grandfather actually did work at Elaine’s and the Mick Jagger story is true.

Song/Title Inspiration: Angel - Fleetwood Mac

Songs Mentioned:

Hallelujah, I Love Her So - Ray Charles

Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) - Billy Joel - [I know it wasn’t released till the 90s but I couldn’t shake it]

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​ @brianmays-hair @deacyblues @squishy-geckboye @hae-bee @aprilaady

- - - - - - -

July 1982 - Freeport, Long Island

“I’ll be right back,” you sigh to no one in particular, pushing yourself off of the faded paisley couch in the basement of Steve’s parent’s house and making your way upstairs for a glass of water. The dull pounding in your head had only gotten worse from repeatedly staring at the green shag carpeting leftover from the prior decade. Navigating the layout of the familiar house with ease, you make your way to the kitchen.

“Oh, Bunny! Wonderful, I was just about to bring down some iced tea,” calls out Steve’s mother upon seeing you.

“Thanks, Mrs. Castellano. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, you know me. It was too quiet when you were all away.” The Limbs had recently gotten back from a small European tour--the album having spread beyond England; to Scotland, France, Germany, and Belgium. “I can’t help myself when I get all of you back under my roof. Speaking of… how’s it going down there?” she presses.

You keep your deadpan expression glued to your face as you lock eyes with the kind woman.

She grimaces, “I had a feeling. You better bring this back yourself then,” she hands you the pitcher.

“Will do. Thanks again, Mrs. C,” you tell her as you start to trudge your body back towards the basement. You let out a deep sigh before yanking the door open and descending into the pit of your own personal hell.

Lawrence’s voice booms from below, “I said simple! A simple four to the floor, and that’s it.”

The rest of The Limbs were right as you left them. Eddie and Rich lounge on the couch that is pushed up against the wood-paneled walls, their guitars strewn casually over their legs as they watch the ongoing argument. Lawrence paces around the room, his hands seemingly glued to his head as he pulls on his hair, and Steve sits behind his drum kit that’s tucked away in the corner. Padded blankets hang from the ceiling around him - a sorry excuse for soundproofing.

“Oh c’mon, I’m just adding some flavor to it! I’ll be as boring, sorry simple, as you want when we actually record it,” Steven replies, twirling a drumstick in his right hand.

Rich lets out a sigh as he clocks you making your way back. “Bun, any help here?”

You softly place the pitcher on a table off to the side before turning to the group, leaning back on your hands. “I just don’t get why we need to debut something new if it’s obviously not ready,” you say carefully.

“Of course you’d say that,” Lawrence grumbled, gesturing in your general direction. “Do you not want to sing it? Because you all told me you thought it was good!”

“It’s not that, and you know it, it’s just-”

“It just needs some work before Sunday, so let’s run the rhythm section again,” Eddie cuts in impatiently from his perch on the back of the couch. He untangles his spidery limbs and makes his way over to where you’re camped out.

“Okay, I’ll explain it again,” Lawrence huffs.

“We don’t need this stress two days before we play,” you tell Eddie softly.

“It’s a hometown show, Y/N,” he looks at you pointedly. “These folks helped get us to where we are. It’ll be nice to give them something new.”

The label had secured The Limbs a night at the Jones Beach Theater, the largest outdoor venue on the island. People from all over traveled to watch such acts as Jimmy Buffet, James Taylor, and Aerosmith, the height of entertainment for the suburban droves. And now they’ll be camping out for the first hometown Limbs show since they’d been signed. It was a huge deal, and you knew it, but you didn’t need something unfamiliar to throw off your already wavering shadow of a presence on stage.

Rich begins to pluck out the new bass line, carefully watching Lawrence’s reaction as he plays. On the pick-up, Steve again adds a light flourish as he joins in.

“Steve! For god’s sake! What did I just say?!”

“Live a little, will ya, Lawrence!” Steven shouts back.

The door to the basement wrenches open, and you all freeze. Mr. Castellano’s footsteps are heavy as he stomps down the stairs, somehow staring all of you down at once.

“Kids. If you’d be so kind as to keep it down a tad. I already have to watch the Yankees hand their asses over to the Blue Jays up there. I would at least like to hear it.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Steve mumbles.

“Thank you.” He starts to make his way back up the stairs but halts, turning to you once again. “Oh, also, someone from your label called before,” he adds on casually.

Steven jumps up from his stool, “What?! Dad!”

“What?! Steven!” he mimics. “I’m not your secretary.”

“Can you just tell us what they said?” Steve scoffs at his father.

“Something about being invited to a show at The Garden tonight. Some band. It’s… Dang it. I wrote it down somewhere,” he mutters, making his way back up the stairs.

“I wonder who it is,” Rich thinks aloud, glancing around to all of you.

Eddie notices as your body immediately stiffens beside him.

“Bun?” he asks slowly. “Do you know who’s playing Madison Square Garden tonight?”

Your eyes find the green carpet once again. Of course you knew who was playing tonight. Queen was beginning their two-night stay at the venue. Dawn wanted to get tickets, but you had argued that it was getting harder for you to go unrecognized in public. That, and the fact you had come to the realization you could only act like a complete fool around any of the band members. You weren’t keen on adding another entry to the list.

“It’s Queen!” Mr. Castellano calls from upstairs. “Starts at 8. You kids should get going if you’re gonna make it.”

“Queen’s playing?” Lawrence marvels. “How did we miss that?”

Rich rises, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe all the incessant practicing you’ve been holding us hostage for?” 

“She knew,” Eddie smirks, pointing at you with his thumb. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve never gotten the chance to see them live before!” Steve questions, already rocking back on his heels with excitement. He had become quite the Queen fan since your run-in with Freddie after sticking to him like glue that entire night.

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant, “I thought we had more important things to focus on.”

“No, that’s not it,” Eddie deduces, narrowing his eyes at you. “You’re just embarrassed that you went all jellied around Mr. Mercury the last time.”

“You’re the one who had to go and tell him all about me fawning over them on MTV!”

“Ooor, maybe it’s because the entirety of the UK saw you making eyes at their bassist on that game show,” Lawrence elaborates.

“There were no eyes being made at anyone,” you grit out defensively, knowing full well that their words were ringing true.

“I, for one, am happy you have a crush, Bun. You know it’s been a while since…” Rich trails off, leaving out the name of a dreaded ex none of you speak of.

You push yourself off your perch on the table with a huff. “You know what? We’ll go. Let’s go. That way, I can disprove all your wildly inaccurate assumptions,” you retort, wanting to get the heat off you fast.

Steven chuckles, “Oh no, she’s broken out her dictionary, folks. Looks like we’ve hit a nerve.” He pokes your side playfully.

“Shut up, please,” you tell them, making your way over to the stairs. “We have a train to catch.”

- - - - - - -

You’re late.

The muffled bass from the arena hits your ears as the Limbs dash up the steps leading from Penn Station to MSG. You all but sprint to catch up with the boy’s long gaits as they approach the box office window.

“Hiya, there’s supposed to be some tickets at will-call for us from the band,” Eddie explains to a woman behind the glass as he tries to catch his breath.

“Name?” 

“Uh… Lo & The Limbs?”

“Don’t have anything under that name. Could it be something else?”

“Can you try just The Limbs?” he guesses, turning back to the group with wide, panicked eyes.

“Nope, sorry,” she answers in a monotone.

“How about The Legs,” you offer up from your spot behind Rich’s tall figure. She just shakes her head.

“Well, fuck,” Lawrence sighs, slapping his palms against his legs, obviously ticked off from the 45-minute train ride you’d all barely caught because Steve had changed his shirt a minimum of three times before you could all head out.

“What about Bunny?” Steve asks with a giggle.

The woman raises her eyebrows before checking the list yet again.

“Ah, there you are. Bunny and friends,” she concludes with a sigh.

A chorus of chuckles erupts from the boys. You point your finger at Eddie.

“I’m coming for ya. Eds. You’re not gonna know where or when, but I’ll get you back for this one day,” you tell him playfully. 

“Oh yeah, and when you kill me, you can be free to go off and start your solo group, Bunny and Friends.”

She hands you all large laminate passes and gestures for you to follow a security guard. They deposit you in one of the skyboxes on the 10th floor. The Limbs tentatively enter, glancing around at the mishmash of people gathered. Extra crew, friends of the band, some execs, you guess to yourself. The boys immediately descend on the small bar set up in the back of the room.

“Here, I assume you need one of these,” Lawrence shoves a beer in your shaking hands. 

“You assume right, good sir.”

“How the hell did we lose Steve already?” Eddie gripes. Rich easily spots him over the tops of heads surrounding them, pointing to a tall figure pushing his way towards the front of the box that opens up into seating. You all follow, mummering polite excuse me’s and thank you’s as you try to keep up. You can hear Play The Game get louder as you approach the view. 

Steve rushes to the first row of seats, leaning over the railing of the balcony. “God, will you look at all these people?” he marvels, watching as the dancing lights illuminate the mass below him.

But you’re not looking at the crowd. Your gaze immediately finds the stage, where Freddie is situated behind a piano off to the left. His voice booms as if he were standing right next to you, and you’re positive that even without a mic, it would be heard by all 20,000 individuals. His eyes are closed as he slams hard on the piano, seemingly in his own world, yet the entire crowd is wholly entranced.

Brian then casually lopes to center for his solo. He smiles out at the crowd as his fingers dance across the frets gracefully while Eddie screams in appreciation throughout. He then jogs back to his mic, nearly missing his cue for his backing vocals, but his fingers never rest. Roger’s gravely falsetto catches your ear, and you train your eyes on the multitasking drummer. Even up behind his kit, his presence takes center stage while he keeps perfect time. The group ends the song in perfect synchronicity as the lights cut to black.

The chords for Somebody To Love start with a few majestic trills from Freddie’s voice, but your attention is once again grabbed away. Towards the back of the stage, still cast in darkness, you see John. He quickly shrugs off a fitted leather jacket to reveal an even tighter full cerulean blue ensemble before a roadie slips the strap of his bass over his head. He strolls into the light just as Freddie finishes his improv, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet as they begin the song.

While he keeps his gaze mostly pointed to the ground, his body already thrums with anticipation. As it really gets going, you watch as he comes to life. You can’t help but hang onto his every movement; the unintentional jerks of his head, the light two-step of his feet as he shuffles along to his bass line's groove. He seems entirely at the will of the song and loving every minute of it. A pang of jealousy hits your chest as you wonder if you’d ever feel that free on stage.

Not much conversation passes between you and the boys as you watch on, more than a bit awestruck. You’re not sure how many songs pass, but fresh beers repeatedly appear in your hands every so often. The lights are dizzyingly bright as your eyes skip around the stage, trying to absorb as much as you can. You find they consistently flick back to John, sucking in every minutia of his performance. Your chest tightens like it did the day of Pop Quiz. Every time he had caught your eye, you remember having to push down the inescapable thoughts you were having. You would tell yourself you don’t know what it is about him, but you’d be lying. 

A voice jolts you out of your stupor. “You must be Fred’s young friends he met in New Haven.”

The group turns to find a small man situated in the row behind them wearing an impeccably tailored suit.

“Jim Beach, manager for the band,” he holds out a hand for each of you to shake. “Sorry for the last-minute invitation. Fred was simply beside himself when he remembered you’re all from New York. So glad you could make it.”

“This is incredible, thanks so much for having us,” Rich tells the man sincerely as his gaze keeps being drawn back to the stage.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourselves. We’ve always been big fans of playing here.”

“It’s quite the spectacle,” you muse. “I've never seen The Garden this decked out before. I mean, those lighting rigs alone must cost…” you trail off.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Jim replies with a quirk of his lips. “If you’d all like to follow me downstairs, they’ll be finishing up soon, and I’m sure Fred would love to thank you for coming.”

Steve leaps from his plastic seat, “Yes, please!”

- - - - - - -

The green room is unlike any you’ve ever seen—rust-colored persian rugs litter the floor, the grey slate underneath barely peeking through. Tapestries and various paintings line the walls, somehow giving the usually sterile space a homey feel. Multiple buffet tables filled with every accoutrement imaginable are tucked away in a back corner.

The room is scarce of people for the most part. Crew members filter in and out, grabbing waters, some puffing on cigarettes as they wipe down their sweaty foreheads. A select few have migrated down from the skybox as well.

Lawrence plops down on one of the many leather couches, taking in the room. “So this is what it’s like when you make it?”

“Seems a little excessive even for a band of their stature,” murmurs Rich as if reading your mind.

The deafening roar of the crowd is heard from above, and Queen closes out their encore. The crew members who are now needed for the post set break-down hurry from the room as it gets quiet. You all sit there in near silence for a few moments until a light cheer erupts as Freddie, Brian, and Roger all enter the room, swaddled in thick robes and towels around their necks. They're breathing heavy, still radiating the energy from their set, knowing full well that it was a fantastic show.

“Thank you, darling,” Freddie says as someone hands him a bottle of cold water, glancing around at the people who are still giving the band a wide berth. He spots the group of you huddled out of the way. “Oh!” he exclaims with a clap of his hands, making his way over, “You made it!”

He kisses you all on the cheeks, leaving a ghost of sweat on your faces. “My gangly young saplings! It’s lovely to see you.” He locks eyes with you, a wicked grin on his face. “And you most of all, my little cottontail.”

“You were fantastic Freddie, thank you so much for thinking of us, really,” you tell him genuinely.

“And who have we got here?” a towering Brian May appears behind Freddie.

“Oh yes, may I present to you, Lo & The Limbs!” Freddie says, spreading his arms wide. So he does remember the name; you laugh to yourself.

Eddie pushes further into the group to immediately extend his hand. “You slayed tonight, man. I mean, really slayed.”

Brian returns the shake with a surprised laugh. “Why, thank you. I’ve heard your album, and I have to say, you all… slay as well.”

“Oy, you!” A disheveled looking Roger Taylor makes his way over to the group, people parting like the red sea before him. He marches straight up to you, his finger inches from your nose. “I lost quite a lot of quid, thanks to you.”

You shrink back a bit. “I’m sorry?”

“It would be like John to bring in a ringer at the last second. And after we’d already threw down our bets.” You glance at Freddie with a confused look still on your face.

“What a lovely way to welcome our new friends,” Brian throws an arm over Roger’s shoulder before turning to you. “We may have made a slight wager on John’s most recent Pop Quiz appearance.”

“Slight?” Freddie smirks. “My new Gucci loafers would disagree, darling.”

Roger lets out an incoherent grumble. “Well, he usually fucks it up, doesn’t he? That is until you snuck in there.”

“I’m… sorry?” you offer, failing to find a witty remark for the situation.

He heaves a dramatic sigh, “I guess you’ll just have to make it up to me. I’ve been looking for someone to help me bury the bodies, or do my taxes, or be on call if I perhaps fancied a shag in the middle of the night?” he raises his brows in an overtly teasing manner.

You let out a sharp snort. “Fancy a shag? God, that sounds so much better than “ya wanna go fuck?”

Roger chuckles heartily, “Alright, alright. It was touch and go there for a bit, but I’ve come ‘round. I like this one. She can stay.”

“Y’know, we made a bet of sorts as well,” Lawrence reveals with a mischievous grin. The men all look to him, intrigued. “How long Y/N could keep her cool around that bassist of yours. She failed miserably, and now we shall reap the benefits by teasing her mercilessly until the end of time.”

You swear your mouth couldn’t have dropped open faster. Really need to work on that poker face, you tell yourself.

“Someone was trying to be cool around Deacy? Are you sure you’ve met the man?” Brian laughs.

Staring blankly around, all you know is you need to get out of this situation fast. “I need to pee,” you announce loudly. Really, Y/N? “Excuse me.”

Quickly ducking out of the room before anyone can say anything, you lean your back up against the wall in the hallway as you collect your swimming thoughts. What was it about this band that made you get all dumbstruck? Truth be told, you weren’t usually a timid person. Sure, everyone had bouts of social anxiety now and again, but you navigated social interactions seamlessly for the most part. It had always been easy for you to make friends or crack a quick comeback at a joke. Teasing was a form of endearment where you came from. But ever since you’d entered this new world, it was as if you were a stranger in your body. Who happened to be almost mute apparently. You push yourself off the wall to find a bathroom, your mind still fully occupied by your inner ramblings.

“Points!” a roadie shouts at you, trying to get your attention as they push a cart of cumbersome looking sound equipment right into your path. Before you have time to react, two hands grip your waist and pull you back to your previous position against the wall. 

Once again, you are face to face with a familiar chest. You watch as a light chuckle rumbles through it.

“I know it’s cheesy to say, but we have to stop meeting like this. Or do you make it a point to always bumble about in narrow hallways?” John pulls his hands back to his side as you meet his attractive colored eyes, amusement flickering in them. 

“John. Hi,” is all you manage.

“Good to see you again, Y/N. Freddie mentioned you all might be stopping by. Glad you could make it.”

You try and will your new persona not to take hold, but all you can do is smile meekly at him. He regards you patiently, cocking his head to the side slightly.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

“Yes, very much,” you rush out quickly. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that before. The Garden’s not an easy place to play.”

“Thank you. You’re kind," he smiles bashfully. "The crowds in New York are some of my favorites. I wish we got the chance to spend more time here, but it seems we’re always passing through.”

“Am I interrupting?” Freddie asks with raised eyebrows from the doorway, a grin on his face.

John makes his way over to him. “Not at all. Just heroically saving Y/N from a near-death run-in with Ratty.”

“Sounds about right,” Freddie muses. “Now, if we’re all safe and sound, I’d like to get out of here. I’m positively starving.”

“Where to?” John asks.

“I want to go someplace real New Yorkers go,” he looks to you expectantly.

“Bun-bun?” you hear from inside before Steve pokes his head around Fred.

“Is your grandpa working tonight?”

- - - - - - -

Even John knew of Elaine’s. He’d hadn’t heard about it because the notable food, but rather the wide variety of clientele it boasted. Writers, directors, actors, and musicians alike frequently filled the establishment for the ambiance and lively conversation. Freddie would love it.

The large group enters through the wood door under a large awning, immediately hit by a wall of sound. The small place is packed to the brim. Raucous laughter can be heard from most tables as the patrons sardine together, shouting over one another. It had a certain charm, he guessed, taking in the decor of signed book covers and hand-painted murals.

“Bambina!” A small italian-looking maitre d' steps from behind the counter and spreads his arms wide as he engulfs Y/N into a hug. “You didn’t tell me you were stopping by tonight.”

“Sorry, Papa. It was last minute. Just in time for the 10:30 rush by the looks of it.”

An infectiously warm smile spreads across his face. “Do you see me complaining? You hardly visit anymore now that you’re running around the world with that guitar. I’m so proud of you,” he adds softly, kissing her forehead. “Look at these boys!” he greets the rest of The Limbs like family, clapping each man on the back with love. “Am I shrinking already, or are all you still growing?”

“Probably a little of both, Dom,” Eddie laughs with the old man.

“And there’s even more, I see,” he inquires, finally noticing Queen.

It was unusual for them not to be the center of attention in any given situation, all of them hanging back except for Freddie, who marches right up to the man and places a kiss on his cheek.

“Freddie Mercury, a dear friend of your Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

He looks to Y/N suspiciously. “Are they musicians? You know what happened that one time. I had to pry Elaine off of beating that tiny Mickey guy. I’m telling ya, it was ugly.”

“Not Mickey- Mick, Papa. How many times do I have to tell you?” Y/N shushes him, looking a bit embarrassed.

Dom waves his hand at her, “Whoever he is, that kid owes me his life. I expect these ones to behave.”

Roger snorts from the back, “Not very likely.”

“We promise,” Freddie swears. “And might I say, I love the suit. Very dashing,” he adds on for good measure.

“Well, how else do you think I got this job?” Dom smiles at him with a wink. “C’mon,” he gestures for all to follow as he leads them through the narrow restaurant, to a long table in the back. “Enjoy, boys,” he tells them as he heads back to his post up front, kissing Y/N on the cheek before leaving.

“Come sit next to me, my love,” Freddie calls to Y/N, patting the seat beside him. “If any of your other family members are as outrageous as that man, I want to hear all about them.”

The group moves to squish in around the table. Roger silently catches John’s eye and motions to the seat next to Y/N. He quirks his brows at him, confused, but makes his way to sit between them.

Eddie has taken his rightful place next to Brian with Rich in tow, the three already in deep conversation about the current music scene. Lawrence and Roger sit opposite each other, tearing into the bread basket and chatting about the show. Next to Freddie, Steve is eagerly hanging onto every word he says as he chats to Y/N about her upbringing.

“I’m just hoping one day we get to do something like that, man. Our show on Sunday should be a pretty big deal, though,” Lawrence tells Roger.

“Where are you playing? CBGB? The Palladium?” 

“Nah, we’re playing out on the island. Jones Beach.”

“Huh, Long Island. We’ve never been to Long Island before,” Roger ponders, intrigued. “What’s there to do on Long Island?”

“Well, do you like bowling? Strip malls?” Lawrence pauses for effect. “Bowling at strip malls?”

John lightly chuckles. An arm brushes his shoulder, and he moves back slightly as a large woman weaves her hands around Y/N’s shoulders.

“My little Y/N has come back to us! And surrounded by even more devilishly handsome men than usual.”

Y/N turns around in her seat to give the woman a proper hug. “Elaine! It’s been too long.”

“Let me get a good look at you,” she gestures for Y/N to spin as she regards her. “If you need help beating em’ off of ya, I have my bat behind the counter.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, teasingly, “Don’t I know it. I have a vivid childhood memory of you chasing Ron Galella around the dining room with that thing.”

She lets out a larger than life laugh at the memory, patting the young girl on the back. “Oh, those were the good years. So, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends?”

“Elaine! I’m hurt you don’t remember our beautiful time together,” Eddie teases her from the table's end.

“Shut it, Eddie,” she reprimands him with a point of her stubby finger.

Y/N turns to the group, spreading her arms wide. “Guys, this is Elaine Kaufman, of Eliane’s, obviously. Elaine, this is Queen.”

She attempts a half-hearted curtsey. “Your majesties. Welcome.”

Before long, Elaine has pulled up a chair as she cracks dirty jokes back and forth with Freddie, which has the rest of the group (and some nearby diners) howling in laughter. Y/N’s now-familiar cackle sends tingles through John’s body once again. She’s more relaxed than he’s previously seen her be. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, showcasing her broad smile as she looks on fondly, hands waving about whenever she joins in the conversation. Her face is mostly free of makeup and he catches the hint of a dimple on one of her cheeks as she glances over at him to share in a joke.

Freddie gasps as he catches someone entering the front door. “Is that Shirley MacLaine? Slap my ass and call me Sally, that woman does not age.”

“Come with me,” Elaine says, rising from her chair. “I think she’ll like you.”

Food appears without any of them having to order, along with bottles of wine Elaine insisted they’d love. John tentatively takes a bite of one of the dishes set before him.

“Oh god,” he blurts out upon tasting.

Y/N snickers beside him. “Bad, right? I recommend the tortellini if you want something remotely edible.” She pushes a plate towards him, snagging some for herself.

He gulps down water, trying to rid himself of the bland taste. “I would ask why this place is packed, but it seems I’ve already met her.”

“And you would be right. She’s a riot, but I fully blame her for my vulgar vocabulary,” she reveals, taking a giant bite of pasta.

“You and Freddie seem to have that in common.”

Y/N chews slowly as she muses over that sentiment. “That seems to be the only thing we have in common,” she says softly. He cocks his head at her in question.

“It’s just,” she starts, a somber look replacing her previously buoyant one. “Watching him on stage tonight. All of you actually. You seem so free, so comfortable up there. And Freddie is just magnetic, you know that. It’s as if he makes the crowd fall in love with him again and again with every song. I could never do that…”

“I find that quite hard to believe,” he mumbles, continuing on quickly. “Freddie’s a performer. Everything he does up there is for that crowd. Whereas I’m just a musician, I think. It probably helps that I don’t sing. It'll just take some time to find your footing. You don’t have to be both. You don't have to be either for that matter.”

She scoffs lightly, pushing the food around on her plate. “Don’t I? Ever since this all began, I feel like I’m some paper doll or something. People just dress me up and mold me into what they want. And I go right along with it because I don’t even recognize this version of myself if I’m being honest. So I just keep that mask on until I get back home and I can finally breathe. Because then, at least I don’t have to stare at a stranger in the mirror anymore.” 

She breaks out of the daze she fell into while rambling. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t unload on you like this,” she catches herself. “I guess I just had a very different assumption of what my life would look like... I think I'm afraid of losing who I am in all this."

John takes her in, catching glimpses of his former self in her cracks. He itches to soothe her distress. “I can understand,” he tells her sympathetically. “Hell, I thought I was joining a band to play with on the side at uni and look at us now. Sometimes I still feel like I’m leading a double life. I tried to convince myself all this was just a job at first, but I’m sure you’re finding out quickly that’s not always true.”

Y/N looks at him intently, and it’s the first time he truly sees the depth of her eyes. He clears his throat before continuing.

“I've come to learn that the concept of home is a funny thing. For a long time, I held onto the idea of it that I always had for myself, but it’s harder than it looks with what we do,” he sighs, running a hand through his short curls, not wanting to dwell too long on his unpleasent situation back in England. 

“But home can be anything really. It can be people,” he says, glancing at his bandmates. “Or even the stage, which sometimes I think is Freddie’s. Or you can be Roger, and make yourself at home wherever you go.”

They glance over at Rog, who is in the middle of an animated story, waving his glass of wine around as it drips on the tablecloth.

“So all you can do is find whatever that home is and hold onto it the best you can. And it might change, but that doesn't mean you have to," he nudges her shoulder with his.

Y/N smiles down at her lap. “Thank you,” she tells him quietly, still swimming in her own thoughts.

“Of course,” he assures, pausing to breathe- not used to giving long-winded explanations. Nervous that he’s pushed too far, he glances over, catching as her shoulders relax.

The restaurant was mostly cleared out by now, save for a few regulars sitting at the tall wood bar. The staff chats casually amongst themselves as they clean off empty tables for the night. Steve is giving Freddie details of the New York club scene, probably hoping to earn himself an invitation one day. Elaine’s regaling Brian, Eddie, and Rich with a story about two writers and a feud of accused plagiarism. Lawrence and Roger were currently attempting to turn their napkins into amusing hats for each other. John finds himself enjoying the young band's presence, their chaotic energy seeming to match Queen’s dynamic quite well.

The group collectively jumps as the music drastically raises in volume, the intro of Ray Charles’ ‘Hallelujah, I Love Her So’ pouring out.

“Oh god, no,” Y/N groans next to him as the waiters all turn their attention to her. Dom appears beside her with an outstretched hand. “Papa, not now, please.”

“Indulge your grandfather, Y/N,” he winks at her as she reluctantly takes his hand, pulling her to the middle of the room. John’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as the old man springs to life, twirling his granddaughter around the room with ease. The pure spryness of someone that age was genuinely shocking.

“Oh, this is fabulous!” Freddie laughs as he leans his chin forward on his hands.

And it was. The staff cheers, hinting that this was a familiar routine for them. The rest of The Limbs sing along with the track, watching the two affectionately like old family.

Y/N’s apprehensive look fades away as she gives in to the fun, pure joy flashing across her features as she glides along, following her grandfather in the swing dance rather gracefully. She looks free, John thinks to himself, drinking in the true version of the young woman. She was dazzling as her hair fell messily from her ponytail and her laugh was louder than ever as Dom dips her low to the floor, her body bending with him. If this was home, he could see why she was reluctant to leave it behind.

He’s mesmerized by her every movement. She was still an enigma to him, each detail he pulled from her, just making him hungry for more. 

You shouldn’t. You’re still married. Well, technically. Papers aren’t signed yet.

“Alright, I’m convinced,” Roger shouts at Lawrence. “Looks like we'll have to stop in Long Island.”

- - - - - - -

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Brian announces, burrowing further into his white windbreaker.

The Jones Beach Theater was tucked right up to the shoreline, causing the spray of the Atlantic to chill the air despite the summer heat. John had never seen a venue like it. It’s as if the vast sea acted as an extended backdrop to the stage, reflecting the stars and inky drape of the night.

The crowd didn’t seem to mind at all. They had been brilliant the entire night, singing along to every one of the songs and dancing in full force. It was perfectly clear how proud they were of their hometown heroes.

The Limbs themselves were a sight to behold from the wings of the stage. The energy from the packed seats had bled over, and all 5 members were indeed feeling it. They had been in perfect sync with each other the entire show, and John was certainly amused by their own way of interacting with their audience. It mostly consisted of them hurling humorous insults back and forth to each other in between songs.

Even Y/N seemed to be enjoying herself, despite her confession the other night. She had taken Freddie’s note that he’d given after seeing her dance and was now stepping out from behind the mic stand for her songs. She slinked around the stage effortlessly, interacting with the other members and the crowd, much to their glee.

“Before we say goodnight to you all, we’d like to leave you with a little something,” Rich calls out over the deafening cheers. “A lullaby of sorts from one of our favorites.”

Y/N drags a stool out to the center of the stage as Lawrence begins a somber melody on the keyboard. The audiences erupts in cheers and John recognizes it as a Billy Joel song.

She takes a seat behind the mic as she gazes out over the crowd. The exhilarated face she had been sporting all night was gone, a shade of melancholy in its place now.

Goodnight, my angel, time to close your eyes

And save these questions for another day

I think I know what you’ve been asking me

I think you know what I’ve been trying to say

Her hypnotic voice pierces through the now-silent crowd. The type of voice you immediately feel in your chest, as if it’s personally strumming your heartstrings. No one dares to sing along, afraid they'll miss a moment of her inflection.

I promised I would never leave you

Then you should always know

Wherever you may go, no matter where you are

I never will be far away

The familiar sight of lighters being illuminated flickers through the sea of people before them, casting a hazy glow on the previously faceless patrons. Their peaceful stares fixed on Y/N, entranced as if she was siren of sorts.

Goodnight my angel, now it’s time to dream

And dream how wonderful your life will be

Someday your child may cry, and if you sing this lullaby

Then in your heart, there will always be a part of me

Her voice breaks a bit, giving away the glassiness of her eyes. They’re not fixed on the crowd, but instead on the sky beyond them. John watches the panes of her face intently. She wasn’t singing to them, he realizes. This was to herself. Possibly to that image in her mind, she had confided in him, the one she was struggling to leave behind—her piece of home.

Someday we’ll all be gone

But lullabies go on and on

“She’s going to be something else, isn’t she?” Freddie asks, mostly to himself.

They never die

That’s how you and I will be

John watches as a single tear slips off the slope of her nose as she finishes, bowing her head.

“Yeah, I think she is.”

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #348

“nothing will be free  /  nothing will be done  /  black out the sun”

Do you have any famous relatives? My third or so cousin is the author of Not Without My Daughter, but she's not like a smash hit or anything that most people know. I really do recommend the book, though. It's a long read, but a beautiful, true story. Do you care about celebrity gossip? Nah. Have you ever failed a science course in high school? No; I was very good at science. What’s your favorite breakfast food? Cinnamon rolls. Does your house have a basement? No. No house I've ever lived in has had one. Do you like Hot Topic? Well duh. Do you think imagination is valuable? VERY! Just imagine how many incredible things wouldn't exist without it. What was your reaction to your first time falling in love? Unspeakably happy, and I felt like I was building a future with someone. I felt like I had purpose, which I should mention to anyone reading is a mindset to NEVER adopt. No one gives you purpose; you're born with it. How much weight can you lift at once? Ha, not a lot. When you have your own house someday, what color Christmas tree do you want and how will you decorate it? I want a black one with faux snow on the branches, then maybe red ornaments. Kinda look like blood dripping off. Sounds metal. Name three YouTube channels you’ve been loving lately. Lately, John Wolfe, The Dark Den, and Aim To Head Mix. Have you ever bought a designer purse? No. Do you wear jewelry often? No. What color was your senior prom dress? Black. Are you colorblind? No. Name the people you know who are colorblind. Jason's older brother is colorblind to two colors, but idr which. Would you ever consider a career in writing? I'd love to. What was your first favorite color? Red. What do you think about horror movies? I love them. If you love them, what’s your favorite? I really enjoy The Crazies and both The Blair Witch Project movies. Oh, and of course Silent Hill. Got any cool Christmas presents picked out for family or friends yet? I don't have the money to get anyone presents... and while I sometimes get ideas about something I could make someone, then it wouldn't be fair to the rest of my family if I don't make them something, too. What’s your favorite word and why? I really like the sound of "serendipity," as well as its meaning. It's just a pretty, nice word. Do you like to do craft projects? If so, what’s the coolest thing you made? Not really... I think the coolest thing I made was when I put the clay heart I made in Art into a shadowbox, and a poem I wrote was in the background. It was a gift for Jason. I remember working really hard on the whole process and being really happy with it. I don't want to know what he's done with it since. What’s one occupation you think gets paid too much and doesn’t deserve to? I don't know. What’s something you are currently saving money for to buy? Everyone knows about Venus' terrarium by now... Do you smoke/vape? If so, what brand do you smoke/what device do you use? No. Ever done drugs? No. Tell me one of your worst habits. Catastrophizing. I take a tiny seed of something potentially bad, and in seconds it's a damn redwood tree. And I do mean "in seconds." What’s a weird quirk you have that no one else you know does? I don't know, I don't have any particularly unique ones, I think. If you game, what type of headset do you use? I just use earbuds. Do you think you would be a good therapist? You know, it's funny, I've actually pictured myself as one a few times, given my level of understanding and empathy for people, as well as how deeply I want to see others succeed and spread the word that recovery from things like depression is very possible. I've never truly entertained the thought, though, given I'm quite sure I legally couldn't be given my suicidal past and mental illnesses. There is also NO way I could listen to so many people's suffering and manage to stay healthy myself, so, no therapist position for me, thanks. Have you ever been to a Chinatown? No. Do you prefer chunky or creamy peanut butter? Creamy, 100%. Do you stop to pick up heads-up pennies? No. Do your pets have collars? Describe them: Roman has an adorable navy one with a bowtie. Do you have any friends that speak any languages you don’t understand? Old friends, sure. What is something you want to begin learning? I want to improve my ability to perform what in therapy is called "opposite action," where you do the opposite of what your depression (or other conditions) make you want to do. It always helps me feel good, like when I draw even when I don't initially feel like it, but it's rough to really force yourself to do it. What is a food you find comforting when you are sad? Ice cream is my comfort food. What is a quote you find comfort in? There are really a lot, but none come to mind immediately, gah. What is one Tumblr blog you really appreciate? I actually haven't been on my main Tumblr in months, but oh my god there is a Markiplier blog called "lady-raziel" and she is FUCKING HYSTERICAL. The meme quality is A+. What is a comfort movie/show for you? When I actually liked watching movies, I enjoyed watching Silent Hill when I was down. That whole franchise just makes me so happy. What is a recent creative project that you are proud of? That I'm PROUD of, idk. I'm not that happy with the last drawing I made, and I haven't done any serious writing lately that I find noteworthy. What is a video game that you find comforting? Shadow of the Colossus is probably #1. I find it so relaxing while equally epic as fuck. The soundtrack is to die for, and after playing it a billion times, it's pretty easy for me to kinda breeze through and just enjoy myself. Do you know how to bake bread? If so, what is something you’ve baked recently? No. Would you rather live in the mountains, city, beach, or the forest? THE MOUNTAINS!!! Particularly in the woods IN the mountains! Are you closer to your mother’s or father’s side of the family? Mom's. I don't even remember anyone from Dad's. Have you ever been in a “perfect relationship”? I thought so. Have you ever lost a fingernail or toenail? No. Were you a Disney or Nickelodeon kid? I preferred Disney. Have you ever been inside a jail/prison? No, and I don't plan on it. Have you ever dated a guy with a beard, mustache, or goatee? Jason had a goatee usually. He'd go clean-shaven sometimes. Did you ever name your stuffed animals? I named every single one I got as a kid. Now I don't, really, unless they're really special. What’s the name of the person who cuts your hair? I'd rather not share, given her name is very unique. Do you like cheeseburgers? Yes, they're one of my favorite foods. Do you have a Flickr? Yes, but I don't use it anymore. Did you ever want to be a fashion designer? No. Do you drink milk? Yeah, I love milk. Where was your FB display pic taken? My room. Have you ever burnt your tongue like REALLY bad? If so, what on? Yeah; white rice. My dumb ass didn't realize it had JUST come off the stove. My tongue hurt literally for weeks. Have you ever gotten your legs waxed? No. Do you own any CLOTHES from Victoria’s Secret? Er, are undergarments not clothes? But I know what you mean. No. What are your grandfathers’ names? William and... I can't remember Dad's dad's name. Have you ever seen a snake in real life? Well yeah. Are you against seances? I don't know if I believe in them being effective, but either way, they seem like a bad idea. Even risking luring a negative energy/spirit to you is something I'd stay away from. Do you own any superhero shirts? No, just Harley Quinn ones, some with the Joker on them, too. I need to toss 'em though because I am like, violently against romanticizing their abusive relationship. I used to just like them as a story character couple, but I got to a place where it just seemed... wrong to "glorify" it by wearing merch and stuff. What band has the best guitar solos? Metallica, durrrr. Who is the biggest jerk you’ve ever met? Can you believe that would be my former best friend? Have you ever swerved off the road to avoid hitting an animal? I've never had an animal in my path. Have you ever grown your own herbs? No. Do you like kissing in public? If you're my serious s/o, I could care less, so long as it's a simple peck. I'm not making out in front of people. Do you think someone has feelings for you? I don't know. Do you want to be in a relationship this year? I don't know. I'm lonely and love feels amazing, but I need to get my life on track before I can be a good partner to someone and not just dead weight. Has anyone told you they don’t want to ever lose you? Huh, funny, he's the one that walked away. How long can you just kiss until your hands start to wander? Uhhh that would depend on how serious we are, where we are, and just what mood I'm in. What’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you? ugh What’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for someone? also ugh What’s your dirtiest secret? TMI AHEAD. Probably receiving oral while bare-ass naked on the chaise in the living room while we were home alone. Or having sex in my sister’s bed. Oops. Would you ever get lyrics tattooed on yourself? Yeah. I already do, anyway, and I plan on getting another. Can you photoshop images well? I'm decent at it. Where did you last drive to? Mom and I went to go get our Covid vaccines today. What’s the first verse of the last song you listened to? "I don't know what we're supposed to be, but I know we lost it along the way to something better, something so much more than pleasure that we seek, so blind inside to fill these holes left by these lies that we tell to ourselves as we manufacture our own hell." What do you hear right now? The aforementioned song: "BLACKOUT" by 3TEETH. What was the last thing you laughed about? This is so fucking immature lmao but when we were driving earlier, we passed a gas station that had a sign that was advertising Coke, but due to space limitations, it abbreviated to "2 liter Cok" and I cackled like a child. Mom laughed harder than I did. Do you know any gay people personally? Ye. What was the last thing that startled you? I think it was a car hoonking at somebody the other day. What was the last thing to make you even remotely sad? Today's been a kind of rough PTSD day thanks to Facebook. My old high school friend had her beautiful daughter, a childhood friend just got married the other day, another friend is due to have her baby in just a couple weeks... It's just weird but even more painful to know it was the life I once fantasized about with a guy that just dropped me and made a break for it. I hate admitting that there's this deep, deep bitterness in me about it, like he took my life away from me, even though that's of course very unfair to say. I don't want to talk about this anymore, so moving on with my day.

[1000-directions]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was their first summer, and everything was perfect.

*

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

Even worse...he kinda likes it.

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

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

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

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

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

(Mostly, he jerks off.)

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

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

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

Then he fucking sings.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hungry how?” he managed to croak out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

Get a dog? Check.

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

Spend more time outside? Check.

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

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

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

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

*

Something flashbacky about being deaf

*

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

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

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

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

Simple, really.

*

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

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

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

wip title game

[mytastessuck]

Gorillaz: Gorillaz (2001)

The history of my relationship is a long one...but I don’t like explaining stuff so I’ll keep it brief. I became a fan of the band when I saw a premiere of the “Clint Eastwood” video on Toonami. This could be attributed to the fact that I loved cartoons and I didn’t know there was a bunch of animated music videos back then. But there are. There are a like a ton of animated music videos. Even back then. Even before back then. Did you know one won an Oscar? It was by Tom Waits. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. We’ll get to him later. Anyway, I heard a couple more songs from them around this era but I couldn’t get into them because I was young, stupid and had no money. It actually wasn’t till around the Demon Days era (Phase 2 for us in the know) that I managed to get a hold of this album. My dad is also a fan of this band and gave a special edition version of this album. Thanks to that gesture, I really got back into Gorillaz in a huge way. Looking up lyrics, lore and cameos (these guys did a song with D12. For 9/11. Is The Rap Critic’s Patreon still open? I got a request to make...). 

We can get into more details later. Right now, I am going to rate every single song on Gorillaz (2001) US Deluxe Edition. 1. Rehash A nice breezy way to start off the album. Although, to be honest, if you picked this CD up and put it in a player after seeing of Gorillaz’ released singles, you’ll most likely be going, “Did I get the right disc?”. Still, that’s the reason I love the band. They can go into any genre and there is still something there that sounds like them. This song is pretty cool. 

Song Score: 8/10

2. 5/4

Now this is what I’m talking about. Classic British Alternative: Uncommon time, indecipherable lyrics, disgust when you figure out what the lyrics are actually saying and a sick bass. This song right here? It justifies the purchase of the whole album. It’s nasty and it’s cool, like Peanut Butter water ice.

Song Score: 10/10

3. Tomorrow Comes Today

Oh my lord, this song. I always have a soft spot for songs that I can pretend I was deep to back in the day. Very slow, very contemplative, very moody...just like a young me. It’s good that they made this their first single because it really showed up what they were capable of.

Song Score: 9/10

4. New Genius (Brother)

Ooooo...spooky. This song is pretty nice for a dark atmosphere and recommended for singing in a bar by with smoking patrons. Also nice of Gorillaz to give us the Stranger Danger spiel without sounding completely lame about it.

Song Score: 8/10

5. Clint Eastwood

AWWW SHIT MUTHAFUCKERS, HERE WE GO! This is the song that I obsessed over for a decade of my life. I sucked the entire life out of this song to the point that I skip over it in some playlists because it has nothing left to offer me. Still, I objectively love this song and I appreciate it for introducing to this band and for introducing me to Del Tha Funkee Homosapien. Seriously, how was I supposed to live the rest of my life without knowing a guy was capable of bars like that? This song fucks.

Song Score: 10/10

6. Man Research (Clapper)

I think I can blame this song for me getting into Electronica at a later age. High-pitched voices, nice beats, the feeling that I’m in a lab watching people being experimented on...everything a good track needs. This song was really fun to sing out loud to myself when I was younger. Probably one of the things that made my neighbors call my sanity into question.

Song Score: 10/10

7. Punk

Fuck yeah. Gorillaz was slaughtering some bands before they even got of their crib with tribute to the genre. Don’t bother with the lyrics because the words just basically become another instrument on this track and boy are the instruments on their loudest display here. I can only hear a dude telling his mom to shut up on it anyway.

Song Score: 9/10

8. Sound Check (Gravity)

Gotta admit, didn’t really appreciate this song when I was younger. It felt like the pieces were there but it didn’t come together into something of substance. Now that I’m older, I...am still of the same opinion. I like the breakdown but I feel like the high-pitched voice has been played out at this point in the album.

Song Score 7/10

9. Double Bass

Ah, an instrumental. Probably one of the first ones I listened to on repeat. I love the string work on this and the accompanying beats. Really good music to chill to...if you ignore that one line.

Song Score: 9/10

10. Rock The House

Hey, it’s our old friend Del! I was pleasantly surprised to see him on another track, kicking ass to a set of nice pan flutes. Man, this song ruled. But I can only listen to the album version. The music video version censors ass crack. Ass crack! How conservative can you get?! Luckily, Gorillaz never ran into this problem again.

Song Score: 10/10

11. 19-2000

I remember this album being the first time I heard the original version of this song instead of the Soulchild Remix. Obviously, I had to prefer this version because the original version is always the best. At least, that’s the way I thought back then. Nowadays...

THEY BOTH SOUND NICE!

But I do have a special place in my heart for this song. I like the woman in the background. Adds an ethereal quality to the song.

Song Score: 9/10

12. Latin Simone (Que Pasa Condigo?)

The first time I heard this, I was like, “Why is this song in Spanish?” This is because I listened to the G Sides album first (more on that next week). But the more I listened, the more I preferred it to the English version. This guy sings like he’s before an auditorium and he wants the people outside to hear him. Funny story: I tried to play this song for my Spanish class but my speakers didn’t work for them to hear it. Sucks for them.

Song Score: 11/10

13. Starshine

This is probably my least favorite song on the album. Just melancholy for the sake of melancholy. Kind of bothers me how there’s no substance to it I can find...nice instrumental though.

Song Score: 6/10

14. Slow Country

My second least favorite song on the album. Usually I like discordant noises in a song but the amateur piano with the honks...don’t really do it for me. Nice mumbling at the end though. Never change, Damon.

Song Score: 7/10

15. M1A1

I remember the first time I watched Day of the Dead and during the beginning I kept going, “WHEN THE GUITAR COME IN?!”. I know, I know, I’m hilarious. Especially when I’m by myself. But seriously, not even factoring in nostalgia, this is the best track on the album. Great song, great singing, awesome fucking solo. The only thing better than M1A1 on this album is M1A1 live.

Song Score: 12/10

16. Dracula

You know that when I heard the sound bite from this track, I thought it was from the original movie? It’s not. It’s from fucking Looney Tunes. Damn. Egg on my face. Anyway, I love the goofiness of this track. It tries to sound dark and scary but it’s like that nice goth kid in your class who always pick Edgar Allan Poe as his Powerpoint topic. Good kid, great song.

Song Score: 8/10

17. Left Hand Suzuki Method

FEEL THE IMPACT

And I did. Like a wise man once said, I don’t need drugs to enjoy this track, just to enhance my enjoyment of it. And you know what? I don’t want to enhance it. This shit sounds good by itself. See, Slow Country? This is how you mix in things that don’t sound good together and make them sound good together. You know what that track needs? Japanese children talking. That improves everything.

Song Score: 9/10

18. 19-2000 (Soulchild remix)

And the head honcho themself, one of the first Gorillaz songs I listened to. Man, this shit slaps like Dave Grohl in a Michael Gondry video. Whenever I heard this song when I was a kid, I was thinking about it all week. It just sounds so sunny, so uplifting, like something you should be listening to on an amusement park ride. Fuck, this track is tight.

Song Score: 10/10

19. Clint Eastwood (Ed Case and Sweetie Irie remix)

...

...Is it too late to change my least favorite track on the album choice yet?

Okay, Slow Country was on the original album so it can keep its title. This track is the worst track of all the bonus ones. It’s just...they were onto something with the breakdown but the goofy reggae singing and the way too fast to enjoy beat? Just rubs me the wrong way. Ugh, and now I’m thinking of Laika already...

Song Score: 5/10

Album Score: 8.8/10

Join me next week as I review G-Sides. It’s gonna resemble fun!

[izzy-b-hands]

Snowed In On The Moon

Hadn’t written a fic for the free space on my DL server Bingo Card...and I’m struggling to get myself out of this depression hole and write again, so maybe this little thing will do it. 

Synopsis: Set during the 1976 A Night At The Opera USA Tour. Round the dates in the Midwest in February.  The boys are snowed in at a shitty motel, and that isn’t the worst thing ever, but isn’t it though? 

My love to all who read/like/reblog.

“There are worse places we could be stuck,” Brian reminds Roger. 

Roger grumbles, and glares out the window of the motel at the quickly, thickly falling snow. “Really? Name them for me.” 

Brian chuckles, watching as Roger turns from the window and drops onto the other bed.

“I wasn’t fucking joking,” Roger scoffs. “Are you going to name them, or not?” 

“You’re in a lovely mood, aren’t you?” 

Roger lets out something that sounds like a growl. 

“Alright, I will. Under the ocean-” 

“Don’t be ridiculous! I thought you meant places we could actually be.” 

Brian nods. “If we were in a submarine, we could be stuck there.” 

Roger sighs and drapes a hand over his eyes as he lays on his back on the bed, still wrapped in his fur coat, a leftover from the clothing stall he and Freddie used to run. 

“Fine. Sure. Us, and our fucking yellow submarine. Where else would be worse than the American Midwest in a blizzard, then?” 

Brian ponders for a moment. “The moon, if we didn’t have the right equipment.” 

“Someone has some awfully big dreams,” Roger smirks. “Going to be the first man to do a fifteen minute guitar solo on the moon, Bri?” 

“Only if you’re up there to do the first twenty minute drum solo.” 

Brian dodges the pillow Roger tosses with a shout. “Don’t! We’ve no idea where those have been, if they’ve been cleaned...” 

“People clean in America,” Roger laughs, then hesitates. “I mean, they must.” 

They both pause the conversation long enough to create a ‘blanket’ over their beds made up of clothes too dirty to be worn again (that will be cleaned, eventually. When they find a laundromat, they swear.) 

Roger shivers as they settle back onto their beds. “Never worried about bed bugs until right this moment, you know? And whatever else Americans have in their beds.” 

“You presume they have different insects here?” 

“At least some,” Roger replies. “You don’t feel all...I don’t know, like your skin is crawling, sitting here?” 

Brian nods. “A bit. But where else are we going to go?” 

Outside, the wind howls, and flakes seem to smack the glass of the window, as if upset to be falling. 

“You’re the one with a list of worse places we could be,” Roger shrugs. “Make up a list of better places, and let’s go to one of those.” 

“Home?” 

“Not bad,” Roger remarks, wincing at a stain on the shirt he’s using as a pillow. “But somewhere exciting would be nice.” 

“Home can be exciting!” 

“Yeah, but you know I didn’t mean home,” Roger says. 

Brian sighs. “Unfortunately, Rog, I can’t get us much further away from here. For a few reasons, but you know that.” 

“I know,” Roger murmurs. “Still like hearing you talk about us being elsewhere though.” 

“Even if it’s the moon, or under the ocean?” 

A balled up shirt is the projectile this time, but that Brian bats away with a practiced hand. 

“There is somewhere we could go,” Brian offers. “But it’s not going to be fun.” 

“Ooh, really sell it to me,” Roger grins and bounces up off of his bed. “Where?” 

“There’s a vending machine outside near the front of the motel, and I have...I don’t actually know how much American money I have, I haven’t really counted it, but we could go get something sugary and disgusting...” 

“That’s outside,” Roger muses. “In the snow.” 

“Astute observation,” Brian giggles. “Do we dare attempt it?” 

“In a moment,” Roger says, and rifles through his bag of slightly-less-worn clothing. “Here.” 

“Oh, Rog...” Brian hesitantly takes the old fur coat from him. “You brought more than one...” 

“Case anyone else needed one, here in the frozen fucking tundra,” Roger says. “Might leave your wrists exposed, but we’ll get a decent portion of your torso covered, at least.” 

Outside, they’re both grateful for the furs, as the wind whips snow and ice into their faces, against any bare skin. Anything less thick than the furs leaves them feeling naked and shivering. 

It’s a slow walk, on incredibly icy concrete, to the front of the motel. 

“Can machines freeze, do you think?” Roger ponders as they go, occasionally pausing to hold one another up as they slip on the worst patches of ice. “In something like this?” 

“You mean you think we’ll get to it, and it’ll be so cold it won’t work?” 

“I’m just saying, my end goals here were to get out of the room, and to get something to eat that’s objectively terrible for me,” Roger replies, snagging Brian’s arm as he slips yet again. “You and those fucking clogs; they aren’t made for this weather!” 

“And yours are?” Brian laughs as Roger goes down onto his ass, sparkly pink Converse out from under him. 

A moment later he’s down too, grateful that at least it was a slow set of falls. Nothing bruised but their asses and their pride. 

“We should get up,” Brian prompts. The snow is cold under them, and he can feel it soaking into his trousers and curls. The fur, grotesque as it is, does an admittedly good job of keeping at least part of him dry and somewhat warm. 

“I don’t know,” Roger sighs. “What’s there to go back to? The room, or the vending machine, and what else? Nothing.” 

“Little dramatic,” Brian smiles. “I think there’s more than that, we just have to get through the night here.” 

“Oh!” Freddie nearly trips over them, skidding to an awkward halt on the ice, somehow staying upright. “Are you two alright?” 

“Afflicted by a need to be elsewhere, snacks, and the human condition,” Brian replies. “But otherwise, fine. You?” 

“Was going for food for myself and Deaky,” Freddie says slowly. “How long have you two been out here?” 

“Time isn’t real; who can say?” Roger mutters with all the emotion of an unsupervised theater major student in their first show, flopping sideways in the snow. 

“The watch on your wrist could,” Freddie remarks wryly. “Shall I help you up, or leave you both here to freeze until the spring thaw?” 

Brian takes the offered hand from Freddie, extending his own to Roger to create a chain, and in another moment, they’re standing again. 

“I can’t feel my face,” Roger mumbles. 

“Nor can I,” Freddie sighs. “What a lovely, absolutely horrible place this is, hm? People live here! All the time! By choice, even! Wild.” 

“What in the fuck is ta-” is all Deaky manages to get out before going ass over teakettle into the snow as he storms out of his and Freddie’s room. 

“Oh, Deaky,” Freddie tsks. “Let me help you, hang on.” 

Freddie seems to have the best approach to the ice, sliding across the biggest patches in his platforms as if it’s the only way to cross them. 

“What are you out here for?” Freddie asks as he helps John up. 

“Wanted to see what all the noise was about; why you were taking so long just to get snacks,” John says. “What are these two out for?” 

“Rude,” Roger scoffs. “Like we’ve been let out of prison or something.” 

“Is that not what you would call this place?” Brian muses.

Roger nods. “Fair point. Still, manners, Deaky.” 

“Manners,” John scoffs. “It’s fucking freezing out here, why are you lot standing around?” 

“Excellent question!” Freddie says. “I can’t feel my face, hands, or co-” 

“Fred,” Brian interrupts. “We may as well make it a group trip now.” 

So it is, with Freddie as the oddly unaffected by ice centering piece, helping to hold the rest up as the slip and stumble. 

“I fucking knew it,” Roger scoffs and slaps a cold hand on the vending machine, only to yank it away with a hiss. “Fucking metal burns to touch; what sort of fucking cold can do that?” 

The machine in question did have snacks in it, when they had arrived a day earlier. It was only two nights at the motel, then on to the next city. In that time, someone has: A. broken the glass of the machine, B. stolen all the food, and C. the storm has filled it up with snow and ice, it being out in the elements rather than in an actual building. 

There’s an unofficial moment of silence for their wasted trip, snow and ice coating hair and fur coats and leaving skin raw. 

“We should get back,” Brian finally sighs. 

“I’d like to try the moon instead,” Roger whimpers. 

“What?” Freddie and Deaky ask in one voice. 

The motel across from theirs isn’t visible any longer. Nor is the road, or most of the parking lot, for that matter. 

There’s a sinking feeling in Brian’s gut that they won’t be leaving tomorrow. 

“Me too, Rog,” he mutters. “Me too.” 

Instead, they shuffle back to their rooms, bidding Freddie and Deaky good-bye, only to join them an hour later when the heat in their room ceases to work (not that it’s working in Freddie and Deaky’s room either, but they can accumulate more body heat with all four in one room.) 

Outside, the snow falls and flies and piles outside the door until there’s no leaving for anything, let alone a trip to the broken vending machine or the moon.