#THE HOURS SPENT LISTENING TO A RADIO STATION

[emails-i-cant-send]

I just wanna see the eras tour live in concert

[roselites]

a nonsense christmas / tyler owens x reader

summary: an unexpected snowstorm traps tyler owens with his workplace nemesis over the holidays. bonus points: there was only one bed.

content warnings: f!reader, allusions to smut

word count: 9k

author’s note: happy holidays! 🎄🎊🤶🏻🕎 i hope they were merry and bright and as stress-free as possible. thank you so much for supporting my three little fics. this is unedited, but i wanted to post it before i went out of town as a gift made specially for the glen girlies - i wrote it to bring you some december cheer. see you next year!

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Over the span of the last twelve hours you’d lost count of the number of times you’d muttered that sentence underneath your breath.

First, it was the office building in New York, where Tyler had the appointment right after yours at a ritzy funding agency. Then it was the airport, where you’d both flown standby and had a Wild West confrontation over the last seat on the plane, only for another passenger to volunteer their place in exchange for a travel voucher. (“It’s not like I’m in a rush to see my family, anyway.”) The woman manning the desk had given you both a look that said, “See, this is how an adult behaves,” which you thought was rich when the guy was clearly trying to cheat his way out of a Christmas dinner. Then, Tyler got assigned the seat behind you on the plane, and in keeping with his infuriating personality, spent the entire flight kicking your seat - or, I’m sorry, just trying to stretch his legs.

After landing, you’d raced to the same rental car company. The woman at this desk kept pointing out that the weather seemed dire and that a snowstorm might hit at any moment, to which you assured her that you weren't headed far—a lie—and glared at Tyler’s back before shuffling into the parking lot with your borrowed keys, hoping his heater would break or that an ex-girlfriend had broken into his house during his absence and left coal in his stocking.

It turned out that the woman at Enterprise was right. The weather was dire; your visibility was shot to hell after the first forty miles, leaving you to squint through the flurry-turned-blizzard, your knuckles white on the steering wheel as you inched forward in your seat, as though you could magically see through the storm if only you pressed your nose just so to the windshield.

After a while you gave up and started to admit that unless you wanted to turn into a human Popsicle, you might need a Plan B. You let out a weary sigh, listening to the weather report on the radio—“If you're safe and cozy at home, it's gonna be a white Christmas, folks, but if you're out on the road, I suggest taking cover and waiting it out for Santa Claus to slide down the chimney.”

You scanned the passing road signs for fast food restaurants, gas stations, and rest stops, even took a few exits just to be hit with NO VACANCY in bright neon reds, making mental calculations for the rest of your trip.

Home was still a long way off: three hours, after dark. Normally you’d power through with an extra-large coffee, but it was snowing, and your window to remain safely on the road was closing with every passing minute.

Dammit.

After the fourth failed attempt at finding lodgings, you sat in the driver’s seat with the heater on and called your sister.

She answered after a few rings. In the background you heard your nephew and nieces screaming their heads off in that kid way. God, you loved those little rugrats but they were undoubtedly a nightmare—you imagined Margo plugging up one of her ears and waving at them to be quiet. Of course, to no avail.

“Where are you?” she demanded, the accusation sharp in her voice. You knew to expect it, so instead of answering, “Well, hello to you too, I can’t control the weather, in case you haven’t noticed,” you went with a plain response, facts only.

“Somewhere in the middle of Benburg.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

You heard her sigh. “The snow’s getting pretty bad.”

“No shit.”

“Hey, don't ‘no shit’ me! I told you traveling right before Christmas Eve was going to be a nightmare.”

“And I told you I had no choice.”

She paused. There was whispering on the other end, an almost-silence that put your body on high alert until, finally, she said, “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Margo, no!”

Your protests fell on deaf ears. The phone was jostled as your mother took it and began to speak.

“Honey, are you almost here?”

Covering your face with your hands, you kept your voice light, knowing she’d be able to detect even the smallest hint of frustration, and then you’d have to put up with another round of “why on earth did you take a meeting in New York right before the holidays?”

“No, mom, I’ve still got a-ways to go.”

You pictured her narrowing her eyes, maybe placing a hand on her cocked hip.

“How long a-ways?”

“Less than two hours,” you lied.

It was absolutely more than two hours.

A pause. “Well, I guess that's okay.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Through gritted teeth and the voice of a demented schoolteacher, you added, “Mom, can you put Margo back on the phone now, please?”

“She wants to talk to you,” you heard her saying from a distance.

After some more jostling, you felt the caller change as you merged back onto the highway and left the motel behind.

“Marg, can you tell her to cut me some slack, please? I’m doing my best.”

“Ha!”

You glared at the console, hoping she could feel it over the phone.

“Gee, thanks! So much for the Christmas spirit!”

“Listen, when you have three kids, two dogs, a husband, all of your in-laws, your parents, and your stepmom breathing down your neck, I’ll have a little more sympathy.”

“Fine… But I promise I’m not leaving you in the lurch on purpose. My flight from New York got delayed, I had some asshole kicking me in the kidneys the whole time, and I can barely see a yard in front of me because of this storm—it’s not exactly a walk in the park for me either.”

No cigar; it was you who felt her glare over the phone this time. Clearly, her issues outweighed all of yours on this occasion, and knowing her sister-in-law, you were inclined to agree.

You added: “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.”

The wipers on your rented car worked overtime to clear your windshield. You were about to end the call to focus on driving when, up ahead, you saw the red and blue lights of a highway patrol vehicle stopping traffic.

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“What?”

“The road is closed.”

“The whole road?”

“Yeah, Marg, the whole road.” She would've argued with you over your tone, except you cut her off with “Hold on—I’m being flagged down.”

A middle-aged man with a mustache came over to your car. He was wearing a fuzzy hat and holding a flashlight now that the purpling sky was fading to black. Without being asked, you lowered your window and shivered at the stream of icy wind that cut through the artificial heat.

“Evening, officer.”

“Good evening. Where’re you headed?”

“Sayre or roundabouts.”

“Rough night to be doing so. This road is no good, you're gonna have to turn around, find a place to wait it out for the night.”

Your heart sank. You knew Margo was listening to everything. By the time you made it home, your ledger would have a massive list in the red which she’d make you pay off somehow—by doing the dishes, playing horse with the kids, or worse, entertaining Kayleen, who would say as she always did that you really ought think about having children soon unless you wanted to get used to “a self-absorbed lifestyle.”

God forbid.

“Do you know anywhere that might have a last-minute vacancy?” you asked the officer, whose shiny name tag read HARRIS.

He scratched behind his ear, twisting his mouth in thought.

“Try the Sunnyside Inn. Back this way to Fairmont, right after the exit, left on Vail.”

“Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Right. Merry Christmas.”

You put your window back up.

“Did you catch that?”

“Sounds like you're grounded,” said Margo. Her eyebrow must be arched because the judgment could be heard loud and clear—if you hadn’t gone to New York…

Well, there was nothing you could do about it now.

“It’s meant to clear up by morning. I’ll still be there long before Christmas.”

“You’d better be.” She sighed.

Your niece Haley was screaming out the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas” like a possessed banshee and giggling at what she knew must be an ear-splitting performance. You didn't know whether to be more horrified or amused; you remembered doing something similar when you were a child, back when you didn't have to worry about spreadsheets and grants and the trials and tribulations of flying Economy during the worst time of the year.

Margo must be thinking the same. Her tone sounded a little more sympathetic when she said, “Drive safe, and let me know when you find somewhere to spend the night.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Don’t get murdered.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try—do. Someone’s got to help me defuse the tension during Christmas dinner.”

“Me? Defuse tension?”

“Good point.”

After hanging up, you followed Officer Harris’s directions to the Sunnyside Inn. Wherever it was in relation to the highway, there weren’t any signs you could see from the road and it reminded you of a famous, albeit fictional, location where people did go to end up murdered.

You only hoped whoever was on duty at the check-in desk had zero resemblance to Norman Bates or you’d have no choice but to sleep in your car.

Ten minutes later, you arrived at a quaint little building like something out of a Hallmark movie with six parking spaces and no neon out front. The facade was fake stone, the ornamental bushes lining the circular drive covered in a postcard layer of fresh snow. The wooden sign read VACANCY and had an empty slot where the NO might go, which gave you the tiniest sliver of hope, tempered by the thought that a place like this might not pay the utmost attention to a detail like that, especially in the middle of a storm. All in all, it was the sort of place you stayed at when you had no choice, being off the beaten track, but it looked as well maintained as it could be given its age, which you dated back to the 70s because of its slanted roof.

You parked and got your suitcase out of the trunk, the wheels clattering and then coming to an abrupt stop when you saw a figure across the way doing the same with his black carry-on.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you called out.

Tyler Owens grinned. Even from here you could see the dimple on his cheek.

“Road closed?” he asked, still walking towards the entrance. You did the same, glaring as you tried to keep pace with him—no, tried to beat him to the front door.

“You know it is,” you answered, eyes narrowed, dashing the rest of the way just for his hand to reach the metal pull bar first. Damn his longer limbs.

With a smile, he opened the door and waved you through like a Manhattan doorman.

“Ladies first.”

“Wow, I didn't think you were remotely a gentleman.”

“What gave you that impression?”

You brushed past him into the heated lobby, pausing long enough for him to close the door so you could send him a pointed look.

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe your knee on my back?” you enunciated.

“I told you—that was an honest mistake.”

“Right.”

The Sunnyside had a single check-in desk that looked more like the host’s stand at your favorite restaurant than the counter at the cheapest Marriott, but it was decked in cute bells and garlands and baubles that glittered in the light. Behind it stood a woman around your age with straight, shoulder-length hair partially covered by a Santa hat.

As soon as she saw you walking in, she pushed the red strands out of her face and cleared her throat visibly before launching into a practiced spiel.

“Welcome to the Sunnyside Inn, where every day is sunny!”

She was smiling from ear to ear. The effect was a little like that of the creepy twins in The Shining and bah, humbug, were you not in the mood.

“Can I have a room for the night, please?”

You were made to feel guilty by the sudden fall of her face. But clearly Carol—you had to do a double take. Was her name really Carol? At-Christmastime Carol?—had gone to one hell of a customer service training program. Instead of letting your frown turn her smile upside down, she tacked it on with impressively greater fervor. The bell at the end of her hat rattled as she cleared her throat again.

“You’re in luck! We have one vacant room left in the entire hotel—continental breakfast included!”

“I’m sorry,” Tyler butted in, “did you say only one room?”

“Yes, er…” She looked between you, biting her glossed lip. “Is that a problem?”

“We’re not together,” you said, refusing to look in Tyler’s direction. 

Carol blushed. She was so pale that you thought it might be her actual blood you were seeing rising to her face and turning a shade of Veruca Salt. Or was it Violet Beauregarde?

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I thought—well… you arrived together.”

“We arrived separately.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

She blinked owlishly. Your own face was heating up as you felt Tyler putting his hand on his hip and sending you a shit-eating grin. You wouldn’t hear the end of this. You could practically hear him bringing it up at a later date, saying, “You’d be so lucky.”

You felt your jaw lock and your dentist cry. Lips together, teeth apart! She’d obviously never met anyone like Tyler Owens before.

“I can assure you, that's what it is,” you said in a steel-laced voice.

Carol might be an A+ at the customer service thing, but you were an A+ at staring people down until they begged for mercy. The only person you knew who was better at it was Margo, and the only person immune to it—though it drove you crazy to no end—was standing next to you, all six feet of him, in a jacket with snow at the shoulders that had quickly melted and rolled off the fabric. Shoulders… his annoyingly broad shoulders, which you’d had occasion to see with more frequency than you would’ve liked, dressed in what Samantha, one of your colleagues, described as his “slutty little white tees.”

It wasn’t enough for him to be a perpetual thorn in your side, he had to be attractive too, thereby proving that there was no God or that, Whoever they were, they must have an evil sense of humor.

“I’m so sorry.” Carol hung her head. Her hat drooped, the glitter-paper trimming on her suit drooped—there was a high chance that she was actually an elf and you’d just worked your way onto Santa’s Naughty list. Come midnight, you’d be visited by the ghosts of all your ex-lovers and Sarah DeAngelo, your high school nemesis.

Meanwhile, Tyler swooped in like the big hero.

“No worries, I’ll just stay at the next place,” he said. “What is the next place?”

“That would be the Cozy Roadside! But they're all booked up, I’m afraid… It's the storm, you see. Everyone’s trying to hunker down for the night.”

“Right…”

Well, he was taking it better than you’d have done—though it was clear he wasn’t jumping for joy at the thought of turning around and trying his luck in the growing whiteout.

And that was if there weren't more road closures along the way.

“Are you sure you're not together? I’m just saying… it is the holidays.” Carol’s little damn bell jingled again. Could you be charged with assault if you snatched it off her head? you wondered.

You pinned her with a stare and she had the temerity to flinch like a little cartoon dormouse.

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning, it's a time to let bygones be bygones! You make such a lovely couple…” Her laugh was high-pitched, nervous.

You might have ruffled like an angry bird of prey. “We are not—”

“Absolutely not,” said Tyler.

“‘Absolutely’?”

It was the closest you’d ever come to seeing Tyler crack under the force of your EF5 stare. He looked sheepish, his hands in his pockets, giving a little hunkered down shrug that might have been read as boyish and kind of adorable to someone else.

“Listen”—turning to Carol before you could rip him to shreds—“do you know of anywhere I could stay until the roads open up again?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“What about the lobby?”

“I would if it were up to me, but it's against hotel policy. I could get a write-up.”

This hotel has a policy? You stopped yourself from blurting out the words. There was still a chance this Strawberry Shortcake of a person was one of Santa’s little helpers and, if you kept up being a meanie, you’d end up going to the Bad Place—the Bad Place being the seat next to Margo’s sister-in-law at dinner.

You sighed. “Does my room have a couch?”

“It has a chair,” Carol offered.

You exhaled through your nostrils like an angry bull—would the creature metaphors ever cease? Turning to Tyler, you held up a finger and said, “You’re gonna owe me big time,” and fished your wallet out of your bag.

You slammed your card onto the stand and waited for Carol to check you in. She took out a book from a little cubby and took down your name and ID number, then fiddled with one of those old-school credit card imprinters, the ones you had to use actual elbow grease to use.

“I can have extra linens sent up! And I’ll give you our Friends and Family rate—in honor of the season!”

You have got to be kidding me…

Tyler put his hand on your elbow, stopping your words.

“Thank you, Carol, you've been a real gem.”

Carol flushed again, preening under Tyler’s cowboy charm. I’m gonna be sick, you thought, grabbing your suitcase by the handle and wheeling towards the stairs before you could say anything else.

Your case banged against each carpet-covered step. Tyler was behind you, carrying his without sounds of trouble. You supposed that was a benefit to having arms the size of tree trunks, but you’d rather drop dead on this commercial grade floor than ask him for help.

To drown out the sound of the obvious weakness in your upper half, you adopted a high-pitched baby voice that was nothing like Tyler’s and said, “‘You’ve been a gem, Carol,’” just to mock him.

From Tyler came a huffed-out laugh. “Why, ’re you jealous?”

“As if. I hope your chair has bedbugs,” you called over your shoulder, arriving at the landing and looking for room 227. You unlocked the door without waiting, tossing your bag and coat onto the bed to stake your claim.

In the open doorway, Tyler paused to stare at the promised bit of furniture.

“Oh,” came out of his throat. “When she said chair, I thought she meant…”

You followed his gaze. Like Tyler, you’d pictured a dusty old recliner when Carol guilted you into sharing a room with him. The relic actually taking up space across from the queen-sized bed was a chair that might have come out of your high school principal’s office. The seat was covered in a similar material to the carpet, deep purple, not falling apart at the seams, but still just a chair.

Not in your wildest dreams would you think of making an enemy sleep on a thing like that. And here you were, poking fun at sweet, freckle-faced Carol… sweet, sweet Carol who had done you a bigger solid than you could’ve ever imagined.

Tomorrow at check-out, you were going to leave her a $50 tip. You might name your firstborn after her.

You looked at Tyler. He looked at you. The poor man was aghast, and the more he glanced despondently at his abode for the next eight hours, the funnier it got until you were cackling, actually cackling like a Disney witch.

You unzipped your suitcase and took out your toiletries bag, still laughing as you stepped into the room’s bathroom and sent him a little wave.

“Sweet dreams, Owens!”

Hell, it was Christmas—you’d be leaving Carol an even $100.

-

You made a point of taking your time in the shower, luxuriating both in the steam and the dejected look on Tyler’s face. A chair! An actual chair! After finishing, you took the robe hanging off the hook, figuring it was your prerogative as a lady, and opened the door just the tiniest crack to see what Tyler was up to. What you saw made you snatch your phone off the counter and leap from your hiding place like a fearless war photographer.

The shutter clicked, a series of lightning-quick flashes that caught Tyler’s attention. By the time he whipped his head to the side with a glare and a command to “delete that!” you’d snapped half-a-dozen photographs of his position on the makeshift “bed.”

Carol must have sent up linens while you were in the shower because he’d pushed the chair up against the coffee table in a futile attempt to be more comfortable; his legs stuck out to a truly comical degree and he was covered in a floral blanket that could only be described as grandmotherly. Your phone—bless it—had captured the exact moment of shock mixed with absolute indignity.

There was no way he’d be able to sleep without falling over. You only hoped that when he inevitably fell on his ass it happened with enough volume to wake you from the sound sleep you’d be having in bed by yourself.

You tucked your phone in your pocket, smiling like one of Hell’s angels.

“Absolutely not,” you said to his request. “Shower's yours.”

Tyler grabbed a bundle of things off the floor.

“Let me guess, you used up all the hot water.”

“You wound me,” you lied. “I’d never be so petty.”

He scoffed, gestured to his eyes in the universal symbol of I’m watching you and moved past, locking the bathroom door with a resolute click.

A few moments later, you heard the sound of the shower turning on and settled into bed—your lovely, only-yours bed—pleased that the sheets were clean, the mattress soft, the pillows comfortable, and debated whether or not to turn on the TV, but the shower taps squealed sooner than you expected.

Huh. Guess Tyler isn’t a fan of an ice-cold rinse.

You rushed to turn off the bedside lamp, adopting a deep-sleep pose. You barely managed in the time it took him to pad out into the main room, bringing with him a warm, clean, soapy smell.

You held your breath, imagined he could tell you were faking—especially when he paused his movements at the foot of your bed. But then his footsteps moved towards his sad little chair and he turned off his own light.

All you heard for a while was the rustling of sheets, the creaking of the chair beneath his weight. There was a moment of total silence when you almost fell asleep. Then he tossed and turned. The chair protested. You heard him groan.

“Y’alright over there?” you asked, hoping the answer was no.

Tyler’s words were laced with sarcasm.

“Who, me? Just peachy.”

“Nighty-night, then.”

You sighed contentedly and dozed, thinking about Tyler’s future back pain and the satisfaction of winning Carol over to your side with a generous tip. Take that, Tyler’s dimples! The problem was, you actually wanted to get a few hours’ sleep; there was still a fair bit of driving left for you to do, and Tyler just wouldn't shut up.

You heard every creak, shift, and sound of frustration.

Finally, you sat up and growled, “Could you try being more quietly uncomfortable?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to sleep.”

“I can hear your breathing all the way over here!”

“That's not my breathing,” he said, “that’s your guilty conscience.”

You glared into the dark. I will not let him get the better of me. You took a fortifying breath and kept your voice light—viciously light.

“You know, there’s still time for you to sleep in your car. You’ll be the first person ever to be cryogenically frozen.”

“That's not how cryogenics works, you muppet.”

You launched a pillow in his direction, pleased when it made contact. He sat up and protested, “Hey!”

“Did you just call me a muppet?! You know, if you disappeared I could always blame the storm.”

“Carol would remember me,” he rejoined.

“Maybe I’ll disappear Carol too.”

“Wow, two bodies? Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m very resourceful.”

“Oh, I bet you are…”

Argh! Slamming your fists down, you ground out the words you’d been holding back ever since you saw his grinning rodeo-ass face in New York:

“There is no way I’m letting you win that Heller Grant!”

Your nostrils flared, chest heaved, eyes all but emitted laser beams. Tyler, for his part, remained annoyingly composed.

“I don't think that's up to you. But,” he added, “I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

“No reason, just a friendly head’s up.”

“Something tells me there’s nothing friendly about it.”

He paused. “Hey, what’s a little harmless competition between meteorologists, right?”

“…Did you really just ask that question?”

You both knew scientists were messy as fuck. Denying that they could be egotistical, overly dramatic, delicate with their egos, and especially prone to schadenfreude was a cheap attempt on Tyler’s part.

He chuckled, as if admitting it was true.

“Fine, touché. But it’s really not personal. It's a grant—everyone wants to win it. It’s not like we’re trying to run you out of business or anything.”

“Oh, believe me, we aren’t worried about that,” you shot back. “Everyone knows Kate Carter is the ace up your sleeve. But that’s it—one ace.”

“One ace is all you need.”

“Not in this economy it’s not.”

“It’s about the storms!” Tyler said. “You do get that, don't you? Saving lives, limiting damage…”

“Right, I forgot—you're Saint Tyler, the Tornado Wrangler for profit!” you mocked.

There was a silence in the room, accusatory. Deafening. After this, you were definitely going on Santa’s Naughty list, you thought, not only this year but for at least fifteen to life.

“Sorry, that was shitty,” you admitted, swallowing your pride.

“Yeah, it was. You have no idea why I do what I do. And obviously I have no idea why you’re such a—”

“Bitch?” you supplied.

“I wouldn't use that word. I wouldn't,” he reiterated seriously. “I was going to say ‘why you’re such a bee in my bonnet.’”

You let out a snort. “Shut up.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're unreasonably distrustful?”

“Only about three-point-five therapists.”

“Why the point-five?” he asked.

“One was a grad student.”

He laughed. “Guess weather research doesn’t pay—even if you do wear fancy suits.”

That made you smile. You and Tyler were as diametrically opposed as two could people get, even down to your clothes.

“Let’s just agree,” you said, remembering the spirit of the season, “that we rub each other the wrong way and leave it at that.”

“Hey, I’ve never had a problem with you. I mean, yeah, we’re always up against each other for funding. It’s a race to the top—winner takes all, whoever publishes first gets the bragging rights. But that’s the game—I know that. Now, if you have a problem with me, this seems like as good a time as any to clear the air because I really have no idea what I could've done to make you hate my guts like this.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, sure, be the mature one, take the high road… Tell me, Owens, does it ever get exhausting being so fucking perfect all the time?”

Another pause.

“What the hell are you going on about?” The chair creaked. “‘Perfect’? I’ve never said I was—FUCK!”

You perked up, reached an arm to turn on the light. Tyler was sprawled on the floor. The coffee table and chair were no longer attached and he was nursing what looked to be his hip while kicking at the granny blanket tangled round legs.

“Did you just fall into the gap?” you said eagerly, trying to record the image in your brain.

He wrestled the blanket until he finally won, then stood resentfully, his hair mussed, a crazed look in his eyes.

“Yes, I fell into the gap! But there was no video evidence,” he said pointing. “You can’t prove it. At this rate, it might be smarter to sleep on the floor.”

“Looks like it.”

You watched him kick the chair away with his foot and lay the blanket on top of the coarse brown carpet. He tossed his pillow down and picked up the sheet, holding it in front of his body and looking like he might actually prefer to try his luck in the parking lot than on the inhospitable floor. You observed him with interest, biting your thumbnail and watching his throat move with a sigh, the dejected set of his shoulders, the strong jaw set until it looked like it would break glass.

“Oh, fine!” you said. “You look like my senior dog trying to decide where to lay down!”

“You have a dog?” he asked with enough skepticism to be insulting.

“She lives with my sister.”

“What’s her name?” His jaw relaxed, eyes softened.

“Doppler. Don’t laugh!” you exclaimed, though it fell on deaf ears.

“That’s kind of… really nerdy.”

“Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

“I’m sleeping on the floor anyway.”

You whipped the covers off the left side of the bed. Tyler’s eyes almost bugged out of his head.

“No.”

“Come on, Owens, I don't have cooties.”

“It’s not about the cooties, I’m trying not to get killed Basic Instinct-style!”

You knew the scene: Sharon Stone fucking her rock star boyfriend before stabbing him to death with an ice pick. Unbidden, your mind filled with images of Tyler underneath you, his throat bared to you as you rode him.

“You wish!”

Tyler looked at you sternly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“We’ll make a divider out of pillows!” you suggested, starting the master feat of engineering by plopping all your extra ones vertically down the center of the bed.

You didn’t know where this sudden stroke of generosity had come from. Only ten minutes before you would’ve been perfectly fine—nay, ecstatic—to know that Tyler was about to spend six hours in pain and discomfort.

Maybe it was your guilty conscience. Maybe he’d convinced you that this vendetta you had against him was one-sided and kind of silly. Maybe you just wanted to get some damn sleep without feeling like you were racking up bad karma by not offering to share the bed.

He eyed your attempts like a skeptic, his hands on his hips.

Damn, they were slutty little white tees… you thought.

“This is ridiculous,” he pointed out. And yet he’d dropped the sheet and stopped all attempts at sleeping on the floor like an imprisoned martyr.

“Ridiculous” was a good way to describe what the start of this holiday was turning out to be. If you’d told your past self that come December 23rd you’d be sharing a hotel room, even a bed, with Tyler Owens, you’d have laughed in your own face. But here it was—courtesy of the weather, a possible redheaded Christmas elf, and a series of minor coincidences that had all resulted in this: you shrugging and saying, “Tell me something I don’t know. Tick-tock,” you added with a clap for emphasis, “my goodwill has a time limit!”

“Very festive of you. Are you sure this is okay?”

He approached you with a cautious air, turning down the covers like you might yell “psych!” and attack him at any moment. Even when he laid himself down, it was at the very edge of the bed, and you thought he might end up on the floor anyway given a hasty mid-sleep roll, but then, that would be his own doing and he’d have nothing else to blame but his own clumsiness.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you decreed.

“Obviously.”

You turned the light off.

This isn’t so bad, you thought. If you closed your eyes, you could almost forget he was there. You hummed to yourself, snuggling down, finally making headway on the quest for rest and relaxation. Twenty minutes passed, maybe an hour. Hell, it might have been two—all you knew was that Tyler was not keeping up his end of the bargain.

“You’re encroaching on my space!” you hissed, pushing back against pillows that had moved to your side of the bed.

Tyler turned, not remorseful in the least. “I’ve got, like, half-a-foot on you! What do you want me to do?”

“That’s sizeist,” you sniffed.

There was a sound from his direction.

“Are you laughing?” you accused.

“Yeah, I’m laughing… You’re funny. And that’s how I know I don’t have a problem with you.”

You were unexpectedly pleased, despite his bed theft and the rehashing of your previous conversation. No one had ever called you funny before, though you’d always thought you were.

Tyler Owens thinks I’m funny?

So sue me—you were only human and not above hoarding little compliments.

“What did you mean,” he started to ask, shifting so that he could lay on his back, “about me being ‘perfect’? Not that I don’t find it flattering, it's just not true at all and it didn't sound like a good thing, by the way that you said it.”

You kept silent, staring at the A/C unit attached to the wall.

“I know you’re not asleep!” he declared, poking you in the back.

“And how would you know what I sound like asleep?”

“Well, it wouldn't sound like speaking, now would it?”

Shit. He had a point.

You let out a sigh, regretting your magnanimity now that you were in a dark room side-by-side with the man and couldn't avoid his charm or the ease he inspired like magic.

You’d always found that the most unsettling thing about him.

“You’re gonna get the grant,” you admitted with more sincerity than you meant. In your voice you could hear the layers of frustration and insecurity and anger and disappointment that you couldn’t face in the day, when you had people counting on you and a reputation to uphold.

Tyler was quiet a moment.

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m not good with the whole… schmoozing thing. Not like you are.”

“Schmoozing?” he asked.

“That’s what it is! You’re good with people.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not,” you laughed bitterly, craning your neck to say it over your shoulder. “I’m prickly.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tyler said. “And, anyway, this is research, not a personality contest.”

“Ha!”

“You do know there are plenty of prickly scientists out there getting people to throw money at them all the time? Sometimes, it’s the pricklier the better—people think that if you're really a genius, you should treat everyone around you like the bottom of the garbage pail.”

“It’s different for you,” you pointed out.

“How so?”

You sat up, eyeing his shadowed form.

“Well, sweetie, there’s this thing called discrimination—it’s what happens when having certain anatomy makes people more inclined to think you know what you're doing.”

“Very profound… That’s not what you meant.”

He was right. While sexism did come into funding, as it came into a lot of things where it had no place, your main gripe about Tyler had nothing to do with him being a man and everything to do with him being, well, him.

You raked a hand through your hair.

“All you have to do is walk into a room and get pally with the panel,” you confessed. “I can’t compete with that.”

Somehow, through the dark, his eyes found yours. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel his attention on you, his scrutiny—thoughtful, patient, wanting to understand.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said at last.

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me be honest with you and then leave me holding the hot potato of awkwardness?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he laughed. “I just… It’s not like I get up in the morning thinking, ‘Hm, what grant can I possibly steal from you today?’”

“Right,” you drawled, “you just can’t help being you.”

“I can’t!” he insisted, rising up on his elbows. “I like people. I like meeting them… talking to them—even the buttoned-up ones that look like they haven't been outside of an office building in months. I can't apologize for that. But it is a little unfair of you if your sole reason for being mean to me all the time amounts to two cents and a bit of pocket lint.”

“I am not mean!” you protested.

Tyler cocked his head.

“Okay, maybe I’m a bit brusque,” you allowed. “But I let you sleep in my bed!”

“For which I’ll be forever grateful…”

You opened your mouth.

“…but not enough to turn down the grant.”

You shrugged, not expecting him to hand you the award on a silver platter.

“It was worth a shot,” you said. Another joke.

Tyler gestured with his hands; you could see them fluttering around expressively in the near dark.

“You’ve just gotta stop approaching people and automatically assuming that they’re not on your side,” he said gently, and because you were a contrarian, you chose to take at least one-sixteenth of offense.

“Are you mansplaining relationships to me?”

“Not mansplaining, just a friendly bit of advice. Take it or leave it,” he tacked on, shrugging his shoulders—damn his shoulders…

“Thanks.”

You were trying to wrestle your brain away from the thought of his bare chest again.

His bare chest… the expanse of his chiseled abs, the dip of his hips…

You looked away, your face as hot as your shame. You would not have sex thoughts about a man you were sharing a bed platonically with. You would not admit to yourself that your traitorous gaze had wandered down to the outline of certain parts while he was standing there in gray sweats and a white T-shirt that left little or nothing to your debauched imagination.

You would not.

You would not.

Santa, come get me before I forfeit all brownie points for life.

“Now this is awkward.” The words slipped out of your mouth. You pulled the sheet up to your chin as if it were a straitjacket and Tyler chuckled to himself, probably thinking that you meant awkwardness at having a moment of vulnerability rather than red-hot lust.

“Go to sleep,” he said kindly, turning back on his left side.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

-

Later, you would swear it didn't happen on purpose. At some point in the night, after Christmas Eve had settled well and truly over this random Oklahoma town, the pillow fort was forgotten as you and Tyler fell asleep, succumbing to the fatigue of the day’s travel and your late-night conversations.

The first inkling you had was that your pillow was far too warm against your cheek—and it moved, up and down, like the gentle swaying of a boat upon a calm sea. When you regained enough consciousness, you realized that the “pillow” kept a beat, and that's when you realized your pillow wasn't a pillow at all but the cradle of Tyler’s chest.

He’s quite comfortable, you thought, still half-asleep. He had his arm thrown around you and the tips of his fingers rested against a patch of naked back where your shirt had ridden up.

So far, so good; you couldn’t complain about the weighted blanket treatment—at least not in your hazy, sleep-softened state. You sighed happily, snuggling further into his shirt.

You felt his arms tighten.

His breathing shift.

You were straddling the line between dream and wakefulness when you noticed his legs tangled up in yours…

…and the hard protrusion pressing right against your stomach.

You opened your eyes. Tyler was awake and springing out of bed like he had a whole swarm of bees in his bonnet.

“Oh god,” he exclaimed, “I am so sorry! That is not… I did not—”

“It’s fine,” you tried to say.

“No! No, it’s not.”

“Tyler, would you stop acting like a virgin with the vapors? It’s cold, I’m not the stillest of sleepers, nothing was meant by it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then put it on his hip, then pointed—you didn’t know at whom, he was simply unable to be still, and the more he panicked the more you thought it was silly how he was making such a big deal out of nothing.

(Okay, so maybe it wasn't nothing, but one of you had to be the adult about it.)

“I was not trying to put the moves on you,” he emphatically declared.

“That was made abundantly clear by what you said to Carol. Also by the drool on your pillow.”

“The—”

His gaze darted. His face took on an added hue of pallid as he bent over his pillow and straightened, eyebrows battened, finding nothing there.

“See, that was mean.”

“No, that was funny,” you laughed.

The whole time, you did your best to keep your eyes trained above his shoulders, though you had a bone-deep curiosity now that you’d felt the impression of his dick against your skin.

If your periphery was to be trusted—which, your doctor said you had excellent vision in that regard—he was as well-endowed as he was rumored to be, sometimes with envy, sometimes pejoratively and in relation to his ego. Now that you’d spent an entire day crossing paths, you weren't so sure about that last bit. But you were sure that in the privacy of your own thoughts, you’d have a bitch of a time unknowing that Tyler Owens was, in every regard, unfairly blessed.

“Back to neutral corners?” you asked, patting the bed.

Tyler stared at the mattress with something like horror.

“You are not being normal about this!” you exclaimed.

“Maybe I oughta sleep on the floor.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s just for a few hours more.”

You sighed.

“Tyler James Owens, now you are the one being a muppet.”

“Take that back! And how do you even know my middle name?”

“It’s called Google. Now stop acting like a muppet and I’ll stop calling you one!”

Drat… You were so close, but your eyes snagged on the bulge in his pants at the exact moment Tyler was looking at you. There was no way to deny it.

You wiped your face of all expression.

Tyler pleaded, “Do not make this worse for me than it already is.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You don’t have to, it's written all over your face.”

Me? My face? You pointed at yourself.

Tyler huffed, “You aren't letting me forget this for as long as I live, are you?”

“Not in your dreams…” you fessed up. “Need me to pace around the hall for ten minutes, let you take care of business? I have a spare sock you can hang on the door.”

“You’re evil.”

“Nooooo, where are you going?” you needled, watching him head to the bathroom with a scowl on his face. “I was having so much fun!”

“Mind your own business!” he yelled back.

“But Tyler, it’s perfectly natural!”

He locked the door.

Only then did you cover your mouth and really let yourself have a laugh.

-

He took exactly 23 minutes. You knew because you timed him, a childish impulse you indulged in trade for not probing the question of what he might be thinking about as he got off. Obviously, you knew enough biology to not flatter yourself into believing that his morning wood was down to you; still, you allowed yourself to believe it just the tiniest bit. It made you feel better—to think he was affected by you. To believe you weren’t alone in being provoked to unexpected places.

He came up to the bed with a wary glance. On purpose, you pretended to be uncommonly interested in your nails.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” you said, buffing a nonexistent spot on your shirt. “All good?”

“Don’t start.” He took his pillow and made for the chair.

You clicked your tongue. “You really don't have to sleep on the floor, you know…”

Which was kind.

“...I thought that was the whole point of Tyler’s Special Solo Time.”

Which wasn’t.

He rounded on you with his finger outstretched.

“Do not call it that!”

“Okay!”

“Never again!”

“Fine!”

“And for your information—that isn’t what I was doing in there.”

“Oh!” you said, genuinely surprised, “I just assumed…”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.”

You make an ASS out of U and ME.

Color me surprised—you genuinely thought Tyler had been in the bathroom rubbing one out.

Could it be that he was too much of a gentleman to do it with you the next room over? That seemed like the likeliest explanation.

You were touched. Weirdly, inappropriately.

Also let down by the fact that you weren’t sexually irresistible enough to make him lose all sense of propriety—granted, you hadn’t been trying to be sexually irresistible at the time, more like drooling into his shirt.

“God, what?” he asked, eyes boring into yours like he was trying to crack open your mind and read it like a book, pushed to the brink when he couldn’t figure out what you were thinking or if you believed him about not masturbating in the bathroom.

“Nothing! Why are you chewing me out just because you got an erection?”

“Don’t say ‘erection’!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m not gonna call it a boner—I’m not in middle school anymore!”

“You have gotta be kidding me…”

He face-planted onto the bed, not consciously, you didn’t think, more like the natural result of a situation that’d understandably fried his brain.

You could relate… and it was supremely satisfying to hear him say the words you’d been thinking for over a day: you have got to be kidding me, indeed.

“This is the weirdest fucking Christmas I have ever had,” he mumbled into the mattress.

You laughed, feeling not an ounce of animosity as you watched his prone form. He was funny, and he’d been nicer than you deserved. You no longer believed that he had kicked you in the back during your flight on purpose.

“What are your plans for the holidays?” you asked him, letting him off the hook about his penis.

He turned his head and searched you for any trace of nefarious intent. He answered when he was sure you weren’t going to keep messing with him.

“The team and I are going to Kate’s. Then I’m spending the start of the New Year at home, hopefully, if there isn’t another fire to put out.”

“You’re from Arkansas,” you said.

“Mm.”

“‘Regnat populus.’”

He quirked his brow.

“‘The People Rule,’” you explained. “You don't know your own state’s motto?”

“Nobody knows their state’s motto.”

“I had to learn them all for school.”

“High school?”

“Elementary.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “so you grew up rich.”

“Shut up.”

He sat against the headboard next to you, crossing his ankles.

“What made you want to become a meteorologist?”

“Seriously?” you asked.

“What?”

“It’s a cliched question.”

“It’s a getting-to-know-you question!”

You frowned.

“Why would you ever want to get to know me? I’ve done nothing but fight you since the day we met.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Plain, simple.

The lamplight made it impossible to hide a thing. There was a line between his brows, as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand why you couldn’t understand. “I like people.” You’d thought it trite at the time, you didn’t trust it, but you were thinking maybe it was true. Instead of judging you by the way you challenged, harangued, goaded, mocked, judging him, he’d kept trying to figure you out. It was one of the reasons he was good at his job—the merging of both science- and people-smarts.

If you had a brain in your head, you might learn from him. But to do that you’d have to get your head out of your ass and stop seeing him as the enemy.

Except you didn’t.

Sometime between the Heller offices and this moment in the Sunnyside Inn, your feelings towards him had changed. The animosity? Gone. All that was left in its place was a newfound respect, fresh like the layer of snow sitting over the world outside the walls of your hotel room, and, if you were being brutally honest, an attraction that was hard to ignore.

You held your breath.

His hair, glinting bronze, was sleep-mussed—the detail intimate, arousing, just like the stubble on his cheeks and the rugged line of his throat leading to the curves of those shoulders you couldn’t stop thinking about. What was that one corny-as-fuck phrase some fuckboy musician had once said?

Sexual napalm.

Tyler Owens was sexual napalm and you weren’t immune.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said.

It was Projection 101, but in this case you weren’t entirely wrong.

Tyler’s eyes wandered down to your mouth, seductive without even trying. He was breathing as fast as you, his lips parted, tongue peeking out to wet them when he said, “Can’t.”

And that was all it took. One second you were staring at each other with twin fuck-me expressions and the next you were in his lap, your hands buried in his hair. The kiss was eager—messy—uncaring of finesse, indifferent to perfection. It was the exact opposite of the way you’d been living your life and it was mostly down to him. Even when he’d been driving you absolutely insane, there was no denying that Tyler brought out in you something hard to control. He made you ambitious, competitive, unfiltered—sometimes to an unflattering degree—but God, did it feel good.

He tilted his head and delved his tongue into your mouth. You groaned, pulled him back by the hair until you felt a rumbling sound in his throat which you decided to chase on instinct, latching your mouth onto that part of him you’d been obsessing over for the last few hours, sucking, biting, laving your way down to his clavicle.

“This is not how you get to know someone,” you joked, feeling him get hard again underneath you.

“Yeah, it is…”

“Don’t say 'biblically.’”

He laughed—it was a giggle that made you smile and peer into his face.

“You said it, not me. Are you gonna kick me out of bed later?” he asked, stroking a hand up your thigh.

“No. Are you gonna run for the hills like I soiled your virtue?”

He balked. “That is not what I did.”

“Yeah, it is!”

“Well”—he nipped your jaw, hand slyly making its own path up to your breast, which he stroked open-palmed so that you rocked your hips against his—”I promise not to be virtuous at all for the next…” He glanced at his watch. “Three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged. “I’m a people pleaser. It’s my curse.”

-

Suffice to say, by the time 10:00 o’clock rolled around and you and Tyler made your way down so you could settle up the room with Carol, you were feeling like a million bucks. Not even a full spa day could have infused you with this much energy.

There was a pep in your step, a smile plastered to your face, and when Carol said, “Happy holidays! It was nice having you with us!” you were so smug that you slipped the tip in her hand and said, “Thank you, Carol, you sure made it sunny!”

Tyler cackled, but tried to do it subtly. (And failed.)

Right on the money, the snow had stopped falling during the night. It’d be a white Christmas, all right, but you should be able to drive home safely and arrive in time for lunch.

Tyler loaded your suitcase into your car, gallant as ever.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

You exchanged shy glances, which was new for you. You’d never had reason to feel shy around Tyler before, but then, you’d had him inside you not too long ago and the memory of the things you’d done, the things you’d said, which you wouldn’t admit even under threat of perjury, were enough to make you almost blush.

“We should hit the road,” you said dumbly, schooling your features into an unbothered mask.

“Yeah. I’m sure the others have already made it to Ms. Carter’s farm.”

“Well… merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

You opened your door, settled into your seat. You were about to pull the door closed when Tyler stopped it, hand closed around the top.

“Can I call you, after the holidays?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

He laughed. “Who’s holding the hot potato now, you or me?”

“I think we’re sharing this one,” you replied.

“I don’t mind that.”

“Yeah,” you said, “neither do I.”

He smiled at you for a while, then closed your door and watched you drive off. You followed his movements in the rearview until your paths diverged, then turned up the radio.

“Merry Christmas Eve, one and all! It’s a gorgeous one out there—we couldn’t have asked for better weather. Here’s one just for you. I’m sure you know it, so sing along: it’s Dean Martin and it’s our ‘Winter Wonderland,’ right here, in the heart of good ol’ Oklahoma…”

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Roxette - The Look 1989

"The Look" is a song by pop duo Roxette; Sweden's second-best-selling music act after ABBA. It was released in early 1989 as the fourth single from their second studio album, Look Sharp! (1988). The album was an immediate commercial success in their home country, spending seven weeks at number one on the Swedish Albums Chart. "The Look" was written by Per Gessle as an exercise while learning how to operate the Ensoniq ESQ-1 synthesizer he had recently purchased, using a repeated A–G–D bass line as the song's core. The track's sixteenth-note rhythm was inspired by the work of ZZ Top. The original title was "He's Got the Look", with the lyrics using male pronouns. Gessle said this was done because he initially wanted Marie Fredriksson to sing the track. Both he and EMI Sweden had chosen to highlight Fredriksson as Roxette's lead vocalist. However, when recording the demo, Gessle realised the song "didn't fit her style that well, so I had a go and it sounded OK."

The singles from Look Sharp! at the time were only released in Sweden, Germany and France. However, an American exchange student from Minnesota named Dean Cushman returned from Sweden and gave his copy of the album to his local Top 40 radio station, KDWB-FM in Minneapolis. The station's program director Brian Phillips initially ignored Cushman's request to play a song from the album, leaving the CD unplayed in his office for several weeks. Phillips eventually listened to it after learning Cushman had come to the office requesting the return of his CD. Immediately impressed by the album's opening track, "The Look" was played by the station for the first time on US radio less than an hour later, and the response from listeners was overwhelmingly positive; the station immediately began receiving phone calls to replay the track.

KDWB began distributing the track to their sister radio operations, sending 500 copies to other stations throughout the United States. EMI America promptly signed the duo to a recording contract as a result of the airplay. The label had previously rejected Roxette as "unsuitable for the American market". The song had already entered the top fifty of the Billboard Hot 100 before official promotion began, peaking at number one on the chart eight weeks later. This made "The Look" the third number one single by a Swedish act on the Billboard Hot 100, following Blue Swede's "Hooked on a Feeling" (poll #152) in 1974 and ABBA's "Dancing Queen" in 1976.

The track went on to top the charts in 25 countries. It spent three weeks atop the New Zealand Singles Chart, and six weeks at number one in Australia, where it was certified platinum for sales in excess of 70,000 copies. It also topped the charts throughout Scandinavia. The song spent five weeks at number one in West Germany, and an additional five weeks at number two. It was a massive success in Spain and Switzerland, spending eight weeks at number one in both countries. It reached number seven on the UK Singles Chart.

"The Look" received a total of 80,5% yes votes!

[superbat-lmao]

Tim and Jason go on a roadtrip.

It’s not entirely intentional.

It starts as a case, both of them following separate leads and ending up scheduling their takedown of the operation at the same time. They literally stumble into each other and Tim gets a good wack in before realizing it’s Jason.

The reason they stumble into each other is because the case isn’t in Gotham.

Jason, who has been piecing shell companies together through physical evidence, had driven to all of the stops along the way because hunting down a digital paper trail looked like it would’ve taken too much time.

Tim, who figured hacking wouldn’t take as long as it did, but eventually found the main base of operations, had taken a flight out for the final pieces of evidence.

When the op is finished, Jason takes Tim back to his hotel, because he actually has a place he’s staying and didn’t go straight for the base. They’re both kinda beat up and have a couple more threads to work through to tie their respective information together, so they stay at the hotel for another day.

There is little small talk, but not none. Jason says he’ll go get coffee from the lobby. Tim says that stuff is always shitty and Jason makes fun of him for being able to rank hotel chains based on their coffee quality. Tim just says that’s because Jason isn’t as well traveled as he is. Jason laughs in his face, saying with all the time he spent abroad, he’s sure he’s been around more than Tim.

They talk about domestic work they’ve done too, places they’ve been for cases between here and Gotham. Trying to one-up the other in terms of experience. Jason even mentions cases he worked back in his Robin days, which Tim recognizes from his stalker days of following their busts in other states.

They really believe that’s all they have to say on the matter. Jason even offers to drop Tim off at the airport. But by then, they’ve also discussed how neither of them have anything pressing back in Gotham. How they had each planned on taking a few days after this op to reset a bit.

Tim asks which way Jason is taking back to Gotham and critiques it. Tells him to stop by different towns and check out things that Jason laughs at him for mentioning. They snipe at each other the whole time, and before they really realize it, they’re on the road.

The whole thing is begrudgingly happening. They’re siblings, there’s a fair amount of fighting. There’s minimal “emotional” conversation, but it’s there. Unavoidable in how they each bumble through each other’s trauma. They stop at tourist traps, listen to shitty radio stations, they tell stories of previous cases and places they’ve been with friends, small family diners, switching off driving, aiming for potholes to catch air, sleeping in the back seat, driving under the stars, sleeping in shitty motels, buying their siblings joke souvenirs.

They talk about Titans tower, the pit, Shelia, Bruce. They judge Discowing and Damian. Jason asks about Steph, Tim asks about Catherine. It’s small snippets of thoughts about the most meaningful things. They are dancing around it and also finally talking about it. Getting it all out in the open.

When they get back to Gotham, it changes a lot of small things. They still hash it out occasionally, but everyone notices the change. How much more casual they are around each other, hanging out off-hours more often, working together on more ops.

They’re brothers and they act like it.

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

I have NO CLUE what this is and I couldn't think of a title for it lol

"There's no way!"

"I can't believe it!

"Oh, this is the best day of my life!"

Remus listens to his roommates and their excited chatter for a few moments before pushing the door open. Lily, Mary and Marlene don't even turn around at his arrival, not able to stop their celebration over... something?

"Um... hi?" He tries with an amused smile.

"Hi," they all say in unison, before immediately turning and carrying on with their conversation.

"I wonder what he's doing here!"

"He hasn't been back in years!"

"Sorry, who are we talking about?" Remus asks, dropping his bag onto the counter and starting to root through it for his water.

"Sirius Black! Rumour has it he's in town!" Mary says excitedly, and every inch of Remus freezes. His heart stops beating, his lungs stop working, his hair stands on end as he does his level best to act casual.

Sirius fucking Black. Biggest star of their generation, with every album he's released hitting number one and staying there for a scary amount of time. Five years of fame, fortune, interviews and tours. Five years of being everybody's favourite person, of being admired, of being featured everywhere.

Five years since him and Remus broke up.

Remus has spent the past five years trapped in limbo. Everywhere he goes he hears Sirius' voice, with his songs played in every shop, in every cafe, on every radio station. He tries his level best to avoid it, to try to protect his mental health, but he can't help himself sometimes. He's had countless sleepless nights, going through his old pictures and videos that he told Peter he'd deleted and crying his eyes out. He knows every word to every song Sirius has released, just from listening to them in his car when he's feeling really sentimental. He can't keep himself from recognising lyrics, hooks and little chord progressions that Sirius created while they were together.

He moved away the moment he got signed, and Remus hasn't seen him since. He's done two world tours and a fair few one off concerts, but he's never once come back. They haven't spoken once in those five years, but Remus doesn't have the heart to delete Sirius' number. He's pretty sure he has it memorised anyway, so it wouldn't do him any good to delete it.

"He'd better do a concert!" Marlene's voice pulls Remus out of his daze, as he tries his best to level his breathing, rooting through his bag and refusing to look up. "I've been waiting for us to finally get one!"

"Yeah, he dodges us like the plague!"

"Well... he did grow up here," Lily starts explaining. "He wouldn't have to come back at all."

No, he wouldn't.

Why the hell is he back?

"D'you really think he's going to do a concert?" Mary asks, clasping their hands together.

"This is how all of his one night only concerts have gone! He shows up, then a few hours later his tickets go on sale!" Marlene smiles triumphantly, and Remus shuts his eyes, back to them, trying to keep his head from spinning.

"Right, so we're going to have to be careful to make sure we get them," Lily says with a nod. "Someone stick his music on."

Remus turns around, then, eyes wide.

"Why?"

The three of them look at him a little like he's grown three heads.

"Manifesting?" Marlene says, as Mary starts tapping on their phone.

The next thing Remus knows, Sirius' most popular song is playing, A Pearl in the Darkened Sea.

Oh, fuck.

Remus feels sick.

The song he knows better than he knows himself is playing in his living room like it's nothing. The memory of Sirius writing it comes back into his head, why he wrote it, what the song really means.

"Hey, Remus?" Lily starts. Remus tries to fix his face. "If it's a concert, want to try to get a ticket with us?"

"Oh, er..." he starts, cringing a little at the hesitation in his voice. "No thanks."

"No thanks?" Marlene asks, stunned.

"Are you insane? This is the Sirius Black!"

"I know. I'm all good, thanks." He hopes that'll be enough for them, but they don't seem satisfied with that answer.

"He's literally taken the world by storm! He's stolen the hearts of the nation!" Mary says, and Remus almost wants to confess everything right then and there. He knows all about Sirius' ability to steal hearts, and he also knows how painfully that can end.

He's not going to say anything, though. Sirius is happy, Remus doesn't need to dig up the past and ruin it for him.

"Are you sure you don't want to try?"

"I'm sure." He looks at the three of them, feeling really fucking suffocated. "I've actually, er... I've got a headache, I'm going to go lay down."

"Need anything?" Lily asks him gently. He shakes his head, before making a beeline for his room.

The moment the door closes behind him, he takes to pacing around his cramped room.

"It's been five years, Remus," he mutters to himself. "Fucking pull yourself together; it's just weird now!" He stops in his tracks, pressing a palm to his growing migraine. Sure, the days have gotten easier, he spends a lot less time crying over Sirius, but surely he should be over him entirely by now! He shouldn't be freaking out over rumours of him being back in town!

Rumours.

Fuck, that's literally all they are.

There's no confirmation, Sirius hasn't said anything himself. Even if he had, how does that affect Remus? It shouldn't matter that they're in the same place. It shouldn't be important that he's back in the spaces that they used to share.

He vaguely hears a knock at the door as he tries to force himself to stop thinking. The music stops as he gets back to pacing, trying to walk off the anxious energy he's stuck with.

"Oh my god. Oh, my god!" Lily's voice is loud enough, startled enough, to catch Remus' attention. "You're..."

"Uhm... hi."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Remus knows that voice.

He knows that voice better than he knows his own voice.

"You're Sirius Black!" Mary exclaims, stunned.

"I am." His voice is muffled, but it's him. Unmistakably, undeniably him. "I also... may have the wrong flat." Remus doesn't even realise that he's scrambling to his bedroom door until he's fumbling with the handle. "Does Remus Lupin live here? Or... anywhere near here?"

Hearing his name in Sirius' perfect fucking voice has him practically shoving the door open, bursting into the living room just in time for all of his roommates to turn and look at him.

He can barely see them, though.

Sirius is here.

Standing in his doorway, beautiful silver eyes on Remus like he's stunned to see him. As if he hasn't just shown up at Remus' flat.

"Sirius," he breathes.

"Rem." The nickname seems to slip out, snapping Sirius out of his daze. "Remus. Hi."

He has so many questions. Too many questions. Why he's here, how he's still so perfect, why he hasn't been able to get Sirius out of his head.

"...how did you know where I live?" He asks instead.

"James told me," he admits sheepishly.

"Of course he did," Remus says with a fond shake of his head. "He was probably falling over himself to tell you." He walks over to the doorway, keeping a careful distance so his resolve doesn't crack and he doesn't burst into tears, holding onto the man he hasn't seen in five years and begging him to stay forever.

"How'd you know?" Sirius asks sarcastically, and Remus can't help the smile that creeps onto his face. "I... I just wanted... could we talk?"

Talk.

Just talk.

Five years, and Sirius shows up acting like he wants to ask him about the English essay that he definitely could have done by himself.

At whatever look is on Remus' face, Sirius suddenly turns hesitant. Remus hasn't seen him like this in years. Sirius for the public is nothing but confident; all big smiles, standing tall and speaking without a single stumble.

"If- you can say no. I'll go. I just- I didn't want- I thought it was worth-"

"I'd really like to talk," Remus says softly.

"Oh, thank fuck," Sirius exhales, drawing a laugh out of Remus before he can help himself. Remus steps aside, gesturing for Sirius to come inside. When he turns to lead both of them over to the kitchen, he realises that his roommates are all standing and staring at them, wide eyed.

"Could, er... could you guys give us some time alone?" Remus asks, as Sirius situates himself on one of the kitchen counter stools. Christ, it's alien, seeing Sirius here, as glamorous and perfect as always and looking really bloody anxious. When his roommates don't move, he walks over to them. "Guys. Please."

"You- you're-" Marlene gestures, clearly in shock.

"Please?"

Lily seems to snap out of it, then.

"Right, yeah. Yes, of course." She grabs Mary and Marlene by the elbows, pulling the three of them into her room and shutting the door behind her.

Thank God.

He turns to Sirius with an uncertain smile.

"D'you want something to drink?" Remus asks, flicking the kettle on.

They end up with a mug of tea each, Remus sliding into the seat beside Sirius.

"Can't believe you take your tea exactly the same," Remus says with a smile.

"What can I say? I'm a creature of habit," Sirius says back. "You do the same too, thank you very much!"

"Alright, alright, I'm a hypocrite." They lapse into silence for a second, Remus at a loss for words. He still can't believe that this is real.

"Sorry. I know this probably came out of nowhere," Sirius says softly.

"Just a bit," Remus answers back.

"How did the English degree go?" He asks with a smile.

"Graduated with a first," Remus answers. "I finish my masters this year."

"'Course. You've always been a genius."

"Shut up, I have not."

"You have! Why d'you think I always came to you for essay help?"

"Because you fancied the pants off me and that was the easiest way to get me alone?" He asks with the arch of an eyebrow. Sirius smiles, caught.

"Okay, yeah, that sounds about right. Doesn't mean I don't think you're a genius, though." After a second, Sirius takes a deep breath, letting his eyes slide closed for half a second. "Do you ever think about us?" Sirius watches Remus anxiously, and Remus nods once. He's not quite ready to admit how much he thinks about them. About Sirius. "About... how it all ended?"

How could he forget?

It was one of the worst nights of Remus' life. A lot of shouting and tears, all ending with Remus telling Sirius to "just fucking go then!" immediately followed by Sirius storming out.

"Yeah," he admits quietly.

"I... fuck it. Rem, I replay that night in my head far too often. I- I don't really recognise us in it, d'you know what I mean?" Remus huffs an empty laugh.

"Yeah, I don't either. We... I don't really recognise us at all, towards the end." He starts playing with his fingers.

"What happened, Rem?"

"We were both a bit traumatised," Remus starts, and Sirius nods in agreement. "And we were both stubborn gits who wouldn't go to therapy about it."

"I think I just thought you didn't want me anymore," Sirius confesses quietly. "So I started trying to... I don't know, test the waters? Pull away, see if it did anything?" Remus shoots him a bit of a disbelieving look, and Sirius buries his head in his hands with a groan. It's a gesture so unbelievably Sirius-like that Remus wants to rake his fingers through his hair and bring him back out of his shell in the same way he did when they were a kid. "I know! It was fucking stupid! I just figured... I don't even know what I figured. I think I just didn't want to have to ask, y'know? Hear you say that you weren't interested in me anymore."

"I was into you. Christ, Sirius, you were my whole bloody world. I was just..." He sighs, not sure if he really wants to admit this. "You weren't going to move."

"What?"

"I overheard you talking to James. The record deal, moving to London? You were going to refuse it. I just... you're so fucking talented, and I didn't want you to have to gamble with the deal and risk losing it because of me. Sirius, look how far you've gotten. I couldn't be the one to get in the way of that, so I... I tried to make you see that you could live without me. Your dreams should come first."

"You..." Sirius' eyes scan across Remus' face, and he shakes his head to himself. "Trust you to be too bloody selfless." His affectionate smile fades, replaced by so much sincerity that Remus is a little taken aback by it. "Remus, all I wanted was you." He runs a hand through his hair. "I would have been happy in a cramped little flat in the middle of nowhere if it meant we could grow old together. I wrote songs for me. For you. Even now, they belong to us. Not everybody else. I still have so many that nobody else is going to get to see."

"Yeah, I remember every song you wrote."

"You do?"

"Course I do."

"I promise, I never wanted Pearl in the Darkened Sea to go out to the public. The label was going through my lyric book and found it. I... couldn't talk them out of it." He sounds surprisingly apologetic, and Remus wants to jump to reassure him.

"Hey, don't worry. I... it was actually really nice to be able to hear it."

"You still listen to it?"

"Don't tell my roommates." Sirius nods with a smile.

"Secret's safe with me." Remus watches Sirius consider his words carefully.

"You okay?" Remus asks softly.

"I miss you so much," he confesses in a rush. "I- I still want to talk to you about anything and everything, I can't write without thinking of you, and I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about us." He speaks quickly, not looking Remus in the eye.

"I miss you too. Fucking hell, Sirius, I miss you every day." Sirius' eyes meet his and, for a second, the two of them just look at each other. He watches as Sirius' face sets determinedly.

"I'm still in love with you."

Oh.

"You..."

"I never stopped loving you, Remus." This time, he doesn't look away from Remus, suddenly brave. "I know that might be a bit much, and I know you're probably over the breakup, and that's okay. I'll be okay. I just... I'd really like to have you back in my life, in any way that you're comfortable with. I just figure, if I want that, then I need to be as honest as I can. I spent a long time in love with you from a distance, I can do it as friends-"

He can't say anything else, because Remus is kissing him.

The impulse is an age old one, but he surprises himself a little by listening to his gut.

He's never been more grateful for his instincts in his life, as Sirius makes out a muffled noise of surprise, before throwing himself into the kiss earnestly. His lips are soft and familiar, bringing such a feeling of warmth and safety that Remus could cry.

The kiss is desperate, both trying to pull one another impossibly closer, limited by the distance of their chairs. Remus' hands go from his waist, to the nape of his neck, to his jaw, into his hair, trying to reach at every single piece of Sirius that he hadn't had in front of him for five fucking years. When Sirius reaches out, fingers hooking on the chain around Remus' neck and moving to pull him closer, Remus practically falls off his chair. It's enough of a stumble to break them apart, Remus having to get his bearings before their eyes meet.

"Hi," Sirius says quietly, eyes shining.

"Hi."

"I love you so much."

"I love you too," Remus says back, reaching out to lace their fingers together. Sirius lifts their connected hands, kissing all of Remus' knuckles one at a time. "So... we're trying again, yeah?" Sirius nods.

"With one hundred percent honesty, though." Remus nods, in fervent agreement.

"Guess I'm your groupie, now."

"Shut up," Sirius says, rolling his eyes affectionately as he connects their lips again. "You're my everything."

[theonottsbxtch]

AMERICAN JESUS | LS2

an: i had this song on loop the other day and if you think of anybody else when you listen to american jesus, i fear you're incorrect and to @obxstiles who said my fics have a theme - kiss my bottom xx

wc: 3.6k

THE HEAT CLUNG TO EVERYTHING, thick and unrelenting, settling into the cracked pavement and rusting trailer roofs like it had always belonged there. Cicadas hummed in the dry grass, their endless chorus filling the gaps between distant laughter and the occasional bark of a dog. The air smelled of dust and gasoline, of cigarette smoke drifting lazily through open windows. Somewhere in the distance, a radio crackled, playing an old song about love and leaving—a song no one in this town ever seemed to listen to properly.

Logan smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, the kind you pick up at a gas station for three bucks and change. The scent clung to his denim jacket, worn soft from too many nights spent in the backseat of his old Chevy or passed out on someone’s cigarette-burned couch. He had a cross around his neck, silver and slightly tarnished, swinging against his chest when he leaned over her, grinning that lazy, lopsided grin.

"You always look at me like you expect me to save you," he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

She didn’t answer, just traced the chain around his neck with her fingers.

His cross hung around his neck, but it felt like a hollow promise—a symbol of something he had never believed in, yet wore like a shield. He was her contradiction.

Sunday morning light poured in through the trailer’s thin curtains, cutting across his bare shoulders, his long blond hair messy from the night before. She should’ve been in church. That’s where she used to be, wearing her best dress, hands folded in prayer, eyes cast down like a good girl was supposed to. But Logan had ruined all that. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe she’d never really believed in salvation until she found it in the passenger seat of his car, windows down, radio humming with Springsteen.

"Where are you at, sweetheart?" he asked, voice soft.

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was a little past ten. If she listened close, she could probably hear the choir from First Baptist ringing out across town, voices lifted in a hymn about redemption.

She had never really believed in redemption, either.

Logan stretched, the cross around his neck catching the light for a brief moment before it disappeared beneath his tanned skin. He smirked, watching her with those blue eyes, the ones that made her feel like she was walking a tightrope between damnation and something close to freedom.

"You’re thinking too much again," he murmured, reaching for a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand.

She watched as he lit it, the flame flickering, his lips parting slightly as he inhaled. The scent of smoke curled through the air, mixing with the warmth of last night.

"You always say that," she replied, pulling the sheet up over her chest, though there was no one around to see her. Just him. Just Logan, sprawled out beside her, all lazy limbs and sun-kissed skin.

"Because it’s always true."

She sighed, rolling onto her side, facing him. Outside, the heat was already settling in for the day, cicadas humming from somewhere beyond the cracked-open window. The trailer park was quiet, most folks either at work or still sleeping off the night before.

She used to wake up to the sound of her father’s voice, sharp and slurred, barking orders like a drill sergeant. Get up. Get dressed. Church starts in an hour. If she so much as hesitated, the belt would find its way across her back. She still flinched sometimes when she heard the scrape of leather, even though the man who wielded it was long gone.

Logan reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a boy who’d grown up fighting in car parks and sneaking beers behind petrol stations.

"You ever gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?" he asked, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling.

She swallowed. "You already know."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it before he smirked again, shifting onto his back. "Yeah. I do."

That was the thing about Logan, he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew all her secrets already. Knew why her hands shook sometimes when she held a kitchen knife. Knew why she never talked about her father. Knew why she had mud on her boots that wouldn’t quite scrub off.

She glanced at the clock again. Half past ten.

"Church should be letting out soon," she murmured.

Logan chuckled, tilting his head towards her. "You miss it?"

She thought of wooden pews and whispered prayers, of a God who never answered when she needed Him most.

"No," she said. "I don’t."

Logan smiled, reaching for her hand, fingers warm against hers. "Good," he said. "’Cause I was thinking we take a drive today. Maybe find somewhere quiet."

Somewhere quiet.

She knew what that meant.

Somewhere far from town. Far from questions.

Far from the place that sneered at them.

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around his. "Yeah," she said softly. "Let’s go."

Logan grinned, tapping ash into the tray beside the bed before leaning down, pressing his lips against hers. He tasted like cherry wine and smoke, and maybe, just maybe, something close to salvation.

They left the trailer with the windows down, the hot wind rushing in, tangling her hair as Logan’s old Chevy rumbled down the dusty road. He drove one-handed, the other resting on her thigh in that effortless way of his, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The radio crackled with static before settling on something familiar—Springsteen, again.

She watched him from the passenger seat, the way the sun caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges. His cross swung against his chest with every bump in the road, a quiet reminder of the boy he was supposed to be. The boy he never really had a chance to become.

"Where we going?" she asked, stretching her legs out, sock clad feet propped up on the dashboard.

Logan took a slow drag of his cigarette before flicking it out the window. "Somewhere quiet."

She didn’t ask for details. Logan always had places, hidden spots just outside town, where the grass grew tall and the world felt still for a little while. Places where no one cared if you drank warm beer straight from the can or carved your name into the wood of an old picnic table just to prove you existed.

She liked those places.

They stopped at a petrol station just off the highway, the kind with sun-faded signs and an old man behind the till who barely looked up when they walked in. Logan grabbed a bottle of Coke and a pack of gum, slipping a couple of cigarettes into his pocket when no one was looking. She didn’t say anything. She never did.

Back in the car, he popped the cap off the Coke and took a swig before passing it to her. It was warm, syrupy sweet on her tongue.

"You ever think about leaving?" she asked suddenly, staring out at the road ahead.

Logan glanced at her, his smirk faltering for just a second. "Leaving where?"

"Here. This town. The trailer park. Everything."

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before lighting another cigarette. "Yeah," he said eventually. "All the time."

She watched the smoke curl from his lips, disappearing into the heat of the afternoon.

"You?" he asked.

She thought of church bells and hushed voices. Of Sundays in her best dress, of hands folded in prayer. Of the way people looked at her now, the way they whispered when they thought she wasn’t listening.

"Yeah," she said. "All the time."

Logan tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, staring at the road ahead. "Maybe we should, then."

She turned to look at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, like he could already see the road stretching out beyond this town, beyond the life they were supposed to live.

A new beginning.

A second chance.

She swallowed. "Maybe."

Logan finally looked at her then, his lips curling into that slow, knowing smile. He reached over, resting a hand on her thigh, warm and solid.

"You and me, sweetheart," he murmured. "We could be something else."

She didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

But she wanted to believe him.

And for now, that was enough.

They drove for another hour, the town shrinking behind them, swallowed by long stretches of empty road and endless sky. The radio crackled now and then, struggling to hold onto a signal, but Logan didn’t bother tuning it. The hum of the engine and the wind rushing through the open windows were enough.

She knew they were heading somewhere out past the old quarry, where the land flattened into fields that went on forever, where no one came looking for you unless they had a reason to. Logan had a habit of finding places like that, forgotten corners of the world, quiet and still, like time stopped moving when you stepped into them.

Eventually, he pulled off the main road, the tyres kicking up dust as they rolled onto a dirt track, weaving between overgrown trees and rusting fence posts. The sun had started its slow descent, burning deep orange at the edges, casting long shadows through the windscreen.

"This it?" she asked, tucking her feet beneath her.

Logan just smirked. "You’ll see."

The car jolted over a pothole before the track finally opened into a clearing. It wasn’t much—just a patch of dry grass and a few trees bent with the weight of the heat—but it had a view. Beyond the hill, the land stretched wide, dipping and rising like a rolling sea of gold and brown.

Logan killed the engine and climbed out, stretching his arms above his head before rounding to her side of the car, tugging the door open. "Come on, then."

She followed him up the hill, the grass scratchy against her ankles, the scent of sun-baked earth thick in the air. At the top, he dropped onto the ground with all the grace of someone who had never cared much for manners, leaning back on his elbows.

She hesitated for a moment before sinking down beside him, the warmth of the day still clinging to the ground beneath them. From here, the world felt endless. No houses, no roads. Just open sky and the quiet hum of cicadas, the occasional rustle of wind through the grass.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

She lay back, staring up at the sky. The first traces of night were creeping in, turning the blue darker at the edges, the faintest hint of stars beginning to emerge.

"It’s nice," she murmured.

Logan turned his head to look at her. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

He smirked, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled cigarette. He lit it with a flick of his lighter, taking a slow drag before holding it out to her.

She hesitated. She never smoked. Not really.

But tonight felt like something different.

So she took it.

The smoke burned her throat, but she didn’t cough. Logan grinned, watching her from beneath lazy lids.

"Look at you," he murmured. "A proper rebel now."

She rolled her eyes, but she smiled.

They sat like that for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth, the silence settling easy between them.

After a while, Logan shifted, resting his arm behind his head. "If you could go anywhere," he asked, voice slow and thoughtful, "where would it be?"

She exhaled, watching the smoke drift into the darkening sky.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "Somewhere else."

Logan hummed. "Not much of an answer, sweetheart."

She turned her head to face him. "What about you?"

His gaze flickered, like maybe he’d never been asked that before. He took another drag before shrugging, exhaling through his nose. "Maybe out west. California, maybe. Somewhere warm."

She smirked. "Logan, it’s warm here."

"Yeah, but this ain’t the good kind." He stretched his legs out, tapping the cigarette ash into the dirt. "I mean real heat. The kind that don’t come with dirt roads and trailers and shitty jobs you can’t get out of."

She considered that.

"Think we could make it?" she asked, voice softer than she meant it to be.

Logan turned his head again, eyes dark and knowing.

"You and me?" He reached out, brushed his fingers over hers. "We can make it anywhere."

She swallowed, something heavy settling in her chest. She wanted to believe him.

Maybe, for tonight, she would.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, and Logan flicked it into the dirt, watching the ember glow for a second before the wind snuffed it out. The sky above them had darkened, stars stretching out in patterns she used to think meant something. Fate, destiny—things she’d been raised to believe in. Things she wasn’t so sure about anymore.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, picking at the loose thread on the hem of her skirt. Logan was staring up at the sky, his arms folded behind his head, cross glinting in the low light. He looked at peace in a way he never did in town, like he was meant to be out here, away from everything.

She swallowed, then said it. "We should leave."

Logan didn’t move, didn’t even blink, like he’d been expecting it. "Leave and go where?"

"Anywhere."

That made him smirk, the corner of his mouth curling. "Not much of a plan, sweetheart."

She shrugged. "Don’t need a plan. Just need a car and the road."

He turned his head then, looking at her properly. "And what about money?"

She exhaled through her nose. "You always find ways to get money."

That made him laugh, a quiet, knowing sound. "Can’t argue with that."

She leaned back on her hands, staring out over the horizon. "There’s nothing for us here, Logan. Not anymore."

His smirk faded slightly, but he didn’t look away.

"You know I’m right," she continued, voice softer now. "This place—people like us don’t get out. They get stuck. They spend their whole lives trying to make do with what’s left." She shook her head. "I don’t want to be like that."

Logan was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a breath, slow and steady. "You really wanna do this?"

She turned to him. "Yeah. I do."

Another pause. Then Logan sat up properly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers rolling the lighter between them.

"You ever been further than the next town over?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. You?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Nope."

Silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. He was thinking about it, she could tell. Turning it over in his head, measuring the weight of it.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Alright, sweetheart," he murmured. "Let’s go."

Her heart kicked in her chest. "You mean it?"

Logan smirked. "’Course I mean it. Told you—we can make it anywhere."

She stared at him, searching his face for hesitation, doubt—anything that might make her second-guess this. But there was nothing. Just Logan, looking at her like this was always meant to happen.

A slow smile spread across her lips.

"Then let’s do it," she said. "Let’s leave tonight."

Logan ran a hand through his hair, glanced back at the car. "We’ll need gas. And I should probably grab a few things from my place."

She nodded. "Alright."

Logan grinned. "Let’s go then sweetheart."

He stood, brushing the dirt off his jeans before reaching down, offering her a hand. She took it, letting him pull her up, their fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary.

"Guess we’re really doing this, huh?" he murmured, voice low.

"Guess we are."

He leaned in then, pressing a kiss to her forehead, his lips warm and soft against her skin.

"Race you down," he said, before turning and heading down the hill, back towards the car.

She stayed for a moment, staring out at the horizon, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest.

This was it.

By morning, they’d be gone.

The drive back into town was quieter this time. The excitement, the rush of making a decision that felt like freedom, had settled into something heavier. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t fear. It was just real now.

Logan tapped his fingers against the wheel, a rhythm that didn’t match the faint hum of the radio. She kept her gaze on the road ahead, watching as the familiar buildings came into view—half-empty shops, a petrol station with flickering lights, the church standing tall in the distance like it always had.

She thought about how different it would look in the rear-view mirror.

They pulled into the trailer park, the gravel crunching beneath the tyres. The place was mostly quiet, save for a few people sitting outside their homes, the glow of cigarettes blinking like fireflies in the dim light.

Logan killed the engine, glancing over at her. "You coming in?"

She nodded. "Yep, I’ll grab my bag."

He smirked, but there was something distracted about it. "Come on princess.”

She climbed out, the air thick and warm, heavy with the scent of dry grass and burnt-out summer heat. Inside, the trailer was dim and stuffy, the air hanging still. She moved quickly, grabbing her duffel bag from under the bed, stuffing in clothes, checking a few old photos, anything she couldn’t bear to leave behind. Not that there was much.

A few minutes later, she heard Logan from the bathroom, the door creaking as he stepped in.

"Got what you need?" he asked, leaning against the frame.

She nodded. "You?"

He lifted his backpack. "Enough to start."

She gave him a small smile, zipping up her bag. "Then let’s go."

But before they could take a step, the flash of blue and red cut through the thin curtains, washing the inside of the trailer in harsh, flickering light.

Her breath caught.

For a second, she just stared at it, her pulse hammering in her throat.

How fitting, she thought.

Red, white, and blue.

Logan had always been her American Jesus.

The one who saved her. The one who saw her as something more than what this town had tried to make her.

Now, those same colours had come to take him away.

A sharp knock at the door.

Logan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, pulled it open.

Two police officers stood outside, their faces unreadable beneath the glow of the flashing lights. One of them, an older man with tired eyes, reached for his handcuffs.

"Logan Sargeant," he said, voice firm, "you’re under arrest for the murder of—"

Her father’s name rang out in the night.

Everything went still.

Logan didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just turned his head, looking back at her.

And that was it.

That was how they knew.

The secret they had buried in the dirt, in whispered promises and muddy footprints.

The truth that had tied them together tighter than love ever could.

Was found.

Logan blinked, his face unreadable for a fraction of a second before he let out a sharp breath, shaking his head.

"What?" he scoffed, furrowing his brows. "Murder?" He let out a dry, humourless laugh. "That’s a mistake, buddy."

The officer didn’t so much as flinch. "You have the right to remain silent," he continued, reaching for Logan’s arm.

Logan took a step back, hands raised slightly. "Hang on a minute. You lot seriously think I—" He turned to her then, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper, something desperate. "Tell them, sweetheart. Tell them the truth."

The truth.

The word sat heavy in the air, curling in her stomach like smoke, thick and suffocating.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The other officer, a woman with a tight jaw and watchful eyes, stepped forward, already pulling out the cuffs. "Logan Sargeant, you are under arrest for the murder of—"

His name again. Her father’s name.

Logan turned back to them, laughing, but it was hollow, crumbling at the edges. "This is ridiculous. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—" He sucked in a sharp breath. "Just ask her. She’ll tell you."

All eyes turned to her.

Tell them.

She could end this. She could stop it before they dragged him away, before they slammed the car door shut and took him somewhere she couldn’t follow.

But her throat felt tight. Her chest burned.

She couldn’t move.

Logan’s eyes locked onto hers, searching, pleading. "Sweetheart," he murmured. "Come on now. Say something."

She wanted to.

But she just stood there, fists clenched at her sides, watching.

Logan’s breath hitched, like he’d just been punched in the gut. His jaw tensed, something shifting in his expression—hurt bleeding into realisation, betrayal settling like dust in the space between them.

"Jesus," he breathed, shaking his head. "You’re really gonna let this happen?"

Her hands trembled.

"Logan—"

The click of the cuffs cut through the air like a gunshot.

His body jerked slightly as they tightened around his wrists, but he didn’t fight. He just stared at her, his face suddenly unreadable, like a book with the last pages torn out.

The officers moved quickly now, guiding him towards the car.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Logan looked back one last time, eyes dark beneath the flashing lights. Not angry. Not even afraid. Just… lost.

"Guess that’s my answer then," he murmured.

Then they pushed him into the back of the car.

The door slammed shut.

She stood there, sock clad feet on the warm gravel, watching as the blue and red lights washed over her skin, as the car pulled away, as Logan disappeared into the night.

And she didn’t make a sound.Because if she did, they’d know she killed him.

And that she’d made the call.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[aeristudios]

Caller #17

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: basketball player!Soonyoung x college dj reader

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, angst, 90s au

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: PG-13

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, talks of tough family dynamics, bit of heavy angst, kissing

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.8k

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You could easily name 10 things that you hate about him. But when you bond over music and families, you realize there's more to him than meets the surface.

𝐀𝐍: This was not an easy fic. It took me way longer than I planned to write, and the story I had mapped out went in a different direction. I still feel proud of this one, my longest fic yet, and I hope that you will enjoy it too 🥹 This is a part of my very own Now That's 90's collab hosted by me and @mingsolo. Thank you to @wooahaeproductions for reading this over and @hobeemin for making a banner for me at the last minute 💙

“Thank you for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s your song of the week?” “Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve!” “You got it! Thanks for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio at 526 AM.” Hitting play on the record, the orchestra's melody hits your ears, sending you into an out-of-body experience, your soul floating to cloud nine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand every time the song is played, and you imagine yourself playing the violin, getting lost in the beautiful and complicated sinfonia. 

Working at the college radio station was your life. It’s the only place to lose yourself to TLC, Nirvana, and Weezer for hours without judgment. You are in your 3rd year of college, getting your bachelor’s in music theory so you can be one of the most prominent songwriters in the world. While everyone in high school didn’t know what they would be doing with their life, you always imagined yourself getting a Grammy for Song of the Year on stage. That is your real passion: creating musical poetry for the masses.

You slowly take the headphones off and set them down, looking at the big clock plastered on the wall. You let out a heavy sigh, sad that your time at the station is ending. You are allotted two hours a day on Saturday as a part of credit for your program. If you had it your way, you would be here daily, listening to your favorite records and writing songs between commercial breaks.

“Hey,” your professor Kim calls out from her office. “Come in here before you leave.”

You gather your things to leave, looking at the station one last time before entering the smaller space. This isn’t her regular office, but it has everything you think you would need: a desk, a comfortable chair, and bookshelves full of books and ornaments for decoration. You have spent a lot of time in here, pitching new ideas for the station and getting turned down every single time.

“What's up?” You sit in the chair opposite of her.

“So we will be introducing a new segment to the radio where callers can call in and ask for advice about anything, and then you can recommend a song based on what they are calling in about.” She pauses to take a sip of water. “I want you to be a part of it.”

You don’t answer right away. You are peeved that Professor Kim wants you to head any segment. You have never shown any initiative to want to talk to anyone who calls in besides listening to music. It’s just not your thing. You are a loner at heart, and that’s how you plan to stay.

“Why me?” You finally speak up. “There are other people who are better at this than I am. Hell, ask Emily. She has been foaming at the mouth to talk about anything other than music.”

“Because you are who I want,” she shrugs. “I see how you look when you talk about your favorite releases. You go deep with the lyrics and how you can relate that to any part of your life. You are more than the person behind the voice, and it’s time other people see that.” “Well, I am not trying to be the next Oprah or Ricki Lake,” you scoff. I just want to play music, write my songs, and do whatever I need to do for the class.”

“No one said you would be the next talk show anything,” Professor Kim retorted. “This will be considered a project, and it’s worth 20% of your grade. Plus, when you are in the industry and have sessions with the artists about the song's lyrics, don’t you need to talk to them about their life and what they need? Think about that.” You nod, feeling defeated because you know you can’t talk your way out of this. You know she is right, but you will never admit it. “Plus, it’ll be a good idea to get out of your shell and work on those social skills,” she says. “We will start in a couple of weeks, so get your mind ready because before you know it, you will be there.” You nod and leave the office, your stomach grumbling loudly as you put your headphones on and listen to the latest Backstreet Boys release. It’s a quarter past seven, and dusk officially sets in the sky as you walk across campus. Working at the radio station is the highlight of your week, as you can’t play music loud at your dorm without others complaining. Fortunately, your dorm is set where you have your own space, but the walls are thin, and you can hear everything. You considered buying noise-canceling foam to cover your door but were told it was “against” the rules. Whatever. Your stomach rumbles again, and you are determined to get a burger and fries in your stomach and drink an Oreo milkshake. You cross the street, open your bag, and grab your wallet before being met with a screeching halt from a car in front of you, its headlights blaring in your eyes. “What the fuck?” You mouth at the driver. The driver pokes his head out the window, and you instantly recognize him as Soonyoung, the star point guard of the basketball team. His black Jeep is crowded, full of guys and girls, with Usher blasting through the speakers. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he waves. “Yeah, no shit,” you retort, walking to the end before the car pulls off. Jeers and boos could be heard, but you could care less. People like that always get in your way no matter what. You avoid people like that as much as people, as you don’t want to be mixed in with that crowd. Soonyoung will eventually go pro and live the NBA life, whereas you will be on the stage accepting awards, with millions of people cheering your name.

The segment started as planned, and you sat and listened to every caller asking for advice. Most of them wanted advice on how to ask someone out for a date, makeup, and things you didn’t care about. The only thing that made it worth it was you got to pick the music to go with the advice, which allowed you to show off your taste in music, from Britney Spears to Mandy Moore, Usher, Sugar Ray, etc. It made the time go by faster as well. You look through the glass, and Professor Kim gives you a thumbs up to take the last call. Letting out a sigh of relief, you let the call ring a few times before you answer. “Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s on your mind?” “H-hello?” a tenured male voice booms through the speakers. You groan, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “You’ve reached C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s on your mind?”

“Hey. You can use this line to ask for advice, right?”

“Yep,” you say, a bit annoyed. “Whatcha got?”

There is a lengthy pause, your fingers tapping dramatically on the soundboard. You raise an eyebrow at the professor, who shrugs and walks out of your view. You hear shuffling in the background, followed by what sounds like something being sipped from a cup.

“S-sorry, I am a bit nervous,” he apologizes. “It’s my first time calling in.”

“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “I know how it is. How can I help?”

“So I already have this path carved out for me by my family and everyone who cares about me. Sports is all I have known all my life, and I have worked very hard to get here.” He stops for a brief second. “Everyone expects me to act like this all-star college boy, and no one ever talks to me about anything else than sports, and I am starting to hate it.”

“Do you mind telling me what kind of sports you’re in?”

“I play ball.”

“Okay, that's good. Well, what is it that you want?”

“I’m tired of being what everyone wants me to be: this golden retriever everyone loves. I just want to be me.” You understood how he felt. Maybe not in sports, but people pushing you to be something you’re not. You come from a family of doctors and lawyers who expected you to be the same. “Get good grades so you can get into an Ivy League school” is all you heard growing up. When you were seven, you expressed interest in music, sitting in front of the family piano on Christmas and playing Jingle Bells, which you learned on your own. Your parents cared for a while, putting you in piano lessons and taking you all over the state for recitals. They figured if you kept this up until high school, it would look good on college applications, but nothing that they took you seriously for. It wasn’t until you learned how to play the guitar in secret that you fell in love with how the strings strummed against your fingers that you realized that your passion is music. Thanks to your choir teacher, you had a good voice and kept it in tune while practicing writing music. You soon sang in front of the school, getting high praise from people all over for your voice and how you would “make it big one day.” Your parents insisted that it was just a phase and that eventually you would become a doctor and make a “real” living. You were determined to prove them wrong by applying to one of the best music schools and getting in on a full ride. You did that, but it came with a cost: being cut off by everyone in your family but your grandparents. They believed in you from the beginning and made sure you were okay. You will pay them back in tenfold one day. “Hello?” the deep voice cut through your thoughts. “Y-yeah, sorry,” you snap back into focus. “Do you want my advice?” “Yeah, I do,” you hear him clear your throat. ‘I think you should be who you want to be. It may feel a little different at first, but eventually, you will be happier being yourself.” “I mean…” he pauses for another second. “How do I go about that? How do I show people the real me?” “Hmm,” you think out loud. “Why don’t you try easing into it? Start a random conversation about something you are interested in that no one knows about. Gauge their reactions, and if they treat you weirdly, then start making new friends. It might be a little harder with your family, but they will come around. But either way, it’s exhausting having to hide yourself at the time. It’s the 90s and a new era!” “Yeah,” he says slowly. I’ll try that. Thanks.” “No problem!” You say. “Check out this song that’ll hopefully speak to your heart. This is me signing off on CARAT Radio, 800am.” You played “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree, a personal favorite, closing out the end of your segment. Admittedly, it wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Sure, some questions were annoying, but it allowed you to pass on music to people and help them get over whatever. You can’t call that a total loss. You push the mic to the side and leave the room, checking in with your professor before leaving. “Great job,” she leaned back into her seat. “You were well-spoken and composed, and the music selections were excellent. Have you thought about being a radio DJ?” “NO! you snort. “I want to be more behind the scenes, writing songs and getting Grammys.” “Okay, okay,” Professor Kim chuckles. “But don’t rule it out. You are a natural at it.” You nod and head out the door with a small smile. Getting complimented about your work feels good, but you rule out being a radio DJ. You deal with people if you have to, but you prefer to have time for yourself a lot of times. You’re just introverted like that. However, that last call was in the back of your mind. You just want to live and succeed at your dream job. It was nice knowing someone out there felt the same way you did. 

Before you knew it, a few weeks had passed, and you had secretly liked doing the segment every Saturday, talking to people from different backgrounds and listening to their troubles. You had a song for every call, and you bragged to your professor at the end of your shift that you had impeccable taste. The analytics showed that more people were tuning in during your segment than at any other time on the radio. Not gonna lie; it stroked your ego quite a bit.

The mystery guy called in on Saturdays, ironically being caller #17 every time. He would call and ask for advice about getting his grades up, coming out of his comfort zone, trying new things, etc. You got to know him a little, see how he solves problems, and see his sense of humor. You have no idea what he looked like, but you imagined he was just your type, like a Keanu Reeves, Theo Mizuhara, or Merlin Santana. Is it crazy that you sometimes daydream about a man you never met?

Today was the last day of the advice segment, and everyone called in with their usual advice and well wishes. Like clockwork, the mystery guy was caller #17. His breathing was labored when you answered, followed by a clunk of metal hitting the floor. “Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s your damage?”

“H-hey.” You know it was him; the sound of his voice was familiar to you. You shift in your seat, sitting straight and placing your elbows on the desk. You try to keep a poker face, your professor watching you with curious eyes. “Hey there,” you clear your throat. “How can I help?” “I heard today is the last day to ask for advice,” he says. “I can’t say I won’t miss calling and hearing your voice every Saturday.” “Oh yeah?” you chuckle. “ That’s good to know. Well, what is the last piece of advice that I can give you?” “So, there is this girl,” he starts. “I really like her. She’s cute, a bit of a hard ass, and I really like her mind. She’s not like anyone that I’ve met. How do I ask her out?” “Does she know you exist?” “Yeah. I almost ran into her once, but we talked a lot.” “Ah. Do you think she might like you?” “I-I’m not sure,” he stutters. “We get along and everything and we have some things in common. I just don’t know if she would be into me.” “Okay, well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask her out? The worst that can happen is that she says no; at least you’d know.” “Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m nervous as hell, that’s all. Have you dated anyone before?” You are taken aback, your professor raising her eyebrows through the glass. You nod, licking your lips before responding. “I’ve dated here and there,” you say slyly. “It wasn't anything serious. What about you?” ‘Um, yeah, I have,” he snorts.

“Well, there you go then, tiger.” You’re clearly entertained by this conversation. “Remember how you felt when you asked the other girls out, and apply that same confidence to this girl. You never know. She might say yes.” “Okay, I will take your word for it. Thank you.” “Not a problem!” You beam. “Here is the last song I leave you with: ’ 4-page letter’ by Aaliyah. Have a good night, ya’ll.”

You play the final track of the night, setting down the headphones while Professor Kim claps her hands in applause. You roll your eyes playfully, pushing your chair onto the desk and exiting the booth. You feel light as a feather, dopamine taking over your body as you meet your professor in her office. “Great job,” she smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” “Maybe,” you plop down on a chair. “It was fun giving out music suggestions.” “Mhmm,” she nods. “Well, get out there and enjoy your Saturday. I will see you in class on Friday.” You grab your things and leave the station, your stomach rumbling and your mouth parched. It’s after 8, and the nearest thing open is the local pizza joint with the best pepperoni pizza with the cheesiest cheese you’ve ever had. You go there often, and the owners, Dante and Gabriella, get your order ready before you sit down. “The usual?” they always ask, knowing that you are a creature of habit. Aside from your grandparents, they were the closest thing to family to you, always making sure your pizza was hot and crispy with a tall cup of Coke to go with it. They asked about your studies, and Gabriella always asked when you’d get a boyfriend. 

“Ah, stop it, amore mio,” Dante jokingly shushes her. “She has all her life to find the love of her life.”

More people started coming in, and they left you to your food and your walkman. You gleefully put Parmesan cheese over your pizza, taking the first bite and feeling instant gratification. A slice of heaven, literally. You take your headphones on, listening to Kurt Cobain croon on Nirvana’s Something In The Way. The “Nevermind” album got you through some tough times, especially when your family cut off communication with you. It hurt you and made you feel isolated and misunderstood. On the outside, your mom and dad put on this persona of being open-minded and willing to do anything for the family. Why were you the exception? You feel the tears well up, and you get yourself together before people start to notice, eating the rest of your pizza before you call it a night. You look around, seeing people on dates or hanging out with their friends, and you miss that. You had friends back home, but you all split up before you went to college. Who knows what their lives are like now. It’s not like you are visiting home anyway. You clean up your mess and walk into the bathroom, relieving yourself and washing your hands before returning to your dorm. You looked at yourself in the mirror: your jean jacket covered your black button-up shirt, shorts, and stockings underneath. Your eyes were slightly red, a contrast from your fresh face. Stifling a yawn, you leave and wave goodbye to Dante, opening the side door and bumping into someone in the process. You look up, facing Soonyoung, his cheerful eyes meeting yours. “We gotta stop meeting like this,” you mutter, backing up and adjusting your jacket. “Yeah, we shouldn’t,” he responds, opening the door to let you out. Your head snaps up, half expecting him to not hear you.  You rake your fingers through your hair, walking out of the restaurant. He’s a handsome guy, you can admit that, with his fresh, faded haircut and trendy clothes. You get why he is popular with everyone. “I’m sorry for almost hitting you with my car the other day,” he calls out. “It’s alright,” you turn around. “Just don’t make it a habit.” “Alright.” He chuckles and goes inside, and you speed walk to your dorm. Did I just flirt with him? You think to yourself. What the fuck was that? You aren’t even interested in Soonyoung in that way. You two are the two opposites of each other. You’re clearly losing your mind.

The cool air calms you down, and the slight breeze underneath the moonlight keeps you at bay until you get to your building. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out; the only sound being heard is your boots hitting the tiled floor as you walk down the hallway to your dorm. Unlocking your door, you notice an envelope tucked underneath it. You sit on the bed, open it, and pull out a letter. I know this isn't a four-page letter, but I like you. You’re funny, have good jams, and are down to earth. Did I say that you’re cute? I like talking to you every Saturday and don’t want it to stop. 

 I want to take you out to a concert on Friday. I’ll pick you up at 4 at your dorm. I know you've said yes if you’re there when I arrive. —Caller #17

“What do you think of this?” Your former roommate and good friend, Nikki Prince, holds up a black leather jacket in your size. You asked her to go shopping with you for an outfit for tomorrow's impending date, and you needed another set of eyes. She majors in architecture and design but models on the side thanks to her striking looks. A tall, tanned skin and green-eyed beauty, she now lives with her much older chef boyfriend, Caelan, but whenever you need her, she’s always there. She’s French, stylish, and brutally honest. You loved that about her. “I dig that,” you take it from her and try it on. It fits you just right. It would be chilly, so you bought new boots, a white shirt, and black jean shorts to wear with black stockings underneath. You wanted to be comfortable as you would be on your feet all night. 

“Are you sure about this date?” Nikki’s foreign accent comes through. “How do you know this guy isn’t some serial killer? We’ve all seen Scream.” “Gee, thanks, mom,” you roll your eyes. “If he tries anything with me, I’ll just show him the moves I learned from the YMCA.” 

“I’m serious. This is risque for you, no?” You shrug, slowly taking off the jacket and heading to the cashier. “I get your point, and if anything happens, I can defend myself. But I have a feeling that it won’t happen.” You greet the cashier and pay for the jacket. “I’ll call you before I leave and tell you about it the next day. Deal?” Nikki nods, and you both walk out of the store, satisfied with what you bought. The mall is busy for a Thursday night, with young adults frolicking at stores like Rave and Wet Seal, looking for the latest fashion trends. The mall isn’t really your scene, as you prefer to thrift shop for your clothes. You have been lucky to find some hidden gems there, especially since you are on a limited budget. Nikki, however, said it was a special occasion, and you quote, “You are not going on a date in someone else’s vêtements.”

You stop at Auntie Anne’s, buying a massive pretzel with cheese on the side, while Nikki opts for a small lemonade. You offer her a piece, which she declines, saying her boyfriend, Caelan, will make her dinner later. “How is that going, by the way?” You sit down at a table. “It’s going good,” she enthuses, raking her fingers through her long black tresses. “He’s so mature and sophisticated. Imagine not having to cook and clean after a man and have good sex.” “Well, yeah, he’s about six years older,” you remark. "He better know a thing or two if he wants to keep his model.” Nikki gloats as you finish your pretzel, talking about the elaborate French dishes her boyfriend makes for her and how he worships the ground she walks on. Since you’ve known her, she has always been opinionated and refused to associate with people within your age group. Whenever you see her in the hallways, she always talks with teachers or ignores the lustful looks of college boys. You two got on well because you were roommates, and both were Scorpio risings. You understood each other. “Oh shoot, I better head back to the flat,” Nikki says, looking at her watch. Caelan is going to be home soon, and he is making steak frites tonight.” 

“Yeah, I gotta head to the dorm anyway. Early class tomorrow.”

You walk out of the mall into the chilly night air. She offers you a ride home, and you decline at first, saying that you will walk as it's pretty close. But a slight wind blows, bringing chills down your spine.

“Wait,” you shout after her. “I’ll take that ride.”

The ride was short and quiet, your mind occupied with your date with this mystery stranger. Nikki was right, you don’t know him, and he could be this crazy guy. But you’re also excited; the butterflies haven’t left your stomach since Saturday. You feel like you know him, and you don’t even know his name. He is just caller #17.

She pulls up to your building, and you hug her, preparing to run inside and shower. You know Nikki is still worried and means well, even if she sometimes acts like an overbearing old sister.

“Come over tomorrow at two if you can,” you announce. “You can help me get ready and meet my date in case anything goes crazy.”

“Alright,” Nikki seems relieved. “I’ll be there.”

You shut the door and shout your goodbyes before sprinting inside.

“Love you!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

The next day went fast, like a blur. You slept past your alarm and woke up after twelve, making you two hours late.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” you shout as you scrambled out of bed and tripped over a blanket. You throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater from the University, your hair in a wild ponytail as you brush your teeth and high-tailed it out the door. You ran to class, forming an apology along the way, your heart beating out of your chest. You are met, however, with a closed door and a white paper plastered on the door:

NO CLASS TODAY. ENJOY YOUR WEEKEND.

“Really?” You huffed, leaning against the wall. It’s not like you are late for class; your alarm was

set despite you being up late last night. But whatever, fuck it. You aren’t about to let this ruin your day.

The leaves flow softly with the wind as you walk back to your dorm, the sun playing hide and seek in the clouds. All you can think about is tonight and what concert you are going to. Maybe it’s a huge concert, and that’s why he is picking you up early… or perhaps it’s a local indie band at a bar. Your mind runs with endless possibilities, excitement pumping through your veins. You aren’t a hopeless romantic or a love-at-first-sight kind of person, but something about this person makes you feel good… like you finally have someone who can relate to you on some level. Granted, you have only talked with him on the phone, but you have a gut feeling and are rarely wrong about these things. You finally return to your dorm and take a well-needed shower, washing and detangling your hair with much-needed privacy. Your dorm has shared showers; you usually take them when everyone is asleep at night. Fortunately, there were only a few people, allowing you to have time for yourself. You allow yourself to think of the water running down your body as him, his hands caressing your body, his lips maybe touching yours— “Is anyone in here?” You snap out of your daydream quickly, and the water turns cold right on queue. “Y-yeah?” “I am here to clean the showers,” a woman’s voice calls from the door. “O-okay, give me a second.” Cursing silently, you quickly step out and dry yourself, throwing on your robe and grabbing your shower caddy before exiting the bathroom. You are met by an older woman wearing a shirt representing your college and sweats, with cleaning supplies in tow. “You were in there for a while,” she remarks as she sets out the wet floor sign. Do you have a hot date tonight?” “Something like that,” you shrug. You walk back to your room, and to your surprise, Nikki is outside your door. “You’re early,” you remark, unlocking the door. “Yes, I know,” she said. “But we will need more than two hours to get yourself right.” “You act like I can’t dress myself,” you scoff. “I just wanted your company, that’s all.”

“Oh yeah? Mon ami, when was the last time you changed your makeup?” You open your mouth to rebuttal but close it immediately. You hate to say it, but Nikki’s right. It’s not like you are going anywhere besides school, the music store, and the pizzeria. “Exactly,” Nikki says, setting her stuff down on her bed. “I went and got you makeup close to your teint, just in case.” She pulls out brand-new makeup from Revlon from mascaras, concealers, powders, and assortments of lipsticks of my choosing. She also bought nail polishes, saying it was time to add some color to your life. As much as you want to roll your eyes at her, she is right. As harsh as Nikki seems sometimes, she has a big heart and always looks out for you when you least expect it. You know a thing or two about style, but she takes it to a whole different level and isn’t shy about giving advice on it. You appreciate her so much. Being honest with yourself, you are nervous as hell. You have had crushes before, but you have never been pursued like this, where someone likes you enough to ask you out formerly, even if it was via a note. This person cares about your mind or seems to. You aren’t sure how to feel; you want to be excited and have a good time, but you have a wall up for a reason. You don’t want to be disappointed again like your family has. You figured if the people you love the most can abandon you like that, there is no hope for you out there. You lived with that hard truth for a long time, and you were content with that. But god, this guy has you curious. “What’s on your mind?” Nikki finishes with your makeup and hair, gazing at you through the mirror. “Butterflies in my stomach are killing me,” you grimace. “I can’t believe I am even doing this.” “Oh, relax,” she blows a raspberry. “You always do this thing where you talk yourself out of things you deserve. Stop that. D'accord? “Yes, mother,” you tease. She sucks her teeth, and you get dressed, putting on the new clothes you bought and your black leather boots. Checking out your appearance, you are satisfied with your look, and Nikki gives you a thumbs up while she cleans up. Knock, Knock! You look at the door, the butterflies fluttering deeper in your stomach. You look in the mirror one last time as Nikki opens the door, a brief silence followed by a hearty chuckle. “Mon ami, your date is here.”

You see him, and you're stunned. It dawns on you why he’s here, and you feel your heart drop all the way to your ass. This has to be some kind of joke. “Soonyoung? What are you doing here?” He walks more into your view, wearing a grey jean jacket with matching pants. His right hand is in his pocket, and he has a small bouquet of irises in his other hand. “I’m here to take you to the concert?” Nikki is behind him, trying to keep her composure and mask her giggles. Of all the people you thought would show up, Soonyoung was the LAST person on your mind. This is the person who was calling in every Friday and wanting to talk to you? Yeah fucking right. “What happened?” you accost him. “Did you lose some bet, and you had to ask me out? Or do you feel bad for almost hitting me with your car?” “No?!” he scoffs, clearly offended. “I mean, yes, I feel bad about almost hitting, but no one dared me to do anything. Do you think I am that kind of person?” “Well, yes.” You wish you could take back what you said, but it was too late. You knew you hurt his feelings, the crestfallen look on his face saying it all. “This was a mistake,” he sighs dejectedly. “Sorry, I wasted your time.” He handed Nikki the flowers and walked away, the air feeling thick and awkward. You couldn’t even look at her in the eyes. You knew you fucked up. “Well, that was awkward,” you huff. “And shitty.” You raise an eyebrow at her, and she stares you down. You don’t want to feel worse than you already do, and Nikki isn’t helping. “Honestly, I think the guy was telling the truth,” Nikki surmises. “He looked like a sad puppy.” You think about this caller #17 guy who would call in every week and share his thoughts with you about everything, with you having to do very little. You think about how scared he felt about being his true, authentic self and how much courage it probably took to ask you out. You know you are a tough cookie to crack and understand better than anyone how it feels to go against the grain and be who you are. “I fucked up Nik,” you slump on your bed. “Yeah, you did.” God, you hate her bluntness sometimes, but she’s right. You need to go find him and make this right. “Do you think he’s still here?” you ask, sitting up and grabbing your purse. “He couldn’t have left that fast.” “Only way to find out is to get off your ass and find him,” she says, pulling your arm. “Go find your guy.” You both rush out of your dorm, jogging down the hallway and out of the building, looking for a silhouette of him. You were scared you missed him and felt defeated, not seeing any sight of him anywhere. Surveying the area one last time, you noticed a black Jeep peeling out of the parking lot. It stops at the stop sign, the second to last car to go. This is your only chance. “WAIT!”

You sprint towards the car, barely meeting him as he is about to turn.

“STOP,” you exhale, relieved that you caught him. “Don’t go.” Soonyoung steps out as you rest your hands on the hood of his car, trying to catch your breath. He touches your arm, his hands soft as silk, sending shocks throughout your body.

“Are you okay?” He asks, taking a good look at you.

“Aside from me about to pass out, I’m good.” You take a deep breath. “Listen. I’m sorry. I was a jerk and an asshole and—”

“MOVING YOUR FUCKING CAR!”

A middle-aged woman leans out of the window and gives you the bird, followed by a slew of car horns beeping in annoyance behind you and Soonyoung.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung curses, realizing the amount of cars behind him. “Get in the car.”

You both get in the car and drive off from the angry drivers, pulling into the nearest gas station. You sit with your hands in your lap, this weight of regret sitting on your chest and guilt eating you from the inside. You look at him, and he seems surprisingly relaxed as if you didn’t reject him

not even thirty minutes ago.

“I’m going to get some gas,” he announces. “Wait here.” 

You watch him walk inside to pay and let out the deepest, most agonizing sigh. He should be calling you every name in the book, and rightfully so, as you insulted him. Why is he being so nice? Does he really like you that much?

He returns a few minutes later, shoving his pockets with change left over, and you both lock eyes with each other. In another situation, you would’ve been able to appreciate his good looks, trendy clothes, and tiger-like appearance. But instead, you feel sick to your stomach, disappointed in how you acted. You look down, twiddling your thumbs until he finishes pumping his gas and returning to the car. This is not like you at all. “Hey,” he says. “Hi,” you stammer. “I’m sorry again. I feel like a terrible person, and I shouldn’t have bit your head off like that.” “I know you were intense, but Jesus Christ,” he exhaled. “Why do you think I wouldn’t be interested in you? You made it seem like I lost a bet to ask you out. You made me feel like crap.” Every word felt like a punch in the gut, and you deserved it. Despite your parents' many flaws, they always taught you not to judge a book by its cover, and that’s precisely what you did. You were pretentious and stuck up about him. In some ways, you aren’t any different from them. “I guess…” your voice trails off. “I just saw you as the athlete that everyone is in love with. Your friends, I know the type, and we’ve never really crossed paths with each other unless I was bumping into you or almost getting hit by your car.” “So… you saw me as the very thing I told you I didn’t want to be seen as.” You didn’t have to answer back. You both knew the answer, and it was eating you up inside. “I’m sorry, I am just gonna go.” Before he could stop you, you exited the Jeep and started walking back toward your dorm. You are embarrassed and can never face him again. This is why you don’t don’t talk to anyone. This is awkward; it feels weird. You lose yourself in your thoughts until you reach the street light, waiting for your turn to go. The air is slightly chilly than usual, the smell of the ocean taking over your senses that you would enjoy any other time. Yeah, a walk to the beach sounds nice, you say to yourself just as the street signal turns green. You feel someone’s hand pulling you away, and you twirl around, facing Soonyoung’s back as he takes you back to his car.

“You’re dramatic as hell, you know that, right?” He shouts over his shoulder. “You didn’t even let me respond; you just hopped out like you were on the run.” 

You stayed silent. What more could you say? He was right. He opens the passenger side, letting you slide in and shutting the door behind you. A few seconds later, he is on your other side, turning on the ignition. 

“You not a terrible person,” he breathes. “A terrible person wouldn’t come sprinting out of their doom in boots and a nice outfit trying to apologize. You said you’re sorry, and it’s fine.” “Is it?” 

“I mean, I’ll get over it,” he shrugs. “I wouldn’t have pulled you back here if I didn’t want to be around you. Now, do you still want to go back and forth about this, or do you want to make it up to me by going to this concert?” It’s a brief moment of silence as you seriously consider your options. You can tell Soonyoung is still bothered by what you did, but his small smile clarifies your decision. “Lead the way, tiger.”

He chuckles as he pulls out of the lot, pulling into a line of cars headed in the same direction. The sun starts to set, the golden hour hitting the horizon at the sea. You fold your arms, confused as to why he is being so nice to you, despite you being a bitch to him earlier. You haven’t felt forgiveness in a long time, which feels foreign. Uncomfortable. You hope this feeling will go away as the night goes on.

You mainly rode in silence aside from the music on the radio, and the hour trip to the venue seemed to be double that. You pull up to Bayfront Amphitheater, packed to the brim with people screaming their hearts out to the band onstage. Your heart skips in excitement, realizing what concert Soonyoung took you to. 

“The Foo Fighters?” you grin, unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ve been wanting to see them forever." “Yeah, I remember you were talking about it on the radio, so I figured why not,” his voice trails off. 

Your heart feels like it is going to burst at the seams. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you, and you had the nerve to be a bitch to him earlier. 

“Hey,” you clear your throat. “I’m sorry again. I feel really shitty about it.”

“I know,” he says. “Look, let’s just enjoy this concert, and I’ll forget about it, okay?” You nod, walking towards the loud music. The rhythm of the drums and guitar blended together, hyping the crowd. You let Soonyoung lead the way, checking your tickets and guiding you to your seats. The crowd is thick, with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol flowing freely, and everyone is caught in their own zone. You wouldn’t say you are claustrophobic, but being packed like sardines isn’t your definition of a good time. Soonyoung notices your discomfort and grabs your hand, holding tight until he finds your assigned seats. You felt safe with him, a tiny spark in you that made you swoon. 

“Are you okay?” He shouts over the noise. “Do you want a beer or anything?” “Nah, I’m good,” you shake your head. 

The opening act finishes their set, the crowd politely cheering as the members walk off the stage. There is a small intermission, with people disbursing from their seats to grab drinks or making quick trips to the bathroom. You can feel Soonyoung looking at you, his eyes burning into the left side of your face. You lick your lips and pull strands of your hair to the back of your ear, a blatant attempt at flirting. 

“Are you gonna stare at me all night?” You feel bold, turning your body towards him. “I might,” he purrs. “I have a beautiful, mysterious girl sitting beside me.”

“I’m not that mysterious. We’ve been talking for weeks.” ‘Yeah, in front of thousands of people on the radio. Now I have you all to myself, and I want to get to know the real you.”

“Uh huh,” you nod. “Well, I’m always the same on and off air. You’ll see.” “I hope so.” He smiles at you, and gotta admit the man can flirt. Soonyoung is devastatingly handsome, and he’s quick with his words. It excites you. You like being around people you can banter with and not take shit personally. It takes a load off your shoulders, not having to hold yourself back every time. You just want to be you and be free. It feels like Soonyoung is chasing the same thing. 

“I wouldn’t have predicted you’d be into rock bands like the Foo Fighters. What made you want to go to their concert aside from me?”

“Well, you might be surprised to hear this, but I actually like the band,” he laughs. “I’ve been following them since their debut.”

“Really?” you say. “That’s cool.” “What?” Soonyoung leans closer, your shoulder barely touching his. “Do I not seem like the Foo Fighters type?” “Aht aht,” you playfully wave your finger at him. “I’m not getting tripped up on that question.” You fell into a rhythm of laughter that felt natural as if you had been doing this all your life. Despite your fuck up, he makes you feel cozy and open. The sun makes one final appearance, shining its glorious light on his beautiful, tanned skin. You can fully admit to yourself that he’s handsome as fuck, taking him all in before the sun dips below the horizon. “No, but seriously, I don’t seem like the type to be into them?” You pause before responding, being careful with your answer. “On the surface, no. But I am learning that there is more to a person than meets the eye.” There is a comfortable silence between you two, the sweet-smelling breeze keeping you at bay as you sit and enjoy each other’s company. You have so much you want to say but don’t simultaneously. You savor this tiny bit of peace with him. “I think I am gonna grab a drink,” Soonyoung gets up suddenly. “Do you want anything?” “Yeah, like a juice or something.” You watch him leave, checking out his ass as he stands in the concessions line. Nice and firm, definitely a football player’s ass. You look away before being caught, watching the crew prepare for the next act. You feel like a young girl who just realized you have a crush on a boy. You’re giddy inside, hypersensitive to everything around you and how you look. You hope he finds you as attractive as he says he does, or if not, keep up the lie a little longer. You’ve been dealt many disappointments in your life, and you can’t let this be one of them. 

“Here. I got you a lemonade.”

You gaze up at Soonyoung, carefully grabbing the cup from his hand. He has a cup of beer in the other, sipping before making a face. You laugh in your cup, tasting your sweet drink with some tart. You feel refreshed and a little bit alive, thanks to him. “Ladies and gentlemen, who’s ready for the FOO FIGHTERS?”

The crowd erupts into a roar as the band joins the stage, getting their placements to perform. Jolts of electric excitement course throughout your body, screaming your heart out before the first string is played on the guitar. You’ve always wanted to see them in concert, being a huge fan of Nirvana and following Dave Grohl after. Despite everything, he seems like a rad guy, and

if you ever had the opportunity, you would want to pick his brain and jam out with him. “ARE YOU MUTHAFUCKERS READY?” Dave Grohl shouts into the mic. 

 You both scream as the first song is played, the drums scratching the excellent part of your brain while the guitars take you to another level. You look at Soonyoung, his attention on the band with his arms folded, in awe of the performance being given. He looks adorable, and all you can do is smile, satisfied that you are in this space and can experience this moment. The band keeps playing hit after hit, the energy around you making you want to levitate in the clouds. You haven’t been this happy in a long time. You reach the last song of the night, and the key changes, the guitars riffing into a song you know all too well. “I want everyone to sing this song with us— this is for the regular heroes out there.” 

You feel the emotion and intensity in Dave Grohl’s voice, making you emotional. The song is about the ordinary person and their potential; you wish your family saw your potential. You wish you could share your music with them and see you thrive in the elements you’re most comfortable in. But instead, you’ve been cast out, and as much as you worked hard to get over it, it hurts you deeply. “Are you okay?” Soonyoung looks at you wide-eyed; you’re unaware of the tears trickling down your face. All you want to do is be held and told everything will be okay. As if he read your mind, he holds your hand, his thumb rubbing your palm softly, keeping you anchored in your emotional storm. Nothing else needed to be said between you two; the song lyrics moved your spirit. Kudos, my hero

Leavin' all the mess

You know my hero

The one that's on

There goes my hero

Watch him as he goes

There goes my hero

He's ordinary

“Thank you for taking me to the concert. I had a really good time.”

You sit with Soonyoung in his car, sitting outside of your dorm. You talked about music all the

way back home, singling your hearts out to whatever is on the radio. Soonyoung is surprisingly a good singer, hitting some notes even better than you can. You wonder if he had any training. “I’m glad I was able to make it up to you,” he grins. “Oh, please,” you wave him off. I’m the one who started us on the wrong foot.” “True. But I think you more than made up for it tonight.” “Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes playfully. “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” 

“Why were you crying during the concert?” You knew this question would come eventually, but you still felt unprepared. You hadn’t really talked about your family life with anyone besides Nikki, but you were determined to keep it to yourself. But he makes you want to open up. “The song really hits me,” you point at your chest. “I feel every word and every percussion note as it plays. It reminds me of my mom and dad, and I wish they saw me as a normal person with their own aspirations rather than the person they want me to be. It was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Soonyoung nodded his head, understanding what you were saying. 

“My parents wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, and I just don’t see myself doing that. I fell in love with music and singing, and when I shared that I wanted to do songwriting full-time, they made me feel so low. Like I am stupid and naive for wanting a career in this. I would actually be happy.” You huff, wiping fresh tears off of your face. “I just wanted them to support me, but they couldn’t even do that. Aside from my grandparents, they cut me off completely.” “That’s not cool,” Soonyoung scoffs. “So they just went cold turkey and quit talking to you?” You nod, bitterly reliving the last conversation you had with them before you made no contact. “Why can’t our parents just let us live the lives we want? It’s like they want to live vicariously through us.” “Right?!” You exclaim. “See, you get it!”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he mumbled. You turn your body to look at him, studying his face and the possible thoughts he is having. You may see more eye to eye than you realize. ‘So, what’s your damage?” You poke at him. “It’s the same as yours,” he revealed. “They just want me to keep playing basketball so I can go into the big leagues and take care of everyone. I am essentially everyone’s meal ticket.” “Well, you don’t have to be,” you say. “You could just say fuck ‘em and live for yourself.” “Easier said than done,” he sighs. “I’m the first person in my family to attend college, and I actually like playing basketball. I believe in it, bleed it, all that… but whenever I am around my folks or friends, that’s all they want me to be about it. It’s like I’m not real. I am a person with complex interests and feelings, too.” 

“I know exactly what you mean, tiger.” 

You smile reassuringly; you understand that last sentence all too well. Your family would rather consider you the family fuck up, the black sheep, instead of understanding that you wanted different things. Why is that so fucking complicated? You stifle a yawn, looking at your watch and seeing how late it was.

“I really like talking to you and being around you,” Soonyoung confesses. I hope we can do it more.” “Yeah,” you gaze into his eyes. “ I would love that.” He walks you to your dorm, opens the doors, and holds your waist as you walk up the steps. His hands bring jitters and butterflies in your stomach that you hope you can experience more. You know you have a hard, cold exterior on the outside, but deep down, you want to feel love and adoration from someone. You hope Soonyoung can bring that. 

You never want this feeling to go away.

“Thank you for walking me in,” you say, unlocking the keys to your room. “I know I was being a bitch early, but thank you for showing me a good time anyway.” 

“It was worth it, seeing a smile on your face.” 

“Was it?” 

“Yeah,” he leans in closer. “I want to see it more.”

His lips touch yours, your chest bursting like fireworks as he deepens the kiss. Your arms rest on his shoulders, feeling natural and comfortable like a glove. He is gentle and kind, not doing too much but making you feel safe and like you can depend on him. It's crazy how one kiss can have you seeing your future. 

“We should do that more often,” you joke, leaving one last peck. He chuckles, pulling you into a hug. “We will. I’ll make sure to do it more often.” 

“Okay,” you say, walking into your dorm. “I’ll hold you to it.”

[drsantosgf]

What if Evan Buckley decides fuck it I quit my job because nothing makes me happy anymore and opens a bakery and then Tommy starts ordering pastries from him for the 217 and they finally reconcile after buck makes him the best damn chocolate muffins Tommy's ever eaten

Tommy's been ordering from this bakery for the last five years. After he was promoted to captain of the 217, he made it a point to bring in treats to win over his old coworkers turned employees. He orders a couple dozen muffins once every week to keep people happy. Originally, it was supposed to be one time but goddamn if they weren't the best damn muffins Tommy's ever had. His crew was happy enough with the incentive and it became somewhat of a tradition at Harbor that a delivery boy would show up at their door with a few pristine white boxes to hand over to Captain Kinard. 

Five years and he's never had a problem getting the pastries delivered on time. Early in the morning of the day of delivery, before the sun even came up, he got an email explaining that his delivery had been cancelled and a refund had been processed. 

"Shit," Tommy wipes the sleep from his eyes and sits up. He has to get to work in a few hours and he knows his crew well enough to know how cranky they'd be if they had nothing to start the morning with. He fumbles out of bed, throws on his clothes, and heads down to the bakery to see what he can do. 

It's a little place not too far from Harbor. It's called something like Emergency Eats, it has a cliche first responder theme. First responders get a 15 percent off discount with each order so the weekly spending makes it a little worth it. 

Tommy rushes inside, the sun barely having risen and the cold morning air settling on his skin. The bakery is light and warm around him. It feels like one of those places someone would call home. The decor stays true to the theme and centers firefighters. On the wall behind the counter, there's a mural of a fire station. Along the wall in the dining area, there are pictures of different first responders. He recognizes Athena in one and smiles to himself. The tiles are black and white checkered and there's even a fire pole standing next to the counter. He walks up to it and rings the gaudy bell that hangs from the ceiling that says “pull for service” despite the immense amount of cringe he feels while doing it. 

“Be right there!” 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

He knows that voice. He’s spent five years thinking about this voice, dreaming about it, being haunted by it. He’s spent five years feeling terrified of hearing it on the radio, at an emergency, on the street. 

Evan Buckley walks through the curtain that covers the entrance to the kitchen, holding a tray of pink and white colored cookies. 

“Oh fuck,” Buck’s face goes ghostly white and his knuckles strain to keep grip on the tray. 

The room is still and quiet in the soft morning glow. The black and white tiles are painted with the delicate shadows casted from the trees lining the sidewalk. The two men breathe the same air and let the shock wash over them. 

Tommy isn’t allowed to break the silence first. He relinquished that right when he walked out of Buck’s life five years ago. Buck seems to pick up on the fragile air between them and breaks the quiet for the both of them, “Are you here about your muffins?” He sounds apologetic, maybe a little weak. 

“Uh,” Tommy kicks up invisible dust on the ground, “Yeah, I was gonna see if I could order something else if you’re out of the ones I normally order.” 

“Okay, listen, I’m sorry about the delivery mishap, it’s just that normally I have more people delivering but most of them are out sick and I’ve been so busy lately and I just-” 

Buck continues babbling while Tommy only half listens, questions burning in throat. 

“Is this your shop?” Tommy interrupts. 

Buck’s face dances between expressions before landing on surprised, “I thought you-” he cuts himself off and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, this is my shop.” 

“You're not at the 118 anymore? You're-you’re not a firefighter?” 

Buck glanced down at his feet and puts the tray of cookies down on the counter. He takes a deep breath and speaks, “I thought maybe Eddie or Chimney would have told you.” 

Tommy furrows his brows, “We don't talk that much about-” he swallows, “you know…” About Buck. About them. About the breakup. He hasn't heard a word about Buck in five years. He hasn't even heard his name. 

“Yeah,” Buck nods his understanding. 

“Yeah,” Tommy agrees. 

“Um, yeah, this is my shop,” Buck continues, “I opened it about five years ago. A few months after.” 

They're dancing around saying it. Tommy's not sure how much longer they can keep this up for. 

“Why’d you quit?” Tommy asks. That's the question at the center of this whole thing. Why, why, why. 

Buck blinks, like he’s got something at the tip of his tongue but it caught between his teeth, “Few reasons.” He looks down at his legs again, “Uh, I got into an accident a while back. It took me out of the field for a while and I-” Buck stops and searched for the words, “I couldn't think of many reasons to go back to how things were before so I figured it was time for a fresh start.” 

Tommy lets the information wash over him. He can't imagine Buck being content with being out of the field but this bakery- it's tribute to first responders, it's pictures on the wall of smiling firefighters and dispatch operators- it's peaceful. It's like he’s found the happiest middle ground possible. 

“P-plus, I teach on the side,” Buck adds like an afterthought, “Part time, it's good money. Only have class a few days a week so it gives me time to run the bakery and keep business up.” 

Tommy smiles at that. Buck was always a busy-body, constantly needing to be moving in order to stay stimulated. Without being a firefighter, Tommy had wondered how he manages with all the extra free time but of course Buck would fill the days however he could. He’s never been sedentary and he won't start now. 

“Sounds like you've been busy,” Tommy comments lamely. Like he's a stranger. Like this is just small talk. It's almost nice. The small talk- pretending these small intimacies are something he still gets to enjoy. 

A moment passes before Buck claps his hands, “Your muffins!” He disappears into the kitchen and bustles around. Tommy can see his shadow passing through the window in the center of the wall. 

When Buck re-emerges, he’s holding the signature box of muffins that gets delivered to his station. “For you. We had them, it's just that I couldn't get them to you. Sorry about that.” 

Tommy shakes his head and steps forward to grab them, “No, don't worry about it. They're just for my crew, I’m the captain now and I’m trying to keep everyone happy.” 

“Captain?” Buck quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head, and smirks. Tommy's heart hurts. “You've been busy too.” 

“You could say that,” Tommy tries not to overthink whether or not it sounds like he’s flirting. He doesn't know if he intends it or not. Instead he focuses on the way Buck ducks his head and hides his smile. Tommy feels like a wrong move here is going to cost him. He wants to be delicate, he wants to flirt, he wants to friend-zone him, he wants to reach across the counter and pull him in and never let him go. It's been five years, it's been seconds, it's been no time at all. Seeing Buck again feels like taking your first breath after being underwater for too long. His lungs are burning. The right thing to do is to keep burning. It's selfish to do anything else. To gasp for breath the way he wants to. But- 

“Listen, Buck, if it's easier on you guys,” Tommy mentally flays himself for starting the sentence, “I could swing by in person instead. So you don't have to worry about delivering to us.” 

Buck considers him. Tommy waits for him to say what they both already know. That it’s not a good idea, they should lose contact, forget each other. 

Buck sucks his teeth. Suddenly, Tommy feels a wall rise between them. Then he exhales and says, “On one condition.” 

Tommy shrugs, keeping himself nonchalant, “Of course.” Anything, obviously, I’d do anything. 

“You can't call me Buck. It’s Evan or nothing” 

Every alarm is going off in his head. Red, blaring sirens that have always told when to run sing through his skull and fall on deaf ears. 

“I can do that, Evan.” 

Evan smiles. For the time, the smile finally reaches his eyes. They twinkle like they used to. This is such a bad idea. 

“Same time next week?” Tommy holds the basket with one hand and does finger guns with the other. He’ll never stop embarrassing himself. 

“You know where to find me,” Evan leans against the wall, blue apron tied cutely around his waist. There's a pink tint to his cheeks that Tommy tries not to read into. Gentle is the name of the game and he’s trying not to let himself expect anything he shouldn't. They're just two old friends catching up once a week. Tommy's just a customer in Evan’s shop. They hardly know each other anymore. 

Maybe they’ll get to know each other better than before he cut loose and ran. Or maybe Tommy will just become a recurring customer. He’s nervous to find out which. Either way, he leaves the shop far too excited for the week to come to an end. His crew comment on his quote-unquote glowing cheeks and far off look in his eyes. 

Picking up muffins becomes Tommy’s favorite part of the week. 

[alastorsfuckassbob]

We'll Meet Again

Alastorxfem!reader

Part two to "you're never fully dressed without a smile"

Plot: You're down infamously bad for Alastor. You work for a shift for Valentino and somehow you end up at everyone's favorite hell based hotel! I swear to god you will make physical contact with deal Al by chapter 3.

A/N: OH GOD THIS IS A LONG ONE, and honestly for an Alastor fic really Valentino and Angel Dust focused- but like any good story there are more than two characters so we should develop them✨

As always, minors DNI-

Somehow we got spicer and a bit more angsty so read the warnings and think critically if its something you really want to read

⚠️WARNINGS⚠️

-Domestic Violence, Abusive Relationships

-Swearing

-Valentino (has to be its own warning)

-Smoking and Alcohol use

-Sexual Innuendo

"Y/n"

"Y/n, please let me hear you. Your voice lights a fire within me that I cannot ignore"

The static popped, heartfelt and genuine, the phrase echoing throughout the dimly lit room and deep into the pits of your soul. It reminded you of those late nights spent at the studio with him. Of the memories you had created with him, you spent the least time mulling over your time at the station. It was just too much to handle, you would sit for hours talking about whatever fancies fit the time, swaying to the complex chords and swing of the music. No matter what mood you walked in with, it vanished the moment your frame entered his arms. Your hand grazed the edge of your cheek in the mirror imagining how his hand traced the outline of your face as it so often used to do. The show had hundreds of listeners, you were speaking to the world so it would appear, but anything and everything you said or played was made strictly for each-other.

Here you were, lost in time once again. You had missed those little moments, far more than you anticipated. You had always been one to get lost following the tracks of memory. but this..this was different, your body felt as if it was buzzing. His honey lined transatlantic accent reverberated throughout your skull. Sickeningly sweet, holding desperation but still not depravity. It lacked the typical Sadism and savagery, a commonality in your hellish experience. The wicked pair usually found itself wrapped around your arm and caught against your throat. You had become accustomed to those feelings of desperation, but somehow his was different. He hadn't said much of anything and it felt like he had bottled every sweet nothing and loving whisper he had uttered in your direction throughout your life, and poured them into his tonality all at once. The static grew heavier.

"Y/-n y-y-N"

his voice became distorted and crackled. He kept speaking but the words were mangled and malformed. You couldn't quite make out what he was attempting to get across. You couldn't lose him not another time, even if you hadn't really "had him" again.

It was enough to send you into a fit of desperation.The incoherencies faded out, only deafening static remained .

"Alastor"

your wavering voice filled with alarm. You rushed to the radio nearly falling of the counter as you did so. You feverishly tuned the knob hoping for just another moment with him, even if it was just audibly. The electricity crackles, and dark grey smoke erupts from the small box and into your face. You cough rapidly upon contact. The fire sparks, promptly melting the exterior of the radio.

"shit fuck shit fuck shit"

You rasp between coughs. Something ablaze was not entirely out of the ordinary, yet you remained panicked. you thoughtlessly unplug the radio, scalding your hands in the process. Not knowing what else to do, you throw the newly aflame radio into the tub. It wheezes out another plume of smoke before sinking down into the water.

"well that isn't..ideal"

You decide its a tomorrow issue and head off to sleep. Still slightly shaken up, you throw on a silky nightgown and plop into your bed. You wouldn't find peace in your sleep, you never did. You closed your eyes unready to face your demons but too exhausted to care.

The next day comes to pass sooner than you'd care to admit. You don't feel well rested, but you can't find it in yourself to go back to sleep. Your thoughts are still so dreadfully plagued with Alastor. The way his lips felt on your own, the soft gentle curl of his hair. Everything aspect of him was so fundamentally perfect. Even his so called flaws. He may be an attention seeking idiot, but he was your attention seeking idiot. That was all that mattered. You'd be happy to do most anything to supply him his attention fix. You looked at the clock across from your bed, it was already noon. You had told Angel you'd be at the club around one. Unhappily, you rolled out of bed grabbing another outfit from your closet to change into. You applied some simple mascara, and tied up your hair. You could finish getting read with Angel Dust like you usually did.

You arrive at the club meet Angel, you liked to arrive a few hours before your call time just to talk with each other. You had vastly different schedules but you made it work. You walk through the lobby watching other scandalously dressed demons go about their daily life. You could have sworn you saw a flick of shadow watching you from behind the other inhabitants. You shook it off, you didn't sleep well, its possible you're just seeing things.

You arrive at your dressing room, and knock at the door. Its a calm and quiet environment. The eye before the storm working tonight will plunge you both into.

"the fuck do you want, can't a guy do his eyeliner in peace"

you roll your eyes before opening the door, he glances back at you.

"oh hey toots, didn't expect you so soon- you're not late"

"Fuck off angel"

you sit down in your chair and begin brushing out your hair. Val was very particular about the image you portrayed, even if your hair was already curly he'd want it to curl differently, If it was straight, he'd want it consistent coiffed to his liking.

If you didn't have hair he'd probably get you a wig of some kind. You glance down at the black porcelain mask on the counter. It was delicately painted with small golden roses. It was the only thing between you and an army of horny fans. Angel finishes his eyeliner with a small flick of a wing.

He stands up and takes the brush from you. He combs through the ends making sure there aren't any tangles left before grabbing the curling iron. To be quite honest, you both absolutely sucked at doing your own hair, so you did each others. It was nice, and he always made you look good. You had known angel for quite some time, you felt like you knew who he was but nothing about him.

He was always rather private about the details of his life before hell. You had gathered he was Italian by his sound, and that he had been involved with the mob from small anecdotes he sometimes shared.

It didn't really matter who he used to be, he was your friend and you loved him.

"I mean this in the nicest way possible y/n, but you look like shit" He grabbed a strand of your hair wrapping it around the wand.

"oh gee thanks" you deadpan

"long night?" he asks releasing your hair from the curling wand scrunching it slightly.

"something like that, how about you, you look shockingly well rested, and i doubt its just the concealer"

"I'm staying at a new place" he continues working his way around your head.

"Val let you leave?" a hint of shock permeated your voice

"he can't dictate where i stay when i'm off the clock babe" He grabs a smaller curling want and begins with some small face framing pieces.

"does he know?" you ask hesitantly. You didn't want to upset him.

"I don't think he's caught on yet, probably figures I'm just out getting drunk and high off my ass"

"to be fair you often are"

"you're no angel either y/n" He rolls his eyes, he picks up the larger wand again and re-curls a few more of the back pieces.

"where did you move off to?"

You were lucky to have your own apartment. Most souls under contract with Valentino stayed in the complex....Your situation wasn't much better but it was enough. To be completely honest, you only lived about a ten minute walk from here. It wasn't much of a distance, but it was far enough Valentino would rather call upon some other, closer, unlucky soul outside of work hours to do his bidding. It was good enough. It was shocking to hear Angel had managed to find someplace with his cocaine habit and how little Val payed us.

"Its that rickety hotel on the edge of the Pride ring, I know it doesn't sound like much but its free" You almost visibly buffered from shock. How did he manage that? Then it hits you, he's probably sleeping there for free because he's sleeping with someone.

"who'd you have to fuck to get a room there"

"y/n" he groaned, slightly annoyed by your antics.

"No angel I'm serious, its hell people don't just give things out for free" you mused at his reaction.

"I didn't have to fuck anyone, its run by the princess, shes trying to rehabilitate souls"

"is that even possible" your mind began to swim with possibility.

"i dunno, i don't really care. It gives me a space to just exist..as myself..away from all of this"

your hand finds his way into one of his.

"i understand what you mean" your voice comes out no more than a whisper.

He continues curling your hair silently for a bit. Angel had his issues but he was a good person. He just found himself in a bad situation. Unexpectedly, he broke the silence. You two had a lot in common, including your tendencies of avoidance.

"you should live there too y/n, its free, and theres a bar, the bartender isn't too bad looking either."

You smile at the thought, it would be nice to get away from it all. Thats all it could be though, a thought. You were already on such thin ice with Val.

"Angie dear it sounds nice, but we both know I'm already Val's least favorite sinner. I shouldn't aggravate him more" you say with a defeated huff. Angel wraps another tendril of your h/c hair around the wand

"You can't let his life be your only life. I'm not stupid doll, I know you've been spending a lot more time around here." He's visibly and audibly frustrated.

He stays quiet for a minute picking up another strand of your hair.

"you're more than what you can do for Valentino okay? you were a person before you're still a person after, don't let him take everything from you." his voice becomes quiet, almost unrecognizable. Its velvety in a way, he speaks almost as if he's telling you just as much as he's telling himself Its the realest you've ever seen him be.

He quickly shakes it off

"his ugly mug cant be the only thing you see, I swear to god every time I look at him I throw up a little" He releases your hair from the curling iron stepping back to admire his work.

"now don't you look riveting" A jokingly seductive tone takes hold of his voice.

Your mind sparks with an idea, why complain about Val when you can just straight up mock him?

You stand up, rushing to the clothing rack, sift through the items before finding a long cherry red robe. Naturally its angel's. Its far too long for you, the second set of arms gets a little confusing, but eventually you slide it on. You sit back seductively on the counter mocking good ol Valentino.

"angel dust! you slut! you're fucking 20 guys before lunch! " You cross your arms dramatically before standing up on the counter. You strut across, being careful not to step on any of his things, but still maintaining the destructive energy Val usually carries.

A wild smile courses through your features, you grab the magazine Angel had been reading before you came in and throw it back into his face.

"Heres the 40 page shockingly kinky script about some kidnapping scene in France you have an hour to memorize, ignore the syntax errors and improvise!" He looks up at you baffled. I mean, you were right-He starts laughing uncontrollably,

"y/n what the fuck" he sputters out

You laugh along with him. He reaches up placing his arms around your waist, putting you onto the ground with very minimal effort. For a second you feel a bit like a house cat hopeless dragged off the counter. Angel was shockingly strong, for such a lanky guy he certainly wasn't flimsy or weak

A smug look overtakes his features

"let me show you how its really done"

He takes the robe off of your body and dawns it himself. He whips out a pair of bedazzled pink sunnies. Tilting them down, he gives you a cheeky wink. Once the knot of the belt is tied he is fully into character

"My siren! Y/n."

"oh god" you roll your eyes as angel begins his display. He walks across the room dragging you with him before twirling you into his arms. You cant help but be a little dizzy at the sudden motion.

"y/n, baby! You have made much so much money with that truly bodacious rack" He swings his arm around your waist. You both stifle a laugh as he drags his second set of hands across the shape of your body in the air in front of you.

"Angel I don't think Valentino would ever utter the phrase "bodacious rack", at least not in this existence" You form your fingers into little air quotes playfully rolling your eyes at him

"shh toots i am working on a real character here"

"Angel" you sigh

"shh" he hushes you again placing his finger against your lips.

Your collective antics go on for a little over two hours, stopping only briefly for you to style his fleecy hair. He looks at the clock before letting out an aggravated sigh. He pulls his body up from his chair.

"I gotta go doll, Val has me shootin yet another new movie before we shoot the scheduled "film", perks of being Hell's best actor" He grumbles grabbing his robe off of the floor leaving you alone in your shared dressing room.

You continued getting ready, expertly styling your newly curled hair and applying a thick coat of deep red lipstick. It wasn't too long after the door swung open. The suffocating smell of lust filling your lungs.

"My dear sweet y/n! how about we lose the mask for tonight?" Valentino burst into the room as if he owned the place. To be fair, he did. You still found it a bit off putting he didn't knock. Despite your profession, you valued privacy.

"Val-" You began, he cut you off.

"I don't believe I was asking." a smirk decorated his sly features.

"Respectfully, sir. It's not within my contract to appear as I truly am."

This shit again. Val was always on your ass about this. He always wanted more. Usually after a few minutes of arguing, he'd give up. There was nothing else he could do, so you don't think much of it. You pull out a cigarette, flicking the lighter, the small white stick begins to blaze.

You blow a cloud of hot red smoke in his direction. He rolls his eyes gritting his teeth in frustration. He takes a deep breath, sordid displays of force didn't work the best on you. You'd be frightened, but your stance would rarely change. Not unless he got physically violent, and quite honestly he was not in the mood today. You were not the most important thing to deal with. Its not that he didn't want to hurt you, he didn't want to waste his time. He tries a lighter, more manipulative approach.

"Think of how much success your beautiful little face would bring us. Sinners and Hell born alike already get off to your body, its just revealing a little bit more"

"No, I won't do it" your voice is small but resolute. He didn't have the patience for this. As soon as the word "no" left your lips Val had begun to lose it. "Wasting time" became a lot less important. Members of the Ars Goetia family would be present in tonight's audience. You had to look your best, so he could look his best.

"You are going to out there without that fucking mask and give all of hell a good show. You won't like what happens if you don't listen." He growled through gritted teeth

"Its breaking the contract. Val" You take another lazy puff from your cigarette. He ripped the cigarette from your hand, throwing it on the ground. He was done with your shit.

"I own you. Did you forget that, I own your body and your voice. you speak only when i want you to. You fuck who I choose. The only thing you technically have a right to is your name, isn't that right my little siren?"

His voice is sleazy to say the least, the tone makes you shudder. You couldn't help but think,

...was he right? you had asked to be anonymous, you never thought to specify how. He continued before you had a real chance to observe your thoughts. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, snakelike and seductive. He was getting tired of this, tired of you.

"the mask is getting old, hell will get tired of you if you don't give them more. you won't like what happens if they deem you all washed up.."

You attempt to move away, His grasp on your arm grows tighter. You flinch slightly from the pain, but not enough for him to notice. He wants to elicit a reaction in you, perhaps if you stay calm he'll give up.

"I have some very specific clientele coming to tonights show I need you to wow them"

You could hardly believe the audacity. Sure, Valentino was always kind of a prick but this complete and total discount of your previously agreed terms was relatively new. He had suggested removing the mask before and brought it up countless times, but this level of disregard was new. Screw being calm you weren't about to be this fundamentally disrespected.

"No I won't do tha- " his hand waves cutting you off. your voice caught in your throat the sigil on your hand marking his ownership glowing a dull faded pink.

"I can do whatever I please. I've let you forget that, I've been going too easy on you. Rereading our little contract brought me the enlightenment I needed. Those who bite don't get to speak" he pauses moving away from you taking in your figure.

"it looks like you'll just be dancing tonight, and what a wonderful performance that is going to be."

The click of his shoes taps against the stark white tile as he walks towards the clothing rack in the edge of the room. He hums, picking out a dark red burlesque outfit. He exchanges it for the mask from the table and breaks it in his hand.

"I think a more revealing number will compensate more than enough for your silence..don't you?"

Your last defense had been shattered. The last ounce of your personage robbed for the sake of pleasing some sleazy unsavory high end customer. You tried to speak but the words stayed nestled inside of you. You wanted to scream or talk honestly you'd take a whisper at this point, still, nothing. The anger in your heart welled its way up into your throat and without an outlet, your frustration took root in your tears."Great" you thought, "just what i needed to look respectable, yet another crying fit."

He grabs you by your shoulders, it had never registered how small you were in comparison. You knew he was tall, but in ten years, you'd never noticed how much taller he was. Usually the moth hunched over in some way to communicate better as his eyesight is less than superior...Yet here he stood a good three or four feet taller than you, anger almost visibly steaming off of his purple fur. two of his hands grasped firmly on your newly bruised shoulder, the other on your neck, and the last raised and ready to strike you. Closing your eyes you accept your fate. the contact comes and as soon as it does you are sprawled on the floor. Unable to move, unable to run. You had never been strong enough to fight. After all you were still the same person you were in 1936 and long after that. Your nose gushes blood, splattering droplets onto the tile as he abruptly jerks you up from the floor.

"maldita cabrona! quién se cree que es?"

he tuts clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It sounds oddly like the loading of a gun. Every aspect of his body was drenched this newly violent attitude. His moth like horns lined with anticipation, twitching with every rigid breath.

Valentino had gotten rough with you before but not like this. This time, it felt more real. He leans in closer, his face directly in front of your own. From another angle perhaps the pose looked sweet,loving even. The thought made you sick.His arm rested against your shoulder, just forceful enough to cause you pain but not so harsh to send you tumbling to the ground again. The sharp talons tipping his long fingers traced the edge of your face, deep red blood madly racing after it. He would have killed you then in there if you weren't such a "valuable asset".

"Next time you'll learn to listen, I've killed fuckers for less than this shit you're giving me. If I don't have the patience with angeldust I certainly won't have it with you, even if you're named hell's favourite pequeña pecadora." He pauses glaring deep into your eyes

"I made you y/n, i can take that away and kill you myself whenever i please. try not to forget that again"

His inflection is wickedly sweet, but not sugary enough to hide his true malice.

He grunts in frustration, throwing you against the dressing room table, the back of your head shatters the mirror. An all too familiar feeling. He laughs viewing the position he's put you in, it is a dry, heartless, and dirty sound. The silence after is chilling. You close your eyes bracing for another impact that just doesn't come. He must have gotten bored with you, he usually did after a while. The door finally slams, the lights of the dressing room flicker and then click off. You slide down onto the floor, all you are left with is the small pool of blood and regret.

The performance that night felt like an eternity. Your skin practically peeling off as lustful eyes burned holes through your skin. You had drank a few more than too many cocktails. It wasn't nice to refuse a gift, and it kept you a little less than fully conscious. stumbling through the hallway you arrived once again at your dressing room. you sat down hopelessly viewing the dark purple bruises formed from your previous alteration through the shattered remnants of your mirror. So much for not "damaging the merchandise" as Val would so often say.A soft knock rattles you from your thoughts. the door creaks open and Angel Dust slides in. You silently look at each other's exhausted frame and scratched faces. Angel was the closest thing you had ever had to a friend, and just about the only person who could ever understand what you're going through. After all, your experience was modeled after his.

"Whats wrong y/n? cat got your tongue?"

Despite his exhaustion he kept up his usual performance. You didn't respond, you couldn't. The tears so expertly rimmed in your eyes threaten to fall. His expression falters and he walks up to you hugging you tightly. You didn't need to say or do anything to explain. He knew exactly what you were going through. For just a moment you relax into his arms.

A minute or so passes and you break the contact. You figure a little context wouldn't hurt. You motion to the glowing sigil on your wrist and then to your throat, hoping he understood the signal.

"You can't speak can ya doll?" He asked softly his hand ruffling your hair. You shook your head no.

"God i hate that fucking prick, he can't just play fair. Maybe if he did that sorry fuck wouldn't be making shitty porn and running washed out clubs for a living". He angrily paces around the room. As he speaks you grab an eyeliner pen and the back of some flier someone left taped to your door. It seemed like the easiest way to communicate. You messily scrawl the words

"Can I stay with you I promise its just for one night"

He takes the page from you a smile taking root.

"damn toots what happened to not mixing personal and professional life?" he joked. You sat there motionless, tears threatening to spill. He takes the hint and grabs a coat off of the rack wrapping it around your shoulders.

"I thought you'd never ask-I've been dying to hang out outside this shit hole. Let's head out, Its gonna rain soon and these boots are too hot to be messing with that acid bullshit"

He posed albeit dramatically earning a smile from you. He tilts his head towards the door and the two of you leave the messy dressing room behind. It was one of the few things you didn't have to worry about. After all, Valentino values appearances, any mess you had made would be gone in the morning. In one way or another, you could fuck up any way and make any mess, and Val would have it cleaned up. The only messes he wouldn't fix were the ones he made himself. The cuts on your body always lasted longer than your reflection in a broken mirror. Unlike you the mirror could be fixed.

Not long after you arrive at this so called "Hazbin Hotel"..you didn't have much to say other than it...seemed fitting. You walk up a few flights of carpeted stairs. His hand calmly connected to yours. He continues down the long winding hallway before reaching a large wooden door at the end. He unlocks the room, and it is exactly what you'd imagine it to be. An embodiment of everything "angel dust".

A few hours and a pack of cigarettes later, the rain starts. The acid falls from the sky burning sinners and generally..most everything in its path. The sizzle on the sidewalk almost sounds like the crackle of a record player. Leaning further back into his bed, you pull out yet another cigarette. Your hand waves, gesturing towards the box and Angel takes the last of the pack. He lights the end of yours first and then clicks the lighter again in an attempt to get his own fix. However the lighter had other plans, it pops and ticks before sputtering out completely. He strikes it a few more times to no avail

"Shit what does a guy gotta do to get a decent lighter in this shit hole"

His arms raised above his head in some odd exaggerated performance of anger. Despite the lack of necessity, you found the fake drama to be amusing. It reminded you of Alastor in some strange way. It was different than the usual drama you found yourself viewing. Hell is full of overdramatic assholes, at least Angel isn't.. cruel. You take the first hit of your newly lit cigarette. The pink smoke fizzling into your lungs, giving you a sense of calm you cant really find anywhere else.

"What you aren't gonna share?" he deadpans before he presses the edge of his previously unlit cigarette to yours.

You look at him as if to say "Angel you dumb bitch that never actually works you're just going to put mine out and then we'll both be miserable"

He rolls his eyes with his signature smug look. He presses his cigarette a bit closer to your own. Shockingly it lit up in a hot pink flame.

"Working with Val sucks but at least you learn a few useful things",

He deeply inhaled from his own newly lit cigarette, puffing the strawberry coloured smoke into your very clearly unamused face. Still. you couldn't help but laugh.. or you tried to anyway, not that it would have worked. You took another long delightful drag and sent the smoke his way. A fit of giggles ensued, at least on his part. You were just happy it worked and he didn't end up pissed off.

The action made you wonder, what if you weren't just meant to hurt others. perhaps you could light them up instead of burning them down. You sat there for about another hour, listening to Angel's sleep deprived rambles. It wasn't too much long after that your own exhaustion finally carried you safely into a well deserved slumber. It was peaceful, the most restful night you'd had since your fall into this desolate shit pit known as hell..For once you didn't "dream." You weren't haunted with his face. His shadow didn't suffocate you. The ghost of your past stayed simply that, a ghost.

The night passes swiftly. Almost as quickly as the stars had appeared they retreated deep into the hazy maroon sky and bright carmine clouds. The rain had stopped, somehow the damages caused weren't entirely discernible from the average look of things. It was then you heard radio static again.

Familiar and soothing, his gravelled voice broadcast to the denizens of hell.

"Good morning to all of you lovely listeners ! Today's broadcast is brought to you by hell's favourite sinner, what isn't to love about that little starlet. Tune on in dearest, I've been hearing so much about you."

the music started softly carried by the wind and into your ears. You felt intoxicated.

We'll meet again

Dont know where, dont know when

but I know we'll meet again some sunny day

Keep smiling through, just like you always do

til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away

It was irrevocably, unmistakably unquestionably him.

Alastor, your Alastor.. was in hell. Not to mention an overlord (shocker there). Despite that fact, you were evidently on his mind. He was speaking to you and only you. There was nothing you could do to respond.

So you listened, to his voice, the instrumentation, the melody, everything. Maybe it would somehow bring you closer to him...

Unbeknownst to the both of you, you were no more than a few rooms apart, enjoying your stay at the Hazbin Hotel.

a/n: I SWEAR I PROMISE YOU, ANGEL, AND ALASTOR ARE GONNA WRECK THAT LITTLE FUCKERS SHIT, dw

[raz-writes-the-thing]

First Picnic (Good Omens One-Shot)

Crowley x Fem!Reader 18+ / requests are open

Summary: You talk Crowley into going on a picnic date with you.

Fic type: fluff, smut

GOMENS: @coffee-and-red-lipstick @quickslvxrr @clarina04 @motionlessindoubt @stevekempscocktails @go-bonkers-go-foolish @peytonpenguin37 @florduarte @complimentary-breadbasket @thekirbishow @jaziona92 (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you’d asked Crowley to come on a picnic with you, he’d grumbled a bit for an hour or two and then finally caved. You’d known that he would. He couldn’t say no to you even if he tried. He was enraptured by you. Utterly and completely. 

You’d given him a kiss on the cheek and asked him to be ready the next day around ten in the morning. You’d sort everything out except the wine. If he wanted that, he’d have to pick which one. Not that you or he minded that particular task. Crowley was quite the connoisseur with his wines. 

That left you to sort the blanket, snacks and cutlery. Not a problem. You’d spent the afternoon shopping for things that you might like to bring. An expensive cheese, some nice crackers, cheese board meats and some scones. That would probably do you, given that Crowley didn’t eat much- it would mostly be you nibbling on things, but you might manage to get him to try the cheese, maybe. 

The next morning you were waiting excitedly by the door, hat and basket grasped in one hand, and phone in the other. Crowley had said he’d text you when he was there to get you, and it was now 10:01 in the morning. Crowley wasn’t usually late to things, and just as you were about to start worrying- you heard the telltale sounds of Bentley rubber on asphalt. 

You locked the door behind you, settled your belongings safely in the backseat and sat down on the passenger side. 

“Good morning,” you beamed as Crowley took off towards the secluded picnic area you’d picked out for you both. 

“Morning,” Crowley replied, giving you a soft but tired smile. Ah, not a morning person, then. 

You both made idle conversation on the hours drive up to the picnic location, and you found yourself learning a lot of things about Crowley on the way. Namely, that his driving terrified you, and secondly, that he listened to a lot of Queen. Like, a lot of Queen. 

“Sorry,” he said, changing the station on the radio only for it to settle on another Queen track. “The old girl likes her Queen.” He petted the dashboard of his car and you nodded as if that explained anything. It didn’t. 

When you finally got to the picnic spot, you were definitely grateful for the chance to get out and stretch your legs. 

Crowley, ever the gentleman- took the things out of the backseat and set them up in the shade by a rather large oak tree. You both leaned up against it and Crowley broke out the wine he’d chosen. It looked old and expensive. You weren’t usually one for wine, but you took a glass from his outstretched hand anyway.

“For wine, this is surprisingly good,” you said thoughtfully, swishing the liquid around in the glass. 

“Mm- glad you think so,” Crowley replied with a charming smile. He took a sip of his own glass and sighed happily. “You know, this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It’s quite nice, really, isn’t it.” 

You snorted as you shoved a cube of cheese into your mouth and shoved his shoulder lightly. 

Once you swallowed it down and once you both had finished off your glass of wine, you stood up and ushered him towards the lake across the grass. By the time you got there, there was a trail of clothes leading back to the tree.

Naked, you waded into the water. You sighed with relief as you discovered the water was the perfect temperature after being in direct sunlight all day. 

You waded further out and gestured towards Crowley with a come hither motion. He was powerless to resist and found himself wading in after you. He wasn’t usually one for being submerged in water, but he was so focused on you that it didn’t seem to bother him. 

You swam back towards him and coiled your legs around his waist. Unabashedly, you pressed your lips to his and were met with his split tongue. That was not unexpected, though, of course, as he did like to open up your kisses and deepen them as soon as he could. 

“Greedy,” you mocked with a sly grin. His tongue tasted of his expensive wine, and his arms wrapped around you to squeeze your ass. 

You rolled your hips back against his hands and delighted in the grunting noise he made in response. You pulled away from his lips to press kisses up his jaw. 

Crowley was watching you with hungry eyes as one of those hands trailed under your ass to slither closer to your cunt. He arched a brow in question as he softly rubbed the folds there- asking permission. 

With one hand, you reached down to grasp his own and rub his fingers against your hole in invitation. Crowley let out a very horny ‘ngk’ sound and plunged two fingers inside you. 

Your head drooped back, exposing your neck to Crowley who then eagerly nipped, sucked and bit at the skin until the column of your throat was mottled with hickeys and bruises. How you were going to cover these in the middle of Summer was a complete mystery to you, but you were sure you’d managed it. 

You could just hear Aziraphale taunting you now- “savagely mauled by a bear, were we?” 

The thought made your lips turn in a coy little smile, though they dropped open in a pleased moan when Crowley hooked his fingers into your g-spot rather ruthlessly. 

“Fuck, Crowley,” you whispered. Your arms tightened around his neck and with his spare hand, he pulled you closer onto his lap.

 

The water was a balm against your heated skin, and the juxtaposition of such different temperatures on your body only served to turn you on all the more. 

Crowley’s thumb rubbed at your clit then, tight little circles in just the right way that had you canting your hips towards his hand. 

“Crowley- don’t stop-” you panted, rolling your hips into his thumb, basking in the pleasure he was playing along your body. 

“Mm- no, don’t think I will, Pet,” he agreed, nosing at the side of your throat. “Reactions are far too pretty for me to stop, don’t you think?”

 

You nodded desperately, panting harder as you felt your body readying itself to cum. Releasing a whimper, you knew that Crowley wasn’t going to stop until you came for him. Your hips jerked, but he brought them right back into place. 

You cried out as that coil began to tighten, your muscles tensing all over as you got closer, and closer, and closer until-

“Cum for me, Pet,” he growled in your ear before licking a stripe up your neck. 

You cried out as the coil crashed open, causing you to shudder and jerk in Crowley’s arms. The water lapped around you at your skin and the pleasure coursed through you. Crowley cooed next to your ear, fingers finally starting to slow but still working you through it. 

“That’s it, love,” he comforted, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That’s it. Good girl.” 

You slowly came down from that peak, melting into Crowley’s embrace quite happily. You could get used to this. 

“So- first picnic,” you said, swishing your hand in the water. “What do you think?” 

Crowley snorted behind his sunglasses. 

“I think we should do this more often.” 

You couldn’t agree more.

[pumpkinsy0]

Since Christmas eve is in t-minus 2 hours and 19 minutes, hcs for curly celebrating Christmas at the Curtis house?? Why is here there? Idk but he is!!

i made it to new jersey for christmas i am cold, tired, and ready to go

ik im late bc it IS christmas eve now but shhhhh

•ok look curly was rlly only over at their house for the heat, his house is already cold but around christmas its gets even chillier and he hates it, god damn it the curtis house better spare SOME heat

•may b the only time hes asking to sleep in the same bed as soda AND b in the middle of them so they can share body heat or somethin bc this cold is ridiculous man, scoot over curly was born in a tropical place he hates the cold so bad

•”hey have u tried THIS in ur hot chocolate” and its just some bs even he hasnt tried, he just wants to fuck up someones drink and see how crowded that cup can get he likes watching them force themselves drink it to not waste anything but its the curtis gang its also plausible they would drink it bc its actually good but it taste like shit to everyone else

•he pretended to b santa and kept patting his lap for pony to sit on it and tell “santa what he wanted for christmas”. backfired on him though bc two bit sat on his lap IMMEDIATELY after and hes wayyyy too heavy for curly, curlys legs felt like pure tv static afterwards

•hes so damn nosey, he likes snooping under the tree and trying to find out what everyone got, his hand has to get smacked away

•if its cold enough, hes totally licked a pole and had a bet w two and steve to see who could stay in the longest, he won but it almost costed him his tongue and near second degree burns to his face w boiling water from trying to get it off

•being around the curtis family being all familial makes curly feel bad about his own family so when theyre doing their own thing, curly shuffles his way outta there till hes pulled back in (by darry or pony mainly)

•since curlys a surprise guest, the gang try to get him a last minute present (rlly pony was gonna give it to him later but they all decided to just put their name on the gift and say it was from all of em, curly guessed it was from pony but admires the thought process they got goin

•the curtis gang still do elf on the shelf and curlys part of the duo who puts the poor elf in sexual positions, ur neverrrrr gonna guess who the other one is (its two bit)

•curly puts of parody of christmas carols, at first ur thinking “oh wow hes gonna sing such a classic song thats nice” and he fixes his lips to say the worst lyrics u will hear its mortifying, god forbid its modern time and u give him the speakers hes making everyone in the neighborhood listen

•it doesnt snow much in tulsa if ever but look curlys never seen snow for YEARS of his life, if its snowing outside he doesnt care how cold it is, he wants to go outside to mess around in it a lil bit, hes gotten a lil sick from it the day after cause he wasnt wearing his jacket which is rare but aye he had a lil bit of fun!! thats gonna wear off eventually tho, snow WILL lose its novelty

•most of his time is spent watching tv christmas specials, hes used to not rlly getting anything on christmas and theres nothing to do outside and the house is comfortable enough, ik his ass imprinted on that couch

•on top of that he controls the radio, the gang gotta give curly his flowers, he knows the good stations and songs, even if he didnt hes hogging the hell out of it

[ddagent]

"First Impressions"

Matching March Day 02

Before she'd died, Margo Madison was used to spending every waking hour at JSC. She'd given up her apartment to sleep on a cot in her office; dry-cleaned her clothes and ate from the crappy vending machines. Even when she'd been promoted to FIDO, she'd kept living out of her office. The hours would pay off, she'd thought. To be Flight. To run NASA. That never happened, of course. Margo had died in '74, nine long years ago, and she'd watched a string of lesser engineers sit at her post, lead her team, oversee her agency. But JSC had always felt like a home.

A good thing, too, as she was here forever.

She wasn't the only one who was here forever – although at least Aleida Rosales had the option of going home. Margo found her in the Apollo-Soyuz workroom, clock ticking ever closer to midnight, and a punk rock radio station playing low in the corner. Margo watched her, for a moment, happy that she was here. That she'd made it. That the hours that a teenage Aleida had spent being tutored by a dead engineer had paid off. That the impulse to join Margo, her mother, when her world had come crashing down upon her had disappeared.

Looking towards the future – ensuring Aleida had a successful career – Margo cleared her throat. Aleida cursed. "Goddammit, Bill, the VCR broke so I couldn't record Jeopardy, okay?"

"Aleida, it's me."

Aleida poked her head out from the capsule, relief settling into her features. Some of the ghosts at JSC, like Bill Strausser, had turned demanding when they realised they could be seen by a living engineer. The astronauts were even worse. Margo, thankfully, managed to keep them in line. But when it came to demands on the living, Margo's toil was more...emotional than physical. Even after nine years of distance, Aleida still emerged from the capsule as if she was awaiting a reprimand.

Which, to be fair, she was about to get. "Is this under your purview?" Hank had put Aleida on Ops; Margo didn't want to see Aleida's career nosedive because she couldn't stay in her lane.

"No," Aleida smirked. "Not really. But the design team left for The Outpost with nothing. So I thought I'd give it a go." Her smile broadened. "You know, this would be a lot easier with NASA's best engineer."

"No."

"Please."

To her displeasure, it really didn't take much persuading. Margo was bored. After nine years of making calculations and schematics and being ignored by the living, it was a heady rush to have her ideas actually listened to for once. Not that they made much headway. They bounced a few suggestions around, Margo using her ethereal form to explore the capsule in detail. They almost succeeded in one idea but without Soviet tech, they were unable to continue. Aleida retired to one of the desk chairs around two am, drifting off into sleep. Margo continued to work. If she concentrated hard enough, she could just make the pencil move.

She was finalising her design when someone came in. Someone Margo did not recognise. He was in his early forties, with blond hair and a Soviet flag pinned to his suit lapel. He immediately stripped off his jacket and began looking at the design on the table. Her design. The man grinned. "Very impressive."

"It should be."

The man tapped the pencil against his mouth and made a few adjustments. "But if we did this—"

Margo looked over his shoulder. It was an acceptable addition. Except his numbers were off. Margo took the pencil and eased one of the fives into a six. The man dropped his own pencil, blinking hard at the paper. He sighed. "It is too late for this, Sergei."

"Sergei." Margo took him in while he worked. He was studious, dedicated to his calculations with a ferocity that Margo believed was only matched in herself. He was handsome, too, in a way that left her unsettled. She'd had a whole life and a whole afterlife to not find anyone attractive. She didn't see the need for it now. But then he smiled and Margo felt herself smiling back. "Sergei."

Across the workroom, Aleida stirred. "Margo?" Her eyes settled on the unaccompanied Soviet poring over their designs. "Hey."

They then engaged in the polite pleasantries of two people from opposite sides who had been caught in a room they weren't supposed to be in at a time that was considered ungodly by most in the continental United States. Margo lost interest, intent was she in adjusting Sergei's design. It was nearly perfect, all it took was just one little—

"—you see this too, yes?"

Margo paused. She hadn't realised the conversation had dwindled, and Sergei's attention had returned to the designs. The designs where a pencil hovered in midair. Aleida's eyes had widened in alarm, but she quickly recovered. Just laughed, shrugged. "That's Margo. She's one of the ghosts at JSC."

He wouldn't believe her. No one ever did. Not Octavio, not Molly, not— "Margo." For a second, his eyeline matched hers perfectly. He was staring into thin air but she was staring right back at him. "Your work is...impressive."

"Oh." If Margo still had working circulation, she would have blushed. "Thank you."

Aleida rubbed her face. "She says thank you." Then, she grinned, apparently seeing an opportunity to mess with her mentor. "And that you're pretty cute for a living guy."

Margo's mouth fell open. But Sergei just smiled, laughed, and said: "Well, please tell her she is truly brilliant for a dead woman."

And so, over one long, long night, Apollo-Soyuz became a collaboration not only between the US and the Soviet Union, but also between the living, and the dead.

[northirish]

Squirrel guy again. Hope you're hangin' out and hangin' on. So for my 18th birthday my Dad bought me tickets to my first concert; it was the Grateful Dead (Well, Dead and Co., but same thing). He had folled them around in a VW microbus from 1979-1995 and he wanted me to have the 'full experience'. The venue was ~250 miles away, about a two hour drive. We got there early and Dad bought some acid and gave me a tab. Started peaking when the show started and had a grand old time. Best concert I ever saw, honestly; even without the drugs. Thing was he dosed up too and we were still tripping when we had to go home. Rather than get a hotel Dad decided to take the ~2 hour drive back home at 3am during a thunderstorm. Our CD player in the car kicked the bucket so we decided to find a radio station. Because of the storm the reception wasn't very good. About a little more than halfway it was mostly static on every channel. I was flipping the stations as he drove. Then I hit a news station, and heard this: "The lead guitarist from Aerosmith collapsed on stage today when *bzzzzzzzz* Vampires *bzzzzzzzz* Thirty people were injured in the incident *bzzzzzz*". Then the radio died. My Dad and I, still tripping, flipped out. We spent the next 45 minutes convinced the vampire takeover had begun and they hated Aerosmith. Made it home and luckily never got attacked by vampires. Also never listened to Aerosmith again just in case.

The more I hear from you the more I'm convinced you're Skweezy Jibbs long lost sibling or something

[otherone12]

We Were Meant To Be, Supposed To Be

( Avril reference lol)

Frank Iero × Reader

-> Masterlist

A/N: Hey!! I took too long to write this, because I wasn't at home, so couldn't finish it. Also, i've changed the whole plot of this fic like three times, and I still thinking that's not good as I wanted. Anyways, i hope you enjoy :D

A/N 2: You guys want a Vampire x Reader fic? And with wich member?

Summary - You and Frank dated for a while before he joined MCR, but when you two decided to go separate ways, the different worlds didn’t work well together and you broke up. Years later, your lives collide again, but this time you’re not that young anymore. (This supposed to be a DD era Frank, but if you wanted to change it, be your guest).

- Word Count: 1.530

- Warnings: none

- Ps: I'll not use y/n…

- Ps2: I'm brazilian, so english is not my first language ... sorry if i wrote something wrong.

___________________________________________

1st person POV

  I was walking down streets on my way to my work, like I do every single day. The large amount of people on the street got me a bit nervous, but I learned to pretend that they didn't exist. 

    The huge building where I work seems small when I enter through the automatic door and go to my even smaller office. I took my earphones and turned the radio on in my city’s broadcasting station. “.... and we're gonna rock this town, like we always do.” The voice that I heard sounded a bit familiar, but I couldn't tell who it was, 'cause of the noise from poor radio contact.   

    I tried harder to listen to what he’ll say, but he had already  finished the interview and the announcer said “Guys, that was Frank Iero telling us what we can expect from the My Chemical Romance concert next week. Thank you, Frank!”

    I got shocked. Why wasn't I able to recognize Frank's voice? It's been that long?

   Frank and I met at high school in our freshman year. We became best friends in about three months. Earlier than we expected, we were hanging out and holding hands. He was the best part of my highschool, probably because I was the most introverted person in the world, he is the opposite. Frank encouraged me to go to parties with him, to be less insecure, to be myself… I owe him all the chances I haven't let go since.

So, like all good things, we were over. He is a famous guitarist, touring through the whole world with his band, and I'm here. I went to college and became exactly what I wanted since I was a kid. 

    We were immature and broke up at the first trouble we had, we’ve been together for six years, and knew each other enough to know that we couldn’t handle a long distance relationship. Without any fight or discussion, we decided that was the end, and just didn’t talked anymore to not turn things harder than they almost were.

Moving on took me a few years, but no one of the people that I dated after Frank made me feel the way he did. Maybe we’re some kind of "meant to be'', and we threw our chance away, giving up that easy.

    The idea of Frank being here gave me the sensation of butterflies in my stomach, should i talk to him? No. I mean, I would like to see him, ask him if he thinks of me like I think of him. Maybe he's still trying to forget about us but incapable to do it, just like me. 

    I gave a brief look to the clock on the wall and noticed that I spent an hour just thinking of Frank, remembering our best moments. And just when I thought I reached the bottom, I felt a tear dripping down my face. 

    With my sleeve, I wiped that single tear in my cheek and keeped working. 

    The rest of the day was gray, the color of the clouds coincidently matched with my feelings. At home, I dropped myself in my bed and turned the tv on, with a desperate yearn to keep my mind out of my old memories. In a few minutes I fell asleep. 

*** time skip ***

  Next day, I decided that I would enjoy myself in some cool place. So at 9pm I put on my best clothes and went to my favorite bar. The place still the same since the last time i went there

   The low lights inside the bar almost made me stumble but I held on to the door before falling.

Like always, the place was crowded and the mix of people talking and the small band who were playing reminded me why I definitely prefer to stay at home instead of going out. Don’t get me wrong, the band was good, I only hate this amount of noise. 

    I took a seat by the side of a group of four men, but it was too dark to see their faces. I avoided looking at any of them for a long time, so it wouldn't look like I was flirting or something.

    - Hey! It's been a long time since the last time you’ve been here. - I used to come here so often that I became friends with the bartender - How’s it going?

   - Great i think, just a bit down this week. - I tell him, with a heavy sight - But I'm here to relax, so, gimme the same as always.

   - Right away, dear! 

   The bartender called my name after some minutes to give me my drink, and I felt the back of my neck burn, like I was being watched. Slowly, I turned around and the four guys were looking at me. My eyes, now accustomed with the dim place, could recognize their faces. I forgot how to breathe when I realized who they were.  

  - Holy shit! I thought I heard your voice, but then I thought that I was getting insane - The man closer to me said, and a silly smile appeared on my face. - You remember me, right, darling?

    - How could I forget you, Frank? - I took a sip of my drink, still smiling. - And, believe me, I tried so fucking hard to.

    - So do I… 

    He took a deep breath and his gaze showed that he missed me as much as I missed him. 

    - When he knew that we’ll be doing some concerts here, he started to talk about you and didn’t stop - Ray said, giggling, while Frank gave him a deathly look. - Well, good to see you again, by the way!

    - Same, guys! - I looked at all of them and nodded, drinking again. - Eight years is too long, but at the same time it seems like it was just a week ago. 

    - Ain’t that the truth? Damn! - Frank didn’t stop to look at me as of the beginning of the conversation. If he keeps doing this, I'll end up kissing him. - You’re pretty as always. ya know?

    My world just tumbled down with his sentence. He used to say this daily to me, in the same way. I gasped and, just like a movie, I saw him, a sixteen boy sitting by my side at the school’s refectory saying this to me for the first time. 

    Ray, Gerard and Mikey walked away to the other side of the bar and Frank stood up when I didn’t respond. Unable to say anything, I just looked at his hazel eyes and felt him getting closer. The feeling of panic washed my body with the sensation of his lips on mine. His hands runned through my body and his tongue entwined in mine. 

    All this eight fucking years trying to get over him, and he made all of this be in vain. I missed his touch more than I could even imagine. 

    I lost my fingers in his hair and when we both were breathless, we pulled up and just looked at each other.

    - Shit, how I missed you! - Frank said, holding my waist. - Wanna take a walk outside?

    - Sure. 

    We walked at the door, letting all the noise behind. The cold air of the night reached my face and I shivered, my mind was so confused that I barely noticed that Frank was holding my hand. 

    - So… I don't even know how to start to say how much I regret leaving you.   

    He was looking down, and I've never heard him so serious before.

    - You didn’t leave me. It was consensual. 

    - Yeah, but.. but I blame myself every day for not insisting on continuing with you. - He whined with an evident remorse in his voice. The regretful tone of his sigh was painful for me to hear.

    - Wasn’t your fault, Frank. We were both immature. - I let go of his hand and put my arm around his neck, in an attempt to comfort him. I wish someone had told me the same thing I said to Frank. After he’s gone I felt as guilty as him, and it lasted all these years. - Altrought we can try again, ‘cause we made it clear to each other that we still have mutual feelings.

    - You’re right, but how is this gonna work? - We stopped walking and Frank looked at me. His confused gaze turned sad and worried as the next words left his mouth.  - You have your life here, and my music is my life so… 

   - Maybe we can try that long distance thing… - A little unsure of what he would think of the idea, I tried to accept the only possible option for our situation. - Seeing each other when you were not on a tour, spending holidays together, calling and texting each other every day...

    - Sounds like an idea to me.

    He smiled and pulled me closer to a kiss, this time i wasn’t worried about all that shit. I let the moment ride me and a hopeful sensation warmed my body even more than Frank’s hands on my face and hips. I felt on fire when the kiss turned deeper. 

    - Are you sure that you wanna try to do this? - I broke the kiss for an instant. 

    - I’m on there, baby! 

___________________________________________

~So... that's it. lemme know if you enjoyed ;)

[dontcallpanic]

I'm very intrigued to hear more about Escape to the country and Wichita Lineman!

oh! Thank you! Escape to the country is my favourite! It's the one I've written the most for. This is my small strange town AU where Stiles leaves collage wondering what the hell he's supposed to be doing with his life. What do you do when you can do anything? What do you do when every day is supposed to be precious. How do you live when you could be dead?

So, he takes a roadtrip and runs head first into Beacon Hills, a deeply strange town in the deep dark forest. He's especially intrigued by the Extremely Attractive hermit who lives in a cabin deep in the woods. Oh and what's with those weird red eyes that seem to be following him around? Cue strange creepy dreams, weird hotels, the wolves are the guardians of the forest, skeletons in trees, oh no there's only one bed, lots of plaid, lots of myths and skulls and hopefully lots of humour.

The Wichita Lineman is the au I can't get out of my head inspired tangentially by the song by Glen Campbell.

It's set in a post apocalyptic universe similar to fallout. It's about Derek who is essentially like a telecoms engineer for hire who goes around setting up radio communications between settlements. It's extremely dangerous but someone's got to do it. He works completely alone and all he has for company is Stiles - the enigmatic radio show host, who talks continuosly but never discloses a thing about himself. He is a legend and a mystery. Nobody knows who he is or even where he is. He just IS.

Derek has lost count of the number of hours he's spent listening to him through his truck radio. Whenever he sets up a new relay, he will tune the station to Stiles. He essentially falls in love with Stiles, listening to him through the radio, longing (secretly) to one day be able to meet him, piecing together tiny gems of information about him over the years.

Stiles, for his part, has of course heard of the extremely heroic 'lineman' who risks everything to get settlements radio communication up and running. He appreciates just how integral that is to the survival of humanity and if he's being honest, he's slightly in love, just in principle, that someone would risk their life to further spread those radio waves.

Inspired by the lyrics:

"And I need you more than I want you. And I want you for all time.

And the Wichita Lineman is still on the line."

[louisupdates]

By Marcelo Fernández Bitar [translated from Spanish]

In just over 24 hours, Louis Tomlinson passed through Buenos Aires and caused a commotion, with hundreds of fans crowding at the door of his hotel singing and shouting his name, and also occupying almost the entire block where there is a FM radio station where he went to give an interview.

The fanaticism generated with his solo career by the former singer of One Direction in Argentina is so great that in fact he will give a recital in the same stadium where he was in 2014 with the mega-boy band. It will be on May 18 in Vélez Sarsfield.

Louis Tomlinson already has two solo albums and is touring the world presenting the most recent, Faith in the Future. It came out in November 2022 and surprised with his most rocky sound, close to the Brit-pop of his beloved Oasis, and less pop. It was number one in England and three singles came out, Bigger Than Me, Out of My System and Silver Tongues.

Hurricane Louis

The visit was really fleeting with the purpose of promoting his show next month, the old-fashioned way, when the artists toured the countries to advertise albums or tours, something they currently do on Zoom or with posts on their official accounts.

Louis arrived on Friday night and spent Saturday fulfilling an intense schedule of activities, to leave early the next day.

First he went to the Vélez football field for a television interview which will be televised later by TN, and then he went to the radio station Los 40 Principales, where his fans filled the entire Gorriti street, between Ravignani and Arévalo, to witness an interview where eight listeners joined to ask him a question each.

He finally arrived at 4 p.m. at the Four Seasons hotel, where hundreds of other fans were screaming for him. There he gave a series of reports and chatted with Clarín in a room equipped as a small television set, with lights and a set with his name and the cover of the disc.

"Never, not for a second, did I think I would be going through some of the same experiences," he said, "that I was lucky enough to live in the band. I thought that was something unique. So being able to come here and feel the level of love and the incredible reaction on today's radio station, means a lot to me. When I imagined what my solo career would be like, I really didn't know what to expect.

Re-filling stadiums

At 32-years-old, Louis Tomlinson has the experience of having been part of one of the greatest pop phenomena of the last 20 years, with sales records and sold-out shows in stadiums around the world. And now he is repeating the fury alone, just as it happened just a little earlier with his ex-bandmate Harry Styles.

In Louis’ case, he first sold out the closed Movistar Arena stadium in 2022 and now he goes through a huge soccer field like Vélez.

Q: Did you think that being a soloist you had to start from below and sing in smaller places?

Louis: Yes, exactly. But it turns out that I can still play in big places, so it's great.

Q: Can we really talk about a mania of a "louistomlinson-mania"? Does it happen everywhere or is it special in Latin America?

Louis: I think that in terms of the level of similar intensity, and seeing what happened a moment ago on the radio station, that certainly doesn't happen to me everywhere. Let me put it this way: it's incredible to be so far from home and feel that level of love. I'm very excited to think about what the show will be like here.

Q: It's incredible that almost exactly ten years have passed since the last time you filled Vélez. How do you feel when you return to the same stadium?

Louis: I feel very lucky to be able to play in those places again on my own. I also feel very, very proud of myself and my fans. I feel like we have created something that is quite special and we did it together. With them as listeners, but also as facilitators. That really helped my confidence and made me feel good on stage. It's a lovely relationship and I'm very proud of it.

Q: This tour started almost a year ago, how did it evolve with respect to the first shows?

Louis: I definitely feel in a good place right now with the show. Anyway, in advance I was excited about this tour because this album was designed for the live show. So I was excited to see how the songs would work. And the energy is great. I am very excited to show Faith in the Future to Latin America.

Q: How did the idea of making a live cover of Arctic Monkeys come about?

Louis: Arctic Monkeys grew up about 20 minutes from where I live. It was something very close, very fresh in the mind and obviously huge. I was growing up and I'm also a big fan. I usually do the song 505 because it's very pretty.

Often, with the versions, I probably think more about what I would like to sing than about what I imagine that everyone else would like to hear, which may be misjudged, but I'm enjoying it.

Q: When you were a teenager you sang Oasis songs and now you have a rock band that sounds very Brit-pop, almost closing a circle.

Louis: Thank you. I am very, very fortunate to have the band I have, but they also perform sonically and visually, everything that is really important to me. They sound absolutely incredible. I don't think I would be able to do this without my band.

Q: Live you also perform songs from One Direction. Did you feel that kind of shadow at the beginning of your solo career and now you are more comfortable looking back?

Louis: I think a bit about both things. I think that at the beginning of my career I would have been a little more worried about putting too many One Direction songs in the repertoire. What I wanted most was to spread my wings and show who I was. But I think that as time went by, the nostalgic moments are really charming. So it's like a beautiful mixture of nostalgia and it's very nice to do it.

Ping-pong

Q: This is the third time you have visited our country. If you had to describe your Argentine fans in three words, which one would you choose?

Louis: Passionate. Loyal. Affectionate. That’s okay, isn't it?

Q: The soccer player Kun Agüero said that there is a lot of talk to you through Instagram or Twitter. Have you ever met him in person?

Louis: Actually, we have never seen each other in person. Over the years we've talked a little here and there, but I never found time. I have a kind of crazy hope that he can come to the show.

Q: If you had to choose one of your songs, either from Walls or Faith in the Future, that reflects how you feel right now in your life, what would it be?

Louis: I would say that the name of the album (Faith in the future) represents where I am right now, but I think that in the future I would like to always be optimistic.

Q: And if all the One Direction discography was deleted and a song had to be saved. Which one would you save?

Louis: It's interesting... I would probably say Story Of My Life. That seemed like a real milestone. I would say it's a little more serious. And I also think it's a bit of a crazy song.

Q: You are a big soccer fan, do you have any preference for an Argentine club?

Louis: I'm very afraid to say something wrong... I'd better say that I love you all. (laughs)

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