#and its nice not to feel any guilt about still wanting those albums that I didn't buy as a teen

[lightineventide]

"Am I to burn?"

With these masterpieces in my CD player, surely! 🤪

[lucy-sky]

Skulls and Roses (tattoo master!Griff x f!Reader)

Filthy Friday prompts: porn without plot (or with minor plot idk); hookup; rough

Getting your tattoo dedicated to your ex replaced by a new one can be extremely liberating.

Warnings: casual sex (protected!) - I don’t need to explain you that having sex with someone you don’t really know can be dangerous, right? Please be careful in real life :)

Words: 1936; gif by me (from an older gifset when I didn’t use the watermark)

AO3 link if you prefer reading there

“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart, customer’s always right… but why not simply remove that shit?”

“Because I don’t want to just get rid of it. I want to have something beautiful instead,” you explain, turning the pages of the album filled with tattoo design options. “And please, don’t call me sweetheart. Ever.”

The story is as old as the world. You were in love, he was an asshole. You thought it’s gonna last, but it didn’t. The love is gone, and the only reminder of a man who broke your heart are these stupid fancy letters - his initials, tattooed on your forearm. At first you wanted to leave this evidence of your stupidity as a warning to not repeat your mistakes again, but you simply couldn’t bear seeing them any longer. You want to move on after all. That’s what brought you here, to a place down the street called “Griff’s Tattoos”.

“Alright, alright easy there,” the master raises his hands at your aggressive tone. “Told ya, the customer’s always right. But you see, I ain’t got no… butterflies, or flowers, or unicorns or something like that in here, I’m afraid.”

“Who says I want butterflies or unicorns?” you huffed, rolling your eyes. “I might not look super hardcore, but you don’t know me, mister…”

“It’s Griff, you can just call me that,” the man gestures at the “Griff’s Tattoos” sign on the wall. “And yeah, you’re right, I don’t-”

“Hey, how about that?” you interrupted him as you finally found something of your taste.

“Really? You want that?” Griff raises his eyebrows as you point at the picture. There’s a skull with three red roses, seemingly growing out of it.

“Yeah, I think this one is great. The skull means that the old love is dead, and the roses mean that something beautiful can still grow in its place,” you reply with a shrug.

“Okay, uh… That makes sense, I guess. Didn’t think of any of this while drawing it though,” he lets out a chuckle.

“You could think of a meaning for some of your tattoo designs to sell them to the customers.”

“Yeah, maybe. My own tattoos don’t have much meaning at all, I just make up different stories ‘bout ‘em to impress the girls,” he laughs.

“Nice,” you sigh under your breath, trying not to roll your eyes again. Yet another asshole in your life, apparently. Thank god you’re only his customer, and nothing more than that.

“So, if you made up your mind, let’s get to it,” he smiles, gesturing at his workplace.

“Yep, let’s get to it.”

Maybe that Griff really is an asshole, who knows? But in fact, he manages to make you laugh a few times while he’s working, and you really appreciate that. Conversation distracts you from the pain, plus this man… You have to admit there’s something attractive about him, despite anything. You watch his focused face while he’s working, the crease of his eyebrows, and in a way he looks quite intimidating, but when he smiles, he suddenly looks so different. As if his features soften, and those wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are kind of… Cute? And his gruff voice and deep dark eyes… Damn, you can’t be serious, thinking of him like that. On the other hand - you’re a single woman now, free from a long and actually pretty toxic relationship. You don’t have to jump into another one, but a bit of flirting never hurt nobody. Flirting makes you feel confident, and for the first time in what feels like ages you’re simply enjoying it without feeling any sort of guilt. And honestly? You love this feeling.

“There ya go,” he says proudly when the work is finished. “You like it?”

“Yeah, that’s… Really good!” your reply is honest - you really think the new tattoo is great. The goddamn initials are now perfectly covered with a fresh layer of ink, and even if the tattoo is a bit too bigger than you intended to get at first, you still are satisfied. “I love it.”

“Good to know,” Griff nods, his fingers brushing against your arm with unexpected gentleness. “Did my best to save the girl in trouble.”

“Please!” you scoff, “I think you’re flattering yourself.”

“Modesty’s not my thing,” he grins. “Can I uh… Ask you a personal question?”

“Try it.”

“What happened to you and that guy?” He gestures at the tattoo. “I mean if that’s a guy, ‘cause it could be a girl too, I-”

“That’s a guy. And well, there’s nothing much to talk about, really. I was dumb enough to think he’s the love of my life, and then I found out the dickhead’s been cheating on me for months. Which is actually pretty funny, ‘cause he’s always been extremely jealous and made me feel guilty every time I looked at another man.”

You’re not quite sure why you told it to him. Apparently sometimes it’s just easier to tell something this personal to a stranger.

“Damn. That’s fucked up.”

“Fuck him. His ego is way bigger than his dick, to be honest, so I don’t regret it’s over,” you shrug.

“You know what? If I were him, I’d definitely treat you way better.”

For some reason the way Griff says it, and the way his dark eyes look at you cause a slight shiver run down your spine.

“Oh yeah?” you say, and it comes out a bit more flirty than you intended.

“Yeah. My ego’s big, but no one ever complained about my dick either,” he smirks. Unconsciously, you lower your gaze to his crotch at these words, and instantly hate yourself for that because he obviously noticed, you can tell it from the way his grin got wider.

“See something you like,” he winks, and you hate yourself once again, because even at this moment you find him attractive, with all his stupid tattoos, and smile, and beard, smug face and mischievous eyes.

“Look, Griff. I wanna make it clear for you, okay? I’m not looking for a relationship. I’ve had enough for now.”

He steps closer, invading your space, leaning towards you, his lips impossibly close to your ear as he speaks, so close you can feel the warmth of his breathing.

“Who’s talking about relationships, sweetheart? It’s just that… If you want me to make you forget ‘bout that son of bitch for a while, I’m happy to oblige.”

Oh gosh, the audacity this man has!..

“I told you not to call me sweetheart, remember?” you say as you turn your face to meet his gaze, and then, all of a sudden, following some strange impulse, you press your lips to his.

Griff is quick to respond to your actions, kissing you back with furious determination. Your kiss was timid, but his tongue invades your mouth with no shame at all, his hand reaching to the back of your head to pull you closer, it skims to the side of your neck and frames your jaw as he kisses you, humming against your mouth, and you probably lost your mind, because you don’t push him away. Instead, your own tongue darts to meet his. Matching his wild energy, you nip on his bottom lip, earning a low groan from him, your fingers sinking into his hair to give it a tug.

It’s crazy. Totally fucking insane. You don’t even know this man.

“Fine,” you hear yourself saying, chest heaving as you’re trying to catch a breath. “Make me forget.”

“Customer’s always right,” Griff chuckles, his hands roaming down your body, kneading your butt as he kisses you once again with the same fire and passion. “Just wait a second.”

He pulls back and walks towards the door. He turns over the “open” sign, changing it into a “closed” one, and returns to you.

“Don’t want anyone to disturb us”, he explains, seizing your hips and urging you to sit on the desk behind you. “Still wanna do it, darlin’?”

“I might change my mind if you ask too many questions.”

“Got it.”

He buries his face into your neck, kissing, sucking and nibbling at the tender flesh there, big warm hands sliding up your thighs and under the skirt of your dress. You let out a quiet moan when he reaches your already embarrassingly damp underwear.

“Shit, you sound so good. Can you moan a lil louder for me?” He murmurs into your neck, his fingers pressing harder between your thighs, causing your hips to buck in anticipation.

“Want me to moan - make me.”

You have no idea where you got this boldness from, but that’s the new you, and fuck it - you’re actually enjoying yourself.

Griff doesn’t need to be told twice. He swiftly tugs your panties down your legs, cursing at your shoelaces as he unties and pulls off your boots to get the underwear out of the way. Once he manages to do it, he pushes your legs open and dips his fingers between your slick folds. You whimper, gripping onto his shoulders, as he curls them inside of you, touching exactly the right spot over and over. It feels amazing, mind blowing, but you still need more.

“You got condoms, do you?” you ask breathlessly.

“Who do you think I am, swee- darlin’?” he grins, reaching to fish it out of his back pocket. At this point you don’t even give a shit what he calls you any longer. With shaky fingers you undo his jeans as he opens the wrapper with his teeth and throws it away.

He enters you with a hard thrust of his hips, setting a pretty rough pace, but that’s exactly what you want. He promised to make you forget, and he keeps his promise, fucking you as if he wants fuck any single thought out of your brain until your head is empty and light. Your moans and gasps and his grunts and muffled curses become louder and louder as you’re both getting closer to climax. You come first, throwing your head back as your walls flutter and clench around him, your whole body shuddering as pleasure hits you wave after delicious wave. Griff manages to catch your mouth in a messy, sloppy kiss before he follows you, groaning like a wild animal. Then he stays still for a while, panting, face buried into the crook of your neck.

Getting down from your high, you let your fingers caress the back of his neck absentmindedly, enjoying that pleasant post-orgasmic buzz coursing through your body. How can sex with someone you barely know feel so good? You always thought really good sex must involve feelings. Not that you want to repeat this experience, but right now, at this stage of your life it didn’t feel dirty or embarrassing. It felt kinda liberating.

“You okay?” Griff asks hoarsely as he pulls away and reaches somewhere behind you to grab a roll of paper towels.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you nod.

Your hand is already on the doorknob when Griff stops you.

“Wait, almost forgot,” he tears a page out of his album and hands it to you. “Here. I don’t repeat the tattoos, so…”

“Oh. Course,” you smile as you take the paper and look at the skull with roses once again. “Alright. Thanks again, um… Good night!”

“Night,” he says simply. “Come over if you need some more ink, or… You know.”

“I don’t think so,” you reply honestly. “But who knows, maybe one day I’ll change my mind.”

He nods with a soft yet smug chuckle on his face.

“Customer’s always right.”

Thank you for reading!

Tattoo inspo

[prettyblondguys]

hii!! i had an angsty idea w/ eddie revolving around the right relationship at the wrong time type of idea. maybe you guys met at high school and got together after finding out you guys shared common interests but you were graduating and going off to college while eddie was being held back. you parted ways and stopped talking immediately after moving away

💖💖💛💛

Feels Like Forever

Short, angsty Eddie x f!reader ficlet :)

Warnings: alcohol, that's it I think. I'm not proofreading except on company time.

"All I known is that it feels like forever, but no one ever tells you that forever feels home, sitting all alone inside your head."

"It's been way too long, Y/n," your friend Samantha said, the two of you sitting in lawn chairs in her backyard, along with a few other people you recognized and some you didn't. She had called you up a few weeks ago to let you know that some of the old highschool buddies were planning on getting together, as a sort of early reunion. She guilt tripped the hell out of you to convince you to make the drive from Bloomington all the way back to Hawkins, a place you hadn't stepped foot in since you left for college six years ago, way too eager to get outta dodge. Admittedly it was nice seeing old faces and finding out what everyone had been up to, but it was eerie as well, noticing the stark differences between the people who wanted to leave and those that wanted to stay, resigned contentment vs happiness. "I know," you reply, nursing the same beer you had been for an hour now, "but you know how work is, I barely get any time off."

"Tell me about it, pal." Hands land on your shoulders and a face leans over your head, peering down at you with a wide smile. "How you been, Y/n?" Steve beams as you chuckle, coming to stand beside you, hands on his hips as his eyes scan the crowded backyard. "I'm good, it's good to see you." You and he had been close back in school, you were the same age but he had always felt like the big brother you never had. "You guys finally get a babysitter?" Samantha asks, chuckling as Steve's head whips around in search of something. "Yeah," he answers, "the wife's around here somewhere. Oop, I think I see her, I'll talk to you guys later." He walks off, quickly tousling your hair before you have the chance to stop him. "Asshole," you mumble with a laugh, fixing your hair.

"Who, me?" It feels like everything stops when you recognize that voice, time frozen still as its owner comes into view beside you, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "Eddie, shit how are you?" You stand up and pull him into a hug, his leather jacket cool under your fingertips from the night air. "I'm good, Y/n," he replies, hugging you right back. You both stand there for a moment longer before he pulls back to look at you with a wide, toothy smile, "It's really fucking good to see you, Y/n. I've missed you." His sweet words should have warmed your heart, but instead they stabbed at it.

You had met Eddie back as a freshman, during a free period. You'd been on your way to the room where Drama Club met to work on your D&D campaign, knowing it'd be empty this time of day. You were surprised to see that it wasn't, walking in to find that someone else had had the same idea as you. You'd shared the details of your campaigns and that was that, you were fast friends. And soon, your friendship turned into something more. Hours holed up in each other's rooms going over campaigns or listening to the new Metallica album quickly led to shy glances and chaste kisses, followed closely by puppy love and hasty promises. Eddie was your first love and you were his, high school sweethearts vowing to spend every second of every day together for the rest of time. That is, until you were accepted at Indiana University and Eddie got news that he had to repeat 12th grade. You'd offered to wait until he graduated and just reapply next year, but he wouldn't hear of it. "You're not gonna put your life on hold for me." You didn't want to admit it, but you were hoping he wouldn't let you. The thought of even one more year in Hawkins was unbearable. So you made a promise, that in a year he'd head out to Bloomington to move in with you, find a job and everything would go as planned, just slightly delayed. And until then you'd call every chance you got, long distance relationships were always tough but yours wouldn't be, you cared about each other too much.

But that's the thing about promises, sometimes they're impossible to keep. You couldn't call a few times a day because when Eddie was free, you weren't. So you'd call once a day, before bed. You'd tell him about your classes and he'd tell you about his campaigns. College was so much busier than high school, and every day turned into every other day, which turned into once a week, and once every other week. There came a point when you hadn't talked in a month and a half. That next phone call was quiet, tears held back on both ends as you agreed that yeah, maybe we should take a break. Yeah, just until I graduate. This is too much on your plate. This is harder than we thought it'd be. Then the time came for him to graduate, and he didn't. Held back, again. There weren't any phone calls, no vows for next year, no it's just gonna take a bit longer than we thought. You didn't hear from him and he didn't hear from you. Soon you'd pushed all of it from your mind, pouring over your studies and hard won internship, and once you graduated you were too busy with work to wonder if he had finally done it, to wonder if you would open your door and find him standing there, a bandana tied over his wild hair, holding a suitcase in one hand and a diploma in the other. You were too busy with your new life to realize that he didn't even know where you lived now, having moved apartments a year into college. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway. One year turned to two, three and then four. Neither of you had broken the promises you'd made all those years ago, staring into each other's eyes with what you thought was a love to last the ages, you hadn't broken them, life had.

So when Eddie said those words, you knew it meant more than if anyone else had said them. He missed you, yes, but more so he missed the you that hadn't yet left Hawkins. The girl that spent her weekends listening to him practice guitar and giving him a peck on the cheek when he forgot the next chord. The girl trying to get a laugh out of him by making faces when the teacher turned his back. That's who he missed, but that wasn't you anymore, and he wasn't the same guy you missed. You'd grown up, and worse than that, you'd grown up apart. You both knew this.

¤

An hour has passed, or maybe it's been two, you aren't sure. Most people have come and gone, hugs and "see you soon"s exchanged before the crowd started to dwindle, Samantha heading inside to talk to some people before they left, leaving just you and Eddie out back. The two of you had quickly fallen into comfortable chatter, him telling you about his job at the garage and how Wayne had a new "lady friend" as Eddie so suggestively called her, telling you an embarrassing story about walking in on them kissing in the kitchen. "I'm telling you, Y/n, I'm getting outta there as soon as a trailer opens up." You laugh at his disgusted expression and regale him with your woes, how the landlord was an ass who refused to fix anything without hassling him for a good few months, about how your boss always had you double check your work knowing damn well you were right the first time. As completely different as your problems were, he still laughed and shook his head as you told him about your life in Bloomington.

"You know," you say, watching as he absentmindedly turns a ring on his finger, "if you're ever up there, feel free to drop by. The couch is a pullout." He smiles before letting out a small huff of laughter, "What would I be doing up in Bloomington?" He had a point, as far as you were aware he hadn't ever stepped foot outside Hawkins, let alone way up state. "We should talk though, you know?" He says after a minute, "Keep in touch." You nod your head, "Yeah, we should. We will." Sitting there, you look at each other. His eyes are soft as they stare into yours, something sad swimming in the dark brown of them. In these few seconds you both feel it, the flood of memories and nostalgia for what you had, for what you wanted and what you'll never get. If only he had come with you. If only you had stayed. There were too many "if onlys" for anything else to last. You share a bittersweet smile before looking away to gaze up at the stars, Vega and Altair stunningly visible tonight. You should keep in touch, but you won't. You both know this.

[worldsover]

Dal Segno ft. Chuu

length ✦ 3570

genres ✧ music making; oral fixation; facefuck; subby!Chuu

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Composition is only fifty percent of the process, you've heard, but it's closer to ten for you. For the importance of a solid melody and chord progression with the right instruments and singer, a song becomes less than the sum of its parts with bad mixing because all that effort goes to waste when you can’t hear something, or when something is too loud, or when a certain je ne sais quoi is wrong. But you do know. You don't have to be a chef to be a food critic but it certainly helps. Avoid muddling the lows as it waters down the soup. Carve space in the highs to prevent too much salt from killing the taste buds. Have at most five sounds at a time or else the flavors clash. Focus on these basic techniques to guide you as repetition wears down your mind. Funny. Repetition legitimizes especially in music yet here you are fatigued by repetition as though you weren't down four cups of black coffee. Repetition legitimizes. “From the sign,” the translation reads. Notation, simply instructing a musician to return to a certain point in a piece. You recognize it as an intro song you wrote years ago.

Glass and foam separate the undersized room. Cheap ramen and dampness in the hot air contribute to the odor. You would keep the fan on, if it were worth the extra time filtering out faint noise from recordings. The only scent that keeps you sane is a slight strawberry flavor lingering in the room. Jiwoo. Your muse. A large clock holds both of its hands near one with the lack of natural light muddling whether it’s AM or PM. Studios were always underground man-caves whether they were discount rooms or the signature workspace of the biggest producers. Here you are in the former. Look down at the Macbook and all the wires, sliders, and knobs. Deep breath. “Take 63,” you say into the cheap control room microphone.

“Not good enough.”

“Again.”

“One more.”

Look up. Jiwoo sucks on a grape lollipop. You stare. Watching her fixated on getting all flavor out of the purple sweet derails your flow state. See, work had a rhythm. Listen, volume up, hotkey to copy this clip, volume down. The obvious innuendo sends you offbeat. That perky butt bending over to get a notebook filled with lyrics entrenches the folds of your brain. She didn’t have to wear that skirt. You’ve seen that skirt already and you wish she weren’t wearing it. Oh, you really wish she weren’t wearing that skirt. Guilt sets in. You’re a trusted coworker, she, a naive girl. It takes a while to find your groove again. Your stare has yet to cease until she finally returns the eye contact with candy still in mouth. Her pink tongue laps to secure all the sugar and red pillows engulf the ever-shrinking circle. Pop. Anyone else and it would be calculated action.

“Oppa." Her voice resounds in your monitor headphones. "I don’t know if these harmonies really make sense. Why did you write the second voice to cross down below the main line? Plus it goes so low."

“To be fair, you wrote both of those melodies and you said you wanted them in the same song. Tell me anywhere else they’d work.”

“Ugh, let’s figure this out later. Next song.“

Dozens of takes later and Jiwoo’s frustration causes her to make mistakes. Sometimes she even tries to start singing with the sucker in her mouth. For the character she plays, you know she’s a professional and that she can be better. Yet hours later, she still could not get the vocal runs right. Incomplete songs bloat your project folder: "Jiwoo - Mania", "Jiwoo - Look Closer", "Jiwoo - Untitled Idea 21". Just a small side project that the company approved during another ample period of break time between comebacks. That’s why the director didn’t even let you use the company’s facilities, instead opting to rent out this cheap closet of a studio. At least no one would be mad about the amount of time you spent recording together.

You shift seats from the leather office chair to the white lovechair, the only two pieces of furniture that fit comfortably in the room. Jiwoo follows suit and leaves the recording booth, really more of a phone booth in square footage, while she huffs and puffs on her candy.

“I’m tired, oppa,” she says.

“Me too, Jiwoo. May I remind you that I’m not getting paid extra for this. Are you gonna focus or what?” your voice just a few cents down, just a bit harsher.

“I, I’m sorry.” A lick anyway. Her meek tone disappears, “Ya! You know how good your royalties are gonna be. Sole producer and all that. Plus, here you are still doing all this work for me." Why were you working so hard on this? "You know, if you just taught me how to use Ableton-”

“Then I’d be out of a job.”

Jiwoo frowns, “Wow, selfish much? You could’ve joined me as a trainee.”

“Nah, no way. Fish dance better.”

“Shut up, oppa. You would’ve easily made it with your, um, musical talent.” She clamps down on the lollipop with her mouth.

“You good? What was that?”

“Let’s," she stands promptly, "get back to recording.”

Crack. Jiwoo bites down on the lollipop and throws the stick in the trash. In ten minutes, she nails the verse she spent hours trying to get right. It'd be really nice to know what catalyzed that rally. You'd ask but driving Jiwoo back to her dorm is quiet as usual.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Make a good impression on someone, anyone, on your first day as a mixing engineer. That’s why you returned to the Blockberry Creative building with an extra bar of Melona in hand. A simple bribery. Light beamed down between two skyscrapers on a short girl with long hair and strands of bangs adorning her forehead. She stood outside the lobby, introducing herself to every passerby. You had to pinch her cheeks, the intrusive thought screamed.

She scurried up to you. “Hi! I’m Kim Jiwoo and I’m going to become an idol!”

Ah, a trainee. You already knew she was destined to become one. Well, not literally, you weren’t in charge of that. But her overflowing charm was impossible to ignore. You had to tease her though, “Are you sure?”

“Hey! What would you know about that, mister?” she said.

You bit down on your mango. “Mister? First of all, I’m only a high school senior,” her lips rounded in surprise, “And second, I’m your new audio guy, and I know for a fact they’re debuting you girls in order of talent.”

“Woooow. Well, I’ll have you know, I have a great voice!” She certainly spoke lyrically.  “Wait a minute, I didn’t know they hired people that young.” You pointed at her. “Okay, I’m in high school too. But that’s different, idols start this age.”

“I guess. I’ve been making music ever since I was a kid, and they liked what I had,” you said and Jiwoo nodded in understanding.

She fluttered her eyebrows. “Sooo, is that mango ice cream for me? Oppa?” A little surprised she already called you that, but it sounded right.

“No, I have this unopened strawberry-” Jiwoo snatched the half-eaten cold treat from your hand, and started licking it. Trouble she would be.

You spent many recording sessions together, alone after all the other members left. She cozied up to you because her little musical snippets had to become full-fledged tracks and you helped her out every time.

Something changed over the years however. Your interactions became colder. It felt like you were the only one who she would respond to in a deeper voice. Jiwoo wouldn't pepper you with silly acts or mess around. Maybe she took you more seriously which is how you managed to make more songs together regardless. Then, you stood idly by and watched her debut. Who didn't love her? But when she was with you, you missed the playfulness, the ice cream and her riffing over your playful guitar strums. It turned less of a hobby and more of a job though you never regretted any second with Jiwoo regardless.

Under the Earth's largest natural satellite, you shared a simple meal in black bean noodles. She was still in her hippie outfit from the comeback, and you handed her your jacket since it was cold. You realized, there was something else there that you were too inexperienced to notice. Your bodies' radiation replace the chill in the air, a bubble with just the two of you eating on the grass in a park near your dorm. A cliche slurping on one noodle and Jiwoo pulled away. In embarrassment, like a damn anime character, she hiccuped. Good thing you didn't close your eyes when you leaned in.

“Wanna make an album together?” Jiwoo says.

“Sure.”

You threw away the noodles’ package and escorted her home. That was all you expected anyway. Fine.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

“That’s enough!”

Three goddamn weeks. It's been three goddamn weeks and you've barely made any progress.

Barge into the booth, slam the door shut and raise your tone, just below a shout, “I've had it up to here! You know how many of my songs have been mashed together in some unholy quest for your perfection? Just one unknown something is missing and either you start complaining or we move on to the next."

She backs up from the mic to the insulated wall but you continue, paying no heed to her, as you spout your piece to the artificially cold air, "You know how much time I’ve spent outside working on these songs? These are songs I’ve saved up over years. And you trash them like they’re nothing. How do you even manage to record LOONA tracks?”

Regret sinks in. This was your passion project as much as hers. Was it frustration from the recordings? Weeks of the same routine and it took until now for you to give in to your temper.

"It wouldn't even be that bad! If you could just one time, you could be cute or cheerful again with me, or,” Fuck. So stupid. You don’t have to take your friendships for granted like this. You’re lucky enough she treats you as much. “Hold on. Wait, I'm-"

Examine her face. It’s not sour and she hasn’t stormed out or even slapped you.

“No, no. You don’t have to say it. I’m. I’m sorry oppa.” She looks down. “I'm the one messing up after all." Her heartbeat a harsh snare drum. "And you. You're. Different. Looking at you always made me feel some, something funny. Not funny but? Ugh. I wish I could explain it.”

You hold in your confusion.

She blabbers on, “Like, are. Are you mad? I promise you, I,” A nervous breath, ”I like you. Okay?"

Your confusion grows like the length of your silence.

"I’m just acting how I really am with you. Do you want to maybe, I don't know, like," her voice decrescendos, "Um. Punish me?”

Your heart, your brain are deprived of blood as it all rushes down. Did you hear that right? Not an apology, not retribution, but a call to punishment? Misinterpreting her, the consequences would be dire but that damned demure tone for such an erotic request. Was Jiwoo the exact type of slut constructed in your mind? The one that made you feel sinful for even imagining. No, no, there's no way.

Too late. Jiwoo must have noticed the absurd bulge now. It had to be these Adidas pants today. Fuck it. Life can’t be lived fully without risk. Hopefully, the same switch turned in her mind. You remove all ire from your face and say in earnest, “Do you like games?"

She lights up a little. You sigh relieved.

"Let’s try…”, you say, ”Strip recording.�� She lights up a little more, so you go on, ”If I mess up anything, the mix, the composition, the arrangement, I’ll take off a piece of clothing. Your choice. And every time you mess up-”

Jiwoo unbuttons her denim shorts and brings them down her tight legs.

“D- did I say now?”

However, with her resolve steeled, she continues pulling them. "So what? I did mess up, right?" she says coquettish. Deliberate the turn she makes when she bows down to remove the shorts from her legs, Jiwoo reveals a hint of her innie pussy on that same little ass that ran through your mind earlier. A small trace of her thighs glistens, the only thing reflecting the single lightbulb’s glow in the microphone’s abode. She turns back to face you. "Please. Punish me."

Step closer until Jiwoo backs up to the soundproofing. She’s an eighth note away from your face, flashing her beady eyes and a coy smile, ”Where's your underwear?" A little drop spills out onto the floor, "And why are you so wet, Jiwoo-ah?”

Red on her cheeks, like she only now realized her dishevelment in front of you. “You just… Something about you snapping at me. I don’t get it either. I knew you'd do it, some day, I wanted you to," she mumbles in her best efforts to answer you.

“Have you ever worn underwear to the recordings?”

Those efforts continue to fail.

"Oh, Kim Jiwoo. What do I do with you?" One of your hands grabs her cheek. The other crawls down her back to grab her cheek.

“Oppa… Do I have to say it?”

“I want to hear every." Smack. "Word." Smack. She slips a moan.

“Can you," she says, "can you use my mouth?”

You disguise your long pause as thought, teasing the bare skin of her ass with your exploratory fingers to bide time, but it's an expression of your shock. The interruption helps you come up with a more suitable punishment however.

“How about this then. Every time you mess up, you have to give me a blowjob. Call?”

“Call!” Once more, unprompted, she kneels down in front of you and claws away your track pants. You roll with the punches.

"Oppaa," with an pronounced pop and in a sing-songy rhythm, "I've always wanted to know, if your dick-" It certainly didn't need Jiwoo's dainty hands pulling on your boxers, as it would've sprang out on its own with how like diamond your cock is getting.

"Fuuuck," the first profanity you ever hear her utter, she lilts. "Please. Oppa. Fuck my face?"

After all she said, she could still surprise you. Bring your hips forward and just as you would've her pussy, tease Jiwoo’s lips with the head of your dick. She parts them open, starved, anxious.

Hold her by the chin. "Wait."

She freezes at the command. Again, like foreplay, rub her lips with that head making them turn redder and more plump. You sweep aside her bangs to see her begging eyes. More importantly, slide your dick up to her nude forehead to slap as a first act of retribution. “A-ah!” Jiwoo stutters as you slap her face with your manhood again and again. Bring your cock back down and she's already a mess without you even having entered her mouth. A little drool from her shut lips gently massages your balls while a bit of precum drools from your slit to meet those lips.

Jiwoo mumbles as best as she can with you holding her jaw shut and your dick on her lips, "Please. Please. Shove your dick in me. I need you in my mouth."

You squint your rough eyes to command her.

Muffled still, "Oppa. Please. I. I need to taste you. You just, you're so thick and you're so long and cock is perfect and please I just-"  Loosen the grip on her chin to let her envelop the entire tip with her warm lips. "Mmmmm..." the moan resonates a saw wave and your stern resolve fades away on your first entrance into her face but it returns as her teeth rub against you. She quickly readjusts her jaw but it takes multiple attempts of you pulling out and her sucking you back until only silken lips hold your cock's head. Finally. A focused glint in her eyes. She endeavours to keep your tip in her mouth as long as possible.

You were mad at her earlier, weren't you?

Recall this anger and press yourself into her with all your hips' strength, working against the force of her lip's airtight suction. Saliva leaks to betray the seal. Jiwoo's prying tongue explores the underside of your cock but you reach an impasse while she's not even halfway down the shaft. You shove your dick deeper but to no avail and tears roll down her eyes joining the fluids coating her lips. Thus you exit back out. And back in you go to repeat and repeat and slowly increase your rate, becoming rough sex with her diligent mouth. All the positions you’ve imagined fucking her little pussy, you picture using her throat instead. Even in this compact studio, the couch, chair and desk would provide ample support for you to use her in many ways. The dirty thoughts inspire your speed right now. She slurps and gulps at every quick plunge but you realize her moans and rumbles aren't just incoherent reactions. You decelerate.

“Ah, ahhh, ahhhhhh… Ah’ve ahways- Hmph.” She slurs as she tries her hardest to communicate while her airway is blocked.

She slides up your cock to catch some air, “Thought about it- Mmm.”

“Your dick in my mouth and it’s just so pew, fect- Ahhh.” Jiwoo's lips let go gently then her tongue sticks out to lick up your cock and she shows off a trail of spit leading to your tip. A less patient man would’ve jerked himself off right there to grant her eyes and open mouth's unison request to feed on your cum.

Instead you retort, “You think you’ve earned it? Not even halfway down. Going nowhere, just like our recording sessions, huh?”

“Shut up!”

“Oof.” You’re already weak in the knees so Jiwoo's one handed shove sends your tailbone to the floor. Since you’re still dazed by her confounding strength, she takes initiative and kowtows her head into your lap to crawl down your cock with her tiny lips. Fondling your balls, Jiwoo starts from the furthest point she could muster on your shaft up to your cock head. Her tongue follows back and she starts playing under your tip to swirl that tongue around the most sensitive parts until it explores your slit. You buckle and groan. Jiwoo sucks and spits and sucks while she circles only the most minimal twisting motion of her lips on your head. This is the Jiwoo you know. Relentless. Only now your load is her magnus opus.

Her right hand strays downwards and her face on your dick blocks a full view but you can tell that hand is working as intensely as her mouth. As she strokes herself with more vigor, she starts humming a satisfied melody on your tip. In kind, your subtle grunts turn into full-bodied moans. You're a single measure away from your coda so you reach down and pull her off your cock by grabbing her neck.

You glare into her. “Desperate little girl, aren't you?”

Her breath is stilted and she's nearly shaking. “Please…” she sobs, ”You, you want it as bad as I do right?” Of course. “Won't you just cum for me?” Not now. Not when you have putty in your hands.

“You're making a mess. You can't take me all the way down. And I see that it’s not just your saliva coating the floor.” Point to the spot where she kneels, her drool joins a stain growing ever larger with a strand of juice from her pussy flowing as you continue to berate her. Then you point to her hand. Ha. “Were you playing with yourself using my pencil?”

“No… Wait!”

You back off. “Your top’s a mess too. Anyone can tell I just fucked your face.” You take off your black hoodie and give it to her. “I’ll see you tomorrow for our next session.”

“Wait, we didn’t book tomorrow, did we? Also, you can’t just leave me like this! Oppa!”

"I said, I'll see you tomorrow. I have to go,“ you remind her, ”Ha Rin’s picking you up. And give me back that pencil.”

She hands it to you, unable to meet your eyes despite hers lusting over your cock. You'll definitely use the alluring musk on it for later to save you from your self-induced blue balls. Exit the booth. Of course she barely waits to use your hoodie the same way since she doesn’t notice you lingering in the room. Instead of hiding the grey long sleeve that soaks her neck, your used sweatshirt covers Jiwoo’s face as her fingers make the mess on the floor larger.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

Swear to god I’m not just writing the cutest idols to write for. I mean maybe I am but also this answer from @nsfwtwicecatcher​ and all the subsequent pictures that I found of Chuu pouting inspired me. Also, this was a longer piece but I kept spinning my tires on it and decided to split it up, so look out for more.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Fermata, the aforementioned sequel

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

then came the morning (aka: the post - canon cuddle fic)

The work in progress is finally done! I’ve been chipping away at it for the past couple weeks now, and it’s gone through many drafts / iterations, but I think I’m finally happy with it. :)

Title from an album by the Lone Bellow. 

The first time the two of them “shared a bed” was about as awkward as one might imagine. The initiating circumstances were hardly any better.

 The heating apparatus in their quarters had given out a week or so back in a spectacular fit of dust - laden wheezing. The engineering crew called in to inspect it informed them that it couldn’t be fixed until they could pick up the right parts at the nearest trading post (which was naturally thousands of klicks away on the ragged edge of nowhere). With the ambient heat from the nearby engine room seeping through the wall, the conditions were deemed “unpleasant but survivable.” They were issued two extra threadbare blankets and told in tersely formal military - speak to deal with it. 

 And they’d dealt with it really well for a while! They grit their teeth and carried on like a couple of champs: Harrow, having been thoroughly warned against using her magic too frequently, layering on spare cloaks and sweaters until she almost disappeared under a mountain of black fabric; Gideon curling up close to the engine room wall and wincing when the cold sent spiteful twinges shooting through her still-very-busted knee. 

 But then one night their grand flagship of the revolution chugged through a particularly empty sprawl of space and began to slow down. The heat from the engine room guttered like a candle flame. Frost spiderwebbed across the thin plex of their window. Harrow’s breath showed in thin wisps of vapor as she huffed, glaring down at the pages of her book like she wanted to reprimand the cold for daring to interrupt her studies. 

 Gideon had half a mind to encourage her to try (that glare could stop a full - fledged Lyctor in their tracks, who knew what other horrifying powers it possessed?), but thought better of it when she saw the genuine exhaustion in the other girl’s eyes.

 “You doing alright over there, my vulturine vicar?” she asked. “I know it takes some time to absorb all that good bone knowledge, but you haven’t turned a page in like half an hour.”

 The thunderous look on Harrow’s face darkened further as she set her book aside with an exasperated thump. “This is ridiculous. I studied in the depths of Drearburh for years without any issue, and yet here I am struggling to focus like a novice. It isn’t even that cold.” She bit her lip as a shiver ran through her at the words. 

 “Evidence seems to suggest otherwise, o mistress of melancholy. Do you want me to go ask that guy in the supply room for another blanket? He still owes me for his son’s fencing lesson.”

 Supply room guy didn’t really owe her anything, but she knew that mentioning it would make Harrow feel better. If she could believe that the nice things Gideon did for her were actually for Totally Self - Serving, Debt - Settling reasons, she could accept them without feeling guilty.

 (Guilt had haunted Harrow more than ever upon returning to her own body, making it hard to breathe on good days and leaving her shaking with sobs on bad ones. 

It was one of those fun little things they had in common.)

 From the way Harrow’s shoulders stiffened, though, it seemed that Gideon Nav’s patented Guilt Workaround wasn’t going to be as effective as usual. She shook her head - a stiff little gesture that made her earrings rattle - then sighed. 

 “No. Thank you, though, it’s kind of you to offer.” 

 The thank you was sincere, and that was admittedly pretty nice, but all the sincerity in the world wouldn’t change the fact that Harrow was still  very obviously shivering. She looked miserable beneath her usual mask of face paint and stoicism. The dark red bead of blood-sweat trailing down her temple indicated that she'd probably tried using some kind of homeostasis theorem, but it wasn't working well enough. 

 There had to be a solution to this problem somewhere. Harrow's stubborn pride meant that she wouldn't accept help outright - she would sooner set her books on fire than admit what she thought of as a weakness - but if Gideon could play it just right, maybe she wouldn't have to. It would need to be done carefully - too sappy and she'd be uncomfortable, too straightforward and she'd balk.  Casual, Gideon decided. Nice and casual was the way to go. It would just be a matter of execution.

 "Soooo," she said at length, leaning back against the wall all cool and easy. (She folded her arms up behind her head as an afterthought, appreciating the way it made her still-atrophied-but-getting-there muscles stand out through the thin fabric of her shirt. Confidence boosts were going to be scarce and sorely needed in the conversation to come - she’d take them where she could get them.)

 Naturally, Harrow did not appreciate the change in tack or the cool-and-easy-ness. She did, however, manage to muster up a look so steeped in wary disapproval that it cut through her earlier frustration like a hot knife through bone marrow. “So.”

 “You sure about that blanket? Because really, it would only take me a second -”

 “I’m sure. Thank you.”

 “Then, um, did you want to borrow mine?”

 Harrow blinked. “You need yours.”

 “Yeah, I know! I meant that we could maybe - share. Pool our resources.” She patted the edge of her bunk gamely, then instantly regretted it when Harrow’s eyes narrowed even further. 

 “You want us to sleep together?”

 "No? I mean, technically, but no. In the literal way. Not the other way.” Well maybe the other way sometime if you wanted to but that’s a whole other weird conversation that we probably shouldn't touch with a ten foot pole or we might explode. 

 "How exactly would that work?" The caution was still heavy in Harrow's voice, but some of the disapproval had ebbed away. 

 "I mean. We'd probably need to use my bed, since my sheets aren't covered in gross bone gobbets, but you could bring your blankets over and layer 'em over mine and then we'd have twice the blankets! And, you know, body heat. Which has its perks." Even Gideon's cool-and- easy-ness faltered at that, but she bravely soldiered on. "The point is, we'd both be warm."

 "And it won't - make things weird?" 

 "Nope! Not weird. All perfectly chill, my shivering scion."

 Harrow paused for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth. "I'll get ready for bed," she said at last, clipped and decisive. "And I'll think about it."

 "Take your time. I'll be here."

 Moments later, after the shivering scion had swept grandly out of the room, Gideon's Thinking Brain crashed unceremoniously into her Talking Brain. Things were not, in fact, going to be perfectly chill. There were going to be some logistical problems with this arrangement. Big logistical problems.

 Big logistical problems namely revolving around the mutually exclusive facts that the midnight monarch was not especially comfortable with touch, and Gideon Nav, space - bee slayer and resurrected badass, was a sleep cuddler.

 Or, well, she was in theory. She didn’t have much (any) “real world” experience to go on, but she’d woken up many, many times back on the Ninth with a bundle of blankets wrapped up in her arms or nestled close to her chest. The habit had never really embarrassed her back then - she actually kind of liked it. She felt warmer and less lonely when she had something to hold, even in the frigid emptiness of her cell. 

 But that was back then. Things were different in the here - and - now. Harrow was in the here - and - now, and Gideon would never forgive herself if she ruined things with Harrow right when their relationship was on the upswing. They were actually talking, slowly figuring out how to work together again. The furious, tearful intensity between them in the wake of their reunion had calmed and warmed into something almost like real friendship. 

 After all that had happened - everything that had gone wrong over the past year and a half - they’d found a fragile sort of peace. There was no way in Hell she was going to ruin that peace now.

 So while Harrow swished about getting ready for bed, Gideon leveled with herself and laid down some ground rules. Don’t make this weird, Nav. Make sure she’s comfortable, give her her space, and don’t think about cuddling with her. 

 ...even though it would probably be warmer, and she has shitty necro circulation and essentially no body mass so she needs all the warmth she can get, and she gets that kinda soft peaceful look on her face when - no, fuck, see? You’re doing it already. Even if she did like you like that, which she absolutely doesn’t because she’s got a good old-fashioned frostbite girl back home, that’s not what you’re here for. You’re her cav. Her sworn sword. You’re here to do your job and make sure she doesn’t get her thumbs bitten off again. That’s it.

 “You’re staring.”

 Harrow’s voice cut sharp as a bone shard through Gideon’s nervous thought - spiral. Having apparently completed her grim evening rituals, she’d settled lightly on the far edge of the to - be - shared bed, countless dark layers poofing out around her like the feathers of a posturing crow. Her face was flecked with dots of gray from scrubbing off her paint, and her short hair stuck up in messy licks of black fluff despite her increasingly irritated attempts to smooth it flat. 

 It shouldn’t have been endearing. It really, really shouldn’t have. 

 It was.

 Gideon was so screwed.

 “Shit,” she muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face to ground herself. She glanced over to meet Harrow’s eyes (and wow, was that a mistake, they were as mesmerizing a swirl of black and gold as ever), then forced a smile like she wasn’t screaming internally. “Sorry. Zoned out a little. You good to go?”

 The wryly exasperated glint in Harrow’s eyes made them glow even brighter in the dim light. “Yes, I’m ‘good to go,’ thank you. Are you, though? You look … troubled.” 

 Shit. Shit. Shit. Think nice, normal thoughts. Don’t let her know. She cannot know. 

 “I’m always good, my chthonic countess,” she lied, smooth as could be, throwing in a roguish wink for good measure. That was distractingly stupid enough, it was bound to work.  

 Harrow frowned. “Why are you blinking like that?”

 The roguish wink apparently had not worked. 

 “No reason! Just dust. In my eye. Lots of very rude dust landing right in my eye. Anyway. How are we doing this?”

 A flicker of genuine, anxious concern ghosted over Harrow’s face as her frown deepened. 

 “Gideon,” she began, in that slow, reluctant way of hers that heralded Incoming Indignity. “I know that you were the one to suggest this, but I want to impress upon you that if you aren’t - certain about it, there is another possible solution.”

 She cast around the room for a moment and reached for a massive, dusty tome at the top of a nearby stack, flipping determinedly through the pages. “I've had the idea for some time, but I only just managed to convince our commanding officer that I could use theorems 'responsibly' without their constant supervision, so I haven't been able to test it until now. Small - scale thanergetic fission reactions produce sparks of flame that, if handled extremely carefully, could give off enough heat - "

 “Wait.” Gideon held up a hand, her own anxious brain jolting back online at the word flame. “Wait, wait, wait. Harrow. Seriously? The concern is sweet, don’t get me wrong, but your other solution is death - fire?”

 “I said that it was a possibility,” she snapped back, that old brittle defensiveness calcifying over the vulnerability in her voice. Her posture straightened with a great rustling of robes: shoulders back, chin high, eyes gleaming with disdainful pride as the bones scattered about their room twitched to life. Looking for all the world like she had when they were ten - twelve - fourteen - sixteen, bitter and vicious and spoiling for a fight. 

 She seemed to realize it right when Gideon did. Her eyes widened, then closed. The bowstring tension in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as her half - formed constructs clattered to the floor. “Sorry,” she said at last, her voice a threadbare murmur. “I’m sorry. That was - uncalled for.”

 “It’s a reflex. I get it.” And she did - she’d done the same thing countless times, had a hand on her sword and a barbed insult on her tongue without even thinking about it. 

 Another one of those fucked up things they had in common. 

 An uneasy silence settled between them, broken only by the rumbling hum of the engines, the thud of footsteps in the hall. 

 “I meant it, you know,” Harrow said, after a long moment. “About other options. It was a half - baked and immature attempt, but I wanted to give you an out if you were uncomfortable.”

 “Yeah, I know, my sepulchral sage. I appreciate it. Half - baked immaturity and all.” She bumped her shoulder gently against Harrow’s, then flopped back on the bunk to stare up at the low ceiling. “Are we, like, committing to honesty hour tonight? How deep into feelings do you want to get?”

 “As deep as is comfortable.”

 “That’s what she said.”

 “It’s a reasonable thing for her to say.”

 Another hush fell over them, marginally more comfortable than the last, as Gideon worried her lip between her teeth and counted the cracks in the ceiling above her. There were nine of them in total. Go fucking figure.

 A bony finger poked her in the side after a few cycles of counting. “Were you going to elaborate, or was that all just a set - up for one of your charming jokes?”

 “I can’t believe it took you eighteen years to finally admit that they’re charming, but no, that’s not why I said it. I’ll lay bare my tender squishy heart for you, penumbral lady. Because you asked so nicely.” 

  Because I think you might already have it. 

 No avoiding it now. Might as well bite the bullet and dive in. 

 “I was on board with the cuddle thing from the beginning, but I felt like you wouldn’t be, and I panicked. You probably already knew that because you’re way more creepily observant than you have any right to be, but there it is. Out in the open.” 

 She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could just run away and hide from the other girl’s piercing gaze. “I just don’t want to fuck things up with you, Harrow. I feel like we’ve got a kind of good thing going now. You haven’t called me a useless halfwit in forever, and I haven’t called you a heinous bitch in forever, and I haven’t wanted to. That’s unheard of for us. I don’t want it to go away.”

 Her voice cracked, and the most damning words burst forth like flowers through concrete: “I don’t want to give you a reason to shut me out again.”

 The memories of those nine months flashed in fragmented mosaic through her mind - the slick stone walls of the well, the freezing churn of the water, the burn in her muscles as she desperately thrashed up toward the surface and reached for someone who didn’t even know she was there. The gut - wrenching loneliness that defined her entire fucking life coalescing in that pit of brackish darkness. The chant rattling on loop in her mind as the water pulled her under: Harrow, what happened, what did you do, why the fuck did you leave me here, I had a purpose, I threw myself on that goddamned rail for a reason, was that not enough for you? 

 Was I not enough for you?

 A cool, fine - boned hand laced with hers and squeezed, just once. The memories blurred. 

 “Gideon,” the voice that had haunted her all that time said. “You know - you have to know that isn’t why I did it.”

 “Why did you, then?”

 A tiny hitch of breath. A soft, almost incredulous laugh. Then:

 “Because I loved you.”

 The words hung heavy in the frozen air. 

 “You - what?”

 “I loved you.” She said it so simply. Like it was something she’d come to terms with long ago. “I loved you beyond reason, and for once in my life I wanted to do right by you and keep you safe as you did me. The motivation doesn’t justify a moment of it, I won’t pretend it does, and I can’t even begin to erase the hurt it caused you. But I need you to understand that it was never because of something you did wrong. You are good, darling. Good to the core. You always have been.”

 Bright spots bloomed before Gideon’s eyes as her reeling mind fought to catch up. Three thoughts sprang unbidden to the forefront:

 Mmf.

 And: Darling?

 And:

“Loved. You said ‘loved.’ Why the past tense?”

 She sat there, staring blankly up at the ceiling, half - expecting a don’t be presumptuous, Griddle or something even remotely normal, at least. What she got instead was another laugh, halting and shaky and suddenly deeply bitter. The hand in hers went rigid and drew away. 

 “I came to my senses. I remembered the countless awful things I’ve done. Saw myself for the leech that I am. I’ve taken and taken and taken from you, over and over again, torn away at your life like a scavenger, I can’t steal anything more  - “

 “Who said anything about stealing?”

 For the first time since the grand awkward commencement of honesty hour Gideon felt a genuine smile bloom across her face. “Come on, Nonagesimus, give me some credit. You honestly think I would have stuck around this long if I didn’t know what I was giving you? If I wasn’t getting something out of it too?”

 “What could you possibly be getting out of it?”

 “You. I like you. Like, a lot. More than I ever thought I would. And I know the brain weasels are going to start yammering about how that’s impossible, and you don't deserve it, and we've still got a mountain of baggage left to work through, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I really mean it. Having you with me has made this whole shitty thing infinitely less shitty."

 With a surge of sudden bravery and dizzy emotion, she reached out to take Harrow's hand again and, giving her ample time to pull away, pressed a feather - light kiss to the back. “If you want me here too, sunshine - as your cav or your friend or something else - then I'm not going anywhere."

 Harrow closed her eyes, took a deep shuddering breath, and - smiled. A real one, slow and hesitantly sweet, lighting up her careworn face. "I need to think about it - we both should think about it. But I do want you here, in whatever way you want to be."

 "Yeah? Cool."

 "Cool."

 Silence settled upon them for the third time that night, but this time it was different. It was soft and tentative, fragile and new, like budding grave - flowers reaching for the sun. First flowers, the both of them, clawing up out of the grit and finding a way to bloom.

 "Should we go to sleep now?" Harrow asked at last, her rasping voice low and quiet. "It's getting late."

 "We probably should. Cam and Pal are gonna kill us if we're not up by 6:00 tomorrow. Are you still up for this, though? Like, the whole 'two girls, chilling in a military bunk, zero feet apart 'cause they're freezing and also maybe like each other' thing?"

 "Yes. On one condition."

 "Anything."

 "This might be difficult for you."

 "Seriously, Harrow, just tell me. Name it and it's done."

 "No sex jokes."

 She heaved a sigh, mock - exasperated and so stupidly fond. "As you wish, my dearest darling death omen. As you wish."

 It took a while to get comfortable - with Harrow's knobby elbows jabbing Gideon in the stomach, Gideon's clunky knee brace getting tangled in the sheets, the blankets collectively giving up and puddling on the floor at least ten times - but eventually, like everything else, they made it work. They fumbled through the sleep - cuddling confession with an admirable lack of panic on both sides, culminating in a firm agreement that they would let each other know the moment they were at all uncomfortable and an "I trust you" from Harrow so pure in its sincerity that it would be ringing through Gideon's mind for at least a myriad.

 Harrow was the first to fall asleep, curled up tight in a cocoon of black fabric, the dark crown of her head just barely brushing the sunburst scar on Gideon's chest. Her shallow breaths fell into an even, steady rhythm, interspersed with whistling snores that Gideon was definitely going to tease her about when her heart was less of a melted puddle of goo. 

 The minutes slipped by warm and slow as drops of honey as her own eyes grew heavier, fluttering closed. She gave her necromancer - her Lyctor - her beautiful baneful bone empress one last sleepy smile, and drifted off.

 (When Camilla went to shake her sparring partner awake the next morning, she found the two of them still sound asleep, wrapped up in each other's arms and looking more peaceful than she'd ever seen them. She huffed a laugh, muttered "finally," and let them be.)

[bluegarners]

Oooh for the bingo card can I pick survivors guilt with dick feeling guilty cause he ran away from home just like Jason but he lived while Jason died 😢

ahhh sorry this took awhile to get to!! i hope you enjoy this though~ requested for my Bad Things Happen Bingo ; it is also on ao3

Survivor's Guilt

The days bleed into one another to the point where it’s almost offensive, how indistinct and indiscriminate each sunrise and subsequent sunset is. A little boy died and the world carries on like nothing happened. Like his life was nothing less than the lawn being mowed or a tree being cut down. Is there an analogy Dick’s forgetting about, comparing dead children to nature? He’s not sure, he’s just tired, and the days continue to bleed into one another.

Monday is actually Thursday and Dick looks in the mirror and traces the bruise on his face. There’s a line in the fading purple blob that’s just the slightest bit darker. Knuckle indents. He saw it coming but he didn’t do anything. It was… just a punch. He applies some ointment and looks away. A little boy died and he’s still taking care of a tiny little injury, hardly an injury, it’s nothing, it’s nothing, because-

It’s four in the evening and Dick just woke up. It’s not a good habit to fall into, to sleep so late, do so little, think about dead little boys and missed funerals, but Dick can’t help it. Sometimes, he loses time within the bleeding days, just sits down for a moment and then an alarm goes off to remind him that it’s morning now and that he should be getting up to do… something. Go somewhere. Take care of things. But what? But what? Dick only just sat down, it doesn’t seem fair for the world to demand he be pulled this way and that when it already took a child, already took someone that never graduated tenth grade.

What do people learn in tenth grade? They’re just children, and Dick can’t remember much from his Gotham Academy days, so he really hopes they aren’t put under too much pressure. They’re all just so young, tenth graders, so young and youthful and there’s really no reason for them to be bogged down with work or stress from education. Life was infinitely more important than some late homework and Dick wonders if the school requires missing assignments from dead children. Wonders what they do with that extra, empty desk or the absent name on the roster. Wonders if they just shove another kid into their place, cross out the name for attendance, and carry on like the rest of the world seems to have.

What’s more, what do the friends of the dead child do? Do they mourn? Mourning seems so sad for the young, it's got no place in their view, and yet Dick remembers mourning, grieving when he was just nine but it was all so wrong. Dick hopes that the friends of the dead child are okay. Dead child. Dead little boy. Dead tenth grader.

He heard the funeral was nice. Heard that the school hosted a vigil. Of course, he wasn’t able to attend. Wasn’t extended the invitation to attend, but it’s not about him. It’s about the dead boy.

Dick has never been comfortable with children. Not in the sense that he finds them strange or annoying or that he can’t stand youth. He’s just not comfortable with the sheer light, with people who possess so much of it that it literally oozes out in all the things they do. Leaks out from their innocent smiles, their troubled and off-handed questions, their zest for adventure, yearning for dreams so much larger than themselves, their endless compassion for others, their infinite amount of crushes, their worry about deadlines and asking someone out on a date, their constant need to keep up with trends of the day; so many light things that Dick hasn’t touched in so long. So many things he feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to touch.

You were lucky.

Was he? Dick doesn’t think he was, but then again, he’s not a dead little boy with a specially made coffin to fit his small, under-developed, never got the chance to reach a growth-spurt, body. Being Batman’’s partner was terrifying. He remembers it being scary, not knowing if he was going to live through the night or if Batman was going to go off on another rampage because Dick screwed up. Not knowing if screwing up as Batman’s partner meant no longer being welcomed as Bruce’s ward.

How many times has it been now? Twice? Three times?

A key is gone from his chain now and its missing weight burns holes in all of Dick’s clothes. It’s a finality that feels just as permanent as the dead little boy’s gravestone.

A size six and a half pair of sandals sit on the edges of Dick’s tiny balcony. He has a no shoe policy in his apartment, hardly cleaner than the streets below, but it was the principle that counted right? No muddy boots, no dirty sneakers, no rain logged socks, none of that. So Dick keeps a pair of size six and a half sandals on his balcony in case a size six and a half wearer decides to waltz in.

Dick wears a size eleven.

He’ll have to get rid of them at some point. There’s no reason for them to stay there, collecting dust or peeling away whenever it rains. They weren’t even that good of a pair, just some knock off brand he found at a convenience store once, so keeping them for their worth isn’t that important. He spent the entirety of seven dollars on them, so really, he’s not strapped for cash and he can’t wear them himself and he’s sure that some homeless kid or anyone really would be happy to have them. He could just donate them, throw them in a box and leave it outside for the trash to pick up. He could. He could.

He can’t.

They aren’t his. They belonged to someone, someone very important, and he can’t just throw them away. You don’t throw away a dead little boy’s shoes just because they can’t wear them anymore. His parents always taught him to respect the dead, respect their belongings, and those sandals aren’t his so he’s got no say in what to do with them. It’s fine if the dead child’s shoes stay out on Dick’s balcony. It’s fine. He doesn’t go out there much anyway. The shoes are so tiny, only a size six and a half, and Dick can hardly get half of his foot in a size so small and they belong to a dead boy anyway so he shouldn’t touch them. Shouldn’t touch the dead child’s shoes.

He’s distancing himself on purpose. It’s a lot easier to say a dead little boy, a dead child, than it is to admit a name belongs to such a ghastly title. There are so many other words, so many other titles infinitely more fitting for a child than dead, and yet it’s the only one that describes him in this moment. Dead. Gone. Passed.

There used to be a box shoved away in the back corners of his closet. A cramped and banged up cardboard box containing every memory he had from being Robin. There used to be a picture of his parents in there, a cracked glass frame and a stained photo all he had left from Haly’s; there was his old costume from the circus, the same one he wore on the night where the sawdust turned black and he learned what sounds a body makes when it hits the ground; there was a small photo album in there too, pictures Alfred took of Dick’s time at the Manor, of his time as Bruce’s ward. Sometimes he’ll flip through its pages and feel that sting in his eyes, feeling the ghostly fingers of longing cradle his head through each memory every pristine photo contained.

And, most importantly, in that old, worn out, and beat up cardboard box, was Robin. Red, green, and yellow. Shorts and a velcro cape. Boots he doesn’t know how he ever fit into. A vest that would be impossible to get around his shoulders now. The crest, the emblem. Robin.

It was supposed to stay in that box. Remain there for the rest of his days, leave behind a child soldier and trade it out for a freelancer looking for a new war to fight. A new landscape to reshape and hone as his own. But then another little boy, taller than when Dick started out, appears in the night and leaps and frolics and laughs by Batman’s side. Stands over Gotham and gloats and jeers and grasps Robin almost perfectly.

And for the first time, Dick understands the horror that plowed into every other superhero out there when he first debuted as Robin. Understands the numbing terror of the thought of a child, someone who probably didn’t know how to do calculus or read Shakespeare or tie their shoes correctly, out there fighting the dirtiest and darkest sides of the world. That someone with a shoe size of six and a half was out there punching rapists, getting up close with drug lords and traffickers, witnessing and investigating crime scenes and analyzing gore and blood spatters.

Just a child. Just a little boy.

It feels wrong. So, so wrong, to give his blessing to someone who’s just barely hit puberty. Who’s still struggling to perfect a Robin cackle or speak without his voice cracking and pitching wildly. It’d make him a hypocrite not to though. He was younger, so much younger, when he started out as Robin, so who is he to stop an almost teenager from being Robin?

Well, actually, Dick is an adult. His frontal lobe is completely developed, he can pay taxes, drink, vote, organize his own affairs, drive, buy cigarettes, make his own decisions. Help others make decisions. Jas- the dead boy was just that. A boy. He had no idea how to do any of those things, much less think about them for the next few years, so how can he just allow a child to decide if they want to traumatize themselves, bleed themselves dry, for a city that doesn’t love them and devote themselves to a man’s mission that hasn’t changed in over a decade?

But even if he hadn’t given his blessing, the boy would have been Robin anyway. Remember? Dick has no say in anything to do with Robin. Anything to do with Gotham. No, all that was taken away the moment he stepped out of line, stepped out of the conformity and obedience Batman demanded. The blessing… it was just a formality for something Dick had never wanted to continue. Robin was supposed to disappear with him, die with him leaving Gotham, and yet…

Robin died anyhow.

There’s a dead little boy that used to be named Robin buried in a cemetery with a beautifully carved gravestone that just wanted the child to rest in peace, sleep well, and dream of a better life. And Dick gave his blessing for him to die as Robin.

The days still bleed into each other, melting and drifting over and mixing until the sunrises and sets in the same minute. Dick keeps losing time and people keep calling him but he just forgets to pick up the phone to answer. He can’t help but stare at his balcony, can’t help but stare at the empty space in the box, can’t help but listen to his own heartbeat and watch the way his chest expands as his lungs do.

He is alive. Alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

Robin was not meant to last. Dick has told himself that over and over again, the clear and simple fact that Robin was not meant to carry on. Born through the same circumstances as Batman, Robin was supposed to be nothing more than a temporary outlet but Dick got addicted and now he can’t stop. Now his thoughts loop around and around and all he can think about is a dead child wearing his Robin uniform and running out in the night with his blessing.

You were lucky.

Bruce was right. He was lucky. Lucky beyond belief that he survived being Robin. Lucky he stuck around long enough to learn what he needed to and then some under Batman’s tutelage, only to be fired and leave a gaping hole behind that was just calling for a replacement. Screaming for someone to fill the void, beckoning the ears of the young and naive to answer its call. Of course a child would answer. Of course someone eager and looking for love and praise and meaning would find their way there.

And perhaps Dick used up all the luck, all the magic, Robin gave. Used it all up and without a care in the world for who would be next to wear the cape, parade the emblem, because now there’s a dead little boy in the ground and his blood stains Dick’s hands.

Maybe if he had died as Robin instead, died in those early days where he was nine and filled with moxy undeserved, it would have served as warning enough to stay away from Batman. Stay away from Robin. Stay away from the beckon of being a child soldier. And, really, it wouldn’t have been all that bad if he had died so young. If he had died after Zucco was found because then he would have been with his parents, would have been reunited with his family again.

Dick isn’t sure he believes in the after life, if there are places like Heaven and Hell, but sometimes he hopes there is because there is a dead little boy in his arms and he is desperate for the hope that he has a good place to go to. To move on to.

But Dick’s not dead, still very much alive and breathing through working lungs with blood pumping through his veins, and now he’s not only outlived his time as Robin, but the next as well. He has outlived a child.

How do you outlive your own legacy?

He can’t call the dead child his brother. They’re not, legally, and Dick didn’t bond with him like brothers should. He tried, tried to after the initial shock and horror, bought size six and a half sandals, helped with homework, lent an ear to vent to, but it wasn’t enough.

Somehow, a dead little brother is so much worse than a child and Dick can’t give him another title to cling to. Can’t assign another name and still…

Jason is dead. Dick missed his funeral, missed it all, and his name is Jason Todd and he was only fifteen when he died and god, Dick wishes he had been a better brother. Wishes so badly he had never given his blessing, never lived through being Robin, because that would mean Jason would have never had to die and he would be in Dick’s place, simply breathing and alive and that’s… that’s all he can ask for.

The days continue to bleed into each other and the bruise slowly fades away into his skin.

The sandals remain on the balcony.

[sugar-petals]

BTS Scenario: Taking Care of Them When They Have a Cold

↳ ♡ NOTE ⇁ time for fluff. autumn season is coming, let me set the mood right here, we’re going cozy 🍂

warnings ⚠️ hurt/comfort, brief mention of sexual tension

⌈jimin⌋ ⇢ Jimin’s cold is unusually subtle. In terms of visible signs, it’d take some time to notice it for someone who doesn’t know him or doesn’t check just how heavy another person’s breath is going. But feedback? You will definitely get. Compared to how he’s pouting about it, which will melt your heart is what I’m saying, the symptoms are understated in comparison to the other members. Taehyung’s cough can shatter an entire neighborhood, Jimin sneezing is as graceful as a gazelle. Mind you, his nose is runny, and the slight fatigue of the first two days isn’t negligible, but the major thing to actively mend is more psychological than physical. In other words, his body does its thing, you don’t have to overextend yourself. 

That’s what you have to figure out first to really take care of him properly. After laying him down and bringing both snacks and liquids, talking is what he needs rather than ten thousand types of medications and cool towels all over him. Jimin doesn’t want to see you become sick as well so you don’t sit up close, but at talking range, and you text a lot during the day while you work. He’s worried about not being able to practice and hopes the cold doesn’t show in his appearance. You assure him it takes five days at best and he is okay again and promise a lot of kisses. With that prospect, healing is even sweeter. And, you know the guy, Jimin misses seducing you, so.

⌈taehyung⌋ ⇢ Absolutely enjoys being babied ten times out of ten. Nothing better than you preparing a hot herbal bath. Rosemary, thyme, camomile. The steam spiraling off the water surface looks so relaxing in the candlelight, the classical music you put on sways him into a trance, he lays there for half an hour just motionless. He gets a little tray of coconut cookies on the bed stand, you play the guitar to him, you massage his feet before he sleeps… Which, and he hates admitting it, makes it nice to be sick. By all means not because of the fever, but the extra attentions, the hot chocolate for bed. Taehyung thinks about that twice and concludes something. He doesn’t want to get a cold just to receive this treatment. Not for his own health nor to worry or overwhelm you, he’s not gonna guilt-trip you into being a servant. 

So, you agree for later: It’s good to treat him sporadically just because, whenever and wherever, cue Shakira. That Taehyung so enjoys a good healing and mending time and it just explodes when you both have a reason to, that’s rather something to expand to the whole relationship. Taehyung will do the exact spoiling for you, with a romantic twist the way you know him. It doesn’t need a sickness to resort to doing nice things for your partner. At the end of the day, the body will remember it and get sick again because it sees what it gets through being ill. That’s something to squarely avoid doing, a random gesture is good for its own sake, amen.

⌈yoongi⌋ ⇢ Grumpy, murmuring, disgruntled he can’t work without getting a headache, needs a lot of silence to recover so he curls up on his own with earphones in and fifty playlists on repeat. He’s like tch, only thing I need is tiger balm to whip me back into shape. Or… wait. Wait a second. A cup of steaming hot coffee with extra foam he will not reject. Or a plate of fried rice. Anything fried and super crispy, really. Yoongi likes those things, especially when prepared by you. Nothing is more honoring. Actually? I’ll change the initial statement. Yoongi does accept some help. You simply gotta find out his catnip I mean favorite dishes and either know the place to order it from or have some kitchen basics down. Nothing super fancy though, it doesn’t need a God’s Menu. The right seasoning does the trick already. 

He wants it mega spicy, sweating out the cold is the way to go said Yoongi’s mom back in the day so he goes by that motto. Love starts in the stomach for felines. If another BTS member drops take-out at the door, even better, that uplifts him greatly. When he munches, that’s the most gratifying thing in the world. Yoongi wants you to eat with him by the bed so that means chili in the bedroom but screw it. All that food and you cranking up the heater distracts Yoongi from his cold and some head pats have him on his way to recovery. And, by the way. He’s kinda turned on by you cooking for him so… the frustration is real, you’re gonna fuck like rabbits once he’s okay again.

★ ⌈namjoon⌋ ⇢ The friendly giant will stay in denial about his cough for at least three days and walk around with way too much medicine in his system. He begs for someone to relieve him, mostly himself, but all those sky-high standards are in the way. Responsibility! Hard work and endurance! Solve it in your head! What is the spiritual reason for colds? How many pills keep you awake for an all-nighter to write an album in one go? What’s next on the schedule? So it goes on, you know the deal with Joonie. You have to kick that leader butt so he finally enters the healing cave under the sheets. Don’t kick too hard though, he doesn’t have Jimin-level cushions. He topples over into his sheets fast anyway, he’s that level of exhausted from his own suppression. 

The story goes on, Namjoon feels extremely guilty for getting pampered and still ponders the reasons why he is ill rather than slowing down a minute and closing his laptop for a hot second. It gets a little awkward unless you figure out your secret weapon. What he feels better with is you reading him stories while he rests on the sofa. I’m not kidding. Or if you’re busy or he wants to be alone, audiobooks. That input is like a lullaby to Namjoon who gets knocked out by the soft whispering only to descend into 12 hours of sleep. Ah, he’s namjooning. Yep. His cold will force him into resting, but by the time he recovers, he is six books wiser and has had the pleasure of listening to your voice which he finds soothing. Thankful he is, anticipate an expensive present and flowers.

★ ⌈jungkook⌋ ⇢ Meal and fluid intake: Quantity explosion! Wow, wow, and wow again, the sheer amount that he can snack and turn into what seems even more muscle and more sweetness. Guinness World Record. He knows his system is currently resetting, he wants to hand it the building blocks, he knows the math. Yes, even sick Jungkook is the cutest foodie in the world. Yes, he will eat his veggies. He worries about not being able to work out so you at least help him stretch his legs ever so slightly in bed. He’s missing his boxing gloves like crazy, he wants to see the members in the practice room, he wants his milk. The latter is easy to get for him, and FaceTime comes in handy. 

Namjoon does a little motivational speech, and Jungkook feels better almost instantly. Later on, you have to scold him — well, just a little bit — for getting up in all that enthusiasm to do some of his routine on the second day, but he already knows it’s not good for him to get his heart rate up like that. He patiently snuggles in a cocoon of duvets with only his eyes being visible. Until, finally, his red lil’ nose goes back to normal and his lungs feel a lot lighter. Jungkook really hates being dizzy, so it’s a weight off his hunky shoulders all right. Then, he can join you at the dinner table for a double portion of extra Parmesan Spaghetti, and you settle on the couch to bingewatch romantic animes and any Studio Ghibli movie in history.

★ ⌈jin⌋ ⇢ It simply can’t be helped, he even wants to make this funny. Humor really is a never-ending well, Jin is Spongebob’s long lost cousin if you go by his amount of meme talk. He calls himself Rudolph the Red-Nosed Jindeer, stuffs handkerchiefs into his nostrils, draws smileys on his knees with the cream usually meant for a dry philtrum (he now has very hydrated knees, how about that), does impossible contortions to find the right sleeping or reading position. Honestly, you don’t really have to take much care of him nor worry, Jin will cure himself through laughter. The power of positive emotion. Entertainment is nothing to provide for, he’s a one-man show after all. Jin is the least bored when he’s sick among the group, however! It needs someone else to exchange with, you know. No punchline without an audience. Listening is the best thing. 

Sit, lean back, see what he has to say. The only thing you gotta actively do is stop him from choking on his own spit after a particularly dead-on joke. Maybe it’s introducing some room for serious time that helps Jin enter a different track. I can imagine that. Some talk about memories, talk about sorrows and issues. Jin is a complete man, but he still has plenty of ’em, demons don’t evade handsome people. And those need to be talked through in a silent minute. Jin also enjoys movie nights with a cup of tea in one hand and syrup in the other, that’s the go-to way to unwind. You can finally go all out and pour him his tea, bake for him, serve some self-made popcorn, extra sticky and sweet, oh yum.

★ ⌈hoseok⌋ ⇢ If Jimin and Hobi ever get colds at the same time, this will be the poutiest contest. They’re the most vocal about it in the group. Hoseok, and that will come to surprise you a little, becomes needy. Not at the beginning where he’s confused and emotional about what’s going on with him (someone who works this hard and needs a fully functioning body is thrown out of their lane even by the slightest symptom), but shortly after. You’ll come to understand how sensitive his body is, almost as perceptive as Jungkook’s actually. His body blows up with a strong fever, a hot man heating up even more is just an explosion of physics. 

He needs handkerchiefs, he needs tons of water, he needs music to distract him a little, he needs a heating blanket for his feet once the fever is gone. Granted, every sick person depends on those things, but Hoseok is someone who calls out of the bedroom often because he ran out. He’s not afraid to ask for things unlike Namjoon who would refuse out of overt politeness. You certainly have a lot to do because his cold comes in strong so it’s important you enjoy taking care of him and don’t do it out of obligation. Quality time is what we’re talking about here. It’s not about you doing the things, it’s about the presence. That’s why Hoseok will use his money well and always order proper take-out that’s not just classic fast food, you don’t have to cook or anything.

related: putting bts to sleep after a hard day 

© 2017-2020 submissive-bangtan. all rights reserved. no reposts allowed.

[vintagegoddess12]

Radioactive Salvation Ch. 5

[Cordelia Goode x Reader]

Chapter: 1, 2, 3, and 4

A/N: I am alive, yes. Thank you for waiting y’all. Throughout the months that I’ve taken a break (that was a real long break asdfdghkl), lots of you continue to read and send sweet messages. Those are real inspiring. If you’re reading this chapter, hold on to your horses because Chapter 6 is coming sooner than you think. Enjoy y’all.

@cordeliasflowergirl @athenamgh @stevenuniversetanzanite @germansarechill @chonisbestmistake @alurous​ 

Just comment down below your thoughts and suggestions. You can also dm y’all. Everything is much appreciated. 

I sat on the head of the table and Misty took the chair to my left, an action that made Madison's brow to raise but we just shrugged it off.

Myrtle is the only one who isn't seating yet. When she noticed, she got off the phone and instantly sat down. "Pardon me, girls. Bubbles just called and said she's going to drop by later to greet her favorite roommate a happy birthday."

"Oh please!" Madison rolled her eyes, "She's her favorite because she's the only one who stuck with her."

"Who's gonna have a birthday?" Misty asked while chewing a part of her bagel. I tried to remember what date it was and failed. Things have been too busy around the manor. I haven't even visited my room for a while now.

My room.

I suddenly remembered you. My body stiffened at the thought - or lack thereof - I had of you for hours now.

"It's Y/n's birthday," Myrtle answered the witch in front of her. "She used to be Bubbles' roommate before she moved into Delia's bedroom."

How careless of me! I completely forgot about your birthday. I don't think I even got you a gift, not that you care for the material things. I glanced at the seat on my left, the one you usually occupy, only to realize that it was Misty taking the place. I was too preoccupied with assisting Misty yesterday that I don't remember seeing you all day.

"Where is she by the way?" Mallory inquired that prompted everyone at the table to look at me. They're used to me knowing your whereabouts, especially before we got out of bed. I'm used to that too but this morning was different. You didn't grace my mind until they've reminded me. What is wrong with me?

I tried answering but no sound came out of my mouth. I took a deep breath and excused myself, "I'm going to wake her up now." A sudden flush of guilt run over my body. I walked to our room, but not before overhearing the girls' hushed discussion.

"Did she just forget her girlfriend's birthday?" Coco whispered. Zoe called her out, saying it wasn't nice.

"I don't think it's just her birthday that she forgot," Madison remarked. I can feel her stare behind me. Sometimes, I hate her for being right.

I reached the door and I was trying to think of ways to brighten up the situation. You hate waking up alone in the morning, that's why I was always hesitant to leave our bed when Misty or any other of the girls need me. That's why you moved into my room after Bubbles left to continue her career outside the coven even before we were together. That's why you went to the academy.

You hate to be alone.

Before I opened the door, I decided that I will make it up to you by treating you to dinner tonight then perhaps stargazing. You've always liked the silence of the night and the moon and stars gracing the night sky. It wasn't much but you've always loved the simplicity in things.

When I opened the door, I was expecting you to be seating in front of the mirror and combing your hair - that routine you take the longest to do in the morning - or lying in the bed because you're mad at me. I was surprised to see neither. In fact, you weren't there. The bed was made and cold - untouched by any living person for a long time. I checked for you in the shower, maybe you were taking your time in the tub. You weren't. Nervousness trying to creep its way slowly inside my head. I tried to shrug it off and checked the window facing the garden. Maybe you wanted to have some alone time with nature. You're still nowhere to be seen. This time, there's no denying that I am scared.

I walked myself back to the dining area, the girls' confused faces welcomed me. "Where's y/n?" Myrtle asked, "Is something the matter, dear?"

I looked at her and summoned the courage to speak. "Does anyone know where y/n is because she's not in our room?" Addressing everyone at the table. The younger witches talked in hushed tones then shook their heads.

Coco raised her hand to get my attention, "The last time we saw her, she was going to Misty's place to clean up, right?" She confirmed with Queenie who in turn nodded. "But that was like yesterday morning," my voodoo sister witch added.

That wasn't good. You never leave the house and don't come back before sunset. I stepped back and tried to remember the location of Misty's shack, one I always go to when I want to have peace of mind. I was able to do that but not before a gloved hand reached for me.

"You are so not using transmutation to go there, Delia." Aunt Myrtle remarked, distracting me.

"But I have to get there fast," I replied, too strongly.

"It's dangerous out there, with the Antichrist and everything," her grip on me tightened.

"The more reason I have to be there, instantly!" I snatched my hand away.

"Stop bickering, the two of you," Madison, now walking away from the dining table, intervened. "Queenie, you're in charge of the academy. Zoe, you're coming with us."

"What are you going to do?" Zoe hesitantly asked her sister witch.

"Buckle up, bitch. I'm driving," Madison replied while reaching for her keys in her bag.

I practically sprinted to her car and took the front seat. When Madison took the wheel, she went as fast as she could but not as fast I wanted. I tried speeding up the vehicle but that resulted in Myrtle yanking my hair from behind to distract me. Somehow, she knew words wouldn't exactly stop me so she opted for the physical approach.

When we reached the swamp, time stood still for me. I don't feel your presence, just traces. I approached Misty's house only to be embraced with familiar warmth.

Your warmth

You were here, I'm positive. I called out your name before I went inside, maybe you're just sleeping.

"Is this...?" Aunt Myrtle motioned to the energy surrounding the shack.

"A protective dome, yes," I replied. "I didn't know she can do that." I can't help but smile. I've always known that you are powerful and as years pass by, you learn to master even the highest forms of witchcraft.

I entered the house, hoping that you're inside, only to find the remnants of your visit. New albums of Fleetwood Mac. New stereo. No trace of dust. When I used my gift of Sight, I see you cleaning up with a content look on your face. Tears started forming in my eyes until Zoe called out for me.

"What is it?" I asked my council. She pointed me in the direction of the two bodies lying on the grass and starting to fade away. I quickly grabbed a part of them before disappearing only to see visions of you.

You were running for your dear life.

That's the only thing I saw. Then everything went black.

I can't feel you. I can't even see what happened afterward.

---

Seeing you running and knowing nothing but that shook me to the very core. I tried. Believe me, darling, I tried to find out what took place in the woods but I failed. Your sister witches were helping as well but we still had nothing. The coven was spread too thin, between finding you and ensuring that we are safe from the Antichrist.

It was before supper and Misty knocked on our bedroom.

"Delia, the food will be ready any minute," she said as she stood in the doorway. I nodded and continued to stare at your favorite dress hung on the dresser.

"She'll want ya to be strong, ya know," she said unpromptedly.

"I don't know what she wants anymore," I uttered.

"Shame," another voice chimed in the conversation, "that's what she would want you to feel."

I turned to see Bubbles entering the room. Misty excused herself right before the older witch slammed the door.

"You've been avoiding me," I remarked. It's been days since she occupied her old room here and this is the first time she spoke to me.

"So did you," she nonchalantly said as she sat down at the edge of the bed. It's true. I don't even know how I'd tell her that you were gone or lost or how unsure of it I am anymore.

The silence enveloped the room for a few a second before she spoke. "I've always known she would die if she stayed here, with you."

"She's not dead," I replied sharply, trying to hide the pain the statement caused.

"How sure are you?" She took a hit from her cigarette. Silence once again covered the air, if not for the occasional huff and puff from her cigarette.

The idea that your own best friend is uncertain that you're alive breaks my heart even more.  

"She almost died for you once," Bubbles whispered, with her voice breaking. The sentence prompted me to look at her way. She put out her cigarette and looked at me, tears forming in her eyes. "[y/n] is all about saving the people she loves," she continued, "no matter the cost."

"I know," I replied trying to keep my voice from wavering.

"No, you don't" She replied sternly. "She fights these silent battles for us, keeping us from harm that we don't even know exists."

At this point, I'm not even sure what would be the next words coming out of her mouth.

"You're probably wondering what I'm saying," she lets out a little scoff before continuing, "there was a time when she saw your powers fading."

In my head flashed moments from years ago when I felt someone was taking the air out of my lungs, unsure whether I was being cursed or dying. I couldn't even walk straight on my own. I would rush into my office just to hide the fact that the coven's new supreme is sick or worse... fading.

"She performed a ritual to stop your weakening," she muttered in the air, taking me out of my reverie. She continued to look at the white walls of my - our room, "she performed it perfectly but we all know every ritual has a price."

She paused momentarily before facing me, "She was writhing on the floor with life draining out her eyes. We were so sure that she's dying." The former actress can't stop the tears falling out of her eyes. "I felt shame because I was her senior and friend and yet we can't do anything to help her"

"Who's we?" My voice filled with confusion, "what ritual?"

"I can't tell you that because I made a promise," she stood up from the bed preparing to leave, "and unlike you, I'm not gonna let that girl down."

Looking at Bubbles, I'm not sure whether it was her intention to hurt me but all I know is that her words sting. The woman you have treated like family all these years thinks that I'm the reason you're gone.

It hurts because I know she's right.

"All I can say is," she paused to get my attention, "that ritual made her the barrier between the transfer of your powers to the new supreme." She looked around as if not wanting to say what was about to come out of her mouth.

"So if you think you are fading," she says the last word like it's the plague, "that means the barrier is gone."

She blinked back her tears before walking out.

Love, are you really gone?

---

The logical answer is no.

You are breathing, existing, in this post-apocalyptical world you have created with the Antichrist.

However, looking at you right now through the blurry, intoxicating fog outside the Hawthorne Academy, I think it's safe to say the [y/n] I know is gone.

The black dress that hugs your figure emanates darkness and deadliness. The way you move and position your body speaks of a changed woman. A woman who can hurt and kill. A woman who can-

"-who can what, Cordelia?" a sharp voice echoed around me.

The fog between us cleared and showed you - tears streaming down your face. I was about to open my mouth when you answered the question yourself.

"A woman who can end the world?"

"[y/n]..." I was about to disagree when you continued.

"You're not wrong about that."

[oneweekoneband]

i didn’t though

When I was twenty and tractable I listened to “Treacherous” and I believed Taylor Swift was telling me something, because “I’ll do anything you say / If you say it with your hands”, is not content meant for straight people, even though legally they, too, are allowed to hear it, and they do generally have hands. When Taylor Swift drank beers with Karlie Kloss at a Knicks game in 2014, I believed she was telling me something even more forcefully, because, really, why be at Knicks game if not just to kill time politely before fucking whoever you’re there with. When reputation was released and it contained “Dress”, a song about buying a certain item of clothing to look good for a person you love specifically not “like a best friend” so that after “all the pining and anticipation” they can remove it from your body and you can drink wine together in the bath, I believed Taylor was screaming a confession at me, and I was more than ready to receive it. When I heard from multiple sources just last year, amidst the aggressive rainbow-deluge of the Lover promo cycle, an ultimately false rumor that said Taylor was going to come out in a Rolling Stone cover story I, somehow, incredibly, brain as smooth as a baby’s ass, believed that too.

I have believed a lot of things. And it’s a nice diversion, to believe like that. But, more recently, I’ve found that the detective in me has turned away from this one. The only facts I’ll ever know about Taylor Swift are those she wishes to share, and speculating about what secrets she may or may not be hiding is a distraction from the real, joyful work of appreciating all these already literally, unequivocally, very gay songs. I’ve found, well, that I just don’t care anymore, which sucks, as I detest the squirmy idea that I might be growing as a person. But the truth is one really can write extremely, objectively homoerotic love songs yet be, for all intents and purposes, terminally straight. And like that poignant tweet about Lin Manuel Miranda tells us, you can seem gay, because of, like, your whole deal, and then it turns out you’re just annoying. You can even have a torrid love affair with your one-time supermodel best friend and in the end just want to marry some guy from The Favourite (Allegedly from The Favourite. I have seen that film three times and could not pick that man out of a lineup if my life depended on it.) and maybe there’s nothing to announce to anybody about it at all. Sexuality is complex and personal, and Taylor’s own sexuality doesn’t much matter to me, outside of how I always think it’s nice to know there’s yet another bisexual white woman out here in the world being even more irritating than me. (I say this strictly in terms of labeling; it ought to go without saying that Taylor’s various psychosexual obsessions with things like Amy from Gone Girl, and The Kennedys, and her house in Rhode Island matter to me immensely.)  It doesn’t matter because it has no bearing on the fact that she keeps dropping queer classics.

Anyway, yeah, most good Taylor Swift songs are gay, just like most good things, generally, and there’s a number of viable picks on folklore, except not “betty”, no matter what the collective banshee’s wail of the Internet tells you. The gayest thing about “betty” is that it’s Taylor putting herself in the mind of a skateboarding teenage boy, which, yes, admittedly, is a big homo vibe, but nowhere in or around this song are any people of the same gender identity smashing bathing suit parts together, or even thinking about doing so, and when there are so many better options available, I feel it is prudent that we have just the barest hint of standards. As queerness itself is malleable, wonderfully, painfully individual, and comes in no one standard format, so too is determining which song on a Taylor Swift album is the most gay a singular, complicated calculus we all must do for ourselves within our own hearts, and, of course, there are no wrong answers, unless it so happens that your answer is not “the 1”.

“the 1” made me lose my grip for a moment. A cool lament, calmly wrenching, right off it was sucking out my bone marrow and I wasn’t able to name why. (Well, except, obviously, that the twin unit of, “You know the greatest films of all time were never made,” and “You know the greatest loves of all time are over now,” is pure, not from concentrate, peak embarrassing & devastating & all the more embarrassing for being so devastating Swiftian lyricism.) Finally, weeks after the release, out walking the streets of Los Angeles midday, masked and fractious, lower back sticky, brain a little mean, buying a soda at the gas station just to talk to someone, it came to me that  “the 1” is a spiritual sequel to Red’s drum-heavy forever banger “Holy Ground”. The Taylor of “Holy Ground” reminisces frantically about a lost love, some near-miss from youth. That drumbeat is a racing heart. The animating nervousness of “Holy Ground”, the way you can almost hear the narrator’s limbs flapping wildly against her body when she says that she’s dancing, has from the beginning marked this song to me as a story of looking back on some sort of formless and magical teenaged queer encounter. “Holy Ground” is looking at a precious memory like it’s a firefly in cupped hands—small and special and easy to lose—being not entirely certain what the memory means, since whatever it was that happened back then, you never really talked it out. “Holy Ground” is about a love that for all its vitality did not work out, but it is appreciative rather than sad. “But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now,” Taylor sings, “and I see your face in every crowd.” 

“But we were something, don’t you think so?” asks “the 1”, imploring an ex to confirm her version of events, to agree that she’s remembering it right. Taylor has not ever struggled in her work with place and the self and matching the two against one another on the wriggling timeline of the human life. I was there I was there I was there. The question here is something else. Not was it real, but was it real to you, and do you remember now what that was like. Do you remember who I was then? What we were? The truth as it pertains to the heart of another is guesswork at best, and a troublesome kind. Memories break and bend, or weren’t even recorded right to begin with, every brain a dirty liar, and for two separate, imperfect creatures to share the responsibility of preserving one history together is a disaster. The hard facts then are grounding. Essential. “I thought I saw you at the bus stop / I didn’t though”.  Everyone has past romances that they still ask questions about, yes—I am not practicing my virulent heterophobia today—but none of my queer friends are without at least one were-we-or-weren’t-we in their past, a clinch with another that was incandescent and unnameable, long over but dangling forever there loose outside the neat boxes of friend or lover. To be a queer person is to exist already beyond and without the organizing structures of heterosexuality, and this can be difficult, dangerous, but in liminality there is freedom, and in years of painstakingly debating whether I wanted to be or bang so many various somebodys I have, along the way, put the pieces of myself in the order they fit best. So then there are loves where you aren’t sure if that’s technically what it was, if it’s what they’d call it, too. Or loves that were undeniably real, only we were too busy back then with trying to turn into ourselves to keep it. And loves from the very start, from walking together on colt legs, exuberant and unprepared, and the memory is a blessing, and the memory is guilt.

 “the 1”, to the ear, is softer and slinkier than “Holy Ground”, but the lyrics are dismantling. “Holy Ground” says, “And darling, it was good / Never looking down”. Full of longing, but cheerful and sure. “the 1” is older, resigned. On “the 1” Taylor mourns a love not only because it has ended, but because she can sense, from the safety of time’s remove, that it was a love which deserved better, could have been better, if things had been only a little different, if they’d felt brave enough to try just a little more. In this version of nostalgia, the golden haze of “Holy Ground” is ribboned by a vaporous shame, a regret. The song relates a story of a love that is farther out of reach and meant more than what the little girl of “Holy Ground” could have dreamt. “In my defense I have none / for digging up the grave another time / but it would’ve been fun / if you would’ve been the one”.

[krabmeat]

𝚓𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜: Wilbur Soot

𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜: he/him

𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: mentions of death, implied s_!c!de, aggressive and angered yelling, glass shattering

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: this is gonna be a 7 part series im doing where I write all of the songs from the album "Your City Gave Me Asthma" by Wilbur Soot as short stories! this is the first one of the 7, jubilee line- hope you enjoy!! this short story does deal with extremely heavy topics, so please reach out to a professional or a trusted person in your life if you deal with similar emotions or similar situations. your emotions are valid and deserve to be dealt with, no one expects you to handle your sh-t alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wasting your time.

“Wilbur, what are you talking about?” She’s trying to help again. It’s tiring. She’s my therapist, but also my friend and roommate so I see her often. She can see how much I’ve been struggling with my job, and she’s been trying to help. I don’t think I want it. My eye bags are more defined since I’ve tilted my head down to lace my fingers through my slightly greasy hair. I’m thinking. My eyes are closed when she speaks up again. “Wil!” I snap my eyes open and look up at her.

You're wasting mine.

I don’t know where my body is taking me. Pent up impulse has taken control of my body, and I stomp my way over to the door while briskly grabbing my beanie and trench coat from the coat rack.  “Wil, where are you going?” “Away.” She desperately grabs onto my upper arm. She’s concerned, but am I? In any other situation, I would be. But it doesn’t feel like me talking. 

I hate to see you leaving,

Her voice was shaky when she spoke. There are tears in her eyes. It’s strange, really. She always managed to let her tears roam as they pleased, it’s always been something I’ve found fascinating about her. But my curiosity doesn’t seem to be where it usually is on my mental shelf. I think I may have misplaced it.  I take one last glance around the place before calmly removing her hand from my arm.

Fate worse than dying.

I don’t know how late it is until I hear 11 distinct chimes roll out across the city like a blanket. Even then, I don’t know how long I’ve been walking but I think I’m getting close to my destination. But why am I feeling dizzy? Oh right, 

Your city gave me asthma

Probably one of the only things I brung with me, I found an inhaler in my coat pocket. It’s got enough to last me to where I’m going. With the last puff in it, I chuck the empty inhaler into a nearby alley. Climate change hits hard everywhere, but it gets bipolar in London. It doesn’t matter to me right now. I’d turn it all to ash from the fleeting joy I get from adding more smoke to the sky.

So that’s why I’m f*cking leaving.

The inhaler helped me breathe, but the dizziness is still there. The inhaler doesn’t even matter, the air is still dense and damp from the drenched night before. The world around me is melting, but when I blink it’s like everything was inflated back to normal with an air pump. Before I know it though, my lack of eyesight sends me tumbling to the ground. My arms and legs are damp, I tripped on a puddle. 

And your water gave me cancer.

I’m never usually this mad. Bottling up comes easy to me, yet I find myself angrily stomping on the puddle, causing me to fall again, leaving more scrapes scattered across my pale, cold skin. The concrete meets my knuckles, aggressively landing blows to its invisible face.

And the pavement hurt my feelings.

I get up from the ground. The blood from my knuckles is unrecognizable, washed away by the sudden downpour. The buildings have become a haze. Familiar, but I don’t know what it is. Not the familiarness associated with a home, or a warm and comforting hug. As if I’ve seen it before, constantly looming over me, watching me like a renewed episode of their favorite show. They already know what’s happening, they know what’s coming. I can’t take it. There’s a rasp in my voice and I’m surrounded by re renovated apartments and business buildings, factories puffing their black cigarette smoke out for the ignorant tourists to see. 

Shout at the walls,

My tears are confused with the rain, but both are dripping viciously from my face as gravely shouts and yells stream out of my mouth. Nearby bottles and littered beer cans are pleading for mercy, crushed and shattered by my aggressive hands thrown against the walls.

Cause the walls don’t f*cking love you.

My senses are getting overwhelmed, my arms and legs shaking from either the cold or the jolt of sensation I get when the glass shatters into a million pieces before I could stop it. 

Shout at the walls, 

“SHUT THE F*CK UP, WILL YA!?” My head tilts upwards to see a man at his windowsill with a dirty glare coming my way. A few seconds later, a little girl appears behind the man, seeming to have just woken up. A soft and whispery “Dad…?” Can be heard from the little girl. The softness I feel from the small wholesome moment soon turns into mind-numbing guilt. I run away, the numbness going to my legs as they once again travel on their own.

Cause the walls don’t f*cking love you.

My legs burn and sting with every stride and step they take along the path. I’m almost there. The strange looks and stares I’m getting are blocked out by the splashing and slapping of my damp shoes against the thin puddles on the ground.

Clap, clap

It’s almost as if this place is a second home for me. It’s my home, crowded with chatter and people making their ways through the Jubilee line. I’m so familiar with this place, you’d think I actually live here. I make my way to the glass barriers that block me from reaching the train, my damp feet still slapping against the ground.

Clap, clap

The barrier frustrates me. The visitors see it as a safety precaution, London’s trying to keep us safe! But we know, I know.  It represents ignorance, laziness, failure. London’s desperacy to please those foreign to this place while ostracizing those who have been fed to the brim with government immaturity. I’ve broken barriers like these, it was easy for me to shatter the flimsy glass. The crowds and crowds of people stop, scream, panic, run and express their disgust all at once. I stood on top of the railing, the only other thing in my way. The tracks are calling to me, but so does a voice.

There’s a reason that London puts barriers on the tube line!

This voice isn’t familiar to me, which is why it bothers me so much.  Foreigner. They don’t know. They COULD know, it’s not as if our hierarchy here has made a completely opaque wall between their intentions and actions. I’m still on top of the rail, but my back is faced towards the tracks. My eyes land on a short, blond white woman. Her voice sounded like she was talking with sticks in her mouth, nothing like the smoothness of a British accent. I fail to turn around in time before another voice is heard from another part of the station.

There’s a reason London puts barriers on the rails!

A tall man with ginger hair and lanky arms speaks up. He’s just like the woman, uneducated. Poor foreigners. The brotures and online ads and magazine cut-outs only give webs of lies and deceit when advertising to come to London. It speaks of the grand sights but not the horrid trauma that children here have to bear their sight to because of our crippling economy. The photos show places with warm rays and never the vicious rain and storms or scolding heat. The videos show clear, blue skies and never the gray turning grayer from the remains of society's mass-production. I’m done listening to these people. But one in particular stops me.

There’s a reason that London puts barriers on the tube line,

A tone I recognize, but a face that’s a haze. The man is from here, his voice says it all. His gray outfit and security guard patch on his vest. He knows what I’m thinking. He understands. Understanding would have been useful about an hour ago, yet I still find a soft smile slowly etching on my lips. I spread my arms out, like a bird with its wings spread out from its body. I wish I had wings, I would fly out of this wretched town. Fly out to freedom like Icarus. He flew too high, however. Where I’m going, the only upwards I’ll be is 6 feet under. But I’m ready for that. My face expresses a feeling of relief, tranquility, satisfaction. I haven’t smiled like this in years, it’s nice to close things off with a smile. The buzz of a train can be distantly heard, and I look out to the crowd. With the breeze of the air pushing against my falling back, I manage to breathe out a final arrangement for the crowd to hear.

There’s a reason they fail.

[sweetwritertanya]

Feeling You Close

Summary: You arrive home, expecting to have Yoongi just for yourself but instead find him working. At your reaction over the situation, Yoongi has an idea of how to make you feel close to him, even when he needs to finish his work.

Warnings: SMUT and ANGST. This really wasn’t supposed to be angsty, but the beginning turned out to be. Ends up turning smutty at the end, so beware of: swearing, erotic body touching, masturbation (kind of, not really), unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I write) and cockwarming.

Word Count: 3463

You rushed home with a skip in your step, an eagerness in your walk to arrive as quickly as possible. Making sure to get off of work as soon as you could, your mind was completely focused on what awaited for you this late afternoon. Yoongi had promised you the whole afternoon after work for spending much needed time together.

You didn’t blame Yoongi for spending such long hours in his studio. It was part of his work to be so busy, working on so many songs and beats, so many that wouldn’t even make the cut on the album they were preparing for, but that he loved producing anyway. Of course, that meant you couldn’t see him as often as you wanted. Not liking to be disturbed while on his studio, the most you could do was text or call him during his late days, hoping he would reply, and enjoy the occasional days off he had to spend time together, even if he did sometimes end up working on those too.

But today he had promised the afternoon all for you. And it excited you. Lately, you’ve been feeling too distant from him. He still messaged and called at least once every day, but you hadn’t seen each other in a week and you haven’t been intimate for over three. It truly worried you that the passion had subsided. But today you were going to change that.

Getting into the house you shared with him with a bright smile, you call out for your boyfriend who should be there already.

“Yoongi, I’m back!” you yell from the entrance of the home.

“I’m in the bedroom, Y/N” he shouts back, and your heart races. Maybe he was thinking the same as you.

“Give me fifteen minutes in the bathroom, I’ll be with you in a sec” you tell him as you make your way to the house’s bathroom, one door away from your bedroom.

“Sure” he agrees easily.

Giggling a bit, you enter the bathroom and start taking off your clothes. You had prepared a new set of lingerie and a sexy blue night gown for you to change after work, rising off your body and applying soft nice scented lotion on your recently shaved voluptuous form.

Taking a bit of time to tame your hair and make sure the makeup you wore to work hadn’t smudged too much throughout the day, you leave the bathroom coyly and open the door to your bedroom, pulse racing in your veins and cheeks blushing a bit with the images that flashed in your brain of previous adventures in your bed.

And then your smile fell and heart sunk. There was Yoongi, indeed waiting for you on the bed. But he was already in his pajamas and had a laptop on top of his legs, typing away with a concentrated look on his round face.

“Yoongi?” you called slowly, approaching the bed with feather steps, hands fidgeting with each other in front of your chest. “Are you working?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t finish the project in the studio today, but I should be able to finish it from home and sent it to her to see what she thinks” he explains, not removing his dark eyes from the screen.

Your mouth dries and you swallow hard, throat constricting as you feared what you were about to hear.

“By her… You mean Seo-Yun?”

“Yeah, she’s the one I have been working with for the past few weeks” Yoongi shares, not realizing how much it hurt you to know that.

Seo-Yun was an incredibly attractive Korean girl with whom Yoongi has worked before. She was short but very slim, thin legs and a narrow but still rounded hip, flat stomach and tiny arms. Gorgeous triangular face with big rounded eyes, straight nose and full lips. Long flowy black hair. You couldn’t even lie to yourself, she was the epitome of beauty.

Reporters had gotten the picture taken of Yoongi and Seo-Yun leaving together after work before. And they looked amazing together. The girl complimented Yoongi’s leaner frame and somehow seemed to enhance his beauty with her presence. You tried to stay away from the thoughts of how uneven you and Yoongi would look together, you being much heavier than him with large legs, pudgy belly and thick arms. However, the thoughts were always there on the back of your mind.

It made sense now. Why you felt like he was more distant, distracted. He probably liked her better than you by now. Maybe they were even messing around in the studio on those late nights he would stay there. Maybe that’s why Yoongi hasn’t touched you in so long.

Overwhelmed by dark thoughts, feeling hurt and rejected, you turned away so he wouldn’t see the tear that escaped you, although he wasn’t even looking at you at all. You moved to your shared closet and put on the first pair of pants you could grab, the short nightgown function as a silky shirt instead. You pulled from the back of the wardrobe the suitcase you used when Yoongi asked you to move in several months ago. A sob escaped you at the memory, but you powered through and opened it, picking a bunch of your clothes at once and throwing it in there.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi’s voice echoed in the room, the sound of the keyboarding stopping.

“Leaving your house.” You were proud your voice did not waver, even if thick tears rolled down your chubby cheeks as you spoke.

Heavy footsteps darted your way just as you were on your knees trying to zip up the overflowing suitcase, too many clothes in it for it to close properly. A hand slammed on top of the case and pushed it away from you. Yoongi had squatted next to you, but you couldn’t look him in the face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice was dark and deep, a dangerous calmness behind the words he spat out.

“Isn’t that what you want?” you questioned him, still avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Frustration taking over, Yoongi grabs your arm and pulls on it so you face him, your teary eyes finally staring at his frowned ones. He looks startled of your tears at first, but refocuses on the conversation at hand.

“I have barely even spoke to you yet, where the hell did this come from?” he persists, the hand on your arm growing tighter.

Sadness and anger taking over, you yank your arm from his grasp and stand up, he immediately straightening up too in front of you, both exasperated and confused.

“That’s just it! You barely talk to me, you barely see me, you barely touch me anymore! Just be honest and say you don’t want me any longer! Let’s just break up so you can go and be with her or whoever you chose” you cried out.  Using the back of your hand, you try to clean your drenching eyes, but at each swipe of a tear away, another takes its place.

“What are you even saying?! I still want to be with you, Y/N!” Yoongi tiffs, grabbing your shoulders to keep you from leaving.

“It sure doesn’t feel like it” you sniff, looking away from his eyes as embarrassment takes over.

“Hey.” He calls, but you don’t respond. You feel your cheeks burning with shame at how insecure and dejected you sounded. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

Yoongi gently pulls at your chin and makes you raise your head to him, blushed cheeks and tears building up at the corner of your eyes. His eyebrows, mostly covered by his hair, are frowning with concern, eyes glinting with disturbing confusion and there is tension in his jaw as he speaks.

“Have I really made you feel like that? Like I don’t want you anymore?” he whispers lowly.

Your heart constricts at the hurt behind his questions and for a second you consider lying, apologize for everything and just pretend this never happened. But you knew better than that.

“Yeah” you whisper back, another tear falling from the corner of your eye. “You really have.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath as he closes his eyes and cups your face in his hands, leaning his forehead against yours. When he opens them again, you see regret and guilt behind them.

“I still want you. I still love you. What do you need in order to believe me?” he asks of you.

“I don’t know… I just… I just want to feel close to you again, Yoongi” you exhale heavily.

Your heart breaks a bit further when you see him looking back at the bed, at the open laptop he had left there, and you panic that he will once again leave you in order to go and work. But he looks back at you with a loving gaze and pecks at your worried parted lips, just a little touch of his lips that have your pulse spiking.

“I have an idea. Do you trust me?” he inquires, one hand falling from your face to pull your plushy form against his slim one, grabbing your flesh above your hips.

“Yes?” You really weren’t sure where he was going with this.

“I wanna try something. I need to finish the project I’m working on by tonight and send it to Seo-Yun.” At the mention of her name, your face falls but he immediately reassures you as he leans his head down to look you straight in the eyes with clear honesty. “Hey, it has nothing to do with her, alright? Take those silly thoughts out of your head. This is about a deadline the company forced on me that I can’t postpone, alright?”

“So you’re still gonna chose to work” you clarify, feeling disappointed.

“Not completely. Just trust me, okay?”

Still very much confused, but deciding to go along with what the man in front of you pleaded, you allow him to guide you to his side of the bed. It was then he seemed to really notice what you were wearing, one of his eyebrows frowning in confusion.

“Were you wearing that night dress for me?” he questions.

“I guess it didn’t really caught your attention as I intended” you complained, saddened.

“You know you could be wearing a trash bag and I wouldn’t care, I would think you look beautiful all the same” he stated, fingertips running temptatively down your covered sides, leaving tingles in your skin. “Take off the jeans so I can see your delicious legs, Y/N.”

Flushed at his words and unable to keep a small smile from your lips, you do as he says and remove the jeans from your body, leaving you only in the night gown you had decided to use and your underwear. Yoongi had sat down against the bed rest and motioned for you to sit beside him. As you were about to do so, he pulled you against him so that you end up sitting on top of him instead, straddling his legs.

“Wait, I’m heavy Yoongi, I don’t wanna-” you start claiming, but he interrupts you.

“Sweetheart, you know I love how you feel on top of me. Don’t fight it.”

Sighing, you nod your head and sit comfortably against his thighs, your own so much bigger when compared to his. But he leaves you no time for insecurities to arise, for he takes your mouth for a long passionate kiss that had you exhaling with relief and need.

Lips ravishing on your own, you wrap your arms around his neck as his hands squeeze your chunky thighs and move up to cup your plentiful rump. His teeth scrape against your bottom lip and your part them in invitation, tongue wasting no time to delve into your warm mouth and exploring it once again. His warm tongue rolled and swirled around yours, coaxing you to respond with just as much passion.

A soft moan escaping you from how much you missed this, you climb up him in order to pull your bodies even closer as the kiss deepened. Yoongi grabbed you by the underneath of your ass cheeks and pulled your heated core against him, the friction making him grunt as he was already half hard from the kisses only.

“Okay, Y/N, you said you want to feel close to me, yeah?” he confirms, leaving moist kisses up and down your exposed neck.

“Y-Yeah” you sigh into his left year, a bit distracted by his hands and mouth.

When his hands leave your body, you almost whine until you feel him pulling on his pajama trousers and, looking down at what he was doing, you see him release his growing boner and pumping himself a few times, shaft growing thicker and redder at each slide of his hand. You feel yourself growing creamier just at the sight and the need of having him inside.

“Raise your hips, sweetheart” he requests. You look at him with wide confused eyes.

“What?”

“Trust me” he asks of you again.

Biting your bottom lip, you do as he asks and raise your large hips from his lap. One of his hands pull the fabric of your panties to the side and he starts rubbing the head of his shaft up and down your folds, making your gasp and claw at his shoulders as you shudder in pleasure.

“Y-Yoongi…” you moan, closing your eyes at the feeling.

He then grabs one side of your hip, at the same time his other hand guides his now fully erect member into your aching entrance and, very slowly, pulls you down on him. A guttural sound comes from the back of your throat at the feeling of him slowly filling you, stretching your insides with such pleasure. He felt so good inside of you.

“Fuck…” you hear him curse lowly against your shoulder. “It’s been… a while, yeah?”

“About three weeks” you remembered,

“Never again, sweetheart” he promised you, dropping a kiss on your shoulder.

When your hips started moving automatically, you were caught off guard when he hissed and placed two strong hands grabbing your fluffy love handles, impeding your movements.

“Don’t move yet, please.” He leans back so he can look at you and you see his overly dark eyes and slighted tinted cheeks that have you clenching alone. He shudders and curses again, closing his eyes for a moment before setting them warningly at you. “Don’t do that. Be a good girl and stay like this while I finish sending the few emails I have left, then I’ll make up for my absence, okay?”

Finally understanding what he meant, you nod and embrace Yoongi in a loving hug, trying your best to not give in to the need to move and instead simply enjoy the buzzing pleasure of having him inside of you. Resting your head on his shoulder, you heard him starting to tap away on his keyboard, maybe a bit more hurried than he was before.

It actually felt somehow debauched what you were doing. Here he was, working, at the same time he was buried to the bream into your womb. And the fact that he was doing so because he knew this was the closest two people could be with one another physically, because you wanted to regain this feeling of intimacy with him, had your heart sing with joy. He was doing this with you, for you, and no one else. You could feel him pulsating against your inner walls, lustful for you and your oversized body, no one else.

You couldn’t help to leave a kiss on top of the popping vein at the side of his neck, the one indicating his accelerated heartbeat underneath his controlled exterior. As you did so, his cock twitched and you moaned as he rubbed against a sensitive spot that had you clenching around him again. He groaned in your ear.

“Just… Just twenty more minutes, sweetheart. Give me twenty more minutes” he begged of you. Biting his shoulder, you purposely tightened your walls against him once again. He trembled and cursed under his breath. “Ten minutes. Give me ten minutes.”

Smiling smugly, you heard his hands typing furiously fast on the computer behind you, rushing to finish his work. You continued leaving small pecks on his shoulder, not so much to distract him but to keep reminding him you were patiently waiting.

The loud snap of the laptop being closed almost made you giggle but any chuckle was transformed into a mewling when Yoongi’s hips moved ever so slightly against you, the much awaited friction sending electric shocks to your brain.

“Holy shit, this feels so good!” Yoongi exhaled in relief when he started moving, veiny hands magnetized to your wide hips and forcing you to bounce up and down on him.

The burning coil that had formed inside your belly while having him inside was now snapping at the lightest of movements and you felt you could go over the edge at any given point. You just wanted quick release after such effort to keep still.

“Yoongi, please… faster, faster” you plead in whines, trying your best to accelerate the rhythm of your hips on top of him.

“Fuck… Fuck!” he yells.

Before you know it, Yoongi has you on your back and you cross your ankles on his lower back as he mercilessly pounds into you, hips snapping with such speed against you that your bed is rocking at the force he keeps using. The sound of skin against skin and the smell of sex fills your bedroom.

“Ah!... Yoongi! Yoongi!”

You are chanting his name as his cock rubs the pad of nerves at the far end of your throbbing tunnel, again and again until something inside you snaps and all you can do is arch your back and pull him close with your legs convulsing around him as your overflowing juices cover his length inside, an electric pleasure sparking at every cell in your body and filling you with a warm relief that steals your breath away as you wail.

“Y/N! Ahh…!” Yoongi keeps thrusting into you as you climax, but in no time he freezes as his member twitches and releases himself into you, his body jolting as he spurts his warmth in quick waves.

Sweating and drained, Yoongi collapses his body onto your pillowy one and you welcome him with open arms wrapping around him keeping him warm. In an effort to move his full weight from you, he tries to slide to his side, but you whine and keep him in place.

“No… Stay inside” you request, closed eyes still savoring the aftermath.

Yoongi chuckles tiredly.

“Haven’t I been inside long enough by now?”

“I like feeling you close” you tell him.

He pulls you so you are both laying on your sides, facing each other and still linked at the most intimate place. Glowing skin, content smiles, blushed cheeks and hazy eyes stare at one another.

“Where did you get the idea for that?” you curiously ask him. He holds in a cough and shyly look away for a moment.

“I just read about it. And wanted to try it with you for a while now. It sounded good for intimacy on lazy days” he explained.

“Really? You wanted to try it with me?”

“Idiot. Of course, with you. Get it on your head, Y/N, I love you and only you. No one else interests me apart from you” he reassures you, one hand brushing up and down your arm in a slow motion. “And I like this too. The feeling of having you so close. I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to not let work get in the way of making you feel loved” he vowed.

Smiling at his honest apology, you stretch up and kiss his soft lips.

“Sorry I overreacted, Yoongi. I love you too.”

“I’m taking this weekend off to spend some time with you. What do you want to do? I’ll do whatever you want” Yoongi offered, nudging his nose against the side of your face in a loving gesture.

You think about it for a moment, considering how you want to spend time with your boyfriend on this rare occasion of free time. Honestly, there was only one option that sounded appealing to you.

“Can we just stay home? Sleep in late, cuddle in the couch and watch movies or something?” you question, wondering if that sounded too boring.

He leans his head back and a big gummy smile spreads on Yoongi’s face.

“I fucking love you so much” he repeats, obviously pleased with your choice.

[tfw-no-tennis]

mtmte liveblog issue 36

time travel arccccccccccccc yessssssssss

I have been waiting SO LONG to reread this arc hhhhh yessss

starting off strong with the sexy roller cover. nice

I love the disconnect of ‘orion pax: outlaw’ compared to the last time we saw him in shadowplay where he was orion pax: supercop

he’s still punching people for JUSTICE or whatever so I guess not much has changed

oh my god this is the issue with the many many two-page spreads...the first time I read this issue I didn't realize that was a thing and GOD I was SO fucking confused. there's already a lot going on in this issue/arc but this made things so much worse hvbhjkdfbsk. I powered thru and still managed to understand most of the arc despite reading half this issue out of order (essentially) bc the website I read it on split the pages up and I couldn't tell they were supposed to be doubled (and also I'm dumb so I didn't figure it out)

anyways, the actual issue...windcharger is out here using his powers to rip a dudes arms clean off. wow!

and there's skids getting punched in the face. Ls

and glitch! a totally minor character of course...

MANNNNN I SO adore the panel of all the lost lighters appearing in a cloud of purple smoke, all posing epically....SO fucking good, peak sci-fi coolness vibes, A++

as usual jro killing it w/the titles, ‘elegant chaos’ is such a great name for a time travel arc

also reading the tfwiki has shown me that many of jros titles are song or album titles, to which I say - that's epic and I love it. with jro doing it, I feel like it straddles the line between referencing music and the very fanfic-esque ‘title things after music’ vibe. I love it

oh god I forgot they use bs cybertronian time units in this sometimes lmao...I mean of course they do but still like, what the fuck is a cycle. is that a day. I feel like these words all have no meaning/the meanings change drastically depending on continuity. I cant keep up and also I'm lazy and don't care enough to try

I love rodimus did u know

poor riptide looks so confused lmao

IS....IS REWIND PIGGYBACKING TAILGATE...THATS SO FUCKING CUTE....I cant fully tell bc of the page layout but ooomg so precious. minibot buddies

whirl saying ‘chuff’ just reminded me how british jro is hvbhakjhdsfbs sometimes it just Jumps Out in mtmte and I'm like Oh God Britain Is Real

I really like the mtmte approach to time travel and paradoxes and whatnot. its just complex enough to be interesting but not too convoluted that it bogs down the story. perfect sci-fi fun!

mannnn chromedome talking abt brainstorm :( I'm sad abt those two hhhhh

and I love how at this point, nobody in the cast ACTUALLY knows brainstorm well enough to know what he’s really doing - including chromedome, who’s ostensibly his closest friend, somebody he’s known for a while - and even the readers don't really know what he’s up to...I like the mystery tbh

cant believe rewind wrote orion pax’s biography, omg. completely forgot abt that detail

cd saying ‘I love it when he talks history’ about rewind....hhhh I love cdrw so muuuuch

godddd the line rodimus says abt whirl - how they need people like whirl around who are ‘happy to get in the way’ of danger and death - that shit haunts me man like...rodimus is basically saying that he’s bringing whirl along to potentially die in place of someone like orion pax (nevermind the fact that whirl dying would ALSO fuck up the timeline)...like, how deep does it go?? is he saying that bc he knows whirl has been trying to get himself killed for a while now, or just bc whirl likes violence? mannn I cant...the character intricacies...man

anyways...I love rodimus he’s such an interesting character. you have that fucked up moment and then in the next panel he’s saying ‘if you want to call it a time phone, I wont stop you’ about the quantum walkie-talkie. he has the RANGE

oh and then rodimus casually volunteering chromedome to do mnemosurgery on anyone who might accidentally find out about them time traveling, which is again fucked up on multiple levels. the raaaaange

vjaksbhdhfusajbfdjk that panel of the lost light squad just standing there like idiots reminds me of that post where someone said abt that panel ‘these characters have a collective 3 brain cells’ or something hvbjadkfnksfdl

rodimus IMMEDIATELY breaking his own rules by trying to reassure pax that they're good guys by pointing at his autobot badge, even tho the autobots DONT EVEN EXIST YET at this point...my boy PLEASE go purchase some brain cells from the store 

and the fact that rodimus introduced himself to pax w/his real name...shouldn't he go by an alias or st??? that seems like a good time travel rule since optimus and rodimus definitely know each other later 

and like, did they not anticipate that some of the people in the past would recognize some of the lost lighters hgbajkhdjfnjksf like cd and whirl get Instantly recognized...great job guys

they are all SO bad at this hvbahskjdhfbasjkf I cantttt luckily for them the orion crew is handing them easy alibis 

‘the dugout’ is that a baseball reference????

also I love the scenery here, the bg looks like rock but there's metal piping and stuff running thru it, its so cool...really adds to the whole ‘cybertron biomes are made of metal’ thing

‘ancient history’ rodimus are you KIDDING ME-

cyclonus time travels to the past and IMMEDIATELY finds a window to stare broodingly out of. icon

tailgate thinking orion pax is SUPER COOL continues here from shadowplay and I love it...tailgate is so cute

and the tg saying ‘don't you think that's awesome, cyclonus?’ hhhhh so cute

one reason I love this arc so much is that this is the arc where the gay Really amps up 

TRAILBREAKER.... oh man ;_;

are you telling me that this outlaw base they're in has ONE bed for all of these people. what the hell vhbaksjhfnsal

cant believe rung sampled roller’s steroid juice box

also cant believe robot steroids exist. except yes I can and I love it

oooh roller’s a 0/1%er? I forgot abt that 

cant believe orion pax just grabs some random phone that belongs to these weird new people and answers it. WHO does that

goddddd megatron and orion’s conversation....destroy me

HHHHHH like...the HISTORY....the regret...the missed opportunities...its all so palpable....goddddddd

and of COURSE, the whole thing is steeped in tragedy...the ideological differences that will become the foundation for a 4 million year long war...megatron, who believes that you need to burn things down and start again to really make change stick, and then orion, who says ‘reform is the answer, not revolution’....AUGHHH the intricacies. mannnn

‘you sound lost’ 😭😭😭

‘its tragic.’ yeah, that about sums up their relationship, especially at this stage and in this continuity 

anyways. [cries about old man megatron talking to young naïve orion pax] goodbye

AUGHHH and then we jump to rodimus ONCE AGAIN breaking his own rules and trying to save trailbreaker...IT HURTS MAN...god I love rodimus, I feel like him being broken up about crewmembers like trailbreaker dying is one part regular sadness over people he knows dying for tragic reasons, and one part personal guilt at someone under his command dying, even if he’s not involved/at fault. I love the dichotomy of this emotional reaction that comes only partially from empathy/emotion, but also comes from a kinda self-centered need for success as measured by people under your command staying alive. and taking into account rodimus’s life it totally makes sense that he’d act like that...GAH I love it. the complexity of it all!

orion pax saying ‘you should read [megatron]. it’s powerful stuff’ I'm screaming, so many LAYERSSSSS

I fucking love time travel AHHHHHHHHH like the opportunity for interactions like these....chefs kiss

‘hey, best friend! miss you!’ rodimus is such a shit hvbdajkfksjhfd 

‘very sus’ rodimus ahead of his time w/the among us lingo

oooh and then they realize that the senate is trying to kill the sparks...gotta save the babies!

tailgate scolding cyclonus for bluntly stating that you'd wanna be subtle when killing newborns...hhhvbhsdfhhhhhh I love them sm

ooooh and rewind has an interesting suggestion - that the senate is actually trying to irradiate the sparks into being outliers...rewind is so smart I love him

and the fact that he’s using history from his database...love it

rodimus sending cyclonus and whirl out like pokemon

ROLLER NOOOO DONT GO OUT THERE

also wow this is literally the 5th (I think) double page spread in this issue...the confusion I felt the first time I read this...lmao 

and now this is literally one of my favorite issues so I'm glad I know what's going on lmao

oh man rodimus telling cd not to erase trailbreakers memory even tho that could jeopardize the entire timeline... :( 

oh man I didn't even notice but roller getting debris blasted into his face like that makes the whole ‘roller is tarn’ theory even more legit considering tarn’s face scars....

‘tighter the better’ hhh don't say that orion. but also, that’s the companion phrase to megatron saying ‘the deeper the better’ hvbhasjkhdfbaksjlf

I do love the semi-campy action hero antics that orion pax gets up to. its just so fun, even when the stakes are high and things are serious

‘this is the greatest thing I have ever seen’ tg ily

THE REVEAL THAT THE SPARKS WENT TO NYON...so rodimus just saved himself, basically...time travel is so trippy

GODDDD ND THEN TRAILBREAKER...HVHHHHHh 😭😭😭 THATS SO CRUEL MAN

oh man that last panel of trailbreaker holding up roller’s juice box...iirc the first time I read this I thought that was roller (cause of the juice box I guess? idk I'm an idiot) so I was like oh ok he must've come back or something. very much related but I didn't really think about tarn being a particular pre-established character and totally didn't read the whole ‘roller is tarn’ thing that was going on 

which in my defense ruth also didn't pick up on any of that while reading this and eventually like 2 issues before the reveal I had to prompt her like ‘you should maybe be wondering WHO tarn is’ vhbahjksdfbaksjdf

so! issue 37! this issue is a solid favorite of mine, id say definitely top 5 or even 3. I'm super biased bc I fucking LOVE time travel, it’s seriously one of my favorite tropes ever, and this issue hits all the time travel beats I love. characters traveling to the past and interacting with people they know! conversations that have multiple meanings bc of TIME TRAVEL! trying to save someone who meets a terrible fate in your future! fun time travel action! the time traveling characters being generally terrible at hiding the fact that they're time travelers! ITS SO GOOD. 

and I love the clever way everything is tied together here - where we get a nice continuation of shadowplay, with this taking place shortly after that with a lot of the same cast, and time travel classics like the good ole ‘if we hadn't travelled back in time and done what we did, the future we came from wouldn't have existed at all,’ in the flavor of ‘rodimus saving his baby self’ and ‘rodimus NOT saving trailbreaker’ and ‘everyone forgot about roller :(’ 

ok but like, did the lost lighters just go ‘oh well, guess rollers gone now.’ like they DID realize that the outlaw crew would have no idea what happened to him if they got their memories erased, right?? did the lost lighters figure that since roller never reappeared after this time period, that was how history was ‘supposed’ to go and they shouldn't mess with it? am I overthinking it? as usual: yes, probably. I love overthinking about comics, in case that wasn't obvious

basically...I love this issue soooo much. so so good and a bunch of fun tropes that I love. I mean the whole arc is like that for me since I love time travel so much. so I cant wait to (re)read more!!

[padfootagain]

Girl Crush (VII)

Chapter 7: A Time For Lilac

 Here we go for a new chapter!!! It's getting a little angsty over here… oops?

I'm still very efficient writing this story, so I'll keep on updating it every 48 hours!

I hope you like this new chapter!! Tell me what you think about it :)

Word Count: 2887

It was the fourth time that this man came to the shop, and seemed to wait until you were available to walk inside and ask for a bouquet. Sometimes for his mother, sometimes for his sister, sometimes for a cousin, but never for his girlfriend.

Four visits in less than two weeks, you were starting to get a little suspicious.

Ever since the brilliant success of the wedding you had planned (that had almost turned into a disaster, but had been saved by your friends), you had earned more freedom in your work, alongside a nice raise. It was still far from enough to even imagine asking for a loan to the bank, but slowly, you were building a little pile of gold. A few years, and you would eventually have a chance at buying your own shop.

But these were days to be planned far ahead. In your immediate future, what needed your attention the most was this man coming again and again to the shop to see you.

Jasmine had dropped by, waiting for you so you could get lunch together. She was chatting with Sandra while you finished the bouquet of a client.

And that's when the mysterious man entered in the shop.

He was staring at you as you waved at the customer goodbye, and you welcomed him with a smile as he approached the counter.

"Hello, miss," he shyly smiled. "I… I was wondering if you could help me get a bouquet."

"Sure, what kind do you want?"

"Uhm… it's for… my colleague. She's just had a baby."

"Oh, one for congratulations then! I would advise… irises of course, they're perfect for congratulations and… some lilac too, to wish a good luck for the next step in life."

"That sounds perfect," he nodded.

Meanwhile, Jasmine was carefully watching the scene unfolding before her.

Because it was so obvious that this man was only here for you.

You, on the other hand, seemed partly oblivious, but not completely. She guessed that you suspected that something was up but had connected the dots yet. She wasn't surprised. You didn't believe in yourself enough when it came to relationships.

"Alright, I'll make you a bouquet with these then… Gareth, right?"

He gave you a bright grin, tumbling on his words a little, because you remembered his name.

"Yeah… that's… that's it. Y/N, right?"

You pointed at the pin with your name on your shirt.

"Yep!"

You laughed as you prepared his bouquet, and Jasmine was ready to throw up at how Gareth was giving you crazy heart-eyes…

Five minutes later, and he was leaving with a beautiful bouquet, and you were joining your friend to cross the street to buy some Tacos and eat lunch in the little park up the street.

"You didn't tell me about your secret admirer," Jasmine blurted out as you were taking a bite of your food.

"What do you mean?" you replied, your words distorted as you chewed on your food.

"Gareth! The guy in the shop. He was all mushy around you."

"He wasn't!"

"He was! How many times has he come to the shop?"

"Four times in ten days…?"

"Yeah, he wants to shag you."

"Jasmine!"

"Okay, date you… whatever."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but the thought lingered in your mind.

"Do you really think that though?"

She knowingly nodded.

"Yep, I'm sure. But I didn't think you would be interested…"

"What do you mean?"

"What about Harry?"

You snorted in response, and took another bite of your tacos to avoid looking at your friend.

"Harry is my friend. My best friend."

"Harry is handsome and adorable."

"Harry is my best friend."

She put down her food, sign that she was getting serious. But if you thought that she was going to say something ridiculous, you were completely wrong this time. When she spoke again, her words were wise and concerned, so different from her usual light tone.

"Look, I've known you for years. I know when something is up with you. And I think that you really need to take a decision about how your relationship with Harry is going to evolve. Because you're falling for him, sweetie, and I really don't want to see you getting hurt."

You shrugged her remark away.

"He doesn't see me like that."

"How do you know? Have you asked him?"

You snorted once more.

"Don't be ridiculous! Of course not!"

"Then how do you know?"

You let out a breathy laugh, that sounded a little more bitter than what you meant to reveal about how you truly felt.

"I just know. He doesn't see me like this at all. I mean… look at me! Do you really think that I'm the kind of woman to write songs about? Of course not. It's not me at all. I'm his best friend, and that's all."

"Can I give you an advice then?"

"You're going to even if I refuse."

"Get him out of your system," Jasmine warned you. "Get him out before he settles there too much. Before he can truly slip under your skin. Gareth sounds like he is exactly what you need. Find someone else before your heart settles for someone you can't have."

You thought about it as you chewed on your food.

"I don't know… it feels like second choices…"

"You've just told me that you weren't going to be with Harry, so he's not really second choice, if Harry isn't one."

You nodded.

"I guess…"

"You should listen to me and squeeze the feeling before it becomes heartbreaking."

You chuckled.

"No worries, it's not that bad."

The pinch of guilt in your heart though made you think that perhaps you were lying a little now…

But you chose, as always, to ignore the feeling and look away. Some truths were not meant to be faced.

Harry was beyond nervous.

He wasn't done with his album yet, far from it, but he had finished this one song that… he thought it was good. He thought is was very good, actually.

But then, he had made it, crafted it himself with his friends and colleagues, and he reckoned that it ought to blur his judgement towards the piece. There was only one way to make sure that he wasn't heading in the wrong direction: he had to ask someone else's point of view. And who could help him better than you?

No, you weren't a musician, but that was an advantage in his eyes. He had spent so long working on this song in the studio, he needed someone who was completely out of the whole process of making music to tell him if there was any good in this or not.

He trusted you with his life, he would do anything you asked him blindly. He had absolutely no fear of you telling anyone about the song. It would be safe in your hands.

He climbed the steps to your apartment too fast, his lungs burning, but he paid little attention to his lack of air.

In his hand was the memory stick upon which he had saved his song. He hadn't told you about it at all, you were simply supposed to spend the evening together. Sleepless in Seattle was on TV, so it obviously called for an evening in, watching rom coms all night through while eating pizza and these chocolate chip cookies you adored. He had a whole bag of those in his purse to get you through the night.

He wasn't surprised to find the door open for him and didn't bother knocking.

"Hi, Y/N!" he chimed, coming in and locking the door behind him before taking off his shoes and throwing his jacket on the back of your armchair.

You were sitting on your sofa, already in your pyjamas, buried under two blankets while reading a book, and he couldn’t refrain the tender smile that made its way to his lips at the sight.

"Hi, Harry!" you grinned up at him, and let him lean down to kiss your cheek before he would settle on the sofa by your side. "How are you? How was your day?"

"Uhm… fine… what about you?"

"Great. Had lunch with Jas. It was nice."

"Hmm."

"So… pizza?"

"Pizza," he nodded.

You only needed a couple of minutes though to see that he was nervous, for some reason.

"Is everything okay?" you asked him with concern making you frown.

"Yeah… yeah… uhm… actually… can I ask for a favour?"

He seemed all shy now. What was wrong with him tonight?

"Of course! Anything."

He nervously ran a hand through his curls, messing his hair a little.

"I… uhm… I just… need your… opinion on something."

"Sure! What is it?"

"Uhm… I've just finished this song today… or at least I think it's done but, uhm… I'm not sure is it good or not so… could you listen to it and then tell me what you think?"

Your expression turned from worried to ecstatic in 0.1 second.

"YES! Of course! Oh, I'm so excited! Can I listen to it now?"

He wasn't expecting to see you so excited about it, but then, he didn't know what else he could have been expected from you. You were always so supportive with him.

"Sure, here."

He handed you the memory stick.

"You… don't have to do it right now though…"

But you were already reaching for your computer, so he let out a chuckle and reached for his phone.

"I guess I'm the one in charge of ordering the pizza for tonight," he smiled while dialling the right number.

The song was all there was on the memory stick.

Sign of the Times

So you just clicked on it…

"I'm gonna get some wine," Harry mumbled, jumping to his feet and hurrying to disappear in the kitchen.

He picked up two glasses and one of your bottles of red wine, knowing where everything was stowed, as if he were in his own home. But then, your home was a little bit his as well, just like Harry's large house was a second home to you.

He heard the first notes of the piano rising from the living room, and his heart started to beat so damn fast…

What if you didn't like it? What if you thought it was terrible? What if he had been wrong for the past few months?

His voice rang through the apartment as well, deep and soft and sounding exactly how he wanted it to sound like. Would it be enough though?

On one hand he reckoned that he was an artist, and he had to stick to what he wanted to achieve with this song. He wanted to make a record in which he would be himself, sing songs full of honesty, talking about stories he wanted to talk about…

But then, there was the reality of being good or terrible, and he had lost sight of this thin line between the two after so many hours spent on that one song.

He took a deep breath, and made his way back to the living room to see your reaction, no matter how terrified he was.

The guitar and drums were kicking in as his eyes fell on you. You had closed your eyes, your hand resting on your heart. You seemed to be breathing more heavily than usual.

So… that was the kind of songs he had in his heart, huh?

You felt overwhelmed, to be honest. The song was beautiful, and the lyrics pulled at all the right strings in your heart, and his voice… God, his voice was heavenly.

A thousand emotions crossed your frame as you listened intently to every detail of the song, from the melody to the instruments and the way his voice changed. A thousand emotions because of the song itself, because of its lyrics, because of how Harry's voice carried so much passion it was tearing your heart apart, but also because a realization was suddenly coursing through your veins, and you didn't want it to.

Just stop your crying

Have the time of your life

Breaking through the atmosphere

And things are pretty good from here

Remember everything will be alright

We can meet again somewhere

Somewhere far away from here

A single tear rolled down your cheek, but you were too immersed into the song to brush it away.

Your best friend had made that…

We never learn, we been here before

Why are we always stuck and running from

The bullets?

The bullets

It was his voice speaking such lyrics, and all you wanted to do was hold him close and never let go.

Just stop your crying

It's a sign of the times

We gotta get away from here

We gotta get away from here

Stop your crying

Baby, it will be alright

They told me that the end is near

We gotta get away from here

This realization that had punched you in the guts though, it was so obvious now… You had been right all along.

We never learn, we been here before Why are we always stuck and running from The bullets? The bullets

Of course, you had always known the truth. You had simply done a wonderful job at hiding it right in the spotlight.

We don't talk enough

We should open up

Before it's all too much

Will we ever learn?

We've been here before

It's just what we know

There really was no need to talk about any of this. What an idiot you had been to ever question it, to ever imagine… oh, you were such a silly girl…

Stop your crying, baby

It's a sign of the times

We gotta get away

We got to get away

His voice on the recording turned into almost a shout, hitting a high note, but it sounded almost like a call for help. You were fully crying by now.

It was so beautiful, and you were so… so foolish indeed… unable to see what was right in front of you that whole time.

The song died out, and you needed a moment to open your eyes again. When you did, Harry was handing you a tissue.

"Please, don't tell me that you're crying because you think it's so bad and my entire career will be ruined."

You laughed. He really was the only person able to make you laugh while you were still crying.

He was so stupid sometimes. So… so stupid.

You looked at him as he gave you a shy smile, clearly waiting for you to tell him what you thought about the song. But how could you describe how you felt?

There was one word that fitted quite well though…

"Proud."

He frowned, not following your train of thoughts, but you shot him a bright smile letting out a breathy giggle.

"I'm so proud of you."

His frown turned into a touched smile, and you were quite certain there were tears shimmering in his eyes.

You pushed your computer aside and launched yourself to hold him in your arms, burying your face in his shoulder and holding him so close… just because you needed to let him know, physically, how much you l…

… hell, you couldn't say it, could you? 'How much you cared' would have to do.

"I'm so proud of you," you repeated, as he tightened his own hold on you. "This song is so… I have no words, really. It's such a beautiful song, Harry."

"Thank you," he smiled in your neck, his voice shaky but clearly relieved. "Thank you."

"It's so beautiful. And I'm so, so proud of you."

"Thank you."

He cleared his throat, his voice breaking several times before he could go on.

"So… I'm doing okay, right?"

You let out a laugh.

"I would say you're doing amazing!"

"Great."

Amazing. Yes, that was exactly what he was. Amazing.

What a foolish girl you had been, how could you even think that he would feel the same? He was so… he was way, way too good for you.

The realization was a punch in the stomach. You didn't deserve him. He was somewhere among the stars and you… were far behind.

He was your best friend, and would remain just that, because there was no way someone like him could feel anything more for someone like you.

Jasmine was right.

Get him out of your system. Get him out before he settles there too much. Before he can truly slip under your skin.

Get him out of your system before he could truly slip under your skin…

You should listen to me and squeeze the feeling before it becomes heartbreaking.

Squeeze the feeling… Yes, that was what you needed to do. Squeeze the feeling until it died out. Until it was nothing more than a memory…

"Alright, enough tears for tonight, at least, until Meg Ryan listens to Tom Hanks in that car," Harry pulled away, drying his cheeks with his palms. "Let's drink to that, huh? To my song?"

You accepted the glass he offered you, giving him a warm smile.

"To your song."

And as your glasses rang together, you knew you were right.

Gareth was a much safer choice indeed…

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

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[curlyhairallday]

Bump and Dumps - Part 4

Hattie wasn’t use to doctors she had developed a fear of the doctors after going to get contraceptives at age fifteen. The doctor had yelled at her basically calling her a slut without saying those words exactly and lecturing her on safe sex and absistence it did not help that the doctor was her best friends at the times mum shortly after that visit her friendship had also ended due to her not being a good role model. After that incident Hattie had healed herself she would wait out illnesses and pray they subsided. So walking into the doctors surgery was terrifying her it did not help that her and Harry were still in a rocky place so the whole situation was making her anxious.

“Cmon love, I’ve signed us in we just need to wait. I found the best doctor around I asked Ben on who they used when they were pregnant.”

She was thankful for his mindless chatter in this moment as it began to reassure her slightly, although she was still pregnant not in a relationship or a proper job. If anyone was judging her it was herself she had mucked up her life plan, she realised that her fears were coming true she would have to send her kid to some snobby school as you can’t send a rockstar kid to a normal school and it would be spoilt her kid was going to be some Malibu brat as Harry spent a lot of time out there what if he took the baby from her. Fuck, what had she done Hattie began to realise she had ruined everthing.

“Hatters, stop!” Harry demanded taking her hand and gently rubbing his thumb in reassurance, he was use to her over thinking although she usually managed to mask it very well Harry always knew.

“I don’t know..” She began to stand ready to leave in her state of panic.

“Harriet Styles.” The doctor called she began to panic more now she thought they were married but that was far from the truth.

“It’s Willams, we aren’t together.” She gestured between her and Harry to further exaggerate the point.

“She likes to play hard to get.” Harry chuckled Hattie shot him a death look.

“So when was your last period?”

“They are irregular, I looked on my app it was around three months ago.”

“Ok, I will do an internal ultrasound today to check everything, we will then take some blood work.”

Hattie removed her trousers and began to feel awkward she hadn’t shaved in a week there had been no need. Now not only was the doctor going to be down there Harry was also likely to see. This pregnancy had ramped up her anxiety she felt so judged constantly.

“Just lie down this may feel a bit odd.”

Harry sat at her head and reached for her hand, he also felt very nervous he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to be excited or not as Hattie seemed so on edge.

They both looked at each other as they heard the heartbeat throughout the room. Hattie’s eye watered she felt love go over her, there was her little baby.

“I guess you both know that is the heartbeat and if you look here you see the small bean that is your baby, youre around eight weeks along.”

“Hello Spud, you’re gorgeous.” Harry muttered he kissed Hattie forehead, she didn’t know it but she had completed him with this baby.

“Wow.” Hattie muttered she looked at Harry and was glad that even though she may not have spud’s dad she would never let spud go.

The doctor discussed appointments and symptoms she may experience she prescribed her some tablets for her sickness. She also discussed the risk due to Hattie father having diabetes she was at risk to experiencing it during her pregnancy so meant she had to watch her diet more than usual.

“Do you want to get some food now? We can discuss everything. I know a good chinese place.”

“Can we just go Tesco’s then home, all Spud can stomach is soup.”

Once they arrived at Tesco, Hattie got out knowing the drill Harry tried to limit their appearances in public together to stop the media blowing up. As she got out she hoped he would prove her wrong and follow her but all he did was request her to grab him some chicken breasts and hummus for dinner.

She walked round Tesco and realised that this would be the baby’s life either it would be thrust into the spotlight or he would distance himself from spud.

“Harriet?”

“Aj, oh my gosh. I haven’t seen you since graduation.”

They quickly caught up on their new jobs and how they were. Aj was a very attractive solicitor who had gone into working for his dad company right out of law school. He and Hattie had one fun night during freshers the first year of uni after that they had stayed friends but had never explored it further. Harry hated Aj existence along with everyone who Hattie had been with before him. He had met Aj once when he had joined Hattie on the night out and all he did was taunt Harry with cheeky remarks about her moves in the bedroom. Where as, Hattie knew it was Aj he was sweet and funny and always knew what he wanted, unlike Harry.

“I am in a real rush sorry, but why don’t you meet me on Thursday at Ricardo’s around 7pm. I will text you.”

“Ok sounds fun.”

Hattie hadn’t been on a date in a while and seeing as her and Harry were just co-parents, it would be fun. Although, she would probably not be able to stomache any of the food at Ricardo’s  but she needed to begin living.

“What took you so long?”

“I ran into Aj.”

“Wait Aj like against the sink Aj.”

“Yes Harry, why do you call him that. Do you want to refer to me as Mums garage Hattie.”

Harry smirked as he thought back to his birthday last year, he had wanted a quiet time with family and of course Hattie. They had gone to the garage to look for some baby pictures for a documentary about his second album and Hattie had dropped something on her foot after Harry rushing to her aid. Afterwards, she had kissed him which led him to pushing her against the wall and taken her hard and fast. They had both been begging and grunting it was definitely a favourite memory of his.

“Or Camille the sofa.”

Hattie had soured his memory  of them and instead he flooded with guilt, Hattie had gone away for a week with friends although she had left early due to an emergency at work and she was an intern at the time so had to rush back if she wanted any chance of a job at the end. Harry had hated the look when she caught camille and him going at it on the sofa.

“So what did he want anyway?”

“Just to catch up, we are going to Ricardo’s this week.”

“Wait you’re going on a date.”

“No Harry I am seeing a friend.”

“No you’re not.”

“Harry you are away I can do what I want we are friends that’s it.”

Harry pulled over and stopped the engine of the car Hattie looked at him shooked unsure of what was happening.

“I love you for fuck sake Hattie, this isn’t going away. I loved you for ages Hattie but i didn’t want to ruin your life the one with the husband that makes you dinner and the children and the dog. The couple that is always around. I can’t be around all the time I don’t want you to be alone and sad. But I do not care anymore I want you and as selfish as this sounds that’s my baby and if anyone gets to date you pregnant it will be me. I have plans I didn’t want to do this now fuck.”

“Don’t propose.” Hattie panicked looking at him begging him to think.

“I am not. Not yet I will one day but it will be perfect. I have a new house a smaller one with the open kitchen so you can cook and watch spud play. It has five rooms instead of seven. Also has a nice garden its a twenty minute tube ride to work for you. I also want you to be mine. I am sorry I made you ever doubt the fact you were. What do you say?”

[amoralto]

Q: Paul McCartney: An Innocent Man? (October, 1986)

(Note: I’ve posted so many quotes and audio clips from this interview in the past (#interviewer: chris salewicz), I may as well post the entire printed interview as well. Still remains one of my very favourite Paul interviews - candid, emotionally fraught, brimming with preoccupations, and all the more revealing for it.

-

Paul McCartney curls up on the couch and relives the Beatles’ story for the first time since the death of John Lennon. “He was one great guy, but part of his greatness was that he wasn’t a saint.”

by Chris Salewicz

Paul McCartney is 44. He was 20 when his first composition appeared on record. Today he’s just returned from remixing a second single from his new LP Press To Play, his 27th solo or group studio album in 24 years.

He’s sitting on a sofa on the second floor of the building in Central London from which he directs his activities. Outside, on this sunny early afternoon, lie the neatly trimmed lawns of Soho Square; inside a forest of deco mahogany woodwork, a De Kooning on the wall and a chrome and neon-garlanded Wurlitzer jukebox of quite archetypal proportions and splendour. He’s wearing fawn moccasins, yellow socks, and a blue and white striped shirt and trousers and, despite the omnipresent grey hair, he looks in immensely good shape for someone who was still in the studio at three in the morning.

Part of McCartney’s agility as a communicator has been the paradoxical mastery of revealing nothing whatsoever of himself to journalists. This was particularly notable during the interviews he gave for Give My Regards To Broad Street, an almost unprecedented barrage of publicity in which it seemed that the more people he spoke to, the less he said. This was perhaps connected with a comprehension of the transparent unsubstantiality of the work. “Broad Street?” he says now. “You don’t stop things just because they’re not good; if you’ve done a bit of work, you put it out. I mean, if Picasso’s painted a thing…”

Today, however, on this Friday afternoon, Paul McCartney is immensely forthcoming. Possibly this is a reflection of the confidence he feels in his new LP, a work that stands almost on a par with Band On The Run, his finest solo record and one which, in many ways, seems to have a direct conduit to post-Sgt. Pepper Beatles albums.

The interview has a relaxed, conversational tone with no sense of formally structured questions and answers. In the cold light of print, his replies can occasionally take on a tone that seems almost petty in its self-justification, but such an emphasis is completely absent when he’s delivering these words to you in person.

The principle strength of the new LP is the quality of the songs, six of which McCartney co-wrote with Eric Stewart, the former 10cc singer and writer of such classics as ‘I’m Not In Love’, a song that is almost a parody of a McCartney love ballad.

The numbers were written, he says, in the manner in which he would work with John Lennon, sitting side-by-side, watching each other search for appropriate chords.

You’ve been in the studio all night re-mixing tracks from the new album for single release. How do you feel about the new LP?

I like it. I have a lot of trouble saying, ‘I think it’s great.’ I wish I was just a fan and I could genuinely like it without seeming wildly immodest. I can’t be objective yet. It’s going to take me a couple of months. I can listen to McCartney, I can just listen to that. I like that one; it’s growing on me. It’s a touchy subject. You’ve done a thing and there it is, it’s your presentation. You mean to get every bit of it right.

So how do you react to criticism?

When I see bad reviews, it’ll hurt me. I am giving myself a bit easier time in life these days. I’ve gone through so much criticism, and not just from critics. From people like John, over so many things, that like a fool I just stood there and said, ‘Yeah, you must be right.’ All those things I was said to be the cause of, I just accepted that I was to blame. I’m beginning to see it a bit differently now. I’m beginning to see a lot of what they say is their problem, not mine.

John was going through a lot of pain when he said a lot of that stuff, and he felt that we were being vindictive towards him and Yoko. In fact I think we were quite good, looking back on it; many people would’ve just downed tools in a situation like that, would’ve just said: ‘Look man, she’s not sitting on our amps while we’re making a film.’ That wouldn’t be unheard of. Most people just say, ‘We’re not having this person here, don’t care how much you love her.’

But we were actually quite supportive. Not supportive enough, you know; it would have been nice to have been really supportive because then we could look back and say, Weren’t we really terrific? But looking back on it, I think we were OK. We were never really that mean to them, but I think a lot of the time John suspected meanness where it wasn’t really there.

He was presumably fairly paranoid.

I think so. He warned me off Yoko once: ‘Look, this is my chick!’ Just because he knew my reputation. We knew each other rather well. I just said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’ But I did feel he ought to have known I wouldn’t. That was John; just a jealous guy. He was a paranoid guy. And he was into drugs … heavy. He was into heroin, the extent of which I hadn’t realised, till just now.

It’s all starting to click a bit in my brain. I just figured, Oh, there’s John, my buddy, and he’s turning on me. He once said to me, ‘Oh, they’re all on the McCartney bandwagon.’ Yet things like that were hurting him, and looking back on it now I just think that it’s a bit sad really.

I saw that thing in The Observer the other week, about the manuscript of the Apple Beatles biography and the vitriolic comments John made in the margins.

I think that shows the sort of pain he was going through. Look, he was a great guy, great sense of humour and I’d do it all again. I’d go through it all again, and have him slagging me off again just because he was so great; those are all the down moments, there was much more pleasure than has really come out. I had a wonderful time, with one of the world’s most talented people. We had all that craziness, but if someone took one of your wedding photos and put ‘funeral’ on it, as he did on that manuscript, you’d tend to feel a bit sorry for the guy. I’ll tell you what, if I’d ever done that to him, he would’ve just hit the roof. But I just sat through it all like mild-mannered Clark Kent.

This was hurting you, presumably.

Not half.

When did you actually get a perspective on it?

I still haven’t. It’s still inside me. John was lucky. He got all his hurt out. I’m a different sort of a personality. There’s still a lot inside me that’s trying to work it out. And that’s why it’s good to see that wedding-funeral bit, because I started to think, ‘Wait a minute, this is someone who’s going over the top. This is paranoia manifesting itself.’ And so my feeling is just like it was at the time, which is like, He’s my buddy, I don’t really want to do anything to hurt him, or his memory, or anything. I don’t want to hurt Yoko. But, at the same time, it doesn’t mean that I understand what went down.

I went at Yoko’s request to New York recently. She said she wanted to see me, I said I was going through New York and so I stopped off and rang her, and she said she couldn’t see me that day. I was 400 yards away from her. I said, ‘Well, I’ll pop over any time today; five minutes, ten minutes, whenever you can squeeze me in.’ She said. ‘It’s going to be very difficult.’ I said, ‘Well, OK, I understand; what is the reason, by the way?’ She said, ‘I was up all night with Sean.’ I said, ‘Well, I understand that. I’ve got four kids, you know. But you’re bound to have a minute today, sometime.’

She asked me to come. I’d flown in specially to see her, and she wouldn’t even see me. So I felt a little humiliated, but I said, ‘OK, 9.30 tomorrow morning, let’s make an appointment.’ She rang up at about 9.00 and said, ‘Could you make it tomorrow morning?’

So that’s the kind of thing. I’m beginning to think it wasn’t all my fault. I’m beginning to let myself off a lot of the guilt. I always felt guilty, but looking back on it I can say OK, let’s try and outline some things. John was hurt; what was he hurt by? What is the single biggest thing that we can find in all our research that hurt John? And the biggest thing that I can find is that I told the world that The Beatles were finished. I don’t think that’s so hurtful.

I’ll tell you what was unfortunate was the method of announcing it all. I said to the guy at the office. Peter Brown, of book fame, I’ve got an album coming out called McCartney. And I don’t really want to see too much press. Can you do me some question-and-answer things?

So he sent all those questions over and I answered them all. We had them printed up and put in the press copies of the album. It wasn’t a number. I see it now and shudder. At the time it was me trying to answer some questions that were being asked and I decided not to fudge those questions.

We didn’t accept Yoko totally, but how many groups do you know who would? It’s a joke, like Spinal Tap. You know, I loved John, I was his best mate for a long time. Then the group started to break up. It was very sad. I got the rap as the guy who broke the group up. It wasn’t actually true.

But legally you had to do that to get out of the contract with Allen Klein, didn’t you?

Yeah, legally I had to. I had to take the other Beatles to court. And I got a lot of guilt off that. But you tell me what you would have done if the entire earnings that you’d made — and it was something like The Beatles’ entire earnings, a big figure, everything we’d ever done up to somewhere round about ‘Hey Jude’ — was about to disappear into someone’s pocket. The guy I’m talking about, Allen Klein, had £5 million the first year he managed The Beatles. So I smelled a rat and thought, £5 million in one year, how long’s it going to take him to get rid of it all?

So I started to resist, and I was given a lot of pressure. The others said, ‘Oh, you’re always stalling’ when I kept refusing to sign Klein’s contract.

But the others suspected you of looking after number one by wanting to bring in your wife’s family as managers.

Obviously everyone worried that because it was my father-in-law, I’d be the one he’d look after. Quite naturally, they said, ‘No, we can’t have him.’ So in the end it turned out to be Klein. And I said, ‘Well, I want out of this. I want to sue this guy Klein.’

They said, ‘You can’t, because he’s not party to any of the agreements.’ So it became clear that I had to sue The Beatles. So obviously I became the baddie. I did take The Beatles to the High Court, which was a highly traumatic period for me, living to front that one out. Imagine, seriously, having to front that one out.

How did you feel through all that?

Crazy, just insane. So insecure. Half the reason I grew the beard.

People often put hair on their faces to hide.

It’s often a cover-up. And I had this big beard and I went to the High Court and actually managed to save the situation. But my whole life was on the line at that point. I felt this was the fire, this was the furnace. It had finally arrived. And we used to get shakes in our voices in court. We used to get the Nixon shakes, something we’d never ever had before. So we went through a lot of those problems. But the nice thing was afterwards each one of them in turn very, very quietly and very briefly said, ‘Oh, thanks for that.’ That was about all I ever heard about it.

But again, John turned it round. He said, ‘But you’re always right, aren’t you?’ See, there was always this thing. I mean, it seemed crazy for me because I thought the idea was to try and get it right, you know. It was quite surprising to find that if you did get it right, people could then turn that one around and say: ‘But you’re always right aren’t you?’ It’s like moving the goal posts.

I mean, it occurred quite a few times because I’m pretty ruthless, ambitious, all that stuff. No more than anyone trying to break into showbiz, but I can be pretty forceful. If we’ve gotta make a record, I’ll actually sit down and write songs. This could be interpreted as being overpowering and forceful.

I’d heard that you were the driving force of The Beatles, but that John would be more interested in doing anything but what The Beatles were supposed to be doing.

Yeah, I remember doing Let It Be and we sat around the table in Apple and I came up with this idea that we should get it on film. I remember John said, ‘Why? What for?’ I explained a bit more. He said, ‘I get it. You want a job!’ Yeah, that’s it! But it seemed strange to me that he didn’t. He seemed quite happy languishing out in St George’s Hill in Weybridge.

I always wanted to make the group great, and even greater. When we made the Let It Be album, and it was a bit crummy, I insisted that we made Abbey Road because I knew what we were capable of. I didn’t think that we’d pulled it off on Let It Be and then with the Phil Spector remix, we kinda walked away from that LP. In fact, the best version of it was before anyone got hold of it: the Glyn Johns early mixes were great but they were very spartan; it would be one of the hippest records going if they brought it out. Before it had all its raw edges off it, that was one of the best Beatles albums because it was a bit avant-garde. I loved it.

So then it was Abbey Road we were doing and I got some grief on that because it took three days to do ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’. You know how long Trevor Horn takes to do a mix for Frankie Goes to Hollywood? It takes two days to switch on the Fairlight! I had a group in the other day, spent two days trying to find the ON switch! That’s what we’re into these days, you know.

I’m sure I did piss people off at the time, much as I tried not to. It just seemed to me when we had a session booked it was a cool idea to turn up. Like Sgt. Pepper: George turned up for his number and a couple of other sessions but not for very much else.

George was supposed to have resented you for always getting on his back.

He did resent it. Two examples; one on Abbey Road. I was beginning to get too producery for everyone. George Martin was the actual producer and I was beginning to be too definite, and George and Ringo turned around and said, ‘Look, piss off, we’re grown-ups and we can do it without you fine.’ People like me who don’t realise when they’re being very overbearing, it comes as a great surprise to be told.

So I completely clammed up and backed off: right, ‘OK, they’re right, I’m a turd.’ So a day or so went by and the session started to flag a bit and so eventually Ringo turned round to me and said, ‘Come on… produce’, and so it was like you couldn’t have it both ways. You either had to have me doing what I did, which, let’s face it, I hadn’t done too bad, or I was going to back off and become paranoid myself, which was what happened.

A lot of Wings was to do with that; I’d been told that I was so overbearing. If the guitarists in Wings wanted to play a solo a certain way, I wouldn’t dare tell them that it wasn’t good.

The other example that really pissed George off was when we were making ‘Hey Jude’. To me it had to have a sparse opening and it was going to build. So I started off ‘Hey Jude’ (sings) and George went ‘durnurnawnaww’ (makes guitar noise), and then ‘Don’t make it bad’, and he’d go ‘Derdlederlederdle’ and he was answering every line through the whole song and I just said, ‘No, man, I really don’t want that, it’s my song.’ The rule was whoever’s song it was to say how we did the arrangement for them.

That pissed him off, and I’m sure it pissed Ringo off when he couldn’t quite get the drums to ‘Back In The U.S.S.R.’, and I sat in. I remember sitting for hours thinking, ‘Should I say this thing?’ In the end it always came down to, ‘You should have said something,’ so it’s very hard to balance that. In the end I have to say that sometimes I was overbearing and sometimes they liked it.

Do you have much to do with them now?

I’m just starting to get back with them. It’s all business troubles. If we don’t talk about Apple then we get on like a house on fire. So I’ve just started to see them again. I had a great day the other day when George came down to visit me and for the first time in billions of years we had a really nice time. George was my original mate in The Beatles.

More than John?

He lived near me in Upton Green and I lived in Ardwick Road, and it was like half a mile away, so we took the same bus to the same school — the 500, which was the express — and then we got guitars at about the same time. We went through the Bert Weedon books and learned D and A together and we were quite big buddies then, so that was something I’d missed for all these years. We’d got all professional and Beatles and everything, and you lose that obviously, and he just came down the other day and we didn’t talk about Apple and we didn’t touch an instrument. It was just back as mates, like on the bus. He’s very into trees and planting and horticulture, as I am more now, and so we talked about planting trees. It was great to actually relate as two people and try and get all that crap out the window.

But that seems to be part of the process; he seems to be emerging more now anyway.

We’re all kind of coming to. We all brushed off this whole Beatles episode and sort of said, Well, it’s no big deal. Obviously it’s a big deal… it was a huge deal… if there ever was a big deal, that was it! So I don’t think half of us know what happened to us, really. I can never tell you what year anything was; literally they all go into a haze for me, the years and stuff. I keep seeing pictures of myself shaking hands with Mitzi Gaynor and I think, I didn’t know I met her. It’s that vague. And yet I look as straight as a die in there.

Were you on speed or something?

I don’t think so. I think it was just that life was speeding; you just met Mitzi Gaynor for five minutes and then you’d go and meet Jerry Lewis’s kids. It becomes very difficult after a while to know if you met 50 of them. I keep seeing weird photos of me with people that I didn’t even know I’d met. It’s quite embarrassing. Bowie’s got that problem too; he’s got huge periods of his life where he just does not know what happened.

When the money started to come in, were you aware of that or were you just living your life and you’d hear suddenly you were worth so much?

We used to ask them, ‘Am I a millionaire yet?’ and they used to say cryptic things like ‘On paper you are’ and we’d say, ‘Well, what does that mean? Am I or aren’t I? Are there more than a million of those green things in my bank yet?’ and they’d say, ‘Well, it’s not actually in a bank… we think you are.’ It was actually very difficult to get anything out of these people and the accountants never made you feel successful.

I remember we had the whole top five in America and I decided I wanted to buy a country house. I wasn’t asking for the world. In those days it would have cost about £30,000, top whack, and so I went to the accountants and they said, ‘You’ll have to get a mortgage’ and I said, ‘What do you mean, a mortgage? Aren’t we doing well yet? We’ve got the whole top five in the biggest market in the world! There’s gotta be some money coming in off that!’

They always try and keep you down. So you didn’t actually get much of a feeling of being very rich. The first time I actually saw cheques was when I left Apple, and it wasn’t me that saw them, it was Linda, because we’d co-written a few of our early things.

There are lots of stories about you and money. Miles, once the editor of International Times, who was a friend of yours in the mid-‘60s, told me about finding your MBE and a bunch of £20 notes stuffed into a sock drawer in your bedroom at the Asher house.

Yeah, I’ve heard that story too. I never remember actually having a wad of money like that. Still, it was nice of him not to nick it anyway, wasn’t it? I did know Miles very well. He was my mate. We had many a wondrous stoned evening in his place listening to all sorts of stuff.

That was another of the interesting things. I think that I’ve got a certain personality and if I give charity I don’t like to shout about it. If I get into avant-garde stuff, I don’t particularly shout about that either. I just get on with it. So way before John met Yoko and got avant-garde, I was like the avant-garde London bachelor with Miles in my pad in St. John’s Wood. I was making 8mm movies and showing them to Antonioni. I had all sorts of theories of music — we’d put on a Ravi Shankar record to our home movies and it’d synchronise and John used to come from Weybridge, kind of looking slightly goofy and saying ‘Wow! This is great! We should do more of this!’

I used to sit in a basement in Montagu Square with William Burroughs and a couple of gay guys he knew from Morocco and that Marianne Faithfull-John Dunbar crowd doing little tapes, crazy stuff with guitar and cello. But it didn’t occur to me in the next NME interview I did to rave about William Burroughs. Maybe it would have been good for me to do that.

It’s like Yoko met me before she met John. She turned up for a charity thing, she wanted manuscripts, any spare lyric sheets you had around. Ours tended to be on the backs of envelopes and to tell you the truth I didn’t want to give her any. They were very precious to me and the cause didn’t seem so great. So I said, ‘Look, my mate might be interested,’ and I gave her John’s address, and I think that’s how they first hooked up, and then she had her exhibition and stuff and then their side of the story started to happen.

I feel as though I have to justify living, you know, which is a bit of a piss-off. I don’t really want to have to sit around and justify myself; it’s a bit humiliating. But there are lots of things that haven’t come out. For instance, when they bust up their marriage, she came through London. He was in LA doing Pussy Cats with Nilsson and having a generally quite crazy time of it all, fighting with photographers and haranguing the Smothers Brothers, all because he genuinely loved Yoko and they had a very, very deep, strong relationship, but they were into all sorts of crazy stuff, stuff I don’t know the half of. A lot of people don’t know the half of that. Hints of it keep coming out in books but you never know if you can believe them.

You mean occultism?

All sorts. I certainly did get a postcard from Yoko saying ‘Go round the world in a South-Easterly direction. It’d be good for you. You’re allowed to stop at four places.’ George Martin got one of those and he sort of said, ‘Would it be alright if I go to Montserrat?’, and she said, ‘No.’ Actually, John did the voyage. John went in a South-Easterly direction around the world, but we all kind of went, ‘Sure, sure, we’ll go round the South-East.’ There are so many memories that come flooding in and it’s like a psycho session, the minute I get on this stuff. I’m on a couch and I’m just trying to purge it all.

Linda and me came over for dinner once and John said, ‘You fancy getting the trepanning tiling done?’ I said, ‘Well, what is it?’ and he said, ‘Well, you kind of have a hole bored in your skull and it relieves the pressure.’ We’re sitting at dinner and this is seriously being offered! Now this wasn’t a joke, this was like, ‘Let’s go next week, we know a guy who can do it and maybe we could all go together.’ So I said. ‘Look, you go and have it done, and if it works, great. Tell us all about it and we’ll all have it.’

But I’m afraid I’ve always been a little bit cynical about stuff like that — thank God! — because I think that there’s so much crap that you’ve got to be careful of. But John was more open to things like that.

Anyway, I was telling you about the marriage break-up thing. Yoko came through London and visited us, which was very nice. Linda and I were just married and living in this big old house in St John’s Wood. She came by and we started talking, and obviously the important subject for us is: ‘What’s happened? You’ve broken up then? I mean, you’re here and he’s there.’

She was very nice and confided in us but she was being very strong about it. She said, ‘No, he’s got to work his way back.’ I said, ‘Well look, do you still love him?’, and she said, ‘Yes.’ So I said, ‘Well, would you think it was an intrusion if I said to him, “Look, man, she loves you and there’s a way to get back”— sounds like a Beatles’ song — and I said ‘Would that be OK?’

She said she didn’t mind and we went out to visit him in L.A. in that house where all the crazy things went on and I took him into the back room and said, ‘This girl of yours, she really still loves you. Do you love her?’ And he said he did but he didn’t know what to do.

So I said, ‘You’re going to have to work your little ass off, man. You have to get back to New York, you have to take a separate flat, you have to send her roses every fucking day, you have to work at it like a bitch! Then you just might get her back.’ And he did. I mean, if you hear it from John’s point of view, it’ll just be that he spoke to Yoko on the phone and she said to him, ‘Come back.’

I always found it interesting that he got married a month after you.

I think we spurred each other into marriage. They were very strong together which left me out of the picture, so then I got together with Linda and we got our own kind of strength. I think again that they were a little bit peeved that we got married first.

Was it the kind of thing where there are two blokes who are good mates and one of them finds a girl and then the friendship breaks up?

‘Wedding Bells’ is what it was. ‘Wedding bells are breaking up that old gang of mine.’ We used to sing that song, Gene Vincent did it. It was like an army song and for us the Beatles became the army. We always knew that one day ‘Wedding Bells’ would come true, and that was when it did.

Trouble is, in trying to set the record straight I don’t want to blame John. I did this thing recently with Hunter Davies and they pulled out the one line, ‘John could be a manoeuvring swine.’ Well, I still stick to that, but I’d better not say it to The Sun because I’m just going to get hauled over the coals again.

I’ll tell you exactly why I said that. We had a business meeting to break up The Beatles, one of the famous ones that we’d been having — we’re still having them 17 years later, actually. We all flew in to New York specially. George came off his disastrous tour, Ring of flew in and we were at the Plaza for the big final settlement meeting. John was half a mile away at the Dakota and he sent a balloon over with a note that said ‘Listen to this balloon.’ I mean, you’ve got to be pretty cool to handle that kind of stuff.

George blew his cool and rang him up: ’You fucking maniac!! You take your fucking dark glasses off and come and look at us, man!!’ and gave him a whole load of that shit. Around the same time at another meeting we had it all settled, and John asked for an extra million pounds at the last minute. So of course that meeting blew up in disarray. Later, when we got a bit friendlier — and from time to time there would be these little stepping-stones of friendship in the Apple sea — I asked him why he’d actually wanted that million and he said, I just wanted cards to play with. It’s absolutely standard business practice. He wanted a couple of jacks to up your pair of nines. He was one great guy, but part of his greatness was that he wasn’t a saint.

You got an awful lot of shit for saying “It’s a drag” after he’d been killed.

Yea. I think why some politicians are so successful is that they have a little bleeper box in their heads and before they say something they run things through and they can see it as a headline. If it doesn’t look good they edit it. I have that sometimes, but in moments like that all my bleepers go out the window. I just came out of the place and somebody just stuck the proverbial microphone in the window of the car, which I’m mad enough to have open because, you see, I’m quite outgoing and I was telling the fans ‘Thank you, it’s alright.’ You know. Fab Macca, thumbs aloft, wacky… to me that’s just being nice… that’s just ordinary. I’m not going to carry any can for that kind of shit, for me that was OK… Sticking my thumb up isn’t some armour against the fans, it’s just a perfectly straightforward way of being friendly with people.

But, anyway, I said, ‘It’s a dra-a-ag.’ If I could’ve I might’ve just lengthened that word ‘drag’ for about a thousand years, to get the full meaning. Hunter Davies was on television that night, giving a very reasoned account of John, and all the puppets sprang right up there. I thought it was well tasteless. Jesus Christ, ready with the answers, aren’t we? Aren’t we just ready with a summary? Mind you, Hunter admitted to us years ago that he already had our obituaries written. They’re on file at The Times and they just update them, which is chilling to learn.

The question is, which is the more sensitive: my thing or his thing? He was the one I rang up about ‘manoeuvring swine’ too, so it shows what a buddy he is, he immediately put it in print.

That incident reminded me of John saying ‘We’re bigger than Jesus,’ which was a Maureen Cleave article for the Evening Standard. John and Maureen were good friends and in context it was actually John saying to the church, ‘Hey, wake up! We’re bigger than you.’

But you take it out of context, you send it to Selma, Alabama, you put it on the front page and you’ve got little 11-year-olds thumping on your coach window saying, ‘Blasphemer! Devil Worshipper!’ and I’ll never forget the sight of a little blond kid trying to get to us, and he would have done it, if he’d have got to us. I mean, at 11, what does this kid know of life and religion or anything? He’d just been whipped up.

It’s like Phillip Norman’s book Shout. It’s shameful the way it says that George spent the whole of his career holding a plectrum waiting for a solo. To dismiss George like that is just stupid, nothing less. George was a major influence musically. Trouble is with all these guys, when they come to interview you they come with a clipboard of facts that they’ve got from the files. That’s how Willie Russell wrote his play, John, Paul, George, Ringo… and Bert. That’s how I’ve become known as the one who broke up the Beatles.

The only thing I’m thankful for is that now the truth is starting to come out, and when I see that wedding changed to funeral, I start to realise that it was John’s problem, not mine.

What was his problem, do you think?

Heroin, a slight problem.

When did you know he was doing heroin?

When he was living in Montagu Square with Yoko after he’d split up with Cynthia. He never actually told us, no one ever actually saw him take it, but we heard. I was very lucky to miss that whole scene. I was the first one on coke in the group, which horrified the whole group, and I just thought, No sweat. The minute I stopped, the whole record industry got into it and has never stopped since.

I knew the time was up when I saw Jim Webb — Up Up And Away! — offering me a toot. I thought, ‘Hello, this is getting way too popular.’

When was this that you were doing it?

In LA, it was Sgt. Pepper time, it was my circle of friends: the William Burroughs, the Robert Frasers, the Rolling Stones crowd, and we’d use it to wake up after the pot. But that was quite shortlived and I hated it. I soon got the message that it was a big downer.

There’s a story that sums up all that drugs thing. When I went out to LA at the time of that Pussy Cats album I was offered angel dust. I said, ‘What is it?’ and they said, ‘It’s an elephant tranquillizer,’ and I said to the guy, ‘Is it fun?’ He thought for a moment and said, ‘No it’s not fun.’ So I said, ‘OK, I won’t have any then.’ That sums it up, you know. You had anything, man, even if it wasn’t fun! You sort of had to do it — peer pressure.

I was given a lot of stick for being the last one to take acid. I wish I’d held out now in a way, Although it was the times. I don’t really regret anything actually. I remember John going on The Old Grey Whistle Test and saying, ‘Paul only took it four times! We all took it twenty times!!’ It was as if you’d scored points…

Real twenty pints a night stuff, isn’t it?

It really is!! That’s it, exactly! Very northern. It’s the same thing. If you get it right with one crowd; of people, it’s wrong with another crowd, so you can’t win, basically. But it was great times and I really don’t regret it. I love a lot of what we did; we had screwed-up moments too, but who doesn’t?

Like Geldof — there’s this guy who does great stuff, but that doesn’t mean that he’s a saint. In fact, it’s often the opposite with these people; it just means that they’ve got Go Power.

I love the story where they finished the USA For Africa record and Geldof is buzzing and Michael Jackson and his family were having a light meal at about three in the morning. They’re all devout Jehovah’s Witnesses and they were all sitting there and Bob walks in and says, ‘You lot fucking disgust me!!’ The jaws just drop.

He didn’t make himself too wildly popular. I think that’s why he got a bit elbowed in the States. They never mention him. It’s the American guy they always mention. I don’t even know what his name is. Ken something. They all thank him. They never say, ‘And by the way, he got the idea off this mad Irish bog bandit.’

How did you feel at Live Aid? The first time you’d been on stage for ages and it all went wrong.

When the mic went? I felt very strange. It was very loosely organised and I turned up not knowing quite what was expected of me, other than that I had to do ‘Let It Be’. So I sat down at the piano, looked around for a cue to go, and there was just one roadie, and I looked at him for a signal. I started and the monitor was off and I thought, No sweat, this is BBC, this is world television, someone���s bound to have a feed, it’s just that my monitor’s off.

Then I wondered if the audience could hear because I knew some of the words of ‘Let It Be’ were kind of relevant to what we were doing. Anyway, I thought, This is OK, they can hear me, they’re singing along. I just had to keep going, so it was very embarrassing. The terrible thing was that in the middle I heard the roadies come through on the monitor, shouting, ’No, this plug doesn’t go here!‘ I thought, Hello, we have problems. The worst moment was watching it on telly later.

The event itself was so great, but it wasn’t for my ego. It was for people who are dying and it raised over £50 million, and so it was like having been at the battle of Agincourt. It’s something you’ll tell your grandchildren about. I know Paul Simon slightly regrets that he didn’t do it. He was asked, but he had other things to do. I very nearly didn’t do it; Bob just badgered me into it.

That’s your mother invoked in ‘Let It Be’, isn’t it?

Yeah, well, I had a lot of bad times in the ‘60s there, and we used to sort of — probably all the drugs — lie in bed and wonder what was going on and feel quite paranoid. I had a dream one night about my mother. She died when I was 14 so I hadn’t really heard from her in quite a while, and it was very good. It gave me some strength. In my darkest hour Mother Mary comes to me. I don’t know whether you’ve got parents that are still living, but if you do… I get dreams with John in, and my Dad. It’s very nice because you meet them again. It’s wondrous, it’s like magic. Of course, you’re not meeting them, you’re meeting yourself, or whatever…

What about ‘Lady Madonna’?

Lady Madonna’s all women. How do they do it? — bless ‘em — it’s that one, you know. Baby at your breast, how do they get the time to feed them? Where do you get the money? How do you do this thing that women do?

Was your mother a very strong force in your life?

Well, I loved her, you know, yeah.

Was it very traumatic when she died?

Yeah, but I’m a bit of a cover-up. There are many people like me in the world who don’t find it easy to have public grief. But that was one of the things that brought John and I very close together. We used to actually talk about it, being 16 or 17. We actually used to know, not in a cynical way, but a way that was accepting the reality of the situation, how people felt when they said, ‘How’s your mother?’ And we’d say, ‘Well, she’s dead.’ We almost had a sort of joke, we’d have to say, ‘It’s alright, don’t worry.’ We’d both lost our mothers. It was never really spoken about much; no-one really spoke about anything real. There was a famous expression: ‘Don’t get real on me, man.’

How did you feel about all the stick Linda got?

I feel sorry for her. She got a lot of stick, more than we admit to.

It presumably affected your relationship in some way?

It made us stronger, really; the thing I’m beginning to understand now about Linda was that we were just two people who liked each other and found a lot in common and fell in love, got married and found that we liked it. To the world, of course, she was the girl that Paul McCartney had married, and she was a divorcee, which didn’t seem right. People preferred Jane Asher. Jane Asher fitted. She was a better Fergie.

Linda wasn’t a very good Fergie for me, and people generally tended to disapprove of me marrying a divorcee and an American. That wasn’t too clever. None of that made a blind bit of difference; I actually just liked her, I still do and that’s all it’s to do with.

I mean, we got married in the craziest clothes when I look back on it. We didn’t even bother to buy her a decent outfit. I can see it all now; I can see why people were amazed that I’d put her in the group. At the time it didn’t seem the least bit unusual. I even had quotes from Jagger saying, ‘Oh, he’s got his old lady up onstage man.’

A lot of people give her stick for playing with one finger, but as a matter of fact they weren’t polyphonic, the Moogs, in those days. You can only play them with one finger; you can play them with five if you like, but only one’s gonna register, so it’s things like that all added to the picture, and by the time she did the ’76 tour with Wings, she was well good at stuff and actually I was quite surprised, I mean, she was holding down the keyboard job with one of the big bands in the world. From knowing nothing! I mean, the balls of the girl!

But along with the public condemnations, there were always millions of people who liked her. Our shows always did OK, and our records occasionally did OK. Occasionally we’d have a whopper burger that’d suddenly make it worthwhile. Then we’d have our big whopper failures, but as long as you measure them against your successes, it’s alright.

How do you feel about the Wings output?

I was never very happy with the whole thing but I’m actually starting to think that it was a bit churlish of me, because I’m meeting a lot of people now who had a completely different perception of the whole thing. I met a nurse recently who was a Wings fan! I mean, forget me, forget The Beatles, she was an actual die-hard Wings fan. I didn’t think they existed.

A lot of the younger people coming up didn’t really know the Beatles history. There are people who don’t know what Sgt. Pepper was. We find it a bit difficult to understand. It’s like not knowing what War And Peace is.So it’s OK. I was never very pleased with the whole thing, but I’m warming to it now. I’m starting to look at it through my own eyes, and saying, Wait a minute. What did we do? Where did we go wrong? Most people would give their right arm for the Wings career, to have hits as big as ‘Mull Of Kintyre’, ‘My Love’, ‘Band On The Run’, ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’.

But it came to an end when you were busted in Japan. How did that happen?

It happened because we got some good grass in America and no-one could face putting it down the toilet. It was an absolutely crazy move. We knew we weren’t going to get any in Japan. Anybody else would have given it to their roadies, but I didn’t want them to take the rap. It was lying on top of the bloody suitcase. I’ll never forget the guy’s face as he pulled it out. He almost put it back. He just did not want the embarrassment. But it’s a hysterical subject and I’d prefer to skirt round it these days, because I don’t want any of the pressures that go with it, so I’m telling everyone, stay clean, be cool.

I’m pretty straight. I know what crazy is.

[theonceoverthinker]

It’s Nice To Meet You

Summary: An unorthodox use of Henry’s cellphone makes for an unexpected first meeting between Ella and Emma.

Featured Dynamics: Glass Believer, Ella and Emma, Captain Swan, Ella and OG Killian

Links:  AO3     Fanfiction.net

A/N: This was a fantastic request for my 300 follower spectacular by @latinacinderella. This lady gives me very chill requests. Like between this and “Talk Tales Over Cocktails” (Which I consider something of a counterpart to this), the fics that come from her requests are just nice and breezy. And I like that! Besides, Ella’s had a hard life! She deserves some chill moments, am I right?

Anyway, she requested to see Ella and/or Lucy encounter Storybrooke, Emma, and/or OG Hook in some way. I did something a liiiiiiiiiittle outside of the parameters of that request, but in a way that still holds to the spirit it so, I hope you enjoy it!

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When Henry Mills started his journey across the realms, he didn’t pack a lot. In the small bit of storage space his motorcycle and his single satchel provided, he packed a dagger with his initials engraved on it, two changes of clothes, a few Apollo bars, and his single most prized possession: his cellphone.

But this cellphone, like much of Henry’s life, was far from ordinary.

As a last gift from his mother before he went to explore the worlds, the phone was magically enchanted with a battery that would never die and a digital album filled with gigabytes upon gigabytes of pictures and videos of his family so that no matter where he went, they’d be with him.

Once Henry and Ella’s friendship took off, Henry showed Ella both that phone and its digital library of his family’s history. No matter how much of the library she was shown, there was always a new story to tell about the adventures of his very extended family.

Ella loved the album. She liked its convenient feel in her hand, its impossibly smooth shape and surface, and the clarity of the pictures and videos the device held.

But mostly, she loved the family that it contained.

Henry Mills was indeed a gifted storyteller. When he spoke of his parents, grandparents, and all of the other going-ons of his family tree, his very words painted the idea of home for Ella. She could practically smell the lasagna at Granny’s, taste the cookies from Snow White’s oven, and see the hundreds of antiques at Gold’s shop as Henry made them real for her with the power of his words.

Fate really hit the nail on the hammer with his role as The Author.

A just as fate had led him to that title, it had led Henry and Ella to each other.

Every morning, Ella was reminded of that by the feeling of the locket against her heart and the feeling of her beloved next to her.

Today, though, only one of those things was where she expected it to be.

As Ella woke up -- before even her eyes greeted the day -- her hand reached for Henry, expecting to feel a soft blanket that leaned against his muscles.

But when her hand fell, the only thing on the other side of the blanket was the hard floor of their tent.

Ella finally opened her eyes and formally greeted the day, sad to see that she was indeed alone. That sadness was short lived however, as she noticed a piece of parchment atop her beloved’s pillow. Scrawled upon the parchment was a small note that Ella could recognize as hosting Henry’s handwriting. She picked it up and as she read it, she felt a blush flourish against her cheeks.

Dear Ella,

I’ve gone fishing with Hook and Jack and didn’t want to wake you. Besides, I know you like a little bit of alone time every now and then, so I figured you could take some time off from the resistance and enjoy a morning to yourself. We should be back by midday, but rest assured I’ll be thinking of you until then.

Love,

Henry

Romance wasn’t something that Ella ever expected to be in the cards for her. Thoughts of vengeance for her stepfather’s death and a hopelessness that came with spending years as a servant for her stepfamily had put the idea far out of her head. A future free from all of them was the best outcome she thought she could hope for.

But just as he had challenged the notion of revenge being her destiny, so had Henry changed her mind about that too. Now, the sweet words and gentle touches she had gone her so much of her life without were things she could hardly part with any easier than the air in her lungs.

In a way, she supposed that wasn’t surprising. After all, Ella knew plenty about the family he came from and for the most part, love was never too far from them.

And soon enough, that might apply to her too.

It made sense. Ella was already well acquainted with one of Henry’s mothers, and with a family that was just a magic bean away, it was reasonable to assume she’d encounter the rest of them before long. Additionally, if things stayed as good as they were now -- and Ella had a locket pressed up against her chest that gave her a strong impression that they would -- they might one day consider settling down in the same town as them.

What would that be like?

In truth, Ella hadn’t afforded the prospect much thought beforehand. The resistance and the newness of their relationship had prioritized living for the moment, and that’s exactly what Ella did. But the fact was that the revolution against the plights of their kingdom would one day end, leaving a future that needed to be accounted for -- one that could feasibly lead them to a cozy house nestled in the heart of Storybrooke.

But that begged the question, an inquiry that was just as interesting as it was somewhat daunting:  How would it feel to live in Storybrooke?

If Ella was honest with herself, perhaps a bit too overwhelming for her liking.

Ella had never been good dealing with large groups of people. Throughout her time with the resistance thus far, she forewent growing closer to the movement at large, preferring the smaller bits of company provided by Tiana, Regina, Jack, Henry, and Hook. The few occasions where she did need to interact with the other members was kept to a minimum. That was more than fine with her and the sentiment seemed to be reciprocated. It wasn’t unheard of for those in the camp to keep to themselves outside of their own personal circles and otherwise mind their own business.

But from how Henry described life in Storybrooke, Ella had a suspicion that that wouldn’t necessarily fly there. Storybrooke was a small town with not a small amount of people there who not only liked but deeply cared about being involved in each other’s lives. They never let an occasion to get together and throw a party pass them by and polite conversations tended to run longer than they ever did in this realm. Even though Ella knew they were likely all lovely people, the thought of just an afternoon of that, let alone a potential lifetime was a lot to take in and maybe more than Ella felt herself able to handle.

And it’s not like she didn’t want to be able to.

Just as Henry’s stories had somewhat freaked her out with the family’s closeness, they had also charmed her in the other side of that particular coin. In the same vein that said closeness was borderline suffocating, it was also a means of support. While Ella felt uncomfortable opening up to so many people, she didn’t want to dismiss the possibility of finding new friends and pseudo family members. After all, had she not done so for Henry, she would have denied herself the happiness she now reveled in.

There was a feeling of guilt in the matter -- something Ella knew Henry would never want her to feel and that only served to make her feel even more guilt. It was a frustrating cycle and one Ella genuinely wanted to move on from. She wanted to open herself up more and she wanted to want to take to Storybrooke as easily as Henry did, but she just wasn’t there yet.

And she wondered if she would ever be…

No. She wouldn’t allow herself to fail so easily. Just as she was doing with her stepsister’s threats, here had to be a way to combat this.

Perhaps, all it would take was to view Storybrooke’s many denizens in the same way that Henry did.

Suddenly, an idea struck Ella for exactly how she’d spend her morning off. She leaned over to Henry’s things and felt around until she felt what was always to her an unbelievably thin surface, especially given all that it held. Once the device was in her grasp, Ella pulled it out and placed it on the blanket in front of her.

Henry once told her that his phone was only one of many pieces of technology from his world. Ella personally found that hard to believe. In addition to the odd-looking and somewhat violent games he had on there, his phone had collections of pictures far more numerous than Ella could possibly count. In her time playing around with the device, she had never once reached the bottom of the assembly of family memories.

Maybe today, that could change.

Delicately, Ella picked up the phone. On what Henry called, his ‘lock screen,’ there was a picture of he and Ella on his motorcycle that Regina had taken not long after they started dating. Upon seeing the picture, she softened, all thoughts of distant anxieties abandoned. It hadn’t been there the last time she checked, and the spot that formerly held a picture of characters from this movie Henry told her about, “Star Wars,” was now held by them.

How could her Henry make her fall in love with him so much, even when he wasn’t around?

Ella looked forward to finding that little secret of his out throughout the rest of their lives.

After staring too long at the picture of them, the screen went dark. It sometimes did that when Henry went on long tangents about that movie or when...they occupied themselves in other way -- namely, with each other’s lips -- so Ella wasn’t too surprised to see it happen now. Ella made a move to press the button that would bring the picture back when suddenly, the screen turned entirely light blue.

Speechless, Ella tried to make sense of what happened. Had she broken something? All she had done was brought up the lock screen. She hadn’t even tried to put in the combination, one she knew quite well, even once.

Nervous, Ella picked up the screen, looking closer. The power blue that covered the front surface of the phone was still there, but Ella, no longer as plagued by her immediate shock, noticed that the color was...swirling. The contents of the screen slowly spun, like a vortex of the sky on a perfect day.

Ella watched it. The thought had just occurred to her to get Regina’s help when suddenly, the blue screen had begun to be overtaken. Slowly from the center, the image of a woman began to push out the blue, soon overtaking it entirely.

Before Ella could move a muscle or take in the woman on the screen, a sound came from the phone -- though not its speakers like it usually did when Henry showed her a video. No, the noise was just there, as if another person was in the tent with her.

Or rather, as if the woman was in the tent with her.

But that wasn’t the strangest part.

No, the strangest part was what she said.

“Henry?” she called. The voice wasn’t panicked as it searched for Henry, but called casually, as if calling someone in for dinner.

And then the woman noticed Ella. For a second, she paused, taking her in. The woman’s eyes bulged, as if she had just had a big realization about Ella.

“Hey,” she said. This time, she was more in a state of surprise.

Ella blinked, and in that fraction of a second, her mind caught up to her and like pieces of a puzzle, clues came together to fill her in about exactly who she was talking to.

For but a single second, Ella studied the woman in front of her -- the long blonde hair that reached well below her shoulders, the green eyes that held an inquisitive stare, the light bump in her belly, and the leather jacket that was the color of a juicy pomegranate.

Who else could it be?

“You’re Emma Swan,” Ella said. There was an essence of disbelief in her voice as she said it, mirroring the one Emma had when she seemed to realize who she was.

Emma, now apparently over her shock, nodded and smiled, her finger offhandedly aimed at Ella in a pondering fashion. “And you’re Cinderella, right?”

“I actually go by Ella now,” Ella pointed out, not the least bit upset about Emma’s mistake.

That didn’t stop an apologetic look from overtaking Emma’s features.

“I’m sorry,” she said, a meekness in her voice that was a far cry from the confidence Henry’s tales had painted her with.

“It’s okay,” Ella eased. “But yeah. I just started going by Ella again recently.”

“Ella,” Emma repeated, smiling once more as the word comfortably settled in the space between them. “Well, Ella. It’s nice to meet you.”

Ella returned the grin. “It’s nice to meet you too. Henry’s told me so many stories about the Savior of Storybrooke.”

“Hopefully good ones?” Emma teased.

“Well, he wasn’t too happy when you confiscated his X-Box -- whatever that is -- a few years ago,” Ella retorted, smirking. “But apart from that, he’s got nothing but good things to say about you.”

Emma snorted. “Did he tell you that he failed his math test before I confiscated it?”

“No he did not!” Ella said, gasping in mock scandalization. “Looks like he has some explaining to do!”

Suddenly, Ella realized something.

This impromptu meeting with her beloved’s mother was just that: impromptu.

She hadn’t called for her, but for Henry.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I forgot to tell you: Henry went fishing and won’t be back until later today.”

Emma frowned and snapped her fingers. “Damnit,” she muttered. “I always seem to miss him by just a bit. And I’ve got to go to work soon, so I won’t be able to call until basically midnight, and I’m pretty sure midnight for us is also midnight for you guys.”

Ella was about to say that she’d have Henry call her back tomorrow, but a thought struck her.

“Emma, how exactly did you reach us here?”

Just like that, Emma’s frown disappeared, replaced with a proud grin. “Magic,” she replied, with a casual wave of her hand. “Regina taught me a long time ago how to communicate with mirrors. And a few weeks ago, I had a thought. I figured that since a phone screen can reflect your face like a mirror, maybe I could use Henry’s phone screen to talk to him. I’ve been trying it out lately, but Henry either doesn’t have his phone on him or he does, but can’t hear me talking over his motorcycle.”

“That thing is so noisy,” Ella cosigned.

“Tell me about it. And I thought it was bad when Henry was revving it up all night in the garage back in high school. But, at least now I know that this actually works, and as a bonus, I get to meet you!”

“I guess we could call it a happy accident.”

“I like that. So, considering that you have Henry’s phone, I take it that you two are...close?” Ella giggled at Emma’s expression. There was a hopeful smirk where a simple grin had been but a moment ago. She could tell how Emma was trying so hard not to be too nosy, but was also looked too excited to expect Ella not to think that that’s exactly how she felt.

“Yes,” Ella confirmed, her grin now wide enough to show teeth. “We’re together.”

Emma looked at Ella, positively beaming with happiness.

“That’s great!” Emma nearly shouted. “I’m so happy for you two!” As soon as she was done speaking, she blushed, clearly embarrassed at her over excitement at the news.

But in truth, Ella loved it.

“Thanks!” Ella said, finding herself beaming as well. “I guess I don’t have to worry about a disapproving mother?” she teased.

Emma tapped her chin, smirking. She released a wicked hum before speaking. “Nah,” she dismissed with a wink. “You’re a good kid, and you’re good for my kid.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely,” Emma answered, not skipping a beat. “Henry’s got a good heart. You must be pretty amazing if it lead him to you. And honestly, you seem amazing. I mean, sword fighting a prince’s army, riding a motorcycle after a minute-long lesson, and joining a resistance movement, and all in the same day? That’s impressive.”

Ella felt her cheeks redden at the thought of all that Henry had told her. “I guess Henry’s had his own stories to share about me?”

“You have no idea, Ella. Henry’s always been an passionate kid, but when he told me how you two met -- that look in his eyes -- it was like magic. And trust me, I’ve become quite the expert on the subject these days. So yeah, like I was saying -- I think you two are gonna be great together.”

Ella felt her heart warm at that comment. Regina had taken to her presence in Henry’s life rather quickly and now, Emma had too. On some level, she knew that winning over anyone from Storybrooke wouldn’t be an obstacle -- they seemed too kind to ever make themselves come across that way -- but the validation was still very much appreciated and it felt nice to be welcomed into Henry’s family with such ease.

Or at least part of what was a very big and extended family.

Now that that thought had made its way back to the forefront of her mind, Ella mused on Emma for a moment. Emma had a story of her own, one that Ella felt a kinship too, especially in her current situation.

Henry’s tales always illustrated Emma’s story in particular as something more complex than just some badass woman with a leather jacket and a gun. No, there was also the story of a woman who found her family, fell in love, and became a leader after a lifetime of wondering if she’d leave any impact whatsoever on this world at all, or if she’d even want to. It was a a journey of taking comfort in one’s connections and learning how they can be empowered through them, rather than things to be feared or avoided. And now, just judging by the gentleness that surrounded her through her posture, smile, and eyes, Ella could tell that Emma was happy beyond all belief with her life in Storybrooke.

Maybe with Emma lied the key to getting the same thing for herself.

Perhaps there was more Emma Swan could offer than just a sweet first encounter.

“Emma,” Ella started, admittedly more than a touch nervously. “Can I ask you something?”

Emma seemed to be able to tell that Ella’s question was more subdued than previously and settled herself accordingly from her former state of sheer giddiness. “Of course,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“How did you settle into Storybrooke life?” Emma raised a brow, clearly confused by the inquiry.

“What do you mean?”

Ella bit her cheek as she sought words of clarity. “What I mean is, Storybrooke’s a really social place and I know you weren’t when you first arrived…” Before Ella even attempted to further her sentence, she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m bad at this. And that’s what I mean.” Emma raised a hand, as if asking her to settle down.

A look of realization and understanding overtook Emma’s features. “I guess Henry’s told you about the rest of his family.”

“Yes,” Ella responded. She was so tempted to place her hand over her face, but held back as not to further embarrass herself.

But Emma looked calm and better yet, understanding. With her eyes, she encouraged Ella to keep on going.

“It’s just a lot,” Ella continued. “And don’t get me wrong: you all seem great and kind. I guess I’m a bit more reserved. I want to fit in, but I know myself and I know that I tend to not do great with large crowds, especially if they’re as involved as Henry’s stories make them out to be.”

Emma shrugged. “Unfortunately, he’s not wrong.”  Another groan was working its way up Ella’s throat, but she stifled it.

“I guess what I’m asking is if we end up in Storybrooke, how am I going to manage there? I don’t want to come off as rude, but I can’t see myself being as open as everyone else there is. And I figured since you weren’t always like that, according to Henry, you could give me some pointers.”

Looking through the screen, Ella saw Emma biting her lip, seemingly contemplating what she said and nodding as a likely chugging train of thought rode through a lifetime’s worth of experiences. “I get it,” Emma consoled. “In this realm, we call it being introverted. I’m like that too.”

“Then how did you get...unintroverted?” The snort that Emma seemed to only barely able to stifle told Ella that her word choice was incorrect. Ella playfully rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Emma gave her a soft smile. “I do. Can I tell you a little secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m still freaked out by it -- the whole social thing. I look at Henry and my parents and even Killian and they’re so much better at this than me. They’re the ones who initiate all of the conversations. They’re the ones who extend invitations to hang out. They’re the ones who remember everything about everyone. I don’t remember what the spices were in the deviled eggs at the last Doctoberfest! How do they? Who pays attention to that stuff?” At those last statements, Ella instinctively felt her face scrunched, confused. Emma looked to catch onto that. “Sorry, that’s another story for another day.”

“Why would anyone eat eggs from the devil?”

“They’re not actually from the devil. It’s just a weird name thing,” Emma dismissed. However, Ella wasn’t just about ready to drop the matter just yet.

“Who name things after the devil?”

Emma smirked. “Do you want my advice or not?” she teasingly chided.

Ella returned the gesture. “Fair enough.”

“What I mean is it’s a struggle for me. I get the feeling it always will be. I’m like you -- an introvert. It doesn’t go away, at least for most people.”

Another groan escaped Ella. “So am I doomed?”

“I never said that,” Emma assured. “It’s just different for people like us. But here’s the thing: People in Storybrooke get that. The town’s a lot of things, but more than anything, it’s understanding. If you talk about your limits and you’re nice about it, the people here will get it if you need to take a step back every now and then.” Emma snapped her finger, as if recalling something. “And trust me -- neither of us are alone. Regina’s more introverted too and so is Henry’s other grandfather.”

“Rumplestiltskin?” Ella clarified. Emma nodded. “Yeah, he seems the type.”

That seemed to surprise Emma. “You’ve met him?”

“Yeah. I haven’t talked to him yet, but apparently, he came to this world recently.”

Emma nodded. “Noted. But,” she continued, “I promise you, Ella, you’ll be just fine if you and Henry end up here. And if it helps, even if I’m still struggling with the social stuff, I have learned a lot too just by being here and getting close to the people I love. It all builds, so just let yourself take it one day at a time. Start things off with a simple ‘it’s nice to meet you,’ and follow your gut for the rest. Sound good?”

Ella took a moment to absorb her advice. It certainly made Storybrooke seem a lot less scary. It was still a bit nerve wracking, but Ella now felt a surge of determination that hadn’t been there before. Besides, if a fellow introvert like her could find happiness there, Ella had a feeling that she could too, especially given the start that her family in this realm had given her. And by the time that she and Henry might move to Storybrooke, Ella knew she’d be even stronger and more capable.

“It really does,” Ella said, her smile wide with the very confidence she knew Emma had in herself as well.Thank you, Emma.”

“Happy to he-”

“Emma! Were you able to get in touch with Henry this time?” It was a man’s voice that called and subsequently interrupted Emma. A series of increasingly loud footsteps followed, leading to what was clearly the sound of an opening door.

“Killian,” Emma said, a surprised bliss clear in her tone. Ella felt her heart warm at it, thinking of how Henry’s presence so often gave her that exact feeling. “No, I wasn’t able to get him today. He’s out fishing.”

“My apologies, love. It’s my fault that he’s so drawn to the sea’s call.” Killian’s shadow was now visible on the screen and Emma must have been able to tell. She looked at Ella in a way that seemed to be asking her if she was comfortable meeting Killian like this.

And Ella -- ready -- nodded.

“But I did meet someone else.” Ella saw the screen twist in Emma’s wrist so she was now facing Killian. “Killian, this is Ella, Henry’s friend!”

Killian beamed upon seeing her and hearing her name. “Ella! How nice it is to meet you!”

“And it’s nice to meet you too, Killian!”

“So you’re the woman my boy’s had his eye on! How are you two getting by?”

“Very well,” Ella answered. “But, we have got to talk about your sword fighting lessons. I thought you were a pirate, Captain Jones, but Henry doesn’t exactly fight dirty.”

Killian laughed heartily. “Don’t blame me! Blame his goody two shoes grandfather!”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Good Form,” Ella shot back, earning herself a similarly hearty laugh from both herself and Emma.

For the next half hour, the three of them exchanged stories and updates about life in their respective realms. Emma asked if the resistance needed their aid, and while Ella told them they’d be alright, she stressed that she wanted to see them when things finally quieted down.

At the chime of a clock in the distance of Emma’s side of the phone, Emma frowned.

“We’ve got to take off,” she said. “We’re already late as it is and while I don’t have to worry about anyone signing my paychecks, I’d rather not get an earful from who or what ever might be at the station when we arrive.”

“Two doubloons says it’s about Granny going on another drunk crossbowing spree.”

“It’s okay,” Ella assured, laughing all the while at the image Killian so kindly painted her. “I’m going to take a bit more time for myself before Henry gets back.”

“You definitely deserve it. And tell Henry that we love him!”

“Of course!”

“It was nice to meet you!” Emma and Killian chorused.

“It was nice to meet you, too! And Emma, thank you for everything.”

KIllian placed an arm around Emma’s shoulders and Emma gave her a final appreciative grin at Ella from the other side of the phone.

After that, the swirling light blue appeared once more briefly before dissipating back to the blackened screen. Ella checked the phone to make sure that everything was back to normal and when the image of a happy couple holding each other upon a motorcycle appeared, she knew that it was.

Content, Ella laid back in her bed and as she had initially planned, went through Henry’s phone. The light bit of tension that had been in her belly whenever she looked at the collection of memories was still present, but lessened. It was especially so when she encountered pictures of Emma. Within her gazes as she decorated trees and carved up pumpkins in a room filled with people -- through Ella had no idea why she would be doing either of those things -- Ella saw not only hope for herself, but a friend who would help her realize that hope’s full potential.

An hour later, Ella heard shifting sounds outside of her tent, though she knew immediately just who it was on the other side of it.

True Love was funny in that way.

As she expected, the folds of the tent soon split to reveal a joyful Henry from the other side.

“Hey!” he called. Ella felt her heart swell as she looked at her lover. The bottoms of his pants as well as his shoes were dirty and he had an odor that she could definitely say was reflective of his morning’s activity.

“Hey! How was fishing?”

“Pretty good, but don’t ask Jack or Hook. They’re a bit...jealous.” Giggling, Ella gestured for him to come lay by her side once more. Henry didn’t hesitate before joining her and colliding their lips in a satisfying and hungry kiss. When they finally broke free after a few minutes, they held their stare as their heavy breaths rhytmically pulled their chests up and down.“And how was your morning alone?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a morning completely alone.”

Henry’s face fell. “I’m sorry,” he cooed, his head tilting sadly. “Resistance stuff?”

“No, and it was fine,” Ella assuaged. “I actually had a really nice chat with your mother.”

“Really? I thought she went to go visit my grandpa today.”

Ella smirked at Henry’s bewildered expression. “Wrong mother.”

If Henry’s face looked taken off guard before, he now looked like a child lost in the middle of the woods without so much as a compass to guide him. “Wh-what? You talked to Emma?”

“Yes, I did! And tomorrow, Regina’s going to help us call her because she loves and misses you.” Ella then smiled as she finished talking.

Henry softened, clearly still bewildered, but just as clearly happy about the implications behind that very smile. Just as Killian had done to Emma before they ended their conversation, he looped his arm around Ella’s shoulder.

“I knew you guys would get along. You two are a lot alike.”

“More than you could imagine.” Ella pulled Henry closer, contently cradling her head in his neck as she beamed. “And Henry?” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I know about the math test.”