#bare a pop opera sweep

[adamparrishdyke]

ok i have a lot of things to say about theatre but wjat i will post is this: just because angels in america could do minimalist sets with neon lights as accents doesnt mean every regional production and their mother should ditch detailed sets for mininmalism and neon (led) strips

[demetriandelibinaryboyfriends]

AIGHT Y’ALL I wasn’t tagged but I’m doing this anyways because f u c k  i t

It's the year 2021 and you're obsessed with The Karate Kid. How are you feeling?

Deadasss weird as fuck, my dude. Like...out of all the things I could’ve predicted happening in our lord’s year 2021, it definitely was NOT getting hyperfixated on a hammy gay ship with a punk and a nerd from a goddamn karate soap opera. And yet...here we are??? I will never understand hyperfixations, my guy. But I’ve met a lot of really cool people in this fandom, so I can’t really complain.

Did you grow up with TKK or are you new to the series?

I have never seen a single Karate Kid movie in my entire life. When I was a kid, it looked kinda dumb so I never got into it XD But then I saw my roommate watching Cobra Kai on Youtube Red one day (he has every streaming service known to man) and I was hooked. And...here I am!

We gotta do the basics. Favorite character:  

Literally EVERYONE except for Kreese, Yasmine, Kyler, and Tory, sorry stans

Okay but if we gotta pick, Johnny Lawrence is my Problematic Fave. Also I love my boy Daniel, he’s trying his best!!! And Amanda LaRusso, we stan a queen!!!

Among the kids, definitely Miguel, with Demetri as a close second. I also love Sam, Aisha, Moon, and Hawk (pre- and post-Bastardization Arc, anyways XD)!

Favorite ship:  

Take a look at my username and take a WILD FUCKING GUESS lmao Yes it’s Eli/Demetri because DUH, every interaction they have is so fucking gay and Eli fucking saved him!!! And came back to him!!! And betrayed the world’s most terrifying dojo with a WAR CRIMINAL SENSEI all for Demetri!!! And how Demetri was willing to forgive him for everything at the drop of a hat because he always had faith there was still good in his best friend??? That’s TRUE LOVE motherfuckers. Please let them kiss in Season 4. I will sell you all of my limbs. Sam/Miguel is a close second because they’re cute as shit and it’s just so lovely to see two people so unapologetically smitten with each other. They are in LOVE, and I will RIOT if they break up again!!! Keep Sam and Miguel together 2k21!!!

Underrated character:

SAMANTHA LARUSSO!!! The amount of hate my girl gets for acting like a normal teenager and fucking up occasionally JUST like the rest of the cast makes me want to start punching things. She cares SO MUCH about her friends!!! And she loves the shit out of Miguel!!! She hasn’t always been the best friend but you know what??? Neither has Hawk, and we still forgave his ass!!! Also LET HER BE FEMININE but also kick utter ass, my god!!! Femininity should not be synonymous with being weak, y’all! ALSO DEMETRI, like yes, he likes to complain and occasionally run his mouth, but guess what else he likes to do??? Never give up on the love of his life his best friend Eli Moskowitz and refuse to lose faith in him no matter how much of a little shit he’s become, and I for one think that’s very badass of him. Also the way he takes care of Eli pre-Cobra Kai in his own snarky bastard way makes me absolutely Weak and needs more appreciation. Like the dude has charisma and COULD have probably made other friends and left Eli behind if he wanted, but did he??? No, he wants the weepy loser with the lip scar in the polo shirts and dorky sweaters and will protect him as much as his wimpy ass is able!!!

Underrated ship (don’t say therapy, lol):  

Among the adults, Daniel/Amanda!!! Like maybe I just don’t watch that much tv, but it seems kinda rare to me to see a happily married hetero couple, and it’s just nice to see a married couple who genuinely love each other and where there’s not like...lingering resentment or some shit. I feel like this ship gets overshadowed by Lawrusso a lot (which like--okay, fair!!! Daniel and Johnny do have a ridiculous amount of chemistry, and the gay undertones are undeniable, so I get it), and it makes me kinda sad. I do love Lawrusso, but I don’t like when Amanda has to get her heart broke for it to happen, you feel? Among the kids, honestly YasMoon. Like I really love the idea of Yasmine trying to better herself because of Moon’s influence on her and because Moon like...inspires her to be a better person, I guess? With their pretty strong friendship, it just makes more sense to me for Yasmine to get a redemption arc through Moon than through Demetri. ALSO girls DO often pull the whole “mean girl” shtick to cover up being closeted lesbians, and Moon IS canonically bi, so it could work!!! I just think this one could be a really interesting Friends to Lovers take, and could make a really nice coming-out arc for Yas. And MoonPiper too, honestly!!! Like they only got 5 seconds of screentime so I understand WHY it’s underrated, but I still love what we DID get and loved that there was a canon gay ship (even if only for 1 scene lmao). I’m really excited to potentially see more of them in Season 4!!! Please, I’m begging!!!

Wax On, Wax Off or Sweep the Leg?

Sweep the Leg because it will always be deeply hilarious to me how Demetri took note of the first move Eli ever used on him and spent presumably weeks perfecting it OUT OF SPITE just to get him back with it at the soccer game MONTHS later. Just goes to show how OBSESSED Demetri is with Eli and their little karate rivalry which is just NOT straight, I’m sorry

Which of Daniel’s dumb little outfits is your favorite?

There’s something so funny about this pretentious little fuck walking around in fancy suits once he becomes a #SuccessfulBusinessman, and still occasionally trying to do karate in a full-ass suit (take THAT, Tom Cole’s boba!!!) I’m also a big fan of how he looks in his gi with his little headband. Still killing that look as a 40-50-something!!!

Character from the films you most want to return, who’s not Terry Silver:

Tbh I have still never seen a single Karate Kid movie (they took them off of Netflix, RIP), so...I don’t really care if they bring anyone else back??? I’m invested in the characters we already have in the show, I don’t need some rando from the movies to make a cameo to have a good time XD The only character I really wanted them to bring back was Ali, and they already did, so like...I’m good??? That’s all I really needed, I can die in peace now XD

Scene that lives in your head rent-free:

Basically any fluffy Elimetri scene, but 5 in particular: ~Miguel first meeting Eli and Demetri at the lunch table, and Eli looking at Demetri like he hung every goddamn star in the sky ~Demetri going off at a terrifying, “unhinged” karate sensei on the first day of Cobra Kai because he made fun of Eli’s lip and Demetri is not about that shit ~ELI STEALING DEMETRI’S NACHO AND SMIRKING AT HIM, LIKE EXCUSE ME SIR PLEASE BE A LITTLE LESS HOMOSEXUAL IN FRONT OF YOUR GIRLFRIEND ~Eli yanking Demetri onstage during Valley Fest to hold a board, and Demetri being visibly like...extremely turned on when Eli breaks said board ~ELI SAVING DEMETRI DURING THE CHRISTMAS FIGHT, ELI APOLOGIZING, DEMETRI AND ELI KICKING COBRA ASS TOGETHER AKSBDCUWYVCBU

Will Anthony LaRusso ever be relevant?

I hope not! He’s kind of a funny meme character to pop up now and again but I don’t think he deserves a serious plotline when there are so many more interesting characters to follow.

You live in The Valley and are forced into the karate gang war. Which dojo do you join?

Miyagi-Do because Cobra Kai would eat me alive. Also I’d probably straight up get stuck and die in that cement mixer, if I even made it that far XD Besides, being salty that your friend who you have a crush on likes martial arts better than you and starting martial arts to impress them but also being too lazy to join anything TOO intense is a Big Mood and I am certainly not speaking from personal experience here, no sirree

What’s your training montage song?

"Shut Up and Drive” by Rihanna for a weight-training and bicep-flexing montage, “Whatever It Takes” by Imagine Dragons for a more intense punching-and-kicking-shit montage. I don’t know why this is, I just feel it in my heart.

It’s the crossover event of the century! Which TV show are you combining with Cobra Kai for an hour-long Saturday night special?

*Briefly panics because I don’t actually watch that much TV and most of the stuff I do watch is fantasy/sci fi shit that absolutely would not work for a CK crossover*

Hmmmm okay but ACTUALLY

You know what would be fucking funny as hell would be an It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia crossover. Allow me to elaborate: ~The Gang goes to LA on vacation during the height of the Karate Dojo Wars. They literally can get barely anything done without all these goddamn karate-fighting teenagers getting in the way. ~They are all very annoyed by this. Even the most obscure of tourist attractions is eventually intercepted by karate fights. ~Mac tries to join Cobra Kai because he sees all this karate fighting on, and wants to unquestionably prove both his badassery and masculinity. Both Johnny and Kreese are like “Wtf are you doing here? Aren’t you like 30?” ~Mac gets a planet-sized crush on Johnny after all of 5 minutes and endlessly gushes to the gang about him. The gang mercilessly roast him about this and about how much of a pathetic loser with his life together in no way whatsoever Johnny sounds like. They proceed to have exactly 0 self awareness about this. ~The Waitress is in town visiting family or something, and Charlie is stalking her, as per usual. However, every time he’s about to go up and talk to her, a pack of battling Miyagi-Dos and Cobra Kais throwing punches and kicks everywhere blocks his path. One times, Mac is among one of these packs and Charlie is like “???? He didn’t get kicked out of that teen karate dojo yet???” ~Seeing how much the Kids These Days seem to like fighting, Charlie drops by a local high school to try and sell Fight Milk to the kids doing karate. Only Kyler and Brucks buy into it, and subsequently get the entire West Valley High wrestling team sick. Charlie is inevitably arrested, as Counselor Blatt thinks he’s selling the kids drugs. ~Dennis makes a plan to have sex with every hot chick he can in Los Angeles. He meets Ali on a dating app post-divorce, and inevitably tries to bang her. It doesn’t work. ~Frank crashes the rental car, and inevitably the gang ends up at one of Daniel’s dealerships. Dee quickly takes a liking to Daniel and is like “Watch, assholes--Imma homewreck this guy’s marriage.” She starts frequenting the dealerships to attempt to flirt with Daniel, until one day she walks in on him having sex with Johnny in a back room and she’s like “Is that the guy from Mac’s goddamn dojo?!?!” ~Dennis, of course, tries to sleep with Amanda. Amanda is not having it, and rebukes him in the most snarky, Amanda-esque way possible. Dennis is just like “Oh not AGAIN--the women in this goddamn diva city have too high of standards!” ~Later on, the gang is at the beach and Dennis spots the blonde lady he went out on an ill-fate date with, and decides to give it another shot--that is, until he sees her go up and kiss another woman and he’s like “IS THAT THE LADY FROM THE CAR DEALERSHIP??? STUPID-KARATE-KICK-COMMERCIAL’S WIFE?!? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.” ~Dee complains to Dennis about her lack of luck getting laid, and Dennis is just like “Oh come ON, is everyone in Los Angeles gay???” Smash cut to Hawk and Demetri having sex, Moon and Piper making out, Bert and Nate holding hands, Chris and Mitch doing oral, and Amanda, Ali, and Carmen having a threesome. ~Frank tries to scam Kreese into buying cheaply-made karate equipment for his dojo. The gang ends up having to leave LA because Kreese is quite literally plotting all of their murders.

For tagging, uuuuhhhhhh @jackonthelongwalk @soe-leo @max-eagle-fang @cc-tinslebee @backawayfromthegay @asphodel-storm do the thing, if y’all haven’t yet!

[gallawitchxx]

ok bee…i have a very important question…

and if you’re anything like me you’ll want to punch me because it’s a hard one.

top three favourite musicals of all time and why you love them 🤭

i know it’s like picking fav children but i simply must know!!!!!!!

kenny. KENNY. k e n n y 😭

i would never dare to punch you or lisa simpson, but this is a devastating question. the only way that i can do this is by giving them categories & cheating a bit. i hope you can understand.

favorite "classic": les mis. it's just...everything. it's sweeping, it's powerful, it's about love & revolution, it's got a cast of all ages, it's just a masterpiece!

runner ups: fiddler on the roof, the sound of music, sweeney todd, anything sondheim really

favorite "modern": in the heights. i can listen to this soundtrack all day every day with very few skips. i think it's just delightful, i loved it on stage, everything about it is just vibrant & fun & i also sobbed through the majority of the 2nd act.

runner ups: spring awakening, the last 5 years, little women, hadestown

musical most played on my spotify: dear evan hansen. although hadestown is currently giving it a run for its money... look, i love it, your honor. i've seen it both off & on broadway, i think it's smart & tragic & fuck if ben platt wasn't completely otherworldly in the part. (the movie should've never been made though, i will die on that hill). i also love all of the mom's songs lol, so so much. really underrated imho.

runner ups: once, heathers, bare: a pop opera

i know i'm forgetting absolute faves. it would probably be easier for me to make you a list of musicals i don't like!

pls reblog & add your own!!! i must know!! xx

[mommymooze]

Grand ReOpening

Hubert x Reader 5,613 words

descriptions of violence, possession, Modern AU

You work at the newly remodeled and soon to be reopened Museum of History in Enbarr. A huge fire caused devastating damage to the old building, over half of the structure had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Donations pour in from private collectors in the form of money and items to replace those lost to the flames.

You finish arranging the items in the display finally locking the door on the huge glass case. Some items donated were questionable. Everything in this case is legitimate, you reassure yourself. You have already weeded out the fakes, the near perfect imitations. The director asks you how do you know? You explain to him the materials available for crafting such items, known specifics from inventories found in the locked away historical books, too delicate to be placed upon display. Sometimes you tell him you just have a feeling deep inside based on your experience and knowledge of the period. You can’t tell him the truth.

Whenever you touch one of these items, you close your eyes, the history of the item and its owners flash through your mind. It is easy to bypass the collectors, the ones that shove an item in drawers or hang it on a wall as a decoration for years at a time. The imprint left on the item when it was handled, touched, used is what you are able to see most clearly.

The small silver dagger in the upper left of the case. Its card reads: Dorothea Arnault owned this fine silver dagger. It is small enough to conceal in multiple places upon the body. Perhaps she may have concealed it in the curls of her hair for a ball or tucked it away in her corset or bodice.

They write the cards to romanticize the exhibit. People want a good story, not simply a display of stuffy items from long ago. Who would want to read a card stating she kept this particular dagger tucked into a pocket in her left boot for many years, which is exactly what you saw when you touched it.

Metal rimmed reading glasses belonging to the Imperial Spy Master, Hubert von Vestra. The card: Perhaps he wore them while brewing one of his poisons or when translating encoded messages during the war. Hah. He did not obtain these until fifty years old and mostly wore them when reading a book that struck his fancy prior to retiring for the evening.

Ferdinand von Aegir’s opera glasses. The Card: Fine mother-of-pearl covered opera glasses belonged to the Imperial Prime Minister, Ferdinand von Aegir. He may have used them when going to the Mittlefrank Opera house to watch Dorothea perform. Nope. Mother gave him these when he was but a child. Once he was older, after the war, he purchased a pair that much better suited his face, these were much too small for him as an adult.

Oh my, you’ve lost track of the time again. You scurry out of the building, making certain all doors lock behind you. Making it home just in time to change clothes, freshen up, you head back out for the Museum’s Grand Reopening Gala. Thankfully you are not on the front lines, that is the duty of the Curator, the Directors, those on the board and anyone responsible for schmoozing the rich guests, many who donated to the cause, keeping them happy. You put on your headset and have three laptops at your disposal, ready to answer any questions the staff has regarding particular items on display. You are literally fielding questions left and right. To the left are the searches for the director’s queries, to the right the Curator. In the center you follow on the security monitors where they are standing helping you to identify which particular item they need additional information about. Well past midnight you are finally allowed to leave. Security escorts you to your car and you head home for a well deserved sleep.

Two days later is the Grand Reopening. The tickets sold out three months in advance. The most devoted history fans always line up first to observe and breathe in the milieu. Listening to them mill about the displays, pour over the cases of preciously preserved objects is a joy for you.

“Look, this mirror belonged to the Emperor herself. I wonder what these items could say if they could speak. Did they reflect her face as she finished her makeup before one of the grand balls at the time, I wonder?” You knew the answers to some of their ponderings and could not hide your smirk.

A very tall dark haired male catches your eye. Dark suit jacket, black satin shirt, very nicely tailored. His jet black hair blocks the right side of his face from view. His fine leather gloves barely hover over the display case as he observes the items contained within. It suggests a hint of cosplay? Or perhaps he is attempting to channel the spirit of Lord Vestra? Your eyes sweep about the room regularly, spotting him in several different locations, each time it appears he is studying items that had belonged to the man he resembles. You wish you could see his face more clearly, however his back is turned or someone is in the way. You quietly move towards the end of the circuit the floor plan leads you through, close to the guard by the exit. There are three items of clothing belonging to Hubert this person would probably pause to examine, perhaps you can obtain a good look at his face then.

Finally, you glance through two panes of glass to see the face of the man. There is a strong resemblance to Hubert. Not exact, of course, but the cheek bones were close, the eyes are a similar shade of green. His skin tone is much darker, not nearly as pale. Your attention is taken away as the security guard a few feet from you is asked a question by an older woman.

Your focus is then called in front of you as a polite “Ahem” is noted. Standing directly before you and requesting your notice is none other than the tall dark gentleman that you have been secretively following for the last 30 minutes.

“My apologies. Not to be a bother, but I believe that you work here and would like to ask your opinion about something.” His long slender gloved fingers reach into his breast pocket, pulling out a golden box about the size of a cigarette case, barely a centimeter thick. His thumb activates a button on the case and the lid pops open revealing a dull yet clean looking folded yellowed cloth. The initials H.v.V. are sewn in black thread close to the bottom edge. The cloth is folded in a different manner than it normally lies in order to display the initials on top.

You raise your right hand up to the level of the box which is even with your chin. Touching the material with an index finger you feel the violence connected with the item, fainting straightaway.

You find yourself in the employee’s lounge with two security officers and the strange man. He is seated at a table nearby, you are located pleather covered chaise lounge, reclined. Bolting upright on the lounger, you gather your senses about you. The security officers called for EMT’s to check you out. Fortunately, you were unconscious for maybe a minute or less. You flush bright red and blame it on ‘female issues’. They insist that you remain and be checked out.

“I am terribly sorry. I assisted in bringing you back here and now that I know you are well cared for, I shall excuse myself.” The stranger stands to leave. You reach in your pocket, thrusting your business card toward him. He completes the exchange by handing you his. As he returns to the public areas of the museum the EMT’s arrive and begin their 1,000 questions.

After every possible vital statistic can be taken and recorded, they finally leave you to yourself and the security of the museum. They nod in agreement that it was most likely ‘female issues’ and you should increase your iron intake. Once you finally convince your boss that you are well enough to leave, you get in your car, grab some drive thru dinner and head directly home.

A warm cup of tea, comfortable clothing and your soft couch beneath you, you take a deep breath and begin to relax. You mull over what happened when you touched the handkerchief. That sort of reaction is expected when you touch weapons used in the war, used for self-defense, etcetera. You did not expect that from a handkerchief. The cloth was normally soaked in a strong smelling agent and held over the face of his target. Too early for ether, most likely mandrake root. Normally it would cause the target to quickly become unconscious, occasionally it would cause illness along with and possibly but not always death. One of Hubert’s weapons in the darkness, when silence was required.

You pull out the business card. Vincent H. Vestraegir. Hmmm. Possibly from the line of descendants. You enter his number and name into your phone, then text it.

You: I gave you my card at the museum. Do you still wish to discuss the

item?

Waiting for approximately 20 minutes you hear the notification tone.

V.H.V: Absolutely. Perhaps meet for coffee? Thursday or Saturday?

You: Thursday. Crown Café, 10am, after the morning rush has cleared.

V.H.V: Agreed. See you then.

Working on your day off, as usual. You log onto the Museum’s Employee website to check your email, the top notification is from your supervisor telling you that you will take a few days for yourself. The success of the reopening is greatly due to your hard work and you will take the rest of the week off. See you Saturday.

Well, well, you may get some sleep after all. After a fitful night of restlessness and strange dreams you awaken Thursday morning feeling overtired. It would be in poor taste to cancel the meeting, so you get up, showered and dressed. You decide that since you are doing this basically for free for this man, you have no obligation to him and refuse to dress up. Wearing your hair in a messy pony tail, GMU sweatshirt and jeans you head to the coffee shop a bit early. Hopefully you can get a full cup into you and wake up before he arrives.

You order a coffee double shot and finish it quickly. Bathroom, order new regular coffee, take a seat and it’s 9:50am. In the corner of your eye you see him walking past the café’s front window. This makes you smile, but you are not certain why.

He takes his seat across from you at 9:59am.

“Good morning” you greet him casually.

“Same to you.” He says, placing his phone face down on the table. He wears a long sleeve black turtleneck, fine dress pants, and black gloves.

“Please tell me what history you know of the handkerchief.” You request.

“Skipping pleasantries, straight to business, eh?” His lip curls at the edge of his mouth on the right side. “See if I pick you up off the floor the next time you faint.”

You roll your eyes.

He clears his throat. “There are several items that have been kept within the family. I do not understand the meaning behind them, why they are kept in separate or specific locations within the family residence or what significance they mean to particular members of the family. My family history appears to go through highs and lows, the most recent low is turning around, getting back toward recovery.” He pauses, enjoying his coffee for a moment. “My mother recently passed and I am now in possession of the family estate. I have not had much time to go through the property, my work is my priority. I have no intention of living there and have considered selling it. There are few things I plan on keeping for myself, the rest may go to the museum should you be able to find a use for them. I noticed at the exhibition there were some unusual items on display that I do not normally recall seeing in museum exhibitions.”

Quaffing your coffee, you take a breath. “I am sorry for your loss. The museum is changing its thought process. People are more interested in seeing the everyday life of those from history. The differences are always blown out of proportion, romanticized, too large to be true. The current exhibition is displaying the things of everyday life, to show these were not only persons held in high regard, but also humans with human needs, feelings, emotions. I agree with some of this, however there are personal items that I question if they would really want to have displayed.”

Mr. Vestraegir thinks on these last remarks, savoring the remainder of his caffeinated beverage. “Why are you concerned about the feelings of the dead? It is not as if they can come to you and complain.”

“Let us say this afternoon you are struck dead by lightning. The funeral is held in three days. Open casket. You are dressed in a white tuxedo, no gloves upon your hands. How would you feel about that?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Preposterous!” He blurts out. “I would insist on having gloves on and I have an ample amount of perfectly adequate black dress suits.”

“Why should be concerned with the feelings of the dead again? Why is it that you wear gloves? The weather is certainly warm enough they are not needed. You are extremely familiar with wearing them.”

“Hmm.” He nods in understanding, rubbing one gloved hand upon the other.

“You do have me intrigued. It is difficult to find pieces of history still standing today. It has been hundreds of years.” You wonder aloud.

“The original structure has been incorporated into the current structure. At one point walking through a corridor it feels as if you are stepping backward in time. Quite an unusual feeling.”

“When do you plan on returning there next?” You ask, thinking of your full calendar.

“In the next day or so. I want to go through some things personally prior to the movers bringing the more recently purchased furniture here.”

“I would like to accompany you to the estate. If you like, I can drive us there this afternoon. I need only to pack an overnight bag and a few items for research. My guess is you do not have internet there?”

“No.” He answers. You would have to use your phone. Not all of the house has electric, so you may wish to bring some flashlights or long extension cords as well.

Fantastic, less disturbance to the original structure you ponder. “I can pick you up in an hour if that suits you?”

He nods and it is a blur from there. Rushing home, packing, picking him up at the duplex at the address he provides. Stashing his items in the trunk you are headed to the highway.

Vincent as he prefers to be called, tells you what information he knows of the Vestra Estate. He had lived there for the first years of his youth. He and his father did not get along well and mother abided by fathers wishes. By the time he turns 12 he is sent to boarding school, graduating straight into college. Finishing his degree in law minor in accounting, he is an atty and CPA/Accountant.

There may be a few books at the property that have a bit of history in them, he’s never had much interest.

A brief stop at the store close to the house, you purchase groceries. Simple premade sandwiches, a few frozen dinners, drinks and snacks. As you wait in the car you suddenly realize you have driven far from the city with a perfect stranger, not even leaving a trail of where you are or who you are with. The perfect setting for a murder. How stupid! You quickly drop an email to your landlord, advising of your destination and how long you expect to be gone. You hesitate and do not leave Vincent’s name, that would only lead to more questions from her as she is determined to set you up with a nice bachelor.

Another 30 minutes and your car is pulling into the long driveway, the large house comes into view. He unlocks the door to show you in. He really doesn’t know much of the history of the place, it had never interested him. The two of you unload the car and he has you place your things in his mother’s old bedroom, located in a newer section of the house that has electric and running water. He goes back to the kitchen to work on groceries.

Beds are so personal. You take a breath and complete the touch. Trying to keep your mind focused on the edge of your vision. Fortunately, it is a newer bed and does not take long to complete. You will be fine sleeping here.

Vincent invites you to the more modern kitchen and the location of the food, coffee, and sundried items. He has a few things to attend to, leaving you free rein of the house to explore. He will get to specifics later tonight or in the morning.

He is absolutely correct about the corridor, they had built on to the house in multiple stages. You enter through the most recent and modern additions. The corridor seems to reach back further and further.

You slowly walk down the walls touching each section. Perceiving people passing through the corridors fill your vision, styles of clothing changing as you progress. You touch the doorframe of a small bedroom in an older portion of the house. The faces of the occupants quickly parade before you. You will the flow to slow, a young girl clings to a doll, nodding with tears in her eyes. Then the next owner, a young male perhaps ten years old with hair to his shoulders, citrine eyes. His brows are furrowed, and he is shouting, but you cannot hear what he says, anger written all over his face, his brows furrow deeply as if he argues with someone just behind you. The door appears as he is slamming it shut. Was that Hubert? Could this have been his room, you wonder. The room is decorated with old wallpaper with a feminine print. The coat of dust on the few furnishings reveals that the room has not been used or tended to for many, many years. The curtains on the window are of a thin lace, possibly being held together by the spider webs covering them, the bottom inches shredded threads.

The mantel of the fireplace and baseboards are the only pieces painted. The rest is left to the beauty of the original wood and bricks. Running your hands over the bricks at the edge of the fire box you see countless hands stacking wood, lighting the kindling, flames beginning to burn bright in the small firebox. Finally, you see older gloved hands, incredibly long fingers waving as fire bursts from their fingertips into the kindling. There are gaps until much younger but long spindly fingers cast magic into the wood creating flames.

Touching the firebricks making up the fireplace you reach out to the bottom bricks. On the right, the furthest one back is loose. A bit of maneuvering and you pull the block from its wedged in position. Three bottles lie on their sides. Without thinking you reach in to grab them. Hubert’s face comes into view, laughing with the bottles in hand. These are definitely his poison bottles, contents long dried. His handwriting on the side, coded of course, one is foxglove, the next mandrake and last is nightshade. A small paintbrush is also in the hollowed space. Removing the item provides visions of blades and darts being painted, and then the interior of a teacup.

Diabolical bastard. You admire him and hate him both at the same time. The Empire would not have won the war without him, however you did not need to firsthand witness his secrets. Sitting on the floor you catch your breath. The daylight is fading and you need to go back to your bag and set up lights and a flash light.

The room is different in the too bright halogen light. Rubber gloves in your pockets, in case something more lethal is found are at the ready. You begin touching the floorboards with your bare feet. You will notice if any has a special significance of course. Only after moving the bed and the rug that is beneath it do you find something. (the bed is approximately 300 years old, mostly for children, same with the rug.) A pocketknife blade at a corner edge and the board lifts quite easily. Several items are stashed between the supports for the floor. Gloves on and flashlight in hand you reach in and remove the items, placing them in a large clear plastic bag. You replace the floorboard and return the bed and rug to its normal position.

“Keeping yourself entertained?” Victor chuckles as he enters the room.

“Found a few things. Haven’t had a chance to look them over yet.” You say as you take the halogen lamp to the next room to inspect.

“I can make it easy for you as far as what few things I know.” He offers. “You’ve already been under the floorboard there. Next the master bedroom.” He turns that direction and you follow him with the light, dragging the extension cord behind you. He steps until he hears a hollow spot at a floorboard by the head of the bed, taking out his pocket knife, he lifts the board out of place, then steps back for you to see.

Bringing the flashlight you see a jacknife and several gold coins. You pick them up with your gloves on and place them into a separate plastic bag.

“That is all I know. I found the floorboard when I was much younger, so of course I had to stomp on every floorboard after that listening for hollow sounds.” He grins.

“Quite logical, actually.” You nod. “As a boy I am surprised that you left them here.”

He coughs. “There were more coins, I did leave some.” He looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You both decide to stop searching for the evening. You’ve not had dinner yet and tomorrow is another day. Besides, you want to investigate the floorboard items further as well as show him the items found behind the fireplace.

Dinner is quickly tossed into a microwave, coffee brewed and laptops pulled out onto the kitchen table, connected to the internet via the cell phones. Both of you sit quietly, only forks scraping plates or fingers tapping on keyboards for an hour.

Closing your laptop, you place a soft towel on top and the first bag with the items from the fireplace. Wearing a glove on your right hand you take each item out of the bag, placing them on the towel.

“There were owned and handled by Hubert. I believe them to be bottles of his own poison. The brush is used to paint it upon his weapons, mostly daggers.” You relay to your tablemate.

Vincent’s eyes go wide. “You’ve just seen them. How can you swear to their authenticity?”

“The appearance matches what you would find from the time. The writing on the bottles closely resembles his handwriting from the samples we have at the museum, and the code is correct for three different poison types. The brush appears to be animal hair that would be used at the time, stuffed into the end of a tube and then crimped to hold the hair tight.”

Taking a small box of plastic bags, you pack each item individually. As you reach for the third bottle it tips over and rolls off of your laptop. You grab it with your left hand and read its history. Your eyes focus as Vincent’s fingers are snapping in your face.

“Come on, are you all right?” He questions.

“Um, yes.” You shake your head a bit, placing the item in a bag and back into the larger bag with the other items.

“Are you epileptic? You spaced out there. Please let me know if you have health issues.” Vincent pleads, the concern is heavy in his voice.

“It…it’s hard to explain.” You want to tell him something. You’re never this open with people, but he makes you feel like it is okay to let him know.

“Go on.” He says waiting patiently.

“I can see some things related to a history of an item just by touching it. I see who used it, how long ago it was when used. Yes. I must be crazy.” You nod quickly after your confession.

“I want to see it work.” He frowns, two wrinkles between his eyebrows get deeper. He stands and goes to a drawer, pulling out a large spoon and a knife. Both appear to be silver, one more tarnished and scraped that the other. He places them on the laptop.

You grab the spoon. You see his mother’s hand stirring long yellow beans in a pot before pouring a creamy sauce onto them, then it changes to different people, an older stove, another older stove. A black ceramic stove stirring gravy in a large heavy skillet.

“Your mother liked to use it for cooking yellow beans. It has been here for several hundred years, at least 300 based on the dress of the last man who had a beard was dressed.”

He looks down at the table and thinks a moment. “She loved wax beans. They look like green beans but taste a bit different. She would cook them in a sour and creamy sauce. She said the spoon was in the family for a long time. Now the knife.”

Taking the silver knife in your fingers it shows she used it nearly every day to put butter on rolls with jelly. There was a lot of time in the drawer, different users. Clothing styles changed. The age of the silver butterknife is closer to 450 or 500 years old.

You share your findings.

“I’m still not convinced.” Vincent reaches into his shirt, and pulls out a gold necklace with a ring hanging from it. A simple gold band with its necklace is placed with hesitation on the laptop. As he places it there your hand brushes against his glove.

“Your gloves are four months old, purchased at Baers and the saleslady had red hair. Just saying.” You clear your throat and take a sip of now too cold coffee.

Reaching for the ring your fingers touch it softly. Your mind is filled with its memories. He has it with him all the time, takes it off for nothing, then you see the crash, blood everywhere. You fall headfirst into the table. Vincent helps you sit back up in your seat as tears are streaming from your face.

“I…I am so sorry for your loss.” You choke and gasp as the tears fall from your eyes. “M-motorcycle crash. Five years ago. He would bring you little yellow flowers he picked from the side of the road.”

Vincent’s face lost all color. A tear fell to his cheek as he nodded. He took the necklace back and put it around his neck.

After a while he took the cups to the sink, “I think it is time to sleep.”

You nod and head to bed. For hours you lay there, unable to sleep as your mind plays back the last nine years of Vincent and his husband’s lives, together and apart. You should have refused to touch it, but you wanted him to believe. And now…now. You shake your head, turn over and stare at the wall again.

The alarm on your phone wakes you. You want to flee, leave this place. It is one thing when someone shares with you tragedies in the past, it is another to have them thrust upon you. You push yourself out of bed. You can make it through today. Once in the kitchen the coffee has just finished you reach to grab a cup. Seeing the two in the dish drainer, you carefully pick out the cup you used yesterday.

You find a note on the table that he has gone for a walk and to go through the boxes he has left in the living room. Grabbing a muffin from the counter you head to the boxes. Wearing glove you begin. A few interesting books, certainly a possibility to go into a collection, many of them simply too modern or of no interest to the museum in their current condition. A box of random items haphazardly placed into a wooden box. Some woodworking tools, chisels, a pocket watch that did not work but was several hundred years old. A coffee grinder, you would definitely need to check that out. Taking that and the watch you sit at the kitchen table. One by one you experience the history of the items. The pocket watch came from approximately 1300. The coins from the floor and jack knife were owned by Hubert’s father, Marquis Vestra. The coffee grinder, broken by a child, had belonged to Hubert at one time well after the war, during his retirement.

The bags from the child’s bedroom revealed two very different groups of items. Vincent himself had placed items in a pocket next to the ones he had originally discovered. Thinking they were a time capsule, he created one of his own including a letter about his 9 year old self, a green plastic army man named Lt. Schwartz, a yo yo and a few baseball cards. The other group of items were from a young girl. A cloth doll with a few wisps of hair still left on its head. A tiny gold ring. A slate and stylus used for writing letters and numbers, the wax long eaten away. A small carved wooden horse.

Deciding to see if there is anything in the last room as well as completing your inspection of the master bedroom, you take your half cup of coffee with you down the hallway. Coming to the end of the corridor, you hear a sound behind you. Turning slowly, you see the countenance of Hubert von Vestra walking toward you. Outfitted in his full Imperial dress uniform, his large stiff collar extends several inches up from his shoulders. A ruby red brooch holds down his cravat. You drown in the sound of leather creaking from his belts on his clothes and the swish of the heavy material of his jacket. His boots create a deep a thunking sound echoing down the hallway.

“Finally.” He says with great satisfaction. “It has been an eternity.” His right hand, void of gloves, reaches out to you, fingertips softly stroking your cheek. His pale skin is cool to the touch, it has always been that way, you think to yourself. He opens his arms welcoming you to be wrapped within them. Burying your nose in his chest you deeply inhale the familiar scent of coffee, parchment, ink and dark magic. How you have longed for this.

“What of Vincent?” you ask him, looking up into his beautiful yellow-green eyes sparkling down at you.

“We have come to an agreement.” Hubert chuckles.

The vibration of his chest, his deep laughter sends chills down your spine. After waiting nearly a thousand years to have him back in your arms the reward is so worth it.

Epilogue:

Each lifetime you searched for him, but your journeys were fruitless. This girl was the most cooperative, the most willing. You found her worse than Bernadetta in some aspects of her life, especially social. She shared this body, watching from behind, creating stories in her mind. You take control and immediately begin your plan. The museum holds his property, perhaps by touching these items you can call to him. Send a signal that you are here. But they would not let you touch the things that belonged to him. The display items you could reach, touch, were not his, only beautiful recreations. Even items held in storage at the museum were not his. You had developed a spell to obtain the history of an item by touch.

It was awful that you had to burn down part of the museum, but you needed access and you needed legitimate items. What people wouldn’t do to have their name on a placard as a donor. From the items donated several very real items were found. You found yourself touching them frequently, just to catch another glimpse of him. Your cohabitant could not take the violence, she caused you to faint so frequently. Perhaps now she may finalize her agreement with you, being released and then you and Hubert can finally have the lifetime together that was stolen from you during that horrible war.

You spoke often of death, war does that. Both agreed to move on and live the best life they could. Finding out Ferdinand was at his side made you happy, especially since it made him happy. Still, he had promised that no matter what, he would find you again and finish what was started. And so the rest of your lives begins…

[mini-moongi]

For Rent || Jin

Genre: Fluff, angst, comedy(?), Jin x asexual!reader

Warnings: mentions sexy times and multiple funky fresh sex themes but no actual frisky actions cause I ain’t about that,,

Summary: Bts is a line of men who can be rented for various sexual activities. One night, Kim Seokjin hits the jackpot of being rented for a whole month. When he shows up with all of his “gear”, the last thing he expects is to become a live-in fiancé with a girl who isn’t into sex.

This is a Fem!reader 

A/N: This was supposed to be a quick oneshot drabble, but it’s 3.6k words..... anyways, Happy Birthday @ahgassok​ !! this is for you :)

────── ☽. ✧₊∘ ──────

Seokjin get’s called into the office after his latest gig. He walks in, still dressed up in a suit and tie because his client requested it, and takes a seat across from his boss.

 “Seokjin, you’re really moving up the ladder these days, aren’t you?” His boss smiles warmly at all of the attention Jin has been getting. Seokjin does have to admit though, he wasn’t a popular choice on the roster when he first joined, but that doesn’t quite mean his ranks have been smooth sailing either. “I have very exciting news for you, kid.”

“What is it, Boss?” Seokjin questions. This could go in two very different directions. He was either getting promoted, or he was being sold to a bigger company. 

“A client wants to rent you out for a whole month.” The big boss man is beaming to high heavens when he announces it to Seokjin. Jin’s eyes widen at the thought of someone wanting him for a whole month, let alone the sheer thought of how much that costed them was enough to send shivers down his spine. 

“...what?” Jin responds as an afterthought. Most people would rent by the hour with him. This was the most common and usual source of income; Clients want a one night with no guilty conscience of the other party, and that was fine. Being rented for a few days or even a week, however, was a big deal within the group. Seokjin hadn’t ever had a client for a whole week, but his much more popular and younger coworkers had. He remembers the story Jungkook told him about being rented out to a sorority group for a week, and then being called back by them for another fun weekend in Miami.

But being rented for a whole month? And it wasn’t an already existing client, it was someone entirely new to him. The Head Honcho gives him a rundown of company manners, and Jin can only nod dumbly as he tries to soak up all of the new information. He receives the client’s list of likes and dislikes, and in a blink of an eye, he finds himself walking back out the way he came.

Taehyung is the first to approach him; it’s the next day when Jin is packing all of his clothes from the company dorms. “I heard the big news, Hyung!” Taehyung exclaims. Out of all of the members, Taehyung was the only one who’d get rented out by the months. People requested odd jobs from him. Once, he got called in to model for a magazine company and then have sex immediately afterwords with the manager. “I’m so proud,” Taehyung feigns a sob-like expression,” My Kim Seokjin is finally getting the kind of work he deserves.”

“How do you do it, Taehyung?” Seokjin continues to fold his clothes neatly into a suitcase. “I don’t even know who I’m going to be spending all of this time with. What if.. what if they turn out to be some secret trafficking network? What if I get thrown into an underground mafia cult?”

“You’ll be fine,” He pats Jin on the shoulder. “Our company holds strict regulations and runs background checks on every client. I do admit, though,” Taehyung lulls his head to one side,” clients like these are always unpredictable.”

A good night’s rest and suddenly he finds himself standing in front of the client’s door. He didn’t really know what kinds of sex toys to pack since their form was answered in the most unconventional way possible. Instead of a list of kinks and turn ons, there were written-in answers, so he only knew that she:

1. really enjoyed baking, but isn’t very good at it. He wasn’t sure if this person had a sweets kink or something, but he wasn’t going to complain about whipped cream foreplay. 

2. liked a more domestic approach to love. Want’s to be called Love, Honey, sweetie, baby, etc.

and that was it. Other than her name, age, and birthday, that was it. It did say that she wasn’t a virgin, but maybe she wanted to have the “first time” experience with someone again? Jin decided to pack more normal toys, vibrators, dildos, condoms, and whatnot. Taking a deep breath, he knocks on the door.

When it opens, he sees the girl from the profile picture he was given. The reality was closing in on him that he was really going to spend a month with her. “..uh, hello, my name is Kim Seokjin, and I--” He’s caught off guard when she wordlessly takes his hand and gently pulls him inside.

Her home is relatively small, but it’s so minimalistic and clean that it looks like it came straight out of ikea. “Your profile said that you majored in acting, right?” his client asks him, and he’s suddenly scrambling to make a good impression.

“Yeah, I... I was an acting major.” He smiles at her.

She doesn’t say anything else, so he comes up to the kitchen island. Jin watches as she busies herself in the kitchen, making a milk tea of sorts. Your initial impression on him was calm and collected: you seemed neat and organized like your living space. What he notices however, is the way her hands are trembling ever so slightly as she pours the drink into two glasses. He realizes that even as sweet and pretty as she was, there wasn’t a smile. You were biting the inside of your cheek, and trying to take subtle deep breaths.

“Your name is y/n, right?” He waits for you to nod before he continues. “I don’t want to overstep any boundaries here, but,” Jin looks into y/n’s eyes,”....is there something bothering you?”

Immediately, the illusion that y/n worked really hard on started to crumble. All of the composure she had completely left her body in one shaky sigh. “I’m.. I’m so sorry I have to drag you into this.” She slides him one of the drinks as she perches herself on a nearby stool. “I know you’re supposed to be like my sexy fun time man, but I’m ace, so that’s kind of out of the question.” Y/n stares into her cup as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“....Then why am I here?” Jin wonders aloud. He doesn’t mind the fact that you’re not into intercourse like he is, but then again, doing the do is kind of his job.

“My dad,” y/n swallows the lump forming in her throat. “he’s started bothering me with questions about my love life. I felt bad, being in my late twenties and all, so I told him that I was engaged. Last week, he told me he wanted to meet my fiancé and that he was going to stay here for a few weeks starting next week.”

Jin stares at her in disbelief, what has he gotten himself into? “And you’re telling me that I’m.... I’m the fiancé?” 

A dry laugh escapes her lips, and if it weren’t for the absurdity of the situation, Jin would tell her how pretty she was. “Yeah,” She looks at him, finally letting herself take in his features. An oversized hoodie was draped over his large body with black ripped skinny jeans hugging his legs for dear life. There isn’t a hint of anger written on his face, only a comforting (albeit a little shocked) smile. “My dad owns a pretty big company, and he recently had a near death experience. Ever since then, everyone’s been breathing down my neck making sure I was stable in every way possible. And I mean every single fucking way. ”

“Why?” Jin quips. He takes a sip out of her concoction, praying that she didn’t slip him a drug of any sort. Holy shit, it was the best thing he ever came across since discovering Jungkook’s fursona. It takes everything in him to not make some weird howl of pleasure at the utter euphoria his tastebuds were experiencing.

“So, when he inevitably passes,” she grimaces,” I’ll be able to take over. I love my old man, and I was hoping that he could retire before I see him drop dead in the middle of his office one day. He always tells me it’s harder to fall in love after people learn about what position you’re in. Hence this weird must-already-have-a-fiancé rule.” A smile barely ghosts her lips before she takes a sip of her drink,” Sorry; I’ll understand if you don’t want to have anything to do with my soap opera-esque situation.”

He quietly sips his drink, lost in this pool of new information. Surprisingly, he’s been calm this whole entire time. If he’d been thrusted into this situation years ago, he’d have flipped out in a not so good way. Thank god he found his big boy pants before this; he genuinely wanted to help y/n. She seemed to be really considerate, and he wanted to stay. At the very least, she’d probably be able to make a killer margarita with drink skills like these. “Out of the whole line-up, why’d you choose me?”

She’s stunned for a moment before replying,”Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s just,” Jin swirls the drink with his straw,” I’m sure I wasn’t the first name to pop up on our page.”

“Oh,” Y/n tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. A light blush sweeps across her cheeks, and she clears her throat. “..Is it weird you somehow fit my ideal type? I guess if I had to pick something, it’d be the way you smile.”

The reply was so simple, and yet it struck a chord with him. Usually when he asks, they say they like his plump lips or his feet, and if he was unlucky enough, they’d tell him he was convenient. Jin chuckles,” Y/n, are you trying to flirt with me? I’m already yours, but knock yourself out, baby.”

The first few days were awkward, to say the least. Jin on the job, but not doing his job, was hard to get used to. He’d often wake up and wonder where he was, only to remember the agreement he made days ago that started it all. This morning was much like the other ones: brief seconds of confusion followed by acceptance. Y/n’s house was nice, but after his conversation, she grew a little distant; the house felt emptier when she didn’t talk to him.

Jin rolls out of his bed, and trudged into the kitchen. This morning, he woke up earlier than her. Deciding that if he was hired to be a fiancé, he was going to be the best damned fiancé that she’d ever have. 

That morning was different from your usual mornings. You woke up to a sweet smell lingering in the air. In the early morning haze, you half dress yourself and wander into the kitchen area. The low sizzle of the pan greeted your ears, and Jin’s broad shoulders stood hunched over the stove. He notices your presence, and turns around with a smile, the pan still in his hands. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.” He says.

“...good morning?” Your brain is still trying to wake up and process what’s happening. “Am I dreaming right now?”

The response is just lighthearted chuckle. “I’ve made pancakes, do you want some?”

You nod without hesitation. The smell had your mouth watering, and the thought of its taste was like music to your ears. He slides a plate in front of you and pulls the syrup from the fridge. You both dig in, savoring the fluffy taste of pancakes. 

“You know, I’ve got to ask,” Seokjin starts,” what about the rings? We’re supposed to wear some, right?”

If you weren’t awake earlier, that question really woke your stupor. “oh.” was all that came out of you for a painfully long time. “...So you’re really okay with this?”

“It might be the weirdest job I’ve taken on, but yeah. I’m ready to fuck around if you are--- but not literally, I promise. I know how to keep my dick in my pants.” He laughs.

You’re relieved that he’s actually okay with this. The past few days, you were waiting for your proposition to sink in and see him leave whilst waving around a middle finger in the air. A breath you’ve been holding in finally came out. “Okay, I’ll go get the rings. I’ll be back in a sec.”

When you return, he’s still sitting there at the counter, patiently waiting for you. A part of you wished your past lovers were like this in real life: someone who’s this patient and kind can only be bought, you suppose. You open up the velvet box, revealing the two rings that were a part of your elaborate plan. 

“May I?” Seokjin breathes out. You nod and watch him carefully pick up the ring meant for you. He stifles a laugh and clears his throat. “Miss Y/n L/n, will you marry me for like, a month?”

“Yeah,” you smile. He slips the ring onto your finger, feeling the cool metal against your skin. It’s shiny and beautiful; it’s the perfect wedding ring. Of course, you did pick it out yourself and vividly recalling sweating bullets when asked any questions regarding your marriage. 

You pick up his ring and giggle a little to yourself; by Monday, you’d have to play the biggest game of pretend in your life. “Mr. Kim Seokjin, will you marry me for a month?” He gasps and fakes a shedded tear.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

------

You go on multiple dates and try to fabricate your story before Monday arrives. He’s much funnier than you anticipated him being, and he’s really good company to be around. “I almost choked Jimin out for not cleaning my fucking dildos. Like, who does that to a guy who lets you borrow them in the first place?” 

Your stomach hurts so bad from how much you’re laughing. Shrek 2 is playing, but it’s long forgotten as it turns into background noise. Jin relays his very bad experiences on the job, and his stories are so outlandish that you sometimes question the validity of it. “Are you kidding me? Remind me to never let him borrow my socks. I don’t trust him after everything you’ve told me.” 

Jin his desperately holding back his laughter, but the dam breaks soon enough. Monday morning arrives, and exactly at 10 in the morning, the doorbell rings. You make eye contact with Jin,”It’s show time.” You whisper.

You open the door and greet your father. “Y/n! I’ve missed you so much,” he hugs you closer than before, and you can’t help but smile at your dad’s affection. 

“Dad, this is my fiancé that I’ve told you about, his name is Kim Seokjin.” You watch as your old man’s face lights up, and he eagerly rushes over to him. Your father takes JIn’s hand in his and shakes it with enthusiasm. “You’ll have plenty of time to say hello.” You giggle.

After you and Jin get your father’s things settled into the guest bedroom, everything starts to sink in a little too well. Earlier you agreed that it’d “be weird if you didn’t sleep in the same bed together” and so, all of Jin’s items moved into your room, sex tools included. “What should we do about dinner? I feel like it might get weird at the table together.” He whisper-yells to you. Fear gripped onto his body,”What if I accidentally talk about Yoongi’s butt plug accident?”

It takes everything in you to not bust out in giggles right there in the guest room. “You’ll be fine, Jin,” You set the last of his things by the bedside table. “Just please, watch your mouth.”

Just as you both suspected, dinner was very awkward. “So, how did you meet my daughter?” Your dad asks as he picks away at his food.

“Oh, uh,” Jin glances over at you. There was no way to really know what you were thinking, but a subtle thumbs up soothed his worries a little. “We met at a mutual friend’s party. Yeah,” he smiles,” It was at Namjoon’s book club celebration when we first met.”

“You should’ve seen it dad. I’d have never thought that book clubs were so wild before,” you absolutely sell it to the big guy. Your elaborate stories and too accurate to be fake details worked. 

The rest of dinner went smoothly, in fact, the rest of your dad’s stay was absolutely fucking perfect. Jin was able to use his PG 13 humor (re: dad puns) and fortunately, your dad likes stale jokes. Everything was going great, and you’d even convinced your dad that retirement was a good idea.... that is, until today.

“....but didn’t you say that you met at a book club?”

You looked over at Jin like a deer caught in the headlights. Crap, you just told that you two met online. Jin notices your panicked expression. If this mission fails, Jin will have been royally fucked sideways like a sock puppet. “We first talked online, but we met in person during the book club meeting!!” He stammers out.

The tension built up inside of you faded away, and you make a note to remind yourself to tell Jin how big-brained he is. You don’t really know what’s happened to you and Jin, but all morning there have been slip-up after slip-up after slip-up. (after yet another slip-up.) 

Your father isn’t fully convinced though, and you fear that he’s caught on. “...I don’t know if I believe you right now.” uh oh. He squints at the two of you as you both sweat profusely with nervous smiles upon your faces. “Seokjin, why do you want to marry my daughter?”

Jin looks at you, but your dad keeps pressing on. “How can I be sure that you love her, and this isn’t some big ruse to run away with all of our money? I can see that y/n loves you to death, but for some unknown reason,” He stops to cross his arms. “I just feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. I don’t want to have to do a background check on you, so your best bet is to come clean.”

Jin takes a deep breath. “Sir, with all due respect, I think that if we told you how we’d actually met, you wouldn’t take our relationship seriously. I love y/n, I love her absolutely to the moon and back.” Jin grabs your hand firmly in his and gives it a gently squeeze. He looks at you and the soothing words part from his lips. “Even after you fly back home, I plan to spend my life with her, regardless of what you say.”

At this point you’re not sure where he’s going with this. The longer he talks, the more it sounds like the words are directed at you. “The truth is, we aren’t really married.” Jin looks back at your dad, who furrows his brow at the complex lie he was told the past month. “--But if this is what it’s like to be married to y/n, I think it might actually happen.”

“What? Jin I--” You’re unbelievably shocked. He just revealed to your dad that no, sorry pops, your only child isn’t married to a super cool guy. The possibility of actually being married to Jin perplexed you, though. Is this still the actor in him talking, or is he saying the truth? 

“Look,” your father sighs,” I don’t know what situation you’ve put yourself in to pretend you’re married, but damn it all to hell if you don’t actually marry this boy.” Your dad breaks out into a grin, signifying that Jin has passed the test. “If you don’t make him my son-in-law, I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

You’re still paralyzed as you watch your dad engulf Seokjin in a hug. Your dad looks happy to have met Seokjin, and vise versa. They get along better than peas in a pod, you realized. When this mission is over though, will you ever see Jin again? Already you’ve begun to miss his laughter. The way he sings in the shower, the way he pushes up his glasses while he’s reading, the way he says I love you; you’re going to miss it. All of it.

Like a final curtain call, the deal is over. You hand Seokjin an envelope containing the cash you owe him for his service. He takes it, and he places it onto his packed suitcase. Your eyes never leave his figure, and you watch as he gets up to be more leveled with you. “Y/n,” He says. “I meant what I said the other day; we may not be married now, but that doesn’t mean I won’t propose in the future.”

“This is your job talking right?” You laugh, but it lacks the usual give of happiness. “Don’t think it’s going to give you a bonus, hot stuff.”

“I’m serious.” He looks at you tenderly,” I actually really like you, you know. Hoseok regularly fucks a big corporate guy, so I have discounts at every Starbucks location if you wanna go out somewhere.” His thumb glides over the ring on your finger, lost in thought for a moment. “Call me a pool noodle and ride me backwards, but I think I’m going to miss you too much to actually leave.” 

“...Besides, I think the ring on my finger is stuck so--” he drawls out.

You snort in surprise, giggles bubbling from inside of you. Genuine ones this time. “I was going to miss you too, but I won’t have to if you’re not leaving.”

“I never really planned on it, sweetheart.”

────── ☽. ✧₊∘ ──────

A/N: my brain..... ‘tis empty...

[dcnatural]

Is There Somewhere

Word Count: 2392

Pairing: Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn meet to finish unfinished business, and Ivy recalls a magical night the duo had shared.

Unless you knew what you were looking for, the Gotham Garden Motel was hard to spot. Squeezed between two warehouses on the road leading to Arkham Island, the building seemed abandoned: the glass of the windows was covered in dust, making it impossible to see anything in the other side; the sign which announced the name of the establishment was missing some letters and the neon lights had long stopped working; the roof was missing a couple of tiles and the white paint was peeling off the outside walls, which were covered by cracks. It was a miracle the place was still standing.

Despite the decrepit state of the motel, its driveway was often filled with cars and people were seen going in and out at a regular basis. If one dared to open the rotten wooden door, they would find themselves inside a shockingly well illuminated reception. It even had a waiting area, which included a tube television and a coffee machine. An employee in a cheap cotton uniform sat behind the large desk, alternating between watching a soap opera and scribbling something on the notebook open in front of them. A door reading “Employees Only” leads into the office, a separated area with two large window panes that could be used to spy on the reception. 

They didn’t ask for IDs and only accepted upfront payments made in cash, the registration was as simple as writing whichever name you wanted in the book and leaving the money. You would then be given a key to your room. This discretion was the main reason behind the motel's popularity. Whether you were a cheating husband, a drug dealer or a high tier super criminal, if you wanted to have a clandestine meeting, this was the place to come. Everyone who visited the motel was involved in some shady business. The whole premise of the place was that you could come, do your shit and leave, no questions asked.

That's why the clerk didn’t bat an eye when Poison Ivy came striding in through the front entrance, placed a wad of cash in the front desk, signed the visitor’s log, took the key for room 93 and headed to the staircase without saying a word. Nor did the clerk find it unusual when, fifteen minutes later, Harley Quinn burst in and raced upstairs, not even bothering to close the door after her.

Room 93 was located on the fourth floor. Unlike most hotels, which the room’s number indicated their respective floor, the Gotham Garden didn’t use this rationale. Instead, the numbers had been randomly assigned; a brilliant idea that occured to the first owner after getting wasted in a bar downtown. Therefore, there was no intuitive way of finding your room, and the guests were required to carefully read the maps plastered to the walls of the staircase.

While the reception gave the impression of belonging to a decent place, the rest of the hotel matched the state of the outside. The red carpet covering the floor had a thick cover of dust and mold, the lamps in the ceiling were either burned out or flickered inconsistently. Cockroaches crawled around, and one could hear the screeches made by the rats inhabiting the wall. Each door had been painted with a different color, but now the ink was faded and everything looked like a lifeless gray.

Harley verified if the hallway was clear before tapping on the dark-blue door. Dressed in a black hat with a wide brim, overly large star-shaped pink sunglasses and an old trench coat, she looked like the most comical spy in the world.

The knock caused Ivy to jump from her chair, and she stumbled to reach the door. She gave a quick glance at the bathroom mirror to ensure that her vivid red hair was well combed and her shirt was in place. Her heartbeat was frantic and she took a deep breath to calm herself, inhaling the lavender scent of her perfume.

Ivy sighed as she contemplated the girl before her. “Didn’t I tell you to be discreet?”, she complained as Harley skipped inside.

“This is discreet, Pams. No one can recognize me with these glasses. Betcha you wouldn’t have known it was me if I hadn’t told you I was coming disguised”, she replied as she removed the sunglasses and tossed them aside. They skittered through the floor before stopping underneath the wardrobe. 

She then took off her hat, letting her blonde locks cascade down her back. The colorful streaks had been washed off, with only ghostly remnants of pink and blue to evidence the product of Harley’s latest post-break-up-hair-makeover. It only made sense that now that she was back with the Joker she would try to erase any change she had made during their time apart.

The darkened windows didn’t allow much light to pass through and, despite being early afternoon, Ivy had turned on the twin lamp shades that decorated the nightstands, their floral pattern casting shadows in the threadbare arabic rug that covered the floor underneath the bed.

Harley sat in the far end of the bed, back propped against the wall and legs stretched over the mattress. “So, what’d you wanted to talk about, uh?”

Ivy paced around the room, she couldn’t bring herself to look at Harley. “How could you go back to him?”, the words left her mouth in an urgent whisper. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision and she felt the urge to brush them away. Tears were a sign of weakness and weaknesses weren't a luxury she could afford. In fact, the last time she had cried was back when she still was Pamela Isley, on that fateful day that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Her last tears had been shred when she laid on the floor, dying only to be reborn as Poison Ivy.

Harley idly played with her hair, curling it around her well manicured fingers. She didn’t know how to reply to that. Why did she return to the Joker every time? Why did she still love him when all he did was hurt her? She knew it was an abusive relationship, she hadn't spent years training as a shrink for nothing, but she couldn't find the strength in herself to cut him out of her life. For better or for worse, he had shaped her into who she was now. She feared that without his influence in her life, she would go back into being Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and honestly, the prospect of normalcy terrified her.

But she couldn't tell Ivy all of that, so she did what she knew best and created a diversion. "You know, your hair’s fantastic today. Are you using a new shampoo?"

As if moving by their own accord, Ivy's lips curled into a smile. She cursed herself. She should be angry, sad, outraged. But there was something about Harley that always made her let her guard down. Harley had the gift of bringing happiness into Ivy's loneliness. And perhaps that was the reason why that betrayal had hurt so much.

Ivy collapsed into the bed, careful not to get too close to Harley. She wasn't sure if she could deal with so much proximity right now. Not in this bed, at least. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wonder. To travel back to a week ago, before the Joker sweeped in again and took Harley with him. Back to when it had been just the two of them, hiding in this same room while they counted their loot and laughed about the stupidity of the guards of the jewelry story they had just robbed.

That day had awakened something in Ivy, and she had thought that her friend felt the same. But clearly she had been wrong. 

In her mind she relieved it all, every single detail of that fateful day, from the smell of the strawberry bubblegum Harley had been chewing to the sound of gold clittering against gold.

* * *

The first thing Harley had done once they were secured inside the room was to remove her jester suit, the sweaty outfit was sticking to her skin and making her itchy. Stripped to her underwear and tube socks, she had then proceeded to catalogue every single item they had stolen, listing the retail price in a chart. 

Ivy had offered to help, but Harley had her own system and every time the redhead tried to do something she only mixed it all up. So she had given up and was texting her usual fence to ask when they could meet.

"I love this song", Harley shouted when the radio began to play a slow pop ballad. She seemed like a completely different person from the concentrated woman she was seconds ago. Climbing off the bed, she began to dance, with a grace that only the ones who had trained for years were able to do. She moved like air, arms swaying to the rhythm of the music and hips rocking back and forth in matching pace. The whiteness of her skin was a stark contrast to the black and red socks she wore, and Ivy’s gaze lingered on those long and slender legs. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to have those legs tangled around her own body, to have those hands caressing her skin. 

“Come dance with me”, Harley asked, tugging Ivy’s arm and trying to pull her to her feet.

Ivy shook her head. “I don’t dance.”

Harley rolled her eyes and pouted. “Pretty please, for me! It’s boring to dance alone.”

Faced with the other girl’s plea, Ivy couldn’t find in her the strength to say ‘no’ and so she relented, allowing Harley to pull her up. Ivy’s movements were awkward, her body rigid whereas Harley’s was fluid. She misteped and tripped, but Harley was always there to catch her before she fell.

The song ended and another began, and they kept swirling around the room. The soft melody brought them closer, Harley’s arms embracing Ivy’s waist, chests pressed together and faces inches apart. Harley suppressed a yawn, eyelids fluttering shut as exhaustion began to take over. She nestled her head on Ivy’s shoulder, taking advantage of her friend’s taller stature. 

The rest of the world faded away, all that Ivy could think of was the intoxicating feeling of Harley’s lips brushing against her bare skin. Outside, a car passed by, the headlamp shining even through the dirt glass, creating a brief spotlight for the two girls.

A false move caused Harley to trip, and they stumbled, Ivy’s back landing on the saggy mattress with Harley on top of her. For a moment, time stood still. They laid over the white sheets, not moving and barely breathing. A tension hung in the air between them, an unvoiced desire that previously neither had felt. 

Then, before Ivy knew what was happening, Harley leaned down and brought her mouth to Ivy’s, hovering like that for an instant before closing the remaining distance. At first, the touch was light as a feather, barely there. Then, with renewed passion, Harley pressed harder, Ivy’s lips welcoming her. Ivy didn’t protest as Harley slid the strapless leotard out of her body, the garment falling to the floor near where Harley’s own jumpsuit laid.

When Harley pulled away, it was only so she could lay a trail of wet kisses. She sucked, licked and bit every inch of exposed skin, venturing further down with each second. She stopped at Ivy’s navel, looking up in search for permission, and Ivy remembered how to move for just long enough to nod, before collapsing back onto the bed. 

Every nerve in Ivy’s body was on fire. Her mind was numb. She felt nothing but Harley. Harley’s mouth. Harley’s fingers. Harley’s skin. Harley. Harley. Harley. The name echoed in Ivy’s mind with every beat of her heart. Ivy clutched tightly at Harley’s arms, the firmness of the muscles underneath her fingers ensuring her that this wasn’t just part of her imagination. Ivy felt herself coming undone under her friend’s touch. She couldn’t think she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t breath. All her worries and fears that clouded her brain faded away until only Harley was left.

* * *

“Pammy?”

Harley’s voice pulled Ivy back to the present and she snapped her eyes open. “I thought we had something.”

“We did. We do. You are my best friend. I love you. I really do”, there was a note of sadness in Harley's voice as she spoke.

Tears spilled out of the corners of Ivy’s eyes. “But you love him more.”

Harley nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”

“No”, Ivy interrupted, sliding out of the bed. “It’s fine. I was foolish to believe you would actually leave him for real. I just wish I could let this go, forget it ever happened.”

She realized now how stupid this had been. Nothing she did could ever change Harley’s mind. She needed to get out of that room, she needed fresh air.

“Ives, come on”, Harley pleaded, rushing to grab Ivy’s arm before she could leave.

Ivy twisted out of her friend’s hold and opened the door. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”

The door closed shut behind Ivy and Harley allowed her body to fall to the floor, back against the scrapped dark blue paint. A sob escaped her lips and she buried her face in her knees, shielding herself from the world. She felt alone. Her best friend had abandoned her. And perhaps I deserve that, Harley thought. She didn’t know which was her worst mistake: falling in love with the Joker or with Ivy.

Outside, Ivy inhaled the fresh afternoon air and began the long walk back to the Botanical Garden. She hadn’t meant to fall in love that night, but now it was done and there’s no way of fixing it. She wished Harley could leave the Joker, not just out of jealousy but because she knew her friend deserved better. I could offer her better.

The dusk had settled over Gotham when a figure wearing a trench coat and hat left the Gotham Garden Motel. She opened the door to a green car and, with the motor rumbling, she took off into the darkness.

[fantasyoverreality98]

Fight the Darkness

Masterlist

Pairing: Gaius x MC

Author’s Note: Yes, I have written another fanfic about Gaius x MC. I can actually see potential for this one to have more than one part though so maybe I’ll write a continuation in the future, we’ll have to see. There is some sexually suggestive content in this one so just keep that in mind when reading. Anyway, I think I should take a break from obsessively writing fanfic and do something else for a bit. As always, sorry for any potential grammatical or spelling mistakes.

Word Count: 3,333

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

Gaius Augustine was a murderer. He was her murderer. And she had never wanted anyone more in her life.

“Amy, where did you go? Call us back, please. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She ignored the message from Adrian, deleting it immediately after listening.

The town was small, the chances of him being here were extremely slim, and yet she just knew. Somewhere, probably in some desolate manor, the object of her obsession was lingering.

She felt him more than heard him. Smirking, Amy continued to walk down the empty path, into the trees. The sword on her back served as a comfort. No matter what strange creatures may lurk inside the forest, she could fight them off. Years of training had prepared her for whatever might come.

A branch snapped off to her right, and Amy whirled around, drawing her weapon. She laughed to herself when a rabbit ran out from the shadows. Momentarily relieved, her guard dropped.

That was when he decided to strike.

“Took you long enough.” She spoke with a breathy voice, staring up at the hooded figure. “I was beginning to think I might have to resort to more extreme measures to draw you out.”

“How did you find me?” Gaius kept her wrists pinned against the tree beside her head, his face inches from hers. The hood kept most of his features shrouded in shadows, but he looked just as he had twenty-five years earlier.

Amy leaned into him, her chest brushing against his as she breathed heavily. “It’s a secret.”

He stared into her eyes a moment longer before letting go, taking a step back. “Do your friends know you’re here?”

She rolled her eyes, pushing off the tree. “No. I left without saying anything.”

Gaius looked as if he couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He pulled his hood back, looking exactly as he had a quarter of a century earlier. “What are you doing here?”

“Always with the questions.” Amy took a step toward him, trying not to grin when she saw that he looked flustered. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here for you.”

“Amy—”

She held up a hand, and he stopped speaking. “Why is it that I haven’t heard from you at all since you left? You’re a hard man to find, Gaius Augustine.”

He studied her with interest, desire shining in his eyes. So, she wasn’t the only one who had never forgotten those moments on the boat. “I didn’t want to be found. I’ve been moving around over the decades.”

“Well, I found you. It took me a while, but I did it. Good luck getting rid of me now.” She broke out in a grin, and, to her surprise, he laughed.

“Now, why would I want to be rid of you?” Gaius looked as though he was about to reach out for her, but he hesitated, letting his arms drop back to his sides. “We should get out of here. Something evil lurks in these woods.”

Amy couldn’t resist answering, trying her best to maintain a serious expression. “Is that something evil you?”

Gaius scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I am the least of your worries.”

The temptation to continue teasing him was overpowering. After twenty-five years, she felt an uncontrollable urge to torment him with her bad jokes. “Tell that to the mortal Amy that you ran through with Jax’s sword.”

It took a minute for him to answer. “Do you plan to spend all night reminding me of all my evil deeds?”

“Maybe not all night. I did come here for another reason.”

With a long sigh, he turned away and started to walk back toward the town. They’d been walking for a few minutes before he finally spoke again. “How is it that you have managed to stay just as insufferable as you were twenty-five years ago?”

Amy shrugged, her face starting to hurt from smiling so much. Teasing him was just too much fun. Sure, she could tease all of her friends back home, but the sort of ammunition she had for Gaius beat any joking insults she could ever throw at them. The amount of murder jokes she could make was insane.

God was she ever fucked up.

“So, how’s your redemption been going?” Amy wanted to fill in the silence, the idea of them walking without saying a word too serious. She genuinely wanted to know what he’d been up to.

Gaius stared at the road ahead, frowning as he considered the question. “I guess you can say I’ve done a few more good deeds. I’ve been trying my best.”

They ended up walking to an abandoned house on the edge of the town. It wasn’t a manor, but it was close enough. Amy bit her lip to hold back a laugh. The man sure did like to live up to the dramatic.

“Nice place you’ve got here.” She bit her lip harder when he glared at her.

“Are you coming, or are you going to stand out here making horrible jokes all night?” Gaius looked like he regretted bringing her back to his house. If it could even be considered a house. It was more like a ruin.

Amy followed him inside, taking in the decaying structure. Her nose wrinkled when she studied what looked like a petrified animal corpse. “This place is absolutely disgusting. Not exactly the romantic or sexy reunion I was hoping for.”

“We had sex in a tiny room on a boat. I have trouble believing you would be opposed to this place. Your standards don’t seem very high.”

“Hey!”

Gaius didn’t look at her, but she could see him fighting back a smile. He started to chew on his bottom lip, turning his face away from her. She watched him attempt to clean, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fine, I guess I deserved that.” Amy sat down in a chair. It immediately broke under her weight. Scowling, she struggled to her feet, brushing the dust off her clothes. “Did you really have to pick the setting of The Haunting of Hill House for your temporary home?”

He still didn’t look at her. “Is that a film? None of your references make sense to me.”

“Forget it.” The problem with hanging around a three-thousand-year-old vampire was that they never understood pop culture references. For the first time since finding Gaius, Amy missed Lily.

Lily. Her best friend who was probably going insane trying to find her. They had barely spent any time apart since defeating Rheya. Amy would have to send a postcard one day, just to let everyone know she was okay.

The silence inside the house made the situation more awkward. Both of them knew, though neither of them had said it, that Amy had come here because she wanted Gaius. And not in a friend kind of way.

“So, do anything badass lately?” Amy couldn’t get any lamer if she tried.

Gaius stared blankly at her. He blinked, looking like he just might answer, before he shook his head and went back to ‘cleaning.’

Wind howled outside. A storm was on its way. The sky had been full of dark clouds when they were walking back to the house, the air chillier than it had been when she’d first arrived right after sunset. It was probably past midnight now.

“Why are you really here?” Gaius finally stopped pretending to clean and looked up at her, throwing a broken chair leg over his shoulder. Something else fell from the projectile, the sound of shattering glass filling the room. “You can make all the murder and sex jokes you want, but I think we both know that you came here for a reason.”

Amy crossed her arms over her chest, pacing the length of the room as she searched for an answer. It had been stupid to think he wouldn’t question her. No normal person traveled around the world searching for someone they should do their best to stay far away from. Just because she decided to give him a second chance didn’t mean that the two of them would remain close.

Rain started to fall on the house, the cracks in the roof allowing water to drip down onto them. Amy ignored the ice-cold raindrops that fell on her, sliding down her spine. “You know why I searched for you.” The vagueness of her answer would no doubt irritate him.

“That does not answer my question, Amy.”

The storm outside seemed to slow for a moment. Her eyes flickered over to Gaius, who was standing near a crumbling fireplace. Finally, when she figured she could only put off answering for so long, she turned to face him. “Because I have feelings for you. What else do you want me to say? And don’t lecture me again on how it’s wrong because I know. I know.”

Gaius didn’t answer her. He stayed beside the fireplace, watching her without a word. Amy wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved that he didn’t react to her outburst, or if she should worry that it meant he didn’t feel the same way. The worry slowly turned in annoyance, then anger.

“Can you just say something!” Her voice boomed, the sound startling both of them. Swearing under her breath, Amy closed her eyes, digging the heels of her palms into them, trying to block out the sensation of darkness that had started to sweep over her.

Hands grabbed her wrists, gently pulling her hands away from her face. She waited until the feeling had passed before opening her eyes to look at Gaius. His eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open. The last time she had seen him look so terrified was when she’d broken Rheya’s control over him.

“I thought Rheya’s powers were gone,” said Gaius, looking as though he feared she might snap again. “Didn’t they disappear in the opera house?”

Amy was breathing heavily, trying to shove the darkness back down. “That’s what I thought too. But then one day, about a year later, I got so angry that—” She shook her head, trembling at the memory. If Adrian hadn’t been there to talk to her, she had no idea what might’ve happened.

Whatever darkness that had possessed her inside the opera house when she drained Rheya’s powers hadn’t disappeared forever. For a short time, she had believed it, thought that life would return to a relatively normal state, but it seemed outside forces had other plans. The temptation, the possibility that she might be able to bring Jax back still haunted her. It followed her everywhere she went, a voice that was not her own whispering deep inside that she could do it. All she had to do was embrace the darkness.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I get it.” Gaius was standing so close to her that his breath hit her face. He inhaled sharply, staring at her lips.

Desperate to both forget about what had just happened and satisfy the reason she had come here, she tilted her head back to brush her lips across his. He let go of her hands, pulling her closer. She sighed when he put his thumb under her chin and tilted her head further back, kissing her harder.

Thunder boomed somewhere in a distant field, the force of the sound shaking the walls of the decrepit house. The rain found its way inside, soaking their clothes. Lightning flashed outside, so bright that it flared behind Amy’s closed eyelids. Every touch felt more intense than it ever had before.

“Is there a bed in this place?” she mumbled, holding back a laugh when she felt Gaius frown against her lips. “Just curious.”

He shook his head, pulling her with him to the battered couch a few feet away. “Those beds have several inches of dust on them. And other unappealing things.”

“Couch it is, then.” Amy laughed when Gaius pulled away to look at her, running his fingers along her face. “Don’t look so surprised. You were the one who said I have low standards.”

Before he could retort, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back to her. He fumbled with her jacket, moving without complaint when she shifted to be on top. Amy’s chest heaved as she slipped the jacket off, pausing for a moment before she pulled her shirt over her head immediately after.

Gaius started to breathe heavier, his eyes drawn to the place where he had stabbed her so many years ago. The scar had mostly healed, but the skin was slightly discolored. It had always struck her as odd that a scar remained, but she guessed it was because the wound was from before she’d been Turned.

“You’re looking a little overdressed.” Her voice was lower than usual. It had been so long since she’d been with anyone. Years, she was sure.

Gaius smirked, letting her undress him as he lay beneath her. She ran her hands down his stomach once she’d got him out of his clothes, digging her fingers into his skin as she ground herself against him. He moaned, sitting up to kiss her.

The rain continued to beat against the house, the only sound in the room besides their heavy breathing and the occasional quiet moan. Amy pulled away long enough to slip her underwear off, her heart pounding harder than before when she straddled Gaius’ lap again.

They moved at a slow pace, his hands running up her back to unclasp her bra. She threw it on the floor, trying her best not to think about how filthy it was. The couch itself wasn’t any better. But she didn’t care.

“Amy—” Gaius spoke her name with a sigh, brushing his lips across her chest as she moved above him. He swore under his breath when she picked up her pace, his nails digging into her skin as he gripped her hips and helped her to move faster.

One of his hands made its way between her legs, and she bit her lip as she felt herself getting closer to finishing. His name slipped past her lips as a whisper, her forehead resting against his as her breathing grew ragged.

Amy took a trembling breath, moaning quietly, and stopped rocking her hips against him, the two of them sitting in silence once they’d finished. The pitter-patter of rain filled the house, the storm finally coming to an end.

“This was one of the reasons why I came here,” Amy said, a breathy laugh escaping her when Gaius rolled his eyes. He sat up and pulled her off of him, running his hands through his hair.

“You make it hard for me to focus.” He turned to look at her, not looking like he was too concerned about focusing. “Do you plan to stay long?”

She rested her head on his shoulder, grabbing his hand and lacing her fingers through his. “Who said I planned on leaving at all? You’re the reason I left New York.”

Gaius sighed, staring at the shattered window across the room. “The others will come looking for you. I doubt they would appreciate knowing I’m the reason you ran away.”

“Who says I care what the others think?” She stood from the couch and slowly got dressed, feeling him watch her the entire time. “They won’t ever understand the way I feel about you. I gave up thinking they would get it a long time ago. I wasn’t happy there. I belong here. With you.”

He stood and got dressed, turning to face her, the tension that was between them when she first arrived now gone. “I will never understand how you can even stand to look at me after everything I’ve done.”

“The conversation we had on that boat changed my perspective. I like the real you a whole lot better than the person you were under Rheya’s control.” She reached out to run her fingers across his face, and he leaned into her hand. “Plus, the whole having sex with you right after that kind of helped you win me over.”

Gaius laughed, his teeth gleaming in the dark room. “You are irresistible.”

Amy grabbed his shirt and tugged him closer. “I thought I was insufferable.”

“One can be both irresistible and insufferable.” He cut off her response with his lips, dragging her back to the couch. A puff of dust shot out from the cushions when they dropped down, and Amy coughed, making a mental note to find them a more suitable place to stay the next night.

Eventually, the rain stopped, the world outside growing quiet. Amy struggled to keep her eyes open, wanting to enjoy every second she could with Gaius after twenty-five years apart.

“How are you feeling now?” His question startled her. She had thought he might have fallen asleep.

With a shrug, she continued to trace random shapes on his chest. “Okay. The darkness went away, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

Gaius shifted, and she lifted her head to look him in the eyes. “Does that happen often?”

“What? The whole earth trembling, voice booming thing?” She could see that he didn’t appreciate her attempt at making another joke. Amy sighed, rolling onto her stomach to look at him properly. “No. It only happens when I can’t control my emotions. The last time it happened, I was thinking about Jax again.” A figure jumping in front of her to prevent Rheya from turning her Feral flashed in her mind and she closed her eyes, trying to rein in the pain.

“Do you—” Gaius gulped, the fear in his tone not going unnoticed. “Do you think you could ever get as bad as you did in the opera house again?”

Amy didn’t have an answer to that question. The thought of ever returning to that state of mind terrified her. In that moment, she had felt truly unstoppable. A lust for power had overwhelmed her. If that ever happened again, she wasn’t so sure she would be able to resist it a second time around.

For over two decades, the thought of what if had haunted her. Almost as much as she missed Gaius, she missed the feeling of invincibility that Rheya’s power had given her. To bring Jax back, to help her friends in whatever way she could…power like that was irreplaceable. It was tempting beyond belief.

“How long are we staying here?” Amy forced a smile, a hint of hunger starting to creep in. She couldn’t be completely certain if it had anything to do with thinking about her hidden powers.

Gaius watched her, curiosity shining in his eyes. “I move every few weeks. I planned to leave in a few days.”

“Great,” she answered, putting her head back on his chest, shutting her eyes before the conversation about Rheya’s power could continue.

Twenty-five years ago, Amy had absorbed the power of the First Vampire. For a fleeting moment, she had felt the fate of the world placed in her hands. Then, mere minutes later, she had made the decision to choose love. The love of her friends had overpowered the hunger for power. And she had been content. Most of the past twenty-five years had passed without incident.

But Amy could feel a darkness gathering deep inside of her. It came in flashes, brief moments where she lost control and her voice shook walls. The endless possibility still flowed through her veins. One day, she feared it might burst. Darkness could only be contained for so long before it enveloped everything in its path.

Ignoring the claws that seemed to dig themselves further into her heart, Amy closed her eyes, reminding herself that she was with Gaius now. The years of pain were over. She would overcome this thirst for power in no time. It was nothing. She would be fine.

Just fine.

[calumcest]

i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter four

[ao3]

is it technically tuesday? yes. are we going to talk about that? no. everybody lives in at least gmt-1 now suck it up 

@tirednotflirting yet again...i cannot sing your praises enough for reading this ENTIRE fucking thing!! although it looks a bit different here to how it looks on the google doc because its not in bold and theres no ‘finishh’ in sight nor my insane random words that i write down when i know exactly the words i want to say but i’m too lazy to write them. am i the worst writer known to man? possibly

we are getting to the juicy stuff now...its quarter to fucking malum o’clock...

also if you saw the title of this chapter before i went to check you didn’t see it. close your eyes 

By the time Calum wakes up the next afternoon, they’re already halfway back to Manchester, somewhere on the M40. Predictably, Liam's up, vibrating with that impatient energy he’s always got when he can’t snort or drink it away, and Calum’s the second one to rise, padding into the lounge area sleepily, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes. His head’s fucking pounding, and his mouth is dry and disgusting, but Liam, because he sometimes is the angel his doe eyes and full lips make him out to be, has already put out a cup of water and two paracetamols for him. 

“How the fuck are you never hungover?” Calum grumbles, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Liam and nestling into his side as he downs the paracetamol. 

“Luck of the Irish,” Liam tells him, resting his cheek on Calum’s head. Calum makes a noise of discontent and turns to press his face into Liam’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s going to stop his head from hurting. 

“You deserve a hangover,” he mumbles. “You were off your fucking head last night.” 

“And you weren’t?” 

“Never said that.” Liam huffs out a soft laugh. 

“Nearly fainted in the fucking toilets, you did.” Calum scowls. 

“Fuck off,” he says, as his memory flashes back to last night - yeah, he did almost fucking faint in the toilets, but that was only because- and then his eyes fly open, because fuck. Jesus fucking Christ. 

Michael. 

“Our kid barely even made it back to the bus last night,” Liam says, and it’s just meant to be casual conversation, maybe a little contemptuous, but it makes Calum’s lungs collapse in on themselves with guilt. 

He’d spoken to Michael. He’d come to some sort of a fucking understanding with Michael, something he can’t quite remember and doesn’t quite understand. Fuck, he might have even called Michael pretty. Jesus Christ. He’s fairly certain any and all of that goes against his promise to Noel. 

“Oh?” he says, when he remembers to speak. Liam just hums, and Calum tries not to exhale too shakily as his mind races. 

It’s not his fault, he tells himself. Not really. He’d been there first, hadn’t he? Michael had been the one to walk up to him, and the one who hadn’t walked away. And sure, maybe Calum had been the one to strike up conversation, but it hadn’t exactly been friendly, had it? And Michael had been the one to ask questions, to change the topic, and to level the playing field when Calum had accidentally let something slip. Plus, Calum had been drunk and high, so he can’t really be held accountable for his actions, can he? 

Liam’s still talking, but Calum’s not listening, and it doesn’t even matter because Liam cuts himself off when Tony stumbles into the lounge area, bleary-eyed and yawning. There’s no paracetamol set out for him, and Liam makes no move to get any. 

“I’m looking forward to a fucking break,” Tony says a little hoarsely, and flops down on the sofa opposite Liam and Calum. 

“Fucking when?” Liam says. “We’ve got Top of the Pops in two days.” Tony groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Fucking Top of the Pops,” he mumbles. “Why the fuck did we agree to that?” 

“For the money,” Liam says. 

“Don’t even get to play the fucking drums,” Tony says, muffled by his palms. 

“Thank fuck for that,” Liam mutters.

  -------

  Top of the Pops is exactly the bland, boring nightmare Calum expects it to be. 

They’re shepherded into some kind of studio for a rehearsal and informed that they’ll be recording a live track then and there which will be mixed together with the album version, and none of them will actually be playing live. Liam’s having absolutely fucking none of it, and for once neither is Noel, and Calum, Bonehead and Tony all decide to step back and enjoy the show that is both Gallaghers on the same team for once. 

After a lot of shouting, swearing and a few threats of violence, it’s decided that they’ll go ahead with recording the backing track but Liam will sing live. Noel’s absolutely fucking furious about not being allowed to play live, but it’s almost entirely forgotten when he sees the setup for the stage - Tony on drums in the front, Calum and Bonehead on a step behind him, and Liam and Noel on another step right at the back. The BBC aren’t budging on that, though, despite Calum, Bonehead, and Alan all weighing in to agree that it’s fucking stupid to have the stars of the band stood right at the back, and a nasty row breaks out between the Gallaghers and the production team, ending in Calum having to move at the speed of fucking light when he sees Liam tense into the all-too-familiar I’m going to fucking deck you stance. A lawsuit with the BBC is still well beyond their budget, no matter how well the singles have been doing. 

Calum manages to talk Liam down, and Liam manages to talk Noel down, and they’re only ten minutes behind schedule by the time that the brothers have reluctantly agreed to do the show, which is pretty good going for them. They trail to the stage to the sound of screaming and cheering, which makes Calum’s head spin a little bit as he picks up his unplugged bass. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks in awe, as he looks out at the sea of excited faces and spots a few white Oasis shirts. They’re really fucking doing this. 

They get set up and pretend to play Shakermaker, and Liam sounds fucking gorgeous, like he’s making a point to the producers, and Noel slings his arm around Liam as they walk off, a protective, proud gesture that Liam grins at and leans into. They’re fucking unstoppable, Calum thinks, as he trails after them, Noel’s arm tight around Liam and Liam stumbling over his own feet as he tries to press as close to Noel as possible. The two of them on the same side is a fucking sight to behold.

They’re at a hotel that night, and Liam and Bonehead decide they want to go out but Tony and Noel want to stay in, and Calum decides he’s too tired to stay up for the length of time it’s going to take him to find someone willing to fuck him. 

(“What d’you think coke’s for?” Liam says to him, and Calum rolls his eyes.) 

Calum falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow, and he wakes up early to the sound of Liam stumbling into the room, high and drunk and probably something else, bruises blooming all over his throat and grinning giddily. 

“Good night?” Calum says. 

“The best,” Liam declares, and then passes out on his bed. 

They have to drive back to Manchester that day, though, because they’ve got a show in Leeds tomorrow, so Liam only gets about four hours of rest before Alan’s banging on the door and yelling at them to get the fuck up, lazy fuckers, didn’t I fucking tell you bus call’s at twelve? To his credit, though, he only complains about a hundred times, and stops when Noel rolls his eyes, holds his arms open and lets Liam snuggle into him and have a nap while Noel chats to Alan about the setlist for America. 

Calum tunes most of it out, because he’s not fussed about what’s on the setlist and he trusts Noel to pick the best of his own songs, and spends two hours getting absolutely thrashed at chess by Tony. By the time they’re back in Manchester, Calum’s lost a game of chess to literally everybody on the bus, including Liam, who's being taught the rules of chess by Noel and Bonehead as they play, and Calum decides he’s never fucking playing chess ever again. 

(“We’re fucking buying some new games,” he says moodily, when Liam flicks his king over nonchalantly. 

“No need to get so mardy,” Bonehead says, stretching out and grinning at Calum. 

“Fuck you,” Calum grumbles, sweeping all the pieces off the chess board. “We’re getting a game that I can fucking win.” 

“Alright,” Noel says, grinning. “How about Frustration?”)

Calum’s mum has dinner ready for him when he drags himself up the path and into the house, and she fusses over the state of his hair and his clothes and says really, Calum in a disapproving voice whenever Calum uses colourful language to describe exactly what he thinks about the production team of Top of the Pops. Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when she tuts at him for fondly calling Liam a silly cunt for the fourth time that evening, because it’s nice. It makes him feel like a kid again, but in the best possible way; warm, protected, like someone’s still looking out for him. 

His dad gets back from work around seven, and they sit down to watch the Top of the Pops performance together. Calum’s heart swells with pride when it’s their turn to play, because they look fucking cool. The staging’s still shite, granted, but Liam looks every inch the rock ‘n’ roll star he claims to be, and the rest of them look lazily and effortlessly cool, helped enormously by the fact they’re half in the shadows, lights focused on the Gallaghers. 

Calum’s parents are polite about the song, and he can see they’re beaming with pride, but he can also tell they don’t really get it. It’s okay, he thinks, unable to help the smile that creeps onto his face as he watches his parents watch him on TV. They like jazz. It’s probably for the best that they don’t think it’s good music. 

Calum’s mum switches to some soap opera after Top of the Pops, and his dad grumbles not this again and pulls out his newspaper, but Calum can see his face popping over the top of the paper every two seconds. After three minutes he comments wasn’t Sheila dating Mark last week? She’s not having an affair with Bertie, is she? Calum snorts, and his dad glares at him, opening his mouth to make a defensive remark about how he doesn’t follow this show, it’s absolute rubbish, but then the phone rings. 

“I’ll get it,” Calum says, before anyone has the chance to say anything, mostly to avoid having to listen to his dad’s I’m not watching this, Calum, don’t be cheeky spiel, and his mum just nods absent-mindedly, waving a dismissive hand at him, eyes glued to the TV. Calum heads for the phone in the kitchen, just because it’s the closest, jogging to get there before it rings out. 

“Hello?” he says, when he picks up. There’s silence at the other end of the line, and he frowns. “Hello?” he tries again. 

“Hi.” Calum’s stomach drops. 

“ Michael? ” 

“Yeah.” 

“What the f- how the- what? What? ” Calum’s heart is beating out of his fucking chest, almost covering the embarrassment that’s flaring up as foggy memories of their last conversation drag themselves to the forefront of his mind. 

“Sorry,” Michael says, and he sighs, and Calum can just imagine him running his fingers through his hair, a small crease between his brows. “Fuck, I- sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-”

“No,” Calum says abruptly, clutching the receiver, dreading the fucking dial tone. “No, I just- how did you get this number?” There’s a moment of silence. 

“Only so many Joy Hoods in the book,” Michael says, and Calum exhales, hoping the crackling static of the phone line will hide how shaky it is. 

“Oh,” he says. Michael had sought him out. Michael wants to talk. Michael still remembers his mum’s name. 

“I saw you,” Michael says suddenly, into the uncomfortable silence that’s blossomed between them, neither of them knowing what to say next. “On Top of the Pops.” 

“Yeah?” Calum doesn’t trust himself to say any more, but the question on the tip of his tongue is evident in the eagerness in his tone, anyway. 

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “Sounded good.” 

“That’s because it’s a backing track.” Michael huffs out a laugh, sounding a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it to come out.

“I guess,” he allows. They lapse into silence again, loud and uncomfortable, before Michael sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds a little regretful.  “I shouldn’t’ve called.” 

“No,” Calum blurts. “I’m glad you did.” The phone’s warm against his fingers, slippery from his hot, sweaty hands, and he’s clasping it so hard he thinks it might break. He tries to focus on that rather than on what he’s just said, on the knife-edge he feels like they’re poised on, each word a weight that could unbalance them. 

“Are you?” Michael sounds a little doubtful, and a little sceptical. 

“Yeah.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling something over. 

“Do your bandmates know?” Calum’s heart skips a beat. 

“Know what?” 

“That we talked.” At Glastonbury, while you were drunk and high and out of your fucking mind. You called me pretty, by the way. He doesn’t say any of that, but Calum’s mind tacks it on helpfully anyway. 

“Do yours?” Calum says, deflecting, because his stomach’s bottoming out with the sheer weight of the guilt, of the broken promise. Or was it broken? Calum barely remembers, just remembers the look on Michael’s face, the tiny microexpressions, the glassiness of his eyes. 

“No.” Calum inhales sharply, can’t fucking help himself - Michael’s talking to Calum, and the rest of Blur don’t know. That's got to mean something, even if Calum isn't entirely sure what.

“Oh.” 

“Do they know?” Michael asks again. Calum stares at the hob opposite him, weighing up his answer. 

If he says yes, he’ll be lying, and whatever the fuck him and Michael have going on right now is so fragile that one lie like that will send it all crumbling down, pulverise it so thoroughly that it’ll never be able to be built back up again. If he says no, though, he’ll be doing the same to Oasis, to his best mates, to his career.  There's no right answer.

“Not yet,” he settles on eventually, straddling the line between Oasis and Michael. It’s the truth - he hasn’t told them, but they might find out at some point. 

“Are you going to tell them?” Fucking hell. Trust Michael to pick at the loose thread.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” It’s true, and that’s the best Calum can offer him. 

There’s a moment of silence, neither of them really knowing what to say, and it’s fucking gut-wrenching because Calum’s never had that with Michael. He’d never even had to think about what to say with Michael - he’d just existed, just been, and that was always enough. 

“Luke and Ashton asked about you,” Michael says, and Calum’s breath hitches. 

“Oh?” he says. “How are they?”

“Good,” Michael says. “They’re good.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “Luke’s a pilot, now. Or training to be, I think. I don’t know. Ashton’s a teacher.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, voice small. Two of his best mates, in an earlier life; two spotty blonde teenage boys laughing on the beach at Calum splashing Michael in the water, shooting each other furtive glances across crowded rooms, getting high just for an excuse to shotgun. A fucking pilot and a teacher. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. 

“Did they ever get their shit together?” Calum asks. 

“What? Oh, yeah. Fuck, has it been that long?” Michael exhales heavily. “They’ve been together for years.” 

“Oh.” Calum doesn’t know what else to say to that. He’s trying to imagine it; a pilot and a teacher, fucking hell. Maybe Luke brings Ashton little gifts from his trips abroad. Maybe Ashton writes Luke postcards while his pupils work. Who does the cooking? Luke definitely doesn’t clean. Or maybe he does. If Michael’s changed this much, maybe Luke has, too. 

“What about you?” Michael asks. 

“What about me?” Calum’s not sure what Michael’s asking. Michael knows what he’s up to - he’s in Oasis, spending all his money on intoxicants, trying to exist alongside the supernova that’s the Gallagher brothers. 

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t know. 

“I have no id-” 

“Are you seeing anyone?” Michael says it all in a rush, like it’s taken a lot of courage to say it. It probably has, Calum thinks. He wouldn’t have asked Michael. It’s sort of reassuring, actually, makes something a little warm blossom in his chest, because that’s still so Michael . Michael always blurted out questions, always demanded answers, always kept social etiquette and politeness as an afterthought.

“No,” Calum says. He swallows, and then adds: “Are you?” 

“No.” Good, Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have Michael like that anymore; he doesn’t have the right. 

“Why did you call?” he says instead. Michael hesitates. 

“I saw you on TV,” he says eventually. That’s not a reason. 

“Why did you call?” Calum presses. Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale for a moment.  

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually, on a long, heavy  exhale. Calum doesn’t blame him. None of this really makes sense to him either; the fact he feels like this after five years of not seeing Michael, after four years of not speaking to him, after three years of not thinking about him. He’s not sure why he wants this, whatever this is, not sure why he wants more of Michael, not sure why his heart feels drawn to Michael like it’s north and Michael’s south. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, hoping it conveys I understand. 

“I almost reached out,” Michael says suddenly. “A few times. Over the past year, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Didn’t want to.” 

“Why didn’t you tell your band?” 

“Didn’t know how,” Michael says. Calum gets that too; he’d thought about it as well, entertained the idea, turned it over and over in his mind, but he’d never known what to say. I fucked the guitarist from Blur - I was in love with him actually - and I don’t know why I can’t get him off my mind would probably have sparked even worse reactions than the way it had come out did.

“They seem really protective of you,” Calum says. 

“They are,” Michael says, and there’s a small smile evident in his tone. “Not like yours, though. I don’t think all the money in the world could get Graham to start a fight on my behalf.” Calum can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him. 

“I don’t think all the money in the would could get Liam not to start a fight on my behalf,” Calum says, and Michael huffs out a soft laugh. 

"I'm glad you found such good friends," he says, and the smile is ripped off Calum's face at the jarring reminder that they don't know each other anymore. It sounds so distant, like Michael's content with this arm's-length distance between them, two people who used to know everything about each other and are now making polite small talk.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I’m glad, too.” He can’t bring himself to say what he really means - I’m sorry it was good enough to take me from you. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it. 

“I should go,” Michael says after a minute. Calum wants to say no, don’t, stay, but he forces the words back down and nods, still staring blankly at the hob. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Me too.” 

“It was-”

“Don’t,” Calum says abruptly, as his stomach twists. It was nice talking to you. It was nice catching up. He doesn’t want to hear the finality of the words, the forced politeness, the jarring dissonance that is the boy he’d known and loved for so long and the man he is now.  

Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs. 

“Look,” he says. “I- you don’t-” he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “D’you want my number?” 

“Do I- uh, yeah,” Calum says, a little stupidly, glancing around wildly for something to write on. 

“I’m on tour for the next few months,” Michael says, as Calum snatches up a recipe his mum had left lying out, and an incredibly unsharpened pencil. “But I’ll- y’know. When I’m home.” I’ll call you. He can’t bring himself to say it, and Calum doesn’t blame him. 

“Okay,” Calum says. 

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” Michael rattles off a number, some area code Calum doesn’t recognise, something starting 071. He writes it down hastily, hoping he’s heard it right because he doesn’t want to ask is that five like hive or nine like fine , and then rips the corner of the recipe off and tucks it into his pocket. 

“Got it,” Calum says, dropping the pencil onto the counter with a clatter. “071, where’s that?” 

“London.”

“Oh. Uh. Cool,” Calum says. 

“Well,” Michael says, a touch awkwardly. “See you around, then, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Calum echoes. There’s one more moment, the two of them listening to each other breathing, a second suspended in time, and then it’s broken by a click and a dial tone. 

Calum puts the phone down a little dazedly, just as his mum wanders into the kitchen. 

“Who was it?” she asks. Calum hesitates, and she raises an eyebrow, which means he’s lost the opportunity to say oh, just a cold call. 

“Michael,” he says, and her eyes widen. 

“Clifford?” she says. He nods. Who the fuck else is it going to be, Michael the sound engineer that had mixed two fucking tracks in Cornwall? “I didn’t know you two still spoke.” 

“We don’t.” Her face softens. 

“Oh, honey,” she says gently, and Calum swallows. He hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t told her about the awards ceremony and Glastonbury, and somehow, he doesn’t quite want to. She seems to sense it, though, because she just sighs and pulls him into a warm, tight hug. Calum wraps his arms around her, closes his eyes and buries his face in her shoulder. Even though he’s half a foot taller than her, even though she only comes up to his collarbone, it still feels like she’s the one protecting him, like he’s small and cocooned in her arms. 

She lets go after a minute, fussing over him messing up his hair, and he groans at her and ducks out of the way of her meddling fingers, but the warm feeling stays, and when she smiles at him and tells him she’s going to bake him his favourite biscuits tomorrow, he feels seventeen again. 

(Or maybe that’s just Michael.) 

  -------

 July and August pass in the blink of an eye.

After Leeds, they have three weeks off. Calum finally fixes the garden wall, and for the first few days, he finds himself jumping every time the phone rings. It’s never Michael though - most of the time it’s one of the brothers, asking whether Calum wants to go to the pub or get high or go out on the pull, and sometimes it’s Alan, reminding him that he’s got to be here on this day at this time and there on that day at that time and is he writing all this down because he’s going to be responsible for getting Liam there too since Noel’s going ahead this time. 

They go down to London for a few days, record a few new versions of songs and one demo of a new song that Noel’s written but isn’t sure about yet. As soon as he’s heard Liam’s vocals on it, though, his eyes light up, and Calum files the bassline away, because he knows it’s going to be on the next album now, no matter how much Noel’s pretending to hum and haw about it. He can’t fucking let Liam have anything, though, so when Liam comes out of the live room, bright-eyed and desperate for Noel’s affirmation, Noel curls his lip and tells him that sounded fucking shite, Christ, you’re almost as useless as Tony. It culminates in a huge fight that Calum and Bonehead manage to duck out of before it begins, only finding out about it when they get woken by a sombre-looking Alan in the middle of the night and informed they’re all being kicked out of the hotel because Liam’s trashed the bar and Noel’s chucked a TV out of the window of his room that landed on the hotel manager’s car.

They play their first show in America on the 21st - their first show outside of Europe - and it goes well. Noel’s not impressed by the country, having toured there with the Inspirals half a decade earlier, but the rest of them are in fucking awe, and Calum catches tiny, fond smiles playing on Noel’s lips when he sees Liam staring at the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, lips parted and eyes wide. 

Noel’s finally managed to get his way on Live Forever too, it seems, because they’re shepherded into Central Park a few days later, half of them hungover and half of them still blind drunk, to film a video. The director seems to be even fucking higher than they are, because he comes up with ideas like Liam singing while sitting on a chair nailed to a wall, and the band take it upon themselves to start suggesting ever more ludicrous ideas, just to see what sticks. Liam throws in chucking a bucket of water over Bonehead, and Calum suggests burying the drum kit, and Noel goes why don’t we just bury the fucking drummer? The director thinks that’s a fucking brilliant idea, inspired, creative, and Noel shoots Calum a look and says wow, is that how easy this is? You just fucking randomly suggest nonsense and people just go and film it?  

(He doesn’t bother showing up for most of the second day of filming, and Calum can’t really blame him.) 

They fly back to the UK and play another festival on the 31st of July, and as Calum passes by one of the posters on the way to the stage he does a double take, because Blur are on there. Liam sees him looking, though, and taps the top of the poster wordlessly as he walks past - Sat 30th July. Calum can’t help the way his stomach sinks at that. Michael was here yesterday, and Calum’s here today. Maybe that’s a sign, he thinks. Maybe fate is trying to tell him something.

Live Forever comes out in early August, and people fucking love it. Calum’s getting stopped in the street in fucking Wolverhampton - Wolverhampton - and asked to sign autographs, which makes his head spin. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks, when he calls his mum from a payphone and she tells him that they’ve had people turning up at the door asking for interviews. This is what the rise to the top feels like, powered by coke and booze and Noel's guitar. 

They play a festival in Sweden which sees Noel, Liam and Bonehead smashing up a hotel bar with the guys from Primal Scream, who they’d met at T in the Park, and Richard Ashcroft, who they’ve known for years, and once again Calum’s woken up in the middle of the night and informed that they’ve been asked to leave - not just the hotel this time, but the country. He’s driven to the police station where Bonehead, Liam and Noel are being held, and has to stand with the harsh lights hurting his eyes while Alan tries to hash things out with the Swedish police, and then the three fucking delinquents come stumbling out, grinning and reeking of alcohol. 

("Are you trying to get arrested in every single fucking country we visit?" Calum asks Liam, as they make their way to the car.

"No," Liam says, "but that's a fucking mega idea, that." 

Shit.)

They have to film another music video in August, but since it’s for Cigarettes & Alcohol Marcus at the record label lets them bargain the video down from a full on shoot to the filming of a live gig at the Borderline in London and hiring a few pretty faces to mingle with them backstage. It’s not bad, Calum thinks, as Liam hands him a beer and grins drunkenly for the cameras. Slap a fucking black and white filter on it and it’ll look almost intentionally dingy. 

A week after that, the album comes out. 

Calum hadn’t really realised what album releases would entail, but apparently, it’s a lot of fucking interviews. The first few are quite exciting - they’re still not that used to interviews; a few radio shows, a few TV shows, the odd magazine - but after days on end of answering the same questions hour after hour, Calum starts joining Liam for his hourly smoke breaks, just for something to liven the mood. 

They play a show in London the day the album comes out, and Calum finds himself scanning the screaming crowd for blonde hair, pale skin, sea-green eyes, a pretty smile, but Michael’s not there. Calum hadn’t really expected him to be - it’s a small venue, and apparently it’s been sold out for weeks - but it doesn’t stop him feeling disappointed all the same, having to turn to the back of the stage for a minute to collect himself. Tony shoots him a strange look over his hi-hat, but doesn’t say anything, and Calum sends up a quick prayer of thanks that it was Tony and not Noel that had noticed. 

The album goes gold in three days - the fastest-selling debut album in British history - but they barely even have time to celebrate because they’re heading to Sweden again the next day and Alan tells them with an unusually stern expression that he’s had to twist a lot of arms to get them back in and they’re absolutely fucking not allowed to get drunk or high or fight anybody until they’ve been in and out of Sweden. Liam moans and bitches about it but accepts reluctantly, spending the entire journey to Sweden yawning and rubbing his eyes and making sleepy conversation until he falls asleep on Noel’s shoulder. 

The show in Sweden goes off without a hitch, and they’re in Dublin the next day - their first Irish show - and the brothers go fucking mental. Calum joins in for a bit but can’t keep up; two Irish Mancunians in Dublin is far too much for his Australian stomach to handle. Belfast is no better, and the day after that they play the Haçienda in Manchester - one of the most famous clubs in their hometown - and after the three-day-binge even the Gallaghers are worn out and sleep for the majority of the two days they have off before heading to Europe and then to Japan. 

Japan is fucking insane. Fans are swarming around them the minute they step off the plane, drunk off the free little bottles of booze, and the crowd sings their songs back at them louder than any English fans ever have done. Calum’s glad he’s not singing, because he gets choked up when Liam steps away from the microphone for a second during Live Forever and the crowd scream did you ever feel the pain in the morning rain as it soaks you to the bone? He sees Liam’s eyes widen, sees the way he swallows before starting the chorus, sees the way his gaze flits to Noel and they hold each other’s gazes for a split second, something that only the two of them can read in it, and his heart swells with pride and love. God, he fucking loves his job, he loves the music, he loves his band, he loves the fans, he fucking loves it all. 

They’re riding off the high of Japan when they get to America again, due to play a whole host of shows throughout the rest of September until the end of October, when it all goes wrong. 

They’re not made for America, Calum thinks. They gets thrown out of a radio show for swearing live on-air; they get in a fight with the bouncers at some famous club in Hollywood; and one night in LA they even get a visit from the police, who arrive with their guns drawn, because Bonehead won’t stop playing Supersonic with his amp on full volume at six in the morning. Noel cackles when he sees them and tells them to fucking go ahead, shoot the cunt, and Maggie, their poor, overworked, underpaid tour manager, rushes out in her pyjamas and bargains with the police, tries to smooth things over. Calum thinks that’ll be it, that’ll be the big story of the tour, but it’s all overshadowed when they get to the Whisky a Go Go, some famous club that they’re told repeatedly it’s an honour to be playing. 

Oasis being Oasis, they’re looking for coke. Someone procures a bag of white powder at soundcheck, and Liam grabs it greedily and starts cutting it into lines as the rest of the band circle around it like vultures, and as it goes up Calum’s nose he thinks fucking hell, this feels a bit fucking different. He shrugs it off, though, and hands the rolled up dollar bill to Bonehead - maybe American coke’s just stronger.  

It hits him like a fucking train. He’s buzzing with the kind of energy that he’s never had from coke before, higher than he’s ever been before, more euphoric, feels fucking unstoppable, but there’s a dirty edge to it, something gritty and nasty that he just doesn’t like. It’s too late, though, because it’s gone down, and he thinks fucking hell - well, at least it’ll wear off in about half an hour.  

It doesn’t. 

He’s sweating, heart pounding in his chest, vision sharp and blurry at the same time when they get on stage. Everyone else seems to be in a similar situation - Bonehead’s eyes are wide and flitting left to right, right to left, and Liam’s jittery and bouncing on his heels. Noel’s somewhere else completely - he starts playing fucking Bring It On Down when the rest of them start up with Fade Away, and he plays the solo of Supersonic during Cigarettes & Alcohol. They have to play Roll With It one-and-a-half times, because Calum’s bass amp explodes a minute in, and Liam starts shouting at the audience after a crowdsurfer knocks his mic stand over, and then starts shouting at Noel for fucking God knows what, yelling at him to fuck off, until he launches his tambourine at Noel, hitting him on the shoulder, and storms offstage as the set ends. 

Calum heads off dazedly, trying to slow his pounding heart and thinking fucking hell, what the fuck was in that coke? The brothers are still yelling at each other backstage, pupils dilated and faces red, and don’t stop yelling as they’re herded into a car to get back to the hotel, are still screaming at each other as Maggie ushers them up the stairs and into their separate hotel rooms. They each shout a venomous fuck you, you fucking cunt at each other before slamming their doors, and Calum, who’s due to room with Liam that night, decides he’d rather sleep on Bonehead and Tony’s floor than brave that. 

He can’t fucking sleep, though. The high just doesn’t stop. He’s so wired, feels so fucking strung out and awful, barely cognisant of what’s going on around him but hyperaware at the same time and he just wants to fucking sleep, just wants to rest. He can’t, though, and neither can Bonehead or Tony, and they just pace around the room, vibrating with energy, muttering what the fuck do they do to the coke over here, eh? every few minutes. 

Time passes so fucking slowly, every minute inching by painfully, and by the time it’s morning Calum’s starting to finally, finally come down. He feels semi-human by the time the knock on their door for breakfast comes, and wrenches it open, still dressed in last night’s clothes, to find a serious-looking Maggie, a crease between her brows. 

“What?” he says, because he knows, he just knows something’s happened. 

“Noel’s left,” she says. Oh. Well. That’s hardly grounds for a face like that. 

“Will he be back for soundcheck?” Calum asks. 

“He’s gone, Calum.” 

“What d’you mean, he’s gone?” Calum’s not quite getting it.

“He asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. “And he’s gone.” Calum stares at her. Noel can’t be gone. He might have left, sure, but he can’t have gone.

“Wha’s tha’?” Bonehead calls groggily, from across the room. He’d come down a few hours ago, managed to force himself to sleep, and he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“Noel’s gone,” Maggie repeats, a little louder. Tony turns from where he’s sat in the corner of the room, twisting his fingers this way and that, eyes wide. 

“Gone where?” Bonehead asks.

“I don’t know,” Maggie says. 

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” 

“He’s gone, Bonehead. Took his passport, took some money, and left.” There’s a moment of stunned silence. 

“Does Liam know?” Tony asks. Maggie bites her lip, and shakes her head. 

“I thought I’d tell you first.” 

“Shit,” Bonehead breathes. “He’s gone? ” Maggie nods. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Suitcase and all.” 

Fuck. 

Fuck.  

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and sits down on the bed. “He’ll come back, though, won’t he?” 

“I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “He sounded pretty certain about it.” 

“Why the fuck did you let him go?” Bonehead demands. 

“I can’t hold him hostage, can I?” Maggie says. “He’s fucking twenty-seven years old.” 

“Shit,” Tony says. “Oh, God. Shit. ” 

“I’m going to tell Liam,” Maggie says, sounding a little nervous about it. She probably should be, Calum thinks distantly, staring unblinkingly at the carpet. Noel’s gone.  

“I’ll come with you,” he finds himself saying, more for Liam’s sake than Maggie’s. He stands up robotically, completely on autopilot, and follows her out of the room, leaving Bonehead and Tony in shocked silence. 

Liam answers his door on the first knock, already awake and showered, and his face falls when he sees it’s not Noel. Oh, God. The kid’s going to be fucking beside himself. 

“Can we come in?” Maggie says, aiming for sweet. Liam’s eyes narrow. 

“What’s happened?” he says. Maggie hesitates. 

“Noel’s gone,” she says softly, after a moment. 

“Where to?” 

“He’s gone, Liam,” Calum says. The words feel strange on his lips. Noel can’t be gone, not now, not when they’re finally getting somewhere. Not without fucking saying anything to them. 

“Where?” 

“We don’t know,” Maggie says, still gentle, still kind, still trying to soften the blow. Liam looks about five years old, damp hair plastered to his face, eyes wide and shining with something that looks like fear, maybe, or loss, or rejection. Or maybe all of them with a sheen of anxiety. 

“Fuck,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Is he going to be okay? Is he alright? Did you speak to him?” 

“He just asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. 

“But he’s okay?” 

“I- he seemed okay, yeah, but-”

“Okay,” Liam says, like he’s trying to steady himself. “When’s he coming back?” 

“I-” Maggie cuts herself off, and takes a deep breath. “I think he’s gone for good, Liam.” 

Calum can see it, the moment it registers in Liam’s mind, sees it in the way his eyes widen and his lips part, in the panic that rises in his eyes. 

“He’s not,” Liam says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “He wouldn’t fucking do that.” 

“He’s gone,” Maggie says again, softer than before, and then reaches inside her coat pocket. “He left you a letter.” Liam stares down at the folded envelope in her hand, and then snatches it and shuts the door in both of their faces. 

They stand there for a moment, and then Maggie turns to Calum. 

“Well,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “That could’ve gone worse.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says vaguely, still staring at the door. 

It couldn’t be worse, though. 

  -------

  Alan tells them not to worry, for the first few days. Noel’s disappeared before, and he’s quit before, and he always comes back. 

So they try not to worry. Bonehead starts drinking at eleven in the morning, and Calum tries not to worry. Tony and Maggie have hushed conversations under their breath, and Calum tries not to worry. Liam doesn’t leave his room, and Calum tries not to worry. 

They get a fucking bollocking about the gig from Alan, from Marcus, from fucking Maggie, even, but it feels hollow because they all know they’re not going to get the only bollocking that really matters - the one from Noel. They sit there silently while Alan rages about how embarrassing it was, while Marcus runs through numbers and statistics about sales and how they’re going to be affected, while Maggie gives them disappointed looks and says really, snorting meth hours before a concert, what were you thinking?  

Yeah. They’d snorted fucking meth. Some absolute fucking idiot - William John Paul Gallagher - had mistaken meth for coke. It’s why they were absolutely out of their fucking minds, why Calum hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and why Liam and Noel’s argument had been more ferocious than usual. It might also explain why all of this feels even more overwhelming than usual, why the comedown feels like it’s just not going away, why whenever Calum walks past Noel’s empty hotel room he feels like he’s suffocating. 

By the third day, even Calum’s at a loss. He’s been getting out of the hotel, going for long walks and getting lost and having to ask for directions to get back, standing by the sea and breathing in the salty air to try and clear his mind. He’s worried about Noel, more than anything - Noel doesn’t usually leave without saying anything, without getting the last word in, which is what makes this feel all the more real, like this is the time it’s going to stick. 

Although, Calum thinks, maybe Noel did get the last word. He’d written a letter to Liam, after all; maybe he’d said something in there about where he was going, what he was doing, something that makes this whole situation make any sort of sense. Maybe Liam knows something the rest of them don’t. 

He knocks on Liam’s door after he doesn’t show up for lunch again, and Liam answers, looking a little dishevelled, and a lot drunk. 

“What?” he says dully. 

“What did the letter say?” Calum asks. Liam stares at him for a minute, and then opens the door enough to let Calum walk in. 

The room’s a fucking tip. Liam’s clothes are strewn all over the floor - which, granted, isn’t exactly new - and Calum can see white powder residue on the coffee table, the desk, even the fucking bedside table. Next to the smudges of powder on the bedside table is the letter Noel had left, rolled up tightly, but creased all over. Liam’s been reading it, using it to snort drugs, smoothing it out and reading it again, rinse and repeat. 

Calum sighs, and sits down on the chair next to Liam’s bed, throwing him a doleful look. Noel’s Calum’s best friend, sure, and Calum’s not got a clue what to do without him, but he’s Liam’s brother. His flesh and blood, the boy who held Liam’s hand while he crossed the road, who nursed him through his first black eye, who writes songs with lyrics like please, brother, let it be, after a fight. Liam's never not had Noel looking out for him - through exasperation and curses and fists connecting with jaws, but there nonetheless.  Liam hasn’t got a chance without Noel.

Liam throws himself down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, and Calum puts his hand on Liam’s shin, fingers resting lightly against rough denim. I’m here, he’s trying to say, but it feels hollow to the both of them, because he’s not Noel. 

“What did he say?” Calum asks again. Liam stares up at the ceiling, blinks once, and then opens his mouth. 

“He told me he loved me,” he says. Calum’s stomach twists. That’s not a good thing, not from Noel. He’d never say that, least of all to Liam, unless what he was trying to say was goodbye. 

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to let the panic seep into his voice. “Did he say where he was going?” Liam shakes his head. 

“Just a bunch of shite about how can we be brothers anymore, blah blah blah,” he says, voice rising mockingly on Noel’s words. Anger works for Liam, especially where Noel’s concerned. It’s the only way he knows how to feel about Noel. “Can’t do this anymore, it’s not me it’s you, all that breakup bullshit.” 

“What about your mum?” Calum says, even though he knows the answer to that, because Alan’s been calling Peggy pretty much every hour. Liam shakes his head. 

“She’s fucking beside herself,” he says, fury licking at the edges of his tone. “I get doing it to me, up and leaving like that, because that’s us, innit, but to mam? I’ll fucking kill the prick myself if I ever see him again.” He doesn’t mean it, but Calum lets him pretend that they both believe it. 

“You should eat,” Calum says, after a moment of silence.

“Probably,” Liam says, to the ceiling. He blinks up at it one more time, and then rolls onto his side. 

“He’s a fucking cunt,” he announces, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and his voice wavers a little. Calum sighs and reaches his hand out, and Liam extends his own to lace his fingers with Calum’s, blinking at him with glassy, tired eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and his voice is definitely wobbly now. “I didn’t mean to push him away. I love him.”

“I know,” Calum says, and squeezes Liam’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “He knows, too.”

“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I knew,” Liam says, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t’ve been such a cunt.” 

“Yeah, you would’ve,” Calum says, but it’s not unkind. “That’s how you two are.” 

“Cain and Abel.” 

“Doesn’t Cain kill Abel?” 

“Isn’t Noel killing me?” Calum’s not really sure what to say to that. He supposes, in a way, Liam’s right. One of them’s got to fall off the tightrope at some point, and Liam’s never going to push Noel. And Liam would be all too happy to fall off, if it were for Noel.

“He needs you,” he says eventually. “He’s always needed you.” 

“Does he fuck,” Liam says flatly. 

“He’d never let anyone but you sing his songs,” Calum says. “That’s the highest praise you can get from Noel.” Liam’s silent for a moment, because he knows Calum’s right, and then he sighs again, loud and heavy.

“I’m hungry,” he says, and Calum closes his eyes in relief. "I want fish and chips."

“Order room service,” Calum suggests. Liam blinks at him. 

"Do they do fish and chips?"

"They will if you offer them enough money." Liam hums, like he's thinking about it.

“Will you stay?” he asks lowly. Calum hesitates, and then nods. 

“‘Course I will,” he says, and gives Liam’s hand another squeeze. Liam smiles at him, small but genuine. 

“Love you,” he says. Calum smiles back, soft and fond. 

“Love you too,” he says. 

“Enough to find me good fish and chips in LA?” Liam says hopefully, and Calum laughs. 

“Nowhere near enough for that,” he says, and Liam sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling too, which is the best Calum can hope for.

  -------

 A few hours later, while searching for a pack of cigarettes, Calum comes across the spare room key to Noel’s room that Noel had pressed in his hand wordlessly on their first night. Calum hadn’t really been sure what to make of it - was it an invitation for late-night songwriting, or the first acknowledgement of that night a few years ago either of them have ever made? - but it hadn’t even mattered, because Noel had left so soon anyway. 

He’s heading to the room before he’s even really thought about it, unlocking the door and taking in the too-empty, too-clean room. The bed’s been perfectly made by the staff, nothing like the slapdash job Noel usually does, and there’s no suitcase with clothes spilling out of it kicked in the corner of the room, no shoes strewn across the floor as Noel had kicked them off on his way to the bed. It’s almost overwhelming, to know that this room housed the decision that could end Calum’s career, and that this is the last connection he could ever have to Noel. It feels almost suffocating, like the walls are too big and too white for Calum, and he finds himself sitting down on the bed and reaching for the phone before he’s really thought through what he’s doing. 

He’d memorised the number, of course. He hadn’t really meant to; he’d just read the little scrap of paper so often that it had stuck. He barely even hesitates as he dials, chest so heavy with the crushing weight of the empty room, of the silence Noel's left in his wake. 

The phone rings four times and Calum doesn’t even realise his fist is clenched until there’s a click and a shuffling sound, and his fingers relax.

“Hello?” Michael sounds casual, relaxed, a little sleepy. Calum clutches the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Michael repeats. 

“Michael.” He hears a sharp intake of breath. 

“Calum?” Michael says. “Aren’t you in America?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fucking hell. You’d better make this quick, then.” He doesn’t hang up, though, which is something. Calum just listens to him breathing for a minute, not really sure what he actually wants to say, or if he wants to say anything at all. 

“Calum?” Michael says, jolting him back to reality. 

“Noel’s gone,” Calum says. 

“What d’you mean, he’s gone? Where?”

“Dunno.” There’s a pause.

“You lost your songwriter?” 

“He’s gone. Left.” Michael inhales deeply. 

“Where? Where’d he go?” 

“We don’t know.” Michael exhales. 

“Oh, Calum,” he says, and he sounds sorry and sad. Calum’s eyes flutter shut, trying to soak in the sound of his voice. 

“I-” Calum cuts himself off, because he doesn’t actually know what he’s trying to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, and he sounds like he means it. 

“Are you?” Calum can’t help but ask, a little bitterly. If Michael rang him and said Damon had left Blur, Calum would probably feel honour-bound to tell Noel. Or, he wouldn’t, now. Fuck. 

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Michael says, tone a little hard. Calum puts his head in his hands. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. 

“Why did you call me if you think that?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum says again, hearing the hopelessness in his own voice. “I just- I don’t know.” Michael sighs. 

“How’s Liam taking it?” he says. He’s trying, Calum can tell. He’s trying, for Calum’s sake. 

“Fucking terribly,” Calum admits. “Noel wrote him a letter.” 

“A letter?” 

“Yeah. A- a fucking, like, goodbye note, I don’t know. He’s a mess.” 

“Jesus.” Michael hesitates for a moment, and then adds: “What happened?” 

“Him and Liam had a fight,” Calum says. “And we played a fucking awful gig in LA.” 

“Don’t they fight all the time?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why this time, then?” Calum shrugs. 

“We did meth,” he says. 

“You- you did meth? ” Michael sounds horrified. “ Calum, fucking-” 

“We thought it was coke,” Calum says. 

“How the fuck- ” 

“I don’t fucking know, Liam’s a fucking idiot,” Calum says, even though he’d put the stuff up his nose too. 

“Fucking hell,” Michael breathes. “Alright. Jesus. And Noel just- just, what, took off?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, gut twisting at the words. “Took his passport and some money and left.” 

“Passport?” Michael says. “Did he go home?” 

“No.” There’s a pause. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah,” Calum agrees, and it sounds listless, but he means it with every fibre of his fucking being. 

“I’m sorry, Calum,” Michael says softly. Calum blinks at the wall. 

“Yeah,” he says again. “Thanks.” Michael sighs. 

“What are you going to do now?” he says. 

“I have no fucking idea,” Calum says, the words acrid in his mouth. What the fuck are they going to do now? None of the rest of them can fucking write, can they? Not like Noel, at least. 

“Are you going to finish the tour?” 

“I don’t know, Michael,” Calum says. All the questions are making his head hurt. He hasn’t even thought that far ahead, hasn’t really considered anything beyond where the fuck is Noel, I hope Noel’s alright, I’m going to fucking kill Noel. He doesn’t even know if they’d be allowed to play Noel’s songs - there’s got to be some kind of legal bullshit about royalties involved, hasn’t there? God, Noel’s always handled that stuff. Calum’s never read a fucking contract in his life, just signed where Noel told him to sign. Noel had been the one to sort out their management, to negotiate the record deal, to get the contracts for the tours. Who the fuck are Oasis without him? 

“Hey,” Michael says gently. “It’ll be alright.” 

“Will it?” 

“Yeah.” Michael has nothing to back his words up, no events or facts he can point to and say see, it’ll be fine, but somehow, Calum believes him. Maybe because he wants to believe him, with every scrap of his soul, or maybe just because it’s Michael. 

“Thanks,” Calum says, and it comes out tired. Michael just hums in response, and they lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable, though, not like the last time Michael had been at the other end of a phone line. They’re existing in tandem, and it feels like something slotting into a place that Calum didn’t know was empty.

“I can’t believe you did meth ,” Michael says after a while, in disbelief, and Calum can’t help the way his lips hitch up in a faint smile. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. 

“Y’know, the tabloids aren’t wrong about you,” Michael says, and there’s a smile in his voice too. He’s teasing Calum. “Always calling you a bunch of hooligans. Taking meth because you think it’s coke, fucking hell.” 

Calum huffs out a laugh, fingers curling around the receiver as his heart flips in his chest. Michael reads about him in the papers. 

“That’s just Liam,” he says. 

“So you weren’t deported from Sweden?” 

“Well-”

“Exactly,” Michael says, and Calum can hear him grinning.

“That was because of Liam,” Calum says. He pauses, and then adds: “And Noel. And Bonehead.” Michael laughs, soft and melodic, and for one split, giddy second Calum thinks fuck, I want to spend the rest of my life hearing you laugh. He’s sure he doesn’t mean it, though. It’s probably the fucking days-long comedown, and the fact he’s feeling Noel’s absence like nothing else. It's the first time he's heard someone laugh since Noel left, after all.

“I can’t believe that’s what I’m up against,” Michael says, and it’s still soft and amused, but Calum can hear the slight tinge of sadness to it. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile fading. “That’s your competition.” Michael exhales heavily, and Calum thinks they might be thinking the same thing. How did we go from us to competition?

“Why did you call me?” Michael asks. Calum’s fingers twitch against the phone. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just- I don’t know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Why did you call me? After Top of the Pops, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. He’d said the same thing two months ago. But, two months ago he hadn’t added what he does this time: “D’you really want to do this now?” 

“Do what?” Calum says. 

“Talk about this. Us. Now.” Calum swallows. 

“No,” he says. He never wants to talk about it. He wants to walk the edge of this precipice forever, doesn’t ever want Michael to say c’mon, let’s jump, because he doesn’t know what he’ll find at the bottom. He doesn’t know whether Michael’s just biding his time, waiting until they can have their big what happened to us? talk to say everything that he’s thought for the past five years, get it all off his chest, and then fuck off and leave. He’d be well within his rights to, Calum thinks, but that doesn’t stop the mere thought of it from making his heart ache. 

“Okay,” Michael says. “But we-” he’s interrupted by Calum and Liam’s door slamming open. Calum starts in surprise, phone slipping out of his fingers, and whips around to see Bonehead standing in the doorway.

“We’ve found him,” Bonehead says breathlessly. “He’s in San Diego.” 

“You’ve found him?” Calum repeats. “What? How?”

“Maggie got his phone bills and traced all the numbers,” Bonehead says. “Found one in San Diego. Remember that girl, whatsherface, Leah? Dunno, doesn’t matter, we’ve found him. ” 

“And?” Calum says, heart in his mouth. “Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Is he coming back?” 

“Yeah,” Bonehead says, grinning widely. “He’s coming back.” 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Calum mutters, stomach somersaulting. “Does Liam know?” Bonehead’s smile falters. 

“Yeah,” he says. Oh. Noel’s going to have fucking hell to pay. 

“Oh,” Calum says. Bonehead looks at him for a moment, both of them thinking the same thing - there’s going to be fucking fireworks - and then he grins again.

“Well,” he says, “at least we’ve got our fucking songwriter back, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, and laughs, a little lightheaded. Fucking hell. Noel’s coming back. 

“Bonehead!” he hears someone yell - Liam, he thinks - and Bonehead sticks his head back out of the door. 

“Aye?” 

“...go out...fish and chips...you ask Calum?” is all he can make out. Bonehead casts a glance over at Calum. 

“Fancy going out for tea?” he says. “Liam reckons he’s found a chippy.” Calum raises his eyebrows. Fucking hell. Might as well have one last supper before Noel gets back and all hell breaks loose. 

“Alright,” he says, and gets up to leave, making the phone clatter to the floor. He picks it up hastily, and Bonehead frowns at him. 

“Who’ve you been talking to?” he says. Calum clutches the receiver to his chest. 

“No one,” he says. “Was going to ring my mum.” Bonehead’s face doesn’t clear, and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to work something out. Shit, it’s fucking three in the morning in England, isn’t it? Fuck. 

“Bonehead!” Calum hears Liam yell again, sounding more aggravated this time, and Bonehead sighs in exasperation and turns back around. 

“Fucking hell, who the fuck are you, my missus?” Bonehead yells back. “I”m fucking coming, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“I’ll just-” Calum motions at the bed vaguely, hoping it’ll come across like he’s got some final organising to do - fucking make the already-pristine bed, or something, anything to make Bonehead leave so he can hang up on Michael - and Bonehead just nods, already halfway out of the door and on his way to Liam. 

Calum brings the receiver back up to his ear, ready to make some excuse to Michael, but all he hears is a dial tone. 

Michael’s already gone. 

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chapter five

[arrcayde]

Friday, 24th of January and Saturday, 25th of January. Thessaloniki Concert Hall, Greece.

spam ahead (including a photo dump with my holiday pics xxxx), with my bad formatting too and spouting of random thoughts.

I am SO SORRY for how long this turned out, i am a rambly mess who doesn’t know how to edit.

Oh yeah, I also didn’t record anything from the show because I’m deathly afraid of ~~~~ushers~~~~

I will start with saying the instagram people for the production are so nice and will answer any question you have (from my experience. i asked them a LOT)

Had all the main leads on, Amy the Friday and Celinde the Saturday.

Amy Manford and Celinde Schoenmaker were both amazing as Christine, though they do seem to both be directed as being helpless for a good chunk of the show. It is really great in Point of No Return when they go full on ‘fuck it, lets give the Phantom what he wants and overwhelm him’, including a brutal chucking of a bowl of oranges across the stage. During Wishing and Wandering Child there were some moments were ummm the idea of suicide was floating there, with her getting close to the edge at the beginning of Wishing, and in Wandering where Christine is entranced by the Phantom and stands on the edge and teeters back (I was scared shitless). Also during Il Muto, both did a funny high pitched ‘hee-hee hee hee’ after getting poked in the bum by the Poor Fool himself, which made me laugh so hard.

Lara Martins was AMAZING as Carlotta, fainting with the sandbag dropping down during Think of Me, and slapping someone sweeping the floor for daring to be present near her after Prima Donna. (Also she had a weird fake dog which was weird but oh well)

Arvid Larsen as Andre was hamming it up every scene he was in and I LOVEDD it, always bowing down to Carlotta and (not sure if right word but) disciplining Firmin’s attitude. Also his Torero masquerade costume, had his trousers all the way up to his nips lol.

Ben Forster as the Phantom is.,,,, um,, well I guess Ramin had a big influence on him? He was a great singer, though very pop sounding. I think I read/saw somewhere on Instagram that he saw this production as deconstructing the ‘magic Phantom’ of the replica into a more emotional human character, and I do kind of see it but um,,, constant anguish is a bit much?? I was low-key hoping for an understudy to go on to see something a bit different the second night alongside Celinde.

Nadim as Raoul, he was there yes. I do like they decided to give him a bit more of a clear arc, with him checking himself out in the mirror during Little Lotte and then going up to beat up the Phantom in Wandering Child (though the Phantom had a KNIFE , a PHANTOM KNIFE). He did seem a little bit bored but I think that was part of the character at the beginning, like he was a playboy who hasn’t heard no or had a girl disappear on him.

There were the projections during the Overture and Ent’racte. They didn’t really add or detract from anything?

The dressing room mirror is tiny so thats fun.

Masquerade was amazing, I loved the turntable where Christine and some of the ensemble act like a music box (and the ending where there is the call back to that with Old Raoul). The mirrors weren’t there but I actually loved it with just the columns, it made the room feel expansive and not as ‘restricting’ as the brick wall on the inside of the stair-drum-turntable thingy (I will get to that) which was in the background of a lot of scenes. Costumes were great, I loved the way the costumes were translated into a more simplified colour palette, it was BEAUTIFUL.

Loved the rooftop in general, especially with the snow.

The Don Juan Triumphant set was umm a bit bare, and the sitzprobe for it was good with the ensemble being scared into singing, rather than possessed (alongside their ‘Don Juan Triumpher’ sheet music!).

They seemed to love throwing stuff from above, with what looks like random bits of dandruff coming down whenever the Phantom is supposed to be near (I think??? or they just cant control the snow??). The rose petals (with the beautiful rose covered curtain) in Prima Donna was great, as was the snow in Wishing. The confetti bombs in Masquerade was good but um a bit much and then its just on the stage for the rest of the show hmmm.

The stairs, I am conflicted on. I think its great that there’s another setpiece for some bits (like Why Have You Brought Us Here, and Journey to the ‘Graveyard’ / Rooftop), but the steps have the brick texture, so when used to go into the Phantom’s lair and the rooftop, it can be a bit weird. It isn’t like the black box travelator where it is left up to you to decide what it is, its visually a decrepid brick wall so you see the same thing for going up and down in the Opera House (do I make sense here, jesus my brain is fried). The inside of the stairs is a grey brick wall, which turns out to be the background for the lair, the rooftop and Christine’s dressing room so I do get a bit more sick of it.

The Curtain was loud, and the chandelier um,.,,,, made a noise and lowered slowly.

The audio was a bit off sometimes: you could tell the title song may have been pre-recorded, that the ensemble are in a separate room during ‘Track down this murderer’,, and that the audio is bouncing off the Phantoms mask during ‘Why so Silent?’.

LOVED the costumes of the production, the more limited colours (except in Hannibal) worked well though sometimes could look a little bit too drab and grey, like really old instagram posts from 2012 that we used to put a lot of filters on and make look all grey and vintage (I am beyond guilty of this)

Thessaloniki has some nice museums, I’ve only been Greece once before but didn’t see much of the historical stuff, so it was nice to see.

[ansgar-martinsson]

The Best Intentions - Part 14

“And I think you know I am most definitely at yours,” he said. “Have been from the get-go, since you first barged into my office. I must… I… I must confess,” he bowed his head and brushed his lips over the flushed skin at the peak of her breast, “that the thought of you, when I was reading your emails to me that first evening… I….” He paused, keeping his head low, but peering up at her beneath his long lashes.

“You what?” she gasped at the wanton grin that crossed his features, at the hunger that burned behind the blue of his eyes, at the clutch of his fingers on her thigh, on her back. “What did you do? Tell me.”

“I… I touched myself,” he growled. “I touched myself and imagined it was you. Just from reading your words on the computer screen, I wanted you.”

The air coursed from her lungs on a rough, shaky breath as her eyes blew wide, caught in his gaze, as her mouth went dry as a desert. She swallowed as he skin went pale and bright pink at the same time. “I think,” she rasped, “I think we should go. Now.”

Wordless, Ansgar stood. He stood and brought her to stand with him. “Yes,” he hissed. “Now.” He grabbed her roughly by the hand and strode toward the back  of the small room. A shove of his palm against the wall, and the paneling gave way with a click and a quiet schuss. A thick, heavy door, hidden from prior view, swiveled to reveal the starry midnight Stockholm sky above and the city beneath.

“What the?” Joline ogled. “How did you do that?”

Ansgar smiled down at her, his teeth bright and white in the glow of the streetlight. “I designed this place,” he said. “And I always include an escape route.”

She frowned. “Escape? But what about –”

“Our desserts will be delivered in the morning, just in time for breakfast,” he winked at her as they turned the corner from the alley on to the sidewalk. “And don’t worry about the bill. I’ve already paid. Now, come on,” he tugged at her, “I want to get you home.”

They strode quickly, hand-in-hand, his loafers slapping the concrete, her heels stabbing. The sound - in sync, echoing along with their heavy breaths off the glass of the buildings, absorbed in the wind and the hiss of traffic on the streets.

Only to be cut by a voice. A voice, accompanied by a quiet, sinister click. “Your wallet, her purse, and your watch, fuckface.”

Joline gasped. “Sgar!”

Ansgar froze, his breath caught in his chest, trapped there by the sharp poke of a gun barrel in his back. He lifted his hands, slowly, slowly…. “Okay,” he said. “Just, put that thing down, get it off me, and we’ll talk. Okay? I’m… I’m just going to turn around now, and we’ll have a little chat.”

The man took a step back.

Ansgar turned slowly in place, his hands still in the air. He shifted his eyes quickly toward Joline, signaling her to move, praying that she understood. She did. She stepped toward the shadow of the building, and stayed there.

But to no use. The man, his own fetid breaths coming heavy and full of fear, re-aimed his weapon toward her, one-handed, arm extended.

She gasped. “Ansgar!”

“Ssh,” Ansgar brought his finger to his lips, his hand still spread open. “Quiet, now. Stay still.”

The man lifted his stubbled chin at Ansgar. “Put your wallet and all your shit on the ground. Tell the bitch to gimme all her jewelry, and them shoes too.”

“Take it easy,” Ansgar cooed. “Take it easy.” One hand still held aloft, he reached toward his trouser pocket. “My wallet’s in here,” he pointed. “Right here.”

“Ansgar –”

“Ssh, I said.” he clipped. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. It’s all good. I’m simply going to give the man what he needs, and he is going to go away, isn’t that right, my good friend?”

“Gimme your money!” the man barked, waving the gun. His hand started to shake, his bony arm trembled. His eyes blew wide in his increasing agitation, his head swiveling left and right as fear, as impatience washed over him. “Do it fucking now or I blow your brains out!”

And there it was. Just like downtown. The moment Ansgar was waiting for. It was as if in slow motion, the movement of the gun in a shaky arc away from Joline, toward him; and in that limbo, in that sweep through the aimless no-mans land, Ansgar struck.

And he struck with precision, his movements sharp, purposeful and, above all, swift.

Turn the body. Grab the wrist. Twist up. Up. Up. Down. Down. Christ, he reeks! Struggle. Rrrrip. Damn it. My suit’s torn. Fucker. Roar. Wrist lock. Yes. Break the fingers. Like that. Just like this. Snap!

Gasp. Ah! Ah!

More. More. More! A vicious kick – heel to the knee. Watch him bend. Feel the give. Feel the pop! Mmmmmm. Yes. Relish in the screams. Like music, oh, so beautiful.

Elbow to the face. The cartilage crack! The blood flows warm oh so warm. Oh oh, that’s good! Backfist to the ribs. Left hook to the jaw. Now, take him down. A two-knuckled rabbit punch to the throat. Steal the breath.

Choke. Gasp. Gag. Wheeze.

And it was done. The man collapsed in a heap on the ground. He wailed, balled up, knees to chest like a wounded animal. Ansgar stood above him, panting, snarling, growling - the gun, the weight of it warm and happy and welcome in his hand – the safety off, the barrel cocked, and his finger clutched expertly upon the trigger.

“Ansgar –” Joline’s voice was distant in his ear. Far away. In his mind, maybe. Joline… Joline…. he could have hurt Joline, he could have….

“Bastard!” Ansgar roared at the quivering hunk at his feet. He bent at the waist and bellowed. “Don’t you know who I am? Who the fuck do you think you are!?”

The man rolled onto his back, and looked up, pleadingly at Ansgar. “Wait!” Blood poured from his nose, painting his filthy, pained and fear-laden, snot and tear streaked face with red smears. He held his hands aloft, shaking violently, two fingers bent at an unnatural angle. “Don’t… don’t shoot. I’m… please don’t shoot me, man. Don’t do it.”

Ansgar took a step closer and bent down, the gun held casually across his knee. “You fucked with the wrong man,” he gnarled, but before he spoke again, before he could issue another threat or make another move, he felt gentle hands on his shoulders.

“Ansgar, please.”  

He tensed. Her voice. He heard her voice, close, so close, and his mind shook, checking his body before he turned on her, before the lion threatened to rise again and unleash hell upon the wrong person.

“Leave him be,” she said, patting Ansgar’s arm. She came around to his side and lowered herself, holding out her hand. “Give the gun to me,” she said. “Give it to me. Leave him here. Take me home.”

Ansgar huffed and swallowed, coming back to himself. The fight, the instinct to rip and tear and hit and break washed off of him with her words. The adrenaline dialed back, dissipating, evaporating. He looked at her, and his face fell, anguished. “Jesus, Joline,” he dropped the gun into her hand and lurched forward, gathering her into his arms, taking her with him as he stood. He brushed his hands over her hair, her face, down her body. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Tell me you’re okay.”

Joline watched in horror, fearing for her own life, then for Ansgar’s, and finally for the life of their assailant looking for a quick payday. The roles quickly reversed and Joline learned firsthand how the man she’d just met claimed a lion as a self-portrait. He was ferocious and powerful and agile, his movements so quick and well-landed that she felt her reactions were four beats behind him.

She hated violence, never saw the sense in it or the logic behind it. The bleeding coward huddled on the cement only used it as a scare tactic; that was clear enough. But he folded like a gingerbread house under the threat of an expertly equipped opponent in Ansgar.

She heard the sickening crush of the asshole’s fingers, then felt it in the sinking nausea all the way to her feet, finally then saw the evidence in the way he favored that hand. Joline couldn’t ignore the growing instinct within her to help the man in need, despite his adversarial position. The diplomat that she inhabited at the opera house wanted to diffuse and neutralize the situation before catastrophe struck.

She took a step forward on her right foot a split second before the crumble of nasal cartilage against face jolted and jostled her. She jerked awkwardly on her ankle, stepped at a weird and unnatural angle, effectively cracking the heel of her borrowed Louboutin. She stumbled to the ground, but recovered herself quickly with an inconsequential scrape on the heel of her hand.

Ansgar bested the coward, no contest. He gained control of the gun then, and threatened the nobody with it. The barely contained and incredulous arrogant rage she saw in her date scared her. For a split second she wondered if he even knew she was there anymore. Manager mode kicked in before she could dwell on it for any amount of time. As she handled the hotheaded Lionel in the set department when he screamed his voice raw about a director changing his vision, Joline pitched her voice low, pleadingly, “Ansgar, please.”

The force of his vehement fury became the magnitude for his concern for her. His hands on her hair were confident tenderness, fierce loyalty and the change in him threw her. She couldn’t look away, as if the switch in his demeanor would write an explanation on his face in plain black and white print.

“I-I’m fine, Sgar. Come away with me.” She spoke evenly not to upset the balance of his temper.

He grasped her hands in his and squeezed. The pressure caused her to wince when her scraped palm tinged in discomfort. “You are hurt,” the irritated beast growled, unrolling her palm to inspect the damage. He snarled at the wounded animal, left but not forgotten where he dropped.

Joline raised her abused hand to the straightedge of Ansgar’s cheekbone, encouraging him away from the blubbering mess of a man on the ground. “Ansgar, look at me. You’ve a scratch, a scratch on your face… just here.” She traced underneath the small slash of raised skin, raw from the scuffle. It didn’t bleed, just hollered to make itself known.

“That doesn’t matter,” his face still turned toward the unexpected victim. “He hurt you.”

She tried again to get him to focus on her instead of the fight, “Sgar, please… I fell. He didn’t hurt me. I caught myself up trying to break my fall.” She softened to mimic her voice in the restaurant, “Now come away with me. Take me to yours.”

The first few steps away were hesitant and tense, Ansgar intent on teaching the mugger a lesson. Joline attempted to temper his bad mood. The broken heel underlined the silence between them, as she didn’t want to draw attention to the scene.

“FUCK!!!!!” No sooner than the elevator dinged to a close behind them, Ansgar threw a lamp from the foyer across the vast width of his open concept flat. The thing shattered against the oblong white quartz kitchen island. It sailed from his hand in a straight shot, an aggravated growl accompanied it. The act of aggression only made him wince and crumble in pain from over-exerting his bruised ribs.

Joline dropped her clutch on a low end table with a matching lamp on it, toed off the borrowed shoes and went to him. “Hey, hey, hey… let it go, Sgar.” She touched his arm to recall him back to their night. “Very little damage, very little harm…” She clutched the air as he stalked away from her. “An annoyance is all it was.”

She reached for him to situate him onto one of the sectionals in the room overlooking a wall of windows showing a panoramic view of the city of Stockholm. The lights glittered and sparkled and moved to become its own living, breathing and beating epicenter. Her tiny hands on his broad, broad and stressed shoulders didn’t stop him. “The little cretin is nothing to be angry about, Sgar.” She recognized her own manager voice modulating and appealing in its even and soothing resonance.

The savage part of Ansgar, his baser, more animal slice of him couldn’t let go of the fight, needing to maul the threat and protect what was his. “I’m not stupid or unobservant, Joline,” he spat, pacing along the wall of windows.

“I never—“

“You didn’t tell me about the fucking shoes, Joline!!” He pointed to the Louboutins that she’d taken off as subtly as possible.

She’d worked with egos, arrogant and assertive people for most of her career, but maybe not one as ferocious as Ansgar, and never in a personal capacity. She was almost sure that he wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, but he was capable of it. Calmly, she approached him, “Tonight wasn’t about the shoes, the gun, or a common criminal. Don’t let the last twenty minutes ruin all that happened before that.”

He continued to stomp from one end of the room to the other through the largest lounge she’d ever seen, maybe the size of the O2 arena in London. He stalked from the pristine kitchen island to the cover of the fireplace that dominated the whole of the opposite wall, the nightlife of Stockholm herself as his backdrop. The lines and the angles of the room were stark, precise and showed no imperfection, order, uniform and clean. Ansgar didn’t have time for disruption, in his home or out of the street.

Joline tiptoed over to him, blocking another pass of the couch, and took his hands. “Don’t let this upset you, Sgar. The little brat isn’t worth a second thought, the shoes even less.”

“He could’ve hurt you, Joline!! Fuck! The brat motherfucker turned a gun on you!” His voice boomed through the massive room to the grand piano in the opposite corner, close to the front door.

“A misguided youth, Sgar… seeking money he didn’t earn,” her voice low and calm, to sooth. “Truly. Nothing happened.” She smoothed her hands from his shoulders down his chest after placing his hands on her waist. As her fingers ascended again, she insinuated them under the lapels to push the ruined fabric off his oh so deliciously wide shoulders. “He didn’t win.”

Ansgar held fast to his anger. “Why didn’t you tell me about the damn shoes?”

Joline shimmied the arms of his suit down the length of his arms and chucked the useless garment aside. “They’re not important, only this.” She pressed her body against his, working to swing his focus. Her fingers started at the top button of his white dress shirt, unlooping them one by one.

“You, you should have told me.”

Joline fluttered her lashes up at him as her fingers continued their task. “Okay, Ansgar, why? What would’ve you gained from knowing that?”

He suddenly couldn’t answer, he’d forgotten why her non-disclosure angered him so much when her hands touched his chest. Up and over his shoulders, she slowly undressed him, tossing aside any reminder of the events after the restaurant.

Joline took a step back from him long enough to unzip her dress and let it fall to the floor at her feet. She stood before him, naked and stealing the last of the fight in him. “You don’t want to argue with me.” She took up his hands and placed each on one of her breasts, one and then the other. “These hands don’t want to fight. I’ve seen that. Show me that your hands know… how not to fight.”

[greyjedireylo]

With the debate over explicit Reylo and implicit Reylo (that will be explored in the comics and books) I think a lot of people (Reylos included) forget that if Reylo is confirmed outside of the movies it will be useless. Most of the GA does not read extra canon material or even knows about it, and I know that cause I was a GA member till October 2017. I thought SW was just movies and it wasn't till I got in the fandom that I learned about the extra stuff. Reylo needs to be explicit to work.

the thing is, romantic love is at the core of the entire Skywalker saga. in the prequel trilogy, romantic love that ended in tragedy is what kicked the entire story off. it’s what made the original trilogy possible, it’s the thing that literally gave birth to the heroes of that trilogy. and in the same way, romantic love was a defining part of the original trilogy as well, and it was that romantic love that literally gave birth to what drives the plot of the sequel trilogy.

without romantic love, Luke and Leia don’t exist, Ben does not exist, to drive the plot. the generations of family this saga is about don’t exist. and both of those great loves ultimately ended in tragedy, because they took place in the beginning or middle of the overall story.

the idea that this space opera, this fairy tale, which has always had romantic love as its very backbone, would conclude its epic, sweeping, happy ending with a little whimper on the romance front is just laughable to me. it’s a fucking SPACE OPERA. they’ve already spent two movies setting up THE most star-crossed of lovers on opposite sides of a war. they’re not going to backpedal on that, they’re not going to leave it up in the air or vague or for future comics barely anyone in the broad scheme of things reads. SW is a pop cultural juggernaut, a modern myth, something designed to be eminently rewatchable for decades upon decades, and the movies have to stand on their own feet as a complete story. there is no SW without romance--and this one gets to end happily because it’s the actual end of the story this time. 

[makistar2018]

It's a Love Story: The History of Taylor Swift's Fiercely Tight Bond With Her Parents

by NATALIE FINN Aug. 13, 2019

Taylor Swift has gotten a ton of musical mileage out of the romantic relationships that have come and gone in her life, but those guys haven't been the truly essential players in her journey to the top of the pop star pyramid.

Instead, it's Scott and Andrea Swift, Taylor's parents, who have championed their daughter since day one, believing in her so much that they left their palatial house in Reading, Penn., for Nashville, where a determined 14-year-old Taylor felt she had to be to make her dream a reality.

Talking to CMT, she said her parents weren't just indulging her for the sake of being supportive. "My parents actually believed it," she said.

Before her Reputation Tour touched down in Philadelphia last year, she took a few friends to visit her childhood home, a Christmas tree farm in Wyomissing, where the new owners were apparently happy to let the famous former resident in to take a look at her old room.

"I went to the house I grew up in. I got emotional when I went into my bedroom, and there's another little girl's things in there," Swift told the sold-out crowd one night at Lincoln Financial Field. "It's not my family farm anymore. We sold it when we went to Nashville. I've been thinking about how cool it is to be back where I started writing songs."

She told CMT that, back in the day, her parents never pushed her, but "I would not leave them alone."

Taylor was barely out of grade school when Andrea Swift (née Gardner Finlay) first took her to Nashville to drop off the CDs she had made of her singing karaoke with record labels, having seen in documentaries about Shania Twain and LeAnn Rimes that Music City, U.S.A., was where she needed to be.

"My mom waited in the car with my little brother while I knocked on doors up and down Music Row," Swift recalled to Entertainment Weekly in 2008. "I would say, 'Hi, I'm Taylor. I'm 11; I want a record deal. Call me."'

Well, the world wasn't ready for it just yet.

"She came back from that trip to Nashville and realized she needed to be different, and part of that would be to learn the guitar," Andrea told EW. "Now, at 12, she saw a 12-string guitar and thought it was the coolest thing. And of course we immediately said, 'Oh no, absolutely not, your fingers are too small—not till you're much older will you be able to play the 12-string guitar.'

"Well, that was all it took. Don't ever say never or can't do to Taylor. She started playing it four hours a day—six on the weekends. She would get calluses on her fingers and they would crack and bleed, and we would tape them up and she'd just keep on playing. That's all she played, till a couple of years later, which was the first time she ever picked up a six-string guitar. And when she did, it was like, 'wow, this is really easy!'"

Swift performed in venues all over Pennsylvania, wherever she could get a gig, and wrote her little heart out.  She went back to Nashville at 13 and got a development deal at RCA Records, which she declined to re-up after a year, wanting to record only songs that she had a hand in writing. At 14 she became the youngest person in the roster at Sony/ATV Publishing.

So, the whole family—Scott, Andrea, Taylor and her brother, Austin Swift—eventually relocated to Hendersonville, about 20 miles outside Nashville, in 2003. But they didn't explicitly put it that way at the time.

"I knew I was the reason they were moving," Taylor later told Self. "But they tried to put no pressure on me. They were like, 'Well, we need a change of scenery anyway,' and 'I love how friendly the people in Tennessee are.'"

"I never wanted to make that move about her 'making it,"' Andrea explained to EW. "Because what a horrible thing if it hadn't happened, for her to carry that kind of guilt or pressure around. And we moved far enough outside Nashville to where she didn't have to be going to school with producers' kids and label presidents' kids and be reminded constantly that she was struggling to make it. We've always told her that this is not about putting food on our table or making our dreams come true.

"There would always be an escape hatch into normal life if she decided this wasn't something she had to pursue. And of course that's like saying to her, 'If you want to stop breathing, that's cool.'"

Swift ended up fatefully signing with Big Machine Records, run by Scott Borchetta, who had just left Universal Music Group to start his own label.

"They only had 10 employees at the record label to start out with, so when they were releasing my first single, my mom and I came in to help stuff the CD singles into envelopes to send to radio," Taylor recalled to EW. "We sat out on the floor and did it because there wasn't furniture at the label yet."

Meanwhile, Scott and Andrea—formerly a marketing manager at an advertising agency—had already set up Taylor's website and MySpace page (with Taylor writing her bio, updates and responses to fans herself, of course).

"The mom and dad both have great marketing minds," Rick Barker, Swift's manager at the time, told EW. "I don't want to say fake it until you make it, but when you looked at her stuff, it was very professional even before she got her deal."

Andrea said that her daughter relished the recognition, the selfie requests and the otherwise positive attention from fans of her music, "but she never in her life ever said, 'I want to be famous' or 'I want to be rich' or 'I want to be a star.' Those words absolutely never came out of her mouth. If they had, I would have said, 'Honey, maybe you're doing it kind of for the wrong reasons.'

"For her, the happiest I ever see her is just after she's written a killer song. As a parent, I felt really good about that. If that's where she draws happiness from, she'll have that the rest of her life. She's not always gonna have the awards, or the attention, or the celebrity, but she will always have the ability to write a song."

Swift has credited her mother for instilling in her the importance of maintaining her independence, financial and otherwise, saying, "She raised me to be logical and practical. I was brought up with such a strong woman in my life and I think that had a lot to do with me not wanting to do anything halfway."

Andrea's mother, Marjorie Finlay, was a professional opera singer and a magnetic presence in every room—a quality Taylor shared with her grandma, Scott Swift once said. "The two of them had some sort of magic where they could walk into a room and remember everyone's name," he said. "Taylor has the same grace and physique of Andrea's mother."

Taylor described her dad, meanwhile, as "just a big teddy bear who tells me everything I do is perfect." That being said, she added, "business-wise, he's brilliant."

Once Taylor's career started to take off, Scott, who had relocated his business to Nashville, stayed in town with Austin while Andrea accompanied their daughter on tour, helping her finish high school on the road.

"She was always singing music when she was 3, 5, 6, 7 years old," Scott, an investment banker with Merill Lynch who ran The Swift Group under the company's umbrella, told the University of Delaware's UDaily in 2009. "It's Taylor doing what she likes to do." (When she was quite little, Taylor recalled, she would tell people she was going to be a financial advisor, even though she didn't know what that meant.)

"We had a kid that was really passionate about it," he said. Getting that first deal at 13 "was the confirmation that maybe she wasn't crazy, because her writing is why she got it."

Swift was 16 when her self-titled debut album came out in October 2006. Less than a year later, she opened for Brad Paisley at the Allentown Fair, a big-ticket gig in her home state.

While "Tim McGraw," her first-ever single, eventually drew the most attention, her second single, "Teardrops on My Guitar," was her first top-15 single (peaking at 13) and the next, "Our Song," became her biggest hit on country radio to date, her first No. 1 on the Hot Country Songs chart.

Scott Swift hasn't had to do much lately when it comes to Taylor's ridiculously successful career, but he helped out where he could early on (not including the unconfirmed reports that he advised Harry Styles to not rush things when he and Taylor started dating). He told UDaily that he helped arrange Taylor's prime-time gig singing the national anthem during Game 3 of the 2008 World Series, a home game for the Philadelphia Phillies (who went on to beat the Tampa Bay Rays in five games). Scott went to college with the Phillies' facilities manager.

"The reason she sang the anthem is because two University of Delaware alumni kept in touch over the years," Scott told the paper. But as time went on, Taylor's reputation preceded her. "I've heard from a lot of great alumni, and I'm convinced they live in every city, because whenever Taylor's rolling into wherever she is, we'll hear from them," her dad said. "It's really powerful."

Scott and Andrea are hardly the unsung heroes of Taylor's life, though—quite the opposite, in fact.

You'd have been forgiven for assuming that "The Best Day," off of 2008's Fearless, centers on the father-daughter bond (going by the line "I have an excellent father / His strength is making me stronger"), but it's really a sweeping ode to Andrea, the one who waited in the car while tween Taylor knocked on doors.

"'The Best Day' is a song that I wrote without telling my mom," Swift shared in 2011. "I wrote it in the summertime, and I recorded it secretly, too. I had this idea that I wanted to play it for her for Christmas. So, when I got the track I synced up all of these home videos from when I was a little kid to go along with the song like a music video, and played it for her on Christmas Eve and she was crying her eyes out."

She eventually had to stop playing it live because Andrea was always dissolving into tears backstage.

Taylor continued, "Remembering all the times that we had when she was my only friend when I was 13 and I couldn't understand why my friends were being so mean to me. She would just take me on these adventures and we would drive around and go to towns we'd never seen before.

"Those adventures and those days of just running away from my problems—you're not supposed to run away from your problems, but when you're 13 and your friends won't talk to you and they move when you sit down at the lunch table, and your mom lets you run from those problems, I think it's a good thing... My mom was my escape in a lot of ways."

Andrea recalled the days when Taylor's friends seemed to be turning on her, telling Elle Girl she'd have to "pick [Taylor] up off the floor," she was hurting so badly.

When she was 21 she bought her parents a $1.4 million house in Nashville, around the same time she bought her first house in Los Angeles.

By 2011, the Taylor road show ran like a well-oiled machine, in no small part because of Andrea's watchful eye.

"Well, you know, she's just been doing this for so long that, to me, this is just like soccer practice," Swift's mom shrugged to the New Yorker in a 2011 profile.

After which Scott quipped, "I'm not taking her money, if that's what you're saying."

The writer noted that at least either her mom or dad was at every show that she attended, but Taylor said that they were "staying home more" than they used to.

Through the years, Andrea has become a familiar face to everyone who follows Taylor's career, from the Swifties to the paparazzi, but neither mother nor daughter has made a habit of sharing too much personal information about their family—and they, unlike some celebrities' parents, Andrea and Scott haven't been clamoring to share the spotlight.

So it was only under the greatest of emotional strains that Swift shared in 2015 that Andrea was battling cancer.

"Usually when things happen to me, I process them and then write music about how I feel, and you hear it much later," Swift wrote on Tumblr. "This is something my family and I thought you should know about now." She explained how she had encouraged her mom to go to the doctor, "just to ease some worries of mine. She agreed, and went in to get checked. There were no red flags and she felt perfectly fine, but she did it just to get me and my brother off her case about it. The results came in, and I'm saddened to tell you that my mom has been diagnosed with cancer."

Part of the message was to explain why Andrea wouldn't be at as many shows as usual, so enmeshed she was in the Taylor tour fabric.

"I'd like to keep the details of her condition and treatment plans private, but she wanted you to know," Swift explained. "She wanted you to know because your parents may be too busy juggling everything they've got going on to go to the doctor, and maybe you reminding them to go get checked for cancer could possibly lead to an early diagnosis and an easier battle."

A little over a week later, Andrea introduced her daughter at the Academy of Country Music Awards, where Taylor was one of seven being honored with the Milestone Award.

"I've watched this milestone artist from the time she was a tangled-hair little girl...Full of imagination and creativity until right now when she prepares for her next world tour," Mama Swift said. Tears starting to build, she concluded, "I'm a very proud mom."

The whole family gathered a month later to cheer Austin's graduation from Notre Dame.

On Mother's Day in 2015, Taylor personally responded to a message from a fan who had lost her own mom and was understandably having a rough day. The singer wrote back on Tumblr, "I love you so much and can't imagine what you must be feeling today. You've lived through my worst fear. I'm so sorry you can't spend today with her. It's not fair, and there's no reason why you should feel okay about it. No one should ever expect you to feel normal today."

Andrea sightings did become less frequent, but when she was spotted (having dinner with Taylor and Tom Hiddleston in L.A. in the summer of 2016, for instance), she looked like her usual self. And in 2017 she was by Taylor's side in Colorado when her daughter's dueling lawsuits with a D.J. she had accused of groping her went to trial.

Andrea testified that Taylor had told her right away that the D.J.—who sued Swift for $3 million after he was fired over the incident, after which she countersued, alleging sexual assault—had grabbed her butt while they were taking a photo during a meet-and-greet in 2013.

Explaining why they didn't immediately report him to police, Andrea said, "I did not want her to have to live through the endless memes and GIFs and anything else that tabloid media or trolls would be able to come up with...making her relive this awful moment over and over again."

"I was upset to the point where I wanted to vomit and cry at the same time," she added. "We felt it was imperative to let his employers know what happened."

The jury decided in Swift's favor, awarding her the symbolic $1 in damages she had asked for.

Andrea successfully completed treatment, but Swift revealed in March in her "30 Things I Learned Before Turning 30" essay for Elle that the cancer had returned. And, she shared for the first time that her dad had battled cancer as well.

"Both of my parents have had cancer, and my mom is now fighting her battle with it again," she wrote. "It's taught me that there are real problems and then there's everything else. My mom's cancer is a real problem. I used to be so anxious about daily ups and downs. I give all of my worry, stress, and prayers to real problems now."

Still, the now almost 30-year-old artist—winner of 10 Grammys, seller of millions of albums—won't go into too much detail when it comes to her parents' personal lives.

"There was a relapse that happened," Swift told Vogue for its 2019 September issue when asked about her mom's health. "It's something that my family is going through."

And that's a whole other kind of love story.

E! News

[justforbooks]

Rock music isn't dead, but it's barely hanging on

This is true in at least two senses.

Though popular music sales in general have plummeted since their peak around the turn of the millennium, certain genres continue to generate commercial excitement: pop, rap, hip-hop, country. But rock — amplified and often distorted electric guitars, bass, drums, melodic if frequently abrasive lead vocals, with songs usually penned exclusively by the members of the band — barely registers on the charts. There are still important rock musicians making music in a range of styles — Canada's Big Wreck excels at sophisticated progressive hard rock, for example, while the more subdued American band Dawes artfully expands on the soulful songwriting that thrived in California during the 1970s. But these groups often toil in relative obscurity, selling a few thousand records at a time, performing to modest-sized crowds in clubs and theaters.

But there's another sense in which rock is very nearly dead: Just about every rock legend you can think of is going to die within the next decade or so.

Yes, we've lost some already. On top of the icons who died horribly young decades ago — Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Elvis Presley, John Lennon — there's the litany of legends felled by illness, drugs, and just plain old age in more recent years: George Harrison, Ray Charles, Michael Jackson, Lou Reed, David Bowie, Glenn Frey, Prince, Leonard Cohen, Tom Petty.

Those losses have been painful. But it's nothing compared with the tidal wave of obituaries to come. The grief and nostalgia will wash over us all. Yes, the Boomers left alive will take it hardest — these were their heroes and generational compatriots. But rock remained the biggest game in town through the 1990s, which implicates GenXers like myself, no less than plenty of millennials.

All of which means there's going to be an awful lot of mourning going on.

Behold the killing fields that lie before us: Bob Dylan (78 years old); Paul McCartney (77); Paul Simon (77) and Art Garfunkel (77); Carole King (77); Brian Wilson (77); Mick Jagger (76) and Keith Richards (75); Joni Mitchell (75); Jimmy Page (75) and Robert Plant (71); Ray Davies (75); Roger Daltrey (75) and Pete Townshend (74); Roger Waters (75) and David Gilmour (73); Rod Stewart (74); Eric Clapton (74); Debbie Harry (74); Neil Young (73); Van Morrison (73); Bryan Ferry (73); Elton John (72); Don Henley (72); James Taylor (71); Jackson Browne (70); Billy Joel (70); and Bruce Springsteen (69, but turning 70 next month).

A few of these legends might manage to live into their 90s, despite all the … wear and tear to which they've subjected their bodies over the decades. But most of them will not.

This will force us not only to endure their passing, but to confront our own mortality as well.

From the beginning, rock music has been an expression of defiance, an assertion of youthful vitality and excess and libido against the ravages of time and maturity. This impulse sometimes (frequently?) veered into foolishness. Think of the early rock anthem in which the singer proclaimed, "I hope I die before I get old." As a gesture, this was a quintessential statement of rock bravado, but I doubt very much its author (The Who's Pete Townshend) regrets having survived into old age.

It's one thing for a young musician to insist it's better to burn out than to fade away. But does this defiance commit the artist to a life of self-destruction, his authenticity tied to his active courting of annihilation? Only a delusional teenager convinced of his own invincibility, or a nihilist, could embrace such an ideal. For most rock stars, the bravado was an act, or it became one as the months stretched into years and then decades. The defiance tended to become sublimated into art, with the struggle against limits and constraints — the longing to break on through to the other side — merging with creative ambition to produce something of lasting worth. The rock star became another in our civilization's long line of geniuses raging against the dying of the light.

Rock music was always a popular art made and consumed by ordinary, imperfect people. The artists themselves were often self-taught, absorbing influences from anywhere and everywhere, blending styles in new ways, pushing against their limitations as musicians and singers, taking up and assimilating technological innovations as quickly as they appeared. Many aspired to art — in composition, record production, and performance — but to reach it they had to ascend up and out of the muck from which they started.

Before rock emerged from rhythm and blues in the late 1950s, and again since it began its long withdrawing roar in the late 1990s, the norm for popular music has been songwriting and record production conducted on the model of an assembly line. This is usually called the "Brill Building" approach to making music, named after the building in midtown Manhattan where leading music industry offices and studios were located in the pre-rock era. Professional songwriters toiled away in small cubicles, crafting future hits for singers who made records closely overseen by a team of producers and corporate drones. Today, something remarkably similar happens in pop and hip-hop, with song files zipping around the globe to a small number of highly successful songwriters and producers who add hooks and production flourishes in order to generate a team-built product that can only be described as pristine, if soulless, perfection.

This is music created by committee and consensus, actively seeking the largest possible audience as an end in itself. Rock (especially as practiced by the most creatively ambitious bands of the mid-1960s: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, and the Beach Boys) shattered this way of doing things, and for a few decades, a new model of the rock auteur prevailed. As critic Steven Hyden recounts in his delightful book Twilight of the Gods: A Journey to the End of Classic Rock, rock bands and individual rock stars were given an enormous amount of creative freedom, and the best of them used every bit of it. They wrote their own music and lyrics, crafted their own arrangements, experimented with wildly ambitious production techniques, and oversaw the design of their album covers, the launching of marketing campaigns, and the conjuring of increasingly theatrical and decadent concert tours.

This doesn't mean there was no corporate oversight or outside influence on rock musicians. Record companies and professional producers and engineers were usually at the helm, making sure to protect their reputations and investments. Yet to an astonishing degree, the artists got their way. Songs and albums were treated by all — the musicians themselves, but also the record companies, critics, and of course the fans — as Statements. For a time, the capitalist juggernaut made possible and sustained the creation of popular art that sometimes achieved a new form of human excellence. That it didn't last shouldn't keep us from appreciating how remarkable it was while it did.

Like all monumental acts of creativity, the artists were driven by an aspiration to transcend their own finitude, to create something of lasting value, something enduring that would live beyond those who created it. That striving for immortality expressed itself in so many ways — in the deafening volume and garish sensory overload of rock concerts, in the death-defying excess of the parties and the drugs, in the adulation of groupies eager to bed the demigods who adorned their bedroom walls, in the unabashed literary aspirations of the singer-songwriters, in mind-blowing experiments with song forms marked by seemingly inhuman rhythmic and harmonic complexity, in the orchestral sweep, ambition, and (yes) frequent pretension of concept albums and rock operas. All of it was a testament to the all-too-human longing to outlast the present — to live on past our finite days. To grasp and never let go of immortality.

It was all a lie, but it was a beautiful one. The rock stars' days are numbered. They are going to die, as will we all. No one gets out alive. When we mourn the passing of the legends and the tragic greatness of what they've left behind for us to enjoy in the time we have left, we will also be mourning for ourselves.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[mavrustheunskooled]

Why is Bare: A Pop Opera not as super popular as Dear Evan Hansen or Be More Chill? The fandom loves LGBT rep (which Bare has) and the songs are amazing and I think B:APO is actually superior to both of those. Thoughts? I mean the musical fandom tends to try to find LGBT characters even when they aren't stated, so why do you think Bare is not as popular?

this is a very interesting question and I am hopefully going to do it justice by analyzing Fandom, Musical Writing, and Many Other Things I’m Super Passionate About

the short: many factors and a lot of luck

the unnecessarily long: 

(opening disclaimer: I love dear evan hansen and be more chill, and I’m not upset that they’re popular musicals because I feel that they’re popular for a reason. anything that sounds like an insult in the following response isn’t such because I truly enjoy both of those musicals a lot) 

(another disclaimer: spoilers for bare, DEH, and BMC, also mentions of homophobia) 

on paper, bare seems like the exact sort of musical that would be popular. bare the musical (cursed as it is) has a cast of super popular actors like Barrett Wilbert Weed, Gerard Canonico, Taylor Trensch, Alice Lee, Alex Wyse, a high quality bootleg exists of the 2013 LA cast, it’s got LGBT+ rep, complex women characters… and yet it’s got a tiny fan base. Why? 

first let’s look at why dear evan hansen and be more chill are popular. I’m more well versed in bmc, so let’s look at its history (disclaimer: I’m estimating dates but this is roughly the timeline) 

the original bmc run was in 2015 I believe. they recorded a soundtrack, everything was fine, and they closed. in 2017, people began discovering the soundtrack in hoards. specifically, they were discovering one song: Michael in the bathroom. that’s even how I learned about the show- I heard that song and had to look up the rest of the soundtrack. and in February of 2019, they’ll start previews on broadway because the fandom was revived 

why this song? I think a ton of fame comes from talent, yes, but also from luck. I think bmc was lucky that Michael in the bathroom, a great song, was discovered as the great song that it is. I also think the fame came because that song is super relatable. as someone with pretty bad anxiety, that song really touched me because I’ve definitely spent parties hiding in the bathroom and avoiding everyone and wishing I was dead because I’m so overwhelmed with anxiety. it’s relatable, so people flocked to it. 

this made me pause to think “what is bare’s hook song” my first thought was a quiet night at home if we want a song in the same vein as MITB, but that song isn’t as hype as MITB (and fandoms don’t care about fem characters as much as it cares about masc characters). my next thought was are you there because I think it’s a bop and a relatable “pls someone help” kind of song, but I don’t know which song everyone could relate to as much as everyone could relate to MITB 

and speaking of relatable content- that’s where the DEH connection comes in. dear evan hansen is similarly relatable, although it takes that to an extreme given what Evan does as a result of his anxiety. Michael and Evan are relatable characters, even if you don’t condone everything they do (and if you condone everything Evan does, we have much to talk about)

but doesn’t bare have relatable characters?? absolutely !! there’s Peter, a closeted gay kid who wants to come out, and Jason, someone who acts tough but is secretly very insecure, and Nadia, with her body image issues, and Ivy, who people won’t take seriously because they’ve decided they already know her, and so many other complex characters. so why are they left behind? 

let’s look at bare’s history: 

bare was originally written in the 90s (I want to say 1999, but I could be wrong) the performance most people consider the quintessential bare performance was in 2004 with Michael Arden, John Hill, Jenna Leigh Green, etc. 

if you compare this to DEH and BMC, the first issue is clear. DEH was hugely popular around 2016. BMC began to grow in popularity in 2017. these are very, very new shows. 20 years doesn’t sound like a lot, but in our current age where time seems to pass so quickly which each new fad, bare seems like an older musical, and a lot of people aren’t the biggest fan of older musicals. and they don’t have to be !! but it’s a personal preference of some people that could affect how they view bare as a potential musical to be a fan of 

in terms of the music of bare, it’s definitely catchy, but it’s not like a pop song. (again, no shade at DEH and BMC because those aren’t jukebox musicals or anything). bare is simply not as easy to listen to as DEH and BMC are in my opinion (and it’s not the most complicated thing ever either, but holy cow its lyrics are smart and I have to throw that in here) 

now let’s look at reasons why people may not want to watch bare. while it is great that it has canon gay characters, compelling women characters, and is very cleverly written it also has issues that can be turn-offs to people. this includes: 

-bury your gays

-gay-guy-cheats-on-boyfriend-with-girl trope 

-gay-guy-gets-outed trope 

-and potentially other homophobic tropes

I’m not shaming bare for perpetuating these tropes because it was written 20 years ago, and lgbt+ people are allowed to enjoy media in spite of its perpetuation of negative tropes, but for some people these things are enough to turn them away. and I don’t blame them! I watched bare the musical before I watched bare a pop opera, and when Jason I died I closed out of YouTube without finishing the show because I was so Sick of bury your gays. 

I am aware that there are reasons Jason died at the end of bare (they’re making a statement about how homophobia kills, particularly how homophobic religious people can have an awful affect on young religious gay people), but there comes a time when “reasons for a gay character to die” is just too much. sometimes, you just want the gay character to live, and I completely respect that notion because I felt the exact same way when I watched bare the musical. I remember when I first watched bare the musical I wrote a thread about how as a Romeo and Juliet adaptation, bare follows some things closely (like death at the end) while avoiding other extremes (Romeo running off to another country) and I thus felt the death was unnecessary. if someone else feels similarly about being sick of gay characters dying, they have every right to not want to watch bare 

that’s enough on why someone might not want to watch bare. let’s get back to bare vs DEH and BMC 

I also think a big aspect of fandoms is shipping. the fetishization of MLM (and consequently ignoring fem characters completely, along with focusing solely on white men for their shipping and ignoring men of color) is a huge problem in fandoms that I could talk about forever, but for the sake of this response, I’ll keep it a bit shorter 

DEH and BMC profit heavily off of shipping in terms of gaining popularity. people love Evan x Connor (and other ships but that’s the main one I see), and people love Jeremy x Michael (and others). so why then do people not care about bare, a show with a canon relationship between 2 basic white men, which is their ultimate goal? 

I think people like the idea of these mlm ships more than canon content. if there’s canon, it’s harder for them to make a variety of ships because it feels like everything else has to rotate around the canon without touching it (which is where the bare fandom gets Matt x Lucas because they’re the closest they have to 2 basic men- I can write my criticism of them another time though) 

I’ve also seen posts saying that things with canon lgbt+ characters sometimes have smaller fandoms because there is no need for lgbt+ theorizing- it’s right there, and if you want lgbt+ content, watch the thing. I don’t necessarily agree with this for myself (I’ll reblog every pilgrim’s hands gifset I see) but I can definitely see how other people might think this way 

failing to hype up stuff with lgbt+ characters can have a negative impact. BMC is the prime example of how a show can be revived by its passionate fan base. if people aren’t talking about bare, it’s not going to spread like other shows do 

this is kind of all over the place but anyway- I want to talk about characters more. one thing DEH and BMC have are great, complex characters that are very easy to boil down to a fandom’s favorite stereotypes. I am absolutely not saying DEH and BMC have simple characters because I think all of them have layers; however, fandoms do love to go “this is precious cinnamon roll who can do no wrong and this is evil awful terrible irredeemable person” and it’s a bit difficult to do that with bare. 

you can say Peter is your perfect son, but he does try to force Jason out before he’s ready. you can say Ivy is the evil seductress trying to tear apart your gay babies, but I will physically fight you. there aren’t any black-and-white good or bad bare characters (except Father Flynn- hate him), which doesn’t fit in line with the way fandoms function. sweeping generalizations about the current state of society based on the internet are exhausting and bad, but we do live in an age where everything must either be perfect or evil, and you can’t do that with bare. no one “did nothing wrong uwu” and that’s what fandoms Want 

(note: they will excuse wrong actions, such as everything wrong Connor Murphy has ever done, if the character is played by a mildly attractive guy they want to ship with another mildly attractive guy) 

another point that I don’t have fully fleshed out thoughts on enough to devote too much time to is the integration of parents into the shows. in both DEH and BMC, the parents get redemption arcs. in bare, Claire does say she love Peter at the end, but she’s much less of a sympathetic character than Mr. Heere or Heidi (that’s her name right- Evan’s mom) or the Murphys. when I was younger, I wasn’t allowed to watch anything that painted parents, or adults in general, in a negative light, but maybe that’s not a universal experience 

this is getting way too long and it probably has more thought put into it than what was necessary, so I’ll try to close this quickly 

I think, first off, that DEH and BMC completely deserve the hype that they have received. they’ve got compelling stories, interesting characters, and fantastic soundtracks. I also think that luck factors heavily into them getting what they deserve. there are plenty of great shows, like bare and the boy who danced on air and spies are forever and probably more that I’m not thinking of, that have great music and characters and story that, out of sheer chance, don’t get the chance they should have been given. there is no bulleted list someone can follow and at the end they’ll be on broadway with an armful of tonys; is the luck of the draw, and bare has not been afforded that chance 

I’ll end with some reasons why anyone who happened to read this but might not be a bare fan should listen to or watch bare: 

- it is an amazingly clever show; every time I watch it or listen to it, I realize another moment of foreshadowing or a line I originally brushed off was actually very significant or there’s another recurring motif/theme in the music 

- it’s full of bops (go listen to you and I or are you there or portrait of a girl) 

- canon gay characters in a canon gay relationship 

- 3 dimensional fem characters that actively criticize stereotypes 

- it’s about a religious gay boy who grapples with his religion and his sexuality and how those two things can coexist 

- it is Very Very Good

in conclusion: bare is very good and deserves attention xx

[angel-of-stagelights]

i don’t suppose you have any musicals that you think i would like (i listen to BMC, DEH, Newsies, Heathers, chicago, Wicked, 21 chump street, mean girls, spring awakening, everyone’s talking about jamie, le mis, bare: a pop opera, next to normal, avenue Q, Carrie, Bloody Bloody Andrew jackson, Falsettos, BOM, in the heights, kinky boots, RENT, Matilda, something rotten, six, the guy who didn’t like musicals, prom, and waitress)

Well, you hit up a few of my favorites, so let me see what else I can recommend.

Fun Home is similar in tone and style to a lot of the contemporary musicals you listed. It’s based on a fantastic graphic novel memoir by Alison Bechdel and won a Tony for best musical. It’s alternately dark and very amusing and features a lesbian main character!

The Light in the Piazza is a beautiful show with a lot of operatic styling and multi-lingual lyrics (the American characters sing in English and the Italian characters sing in Italian when they talk to each other). It’s a period drama (1950s) that explores grief and how we navigate it. Gorgeous, gorgeous score.

Barnum is my preferred musical about P. T. Barnum, mostly just because I dislike the way The Greatest Showman romanticizes him and his life. He was definitely an interesting individual, but the musical Barnum explores more sides of him, the way I see it. It’s also got a jubilant, theatrical soundtrack with a lot of catchy songs.

Merrily We Roll Along is a criminally underrated Sondheim flop that failed partially because Sondheim insisted that the main characters be played by actual teenage actors and partially because it was simply way ahead of its time. The 2012 revival features Lin Manuel Miranda as Charlie and Celia Keenan-Bolger as Mary. It’s a beautiful, intimate look at friendship and growing older and has a sweeping soundtrack with a more classically “broadway” sound.

Actually, I’d recommend listening to as much Sondheim as you can get your hands on. Into The Woods is fantastic, but he’s written a lot of other things, some that are just as good, if not better.

Thanks for writing! :-)

[sophisticated-angel]

The Lie

Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Warning: Death from unnamed sickness

Word Count: 1,815

Story

   He died quietly in the night. He hadn’t been suffering much – or so he said – and aside from the progressive weakness, bouts of pain, and a bit of blood when he coughed, it didn’t look like he was, but he never looked as peaceful as he did the morning you found him. You and Sam both knew it was coming, but it still stunned you when it actually happened. The world got very quiet and has stayed that way, but nobody cried. Dean wouldn’t have wanted that. Per hunter tradition, you burned the body in a place away from any other people. Others attended, a handful of hunters who had worked with and respected Dean, and the ceremony is silent and muddied by rain. The ride home is silent save for the sound of the windshield wipers holding the water at bay, and Sam sits behind the wheel this time, this time and from now on.

   Traffic is slow going in the downpour, and when you finally break off to the road that will take you home, mud impedes your progress. Bobby gave you one of his cabins when Dean got sick. It’s small, but it’s quiet and pretty much in the middle of nowhere. If Dean was going to refuse treatment, Bobby said, then he at least deserved peace during his final months. You like to think he had it. Parked outside the cabin, you sit with Sam for a long while listening to the rain. These last few days have been hard on him, you know, and now that everything is finally over, it’ll be hard to be in the cabin.

   After a few minutes of looking out the window, you say, “I’m pregnant.”

   Sam doesn’t react beyond a brief glance. “You wanna get married?”

   “Yeah, alright.”

   Another minute goes by before you brave the rain and the emptiness of the cabin and rush for the door. Tree cover provides some protection, but you still enter with your black dress damp and water dripping from your hair. A rumble of thunder shakes the house as the door closes. Sam stands behind you with his hands on your shoulders, and then he presses a kiss to your neck. The sofa is draped with the afghan Dean always had on his lap, and beyond the living room is his bedroom that he barely occupied but still contains his belongings. It hits you that you’ll never buy him pie again, never listen to his bitching about how nothing good is on TV anymore and then walk in on him watching soap operas an hour later.

   “God,” you sigh. “Everything sucks right now.”

*    *    *    *    *

   Everything about the wedding is simple. Plain white dress, a simple rose bouquet, a rental priest, a few chairs for the same half-dozen people who came to the funeral, and that’s about it. You set it up in the backyard of your cabin and use one of the two bedrooms to get dressed. Minutes before the ceremony takes place, Bobby comes in. He volunteered to walk you down the aisle, and he’s doubling as Sam’s best man. After assuring him that you’ll be all set in a few minutes, he leaves and closes the door.

   “You look nice,” says another voice.

   Whirling around, you come face to face with Dean. “You can’t scare me like that, Dean!”

   “Sorry, I can’t quite control the coming and going thing, yet.” He looks down at himself like he’ll find some sort of switch that’ll answer all his problems. “You nervous?”

   “About the wedding?” You shrug. “Not really. You really think I look good?”

   “Compared to the usual dingy flannel and jeans, yeah. I still don’t understand how my brother got you to fall in love with him.”

   “I’m gullible.”

   Dean laughs. He first appeared about a week ago and scared you so bad you dropped the dish of mac and cheese you were making for dinner. The first encounter only lasted a few seconds, and you thought you were seeing things, but when he reappeared a few hours later, you knew what you were dealing with. Every now and then he pops up, never when Sam is around, and you’ve convinced him to not say anything to his brother about this . . . situation. Sam’s been through enough without having to say goodbye to Dean again.

   With a sigh, you sit down on the bed, and Dean sits beside you. “Any luck figuring out why I’m still here?” he asks.

   “Nothing yet. We burned your body, all your clothes, even that damn blanket you loved so much.”

   “Have you gone through Sam’s things? He might still be holding onto that necklace he gave me when we were kids.”

   “I’ve gone through everything. That didn’t feel morally right, so you know. It can’t be the car – you show up too far away from it – and I don’t think you have unfinished business. I honest to God have no idea why you’re still here.”

   “Well, we’ll figure it out. We’ll find whatever it is, and then I can get out of your hair. But right now, you’ve got other things to worry about. Just think, (y/n). In ten minutes, you’re gonna be a Winchester.”

   “I’m aware.”

   “And seven months from now, you and my little brother are gonna be parents.”

   “I’m aware.”

   “Just do me one favor. Don’t name the kid after me. Give him his own name. I don’t want you thinking about the past when you look at the future.”

   “I think that’s the deepest thing you’ve ever said to me. Alright, we’ll come up with something original.” You glance at the clock on the wall. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to get to. You gonna watch?”

   “I wouldn’t miss it.”

*    *    *    *    *

   After the first week, you understand that babies have their own schedule. They’re like clockwork. It’s just that their schedule is on a two-hour rotation and it sucks all the energy out of those who are supposed to take care of them. By the time you feed, change, and otherwise satisfy a newborn, there’s a very small window of time for you to get in any self-care. Little Hannah has you walking around feeling like a zombie, but you love her to pieces. Sam has been very present the whole week, and both of you are so absorbed with caring for your daughter that you no longer have time to think about the other person who should be here.

   On this night, Hannah goes to sleep easily, and you follow quickly. Sometime later, perhaps an hour, she wakes you with her fussing. Drowsily, you shuffle down the hall to her nursery, scoop her out of her crib, sit in the rocking chair, and put her to your breast without a second thought. Her little body is warm against your skin, her weight a pleasant feeling, and you lean back and close your eyes.

   “Don’t go falling asleep.”

   You jump a little, disturbing your daughter, but she’s quick to readjust and goes right back to business. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” you say with a yawn.

   Dean shrugs. “With all of the running around you’ve been doing the last couple weeks, I figured I’d just be in the way.”

   “I’ve got a million things stressing me out, what’s one more?”

   “I’m sure I could figure out some way to make your life more difficult.”

   “Careful. I’m so tired I might just be stupid enough to exorcise you.”

   Dean rolls his eyes. Hannah makes a quiet, contented noise in the back of her throat. He steps around to the side of your chair and crouches down to have a closer look at her. Your breath fogs in the sudden chill he adds to the air, but the baby doesn’t fuss.

   “She looks like you,” he says.

   “She doesn’t look like anybody yet.”

   “She will in a year or two.”

   He stays by your side until Hannah dozes off in your arms. Carefully, you stand up and walk her back over to her crib. She yawns, stretches her arms out to the sides, and drifts deeper into dreamland. For a moment you watch her sleep and long for the time when you could be as peaceful as this, and Dean lingers by the doorway.

   “I know why you’re stuck here,” you say.

   Dean perks up, taking a step towards you. “Really?”

   “I think so.” You pause, hesitating. “Do you remember that case you told me about, the one where one sister died, but she was stuck as a ghost because she donated a kidney to the other?”

   “Vaguely. What are you getting at?”

   “I know it’s not quite the same thing, but . . . I asked the doctor to do a blood test on Hannah.”

   “Why would you . . .” Dean’s voice trails off, and then he goes what passes for white as a ghost. “Hannah? No, that was one time. The odds of that are one in, what, a million?”

   “Blood doesn’t lie, Dean.”

   He bites his lip and sweeps the room with his eyes. “Does Sam know?”

   “You think I told him about the time I slept with his dying brother while we were dating?”

   “Are you going to tell him?”

   “Why would I do that? For the first time since you got sick, he’s happy. He’s got me, he’s got a daughter-”

   “No, he doesn’t. I have a daughter. You can’t hide that forever. It’ll come out, it’s how these things work.”

   You shake your head. “Just . . . leave this alone. Sam’s happy.”

   “Let me get this straight. Hannah exists because you cheated on my brother once, I’m dead but stuck here because of her, I can’t tell Sam I’m here, and he doesn’t know he’s not Hannah’s father.”

   “That about sums it up.”

   “What happens when I go bad? You know it happens. Kind of inevitable. And Sam’s bound to catch me before then. Do you have any plan?”

   “I’ll figure it out, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”

   A rustling in the hallway, startles you both, and Dean immediately vanishes. Just in time, too, because Sam comes shuffling around the corner and peers into the nursery. “You okay? I heard somebody talking.”

   “Yeah.” You give him a smile. “I was just talking to Hannah.”

   “She gonna stay asleep this time?”

   “Probably not.”

   “Well, let’s take an hour while we’ve got it.” Sam kisses your temple and takes you by the hand.

   As you follow him back to your own room, you glance back over your shoulder. Dean is no doubt still there – he can’t ever be too far from Hannah. Silently, you plead with him to keep quiet now and forever. It’ll all turn out okay. You will keep the truth safe – you have to.

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