#bri’s december event | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

genderqueeers · 3 years

Text

The Judge Rotenberg Center: 50 Years of Abuse

taken from this reddit post.

TRIGGER WARNING: This post details a long history of graphic child abuse and torture of the physical and psychological varieties.

Judge Rotenberg Educational Center, a residential school for people with developmental disabilities, emotional disorders, and autism spectrum disorders, in Canton, Massachusetts, USA. This organization has a colourful history to say the least, and given recent news, I've decided to do a bit of a summary

Origins

Founded in 1971 in Providence, Rhode Island, by Matthew Israel. It was originally named the Behavior Research Institute, and started with just two residents, one autistic, the other schizophrenic. In 1975 the BRI opened group homes in Massachusetts, and in 1976 it opened a branch in California.

The Behavior Research Institute of California / Tobinworld

When it opened the California branch in 1975, it did not have a license to operate as a group home, Israel did not have a license to practice psychology in the state of California, and the branch lacked a license to use aversives. This did not stop them. Eventually in 1977 they applied and were rejected for licenses and were scheduled to shut down. The day following their shut down a group of parents reopened the institute as a co-operative with Israel officially being consultant instead of Director, and they applied for the appropriate licenses again. The then-governor of California, Pat Brown, assisted them to gain their licenses, and they were the only group home ever permitted to use "physical aversives" on it's residents. They were awarded $35,000 a year per child by the state, the highest rate for any community facility in California.

July 17, 1981 at the California branch staff restrained 14-year-old Danny Aswad in the face-down position on his bed. He died in that position. An autopsy report stated he died of 'natural causes', however this prompted California to investigate the branch, discovering countless physical and psychological abuses at the facility. Residents were beaten, restrained, humiliated, and starved, sprayed with hoses, refused access to bathrooms, pinched till they screamed, and given "behavior rehearsal lessons" where they were instructed to destroy property, and then punished with spraying for it. Staff were trained in how to conceal bruises on residents from family members and inspectors. This investigation resulted in the facility being forbidden from using anything more punishing than a water spray, and forbade the founder Matthew Israel from stepping foot on the property.

At some point a few years later, this branch was renamed Tobinworld, and was taken over Judith Weber, who later would become Israel's second wife (she was a mother of one of the former residents).

October 1991, 9-year-old Derek Collins was restrained prone in a school bus by a Tobinworld aide and required emergency resuscitation and hospital care. Collins was admitted to Huntington Memorial Hospital in critical condition with possible brain damage. The aide pled guilty for felony child abuse.

In 2014 a mother sued Tobinworld after she alleged her 7-year-old child was regularly abused there, being denied snacks or the ability to use the restroom. She alleged in the preceding year that the facility's vice-president and three aides restrained her child, kicked his feet out from under him causing him to fall and get a bloody nose, and then when he cried they wrapped his face in plastic, causing him to choke on his blood.

In 2016 a 9-year-old boy is restrained by the arms and legs and then sucker punched in the face by a 26-year-old aid. It had been recorded and leaked by another employee who had said it was the third time they had recorded such an event.

These latter two events prompted an investigation where it was found that Matthew Israel had been illegally working at the school again without proper clearance, without the authorities being informed, without a background check, and without tuberculosis tests. The State Education board then closed down one of the branches of Tobinworld in 2016. The school was finally fully shut down in 2019.

The Judge Rotenberg Educational Institute

In 1979 one resident told investigators she desperately wished to leave the school, and her worst fear was an indefinite future in JRC. She contemplated suicide daily.

In 1979 two reports by NY State authorities found the BRI was conducting physical and mental abuse, and that the methods were only effective as a means of coercion with residents relapsing into their old behavior as soon as the immediate threat of punishment was gone.

In 1983, despite corporal punishment being illegal in Massachusetts, the institute was granted special permission for them.

July 23, 1985, 22-year-old Vincent Milletich had been acting out. He was restrained in a chair with plastic tie cuffs on his hands and feet, a mask was placed over his face and a helmet put on, and earphones were put on him to play white noise continuously. He died from asphyxiation. The BRI were not found to have caused his death, however were found negligent for approving the therapy and carrying it out without sufficient supervision. Later in the year, the State Office for Children ordered the BRI to close, or to stop using aversives. There was uproar among disability advocates demanding the school be shut, and controversy over the therapies and why it's residents seemingly 'regressed' without them, with Israel stating such regression in the absence of these interventions showed the effectiveness of them. Israel then took one of his most self-abusive students before Judge Ernest Rotenberg in 1986 and detailed her history. Rotenberg ruled she was unable to make her own treatment decisions, but if she were, she'd choose to stay at the BRI. The State Office for Children paid the BRI $850,000 and they were permitted to remain open and continue using aversives *as long as each student's treatment plan was approved by the probate court*. A year later, June 26, 1987, 29-year-old Abigail Gibson died of cardiac arrest.

1990, Linda Cornelison died. She was nonverbal and one day on the school bus doubled over clutching her stomach. A nurse thought her illness was an act. She was returned to her BRI-run home and given 13 spatula spankings, 29 finger pinches, 14 muscle squeezes, and was forced to inhale ammonia five times. She died the next morning in hospital due to complications related to a gastic perforation. Her mother reported that she had never had suffered gastrointestinal problems before. The Massachusetts Department of Mental Retardation found that although the school violated the most basic standards of decency, they were not derelict in their care of her, nor had the administration of aversives killed her.

Around the same time, the school began using the "Self-Injurious Behavior Inhibit System" (SIBIS for short) invented in 1984. It was designed to detect activities such as headbanging and administer eclectic shocks. Shortly afterwards Israel went to the manufacturers of the SIBIS and asked for a more powerful version, as "one student was shocked by the SIBIS over 5000 times a day without producing the desired change in behavior". The manufacturers refused, so Israel designed a system himself in December 1990, called GED (graduated electronic decelerator) that delivered a stronger shocker lasting ten times as long. The FDA cleared the device as they considered it "substantially equivalent to the SIBIS". By 1992 Israel was already phasing out the older GED for his new GED-3a and GED-4, which delivered even stronger shockers. He had never cleared them for use with the FDA.

In 1994 the center changed it's name to the Judge Rotenberg Center.

In 2000 the FDA incorrectly informed the JRC that it was qualified for exemption from registration of the GED-3a and GED-4, and only recognized their error in 2011 and demanded the immediate cessation of their use. They continued to be used till 2020.

The SIBIS provides a 3.5mA shock for 0.2 seconds. The GED-1 produces a 30mA shock for 2 seconds, and the GED-4 produces a 90mA shock for 2 seconds. A typical cattle prod produces a maximum shock of 10-20mA for under a second. The weakest GED's shock strength is still considered about twice the threshold that pain researchers consider tolerable to most adult humans. As of 2010 a GED-5 was in development.

In 2000 the school was receiving $18 million from the state, and in 2006 that increased to $56 million. Matthew Israel was making $321,000 a year.

In 2006 a mother sued the center claiming it had mistreated her son while he was wearing the GED. He was taken out of the school and improved significantly, although for a period after he left he had to remain in a psychiatric ward, and thought cameras still followed his movements and that he might be shocked for misbehaving.

A former staff psychologist said around 2001 the school policy switched from education and treatment to simply keeping students in line, "Israel couldn't stand them not behaving in a perfectly controlled way". Another said the school would punish not only negative behaviour, but actions they perceived as precursors to it. Face slappers would be shocked for raising their hand. Refusing a teacher's order, or talking out of turn were other such precursors.

Every room in the facility had since 1975 a complete setup of surveillance cameras and microphones monitored day and night, the purpose being to catch behaviours staff may have missed and phone them to inform them punishment needed to be handed out. It also had the dual unwritten purpose of monitoring staff members, if they refused to hand out punishments then they would be written up in "Performance Improvement Opportunities" documents, and firing staff who crop up in these too frequently.

One ex-staff member described having to shock people for an array of reasons: stopping work for more than 20 seconds, closing eyes for more than 5 seconds, a girl with cerebal palsy was shocked for moaning and reaching out to hold a staff member's hand. Another was shocked for urinating in their pants, they had been asking to go to the bathroom for over two hours. Yet another was shocked simply because they complained about another student being shocked. The staff member had been instructed to always announce what they planned to reach for in their pocket. One time they forgot and four kids screamed, they had to be punished with an electric shock.

In 2006 it was found that 14 of the 17 resident psychologists lacked proper licenses. It is believed JRC overbilled the state by nearly $800,000 by avoiding hiring licensed psychologists and not declaring that. That money was still uncollected a year later.

In 2007 it was reported the facility had a high turnover, among all staff including psychologists. A group of 52 trainees had been taken in and after three months only 2 remained employed there.

August 26, 2007, Arthur, a student who had been missing for two weeks, called a staff member and identified himself as a worker in DVR (the surveillance room) stating that shocks needed to be given to a resident for behaviours that had occurred before the night shift. The staffer handed the call over to a second staff member, the senior-most on shift at the time, as this seemed to be a breach of policy (punishments shouldn't be given for behaviour that happened over two hours preceding), however the second staffed was one of this recent batch who had only been at the facility for a few months, so handed back to the first staffer. The first staffer proceded to provide GED shocks while the student was in bed, and the staff on shift were instructed by Arthur to use the more potent GED 4, and did so for the rest of the night. The student in question received three further shocks. The student complained to the second staffer, saying the first was doing the wrong thing. The staffers still on the phone with Arthur continued to shock the student. The first staffer went to get another GED to shock the boy's stomach as the leg electrode battery seemed to be no working. The student is seen on camera speaking to the second staffer asking them to find out what is going on, and to call his clinician. Four other staffers are awake at this point, but do not intervene. Arthur seized the replacement GED's batteries in his hand and refused to relinquish them, and after a half hour confrontation was put on a four point restraining bed. He was no longer resisting, and told one of the staffers "let them know I'm being compliant". Staff are meant to tell student's the reasons they have received a shock, however while restrained a GED 4 shock is given without reason. A second GED 4 shock is given for physical aggression. Arthur is heard saying "let them rotate me" (hourly staffers are required to rotate electrodes to prevent burns on the skin, the facility denied that GEDs injured students, however burns were frequency enough that staff at the facility had a name for students going 'off the machine', a "GED holiday"). Arthur receives five more shocks. A ninth shock is given, and the DVR records an audible sob, not from the student, but the second staffer who had to leave the room as he "thought he would either cry or throw up if he stayed". Ten more shocks were given with accompanying reasons. The 20st shock was given without reason. The 21st shock was given for refusing to follow instructions. Nine further shocks were given, bringing the total to 30 GED-4 shocks in a single day. Staffers went to get approval from a psychologist to perform further shocks. Shocks continued. The 37th was given for attempting to remove the device, as were the 38th and 39th shocks. Shocks 50, 51, 52, and 53, were given for "verbal threats to destroy". In total between 70 and 77 shocks were given. After this was all done, Arthur's skin was red, he was defeated, he complained later that night of a racing heart, dry mouth, and difficulty breathing. He described feeling as if he was about to have a stroke. Staff took no action to help him. He suffered first degree burns. Arthur remained at JRC, although was on a "GED holiday".

MDRI Appeal to UN Special Rapporteur on Torture

In 2010 the Mental Disability Rights International (MDRI) appealed to the UN Special Rapporteur on Torture, a PDF copy of the 67 page report can be seen **[here](https://abcnews.go.com/images/Nightline/HT_US_Report_4_30_10_100630.pdf)**. It recounts it's own extensive set of equally, and in several cases worse tales of events which occurred at the facility.

Students being restrained for hours or intermittently for days, or even for weeks or months. One case of a student being almost strapped in a chair most of the time for two whole years. A student suffering from seizure disorders and a mild developmental disability, was put in chair restraints most of the time for a few months. He had to wear diapers, he was a teenager and had never had to wear diapers before and was very capable of going the toilet, but they didn't want to untie him to let him use the bathroom. They then escalated him to the GED too. Restraints, strict schedules, and social isolation may have been used as a form of psychological coercion in multiple cases to encourage students to consent to the GED. Another student was found to have severe ulcers in the location where the GED shocker was placed.

A non-verbal deaf and blind girl was rocking and moaning, she was shocked for moaning. She was crying because she had a broken tooth.

The aforementioned cases of students being demanded to misbehave and then shocked also has another variant. Staff would surprise students with mock attacks and threatened stabbings, to compel them to respond with aggression, fear, or screaming. They would then be intensely shocked. This specific excerpt seems scarily reminiscent of a book which caused me to subsequently stumble into and learn about the JRC on the internet - [A Clockwork Orange](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Clockwork_Orange_(novel\)), perhaps this is not entirely surprising, the story was created around questioning the idea of free will, and of the theory of Behavioralism, which very much is the theoretical birthplace of Applied Behavioural Analysis (ABA).

All residents were forced to be vegan, with restricted diets such as mashed food with liver powder. Even up to 2010 (and possibly beyond), withholding of food was a punishment used. Removal of furniture from rooms was another punishment, one student entered with a beautiful room complete with TV and stereo, and after a month had merely a mattress on the floor.

Socialisation with staff members was forbidden. Socialisation with other students was a "reward" which had to be "earned". Education was often by staring at a computer facing the wall using self-teaching software all day long.

As of 2010 at least 6 deaths in total had occurred at the facilities. For over 2 decades Republican Jeffrey Sanchez's nephew was at the facility, and was the young man who received over 5,000 SIBIS shocks a day, Jeffrey Sanchez continually defended the facility and defeated bills aimed at curtailing it.

The school was a 'non-profit' and as such tax exempt, in 2007 it had spent $2.8 million in legal fees to keep it open. Twice regulatory departments had tried to shut it down, but it was either shuffled to another department or the head of the department forced to step down, with hefty payouts to JRC each time. They were a major customer at Rudy Giuliani's law firm.

In 2009 the JRC was required to be recertified for Level 3 Punishments, a team consisting of two psychologists, a psychiatrist, and the Department of Mental Retardation's Director for Human Rights and assistant general council assessed the facility and brought numerous findings of violations, abuses, and concerns. The state still recertified the facility in spite of the findings of this report.

**In 2010, the then Special Rapporteur at the UN, Manfred Nowak, responded to the appeal, saying he had "no doubts about it" being torture.** The subsequent UN Special Rapporteur on Torture, Juan Mendez, again raised serious concerns about the ongoing activity at JRC in 2012.

In 2011 Israel was indicted on charges of child endangerment, obstructing justice, and acting as an accessory after the fact. He signed a plea deal where he resigned his position at JRC to avoid prosecution.

In 2014 a video was leaked of a shocking in 2002, [Warning: It is a very distressing video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YcxpGKctZMs)

The Last Year and a bit...

In 2020 the FDA [took the rare step to ban all "electrical stimulation devices (ESDs) used for self-injurous or aggressive behavior"](https://www.fda.gov/medical-devices/medical-device-safety/medical-device-bans). This sort of blanket ban is a rare final step for the FDA, only having occurred twice before, both times for medical devices which presented no or negligible benefit but had extreme associated risks even with proper use. [A more extensive ruling by the FDA is found here](https://www.federalregister.gov/documents/2020/03/06/2020-04328/banned-devices-electrical-stimulation-devices-for-self-injurious-or-aggressive-behavior). The ban was effective April 6, 2020.

COVID and ongoing court battles meant that none of the people on the GED devices would be required to transition off it until further legal decisions were made.

[July, 2021, a federal appeals court gave an exemption from the FDA ban to the JRC.](https://www.thedailybeast.com/the-judge-rotenberg-center-uses-electric-shocks-on-students-now-a-court-says-thats-totally-fine)

•••

this is super long and it’s from Reddit but please read it.

#the judge rotenberg center #JRC #Autism #autism speaks #autistic #actually autistic #cw: abuse #cw: torture #cw: ableism #electroshock #GRIDs or whatever #ABA therapy #applied behavioural analysis #stop the shock #shut down the JRC

28 notes · View notes

dailytomlinson · 4 years

Link

Back in December, a month before Louis Tomlinson’s debut album Walls was released, I had the honor to attend one of his album release parties in Atlanta, Georgia.

I expected my year to go differently: to travel across the country to attend several Louis shows. Little did I know sitting in the local bar in Atlanta it would be the last time I would see the musician who changed my life for the foreseeable future.

Even though nine months have passed, I can still say it was one of the greatest days of my life.

The three-hour drive to Georgia felt like five, but once the Atlanta skyline appeared over the Interstate, my mind filled with anticipation and excitement knowing I would hug Louis in near hours and hear Walls for the first time. Being in a bar with Louis just hanging out with only a few selected fans seemed unfathomable. We checked into our downtown hotel, which was paid for by Sony, and got ready with only a few hours to spare.

Once the Uber dropped us off at the bar, reality hit me. I would be in close proximity inside with the artist who shaped and saved my life — and I just wanted to remember it forever. I wanted to stay frozen in this moment. As we waited outside, the radio host, Adam Bomb, handed us papers to write our questions on. He reminded us to keep the questions respectful and music-centered if we wanted them to be considered. My question was, “I know songwriting is the major part of the album process for you. Can you talk a little bit about your songwriting process?” It wasn’t asked, but one of Bomb’s questions was about his writing process.

Fifteen long minutes waiting outside in the cold, and we were inside. The radio station confiscated our phones at the door to protect Louis’s unreleased music. A couple of tables surrounded a high chair, where Louis would sit for the interview.

My friends and I sat at a table straight across from the chair with a clear view of Louis. Adam Bomb sat in the chair next to Louis’s, and he flipped through the cue cards for preparation of the exclusive event.

“Please welcome to the room, Louis Tomlinson!”

Louis, dressed in a black sweater, jeans, and the usual sneaker, walked out from a curtain in the corner of the room. Smiley and waving, he admired the small room of fans who cheered and shouted for his entrance.

He sat in his chair, inches from where my friends and I sat, smiling occasionally at our table. Adam asked Louis a couple questions about the album (I can’t even recall what because I sat there in silent awe admiring him). It was the happiest I ever felt. It was an out-of-body experience where I wanted to pinch myself to wake up. I just couldn’t believe this was real.

As Louis exited the room, Adam talked to the crowd about how special and exclusive it is for us to hear songs from an unreleased album. He reminded us to be respectful and to enjoy Louis’s hard work.

The first track played. “Too Young.”

The audio was extremely quiet, and Louis shouted from behind the curtain, “Oi! Turn it up!” We all laughed, and Bomb turned up the volume letting the poetic words be heard. The room was silent with everyone intensely listening to the love song. I sat with my jaw open, and tears immediately filled my eyes. I couldn’t believe Louis wrote something so poetic and purposeful. Immediately, I knew this album would be better than anyone expected.

Louis’s photographer, along with the radio station’s, captured fans’ reactions and even recorded and photographed my friends and me from across the room. I felt so humiliated that my tears and freak-out with my friends were being documented, but one of the workers later told us our reactions made the room fun and she could tell how much he meant to us.

Later, a photo of me and my friends was plastered on Louis’s and the radio’s social media.

We listened to “Perfect Now” and “Walls” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Louis peaking around the curtain wanting to see our reactions to his years of hard work. He signaled to his security guard to give us tissues and he came to our table and handed us napkins for our tears.

After we listened to the songs, Louis sat back down for the interview. He said it was a beautiful thing to see a reaction like that from fans after working so hard as a solo artist. It was evident he loved being in a room with fans, we mean so much to him and we make him extremely comfortable.

He talked about the tour and how he wanted to keep it authentic and intimate for the fans. Bomb asked about his Live Life Love show in Nashville days prior, which I attended, and when we clapped he laughed and said, “Yeah, yeah, you were there.” I couldn’t believe he remembered us from the meet-and-greet just days ago.

Bomb followed up with his joke and asked if he sees fans freak out on the front row, and then he pointed at us and said, “You’ve been front row, I know you have,” smiling and laughing at our shocked faces.

https://twitter.com/Q997Atlanta/status/1202402335168901123

Bomb asked a couple of fan questions. Louis talked about his writing process, tour, and Walls. The interview was kept professional and exciting, which I appreciated.

After the interview, Bomb invited everyone to the front for a group selfie. Things became extremely intense when Louis was almost mobbed by fans who shoved chairs down to run up to him. Rylee, a fan Louis donated money to make her home accessible, was blocked by fans from coming to the front to be seen. At this exact moment, I knew I spent ten years of my life supporting the right person. He firmly asked the girls to move so Rylee could come to the front, and when they didn’t, he walked to the back and moved a chair out of her way so she was able to be seen in the photo. I wanted to sob when I saw him go out of his way for someone who has spent most of her life looked over. He truly has a heart of gold.

After the selfie, we lined up for the meet and greet with him. His smile was so contagious and he greeted every fan with a warm hug. He signed Donny jerseys and drew tattoos for fans, and as the line inched closer, my eyes filled with tears and my heart raced. Before I knew it, my friend was hugging Louis and he looked me up and down, arms wide open for a hug greeted with a huge smile. We talked briefly, I hugged him again, and I walked off. It’s hard to put into words, but his positive energy is contagious and hugging him feels like home. He’s such a special soul.

After I met him, they made us leave the bar, and my friends and I waited to wave him bye as he left. I wanted to have a tattoo drawn by him, but my anxious mind forgot. Maybe one day, though. My friends and I hung outside for a while and the radio team interviewed us for their social media.

https://twitter.com/Q997Atlanta/status/1202437699317174273

To be in the room for such a special moment to share with an artist you’ve looked up to is truly the greatest feeling ever. I never want to forget how happy and excited I was during those thirty minutes. Leaving the party, I wanted to be able to listen to the songs over and over — but I couldn’t for another month. Being one of only a handful of people who heard Walls before its release was so special yet so tough at the same time. It was hard to keep everything to myself and not leak spoilers, but I knew I had to do it for Louis. I wrote down lyrics and everything I could remember from the album to cherish until Walls was released.

My closest friends were able to join me on this once in a lifetime journey, and here’s what they had to say about the experience.

What was your favorite moment from the party?

Caitlin: My favorite moment was telling him that I would see him four times on tour. His response was, “Thank you, love,” and he looked so happy when I told him that.

Bri: My favorite moment from the listening party is whenever we took the group picture with Louis! He realized this little girl named Rylee wasn’t anywhere near and went out of his way to go help her get into the picture. He ended up putting her in the front with him and that just warmed my heart to the max.

Makayley: My favorite moment from the party was definitely hugging him and watching him interact with Rylee, but I also loved listening to the songs with everyone and the excitement of it all.

How did you react when you found out you won?

Caitlin: It was super last minute when I found out I was able to go. I was super excited because I have always wanted to attend a listening party.

Bri: When I found out I won passes to the listening party, my mind went everywhere! I was crying, shaking, screaming, and panicking. I was the last winner, the last hour. It was CRAZY!

Makayley: I had a panic attack in math class and um thirty minutes later (oops)

What was your favorite song from the three we heard?

Caitlin: My favorite song was “Perfect Now.” Something about it put me in the feels.

Bri: My favorite song out of the three we listened to has to be “Perfect Now.” The lyrics spoke to my soul. Especially the lyric that said, “Keep your head up, love.” Just due to the fact, I’ve gone through some difficult times in life and just hearing that sent me into orbit. I was crying a lot at first but then went into a place of peace and happiness.

Makayley: “Walls” definitely.

What was your initial reaction from the songs?

Caitlin: I was really impressed with the lyrics. Being able to listen to those songs for the first time was super special. I thought the sound was definitely in his lane.

Bri: I could not just have one reaction to the songs we heard. I was happy, sad, surprised, a random emotion you can’t even describe.

Makayley: I was just really proud knowing how hard he had worked on it and how far he’s come.

Did Louis answer your question? What was his response

Caitlin: Louis did answer my question about which song off the album are you most excited to play on tour to which he responded, “Probably ‘Kill My Mind.’”

Bri: No, Louis did NOT answer my question but I was happy with the ones that did get answered.

Makayley: No.

Do you wish they did anything differently about the party?

Caitlin: I wish they would have allowed us more time to talk and spend with him. the meet and greet was rushed I think. but overall it was a fun experience.

Bri: Absolutely not. It was fine as it was. So close together, we all understood each other, etc.. It was amazing!

Makayley: No, I liked the way it was very chilled out and in the setting, it was (my only problem was with the accessibility of it).

What was meeting Louis like for you?

Caitlin: Super special. it was so nice to get to say hi to him and just tell him how much I love him and couldn’t wait to see his tour.

Bri: Meeting Louis was anxiety-filled. It was my first time ever meeting one of the people I look up to. Overall, it was an amazing experience. Louis was the sweetest and most genuine person ever!

Makayley: Meeting Louis was definitely a monumental moment as for all he had helped Rylee and myself with. But, hugging him definitely got me through a rough patch, and the feeling that the hug gave me still helps me to this day.

#united by pop #louis tomlinson #with fans #281020 #press

58 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

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

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you!

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He’s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth��of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

113 notes · View notes

briagiovanna · 3 years

Text

Just a little background into OC Bria and how she met Giorno.

Bria was a member of Passione, joining when she was very young. Being a natural born stand user, she was assigned to the body guard squad and worked closely with the young Bruno Bucciarati.

She was born to an Indian immigrant mother who had fled after falling pregnant out of wedlock, knowing the implications of what would happen, her mother joined her brother who had already established himself in Rome.

Life would not be kind to Bria's mother though, as it turns out, her brother is heavily tied to the mafia already through his wife, and after Bria was born, her mother started working for them and was relocated to Naples after a few years.

Falling into a life of addiction and prostitution, her mother succumbed to her circumstances when Bria was 12 leaving her to fend for herself as her relatives weren't willing to help much.

She joined the gang soon after her mother's passing to pay off her mother's outstanding drug debts.

She was quite an unkempt child, she had the best intentions though, but didn't care much about her appearance or her life in general before meeting Bruno.

At first, they annoyed each other, her being as brash and rough around the edges as she was, and him being as mild and well put together as he was, they were opposites.

As they worked together and got to know each other though they became very close. What Bruno first perceived as brashness was seen as tenacity now, and what Bria once thought was blandness was now viewed as politeness. They really started appreciating each other's traits and took on more and more missions together.

Her stand ability existed prior to joining Passione, but she developed act 2 of the stand on a mission in which she almost got herself killed to protect Bruno.

They found that they had balanced each other out, and by the time Giorno had entered the gang, they were more like brother and sister, and even shared a house.

When Bruno brought Giorno into the gang, Bri was taken with how handsome the young man was, and by how polite he was. By this time, due to Brunos influence Brias mannerisms had improved, and she started taking care of herself.

In the beginning, she and Giorno spoke every now and again, she was slightly more talkative than he was, having already built warm relationships with the members, and she would make a concerted effort to include Giorno in conversations and activities, knowing from past experiences that loneliness hurts a lot.

Her relationships with the other members of the squad were warm and familial in nature, bonding with Fugo when he tutored her and later Narancia, with Abbacchio she shared her love of classical music. She would have the most cursed conversations with Mista and Narancia, and the three would often annoy Fugo for fun.

During the events of Vento Aureo, she played a large supporting role, and alongside Giorno, made sure that the arrow fell into the correct hands, managing to restrain Diavolo for long enough, almost to her demise.

When she found out that Bruno was in fact gone, she was devastated, inconsolable, and it slightly strained her relationship with Giorno. She felt that because he didn't tell her when he first realised, she was robbed of a chance to properly thank Bruno and say goodbye, but she knew that she was just projecting her feelings of abandonment onto Giorno, not wanting to accept that Bruno had been the one who accepted his fate and had sworn Giorno to secrecy.

Giorno was patient with Bri though and gave her the space to process her grief, looking out for her under the ruse that she was part of his special guard, he accepted her anger, which fizzeled out and just became grief. Bria opened up to him on his 16th birthday, realizing that he was also hurt by what happened, and she felt bad for him, never having celebrated a birthday before, so she bought him a gift and wanted to celebrate with him.

After about 6 months it's revealed that Abbacchio, Bucciarati and Narancia actually did make it, Giorno using his requiem power of resetting damage to zero on their wounds. The trio were being protected in a hidden part of Giorno's villa. Yet again, Bria is furious at the lies, this time she almost attacks Giorno but is restrained by Bruno and Abbacchio in the last second. She storms off being disillusioned by all of them, and goes to her mother's gravesite crying, feeling the same kind of loneliness she felt before joining Bucciarati.

A cloaked Bucciarati goes to talk to her and tries to explain his reasoning, she seems to understand but doesn't seem to forgive anyone.

Soon after she moves out of the house that she and Bucciarati shared and retains her position as Giorno's guard but interacts with everyone only when spoken to, and refers to Giorno only as Don Giovanna, refusing to call him anything else regardless of how much he asked her not to.

After a while of the new dynamic being established, towards April of 2002 Bria is approached by a man who soon claimed to be her father.

She doesn't trust him at all but entertains him pretending to accept his stories, but she actually wants to get to the bottom of why she's being sought out after all this time.

The others are unaware of her plan though, and are visibly worried.

It turns out that he just wanted to extort money from the mafia using her, and when she confronts him, he attacks her and drags her away, but luckily enough, she is saved by Giorno, Abbacchio and Mista after a short period of time.

After that, Giorno and Bria talked about everything, unpacked their feelings about the various things that happened and were inseparable thereafter.

Giorno always sought out her company, and being in his presence was the only place that she felt completely safe. They brought out the best in each other and soon took their relationship to the next level, becoming the power couple to rule Passione with benevolence.

It wouldn't be long before Giorno proposes and they get married on September 30th, 2008.

They end up having 2 children, Giordano (born 10 December 2010) and Gia (born 1 May 2013), who are both stand users as well.

#self ship #BriGio #Gio meets Bri #BriGio headcanons #f/o stuff

2 notes · View notes

ao3feed-petermj · 4 years

Link

by Spidey_Sins

The blaring fire alarm at two in the morning definitely disrupted Peter’s sleep.

Although he wasn’t alone. His entire dorm building had to evacuate into the freezing cold, bleary eyed and yawning.

Words: 223, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 29 of Bri’s December Event

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Peter Parker, Michelle Jones

Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker

Additional Tags: Cold Weather, Peter Parker Can't Thermoregulate, fire alarm, College Student Peter Parker, Fire mention, Huddling For Warmth

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #peter parker #michelle jones #peter x michelle #peter x MJ

3 notes · View notes

liliah39 · 5 years

Text

Merry Christmas, Darling (Brian May x Reader Oneshot)

Warnings: Some smut, nothing serious though. Mainly just loads of fluff!

A/N:This is part of @dtfrogertaylor ‘s Thank God It’s Christmas event for @hannafuckingsucks ! I’ve loved getting to know you, darling, and I hope you enjoy! Oh! And Merry Christmas!

Word Count: 2.8K+

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

December 25, 1978:

You awoke to the phone at the side of your bed ringing; earning a groan from you as you rolled over, blindly feeling around the nightstand until you picked it up and placed it to your ear.

“Hello?” You mumbled.

“Happy Christmas, Sweetheart.” Brian said as he smiled into the phone, calling you from his bed as well. You could instantly tell it was him, his soothing voice being your main consolation over the last ten years of your life. Brian was your best friend, and there was nothing you’d ever do to change that.

“Brian, it’s nine in the morning. Can’t I sleep in?” You laughed with a yawn.

“Not when I want to be the first one to wish you a Happy Christmas.”

You jokingly groaned in disapproval, earning a laugh from him on the other end. “Well, Happy Christmas to you too, Bri.”

“You going later, Love?”

“To Freddie’s? Of course. Where else would I be?”

“With your family, perhaps?”

“Nah, it’d be hard for me to get home this time of year. Especially when they live across the country, and we just flew into London a couple of days ago. It’s hard work being best friends with the guitarist of Queen, you know.”

The boys had just finished the press tour to their new album News of the World, which of course you had joined them on. You didn’t actually do much of a job, but Brian labeled you his assistant just so you’d get paid to travel the world with them.

“Oh, jeez, Y/N, I’m so sorry. You know you don’t have to come with us every time, Love. I wouldn’t have minded if you left the press tour early to make it home to your family for the holidays. God, I feel awful.”

“It’s alright, Bri.”

“No it’s not, Love. Everyone else’s family is right around where we all live in London. I forget sometimes that you grew up across the country, since I met you here back in Uni all those years ago.”

“It’s okay, really. There’s no place I would rather of been. Really. I wanted to be with you.”

Your words made Brian blush as he fantasized of you having feelings for him as well. “Well I don’t want you to be left alone on Christmas morning. I’m about to get up and ready to go to my Mum and Dad’s house, I can swing by and pick you up if you’d like?”

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m really just looking to get some rest until dinner and the party at Freddie’s later. Even though it’s a more intimate party than he usually throws, you know it’s still going to go late in the morning, and I’m still awfully jet lagged, so I’m fine Bri. Really.”

“Can I at least pick you up to go to Fred’s later?”

“ ‘Course.”

“Alright, Love. See you later then.”

~~~~~~~

Just as you finished getting dressed into your sleek red Christmas gown after curling your hair and putting half of it up, and doing makeup to match your festive attire, you heard the doorbell ring.

“One minute!” You yelled, quickly slipping on your gold heels and putting your shawl around your shoulders as you ran to the for.

“Hi Bri!”

“M-my God, Y/N,” he said, taking your hand and spinning you around as he walked in the door. “You look absolutely breathtakingly stunning.”

“Well I think I could say the same thing to you. You clean up very nicely.” You smiled as you pulled at his suit. You’d liked him for months, but couldn’t get yourself to admit it to him. You were sure he didn’t feel the same way, sure that admitting your feelings would ruin your friendship, so instead you opted to keep to yourself.

“We’re running a little late, Love, so are you ready to go?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” You smiled, grabbing the large bag of presents by the door.

“Oh I’ll take that, really Love. Too much work for someone in such a gorgeous dress.” He winked, taking the bag from your arms as he lead you out the door.

~~~~~~~~~

Freddie’s house was decorated to the nines. You and Brian had only made it in the foyer, yet you had already counted twelve Christmas trees. A server took yours and Brian’s presents and placed them under the largest tree at the center of the house where the presents were being organized by name for you all to go and find after dinner.

“Y/N! Darling!” Freddie exclaimed as he walked in from another room, scooping you up and spinning you around. “You look absolutely stunning!”

“I could say the same to you!” he had on an all red, metallic suit with gold beading concentrated on the shoulders that faded down the arms.

“And Brian!” He exclaimed, bringing his band mate in for a hug. “Don’t the two of you just make the perfect couple!”

“But we’re not-“ you started, only to be cut off.

“Oh I know, Darling. I’m just saying you LOOK like the perfect couple.” He winked at Brian as he walked away, Brian fuming with embarrassment and anger. The other three knew of his feelings for you, and were getting antsy that neither of you had admitted it to the other yet.

After everyone had arrived, you all sat down at the large dining table, where you were seated next to Brian, and began chatting about your lives.

“And what about you, Y/N? Anyone special in your life?” Roger asked.

“Oh no. No time for that, really. I think you four keep me busy enough.” You laughed.

“Fair enough. What about you, Brian?”

“Oh, uh, I- um. No. Nobody special.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that, mate.” John smirked.

“You sure you’re not into someone you’re currently very close to...physically?” Freddie teased.

“Shut your mouths, all of you.” He said, rolling his eyes as his three bandmates snickered across the table from the two of you.

“What was that all about?” you asked Brian.

“Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”

~~~~~~~~~~

After dinner, the bar in the room with all of the presents was opened as a DJ in the back of the room played the perfect blend of Christmas music and trendy music from the radio. You and the boys laughed as you sat and drank together on the couch, and after a while you and Deaky got up to go dance.

With both of you entirely tired out, John decided to go back to his drink with the boys, yet you were empty, so decided to go to the bar to find something else, telling him you’d catch up with them in a moment.

As soon as John sat down, Brian was already prying him for information.

“So? Did she say anything about me?”

“Nope.”

“John, you were dancing with her for like fifteen minutes. She must have said something.”

“No really, mate. We just talked about my baby, the upcoming tour, you know, stuff friends talk about.”

Brian sighed in defeat.

“Bri, if you’re this helpless, I’m sorry, but it’s time to grow a pair, suck it up, and ask her out.” Roger teased.

“I know I know, I just… I don’t want to ruin everything and lose her.”

“You won’t.” Roger said.

“Yeah, it’s obvious she likes you too.” John added.

“Really?”

“Really.” The three said in unison.

“What’d you get her?” Freddie asked.

“A heart shaped diamond encrusted ruby necklace. Got it here in my suit,” he said, pressing his hand to the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Didn’t want to risk someone stealing it. And besides, I want to give it to her myself.”

The other three nodded understandingly. “You should tell her how you feel when you give it to her. You should do it before we all get into gifts too.” Freddie said.

“But Fred, that only gives me fifteen minutes. You said we were doing gifts at 10:00!”

“Exactly, Darling. You need a little nudge to get you to admit your feelings. This is your nudge.”

As Brian noticed you happily walked back over to the four of them, he shushed the other three ad you retook your spot next to Brian.

“Why are we all just not speaking to eachother?” You laughed.

“Oh no reason.” Roger blurted out, the four of them looking between eachother, eventually staring at Brian as if to tell him something through their eyes, which left you completely confused.

“Okay then?”

“Hey, Y/N?” Brian nervously stated. “I uh, I got you something special and wanted to give it to you myself, uh alone if you don’t mind?”

“Oh that’d be wonderful.” You smiled, taking his hand as you stood up.

“Brian, wait!” Freddie said as he grabbed his friends shoulder and whispered in his ear: “Go to the formal living area at the back of the house. There’s a beautiful tree there, and the fireplace is lit, and no one will be there.”

Brian nodded understandably as he lead you away from the party.

“What was that about?”

“Oh nothing. Just telling me where to go is all.”

As the two of you stepped into the all red decorated room, Brian locked the door behind the two of you as you marveled at the beauty of the room.

“Wow, it’s gorgeous. Freddie really knows how to decorate, doesn't he?” You said as you sat on the couch that was angled toward the Christmas tree with the fireplace to your left.

“Uh, yeah.” Brian said pacing.

“Brian, come sit down.” You said, patting the couch next to you. “Whatever you got me I know I’ll love.”

He sat next to you as he let out a huge breath of air.

“What’s up with you? I’ve never seen you so nervous?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” he reassured. He took out the small box from his coat, placing it in your hands. “Now, I actually helped design this, so I’m really hoping you like it.” He smiled as his hand rested on yours.

You removed the wrapping paper to find a gorgeous, large, heart shaped ruby and diamond necklace. You gasped in shock, tears flooding to your eyes.

“What’s wrong? Do you like it?” He said, worried.

“Oh I love it! Thank you!” You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Then why are you crying?” He said as he pulled you into a tight embrace.

“Because no one has ever done something this nice for me in my entire life.” You said, looking at him as he brushed away a tear. “Can you put it on me?”

“Of course, Love.” He smiled as you turned away from him so he could put it on you. “There’s one more thing.”

“Not something else! This is already too much!” You said, turning back to him as he finished putting your necklace on. He took your hands in his, as he stared into your eyes.

“No, this is just something I’ve gotta get off my chest. I, uh, I don’t really know how to tell you this. I mean, you’re my best friend, you know that. And I can’t imagine my life without you. That’s why I’m so nervous right now. But for the last couple of years now I’ve been absolutely crazy about you. I’m in love with you, Y/N, and I haven’t been able to tell you until now.” His hands were shaking from how nervous he was.

“You are?” you smiled.

“Oh god, I’m sorry I even said anything.” He said, pulling his hands away from yours and he turned to look at the fire.

“No, no, Brian, Brian. Look at me,” you said, grabbing his face in your hands. “Hey, open your eyes and look at me.” You laughed as he blinked them open, and you noticed the tears welling in the bottom of them. “I’m in love with you too.” You whispered behind your tears of happiness.

“You are?” he smiled.

“Yeah. I have been for a while now too. Just couldn’t get myself to say anything.” You admitted.

“Really?”

“Really. I’m in love with you, Brian Harold May.”

“God, am I in love with you too.” He smiled as he pressed his lips to yours, the kiss immediately passionate. Your lips molded together perfectly as his hands roamed your body, yours toying with his hair.

After awhile he layed you down on the sofa as he hovered over you, trailing kisses from your mouth down your neck as his hand slipped in your dress as it squeezed your breast, fingers toying with your nipple. You let out a moan, reconnecting your lips with his as he sat you up to try to unzip your dress, yet after a minute or two of his hands roaming your body, he groaned in frustration.

“Why can’t I figure out how to take this fucking dress off?”

You laughed at his annoyance.

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s kinda funny.” You smiled, tapping his nose.

“Well? Why can’t I?”

“Because there’s no zipper, silly. It laces from the inside. It’ll take me at least twenty minutes to get off, and once it’s off, there’s no way I’m putting it back on tonight, so this might have to wait a couple hours.” You laughed.

“Fine,” he groaned in annoyance, “but if you’re making me wait for something I’ve been waiting for over the last ten years, you’ve at least got to come home with me tonight.”

“Well I thought you’d never ask.” You smirked, hooking your finger around his tie as you pulled him in for a chaste kiss on your lips. “And hey, don’t think I haven’t been waiting for this for a while either.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You and Brian quickly composed yourselves, rejoining the party hand in hand, to which the boys sprung up from their seats in applause.

“Finally!” Roger exclaimed.

“Told you, mate.” John smiled, patting Brian on the shoulder.

“So…” Freddie smiled. “Is it official?”

You looked at Brian as he looked down at you, placing his arm around you as he pulled you in close to his side.

“It’s official.” The two of you said in unison as he pressed a kiss from your lips, causing the boys to hoot and holler in congratulations.

As a love song played in the room, Brian lead you to the floor as he placed his arms around your waist, and you placed yours around his neck, lovingly laying your head on his shoulder as the two of you swayed to the music.

“Thank you, Brian.” You smiled up at him.

“Oh anything for you, Y/N. I was hoping you’d like it.”

“Not for the necklace, silly. Well, for that too, but I meant for admitting your feelings for me. I’ve never been happier in my life.” You smiled.

“Neither have I. Thank you for saying yes.” He smiled, making you giggle. “Happy Christmas, My Love.”

“Happy Christmas” You smiled as he reconnected his lips to yours, making this officially the best Christmas you’d ever had.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Please excuse any typos and such! -C

Taglist: @yourlocalmusicalprostitute , @bismillahnah , @deakysmisfire , @queer-heart-attack , @everything-you-dont-wanna-be , @mercurycrowley , @ikbenplant , @xcdelilahxc , @chekovs-davy-jones-wig , @laedymoon , @manicpixydreamgirl , @jaylikesguavass , @brianskindofcheese , @anincurablefangirl , @jennyggggrrr , @delightfullynlove , @johndeaconshands , @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels , @hannafuckingsucks

104 notes · View notes

anonymoushouseplantfan · 5 years

Text

Coffee House

Magazine

Radio

Writers

Books & Arts

Life

EVENTS

Notebook

Cressida Bonas: An actress’s notebook

Cressida Bonas

15 December 2018

9:00 AM

I’m moving house, parting ways with my beloved friend Georgia. For eight years, the two of us have laughed madly, danced wildly and cried horribly. But life moves on and so must we. Boxing, labelling and filing items is not in my nature, which makes Operation Declutter rather difficult. Instead, I sit amid a sea of bin liners stuffed with objects that share stories from the past year: sentimental letters, family photos, dog-eared books, plays and endless diaries reminding me of good days, and bad ones. It has been a year full of opportunities, of challenges approached and the occasional disaster. I’m living and (hopefully) learning.

I have just finished working with a wonderful cast and crew on a ITV drama, whose name I cannot yet reveal. There were 5 a.m. wake-up calls and I shared the car journeys to and from set with the lovely Amanda Burton; I would ask her endless questions with a coffee in one hand and script in the other. Lunch breaks were spent on a bus with Freddie Fox and Mark Stanley, who made me laugh until my face hurt. Before filming starts you never know who you’re going to be sharing these moments with: I’ve been so lucky with the friends I have made. At the wrap party, I celebrate by downing tequila and dancing to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe’, trying to swing my hips like Freddie, but I don’t have the same rhythmic flow. It’s sad saying goodbye to so many kindred spirits.

Morning dawns. With a hangover from hell, I run to a class led by the acting coach Gary Condes. He is strict on late arrivals and attendance and I make it, by the skin of my teeth. Phew. My scene is first up. Typical. Of all the days to be playing a ball-busting American, today is not one of them. I do the scene. My note from Gary: ‘Next time hit the ground running, Cressida.’ Got it.

With my TV job now at an end, I am back in the brutal rat race of castings. My phone buzzes. It’s my agent Chloe with good news: I am in the last few for a role I would love. I go into the audition, guns blazing. Gary would be pleased.

Missed call from Mum. I ring her back and tell her she interrupted my morning meditation ritual. She is sceptical about this ‘meditation business’ and hopes I’m not making any ‘funny friends’. Assuring her I’m not about to join a hippy cult, I tell her I have to prepare for an audition. ‘Just be yourself and they will love you,’ she says — totally missing the point of acting. But I love her for her support.

While visiting my sister Isabella in Oxford, I head out to explore the city and stumble upon my dad’s old college, beautiful Oriel. I am reminded of how he would have liked me to have followed in his footsteps and studied history here. There was a look of horror on his face when, aged 17, I told him that theatre was my calling. ‘Well, you’re no Judi Dench,’ he said. This only spurred me on, and ten years later he’s never missed a play.

In the afternoon my cousin Richard, a self-taught nuclear physicist and author of The Fusion Age, invites me to one of his guest lectures. He talks about the technology needed to build a baby star on earth, and making it a source of clean energy. For the physics part, he might as well have been speaking in Swahili, but the idea is intriguing. Nuclear fusion is everywhere, it is the universe’s chosen element creator and energy source. Might we harness it? Richard has always taught me not to give up: he learned early the lesson of never entering into a business endeavour you do not love. Those who do love it will always be ahead of you.

Family will always remain at the heart of Christmas. I think of my boyfriend Harry’s family this year. The month marks the 12th anniversary since James Wentworth-Stanley, Harry’s brother, took his own life. Suicide is the single biggest killer of young British men, a fact we have yet to adjust to. James went looking for someone to talk to about his suicidal thoughts but, like so many, he was failed by a broken and ineffective system. He was referred to A&E as a low priority and after waiting there for some time, he left without being seen and took his own life two days later. James’s Place is set up as a place to support men who need to talk things over with someone. A place of hope, where precious lives will be comforted and saved. If you’re looking for a charity to donate to, instead of spending on Christmas cards, it’s worth considering. One day, perhaps, mental health will be treated as seriously as physical health. But until then, there is a job to do.

39 notes · View notes

questlation · 2 years

Text

... https://questlation.com/prnewswire/5348cf9c120d4d7fb16a258d9d90b230/?feed_id=2022&_unique_id=63a2c45fc2d2c

0 notes

lemonpeter · 4 years

Text

Day 26 - Santa Baby

Not very Christmasy but I’ve had the song stuck in my head so I decided to write some more sugar baby!Peter. And I’m sorry it’s so short, my day has been busy and exhausting. But I hope everyone enjoys 💙

Warnings: sugar baby!Peter, nff, daddy kink

————

Dainty mascara coated lashes batted playfully as Peter watched Tony place the order on his phone. “Thank you, daddy.”

The older man chuckled, pulling Peter in for a kiss. “You’re welcome. Always happy to treat my baby.”

If $6000 in lingerie and electronics was a ‘treat’, Peter couldn’t wait to see what an actual gift would be like.

But for now he just kissed the man again, slyly grinding down in his lap. “I’ll do my best to pay you back...whatever you want.”

Tony hummed softly, rocking his hips up. “You know what I like, honey.”

Peter nodded, slowly sliding out of his lap and moving his hands to his belt buckle. “I know, daddy...I’ll make you feel so good. Promise.”

The older man chuckled, nodding as he looked at his boy. “Oh, I’m sure you will. Get to work, we don’t have all day.”

Peter got to work all right. Then he got worked, bent over the desk as his nails dug into the expensive wood.

Maybe his arrangement with Tony wasn’t all that he wanted, but it sure did feel good.

#starker #tony stark #peter parker #tony stark x peter parker #Peter x tony #bri’s december event #sugar baby/daddy relationship #sugar baby peter #sugar daddy tony

81 notes · View notes

rushingheadlong · 5 years

Text

As of December 2020, only Reader-insert fics are being cross-posted to tumblr. Please see my AO3 for additional non-Reader fics or check the #my fic tag for my monthly AO3 round-up posts.

♪ Requests: CLOSED ♫ General tag: #my fic ♪ Short imagines: #my hc ♫ My AO3: RushingHeadlong ♪ Updated: December 22, 2020

Almost Make Believe

♪ 18+, smut, Brian May/F!Reader, semi-public sex ~2.6k words ♪ When you saw Brian’s performance at the Big Mama Club you thought nothing could ever top being front-and-center to him rocking out in a tight black tank top… and then you run into him a bar after the show, and your night goes from great to amazing.

Together With You

♪ 18+, smut, Brian May/F!Reader, cockwarming, ~1.9k words ♪ You spend an intimate morning keeping Brian company as he works.

Make My Life Worthwhile

♪ Fluff, Female Reader, ~3.1k ♪ You always know to expect a few surprises at any Queen party. You just weren’t expecting a surprise like this. **Halloqueen Event gift**

Prompt: Sex under the stars

♪ Light Smut, Female Reader, ~500 ♪ No kinks, just soft and gentle sex

Take Me Home Tonight

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~4.6k ♪ You’re not expecting Brian May, of all people, to walk into your record shop late one evening, but when he asks you to go home with him you’re certainly not going to pass on the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have all your fantasies fulfilled. ♪ Dirty talk, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, a bit of size kink

I Love Your Mind (But Give Me Your Body)

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~3.4k ♪ The moment you lay eyes on your substitute math tutor you know that you’re in for a world of fun. He just might need a little encouragement to realize it too. ♪ Height kink, semi-public sex, shy!70s!Brian

Teasin’ Around With Me

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~3.7k ♪ Brian’s hands are paying the price after the first rehearsal following some time off. You know a trick or two to help him out, but it turns out that Brian has other plans on his mind. ♪ Hand kink, fingering, teasing & orgasm denial

Prompt: Angry sex with Bri

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~1k ♪ Angry sex (consent is explicitly given)

Just Excitation

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~3.6k ♪ You’ve always had a thing for Brian’s hands (and his arms, and his fingers, and-). But wanting his hands wrapped around your neck is certainly a new one, even for you. ♪ Choking, breathplay, semi-public sex, minor D/s and minor facefucking

Wrap Those Arms Around Me

♪ Smut, Female Reader, ~2.3k ♪ Brian knows that whenever he wears tank tops you want to jump his bones. This time, though, he’s going to make you wait for it. ♪ Arm/hand kink, dirty talk, slight D/s, orgasm denial

Our Love Will Keep You Warm

♪ Fluff, Unspecified Reader, ~3k ♪ On the day of a Queen music video shoot, you find a few ways to take care of Brian and show him just how much you love him.

Dear Friend, We’ll Carry On

♪ Light angst and H/C, eventual smut, Trans Male Reader, ~9.5k words ♪ You’ve known Brian since the early days of Queen, but when he comes to New Haven on his solo tour you haven’t seen him in years. You’re both different people now but, as the saying goes, the more things change the more they stay the same…

One Hundred and Thirty-Six

♪ H/C, Unspecified Reader, alcoholism, ~900 words ♪ You are 136 days sober - and there are two bottles of wine on the counter in front of you

Concept: Soft, Cozy Moments With Brian

♪ Fluff, Unspecified Reader, ~400 words

Take My Breath Away

♪ Kink & smut, Unspecified Reader, ~20k ♪ Brian has a thing for drawing sex out for as long as possible, but it’s harder to do that when breathplay is involved… at least until you come up with a bit of an unorthodox solution: corsets. ♪ Sub!Bri, corsets, breathplay, kink exploration & negotiation

Prompt: Brian in a tight corset

♪ Kink but no smut, Unspecified Reader, ~750 ♪ Breathplay, corsets, sub!Bri

Prompt: Jewelry shopping for Brian

♪ Fluff, Unspecified Reader, ~800

Prompt: Being friends with Brian

♪ Fluff, Non-Romantic, Male Reader, ~800

Prompt: Brian taking care of Reader

♪ Fluff, Unspecified Reader, ~600

Oh, You’re Good For Me

♪ Kink but no smut, Male or Unspecified Reader, ~1.5k ♪ Brian comes to you to be tied up and to submit. ♪ D/s (sub!Bri), rope bondage

Make It Up (As You Go Along)

♪ H/C, Male Reader, ~2.2k ♪ Freddie’s birthday is quickly approaching… and so is yours. The only problem is that Freddie doesn’t know that, and you don’t particularly want to tell him.

Very, Very Frightening

♪ Fluff, Trans Male Reader, ~2.9k ♪ You’re not a fan of power outages, but Freddie is there to remind you that you don’t have to face it alone.

It’s (Not) So Easy

♪ H/C, Male Reader, ~2.6k ♪ 5 times you and Freddie hid your relationship and 1 time you didn’t

So Much Ado

♪ H/C and Fluff, Trans Male Reader, ~3.1k ♪ Freddie wants to buy a cat, but some things are more important than that.

One Year of Love

♪ Fluff, Trans Male Reader, ~5.5k ♪ Your first anniversary with Freddie is quickly approaching, and you know that you don’t have the money to spoil him with the lavish sorts of gifts that he deserves. But with a little help from a friend, you realize that you don’t need to buy his love and you instead set about creating an evening that the two of you will never forget. **ANatF Event gift**

Concept: Dating Roger in 1974

♪ Fluff, Female Reader, ~700 words **STL Event gift**

Got Me In A Mood

♪ Light smut and h/c, Female Reader, ~5.3k ♪ You and Roger are friends, who just happen to occasionally sleep together. It’s just a bit of fun, nothing serious… until you realize that you’ve gone and fallen in love with him. **TGIC Event gift**

Prompt: Roger confesses his love to his long-term friend

♪ Fluff, Female Reader, ~1k

You Could Know Me

♪ H/C, Gen, Non-Binary Reader, ~2.8k ♪ You knew that coming out as non-binary wouldn’t always be smooth sailing, but you weren’t expecting to face rejection at every turn. Luckily your dad, Roger Taylor, is there to support you no matter what.

Prompt: Picking out a Christmas tree with John

♪ Fluff, Unspecified Reader, ~600

Still Come Back to You

♪ Fluff, Male Reader, ~1k ♪ John returns home late after wrapping up the latest Queen tour, and he’s missed you just as much as you’ve missed him.

Baked With Love

♪ Gen, fluff, vague modern Queen AU, ~1.2k ♪ No matter how famous they get, Queen has one birthday tradition that they refuse to give up.

Lockdown Blues

♪ Gen, H/C, vague modern & early Queen AU, ~2k words ♪ Freddie has made it his mission to keep everyone’s spirits up while they’re stuck at home. He doesn’t think the others have noticed - but they have, and they’re ready to remind him that they have his back too.

Prompt: Brian May & Tony Iommi

♪ Gen, fluff, current era, ~400 words

And I Get Afraid

♪ H/C, Gen, early Queen, ~4.5k ♪ Queen has come to a standstill as they try to get their debut album released, and John seems to be the only one left who isn’t optimistic about their chances for success. Now with his graduation quickly approaching, he finds himself struggling to decide between sticking by the band- and his friends- or leaving this sinking ship while he can still make something of his future.

Losing My Way

♪ H/C, angst, gen, early Queen, ~4.5k ♪ Brian is burning himself out trying to stay on top of all of his responsibilities. He knows it’s only a matter of time until something gives, and he knows that something will probably be his thesis - but that doesn’t make his failure any easier to stomach. **Companion to And I Get Afraid**

The Hazier Days

♪ Fluff, Gen, early Queen, ~1.6k ♪ It’s too hot for embarrassment as Brian finally caves to the summer heat.

Prompt: Freddie loses the week’s earnings from the stall

♪ H/C and Fluff, Gen, slighty Christmas themed, ~1k

Car Song

♪ H/C and Fluff, Gen, BoRhap references, ~500 ♪ Roger and John tease Brian about his song “Driven By You” while working on Made in Heaven

Haul Away, You Rolling Queens

♪ AU (Nautical & Mermaid), H/C, Angst with a happy ending, Gen, ~40k ♪ It was Freddie who told them stories of the Kingdom of Rhye, an ancient mer kingdom that once ruled the seven seas before disappearing a thousand years ago. According to Brian it was just a myth, but Freddie was always certain that it was real and waiting to be discovered - but he never found proof of it before he fell sick, and vanished suddenly without a trace.

Now, 25 years later, Roger stumbles across a new clue that could lead them to Rhye - one with unexplained ties to their lost friend. But convincing Brian and John to take a leap of faith and join him in one final adventure is only the first hurdle. If they want to weather the rough seas ahead, they’ll have to not only sail into the unknown but finally face the unanswered questions and lingering grief left from Freddie’s disappearance.

Take a Picture (It’ll Last Longer)

♪ Jimercury, Modern/Everyone Lives AU, fluff, ~800 words ♪ If Jim was still alive and still with Freddie he would absolutely have an instagram account where he mostly posts photos of their cats and the garden.

Wanna Be Beside You Now

♪ Jimercury, fluff and smut, phone sex, ~800 words ♪ Jim receives a call one night when Freddie is away.

Love in the Shape of Things

♪ Maycury, Modern AU & early Queen, H/C and fluff, ~63k ♪ They’re both searching for their place in the world, but it takes a new flat and a housewarming gift gone awry for Freddie and Brian’s friendship to slowly turn into something deeper. And through long evenings of commiseration and camaraderie, their feelings for each other continue to grow - until one misunderstanding threatens to tear everything apart.

Buttons

♪ Maycury, early Queen, pining, ~700 words ♪ A moment of tenderness before a show leaves Brian yearning.

Take This Message

♪ Two Maycury fics, one AU & H/C, one fluff, ~500 words each ♪ Two short Maycury fics inspired by the Calling All Girls music video. In the first, Freddie with the help of Brian has to propose the video idea to Roger. The second is a short AU based on the video itself.

Love Him From Where You Are

♪ Maylor, H/C, pining, early Queen, some vague allusions to sex, ~7.2k ♪ Five times Roger was sure that Brian didn’t love him, and one time he knew that he did.

The Fire You Ignite

♪ Maylor, 18+, sub!Brian, bondage, gags, temperature play, orgasm denial, ~3k ♪ Roger takes his time playing with Brian.

Trust Issues

♪ H/C, Maylor, ~500 words ♪ Roger borrows the Red Special when Brian isn’t there, and Brian freaks out.

Thrill Me, Chill Me, Fulfill Me

♪ Poly!Queen, 18+, vague modern AU, crossdressing/corset kink, ~1.7k ♪ The boys plan an evening of dressing up and watching Rocky Horror Picture Show, but the effort that Brian puts into his outfit takes the others by surprise.

I’ll Put A Spell On You

♪ Dealor, 18+, crossdressing, slight D/s (sub!John), ~5.9k ♪ John is tired of always getting teased for wearing “boring” costumes, so he decides to spice things up this year - and when Roger makes sure to show his appreciation for John’s costume choice, they both end up having a good time.

Alone Time

♪ 18+, smut, Brian May solo, masturbation & toys, ~1.1k ♪ Brian always tells himself that he’s going to take his time with this... but he never does.

#my fic #text #masterpost

139 notes · View notes

queen-of-deans-booty · 5 years

Text

With Just A Little Effort...

Characters: Briana Buckmaster x Reader, minor characters

Word Count: 1,524

Warnings: some relationship/long-distance angst, but fluff at the end

Summary: Briana is always away on tour, and you’re stuck in the office at work. Will you two make it work, or will your relationship crumble under the intense pressure of long-distance relationships?

Beta: none

Author’s Note: If you have any requests, please send them in!

This is the December 3rd fic for my 25 days of RPF Christmas with the prompt: Won’t Be Home for the Holidays

Feedback the glue that holds my writing together

Tags at the bottom

There was a time when you and your friends went on your annual hike, and the mountain was so steep that it almost knocked the wind out of you. You came home after that trip with blood in your shoes from how much they hurt--well, it felt like your feet were bleeding. Now that trip was hard just like the time you ran a small marathon. It was nothing like the big leagues, but something small for breast cancer awareness that you absolutely loved even if you were so sore afterward. It was also very hard for you when you got into a minor car accident a year ago when some woman wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings and crashed into the back of your car.

There are many more events that have been hard for you, but all of those pale in comparison to what you’re going through now. Your girlfriend, the beautiful Briana Buckmaster, has been away all holiday. She’s on tour around the country with some of her good friends, and you couldn’t be happier for her. Hearing about her success over the phone brings a smile to your face, especially when you think about it. The hard part is seeing her smile on the photos she posts, hearing her laughter through the videos she sends and watching other people embrace her and tell her how good of a job she’s doing.

The hard part is realizing those people are doing what you’re supposed to be doing. It’s supposed to be you hugging her and congratulating her. It’s supposed to be you who gets to hug her and kiss her when something great happens. Instead, she’s with her friend and having the time of her life without you.

Sure, she calls and Facetimes every night, but it’s not the same. She’ll ask you about your day, and all you can say to her is how your boss said something rude, or how you had a computer jam and had to do all the paperwork by hand. You ask her about her day, and she goes off on a tangent about how fun it is to be on stage, how her supporters (she hates calling them fans) are always cheering her on, and how relaxing the end of the day is. You can’t help but get jealous of her. She can see it in your eyes even if you deny it all the time. You try to be happy for her, but sometimes it doesn’t show.

She offered you to come with her, and under any other circumstances, you would. However, your work doesn’t allow you to travel and keep your job at the same time. It definitely puts a stressor on your relationship, but you try not to let it win. The Christmas holiday is coming up, and soon she’ll be in your arms for a little longer than a month. She should be calling you about the details of her flight any minute now, so to pass the time, you start playing home videos of the two of you. Your favorite video is when you two went to the beach a few summers back in Malibu. It was sunny, the weather was perfect, and you had your lady with you.

“We’re here in lovely Malibu where the sun is always shining and the party just doesn’t stop,” Briana laughed into the camera she’s holding.

“All day and all night, motherfuckers,” you shouted from your spot in the background.

“And that foul-mouthed pretty lady over there is my beautiful girlfriend, Y/N,” she introduced you as she swiveled the camera to face you.

“Watch this!” you grinned and got yourself ready to do a cartwheel. You got into the stance and took off, landing on your hand the wrong way. You crumbled down to the ground with a groan that turned into laughter.

“That was terrible. Are you okay?” she giggled.

“I’m good!” you held out both your thumbs with a smile.

“I love you. Even if you’re not flexible.”

A tear slides down your cheek at the fond memory. Your phone binged which means you’re getting a Facetime request. Upon seeing your girlfriend’s name, you wipe the tear from your face so she won’t suspect anything is wrong. This is the call you’ve been waiting for, and honestly, you could use some good news. You connect your phone with the TV so you can see her on a bigger scale.

“Hey baby, were you crying?” Briana asks when she sees your face. You could never fool her no matter how hard you tried.

“Please tell me you’re coming home. I really need good news right now,” you plead.

“I… won’t be coming home for the holidays. We’re swarmed here. Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

Just like that, a new wave of tears flows down your cheeks. You fist your hair with your fingers and place your elbows on your knees.

“Please don’t cry, babe, I’ll make it up to you as soon as I can.”

“When are you going to be back?” you sniffle, pushing your hair back and crossing your arms.

“Sometime after January.”

“You’ve been gone since September, Bri,” you cry softly.

“I know, but I can’t leave now. Trust me, you know I would if I could.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“No, but what else can I do? I can’t leave work, and you just said you can’t. I-I miss you.”

“I miss you too. More than you could ever know.”

“Hey! Briana! We ten five minutes until stage time!” someone from the background shouts.

“Y/N,” she trails off.

“Go, have fun. I’ll talk to you later,” you cut her off and end the call. It’s not fair to be treating her this way, you’re just upset you’re not going to be able to see her for the holidays. Work will keep you busy anyway, so you’re not staying at home all the time and just crying. At least at work, you get to work hard to pretend that everything’s okay.

You walk into work the next morning sluggishly. There is no energy inside of you to deal with anything. You and Briana had a long talk once she was alone in her hotel room. She understood how upset you are, and despite this little kink in your relationship, you two still love each other dearly.

Work is going to be hectic, you can already tell by the way your coworkers bustle around the office and papers in their hands. At least the computers are working just fine so you don’t have to waste your time writing everything down. Last time that happened, you had a hand cramp for the rest of that day.

As soon as you set your things down on your desk, your boss calls you into her office. She normally doesn’t talk to you unless something serious happens, and you go over everything that you did this past week that might prompt her to call you. You hadn’t done anything wrong, didn’t say anything wrong, and you did all of your paperwork correctly with minimal mistakes. Why could she possibly want with you in her office? What did you do?

“You wanted to see me?” you ask when you knock on her open door.

“Yes, please, sit,” she smiles.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask, doing what she told you.

“No, no, nothing like that. I wanted to run something by you.”

“What is it, ma’am?”

“I’m granting you the rest of the month off. Paid, of course,” she grins.

“Wait, what?”

“Yes, you heard me correctly,” she laughs.

“But, why? Did I fill something out wrong? Do you not want me working here anymore?” you ask when your mind goes to the worst possible situation.

“No, Y/N, you’re not in trouble. You’re a star employee.”

“If I may ask, why are you giving this to me?”

“Briana called me, and we had a little chat. I can see how much you miss her. Consider this a Christmas present. You’re cleared to come back the second week of January.”

“Are you serious?” you whisper.

“Deadly. She asked me to give you this,” she explains and hands you a plane ticket to where Briana was staying.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you gasp emotionally.

“Have a good Christmas, Y/N. We can handle things around here without you for the month.”

“Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome,” she smiles.

You get up and leave her office, grabbing your things on the way out. Briana must be doing a soundcheck or something big, which is why you decide to text her instead of call. Pulling out your phone on your way to the car, you sent her a quick text filled with love.

You’re something special, Briana. I love you so much. I’m heading to the airport now.

You don’t even care that you don’t have bags. You can always buy some more when you get to her. Your excitement of finally seeing her after so long clouds your rational side.

Anything for you, my love. Merry Christmas.

Wanna get tagged? Add yourself to this document! If your tag doesn’t work, find out why!

there are no briana tags since i haven’t written for her but they’re up now! i’ll write more for her if you guys want me to!

19 notes · View notes