#for the record they are equally enamored in my head

[tinylittlelilac]

Posting 1 of about 151293050 mdyz drafts I have!

The artist, the fan, and their strange insane relationship that no one can really get a clear picture on due to conflicting testimony

When midori and yuzuru interact, gravity flips. when a name is dropped, the speed of light is halved. when they’re in the same story, energy is created AND destroyed. The universe is tearing apart as we speak and I plan to do nothing about it

[az-cain]

Bruised Thighs/Flowery Sheets

rhett abbott x reader ≈ 3300 words

TUMBLR ATE THE ASK DAMMIT, i am so so sorry anon, but it said:

If you're taking requests...sub!Rhett needing help to clear out his mind after having a rough ride and he can't stop the self-doubt. Poor boy just needs to be fucked so good his brain stops functioning 😈

this is pure filth! i love it. so fun to write. thank you to @girl-in-the-chairs-void for encouraging me and my terrible thoughts lmao, i wouldn’t have picked it back up today were it not for you.

TW FOR: description of bruises and hard landings, mild angst, brief mention of shitty fathers and poor body image, food and a poor relationship with it (ice cream), mild dacryphilia (crying kink), spanking, oral sex m&f!receiving, anal fingering m!receiving, pegging, dumbification, pet names (honey, baby, good boy, sweetie, darlin’)

Rhett’s thighs always hurt after a ride. The bull’s bucking consistently left his legs black and blue, so he’d grown accustomed to the pain. What he hadn’t grown accustomed to, however, was the sting of his forearms smacking the dirt on a bad dismount. The gravel dug in even through the thick shirt he wore, and the disappointment pierced through his skin beside it. As he scrambled away from the raging bull and into the pen, he sighed heavily, wearily, looking at the time. Five seconds. He hadn’t even made it ¾ of where he needed to be.

As he passed by his father, who clapped him on the back with a lightly-disguised look of displeasure and murmured common words of reassurance, he struggled to smile gratefully. He’d had an off day, he knew that was all. It was only a qualifier, so he wasn’t out of the game. Still, the stinging anger that rested behind his eyes refused to subside until he saw you.

You had his red flannel unbuttoned across your chest and your sports bra exposed to the wind, the summer night heat beating down on the whole stadium. Your jean shorts were just long enough to be decent, and the smile you gave him was anything but. His worries melted away, now just residing in his mind as a quiet nagging voice.

“Hey, baby,” you grinned, wrapping your arms around him eagerly and letting him bury his sweaty forehead in your equally sweaty neck. “How are you feeling after that dismount?”

He pulled back and tried to smile, lips quivering slightly, but ultimately shook his head in resignation. “Not great.”

You rubbed up and down his upper arms, meeting his eyes with a sad smile. “I know. You want to go get ice cream?”

He nodded with a sniffle, feeling like a child. He knew, though, that you only wanted to cheer him up. So, as you led him to his truck and pulled his keys out of your pocket to unlock it, he straightened his back and tried to push his bad thoughts from his mind.

Did it work? Not entirely.

As you shifted into drive, he clicked his seatbelt into place and felt you set your hand on his knee. You rubbed comforting circles on the soft skin and hummed along to the pop song filtering through the stifling summer air, made more tolerable by the blasting A/C and the open windows. He was struck, silently, by how much he loved you, and it gave him pause. Your hand on his knee calmed him significantly, almost enough to make him stop thinking about his off day.

As you pulled into the Dairy Queen drive-thru, you moved your hand back to the steering wheel. “Same as always?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he smiled gently, so entirely enamored with you.

He listened to you order for the two of you, the crackling response that was nearly inaudible, and your loud “thank you.” As you waited in the drive-thru line, you cranked up the radio and plugged in the classic rock cassette he’d recorded for you, much to your amusement.

A number of sleazy songs played loudly across his cheap, 20-year-old speakers, and as you sang— or belted, rather— the lyrics, he couldn’t find it in him to care that the two of you were being the annoying drive-thru patrons everyone despised. The pencil you’d found to use as a microphone was dropped into the cupholder as you lowered the volume and met the teenager’s extended hand with a thank you, collecting the two cups of ice cream that you handed to him. He took small spoonfuls of the stuff as you drove home, the negative thoughts seeping back in in the form of body image. He wondered if he’d have gotten a better time today if he didn’t eat so much ice cream.

Of course, he knew that these thoughts were silly, so he did his best to put them out of his mind as you pulled into the driveway of your home and helped him out of the car, offering yourself as a brace for his bruised thighs and stinging forearms.

You entered the house together, settled on the dark couch and ate silently with one another, content to simply be in each others’ presence. When you’d both finished, you took his cup and ventured into the kitchen to throw both away before returning to your seat. At your gesture, he laid his head upon your thigh and let your hands come to rest in his hair. You sat there, running your fingers through his long hair for minutes, until you began to want more.

You tugged lightly on it, just testing the waters, and Rhett keened, whimpering through the muffling of his palm. “Please,” he whined quietly. A faint smile split your cheeks and you hummed, continuing to scratch his scalp like you’d never pulled on it. “Want you,” he continued, turning to meet your eyes and lifting his hips off of the soft couch to try and find friction against his jeans.

Chuckling softly at his neediness, you nodded. “Okay, honey. Let’s go to the bedroom.” With that, you patted his shoulder to make him move, and stood up behind him. When he moved slowly because of his sore thighs, you smacked his ass. A loud groan ripped through him— and through you— as you said “C’mon, baby.”

He started walking faster, your legs keeping easy pace, and made it into the bedroom quickly. He turned around and grabbed for you, pressing his lips to yours eagerly.

“Need you, please,” he whined again, to which you pressed your lips against his harder, biting at his bottom lip and swiping your tongue against his. His desperation only served to turn you on, lightning ripping through your lower abdomen.

You pressed one more harsh kiss against his lips before you squeezed his ass and commanded, “Strip.”

Ever obedient, he reached to tug off his tight t-shirt as you took a step backwards. He shed the rest of his clothes quickly, his boots slipping off of his feet with ease, jeans and boxers falling to the carpet with the quiet whoosh of denim against skin. You watched eagerly as his cock, red and swollen, smacked against his milky-white thigh; you listened as he whimpered from the small amount of contact. You felt yourself clench with excitement as his hand twitched towards it, but you met his eyes and shook your head solemnly. He pursed his lips, breathing heavily, and nodded quickly in return.

“Good boy,” you crooned, approaching him again. One of your fingers traced along the ridge of his cock, a hum breaking from your chest as he bucked against you with a cry. “Stay still for me, sweetie. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The words were quiet, but the obedience warranted some kind of reward; noting this, you kissed down his neck, to his torso, to his Adonis belt, to the base of his cock, all the while slipping to your knees before him.

His breathing sped up, bruised thighs clenching and unclenching as he struggled to stay still for you. “Good boy,” you said, kissing along the tops of his thighs gently, working ever closer with each kiss.

Finally, reaching the wiry hair at the top of his cock, you looked up to meet his eyes. His eyes were foggy, lust-addled and exhausted, but when he met yours, you saw them warm up slightly with adoration.

You held that eye contact as you kissed down his length, gently taking the tip into your mouth and suckling lightly. A wail broke from his lips as he doubled over, hands balling up into fists with concentration. “Please, please, oh god—” Rhett breathed the words quietly, just loud enough to be heard over your own breaths.

The resolve to be good for you made you moan around him, your thighs pressing together to find some sort of friction. Your mouth popped off of his tip with a pleased hum. “Use your words, baby.”

He struggled to meet your eyes, his pretty blues looking straight through you for a moment before you snapped your fingers to catch his attention. He focused in on you, just barely, and you raised your brows. “Words, darlin’.”

He nodded absentmindedly, trying to gather his thoughts. “Please, oh— please suck me off— or— or fuck me, please,” he stuttered out, breaths coming quickly as he tried to process what he was asking for.

You closed your hand around one of his ass cheeks, avoiding the tender bruises. In response, you got a broken moan and a few senseless words of thanks. “Good boy, thank you for telling me what you need. Let me take care of you, sweet thing.”

Finally, you opened your mouth and let his dick fall onto your tongue, drool sliding down the length of it. You used your spare hand to collect the moisture, stroking it from where it fell from your mouth to the base of his cock. He sobbed above you quietly, eyes still fogged when you look up. The wiry hair scratched at your hand as you held his base tightly, allowing yourself to take him into your throat carefully, but not wanting him to let go just yet. It was a struggle not to gag, as it always was, because his cock filled your throat with so pleasant an ache. Still pushing your thighs together, you shifted your weight slowly to try and find some relief against your clit, moaning harshly around him when you succeeded, punching a groan out of him at the vibrations.

The hand that remained on his ass started to squeeze again, working its way between his cheeks. You sunk your middle finger in, searching for his rim. Finding it rather quickly, you reveled in the loud, strangled noises he made as you circled it with some pressure. He begged and pleaded for more nearly incoherently. “Oh god, please, oh my god,” was most of what you pieced together. Not deigning to pull off of him to respond, tongue and mouth still working around him, you pushed those two fingers in gently, more harsh crows tearing from his chest.

Distantly, you mourned the fact that you wouldn’t get to take him down your throat entirely, needing to keep that hand there for his sake. But still, you were having your fun and getting off on just this, your spit dripping down his cock and onto your wrist, and the middle finger from your other hand teasing lightly around his most sensitive spot. He was sobbing above you, hands balled into fists as he approached the edge but couldn’t quite reach it.

Quiet whines, praises, and pleas left his throat, high-pitched and needy; putty in your hands. Your jaw had begun to ache rather quickly, the sheer girth of him making the fun short-lived. So, pulling back and standing up, you told him to get on the bed. You tore your own shirt and pants off of your body, needing your overheated skin exposed to the air.

Rhett had laid down face-up, just how you’d wanted. Walking up to him, you slipped a finger between your thighs to show him just how slick you were. You were positively aching: throbs of pleasure were radiating through your hips with every step you took, the sight of his cock twitching against him and the sound of his whimpers only exacerbating the issue.

When you reached the bed, you climbed up onto him to straddle his face, his eyes following your pussy eagerly. “Oh fuck,” he whined, hips canting off the bed with desire, before you wrapped a hand around the base of his cock again, He panted below you, breaths completely erratic as you settled down onto him. Your hand tangled in his hair, balancing you directly over his open mouth as you kept a tight clutch on his dick. Licking eagerly into you, Rhett pushed his hips down to try and keep from thrusting into your fist. As a reward and in order to satisfy that ache, you ground down against him. His nose caught your clit, and you groaned a guttural sound that sounded like you were being torn in two. Again, and again, his nose caught your clit, and you felt that tightness ratchet higher and higher within you. After one more good grind down against his open mouth, his tongue trying to work its way inside of you, you let go, collapsing forward as you let his cock go, one hand clutching tightly into his hair and the other against the headboard. Shocks wracked your body, moans leaving your mouth entangled with expletives in a stream. You sat atop him for a few more moments, still clenching lightly as you tried to gather yourself.

When you finally felt that you’d recovered, you dismounted his face with one more grind and strutted to the bathroom to get the strap-on, sure to sway your hips for the boy watching. You pulled it and the lube from the cabinet you kept it in and rinsed it thoroughly, removing any dust that may have settled since you last used it— purely a precaution, but you were nothing if not thorough. Having shook most of the water off and slid the harness and vibrating dildo on, you shut the bathroom light off and emerged to find Rhett face-down on the bed, knees spread below him and hands clutching the sheets beside his head.

“Oh, darlin’, you’re so smart. Just what I wanted to see,” you crooned, one hand coming up to smack the unbruised part of his ass as you approached the bed. He rocked forward with the impact, arching his back towards you as he cried out.

You popped the cap of your water-based lube and slicked your fingers, warming them up for a moment before tracing circles around his asshole and slipping two fingers into him. With a loud moan, he pressed back against you, ignoring your command to stay still for the first time that night.

Smacking him lightly again, you scoffed lightheartedly. “Already fucked stupid? Stay still, baby.”

He nodded, sobbing muffled apologies into his pillowcase as you worked another finger in. Taking his sobs as a good enough apology, you grabbed for the base of him again and pressed gently at his prostate. He wailed into the pillowcase, his head flying back and forth as he struggled to keep still for you.

When you pulled your fingers back, he settled down a little, just enough to catch his breath. Moving up enough to level your hips with his, you smiled down at the sight of his farmer’s tan-striped back arched against your flowery sheets, the perfect composition of beauty, before you pressed the head of the silicone cock into his ass.

Slipping past his rim, you continued to slide in slowly, letting him adjust to the width of the toy splitting him. You didn’t use this one often, usually opting for the thinner pink one, but you really wanted to fuck the brains out of him tonight. It seemed that this toy was the right choice for that objective, because he was babbling mindlessly into the pillow, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.

With a smile, you pulled your hips back, then slammed into him with all of your might, sure to angle your hips down. He screamed into the pillow, hands fisting the sheets as he let go, streaks of come spurting onto the bed as he shook like a leaf. “Fuck!” You heard, the first intelligible word you’d gotten in minutes. He rocked back against you and continued his babbling, still recovering from his last orgasm but wanting more.

With a smile, you continued to rock into him slowly, stroking up and down his back with a nail for a few minutes to allow him to recover. When his breathing seemed to return to a steady pace and his hands had returned to an open position, you reached down to flip on the vibrator, the harness resting against your clit perfectly.

He jumped at the sudden change, but quickly melted again with a moan when he realized what happened. “Oh my god…” he sighed, hands balling into fists once more. You rocked into him slowly, testing the waters, before slamming your hips against his ass and setting a grueling pace.

The vibrator allowed you to find pleasure, steadily building both of you up as you whispered praises to the cowboy underneath your hands. You ran your palms along his ass, squeezing occasionally to get a garbled moan out of him.

Angling your hips down, you set yourself to getting him off at the same time as you, because you felt yourself rapidly approaching that peak. “C’mon, baby, I know you can do it,” you murmured half to yourself and half to him as you nailed his prostate. He rubbed his face into the pillow at the thrusts, trying desperately to muffle his desperate sounds.

You leaned back and wrapped your hand tightly around his cock, throbs resonating through your hips as you tried to hold on. Just as you were about to give up and let go, he wailed into the pillow and thrust his hips into your palm, hot, sticky ropes of come falling onto the bed. Content, you thrust into him one more time to rub your clit harshly along that bump in your harness, letting go with a cry of your own and grinding your hips against his as you rode it out. The waves died down, your walls still clenching lightly as you pulled off of him and discarded your harness in the bathroom sink. You grabbed a towel and ran warm water over it and wiped yourself down before repeating the process and bringing the cloth to the bedroom.

He murmured your name, reaching back to stroke your hair when you bent over his back to kiss his neck. “Roll over, baby,” you murmured against his skin. With a groan, he obeyed you, his eyes cracking open to meet your own.

You tenderly wiped his thighs and ass, wary of his hiss of discomfort, meeting his eyes again and only continuing at his nod. You folded the cloth to swipe quickly at his sweaty armpits and chest before you tugged him out of the bed, throwing the blankets (that had luckily been at the foot of the bed) to the floor, stripping the sheets, and removing the bed cover. You turned to tread to the linen closet to grab the extra sheets, turning over your shoulder to see him behind you, butt-naked and tired, coming to help you.

You waited for him to catch up and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, continuing to walk to the closet and collecting the sheets. After you’d returned to the bedroom, you struggled to put the fitted sheet on together, threw the flat sheet on top, and reassembled your bed set.

Utterly tired, you collapsed into bed together, your head lying on his chest and feet curled behind you. You turned to press a kiss to his bare chest, eyes closed, and whispered against his skin, “I love you, Rhett.”

He pressed a big, scar-mottled, and calloused hand to your hair and bent to kiss your head: you felt the rumble in his own chest and the swell in your own when he opened his mouth and got nothing coherent out, his “I love you too” sounding more like an “Aluh’y’t…”

[wlntrsldler]

poisoned mercury is so good! it’s truly one of my fav aus i’ve read in a minute and the way you write the characters is absolutely phenomenal ! i saw that you wanted some song recs for future chapters/inspo so here i am

“waste the night”/“vapor” by 5sos

>wtn is STUPID cute for luke and yn. “smoke in your lungs” is so them kissing on her their bench

> vapor i can see chris and luke writing for clar and yn respectively. like luke and chris just giggling and writing a song for their girlfriends is so cute

“perfume”/“cigarettes and wine” by del water gap

>perfume i can see luke writing as his first song out of writers block, after yn beats him in another game of pool in her cabin and he’s so enamored with her and she’s cocky about beating him and its cute and still ‘will they won’t they’

>cigs&wine i see as them having a full blown camp rock moment and they sing a duet last day of camp (although yn isn’t musically inclined, i picture her still being able to carry a tune)

”girlfriends” by the academic

> ITS SO THEM I CANT EXPLAIN IT

“lover” by the hunna

> luke writes it for their 1yr and it’s cute

hope these help with some inspiration and what not! keep up the great work!! can’t wait to see where it goes :)

OH ANON MY HEART IS SO ?!!?!!!!

waste the night/ vapor by 5sos

i love how we all collectively agree that poisoned mercury is 5sos in an alternate universe (especially 5sos in their self titled and sgfg era lol)

im definitely thinking of doing small blurbs of luke x five star interactions in between the longer chapters now because waste the night is SO perfect for them 😭

thinking of luke realizing that he needs to let five star call the shots in their “relationship” because he has a track record of failing at relationships and the last thing he wants to do is mess things up with five star before it even begins.

and five star is waiting begging for him to make a move because she realizes no matter how hard she tries, she was falling for luke castellan. but bc of her past, she’s afraid of making the first move.

the lyrics fit both of them in very very different ways, but they’re both just love-struck and pining and ugh!

for vapor, i can see luke and chris (both equally whipped for their girls) thinking about what will happen to their respective relationships when they leave chb. long distance isn’t easy. being the gf of a guy in a band came with it’s own problems. they both know that five star and clarisse trust them that they won’t cheat or do anything to jeopardize their relationships but they still cant help but worry about it :(((( (my angst sleep paralysis demon is clawing at my brain)

perfume/ cigarettes and wine by del water gap

perfume is set after r u mine? in my head!!!! i won’t say too much about this one because this will probably be one of the extras i write in the future hehe

cigarettes and wine is post chb!!!!!!! when poisoned mercury is back on tour and luke is missing five star extra. they definitely wrote it together because even tho five star isn’t musically inclined, i like to think that she can write (or at least says things to luke in a poetic way that inspires a song)

girlfriends by the academic

luke writes this about five star!!!!!! this is their song!!!!!! this is literally them ur so right

lover by the hunna

ONE YEAR OF LUKE AND FIVE STAR WHO ELSE CHEERED??????

“they’re not used to our ways” is def the public causing a commotion that luke castellan is in a COMMITTED relationship like the whole world is shook

“that makes me a better me” YEAAAAAAA THIS GOES FOR BOTH OF THEM!!!!!! they’re always better when they’re with each other. soulmates if you must.

anon, you are god-sent. these songs will go into the poisoned mercury playlist i’m creating. thank u for these song recs!

[fishwithtitz]

The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 2

Summary: From beside me, I heard what sounded like a mix between a groan and a low breath. My brain told me to keep looking ahead, to ignore him, to wait until the movie was done and I was feeling better before finding Des and asking for somewhere to crash for the night. My impulsivity got the best of me and I slowly cast my eyes in Mary's direction. His eyes were slightly larger, the flickering light of the screen reflecting off the olive hue of his irises, and his bottom lip was just barely caught between his teeth. He clearly felt my stare because his head pivoted in my direction. His gaze was nearly smoldering.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Mary Goore x OFC / 8.5k words

Warnings: language, graphic description of oral sex, graphic depiction of manual stimulation, recreational drug use, alcohol, light gore

ao3 link

Chapter Two: Hook-up #2: The Den

Five hours. Five long, arduous hours of measuring, mixing, cooking, cooling, trimming, crumb-coating, frosting, and piping. I was almost certain that I had inhaled flour or powdered sugar at some point as my nose felt gritty and raw on the inside, but I tried my best to pay it no mind. I was on a mission.

It had been a few weeks since the house show at Thomas’ place (and the subsequent tonguelashing from Mary on the weather-torn roof), and I’d had done my best to try to write it off as the once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’d tried to originally pacify my nerves with. 

It turned out that Thomas and Des had hit it off at the party, in more ways than one. I couldn’t say that I was necessarily surprised; Des was charming, alluring, and very persuasive when she wanted to be. Ever since she’d locked eyes on Thomas at the smoky bar downtown a couple of months ago, she’d known she had to have him, and to her credit, she’d accomplished it in record time. And honestly, I was happy for my friend. It had been a while since I’d seen Des so happy and free spirited while in the arms of someone she was so blatantly enamored with. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a tad bit jealous of Thomas and the hold he’d captured on Desiree. 

Routinely, weekends had been spent just the two of us together - Doll and Des - curled up on my worn couch watching trash TV or engaging in parallel play as we sent videos back and forth that had us laughing so hard that we were covered in equal parts tears, mascara, and snot. Takeout or a drunken “do” meal (as I grew up calling them) of randomly delicious ingredients thrown together and cooked often followed, and both of us banked more memories than we could count of bonding through the sillied, domestic tasks we enjoyed together. 

Not the past few weekends, though.

I got it, believe me, I did, but after the third night in a row that I’d been blown off for either a bar or a bedroom, I couldn’t help but be a little bit worn down at my best friend’s new love interest. To avoid being the ever-dreaded third-wheel, I denied Desiree’s kind offers of accompanying them out or to Thomas’ house, which unfortunately meant many nights of movies alone and crappy blue-box mac eaten straight out of the pot.

So when Des came begging for me to use my baking talents to make Thomas a custom cake for his 30th birthday (Puss in Boots eyes and all), I didn’t even hesitate to agree to the task. I missed my friend, and although I wasn’t looking forward to slaving over the black-metal themed confectionary after finishing a particularly grueling shift at work, I was happy to do this for her. “Besides,” Des had said, “it will give you a chance to do something you enjoy and live a little.”

So, here I was: my grandmother’s old apron tied haphazardly across my curved waist, melted chocolate and white icing smeared across my forearms and the backs of my hands, and the tip of my tongue perched between my lips in concentration as I finished piping the intricate Baphomet head and pentacle on top of the three-layer cake. I glanced up at the microwave clock and felt my stomach drop deep in my guts. The party was in a little over an hour, and I still had to pack up the cake, shower, and make myself look at least semi-decent before heading over. Taking a step back, I admired my work. It wasn’t perfect, but I knew that if I kept fussing with it I’d inevitably fuck it up, so I dusted my hands off with a sigh and left the kitchen to hurry through a shower and makeup routine.

After a way-too-quick rinse and a blow-dry of my hair in record time, I futzed through my closet to try to find something acceptable to wear. It was warm out, so I opted for a dark-printed swing dress and a pair of worn, black sneakers. As always, I lived by the motto of “comfort before style,” and I was fresh out of fucks to give.

I ran my curling wand through the long tresses of burgundy hair that hung down my back and framed my face before putting on a light face of makeup. It was too warm to wear anything heavy, and despite my annoyance of my freckled cheeks, I didn’t want to spend the evening wiping flesh-toned grease from my face every time I felt a sweat droplet dripping down my jawline. Simplistic it was, then.

I fastened my weathered St. Peter’s Cross necklace to rest on my decolletage and gave myself a quick once over before hustling into the kitchen to pack up the cake. After finding a cardboard box, some saran wrap, and multiple crumpled up balls of newspaper stuffed around the cake, I was off. 

 🜏🜏🜏

“Doll, you’re here!” Desiree swung open the front door with a cheshire-like grin, beckoning me in with the wave of her hand. I smiled at my friend, feeling genuine happiness for her excitement of both the party and for us finally getting to see each other. Awkwardly, I stepped into the home and followed her through the short hallway to the garage. “I want the cake to be a surprise,” she said in a low, nearly-whispered voice, ushering me out towards the outdoor fridge. 

We set the cake on a lower shelf, still hidden by the recycled box I’d used to transport it in. She took a quick glance at the hand-drawn decoration on top and her eyes went wide before she all but pounced on me in a tight hug. 

“It’s fantastic!” she squealed, holding me firmly before pulling back to look at me properly. “Doll, I can’t thank you enough. It’s so fucking rad. He’s going to love it.” 

I flashed my own warm smile in response and chuckled. “Of course, Des. If he’s important to you, he’s important to me.”

We headed back into the house and Des led me out to the back patio, motioning towards a cooler propped against the sliding glass door as she stepped onto the eroded deck. I grabbed a random beer from the red and white Igloo and sat down in a nearby plastic chair, crossing my legs as I twisted the top off the bottle. 

“Happy Birthday, Thomas,” I said as I leaned over, clinking the tip of my bottle against his own. At this point, Des had slid into the seat next to him, resting her head on his shoulder as she absorbed herself into the conversation happening around us. 

“Thanks, Dahlia. Glad you could make it,” He replied as he tipped his bottle towards me in salute and took a swig, smiling politely before turning back to the chat we’d interrupted. I looked around and noticed that this party was definitely much smaller than the last one I’d attended here. There were only about ten other people, most of them acquaintances or friends from the music scene, and I recognized a few of them as Thomas’ band mates. 

Leaning back in my chair, I took a long sip of my beer and allowed the warm air of the evening to envelop me. I had to admit, this was nice. It’d been a while since I’d been around friends with no expectations or masks to wear. I could just be me. I could enjoy the banter between the boys of which Metallica album was most iconic (and why according to Johnny, it was definitely Master of Puppets, because “zero skips,” of course), or how Mark was told by a coworker that it was “gay to wash your butthole” and how he found it completely fucked that one, he didn’t wash his ass, two, his coworker was homophobic, and three, Mark finally knew where the smell in the stock room was coming from. At some point during the story, Johnny had lit a cigarette which was now dangling dangerously from his lips, ash falling onto his jeans pocket as Mark animatedly told the tale. Suddenly, he patted the ashen pocket and his eyes went wide. 

“Oh shit! I forgot to give you your birthday present!” Johnny fished a square (and slightly smushed) package from inside his pocket. It was wrapped in what looked like an old titty magazine, but I couldn’t be completely sure from my distance away from him on the patio. He leaned forward and plopped it into Thomas’ lap with a grin. “Happy 30th, dude,” he beamed with a salacious smile. “You’re officially a senior citizen.”

“30’s still young!” he defended with a glare, thumbs inching under the duct tape holding the wrapping together. 

A snort was heard from beside him, and Greg, one of the guitarists from his band, muttered something to the effect of, “Yeah, for trees,” under his breath, which earned an even harder scowl from Thomas. 

Thomas ripped the wrapping off and turned the slightly smashed box over in his hand. “Heat?” he questioned as he squinted at the brand on the box. He shook it a little and gave the parcel a quick sniff. “...is this a box of chocolates?’ His eyes looked at Johnny questioningly, but his lips were curved into a curious smile.

“Yup!” Johnny replied as he took another drag from his cigarette. “They’re kind of a present for the both of you.” He motioned to both Thomas and Des as he spoke, smoke rising from his hand.

“Are they spicy or some shit?” Thomas asked as he tried to read over the back of the box, picking at the plastic wrap covering. 

“You could say that…” Johnny grinned, ashing the cigarette and taking another drag. “I figured that since you’re so old now, you might need some help getting your dick to work.”

I had been mid drink of my half-downed bottle of beer at his comment, and I found myself snorting as I swallowed, immediately causing the fizzy liquid to seep its way into my lungs. I coughed loudly, which luckily covered my laughter. Des and I both leaned over to get a better look, and I glanced at the small print at the bottom of the box:

“The high-quality chocolate that uses natural ingredients to increase your pleasure and boost your sex performance.”

“Are these aphrodisiacs?!” Des yelled out incredulously, eyes wide as she stared at Johnny.

All of my efforts to hold back my laughter were gone as I tilted my head back and dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. I couldn’t even formulate what Des was screaming at Johnny (although I knew it was likely something hilariously angry and defensive), and I beamed at the ridiculousness of the situation. I hadn’t laughed so hard in weeks, and it felt good to let go a little. Though, I’d never admit to Des that she was right…I’d never hear the end of it, especially now.

The conversation was cut off by a pounding on the door followed by three succinct doorbell rings. Des shot up out of her seat, yelling “pizza!” as she ran toward the door, tapping my knee on the way out as if to nonverbally ask for help. I grunted and rolled my eyes, begrudgingly getting myself out of the chair as I followed her. She must have ordered a ton of food if she needed two people to carry it out back, I thought.

Des swung open the front door and her look of excitement slightly fell, but she kept her smile in greeting. “Oh, hey Mary,” I heard from my place behind her. 

Mary? I thought to myself. I felt my stomach somersault in my gut and I unknowingly bit at my bottom lip. 

I hadn’t really seen Mary since the house show a few weeks back. Sure, he and Thomas had probably hung out, and if Thomas was socializing with anyone these past few weeks, Des had to have been there, too. However, she never mentioned anything to me. Then again, it would make sense that she hadn’t — I had never let her in on my evening hanging out with Mary (only that we had talked on the patio that night), and I definitely didn’t tell her about his shitty beer slushies and the eventual redemption arc of his head between my legs. 

“...Do you need some help with that?” Des questioned as she moved aside, watching as Mary balanced at least three giant packs of beer while stepping through the threshold. The heavy boxes made the muscles in his arms appear permanently flexed, each limb framed by the cut-off sleeves of what was once a short-sleeve Morbid Angel tee. He was deceptively strong, and images of those arms curled around my legs as he dipped his face between my thighs ramparted my mind. I couldn’t help but watch as he moved swiftly through the house and out onto the patio.

“Nah, I’m good,” Mary grunted as he hurriedly beelined for the back door, pushing the crack of the door opening to the side with his foot as he slipped through with his contribution to the party. I subconsciously licked my lips and followed Des as she made her way back out to the patio with a sigh. Apparently, she’d really been looking forward to pizza. 

The patio crowd cheered as Mary appeared and Thomas got up to help him empty a couple of the boxes of beer into the cooler. I slipped into my seat quietly, almost hoping to avoid his notice, yet watched as his hands smoothed out the cans of Keystone in the ice to ensure they fit when the lid was dropped. 

He must have felt me staring, because his eyes shifted up towards me, quickly locking on mine. I felt my heart rate begin to staccato in my caged chest and I did my best to keep my face fairly stoic, though I knew it was futile. Those eyes like spring, of sage and straw, glued me into place. 

“Hey,” he said, ever nonchalant as he finished organizing the brews and secured the lid. I looked down briefly, trying to mimic his cool behavior, and then flashed him a small, polite smile. 

“Hi,” I replied quietly. 

Mary took a seat on the other side of the patio (it was the only empty seat available) and struck up a conversation with a couple of the guys and their girlfriends that were nearby. I tried my best to engage myself in the exchange happening between Thomas and Chassie (another mutual friend of ours), but my mind was swimming with snapshots of my evening with Mary. I mentally shook it off, likening my response to my all-too-often loneliness and trying to focus on celebrating Thomas’ milestone birthday.

Not long after, pizza came, and we hovered both in the kitchen and the patio as we listened to Sabbath playing over the speakers and shot the shit with one another. The more beer I drank and pizza I ate, the more I loosened up, and I found myself reconnecting with some of the old friends I used to see at various venues around town. Mary weaved in and out of the conversations, but I did my best to pay him just as much mind as anyone else. He didn’t seem phased by me, and surely, I wasn’t phased by him, either. 

I heard the door to the garage slam, and Des’ voice echoed through the kitchen landing. “Move it, out of the way, come on,” she said as she weaved through the couple blobs of congregated bodies, the cake box obstructing her face enough that she had to peer out from the side to see. I met her at the kitchen counter and helped her to unsheath the cake from the box, gingerly peeling the plastic wrap from it. 

“Oh, god damn it,” she exclaimed as she stared at the top of the cake. I felt my stomach drop with fear that I had messed something up, but it was quickly abated when she continued her sentence. “I fucking forgot candles.”

Mark, who was unknowingly standing behind us, fished through his pocket before brandishing a cigarette. He held it between his lips and lit it before plopping it dead-center into the cake, the smoking stick appearing as if it was perched in Baphomet’s mouth. I let out another chuckle and Des shrugged. 

Mark moved to help Des carry the cake, but she slapped his hand away playfully in an act of defiance and likely in worry that his drunk ass would immediately drop it on the floor. Though somewhat heavier than she expected, she slowly glided across the open kitchen and into the dining area. Chassie noticed and yelled out “Hey, cake’s lit!” and waved a few people in (Thomas amongst them) from outside to the dated dining table. 

A raucous chorus of “Happy Birthday” rang through the room as Des set the pitifully smoking cake in front of a now front-and-center Thomas. I could tell he was trying his hardest to hide his smile, but as he looked at Des with softened eyes, it was obvious how touched he was at the personalized gesture. The moment was immediately broken when one of the guys belted into his own rendition of the song, singing, “Happy Birthday to you, you’re older than poo. If you were a horse you’d be made into glue!” which earned deep laughter from the majority of the room. 

The cake was a three-layer round cake coated in thick chocolate frosting. A bright white Baphomet stared ominously from the center of a pentacle, while swirling piping lined the borders and edges. Thomas took a moment to study the cake, shaking his head in mock-annoyance at the song. As he went to blow out the “candle,” he stopped just short of the cake, eyebrow cocked, and slowly removed the smoking (and now ashen) cigarette from the middle of Baphomet’s lips. Mark took it from his fingertips and inhaled before licking the chocolate off the filter with a shrug. 

The cake was cut quickly by Des and passed out on whatever dinnerware Thomas had laying around the house. It didn’t take long for only crumbs to remain on the cake board — a badge of honor that I took with silent pride. 

After everyone enjoyed their cake, additional pizza, and sweaty cans of beer, Mark sidled into the kitchen to stealthily pour himself a shot of vodka and a chaser of soda. The bottle of soda that he’d found hidden in the fridge had been nearly empty, and as he drained it, realization lit his face. “Shit, Tommy, there’s one more present we forgot to give you!” he yelled out as he grabbed the bottle and ran out to the patio. 

Empty two-liter bottle in one hand and a bag of bud that he had fished out of his pocket in the other, he looked at the crowd on the deck with a grin. 

“Anyone up for grav hits?”

🜏🜏🜏

A small group of people crowded around the stained tub in Thomas’ spare bathroom — one sitting on the closed toilet lid clothed in a fluffy cover, and two others leaning up against the side wall. I sat on top of the builder-grade countertop, legs crossed, a shiver dancing against my skin at the feeling of the cold formica on the backs of my thighs. 

Mark sat on one side of the tub’s edge while he fashioned some tin foil to place over the top of the mouthpiece of the cut-off soda bottle. Thomas sat across from him watching intently while his hands clasped onto the bag of pungent flower. Only a handful of us had been interested in the present Mark brought for Thomas ( Des had decided to stay out on the patio with the rest of the crew). I didn’t mind — the bathroom was small and it already felt pretty cramped with the amount of willing participants. Plus, I saw this as opportune bonding time for Thomas and I.

My eyes studied Mark’s fingers absently as he pricked holes into the tin foil and began to load the bowl with a mixture of shake and bud, packing it almost fastidiously, his movements careful as to not drop it into the water-filled bathtub. After he was satisfied with his work, he proudly  handed the makeshift contraption to Thomas and extracted a BIC lighter out of his jeans. “Want to do the honors, birthday boy?” he asked as he handed him the light.

Thomas sank down to his knees and crouched over the tub, lowering the sliced bottle into the water so that only the top third was left unsubmerged. He held onto the threads of the mouthpiece as he flicked the lighter with a quick flit. The flame etched the surface of the weed, leaves and flower petals curling into charcoaled darkness as smoke began to simmer and swirl in the bottle's thick body. Thomas focused on making sure the bottom of the bottle's cut-off edge remained submerged but that there was enough room inside to collect as much smoke as possible.

When he was satisfied, he removed the flimsy silver bowl and handed it to Mark quickly before fixing his mouth over the neck, inhaling deeply as he pushed the bottle down into the water. The thick haze slurped into his lungs almost instantaneously and he all but shot up, the plastic bottle bottom dripping as his face contorted into discomfort. He let out a series of coughs before grinning wide at Mark. 

"Forgot how hard that shit hits-" he started, head shooting to the side when the door bolted open and almost hit the man standing behind it. 

"Oh fuck, sorry," I heard, and I lifted my legs from their dangling position over the bathroom vanity to hug my chest, hoping to avoid getting smacked by limb, body, or door. 

Mary slipped into the bathroom, his golden hair stringing into his eyes as he turned to fasten the door shut again. He stood awkwardly in front of the threshold as he realized there wasn't much room in the bathroom for him to stand. Thomas reached up and opened the small window above the shower to filter out some of the smoke before inching his way past the person on the closed toilet and the few against the wall. 

"I'm gonna find Des. Thanks for this, man," he reached across and clasped his hand with Mark's in gratitude, grasping into the handshake tightly before slipping past Mary and out the door. 

I sat awkwardly on the countertop, doing my best to keep my legs folded and out of the way while still ensuring my dress covered my crotch and ass. I could feel the cold metal faucet pressing into my back and my butt felt like it was about to slip into the basin of the sink. 

Over the next ten or so minutes, I watched from my uncomfortable position as a few more people in the bathroom each took their hits, most of them leaving directly afterwards to find some air in a less-cramped space. Eventually, only myself, Mary, Mark, and the guy sitting on the john (who I’d learned was named Jesse) remained. Mark gestured to me as he dumped the ash from the foil into the clear water of the tub and began to fill the bowl again. 

I hopped from the counter, smoothing the skirt of my dress as I slipped past Mary and toilet man, eyes straight ahead to avoid any contact. As I knelt in front of the tub, I felt the cool tile lick at my knees and the heels of my feet dig into my bottom. Mark handed me the bottle and lighter. 

I could feel Mary’s stare from behind me, and while I’d like to say he was decent enough to keep his eyes above the belt, I was certain he had snuck a glance at my ass as I flicked the wheel of the lighter. Shaking the perverse thoughts that bombarded my head, I pulled the aluminum from the bong and lowered my head, lips dancing across the mouthpiece as I inhaled deeply and fully while expertly submerging the bottle. 

It was as if I licked a fiery raincloud. The smoke hung heavy in the alveoli of my lungs, pricking at the blood vessels and sacs, and I closed my eyes to keep them from watering. I rose up and exhaled, my hand softly pushing the 2-liter to Mark as I turned and gently pushed past Mary to exit. My head was swimming and I was doing everything in my power not to cough. I didn’t want to make a complete ass out of myself. Unfortunately, that also meant I was holding my breath. 

I could hear the dull thud of the music playing through the speakers outdoors and unremarkable chatter punctuated the beat. I didn’t even recognize the feeling of my feet against the Pergo as I padded down the hallway and across the landing, down the carpeted steps, and right into the den, sinking onto the worn plaid couch with another weighted exhale. My head was spinning and my stomach wasn’t far behind. Maybe smoking after a handful of beers wasn’t my smartest choice. 

Eventually, I lowered my forehead to the armrest of the couch and closed my eyes, lifting my legs up to curl under me as I soaked in the cool quietude of the empty den. I sat there for what my mind registered as an eternity. The calm doused my speeding heart and helped me to keep the heavy reams of impending panic from erupting in my chest. 

I melted into the firm side of the couch, brow bone melding with the scratchy plaid material, and reached an arm out to ground myself against the side table. I'm not sure how much time passed —it could have been a few minutes or nearly a half hour— but my body was lulled into a calmer, settled state when I heard the slap of a remote against something firm followed by some quieted curses. The click of plastic buttons on the TV console tickled my ears. 

Within seconds, sound from the TV began to ring out in the quiet den, the volume loud enough to hear over the buzz outside but quiet enough as not to startle me. I felt the couch slump next to me and the scent of cigarettes, weed, leather, and musk whooshed into my nostrils from the movement. I craned my head up to look at the man next to me. I'm not sure why. I already knew it was Mary.

"Assholes found lawn darts in the shed outside and decided to set up teams. Fuck if I’m gonna get stabbed," He started, bringing a bottle of water to his lips. My eyes trailed his form. His legs were crossed at the ankles, boots perched on top of the coffee table in front of us, and at some point during the night he had put on his leather jacket. He looked over at me and his demeanor changed from one of kind indifference to one of concern. "...you good?" he asked, turning to face me.  

"Mmph," I mumbled, trying my best to sit up straighter against the pillowy back of the couch. I licked my dry lips and realized for the first time just how cottony my mouth felt. "Too high."

Mary let out a soft chuckle and the nerves that I had spent time pushing down into my belly threatened to peek through again at the warm sound of his voice. “Not surprised," he said with a shrug, eyes flickering to the movie on the screen before falling back on me, "I’ve never seen a chick take a hit like that before. You’re a pro.”

I wanted to argue with him. In a much more sober state, I would have denied his compliment and told him that getting the spins from smoking bud was not the sign of a pro, but at the moment, all that came out of me was the sentence "I am liquid garbage." I licked my dry lips again and inwardly groaned at the Sahara that was my mouth.

“It’ll pass.” Mary reached over and handed me the water bottle he had been drinking. I smiled, recalling the last time he'd shared his beer with me weeks ago out on the patio, and I took a couple of swigs. Capping the bottle, I handed it back to him, sinking a little further back into the couch as I began to watch the scene unfolding on the screen. 

"What movie is this?" I asked after a beat, bringing my legs to cross in front of me as I snuggled into the pillows resting against the arm of the sofa. 

Mary murmured his response, clearly focused on the film, and I didn't quite hear what he said. Or, if I did, I didn't recognize it. It looked like an older film (something I confirmed when I glanced across the room and saw the VHS cover thrown on the floor next to the TV console) and the quality led me to believe it was likely an indie film or B-movie. That seemed to track from what I knew about Mary. 

We sat there for a while in a comfortable silence as the movie played in front of us. The lights of the den were off, but the incandescent kitchen lights shown in from the hallway, which paired with the glow of the TV made the details of the room fairly visible. We watched as the characters on the screen sculked down a dark alleyway, not a care in the world, and from my horror trope knowledge I knew that the action was about to start. 

From my left, I heard the crinkling of a wrapper and the distinctive clunking noise of something bitten. Another wrapper crinkled and Mary brushed my arm with his own, his hand coming out in front of me. 

"Here, eat something," he said as he handed me what looked like a square of chocolate. I felt my stomach tumble a little at the thought of something sweet, and I made a gruff noise in response, shaking my head a little. 

Mary shook the chocolate slightly as if to double down. "It'll make you feel better. Settle your stomach." 

I all but rolled my eyes as I grabbed onto the candy and muttered a noise of thanks. Typically, I'd argue with him that sugar was the antithesis of a sour stomach remedy, but his sweetness and ever-present thoughtfulness won me over. I snapped the chocolate with my teeth and as it melted on my tongue, I sank a little further into the couch cushions. It was good — a little more bitter than I expected, citrus-y, and not nearly as rich as I had worried about. Damn it, I hated when he was right. 

Before I knew it, I had downed the whole square. Unbeknownst to me, Mary had watched with side-eyes and already had another square ready for me when I'd finished, which I accepted gratefully.

We remained like that, mere inches between us as we snacked on square after square of dark chocolate until barely any remained, absorbing the scenes of the movie unfolding before us. I felt warm and heavy and full in the sanctity of the cozy sunken room and the party outside lived far from the boundaries of my mind. Glancing at the table, I looked to see if I could find a wrapper or box to mentally note the brand of chocolate to buy it later, and I noticed a familiar smashed box laying open on the surface. Within seconds, the recognizable panic rose in my chest. 

"Mary," I started cautiously, staring at the box, "where did you get those?"

I saw Mary shrug out of the corner of my eye. "They were in the kitchen."

I swallowed harshly. "So...you just…took them?" I said slowly, hoping to clarify that he hadn't taken what I thought he had. After all, Mary had shown up late. He wouldn't have known what they were.

This time, Mary turned his head to look at me straight on. The look on his face was relaxed and seemingly unbothered. "The box was all damaged so I assumed someone would throw them away. And Thomas is more of a Hershey guy," he reasoned. 

At that moment, my heart fell out of my ass — partially because we had just eaten Thomas' entire birthday gift, but more so because of what we had eaten. 

My face must have been a clear tell, because the long-haired man in front of me cocked his head in confusion. "Mary, those were, uh..." I tried to choose my words carefully despite the haze in my mind, "...those were fucking chocolates."

He laughed and looked at me with eyebrows raised and eyes wide, a look of ridiculing understanding on his face. "I know they were chocolates," he said with another mocking chuckle.

I grunted in frustration. "No, they were FUCKING chocolates!" I sighed and ran my hand through my long hair, tilting my head back as I searched for the right words. "God damn it, Mary, chocolates for fucking. Sex chocolates!" I looked over at him, my grey eyes widened a little in irritation, and studied his face for his response. 

He shrugged, fucking shrugged, and leaned back a little further into the couch. "That shit is all marketing BS," he waved his hand and settled back in to watch the movie. I was certain he didn't notice me glaring daggers at him. 

Despite my frustration, I followed suit and decided to distract myself with the film. I couldn't really decipher the plot (which I mostly attributed to my intoxication), but I began to deduce that it was some sort of slasher film riddled with horror cliches and gore.   

My suspicions were quickly confirmed when the movie cut to an intimate scene between two of the side characters. As they moved against each other in the dark, clothing half-ripped off, lips trailing skin, and almost pornographic moans permeated the screen, I felt my stomach tighten. I wasn't typically the kind of person to be affected by sex scenes in movies or TV, but for whatever reason, I felt a rush of heat flood my abdomen and pull at my navel. 

Shadows moved behind the preoccupied couple on the screen and I tried my best to focus on the horror element of the plotline. The murderer is in the room and is waiting for the opportune time to strike, I told myself in prediction, willing my eyes to study any and every small detail in the movie to keep the tugging at my core from building. 

I licked my lips and let out a quiet breath, hoping to God that Mary didn't hear me. Anger started to prick at my gut. Was this a placebo effect? A side effect of weed and alcohol? Or were those chocolates the real deal? Regardless, I pulled my knees to my chest and did my best to not allow the movie to bother me (one way or another).

From beside me, I heard what sounded like a mix between a groan and a low breath. My brain told me to keep looking ahead, to ignore him, to wait until the movie was done and I was feeling better before finding Des and asking for somewhere to crash for the night. My impulsivity got the best of me and I slowly cast my eyes in Mary's direction. His eyes were slightly larger, the flickering light of the screen reflecting off the olive hue of his irises, and his bottom lip was just barely caught between his teeth. 

He clearly felt my stare because his head pivoted in my direction. His gaze was nearly smoldering. I licked my lips, the wet sounds and moans of the TV punctuating our focus on one another, and I felt the air grow thick with tension that was practically palpable. My fixed stare drifted downward to look at his bitten lip and I shuddered as I noticed the reddened teeth mark against the soft flesh.

I don't know what overcame me. Suddenly I was lurching forward, my legs bent below me as I pushed into him, hand resting on the worn fabric of the band shirt below the jacket, knees brushing the fabric of his jeans. Our faces were inches apart and I could see the stubble outlining his chin and cheeks. His hand snaked up between us and grasped the back of my neck, and before I knew it, he pulled me into him with such force that I nearly lost my balance. 

My lips crashed against his for the first time ever, and through the fog in my brain and body, I noted their firmness, how they were slightly chapped but still velvety as they moved against mine. I shifted to lift a leg over his lap and straddled him, both hands resting against him as his own free hand came to slot against the curve of my waist. The fabric of my dress floated around our conjoined laps and I tilted my head to the side to deepen our locked lips.

Mary groaned and the hand on my neck traveled down my back and over my ass before gripping onto the other side of my waist. With both hands, he held me firmly and pulled me down into his crotch. I could feel the rough jean fabric scraping against my inner thighs and seat of my panties. I let out a whimper.  

Heat soared through my groin and had I been clear-headed, I would have laughed at the aptly-named chocolates, but I was too distracted by Mary's noises and his guitar-calloused fingertips now brushing up my thighs and oh god did he smell good (all leather, spice, cigarette, and earth). I felt my dress flutter up to the crease between my legs and pelvis and his hands came to cup around my backside. I let out a wanton moan into his mouth and he pushed his tongue against my lips, parting them as he ground himself into me. 

Had we been completely alone in the house (or at least in a more secluded space), I couldn’t promise myself that I would have had any restraint against Mary completely taking me right there on the old sofa. However, a moment of worry panged at my core and I separated from him slightly, mere centimeters between us as we both breathed heavily. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?” I stumbled out, lips brushing against his own as I spoke. 

Mary grunted in reply and pulled me in against him deeper. “Everyone is distracted outside," he murmured against my jawbone as he pressed slow, tantalizing kisses that flowed down to my neck. I tilted my head further to the side and fluttered my eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against my own, fingertips digging into the tines of his zippered jacket. His lips ghosted a sensitive spot on the curve of my neck and I felt electricity swim across my skin. 

"I don't fuck people I don't know," I breathed out, feeling my own hips move against his now as if betraying my own words. 

He let out a noise that registered somewhere between a groan and an "mmm" before detaching from my neck. One of his hands reached up to brush some rogue strands of hair that had fallen into my eyes, tucking them behind my ear as he brought our faces close together. "I guess we'll have to get to know each other better, then," he rumbled out, voice low as his thumb pressed into my jaw and pulled our lips together again. 

The lights of the movie flickered behind us and screams from the victims of the story percussed our heavy makeout. I paid them no mind, but after the third scream and the sploshing sound of what I assumed to be blood, I could have sworn that Mary's kisses became more heated. 

His hand trailed from my jaw and down to squeeze at my breast through the thin fabric of my swing dress, which earned him a moan from me in response, before he traced his fingertips down to the skirt gathered at my waist. He dipped his fingers low between the heat of my legs, swiping them once, twice up the crotch of my panties to feel the wetness gathered there. I felt him smirk against my lips and his nimble fingers pushed the damp cotton aside to graze my pussy. I let out a whimper into his mouth and he took this as permission to go a little further, stroking along either side of my inner folds with his pointer and middle fingers. 

The muscles of my legs quivered at the sensation and I moaned a little into his mouth again, my tongue licking against his own almost lewdly as he rubbed his hand against me. He broke the kiss just barely, squeezing his fingers on either side of my clit. "Did you want me to stop?" he purred out as he languidly stroked. 

"Please," I choked out, the tenseness of weeks without physical touch bubbling up in my abdomen and throat. 

He began to remove his hand teasingly. "Please what? Stop?" he asked as he bit softly on my bottom lip. 

I tugged my lip back from his teeth and opened my eyes to look at him imploringly. "Please don't stop," I practically begged before leaning back into his touch. He slammed our mouths together again and began moving his fingers with more speed and intensity, rubbing me up and down but being careful to never directly touch my most delicate spot. His teasing had me dripping for him, and right when I felt my frustration about to run over, he dipped his hand lower and slipped inside of me smoothly. 

I let out a noise of complete pleasure against him, our lips breaking apart, and rested my forehead against his as my eyelids squeezed together. His free hand rocked me against him and he added another finger before curling them into me, pushing and stroking and prodding at my g-spot expertly. 

"Mary..." I moaned breathily, and he grunted out in response as he leaned down to lick a stripe from my collarbone to my ear. Goosebumps pebbled my skin and I ground my hips into his hand, unknowingly pushing it into his swelling cock. 

"I've been staring at you in that dress all night," he purred into my ear. The movements of his fingers began to speed up and I reached down between us to rub at my clit, but he beat me to the punch, his thumb reaching up to massage it at a teasingly slow speed. "How your tits were pushed up against your knees as you sat on the bathroom counter," he took in a sharp breath and I felt his inhale prickle the curve of my ear, "The way your ass looked bent over the bathtub, lips around that bottle. Fuck, I wanted that to be my cock."

I could feel the outline of his hardness pressing against me through his jeans, and images of his leaking cock being pressed between my lips made my gut flutter with need. I brought my fist up to my mouth and bit into it, groaning loudly and hoping that it was at least somewhat muffled. The desire pooling in the pit of my abdomen was threatening to break through, the dam nearly cracking, and I could feel each nerve of my pussy jolting with fiery synapses, just waiting to explode. 

My head tilted back and I looked down at Mary through half-lidded, lust-drunk eyes. "Mary, I'm—"

He cut off my whine, his voice gravelly as he spoke. "I want you to cum on my fingers, babydoll. Just like you came on my tongue." 

I felt the fire rage inside me and it was as if I lost complete control of my body. My hips writhed into him and my hand reached up to grab onto his shoulder for support, fingernails digging roughly into the leather of the battle jacket as I let out a noise of complete rapture. His hand on my hip darted up and quickly covered my mouth as he continued to fuck me with his fingers. 

"Shhh, you didn’t want them to hear us, remember?" His eyes pierced into mine, pupils wide and blown with desire, and he watched every minute movement of my face as I came around him. Despite his sultry reminder, I keened against his hand, his skin tasting salty against my tongue and lips with each little noise. He pulsed me through my orgasm and circled my sensitive nub with increasing gentleness as I came down in his arms.

After a moment, he slipped out of me and brought his soaked fingers to his lips before making a show of sucking my slick from them. "You taste just as good as I remember," he breathed out with a smirk. I let out a shuddering breath, closed my eyes, and rested my forehead against his once more, our hair tangling in a mess of golden brown and mahogany tresses. I felt his dick pulse beneath me. 

My mind shot back to our time together on the roof, and as I sat nearly puddled against him on his lap, I realized that I had yet to return any of his favors. With shaky knees, I pushed myself from him (earning me a brief look of concern) before I slid down his lap and onto the floor in front of him. The worry melted from his face as his eyebrows rose, and a grin stretched across his lips. 

My hands slithered down the black denim of his thighs, ghosting the skin of the ripped knees, and I grabbed his shins to push them open. Settling between them, I reached forward to push his bullet belt up and pull at the button on his pants. It popped open with minimal effort and I gripped my hands onto the meat of his thighs as I leaned my face directly over his crotch. Taking the zipper in my teeth, I wrenched it down smoothly. The heat of his groin flushed against my cheeks and even without looking, I could tell he wasn't wearing boxers.

He quickly pulled his pants down from his hips to his knees and his cock sprung out, nearly hitting me in the face. While he was no Owen Gray, it was longer and thicker than I had imagined given his height, and I knew that it would be difficult to take him completely. Grasping onto the base, I flittered my eyes up to him and peered at his face through thick lashes as I licked the tip lightly.

Mary let out his own series of aroused noises and his hands grasped at the couch cushions below him. I smirked and knelt a little closer, back curving to highlight the swell of my ass as I took the tip into my mouth and sucked sparingly before letting it go with a pop. Mary whined at the loss of my mouth and I let out a small laugh, enjoying returning some of the teasing he'd put me through, before I grabbed the base and licked from his balls to his frenulum. 

The dialogue from the TV just barely drowned out his heavy breathing and I surprised him by taking him into my mouth as deeply as I could without gagging, hand still squeezing around the base as I began to bob up and down. By now, the spinning nausea and hazy headspace was gone and I was feeling the more positive effects of the gravity hit, so I slid my other hand down to cup his balls as I took him a little more deeply into my mouth. 

One of Mary's hands came to thread through my hair, grasping the burgundy locks with a tight grip as he helped guide me up and down his shaft. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock and he groaned out, lips spilling out the words "Fuck, just like that” as his hips quaked beneath me. 

I continued to move my head against him, alternating licking and sucking, hollowing my cheeks and pulling lightly at his balls. I could tell he was close when his moans became louder and his arm started to tremble. Speeding up my ministrations, I looked back up into his eyes to see them closed, his head tilted against the back of the couch, and he started to jerk his hips up roughly into me. I relaxed my throat and stilted the gagging feeling the best I could, tears pricking my eyes as I let him fuck my face. 

The tip of his cock hit the back of my throat and he let out a guttural noise, his other hand coming to grab onto my head as he thrust into my mouth. "Ungh, fuck, babydoll, you're gonna make me cum," he growled, and even with my recent orgasm, I felt wetness instantly pool in my already soaked underwear. 

Seconds later, his hips spasmed into my face and he came roughly into my mouth. His salty spend pooled on my tongue and I swallowed around his cock before slowly sliding off with an audible "pop". A bead of cum dribbled down my lips and I wiped it with the pad of my thumb, popping the digit in my mouth to lap at it slowly while locking eyes with Mary.

He looked at me half-lidded, completely enthralled as I nearly devoured every drop of him, and I leaned back a little while shooting him pleased smile. 

"I couldn't let you go through life without experiencing one of my blowjobs at least once," I said, nearly echoing his words from weeks prior. He instantly recognized this and laughed, one of his hands moving from my head to trace his thumb over the swell of my bottom lip. 

"I don’t know what it is about you, dollface," he whispered. My heart leapt again at the nickname he'd assigned me and I hummed as I leaned into his touch before slinking up to sit next to him. I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. I could hear the clink of his belt as he carefully tucked himself back into his jeans, the sound of his zipper whirring briefly through the heated air. 

His arm came to snake around my waist and we sat there in a comfortable silence, film credits dancing on the screen. I heard the sliding glass door open from the kitchen and footsteps clatter against the fake laminate flooring, but I didn't move from Mary's grasp. I was too tired (and too satiated) to care. 

After a while, I felt his lips press onto my forehead and I opened my eyes again to look at him. He motioned towards the last chocolate square on the coffee table with a subtle flick of his head, a smile carved into his face, and broke the quiet. 

“...you gonna eat that?”

[cherrypieships]

i think he knows

A/N: for the prompt 'first kiss' with Steve. slight tw for alcohol and underage drinking!

Ship: Steve x Mel (s/i)

Summary: It's not that she isn't happy to see him, really she is. It's just that Steve, handsome and funny and compassionate as he is, can be a little distracting.

The fan propped up on the counter is the only thing keeping Melody alive right now. 

It’s officially summer in Hawkins, and while she usually adores the season, the heat in Rush Records is so sweltering that she’s almost ready for school to start up again. While pretty much every other aspect of being in senior year would suck, she’d welcome a cool autumn breeze with open arms. Plus it’d give her something to do.

The store is abandoned today, as it’s the first weekend of the community pool being open. Charlie and Piper had asked if she’d be joining them poolside, but she’d picked up an extra shift at her manager’s request. So she’s stuck flipping through a copy of Rolling Stone with her face shoved in front of the rickety old fan she hauled in from her garage. 

The bell above the door sings a little ditty as someone enters. “Hey, how’s it going?” She calls, not even looking up from the Cyndi Lauper interview she’s enamored with. Not that she’s super into Cyndi Lauper’s music, but the girl’s got spunk that she has to admire. Writing a song about masturbating and getting a Rolling Stone interview out of it was pretty punk shit.

“You greet all your favorite customers so warmly?” 

Mel’s head snaps up, attention officially caught. Standing in the doorway, a shit eating grin on his face, is Steve Harrington. “Oh, it’s you,” she remarks, softer than she means it to come out.

He strides over to the register, sets a coffee down in front of her. “What, I can’t visit my best friend at work?”

“I’m your only friend and you know it.”

“My best girl, then,” he amends, then pauses as he thinks about what she’s said. “And that’s not true, Nancy and Jonathan are my friends.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “You barely talk to them, weirdo.” Finally faced with something more stimulating, she flips the magazine closed and straightens, pulling her shirt down where it’s rode up over her stomach.

Steve leans against the counter, making himself right at home in her workplace. Then he grins at her, that wide, wolfish grin that has her chest feeling light and airy. “Why would I need to talk to anyone else when I have you?” He purrs, equal parts charming and annoying. 

“What are you doing here?” Mel asks. It’s not that she isn’t happy to see him, really she is. It’s just that Steve, handsome and funny and compassionate as he is, can be a little distracting. She doesn’t mind it most of the time, when they’re at the roller rink and he keeps trying to teach her how to spin, or at the diner down the street where he’ll toss fry after fry at her face trying to land one in her mouth. She welcomes him usually, in all his silly, boyish glory. But it’s different when she’s at work.

Steve shrugs, pushing the coffee he’d brought further towards her. “Thought you might want some caffeine.” Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she shouldn’t be surprised by this. He has a penchant for dropping things off to her when they can’t hang out. Coffee, books, food, her lyric journal. She has a suspicion that all these gestures are inklings of his loneliness, but that’s something she’ll never tell.

She picks up the cup, turns it around in her palm. “Steve, you didn’t have to do that,” she says, then, “thank you, though.”

He blows a raspberry. “The coffee shop was on the way. Hope they put enough cream in, I know you like it light.” A hand runs through his hair, shining golden brown in the lights of the store.

Melody takes a sip, the rush of roasty sweetness splattering across her tongue as she does. It’s perfect, unfortunately. “I actually did need a pick-me-up,” she says. “You didn’t get one for yourself?”

He shifts on his feet. “I didn’t really want one.” He admits, a hand reaching out to fiddle with the cord of the fan where it’s plugged into the wall, the twisted wire evidently a source of displeasure for him. Or maybe a distraction. 

Her fingers find the magazine, shove it across the counter at him. “You gonna hang around?” She asks, hope lacing the corners of her words. Fuck it. Rush wasn’t here, on pre-summer vacation with his wife and baby boy, and she was the only employee here until her shift ended in two hours. Who was gonna tell her to get back to work?

Steve grins, his big almond eyes sparkling. “Can I?” 

She shrugs, trying her hardest to maintain an air of nonchalance. “Sure, I don’t care,” she lies. She wants him to stay so she can keep looking at him.

He taps a hand against the counter, straightens with a big crooked smile, a look in his eyes that says he knows she doesn’t mean it. “Show me the newcomers,” he demands, and shucks off the gray-blue windbreaker he’s donning- revealing a beautiful stretch of golden skin over toned arms. He’s wearing the cutest, dumbest sage-colored polo, the collar a stark white that she wants to tug on. 

Mel rolls her eyes, pulls the bins out from below the front register that house the new arrivals, fresh off the truck this morning. She’s yet to put them away, opting to save them for the last hour to make it look like she’d been working when the closer comes in later. “I dunno how much of it’s your taste, honestly. Bunch of metal, some Neil Diamond… I think we got that new Bob Marley compilation album.” Her fingers dance across the hard plastic spines of the new cassettes, catching when she spots a blackened one with Violent Femmes written in thin writing. “Oh, shit, I didn’t even see these.”

Steve digs a big hand into the bin, fishes out an eyesore of a tape with a scoff. “What do you mean, not my taste? You got the good shit right here.” He flicks the cover to make his point, then shakes his hand out when he realizes how hard the plastic casing is. He’s so cute she could punch him.

She stares pointedly at the album he’s holding. “Big Bananarama fan, are you?” 

He visibly bites back a giggle. “Absolutely.” She can’t tell if he’s kidding, but she can tell from the next heave of his chest he’s about to start singing.

“Oh, please no-”

“It’s a cruel, cruel, cruel summer,” he croons, “Leaving me here on my own.” His shoulders rise and fall as he makes up a little dance. 

Mel puts her hands over her ears, tugs her face up into a forced grimace.

Steve doesn’t relent, instead grabbing the stapler beside the register and turning it into a makeshift microphone. “It’s a cruel- it’s a cruel, cruel summer, now you’re gone,” he looks at her deeply, eyebrows twisted into an expression of profound longing. “You’re not the only one!” Ever the performer, he launches into a series of scat sounds that are probably meant to represent the instrumentals. 

She swats at him. “You’re horrible. Evil.” He has such a gorgeous voice, even playing pretend. 

He cackles, sets his microphone-stapler back down and finally gives in. “You should be thankful, you know. Girls all over Hawkins would pay big money to hear this beautiful voice and you’re getting it for free.” 

It’s funny, his ego, so big and so small at the same time. He switches like railroad tracks between braggadocio and self-loathing. Sometimes it’s all wrapped up in one sentence. There are no girls licking at his heels right now, at least not that she’s seen. But there were, and he knows it. And she can’t tell if he’s being boastful or bitter. “Okay hotshot, do you see any tapes you like or should I put them away?” She says instead of voicing this.

The boy puffs his cheeks up as he thinks, then grabs a tape and turns it over with careful hands. “Jonathan said I’d probably like The Cure, what do you think?” He stares down at her.

She shrugs, takes the tape from his warm fingers. “Maybe. It seems a little um, sad? For you, I think. Too introspective, you know?” She glances up at him, where his eyes are squinting, visibly confused. “Uh, he sings about like, his depression a lot. Mental stuff.”

Steve hums. “What do you recommend, then?” 

Her heart leaps in her chest. She rifles through the cassette bin for a moment, pulls out another tape and shows it to him. “I think you’d like The Bangles. Pop with a little punk-rock edge, I’d say. Oh, and,” she grabs another tape, this one a bright colorblock mess. “Try The Go-Gos. They did that song a couple years ago, We Got the Beat? They’re pretty good.” 

The way he looks down at her, with his sweet brown eyes and petal pink lips, makes her self-conscious for a moment. But he takes the albums, sets them down on the counter next to the register like he didn’t even need her explanation, he would have taken them anyway. “What else you got? Wheeler asked me to grab her something good.” He moves a step to his right, looks into the bin of vinyls now. 

They spend a good hour like that, until she’s perched on top of the counter sipping contentedly at a lukewarm coffee while he flips through the pictures inside of an older Fleetwood Mac vinyl he’s grabbed off the Best-Sellers shelf. “What time does your shift end?” He asks, not looking up at her. 

“Four-ish.”

Steve places the vinyl back on the shelf, moves down to the rock section. “Are you busy tonight?” He pulls up one of her old favorites, and she kicks away the urge to say so. “My dad opened the pool and they’re out in Indianapolis for a few nights. Should be quiet if you want to hang out.”

She thinks for a moment. On one hand, she knows she’ll be dead tired after work- getting up at 7 o’clock this morning and surviving off a lunch sandwich and a coffee is going to catch up with her soon. On the other hand, Steve Harrington in swim trunks. “Sure,” she says, and while she hopes it’s nonchalant, it’s hard to hide her feelings with him. “I have to stop at my house to get my bathing suit though.”

He grins. “I mean we could always skinny dip-” she whacks his shoulder. “Ow, relax, I’m fucking with you.” His fingers go for the hem of his polo shirt, tugging the collar away from his skin. 

“Do you want me to bring anything?” She thinks of potato chips, bottles of cola, phone calls to her dealer for a fresh supply. 

Steve waves them all off. “Just yourself is fine. I have food and sodas and stuff. Unless you’re craving something specific.” He says.

Mel’s lips twist, and she shrugs. “I don’t think so. Maybe I can sneak a bottle of wine?”

He slaps a hand against the countertop, joy and mischief breaking over his face like an ocean wave. “There we go, perfect.”

The doorbell chimes for maybe the fourth time all day, and Mel has to literally tear her eyes away from his mouth to see Tiffany walking in the door, her hair perfectly teased and silver bracelets clinking as she hauls her purse higher over her shoulder. She blows a bubble of pink gum between glossed lips and shoots the pair a grin. “Hey Mel,” she says, making a beeline for the back room. 

Melody grabs Steve’s wrist, turning it toward her to see the face. “Jeez, Tiff, forty-five minutes early is a new record for you,” she calls, fingers lingering at the edge of the watch strap where his skin is warm. She can smell his cologne this close, powdery and musky and mixed with a strong soap that lingers on him. When she straightens, he’s looking down at her, face blank.

Mel can hear the thud of Tiffany’s bag hitting the counter as she sets it down. “I want that overtime!” She yells back. When she rounds the corner, she’s still smiling, though her eyes are more focused on Steve now instead of her coworker. “Hi Steve. God, has it been like this all day?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Mel affirms. “There’ve been like three customers total. Literally everyone is down at the pool.” The first person had been a woman picking up Muppet Babies on cassette for her kid, the second an older man who bought a Bing Crosby vinyl and said almost nothing to her. The third was Steve, who has still yet to buy anything and is more nuisance than customer. 

Tiffany wraps a finger in a puffy blonde curl that lingers by the nape of her neck and rolls her big gray eyes. “Why are we even open? Rush knows the place is gonna be, like, completely abandoned.” She turns then, sets her sights on Steve with a wide white smile. “I mean, except for you, apparently.”

Steve leans back, elbow braced on the counter that Melody still sits on, and she braces for the suave comeback he’ll gift her coworker. “Had to bring this one her caffeine fix,” he says instead, nudging Mel’s thigh. “And you need to ring me out.”

She does just that, filling Tiffany in on the chores she’d completed and the ones she hadn’t as she bags Steve’s purchases up for him, slides them across the counter in exchange for the twenty he crumples into her palm. “And I finished the new arrival cassettes, but the vinyls still have to be shelved, so if you don’t mind helping me with-”

“Oh my god,” Tiffany laughs. “No way, you’re not staying. It’s so dead, Mel, go home. Enjoy the sun or something.”

Steve nods, pointing to the blonde in agreement. “Yeah, Mel, enjoy the sun or something,” he teases. The idiot would do anything to get her out of working.

The plastic bag in her hand crinkles sharply as she shoves it at him. “You sure? I can stay and help if you just want, like, an extra set of hands,” she offers, legs already itching to walk out the door. 

Tiffany, sweet as she is, tears her gaze from Steve’s naked arms to respond. “I think I can deal. Go have fun.”

She does, piling into Steve’s passenger seat with another round of thank-yous aimed at her coworker. They make a pitstop at Mel’s house, with her making quick work of changing into her bathing suit and sliding a black sundress over it, and Steve making quick work of finding her parents wine collection and sneaking an older bottle that’s half-empty and collecting dust- an expert choice of something that won’t be missed. Mel clomps down the stairs in strappy sandals and slides a pair of sunglasses onto her face. “Ready when you are,” she announces.

Steve turns away from where he’s staring at family pictures stuck to the fridge with letter magnets. They’re old ones, pictures from her life back in Chicago before they’d even met. The magnets are even older, bought from a general store when her mom still thought they’d be having a third kid running around. He glances down to her exposed legs, quick enough that she almost misses it, and then nods. “Let’s kick it.”

___

Mel slides her legs into the pool, watching as Steve flips over and starts doing an impressively smooth backstroke. Her wine glass is still halfway full, his empty by her side. Despite it being well past five o’clock, the sun is still glaring down on them, baking her skin and illuminating the crystalline pool water. She takes another sip of the wine before it starts getting too warm to drink.

Honestly, the wine isn’t even that good. It’s a red, which she guesses is why it’s so bitter, and the taste cloys in the back of her throat, like bad fruit. But it smells delicious, and she feels elegant drinking it, and her body is starting to feel a little lighter, so maybe it’s worth it. She takes another swig, grimaces at the taste again, and sets the glass down. 

“Wow, you really don’t like that stuff, huh?” Steve observes from the deep end. He’s squinting at her to keep the glare of the sun out of his eyes.

Mel raises a hand, tilts it back and forth in a so-so motion. “It’s not bad. Also not good.” She adjusts the sunglasses on her face as the sweat on her nose guides them down. Thank god for sunglasses, she thinks, watching shamelessly as he swims over, shoulders flexing under the water and summer sun. 

Once Steve makes his way over, he lifts himself up onto his arms on the pool ledge, face tilted up to look at hers. He makes full eye contact as he picks up her wine glass and takes a deep sip. She would be mad if the stuff wasn’t so gross. “You don’t have to keep drinking it, you know. I can finish it for you if you want,” he says. His eyes are honey-brown and glossy.

She shrugs, kicking her feet out in tandem. “No, I’ll finish it. Definitely gonna be my last glass, though.” 

Steve sets her wine glass down on the ledge. “Are you coming in or are you just gonna sit on the edge like a loser?” he asks next. 

“Why, you wanna play mermaids?”

“How do you play mermaids?”

Mel tries to scoff, but it dissolves into a laugh halfway through. She can’t help it, he’s so earnest as he says it. “There’s no like, rules, Stevie, you just pick a tail color and be a mermaid.” She tilts her head then, thinking. “You have this huge pool and you’ve never played mermaids in it?” Logically, she knows he’s a boy and his parents probably wouldn’t have encouraged him playing something as soft and feminine. But the wine is blurring her thoughts just enough that in her head it seems like a crime to go your whole life without playing mermaids.

A laugh racks his shoulders, and he hangs his head. “We got this pool put in when I was 14. At that point the only games Tommy and I were playing in here were ‘who can kick the other in the balls the hardest’ and trying to drown each other.”

Mel slides down off the ledge and into the pool with a cool splash. Her elbow glances off his shoulder on the way down, and he reaches out to steady her. “That’s so fucked up,” she says, taking her sunglasses off to set them down beside her drink. “Like, I’m sad for you. You deserve to be a beautiful mermaid,” she giggles, pushing the wet hair that’s flopping over out of his eyes. They glow like warm pools of honey in the sunshine. Summer is his season, she thinks; the way the chlorine fits him like clothing and the scent of sun tan lotion suits him better than most colognes. 

The pink on his cheeks is no sunburn then. “Okay. Well, I call dibs on a green tail. And a pet dolphin,” he says, starting to float on his back away from her. 

She drifts after him, humming. The water feels cool and soothing as it kisses her bare shoulders, but her stomach is still covered in goosebumps from the temperature change. “Okay. But I get a purple tail and a crown of shells.”

Steve glances over at her. “Are you the mer-princess?”

“Sure,” she smiles. 

He nods, visibly swallowing a laugh. “And I can be the stableboy who watches after the seahorses.”

“The seahorses, yeah.”

There’s a second of silence, barely even a pause for Steve to take a breath, and they’re dissolving into a joint fit of laughter. She watches him through heaving breaths, the way the tension melts like snowcones from his neck and freckled shoulders. His mouth is full of saltwater pearls that glint in the light. He’s so pretty it’s stupid. It’s making her stupid.

He’s always been pretty, though. It’s not a revelation. The wheel hasn’t been reinvented. She thinks, distantly, that it would do her good to quit acting like she’s the only one who’s ever noticed how wonderful he is- empathetic to a fault and warm like sunlight and pretty like a sunshower. 

Instead of staring any longer, she swims her way over toward the deep end, where Steve had tossed a matching set of pool noodles, and grabs the pink one. “You know you saved my life inviting me over today,” she says.

He squints at her again. “What do you mean?” 

“I was literally cooking alive at work,” she says to the clouds. “If you weren’t there I would still be sweating my balls off.”

“Your balls.”

Mel nods. “My balls!” While he laughs, she grabs one end of the pool noodle and submerges it, feeling as it fills up with water. “I’m serious, Tiff’s nice but she never lets me go that early. If you weren’t there I probably would have just stayed ‘til four,” she admits, only feeling a little bad about her devious plan to douse him in pool water.

“What does me being there have to do with that?” He asks, the idiot. “Seemed dead enough she would’ve let you go anyway.”

She squints, trying to decipher if he truly hadn’t read the situation the way she had. If he was so focused on the prospect of getting to spend the day with her that he’d ignored the glances, the soft lilt of her coworker’s voice. “Um, because Tiff has a huge crush on you? She was trying to look cool and like, laid-back in front of you,” she explains, pool-noodle-cannon forgotten.

“What?” He shakes wet hair from his forehead, exposing row after row of fawny freckles, little spaces where the sun has kissed him a second too long. “You don’t know that,” he counters.

Mel balks at the assertion. “Oh my god, Steve, yes I do,” she laughs. “She had the most in-love face I’ve ever seen. I’m honestly shocked you didn’t catch it.”

“You’re jealous,” he says, face blank. There’s no teasing, no accusation. He states it firmly, the way he’d say the sky was blue and the sun was hot.

She scoffs at first. “I am not jealous,” she wades closer to him, squints in the sunlight to see his face. “First of all, Tiff isn’t even my type, and second-”

“No, you’re jealous that another girl was giving me attention,” he takes the pool noodle from her hands, disarming her. “It’s kinda cute, actually.”

Instead of fighting against him, she lets her hands idle weaponless by her sides. She doesn’t say anything for a good few seconds, just watches him float closer and closer, her brain feeling oddly like a melted snowcone, all the sugar and lemon ice dripping out her eyes and ears. “What?” Is all she can muster when her thoughts slam back into her body. 

Steve’s hands come gently to her elbows. “You’re talking about in-love faces like you aren’t making them at me,” he lilts.

Blood rushes to her face. “You’re being mean.”

Just like that, his face softens. “I’m not being mean, Mel, I’m just tired of playing pretend,” he admits, and wades back, a hair more space between them. The distance is suffocating her. “I didn’t notice she was flirting with me, honest. Was too busy looking at you.” He tugs at one of the longer curls that frame her bangs.

The syrupy thing in Mel’s chest starts hammering out a rhythm. Yeah, maybe in her subconscious she knew he had a thing for her. Lingering kisses on cheeks and oft-settled lunch tabs were the tip of the iceberg. The fact that he saw through her, though, was what had shocked her. A cool façade years in the making torn down in a few sentences by a boy who had once asked her how to spell earring. He’d seen the cracks and found his way to her interior at the first chance. 

Or maybe he wasn’t some huge mastermind, and she was shit at keeping secrets from him.

“You called me cute,” she notes. She allows herself the wine-fueled pleasure of touching his arms. His skin is cool from the water, and yet her touch is what makes goosebumps break over it.

He smiles. “You are cute.”

And then he’s leaning down, brown eyes entirely too focused on her mouth. It’s innocent in the most soul-crushing way; a slide of his top lip down her own, slow and deliberate, encircled by a warm embrace and controlled by a hand that cradles her jaw. He’s sweet and honey-tasting, like wine, like snowcones, like summer, and she breathes deep, inhaling it all. It goes straight to her head. She’s not used to being loved so softly.

When he breaks away, it’s not far, just enough that she can feel his breath fan warm over her cupid’s bow. He comes back again, mouthing at the seam of her lips until she blooms for him, accepting the sweet slide of his tongue like communion. He ends it with a kiss to her nose. It makes wings flutter in her stomach. “Do you want to maybe go inside?” he asks, half sheepish and half suave and all Steve.

She pulls out of his grasp, stretches out to float on her back. “Later,” she promises, and a shiver runs through her. “The day’s still young, babe, let’s play mermaids.”

[alengmae]

Every Story Is Us (CH 5)

(AN: I was convinced by Jess to post this here. IDK why Jess but you work in mysterious ways. To read this in AO3 and my other drabbles, visit here.)

“What you seek is seeking you.”

~Rumi

Penelope choked on her the tiny sip of wine she took. She started coughing but her date carried on like nothing was amiss.

“Yeah, you remind me so much of her. You should meet Mother. I just know she will love you,” he gushed further. He gave her an expectant grin.

She gaped at him in astonishment. They literally just sat down not fifteen minutes ago, yet he was already talking about her meeting his mother on their first date. She knew it was a bad idea to trust Eloise and Fran’s idea. Tinder dates were really not her style. And, based on her first date, she felt vindicated.

She was about to set the record straight when the server came to their table and took their order. She opened her mouth to speak but her date was a lot faster.

“She’ll have the Steak Diane. You don’t mind me ordering for you, right?” he asked as he turned to her.

Penelope was too dumbfounded to respond. He was hitting all her red flags and he was completely oblivious to her irritation, which was awfully apparent since the server’s professional smile turned into a wince. She only raised her glass of wine to the server, who understood immediately her need for more booze. If the server were considerate, she would bring an entire bottle for her.

“Oh and separate bill,” he added before explaining to her with a hint of condescension, “I like to go Dutch on the first date. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t!”

Honestly, she didn’t mind at all. If anything, she would have insisted on it. She felt that he was the type to lord it over after dinner, expecting for something in return. But the way he went on another tangent about his mother, she just knew she was not going to last the appetizer course.

She cursed Eloise and Fran heavily in her head. They insisted she try out the app and look where it got her. She should have followed Daphne’s instructions, to never get caught up in her younger sisters’ shenanigans. As she listened to her date drone on and on, one thing became clear in her mind. She needed new friends.

Nay, better friends.

She just moved from Ireland to London for work. And she met Eloise, a fellow teacher, not too long ago and they clicked immediately. Soon, she was invited to all their brunches and dinners. She fell in love with her family instantly, all eight of them. Although, there was a Bridgerton brother she has not met yet. Seemingly, that Bridgerton was off traveling the world and was on a lengthy tour this time around. And, if he was anything like his siblings, she knew she would come to love him too. But, right now, that love she felt for all things Bridgerton started to wane. She said she didn’t want a date but no, Eloise and Fran had to drag her kicking and screaming into one.

She was pulled out of her reverie when her date grasped her hand. He gently caressed her with his clammy hand and she nearly shivered from disgust because why was his hand so wet?

“I just knew as soon as I saw your picture you’d be the one. Even mother said you’d be a good wife with your wide-set hips,” he beamed at her.

“Oh my god,” she gasped out loud. She tugged her hand back and excused herself to the restroom. She needed to get out of this date. Never in her life had she felt so uncomfortable. She frantically dialed Eloise to come save her but there was no reception at all. Her annoyance reached an all-time high. Was there a fucking signal blocker installed in this facility? She lingered outside the restroom, hidden by the stately plants decorating the restaurant, and repeatedly scrolled through her phone for a miracle. She was close to screaming in frustration.

It was then she felt a finger lightly poke her back. She swiveled around and saw the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. He was exactly her type: tall, dark and handsome. He was incredibly fit, and wearing clothes that highlighted his muscular body. He had on a sympathetic smile and lips that were begging to be kissed. Well, hello there. Maybe his attractiveness short-circuited her brain because she just stood there gaping at him like an idiot.

“Sorry,” he modestly started, “I couldn’t help but notice. Are you alright?”

Penelope nodded, heat spreading on her cheeks. She must have looked like a mad woman, pacing to and fro in front of the restroom. She smiled weakly at him.

“Are you sure?” He glanced in the direction of her date and she grimaced. Her date was openly picking his nose in public at the moment. Penelope had to close her eyes in an effort not to shudder in repugnance. “Anne told me you might need saving.”

She perked up at the name of her server. She might have found her salvation after all. “I…actually, I might,” she bashfully admitted. “I need rescuing from my date. It’s a Tinder date.” She felt the need to explain why. Obviously, this handsome man in front of her probably think she was crazy for going on this date in the first place. And, just in case he might be interested, she wanted to make herself appear saner.

“No worries. I’m your guy,” he reassured her. When he grinned at her, she swore it went straight between her legs. The pull of her attraction to him was insanely intense. She had never felt anything like this before with other men.

“Colin, by the way,” he held out his hand, which she met coyly. “Penelope.”

She marveled at how long his fingers were compared to hers, how rough his skin was against hers and how dry his hands was compared to her date. Her mind started to wander to more wanton thoughts as he shook her hand. His fingers should be illegal, she mused. When he let go, she already mourned the loss of contact.

“Alright, Penelope. I’ll be your knight in shining armor tonight,” he stated excitedly.

Ugh, and he’s charming too? How the hell was he real?

He urged her back to her date without a game plan, only a wink. She got too pre-occupied with said wink to even ask about how he planned on rescuing her. She reluctantly sat down across her date again.

“You sure took your time there,” her date stated said evenly. “I hate waiting. Be more prudent next time.”

She almost threw the basket of breadsticks to his face. Colin better come right away or else, she will stab the man in front of her in the eye with a breadstick. Before she could openly berate him, Colin marched to their table purposefully. He stopped with a loud dramatic gasp.

“Penelope, how could you?” he bellowed scandalously. “After ten years of marriage, this is what you’re doing?”

“What the fuck…” she mumbled in shock at his theatrical display. Her date appeared to be equally confused at the scene in front of them.

“And you left Colin Jr at home by himself to meet up with this man?” Colin continued his melodrama without pausing. “What does he have that I don’t?”

“Wait, you have a kid?” her date’s furious question jerked her from her bewilderment.

“I-“

“I thought you were a virgin!” he cut her off, for the nth time this night.

“That’s where you draw the line? Me not being a virgin?” her incredulous voice was shrill in affront.

Even Colin stopped with his dramatics with a revolted, “Dude.”

Thankfully, this was the moment her date decided to storm out. “Mother was right, after all. Never trust anyone from the internet,” he spat at her before he left.

Penelope hissed back, “It goes both ways!” She clutched her wine glass and chugged the contents in one go.

Colin took her date’s seat and stared at her, eyes twinkling in amusement.

She glared at him. “And you, Colin Jr really?” she asked with a huff.

“I got carried away. You should have seen your face!” He laughed out loud. But she had a sneaking suspicion that he planned it all from the start. She supposed, once that her outrage had passed, it was hilarious. She started giggling with him.

He was about to stand when the food came out, along with a bottle of wine. Penelope stopped him from leaving. “It’s a shame to waste all these food I’d end up paying for. And really want to thank you for saving me from that horrible date.”

He appeared hesitate so she added further, “After ten years of marriage, this is the least I could do.”

He laughed out loud again. It definitely was her libido acting up because she felt herself swoon slightly to his baritone laughter. She found herself wondering if he had a Tinder account. He gestured for her to pick which plate was hers. She gratefully took her previous date’s salmon dish and pushed the steak towards him. They ate, happily chatting about everything under the sun. He regaled her with stories of his vast travels, one story similarly exciting as the next. She offered her childhood tales from her Irish motherland. He started talking about his work, and how he just came back from Morocco after missing his boisterous family. And she started opening up about her insecurity of being in an unfamiliar country all by herself. He held her hand in consolation as she admitted succumbing to homesickness sometimes. He comforted her by recounting comical anecdotes from his travels.

If she was awestruck by his good-looks, she was even more enamored by his wit and sense of humor. He made her laugh so hard but he also made her think. There was nothing sexier than a sharp intellect. He was becoming more dangerous to her as more times passed.

They stayed together until it was closing time. And she barely noticed the passage of time. It wasn’t until Anne cleared her throat in front of them that they noted that they were the only patrons in the restaurant left. She awkwardly asked for the cheque but Colin stopped her.

“This one’s on me, Anne.”

Their server nodded and bid them a good night before leaving.

“What? Wait, Anne!” She tried stopping her but her pleas fell on deaf ears. “I was supposed to treat you,” she grumbled lightly to Colin.

He shrugged. “How can I ask the mother of my child, Colin Jr, to pay for our date?”

She paused, blushing profusely. “Even if she dared to date someone else tonight?” she teased playfully.

He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “Even when she tried to date someone else tonight. And might I add, she looks absolutely lovely tonight.”

Smooth like fucking butter. Her face must be red as a tomato right now, she reckoned. “Well, Colin Jr’s dad is not bad looking either.”

He beamed at her. She wanted to look away because he was too beautiful, it’s just not right. But he gently grasped her hand and asked softly, “Can I have your number? I really liked our time together and I really like you.”

“I like you too,” she replied, breathless.

He started leaning towards her, eyes locked on her lips. She did the same, magnetically slanting her body closer to his. Just when they were a fraction of an inch away, the kitchen door busted open with Anne bustling out.

“Boss, do you want-oops! My bad!” She retreated as fast as she came.

Damn it, Anne! Her scowl must have been a sight since he started chortling. He kissed the back of her hand reverently after to assuage her.

“Wait, she said boss?”

It was his turn to be sheepish. “I own this place.”

She blinked. That explained his intervention. “I clearly chose the wrong place to cheat on Colin Jr’s father.”

“I don’t know. I thought you were at the perfect place and time. I think I’m plenty lucky tonight,” he said sincerely.

She didn’t think she should voice out that if he kept on being sweet like that, he will get even luckier tonight. She only replied, “I’m glad.”

She exchanged numbers with him eagerly before bidding him a good night. But before she could step out from the restaurant, he gathered her in his arms and crashed his lips against hers. And it was magic and satisfaction and bliss and release all rolled into one. She clung to him, desperate against the tide of overwhelming emotions. When his tongue slipped into her mouth, she was completely swept away. It felt as if she would come undone with just a flick of his tongue. When they broke apart, they were gasping for air and sporting giddy grins.

“Good night, Colin,” she called out sweetly.

“Good night, Penelope.”

She didn’t sleep at all that night. The butterflies in her stomach were too flighty. And her excitement could not be abated, even as she knew she was attending a Bridgerton brunch the next day. She was groggy when she came in but a smile could not seem to leave her face.

Eloise pulled her aside to interrogate her about her Tinder date last night but the flurry of excitement filled the room. Everyone was enthusiastic for some reason. “The long lost Bridgerton is finally coming home. The prodigal son has returned,” Eloise said wryly. But Penelope detected her friend’s delight beneath all the sarcasm.

“Oh, that’s good,” she could not help but mirror her friend’s pleasant demeanor. She was already riding the high from last night. Another cause for celebration was just the cherry on top.

“Yeah, apparently he came back yesterday from Morocco in secret so he could surprise us. But Hyacinth still can’t keep her trap shut, ruining the surprise.”

“Morocco?”

It was then that she heard a familiar voice bellow out his greetings. She whipped her head fast and her eyes met his across the room. It was cliché but she would swear to anyone who would listen that at that moment, time slowed down. When their eyes met, it felt like nothing else mattered. And her heart leapt in anticipation as he crossed the sea of people to meet her.

“Penelope?”

“Colin.”

“You two know each other?” Eloise asked, awed.

She smiled brightly, eyes locked onto Colin. “Of course! We’ve been married, what…ten years now?”

He snickered harder upon seeing everyone’s bewildered faces. “Colin Jr missed you last night.”

Eloise interrupted again, “Is he talking about his dick?”

Penelope chose to ignore her friend now that Colin intertwined his hand with hers. “Did he now? I should go visit him some time.”

“I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic with your visit.”

“So how does tonight sound?” she asked, playful in her inquiry but nervous with his answer.

He kissed the back of her hand sweetly. “Perfect. I know a place. They serve the best Steak Diane.”

She laughed.

[heroesandlovers]

Nancy Drew 3x09 "The Voices in the Frost"

This run of episodes are my favorite! Things with #Nace are simmering.

George, Bess, Nick and Eve

Bess is avoiding Temperance’s calls. She has done a 180 with Temperance and now suspects her of being a “sociopath”. While Nancy seems to have become more trusting. 

George tells Nick that she has freed Odette (didn’t that happen like 3 episodes ago?). This somehow turns into a fight between them. These two do NOT portray healthy vibes to me. 

Eve tells her story and why she is suspected of murder. Perhaps coming off her skeptism of Temperance, Bess spends most of the episode CONVINCED that Eve is actually guilty. (Once Ace is looped in) they ultimately figure out it WAS just an accident. All of this ALSO leads to Nick telling George “What are we waiting for…let’s get married!” - These two 🤦‍♀️

They run to City Hall. George is determined and excited. Relentless in ensuring this marriage will happen despite any barrier. But then…after commercial break she seems to have done a full 180.

She tells Nick she is still figuring out who she is..but that she wants to do it with him by her side. They have all the time in the world now to get married so what is the rush?  

THESE TWO GIVE ME WHIPLASH

Nancy, Ace, and Park

Nancy appeals to Park to try and profile the victims of the Frozen Heart Killer to see if they can try and find the other two pieces of Charity’s soul.

Ace thinks he has made a breakthrough and that Charity is the one who has been haunting the Historical Society. Park and Ace have a little banter. 

“Ace that’s incredible”- I love how proud she is. If you watch this scene and focus on just Nancy. She appears to spend the whole time amused and enamored of Ace. 

Ace has a conversation with his platanchor Bess who clues him in on why Park is rubbing him the wrong way. “You know that hot stuffy feeling you have right now? That might be because the window between you and Nancy is closing and you’re finally realizing it. 

Because Ace is always the gentleman and thinking of others, he gets separated from Park and Nancy when he goes to get their coats. 

While stuck in the tunnel, Park surmises that the Copperhead had actually imprisoned HIMSELF in the cell. He asks Nancy to try and get in the Copperhead’s head by asking “Have you ever been in love?” Their musings lead them to surmise that perhaps it was Beckett and Charity’s love for each other that had cast the spell, as a way for their love to survive and persist. A sort of lover’s pact. 

“So you have been in love”- Park says as Nancy presents her explanation of “They just want to be together forever”.

We immediately go to Ace. 

At the end of the ep, Nancy has a revelation that maybe Charity’s soul is passed, not randomly, but through generations. Meaning they can narrow down their search for Charity’s soul by looking at Gettysburg descendants. 

AND…Ace sends the text. (MY ship is rising). Ace’s awkwardness after sending the text but before Nancy sees it is adorable…

And Nancy's hopeful expression when she sees the text is equally adorable 🥰

Episode cliffhangers:

Bess finds Temperance’s journals and learns her true plans (WHY WAS TEMPERANCE RECORDING THIS ANYWAY?)

While investigating the key, Ace gets sucked into the liminal space…where he finds Hannah. 

Aceisms

“Because the FBI is notoriously open-minded about ghosts” 

[goodbysunball]

In-strew-mental error

Long removed from the dominance of post-rock in instrumental music, and pleased to bring you four (mostly) vocal-less albums from the year. These'll melt, massage and mangle in equal measure, and ya know, we need all three food groups.

Lea Bertucci, A Visible Length of Light (Cibachrome Editions)

Been following Lea Bertucci's work for a while, since the 7" on I Dischi Del Barone I guess, and everything I've heard so far appears on this LP in some form, but nothing previous approaches the way things are pared back to the nerve-tingling essentials. The music itself is stunning, moving gracefully from droning notes to squirming tape loops, or field recordings to modern classical. It's a miniature still life of contemporary life, ever-so-lightly lifting the existential dread of the everyday and instead offering a snapshot of empty streets and open, unburdened wilderness. The title track makes me equal parts thankful and depressed, the former because it is an aural scalp massage and the latter because I know that this version of America that is documented (inferred from the liner notes) cannot exist for much longer. I don't think the intention was to get all The Air Conditioned Nightmare on the listener, but the effect is there, though A Visible Length of Light gives some hope that this is a country for artists at least. The three and a half minutes of "The Beacon" whips wind past your head while the creaking, groaning architecture looms, no bodies in sight. "An Arc of the Horizon" has a hopeful, trilling saxophone emerging from the horizon, and "Grasslands" conjures the spirit of Arthur Doyle's "Market Street to Make My Money," letting the woodwind softly stand alone in a quiet moment. I could go on and on but this record's been a balm and a steady arm during this turbulent year, and I'm still trying to find the words to say why eight months later. Amazing stuff, and one of the year's finest. Buy yourself a copy and try to find a time of day where it doesn't fit.

Body/Dilloway/Head, s/t (Three Lobed)

There's an extensive writeup for this record by Matt Krefting that dives deeper than I can and will, but suffice it to say that Aaron Dilloway did a pretty good job slicing up Kim Gordon and Bill Nace's recordings. There are a lot of worthy blink-and-miss-it moments on the very subdued Body/Dilloway/Head, and on "Goin' Down," there's a truly stunning and surprising six minutes of shimmering guitar and celestial loops that oughta have Tom Carter and Bill Orcutt steamin'. I'm certainly enamored with Dilloway's work, especially recently, and he's particularly adept at picking out weird noises and looping them to accent, overwhelm or prod at the proceedings, and this record's no exception. The way things wheeze into winding, whirring action on the sidelong opener "Body/Erase" is a pretty stellar example, something you could imagine on a future Dilloway album, but on such a subtle, quiet track, volume is paramount. "Secret Cuts" follows a similar path, and I love the looping with Kim's vocals on top, starting around the 5:40 mark. But the clunky way the "big" guitar slices into the action (you'll know) leaves me a little cold; it should be a stunning entry but it's only a bit jarring the first time around. I felt/feel similarly satisfied and wanting about Dilloway's collaboration with Lucrecia Dalt, so maybe I'm just pining for the follow-up to The Gag File. Baby boy stomps and pouts.

Jean-Luc Guionnet & Will Guthrie, Electric Rag (Ali Buh Baeh/Editions Memoire)

Did you hear Both Will Escape five years ago and get sucked into a vortex of collaborative improvisational records and get spit out feeling let down and underwhelmed? The moment I immersed myself in that world felt like a revelation, but I quickly became overwhelmed and everything started to sound the same. Improvisation can be life-affirming live, but on a recording it often feels like a reinforcement of you weren't there, bro. Luckily Jean-Luc Guionnet and Will Guthrie have the antidote, and that's to play as hot as possible for nearly 40 minutes. This is a pretty ugly, scraping version of free improv, and with no easy entry point the duo just dive right in on "Bounce" with a shit-eating grin. Kinda sounds like Lightning Bolt if they hated riffs, like on "Diggers," but the lack of recognizable sounds from Guionnet makes this hard to pin down and especially easy to take in on multiple listens. Guthrie plays the drums like a maniac throughout; if you need proof skip to "Glassed Mirror." His contributions help things lurch forward and reach perfectly damaged peaks, but more often churn satisfyingly into the muck. Body music for people who thought they could never dance again; shake and seizure to these negative grooves. Zero bad tracks, straight heat, please buy a copy for you and your loved ones ASAP.

Emily Robb, How To Moonwalk (Petty Bunco)

Of course this is on Petty Bunco, home of King Blood and Robb's Astute Palate, but this solo guitar outing is probably better than both of 'em. There's a Bo Diddley and bloozy bent to the guitar damage on How To Moonwalk, both familiar and genuinely surprising with how high it hits on the Scoville scale. On the two best and longest tracks, things get red hot. The steady riff on "Live at Friendship Speedwell" gives a semblance of sure footing, and everything else shoots forth like a volcano explosion, steady but unpredictable, something you can't look away from. "Arrows of Fortune" is even more damaged, an insistent bassline jackhammering down while the sparks fly free. Be careful where you tread. This ain't no one-trick pony, though; "News From a Fog" sounds like the title says, bleary eyes taking in the day as a gentle haze, and the disjointed "Where Is the Foot of the Bed" sounds like the stumbling glory days of Wormwood Grasshopper and Breakdance the Dawn. Sounds like it might be same old same old, but you try and square the angles and you'll find yourself flummoxed by the density of Emily Robb's guitar. This record sounds like Emily Robb would be a solo guitarist that I'd actually love to go see live, so raw and damaged that I can't deny it's power. Sick silkscreened covers, sold out from the source, happy hunting.

[wolfsgravity]

I can’t sleep so I’m just thinkin’ about my range of Pokémon romantic F/Os. This series has meant so much to me for so long, and I know F/Os from that source make up a decent portion of my list. I’d feel more embarrassed about it if I didn’t make it abundantly clear that Pokémon is one of the most pervasive influences in my life from an exceedingly young age.

I just. I dunno. I find my collection of Pokémon series F/Os so interesting.

I’m just gonna ramble a bit.

I’m going to talk in Generational order, because my 1am brain couldn’t decipher a more cohesive timeline if it tried.

Giovanni is a funny one. As a kid, his character in the show intimidated me a little. But I really loved Team Rocket on some level. They were my first Pokémon villain organization, and with the Gen III games having Aqua and Magma, I decided pretty early that Team Rocket was my team. I had a stint in Magma since when I was young, I thought I’d specialize in Fire types, but eh it didn’t stick. No team really stuck nearly as much until Team Skull! So I had a lot of time for my intimidation from Giovanni to evolve into a fearful respect, to a mild devotion… by the time I played Let’s Go! and Ultra Moon, I was more than a little excited to see him in game. As in, I would quietly cheer when he appeared on my screen, in some weird giddy manner. It was only a matter of time before I realized I was crushing hard.

Steven Stone (he has a full name so more often than not I use it when referring to him) probably didn’t make the biggest impact on me in the original Gen III games? Hoenn was my favorite region for a while (in part due to pre- “Hoenn confirmed” hype), but he didn’t have a huge role in Ruby/Sapphire. Maybe I noticed him first in Emerald? I wish I could remember my real first inkling of crush on him, because I just remember when I played Omega Ruby… I was already obsessed with him. He showed up for the first time in game and I squealed. I spent the whole game seeking him out and already making romantic passes at him in my around-19-year-old head.

I am counting Grovyle for this, but it bears repeating that my S/I for the Pokémon Mystery Dungeon games is a Pokémon too. Those Mystery Dungeon games enamored me as a teen! I got to BE! A POKEMON!! So I probably got Explorers of Time/Darkness for DS not long after it released in 2008. I was so excited to have Gen IV Pokémon to be and battle and recruit, ugh, this game meant so much to me. I will always remember being part of Wigglytuff’s Guild super fondly. And like, as I am super susceptible to mental role play, putting myself in my characters shoes (or lil toe beans I guess) has always been second nature for me. So a dashing Grovyle just jumped into my silly life and was the most honorable and misunderstood character and I am not even joking when I say I fell for him in my first playthrough. And I’ve played through it a lot. I was always jealous of Celebi. I hate every Dusknoir I see to this day. *chefs kiss* Good game.

Gen V is “oops all F/Os” Gen, where to even start..

Just kidding, N is the obvious choice to start for me. He was love at first sight. He just, ugh, he cares about Pokémon SO MUCH. I literally don’t know how to even expand on this. He literally rode the Ferris Wheel with the player character in the game, and I WASNT supposed to interpret that as a date? Wack. It was a date. I love him so damn much. Next question

Elesa comes next because I’ve always thought she was stunning. I mean, duh I guess, she’s canonically a model. Also, Electric types are in my top 3, behind Fairy and somewhat tied with Fire, so she was a woman after my own heart. Her Emolga kinda wrecked my team and I respect that. Also, she loves puns. So again. Woman after my own heart. The only reason she’s still listed as Crush and not as Dating is because she intimidates me. She’s out of my league and I worry she’d only see me as a friend. Well, not “only”, her and Skyla are bffs and that also looks fun. I just. Can’t imagine her romantically being interested in me sometimes. Heh.

Grimsley was a crush that came on yeeeaaaars after his Gen, and it hit me like a freight train. I swear, he made very little impression on me in B/W, because I was young and I was just excited to possibly see N again as champion. I was a little shit, okay. I also never played B2/W2 all the way through, which is a huge stain on my Pokémon record. Anyways. When he showed up in Sun/Moon, I gasped. I was like, that’s a familiar face. Why is he hot now? (The answer is we was always hot, and I just had a few years to grow between games). But like, I kind of tamped it back down? I think I legit tried to tell myself around Sun/Moon era that I can’t keep finding Pokémon characters hot, because I was drooling over another one in Moon. Anywho. Grimsley kept popping up as fanart on my Tumblr dash for a while and by the time I pulled him in Pokémon Masters, I slipped into love. Whoops.

Professor Sycamore, probably not my proudest moment of fandom. He was another one I liked from the very introduction. I made fun of him in equal measure, but I affectionately referred to him as “Professor Hotdad” for an embarrassingly long amount of time. He’s not even the oldest of my Pokémon F/Os. One of my other Pokémon F/Os is canonically a father. But nope. Sycamore was Hotdad. That all said, he did make me smile like a crush-stricken schoolgirl when he talked in game so it wasn’t all just memey objectification. I do love him dearly.

Gen VII! Alola! Guzma! Oh man, like I’d stated earlier, Team Skull really nestled it’s way close to my heart the way no team had since Team Rocket. It wasn’t all because of Guzma, I really did like the group of ragtag misfits banding together and creating a family. Guzma was icing on the cake. Oh boy, he made my heart do funny little flips even when he was threatening me in game. I loved his design, I loved his character, the way he talked, I just. Ugh, I was down bad for ya boy in Moon and Ultra Moon. He’s actually the inspiration behind my main blog url: its-ya-boi-remington. The “Y’all are stupid!” line and face lives in my head rent free at all times. Guzma protection squad.

(Nanu isn’t a romantic so I won’t talk about him here, just know I’m not forgetting him!)

Leon was, believe it or not, my actual first Gen VIII crush. I saw that fashion disaster and felt a warm comfort from him. It didn’t help that I mentally read every character in Galar with some UK/British Isles accent, that sweetened the deal. I was actually gushing to a couple then-friends about Leon while we all played Sword/Shield together and they kind of mocked me about it. They chided me that Leon “doesn’t bat for my team” and said either of them would have a better chance with him if he were real. So I was a little downtrodden about Leon after that for quite a while. It wasn’t until a couple months ago when suddenly it hit me that A- He’s literally fictional and my version of him can like me regardless of what “team he bats for” and B- I’m nonbinary? So rules get thrown out the window, anyone who likes me is both a miracle and some kind of gay whatever way you spin it. So I let myself warm back up to him, though I’m still a little skittish from before.

Piers, I guess, as awful as it sounds, was initially a crush rebound. Like, don’t get me wrong, I’d have been attracted either way. He’s a musician, a SINGER no less, and has that emo/punk vibe. But he’s also gentle and kind. Swoon. But it helped that I had my crush-feelers out full-force for a cutie in game to obsess over since I was still butthurt about my “friends” killing my crush on Leon. Obsess I did, and continue to do. I could probably snap this man over my knee like firewood he’s so lanky, idk why I put that in here but it’s staying. Piers is the one I most imagine jamming out with on a regular basis, and it makes performing for no one a bit more fun 🥰

I’m finally getting tired, I feel like I’ve been typing this for an hour. I probably have been. Ah geez now I gotta tag all these F/Os lmao. Thanks for letting me ramble.

[grandhotelabyss]

Defeated by the hype, I watched the new Adam Curtis. I hadn't seen one of his films since 2007 and wasn’t enamored of the celebrated ones back then. I thought he was a more middlebrow Mark Fisher[*]: nostalgia for the welfare state cloaked in avant-garde aesthetics, which I was used to as a longtime reader of British-Invasion comics—the feeling is similar in Moore and Morrison and Milligan and Delano and Ellis (though not the genteel Gaiman)—but couldn’t as an American petit bourgeois quite appreciate. At the time, I was trying out dogmatic Marxism as an intellectual style, so I also took it as obvious that avant-garde aesthetics, for a variety of reasons, inherently degrade the social and conduce to the very fragmentation and alienation being lamented. Which Curtis does analyze as the theme of his work—and the sometimes patronizing voiceovers are like a parody of top-down state-socialist pedagogy—but his visual style, with its debts to Godard and Marker and MTV, enact in form what’s being attacked as content. 

I also thought Curtis also had an air of New-Atheist-type Brit-twit reasonableness that undermines the acuity of his political analyses. He persistently portrays powerful political actors as naive psychological cases, delusive and fearful types who can’t face the facts. As a literary technique developed by Curtis’s English forerunner Shakespeare, this replacement of politics with psychology can be dramatically powerful, as in the new doc’s best thread, the tragedy of Jiang Qing; but it can also impede a more precise sense of the interests in play. 

I'm no longer a dogmatic Marxist, or even a Marxist at all, and no longer think the relation between politics and artistic form is perfectly clear, so some of my objections have dropped away, even reversed—Curtis grieves that the corruptions of socialism and communism have led us to fear changing the world at all, but doesn’t his own persistent discrediting of anarchic ideas because they were co-opted by neoliberalism mirror the nouveaux philosophes?

The power of Can't Get You Out of My Head is in the nuance of the analysis. I am tempted to call it dialectical. Here Curtis does closely attend to economic motivations in recent history. Despite the banal citation of Richard Hofstadter, he also refuses to moralize and psychologize away conspiracy theory; he shows what secret agencies are known to have been doing throughout the second half of the 20th century, a record so egregious that people can be forgiven for suspecting them of more. Some of his own bland reassurances of their bumbling incompetence tripped my own paranoia—isn't that what they want us to think?—and I didn’t find his use of the JFK assassination at all compelling. Whatever you think of Jim Garrison, and I concede I was influenced early in life both aesthetically and politically by Oliver Stone, whose montage style Curtis’s also resembles, I take the Zapruder film as definitive, no-theories-needed, you-can-see-it-with-your-own-eyes evidence (“Back and to the left”) that there were at least two shooters.

Curtis places the most incendiary material in episode four, where he comes close to saying outright what I hesitated even to suggest in my Habermas post—that “humanitarian intervention” is, when we cut through the sentimentality, a mode of militarist imperialism that doesn’t even effect, and whose proponents perhaps don’t intend to effect, its stated humanitarian aims. He draws a line between the bombing of Serbia and the invasion of Iraq, but he nicely balances Bernard Kouchner with Eduard Limonov, two versions of post-political benightedness, to avoid straying into Peter Handke territory. To this he strangely adds the story of Julia Grant, the implications of which, given the rest of the film’s thesis, he mutes by creating sympathy for this person beleaguered by vicious street kids and fascoid NHS psychiatrists. Still, the inclusion of a pioneering trans activist—whose anti-feminist statements are highlighted—in a montage on the delusions of individualism will have some viewers wondering about the message. (Surprisingly, I saw no criticism to this effect on social media.)

There are vertiginous tidbits—the Boole thread connecting the Russian Revolution to managerial western democracy in the Cold War in episode one, for instance, or the fact relayed in episode five, news to me, that the director of Dr. No did western-backed propaganda for Saddam Hussein. Curtis also gives good book and music recommendations as well (but leave the sarcastic music cues—“Lady in Red” played over the radicalization of Abu Zubaydah, etc.—to Zack Snyder): I want to read My Bones and My Flute now, and the song that heads this post, which I'd never heard before, perfectly distills the epoch.

I can forgive much for Curtis’s conclusion, finally, with its exposure of the (I hope delegitimating) replication crisis in psychology and the social sciences; his satire on the squalid, hateful, maddening, and at this point almost genocidal derangement of the western liberal class, an enemy of humanity equal in its horror to its answering populist fervors, or worse because it incites them; and his call to reestablish the sovereignty of the imagination, which credo is the true part of both individualism and communism, not invalidated by what was false in those utopian ambitions, though the falsehoods in seemingly impenetrable combination are all that our present societies, from China to the U.S., currently offer.

_________________________

[*] I’ve effaced traces of this part of my life as much as possible, but I've been hanging around the weird side of cultural politics online for almost two decades now. From 2003 to 2006, I was part of the same circle of leftist blogs as Fisher—to be clear, I was a minnow in this pond—and was a contributor to a group blog that included a number of people in his milieu, notably Nina Power, who is now a member of Justin Murphy’s Salon des Cancelés. Like all left-wing social climates, this was a ruthlessly sectarian and ever-more-micro-fractionated ideological space, and I belonged to the tendency opposite that of Fisher’s. The conflict could perhaps be captioned “anti-humanists vs. radical humanists” or maybe “left-Nietzscheans vs. left-Hegelians.” I was in the camp of another still-controversial online-left microcelebrity, the figure now known on social media as Red Kahina—who was, by the way, whatever people have against her, never anything but the soul of kindness and generosity to me when I was just a 23-year-old nobody writing from a dial-up connection somewhere in Pennsylvania. Here, for instance, is Fisher’s part of one debate (the figure he variously calls with class-and-gender venom “Le Currency Trader” and “Le Opera Goeur” is Kahina). Even then, I was impressed by his characteristically electric prose: “The non-organic product of capital's ‘Frankensteinian surgery of the cities’ (Lyotard), the proletariat emerges from the destruction of all ethnicities, the desolation of all tradition, the destitution of any home.” Red’s long-defunct blog is still for me the model of the form, but Fisher’s is one of the first blogs to enter the annals of literature and will probably be regarded, not at all undeservedly, as a germinal text of our time.

[dreamiesdotcom]

[02:38] It begins with this — Renjun opens a novel instead of his notes, reads a verse, remembers moonlit skin and shy glances. He then turns his chair, snatches one of your highlighters away just so he could steal your attention. You look up to him in confusion.

He motions for you to come sit on his lap, and so you do — his heart skips a beat. Renjun thinks there's this one problem with him, something that leaves others at an advantage, him at a drawback, and everyone confused. One that he doesn't act on but he so deeply feels, one that worsens when he's with parents and when he's with friends — this thing, this stupid, stupid thing that makes it so easy for him to give love without wishing for it back.

He marks it as doom when he looked at you and had your smile engraved in his mind for hours, when he knew your name and it played like a broken record in his head. He considers himself gone when he got to know you, when he got to be friends — it's just that he's full of love, alright? He loves harder than anyone, mostly why he, except with his family and friends where they're equal, always ends up getting the short end of the stick. He doesn't show it, doesn't express it as much as he should, and when he does they're his own very little unnoticeable ways, but it doesn't mean it doesn't haunt him. He loves like it's his sole purpose, he loves like he has so much of it and he does — he does. He has a lot of love to give even with so many people around him he adores, but then he comes across you — someone who stands under wishing stars and asks for love, unconditional love, understanding love, love that doesn't take more than it could give. Renjun gives you exactly that — with you so lacking and him filled of it to the brim, how could he not?

Renjun hates that you look at him with eyes so utterly enamored, he hates the way it makes him think that maybe, after all, you'd stay with him until the very end.

"Don't stop looking at me that way, bub," he mutters, a chuckle in his tone and his breath tickling your skin — "You'll kill me if you do."

"I don't see any difference if I continue," you whisper, tilting your head just a bit so your lips are only several inches apart. You shake your head in disbelief, in worry, putting an end to a beginning that is yet to even start. Your heart flutters with a sigh, " I would ruin you before anybody else could."

And he smiles, bright and dull all the same, he smiles. He knows that you don't mean that and you're making it sound so much worse than it is, but he entertains the thought. Renjun hums, "I would've liked it, though, if you ruined me. I would like it if it was you who caused my downfall, I would thank you — because I love you."

"And you say that because I haven't — couldn't, wouldn't, would never ruin you, right? You know more than anyone that this isn't how love is supposed to work," you mumble. Renjun knows it — he knows it more than anybody can because he is loved, so he has a lot of it — he has so much of it to give, and for a moment, you couldn't breathe. His kindness — dear moon, how much it scares you. You let out a shaky sigh, "Treasure, that's unfair."

And Renjun smiles because he knows that it is, that you are. He couldn't blame you though, he isn't like that — he only knows love. He knows that it's unfair and he only knows love and so he doesn't know what it truly means to be unfair — if he does, he ignores it in favor of gently crashing his lips, having them press against yours.

Renjun kisses in a feel similar to that of poetry — one written at 2 a.m when the lights are low and there are too many thoughts clouding your head for you to be able to think. He kisses like he has a story to tell, that saccharine cruelty it holds when it's four in the morning and the moon is dangerously near to setting down, when you should be waking up but you just couldn't fall asleep. His lips move against you like colors complementing each other, his touch, his everything — a haunting memory, a treasured one, something you'd always wish to forget and always remember — he feels like art, and you feel bad. You feel bad because he's such a beautiful masterpiece, falling broken for such a hopeless case.

Renjun kisses like words, those he doesn't have to say for you to know.

[ Renjun, Jeno, Haechan, Jaemin ]

[wearevillaneve]

Killing Eve S3, E6: “End of Game” Close, Not Close Enough

I don't watch Killing Eve for Paul or Bear or Jaime. I don't watch it for Konstantin and Carolyn or Geraldine or Irina or Dasha or Helene.   If you do, you should be pleased with “End of Game” because they all showed up.  I watch Killing Eve to see the interaction of Eve and Villanelle. Period.   Come for the relationship.  Stay for the plot. I know for some, if you're not wildly cheering every moment on Killing Eve, you must be bashing it, but that’s an unfair accusation. What got me interested in this show was[probably the same thing you were interested in: the bond between the two principle characters.  As much I enjoy the Konstantin/Villanelle, Carolyn/Konstantin and Irina/Villanelle encounters, none of those relationships are as essential as that of Eve and Villanelle. I go back to Phoebe Waller Bridge and what she said the raison d etre of Killing Eve was which was "...every moment in this show exists so that these two women can end up alone in a room together…”

Season 3 has not done much to get us to that moment.   “End of Game” edges us a bit closer, but it’s a rough ride. 

Konstantin's half-baked escape plan, Villanelle desiring a career change and Irina demonstrating her budding psychopath, and Carolyn's relationship with twitchy Geraldine all contribute to the plot, Carolyn meets with Eve to tell her about Dasha and meets with one of her contacts about Kenny’s phone records and confronts Paul and intimidates a flustered Konstantin into fessing up Kenny asking if he was his father admitting Geraldine kissed him in more-than-a-friendly manner and squares off with Geraldine over what’s for dinner, their fractured family and confront her daughter that she knows Geraldine has been lying to her face.

On top of all this we learn Helene and Dasha have been playing Villanelle for a sucker as the promotion to Keeper gives her a pay raise and a few more perks, but she’s still only a grunt taking orders, not giving them.   This is not what anticipated and it sends her off to meet Konstantin in Russia where she pleads to allow her to escape from The Twelve.  

The price of the ticket is high.  Villanelle has to leave the fancy clothes, the beautiful apartment...and Eve...all behind.  Without hesitation, she agrees. 

Surprising. 

There were a lot of moving parts in “End of Game.”   Niko told Eve to piss off forever.  Carolyn learned Paul is a member of The Twelve and that Kenny called Konstantin to and Geraldine is horny for him.  Eve figured out  in five minutes it was Dasha and not Villanelle who pitchforked Nico in Poland.  Villanelle can have a bad hair day and still look fabulous.  Eve knows a lot more about bowling that she tells Dasha.  Dasha tells Eve she will never touch Villanelle again and the she is a killing machine moving up in the world and Eve will never touch her again.  Paul shows up in Konstantin’s apartment and wants him to find out who ordered the hit on the accountant’s wife (Villanelle killed them both).   Konstantin decides to make a run for it and calls Irina to be ready.  When he shows up to pick her up, he’s shocked to see Irina hit her mother’s boyfriend with the SUV she’s driving and then smile at her horrified father.  And I don’t care.   Exposition-heavy episodes crammed full of dialogue and talking heads are commonly known as “info dumps” and there was a fucking ton of ii in “End of Game.” I’m sure I skipped something because at a certain point I threw up my hands and stopped giving a shit.  If all of this doesn’t serve to put E&V together again to explore what it is they have, then what’s the point? Emerald Fennell was not interested in pursuing that direction for  slammed them together in an illogical scenario that made zero sense. Suzanne Heathcote is enamored with Villanelle and has eased Eve into a guest star on Killing Villanelle.

KES3 has too many characters and plots, most of which is "whodunit" TV procedural bs and not nearly enough of the one-on-one between the two principal characters. PWB struck a perfect balance. Emerald and Suzanne either gave too much or not enough of E&V. That's bad writing. Season 3 has been a series of bright moments surrounded by a lot of dead air and dead weight new characters and supporting ones, whose need for screen time, has stolen it away from the Eve and Villanelle interaction and in “End of Game” more screen time is devoted to several Carolyn backstories than Eve’s.

That was a terrible, terrible mistake.

When PWB was writing Eve and Villanelle it was the interaction between the two of them that was the fuel that fired the rest of the show. It was NEVER the plot. The plot was secondary because it was so basic. One really smart, but socially stunted and somewhat maladroit character chases after an equally smart, but socially stunted and seriously messed up character and shenanigans ensue. With Fennell and Heathcote, the two women and the same-sex attraction/electricity between them has taken a back seat to various plots and sub-plots which will have to scramble to finish up.  

It’s not that I don't care about the plot as much as I care more about the lead character.    Villanelle’s been a wreck, but Eve in particular, has become secondary to a storyline  that doesn’t give her a damn thing to do. I can get standard spy-vs-spy crap anywhere.  The queerness of Killing Eve is a rare bird indeed, but where has it gone?  Villanelle’s wife?  They didn’t even kiss.  Checking out a pretty girl in Barcelona?  Nice, but it didn’t go anywhere.   Take out the bus scene and what’s left? Not much, and that is a criminal wasting of Oh and Comer’s  talents. At least she’s fared slightly better with the Emmy-bait bottle episode to elevate her from the mediocrity of this season, but where’s the classic kills?  Where’s the wit?  How much longer is she going to be a complete mess?  The final two shows may prove to be the absolute best KE episodes of Heathcote’s run as showrunner, and by doing so, stick the landing and elevate what has almost certified itself as the third-best (or the first worst) of the three seasons of Killing Eve.   My skepticism has never been higher that it will.

Final Grade: B-

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Bet You Can’t {1}

Chris Evans x Uriah & Chris Hemsworth x Summer

Crossover-Collab Four-Part Miniseries

 Warning: Cursing, Plot, Fun, and Games, Mild Raunchy Talk

 Words: 2.2K

 Summary: Uriah and Chris are happily married. A night of relaxing with your best friends Chris and Summer Hemsworth brings up “No Nut November.” Once you hear it, you know where it’s leading. IT was all jokes until somehow it turned serious. The Chris’ strike a full-on bet while dragging their better halves into the madness. The rules are simple, for the entire month of November none of you will have sex, none of you will get that nut in any way. Whichever couple makes it get bragging rights, and the 10k pool bet money. Whichever couple doesn’t make it has to change their social media name to “Failed NNN” for a week and post/tweet as normal and go on IG live to announce their failure. The bet is rigged though when Uriah and Summer decide to sabotage their husbands and make a side bet on who could make their husband fail quicker. All’s fair in love and war, and this is war.

 Note: Got this idea from a group conversation with my friends, where a debate broke out about women being stronger and more able to survive NNN than men. It got me thinking, hmmm we know Chris has a dirty mind, dirty mind has to equal freak and always wanting to fool around.

It was too much fun working with @oceanscorazon​ a while back for her part one to out first collab titled Rumors & Waves. Look out for part two coming soon.  I had to do it again. Thank you to the beautiful and phenomenal Amber @oceanscorazon​ for agreeing to this!!!

This will be a four part story to be posted one chapter a week to show what November is like for Chris and Uriah. @oceanscorazon​ will also write four parts to show that November is like for Chris and Summer.

***So for Chris and Uriah’s timeline, this is before the events of Rumor Has It.

🍁 🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

“Oh my god, you guys are so dumb. I cannot even deal right now!”

  You couldn’t contain your laughter. Perhaps it was you being at your utmost comfort level, or the fact you were genuinely having a great time or the insane amount of alcohol you’d consumed. Whatever it was, your ugly dork laugh had come out of hiding.

  “Oh my god, the dork laugh has returned,” Chris teased, pointing at you from across the huge firepit. Everyone laughed louder as you narrowed your eyes at your husband.

  “Oh shut up, you know you love my dork laugh.”

  “I do, you’re right. I kinda have to though right, we’re married.”

“What are you saying?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart, just it’s very suspect this laugh of yours didn’t emerge until we’d been married for a week.”

You all laughed harder, fully getting the meaning of his words.

  “Oh, mate, are you really implying that you’d have had second thoughts marrying her if you’d heard the laugh before?”

  Chris shrugged his shoulders with a smirk on his face before he finished his drink. Summer and Hemsworth roared out with “ohs.” You rolled your eyes at him.

  “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. I don’t think anything could have stopped me from marrying her. It was inevitable,” Chris clarified, shooting an enamored smile your way.

  “It was inevitable. From the night you got between these thighs, your fate was sealed,” you gibed. Again, you all laughed heartily.

  “I agree with Riah; everyone saw how captivated you were once you met. We all placed bets on how long it would be until you married her,” Summer announced.

  “Yeah, it was record-breaking time too,” Hemsworth slipped in.

  You smiled at Chris, making your way around the firepit to sit on his lap. Chris wrapped his muscular arms around you and placed a kiss on your jawline. “When you know you know,” he finished.

  “Aww, baby.”

  Your lips met his in a sweet kiss, then turned passionate. Chris pulled you closer, and before anything could turn dirty you pulled back. You heard the low grunt that caught in his throat as he gave you a look that spoke of desire. You knew what was in store for you when you got home.

  “You guys are so stinking cute. Five years and still acting like newlyweds,” Summer broke in as Hemsworth leaned over to kiss her temple as the words left her mouth. She smiled and turned to her husband and kissed him softly.

  “Look who’s talking,” Chris quipped.

  “Oh, can’t believe it’s the last of October already,” Hemsworth lamented with a groan.

  You all knew what the end of October meant. It meant that you all were now just two months away from getting back to work from your vacations from filming. Hemsworth and Summer were set to get back into superhero mode with Marvel. You’d been signed to two new roles that were set to shoot back to back while you worked on your debut album in between all of it. Chris, on the other hand, was exploring and filming a few new roles since his departure from Captain America. The silence stretched as the threat of work hung in the air between the four of you.

  “I saw something funny on Twitter the other day. There are a bunch of people posting about starting and participating in something called “No Nut November,” Chris began.

  You and Summer groaned in unison as your eyes met. You knew what your best friend was thinking without a word.

  Hemsworth cleared his throat in true Chris Hemsworth exaggerated jokester fashion then began. “Ah, I know this one. It’s when in November, people commit to not having sex.”

  “It’s stupid. I never understood why anyone would do that?” Eyes went to you as you finished your bottle of beer. When you realized it you looked at the three of them “What? Sex is a natural, healthy and fun part of being human. Why would anyone want to get rid of it?”

  Summer and Hemsworth laughed again.

  “Guess we know what goes on behind closed doors now, huh Mrs. Evans,” Summer joked as her husband snickered with her.

  “Hey, we’re adults, and we won’t be shamed,” Chris said coming to your defense.

  “No shame at all, boo,” Summer piped up.

  “I don’t’ see the big deal. I’d be able to handle it easy,” Summer’s husband added as she nodded right beside him.

  You felt Chris’ grip tighten around your waist while his other hand dropped to squeeze the flesh where your upper thigh and ass met. His giant hand was blazing hot. Chris only got this hot when he’d gotten some drinks in him, and his body was turning the alcohol into fuel—but fuel for something else entirely. Your eyes locked onto his to see his teeth sink into his bottom lip. You smiled and mouthed, “behave.” He smiled and buried his face into your neck and teased the sensitive flesh there.

  “Eh-em!” You turned to find Summer and co looking at you.

  “Hm?”

  “Guess we got our answer, you and Evans definitely wouldn’t make it. You’re both too weak,” Summer teased.

  “Woah, woah, are we forgetting who was the one playing Captain America, the first strongest avenger?”

Everyone rolled their eyes. “Bro, you’re like an old quarterback who just won’t let go of his glory days. We get it sport, you were the best or one of them, but let’s not forget about who the actual god of thunder is,” Hemsworth gloated while flexing his muscle. You noticed Summer’s broad smile as she stared at her husband’s arm.

  “I just don’t appreciate being called weak. My wife and I would more than be able to make it because we’re physically and mentally strong,” Chris professed, sitting up in his Adirondack chair. Your eyes dropped to him, trying to give him the signal to abort what he was saying because you saw where this was heading.

  “Oh, so you think you’d be able to win this thing?” Hemsworth added.

  The two of them always loved to goad each other. One time, Chris had goaded Hemsworth into a beer drinking match while you and Summer were left as the innocent bystanders watching your husbands act like children, then you had to be the ones to take care of them after they’d both surpassed their limits. It ended in vomit, and neither of you were happy, which finished with both of them being in the doghouse for several weeks. Another time Hemsworth goaded Chris into a surfing challenge knowing full well Chris was not a surfer. He grew up in Boston. That resulted in Chris getting stung by a jellyfish and Hemsworth having to pee on him. You and summer laughed your asses off but never heard the end of it from either of your husbands.

  Then there was that time they both tricked each other into some whacky challenge to drive for an hour completely naked. That ended up with both of them getting pulled over by the cops who found it amusing and let them go, but they were then spotted by TMZ and ended up being on the show with the headline “Fast and Furious Streaking Chris’.” It was hilarious, but neither of them lived it down for several months. You and Summer knew this was about to get out of hand.

  “Guys,” you began, but neither of them batted an eye to your but in into the conversation. They simply continued debating the issue of who had the mental strength to do it.

  “Hello! We the wives have something to say,” Summer attempted. Her husband briefly looked to her then back to Chris.

  “Hold on, baby, the men--husbands are in the middle of something.”

  Summer’s jaw dropped, and you couldn’t help but laugh. You knew when they got like this, neither you or Summer would get a word in. You stood from Chris’ lap and walked over to the cooler where the drinks were with Summer following behind you. They didn’t even seem to notice.

  The two of you stood there and watched your husbands, and loves of your lives continue on as if you weren’t even there. “This won’t end well,” Summer began.

  “Oh, girl, I know.”

  “Why must they always try to do this one up game?”

  You shrugged because you honestly didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t a male thing because sometimes women got into it as well, but with men, it was on a whole different level.

  “Remember when Chris dared Evans to hold that rattlesnake saying he’d held them hundreds of times?”

  You and Summer snickered at the memory. Hemsworth hadn’t touched it but lied his ass off, and Chris fell for it and held it with no problem only when it was Hemsworth’s turn he chickened out, then Chris chased him around with it.

  “For a man who lives in Australia, you’d think him, and the rattlers would be best buds,” Summer joked.

  “Remember the time they got into a literal race on Sunset?”

  Summer rolled her eyes. The four of you were going to dinner together. After leaving your house, Chris and Hemsworth got into a pissing match over who could run the fastest. It went on and on for the whole eight-mile car drive. When you’d gotten to Sunset both of them got out the car and raced down to the restaurant, leaving you and Summer to drive the vehicles there. When you arrived, it was decided that they’d tied, which led to talks of a rematch.

  It was exhausting having them together, but it sure was great comedy. Suddenly both of them stood.

  “It’s settled then,” Hemsworth said.

  “Damn right it is,” Chris repeated. Both of them looked to you with huge smiles on their faces.

  “We’ve decided that we’re participating in this No Nut November, and we’re going to win,” Hemsworth began.

  You and Summer quickly spat out your mouthfuls of beer and gaped at your husbands. When neither of their smiles faltered, and neither spoke you and Summer looked to each other clearly thinking the same thing.

  “What the fuck!?” It came out at the same time, and the confusion and shock you both felt clearly and precisely came across.

“No Nut November, for the entire month of November,” Chris began before you cut him off.

  “I know what the hell No Nut November is Christopher. I’m not an idiot! What the hell do you mean we’re participating? Who decided that?”

  “We did,” he informed, motioning between him and Chris.

  “Oh, so you two are fucking each other?”

  “Really, Summer?”

  “That is the only way you two could come up and decide something that involves your wives as well,” Summer continued.

  “Babe, we’ve got this. We’ve been married longer and have way more self-control than these two noobs,” Hemsworth slid in as he approached her.

  “Hey! We have self-control!” Your outburst was not to defend this stupid idea; it was to defend you and Chris as a couple.

  “Sure you do,” Hemsworth added with a snort. “Summer, it’ll be easy, like taking candy from a baby.”

  “Whatever, you two are the ones who couldn’t keep your hands off each other during filming. Our godchildren were conceived because you couldn’t practice professionalism and control,” Chris dropped in. Your eyes bugged as did Summers.

  “Wow, you went there, Evans? Really?” Chris shrugged his shoulders so matter of factly that you had no choice but to laugh.

  “Really, Riah!”

  “I’m sorry, I really am. You have to admit though, that was the perfect slide in. He read you both.” You did your best to stop smiling, but it was difficult.

  “I say we take this bet and show them what winners look like,” Hemsworth added.

  “Not a good idea,” Summer finished.

  “We already have a bet Summer. The Evans’ will bring this home!”

  “Whatever mate, the Hemsworths are going to claim this victory.”

  “Rules are simple. For the entire month of November, neither of us will have sex. None of us will get any nut,” Chris explained as his eyes went from Summer to Hemsworth and then to you.

  You and Summer were just stunned as to how this happened, especially with them completely ignoring what the two of you had to say about it.

  “Whichever couple makes it gets bragging rights, and the pool bet money. I’m putting down five grand Summer, and I have this.”

  “Well, I’m putting down five grand Riah, and I more than have this,” Chris countered.

  You rolled your eyes and looked to Summer. She was still frozen, just watching her husband speak.

  “Whichever couple doesn’t make it has to change their social media name to “Failed NNN” for a week and post/tweet as normal.”

  “Easy. I’m gonna raise that bet, on top of changing your name you have to go on IG live and announce that you failed and lost to us,” Chris raised.

  “Oh ho, deal!” Hemsworth and Chris shook hands and looked to the two of you. Again, neither you or Summer spoke. Your husbands walked off together, throwing themselves back into conversation as if they hadn’t just committed to a month of torture without consulting either of you.

  “What just happened?”

  “Girl, we just got fitted for and shackled with our chastity belts for November,” you informed.

  “Ain’t that a--.” Summer started, as the two of you just stood there looking at the men you loved who’d just started yet another war with each other, which had the two of you dealing with the fallout.

  “Bitch,” you finished.

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

***If you want to be tagged please SEND AN ASK SO IT WILL BE EASIER FOR ME TO KEEP TRACK OF. Thank you for reading!!!

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

TagList:

@chrisgalore​ @chaneajoyyy​ @rynabarnesrogers​ @disneysdarlingdiva​ @bellaamor88​ @ab-baybay​ @sonjashuterbugjohnson​ @caramara3​ @patzammit​

[beeblebrox-be-damned]

Hotel Happenings- Prologue

HOOOOOOO BOI FOLKS IT’S BEEN A WHILE I’m finally nearing the end of my school semester and finally finding the mental energy to write again. Now, I’m not going to list a pairing or any major plot stuff yet. All in due time. 

I originally intended to post this all at once as a full fic, but as you all know, I get really excited and impatient and want to post as soon as I write anything at all. I’m planning to have two-three main parts to this? But I said the exact same thing with Chosen/Growth and Drive Him Crazy so I don’t exactly have the best track record with planning. Oh well, c’est la vie. (That’s French for shit happens, bruh.)

So, without further ado or rambling on my part....

??????????? x Reader (Warnings: None yet.)

The wind whisked over the small motel nestled just on the edge of town. Small spits of rain stuttered out of patchy clouds, indecisive as to wear it should end its journey. Another journey was ending that night, and a new one would begin shortly after…

……………………

The package on the doorstep was small, placed just out of the light spring rain in the shelter of the curved trellis, covered in perfumed wisteria, that arched over the door. A small whine came from the mass, a thin cry that hardly permeated the howling wind. The cry grew louder after a moment, turning from a whine to a wail. It was enough to alert the house’s aging occupant.

“Abbey, look what we have here…” The woman spoke softly, a small bundle of rags nestled against her bosom as she pushed the door closed against the wind. She sat down in the old rocking chair- nearly knocking over the knitting she had been slaving over- turning on the pull-chain lamp beside on the table. A soft glow illuminated her wizened face, as well as the soft, new face swaddled within the bundle. The cries subsided as the old woman gently rocked, soothing the babe.

“Someone has left us a present, Abbey,” she cooed. A sleek tabby cat placed its front paws on her knees, stretching up to smell the wiggling mass of rags. A gentle purr emanated from its chest as it clamored up beside the woman, watching the small, squirming babe. “A little present on our doorstep… what do you think, Abbey?”

The cat, after several moments of perceived deliberation, gave a small mew. It may have had something to do with the tiny hand that emerged from the cloth and batted the feline’s nose, but the elderly woman saw it as an answer. “Yes, Abbey, I agree. It is rude to return a gift.” She stroked one hand over the sparse hair of the newborn’s head. 

She gingerly pushed back the wrappings, exposing the tiny, shivering lass. “Such a small little one…” she cooed as she rubbed warmth back into the infant’s hands and feet. “Too small for an Other, so I’d say you’re a teeny tiny human, hmm?” The baby responded with a weak cry. “Ah,” she said with a gentle smile, “lets see if we have any milk in the icebox..”

  ..…………A couple handfuls of years later………….

“Thank you for staying! Come again soon,” the woman called as she waved to the businessman strolling out the door. He waved briefly, not the type to make a comment. Always on the go, always on the move. It made her sad to know there were people out there who couldn’t stop to enjoy the small things like a warm bed and home-cooked food. It satisfied her, though, knowing she could provide that for at least one or two nights.

A newlywed couple emerged from the hall, their suitcase rattling behind them. Both wore broad smiles as they trailed over the worn carpet towards the small front desk, settling their baggage as they paid for the stay. The woman behind it met their cheerful grins eagerly. She loved to see happiness, especially so early in the morning.

“Here’s the key, miss,” the shorter man said, placing the key with its jaunty frilled keychain on the desk. “Lovely room, thank you so much. The view of the town was incredible. Who knew such a little place would have such fantastic scenery! Almost pains us to leave.”

“No problem, hun,” the woman exclaimed as she hung the key back up on the wall behind her, ready for whoever would occupy the room next after housekeeping cleaned it up. “I’m so glad you enjoyed your stay. It’s always a treat to have newlyweds here. As you can imagine, not many people decide to spend part of their honeymoon in such a small, out-of-the-way town. Where’d you say your going next?”

The taller man answer, hand resting on his husband’s, caressing his knuckles gently. “Grand Rapids is the plan, but, well, who knows? Maybe we’ll find another charming little place to stay in along the way.” He glanced at his husband, smiling. It warmed the woman’s heart to see two people so enamored with each other. 

“Best of wishes to you both, then!” she replied with a smile. The couple gathered their bags once more, checking them over. They departed with another round of gratuitous words.

“Y’know,” the shorter man said as they walked out the door, the woman barely overhearing, “It’s so nice to find a place that’s so inviting. So homey.” His husband nodded in agreement as they slipped into their car and drove away, onto their next adventure with each other.

The woman smiled as she turned back to her work. It made her day to hear comments like that. It was really why she kept the place going. If anything, it’d be easier to sell and find a small house and get a job at the local grocer’s or something like that, but this place was special. It felt like home to her, too, because it was her home. She supposed it always would be.

“Kiddo?” an aging voice creaked, interrupting her train of thought. The woman jumped up and walked quickly to the office, pushing open the door. It creaked, reminding her that it needed oiling later, just as the front doors did. And every other door in the ancient building. Oh, it was a labor to keep up with the place, but it was a labor of love.

“Yeah, Mama Ro? What’d you need?” She slid in the door gap, nudging a stack of boxed papers gently aside with her hip. The elderly woman seated in the rocker beside the window turned her face up towards her, smiling. Her eyes were milky and sightless now, but the woman swore they could still see right through her. Mama Ro was a sharp lady, even in her advanced age.

“Nothin’, sugar. Just a glass a water, if ya’ don’t mind.” Her voice was scratchy, as most voices become when they’ve been in use for nearly 97 years. It carried a tone of mischief that would startle anyone not familiar to her. Most would be surprised to find such spirit contained in such a worn vessel. Worn, but beautiful and wise. “Wanted ta’ ask if that cute pair ‘a kids enjoyed their stay. They seemed s’ sweet.”

The woman smiled and grabbed a paper cup, filling it from the water dispenser just outside the room. She returned and handed it to Ro, making sure the elder’s arthritic hands had a good grasp before pulling away. “They said the room was lovely. Mentioned the view too, just like you thought they’d enjoy. I swear, Mama Ro, I don’t know how you do it. It’s like you can read their minds!” 

The elder woman chuckled. The wrinkles around her eyes were accentuated, years of smiling etched into her soft, dark skin. A smile bloomed on her face, nearly a mischievous grin. Scratch that, the woman thought, it was mischievous. Indeed, it was mischievous as always.

“Baby, it’s called 96 an’ a half years of experience. You don’t stick around as long as I hav’ without pickin up a few people-readin skills.” She laughed again, water sloshing out of the cup in her hand. “You’ll get there someday, I know it.” She nodded with a certainty that defied the rules of probability themself. Ro was a sharp lady.

The woman smiled, kissing Ro’s cheek. The old woman patted the younger woman’s hand as she pulled away. “Better go check the desk, young’un,” she instructed with a poke to the woman’s side.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Oh? I didn’t hear anything…” It amazed her how acute Ro’s senses were sometimes. “I’ll check on you in a little while, alright Mama,” she said as she neared the door, looking back at the elderly lady. Both their expressions were nothing short of affectionate. She waved her gnarled hand.

“Shoo, baby, before the customers leave.” Her voice was jovial as ever. The woman smiled and ducked out the door with a quick yes ma’am. She made sure it was partially open, so she could hear if Ro called, before turning back to the lobby. She was shocked to see a large group of people crowded into the relatively small room, talking amongst themselves and examining the front desk curiously.

Hurriedly she returned to the desk, rushing to put things in order without further regard towards the nature of the guests. “Sorry about the wait,” she said quickly a she searched for the sign-in book. She finally found it, placing it open on the desk. She looked up to address the crowd again. “If you all could ple-”

Her voice died in her throat as she blinked rapidly. Now that was definitely something you would expect in a small town. She swallowed, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “U-uh, sorry. Just, please, um, sign in here.” She fumbled for a pen, placing it on the book. “I-if you’d group your names to show who’s rooming with who, I m-ean IF any of you are rooming together- We have plenty of sp-pace if not-”

The man at the front of the group chuckled. “Alright, Miss, will do.” He grabbed the pen and book, turning to his companions and allowing the woman a moment to process what exactly was happening. Her heart raced as her mind raced at equal speed.

The Avengers. In her lobby.

Definitely not something you’d expect in a small town.

[arabellaflynn]

Text of a test monologue. Would you like to see me deliver this on camera, with no makeup, no lighting equipment, and using Notepad as a TelePrompTer? Head on over to my https://www.patreon.com/ArabellaFlynnPatreon, and for a dollar a month you too can see me waffle on in real time.

Hi, all. You may notice that I am on video now. I was going to shoot a couple of tests and apologize for the poor quality of the footage, and explain that I want to start vlogging and streaming in addition to writing, but I need some equipment to do it properly and for that I need to raise some funds... But fuck it. This is going out first instead.

As I record this, it is the fourth of July. You can probably hear the fireworks outside my window. I know I can. There are a lot of those, because we've all been inside and bored for the past four months. 

I know a lot of people who have opted not to observe the holiday this year. The 4th of July is often viewed as a celebration of the American institution, which is a little bit on fire right now, with a few people determined to squirt lighter fluid all over the flames like a bored suburban dad at a barbecue. On the other hand, it's also Independence Day, and marks the end of the long, painful process by which a population broke free of distant, uncaring overlords who cared mainly about the financial dividends of their colonies, and ignored the grievances of the people until they started breaking shit. So YMMV.

I would comment on some of the details, but I don't know them. The Late Show is on hiatus, and John Oliver doesn't air until tomorrow. I, like a lot of my demographic, get most of my current events from comedians. There's a reason for that.

I actually watched a lot of news as a teenager.

Well, "watched" might be too strong a word. It's easier for me to fall asleep if there's some sort of droning noise in the background. When I was about fifteen, I discovered that, unlike the main CNN channel, which has actual shows and documentaries, CNN Headline News just runs the day's top stories over and over again in an unending 30 minute loop. Interesting enough to keep me from falling into a train of thought that will prevent me from sleeping, boring enough that I don't want to stay up and listen.

I have no memory of the desk anchors. I'm sure they were consummate professionals, but they also had no distinguishing human characteristics whatsoever. I know they were updating the loop live, because occasionally a story would be added to the list and another one would drop off the back, and occasionally one would flub the text on their prompter, but other than that there was no hint that the face at the desk was attached to a living, breathing person.

I do remember a couple of the correspondents. One was Christiane Amanpour. Her voice stood out; CNN is an American news station that was originally restricted to American cable networks, and the vast majority of the staff is from the US. Amanpour is British-Iranian, having split her childhood between Tehran, before the revolution, and London, after. They liked to send her to the bowels of Eastern Europe to report from the war-torn streets of Citygrad in Countrystan. She had already caught some criticism on her reporting of the Bosnian War, for advancing the apparently controversial opinion that genocide was bad. I didn't know that at the time; I just thought she sounded more like she told real stories than read off lists of facts.

Another was Anderson Cooper, who was not nearly such a big deal then as he is now. Cooper, a self-described adrenaline junkie, was a war correspondent at the time, with a habit of ducking only briefly for explosions before standing back up to continue his piece to camera. He wouldn't be infamous until his coverage of Hurricane Katrina years later, both for the overall stellar job he did, and also for that one time he got tired of getting non-answers from some government toad in a live interview and very professionally flipped his shit at the lady, asking if she realized how tone deaf it was to sit there thanking other politicians for doing essentially nothing while there were still bodies in the street.

I quit watching the news when I moved away to college. It wasn't necessarily that knowing was worse than not knowing, but I felt a lot of pressure to be "adult" about it at that point, and watching proper news shows made me anxious to the point where I wouldn't sleep. I outright avoided it to the point where I made it to a canceled class at 4 pm, Mountain Standard Time, on September 11, 2001, before anyone told me what was going on.

I wasn't able to put my finger on why I found the news so horrible until many years later. I can't remember what rabbit hole I'd fallen down, but I ended up sitting on YouTube watching segments of the live news coverage of the 1981 assassination attempt on President Reagan. Reagan was shot in the side and later recovered without complications, but his Press Secretary, James Brady, was struck in the head and sustained considerable neurological damage. Brady, together with his wife Sarah, later went on to be a noted advocate for gun control, but at the time was reported to have died on the scene. 

I wound up watching a lot of one of the news desks -- ABC, I think. It started out like all the others, until the anchor tripped up a couple of times and referred to Press Secretary Brady as "Jim", and I realized: He knows these people. Personally. He's a member of the White House Press Corps, or a friend of the Bradys, or both. I'm watching a journalist reporting on a moment of historical significance to the American people, and a human being who has to tell the entire nation about someone's personal tragedy. His investment did not make him any less professional or informative than any of the others, but it did make his coverage feel very grounded in reality in a way that most news, then and now, does not.

The older I get, the more disquieting I find it to have a talking head behind a shiny desk read me a list of horrible things that have happened today without any apparent reaction. It makes it seem like these things are a randomized representative sample of the cruelty of the universe, rather than what they are, which is a list of things so unusually terrible they made the news. I realize that this is part of an effort to remain impartial so that the viewer can decide how they feel about events, but it's also disturbingly normative. Yes, everything is on fire, everything is always on fire, this is nothing new. 

I can't say I'm any more enamored of the opposite, either, the more recent style where the news anchor's entire job is to tell you that entirety of human existence is awful and here's what you should prioritize being afraid of this week. Everything around you is on fire, the fire is racing right at you, and here's whose fault the fire is.

A lot of Americans, especially younger ones, have taken to getting their news mostly from political satire because-- well, one, because for about the past twenty years, our comedians have been better at fact-checking than our actual newsrooms. You can thank Jon Stewart for getting a bee in his bonnet over that. But also because their coverage of major issues takes neither of those paths. The Daily Show alumni write up stories like they actually live on the planet they're reporting from. You're on fire? They're on fire too! Holy shit, let's all find some water! 

The conceit behind the comedy of The Daily Show and the Colbert Report and Full Frontal and Last Week Tonight and now the monologues on The Late Show is not that this is a normal amount of fire for everything to be on so it's fine, nor establishing that someone has set you on fire on purpose and here's who should be punished for it. It's bewilderment and frustration at the way we somehow keep catching on fire over and over again. Yeah, they crack jokes, because it's their job, but all the jokes are predicated on the idea that this is, above all, just very, very, inexplicably stupid. We can, and we should, be better than this. And the hosts stubbornly refuse to just give up and internalize as immutable all the reasons why we aren't.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Jon Stewart has accumulated "fuck you" money from his time on The Daily Show, among other things. I really hope the rest of them are doing the same. Because we need some figureheads who are able to say "fuck you" to a lot of authority figures right now without having to worry about how their family is going to survive the next month. John Oliver has HBO backing and I'm pretty sure Last Week Tonight has roughly equal budgets set aside for handling lawsuits and shoveling money at charity. Stephen Colbert has been insulting Donald Trump as hard as he possibly can since day one, and he just re-upped until 2023. Samantha Bee has her husband holding the camera to shoot her monologues out in the woods. 

They've all figured out how to produce their show over the internet, so at least we have something to watch in the After Times.

I really hope the neighbors run out of fireworks soon. Aside from not wanting the neighborhood to be literally on fire at any point, one of my housemates has a dog, and the dog has epilepsy, so this has been an interesting evening. Sorry about the fireworks, sorry about the camera, sorry about the country, sorry about the state of the world. Imma go find my Xanax. G'night.

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[carmenlire]

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 50 Epilogue Part II: 5 Years Later (Complete)

Amazing moodboard courtesy of @kindaresilient!

read chapter one

read on ao3

Happily Ever After: Alec and Magnus Lightwood-Bane People Magazine

The two of them walk into the little pâtisserie that had been chosen for the morning’s interview. They’re alone and the easy affection is obvious in the way they hold hands, in how Alec kisses the top of Magnus’s head as the two laugh at some joke between them.

Watching them, the reporter tries to maintain her objectivity but she can admit it’s difficult. She’d first interviewed Alec years ago when he was a rising star and had just swept through his first awards season, winning four Grammys and considerably more household notoriety.

At the time, she’d been struck by the man who reveled in his image and single status. To see him today as one half of an incandescently happy couple-- and to know why they’re on the cover of next month’s issue-- is a bit surreal.

Still, Alec and Magnus sweep into the restaurant and it’s just a few minutes before she’s starting the interview.

“So,” she starts briskly. “What’s new?”

Alec and Magnus look at each other for a minute before laughing and turning back to face her.

“Oh you know,” Magnus replies airily. “We’ve just adopted the cutest twins in the world and that’s kept our focus fairly well.”

Shaking his head with a soft smile, Alec joins in, “That’s definitely the most exciting thing that’s happened to me-- hell, all year.”

Taking the cue, the reporter leans in a little. Her eyes gleam but it’s considerably friendlier than Alec had initially thought. She’s getting her scoop but there’s genuine interest there, too, and not just a need for the exclusive they’ve granted People.

“The internet had a meltdown last week when you posted that photo on Instagram of the two of you, each holding a baby. Did you anticipate that level of fervor?”

Alec’s mouth kicks up into a lazy grin as he relaxes back against his husband. “People don’t like change and even when they do like it, they want to be the first to know. That’s why we’re doing this. The babies are getting old enough to where we’ll want to take them out of the apartment and I wanted to face the world before we made that first step.”

“Our children’s privacy and safety is of the utmost importance to us. While this isn’t an invitation further into our lives, we had the discussion and it was equally important to be able to acknowledge and celebrate that our family had grown from two to four recently,” Magnus interjects.

“How recently?”

“The twins are seven months old and we adopted them the day they were born. It was finalized earlier this summer.”

“A lot of people were shocked to see that you two were officially parents. Had this been the goal all along or was it a more recent desire for a bigger family?”

“My brother Jace and his wife Clary had their first kid a couple of years ago. I was away from home as often as I was in the city back then and neither one of us had any thought of settling down. But then Jace asked Magnus and I to be godparents and it became an elephant in the room for a little while. Neither of us wanted to come out and say that we wanted kids but every time we babysat or talked about kids in general, it was fairly obvious we were thinking along the same lines.”

“I never really let myself think of the possibility of being a father,” Magnus says softly, flicking his gaze from Alec to the reporter. “I always joked that my students were my children and that I didn’t have time for kids of my own. Alexander was home for a few months on a break, however, and as we started babysitting regularly I think there was a sort of mutual realization that our goals had shifted. Alec was like a new father, anyway, with the way he was constantly researching how to care for a baby. It was as adorable as it was exasperating.”

"Hey," Alec cuts in indignantly. "I wanted to be prepared! I wanted my niece to be as comfortable and safe and happy as possible."

Humoring him, Magnus agrees, "You did. But it was also a sign that maybe we were both ready and eager for that next step."

Alec nods along.

“Yeah, there were a few hard discussions about how to make it work and if we really were ready but at the end of the day, I love Magnus and I want it all with him.” With a laugh that edges on self deprecating, Alec adds, “I’m very happy that he feels the same.”

“Of course, darling,” Magnus murmurs before raising their joined hands up to his mouth for a kiss.

It’s quiet for a moment and the reporter watches as Magnus and Alec share a look that feels intrusive to witness, no matter that they’re in public.

Clearing her throat a little, she diverts the conversation. “The last time you two were on our cover was four years ago when we were given exclusive access to your wedding in Florence. In that time, things have changed quite a bit for you, isn’t that right Alec? Fans and media have missed you as you’ve moved to a position behind the scenes of the music industry.”

Alec takes in the question lurking in her tone and crosses one leg over the other. Absently fiddling with his wedding ring, he answers her unasked query with a raised brow.

“I’m just as active on my social media as I’ve ever been with the exception of keeping quiet about our kids. While my role has shifted to producing and writing, I’m still very much an entertainer and artist. It’s just that I keep more regular hours and get to spend more time with Magnus these days.”

Humming thoughtfully, the reporter’s eyes sharpen as she bluntly asks, “Do you miss it?”

“Touring?” Alec chuckles, shaking his head in a wondering yet confident gesture. “It’s not like I’ll never go on tour again. I’m just enjoying this time now. It’s been wonderful to challenge myself in a new area of the industry and establishing Iratze Records has been a very rewarding, if grueling, process. I still perform a few times a year and that’s enough for me. It’s more than enough that I get to have the best of both worlds.”

"And what about you, Magnus. You last book landed on the New York Times Bestsellers list in the nonfiction category where it's still sitting at number one. Last fall you were brought onto an Emmy winning show as a historical consultant and that's not to mention your duties as the Chair of the Columbia University's history department. Do you two find it difficult to juggle caring for kids with your demanding careers?"

"It's hard work," Magnus allows but looking at him, it's hard to picture the man breaking a sweat over anything. "We work hard, every day, to be the best we can be-- the best partners, the best parents, the best professionals. It's exhausting but I wouldn't trade my life now for anything."

Alec grins and it's a little dopey at the corners as he looks over at his husband with his heart in his eyes. "What he said."

“You sound like the picture of a happily settled man, Alec. It’s hard to believe that at one time you were known as a sort of Lothario. Is it true what they say then?” There’s a glint of humor in her eyes as she asks, “Do reformed rakes make the best husbands?”

Magnus is quiet though he flashes a quick grin as he looks down at his wedding ring. It’s a simple band but is obviously well cared for. They both seem to be waiting for Alec to answer and Alec does so, but not before taking his husband’s hand and interlacing their fingers.

“I love Magnus more than anyone in the world,” he says, “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. The truth is, if he asked me to give it all up today, right now, I’d do it, no hesitation.”

Alec glances over at his husband just to see Magnus already staring at him, smiling with eyes so warm that he can’t ever imagine being cold again.

“But I wouldn’t,” Magnus says softly, thumb stroking over Alec’s where they’re hands rest on his thigh.

“But he wouldn’t,” Alec echoes with a quiet smile. He forgets for a minute that they’re not alone, that there’s a journalist right on the other side of the coffee table watching them with eyes that capture everything.

He comes back to himself after a minute though, looking over at her with an apologetic grimace that the reporter waves away, her expression far from annoyed and instead veering much closer towards enamored.

Clearing his throat, Alec says, “The past five years have been one hell of a journey and I couldn’t imagine anyone else by my side other than Magnus. I’m grateful every day that I stepped into that diner in the middle of the night and that Magnus took a chance on me. This next adventure, kids? I never thought that was in the cards for me.”

His voice is self-deprecating as he continues, “I never thought any of this was meant for me. I’m excited, though-- we’re excited to grow our family by two more and be the best parents we can be, every day.”

The journalist’s voice is warm, curious as she asks, “So is it fair to say that Alec Lightwood is still at the top of his game, even if he’s more concerned with his family and producing behind the scenes these days?”

Alec’s voice is confident as he answers, “Yeah. I’ve never felt better. I’ve finally found my place and that’s worth all the sold-out stadiums in the world.”

Magnus scoffs a little, though his expression is anything but doubting as Alec raises their joined hands up to his lips, kissing his husband just above his wedding ring.

As the reporter watches her subjects, the can’t help but think that this is one of the easiest, most enjoyable interviews she’s ever done. She’s writes the conclusion of the article as she watches the couple in front of her act like the newlyweds they haven’t been in years.

Alec Lightwood’s been a staple of these pages since he was a teenager. It’s been a long time coming, but the boy is now a man and instead of the confirmed bachelor we’d started thinking of Lightwood as a few years ago, domestic bliss is his best look yet.

There’s an easy contentment to Alec now, as he sits beside his husband and they banter back and forth, easily answering our questions between little inside jokes that we have no hope of deciphering.

We don’t mind, though. It’s hard to when the couple sitting across from you looks nothing but ecstatically happy.

We can’t wait to see what’s next for Alec and Magnus and their growing family. Best of luck to the Lightwood-Banes. We’re sure this is far from the last time we’ll see them between our pages!

Make sure to check out Alec’s new single What a Heavenly Way to Die, available now on a variety of streaming platforms and wherever music is sold.