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a-world-with0ut-dr34ms · 1 year

Text

Betty et Zorg

From Control - Full Story in Progress on AO3!

Soap x Reader, hints of Ghost x Reader x Graves

Soap seems adamant to make sure you have a goodnight, regardless of how much you try and turn him away. Meanwhile, Ghost's thoughts on you start to take a sudden shift, as he grows more suspicious of your transfer to the team...

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Flirting, Banter, Trying to write like a corny romance a little, gets a bit steamy by the end, no smut though, ends with a steamy make-out session, Graves is your ex, Soap is a gentleman, Ghost is longing, reader is sad

A/N: This is basically the reader had a little emotional event happen to them and Soap's there to cheer them up. Just some fluff that gets a little steamy by the end. I almost made it smut but I had to restrain myself (for the slow burn). (｀∀´)Ψ

Word Count: 6.5k

Masterlist

The cold night air wisps over you, as you stand a ways off from the café. Your phone's clasped in your hands so tightly that you couldn't tell if they were shaking from that or the cool breeze itself. Though your mind races too much for you to care about it.

Your breathing has settled down more since your sudden departure from inside; it's the only thing you've felt able to control anymore. With that calmed, it provides you a moment to yourself to ease your racing mind, which was still processing what had happened.

Now that you were away, frankly, you couldn't even believe it.

For a moment there, you thought you were back in Kavala, inside that apartment again. You could still hear the shouts from Onyx, along with the cries from his wife, and your own team shouting orders out over the chaos. Every negative emotion that coursed through you in that moment came flooding back like a busted dam, its crashing waves constraining you, leaving you frozen.

You've been having nightmares about it lately, sure. Shitty sleep was always something you've been prone to, though you'd hoped for these dreams to just be some sort of phase, like everything else. Instead they've only manifested into what happened tonight -- something worse, something new to you completely.

And you hardly recognize yourself anymore.

Unsure of what to do, you open up your contact list and begin to scroll, until your eyes settle on a name that kept popping back into your mind all night -- Phillip.

You haven't heard from Graves since you transferred over. Not that you blame him; you haven't exactly made any attempts to reach out to him either. The way you two left things off certainly left a lot to be desired.

Yet despite everything, you weren't sure who else to talk to anymore; you'd gotten used to having him around to bend his ear about things. And you may not be sleeping together anymore, but you liked to believe some modicum of care between you two still existed. It did for you, at least.

You dial your commander's number in almost instinctively. And as you expected, you listened to the other end ring, and ring, and ring.

And ring.

Until you're finally greeted by the answering machine.

"Please leave a message after the tone."

Your phone lets out a resounding beep, and you hesitate to speak, letting the seconds you had to leave a message dwindle by. Debating whether or not this was even a good idea from the start.

Who's to say Graves even wanted to talk to you anymore? And who's to say you would have even been honest with him about tonight at all, had he gone around and actually answered your call.

"Hey uh..." You hug your arms together, keeping your phone pressed between your cheek and shoulder, as your back leaned against the café wall. Light gray clouds were beginning to break in the night sky above, the moonlight casting over the city streets, as the passing cars fly by. With the sky opening up, you see an array of stars not yet drowned out by the city's pollution. Your eyes bounce between them, thinking of your words in their glow.

"It's Y/N," you finally start. "I know it's been a little while... and it's pretty late, but I was just calling to see if you were up and maybe wanted to talk for a bit. I'm sure you're all doing fine without me there now, but... I was just hoping... well, I... I miss-"

Beep!

The message ends before you can finish that thought. A small part of you wishes you hadn't started it at all.

You slip your phone back in your pocket, before wrapping your arms around yourself again. The café doors open next to you, having been doing so on occasion since you'd stepped out. You paid no mind to it now, much like you had been doing already. However...

"Canary?"

...You hadn't expected Soap to be the one to emerge from the café next. You didn't look forward to having to explain yourself to your new teammate about your little episode. You were really hoping they wouldn't follow you out to begin with.

However, you should have known Soap never would have let someone in his team storm out like that without saying something. That's just not the kind of guy he is.

Soap approaches you, though he halts when he sees his sudden appearance cause you to recoil. So instead, the Sergeant settles with standing some feet away, wearing a patient smile.

"Are you OK?" he asked. His voice was much softer than you've heard it before. Almost worried. Like a child afraid to offend you. Soap showed you genuine concern, and hearing it in his voice only made you feel all the more embarrassed.

"Yeah, I'm just peachy, Soap. I-..." you shuffle about a bit in your stance, trying to straighten yourself out and keep things short. "I'm probably just going to walk back home actually..."

Bringing yourself to actually look over at the man felt a tireless battle to win. The passing cars feel far easier to gaze at, though it mattered not where you looked, the lump in your throat just wouldn't rid itself.

Two nights. Two nights in a row now that someone in the Task Force has seen you so unprofessional and out of sorts. And twice has it happened now where one of them has felt obligated to check in on you after. Concerned for you even. Pitying you.

Humiliated didn't even begin to describe what you felt right now.

"I'm sorry..." you voice is damn near a raspy whisper. You let out a defeated chuckle. "This is all just really stupid, honestly. I'm just... being stupid."

Soap chuckles. "No you're not."

You almost say something mean to him, more of a guarded reflex than anything with meaning. However, you bite your tongue, knowing he didn't deserve to be the conduit to your flurry of emotions. Soap wasn't trying to overstep by any means, it wouldn't make sense to be upset that he's concerned for your wellbeing.

So you say nothing instead. That's always been easy enough to do.

You're quiet for a notable while, not sure as to how to reply to him. It's not every day you feel this way; For all the Task Force knows though, this is just who you are. Great...

Only this wasn't you. Not at all. You've never been this sad all the time before. Never been someone to dissociate into a bad memory and relive the negative moments. And you would never enjoy having the others take pity on you, nor see you struggle not to cry. This was never you, until now, and the same fears start to circle in your mind. Fears you've recently developed.

Was this the slow decline of yourself that you were too late to stop?

Soap's voice came unexpectedly over the background noise and your own screaming thoughts.

"If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were OK. Or if you needed anything, or..."

His words begin to trail when he notices the sudden sorrow strike your face. It breaks your heart to hear him say that for some reason, as guilt suddenly consumes you. Guilt for all your inabilities beside your comrades. Guilt for feeling this way. It tugs tears from you, which you quickly wipe away, before turning your face from Soap altogether.

This in turn only made the Scotsman begin to panic, who was now raising his hands up defensively and bumbling over his words. "Ah!" Soap gasps. "I didn't mean-"

"I'm sorry," you clear your throat and aggressively wipe your tears away now. "Just ignore me, I'm being a drama queen... I'm sorry..."

Soap laughs to himself suddenly, respectfully so. "You don't have to say sorry, ya dafty."

You suck your nose in. "But I am..."

"You're daft?" Soap teases now.

"No," You turn your head to him, wide-eyed with tears still brimming at the corners, your lips pouting childishly. You pick up on the Sergeant's quizzical nature the moment your eyes meet again. "I was sorry..."

"Well..." Soap thinks for a second, though it's not a long one. "I forgive you."

You smack your lips together, almost as though you had expected him to say something like that. Which you did. Of course he would. And of course it only made you feel more emotional. Though this time you've figured out how to bottle it in, keeping quiet.

"Well hey," Soap announces, an idea having come to the man, guessing by the way his stormy eyes and cheeky smile suddenly lit up. "How 'bout we walk back home together, then."

He's persistent, you'll give him that. The more he pushes, the more you feel yourself closer to succumbing to him. As much as you'd like to believe you'd rather be alone right now, you both knew that wasn't true. In fact, it couldn't be further from the truth.

Soap seems to have a better read on you than you'd thought.

"What about Ghost?" you ask. Lord knows what he must be thinking right now, sitting by himself inside, waiting. It was Ghost who saw the whole thing in the first place too. You doubted he wanted to be anywhere near you, honestly.

Soap chuckles however. "He'll come too, of course," he says. "Not to disappoint you. I know you'd rather me all to yourself, but alas, we'll just have to save the one-on-one for another night."

And then he winks at you.

You let out a little laugh beneath your breath, covering your mouth with your hand daintily. It warms Soap to see it; seeing your smile had been his goal the minute he stepped outside and saw you still here. And he always was a natural at lifting up moods.

"You don't have to do that," you say, still allowing the man to step back if he wished.

"I want to," he says. The certainty behind his words makes your heart unknowingly skip a beat.

"Are you sure?" you ask him one more time. "If you two want to enjoy the night still, please do. I'm a responsible adult, I think I can make it back safely."

"Eh, don't worry about it," his smile softens. "The night wouldn't feel the same without you anyway."

Eventually, you allow yourself to really look at Soap. He's kept his distance this entire time, not wanting to approach where he had not yet been invited. His hands sit casually in his pockets, and he waits obediently.

You two stand in a neutral silence, gazes matched with one another. His eyes are hearty and magnetic, compared to your tired and guarded stare.

"Well, then," you sigh. "OK."

Soap's smile grows. "OK?"

"OK," you reaffirm, laughing this time. Yes, you thought. This is OK.

Soap laughs victoriously, only then to spread his arms out and finally start closing the distance between you too, happily. "Now come here."

Before you've any time to protest, Soap's wrapped you in a large hug, holding you tightly in his arms. It's so strong it makes you take a step back and grunt dorkishly, but you reciprocate it, laughing into his shoulder. He rubs his hand over your back comfortingly, his joyous chuckle vibrating against you. "Cheer up now," he says. "You'll be alright."

You place your head against his chest, letting your ear sink into him, as you follow along to the steady rhythm of his heart beat. It races within him. Had he been nervous?

"OK."

...

The barracks were maybe a short ways away now, another five or ten minutes to this nightly stroll before it was officially over. Ghost had been counting every minute of it too.

The sidewalk begins to narrow again, Ghost taking his natural space in the back of the trio, as you and Soap stand beside one another, lost in the little world you two had created in the past hour.

Now that he was away from the city and walking down less populated roads, the night around them began to still. The sound of vehicles grew more distant and outside chatter was replaced with their own boots and shoes against the pavement. With it so late, many of the house's lights were off, the neighborhoods having left your group alone for the remainder of the night.

It left Ghost with nothing else to listen to besides you two.

The first thing Soap did when he re-emerged from the café with Ghost, was hand you a new drink. Exactly what you'd ordered before. "Since the last one spilled," he'd said.

Your eyes lit up like diamonds as you took the drink from his hand, taking a sip and letting out a jokingly pleasurable moan. You almost looked like you were going to cry too. But you smile, and thank him profusely.

Johnny had you pretty much reeled in after that.

For how prepared the Sergeant had been for the sudden detour, Ghost would think Soap almost planned the night out for this to happen. Though he knew that wasn't true. Soap wasn't that methodical. Everything he's done tonight -- coming to check on you, buying you a drink, walking you home -- That had all been Johnny's own doing.

Watching you two was like watching two puzzle pieces come together. All night you've been gabbing on with each other, going back and forth and every which way with your conversations. If Soap were to turn to Ghost and reveal that you were in fact some woman from his past who knew him personally, he may have actually believed it.

And while you two had made attempts to include Ghost in the conversation, the lieutenant eventually fell silent after a short while. It wasn't out of a sudden shyness or defeat however, but rather he felt best with just not talking. Eventually, your conversation drifted your minds away from him, and he was given a moment to himself.

He would make no complaints of this of course. There was a lot he had on his mind in the meantime. Specifically about you.

After you stormed out of the café, Ghost hadn't expected to see you again for the rest of the night. He wouldn't have blamed you either, though he couldn't stop thinking about what that could have been about. He's seen fear in many people's eyes before, but never in yours. While the fear itself looked familiar enough to him, it looked foreign on you.

And it had unsettled him, mostly due to his own inaction. It was very unlike him to just stand to the side like that, he thought. Yet at that moment, he hadn't been sure of quite what to say or do. He felt that way a lot around you.

Which was his problem exactly.

With your eyes away from him, Ghost felt more ready to study you, finally pinning down all these thoughts he had surrounding you. He began thinking he was onto something too.

As a silent observer, Ghost watched the way you interacted with Soap, and how easily you found a way to make him so comfortable with you in a matter of hours. You smile and you laugh, your eyes linger when given the opportunity, you talk, and then you listen. Observing. Adapting.

You let your kind nature lull those around you into a state of comfort, and use that to get close. Ghost knew this performance well enough now, because it's exactly how you had been with him. He didn't need to see it a third time to have it down.

Your performance was truly something too, because Ghost was seeing sides of Johnny he had been too afraid to delve deeper into himself.

Granted, Ghost learns something new about Soap every day, mostly involuntarily. They've been on a team a few months shy of a whole year now, and while the lieutenant feels that realistically he's spent an equal amount of time with everyone in the Task Force, somehow or another, Ghost found himself assigned with Soap more often than not.

And what he learned about Johnny every day was that the man was truly unafraid of himself, both in perception and within. Soap didn't struggle with deep inner turmoil, there were no demons he need bury deep. None that Ghost could see in him.

Johnny was just human in every way that Ghost struggled to be.

So the minute you had managed to pull Soap in with that natural allure of yours, it's no surprise the man let that be known as well. Soap wears his emotions on his sleeve.

Ghost hadn't even asked him how the conversation went with you once he'd come back into the café. He only need see the way he barged through the doors, his smile gleaming and his step skipped, for Ghost to know the conversation went well. What had got to the lieutenant about that however, was how he knew exactly what it was Johnny was feeling too.

Desire.

Exactly as he had felt before.

Only unlike Ghost, who had been unable to allow himself a moment to enjoy that feeling you provide so carelessly, Soap seemed more than willing the dive in head first. He hadn't a fear in the world about it.

Thus Simon has watched Soap do everything Ghost couldn't do the night before -- actually allow himself the chance to be vulnerable. And as if to punish him for it, now he gets to see for himself where that road would have taken him, had he actually stayed with you that night, instead of leaving like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.

Suddenly, it had twisted his insides to think about. Had it been that easy all along? To let someone in...

Never has a woman haunted his mind like this before.

It hadn't taken much longer for these thoughts of his to grow into suspicion and distrust, however. There was no way you could be real. That these feelings you draw from them so easily are real.

Laswell gets a lead on a possible new hit, and suddenly they place you on the team. Someone who's only worked one other mission with them before. And someone interested in getting close to them personally. Seemingly for no reason. Someone who's good at it too.

It couldn't be a coincidence someone like you has come along. It never is.

You come across a small park on your walk back, passing by a large water fountain, which draws both you and Soap's attention suddenly. The lights from inside the fountain make the clear water look a pretty teal color, revealing all the loose change dropped into the water by other who'd passed by before.

It's around this point that you finished your drink. The minute your eyes went to look for a garbage can, Soap was already on it, having confiscated the empty cup for you and wandering off with it to the nearest available garbage can, that was a short walk deeper into the park.

"Want us to follow you?" you asked.

"Nah, just wait here," Soap said. "I won't be long."

And like that, he had walked off, leaving you and Ghost alone by the fountain.

You lean over the fountain ledge, staring down into the water, as its glow shimmers off your skin in the night. You hadn't turned to look at Ghost yet, not since Soap has left. You hadn't really looked at him much at all since you left the café.

Your back was still turned to him when you spoke suddenly. "Care to make a wish?"

Ghost stayed a few feet behind you, his arms crossed in front of him as he stared into the water from a distance. "I've no need," he said plainly.

"Really?" he can hear your smile in your voice. "There's nothing you wish for?"

Ghost toys with that question in his mind for a moment. He's never been one to make wishes, never wanting to bank good fortune and material gain on something so unguaranteed. Wishes often were just empty words meant to disappoint you later. He learned that at a young age. "Do you have many wishes?" he asks instead.

"Some," you say. "Mostly small things."

"Like what?"

You turn to Ghost for the first time all night, and you smile playfully. "If I told you, then it wouldn't come true."

Ghost watches you dig in your pocket, before retrieving a quarter. You stare at the coin for a short while, thumbing it between your fingers as you thought to yourself innocently. You look back to the fountain once a wish has finally come to you.

The coin flicks from your thumb, and you both watch the quarter twirl into the water, before sinking all the way to the bottom. You watch it the whole way down. For some reason, Ghost sees your expression fall again. Sadly.

It's something he's picked up about you, how sad you are. And he knows it's not an act, because you cover it up any chance you can get. Your sorrow is the one part of you that conflicts him the most. If everything's an act -- your kindness, your words, your smile, your eyes -- then your tears have been the one true thing Ghost has consistently seen of you, and the reason for his hesitancy to trust you. Because Goddamn you, your sorrow beckons him too.

"You made your wish then?" Ghost asked.

"I did," you nod, though had Ghost not been looking your way he may have missed it.

"Think it'll come true?" he asked.

"No," you admit. You then laugh to yourself, a memory having popped into your mind suddenly. "It's funny though. When I was a kid, I used to make wishes all the time. I'd stay up until the clock hit 11:11 to make a wish, and every night I'd look out my window hoping to finally see a shooting star, like in the movies. When that didn't happen, I just used the airplanes instead."

Ghost imagined the kind of childhood you must have had, which had you making wishes all the time. What life you lived before now. You had told him once that this line of work hadn't been your first choice. If that truly is the case, he can't imagine how you even manage to keep your sanity in this field.

Is that why you cry so much? He wondered.

"I used to get so upset when my wishes wouldn't come true," you continue. "I wanted them to be real so bad. But they never were."

"Yet you still make wishes now," Ghost says.

"I can't help myself," you sigh. "I mean, there's always a chance, right?"

"Blind hope can be dangerous."

"Hope is never a bad thing, not to me," you say. "If I couldn't hope then... what would be the point?"

Your head turns when you hear Soap making his way back over. The fact that he was out of breath with his hands on his hips meant he'd tried to reach that trash can as fast as he could. It makes you giggle and tease the man when you see him, and Soap only plays into your giddy nature, acting as nonchalantly as he'd been all night.

And Ghost watched from the sidelines, this time trying to picture a world where he could be more like you two. A world where he wasn't so taciturn. Where when you touched him he did not flinch, and when you called to him he did not push back. Maybe watching could be enough, but he knows the minute you both go, it wouldn't suffice.

So he'll take what he can now.

Ghost digs in his pocket, finding an old penny that wasn't going to be of use to anyone. He waits to see you two not looking his way before flicking the penny into the fountain himself, watching it fall in.

He guesses he had one wish after all.

Maybe he could be wrong about you. He only wishes...

...

You stop at your doorway, punching in the number keys to your door code slowly. The whole time you do so, Soap's presence can be felt a few feet behind you, waiting innocently, as though to make sure you make it inside safely. Him being here did bring you comfort. It also made this hallway feel incredibly small.

The walk back had been only about thirty minutes, though the time blew by rather fast with how much of it you spent talking. You could tell Ghost had probably been exhausted by it, because he couldn't have made a faster beeline to his room the second you all finally reached the barracks. Which for once, was OK with you.

The lock on your door beeps, the latch whining unlocked. You turn to face Soap, finding the man standing off rather shyly. It's when your eyes finally meet his again that his smile raises.

In the hallway lighting, all his little details appeared more clearly. You like the way the Sergeant wears his joy on his face, letting it lift him upright and perk his ears with them, bringing a twinkle to his cloudy blue eyes. His emotions easy to read. It's what made talking to him feel so easy, without even having known him for long. It makes you think to yourself what a breath of fresh air John is.

It also gnawed at your mind what other sides of him there were you've yet to see. What bits you could pull out next, and what old bits he could pull out of you as well. The thought was as intriguing as it also put your head through a twister you've yet to be familiar with.

A man who has no guessing games to play. A man who is who he is, which happens to be everything you needed tonight.

"Thank you," you say casually, giving the man a welcoming smile. Though Soap's own does more to pull you in this time. "For walking back with me."

Soap blows raspberries and shrugs, trying to act more nonchalant than his eyes could match with. "I'd never pass up the chance to have a midnight stroll with such a lovely woman."

Maybe it was late at night, or maybe you felt comfortable enough to do so; you don't hide your blushing, nor the delicate giggle bubbling from your throat soon after.

"You flatter me," you say.

Soap looks to you charmingly. "I'm trying."

"You're so good at it too; it makes me feel bad," you say. "I haven't paid you much flattery tonight myself."

"The night's not over yet," Soap says.

Your eyes grow wolfish, his words taking a double meaning to you. "Indeed, it isn't."

"Go on then," he says, his voice a lot lower than before. Seductive even. It comes to you in a wave, rushing through your body and sending a chill down your spine. You have to keep yourself from swallowing. Soap only intensifies the chills running through you by licking his lips and smirking to himself. "Say something nice about me."

"Now," you cross your arms, taking a step forward so you were standing right in front of the Sergeant. "A lady shouldn't reveal her secrets so freely."

Soap only seems to straighten up, giving himself more height over you as his smile becomes something more sly. "Even if I ask nicely?"

"I already said before, it takes a lot more than asking me nicely to get to know me."

"What does it take then?" he asks you.

"Something more… wicked. Filthy."

"That’s not very ladylike of you, Canary."

"I'm only ladylike when the need arises," you tease. "What about you John? Are you always a gentleman?"

"Usually," he admits. "I can be anything you ask me."

Soap's eyes take a small shift, turning more from its innocent appearance to something a bit more cocky. There wasn't a doubt in his tone, nor a lie spoken in his words. He'd rather his bravado be known. And damn did you like the introduction to it.

You unknowingly drop your eyes to his lips, observing how his mouth sits, as your tongue glides over your own provocatively. "Anything?"

His lips sit slightly pursed, as though more thoughts sat at the tip of his tongue. The flow of his steady breathing brushes the tip of your nose, blue eyes glazed with a growing lust you have yet to see in the Sergeant. "Anything."

“Well the night’s not over yet now, is it?”

“Aye, it isn’t.”

Now his eyes have dropped to your lips, watching how your tongue lightly glides over yours. It's got the man heating up, his cheeks beginning to blush unabashedly. You're not even sure that he notices himself leaning closer. You didn't notice yourself until you could feel his breath feather over your recently dampened lips.

Suddenly you’re damn near on your toes, his nose a few inches from yours, and his mouth the closest it’s ever been to your own. You were already guessing what they might feel like against yours. You imagined they'd be soft, warm, experienced.

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," you hum. "What a flirt you are."

"I imagine I'm in good company."

"You be careful," you lift a hand to pluck a stray piece of hair peeking from his shoulder. An excuse to touch him, however faintly. "Games like that might get you in trouble."

This time Soap takes the chance to touch you, lifting his hand up to capture yours before it can retreat back to your side. "I like trouble," he says. "That's what makes the job fun, no?"

His hand is warm, and not nearly as coarse as you would have guessed. His hold is both tender and secure, lingering for a few seconds, all the while you two breathe in each other’s air, your eyes never having strayed from one another’s.

All there was left to do now was take one step closer; take your other hand and wrap it over his neck, pull him in for a change. Seems all night that Soap’s been the one bringing you in slowly, sneakily. Unlike Graves, who had pursued you like the wolf he was, Soap’s pursuit had been like that of a fox -- clever and playful. It crept up on you without even noticing, and done so innocently. It begged a sweeter side of you that you’ve forgotten had been capable.

Suddenly, it didn’t feel so hard being vulnerable. At least for right now. For tonight.

He only needed to come a little closer now. Take his hand and cup it against your face, bring you forth to him and take you.

“Ooooooo~”

A few soldiers down the hall start to whistle and cheer at you, walking by and clapping. You and Soap take a step back and awkwardly, waving the other soldiers away as they start throwing comments your way, clearly having pre-gamed before heading to whatever outing they were walking to.

“Get it, girl!” one of the female soldiers in the group cheered.

“Get a room!” another laughed.

“This is my room!” you say.

The group cheers for you on their way out; you and Soap can’t help but laugh with one another, the atmosphere having shifted into this awkward in-between now. Damn. Way to kill the mood. Despite the interruption, your heart still thumped in your chest with excitement. You still kind of wanted to kiss him.

Your phone starts to buzz in your pocket suddenly. A phone call. Graves maybe?

You bring your eyes back up to Soap, prepared to give your final farewells for the night, as much as you had been ready for it to possibly be something else.

“So-”

Soap’s hands clasped both sides of your face, his lips crashing down onto yours. The sheer power of it sends you both back pressed flush against your bedroom door. It takes you a second to catch up.

You feel his body press against you, his heart racing next to yours. You gasp into his mouth, the air feeling as though it had completely left you, before you've let your hands instinctively go up to wrap around his neck.

He kisses you like he’d spent a lot of time thinking about all the ways he could go about it. Making sure that his lips part from you just right, before coming back in velvety-like, gradually escalating. He follows your pace, feels for your moves, and adapts to your whims. He truly respected the craft of liplocking; you surely took advantage of that fact too.

Kissing him made you feel drunk. The way he moved made your knees weak, your hands almost unable to concentrate on doing anything beyond holding onto him. That was less of a problem for Soap it seems, who’s hands had gracelessly slid their way down your body to your ass, each cheek cupped perfectly in his palms. He squeezes greedily, pressing you against him roughly. Immediately, you feel the man through his gym shorts, and may God be your witness, you had to keep from gasping again. The man was surely a showoff by nature as well.

Even with his suave motions, Soap still felt as innocently enraptured by you as he had been before. It excited you to toy with it, see how much that innocence could be corrupted. Your tongue dips into his mouth, wrestling with his, as you feel him groan. That hand on your ass grips tighter in response, sending a shockwave straight through your core.

His taste is sweet on your lips, intoxicating to lick. Before long your lips and tongue dance together, your chests rising with adrenaline. The sloppier your tongue clashes against his, the sloppier he mirrors the energy. It was messy and it was voracious. And it was a wonder you two hadn’t swallowed each other yet.

Soap’s hands grow more adventurous, one traveling to the front of you. It snakes up your shirt and manages to slide beneath your bra, his entire hand palming your breast. The coolness of his hand against your skin causes you to shiver, which only sends a throbbing sensation down himself, one you feel against your leg. His fingers glide over your nipple, beginning to pinch and tug at them gently. You moan in his mouth and the cheeky bastard laughs against your lips. In turn, you bite his lip, giving it a little nip.

“Ow,” he laughs, and it makes you giggle. Soap responds to this by diving in towards your neck, nipping at the groove of your skin and catching your breath. It sends a tidal wave through you, as you feel his teeth sink deeper in, biting down just hard enough to leave a faint mark in your skin.

You gasp out passionately, and laugh. “Ow.”

Soap pull’s back, keeping his hands over your shoulders, only a breath or so away from you. His smile somehow looks even brighter than you’ve ever seen it before. It made butterflies flutter in you shyly. You felt like a girl again, back when crushes and small moments like this could feel like the whole world to you.

He seems as starry-eyed as you, from how his eyes detail you endlessly, pupils dilating at every new discovery. Soap may have worked some sort of magic on you, but you’ve put a spell on him too, as you did so often. Only now… maybe it didn’t feel as pretend this time.

“Earth to Canary.”

You blink and see Soap still looking down at you, waiting obediently. You smile. “I read you.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Just…” You think to yourself, somewhat pondering a response, and somewhat getting hung on his eyes again. It baffled you the way it caught you, every time. In a way, it’s the reason for the words that teeter on your tongue. “You scare me.”

Soap raises an eyebrow and chuckles. “I do?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“Why?”

Because you really liked this. You really liked him and you barely know him. You knew the real reason why the entire time. And yet… “You just do.”

Your phone begins to buzz in your pocket again, finally taking your eyes away from Soap. You pull your cell out, only to see it was a text message. From Graves. A cold chill ran through you, almost turning you nauseous.

You must have been making a face, because Soap's expression was beginning to turn more perplexed.

You sigh, sliding the phone back into your pocket, but keeping your gaze away from Soap as well. You felt almost too guilty to now.

“I hope we don’t regret this John,” you say.

“I’d’ve only regretted not taking this chance with you.”

Soap lowers his head to capture your lips in another kiss. A gentle one that took its time to enjoy itself, as his hands cupped around your face again, his thumb caressing your cheek. You raise your hand and rest it over his, your frail fingers entangling between his. Holding him still.

If you let this go on, you knew this would escalate. A part of you is already craving it, but that text message notification hovers in the back of your mind.

You take your hand and press it against Soap's chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingers. It thuds almost rapidly, as though he were anxious kissing you. He didn't let it translate in his actions, but his heart was clearly spinning.

You take your other hand and open your bedroom door, before finally pushing Soap away, giving him a doe-eyed look. Meanwhile he looks down at you hungrily, your hand on his chest being the only thing keeping him away from you.

"Can I come in?" he asks rather boyishly.

You smirk. "It wouldn't be very ladylike of me," you tease. "Plus, I have to give you some reason to come back."

"I don't need a reason," he says.

"Well good," you smile. "Then I'll be seeing you, John."

"And you, Canary."

You thought about telling him your name. You almost did. But him not knowing felt innocent enough of a game you both could play together. One that brought no harm, and one with no ulterior motive. It's the kind of game you could only play with a man like John.

You shut the door slowly, looking to Soap until you could look no longer. The minute the door clicked shut and the lock re-buzzed, you took a few tired steps over to your bed and plopped down face first into your pillows.

And after a few more seconds went by, you pulled your phone out and began reading the text Graves had sent you. You held your breath as you read the message to yourself. Conflicted.

...Chapter Seventeen Here!

#soap x reader #ghost x reader #graves x reader #call of duty #call of duty mwii #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare ii #soap mwii #ghost mwii #graves mwii #john soap mctavish x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost simon riley #john soap mactavish #Spotify #control

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straydog733 · 2 years

Text

Reading Resolution: “Solutions and Other Problems” by Allie Brosh

11. A biography or memoir: Solutions and Other Problems by Allie Brosh

List Progress: 16/30

TW: Suicide.

-/-

Memoirs have a fine line to walk. Every person is unique and has a particular and nuanced story to tell, but audiences read memoirs to find something relatable and true about human nature as a whole. This line becomes even more narrow with a comedy memoir. Allie Brosh came to online prominence through her blog Hyperbole and a Half, telling wild personal stories interspersed with intentionally-chaotic drawings. This was spun off into her first book, also called Hyperbole and a Half, which was published in 2013. She then proceeded to go on hiatus online, and no real updates came out until she published Solutions and Other Problems in 2020. In the intervening years, Brosh lost a sister, ended a marriage, suffered major health issues and had several mental health spirals. Her comics always had an edge of darkness, but there is no way to keep things truly light while writing about that string of life events. And through some of the deep dives into her own psyche, Brosh is so far beyond the pale of what most people live with that she is no longer relatable; it is her book and she has the right to share her raw, unfiltered truth, but it does make for a somewhat rocky ride for the audience.

The tiniest bit below the surface, under the funny drawings and stories about dogs, Solutions and Other Problems is about how to survive while truly and completely immersed in nihilism. If Brosh’s words are to be taken at face value, she believes that nothing has any meaning or inherent value and that all actions and decisions are intrinsically random. If someone believes that, then they also have to come up with some reason for bothering to stay alive, despite all of the difficulties of human life, and continuing to move forward. Especially after her sister’s death by suicide in 2013, Brosh thought about all of these questions and worked through them on the page. She takes some strange detours to get there, but she does ultimately come to conclusions about why to keep going: essentially, finding both solutions and the other problems that come from them. It is a bracing and immersive read, but not always the most enjoyable one.

At points, Brosh feels constrained by her own established format: while some of the artwork is incredibly evocative and some of it is quite funny, a lot of the illustrations feel begrudging, like she’s including them because that is the Allie Brosh Style. And some of the stories are so odd that you have to wonder how her actions ever seemed like good choices: it’s difficult to think of someone else whose response to “I want to learn to live without fear” would be “I will watch a bunch of horror movies, take a lot of drugs, and get myself intentionally lost in the woods”. Almost no one else’s mind works like that, the audience has to sit back in befuddlement.

These issues sound like bigger deal breakers than they are. There are parts of Solutions and Other Problems that knock you back on your heels with how powerful they are. But like life (and by the sound of it, especially Allie Brosh’s life), it is a mixed bag with a fair amount of randomness thrown in.

Would I Recommend It: Soft yes.

#straydog's reading resolution #solutions and other problems #allie brosh #hyperbole and a half

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universitypenguin · 1 year

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Hey, can I get some writing advice?

So, after you come up with a story idea what do you do next?

Do you brainstorm for that story? Or make a character profile?

Because I have a story idea and idk what to do next. I read about it and they say to brainstorm but then I'm like "how am I going to right if I don't know who I'm writing? " But then I feel like I'm not doing it correctly.

I know it sounds silly but I would really appreciate some help. 🙏

So, I had to think about this one for a while, because the way I write has changed so much over the years. What I've put together is more geared towards how I used to write when I was developing my skills.

Without further ado, here's my official advice.

The most important thing you can do is realize that not everything you write is gold, and that's fine. Never compare your unedited draft to someone else's published work.

As C.J. Cherryh once said:

"It's perfectly okay to write garbage - as long as you edit it brilliantly."

Be consistent about writing and keep going, even on the days when you're not getting very far. Even on days when you know your writing sucks, write anyways. (They made the delete button for a reason. Go make your mistakes, and cover up the evidence as you see fit.) Forming the habit of writing regularly is what turns you into a writer more than anything.

Step #1: Pre-Writing

When I first get a story idea, I take time to daydream about it. Letting my mind wander is usually the best thing to do in these moments. At first, I don’t take any notes. I just like to see what sticks. If the idea drifts away, I assume it wasn’t meant to be and move on. If it sticks around and keeps circling back, then I know it’s a thread I probably should start spinning.

Next, I like to do concept maps. The quick diagram with bubbles and arrows that show relationships helps me organize things in a simple manner. This step usually helps me enlarge the plot and figure out what I need and what’s extraneous.

The most important thing about prewriting is to make sure your story has a solid conflict and at least four parts. These four parts are:

Introduction

Inciting Incident

Immediate Reaction

Reaction

If these conditions seem to be fulfilled I begin writing.

Step #2: Writing

Step two is writing. Here, I’ve found the best thing to do is write while the idea is hot. This is when I do my best writing, when the emotion is fresh and my mood is just right. However… I usually have an amazing writing day about once every two years. So, I have to do what most mere mortals do. I sit down at my desk, put my hands on the keyboard, and demand of myself that I at least produce 200 words. Once I’ve hit that mark there’s usually some momentum going, which makes the next 200 words much easier.

This is where I write the first four chapters, which are what I listed out above. The introduction, the inciting incident, the character’s immediate reaction, their considered reaction after they’ve had their “off the cuff” reaction, and then I stop.

Here, it’s good to take a step back and look at what you’ve written. Does the story have enough conflict? How does your character sound and feel? Are you enjoying yourself? I think writing four chapters should be enough to identify if you’ve got a story or if you need to develop the idea a bit more.

Step #3: Developmental Editing

Whatever the answers to those questions are, I usually do some developmental editing at this point. I might not finish the story, but it’s always good to flex your creative muscles and see if you can fix something that’s flawed.

To develop an idea, I rely on story structure. There are a lot of good resources out there for structure. My first experience with structure was from the 27 scene outline.

In my opinion, this is a great way to learn how to form a coherent plot. It’s very exact in laying out the story beats a writer needs to hit. That said, it’s also very constraining. I used this to learn how to form a narrative, but since then I’ve become more flexible with my story structures.

Other plot structures I’ve enjoyed using are the beat sheet from “Save the Cat,” as well as four act structure, and six act structure. Each of these presentations of a story structure has its strengths and weaknesses, so figuring out what methods appeal to your style and what doesn’t work, is very useful. For short fiction there’s a thing called the “seven point” structure which I often refer to even now. Short fiction is not among my strengths… so I have to work harder at it than I would a novel.

Another great resource for developmental editing is the YouTube channel run by Ellen Brock. She’s an editor and posts really informative videos about things like what type of writer are you, which is a very useful thing to understand when you're trying to write. She also has a phenomenal story structure series that’s one of the best I’ve come across.

If you’re struggling, turn to other sources of inspiration. For myself, I like to read about the craft of writing. It's always good to remember that inspiration comes and goes, but skills can earn you an income. My book recommendations would be:

Save the Cat - Blake Snyder

Plot and Structure - James Scott Bell

How to Write Dazzling Dialogue - James Scott Bell

On Writing - Stephen King

Lastly, always remember this quote from Ray Bradburry:

“Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.”

I hope this has been helpful. Also, I love to talk about the craft of writing, so feel free to message me if you have any follow up questions!

#penguin replies #writing advice #story structure #plot development

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mangacat201 · 1 year

Text

I posted 1,995 times in 2022

That's 277 more posts than 2021!

23 posts created (1%)

1,972 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@queenklu

@ahhhnorealnamesallowed

@the-marathon-continues-nip

@hattalove

@letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

I tagged 1,906 of my posts in 2022

Only 4% of my posts had no tags

#0 - 53 posts

#laugh rule yo - 77 posts

#the devil judge - 74 posts

#911 fox - 55 posts

#resource post - 48 posts

#the untamed - 41 posts

#duuuuuuuuuude - 37 posts

#word of honor - 34 posts

#bad and crazy - 34 posts

#true dat - 31 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#yeah once i realized how small their size of canon interaction actually is i went like 😳😳😳 because headcanon was so vast and limbo like

My Top Posts in 2022:

Can you explain the origin of goncharev???

Ahhhhh... my friend your ask has set me with a nigh impossible task, for Goncharov as a phenomenon is a many-legged kraken whose suckers will snag any unsuspecting tumblr-fish swimming by while its center remains hidden by the jagged edges of the digital reef.

But i will try!

See, it started with a shoe.

No, it started with someone making a shoe who did not know what they were doing.

Nay, it started with someone being slapped with the dodgeball of Apollo's gift of prophecy and predicting that tumblr would hence come together to invent a piece of media and create a Fandom out of it so vast and authentic, people outside the hivemind would believe it was real and start to be driven mad with trying to find the source that only exists in the shape that is left empty by all the fannish things created around it.

And the tumbrlinas would be so delighted by their own work that they perpertuated it to the point of alerting its supposed creator who then went IN ON THE BIT.

And so the new fannish corner of the internet trundles on, continuing to make art and writing and music and meta discussions and we looked upon it and shared it as good.

Or, you know, you can have the origin explainer post (as far as i can tell) here🤣🤪🤭:

9 notes - Posted November 28, 2022

youtube

I miss them.

The emotional build up of this SENDS me.

11 notes - Posted August 21, 2022

Just sitting here, minding my own business. Meanwhile my spider plant a few days ago started to try and establish first contact with baby!Groot. Don't really know what to do with that🤣.

12 notes - Posted October 1, 2022

𝐓𝐀𝐆 (𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄) 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

Got tagged by @hedgewyse whom I was very happy to get to know better via this tag game, thanks a lot! Sorry it took so long to respond, I needed to get on tumblr on the laptop where I can actually type up text and I had a lot of things going on this past week that kept me LOL.

Favourite colour: Blue.

No explanation, not particular reason why, it’s just always been blue. All shades from deep purple to almost white. But I have a special place in my heart for the word ‘turquoise’, which I feel is just so the most.

Currently reading: Oh good gosh, my open doc reading list is so long, I will constrain myself to the most recent things...

“(Love is)The second oldest profession” The 9-1-1 Buck/Eddie pornstar!AU I knew I needed but kept for a special occasion

I’m also reading “Achtsam Morden” a national German bestseller and the first actual like physical book I’ve picked up in probably four years. It’s hilarious and murdery and perfect

I’m listening to “Blood & Paper” by Kevin Hearne (whom I recently got to meet at a book signing event when he was visiting here and a friend asked me to spontaneously tag along - best decision in ages) Love the audiobook version read by Luke Daniels, he’s a whizz with the accents.

“Hide the drums (there’s fire in the sky)” latest installment of the Magical Marriage Ribbons-Verse, the Untamed Mega Saga, for which the author starandrea has been posting a chapter every day since May 31st 2020, so 805 consecutive days as of now without missing ONE. It boggles the mind. (I’ve started reading when the verse was ... oh I think about three parts in, I haven’t missed one too since then)

Last song: “The Greatest Show on Earth” - Nightwish, it’s my soundtrack for my daily yoga practice (no I am in fact not joking), so it doesn’t really count last leisure listening was the soundtrack of ‘Robin Hood - Das Musical’

Last series: Ooofff... ok, so many balls in the air at the same time. I’m watching “The Sandman” of course, as you do and loving it. Also “Extraordinary Attorney Woo” which is THE MOST(tm). Recently finished my rewatch and catch-up of “Manifest” and rewatched a couple of episodes of The Devil Judge with a friend who just started and that I got into it, remembering why I can’t be normal about those boys (and how delightful it is to rewatch with someone experiencing sth for the first time). Of course went down the magnificent and batshit crazy rabbithole that is Kinnporsche. Also, “Tomorrow” which is definitely my fav K-Drama of 2022.

Last movie: Day Shift - Fun and a nice remix of vampire tropes that you don’t really see on top of each other a lot. But it felt more like a set up to a movie trilogy I don’t know if it’s made enough impact into getting, so the premise might have been served better as a mini series? ...The Gray Man, which was solid and enjoyable and absolutely bonkers with how hilarious it was to watch Chris Evans have a ton of fun playing straight up, no holds barred, unredeemable villian. Ryan Gosling can stay... Ana de Armas is queen bee.

Currently working on: My last day of vacation :sob: and of course my WIP/plot bunnie enclosure excel spreadsheet (yes, I do not do things by half until I halfass writing them). Anyway, actual words or plotty thinky thoughts were put into:

- The Devil Judge a/b/o PWP (that has, so far, about 5k of set up and no porn) with a Jung Sunah made them do it scenario and non-traditional dynamics (yeah, idek...)

- Vincenzo Inception fusion - Jang Han Seo wakes up from getting shot to a curious set up of sleeping people around him (really really wanna write this one but the premise is so vast I’m afraid of flaming out again)

- three separate 9-1-1 Buddie fics of varying size and scope that reaches from one’s in love the other isn’t and confessions make things complicated (or do they), the fall out from the truck bombing goes the other way for Buck & the “Eddie deals with his 5B-issues by discovering shibari”!AU (do NOT try this at home-therapy)

- The Untamed - Blades of Glory!AU

pheeeeew. hooookay, wow, that was interesting, hope your learned something about me. I’mma tag some people, but please, feel free to participate at your own leisure. @hattalove, @the-marathon-continues-nip , @iskarieot, @themostglorioushour, @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels , @fondofeveryprickle, @ahhhnorealnamesallowed, @sam-t-a, @b612sunsets

16 notes - Posted August 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Jonathan Harker: Yo, yo, mofos, what's up, I'm about to drop some TRUE FAX. ×proceeds to speak lawyer for five paragraphs, then looks out the window×.

Dracula: ×scales castle wall upside down like a gecko×

Jonathan Harker: Akjejsksljhejslwpfjfbf DUDE WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCKERY IS THIS!?!?!?!?!!!!????

23 notes - Posted May 12, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #Youtube

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carryonmywaywardcaptain · 3 years

Text

Talk Dirty to Me

Summary: You and Dean test pickup lines on each other, taking the sexual tension between you to a new level.

WC: 1,610

Warnings: smut-adjacent? Not exactly explicit, but definitely mature content. Dirty pickup lines and thoughts, sexual tension, smidge of sexy touching, playful banter and fluff

A/N: A submission for #AmandasFlirtyDirty30 (using prompts 5, 42, 46, 55, 58, & 60 I think? I lost count!) I was initially trying to squeeze in as many pickup lines as I could (courtesy of Google), and I kind of love that it got away from me. Credit to New Girl and Nick Miller for the last line. Gif by @dancingalone21

"Nice dress, sweetheart.”

You turned to smile at Dean, surprised at the compliment. “Thanks, Dean—”

“Can I talk you out of it? ‘Cause I bet you’d look even better without your clothes on.”

Narrowing your eyes, you shook your head and scoffed.

The two of you had stayed up late one night, falling down a rabbit hole of looking up cheesy pickup lines that soon grew raunchy. It had started out harmless, as most things do. A playful challenge that had become a game of sorts—each of you striving to find a line that would make the other crack. You’d memorized as many as you could, trying to slip them into conversation without warning so you could boast when the other cracked a smile. The game had taken a turn somewhere along the way, and you were slowly losing your mind from the sexual tension emanating between you and Dean.

But you weren’t about to be the first one to crack.

You tilted your head and sauntered toward him, noticing the way his eyes shamelessly raked over your figure and lingered on the sway of your hips. An impish smirk played on his lips as he waited for you to retaliate.

“That shirt looks great on you. As a matter of fact...” You paused, voice soft and sultry as you skimmed your fingers over his broad chest. “So would I.”

“I bet you would. Y’know, if you’re ever feeling down...I’d be happy to feel you up.”

“Well, Dean, I know you’re busy today, but can you add me to your to-do list?”

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I don’t feel like doing anything today—except you. I’d do you.”

“I might just have to take you up on that. So, is that a mirror in your pants?” You snaked your arms around his waist, slipping your hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “Because I can see myself in them.”

“Were you gonna send me an invitation for the party between your legs in the mail, or are you gonna give it to me in person?”

You tossed your head back, bursting into a sudden fit of laughter. “That one was kind of terrible.”

“Yeah, well—if you could read my mind, you’d need a shower and a cigarette. Sometimes things get a little jumbled when, you know...”

“You’re too busy daydreaming about bending me over every piece of furniture in this place?”

“Exactly. It’s like you can read my mind.” His forest green eyes glided to your lips, lingering briefly before he gazed at you from beneath his long lashes. “Now, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dirty mind like mine?”

“Maybe I’m not as nice as you think. Life is always a little more fun when you’re a little more...naughty.”

His smug attitude softened as he pulled you closer, playfully squeezing your hips with his large hands. He traced his fingertips along the edge of your jaw, gazing at you thoughtfully as his thumb caressed your chin. Each action was gentle and unhurried, conveying a deep sense of adoration.

“Can I borrow a kiss?” he murmured. “I promise I’ll give it back.”

You swallowed thickly, captivated by his gravelly voice. You could just imagine the obscene noises he’d make if the two of you just...gave in. The sincere praises he’d whisper in your ear with each languid roll of his hips, while the weight of his robust frame pinned you to the mattress. The guttural sounds that would surely spill from his lips if you asked him to fuck you against the wall—rough and animalistic. The strangled moans you might hear if you dropped to your knees and sucked his cock like the good girl you desperately wanted to be for him. Not to mention the tantalizing ways he could call out your name...

Husky. Dripping with so much lust, it could make your toes curl before his calloused hands even grazed your skin.

A breathless plea. Soft and rich with devotion. A longing sigh that tickled your skin.

Firm and authoritative. Something that made you crumple to your knees, eager to obey his every command...

Dean curled a finger under your chin, tilting your face up as he raised an eyebrow. “Bowing out already? ‘Cause I was just getting started.”

“Not a chance.” Wracking your brain for another line, you ghosted your fingertips up and down his bicep, noticing the way he shuddered. “You know, I might not go down in history, but I’ll definitely go down on you.”

“In that case, I’ll kiss you in the rain so you get twice as wet.”

Realizing the bar had been raised a notch, you bit your lip and decided to push the conversation a step further. You carded your fingers through his hair, tugging on his locks and massaging his scalp every so often. His eyes fluttered closed and you continued the ministrations a little longer, feeling a twinge of pride at having the brave and mighty Dean Winchester melt beneath your touch.

“Hey, Dean...” He hummed lazily in response. “I have 206 bones in my body. Want to give me another one?”

His eyes snapped open, making the suggestive smile you wore twitch in amusement. His gaze was slightly unfocused, but it grew darker as he considered the idea.

“Well, are you a doctor? ‘Cause I’ve got a bone for you to examine—a big one I might add. Maybe it’s exactly what you’re looking for.”

“Maybe. I was feeling pretty off today, but you turned me on.”

“I’ve got a dirty mind. And, right now, you’re running through it...naked.”

“Running’s not really my style. Are you a trampoline, though? Because I wanna bounce on you.”

His lips parted as he gazed down at you, undoubtedly imagining the same scenario as you. His breath trembled, erratic puffs tickling your skin as he exhaled. You could feel the warmth of his body, your torso now flush with his, not realizing the two of you had continued gravitating toward each other.

Before you could get too caught up in the moment, Dean let out a low whistle. “I gotta be honest, Y/N—I love the sound of that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “So, uh...i-is your name Medusa? Because you’re making me rock hard.”

You shivered involuntarily, deeply affected by the gritty edge in his tone. You clenched at his words and pressed your thighs together, unable to mask how much you enjoyed his dirty line. How much it turned you on, pretending you were the reason he was “rock hard.”

Knowing the two of you were dangerously close to crossing the line you’d been flirting with, you squirmed out of his arms and took a step back.

Dean cleared his throat, glancing at his crotch before briefly meeting your eyes again. “I’m officially uncomfortable now. Thank you.”

“I guess that’s a sign I’m winning.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

He focused his attention on a nearby chair, trying to appear nonchalant as he shoved a brazen hand down his pants to adjust himself. When his hand reemerged, you licked your lips upon seeing the large bulge in jeans.

“Are you sure about that?” You inched forward, standing toe-to-toe with him as you slowly dragged your hand down his chest and stomach. “Because it looks you’ve got a situation going on. Maybe you should admit I’m right so you can go take care of it.”

“He may have a mind of his own, but my dick and my willpower are two entirely different things. Besides...you’re the one staring. Maybe you should admit I’m winning so you can help me take care of it.”

Although you had expected a cheeky comeback, his words didn’t match his constrained demeanor. There was an air of submission in his tone—like he was secretly leaving it up to you to end all of this. To make the first move and put you both out of your misery.

He was putty in your hands, and both of you knew it.

You leaned into him, briefly nuzzling his neck as you molded your body against his. While holding his gaze, you traced the outline of his erection with your finger and firmly palmed it through his jeans. His knees buckled and he let out a strangled moan, leaning heavily against the wall behind him for support. His lashes fluttered, struggling to stay open as his carnal eyes swept over your face. You couldn’t help but smirk, relishing the way his tongue wet his lips before he captured the bottom one between his teeth. What you wouldn’t give to have his mouth lavish your skin with any act of passion he saw fit…

Warm, needy open-mouthed kisses that could make you arch against him. Gentle, featherlight kisses that would surely give you chills. Sharp, playful nips with his teeth that made you shiver with anticipation, just thinking about how he could mark you. And his tongue—oh, the ways he’d make you come undone with his tongue alone.

“Hey, Dean...” you whispered, leaning forward to suck his earlobe between your teeth. He groaned softly, chest heaving with each ragged breath he took.

“Yeah?”

“Even though you’re not a dentist...I bet you could give me a filling.”

“Fuck,” he breathed. Dean tipped his head back, a faint thud making him flinch when he bumped the wall.

“Oh!” You automatically reached out to rub his head, and began cackling with guilt. “Crap, Dean, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he panted as he hungrily surveyed you with a grin. “This game isn’t gonna end well for either of us...but the whole middle part is gonna be awesome.”

For the TALK 30 TO ME CELEBRATION: @atc74 @alleiradayne

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betweentheracks · 3 years

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Hello and yay for this blog!!! I have a question :D. If a certain Chinese star were to wear jeans that say "my cock is gluten free" and "pull me down and fuck me," do you think his stylist would have chosen this knowingly, or do you think it's possible they just were like "hmm english words looks good" and didn't bother to look up the meaning? If they did know the meaning, would they have likely informed the star? Very desperate for the thought process behind this Choice hehehe. Thank you!

Ah, I was wondering hoping if I would get asked about those infamous jeans and here you are!

First and foremost; the following is all speculation from my experiences in the business and is wholly subjective.

It isn’t impossible that they weren’t aware of what was written on the jeans, but it also isn’t all that likely either. When you pull up these jeans on the Dsquared2 site there’s a listing of what is doodled and written on the jeans and it’s not something that would be overlooked by neither stylist nor client.

That said, Yibo does know some English and while he may not have known these words exactly, there’s more than enough ways of discerning their meaning. I would also bet half a year of my salary that his stylist would have known what was written here, or any number of personnel that works with them for that matter. I would also take into consideration that even if the jeans had slipped by all these people that may or may not have had the ability to see what was all over them, some of Yibo’s fellow idols should have (looking at you specifically, Seungyoun).

Setting this aside for a moment, I’ll go into who I think is responsible for the jeans being worn to begin with - Wang Yibo himself is the likely culprit.

Why do I think this? There’s many reasons but most are inconsequential while two points frame the scene as I see it.

This is markedly not a choice a stylist would make. Stylists, at the end of it all, are employees and therefore it shouldn’t be too surprising to know we have rules in place we must abide no matter if we are working outside the purview of the company we are housed under. Even when we work exclusively with a client, we are still taking the name of our company as well as our own with us and are operating as an extension of the brand the company promotes and promises. I don’t know of any company here (and I live in rather free faring place which welcomes eccentricities, mind) that would allow these jeans to be submitted as part of a pitch to either buy or borrow unless they were very specifically in line with a client’s public image and style. Technically these jeans would classify as offensive and profane which means they would invite trouble and cause a stir. While stylists are not associated much with the PR side of things we are still essentially a team playing for the same client - this selection, if gone badly, would be like asking for lightning to strike twice in one place at the same time. If a scandal amounted from them PR would have to handle it and that means the stylist would come under fire for making such a bold and risky choice, most especially with a younger client that thus far didn’t have the sort of image one would think to associate with jeans such as these.

The second reason is that, from what I can tell, this is in line with Yibo’s personality. He’s very serious about style and engages with it as he does most things; by overtaking it completely and rebranding it to suit him to the point that it makes one wonder if the style wasn’t designed with him in mind. He makes full use of what fashion is all about at it’s core; expression. These jeans in particular would have suited the Yibo of the time he wore them (2018, if I remember right?) as he was trying to break away from the image he held as a pretty boy with demure and soft looks which held the shock value of being in such contrast with his dancing and rapping. He’s mentioned before that he doesn’t really like being “cute/sy” and having to do things in the way of that since it’s not true to who he feels he is. Which, honestly, a lot of idols and stars go through this experience where they no longer wish to be constrained by the persona they play for the public and one of the most impactful means of going about it is to address the styling since it is the focal point of public image.

The Dsquared2 jeans don’t only say “my cock is gluten free,” there’s actually quite a lot to them and I think it would help if more were aware of it so here’s the description of them on the website:

D Squared Limited Edition Jeans. Sexy Twist Printed Low Rise. Fun, Evil Boy, Love Sucks, Pull Me Down, Open Me, Unzip, Buttons, Wine Is My Water, Tic Tac Toe, Dean & Dan, Sex, Gluten Free Cock, Hot Patches

The jeans actually say “pull me down and fuck me” right there on the ass, but naturally they can’t list the expletives in the marketing. Not strictly important to this post, but still worth mentioning given the hushed treatment of what the placement of such words could easily imply and the effect that could have had.

Anyway, the bit that is very telling in my opinion is that “evil boy” tag. I’m not terribly certain due to having never been fortunate enough to work with these jeans myself and the internet only has so many pictures from so many angles, but “evil boy” is either written somewhere (which I think is the case since there’s devil horns present as well) or they’re being promoted as such for aesthetic value. Regardless, I am fairly certain this would be the feature which caught Yibo’s eye. It’s on brand for someone seeking to shatter the conceptual ideal of being naive, innocent, youthful, or soft.

The jeans as a whole fit with Yibo’s sense of humor, as I’ve seen it at least. He lost his mind and fell into full laughter and hysterics over a dick joke, not even minding that he was being filmed or anything. He was still laughing about it even after the other hosts had moved beyond it, making them circle back around to it and in turn making it all the more hilarious for him to enjoy. You can see it clearly in the bts footage from the CQL set that he enjoys being mischievous and stirring things up and having a good time.

This is who he is, I believe, and it makes a lot of sense for him to have made this stylistic choice and then either convince his stylist to let him run with it or change out at the last second. Both of these are possible, though one of them is less probable than the other given how tricky it actually would be to sneak a wardrobe alteration past the many people that make up the staffing roster for any events, and then to be able to change in the limited time frame available between exiting the dressing room to being in the public sphere would be one in a thousand. Much simpler to goad your stylist into being lenient enough to give you free reign over your own styling - we can only hold out and say no when the grounds for it are met, which this wouldn’t have done in all likelihood - and most of the time we build up a good enough relationship and rapport with clients that we end up doting on them a bit and heed their requests when we can.

That’s all from me on this token moment in Yibo’s very stacked fashion history. Thanks for asking!

Furthermore, there’s the third possibility that this wasn’t a styling choice whatsoever. Or at least not one that involved the stylist in any real regard. It is very plausible that this was just Yibo in his own clothes, having dressed down after the main events wound down. I’ve never actually watched to see what that night looked like overall, but from the videos I have seen it looked to me like the actual do had passed and they were all just goofing around and having their own dance competitions and such when he was wearing them. I can’t say for sure that he did or did not have them on for the whole thing or if they were his own self packed casual wear. In which case it would fall back to his studio to tend to since stylists generally don’t hold authority over personal clothing choices and only ever have a hand in it when it is expressly stated in contracts or temporary clauses, and it just isn’t too common anymore.

Worth a quick mention for means of distinction, here in the US this choice wouldn't have raised many eyebrows no matter if it was chosen by an artist or a stylist. The only reason I feel it necessary to say this is simply because this is not so in China and that alone lends context to the controversy of these jeans. In the scope of conservatism these jeans are outrageous and I think that a stylist would steer clear of utilizing them at all if they value their job. This is why I don't consider it likely at all that Yibo and his stylist collaborated to make use of these jeans as a way to shake away the remnants of his pretty boy aesthetic.

#wang yibo #dsquared2 #racks asks

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benevadeca · 2 years

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SAW the new cyrano movie and wow i liked it! anyway thoughts about it under the cut as it's like the 4th adaptation i've seen of cyrano lol.

so yeah in a lot of respects i do still prefer the national theater live's version in its rap translation thing. very obvious that these are two different adaptations that focused on different aspects of the source material made for different intents.

overall it was fun, i liked it! very artsy. one of roxane's songs was like kinda weird horny but it's the u know. romantic period drama sensuality and it was like at least tastefully done so eh! makes her a more understandable character than how she appears in most versions where it just feels like she wants to be in a better book club lmao

i DO think the musical adaptation of it was like, a good translation of a historical work for a modern non-french audience. but the songs, while fun and good and artsy, were kind of still at the same time sorta? idk generically...not Hollywood but idk. like songs u hear and go "yeah this is part of a musical"

[spoilers after this]

like cyrano the movie focusing on the romance plotline and the whole societal expectations/body image thing. loved the leitmotif of like, i forget the wording but "everyone wants to be loved for who they are" basically. the parallels betw christian and cyrano's deaths were rly good!

kind of mixed feelings on both of their death's honestly? but to focus on positives the parallel between christian sort of. giving up on roxane "i only want to be loved if it's for myself, and what roxane loves isn't me" and uhhh running into bullets basically. that paralleled with cyrano's "i have given up and am dying today". like it is the extreme lack of faith and emotional low that makes them easy pickings. i def had other thoughts but they are eluding me i need to marinate them a bit more maybe

but yeah on the cons side, i do think w/ the changes they made to cyrano's death scene (him getting his epic 10 seconds of mutual love and mouth on mouth), while more uh "positive" than other versions sort of undercuts the "tragedy" title of it. missed connections, too much has happened between the beginning and where we are now, cyrano's refusal to let go of his own pride and penchant for drama to fully accept its reciprocacy.

tho on that not his "and i loved...my pride" line was raw and epic it's like yes the realization all too late that you are your own worst enemy, you might've said you loved her but it was your inability to love yourself that affected your relationships with others, made it so you could never actually have any real faith in the person you love, that it was your simultaneous idolization and denegration of her image that got in the way. etc etc etc.

but yeah ANYWAY like it's bc the focus of the movie was fully on the romance and not any of the other themes that christian kind of got a worse deal than he usually does it almost feels like. like, the scenes he got were good ofc, but how he was fully cut out of the entire finale almost and basically just a prop for said 10 seconds of happiness that don't usually occur. also im still confused on that sequencing from christian's dead body to jesus i still don't get it but another thing marinating in my mind.

this is all to say ig that nothing goes as raw as national theater live having his dead body on the floor and then his actor physically between them in the entire end scene. also like idk there could've been just a little more of a focus on the "war is hell and it is the boys who never got to grow to be anything more than boys" bit

List of things cut:

OK so they cut a LOT from the original bc the original has that "art is controlled and censored by the people in power when it should be used to fight for the people" subplot, so basically everything from that is cut. which i get bc of time constrains w/ movies compared to theater productions, and like the director being the pride and prejudice director and the entire marketing of the movie being on the romance aspect of it and not that. so yeah i get the rationale! but sad tho

tbh i dont think it even explained specifically WHY cyrano said fuck that guy to montfleury in the beginning the whole convo cyrano had w his bro abt it just centered on roxane, and the "cyrano getting into a fight in the night to save his bro" scene was also subsequently refitted

cyrano's boyz night scene where he's dramatically reinacting his fight the previous night :( like instead it just has him angstily boxing in the corner which doesn't showcase his extreme chadness. also christian's introduction as just being kind of a mouthy brat lol

degich? i can never remember or spell his name but bitchy rich, they cut out his "war is bad and it's made me a better person" redemption arc but who cares so lol. moving on <3

roxane's epic girlboss moment was cut out. SAD. and subsequently the scene w/ the baker being a recurring character was ALSO cut out. quite the loss but ig they at least showcase roxane's ability to be an active character in other scenes so not a total loss

both of cyrano's moon monologues :( sad! also the timeskip being dramatically shorter and only three years. i do think switching his gradual health decline to be A-actualy consequences from the war and B-less him refusing to stop pissing people off without accepting help from others to just full inability to take care of himself. like yes really showcase his issues and also that poverty and its consequences exists outside of an aesthetic backdrop

Favorite changes things:

there was a musical/dance number in the bakery :) we only got to see the baker in that initial scene but love him

boyz night did get cut but the christian musical number kind of fucked hard so all is forgiven actually

OK depending on the variation the way cyrano dies changes, like he gets assassinated in diff ways so in one they drop bricks on him or smth and in another a carriage runs him over. (im p sure it's the 1990?) i think they referenced the carriage running him over version bc they had post-timeskip him walking and a carriage barrel pass and him collapse as it does (like. not it running him over just these two seperate events framed together) and i was like haha...i get the reference. kinda mean but i did laugh in the theater a little i was like brooooo

OH the movie starts not w in the theater but w roxane getting ready for it! so yeah epic girlboss moments. she didn't get to be angry at the very end like she was in the national theater live modern rap version but she did get a "im angry" song around the middle of the plot so u kno. girls who get to be angry

i do admit i cried at the scene where the ensemble cast of soldier's got to sing about their loved ones and accepting that they're being sent off to die. anyway

anyway yeah! i liked it it was good but i DO think if they were gonna strip it down to its bare romance they should've had cyrano and chris kiss also tho like it's simply only fair

#mine #lb #cyrano de bergerac #LIKE dont get me wrong i do think it did something fun and new and original as an adaptation #and the more slightly if not positive than 'lighter'#note was itself powerful esp w what and how it focused

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kiriharaakira · 3 years

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Analysis of Yashiro’s suicide

I want to join the discussion of @darkwitchxeres about if Yashiro went to Hirata suicidal because of what happened in Dpumeki's apartment.

From general discussion, this is debatable. Some said Yashiro was already planned this at the first place. Some said Yashiro wouldn't be that suicidal if not because of Doumeki. The point is, we have no solid proof for either of thesis. Sensei never make it clear for us.

My personal view. I will say Doumeki was NOT the reason. There are way too many reasons for Yashiro to commit suicide, Doumeki can hardly be one of those. He is, at most, the trigger.

This is not easy for a human to commit suicide. It is not any decision made in short period of time, let along a single incident. Before we go into any discussion, let’s talk about what happen before sucide.

For a suicide to happen, first there is a suicidal idea. Suicidal idea can happen multiple time in life and actually, every person has at least once thought about suicide in one life time. However, suicidal idea is like any other idea in life. It brings no action or change in a person’s action. It takes time to ferment, until a suicidal will.

We saw a lot of behavior of suicidal will. Ex. Tell the Gunner to come back and “Shoot the right place”. (CP 8), refused the bulletproof vest after leaving hospital (CP 11), exposed himself under the eyes of Gouda group (CP 31). When we met Yashiro, his suicidal idea has already transform into suicidal will. He just never put it in action.

Although suicidal will took place, action still just mere possibility. In fact, many people with suicidal will never turn it into action. Maybe they will start to check out their bucket list or start to prepare for their action, but action still hardly appear. Suicidal will is not yet action. It still takes time to build up and incubate, until the suicidal will become suicidal action.

This is when the suicide take place.

The suicidal idea had been building up and fermenting in Yashiro for so long, when we met Yashiro, he already has strong suicidal will. However, we never saw any suicidal action before CP 34. Yet after that night in Doumeki’s apartment, everything changed. Yashiro suddenly turned his will into action.

What happened? What makes Yashiro did it? What pushed Yashiro over the edge? Was Doumeki truly the executioner who pushed Yashiro off the cliff?

To answer this question, please allow me to imitate the Analysis and answer it in Yakuza Fact, Feeling Fact, and Personal Fact.

Yakuza Fact----

If Yashiro did anything for the Yakuza purpose, he did it for Misumi (Not anything personal, but as a subordinate to his supervisor)

So what benefit will Yashiro’s death bring to Misumi? Misumi will lost his successor if he lost Yashiro, is there anything beneficial to Misumi through Yashiro’s death? The truth is : It is beneficial, a lot.

Hirata was a traitor. After Tsunekawa’s little work in Sanwakai, Hirata has no where to go (He can’t go back to Doushinkai or join Sanwakai. This is why he went to Yanagi (Misumi’s competitor) for support). However, Hirata’s ability was dazzle----He “raised” a Yakuza child like Yashiro, who is smart, good at using the right people, and a powerful money maker. No matter if Yashiro’s ability has any Hirata’s influence or not, the outcome was appealing. “Hirata has the ability to train useful people for Yakuza” is a certified truth, even it is not fact.

Therefore, If Misumi couldn’t finish Hirata for good, Hirata still had a chance to bounce back up. He has the ability to provide growth for Yakuza group, this is an attractive factor for other Yakuza group to recruit a traitor. Let alone those Yakuza groups that are hostile to Doushinkai.

But if Hirata killed his own child, then that’s another story.

In the Yakuza Saga, no matter it was Hirata used Gouda group to blame Yashiro, or Misumi (Amou) used Tsunekawa to destroy Hirata’s exit (Sanwakai), or Yashiro persuaded Hirata’s men and used them against him, none of them due direct harm to each other.

The rule is, they cannot directly lay hand on members in the same group.

In Yakuza relationship, Yashiro and Hirata are Misumi’s Child, and Yashiro is Hirata’s Child. This made-up Father & Son relationship cannot be violated.

So if Hirata killed his son with his own hands, no matter what kind of amazing ability he has, he will be no longer welcome in any Yakuza. A Father who killed his own Son will never get accepted by any Yakuza group. Even Yanagi, who was trying to use Hirata to put shame on Misumi’s face, can accept him no more. Also, if Yanagi helped this man who kill his own Son, Yanagi’s appearance will get fatally damage and will permanently affect his life as Yakuza. Yanagi will immediately lost his position as a potential Kaichou successor.

With his own death, Yashiro can :

1. Block all the exit of Hirata and declare his death sentence as Yakuza

2. Fatally damage Yanagi’s appearance and remove him from the successor list

3. Turn Misumi into the victim in this incident and raise his voice to Sanwakai in their future communication

4. Consolidate Misumi’s position as successor (Misumi will have to choose a new successor since he lost Yashiro. He may have to choose from other member’s Children, so he will meet less oppose when success the Kaichou position)

Not two, but four birds with one stone. Talk about terms worth dying for.

Feeling Fact----

“I should have let you go. I wanted to let you go. I don’t want to let you go, because you are cute. You are cute...but also scary. You said you would do anything for me, but you almost die for me. I am losing it because of you! I am not scare of you. I am scare of myself who is now unable to lose you...”

----Yashiro. CP 23.

A person’s mental stage can collapse if one meet severe mental damage. Let alone a child.

Yashiro’s mental stage was already collapsed long before he grew up. As his mental stage continue to develop, he need to stabilize his collapsed mental stage. That was when he started to tell himself. “I like sex.” “I like it hurt.” “I can’t feel anything if it doesn’t hurt.” By turning himself into a masochist, he was able to continue growing stably in a twisted manner. This is a powerful protective skill Yashiro learn from his childhood. He continue to use this skill even after he grew up, to protect himself and sometimes other (Ex. use sex to exchange info to locate Ryusaki and found Nanahara before everything was too late).

Until Doumeki rip off this infected wound.

I always suggest Doumeki harmed Yashiro badly with his sex to him. Although his sex was gentle...Let’s put it this way. Because his sex was gentle, it severely damaged Yashiro. He recalled his childhood memory was the solid proof of it.

Yashiro was twisted into form that he shouldn’t grow up to be by his twisted parents (I want to talk about his mother if we have the chance). Doumeki never realize it. He never realize the damage Yashiro’s twisted childhood had done to him. Maybe because Yashiro appeared to be so mature and independent, maybe because Yashiro act like nothing happen when talked about his past. Doumeki mistook those had passed for Yashiro and Yashiro had recovered from his wound. But actually, Yashiro never recovered from anything, he never admit he has anything to recover from (”I like how I am.” ----Yashiro Cp 2.).

So when Doumeki showed him the gentle love, he showed him what sex suppose to be, Yashiro couldn’t bear it. When Doumeki showed him what a human suppose to be, Yashiro couldn’t face it. If he admit sex should be done in the way Doumeki showed him, he will have to admit his past 36 years of life was nothing but an ugly ridiculous sarcasm. Yashiro couldn’t face it.

He couldn’t face himself. He couldn’t face Doumeki. He couldn’t face the endless cycle of twisted →accept pain →deceive himself →twist again. He couldn’t bear to live the rest of his life knowing he is a twisted man.

Pandora has opened her Box. There is no return for Yashiro.

Personal Fact----

Many may say Yashiro committed suicide was self-destructive, but wasn’t Yashiro lives a self-destructive life? Messing around with uncountable men, made himself the public toilet, knowing it would upset Hirata but still refuse to constrain a bit. As I see it, compare to his suicide, Yashiro’s daily life was instead self-destructive.

So if committing suicide was not exactly self-destructive for Yashiro, why would Yashiro do so? I discussed with 紫殇迹沫 (The author of the translated analysis), and she gave me this idea----

It was resistance.

What was Yashiro resisting to? His fate.

Yashiro, never get to choose his fate. Almost everything in his life was forced. He was forced to accept the twisted lust from his stepfather, he was forced to face all the disgrace and insult from this teachers and classmates, he was forced to accept the shameful life he has to live. He was even forced to join Yakuza, because of Misumi san.

Why Kuga looks shining for Yashiro? Because Kuga resisted his fate. He has twisted parents like Yashiro, but he didn’t give in. He resisted to his twisted parents, he resisted when he was in the Reformatory. He resisted when Yashiro forcefully remove his resident (Isn’t this something similar to what Misumi san did to Yashiro BTW?) Even when he had no choice but had to live as a gangster, he still chose not to be Yashiro’s subordinate.

Choices that Yashiro never get to make.

“...I accepted everything and live until now. I don’t feel pain, and I don’t blame anyone. My life is not anyone’s fault...”----Yashiro CP 8

“....However, Nanahara. In this world, there are parents who betrayed their children, and children who betrayed their parents. Betrayal happens no matter blood-related or not. It’s all fate. It’s not anyone to blame.”

----Yashiro CP 20

Yashiro has been acceptance for his whole life. He accepted his twist, accepted his shame, accepted his fate. He “accepted everything and live until now” as he stated.

This Yashiro, finally for once, he resisted.

----If I don’t get to choose my life, then I am going to choose my death.

After 36 years of his life. Maybe, something has changed within him.

Reference from----

<<Suicidal Behavior>>----By Paula J. Clayton

https://www.merckmanuals.com/professional/psychiatric-disorders/suicidal-behavior-and-self-injury/suicidal-behavior

<<Measuring the Suicidal Mind: Implicit Cognition Predicts Suicidal Behavior>>----By Matthew K. Nock, Jennifer M. Park, Christine T. Finn, Tara L. Deliberto, Halina J. Dour, Mahzarin R. Banaji

Special Thanks to----

紫殇迹沫 https://m.weibo.cn/u/5520613947

My Mentor in Saezuru Analyze

#saezuru tori wa habatakanai #saezuru #saezuru analysis #saezuru fandom #yashiro

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silverskyy · 2 years

Note

some dnd questions for you!

10, 19, 21, 25, 28, 36

hope it's not too many haha

Oh there's no such thing as too many questions about D&D, thanks for all the opportunities to ramble!

10. What is your favorite class to play?

Clerics my absolute beloved ❤️ My first ever character was a cleric, and while looking back I know I didn't play her particularly optimally, I think it set the tone for what I enjoy in a PC since I'm now on my third long-game cleric PC and planning a fourth. I love the high wisdom skills (especially passive perception when paired with the Observant feat), their versatility is fantastic to the point that I feel constrained playing classes who "learn a spell list", and I'm a sucker for a good upcast Inflict Wounds to put the literal fear of God in an enemy. Plus the inbuilt depth of which deity you worship, why, and how is a great way to kickstart turning a character into a person—feel free to ask for more details about how that's gone for me if it sounds interesting!

19. How did you discover D&D?

So technically I discovered D&D via my older brother. He played years and years ago, which meant I was aware of it from a young age. I was never allowed to join in his D&D stuff though, so despite casual attempts to get into the ttrpg scene on my own over the years, I actually started learning about and playing the game through my partner. It was one of the things we talked about when we first met, since they were already playing, and when they started putting together a campaign they invited me to join. (Also they introduced me to Critical Role, which fanned a lot of the flames lol) And thus, an obsession was born!

21. Drop a picture of a mini you painted (if applicable)

[ID: two painted miniatures. The first is an armored woman with pointed ears, tan skin, and very shortly cropped red hair. She holds a small round shield in one hand and a golden mace in the other. The second is another armored woman, this one with long blond hair and fairly pale skin. She's raising a large shield in one hand and swinging double-bladed axe in the other. /end ID]

These aren't minis that I myself painted, but they're both minis my super talented partner painted of some of my PCs. The first is Felda (I'll talk about her later) and the second is Joanna, although she goes by her last name, Yfar, with most folks. I played Yfar from level 5 to 17, she's a human fighter who changed weapons literally the session after my partner finished this (sorry babe 😅), and I love her to bits!

25. What is your favorite snack for d&d?

For once I'm not going to ramble—I don't tend to eat during gaming. It's weirdly distracting and I don't have a strong hunger instinct that would force me to do so anyway.

28. What is the most memorable natural 1 you've experienced?

Let me set the scene: it was the climax of my first real dungeon crawl adventure. My two other party members and I were facing off against a strange woman who'd been performing some sort of magical ritual in a cave system that the DM had indicated unsettled my PC specifically, as well as her son and a couple mooks. In retrospect, we made some poor tactical decisions and the DM admitted they'd made her too overpowered, on top of truly crappy rolls, but regardless, we were getting wrecked. My being the only healer, it was thus pretty bad news when the woman's son got taken out and in her fury she struck me down too. It was time for my first ever death saving throw...

And I rolled a one.

Fucking pandemonium hit. The DM genuinely didn't want to kill any of us, but the woman was standing right over me and we'd literally just seemingly killed her son. The other players were frantically measuring distances and seeing if they could grab me and run without dying themselves. Eventually someone remembered that the woman had been particularly interested in me when we'd arrived, almost as if she knew and wanted something from me. After some very stressed table talk where I explicitly told them to go, one PC made a desperate shout at the woman about how she must want me alive, then they both booked it.

Spoilers, I lived! This resulted in a private session of what being kidnapped entailed and my playing a new character during the next two sessions as the other PCs gathered a rescue party from the nearby town and got me back. Here's a picture of my traumatic experience:

[ID: a picture of a D&D battle map. On the far right side is room with two prone minis, with another standing right above one. An arrow is drawn on the picture to the guarded mini from text reading: Me.

On the far left side, out of the room and down a few hallways are two further minis, being pursued by a third. An arrow is drawn to them from text reading: My "team". /end ID]

36. What was your first d&d character you made?

It was Felda, the aforementioned death save unlucky half-elf Light cleric! She worshipped Sune, the goddess of beauty, and was very kind and awkward, yet with a seed of something darker that came out once when she spammed Fireball at a shadow dragon until it fell from the sky to burn at her feet. The game is on a very long hiatus (the DM/my partner and I refuse to say it's abandoned) so I don't know a lot, but she was raised in a temple after her mother died there in childbirth and from what I gathered her mother had escaped from a cult right beforehand. Oh and that strange woman? Supposedly Felda's aunt working within said cult!! Who said there were plans for her and, now that she'd been found, she couldn't hide from them...

Moreover, while she was confined Felda started exhibiting strange abilities (I got Perception proficiency, officially spoiling me for it always) and was from then on in a constant state of being extremely freaked out. I actually recently rolled a so so very retroactive Perception check, to notice that a Detect Magic spell didn't pick up her magic items. Due to conversations we'd just been having, that was an obvious hint from my partner that Felda has an Amulet of Proof Against Detection and Location—specifically the amulet her mother said was from Felda's father, that she wears as a reminder of her family. Ooooh there are no plans to start it up again any time soon, but that was such an exciting reveal and I miss my shy little half-elf so bad! 😭

Also tagging @strangeite if they want to give any further details on Felda stories (no pressure).

Thank you so much for asking! If there are other questions people want to ask, you can find them here.

#personal #ask #s-opal #rebecca talks to people #ask game #d&d #really thanks this was lots of fun #long post

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hecallsmehischild · 3 years

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Recent Media Consumed

Books

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien. About ten or fifteen years ago, I tried to read this and was totally overwhelmed by it. I kept it around, hoping maybe someday I might be able to read it. I finally have, and here are my impressions: WHY SO MANY NAMES. WHY YOU HAVE TO NAME EVERYBODY, AND EVERY TRIBE OF PEOPLES, AND EVERY INANIMATE OBJECT, AND EVERY LANDSCAPE FEATURE. WHY. *ahem* So. I have a general comprehension of the events of The Silmarillion, but I dealt with it by doing what you do for an impressionist painting. I (mentally) stepped way back and let all the names flow by me, and if there were names that were repeated a lot, then I mentally attached appropriate plot points and character details to those names so I could track with who they were and what they were doing. And, actually, I found myself able to hang on and enjoy the book for the most part. This is going to lead into a re-reading of the Lord of the Rings books, since I haven’t read those in about as long…

The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. I haven’t read some of these books since pre-teen years, with one required re-read of The Two Towers in high school (i.e. it’s been many an age since I’ve read these and my memory of the stories has been far more heavily influenced by the movies). In re-reading the first book, I was struck by the extreme tone shift for the Elves and Dwarves. Elves seem much closer to happy, mischievous fairies than these ethereal, solemn pillars of elegance and grace the movies show them to be. And Dwarves are far more bumbling and craftsmanlike than the movies show. Aside from that, The Hobbit was a pretty solid adaptation from the book, and the book also reminded me that this story was the first time I experienced “NO, MAIN CHARACTERS DON’T DIE, HOW DARE YOU,” and probably was the first book to make me cry. I must have been 8 or 10 years old. I FORGOT HOW MUCH THIS STORY INFLUENCED ME.

A Conflict of Visions by Thomas Sowell. I have a longer-than-usual list of things to say about this book. First is that it was just that level of difficult that I was struggling to understand while reading it (on Audible), but I think I got it. Sowell has several base concepts that I see repeated throughout his books, though he does like to dedicate whole books to specific aspects of the same topic. He is pretty damn thorough that way. So, for example, I would put this book in the middle of a three-book spectrum of similar concepts: Intellectuals and Society (most concrete and easiest to read), A Conflict of Visions (next-level abstraction, a little difficult to read), Knowledge and Decisions (root abstract concept, very difficult, I have not been able to get past chapter 2). The second thing I have to say is about a couple interesting concepts it proposes. Its whole point is to help readers understand the roots of two ways of seeing the world that come into severe conflict politically, and he calls them by their root titles: the constrained and the unconstrained visions. He traces the path of each back through the intellectuals that most spoke of them (tending to contrast Adam Smith with William Godwin and Condorcet). Though he leans heavily toward the constrained vision (based on reading his other works) he does his best to make this book an academic study of both, with both of the visions' strengths and flaws and reasoning and internal consistencies fairly laid out. In doing so, he helped me understand a few things that make this situation really difficult for people on opposing sides to communicate. One of them is that root words and concepts literally mean different things to different people. I had some vague notion of this before, but he laid out three examples in detail: Equality, Power, and Justice. It was kind of astounding to see just how differently these three words can be defined. It makes me think that arguing about any specific issues rooted in these concepts is fruitless until first an understanding has been reached on terms, because otherwise two parties are endlessly talking past each other. Another really interesting idea he brought up is the existence of “hybrid visions” and he named both Marxism and Fascism as hybrid visions. This was especially fascinating to me because I have seen the accusation of “Nazi” flung around ad nauseam and I wondered how it was that both sides were able to fling it at each other so readily. Well, it’s because Fascism is actually a hybrid vision, so both sides have a grain of truth but miss the whole on that particular point. In any case, this was a little difficult to read but had some fascinating information. For people who are wondering what on earth this gap is between political visions, how on earth to bridge the gap, or why the gap even exists in the first place, this is a really informative piece.

Movies

The Hobbit & Fellowship trilogies (movies). I mean, it’s definitely not my first watch, not even my second. But I went through it with Sergey this time and that means the run-time is double because we pause to talk and discuss details. This watch came about partly due to Sergey’s contention that Gandalf’s reputation far outstrips his actual powers, so we ended up noting down every instance of Gandalf’s power to see if that was true. Conclusion: Gandalf is actually a decently powerful wizard, but tends to use the truly kickass powers in less-than-dire circumstances. That aside, this movie series was always a favorite for me. I rated The Hobbit trilogy lower the first time I saw it but, frankly, all together the six movies are fantastic and a great way to sink deep into lore-heavy fantasy for a while. And I’m catching way more easter-egg type details after having read the Silmarillion so it’s even more enjoyable. (finally, after about a week of binge-watching) I forgot how much this story impacted me. I forgot how wrenchingly bittersweet the ending is. I forgot how much of a mark that reading and watching this story left on my writing.

Upside-Down Magic. Effects were good. Actors were clearly having fun and enjoying everything. Story didn’t make enough sense for my taste, but it was a decent way to kill flight time.

Wish Dragon. So, yes, it’s basically an Aladdin rewrite, but it’s genuinely a cheesy good fluff fest that made me grin a whole lot.

Plays

Esther (Sight and Sound Theatres). < background info > This is my third time to this theatre. There are only two of these in existence and they only run productions of stories out of the Bible. The first time I went I saw a production of Noah, the second time I saw a production of Jesus. My middle sister has moved all the way out to Lancaster, PA in hopes of working at this theatre. My husband and I came out to visit her. < /background info > So. Esther. They really pulled out all the stops on the costumes and set. I mean, REALLY pulled out all the stops. And the three-quarters wrap-around stage is used to great effect. I tend to have a general problem of not understanding all the words in the songs, but I understood enough. I highly recommend sitting close to the front for immersive experiences. This theatre puts on incredible productions and if you ever, ever, EVER have the opportunity to go, take it. Even if you think it's nothing but a bunch of fairy tales, STILL GO. I doubt you'll ever see a fairy tale produced on another stage with equal dedication to immersion.

Shows

The Mandalorian (first two seasons). Well. This was pretty thoroughly enjoyable. It felt very Star-Wars, and I’d kind of given up after recent movies. Felt like it slipped into some preaching toward the end? Not sure, I could be overly sensitive about it, but I enjoyed this a lot (though I did need to turn to my housemate and ask where the flip in the timeline we were because I did NOT realize that the little green kid IS NOT ACTUALLY Yoda).

Games

Portal & Portal 2. Portal is probably the first video game I ever tried to play, back when I had no idea what I was doing. Back then, I attempted to play it on my not-for-gaming Mac laptop. Using my trackpad. Once the jumping-for-extra-velocity mechanic came into play, I just about lost my mind trying to do this with a trackpad and gave up. Later I returned to the game and played it with my then-boyfriend on a proper gaming computer. Now, after having played several games and gotten better at "reading the language" of video games, I decided I wanted to see if I could beat the Portal games by myself. Guess what. I BEAT 'EM. Yes, I remembered most of the puzzles in Portal so that's a little bit of a cheat, but I'd say a good 2/3 of Portal 2 was new puzzles to me. It is crazy how proud I feel of myself that I could beat Portal 2, especially. Learning how to play video games at this age has really knocked down the lie, "You can't learn anything." Though I still suck at platformers and games that require precision. Since I find those types frustrating, I probably won't be playing many. Games are about enjoyment, so I'll push myself a little, but not to the point where I can't stand what I'm playing.

The Observer. I like the concept and the art but I don't think I could keep trying to play this game. It's really depressing. My in-game family members all died of illness or accident or committed suicide. I also kept getting executed by the state. In order to keep us all alive I'd have to do pretty terrible things that I have a hard enough time contemplating even in a fictional setting.

Baba Is You. Fun and interesting concept, but I got stuck pretty early on. Don't think I want to push as hard on this one.

#recent media consumed #n00b gamer child #child loves books #child loves movies #child loves shows

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marvels-writings · 4 years

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Can’t You Tell?

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow) Masterlist

Requested by @summergeezburr : 30/49 with Wanda or Natasha from the whump dialog prompt pleaaaase? Thank you!

30: “Can’t you tell how much I love you? Can you not tell by the sound of my voice? Can you not tell by the words that I speak to you?“

49: “Did we ever even mean anything to you?! And don’t you dare lie to me!”

Word Count: 1, 253

A/N: I feel like you picked the angstiest ones on purpose

Plans never worked, especially the plans you had created. Your plan to infiltrate the HYDRA base had been fairly simple, pose as one of the guards, head in, plant bombs. Then blow the entire base to hell.

You hadn’t planned to get caught in the middle of planting a bomb then needing to fight your way out and risk getting blown up. Most of the guards were after you after finding out about the bombs, unfortunately, they knew the base better than you did.

Steve was doing the best he could to guide you out of there, you were at the front door when he yelled something in your earpiece. You grinned to yourself for getting out of there, you opened your mouth to say something sarcastic to Steve when the building exploded.

The sheer force of it threw your forwards into a tree, knocking you unconscious instantly.

The first thing you realized when you woke up was harsh yelling and white lights. You cracked open your eyes to see red hair bouncing at the edge of your vision, your heart leaped at the green eyes darting at you in distress. You felt pain through your ribs and your arm, but you tried to smile at Natasha to reassure her but fell unconscious before you could.

The next time you woke up, it was to a steady beeping. You opened your eyes, you were in the compound’s med bay. You felt pressure on one of your hands, you turned around weakly to see a familiar redhead sitting in the chair next to you, looking down at her feet.

You tried to move your hand but groaned in pain at the motion. You realized your arm was probably broke, but the commotion alerted Natasha.

“You’re finally awake,” She murmured, instantly snapping up and walking over to the table and pouring you a glass of water.

Natasha sat next to you at your bedside and helped you drink the water. After you drank and got your breathing under control, you turned to face her. You could see she hadn’t slept, her eyes were bloodshot, her posture slouched. She wore one of the sweatshirts she had stolen from you and black leggings.

“What happened?” You asked, she looked down regretfully before informing you.

“You broke 3 of your ribs and your arm. The doctors say you were lucky to be alive after one of your ribs punctured your lung.” Natasha inhaled sharply at the memory of Steve bursting into the med bay with your blood-covered body in his arms.

“They operated for an hour, you’ve been out for almost 2 days,” She finished, taking your good hand and squeezing it gently.

You and Natasha had always had a strange relationship, both of you got along well, better than the rest of the team. Natasha had been the only person you had felt comfortable with after you moved. Eventually, it grew into a sort of ‘friends with benefits’ relationship.

But you’d always thought it was a little bit more than that.

“Those bombs are a lot more dangerous than the package says,” You joked, trying to lighten her mood.

“You should have been more careful.” She chided, moving away from you.

You frowned as you saw her walls start to come back up. You reached out for her hand only for her to pull away.

“I didn’t think that the bombs would go off early.” You defended yourself, brow furrowing.

“They didn’t, you were late,” She stated, voice tight and constrained.

“The team can’t lose another member, the government is already on our asses for blowing up another base and injuring more civilians.”

You raised an eyebrow at her words.

“That’s all you care about? The fact that the shitty American government doesn’t like the fact that I blew something up?” You demanded.

Natasha clenched her jaw, unsure of how to answer. But her silence was enough for you, you scoffed.

“Did we ever mean anything to you?! And don’t you dare lie to me!” You shouted, angry that she would even say something like that.

But she stayed quiet, her fists clenched and at her side as she stood at the foot of your bed. She didn’t want to tell you, if she told you, she could lose you. Her bloodshot eyes stared at the floor, avoiding your intense gaze.

“So I am just another member of the team. I thought I meant more to you than just another fling.” you chuckled, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

“Here I was fooling myself that maybe Agent Natasha Romanoff could love me.” You murmured, hurt, and angry at her.

Something in Natasha broke at the way you said that you sounded broken and empty. Angrily, she slammed her fist on the iron bar at the foot of your bed, meeting your gaze.

“You’re not just that,” Natasha said, angrily.

“Then what am I to you?” You seethed, not giving her a chance to reply before you continued.

“I thought there was more to us than just sex and working together. I thought I might love you for christ’s sake, but I’m just a fucktoy to you.” You said angrily.

Natasha flinched at your hard tone before breaking, a tear slipped down her face. Her hand gripped the iron bar tightly, her knuckles turning white.

“Can you not tell by the words that I speak to you? Can you not tell by the sound of my voice?” Natasha demanded, one hand ran through her hair.

“Can’t you tell how much I love you?” Natasha whispered the last words.

Your eyes widened at her sudden outburst. Silence filled the room as you tried to think of something to say. Natasha had never told anyone that she loved them, even Clint. You knew about the red room, you knew about how she didn’t believe in love, this meant more to her than you could ever imagine.

This scared her more than you could ever imagine.

“I should, I should go,” she stumbled on her way out, almost out the door when she heard your voice again.

“Come back, please,” You pleaded, still in surprise. Natasha stopped, one hand on the door handle, she refused to look at you.

“I love you too, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” You apologized, your tone of voice was so sincere it made Natasha’s heartbreak all over again.

She turned to face you, you looked at her hopefully. The redhead moved to sit next to you at your bedside.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Natasha muttered, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

“No apologies right now, just hold me.” You whispered, wrapping your good arm around her waist slowly.

Natasha sighed softly and moved on the hospital bed next to you. You shifted so that Natasha’s head lay on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. Your arm was still wrapped around her waist, you slowly moved up to play with her hair, the rust-colored strands soft under your touch.

Neither of you said anything, you didn’t need to. You knew that if you said something, she might push you away or give you space, you settled for silence. Eventually, the rest of the team came to visit, but you didn’t push Natasha to move away, you pulled her closer to you as the rest of the team talked to you.

You fell asleep after the team left, you were warm and comfortable in Natasha’s arms.

Tag List: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @5aftermidnight, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx , @ophelias-heart , @never-didbefore , @justarandomhumanhere, @the-most-unicorn-of-them-all , @thatssocamryn , @lesbian-x-blackwidow , @wlw-imaginesss , @hcartbyheart , @summergeezburr let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

A/N: Thoughts?

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 18: Summers In Florence] [Series Finale]

A/N: If it doesn’t end with a wedding, is it even my fic??! 😂 For those who somehow haven’t yet read Baby You Were My Picket Fence (my most popular series), you might be a tiny bit confused during this chapter. Just roll with it. 😉 Also, COVID-19 doesn’t exist. What a wonderful world. Thank you so much for sticking with me and BYCNL. I love you all. 💜

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

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

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

It’s May 25th, 1984, and Roger and John are in Perth, Australia to promote Queen’s eleventh album, The Works.

Interviewer, daytime television host Ronald Inglewood: “Good morning and welcome to our viewers across Australia! We’re sitting down this morning with Roger Taylor and John Deacon, respectively the drummer and bassist of Queen, who are here to talk about the band’s brand new album called—quite self-assuredly, if I may say so, gentlemen—The Works. Hello to you both.”

Roger: “Good morning, Ron!”

John: “Hello.”

Interviewer: “And this latest album has been rather well-received so far, is that right?”

Roger: “It has, yes, and we’re enormously proud of it.”

Interviewer: “Now, The Works is a very different album than Hot Space, Queen’s sort of notorious foray into disco...do you think the back-to-basics, classic rock and roll feel of The Works has been the driving force behind its success?”

Roger: “Well, you know...I think experimentation is very important. We’ve always been an experimental band. The single Bohemian Rhapsody was hugely experimental, and that’s why it was such a phenomenon. We were experimenting long before A Night At The Opera, and I suspect we’ll keep on trying new things until we run out of ideas, whenever that is! I didn’t love every song on Hot Space, I’ll be completely transparent about that, but I certainly don’t think the album was a failure or a waste of time. It was an experiment. And The Works is an experiment as well, just one that runs in a different vein, I suppose.”

John: “Some people did actually enjoy Hot Space.”

Roger: “I think I know one or two.”

Interviewer: “Of course, it did have its bright spots. Under Pressure remains one of Queen’s biggest hits, doesn’t it?”

Roger: “Yes, and John wrote the bassline for that one!”

Interviewer: “Really?!”

John: “And Roger has his own hit on The Works, at last. We’re all very happy for him.”

Roger: “Only took ten years.”

John: “Fourteen, actually.”

Roger: “I’m going to murder you as soon as we get backstage.”

John: “You’re welcome to try.”

Interviewer: “Now this hit of yours, Roger, is Radio Ga Ga. And I’m sure we’ve all seen the famous music video, the hovercraft, the futurism, the clapping...we’ve all seen it, right? Where on earth did you get the idea for that song?”

Roger: “It actually originated from something I heard my daughter Violet say.”

Interviewer: “Fascinating! And you’ve just welcomed another one recently, haven’t you?”

Roger: “Yes, last month, in fact. A little girl named Nora. “

Interviewer: “Congratulations!”

Roger: “Thanks so much, Ron. Our eldest, Violet, turned two in January, and the idea for Radio Ga Ga came about when she was first learning to talk. She would always stumble around—you know how babies do—clapping her hands and squealing the most nonsensical things, and one day she started trying out ‘radio’ and then adding random words to it, ‘radio goo goo,’ ‘radio mama,’ ‘radio dada,’ etcetera. Well ‘radio ga ga’ got stuck in my head and I started sort of lamenting how television had begun to eclipse the radio as a medium for music and entertainment. We were on vacation in California at the time, and I locked myself in a hotel room with a keyboard and a drum machine to get it written. I initially thought it might end up on one of my solo albums, but then John heard it and wrote a bassline, and Freddie really thought it could be a hit and pushed to have it on The Works...and here we are today!”

Interviewer: “That Freddie Mercury has awfully good instincts about these things, doesn’t he?”

John: “Oh, he’s a genius, no doubt about that.”

Interviewer: “And John, I understand you wrote the other single released from The Works, I Want To Break Free. Any deep philosophical messaging in that one?”

John: “Well I suppose we’ve all been in situations that feel...rather constraining or hopeless. And then things that bring us back to life again. So this song is about a character going through that process and coming out on the other side.”

Interviewer: “Indeed.”

John: “But we wanted to keep things amusing and lighthearted in the music video, hence the dressing in drag bit. And to our absolute horror, Roger was very alluring as a schoolgirl.”

Roger: “It’s true. I have irresistible legs. I was born to wear miniskirts.”

Interviewer: “Ah, this is the music video that is beloved in Europe and here in Australia but has stirred up so much controversy over in the States. Has the hullabaloo dampened your enthusiasm for the song, or even the entire album, somewhat?”

Roger: “We’re not bothered much at all, to be honest with you. It’s like I said, Queen is always going to have fun and experiment and take creative risks. And if people don’t like it, then they’re welcome to not listen.”

Interviewer: “Yes, yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Roger: “Americans, you know, they can just be so bloody puritanical. It absolutely takes all the enjoyment out of life. All the humor. Americans these days can be very difficult for us to connect with.”

John: “Well, not all of them.”

Roger: “No, of course, not all of them.”

John: “But we’ll start touring at the end of August, and we’ll be spending several months in the States, so they have time to come around to us. We’re all really looking forward to being on the road again.”

Interviewer: “It has certainly been and will continue to be a very eventful year for Queen. And for the four of you personally. A new baby for Roger, and you’ve just gotten married, haven’t you John?”

John: “I did, yes. And Roger was in attendance! No miniskirt that day, though. Sadly.”

Roger: “The whole band was there. And my girlfriend and children too. It was quite a party.”

Interviewer: “That’s wonderful to hear, considering the...the...well, not to bring up tabloid gossip, but the complexity of the situation. It was a destination wedding, wasn’t it?”

John: “Yes, we were married in the Basilica di Santa Croce in Florence, Italy. It’s breathtaking, the largest Franciscan church in the world, built in the 1300s. And we filled it with friends and family and live music and flowers and food...all the trappings. Took about a million photos. Celebrated until dawn.”

Roger: “It was a very sentimental occasion. Everyone really enjoyed it. John cried.”

John: “I did, it’s true.”

Roger: “He promised he wouldn’t and then he did.”

John: “Well, you don’t have to bring it up all the time!”

Roger: “It was touching, really.”

Interviewer: “It must have been a magical time. You’re positively radiant, John! Marvelous. And some much-needed good news, I imagine. I understand you’ve recently gone through an exceptionally antagonistic and protracted divorce.”

John: “Well...uh...I suppose that’s...uh...”

Roger: “How about we ask you the same thing? How was your divorce, Ron?”

Interviewer: “What?”

Roger: “You’re on your third marriage, is that right? And I think I heard that the latest Mrs. Inglewood is very young indeed, almost thirty years your junior. How did your former wife take that news? How did your adult children? How was your goddamn divorce?”

Interviewer: “That’s a rude question.”

Roger: “Yes, you’re right, it’s an extremely rude question. So you shouldn’t fucking ask it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 25th, 1986, and the children are tearing open presents under a fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree in the living room of Garden Lodge.

Freddie and Jim Hutton are serving cookies and milk and clapping their hands as they tower over tiny shoulders, cheering the kids on as they litter the floor with wrapping paper and bows and scatter their new toys everywhere: Care Bears, Magic 8 Balls, My Little Ponies, Mr. Potato Heads, Barbies, Etch-A-Sketches, Transformers, miniature Lukes and Leias and Chewbaccas, View-Masters with scenes of oceans and deserts and forests and stars. With so many fragmented families, there was only one logical approach to handling major holidays: convincing everyone to celebrate together on neutral ground.

Mary and Veronica are chatting by the roaring fireplace. Phoebe, Joe Fanelli, John, and Roger are embroiled in a brutally competitive Scrabble game; Dominique, smirking stealthily, leans over Roger to read his tiles and periodically whispers ideas to him. Brian and Anita are circling the flock of giggling children—Laszlo, Anna, Teddy, Evelyn, Lena, Antoni, Violet, and Nora—and snapping photos with your Canon between long, yearning gazes at one another, wearing matching Christmas sweaters that are a deep, passionate crimson. Chrissie’s husband Denny is admiring Freddie’s extensive vinyl record collection as he sips a hot chocolate and compulsively strokes his green-and-red striped tie. Tiffany the cat rolls around between his feet and occasionally hisses or gnaws on an ankle, which Denny takes in stride, as he does most things.

Meanwhile, you and Chrissie are camped out by the wet bar, drinking mulled wine and nibbling on cookies shaped like snowmen and reindeer. You give Veronica a wide berth with the children anytime you’re in the same space; she hates you, and she’ll probably always hate you, but she loves her children too much to poison them with that reality. Their happiness is her whole life, her purpose. And that’s the only thing that finally convinced her to come to the bargaining table.

“She seems...nice,” you tell Chrissie, gesturing to where Anita is crouching to wrestle a Yoda piggy bank away from Antoni before he can lob Teddy on the head with it. To John’s children, Veronica is “mum” and you’re the distinctly more American “mama”; and no one ever really taught them that, they just started doing it somewhere along the way.

Chrissie rolls her eyes and shifts Stevie to her other hip. For two and a half years after leaving Brian, Chrissie made it her mission to date at least one man from every country in Europe. She managed to cross off Ireland, France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Sweden, Switzerland, Portugal, Poland, and Greece before meeting professional archer Dennis Clarke at the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. They got engaged at Christmas, eloped on New Year’s Day, and had a daughter that Chrissie named after Stevie Nicks nine months later. Stevie Clarke has adorably chubby baby legs, wide blue eyes, and blonde hair without a single spiraled ringlet.

“My therapist said I needed to cultivate a rapport with Brian for the good of the kids,” Chrissie says. “You know. Be the bigger person. Get amnesia and forget about how he made my life a living hell. Act like I don’t want to freaking decapitate him. So I, trying to be nice, trying to rise above and make polite small talk with my nauseating ex-husband, made a comment about how much I liked EastEnders. So he starts watching EastEnders. Then he begins to fancy one of the actresses. Then he meets her at a movie premier in Beverly Hills and invites her to the concert at Wembley. Then he ends up in love with the woman. What the fuck. You couldn’t write this shit.”

“Love is a roulette wheel,” you agree.

Chrissie scoffs sardonically. “Yeah. Russian roulette, maybe.”

After his marriage fell apart, Brian bounced between New Orleans and London, liberated bliss and aimless, disgraced, black depression. Whoever Peaches is as a person, she couldn’t tame Brian’s demons. You worried about him almost constantly until he started seeing Anita. She’s cheerful and magnetic and persistently hopeful in a way that reminds you of Roger. She’s good for Brian. She’s good for all of you. Well...Chrissie is still coming around to the idea.

“I do like that she wasn’t fucking my husband behind my back,” Chrissie muses. “So that’s something.”

“And she’s good with the kids.”

“True...”

“And her hair matches Brian’s.”

Chrissie laughs. Her sparkling ornament earrings jangle, and Stevie paws for them with minuscule, uncoordinated, wrinkly hands. “Okay. You win. I don’t despise her.”

“That’s the Christmas spirit.” You knock back the rest of your mulled wine. “I’m gonna go search the refrigerator for cheese cubes, you want anything?”

“Yeah, a Valium.”

“Slavic Jesus would be horrified. And on his birthday!”

Chrissie grins. “Surely drugs would be the least of our sins.”

Freddie’s sunshine-yellow refrigerator is enormous and a labyrinth of shelves and crevices without a single tray of cheese cubes in sight. You sift through jars of olives, bottles of champagne, a glazed ham waiting to be put in the oven, a sack of yams, eggnog, rising bread dough, and numerous pies—apple and cherry and lemon chiffon, naturally—swathed in aluminum foil.

“Damn,” you mutter, and then you try a mysterious drawer beneath the double doors of the refrigerator. Lo and behold, it contains a sprawling tray of cheeses. “Yaaaaassssss.” You lift the tray out, set it on the kitchen counter, and peel back the clear, clinging saran wrap. As you spear cheese cubes with a decorative toothpick—the handle is a little plastic Christmas tree—and plop them onto an appetizer plate, you hear the click of heels on the hardwood floor behind you.

You glance back. “Hi, Dom. Can I offer you any of Fred’s extremely expensive and exotic cheeses?”

“Sure,” she replies in that effortlessly elegant French accent; but that’s not why she’s here. She’s wringing her delicate hands, which are bronzed from her last holiday to Ibiza and ringless. Dom divorced the husband she had back in France—or maybe he divorced her, who knows, that’s not your business, although Roger would tell you if you ever asked—and she and Roger signed papers for the good of their daughters. But being Roger Taylor’s wife is not always such an easy thing.

“He’s getting bad again, isn’t he?” you ask softly.

Dominique nods; but you already knew.

Roger was perfect for years after they had Violet: attentive, content, startlingly domestic. He rarely popped pills. He went to physical therapy. He quit smoking six months ago at Dominique’s insistence, around the same time John quit for you. But since the Magic Tour ended in August—and with no new tour in sight, considering Freddie’s seeming reticence about scheduling another—he’s started to drink more, stay home less, disappear at night citing dinners or parties or recording sessions that Dom isn’t invited to. He’s edgy and irritable. He’s rarely home when John calls. And you can see all those immortal shadows of imperfection creeping back into him like storm clouds, like smoke.

“I’m going to tell you something,” you say. “It’s very similar to what somebody else once told me. I wasn’t ready to understand it yet, to really let myself feel it, to believe it, but you might be able to.”

She watches you with those vast oil-well eyes, biting her lower lip, waiting.

“Roger is wildfire. He’s bright, yes, he’s warm, but he’s reckless and insatiable too. He always has been. He always will be. And that has nothing at all to do with you. It’s not your fault. He’s wonderful, of course, and you already know that; he dazzles people, he makes life so exhilaratingly beautiful that you forget what it felt like without him. But he’ll always disappoint you. He’ll relapse, he’ll cheat, he’ll come home late, he won’t come home at all. And he’ll hurt you. He’ll do it as many times as you’ll let him. But here’s the thing other people won’t tell you.” You smile at her, with empathy, with sorrow, with hope. “It might still be worth it.”

Dominique blinks, not understanding.

“It might be enough for you to only ever have part of him, because that part is so incredibly brilliant. It was almost enough for me. And I would never blame you for leaving Roger. But I wouldn’t blame you for staying either.”

And then you embrace her, and she latches onto you, her long manicured nails nipping through your sweater, her Coco Chanel perfume a plume that fills the kitchen. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. You hold her until she pulls away, swiping at her tearing eyes with slim fragile fingers, sniffling, looking away to hide her heartbreak behind her shock of glossy bangs.

“Here.” You pile an appetizer plate high with cheese cubes and shove it into her hands.

Stunned, she giggles. “All my woes have vanished.”

“That’s exactly how stolen cheese works,” And then, seriously: “Don’t be sad on Christmas, Dom. There’s plenty of time for that later. And I’ll do everything I can to help him.”

“That’s why you’ll never leave the band, isn’t it? You can’t leave Roger alone. You can’t let him destroy himself.”

“I owe him,” you say simply. “Without him I never would have followed Queen to London. I never would have found this family. I never would have married John. Roger took things from me, yes, of course he did. He took until I felt empty. But he also gave me the world.”

She nods slowly, thoughtfully.

“Please, Dom. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Alright. Joyeux Noël.” She gives you a parting wave and slips back out into the living room, where Freddie is now playing the grand piano and signing Thank God It’s Christmas. Roger is assisting in an increasingly hoarse falsetto.

A moment after Dominique leaves, John strolls into the kitchen, humming merrily. He stops dead when he sees your somber face, your shining eyes. “Who do I have to fuck up?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “No one. I just heard something sad.”

“Not about you, I hope.”

“No, I don’t have many sad stories anymore.”

“Yeah, me either.”

He reaches out to take your hand. A sapphire glints on your left ring finger, and it means everything.

“You sure you don’t need me to torment anyone for you? I could get drunk and plow my Benz into their house. Or write a scathing diss track about them. Was it Brian? Please tell me it was Brian.”

You laugh and twirl a lock of his fluffy hair. “That won’t be necessary.”

“In that case, you’re needed in the living room immediately,” John says, smiling. “Antoni climbed halfway up the Christmas tree and says he won’t come down for anyone except his mama.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s November 3rd, 1999, and Roger, John, and Brian are promoting Queen’s upcoming compilation album, Greatest Hits III.

Interviewer, daytime television host Brad Chenoweth: “Today we have a very special treat for our viewers. Here with us in our London studio are the men of Queen: guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor, and bassist John Deacon. Good morning, and thank you all so much for being here.”

Brian: “It’s our pleasure.”

Roger: “I do screams as well as drums, Brad.”

Interviewer: “Hahaha, yes, of course. Now Queen has had an extremely busy year, and this Greatest Hits album has a few new selections on it, right? Take us through that process.”

Brian: “It does have a few new tracks, that’s correct. You know, ever since Freddie...ever since we lost Freddie Mercury, I mean, you know, it’s impossible to fill a space like the one that he left in the world.”

Roger: “Yes, yes.”

Brian: “But as difficult as it was, after finally finishing Made In Heaven in 1995 and getting it just right, feeling as if we had really done Freddie justice...we were left with this distressing feeling of ‘what’s next?’ What are the three of us supposed to do with ourselves? Split up and never work together again? Retire to the seashore? Open up some corner store to putter around in until we die?”

Roger: “A clog shop, perhaps.”

Interviewer: “You were thinking, ‘well hell, we’ve got plenty of talent ourselves!’”

Roger: “Well, talent, yes, but also energy. Drive. We’ve been working at being one of the best bands in the world for almost thirty years now, Brad. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to stop.”

Brian: “None of us wanted to stop, we came to that realization. And so we’ve done a tremendous amount of benefit concerts and recording sessions with some of the best artists of our time, and I think people who listen to this album are really going to appreciate that. We’ve got a live version of Somebody to Love with George Michael, and The Show Must Go On with Elton John, he’s just lovely to work with...oh and a rap version of Another One Bites The Dust with Wyclef Jean, which John was not exactly a fan of. But we all have to learn to give and take, don’t we?”

Interviewer: “Absolutely, and I’m really looking forward to getting my hands on a copy of this record. Is there any chance Queen might settle on a permanent new front man one day?”

Roger: “If we can ever find somebody John likes enough!”

Interviewer: “But, truthfully...none of you wanted to quit after Freddie passed away? It was a unanimous decision to keep with it?”

Roger: “Essentially, yes. I mean I think it was an all or nothing deal, wasn’t it? If one of us left then that would throw the whole thing off. I was always adamant from very early on in the band’s lifetime that I wouldn’t be interested in continuing without John. And I couldn’t imagine him and Brian being left alone together, my god, there’d be literal bloodshed, someone’s throat would be cut within the hour, believe me.”

John: “We might have lasted a day or two. But yes, it was more or less unanimous.”

Interviewer: “Now you’ve always been known as the quiet, domestic one, John. You weren’t tempted by the thought of retirement? Not even for a moment?”

John: “Well...I think it depends on the circumstances, really. I like working, and I like touring and traveling a good part of the year. But I imagine I’d get very homesick if I was alone on the road. Fortunately, that’s not the case. So the thought of retirement didn’t appeal to me nearly as much as it might have otherwise.”

Interviewer: “That’s right, I understand that your wife has been Queen’s touring nurse for...how long now? Twenty years?”

John: “Since 1974, so that’s twenty-five years.”

Roger: “Wow. It’s been that long?!”

Brian: “Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?”

Interviewer: “How lucky for you, John. And look, you’re beaming!”

Roger: “Get it together, Deaks.”

John: “I’m an astronomically lucky man. It’s like having home with you anywhere in the world.”

Roger: “She’s good for curing hangovers as well, so that’s useful. And she knits everyone hats.”

Interviewer: “And you’ve got children, haven’t you John?’

John: “Four from my first marriage, yes. They’re all adults now so they come to visit us quite often, especially when we’re travelling. It worked out beautifully really, because they’re very close to their mother, of course, but my wife and I got together when they were all still fairly young, and so she’s always been there for them as they’ve grown up. My youngest especially was a rather...how would you say it diplomatically? A spirited child. But he warmed to her right away.”

Brian: “All the children are still friendly with each other as well, mine and Roger’s and John’s.”

Interviewer: “One big happy family, huh?”

Roger: “There are still a good amount of screaming matches between us dads, to be completely forthcoming.”

John: “You have to keep things interesting.”

Roger: “Exactly!”

Interviewer: “Yes, one can sense that there are still plenty of egos in this room, even after all these years! Tell me, Queen is nearly three decades old now, a worldwide phenomenon, the second-bestselling artist in the UK of all time behind the Beatles...how have you stayed together for so long when most bands last only a fraction of Queen’s lifespan?”

John: “Well I think we’ve all, you know, for the good of the band we’ve all had to grow towards each other to bridge the disagreements and keep peace. For example, I’ve had to learn to be more communicative, more open to collaboration and change. I can be someone who’s very comfortable being in the background. But then I’m resentful if people don’t see my point of view, even if I haven’t properly expressed it. So I have certainly had to work on that quite a lot.”

Brian: “Yes, John, I think that’s very true. Personally, I’ve had to learn to not get lost in the details so much. I have a bad habit of getting so fixated on something that I cause a massive row over a vanishingly small aspect of a song that no one else will ever notice. It’s just not worth the strife. So I’ve really tried to avoid that. Although, I’ll admit it, I still occasionally cause my share of drama.”

John: “Oh, sure.”

Roger: “And I’ve had to work on being less...”

John: “Annoying?”

Brian: “Combative?”

Roger: “Fiery.”

John: “That’s one word for it.”

Interviewer: “Was there ever a time when Queen’s existence was in serious jeopardy? And if so, how did you pull through?”

Brian: “Well, to be perfectly honest, as a band we went through quite a difficult time in the early 80s. And then we did again in the early 90s. And on both occasions there was a real worry that Queen might be over and we would all go our separate ways. But what kept us together through that...and feel free to disagree, Rog, John, if you have a different perspective...but what I feel kept us together was this profound sense of family. Queen predates all of our marriages, our children, our successes in the music industry or otherwise. It has become a constant place of belonging in the midst of professional and personal turmoil. And now our partners and children have been integrated into that network as well, so even if an individual relationship is strained or falls apart, the gravity of the band keeps us all in a perpetual symbiotic orbit. And I don’t see that ever ending.”

John: “Yes, well, I suppose that about sums it up, doesn’t it?”

Roger: “Bleeding christ, Brian. ‘Perpetual symbiotic orbit.’ Just say we’re friends, you pretentious twit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s August 19th, 2020, and John’s 69th birthday party is winding down as the sun dips lazily into the rust-colored western horizon.

You’re standing on the cobblestones in the garden behind the Surrey house. You had always thought it was too extravagant, too massive; it wasn’t until Roger sold it to you and John in the spring of 1982 that you realized it was the perfect size after all. Six bedrooms meant one for each of the children, one for you and John—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper and nautical decorations, to be exact—and the last for when Chrissie and Denny or Roger and Dom stay the night, which is fairly frequently. Your vacation home, where you and John spend most of the summer when Queen isn’t on tour, is a little country cottage in the sunlit Alpine hills of Florence, Italy. John designed it himself, every last detail; right down to the white picket fence grown over with ivy.

“Look what we got in the mail.” You hold up the invitation to show your husband, grinning, raising your eyebrows. “Guess we have to buy him another toaster.”

He reads the names on the shimmering cardstock patterned with jungle ferns and dinosaur footprints. Interesting choices. “Is Ben actually going through with it this time?”

“John!”

“Wasn’t he supposed to marry some Italian heiress or something?”

“Love can be complicated, Mr. Deacon,” you remind him.

When he smiles, crinkles spring up around his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it can be.”

“Ben Hardy’s having another wedding?” Chrissie calls over from where she’s shooting arrows at the archery targets set up in the backyard. Denny periodically steps in to correct the angle of her wrist or elbow. “And Queen’s invited this time?”

“Apparently,” you reply. “You could go too if you were still married to Brian.”

“Ha!” Chrissie cackles and looses an arrow. It hits damn near the bullseye. “Not worth it.”

“I’ll bring back all the scandalous gossip I can scrounge for you.”

“You better. What do the kids call it now? Spilling the tea? Spill all the tea, bitch.”

“Oh, kettles and kettles’ worth.”

“So a teapot,” John says. “Not another toaster. Maybe decorated with...” He squints at the invitation again. “What’s the theme? What do they like? Fossils? Brontosauruses?”

“Bizarre people,” Chrissie mutters.

“I’ll figure something out,” you say. “Something special. Something old.”

“John?” Brian shouts from the doorway that leads into the kitchen. Inside the refrigerator is covered with sketches and birthday cards and photographs curling and fading around the edges. “Anita and I are heading out now, can we get a hug goodbye?”

“Ugh,” John jokes. “Well, alright.” He gives you a wink as he trots off.

The Surrey house isn’t exactly roaring—John has never been one for crowds, and incidentally neither have you—but it is alive with his children and grandchildren and life-long friends. Not just his, you correct yourself. Ours.

Veronica—once Tetzlaff, then Deacon, then Tetzlaff again, and finally Kowalski—is not in attendance. You see her only at holidays and birthday celebrations for the kids and grandchildren, and even then only in passing. She is still cold towards you, resentful, extremely Catholic...although somewhat less dogmatic since her second husband Ivan, a former priest, left the Church to marry her. When the last of her children were grown, Veronica got certified to be a doula and now primarily serves unwed mothers seeking assistance from Catholic charities in London. She mentioned to Chrissie, who later told you, that something you had once done for her had inspired her to pursue it. That’s the only nice thing you’ve heard her say about you in almost forty years.

Roger wanders over to meet you, nursing a Heineken, stroking his white beard with his free hand. He and Dominique have always been off and on—including a few years in the late 80s when he moved out of their three-story Kensington townhouse and had a daughter called Adeline with some leggy, platinum blonde supermodel—but these days they’re mostly on. He and Dom had two children after their reconciliation: a son, Blaise, and a daughter named by Freddie after the Japanese word for tiger, Tora.

You gaze out into the sunset. Half of the garden is flooded with white calla lilies, a new bouquet for every February 15th since 1978.

“You’ll be sending back an RSVP in the affirmative?” Roger asks.

“Of course! Any excuse to visit the States. And I like Ben. Although he doesn’t look anything like you.”

He groans. “Those wigs, bloody hell.”

“It’s like they produced a whole movie just to have an excuse to make fun of your atrociously crunchy bleached hair.”

“And I bet you enjoyed that.”

“You deserved it.” When Freddie’s health began to fail and Queen stopped touring, you went back to school to get a degree in physical therapy. You and Roger have sessions three times a week, provided he’s on the wagon; and he usually is, nowadays. When he’s not, John’s the one to get the call from Dominique, and he hunts Roger down, convinces him to come home, works whatever quiet, soothing magic he carries around in his deep pacific blood. But right this moment, Roger is awfully quiet himself. His large, pale eyes—like clear water, like unraveling delphiniums, like the harmony that only comes when age burns away all those last entrenched talons of bitterness, of fear—skate over the calla lilies.

“Do you think things would have been different for us?” Roger asks softly. “If she had lived.”

It took you a long time to understand why Roger was in no hurry to get a divorce, to move you out of the Surrey house. They were the only ties he thought he had to anchor you to the band, to him. They were the only cards he thought he had to play to keep you in his life in any capacity. But John fixed that dilemma. He can fix just about anything, you’ve learned.

“No,” you tell Roger. “You would have worn me down eventually. You and your drinking and drugs and late nights and interminable recklessness. It might have taken longer, but we always would have ended. And John always would have been my home. She wouldn’t have kept us together. She just would have lived. And I wouldn’t have loved her for being a part of you. I would have loved her for whoever she was, whoever she grew up to be. But now I’ll never know who that would have been. I love the children I have, Roger, I do. But I still miss her, miss the person she would have been. It’s like chasing a shadow. It’s like a page of a book written in a language I can’t read. And it’s a feeling that never quite goes away.”

He smiles at you wearily, immensely sad, full of perfect understanding. “I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s October 10th, 2020, and the reception is held under shedding autumn leaves the color of rubies and imperial topaz and amber and yellow jade. The exuberant bride and groom weave through the crowds milling about the quaint farm, which is nestled in the hills of a small town in Northern California called Zenia. It belongs to Gwilym, apparently, and he and his flame-haired girlfriend Shiloh are shuttling tirelessly this way and that making sure everything goes according to plan. They don’t speak much to Ben or his new wife directly—there’s a stiltedness there, an uncomfortable period of readjustment that reminds you of how John and Roger were for a while after all the secrets came out—but there is undeniable kinship as well. Love can be complicated, you find yourself thinking, for the innumerable time. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Making the rounds with the bride and groom is a strikingly beautiful, dark-haired boy who wears a miniature suit and a perpetual, mischievous grin. The new Mrs. Hardy almost always has her hand on his shoulder, his back, wiping cake frosting from his cheeks, ruffling his hair.

“Eli is kind of a demon kid,” Joe Mazzello warns you. “But in the best possible way.”

“Hm. I have somewhat of an affinity for demons myself.”

“Clearly,” Roger quips, sipping pink champagne. The snack table is Halloween-themed and extremely casual: Cheetos and pumpkin pie and caramel apples and dinosaur-shaped brownies. Per usual, you’re grazing through an orange paper plate stacked high with enough nibbling material to keep any undesirable small talk at bay. But strangely, in all of the times you’ve crossed his path since Bohemian Rhapsody’s filming began, you’ve never minded chatting with Joe.

“Yeah, you two were married at some point, right?” Joe asks. Then he immediately blanches. “Oh my god. That was so rude. I did not just say that. I’m so sorry. I saw it on Wikipedia. I’m gonna go drown myself in the stream now.”

“No, you’re right!” you admit in a peal of laughter. “Briefly and disastrously.”

“It wasn’t that disastrous,” Roger protests, thieving a Cheeto off your plate. He misplaced his prescription sunglasses on the flight over and is thus relatively helpless.

“Rude. Get your own. They’re over on the other end of the table.”

“I can’t see that far—!”

“Dom?” you call as she sashays over in a flowing white dress and licking a stick of orange rock candy. “Please control your husband.”

She smiles. “If I haven’t managed it yet, I don’t think there’s much hope.” She nods to Joe. “It’s so nice to see you again. Meeting you people was the only bright spot of that whole movie ordeal.”

“What, you didn’t fancy it?” Roger jests.

“At least they included you,” you tell Dom, smirking. “They ignored my existence entirely. They threw in some random woman with zero lines and called her Veronica in the credits. Whatever.”

Dom rolls her expressive umber eyes. “Yes, how flattering, I was in two scenes and one of them involved a joke about Roger cheating on me.”

“You’re a star, baby,” you say. “Deal with it.”

Dom smacks your arm playfully. She may be annoyed, but it doesn’t pain her the way it used to. She’s had decades of practice.

“The script could have been better,” Joe concedes. Then he spies John as he approaches, almost drops his caramel apple, waves frenetically. “Hi, Mr. Deacon! Hi!!”

“Wonderful job with all of this, Joe.” John shakes his hand as Joe gapes at him, starstruck. He’s always like that around John, appreciative, in awe, acutely aware of John’s legendary place in rock and roll history; and you love that someone besides you and Roger look at him that way.

“Thanks, I did it myself. Just kidding. It was 99% Gwil.”

“Well, I’ll still get you front row seats at the next Queen + Adam Lambert show.” It had taken a long time for John to find a front man he liked...a long time. He drove Roger and Brian insane. He kept saying he wanted someone who was like Freddie and yet simultaneously not trying to be Freddie, someone genuinely kind and charismatic and empathetic, an otherworldly talent, a natural performer. And then, on an unassuming spring night in 2009, they found him.

Joe claps a palm on John’s shoulder and grins, his eyes glistening. “I’m obsessed with this little old guy! Obsessed, I tell you!”

“You want to see how old he is?” Roger teases. “Lift up that hand-knit hat and see what’s underneath. I’ll give you a hint. Not much.”

“At least I made it through the 90s without requiring hair plugs,” John counters.

“It was from all the bleaching!!”

“Hi, Rog!” Ben shouts as he rushes to embrace Roger, nearly knocking him off his feet. Mrs. Hardy is still across the field, talking to Brian, Anita, Rami, and Lucy, and trying to convince Eli not to crawl into a chocolate fountain.

Ben Hardy has always been somewhat of an enigma to you, mostly because he’s nothing at all like Roger. He’s subterranean-voiced and emerald-eyed and brooding and guarded and seems so much older than his twenty-nine years, and then every once in a while someone will come along and light him up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Unlike Roger, Ben doesn’t light up for many people. He does for his son Eli, of course, and for Joe Mazzello...and for his new wife. He lights up for her like fucking wildfire.

“Ben,” you say, holding out a bag speckled with black cats. “I have our gift for you.”

“You shouldn’t have! Thank you so much.”

“You can’t thank us until you open it,” John chastises.

So Ben does. Inside is an album of hundreds of photos you’ve taken of Queen since Roger bought you your first Canon for Christmas in 1974: pictures that have never been released publicly of the boys at the Rainbow, at the Budokan, in Rome, in Boston, in Japan, in New Orleans, at Montreal, at Madison Square Garden, at Live Aid, at the Surrey house, at Montreux. Interspersed are some of John’s sketches, the only ones you can bring yourself to part with: close-ups of a long-haired Freddie drawing on messy eyeliner, Roger adjusting his sunglasses with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, Brian tuning his Red Special.

“Oh my god,” Ben whispers.

“Most of those are very old,” you explain. “And I heard you both like old things.”

“We definitely do.” He hugs you, suddenly and fiercely and warmly; and you catch a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of the few people that he allows to truly know him, those shadowed depths to balance Joe’s uncomplicated light.

Maybe that’s it, you realize. Maybe Joe is more like Roger and Ben like John.

The wedding playlist is exclusively classic rock songs: the Doors and Aerosmith and Fleetwood Mac and Led Zeppelin and Queen. As A Kind Of Magic ends, the eerie opening notes of Hotel California ripple out over the breezy autumn fields.

“Not this fucking song!” Roger cries.

Joe turns to you, confused.

“LSD,” you inform him. “1977. I would not recommend it.”

“Noted.”

Roger continues, rubbing his forehead: “It makes me think of...freaking...weird, creepy shit...like swimming at night through cold water. But I just keep swimming and can’t get anywhere.”

“It makes me think of sharks,” you say. “Maybe they’re related.”

“Freddie always said it made him think of birds,” John sighs. “And the color blue.”

The three of you pause, nodding, remembering.

Joe frowns solemnly, peering down at his shoes. “I’m sorry I never got to meet him.”

“He would have adored you,” you say.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding?! You would have been best friends. Always looking out for people. Always plotting the next escapade. That charming chaotic energy. The utter inability to bake anything.”

“Awwww.” Joe beams, delighted. “I fucking love you guys.”

“That’s the thing,” Roger says. “People don’t realize it. We’re more of a family than a band. We find people we take a shine to like ancient treasure, snatch them up, sand away all their rough edges, show them everything the world has to offer. And if they can survive the casualties of stardom, that trial by fire, they become permanent. They grow like roots into our blood, our bones...and perhaps we claim a part of theirs as well. They become things we can’t live without.”

“And once you’re in the family,” John tells Joe with a fond, crafty smile. “You can never leave.”

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