#neon spews actual nonsense

[neon-catarina]

couldn't a reason Mind and Heart hate each other be because of whole's love interest (sung in Haiku and Hidden In The Sand), like how Whole really liked them, but he thought that they would never love him, so basically his Heart wanted to ask them out and pursue a relationship, but his Mind refused thinking they would never love him. And its mostly because of that Whole split into three in the first place, so they both blame each other for it, and that's why they hate each other?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 3: Signed In Blood]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

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, physical frailty, sneaky foreshadowing.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

The cashier blinks at you as he scans the items in your basket: two Cokes, an orange juice, a Mountain Dew, a grape Fanta, a box of Ritz crackers, a KitKat, three packs of cherry Pop Rocks, and assorted bags of Lay’s chips. “You must have, like, a lot of kids.”

“Something like that.”

Terminal E of Logan International Airport is bustling with swiftly-moving businessmen dragging rolling suitcases, tidy-looking flight attendants, careening toddlers and frazzled mothers. The band is waiting at the gate; their plane to Heathrow is scheduled to board in thirty minutes. Our plane, you correct yourself. I’m going too.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I ran out of paper bags but I can check in the back if you want—”

“Oh no,” you protest, slapping a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and gathering up the snacks. You’ve cultivated a stubborn solidarity with your fellow service industry employees. “That’s cool, I’ve got it. Thanks. Have a great day!”

“You too! Good luck with your kids!”

You laugh as you trot away. Yes, my very large, extremely anarchic British children. You could have sent Freddie and Rog for the snacks, but you don’t trust them not to try to steal something and end up getting strip-searched by TSA; Brian is still too weak to go anywhere alone; and John...well, John dissolves into blood-red cheeks and averted eyes if you ask him anything. You weave through the crowded terminal, shifting your arms to keep the snacks centered.

“Wow, you have your hands full there!”

You peer around the heap to see a businessman in a powder blue suit, neatly combed black hair, mid-thirties, benign smile. Your arms are beginning to ache. “Ha, yeah. I guess I do.”

“Need some help?” he asks, still smiling.

“Oh, thank you so much, but I’ve got it—”

“Nonsense.” He cheerfully plucks the chips and Pop Rocks out of your grasp. “Where are we going?”

Oh no. You know this type of man. He’s the guy who flirts with the nurses while his wife is recovering from a gallbladder removal, who tries to impress you with his mid-level accounting job and Marshall Field's neckties, who obliviously—or worse, forcefully—offers assistance when it’s least desired. He’s the type to play superhero so he can get a taste of what it feels like to be someone who matters. He’s not usually dangerous, but he is viperous if his fantasy gets interrupted, bitter and desperate and striking out like a wounded animal. Jesus christ, I do not have time for this bullshit today. The muscles in your forearms are screaming now. “Seriously, I can handle it. Thank you. Can I get my snacks back? My friends are waiting.”

His smile falters; suddenly, Mr. Aspiring Superman doesn’t seem so benign at all. And you can’t help but notice that his grip around your criminally overpriced airport snacks doesn’t loosen. Oh fucking hell. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you stupid or something? Don’t you get it, I’m trying to help—”

“Hey, baby!” chimes a voice from nowhere. An arm appears around your shoulders, pulling you in; John lands a series of kisses across your neck and jawline as the businessman gawks, speechless and horrified. “Did you finish shopping? Oh, you remembered my Coke! Thanks, baby. You’re the best. Come on, they’re gonna start boarding soon...” He stops, stares at the businessman, points with narrowed steely grey eyes: “Are those my Pop Rocks?”

“Uh, uh, yeah, uh...” The man hastily shoves the snacks into John’s hands and flees. John immediately backs away from you, clears his throat, casts his eyes down the opposite end of the airport terminal.  

“Oh my god,” you say, stunned. “I’ve never heard you talk that much at once. Ever.”

He flushes and combs his agile fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’m so sorry, I just thought...I saw that he was...I figured that would get him to piss off without causing a scene...I’m sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I—”

“No, John, seriously, that was brilliant. Thank you.”

“Yeah?” And you think you can detect something in his voice like hope: cautious, fragile hope. More than that, you can still feel his lips against your skin, hot and sure and assertive, almost dominating.

You grin over at him as you walk together towards the gate. “I bet everyone thinks you’re real innocent because you’re the shy, quiet, mysterious one or whatever. But you have some serious game under all of that, don’t you?”

John chuckles out of pure shock, still not looking at you. “I doubt it.”

“I’m onto you, bassist. Those groupies aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Wait, he has a girlfriend, isn’t that what Freddie said? But if he does, John doesn’t correct you.

“Do I see my beloved Pop Rocks?!” Roger squeals when he spies you both. John tosses all three packets to him. Roger rips one open, pours the entirety of the contents into his mouth, then motions for you to pass him the can of grape Fanta. He gulps the Fanta and drums his palms against his thighs as his mouth erupts into sugary explosions.

“Majestic,” you comment.

“Wha...?! I will not be outdone!” Freddie seizes all the remaining Pop Rocks—both packs—and empties them into his mouth, then douses them with Coke. Dark fizzing soda and ruby crystals spew out of his nose. Roger throws back his head and cackles like a hyena as John launches balled-up napkins at Freddie. You ignore them and check on Brian, who is lounged sideways across five seats.

“How you doing, Bri?”

He groans in reply. You give him the orange juice and Ritz crackers.

“Eat, please, Bri.”

“I can’t. I’m dying.”

“You aren’t bloody dying!” Freddie sighs, exasperated, still mopping Coke off his face.

You lay the back of your hand against Brian’s forehead and frown. “You’re burning up, Mr. May.”

“I’ve got aspirin somewhere...” Roger says as he rummages through his luggage.

“He can’t have it. His liver’s still recovering, no over-the-counter meds.” You take two still-cold cans—your Mountain Dew and Bri’s orange juice—and press them to Brian’s cheeks. John, without speaking, lays his Coke against the back of Brian’s neck. “Think you can make it through a six-hour flight?”

Brian’s glassy eyes roam to you. “No offense, but I would literally rather be disemboweled by rabid opossums than spend another night in Boston.”

“Opossums very rarely contract rabies. But your point is noted. We’ll get you home.”

“Thank you,” Brian breathes, drained. “And thank you, John.”

“Not a problem.”

Freddie squats in front of Bri in skin-tight jeans littered with patches, brushes the mess of curls off Brian’s forehead, and pushes a Ritz cracker into his mouth. Brian grimaces but chews it reluctantly. Freddie grins. “You must be truly desperate to trust your wellbeing to Deaky.”

“He’s unexpectedly ferocious,” you warn Brian. “He ran off some creep at the snack stand. Kid could definitely murder you if he tried.”

“Yeah? Well done, Deaks!” Roger gives John a high-five, then aggressively ruffles his hair and growls. “Who’s my favorite little killer bassist?! Grrr. Grrrrrrrrr. Come on. Show me them pearly whites, Mack the Knife.”

John chomps at Roger’s hands in his very best impression of a shark. Roger laughs and yanks teasingly at John’s hair, his face lit up like the Boston Harbor on the Fourth of July.

The next time you look for Freddie, he’s disappeared. You finally spot him several seats away, bent over a notebook and scribbling furiously, snapping his fingers over and over again and murmuring to himself: “Killer bassist...killer woman...killer bitch...killer queen.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When boarding begins, Freddie and Roger practically carry Brian onto the plane. They drop him into a window seat and Brian promptly drapes a sweater over his head and falls asleep. You sit beside him and flip through a fashion magazine you found in the pocket on the back of the chair in front of you, but Roger keeps interrupting by ranking the pictured outfits on a scale of one to eleven.

“Why eleven?”

“Because I gave that neon yellow coat three pages ago a ten, but now I like these rainbow pants even more. So they have to be an eleven.”

“Okay Roger.”

Freddie and John sit in the row in front of you and alternate between scrawling in their notebooks—song lyrics for Freddie, sketches of some kind of amplifier for John—and tossing peanuts into each other’s mouths. John doesn’t speak to you, but he keeps glimpsing back between the seats like he’s considering it. When Roger gets up two hours in to take a smoke break and chase down extra peanut packets for Freddie, John finally turns around and peeks over his seat.

“Why don’t opossums get rabies?” he asks.

“That’s what’s on your mind?” you tease, sipping Mountain Dew.

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Buckle up. It’s technically possible for opossums to get rabies. But they have naturally super low body temperatures, like 94 or 95 degrees Fahrenheit. So the virus usually can’t survive in their system. Thus, squeaky clean opossums.”

“Well. Minus the ticks and fleas and dirt and rubbish and all that.”

“Most of the cute things in life are at least slightly grubby.”

“Like Roger Taylor.”

You laugh. “That man has definitely been submerged in garbage at some point.”

“You have no idea. But you have to learn to be a Londoner now. We wouldn’t say grubby, we’d say dodgy.”

“Dodgy. Got it.”

“Show me. Use it in a sentence.”

“Roger is super dodgy, while Brian is much less so. Jury’s still out on John.”

“Well done.” He applauds.

Now you reach out to touch his hair, like Roger did earlier; it’s impossibly soft and downy, comforting, almost homey. John smiles patiently. “You have fantastic bone structure, you know,” you tell him. “You should cut this off one day so people can see it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. But in the meantime...” You gently thread your fingertips through his locks, twirl a strand, observe that those blue-grey eyes that seemed steely back at the airport are now as soft and innocuous as morning fog. Roger reappears with his loot of peanut packets and gasps, pretending to be scandalized.

“What’s going on here?! Jesus, Deaks, I leave you alone for three minutes and you’ve got her all enamored with your soft cuddly exterior and latent homicidal tendencies.”

“It’s a winning combination.” John catches the peanuts that Roger hurls his way and turns to split them with Freddie.

You gaze up at Roger and beam. “Hey, dodgy Rogey.”

“Oh, you think that’s charming?” He slinks into his seat and drapes an arm across your shoulders. “You realize you’re one of us now, right? That makes you dodgy too.”

“As long as I don’t have to participate in any scandalous naked photoshoots.”

“Oh my god, that was one time! Freddie, Fred, hey, Freddie, why would you show her those...?!”

Hours later, when the plane hits the runway at Heathrow, Brian jolts awake and clutches for you like a staircase railing. He’s cooler to the touch now, appears less feverish, insists he feels better; nevertheless, Freddie and Roger escort him all through the airport like intense and sunglasses-armored Secret Service agents flanking Nixon, steadying him on escalators and dragging his luggage. As the five of you descend into the arrivals area, Freddie points to a group of young women and shrieks in delight, waves, blows flirtatious kisses all the way down the steps.  

“Freddie!” the blonde one calls, leaping in her heels and grinning enormously. She’s holding a large, glittery sign that reads: Welcome home, Queen! Freddie races to meet her, sweeps her off her feet, dips her halfway to the floor and kisses her deeply, theatrically. The blonde woman in his arms giggles and buries her fingers in his mane of shining black hair.

“Darling?” Freddie says, spinning to find you, flourishing his artful hands. “This is Mary Austin, the love of my life. Mary, this is our new best friend, Florence Nightingale.”

“Well,” you confess. “That’s not my actual name, obviously. It’s—”

“I quite like Florence Nightingale,” John says. “I’ve always fancied the name Florence. That’s where Dante was from. He was exiled during some political conflict and ended up bouncing around all over Italy. He eventually landed in Ravenna and finished The Divine Comedy there. By the time he died, he hadn’t seen Florence in twenty years. But Florence was always home.” He smiles at you in an off-kilter, crafty sort of way that tells you you’ve at last been admitted into the diminutive, highly selective circle of people that John calls friends; and you feel like you’ve won the lottery for the second time in forty-eight hours.

“Hmm,” Freddie replies, puzzled. Mary nods uncertainly. Then John turns to greet a petite auburn-haired girl in a simple turquoise sundress and with long, bone-white legs.

Brian pulls you away to introduce you to his girlfriend, the one he was always trying to call on the hospital phone. He rests his hands on your shoulders as he presents you. “Chrissie, I love this woman.”

Chrissie glowers and crosses her arms. “Oh.”

“Wait, no, sorry, I mean she saved my life. She was my nightshift nurse in Boston. I was completely lost before she found me, tremendously depressed. You know how I get. She’s come to London to look after me. Then we’re going to convince the record company to hire her as our travel nurse.”

“Oh!” Now Chrissie softens. She has wavy brunette hair, plump cheeks, marvelous wide-set blue eyes, a completely uncomplicated presence. She embraces you kindly, gratefully. “Thank you so much, love.”

“No, please, it was my pleasure! Bri is a perfect gentleman. And a genius. But you already know that.”

“Chris, I was hoping she could borrow our couch for a few days until she finds her own place...”

“Of course!” Chrissie replies, fussing with your hair, studying you, her mind roiling. “What’s ours is yours. But it’s not much, I’ll warn you.”

“I’ll pay rent. And cook and clean. I’ll be a certified house wench.”

Chrissie laughs, then screams as Brian staggers and collapses to the floor. “Bri—?!”

“He’s alright,” you announce calmly as everyone crowds around. You claw through your luggage, pull out an instant cold pack, crack it and press it to Brian’s forehead. He stirs and mumbles something about New Orleans. “Rog, can you flag down a taxi? We gotta get him home.”

“Sure, you got it.” Roger darts off. And as Chrissie, Freddie, Mary, John, and John’s girlfriend—whom you gather from their conversation is named Veronica—scuttle to reassure Brian and fetch him water, you lock stares with Josephine. Roger’s girlfriend—super casual, not exclusive, that’s what he told me—is beautiful and slim and tan and dark-eyed and, worse than all of that, palpably clever. She considers you silently, and what crosses through her pristine, heart-shaped face is not mere suspicion but knowing; and perhaps there is acceptance there as well.

No, not acceptance, you realize. Resignation. Disappointment. Powerlessness.

You tear your eyes away from Josephine and turn back to Brian: tilting a bottle of water against his lips, pulling him to his feet, fanning him with airplane tickets, leading him to a bench to wait for the taxi. The others help, oblivious to the shadow that has marauded through the room like an eclipse.

I won’t end up like her, you think to yourself with savage determination. I won’t let myself love him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Brian sinks into a plush orange lounge chair as you and Chrissie cart the luggage inside. You get a tour of their tiny apartment, shove your few remaining belongings beneath the couch where you now live, and drop into the plaid cushions, covering your face with your hands.

“Oh my god. I can’t believe I did this. I quit my job. I left Boston. I’m living on some random couple’s couch in London. Oh my god.”

“Hey,” Chrissie says warmly, lifting your chin. “We aren’t so random. We’re your friends. Maybe we’re even your destiny.”

“Jesus, you’re something out of a fairytale.”

“You’re the one who’s going to be cleaning my house, Cinderella.” Chrissie tosses a bag over her shoulder and heads for the door. “I have to swing by work and see if my students killed the substitute teacher today, will you two be alright here?”

“Of course,” you say. Brian gives her a groggy thumbs-up.

“Okay. Bye for now. Love you lots, Bri.”

“Love you,” Brian replies weakly. Chrissie departs into a bright London summer. Brian looks over at you sorrowfully, guiltily. “I miss New Orleans.”

“What do you miss about New Orleans, Bri?” You know Queen stopped there before they came to Boston, before they came into your life.

“Can I confess something to you?”

“Sure.”

He stares at the wall, vacant, acutely distressed. “I think I’m in love with a stripper called Peaches.”

“Oooookay.” You snatch up your purse and dash for the apartment door.

“Wait, no, really, I—”

“Don’t tell me about it. Call Roger or someone. Or, better yet, write a song about it and make some money so we can all have mansions with swimming pools one day. Do you need anything from that grocery store on the corner?”  

Brian sighs mournfully. “I suppose not.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Then you’re getting homemade chicken noodle soup. Everything will be better now, Brian. I promise. Everything will go back to the way it should be. Now that you’re home. Now that you’re here.”

Brian echoes quietly to himself as you open the door and sunlight floods in: “Now I’m here.”

[thorne93]

Stan Lee University (Part 15)

Prompt: What would the Avengers be like in college, more importantly, what would they be like if Y/N existed around them?

Word Count: 1715

Warnings: drama, language, welcome to fluff town

Notes: This is based on a HC from @carryonmyswansong. They helped brainstorm and write part of this series. In this AU, no one will have powers, everyone is a normal human. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​

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

“Aww it’s so good to see you too!” you said to your dad’s youngest sister as she came in. Christmas this year would be at your home.

So that meant your parents’ parents were there, your Aunt Jane and Uncle Ted, with their baby Belle. Your mom’s siblings, so that was five aunt and uncles, with four cousins on that side. Your sister and her boyfriend Alex.

It was a total madhouse, but you actually enjoyed it. All of you had Christmas dinner earlier in the day, and in an hour, you’d start opening presents. So far, your family had started to ask around about your new beau and you were happy to indulge them.

Until that started though, you wanted to chat with Stephen real quick. You two had agreed to open your presents over video chat to see each other’s expressions. It was time to do that. You’d gotten his gift three days ago and it sat in the corner of your room, like a neon light. You wanted to peek at it so badly, but you waited.

The wrapping paper was immaculate, shiny, and perfectly done. It made yours look like a hot mess, and you pride yourself on wrapping gifts.

You called him, setting up your laptop on your desk, your gift in your lap. As soon as his face appeared, you grinned and waved like an idiot.

“Merry Christmas!” you greeted happily.

“Merry Christmas,” he returned with a laugh, clearly amused at your cheer. “Did you get my gift?”

“I did. It’s taken a lot of restraint not to tear it open,” you admitted.

“I didn’t take half an hour to wrap that perfectly for you to destroy it in seconds,” he warned.

“What about you? Did you get mine?”

“Is that the one with a speedo in it?” he questioned with a slight frown.

“Aww, you weren’t supposed to open it yet!” you fake cried out, before smiling.

He grinned at you. “Yes, I got it. This shamble of a box you call a gift?” He held it up and you glared at him.

“Alright, so go ahead,” you encouraged.

“Me? Why do I have to go first?”

“Because I’m so excited for you to open it! I can’t wait to see your face! Please?”

He rolled his eyes, exaggerating his frustration. “Fine.” He began to tear at the paper, then cut open the box with his letter opener. “Alright, let’s see what we have he-- Oh my god,” he said, laughing so hard you thought he’d cry. “You got me Physics for Dummies?” he asked, holding up the book. “Really?”

“Hey, I figured you needed it,” you teased, shrugging your shoulders.

“Is that it? Or did you actually put thought into a gift for me?” he asked, leaning back over to look in the box. “Okay, looks like we’ve got Interview With A Vampire…”

“That’s the first movie I showed you. The first one you said you hadn’t seen,” you reminded.

“I know, I remember,” he said gently. “I still think you only watch that for the pretty faces in the film.”

“Why I watch a film is not important,” you retorted, stone faced.

He just chuckled before digging into the box again. “M&M’s, popcorn, and starburst?” He frowned, looking at you.

You nodded. “Mhm. Your favorites.”

“And… a pillow?” he questioned, clearly confused. He pulled it out and held it in his hands, examining it.

“Not just any pillow. Your pillow, from your room. I remembered you saying you wished you had your pillow from your house, because the ones there sucked. So I went and got it. I hope that’s okay?”

“That’s… no, yeah, that’s great. What’s all the other stuff for?”

“A movie night. You’ve been working so hard, I thought it might be nice to send you all your favorites to snuggle up for a little movie night. Plus, maybe watching Interview With A Vampire will help you think of me.”

“I don’t need any help thinking about you,” he said matter-of-factly as he looked into the camera. “This was all very thoughtful and sweet, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m so glad you like it.”

“Alright, your turn. Come on,” he urged.

You grinned, excited to see him so enthusiastic. You slowly opened the paper. “Oh, would you look at that? Good paper, much wow. So impressed,” you teased, smiling.

“Just open the damned thing,” he ordered, shaking his head.

“Jeez, Scrooge, where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Wrapped up in that box, so you better open it fast before it dies,” he encouraged.

Quickly, you made your way through the paper. The box beneath was sealed. You grabbed scissors and cut the tape. Inside was a bundle of envelopes, a simple white and blue string tied around them. You slowly lifted them out, dropping the box to the floor beside you.

“What… what is this?” you asked, curious.

“They’re letters.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Well you seemed to be struggling to understand what they were, so I thought I’d help out.”

“Jackass, what are they for?” you said, giving him a bitch face, making him chuckle.

“They’re from me, to you. I, uh, wrote you a letter every day since I’ve been here.”

Immediately, one hand went to your mouth, to hide the fact that you just got hit in the gut with sentiment.

“I was going to send them, but I really want to get better at expressing myself to you, so I thought I’d start there. But I thought, until I got back, they might be a nice thing for you to have.”

Happy tears started to roll down your cheeks. No one had ever done anything so sweet, or thoughtful, or heartwarming as this for you before.

“I’m sorry if you were expecting an expensive gift or some souvenir from London. I just thought this might be nic--”

“Stephen, it’s perfect. Oh my god. Thank you. This is… I can’t wait to read them.”

You started to open the first one, your eyes skimming the first few lines, more tears flowing.

“I really didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, unease and confusion wrapping his voice.

You shook your head. “No, no this is great. I love it. Thank you. I’ll read them all tonight.”

“I’m glad you like them,” he said with a smile.

Suddenly, your bedroom door opened and you wiped your face before putting the letters on your desk. You turned to see who came in. It was Belle.

“Hey, sugar! What are you doing? Where are your mommy and daddy?” you asked.

“Kiffen,” she said, toddling in, donning her pink camo shirt and little jeans.

“Well watcha doin?” you wondered.

“Seein’ you,” she informed. She walked up and tried to peek over your desk. “Who dat?”

You laughed, picking her up and putting her on your lap. “This, is Stephen. He’s my boyfriend. You want to say hi?”

She nodded and waved. “Hi!”

“Hello there,” Stephen greeted. “What’s your name?”

“Belle,” she said, kicking her feet.

“How old are you?”

“Three!” she proudly stated.

“Wow! That’s a big number.”

“Nuh-uh, five is.”

He chuckled. “I suppose it is bigger than three. What did you get for Christmas?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“We haven’t opened yet,” you explained to him.

“Ah, well are you excited?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yeah! I’m ‘posed to get a pony.”

“That’s pretty exciting. What else?”

“Finger paints! But mama said I can’t have finger paints cause I draw on walls. I just like pretty pictures.”

“I do too. I bet you make very pretty pictures.”

“Yeah! And mama says I can have a new Jeep.”

“Didn’t know you were old enough to drive,” he noted with delight in his voice.

For the next half hour those two talked and talked, about what, you weren’t totally sure. You got lost after ten minutes but Stephen seemed to be keeping up with the nonsense your cousin was spewing.

And it was incredibly sweet how patient he was. He never once seemed annoyed or like he wanted you to get rid of her. He just spoke to her, kindly. He didn’t patronize her or seem upset with her. Somewhere between talking about braiding hair and the newest doll that came out, you were swept off your feet all over again.

“Y/N, have you seen-- Oh there she is,” your Aunt Jane said, sliding into your room. “Sorry about that. I was helping your mom with that last dessert and she got away from me.”

“Not a problem. I always love seeing my Belle.” You tickled her foot as her mom picked her up.

“Is this Stephen?” Jane asked as she looked back at your laptop.

You nodded. “Yep. We were just exchanging gifts over video chat.”

“Oh. I won’t interrupt. But I just wanna say hi.” She leaned down and waved. “Hi, I’m her aunt Jane. We heard a lot of great things about you.”

“Well thank you. I’ve heard about you as well. It’s nice to meet you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.” She straightened back up and turned away from the monitor mouthing, “He’s hot.” She winked at you and patted your shoulder then walked out.

“Sorry about...well… all of that,” you said, laughing.

“Y/N, don’t apologize for having a family that loves and cares about you. I think it’s nice.”

“Alright.” You checked the time. “Ah, shit. I need to go. We’re opening presents in like ten minutes. I should probably help set the snacks out.”

“Alright. Yeah, I need to hit the hay.”

“Yeah… Thank you again for my gift. I love it, so much.”

“Sure thing. Thanks for my pillow. Now maybe I won’t wake up feeling like I slept on a cinder block.”

“Let’s hope not,” you said with a slight laugh.

“I love you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, love. I love you.”

You blew him a kiss and  he smiled, waving to you before you got offline.

After that, you spent the rest of the time with your family, anticipating reading the first gift. One at a time, everyone opened and shared their presents. It was heartwarming, being around everyone, basking in everyone’s joy, anticipation, and excitement.

This was a very merry Christmas indeed….

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

Forever Tag List

@essie1876​

@magpiegirl80​

@letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​

@iamwarrenspeace

@marvel-imagines-yes-please​

@superwholocked527

@missinstantgratification​

@thejemersoninferno

@rda1989​

@munlis​

@thefridgeismybestie​

@bubblyanarocks3​

@igiveupicantthinkofausername​

@kaliforniacoastalteens​

@feelmyroarrrr​

@kaeling​

@friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo​

@damalseer​

@heyitscam99​

@yknott81​

@sorryimacrapwriter​

@glitterquadricorn​

@xxqueenofisolationxx​

@little-dis-kaalista-pythonissama

@bittersweetunicorm​

@alyssaj23​

@sea040561​

@princess76179​

@thisismysecrethappyplace​

@sarahp879​

@malfoysqueen14​

@ellallheart​

@breezy1415​

@marvelmayo​

Steve Rogers

@nedthegay​

@camigt1999

@lostinspace33

@alwayshave-faith​

@elleatrixlestrange​

@ultrarebelheart​

@lenawiinchester​

@esoltis280​

@patzammit

Bucky Barnes

@nedthegay

@lostinspace33

@alwayshave-faith

@elleatrixlestrange​

@ultrarebelheart

@lenawiinchester

@its-not-a-tulpa

@esoltis280

@thirstresponsibly​

@valecitainwonderland​

@buckybarnesappreciationsociety

@howling-at-that-moon @sneakygitsune @whiw0lf

Loki Odinson

@lostinspace33​

@ultrarebelheart​

@lenawiinchester​

@esoltis280​

@tngrayson​

@wangdeasang​

@harrymewmew

@jayfantasyatyourservice

SLU

@eagleandthebutterfly​

@disneyfanatic77

@disneyoncerlover815

@meraki–mei

@fcavalerro

[owen-west]

“I am going any which way the wind may be blowing / I am going where streams of whiskey are flowing.”

It took Owen about an hour and a half after he and Lydia broke up to decide a trip to Vegas was necessary for survival. Maybe he was being dramatic, but he didn’t care. All he currently needed was four fingers of whiskey neat, and a serious intervention-type speech about rushing into things. But for now, he’d settle for the first pawn shop he found on the Strip and the nearest bar located to said shop. Only a couple of days had passed since Lydia and Owen had ended things, but this wasn’t like the first time. He was under no impression that they’d eventually find their way back to each other. So, with that knowledge, he opened his guitar case, carefully removing it to access the pick compartment underneath the stem. He opened it, grabbing the small velvet box from within, casing his guitar once more before leaning the case against the corner of the room. Without a second thought, he shoved the ring box into his pocket and left the hotel. The Vegas heat blew ass, but he couldn’t stand to be heartbroken in Kansas. He’d be back by their Tuesday show, having the techs take over for the weekend. He just needed a break. Needed to clear his head. He apparently also needed to break his phone in half, because the picture that Miles just reblogged of Lydia was some next level fuckery. “Holy shit,” he said with a disbelieving laugh, pocketing his phone as he walked swiftly past the pawn shop. “Looks like that drink’s coming first,” he muttered to himself as he yanked open the door to a bar with no name. Just a quick stop. It was a fucking hole in the wall. It was seedy, and questionable in every way possible. Smoke hung heavily in the air, clouding the entire room. Neon lights shone on the stage, where drunk patrons were taking their turns at karaoke. Owen had half a mind to turn around and walk back out, but one extremely out of place girl caught his attention. She looked like a mirage in the middle of the desert. So out of place and inviting. He seemed to operate on autopilot as he made his way over to the bar and order a drink, eyes never leaving her. After suffering through a few Shania Twain covers, one Britney Spears cover, and one very sad attempt at ‘Rap God,’ Owen noticed that the girl was standing up to take the stage. The instrumental version of a song he was unfamiliar with echoed throughout the space, her ethereal voice following soon after. He was captivated; everyone was. Owen felt like the next scene in a movie would be where the inconspicuous record producer approaches her at the bar and slides her a business card, promising to help her produce content to reach the top of the charts. Unfortunately, he was a guitarist, not a producer, and all he could currently offer her is a free bar tab and some above average sex, so maybe it’d be more like mediocre porn rather than a movie? The bartender eventually came back over, asking if Owen would like another drink, which, yes, obviously. He’s trying to wallow in self-pity here, isn’t it obvious? “Hey,” he said, catching the bartender’s attention before he walked away. “If the girl singing sticks around for a bit after she’s done, give her a couple of drinks on me.” Twenty minutes later, Owen felt a tap on the shoulder, then seeing a petite, brunette girl sliding onto the stool next to him. The girl that was singing. “Thank you,” she said, gesturing the drink in a tiny cheers motion towards him. He grinned, shrugging. “It’s no problem. You earned it with those pipes. Tell me you’re a professional?” Her face fell, and wow, that had to be a record for how quickly it took Owen to touch on a sensitive subject. “Not exactly,” she said, finishing off the remainder of her drink, sliding it towards the edge of the counter. He cleared his throat, sipping at his whiskey some before asking for another drink for the singer. “Well, you should be.” He glanced over at her. “I’m Owen,” he reached over with his left hand, seeing as his right hand was holding his drink. “Sonia,” she said, and Owen noticed that her speaking voice was just about as captivating as her singing voice. Once she had her second drink, Owen felt like it was safe to continue talking. “I don’t know you. Obviously. But, you don’t really seem like the type to hang out in a place like this.” “At least here I feel appreciated,” she said with a simple shrug. She seemed closed off to elaborating on the subject, so he dropped it and nodded. He got it. “I could say the same about you, though,” she countered quickly, eyeing him with mock-suspicion. He let out a dry laugh, the bulky ring box against his leg suddenly burning in his pocket. “Bad breakup with my girlfriend. You’ll find me in anywhere that advertises itself as a bar.” She bit her bottom lip. He nudged her knee with his. “It’s fine. New topic? Besides wanting to feel appreciated, what brings you here from New York?” He grinned as she looked up with an unamused glance, almost as if she knew what he was about to say. He continued, “Business or pleasure?” Sonia let out a small laugh, mixed with an exasperated sigh. Her eyes looked up at the ceiling, possibly searching for the answer up there somewhere. Owen looked upwards after a moment, checking to see if there was actually something up there that had captured her attention. By the time his eyes dropped back down to meet hers, his brown eyes were pierced with her unwavering gaze. “Business,” she said, her elegant cadence contrasting greatly with her young appearance. “But it didn’t go as planned,” she finished, her voice having dropped down several decibels. She looked away. He gave her a moment. Seemingly composed, she turned back to him after several minutes, finishing her drink and ordering another before asking, “And you?” “Pleasure,” he responded quickly. And she could obviously tell what that meant. Getting his mind off of his life and his ex. The stereotypical Vegas trip. She tilted her head to the side as she inspected him, a serious expression on her face. Her hand slid across the bar top until it was on top of his; a warm, physical display of comfort. A silent, I’m here for you when you get belligerently drunk and start ranting about your past relationship. “Sorry about your girlfriend,” she said softly. Owen shook his head, trying to smile. “Don’t be.” He reached for the shots they had been given, taking one in his hand, raising it to make a toast. “To—” “Moving onwards and upwards,” Sonia finished before he could get another word out. He laughed. Genuinely laughed, and nodded, raising his brows in approval. “Onwards and upwards.” The glasses clinked together, and their night began.

Owen’s heartbeat was in his head. Really, it was. This must be what it feels like to die of a hangover. His head was pounding. Actually pounding – and it took effort from every single fiber of his being to physically blink his eyes open, and – yep. That was just a brutal as he expected it would be. Another burst of will power allowed him to sit up and examine what was left of his suite. The aftermath of his first night. The lamp on his bedside table was broken on the floor, lampshade MIA. The sheets were nowhere to be seen. Through the open French doors of the bedroom, he could see that the comforter had been draped over a few chairs in the living room to fashion a fort of some kind. Maybe. He wasn’t positive what was going on there. The mirror that took up half of the bedroom’s wall was shattered in the corner as if he’d head-butted it, which, with the way he was currently feeling, was highly possible. He wasn’t sure if it was real, or if it was just the blood rushing through his brain, but it sounded like there was water running from somewhere. A heavy sigh pushed its way from his chest, and he wiped his hand down his face, exhausted. His hand moved behind him to find purchase on the mattress for balance when it encountered something very un-mattress like. His head turned far too quickly to be this hungover, and come on, Owen, get it together. It was a person. A girl. A naked girl. He knew her? Yes…? Maybe. He brushed back some of the wild brunette hair out of her face and – yes, he did know her. Sonia. From his “quick stop” in the bar last night. Fucking dumbass. He closed his eyes, struggling to recall what exactly happened after those twelve shots of tequila at the karaoke bar. There was definitely more tequila; more alcohol in general, actually. And sex. Lots and lots of sex.  The moment that he sighed again, she shifted, mumbling something nonsensical in her sleep as she turned over to reposition herself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said softly, standing up quickly before her left hand swung over to drape over his body. He barely missed the unintentional embrace, instantly feeling lightheaded. Water. He needed water. He went into the bathroom first, finding that the source of the running water was the shower. There were wet clothes pooled in the middle of the shower that seemed to be the both of theirs, because that thong definitely wasn’t his size. He almost laughed to himself at his own stupid joke, but honestly, the hangover was too brutal. No capacity for laughs this morning. Shutting the shower off, he then walked over to the counter to grab the tiny glass that was provided and meant for rinsing after brushing your teeth. Currently, it was his solace. He downed a few glasses of water before refilling it to the top once more, walking back into the master bedroom. The mid-morning light shone directly onto the bed, causing the simple, two karat diamond ring she wore on her left hand to glisten. That was his. That was his ring he was planning on proposing to Lydia with. He choked. Literally, he started choking, spewing water everywhere, dropping the small glass he was holding. “Fuck!” He shouted as he caught his breath, not even thinking about the fact that Sonia was asleep. “Fuck! Holy fuck! Are you kidding me?!” Almost instantly, her eyes opened and she screamed as he screamed, scrambling to grab the covers that weren’t there. “Is there a bug?!” she shrieked, standing up on the mattress, using her arms and hands to poorly cover her naked body. He stared up at her frazzled face, his mouth slightly open. He didn’t need to look down at his left hand to know that there was a band on his ring finger. Now that he remembered what they did, he was very aware of the extra weight his hand carried. Wordlessly, he sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, forehead in his palms. “Are you okay?” she said, her voice shaking a little. “Was there a bug?” she repeated again, clearly very worried about this potential bug. “No,” Owen managed to croak out, his throat suddenly dry. “No bug.” Sonia remained silent for a few beats before asking, “Do you have a shirt I can borrow?” He gestured in the general direction of his suitcase, still in shock. He heard her rustling around in his suitcase, the sound of fabric brushing against skin, before she walked to stand in front of him. He held out his right hand, knowing she’d reach for it with her left. Their fingers hadn’t even touched yet when she gasped so loudly that she lost her breath.  Owen took a wild guess that she’d noticed the ring. The gasp quickly turned into hyperventilation, which Owen was greatly unequipped to deal with. He looked up at her, patting his hands against the air slowly in an attempt to try to get her to slow her breathing down. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I know it’s a lot. I don’t really remember what happened but –” his consolation was cut off with a sharp, forceful slap. Her bright eyes were wild and wide and filled with panic. He could relate. “Okay, ow,” he said, sounding genuinely offended as he rubbed his own hand over the reddening mark to soothe his cheek. “Listen, I’m just as shocked as you are. It’s going to be okay, okay?” “It’s going to be okay?” She said, barely having to bend down to look him straight in the eye. “It’s not going to be okay. I have a life! I have a god damn career ahead of me. I’m in Julliard, for fuck’s sake – I’m only twenty-two! How old are you, twenty-nine?” “Hey!” Owen said loudly enough to shortly silence her. He pointed an accusatory finger in her direction before saying, “I’m twenty-seven.” If possible, her eyes widened even more. She looked like she was about to explode. “I don’t even know you!” she screamed, gesturing wildly. He scoffed, growing more and more frustrated by the second, shakily running a hand through his hair. “You act like I somehow know you better or some shit. We met each other last night! We both did this!” She let out something between a cry and a screech, and Owen could see her eyes watering. “You – You –” “I what?!” he shouted, stepped closer to her. She tightened her mouth into a line before rearing back once more, striking him across the face for the second fucking time in five minutes. “The fuck, man,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his cheek as she turned and ran into the ensuite bathroom. He sighed, scratching his head and walking to the bathroom door. He knocked softly, hearing small sniffles coming from inside. “I might’ve deserved that one,” he said to the door, loud enough for her to hear. “I’m sorry,” he said, hoping that she knew that that apology encompassed everything that had transpired within the last twenty-four hours. “You know, this isn’t exactly the reaction I had envisioned when my wife found out we were married.” Owen paused, his mouth twisting a little bit at the realization of what he just said. “That’s also not a sentence I ever thought I’d be saying, but that’s neither here nor there.” He slumped down against the door, leaning back against it as he sat on the floor. He knocked again, as if that would help. He was met with silence. A change of topic was obviously necessary. “I was thinking about going downstairs to one of the restaurants and grabbing some breakfast.” Still nothing. He continued anyway. “You don’t have to come along, or anything, but I figured I’d offer. If you’re half as hungry as I am, then you have to be suffering right now.” Complete and total silence. “Alright, well. Just let me know if you want to come,” he said, knocking gently on the door a couple of more times for emphasis. He grabbed some clothes from his bag and changed before sitting on the bed. Thirty minutes passed before he heard the doorknob of the bathroom jiggle, the door slowly opening, Sonia stepping back into the bedroom. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him, her eyes swollen and red. “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” she said, her voice sounding used and abused. Owen furrowed his brow and frowned a little, as if he’d be anywhere else. “Well, yeah. You were upset. I wasn’t going to just leave you.” “Oh,” she said softly, his response clearly not what she had been expecting. She sniffled. “Thank you.” “It’s no problem,” he said, standing up, pretending to not notice the obvious tear tracks trailing down her cheeks. “So,” he said, gesturing towards the front door through the living room. “Breakfast?” She answered with a small nod, tucking some stray hairs behind her ear before joining him.

The elevator ride was painfully silent, and of course his room was on one of the top floors.  They had made it a quarter of the way down when they stopped, an elderly woman joining the odd couple. She slowly made her way to the buttons, pushing her desired destination a few floors down. After a solid minute of silence, she turned to look over her shoulder and smiled up at them, adjusting her glasses. “You two make a lovely couple.” “Thanks,” Owen said with a broad grin, tossing his arm around Sonia’s shoulders, pulling her into his side. Sonia made a high-pitched sound of protest, moving her hand to push his arm off of her shoulder, but instead he caught it, lacing his fingers through hers. He figured some humor would help her somehow make light of this strange situation they found themselves in. “We are not a couple,” Sonia gritted out. “Aw, baby, don’t say that,” Owen said as he looked down at her, letting out a small chuckle. Looking back over at the elderly woman, he shrugged. “I packed our suitcase incorrectly this morning. She ended up having to take everything out and start all over again. Hasn’t forgiven me since,” he rolled his eyes dramatically, punctuating his white lie with a grin. “You know how it is.” A small burst of husky giggles burst from the small woman as she eyed the two of them. As if on cue, the elevator dinged to signal the arrival to her floor. “You two have a good time. Don’t get into too much trouble,” she said as she walked out into the landing. “Oh, we’ll try! Have a nice day, ma’am!” Owen shouted as she walked away, waving behind her.  The moment the elevator doors shut, Sonia shoved him away from her. “Owen! What’re you doing?” “What?” he asked monotonously, his cheery demeanor having apparently left the elevator as soon as the old woman did. He looked up at her as he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “We got ourselves into this shit show,” he said with a shrug, looking over at the screen that showed they were a couple of levels away from the lobby. “Might as well play it up while we can.” Sonia huffed, mimicking Owen’s stance subconsciously. The sudden reflection of the harsh light in the elevator against the diamond ring she still wore drew Owen’s attention to her finger. He looked away as quickly as he could, his stomach twisting at the thought that that was supposed to be on Lydia’s finger. He looked at Sonia. Really looked at her – and noticed how physically, she was almost the exact opposite of Lydia. Where Lydia was tan and tattooed, Sonia was pale and free of any ink. Sonia had no freckles. Sonia had dark hair. Sonia had light, bright eyes. Sonia’s lips were plush, and pink. At that, memories began to trickle back from the night before. Flashes of Sonia crawling between his legs, taking his cock in her fist before mouthing at the tip as those big, blue eyes never strayed from his. She smiled at him before widening her mouth, his cock slowly disappearing between her lips until her mouth touched her fingers that were wrapped around the base of his shaft. How the web-like crack appeared in the mirror; from her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands fisted in his hair. Her body so hot and tight, wet and ready. Urgent and desperate, he slammed her against the wall, hearing the mirror shatter behind her. He slowed to ask if she was okay. “No blood, no cuts,” she said, her words hurried and breathy. “Keep going, keep going. Harder, Owen, please.” He could see it as clear as he could see her in front of him now, but the memories felt borrowed. Like he had watched the scene in a movie, or someone had told a vivid story. He bit down as hard as he could on the inside of his cheek, trying to pull himself out of last night. After the longest minute in the history of his life, the elevator dinged to alert them of their arrival to the lobby. A large, intricately framed mirror hung on the wall on the opposite side of the elevator’s exit. Owen knew the gasp would come from Sonia before she had stepped out of the elevator. She ran up to stand in front of the mirror, craning her neck to the side, fully exposing the various dark, blooming marks scattered around her neck and chest. “About the bite marks—” Owen began. “Are you fucking serious?” she said, her voice having dropped to a whisper. “You asked for them,” he hastily explained. “And, ever the gentleman, I obliged.” Her forehead furrowed as if she were about to protest, freezing in place. Her eyes narrowed as she thought, and Owen realized that vague memories from last night must’ve been coming back to her as well.  “Did you—“ she stopped to clear her throat, a faint pink blush spreading across her cheeks. “In the living room?” She left the question open ended—there was no need to specify. Owen knew what she was asking. He smirked, nodding his head in the direction of the restaurant. “You tell me,” he said as they walked. He glimpsed over at her, his smirk growing as he took in her expression. It was clear she already knew the answer to her question.  “So did I? In the living room?” he said with a smug grin, and she shot a glare at him. She knew what happened as much as he did. The couple walked into the restaurant and when asked for a name for their party, Owen could feel Sonia’s knowing gaze heavy on him, knowing exactly what she was thinking. They could potentially share that last name now. “West,” Owen told the hostess. She gathered menus, tapped the screen in front of her a few times before leading them to their table. Once seated, Owen ordered a Bloody Mary, needing something to help mend this hangover just a tad. It hadn‘t been thirty seconds since the waitress walked away that Sonia blurted out, “How many times?” Owen’s eyes flashed up to meet hers. She seemed almost embarrassed by the question, but Owen gave her a soft, reassuring look before taking a sip of his water. It was then that he noticed how she kept occasionally shifting in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. Or in pain. He tried to not let his smile broaden. “Let’s see,” he said, realizing that once he sat down and focused, he actually remembered a lot more about the previous night than he had thought. “Living room, bed, balcony, bed, wall, mirror, shower. So, seven? I think.” She nodded silently, then thanking the waitress as she returned with their drinks, ready to take their food order. Once she left, a blanket of silence returned to their table. Owen didn’t know what he was allowed to say, and eventually cleared his throat. Just for some kind of noise to break the silence. “So, this ring…” Sonia began slowly, her focus on her left hand, carefully tiptoeing around the topic of cost. He raised his brow, shocked that she’d been the one to speak first, and laughed at her attempt at being subtle. “Yeah, it’s a lot. I went a little overboard, but I thought she was worth it.” If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have thought that Sonia’s shoulders sank a little at that. “Looks better on you, anyway,” and – where did that come from? He didn’t even know if it was true, but he thought that the shy smile it brought to Sonia’s lips might be worth it. Even if it was directed at her plate of food, and not him. “Was it for your ex? The one you had the bad breakup with?” Her words caught him off guard, and wiped the smile off of his face. “What?” She looked directly at him, tilting her head slightly as she questioned him. “This ring,” she held up her hand, facing the back of her hand towards him as if he didn’t know what the engagement ring he had purchased months ago looked like. “Was it for your ex?” Owen felt like the words were caught in his throat. He didn’t even know words. What was happening? “I? Yes? It was. But, I’d rather not talk about her.” He felt as though she was about to ask something else, and as he glanced towards her, he saw that his guess was accurate. “Seriously,” he said, stopping her from even beginning her sentence. “I don’t want to talk about her.” Sonia simply nodded, looking back down at her plate. Owen did the same. Pushing around the poached egg he’d yet to eat, he chewed at the inside of his cheek; a nervous habit of his. With each passing minute, he realized just how heavy this situation was. He was fucking married to a stranger. He knew nothing about her. He didn’t even know her last name. Actually, correction: yes, he did know her last name.

It was West.

[thesinglesjukebox]

ALICE CHATER - TONIGHT

[5.67]

If you guessed Alice Chater, you are correct! We also would have accepted "the entire Billboard Hot 100 of 2011."

Iain Mew: The end-of-the-world banger trend was due a return, and this is very much a return. Question, though: why does she now sound like she's doing a Shakira impression? [5]

Katherine St Asaph: Alice Chater following up "Hourglass" with a song that hinges on the repeated syllables of ga-ga-ta let it go is a choice: one's influences crashing through one's poker face. Maybe that's on purpose, because "Tonight" is all influences: 2011 apocalypse pop with a 2014 Sia melody and 2017 vocal squiggles, a lot of "Disturbia"/"Motorway"/"Marry the Night"/"No Tears Left to Cry" melancholy, a keening house string and ad-libs (both way too low in the mix, but whatever), an explicitly reference to the radio, where one might actually encounter these things in sequence. Also not a lot of Alice in there, but "Tonight" is such potent, yearning time-tripping that I don't mind. I miss 2011 more than I miss some people, a life forever preserved in my memory in neon and sepia, and occasionally try to relive it; the chorus to this -- an initial burst, then a melody that immediately implodes and sinks -- mirrors the feeling exactly. [7]

Alfred Soto: Party slobber that gets the party started if you're in college and spent your adolescence with "Marry the Night" and your older brother's Sky Ferreira mp3s. [6]

Josh Buck: What in the name of all that is "Toxic" is this "Britney for the dark-pop era" nonsense? [3]

Will Adams: Alice Chater's investment in early '10s dancepop alone makes her sound electrifying compared to other pop upstarts of now, but she's especially good at selling it. She flips her voice to where it needs to be -- raspy verses, growled "got-gotta"'s, cathartic ad-libs in the final chorus -- to create a killer pastiche of apocalypse-pop that, while not as immediately explosive as "Hourglass," feels urgent and vital. [7]

Vikram Joseph: This is objectively a banger, but it's such a close genre cousin of Georgia's "About Work the Dancefloor" that, released in the same febrile summer, it can't help but pale a little by comparison. Both songs share a sense of embracing hedonism in complex, uncertain times, with verses that throb with a relentless, cumulative tension and choruses that reach for a transcendence that's just slightly out of reach. But where Georgia created an introvert's dance anthem with a chorus that felt tantalisingly unresolved -- never quite getting out of its own head -- Alice Chater takes a more linear route, with the processed post-chorus vocal hook perhaps sounding just a little too generic. It goes admirably hard though, and there's plenty of room in pop right now for both of them. [7]

Kayla Beardslee: I want to like this so bad. Parts of it deliver everything I'd want from an effervescent synthpop song -- the explosive chorus, the wobbly synth, Alice Chater putting in a strong vocal effort -- but the lyrics drag it down hard. "Got-gotta let it go," "I wanna be with you tonight": this is exactly what people who don't like pop think pop sounds like. And everything "Tonight" tries to do, Chater's previous single "Hourglass" did better. [5]

Ian Mathers: Lyrically this isn't a particularly interesting take on the always fertile field of pop songs addressing some sort of apocalypse, but the drunken sway of some of those synths in the back -- those I want to get a closer listen to. Between them and the satisfying delivery of "got-gotta let it go" (almost percussive!), this one winds up on the right side of the line. [7]

Kylo Nocom: Alice Chater goes for a less image-conscious approach to 21st-century pop revivalism, but without anything else to offer sounds like some sort of poor anachronism spewed from the wasteland of rejected Sia demos. No danger, no threats, no harm ultimately done, but a little bit of time wasted. [4]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]