#the lead singer was bald i remember that too

[magentagalaxies]

ok maybe it's just because it's almost 3am and i went down a rabbit hole of trying to track down veggietales-related things i only very very vaguely remember from when i was a toddler but why the fuck does this song from the goddamn veggietales jonah movie soundtrack slap so much?????? like yes obviously it's nostalgia but that fucking hook "iiiii'm sleeping with fishes here / iiiiii'm highly nutritious here" has no right to go as hard as it does it's making me insane

[joshslater]

Unexpected Haircut pt. 2

This is a rewrite of the second chapter of Ash James’ excellent Unexpected Haircut. Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I'm a swirl of mixed emotions, and I'm taking the long way home to clear my mind. I came to his apartment with a black band t-shirt and hair down to my jaw. I'm leaving completely bald, in white shorts with a black stripe down the side, and a tight white adidas top. The reflections in the windows of the parked cars I walk by isn't of me. Ever so often I have to touch my head again to check this is really real. Every time my dick makes a little twitch in its cage to remind me that this is really hot to me, but also that I'm locked up. Well, zip-tied up, but locked enough that it matters. I clearly enjoy this, but there is the real life to consider too. How would everyone around me react? What will Rob, my housemate say? I hope he won’t be in, then I can hide in my room, and at least change back to my normal clothes.

No such luck. He sees me from the kitchen as I'm trying to stealth into my room. "Aah! What the fuck?!" he screams.

"I was at the gym," I say, immediately realizing how daft it sounds. I could at least have tried to come up with a plausible explanation on the way home, but then I was too preoccupied.

"You shaved your head," he says, stating the obvious while brushing his brown curly hair out of his eyes. “I thought you were a burglar!”

"Yeah, that too," I say, continuing into my room to avoid any more scrutiny. I need more time alone to process this. I'm excited, anxious, horny, but most of all I realize I feel drained. I need to lie down for a bit before dinner.

I wake up in a sudden jerk. The lights are on in the room, but it's dark outside the window. The clock says 5:08, almost an hour until the alarm goes off. The sensation when I move my head is strange, sensual, and puzzling. Then I remember the afternoon, the meeting, the shaving, the cock cage, the clothes. I must have been mentally exhausted and fallen to sleep in my clothes. The clothes. They aren't mine.

The rest of the apartment is dark as I move to the bathroom. I'm again shocked to see myself in the bathroom mirror. I look brutal with my shaved head and delinquent sports attire. The head doesn't look quite as polished as yesterday, but just as bald. I can only imagine how greasy my pillow is. Shit, there was bronzer too he said. I feel my scalp with my hand and there’s already some very short stubble. It somehow feels sexy.

I lower the shorts and jock, and fish out the zip-tied device, and aim it at the toilet bowl. It's a bit messier than normal to piss with it on, but not a big deal. I don't know how to dry it though, so I put it over the edge of the sink and splash it with water. Do I really want to keep this on? It's only until the end of the week though, so I guess I can manage. I look up into the mirror again. I can't look like this for a week though, I decide.

I go back into my room and put on my normal clothes for work, check shirt and black vest. I put on a uniform at work, but the lack of hair is big enough of a change to have to explain without adding more things into the mix to warrant a drug test or something. My normal clothes look kind of out of place with my shaved head though. I search in the cupboard for a black beanie, so my head won't feel as naked when I'm outside.

No one really gives a shit as I walk to work, and the guys are surprised but cool with my sudden baldness. My boss is bald too, but not by choice, and says as much. No, what really causes a problem is the dick cage. That damn piece of chastity plastic keeps moving into uncomfortable positions. I kind of wish I had kept the jockstrap on. Peeing is still somewhat of an issue, but goes much better at work than it had at home. Overall the universe doesn't care about me and my changes, but I still have a lot of apprehension going to band practice.

“Show us your haircut,” says the lead singer, who has black hair down to his shoulders.

I grit my teeth and take off my beanie. His eyes widen. “Woah, that is bald, dude!” He reaches out and touches my head. The feel of his hand on my naked scalp makes me horny again, and the dick uncomfortably tests the bounds of its cage. "I didn't expect that from, you. Looks cool though."

The next morning I decide to attempt a shave. I don't know what cancerogenic tanning shit he used, but even after a good shower my head looks as if it has always been shaved clean. If I have to come shaved to him on Friday I better practice now. I wet the skin with warm water, lather up my head with shaving cream, and pull the razor across the skin of my head. There's a shudder of pleasure. Again and again I move the razor and expose more and more freshly shaved skin. I realize I'm leaking pre-cum. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The rest of the day is like every other day, though this time I wear the jockstrap. Everyone at work is already over my shaved head, and to and from work I wear the beanie. Just as I'm heading home I get a text message from Him. "If you want to submit tomorrow, bring all your clothes. My place at six. I will decide what you wear from now on."

Even though I don't have that many clothes, it is still a hefty plastic bin bag to carry over to his place. I had bagged most of the stuff that Thursday evening, except for the band T-shirts and what I was going to wear going to work Friday. Next morning I had again shaved my head, but left work early to shave a second time just before leaving. I took a shower, douched, shaved, and even applied a bit of vaseline on the scalp and buffed it shiny as he had. Looking in the mirror I both liked and didn't like what I saw. It was weird. I was totally turned on, but it was like I knew this wasn't good for me. Like a bad purchase or a second cookie.

I already had the clothes he'd sent me home in laid out on the bed, white and glossy. I really hesitated before dropping the clothes I had just worn into the bag, as if I was throwing them away. I put on the hat though, grabbed the bag, and took a bus over to his place. It felt like everyone was looking and judging me on the ride there.

I struggle up the stairs to his front door and ring the bell. It only takes a few seconds for him to open the door, as if he had been sitting around waiting. "Hey!" he says and grabs my hat from my head. "Looking real good, baldie. Are these all your clothes?" he asks and gestures toward the bin bag by my feet. "I think that's everything," I say as he steps away from the doorway and gestures me to get in. I follow him into the large living room again.

I drop the plastic bag on the floor, happy to get rid of the weight, but already dreading having to carry back whatever he deemed OK. He grabs the bag, still holding my beanie in the other. "No more hats," he says and chucks it into the bag. "You need to show off that beautiful bald head of yours."

He then gestures towards a backpack and piles of clothes, mostly white and light grey, on the dinner table. "I want to show you your new clothes." My mind did a flip as I suddenly realize what he means. I wasn't going to get any of my clothes back. I look at what is on the table. There's a lot of stuff, expensive stuff. There's trainers, a padded jacket, a couple packs of underwear, socks, T-shirts, workout clothes.

"I only want you to wear white underwear and training socks. There’s a pair for each day of the week."

"You got a lot!" I say, thinking how much he must've spent.

"It wouldn't be fair to not fully replace what you give up. Pick something to wear. We're heading out to eat first."

They're all things that I would never ever wear. There’s a shiny adidas tracksuit, a grey Nike tracksuit, polo shirts, a couple of sports tops with stripes on the sleeves. I choose the grey tracksuit. I undress and put it on in front of him, while he keeps a close watch. I keep the jockstrap, the noname training socks and the tight-fitting white adidas T-shirt I came with. Both the grey sweatshirt and sweatpants have a red Nike logo with a white swoosh under it. He looks approvingly. He picks up my black Vans from the floor and adds that to the bin bag and points to the box on the table. "I checked your size last time you were here, but try them on before we get rid of your old ones." I open the box and pull out a pair of white Nike Air Max TN sneakers with ice blue details. The mirror isn't in the room this time, but just looking down I can tell what my overall look is like. Somehow the cliché is hot to me, and the dick cage makes itself known again.

He on the other hand is wearing semi-formal clothes. White shirt and a pinstripe dark suit that must be tailored to his muscular frame, or at least fitted. He’s just lacking a tie. We must look like a weird clash of socioeconomic ends of the spectra out for a walk. We are chatting along the way from his place to wherever we are going to eat.

"How do you like your haircut really?" He asks.

"There’s something I like about the touch. But I don’t feel like myself with it."

"You’ll get used to it. All my subs do. I had this one sub who had black emo hair till I shaved him. Now he can’t even deal with having a bit of stubble. He shaves it every day without me asking."

"Really?" I say, wondering if I want to get so used to it.

I am too distracted from our conversation to notice what restaurant we enter, but immediately inside I regret it. It's a proper restaurant, with a waiter seating us both at a small table with white tablecloths. I feel underdressed even for McDonald's. He sees my hesitation, or he has done this before.

"You wonder why we went to such a nice place? I want you to embrace who you are, what you are, what you look like. Look around. No one is paying attention. Yeah, perhaps they looked disapprovingly when we walked in. Fuck them. We're paying customers. They don't know us, we don't know them, and you'll never see them again in your life. Now, have you decided?"

"Decided what?" I ask, wondering if I've missed something. "What you are having for dinner. Want to share a bottle of red?" "Please."

We continue to talk all through the Ribeye and Shiraz. As the waiter clears the table he blurts out "I can’t wait to tie you up and fuck you, when we get back." I don't know if my face visibly blushes, but my dick certainly gets more blood. "I've been waiting all week," I tell him. He reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out a small flat box and a chain. It looks like a silver curb chain, not too thin, not too heavy.

"It looks a bit empty around your neck. Here, this shows everyone you are mine," and he hands over the chain. It's warm after having spent the evening in his pocket. I hold it in my hand for a second. "Thank you!" I'm a bit overcome by emotion I realize. Is this going too fast? I don't even really know this guy. Somehow that is part of what's so hot. He's manipulating me, of course. This is all part of his plan to make me his bottom, but isn't that what I signed up to? He is after all stunning. I clasp the chain around my neck and let it hang on the outside, over my Nike sweatshirt.

"And then there is this to show to yourself you are mine," and he slid over the small box. "Even more gifts?" Intrigued I open it and inside are two items. One small side cutter and one small padlock. It takes me a second to understand what they are for. The cutter to cut open the zip tie, and the padlock to replace it. I begin to raise from the chair to head to the restroom when he interrupts me. "No, do it here."

I bit my lip and look around. No one is taking any notice of us. I pull open my joggers and jock with one hand, and put the side cutter to the zip tie with the other and make the cut. I pull out the broken zip tie with one hand, coax the padlock in place and click it shut. The deal is sealed. Why does this make me so horny? He pockets the cutter and we are getting out of here. Walking back to his apartment I can't think of anything but him fucking me. Whatever we are chit-chatting about goes straight through my mind.

I can tell he is in a hurry as well, because we are just inside of his door, in his front lounge, when he kisses me on the mouth and together we take all my clothes off, except for the silver chain. He tells me to kneel on the floor and he unbuttons his shirt. His abs, defined as a front-page model, are covered in a thin layer of hair. He rubs his thick cock against my head and face, then pushes it into my mouth. It fills my mouth up, I want to give him a really good blow job. I rub his glans with my lips, then taking it deep into my throat. It's really thick and I choke on it. He lets me keep sucking it for a long time, occasionally using my shaved head to push it deep into my throat. He touching me shoots sparkles down my spine into my dick.

"This is the only bad thing about a bald head," he says. "Nothing to grab onto."

While I’m sucking his cock, he takes my hand and puts a leather cuff on it. He must have had them within reach. He cuffs it to my other hand behind my back. Then he pulls out, lifts me up, and arranges me bent forwards over a table. He gets lube and puts a finger in my ass, then two, then three. I let out a whimper as he starts to push his thick cock in and fuck me. He steadies his hand on my back, my front and face against the table as he moves his cock faster and deeper in and out of my ass. The pain subsides, and he fucks me harder, his cock filling me up, touching all the right places.

I come first. Half a week of constant low-level hornyness and teasing, and his expert use of his dick has me dribbling cum on the floor, despite being caged. It does nothing to my horniness though, and his pounding just becomes a bliss that washes over me. When he finally does come he keep pulling me closer to him, getting as deep as he can.

He pulls out, grabs a towel, and wipes his dick. His naked upper body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He looks better than ever throughout the evening. He leaves the room and I stand up from leaning against the table. I suddenly feel awkward standing there naked, sweaty, hands locked behind my back and cum up my bum. Most of all I want to take the towel and get rid of the splatter of cum on the floor below me. I look around and realize the window out to the street just behind me. Anyone walking by on the street would see me standing there, or being fucked by him if they passed earlier.

My thoughts are interrupted as he enters again, with a key in his hand. He quickly removes my cuffs, almost like he's forgotten about them, and tells me to put on the socks and the T-shirt again. Once on me, he unlocks the padlock and removes the different pieces of the chastity cage. Despite just having drooled on the floor my dick immediately hardens up again. "I want to watch you cum" he says into my ear and guides me towards the hall mirror..

It's still a shock and unreal to see myself in the mirror. How I look in my mind and in reality are far apart. Gone is the shaggy hair and black hoodie, and instead a shiny head, white, tight T-shirt, raging hardon and a pair of thick, white gym socks. Standing just behind me, slightly taller is a gorgeous magazine cover come to life, jet black hair, one arm around me on one side and a firm pec and hard abs looking out from behind on the other. As if I'm an idiot and doesn't know what to do on my own, he reaches down, grabs my dick and starts to pump it. "What did you lie about?" he says softly in my ear.

"What?" I say, suddenly feeling a chill up my spine. He continues to slowly rub my dick.

"You said you thought you brought all your clothes to me, but that wasn't true, was it? What did  you keep?"

"I... The band I play... I kept some band T-shirts."

"They were all size small?"

"Yeah? Maybe some medium."

He is jacking me off quite forcefully now. "Take over." I grab my dick and continue.

"I fucking love how you look, don't you?" he rubs his hands over my bald head and a tingle spreads through my body. "You can keep the T-shirts. I said I would make you my next muscle bottom project, so if any of those T-shirts still fit come summer, that's on me. At some point I will have to come up with a punishment though. You can say no, but don't ever lie to me." I feel relief washing over me. "We need to do something about this body though." He has his arm around me again, gently rubbing my flat abs and pecs through the T-shirt. "We'll start your training Monday. I'll swing by your place, then we go to Chris' Crossfit. It's the gym of mine closest to you." Perhaps I am still lightheaded from everything going on, but the gears are slowly turning in my head. "Your name is Chris?" I ask him. "Yeah, I don't use my real name for online hookups." I realize I know nothing about the man who is controlling me. I explode with cum on his hall mirror.

[trekkiepirate]

Master of All

My Witcher Secret Santa gift for @motionalocean! @thewitchersecretsanta

Crossposted to AO3 HERE

nearly 9.2K of BAMF!Jaskier and Geralt being progressively more smitten. 5 Times Jaskier Is Good At Things Geralt Didn't Expect And The 1 Thing He Knew Jaskier Was Good At. PG-13 for bad words, canon-typical violence, and the +1 Under cut because it’s hella long.

1. Pickpocketing

“Well,” Jaskier huffed, “I sincerely hope you missed one of those ghouls and they come back and eat this whole rotten village. Starting with that alderman. No, starting with his appalling son who has the AUDACITY to claim he was a better singer than me. My gods, Geralt, I don’t even think I’ll complain of the lack of a roof and a bed this evening. Sleeping under the stars with my very dear friend-“

“-not friends,” Geralt huffed.

The interruption entirely ignored by Jaskier. “-who is twice, thrice, no no no ten, a hundred, a THOUSAND times the man that they could ever dream of being. Asking a man-“

“-not a man,” Geralt said, expecting, correctly, Jaskier would ignore this comment too.

Jaskier, instead, whirled and looked at Geralt like he had punched him. Actually, he looked more upset than when Geralt has, in fact, punched him. “Of course you’re a man.” Jaskier tilted his head. “Well, I cannot say for certain as I have not yet seen you… in a state of undress. Though not that the having of a penis makes one a man. It’s more about your own identity-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, sliding two now-skinned hares onto sticks over the fire.

“You’re a man because that’s who you tell the world you are.”

“I don’t.”

It seemed only every other sentence was going to get through Jaskier’s tirades as he stopped speaking.

For a few blissful seconds. “Geralt,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, voice exasperated as if he were a teacher who expected better of his pupil. “Geralt,” he said again, “you are the best man I have ever met. Smarter than any scholar, kinder than any priest, more noble than any titled twat.”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier seemed so sincere. “We’ve just met.”

“Right, well, we’ve actually been traveling together for four months, but I imagine time feels different when you’re basically immortal, so we’ll let that slide.”

A frown twisted Geralt’s face. “You’re young. You can’t have met that many people.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and put on what he called his Viscount voice. Though why he’d pretend to be a Viscount was beyond Geralt. “I studied for years at the most prestigious and widely attended university on the Continent. I have met plenty of people, Geralt. And you are still the best one I know.”

Geralt hmmed. “Your good opinion won’t buy us a roof and a bed.”

A grin like a succubus, pretty and dangerous, spread over Jaskier’s face. He reached into his trousers and produced a bag of coins. “It might do.”

The same bag of coins that the alderman had refused to give Geralt after he cleared a nest of ghouls from a field. He’d taken three crowns and told Geralt that it couldn’t be worth the whole bag if it only took him an hour.

As it was, most of that hour was building the bomb he’d need to destroy the nest. The ghouls had been sated by feeding on villagers who’d tried to kill them and were slow.

“Where-” Geralt shook his head, he knew the answer to that one. “How?”

Jaskier tossed the bag in the air and caught it. He continued doing so as he spoke. “Remember when I gestured around his, frankly gaudy and most certainly fake, prized vase?”

Geralt stared at the boy. “You distracted him by making him think you might break his vase and then stole his coin out of his pocket.”

“Exactly! Really it’s his fault for so blatantly putting the coin away while looking down his nose at you.” Jaskier grinned bright and extracted one coin from the bag before handing it to Geralt.

“Thief’s fee?” Geralt nodded at the coin.

Jaskier’s smile got even more mischievous. He balanced the coin on his thumb, then flicked it.

It hit Geralt in the chest and fell into his lap.

“Well, tossing a coin is the chorus of the song anyway,” he winked, then spun around, grabbing a cooked hare and blowing on it before taking a large bite. “They’ll see,” he said as he chewed, “my song will become a hit! ‘Toss a Coin’ will be sung the entire length and breadth of the Continent and men like that will be the pariahs, the outcasts. Anyone who denigrates a witcher will be spit upon in the streets. See how they like that!” Jaskier’s next bite was near savage, tearing the meat from the bone. But the next moment, he grinned over the fire at Geralt. “And until it does become a hit and you are lauded as the hero you are, and don’t say you’re not a hero, I see your mouth opening and you can very well shut it again for all the credence I’m going to give you saying you’re not a hero.” He gestured wildly with his hare, grease dripping slowly down his hand and forearm, on display since he’d rolled up the sleeves as his chemise on such a warm night.

Geralt found his next breath a little harder to take as he stared at the bare forearm. He hmmed and took up his own meal.

“So until that day, I will gladly make sure you are properly paid for your work,” he waggled the fingers of his left hand at Geralt. “One way or another.”

“Don’t get caught,” Geralt said. “I won’t break you out of any jail cell you land in.”

Jaskier laughed. “That is a bald-faced lie. You did the exact thing two towns ago and that wasn’t even me risking my freedom and safety for you to be given all you deserve.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, then quickly back to his hare when he found the expression on Jaskier’s face too… too much like something warm settling in his stomach. He ate the rest of the hare as fast as he could.

No one had ever said Geralt deserved anything. Not anything nice, anyway. But Jaskier seemed to think that Geralt was a kind of hero in a tale and wanted him to be treated as such.

Fool’s errand, he thought. Jaskier was young and didn’t know how the world worked outside of the high walls of a university. He’d learn. Until then…

“Fine.”

Having gone back to eating, Jaskier was silent for a moment as if trying to recall where the conversation was picking up from. “What’s fine? Oh! Me stealing when people refuse to pay you your just wage. Of course it’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty head for a moment; I’ve never been caught yet.” He waggled his fingers in Geralt’s direction. “Dexterity is name of the game when one spends one’s life dedicated to possibly the most delicate and finnicky instrument known to man.” He looked down at his gifted elven lute like it was his flesh and blood child, so loving and soft.

When he raised his head and looked at Geralt, his adoring expression didn’t change in the least.

Geralt cleared his throat and threw the hareless stick onto the fire. ‘Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

A few more large bites and Jaskier did as he was told, snuggling into his bedroll. Which Geralt had bought him when Jaskier proved that no amount of silence or disinterest would keep him from staying at Geralt’s side, praising every deed in song. He picked up the bag of coin and wandered over to Roach to tuck it safely in her saddlebag.

The horse nickered softly and seemed to throw her head repeatedly in Jaskier’s direction.

“Don’t get attached,” Geralt scolded.

Roach tilted her head in Jaskier’s direction and kept it there.

Geralt sighed and whispered into the still night air. “Thank you, Jaskier.” He patted Roach, now seemingly satisfied, and made his way to his own bedroll, set a bit behind Jaskier’s so the bard was close to the warm fire and that anything that leapt at them from the woods would have to get through Geralt before it could get to Jaskier.

He laid there, thinking about how quickly making sure the boy warm and safe had become a priority.

2. Knowing Who The Nobles Are Everywhere They Go

“Nope,” Jaskier plucked the sun-faded paper from Geralt’s hand, ignoring Geralt’s exasperated expression. “Oh no, no, no, no. Nope, you will not be taking this. Well, you will not be taking this contract with Duke Hereward. He’s an absolute bastard and will quite surely stiff you of your deserved coin. No, we’d best find where,” he squinted at the ink, “Meadwood Farms is and go straight to the farmers themselves. Hereward will weasel his weasely way out of giving you anything. I’d gladly steal anything he might have of worth-“

Geralt glanced around, hoping no one who worked for the Duke was listening, as Jaskier did not seem to understand what the word ‘discretion’ meant.

“-alas the double-edged sword of fame means if something were to go mysteriously but deservedly missing after we took our leave, I’d find my lovely new position as a professor at Oxenfurt suddenly taken from me.” He smiled at Geralt. “I need something to do during the winter while you hide away in your Witchery mountains to do… mountainous Witchery things.”

Suppressing the urge to smile, Geralt nodded towards the inn. “I’m sure someone will know who owns the farm in there.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm and began to drag him (well, steer him as if Geralt had truly not wanted to be led, there was no way the boy, barely into his twenties, could move him) towards the inn. “Good people of Ellander!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt nearly rolled his eyes.

“Your prayers to the Great Meletile have been answered,” Jaskier continued. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, has come to aid you with your monster problems. Merely point us to Meadwood Farms and you shall soon see why Geralt is the hero of the Continent.”

Geralt was strangely glad his body no longer had the ability to blush. Jaskier’s absolute faith in Geralt was steadfast and it made something heavy and warm settle in Geralt’s chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to feel this way, to be so… cared about.

A pretty-eyed maiden made her way over to them. She smiled brightly at Jaskier. “I work at the farm. I’d be ever so glad to lead you… and the witcher there.”

The eye rolling couldn’t be controlled this time, as Jaskier immediately brightened under her attentions. “Well lead on, good miss. I presume it’s miss?”

“It is,” she giggled.

Geralt was rather glad they barely paid any heed to him as they flirted their way across town to the countryside. “What is it?” Geralt eventually asked.

Both Jaskier and the young woman, Elzbet apparently, startled as if they’d forgotten Geralt was still there. They probably had.

“The monster,” Geralt clarification. “What is it?”

Elzbet shrugged. “I didn’t see it. I do not know. Master Prospero was the one who saw it. He’s in the big house.”

Jaskier grinned. “Yes, yes, Geralt head up to see Master Prospero. Elzbet has promised to show me a most charming little corner of the barn. Apparently, there’s an owl’s nest there.”

Geralt would turn over every coin he received for the contract if there was actually an owl’s nest anywhere in the barn. All Jaskier was likely to see was up the girl’s skirts. Stomping away with a little more force than he probably needed to use, Geralt found the farm owner and got the information he needed.

It was a nest of nekkars and Geralt has cleared them all out by that night. The reward scraped together by the workers was only a third of what Hereward had promised, but it was given in gratitude and with open hands. Prospero himself was so grateful, he offered Geralt and Jaskier a room in his home for the night, as well as their dinner that night and breakfast the next morning.

Jaskier spent most of the night trying to find a suitably dirty rhyme he approved of for owl.

“Howl. Or yowl, which I will make you do if you do not put that candle out.” Geralt said at last.

“Oh you,” Jaskier tsked as he quickly scribbled down a few more lines. “You know what that Witchery magic does to me.” He winked.

Geralt buried his head further into the pillow. “Didn’t get enough with your farm girl?”

Jaskier gasped, affronted. “Excuse you, Elzbet is more than a farm girl, she is the love of my life.” He sighed dreamily. “I might stay, you know. With her.”

“Better her than me,” Geralt grumbled.

“I know you don’t truly mean those words or I’d be heartbroken beyond repair to hear you say that,” Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet and pinched out the candle flame between his licked fingers. “But what if I did? Stay?”

Geralt huffed. “You’d make a piss poor farmer.”

Jaskier laughed lightly. “Probably true.” He sighed. “Would you miss me?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said in lieu of an actual answer. “If you’re to be a farmer, you must get used to early mornings.”

Humming thoughtfully, Jaskier settled down, the line of his back just an inch away from Geralt’s in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

In the morning, Jaskier packed and took his place at Geralt’s side. He tried out lyrics and chords and by the time he and Geralt made camp that night, Jaskier had a new ballad. It was about love between a wanderer and a maiden, whom he loved but left to follow the open road he had long ago promised his heart to, his truest love.

Though he never actually sang the word road, Geralt realized as he watched Jaskier sing it a week later in a tavern. The song itself was called Walking The Path.

3. Gwent

“Dammit,” Geralt growled as he threw down his remaining card. A clear weather was useless when there were no weather cards in effect. The score was tied, but his opponent played with a Nilfgaardian deck and therefore won all ties.

The smarmy git was smiling at him like a smarmy git. “Fair is fair,” he held out a hand, “I’ll be taking your unique card now.”

It was lying next to the card the other man had anted up in the center of the table, but clearly humiliation was part of his winnings.

Geralt picked up the card and dropped it into the other man’s hand. “Here.”

“Better luck next time,” the bastard called out and he gestured another player to take Geralt’s place.

He still had all the coin he’d won, the cards had been the only prizes in that last round, so Geralt went over to the bar and ordered two ales and a glass of wine.

By the time he was picking up the second mug of ale, Jaskier had finished his set and bounded over, downing the wine in one go as always and ordering himself another.

“What’s this face? Is my singing truly that bad? Please know, if you say anything about pie, I will be forced to waste this lovely wine on your rude head.” Geralt grunted. “Singing was fine. Lost my game is all.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “You were winning when I last checked in on you.” He looked at his glass. “Do you need some coin? I got a fair amount tonight, people around here are very anti-Nilfgaard and my lovely little ditty went a treat. You must have heard the cheers.”

Geralt nodded. He had. In between games, he’d kept his eye on Jaskier. The djinn incident was two weeks ago, but this was Jaskier’s first performance since he almost lost his voice. And life.

The bard had been nervous and Geralt hadn’t even started playing gwent until the anxious scent faded into his usual confident burst of sundried linen and mint. The crowd was just as adoring, just as loud as always. Jaskier’s voice hadn’t suffered any permanent damage and Geralt was relieved. After all, his unthinking words had been the reason Geralt had almost lost… that Jaskier had almost lost his voice.

“Not coin,” Geralt said at last, draining his mug. “Lost my best card though. Drew an unlucky hand and couldn’t seem to bring it back around. Ended in a draw, but the bastard played as Nilfgaard so he took the tie.”

Jaskier frowned. “No chance to get it back?”

Geralt shrugged. “He plays here a lot, apparently. Has rules about only one match per opponent.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.”

Putting down his half full glass, Jaskier nodded. “Right, well then.” He turned and headed towards the tables set up for cards.

“Jaskier?” Geralt blinked at the space the bard had occupied a second ago. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier was already standing in front of the bastard.

Geralt couldn’t remember his name, wasn’t even sure he’d been told who he’d been playing against.

Jaskier’s relaxed ease was gone, instead his shoulders hunched up, making him look for all the world like an angry cat about to take a chunk out of the next person who tried to pet it. “Valdo Marx,” Jaskier hissed out like the very letters of the name offended him.

Huh. Geralt looked at the man who’d defeated him.

Valdo looked up with a beatific smile. “Julian, is that you? I did think I heard your particular brand of empty words and trite notes in that boyish tenor of yours.”

Now no longer just upset about the card, Geralt’s fingers twitched towards his sword. Sure, he’d not exactly complimented Jaskier’s songs recently, but his insult was born of trying to offend the man into shutting up so Geralt could find the damnable djinn and get some fucking sleep.

Which, looking back, was a useless attempt as Jaskier had been drunk and Drunk Jaskier was even more prone to rambling than Sober Jaskier.

“Normally, I’d be quite glad to just punch you in the nose,” Jaskier smirked, “again.”

Taking a closer look, Geralt did notice that Valdo’s nose was slightly crooked. As if broken a few too many times.

“But if seems you have some pretentious rule about not allowing people to win their losings back from you like an honourable gentleman would.” Jaskier crossed his arms. “So I’ll play you for Geralt’s card.”

Valdo blinked blankly. “Geralt?”

Jaskier clucked his tongue as he sat down. “My goodness, you are out of touch. Everyone on the Continent knows I sing of Geralt of Rivia, heroic Witcher of legend and my very best friend in the whole world.”

Geralt didn’t bother to object.

“Then again, you rarely get to leave Cidaris, don’t you?” Jaskier produced his gwent deck and began to shuffle it. “I often wonder how you’d do in a town you didn’t grow up in? But then your father’s money wouldn’t be there to buy you a court position now would it? Has he bought you a title yet?”

Though Jaskier couldn’t see it, perhaps because Jaskier couldn’t see it, Geralt grinned broadly at that.

Valdo grinned back nastily, revealing he had a missing canine tooth as well. “If he did, at least one of us would use their title to make a difference to their homeland. Tell me, Julian,” he laid out his deck and dealt himself a hand, “when did you last visit Lettenhove? Or do you still think wandering amongst the common folk singing dirty songs in dirty taverns is the proper way a viscount should behave? Whatever would your mother day?”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s grip on his own hand tighten, just slightly. “Just play, Marx.”

Huh. Apparently Jaskier wasn’t making the whole viscount thing up.

“Oh now now,” Valdo laid down his hand, “we haven’t set terms yet. You want the Witcher’s card, right? This one,” he picked it up and flipped it along the back of his hand. “But what will you bet? I never play for anything as gauche as coin. Some of us get wages, not a handful of coins in a dusty lute case. Actually,” Valdo leaned forward, “that’s what we’ll play for. Your pretty lute. See if you can perform in royal courts without your maaaagical little instrument.”

“No.”

Jaskier and Valdo both snapped their attention to Geralt.

“No,” he repeated. Jaskier’s lute was his livelihood, his most precious possession. Geralt wanted his card back, but not at that price. Jaskier was a clever player, Geralt knew, but Valdo’s deck was evil, full of spies and scorch cards. “Not the lute. Choose something else.”

Valdo shook his head. “Don’t think I will,” he turned back to Jaskier. “You bet your lute or I walk away and your witcher never sees his card again.”

Geralt put a hand out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder and urge him up to their room, but Jaskier just nodded. “It’s a bet. Play, Marx.”

Worry came over Geralt and he found himself pacing behind Jaskier, trying not to look at his cards because then he’d know if Jaskier had a good hand and if he didn’t…

If Jaskier lost his lute, he’d be crushed. Geralt would buy him another; he’d have to. But to lose the lute Filavandrel had given him… Jaskier always said it brought him luck, sounded sweeter than all others, even when slightly out of tune.

“It will always remind me of the day my life changed forever,” he’d smile at it, then at Geralt.

Geralt still hadn’t worked out whether he meant the day he wrote the song that made him famous or the day he learned the world was much more complicated than his human-written studies might have led him to believe.

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s hand dwindled to two cards.

Valdo still had half a dozen.

It was the last hand; both had won a turn and this would decide the winner.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Geralt closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to meditate or at least clear his mind. He still had his winnings from the other matches he’d played tonight. He had no idea how much a lute cost, but he’s fairly sure he’d be able to cover it. Did this town even have a shop that might carry one? It was only just inside the borders of Cidaris, not a particularly large village now that Geralt thought about it.

“You,” he heard a hiss, “cheated.”

Jaskier was smiling. “I did no such thing. I merely used your same tactics against you.” He held out a hand. “The card. Unless you’d like to try and win it back?”

Valdo spit out some words in Elder as he threw the card at Jaskier and stomped out like a petulant child.

Geralt was rusty and only caught every few words. Something about Jaskier’s bedroom habits and something else about being a pathetic, he thinks the word was supposed to mean hound or something like that. One phrase that Geralt did catch, as he’d heard it assigned to him once or twice before translated to ‘unlovable’.

Jaskier sat frozen through the tirade and when Geralt rounded the table, he found Jaskier’s eyes to be far more full of wrath and pain than it ought to for someone who had just won a game against a rival.

His face schooled into a triumphant grin, though there was still a sheen of sadness in his eyes. “Your card, Geralt.”

Geralt took it gently, sliding out his deck into order to tuck it away. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, if I lost I was thinking of just stabbing him and making a run for it,” Jaskier waved a hand.

“It’s not that important,” Geralt insisted, ten minutes later as they readied for bed. “It wasn’t worth risking your lute. If you’d lost it. It’s more precious to you than everything, else you’ve said so yourself.”

Jaskier looked up from folding his doublet and smiled, not his cheeky performance grins but a small, genuine thing. “Not everything. Now,” he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, “may I see the card I won from Marx in what is going to be immortalized into an incredibly epic song as soon as I come up with a rhyme for ‘thrice broken nose’?”

Geralt took it out and handed it over.

It was a fairly new card for the Northern Kingdoms deck. An ashen haired little girl pouted in a frilly pink dress, clearly displeased at being painted.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra,” Jaskier read. He handed back the card but his hand hovered, as if he might reach out for Geralt’s shoulder or even his cheek. “Yes, this is something worth taking a risk for, no question. …15 points and all,” he said after a moment, when he realized Geralt wasn’t responded. “Course I missed the opportunity of stabbing Marx, but I’ve no doubt the chance will arise again someday.” He laid down and stared at the ceiling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, finding his words dry up when those beautiful (when did he start thinking of Jaskier’s eyes as beautiful?) blue eyes blinked up at him. “I… th- you played well.”

A pleased and nearly shy look came over Jaskier’s face. “I know how much you enjoy it. Just wanted to be sure I’d be a worthy opponent for you, dearest witcher.” He stared at Geralt a moment longer, as if looking for something in his face. He shook his head slightly as if coming out of a dream. “Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier turned and faced the wall.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed as he laid down, facing the opposite wall. “Goodnight. Jaskier.”

4. Sailing

Geralt surveyed the people sitting around the table and frowned to notice one missing. “Where’s Jaskier?”

“Went fishing,” Eskel said off hand, jumping right back into his conversation with Coën.

“He what?”

Lambert looked up from his gwent match with Ciri, “He took my boat and went fishing. Said he wouldn’t be much help in a hunt, but this way he wouldn’t be and I quote, ‘useless’ and he could be a ‘worthy winter companion’.”

Geralt winced. He’d apologized for his harsh words on the mountain and Jaskier had forgiven him. But it seems some of the hurt from that day still lingered.

“Where did he go?”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look.

“I don’t know his coordinates,” Lambert answered.

“Dammit!” Geralt barely kept himself from hitting the table; he didn’t want to scare Ciri, who had put her cards down and was watching the scene with interest. “You know what’s out there. Drowners and bears and I’m not sure we entirely destroyed that harpy nest from last winter and-“

“And he assured us he could handle it,” Eskel said.

Geralt growled. “He’s human! He could get hurt.”

Coën piped up at last. “Jaskier went north from the lakeside hut.” When all eyes turned to him, Coën shrugged, “He wanted to know where the good fishing spots are. I told him.”

Spinning on his heel, Geralt headed for the door to the keep, grabbing a silver sword from a rack of them on the way. He had a location and a direction. He could pick up Jaskier’s scent from there.

Geralt hadn’t bothered to grab a coat and the winter winds bit through his leather and linen clothes almost immediately. It didn’t matter. Jaskier had been alone in the wilds for who knows how long and even without the monsters and the beasts, there were dangers. The bard could overbalance and tumble into the icy waters. What if he hadn’t thought to grab warmer clothes? Geralt picked up speed, wishing he’d thought to bring Roach. Wishing he’d thought about anything other than running to get to Jaskier and…

And he wasn’t sure what would happen after. He just… needed to know that Jaskier was all right. That he was safe. He hadn’t been safe, Geralt sighed to himself as he ran, after Geralt had snapped at him.

Geralt was sure it was just another spat; that he’d arrive back at camp and Jaskier would be there very pointedly writing a song about a heartless cad who was mean to his very best friend in the whole wide world. Jaskier had a good half dozen songs like it already, this would be one more.

Only he wasn’t there. Geralt arrived to find Roach eating the last of the apples Jaskier had packed just for her and giving Geralt a very judgmental look. “Leave off,” he growled at her as he packed up what was left and led her down the mountain. “We’ll pick him up in town and you two can whisper about how mean I am.”

But Jaskier wasn’t in town either. Nor could anyone say which way he went. Geralt cursed then like he cursed now, seeing the roof of the hut by the lake and yet no sign of Jaskier.

Bad things happened when Jaskier went off alone. Geralt shook his head to rid himself of the image of Jaskier, strung up by his hands, those beautiful talented livelihood-making hands threatened and Jaskier said nothing, gave no secrets away. Some because he didn’t know and some because he…

Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier didn’t break, except he does. The man is brave, he’s stupid and criminally loud, but he is also the most loyal man Geralt has ever known. Steel dressed in silk.

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s scent. It’s his soap and sweat and Geralt knows it like he knows his own.

Jaskier has the only boat and Geralt doesn’t fancy a swim, so he sticks to the shoreline, eyes casting about for any signs of danger or Jaskier.

Geralt very specifically tries to avoid thinking about danger AND Jaskier, which means that is all his brain will show him. Images of Jaskier surrounded by drowners, of a boat floating listlessly because the man at the rudder had been torn to pieces by harpies, a bear raising its blood-covered maw with a scrap of bright fabric caught in its teeth.

The last thing he’s thinking is that he will come upon Jaskier peacefully hauling a net of fish into the boat, adding the larger ones to a bucket next to him. So of course, that’s how the story goes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called, eyes as round and surprised as the fish wriggling its last throes in his hands. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Jaskier dropped the net thoughtlessly onto the boat’s hull and with a series of quick and efficient movements, had the boat floating over to where Geralt stood on the shore. The bard hopped over the side and hurried to Geralt, hands twitching as if he wanted to check the witcher over for any injuries. “Geralt?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

A frown coming to rest on his face, Jaskier put his hands on his slim hips. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking? You’re going to catch your death without a coat, yes I know,” he said as Geralt opened his mouth, “witchers can’t catch colds, immune systems, mutagens, blah blah,” he went back to the boat and finished sorting the fish, “blah. What could possibly have happened that you hurried all the way from Kaer Morhen without so much as a single piece of armour or a cloak?” He turned, suddenly serious. “Is everyone all right? Is Ciri all right? She’s not ill, is she? Did she take a tumble on the training course?”

Touched by how much Jaskier cares about Ciri, despite having known her a relatively short time, Geralt shook his head. “She’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Then what in the name of Meletile, Freya and any other four gods you would care to name are you doing here?”

Geralt wished he’d spent less time thinking about the past and more time thinking about the future as he ran. He’s starting to get used to that feeling in general. “You weren’t there.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, then softened. “Surely someone told you I’d gone fishing? I let everyone know. I didn’t,” he smiled sardonically, “think you’d even notice.”

“Why?”

Head tilted like a puppy, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Why did I go fishing or why did I think you wouldn’t notice? I went fishing because everyone does something at Kaer Morhen. I don’t,” he sighed, “have anything but music to offer and I’m well aware of your opinions on that. I assume your fellow witchers share them and also your witcher hearing, hence my lute case gathers dust. I do, however, know how to sail a boat, catch some fish, and cook said fish. So I thought I would make myself useful. As for you not noticing, well, I’m hardly your first priority here and,” he quickly added, “I understand completely. I shouldn’t be. Ciri comes first, always, of course. Hell, I wasn’t your first priority when we traveled together. Roach was. Speaking of, where is she? You couldn’t have tied her up too far away now.” Jaskier looked at the tree line as if a large mare would suddenly appear.

“I… didn’t bring her,” Geralt said, shame slowly rising in him at Jaskier’s words. Geralt couldn’t refute any of them. He hadn’t noticed the lack of music, assuming Jaskier still played in his room. As for when they travelled together, it hurt deep in Geralt’s gut that Jaskier thought he wasn’t a priority to Geralt. His words were often harsh, but Geralt made sure Jaskier had enough food and hunted more to ensure that he would. He bought Jaskier a warmer, if less stylish, cloak that had seen the bard through most of his twenties.

Jaskier had hefted a bucket of fish in his arms and just stared blankly at Geralt. “You… didn’t bring Roach? You, what, walked all the way here?”

Geralt’s eye twitched. “I ran.”

“For Meletile’s sake, why?”

“There’s…” Geralt cleared his throat, “drowners around. Sometimes. And bears. There might be some harpies left over from a nest we destroyed last winter.”

Jaskier settled the bucket back into the boat. “Were you… worried about me?”

Geralt nodded. Words were awkward and he wished to use as few as possible.

A look not unlike something like wonder crossed Jaskier’s face. “Oh. I… oh. I’m,” he spread his arms as if presenting himself, “fine. As you see. I… guess we should head back.” He gestured towards the boat. “I’ve a decently sized haul. I can make use of this for a while.” Jaskier stood in the shallow water, “Climb on in, and I’ll take us back.”

Geralt didn’t move.

“Oh,” Jaskier looked abashed. “Unless you’d prefer to steer?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “You can steer.”

He could. As Geralt had seen, Jaskier clearly knew his way not only around fishery, but sailing.

Jaskier nodded again to the boat and Geralt stepped in, settling at the bow.

Proving him right, Jaskier shoved them into the water and hauled himself over the side, quickly settling at the rudder and turning them around to head back towards Kaer Morhen.

Geralt cast a glance into the bucket of fish, seeing a few other smaller ones surrounding it. Several fish stared unblinkingly at Geralt as he stared back.

Jaskier hummed then cut himself off when he realized he was doing so, with a nervous glance at Geralt.

He wanted to say something. Tell Jaskier the humming was fine with him. That he should get out his lute and play for them. That Geralt wanted to hear his music, his voice. That the fillingless pie comment all those years ago hadn’t been a slight to Jaskier’s singing but the content of his songs, so many full of dirty humour or exaggerated lies.

All he could manage was “You sail good.”

Staring just as wide-eyed and unblinking as the fish, Jaskier slowly said, “Thank… you… I, uh,” he looked back at the water, “grew up on the coast. Been sailing since I was strong enough to move a rudder. Fishing even longer.”

“Why didn’t you fish that day? You could have caught your own.” Geralt winced as his words were said. Jaskier wasn’t focusing on that day with the djinn. He’d need to be specific.

But Jaskier was already answering, “I was heartbroken and near blind drunk,” he laughed, light and slightly forced. “I’d have fallen in as soon as I bent over to grab the net, hence why I was hoping you would share your haul.” He pursed his lips. “Rather wish I hadn’t, looking back.”

Geralt found himself stuck for words again. They came easy with his brothers in arms. Even with Ciri, he found himself managing to find words of comfort or encouragement when it seemed she needed them.

But Jaskier had always made things complicated for Geralt, since the day they’d met. He could annoy Geralt like nobody and nothing else; Jaskier got himself into trouble on a fairly regular basis, was fussy about his clothes and hair, and could talk the hind legs off a donkey while never saying a blessed thing of worth.

But damn if Geralt didn’t want him there, in all his messy and loud glory. He wanted Jaskier safe and, as recent events had shown, Jaskier was safest at Geralt’s side, because Geralt would move heaven and earth, call upon any help and damn the cost, to keep Jaskier so.

Geralt was in love with Jaskier. The revelation felt both sudden and slow at once. Like he’d been falling in love so quietly and steadily, there was no way to point to the day or hour that he’d actually fallen.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier, lost in daydreams, started. “What’s the matter now?”

“I,” Geralt scrambled for something to say. Should he tell Jaskier he loved him? No, that was absurd. Jaskier, for all his lingering stares and the near constant scent of lust that used to surround him, didn’t love Geralt as more than a friend, if that. Lust was not love, Geralt knew that well. He was with him for the songs and the safety. Sure, Jaskier cared for Geralt, he said it often enough, but he didn’t love him. Like how Geralt was realizing he loved Jaskier.

Who was staring at him expectantly.

At least this time, Geralt kept his annoyed at himself ‘fuck’ inside his head. “I was thinking of all the times we could have taken the river, instead of the roads.” He found words, though he wasn’t sure they were the right ones. “If I’d known you could sail. We could have… sailed. Before now.”

Jaskier dropped his eyes to the bottom of the boat, then turned away as if needing to check where he was going, as if he hadn’t been steering blind for the past several minutes, instinctive. “Ah. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you. Though we weren’t often by the,” a slight hesitation, “the coast.”

“You’re doing very well.” Geralt twitched his lips into as big a smile as he could manage and still felt it came up short.

But Jaskier’s visible cheek rose in a smile. “Thank you, Geralt.”

5. Sword Fighting

A whirl of light green and silver flashed from Geralt’s side, a movement near dancelike in its fluidity, accompanied by a whisper that sounded almost like counting.

Geralt turned just in time to see the bandit’s surprised face before his cleaved straight through torso fell, leaving the remains of his trunk and his lower body to fall to the ground a couple seconds after his head and shoulders had.

Jaskier stood behind the now deceased bandit, blood splattered all over his outfit and his face, still twisted into a mask of wrath. The sword in his hand was red with blood, silver glinting through the drops.

Geralt thinks it’s possible he has never been so turned on in his whole life and he’s going to have a good long talk with himself about why that might be later on.

The moment passed and Jaskier lowered the sword, wiping it on the deserter’s trousers. “Oh blast, sorry about that Geralt, I’ll clean all the blood off properly once we get back to camp. No worries. I know it’s silver for monsters,” he sneered at the dead man and then at the others who had foolishly decided to try to rob a witcher and his companion, “but I rather think it’s still apt. I’ll pay for the repair at the next blacksmith we come across if I damaged it too much.” He held the blade at eye level and examined it. “I think it’s mostly all right and Geralt are you okay? They didn’t manage to knock you in the head, did they? You’ve been staring at me for the past few minutes.”

Geralt was trying to sear the image of Jaskier looking over the blade as if, as if he KNOWS what to look for in a damaged sword. A sword he had used to kill a man creeping up on Geralt. A sword he had welded with deadly and graceful precision. Geralt’s own sword.

A very, very long talk. Possibly in the cold stream they’d just come from before they’d been ambushed.

Jaskier leaned past Geralt to sheathe the sword into its place across the witcher’s back and the spicy smell of anger had dissipated completely into Jaskier’s usual chamomile and honey concern scent. Underlaid by the copper of the blood.

It took a good deal of self-discipline for Geralt to not outright whine when Jaskier laid a warm hand on his cheek, tilting his head to check for injuries.

“Your pupils are very round, darling,” Jaskier said, the endearment he used so often sounded like music to Geralt. “Are you injured? I could grab you a potion if you are. Or maybe you’re just tired.” Jaskier dropped his hand and turned back to where they had laid down their belongings when the first men broke through the cover of the trees, using speed and surprise over strategy.

Geralt was sure he’d had them all until… until Jaskier killed the man who had managed to sneak up on him. Who would have put a sword through Geralt if not for Jaskier’s quick action and Geralt circled back to the image of Jaskier, bloody and snarling like a feral animal as he cut the man down with no hesitation.

A very, very long talk in a very, very cold stream.

Jaskier whistled and Roach came from her hiding spot in the trees. He patted her neck and dug through her saddlebags. “Geralt, are you out of Swallow? We have the spirit and the celandine but I think we might need to head towards the coast so you can cut down some drowners for their brains.” He smiled brightly. “Maybe they’ll be a contract for them as well. And a tavern that appreciates fine music. We could have a va- a very nice day. Or two.” Jaskier ducked his head and pink bloomed in his cheeks.

Geralt found his hand lifting of its own accord and landing on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard turned expectantly, then frowned when after a moment Geralt didn’t say or do anything else. “Geralt?” His voice was soft, the scent of his concern drew stronger. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay? You seem stunned or something. Are you sure you didn’t take a hit to the head?”

“Sword,” Geralt said at last.

“He speaks,” Jaskier smiled briefly. “He speaks nonsense, but he speaks. What about a sword? I already told you I’d take care of any repairs needed after my impromptu maneuver. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage done. It wasn’t even that difficult. You have very good moves, dear.”

Geralt blinked as he realized where he’d seen the move Jaskier had performed. It was one he’d been taught at the School of The Wolf. Jaskier used one of Geralt’s own moves. One of his Witcher moves. To save his life. “That was… that was a witcher move. How did you…” he couldn’t even finish his question.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve followed you for over two decades, Geralt. On and off, sure, but still. I’ve seen you fight nearly every creature you could come across. Including bastards like those,” he nonchalantly tossed his head towards the dead men on the ground, his fringe flicking back into his eyes boyishly. “I memorized the moves you use. Granted, I’ve mostly practiced on training dummies and sparring partners, but I’ve run across my fair share of evil and desperate men before.”

“That… wasn’t your first kill?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier tilted his head and scrunched up his nose as he calculated. “Maybe my… dozenth? Or so. Now I tried not to pick up a sword unless necessary but that gutless bastard,” he spit at the man’s bisected body, “was in your blind spot. You probably would have managed to parry, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” Jaskier smiled. “Good thing too, now that we know you’re out of Swallow. Here,” he held out a canteen of water, “drink this. Get your strength back.”

Geralt took the canteen and drank slowly to give himself time to readjust his worldview on Jaskier. “Did you… count? When you were…”

Jaskier nodded. “Oh yes. Your movements are so like a dancer’s that I memorized them to a beat.” He smirked. “I’ll make a ballad out of them some day. I’m still in the habit of the counting, but eventually I’ll stop needing that, I suppose.”

“Right,” Geralt said, nodding as if he wasn’t imaging Jaskier, in plain shirt and tight trousers, sparring with Geralt on the grounds of Kaer Morhen. A blink and it was a different kind of sparring. In a bedroom. “Huh.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he dug back through the saddlebag, “there’s some White Raffard’s if push comes to shove. Makes sense after that last nest of nekkars. Frightful creatures by the way, possibly my least favourite of them all. Though you’re low on White Honey as well, so hopefully we can find a herbalist and stock up a bit before you have to do any major fighting. ”I’m glad now that I all but raided Oxenfurt’s gardens before I joined you for Spring. Got plenty of honeysuckle in my bag and I’m sure we can find some white myrtle with no problem this time of year. Where’s your alcohest, dear? I’m sure Lambert didn’t let you leave Kaer Morhen without every type of spirit known to man.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, unable to take it anymore. “We need to get back to camp.”

Jaskier whirled around and looked at Geralt then up at the sky, the sun slowly descending in the late afternoon light. “Oh you’re right. Best head back now before we lose the light. Pity we had to have that fight after the nice splash we’d had in that stream. Do you think there’s time to wash again before we head back?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Let’s do that first, getting clean again. That’s a very, very good idea.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, “I didn’t expect that answer from Mr Uses Monster Guts As Shampoo.”

“We’re going to need to get very clean,” Geralt said, “because as soon as we get back to camp I am going to fuck you.”

Jaskier froze. “Whaaaat did you just say? Geralt, I think I misheard you.”

Geralt shrugged. “Or you can fuck me. After seeing you fight like that, I’m letting you choose how we do it.”

“Seeing me fight.” Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find which of the many words he had at his disposal he wished to use.

��Or I could just suck you off, if you’d prefer that instead.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Geralt… Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde and I have never been more grateful for the night Vesemir got drunk and shared stories of your youth, I need you to be very, very serious about that offer.” Jaskier licked his lips. “Because I would very much like to take you up on it and if… if it’s just for the night, I don’t rightly think we should risk our… ye gods, you’ve never even called me your friend and here you are offering sex as if… is this just because you feel obligated? I’m sure you would have moved just in time but I couldn’t risk letting that man hurt you and-“

Geralt reached out and pulled Jaskier close, which shut the bard up. A trick Geralt was wishing he’d let himself try before. “I am very serious. If you want it to be for the night, it’s just for the night. It could be a more… formal arrangement if you’d prefer that.”

Jaskier dropped his head to Geralt’s shoulder and breathed out heavily. “I died, didn’t I? I misjudged the distance and the bandit killed me and this is heaven. I didn’t think I’d go to heaven. Huh.”

“Not dead,” Geralt said, lifting a hand to thread through Jaskier’s hair. “Not letting you die. Ever. Especially now that I know how well you fight. You’re living just as long as I am. Don’t know how. I’ll ask Yen, maybe she’ll know of some-“

“Okay,” Jaskier took a step back. “Now, now you’re just being… you want to ask Yennefer, a very very scary witch that you sleep with on the regular-“

Geralt shrugged. “Going to have to stop that now that I have you.”

A high-pitched whine issued from Jaskier’s throat. “I’m going to need you to stop saying things like that if you don’t mean them… how I… ho- expe- think you mean them.”

“I mean them how you think I mean them,” Geralt said. “Most likely. I mean that I would very much like to take you back to our camp and check at least a few things off the mental list of sexual acts we’ve both been compiling right now.”

Jaskier squeaked, “Both?”

Geralt nodded. “I would very much like to do so tomorrow night and for as many nights as you want me. And to extend your allotment of nights somehow. Yennefer has been searching arcane magic things for decades, surely she’s found some anti-ageing or immortality spell by this point. She wouldn’t have needed it, but I’m sure she would have made note of any.”

“Sure she can’t make me younger before she does that?’ Jaskier asked, relying on humour to help him deal with the inrush of information he was being given.

Tilting his head, Geralt looked Jaskier over very thoroughly, noting with some satisfaction what effect his assessing stare had on the state of Jaskier’s trousers. “I like you as you are now. Not the whelp that followed me when It was stupid and dangerous. You’re a grown man now. You’ve filled out. I like how you look.”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Pardon me if this all seems very sudden.”

“Not sudden,” Geralt said. “I’ve liked how you looked for years.”

“You never said anything.”

Geralt smirked slightly. “I know you’ve lusted for me. I can smell arousal. You never said anything either.”

Jaskier flailed again. “You didn’t consider me your friend, so forgive me for assuming ‘Hey Geralt, you’re the most bloody gorgeous person I’ve ever seen in my whole life would you like to bed me and then marry me’ wouldn’t go down very well.”

“I thought,” Geralt started, “you only wanted to follow me for the songs. For the fame and coin it earns you. It’s why you started following me.”

Struck speechless, Jaskier just stared.

Geralt continued. “I’ve thought of you as my friend, but I didn’t think you thought of me as yours. Until you saved me. Until you learned how I fight in case you ever needed to save me. Until you knew what my potions do and which ones they are. All the little things you’ve done for me throughout the years make sense now. I know friendship. That’s not friendship; it’s love.”

“I have loved you since,” Jaskier waved a hand theatrically, “since you told the elves to let me go. Since you let me stay with you even though you could have outrun me easily on Roach. You hunted enough for two and laid our bedrolls close so I wouldn’t freeze on cold nights and especially after the mountain, you’ve barely let me out of your sight and… oh my gods, I am thick, aren’t I? I am so thick! I am Mr. Thick Thick Thickety Thickface from Thicktown, Thickania. You don’t talk, you do. That was your way of… of… saying how you feel. Isn’t it?”

Geralt hummed and nodded.

Jaskier’s smile could have outshone the lovely sunset happening somewhere behind them. “You love me. Geralt, you… love me. Like I love you. Oh my gods, are you sure I’m not dead? Or having the most wonderful dream? This is real,” he took a step closer and reached out cautiously to pull Geralt into his arms. “This is real, right?”

“It’s real,” Geralt nodded again.

A laugh bubbled out of Jaskier, eliciting a smaller but no less sincere one from Geralt. “If I wasn’t covered in blood, I would be kissing you alre-“

Geralt leaned in and pressed their lips together, relishing the happy gasp Jaskier made against his mouth. “Hmm, I’m bloody too.”

Jaskier kissed Geralt, a small peck and then another. “Where was that stream again?”

Geralt pulled back and took Jaskier’s hand, guiding him in the dimming light. “I won’t be bedding you and then marrying you,” he said.

Confusion scrunched up Jaskier’s face before he realized what he had said before. “Oh bollocks, I didn’t mean that- necessarily- I don’t- where would we find a priest or priestess any- I wasn’t suggesting-”

“We have to have some courting time before we should even think about marrying,” Geralt continued. “it’s only proper.”

“Right,” Jaskier nodded so fast, it was a miracle his head didn’t fly away. “Right, right, right, right. Of course, of course, of course. Proper… proper courting. Geralt?” he asked as they arrived at the stream. “I love you. I just… can I say that now? Because I’ve wanted to say it so many times and I’ve been biting it back for years and I just… I just love you.”

Geralt smiled. “I love you too.”

+1

Wow,” Geralt said, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s how you manage to get away with those abysmal pickup lines. I mean… wow.” His heart was racing so fast it almost sounded human after the passionate, athletic and frankly innovative sex they’d just had. "I always did think it would be good."

He didn’t need to turn to see Jaskier’s smug smile, but he did anyway.

Jaskier’s grin was wide and stretched his cheeks even higher than normal. He tossed his sweaty fringe out of his face and kissed Geralt, deeply, slowly, perfectly. “You’re welcome.”

[athyathye]

For Sanzu... not much to be said.

The first thing that my sister asked is "Why does he have pink hair?" Tbh, i don't have the exact answer to that question. At the very least, she know his gender right away with Bonten!Sanzu. Then she asked about the scars and comment, "He looked like Jeff the Killer or Joker from Batman."

But for Toman!Sanzu, she called him "Blonde, British Lady." Her words, not mine. At one point, she called him 'Crazy'. But one thing that is constant is that, "He looked gay." I will not correct nor affirm her doubts, considering and remembering his 'loyalty' to Mikey and 'things'. Yeah... i better not touch that subject. But, i do agree that he is crazy.

For the last fanart of Bonten!Sanzu that i showed her, her comment is something that will throughly offended Sanzu deeply. Along with the neighbouring fandom.

"He looked like a BTS member. With the pink hair and all. And with that hairstyle too." "Yes, he look like BTS if they are anime. A BTS Anime version." These words are not mine, but hers. I just nod along side her, with little correction. Just fyi, she is not in the KPop fandom and she is not a fan of BTS or any Korean singer.

And for the extra note, she watched TR with me. But only the Baji death episode and the leading to his death episode. So 2 or 3 episodes(?) I forgot which episodes that she watched the 20s i guess. Because i was making a big deal out of it.

And so, she called Wakasa a girl and asking if Wakasa is Draken. She called Draken an 'Egghead' 'Baldie' and 'The Bald Guy With Tattoo On His Head'. She never called Draken any other name.

Yeah, i show her wakasa fanart. But i will need to do a thorough interview for the wakasa session in a later date. It's not satisfactory yet.

Bye~ that is all for the story time.

I- I'm sorry but I have to say it. Your sister is walking around either with a blindfold covering her eyes or with a very unbothered and or disinterested gaze.

She creative, but also not the description they would have at all lmao

I can agree with associating Sanzu with Joker, Draken with the egg head and Wakasa as a girl BUT DANG JIMIN???? MY GIRLY IT'S JUST THE HAIR THAT THEY HAVE IN COMMON, LIKE THAT'S IT-

Are you sure she doesn't need to go to an eye doctor? (I'm kidding I'm kidding)

[wienerbarnes]

Left for Dead (2/2)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,991

Warnings: mentions to bombs and ships and stuff, baking 

A/N: yay pt 2 enjoy!

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Her clothes came back with traces of bomb ingredients and she still has no memory of anything that happened to her or anything about this bomb.” Sam briefs the three of you.

It’s later in the day, now, about five in the evening when Sam gets word back from his agents.

“What if she was forced to make the bomb?” You find yourself offering.

Sam waits a moment while looking at you before he responds, “How sure are you that she didn’t do it?”

“Very.”

He sighs, “You were seeing German but my agents said she told them she doesn’t know a lick of any language other than English,”

“That she remembers.” Bucky interrupts.

“That she remembers. Sharon, I want you to look into German bomb manufacturers around here.”

Sharon nods and stands and makes her way out of the room. The three of you occupy a smaller conference room, about a third of the size of the one you were in this morning.

“I want to try again. With my visions. Maybe, with something from evidence.” You suggest.

“Are you sure?” Sam asks, more out of concern than of skepticism.

“Yes.” You reassure him. You haven't paid much attention to Bucky since Sam called you down just now, you find yourself getting a bit invested into the cases and wanting to solve it and figure out what happening, and you don’t want to let Bucky’s pretty face distract you. Such a pretty face it is.

You roll your eyes at that voice again. Being surrounded by so much information is kinda making your brain go haywire, you find. These voice haven’t bothered you since prison, only every once in a blue moon, but they’ve been non-fucking-stop since you’ve gotten on the case.

Makes for a good seat, too. “Shut up, would you?!” You yell, quickly realizing that you said that out loud instead of in your head. Embarrassment floods your body immediately and you look up to see both men staring at you in surprise.

“Uhm, sorry. It’s nothing, can I see the box?” You gesture towards the large brown box labeled evidence.

Sam plops it at your feet and you sift through the copious amounts of plastic bags until you come across a piece of fabric.

“It’s a piece of the dress she was wearing when she was found. Another piece was sent off to the lab which is where they found all those bomb-making chemicals on it.” Sam informs you.

You take a deep breath and remove the cloth from the bag and roll it around your fingers. You’re fingers grip it hard and feel it softly, trying to conjure up something, anything, in your head.

“It’s not a carrier,” You begin, the ship showing up in your mind, but your knowledge is foggy from when you were a Marine.

“Submarine?”

“Destroyer?”

“Cruiser?”

“Battleship?”

“I - I - don’t know… fuck,” You clench the fabric in your fists in an attempt to cease their shaking. All these ships look the fucking same anyway.

Not to the Navy, they don’t.

You ignore it and continue, “I - I - I see a man,” A whine escapes you as the emotion becomes overwhelming, “He’s bald and - and white and like forty? Maybe? Uh,”

You sniffle, “Prince, Prince, Prince, Prince, I don’t know why I’m seeing Prince.”

“Like the singer?” Sam questions.

Bucky gently takes the cloth from your hands, “I think that’s enough for now.”

You try to catch your breath and hastily wipe the tears that escaped your eyes. “I was a Marine, why can’t I remember the ship?” You ask more yourself than the other two people in the room.

Maybe it's all the crazy taking up so much space it’s gotta push some of the older info out.

Ignore. It.

“Cruisers are named after battles and destroyers are named after names, maybe Prince is a destroyer ship. I’ll have an agent look into all current operating ships and see if any matches come up. Barnes, go give Sharon the description of this bald white guy, see if she can use it to match with a bomb manufacturing place.”

“Yes, sir, Cap.” Bucky stands from his seat beside you and exits the room.

The two of you sit in silence, now; you’re not really sure what to do. Should you leave again? Wait until they need you? Stay? Make small talk with Captain America?

“Can I ask you something?” Sam interrupts the quiet.

“Sure.”

“Why are you so adamant about being here? You’re pretty good at this investigative stuff and I think you have a lot of potential for it.”

You give an appreciative smile at his compliment before answering, “I was a Marine for two years where I followed orders from assholes and worked alongside people that treated me like I was garbage. Then, I was kidnapped by HYDRA and tortured to comply working under an organization I didn’t want to with people who didn’t even treat me like a human being. And now, I’m brought here to live and work in a place I don’t want to be at with people who don’t and will never know who I actually am. So, you can kind of see why I’m adamant.”

Sam looks down, and you don’t want to make him feel bad, because he gave you the best scenario he could given the circumstances of everything.

“I just want a little bit of control with my life for once, is all. But, I know what I have now is very lucky for me, so I’m grateful, even if it’s not what I want.”

He looks back at you and now it’s your turn to give him a reassuring smile. You have a feeling you’ll grow on each soon enough.

…

You’re glad your powers didn’t fail you for your first case, because that would have been terribly embarrassing. Sharon was able to find a German bomb-making company with employees who have recently gone missing that match the descriptions of the man you saw and the Jane Doe.

Now that their identities have been found, there’s still the question of where this bomb is and if it’s even real.

You can’t help but let it keep you up that night. When you were doing jobs for HYDRA, it wasn’t a matter of making sure every rock was left turned over; you performed the job because the alternative was being tortured.

You glance at the clock, 1:32.

You remember one particular mission you didn’t complete because it involved you having to kill kids. And when you returned with an unfinished mission they tortured you so bad that you begged them to just kill you. And they said that they would never kill you because then the horrors would end. It was the easy way out; and they would torture you for the rest of time before they ever kill you. It was too much mercy to be shown to a prisoner.

Another glance at the clock that tells you only six minutes have passed causes you to get up. You can’t get too deep into your thoughts, especially if tomorrow is going to have you busy helping with this case. You have to make yourself busy.

So you cook. You go through the pantries and cupboards for ingredients; brown sugar, white sugar, eggs, flour, vanilla. You became very good at estimating and perfecting the things you wanted to cook. You never had a phone or laptop to look up measurements for something or a cookbook to follow, so you had to experiment yourself until you got it right. When you lived in your apartment, sometimes you would venture out to bookstores and try your hardest to memorize the recipes in cookbooks in order to replicate it at home.

You quietly mix together all of the ingredients until a thick dough forms. Cinnamon and brown sugar cookies. One reason you liked cooking so much is because, even though it was hard without any instructions to follow, it was one of the few times your voices were quiet. Actual silence. You cooked without any electric supplies or music for this reason, too.

You sit on the ground in front of the oven and watch as the balls of cookie dough slowly melt and rise up again, forming the perfect circular shape with the perfect amount of chewiness and crunch when you take a bite.

You softly unstick the cookies from the pan with a spatula and glance at the clock again. 3:02.

You remember Bucky’s words from this morning; how he sticks around for these kinds of missions in his spare room.

“Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?”

“Yes, Agent?”

“Is… Is Bucky here?”

“Yes, Agent.”

“Is he awake?”

“Yes, Agent.”

“But, is he, like, awake - awake? Or like falling asleep, but still technically awake - awake? Or is he -”

“Would you like me to lead you to where his quarters are, Agent?”

The hallways are quiet, but you’re grateful that there are lights along the floors so you’re not completely walking through the dark. Seeing a sliver of dim light show underneath his door makes you feel a little better about the late hour. After about five minutes of contemplation, you raise your fist and leave three soft knocks on the door.

Bucky opens the door a few seconds later and seems wide awake. You see behind him a notebook open on his desk with some music playing softly in the room.

You speak before he gets a chance to, “I made too many cookies, do you want to help me eat them?”

A smile grows on his face as he silently nods after a moment.

“Hey F.R.I.D.A.Y., mind turning everything off, please?”

The lights turn off and the music stops as he closes the door behind him. The two of you quietly walk side by side back towards the elevator, because it seems like Bucky’s room is right below yours.

He wears a black long sleeve shirt and dark gray cotton shorts, paired with white socks on his feet. What you would do to add some color to this man’s closet, you think.

A cloud of sugar and warmth hits him in the face when he enters your room. The combination of your smell and the smell of cookies and the sight of you in cute little pink shorts and an oversized college sweatshirt that has a big bear on it and the yellow and orange polka-dotted socks on your feet and all of your things everywhere makes him feel like he just entered his dreams.

“It smells amazing in here.” He compliments.

He watches you smile and grab the pan that has since cooled enough for you to grab it and walk over to plop down on your bed. Bucky follows and sits himself down utop one of your soft fuzzy blankets.

“Are these brown sugar cookies? These are my favorite,” Bucky says as he shovels one in his mouth whole.

I know they’re your favorite.

“Mmm - almost feels like I’m back at your apartment.” He smiles nostalgically, looking around and taking in the wonderful colors of your personality that brighten up this room.

“Good, means I did a good job redecorating. It’s okay that I did decorate, right? There isn’t a security deposit I’m going to lose?” You joke, and for a moment, it really does feel like the two of you are back in your apartment, before all of this chaos hit the fan.

The two of you eat and eat and eat, sharing playful small talk in between bites, until the two of you are  stuffed to the brim with dough and are laying side by side on the bed, empty tray by both of your feet.

“Hey, Bucky?” You ask out into the calm, open air.

“Mmm,” He hums.

“I’m sorry for spitting on you. And then avoiding you. And then yelling at you and saying those awful things,” You turn on your side and lay a hand on his arm, “I didn’t mean it, I was just upset.” Your eyebrows quirk up at him, silently begging him to forgive you.

He sends a playful smile at you before mirroring you and turning on his side as well to face you, grabbing your hand from his arm and holding it in his large one, “It’s okay, doll. I would’ve been just as upset as you if I were in your position. I’m sorry things didn’t… work out the way they should’ve for you.”

“Not something you gotta apologize for, Bucky.” You whisper.

The two of you lay there, hands intertwined in each other, eyes locked. You’re not sure how long the two of you lay like that, or how long Bucky stays, but sleep finally comes to you at 4:55 in the morning.

…

The next few days pass in a bit of a blur. One of the private hackers was able to get a list of ships in communication with the found German bomb-manufacturing company and Sharon was able to find one of the ships, named The Princeton - which is why you kept seeing something about prince in your head, not because of the late musical artist - which was having a scheduled bomb test aboard. A bomb testing that was swapped with real bombs instead of fake ones, seemingly by the man you saw in your visions, the same one who tried to bury Jane Doe. All of the Marines aboard remained safe and unharmed, and you officially closed the case on your very first mission.

Sam thought you did very well, but still wanted to keep a slow pace with your advancements on the team. He set up for you to train with him a few times a week in a private training room, and perhaps with the next set of agent trainees Bucky will be tasked with at the beginning of the year in a few weeks.

With the mission being completed, Bucky returned home to his apartment to sleep and stay until he’s called once again for another mission. He kind of… can’t wait? After Steve retired, he didn’t see a big reason to continue with all the fighting; he didn’t really see a reason even before Steve retired when he was still staying in Wakanda. He enjoyed that quiet lifestyle, tending to his gardens, feeding his sheep, cleaning up around wherever he could, talking to those that lived around him, hanging out with the children. It was paradise for him.

But now, with you around, actually around where he doesn’t have to hide you from his closest friends, the prospect of more missions doesn’t seem all that horrible. Maybe it’s the thought that you’d be around him that makes it more bearable for him, or maybe he’s just simply had a change of heart over time.

He finds himself returning more and more to the tower when he doesn’t have to; finding the smallest excuses to go - sometimes he doesn’t even run into you when he does. But he tries to.

He’s roaming around the open gym, opting for thirty miles on the treadmill instead of out and around his neighborhood, panting a bit while he wipes down the machine before leaving to go work with the weights. He feels a tap on his shoulder and he turns and plucks a headphone of his ear, coming face to face with an old trainee, now trained agent.

“Nuñez, what’s up?” Bucky greets him with a rough shake of the hand. Don’t get him wrong, he was a fantastic soldier to train, and he turned out to be an even more fantastic agent. But he has no idea why he’s talking to him while he’s in the middle of a workout.

“Hey, Sergeant, sorry to bother you. I - uh, I was wondering if I could talk to you about something?” He stutters out.

Why is he so nervous?

Bucky urges him to continue with a nod of his head.

“So, uh, I wanna ask you something, y’know, man-to-man, rather than Sergeant-to-Agent, and - and - feel free to tell me if I’m overstepping with this! I just didn’t - didn’t -”

“Spit it out, Nuñez.”

“Okay, okay. Remember the last briefing we had?”

“It was about five days ago, yes, I remember.”

“Right, right, of course. Well, there was… this girl sitting next to you.”

A part of Bucky freezes and he hopes he’s talking about Sharon.

“Agent Carter?” Bucky asks.

“No, no, not Agent 13. The other girl sitting next to you. Black hair, kinda short.” He tries, but Bucky knows exactly who he’s talking about.

“What about her?” Bucky tries to turn on a bit more of his Sergeant voice, anything to end this conversation because he has a feeling where it might be going.

Agent Nuñez pasues, “Well, uh, who is she?”

“Why?”

“She’s pretty.”

“She’s pretty?” Bucky repeats.

“Yeah. I wanted to know who she is, I haven’t seen her around and I don’t remember her from any of the trainings.”

“She’s a new agent in training, she’s being trained under the Captain.” Bucky tells him.

“Oh… What’s her name?”

“Nuñez! Enough with the twenty questions!” Bucky bursts out, because why does he have such a fascination with you? It’s like he wants to -

“I just wanna ask her out or something, but I don’t know anything about her!”

“Well, that sounds like a good reason to -” Bucky stops himself when an idea comes into his head, and before he can think twice about it, he’s speaking once more,

“Actually, I just remembered, Nuñez. She’s taken. She’s in a relationship. So, yeah. Sorry.” Bucky slaps a hand on the Agent’s shoulder for good measure.

“Oh… that sucks. It’s always the pretty ones that are taken, huh?”

“Yeah, buddy. Anyway, see you later!” Bucky breathes out, desperate to get out of that conversation and just continue with his damn workout…

Why did he just lie like that in order to stop a guy from asking you out?

[supposed2bfunny]

2doc Week Day 3- Firsts

The bar is mostly empty, which means it must be going on three or so. Some locals remain, as do a few drunks who are too tired to move. There’s a couple sat at one of the front tables: the girl is crying; the boy is spinning his dead cellphone nervously as he tries to talk her down. ABBA is playing on the speaker over the booth where 2D and Murdoc are sitting.

It’s perfectly surreal, and it suits the musicians just fine. They’re sat across from each other, 2D’s sneakered foot is rubbing against Murdoc’s ankle every so often, and more than once, Murdoc has grabbed 2D’s wrist in his drunken excitement, pulled it across the table, and kissed the back of his hand, or his palm.

It’s nice.

“This bartender,” Murdoc says, flicking the empty shells of some peanuts that sit between them on the table, which 2D had munched on hours ago, “he reminds me of someone from our last tour. Who is it?”

“Umm,” 2D spins his tongue along the rim of his beer bottle, turning to stare none-too-subtly at the bartender. “Bald? Dunno. Sure he wasn’t a backstage techie?”

“No, not his baldness, dumbass, his nose and goatee. Reminds me of…someone.”

“Sort of looks like Count Chocula to me.”

“What?” Murdoc snorts, nearly choking on a sip of ale. “Who?”

“The bloke from that cereal! From America! Russel introduced it to us. He had a goatee, I think.”

“But a vampire? Mate, this guy doesn’t look like a vampire.”

“Then who’s he remind you of?” he challenges, kicking the older man’s shin lightly beneath the table.

“Dunno, he reminds me of someone from one of our tours. We were touring Humanz, I think.”

“Oh that was ages, ago, Muds. Don’t think I’d remember the backup musicians we had with us.”

“Pity, we had some top notch players for that tour. Vienna? We were solid!”

“The four of us really had our mojo on then too,” 2D agrees. “Remember you and Noods just riffing, trading bars, sounding crazy. Like Titans clashing on Mount Vesuvius!”

“Mount Olympus, but I appreciate the simile,” he chuckles, reaching for the singer’s hand yet again, pressing his lips to his knuckles. “You didn’t sound so bad yourself then, if my admittedly liquor-spotted memory serves.”

“Muds, you always say that I sound good live,” he giggles.

Murdoc sets his drink down, taps the table in his excitement. “Well duh, Tweedle-Dee, you were born to perform! With your looks and your voice, on a stage is where you’re meant to be. It’s like  seeing a king assuming his gilded throne!”

“I get a few drinks into you and you become a world-class flatterer, don’t you?”

“You should see what I’ll do after a few dozen,” he says with a wink.

2D’s eyes flit away from the bartender, whose visage could be similar to anyone’s at this point; they’ve lost interest in that conversation, in him. The singer scans the shitty decor, the dead bug-flecked lights and the vinyl discs displayed above the bar. It’s a real dive, this place, and it’s perfect. The ultimate destination to get lost with Murdoc for hours reminiscing, drinking, taking in the way the dim lights soften Murdoc’s features, to savor the way he smiles more readily when they’re in a place people won’t recognize or bother them.

“D’you really think that I’m still, you know, up to par when I perform live?” he asks after a moment.

Murdoc’s flirty smile shifts; his own mismatched eyes shunt from 2D’s restless hands to his face, to his hands again, trying to gauge where the conversation is going. “I wouldn’t bother saying it if I didn’t think it was true,” he says slowly, and if they were outside, he would be plucking a cigarette from his pocket. “I don’t bullshit, Stu.”

“That’s bullshit,” he can’t help but smile at the absurdity of the statement. “You spend ninety percent of your waking hours talking out of your arse!”

“Yeah, but not to you,” Murdoc clarifies, and, despite the staggering amount of alcohol they’ve consumed over the course of the night, and how it’ll be dawn before they know it, and in spite of the way the world keeps spinning them along at a speed that 2D struggles to comprehend sometimes, the moment becomes somehow sharper then, the intensity of Murdoc’s gaze sober, the gravity of his words like a planetary re-alignment.

Oh, 2D thinks, of course. That makes sense.

“Okay, well then…I guess I just ask because…that was 2017. And I’m not getting any younger. I don’t have the vocal range I used to, from the cigarettes, probably. Sometimes performing stuff live, I think of how easy it used to be to slip up into high octaves. And I had more hair back then too. Don’t know if I could really pass for a ‘pretty boy’ these days, not like it’s something I need to do. Do you know what I mean, Muds? Like, I still like performing live, but d’you ever wonder how much longer I can carry our image? Not a spring chicken. I’m—”

“Right, just going to go ahead and cut you off there, pet. I know the beginning of a downwards spiral when I hear it,” Murdoc interjects, and he realizes it’s true. A niggling fear that’s been in the back of his mind for months now. Since he turned forty, if he’s being honest. He leans over the table, wanting to be closer to the bassist, and Murdoc meets his stare placidly. “Stu, I’ve had a bit to drink, but I’m going to give it to you as coherently as I can: you’re a rockstar. That makes you timeless, legendary. Think of Gene Simmons!”

“I’d rather not,” 2D admits. “Ew.”

“Okay, well, think Paul McCartney or Mick Jagger! Those blokes make us look like embryos, and they still sell out MSG whenever they go on tour! It’s because of their charisma, their talent, their mojo; the old bags are damn immortal!”

“And you think Gorillaz are immortal, Muds? You’re not just saying that as like, a Satanist or whatever?”

“No, I’m saying it because I’m abso-fucking-lutely confident that after being in the music industry for most of my life, I know talent when I see it. I’m not just patronizing you because you’re my boyfriend, Stu, I’m telling you: you’re a natural-born performer, and that shit doesn’t fade with age. You’re a blue-haired legend!”

2D leans back, drinks in the sight of Murdoc, drunk, laconic, confident in his words. “You’re really serious about me,” he murmurs after a long pause, punctuated by the Blondie that is now pouring out of the shitty speaker wedged above their booth.

“Duh,” Murdoc snaps. “Have been since I rammed into that pretty head with my Astra, but glad you’ve finally realized that I meant it when I said I knew you’d be the ultimate cash cow—”

“No, no. Not about my talent,” he answers, because really, who gives a damn whether he’ll be able to sell out MSG when he’s sixty years old? “You just called me your boyfriend.”

He sees the realization as it flickers into Murdoc’s dark eyes; like flash cotton, it’s a burst of bright, embarrassed understanding, almost instantly quelled by a more casual mask that 2D is intimately familiar with. “Did I?”

2D smiles, lifts his long, long legs up to rest his feet on the tops of Murdoc’s thighs, making the bassist squirm a little. Maybe they’ve spent enough time at this dive bar. 2D is suddenly feeling electric, and a great deal younger than he was at the onset of their evening together. He’s a bit restless, wants to walk with Murdoc, to walk and smoke and find a sidewalk that will lead them along the water so they can watch dawn break as they’ve done countless times together.

“Yeah, you did. You’ve never said that word before.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Murdoc grumbles, playing at nonchalant.

“Oh yeah, only been dating since, what? 2017? 2018?”

“Only been a little bit in love since what, 1999?” Murdoc asks, voice gone all quiet.

Gracelessly, 2D stands, fumbling for his wallet so he can leave a tip at the table and hasten the bassist out the door. He’s known Murdoc loved him for years, decades even. Neither of them has had any reason to hide it. But he’s never heard Murdoc refer to him as his boyfriend before, and didn’t even know the word was in his vocabulary.

“Hey, Muds?” he asks when his sudden movement makes the bassist blanch. “Walk with me? I want to slip my hand in your back pocket, but that’s pretty hard to do when we’re slunk in a booth.”

“Oh, oh yeah, sure,” words tend to abandon Murdoc when he’s serious, and 2D smiles, revels in getting to see him when he’s this raw.

Nodding at the bartender that might look like someone they’ve worked with and who might just look like himself, both men step out into the cool night, Murdoc’s hands instantly going for his pack of cigarettes and 2D’s arm instantly snaking around his waist, pulling him close.

“Nice night for a romantic walk, eh?”

“It’s not night, idiot, it’s well into morning.”

“Well then, good morning, starlight,” Murdoc chuckles, inhales a breath of smoke and hands the cigarette to 2D.

“Good morning, handsome,” he replies, feeling giddy, like a girl on her first date. Like a first date he’s played out a million times before, that gets better and better each time.

[lesbianlovelanguage]

Lost Boys of Starwood Ch 1

Fandom: Stranger Things Paring: Harringrove Chapter 1/10 Rating: T Co-written by myself and the amazing @catharrington​

Summary: West Hollywood California was a lighthouse on the beach for Steve Harrington moving down from nowhere Indiana. But for billy Hargrove it was a cage with golden bars kept locked by his father good and tight. They both found safety inside the darkness and splendor of Starwood, but will they be able to see the only way they can be truly found is through each other?

Read it on ao3 here or in the read below

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” Billy grunted, trying to squirm his way out from between two massive bouncers.

They ignored his shouts and threats, and continued to lead him outside. Once at the door, they threw him on to the street and slammed the door behind him.

“And fuck you too!” He gave one final middle finger at the closed door, and huffed before pulling out his almost empty pack of Lucky Strikes and lighting up a cigarette. This night was turning out to be a bust. The few drinks he was able to pilfer from the bozos around the dance floor weren’t doing much more than giving him a light buzz. When Billy tried like hell to convince an older guy to buy him a shot of Jack, the old geezer got security involved. Billy had just slid his hand up the meat of this guy's inner thigh a little, nothing big. No one is ever down for a good time any more.

Thankfully, the lights of Hollywood Blvd never turned off. He walked slowly, hands stuffed down inside the pockets of his tight denim, sweat from the club slowly drying on his naked chest. Billy left the top buttons open, even out on the street, wouldn’t want anyone to miss the show.

In his short year of exploration of the strip, Billy was proud to say he had been in each club at least once. Usually he was able to get a beer in his belly and a hand on his ass before he got caught and kicked out for being 17. He didn’t look it though, hand to god. He could pass for older, no problem, the earring and cocky smirk only aiding in the ruse. It’s just he didn’t have a fake ID, and, whilst Billy hid his age, he never hid his loose sexual orientation. Some clubs were okay with it and some were not, to say the least. The ones that didn’t care played the music that Billy craved. The angry lyrics, the loud guitar, the volume breaking the metal from the speakers as quick as they can, that’s the music Billy needed in his veins.

Taking slow drags from his cigarette, head down and debating about going home for the night, Billy started hearing some halfway decent music. He turned up his head to the sound of hard drums and a fast guitar start up, followed by an angry voice practically screaming I don’t wanna live to be thirty-four. Billy was definitely intrigued, and so he followed the music to another club. The neon sign naming the bar as “Starwood” and proclaiming the night’s guest to be a band called The Circle Jerks . Between the music and the name, Billy couldn’t find one reason to resist as he steered towards the doors. The chaos of the loud music at a shitty bar seemed exactly the kind of excitement buzz Billy was craving so deeply.

Just as he was poised to go in, Billy faltered in his step as a towering brick wall of a man covered the doorway. His one hand pushed the heavy door open, while the other was almost closed in a fist around a bloodied up man's throat. They walked out farther into the sidewalk, with the bouncer dragging the other man like a doll.

Billy knew an opportunity when he saw one, and even though there was a heavy thrill in seeing this fight and getting a look at the full sleeves of ink up and down the bouncer’s arms, Billy saw an opportunity. Billy used the distraction to dive for the quickly closing door.

Inside Starwood wasn’t much. The hallway was blacked out and the floor was scuffed from use to be just as dark. Multiple layers of faded posters glued to the walls on either side were a buffer to the noise, but not a good one.

Billy let his hands slide alongside the short hallway as his ears lead him around a corner into a thick mass of bodies.

As soon as he entered the main area of the bar, he was overwhelmed in the best way. The music was loud and fast, the bodies were sweaty and constantly in motion, and the booze was pouring freely and creating sticky puddles that merely added to the atmosphere. For the first time in a long while, Billy felt at home. It was easy to slide between the dancing bodies towards the bar in the back. He hung back, read the crowd, and easily snuck over to a particularly crowded spot at the bar.

He tucked himself just behind a thin woman who was already slurring her speech and snatched the neck of a beer bottle right under her nose. She was too busy leaning forward into the space of another girl talking with her hands to notice the thief, and once Billy took enough steps away she would have no reason to suspect a thing. Sometimes people let their guard down too easily at a bar, and while Billy knew about that, thankfully he just wanted to get drunk tonight. He cleaned off the lip of the bottle with the hem of his shirt before gulping it down for dear life.

There was a uniquely shaped stage on the other side of the large room, taking up almost the whole wall but was narrow. The band performing that night had the singer squashed between a massive drum set and a guitarist who held a wide power stance in tight leather pants that fit him like a second skin. The singer didn’t seem to have a care in the world as he bumped and even grinded against his guitarist's ass during a long and heavy solo.

This bar kept getting better and better to Billy. He wondered for a moment if he would have luck with what he attempted in his previous escapade. He had leaned up against a support beam covered in stickers and something sticky, but he didn’t care about that, nothing he hadn’t felt before in other places like this. Sea blue eyes scanned around the dark room hunting like a shark.

Then he saw someone, a lanky boy, fresh as a daisy but rushed and sweating behind the bar. He had long brown hair that just seemed to float above his head like a damn halo, and brown eyes that were just as big. From where Billy was standing all the lights of the stage reflected off those eyes, rainbows of colors, and when the boy slid a glass down the bar top and smiled, it was just as fantastic. Something that pretty shouldn’t be in a place like this, where the floor was basically one big puddle and the paint was peeling. He belonged on the cover of those magazines Susan read. Billy wanted to get his lips on that smile.

Billy chugged the last of the beer and marched over to the bar, waiting for a minute until it seemed that the bartender, with eyes like that damned cartoon deer Bambi, had a second to stop and wipe his hands down with a rag, then Billy took his shot. He caught the boy’s attention with a small gesture, and he had to yell over the noise, but he didn’t really care who heard.

“Hey, fuck me if I’m wrong, but is your name Bambi?”

He heard a couple hoots and cheers from the small gathering around the bar, but all he got from the boy was an eye roll, and he strutted to the other side of the bar to continue working. Bambi it was going to be then, his goal for the night, and oh was it going to be a fun chase.

He didn’t get to keep good on his goal however, because after staring at Bambi, or rather Bambi’s ass, for a minute and debating his next move, Billy felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and came face to face with a person who was so clearly a skinhead, and not the nice kind judging by the nazi ring and the white laces in his boots, it made Billy want to roll his eyes.

He’d dealt with assholes like this at other bars, but he really didn’t want to go home with more bruises. It couldn’t be helped though, when the bald bastard leaned in close and spit “You a fucking fairy?” in Billy’s face.

Billy’s jaw flexed. This man was bigger than him,  but Billy wasn’t a push over. Hours under the sun surfing through unforgiving waves, weight lifting, and getting into more fights than he would care to remember has left him with an impressive physique of his own. Billy knew he was cut. And he knew how to win a fight. It wasn’t always about bigger or stronger but sometimes about the tricks.

“Who’s asking, big guy? Looking for a good time?” Billy flicked his eyes back across the bar just for a second to make sure that Bambi’s eyes were fixed on him. Their brown color sparkling with something intense as they connected. “Sorry but I’m taken right now-“

“Can’t fucking go anywhere these days without some faggot trying to suck dick in public. You’re disgusting!”

Billy couldn’t keep his smile under control, practically baring his teeth at this point. “You wanna watch me suck his dick, fella? Promise I’ll make it a show.” Then Billy’s tongue darted out to swipe along his bottom lip rapidity, wagging so suggestively, and it was turning the bald head on this bastard bright red. He hollered loud over all the music and noise of the bar, then lifted two hands gripped like fists in a club, fully ready to swing at Billy’s head of curls.

But then, the skinhead's shout was cut short. His anger boiled over so he was attacking all offense, leaving no room for defense. Billy easily leaned to the side and lifted his arm to push hard at the back of his sweaty, ugly head, successfully sending the thick skull of the man into the bar with a sickening crunch. That must be his nose, Billy had heard that noise many times before.

The skinhead crumbled to the ground, whimpering pathetically as he tried to stop the blood flowing from his face. Another man at the bar was lumbering over to haul the man up, maybe another security guy, maybe the same one from the door, Billy wasn’t watching. He only had eyes for Bambi, turning in place to stare at the bartender.

The sweet brunette bartender had obviously heard and seen what Billy did, and it worked like a charm. He leaned one hand on the bar and another against his hip, fingers coiled tight around the part where his shirt was tucked into tight denim jeans. “Nice show,” he had his head leaned down to look at Billy but his chin cocked up, like he was sizing him up. “Got a name?”

“Billy! The name’s Billy, pretty boy. But you can call me any time.” He had to yell over the music that hadn’t stopped.

“Order a drink, Billy. Whatever you want, it’s on the house.”

“You on the menu?” Bambi clearly hadn’t expected Billy to try and flirt so blatantly again, blinking a couple of times as if to process what he had meant.

“Sorry Billy, not tonight. How ‘bout a beer?” His voice was loud from having to holler over the sounds of the bar, but somehow soft and spoken just into Billy’s ear. It felt almost like a caress.

Billy grinned, at least this time wasn’t an out-right rejection. It could only be a matter of time before he wormed his way into Bambi’s heart, or at least his sinnfully tight jeans.

“Or, what about a Dirty Shirley?” Billy said, licking his bottom lip.

“How about a good ol’ Moscow Mule?” Steve hollered back, a light chuckle in his voice.

“I think I’d much rather a Quick Fuck.” Steve’s eyes glinted mischievously under the harsh lights of the bar.

“I know just the drink for you.” He then proceeded to mix together three different types of alcohol from the bottles lining the back wall. He poured it all into a little shot glass and placed it in front of Billy with a flourish.

“Well, pretty boy, what’s it called?” Billy asked, trying not to seem too eager, but fuck if this wasn’t the most fun he’d had in while.

Steve finally leaned over the bar towards Billy, and whispered in his ear. Soft rose petal lips tickled the blonde hairs curled under the lobe of his ear.

“It’s called Blue Balls,”  Steve pulled away, looking like the cat who got the cream, not realizing that his snark had only cemented Billy’s determination to win him over.

With one quick move, Billy downed the shot easily and stood up.

“You got me, Bambi, I guess I can handle a little blue balls tonight, but next time I’m really hoping for that Quick Fuck,” and with that promise of a return, Billy strode deeper into the club, thinking

You may have won this battle, Bambi, but I’m gonna win the war.

--

So this started as me being thirsty for headcanons, and then catharrington was a genius and brought up the amazing idea of punk!Billy in California, and well... Lost Boys of Starwood was born! I'm so excited to start sharing this story with y'all, so please let me know what you think :)

Also, if you're into punk music, totally check out the music in this fic! It's all LA based bands from the 1980s. Or message me for a playlist I made lol. Also let me know if you’d want me to make a taglist for this series!

[justforbooks]

Michel Piccoli obituary

Stalwart of French cinema whose prolific career included films with Luis Buñuel, Jean-Luc Godard and Claude Chabrol

By Ronald Bergan

For more than half a century, there seemed to be one constant in French cinema – the actor Michel Piccoli. With his death at the age of 94 something vital has disappeared from the screen.

Never young looking – he was prematurely bald – Piccoli grew in maturity and power over the years, with directors such as Luis Buñuel, Jean-Luc Godard, Claude Chabrol, Marco Ferreri and Claude Sautet seeking his services more than once. He also worked for directors of the stature of Alfred Hitchcock, Henri-Georges Clouzot, Jacques Rivette, Costa-Gavras and Louis Malle.

Even when he was a big name, Piccoli was never too proud to play small supporting roles or even bit parts if he liked the screenplay. But whatever the size of the role, whether playing a goody or a baddie, Piccoli would bring to the character a gravitas (with a tinge of humour) and an ironic detachment, simultaneously revealing a real, recognisable human being beneath the surface.

Piccoli was born in Paris to a French mother and an Italian father, both of them musicians – his mother was a pianist; his father a violinist. At 19, he made his screen debut in a walk-on part in Sortilèges (1945), directed by Christian-Jaque.

After several roles in the cinema and theatre, he met Buñuel. “I wrote to this famous director asking him to come and see me in a play. Me, an obscure actor! It was the cheek of a young man. He came and we became friends.” Piccoli appeared in six of Buñuel’s films, usually cast as a silky, authoritarian figure.

His first performance for Buñuel was as a weak, compromised priest trekking through the Brazilian jungle in La Mort en Ce Jardin (Death in the Garden/Evil Eden, 1956). In Diary of a Chambermaid (1964), he was the idle and lecherous Monsieur Monteil, sexually obsessed with Jeanne Moreau as the maid Célestine.

Just as louche was his smooth bourgeois gentleman who persuades a respectable doctor’s wife (Catherine Deneuve) to spend her afternoons working in a high-class brothel with kinky clients in Belle de Jour (1967). Piccoli reprised the role charmingly almost 40 years later in Manoel de Oliveira’s Belle Toujours (2006).

He was discreetly charming as the Marquis de Sade in Buñuel’s La Voie Lactée (The Milky Way, 1969), subtly overbearing as the home secretary in The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972) and sinister as a prefect of police in Buñuel’s penultimate film, Le Fantôme de la Liberté (The Phantom of Liberty, 1974).

In the 1950s, apart from his one film with Buñuel and his appearance as María Félix’s jealous lover in Jean Renoir’s French Cancan, Piccoli was cast mainly in run-of-the mill “policiers”. During this period, Piccoli was part of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés set in Paris, which included the writers Boris Vian, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, and the café singer Juliette Gréco, to whom he was married from 1966 to 1977. He was also an active member of the French Communist party.

The 60s was his most creatively exciting and varied decade. His first leading role (with Serge Reggiani and Jean-Paul Belmondo) was as an unscrupulous gangster in Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Doulos (The Finger Man, 1962).

This led to one of his best remembered parts, as Brigitte Bardot’s husband in Godard’s Le Mépris (Contempt, 1963), in which he plays a screenwriter, willing to sell his wife to a producer (Jack Palance) in order to get his script filmed by Fritz Lang. In a homage to Dean Martin’s character in Vincente Minnelli’s Some Came Running, Piccoli wears a cowboy hat in the bath.

As memorable as this image was the name of the character he played in Jacques Demy’s Les Demoiselles de Rochefort (The Young Girls of Rochefort, 1967). As Simon Dame, he is continually being greeted as Monsieur Dame (a joke that works only in French), and is rebuffed by Danielle Darrieux, who cannot bear the thought of being called Madame Dame.

It was in 1968 that Piccoli met Ferreri, who starred him in Dillinger È Morto (Dillinger Is Dead), a bleak study of alienation, in which a man’s life is laid bare. Piccoli is brilliant as an industrial designer who, while spending an evening at home, making himself a meal, watching TV and seducing the maid, decides to kill his wife and go to Tahiti.

It was the first of seven films the actor made for the Italian-born director, the most infamous being La Grande Bouffe (Blow Out, 1973), an excessive film about excess, where Piccoli as a TV personality, along with a pilot, a judge and a chef, all bored with life, literally eat themselves to death.

Piccoli’s few roles in English language films were less than challenging: they included his secret agent in Hitchcock’s Topaz (1969) and the suave card dealer in Malle’s Atlantic City (1981).

He was much happier in France, where his talents were not only respected but revered. His several films for Sautet showed him as a complex and flawed hero, starting with Les Choses de la Vie (The Things of Life, 1970), in which he played a man who, although having an affair, finds himself still attached to his estranged wife, his son and friends, and consequently unable to make the absolute commitment his lover requires.

In 1973, Piccoli formed a production company which kicked off with that year’s Themroc, directed by Claude Faraldo, in which he played a factory worker, living in a squalid flat with his mother and sister, pursuing an existence of repetitive routine and urban grind, before he rebels. What made this biting social satire particularly unusual was that language was abandoned completely, with the characters having to communicate in a series of formless noises, something Piccoli does particularly effectively.

Piccoli then returned to his speciality – the urbane bourgeois – in Chabrol’s blackly comic Les Noces Rouges (Blood Wedding, 1973), where he played a mayor’s deputy having an affair with his boss’s wife. In Godard’s Passion (1982), he was a factory owner whose wife is having an affair with a film director.

He gave three of his largest and most impressive performances in his late 60s and 70s. In Malle’s Milou en Mai (Milou in May, 1990), he is the ideal repository of all the director’s sympathies, the upholder of the best of traditional country values, unambitious, unacquisitive and a lover of nature, in contrast to his greedy middle-class family gathered for a funeral.

Rivette’s La Belle Noiseuse (1991) cast him magisterially as a famous artist trying to capture a new nude young model on canvas. In Oliveira’s Je Rentre à la Maison (I’m Going Home, 2001), Piccoli struck a personal and poignant note as an actor trying to deal with old age, and refusing to compromise his principles.

He shone in what amounted to almost a cameo as the courtly but bumbling elderly relative of the Duchess of Langeais (Jeanne Balibar) in Rivette’s Ne Touchez Pas la Hache (Don’t Touch the Axe, 2007), a version of Balzac’s novel on erotic obsession.

For the English language The Dust of Time (2008), Theo Angelopoulos’s last film, Piccoli joined such stalwarts of European art cinema as Bruno Ganz and Irène Jacob in a love triangle that covers the latter part of the 20th century. Despite some of the stilted dialogue, Piccoli bares the soul of a character whose sufferings include his internment and escape from a gulag.

He dominated every moment as a reserved and modest cardinal who panics when elected pontiff in Nanni Moretti’s semi-satire Habemus Papam (We Have a Pope, 2011). The first close-ups of him, when he realises he has been appointed the new pope, suggest, with subtle expressions, emotions ranging from surprise, humility, ambivalence, excitement and then horror.

In Vous N’avez Encore Rien Vu (You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet, 2012), Alain Resnais’ intriguing, self-reflective examination of actors and acting, film and theatre, Piccoli, playing himself, is the doyen in a cast of leading French actors of the day.

He directed the features Alors Voilà (1997) and La Plage Noire (The Black Beach, 2001), the former winning the Critics’ prize at Venice, to add to the many prizes he had won as an actor. It was appropriate that when Agnès Varda filmed One Hundred and One Nights for the centenary of the cinema in 1995, she cast Piccoli as Monsieur Cinema.

He was married three times. His first two marriages, to Eléonore Hirt and to Gréco, ended in divorce. He is survived by his third wife, the screenwriter Ludivine Clerc, whom he married in 1978, and by his daughter, Anne-Cordélia, from his first marriage.

• Michel Piccoli, actor, born 27 December 1925; died 12 May 2020

© 2020 Guardian News

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

[adramaticbeauty]

Gruvia Band AU

Lol I know this is trash but I just wanted to try it 🤷.

"Thanks a lot Nastu, now we only have 2 hours to practice!" Gray yelled as Nastu strolled through the door of the band's practice room. 

Nastu rolled his eyes at Gray's comment and instead smirked.

"I had something important to do. And you guys should be thanking me for being late. I got us tickets to’ The Fairy's’ concert tonight."

Nastu had a mischievous smile on his face as he held out 3 tickets. Gajeel, who had been tuning his guitar in the back of the room, perked his head up and glared at Natsu.

"You were late for practice getting us tickets to the damn Fairy's concert? You do know we have our own concert coming up right? We have to practice a lot in order to maintain our number 1 spot on the Fiore music charts."Gajeel grunted as he glared at Natsu.

"You think I'm stupid? I know that!"Nastu snapped."But I thought we could check out the competition you know? Plus that Lucy girl is pretty cute, you know?"Nastu snickered. 

Gajeel rolled his eyes and Gray scowled.

"Can we go?”Nastu pleaded.”Who knows, we might even be able to meet them!"

Nastu sounded really excited but Gajeel and Gray could care less about a concert. 

"You can go by yourself Nastu. Now let's practice." Gray was getting irritated.

"But you know these girls are right on our tails on the music charts and they just started their band!! We could probably lose our place to them anytime. We need to see how good these girls are, not just on TV, but in person!" Nastu huffed. 

Gray rolled his eyes in distaste."Fine. If you'll finally start practice we can both go." Gray motioned to both him and Gajeel.

"Now wait a second, I never agreed-" Gajeel was cut off by Gray and his loud sighing." Gajeel please, man. I just want him to shut the hell up. Besides, it's not like you have anything else to do. All you do is stay cooped up in your house anyway. And it’s not like you have a girlfriend." 

"Not like you do either!"Gajeel barked." I have plenty of ladies, Gajeel!" Gray countered.

"Yeah plenty of sluts." Gajeel mumbled, but Gray didn't hear him.

Everyone knew about Gray’s infamous title as a player, that hooked up with ladies left and right.

"Alright let's go- wait where the hell is Jellal? He was in this room!" Gray slapped his forehead in annoyance.

" Oh, he's going to the concert too. He was the one who hooked us up with the tickets from one of his 'old friends'. Anyway, he met me earlier and gave me these tickets and said he was coming back." Nastu shrugged.

"Ughh let's just go home." Gray huffed."We will meet up later for the concert anyway so we will practice late. No excuses."

"What the hell Gray?! You can't do that, your only the bassist! Your not even in charge!" Nastu shouted. 

"That’s cool. Got nothin’ to do anyway." Gajeel butted in.

 As Nastu had a tantrum, Gray texted Jellal there would be no practice until after the concert. Everyone left for the day and met up at 9 o'clock at night for the concert. They all had to wear disguises as they were a pretty popular band. 

Gray fussed out Jellal for leaving when he knew they had to practice of course, and Jellal apologized profusely when they met up. They gave the ticket collector their tickets and walked inside the crowded area. There was plenty of people crowded together,pushing and shoving to get to the front before the concert started. Gray, Nastu, Jellal and Gajeel managed to get to the front, and soon the lights shut off and blinding lights shone on the stage. The band came on the stage, as their arrival cued the loud screams. The boys silently watched while the girls stepped on the stage and got ready to play. 

Gray’s eyes were glued to a certain blue-haired girl with wavy,curly hair on the stage, one that played the lead  guitar and was also the lead singer. As the concert started, Gray was entranced with her movements on stage and her beautiful voice that echoed all over the room. She was beautiful and her voice was powerful. Her voice and looks were so mesmerizing to Gray,he only got a glimpse of the other girls. It was like Gray and this mysterious blue haired girl were the only people in the room to Gray. The way she moved her body was so hypnotizing and her movements were so fluid, as if her body was made of water. 

“Nastu...who is that blue-haired girl that is singing…?” Gray asked without even looking at him.

”Hm? Oh that is Juvia. She used to be apart of Gajeel’s old band! Funny right?” Nastu laughed. 

Just then Juvia’s blue eyes flickered to Gray’s and it seemed like time stopped  for Gray. It felt like she was staring into his soul,seeing every part of him. Then she broke eye contact and looked elsewhere. She wasn’t even looking  at him anymore but his heart was still beating so fast, it felt like it would burst out his chest.

The concert was over in no time and Gray was determined to meet this woman. He didn’t know why but he was instantly attracted to her, like a magnet.

“Why do you want to suddenly meet the girls now? You didn’t even want to come here before! “ Nastu asked curiously tagging along behind Gray.

”I...don’t know. I just feel like...I don’t know!”Gray replied frustrated.

He couldn’t explain it but he felt it. He came backstage with the boys and was stopped by a bald bodyguard with a menacing glare.

”You can’t go any further! Scram kids, unless you have a backstage pass.” The bodyguard snarled.

Just then a scarlet-haired woman walked up to the guard and put her hand on his shoulder.

”It’s alright, Nick. This is my friend, and his bandmates.”

The woman motioned to Jellal and he just nervously smiled as he walked over to the red-haired woman. The woman looked familiar to Gray. Then it hit him. She was the woman on drums in The Fairies band.He remembered taking a glimpse of her on-stage.

”Anyway, I’m Erza the leader of the band. Come on you guys. I can introduce you to the other girls if you want. I’m sure they would be happy to meet you, as most of them are big fans!” Erza laughed.

Nastu nodded his head furiously while Gray tried to seem indifferent by shrugging his shoulders. But inside his heart was beating faster than it ever was. They soon came to a metal door that read ‘Lounge area-Backstage only’ and the woman with scarlet hair opened it. All the girls were excitedly talking while sitting on the couch. The blond haired girl Nastu had mentioned before, had her mouth dropped open when she noticed them standing at the door.

”Girls...look.” The blond whispered quietly.

 The other girls turned around and all had suprised looks on their faces.

”Girls, may I introduce you to,’The Dragonflies’! Guys, this is Lucy, Levy and Juvia.”Erza smiled.

”Omg!Omg!” The blond haired girl screeched while holding Levy’s hand and jumping excitedly.

”We LOVE your guys’ music!!” They both excitedly jumped off the couch and scrambled to introduce themselves. 

Gray noticed Juvia, who was still on the couch, observing them with a  blank stare. Gray felt her eyes on him, and he felt nervous all over again. But the other girls were celebrating and conversating with the guys while, she just sat there. Gray worked up the courage to walk over to her and introduce himself.

”Hey! My name is Gray. You probably already know that though.”Gray laughed as he put on his best flirty and confident smile.

But Juvia showed no recognition as she had a confused and awkward look on her face.

”Umm...Juvia did not know who you were…”

Gray was now really confused. Hadn’t this girl ever heard of ‘The Dragonflies’ band?

”You know. Gray...from the band ’The Dragonflies’?” 

Juvia thought for a second and suddenly her eyes lit up.’She finally recognized me. I thought this girl was nuts for a second’, Gray thought.

”Your those guys that Gajeel-kun is apart of now! The band I wasn’t a big fan of! Juvia loves Gajeel-kun and all, but he was much better in Phantom Lord!!” Juvia pointed out.

 Gray’s face dropped. What just happened. Did she just...admit she didn’t like their music?

Okay I'm done. I just had this idea in my head and it had to come out🤣 I was going to write more but tumblr probably wont let me put that many words(I know from experience)

[eligos-venator]

Guilty or Innocent: Eligos Venator

Asked someone to marry you?

“Guilty. You’d be hard pressed to find someone who wasn’t a romantic at some stage in life. Even someone like myself has done that, once upon a time.”

Kissed one of your friends?

“See, because of the wording, I have to say ‘innocent’. I don’t have friends, friend. I have clients.”

Danced on a table in a bar / tavern?

“Yes. And yes, it cost an exorbitant amount of gil for that client.”

Ever told a lie?

“Truth and lies are so easily exchanged for one another. Truth can be used to forge a lie, and a lie can lead to a truth. I’ve told plenty of lies, and I’ll tell many more. Honesty? That’s what I get paid for. But even in honesty, one can deceive through omitting inconvenient truths.”

Had feelings for someone you can’t have?

“That’d require caring enough to have such feelings. I find that to be a waste of both energy and time.”

Ever kissed someone of the same sex?

“Once. I got paid. No, it wasn’t worth the gil.”

Kissed a picture?

“Why would I do that?” The man asked, raising a brow. “That’s rather sad.”

Slept until 5pm?

“Context is required. I’ve pulled all nighters and then slept from afternoon till supper, many times before. But simply falling asleep at a normal hour and not waking till evening the next day? Never. I don’t allow myself to, as I’ve too much work to deal with, and limited hours in any day to get it done.”

Worked at a fast food chain / restaurant

“We all start somewhere. Me, I had to pick myself back up somehow after hitting rock bottom. The skills I had spent years learning at the academy were too identifying for me to be able to sell them, and I didn’t have a gil to my name. I managed to somehow get a job at a quiet restaurant, and worked my way up from busboy to server, to bartender, in the span of a year. Management could tell I was eager to learn and take on every role I could, and the additional roles I took on paid for the equipment needed to start out as a mercenary, and truly start rebuilding my life.”

Stolen something?

“Guilty. I cannot detail as to what because frankly I do not recall. I’ve committed many a crime, but to put effort into remembering them all is a waste of effort. It’s just a paycheck. And sometimes laws must be broken in order to get it.”

Been fired from a job?

“Plenty of times.” Eligos grinned at this. “There’s always someone who thinks lowly of freelancers like myself, and will try to fire them after the work’s done in order to avoid paying for services rendered. There’s even more that try to ask for the impossible in order to claim breach of contract so they can fire you. My advice to fellow mercenaries is to have a good contract, and to make sure to collect something that you might be able to use to, ah, ‘encourage’ them to keep to their word. It won’t earn you any friendship or build camaraderie with your employer, but going hungry won’t help you either. Better to ensure you are able to eat than worry about what your employer’s personal view is of you.”

Done something you regret?

“We all have regrets in life. I try to lead a life without regret, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t stumbled before and thought back on those choices made. Hindsight is perfect, as they say, and to beat ourselves up over the past accomplishes nothing. It’s better to focus on the future.”

Laughed until something you were drinking came out of your nose?

“That sounds painful. No.”

Caught a snowflake on your tongue?

“If so, I don’t recall. I may well have when young, but after a while, it becomes the same as any other weather phenomenon and is something you adapt to, rather than enjoy.”

Sat on a roof top?

“They’re not the best spot to snipe from, but in crowded areas they’re sometimes the only high ground you can use to get a clear shot.”

Kissed someone you shouldn’t have?

“Shouldn’t have, how?” He asked as his brow raised. “If we’re talking about morals, perhaps so, but my paycheck isn’t decided by my personal ethics. I’m paid to do what I’m told, regardless of consequences and morality.”

Sang in the shower?

“Does humming count? If so, then yes. I can’t say I’m much of a singer, but I’ve a few songs I enjoy greatly, like any other person.”

Been pushed into a body of water with all your clothes on?

“I’ve been tossed overboard while still wearing full armor before. I highly recommend always keeping a grappling hook and line on you when out on the ocean, in case you’re either knocked overboard during a storm, or if your crewmates think it’d be funny to see if you can float in your gear.”

Shaved your head?

“No.” Was the immediate, flat, and unamused reply as the man crossed his arms and yellow eyes stared with clear displeasure at the thought of being bald. “I keep my hair short for convenience. But I don’t keep it that short.”

Made a boyfriend / girlfriend cry?

“Probably. Yes. I anger quite a few people. I’ve upset even more. I’ve made mistakes and have made a few people important to me upset before as well. But the biggest mistake is to let that lie and not handle it. If a mistake is made, it’s best to act immediately to try to resolve the matter. It won’t change the tears spilled, but it will help keep more from falling, in both present and future.”

Shot a gun?

“It’s a part of my job description, half the time. I am partial to utilizing a gun to take targets down at a range. It minimizes the risk to myself.”

Still loved someone you shouldn’t?

“I don’t even know if I’m capable of that emotion. I don’t see how I could still love someone I shouldn’t without having the capacity to love in the first place.”

Have / had a tattoo?

“I’m adverse to identifying marks on my own person, given they can be used to pick me out of a lineup if seen. Someday, maybe, I’ll get one. I wouldn’t mind having one, really. But given my job, it’s a bad idea for me to cave to that temptation.”

Liked someone, but will never tell who?

“If I did, you’d never know.”

Been too honest?

“I say it as I see it. If people have a problem with that, they’re welcome to take their issues with them and jump off a bridge, for all I care.” 

Ruined a surprise?

“I ruin many things. Surprises have been one of those that I’ve ruined, yes.”

Been told that you’re beautiful by someone who totally meant what they said?

“No.” That was all he had to say as he crossed his arms, his lips tugged down in a frown as he made a small shooing motion with his left hand to indicate that he wanted the next question to be asked already.

Stalked someone?

“For business purposes. So yes. I’m unable to divulge details, due to the contract signed. What I can say is that it’s not something I particularly enjoy. But a job is a job.”

Thought about murder?

“Frequently. My job often entails applying lethal force against targets. It’s natural I have to think abut it and plan ahead accordingly.”

How about mass murder?

“While I don’t find the idea of murdering a population of people appetizing, I work under the assumption that I’ll need to be armed enough to, at minimum, take out twice the number of targets I’m sent in for. No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy, and if you aren’t prepared to adapt to the situation, you’ll find yourself in over your head. I always make sure I’ve enough equipment to take care of both enemy and ally should the situation unfold unfavorably.”

Cheated on someone?

“I am very strict when it comes to contracts made. I don’t break the terms unless my own are broken first. This includes relationships. I have never cheated, nor do I have the slightest of reasons to consider such.”

Gotten so angry that you cried?

“Not at all. I don’t get angry. That’s a waste of energy and time. I get even.” 

Tried to stay away from someone for their own good?

“No. Why would I care about what’s good for someone else? People won’t spare a second thought about you and what’s good for you. They’ll take what they need. It’s on your own head if you can’t do the same for fear of consequences for another.”

Thoughts about suicide?

”In the past, I considered it frequently. Looking the part of half-breed is rough on any, but especially so when you grow up in a society raised to be intolerant of others not like them. But I’ve learned since then and grown, and no longer consider such an option.”

Had a girlfriend / boyfriend?

” Girlfriend, yes. I’ve had a few relationships. But I’m very content with my life as it is now.”

Gotten totally drunk during a holiday?

“I drink, but not to excess. Even on holidays I would rather keep my wits about me than let myself be overly influenced by beverage.”

Tagged by: @tiwahra-ffxiv @ivyffxiv [Thank you for the tags!]

Tagging: @uurkhilen @voidtouchedduelist @lilac-memorials @lighttheabyss @octophopi @vesper-aldaine @cigarettes-n-daisies @arcurisrilanox @nocturnedreaming @cadrenebula @yokasaris @roleplay-aficionado @cottoncnyandy @wildgirlcinna​ @misorastraus​ @arcana-divine​ @a-corsairs-chorus​ @shroudkeeper​ @miyuki-mazaki​ @knightingale-xiv​ and anyone else who wants to do it!

[sleepdepwritings]

Presented for archival purposes only, the first part of a story I wrote many years ago and will not be continuing no way it’s very bad.

A Save the Spiders Gig

by Cody L Ralston

Chapter 1

The vampires stormed the stage while we were in the middle of "Walking is Still Honest," which was not fucking cool.

First of all, it's my favorite song by my favorite band. You don't go with the stage name "Against Steve" unless you love Laura Jane Grace. Second, Ted steps back and lets me sing lead on that song, and I fucking shred at it. I shriek that motherfucker, alright?

And third, y'know. Vampires.

The gig was a bonfire/kegger/minor riot some local kids had arranged in the badlands outside of town. We were set up on a platform we'd jerry-rigged from some old wooden pallets and milk crates, wailing sloppily at two or three dozen drunken, pill-popping, weed-smoking punk kids and a handful of older crusties who thought we were "true punk" because we sucked. Everyone in that crowd was screaming, slamming, arguing, fighting, and a few on the outskirts of the firelight may have been screwing right there in the dust.

In all the chaos, it was easy to miss things that would otherwise have set off warning signals. Like flying bottles. Or jagged-toothed undead monsters leaping for my throat.

The first vampire, a young man with a mop of dark hair, came at me just as I made a flamboyant motion with my bass that ended with the body of the instrument coming up hard into his jaw. I choked on the line I'd been singing and made to apologize before I noticed that two other people had leaped onstage, and that all three of them were baring huge sharp teeth at me and my band. All three had dirty, claw-like nails to match, and their skin and eyes had a pale blue tinge that put me immediately in mind of dead things.

"Shit! Vampires! Shit!" I yelled, right into the microphone. The audience probably thought I'd gotten high and forgot the lyrics, but Kassie, Ted, and Dave dropped the song immediately and made to defend themselves.

"Steve! Catch!" Dave yelled, throwing one of his drumsticks toward me. I dived for it, but one of the vamps tackled me, cracking the pallets as our combined weights slammed down on them. I clawed and scrambled for the drumstick, but the vampire had me pinned by the legs and lunged for my neck at the same time.

There was a solid "THONK" and a whine of feedback. The vampire rolled off of me, hissing at Kassie, who had just clubbed him over the head with her guitar without bothering to unplug it from the amp. Holding it by the neck like a golf club, she hammered another blow into the vampire's temple while I got my feet under me and grabbed at the stick.

Wheeling around with the stick clutched in both hands, I brought all my weight down on the dazed vampire, driving the length of wood right into the center of his chest. The stick splintered and broke when it hit his sternum, but one splinter must have made it through the rotted bone to his heart. He shrieked with pain and rage, convulsing, tearing at the ground with his clawed hands and tossing his head back. I fell back,  Then, suddenly, his cries died off, his body went slack, and his flesh began to slough off, dissolving into a putrid, green-black goo that bubbled and stank.

Kassie reached out one heavily-tattooed hand to me and helped me up off my knees. I winced- her grip had driven some of the splinters deeper into my hand.

A few yards away, Ted was holding one of the other vampires off with a mic stand. He had butted the foot of the stand into the hollow of the bald, emaciated creature's throat, and was pushing with all his might to keep the frenzied thing at arm's length. The vampire howled and lunged, forcing him back.

"Guys, I need help!" Ted screamed, panic rising in his voice. "He's really dumb but he's really strong!"

I looked around for the nearest weapon and found nothing but the splinters of the pallet at my feet. Cursing through clenched teeth, I grabbed an arm-length piece of splintered board and lunged at the vampire's back, leading with the sharp(ish) tip.

Said tip sank several inches into the creature, right between his shoulderblades. Unfortunately, while the board stopped at several inches, I didn't. My momentum carried me forward into the now dying vampire, who in turn slammed forward into Ted. We all hit the ground with a muffled "Shit!"

For a terrfying instant the wailing, snapping, clawing thing was trapped between us. Then, finally, it stilled, melting into corpse-goo all over my fucking shirt. Ted's shirt too, I guess.

Breathing hard, we got up, shaking and covered in rotten sludge. Ted sputtered and wiped some of the stinking shit out of his beard. Kassie, ever appropriate, was pointing and giggling at us.

"You guys actually made vampire-slaying look pathetic!" She snorted. I glared and looked to the back of the stage.

"Where's Dave?!" I yelled. Our drummer and the third vampire had disappeared from sight, which was a hell of a trick considering dave is six foot two without his massive green warhawk.

"Oh, right here." Called a voice from my left. I whirled around to see Dave step into the firelight nearly twenty yards away from the rest of us. How the hell did he get over there so fast?

"One of the fuckers tried to run. Don't worry, I got him." Dave hopped up onto the stage, and I noticed he was gripping a ride cymbal in his left hand. He took his place behind his kit and replaced the cymbal. One edge was bent sharply and stained black. Dave looked to me, smiling beatifically.

"Shall we?" He asked casually.

I turned back to the partygoers spread out in front of us. All of them had stopped to stare at the fight. A few were gaping dully, some were murmuring questions to each other,and a few near the front looked like they were about to start screaming. For my part, I stared back at them, wide-eyed and soaked in what I was pretty sure was someone's liquified intestines.

Ted, natural showman, was the one who finally acted.

"Guess our friends jumped their cue a bit, huh?" He laughed into the nearest mic. "Hope you enjoyed out little skit there. He's some Misfits covers for you. ONETWOTHREEFOUR!"

***

We fumbled our way through "Astro Zombies" and "Last Carress," then ran for Ted's van, parked with the cluster of other vehicles beyond the fire. We huddled around the far side to discuss what had just happened.

"What the fuck Dave?!" I hissed. Dave drew back, looking indignant.

"What? What did I do? Some vampires just attacked us, why would you blame me?"

"What the FUCK, Dave?" Kassie and Ted spoke simultaneously.

"Dave" is not Dave's real name. We all took stage names when we formed our band, Save the Spiders. Theodore "Ted Kennedy" Paige is four lead singer, Kassandra "Kassie Kriminal" Jones our guitarist, Steven "Against Steve!" McCool (me, nice to meet you) our bassist, and Dave G. Abortion is our drummer.

I don't know Dave's real name. I don't know if he has a real name. What I do know about Dave is this- he is tall, tan, has dark eyes and typically Navajo features, and the night I met him I saw him transform into a ten-foot-tall insectoid monster and bite off a man's arm. The man survived. Don't worry though, because after a lot of explaining and screaming and vomiting, I helped Dave hunt him down and finish him off before he could eat a couple of toddlers.

Oh, and he's a decent drummer. Kind of a showboat though.

Since that night, we had all had further encounters with monsters and magic, and almost all had been attracted by Dave and his mysterious powers.

So we stood there, scowling, daring him to keep denying that this was somehow his stupid fault. Eventually, he sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look, there are LOTS of vampires who don't like me. It'd be hard to narrow it down to one group and one reason."

"What, didn't you recognize any of them? You got real up close with the one guy." Kassie said. Dave shrugged.

"They were all fairly fresh. Probably servants to whoever had the real grudge. I expect there'll be more coming."

Ted groaned.

"Why are we always in the crossfire with you? Why can't they kill you in your sleep and leave us out of this?"

"Why, because you're my best friends and stalwart companions, and killing you would hurt me more than any wound, of course!" Dave grinned and tossed an arm around Ted's shoulders. Ted jerked away from him.

I shucked my ruined shirt and tossed it onto the rocky ground. I ran my hands through my shaggy blonde hair, trying to think up a plan of action.

"Okay, so. Dave, you need to ask around and figure out who's in town that might want you dead-"

"Long. List. Dude."

"What the fuck ever! Go through it! And we need to set up some kind of defense system at the house. I don't want to be eaten on a futon, I'll disappoint my parents." I glanced in the direction of the party, which had gotten back into swing. "And we can't take any gigs until we've got this sorted out. We don't want to get normals involved in this shit."

"Good thinking, by the way, Ted." Kassie interjected. "Passing the vamp attack off as part of the show. Think they bought it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Everyone there was off their skull on booze and speed. Half of them won't remember it happened at all, and I'm sure no one is going to leave here convinced they saw real vampires."

"I know I saw real vampires."

The voice came from behind us, between the cars. Everyone jumped and raised their hands in vague, ineffectual defensive motions.

A young man, probably around nineteen, stepped forward hesitantly. He was black, on the short side, with a swimmer's build and close-cropped hair. He wore a faded denim jacket, blue jeans, and a Ramones t-shirt, all rumpled and a bit ratty. His eyes were cast down shyly. While I should have been concentrating on what he was saying, I couldn't help thinking to myself that he also had a really cute face.

"Those were real vampires." He said, louder this time.

"Kid, you do NOT want to go around saying that." Kassie said, quirking a pierced eyebrow. "Normals will want to lock you up and vampires- if they existed, which they don't, nuh-uh, no way- would want to kill you. If they existed. Which-"

"I KNOW they exist." The kid looked up to meet our eyes, indignant now. "I know they exist because I've seen them before. They took some of my friends. I think they ATE them. And I came here tonight because someone told me you guys have handled creepy stuff like this before. I came here for your help." His eyes flicked down again, and his lower lip (his really quite full and soft-looking lower lip, I noted, like a fucking idiot) quivered. "They're after me, too. They know I know."

The band exchanged looks. If this guy had contact with the vampires, he probably knew who they were and maybe where they were holed up. And if they were after him, we had a duty as non-assholes to help him.

And, well... For all Ted's bitching, we all knew we were nursing a big stupid hero complex.

I held my hand out to him.

"My name is Steve McCool. And we're going to help you however we can, alright?"

He looked at me with relief in his shining eyes. He shook my hand, his own clammy and sweating.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm Jamie, Jamie DeVries."

"Well Jamie, this is Kassie, Ted, and Dave. Hop in the van. We're going to pack up and then we can take you to our place and you can give us some details on these bastards." I turned to the others.

"Alright guys, let's haul ass and get back to the squat."

[letterboxd]

Rocketman.

“I’m a straight actor playing a gay icon. We had an obligation to honor that side of his story.”

Taron Egerton, star of the new musical biopic Rocketman, tells Letterboxd about having a takeaway curry with Sir Elton John and portraying the absolute pop icon on the big screen.

They say in showbiz, timing is everything. And Rocketman is very well-timed.

Bohemian Rhapsody proved emphatically that there is a huge cinematic appetite for rock-and-pop star biopics, which have long been the domain of the small screen. That film earned more than $900 million at the global box office and garnered an Academy Award for lead actor Rami Malek.

Working in Rocketman’s favor is the fact that Bo Rhap (as Rocketman star Taron Egerton refers to it) was a widely embraced, award-winning film that everybody agreed could’ve been a little better. And quite a lot gayer.

Rocketman steps up on both fronts, and it’s also directed by Dexter Fletcher, the man credited with salvaging Bohemian Rhapsody after he stepped in to finish the film when original director Bryan Singer was fired during production (Singer retained sole director credit per DGA rules).

Also working for Rocketman: the songs of Elton John and lyricist Bernie Taupin (played in the film by Jamie Bell), which are incorporated into the narrative with welcome creative flair. Egerton—as the film’s marketing campaign has made very clear—does all his own singing in the film, and he’s pretty darn decent.

Letterboxd recently sat down with Egerton at an exclusive press event in West Hollywood where he talked about his experience making Rocketman, and what it was like getting to know the man who inspired it.

Egerton began by talking about the film’s fantastical approach and how it uses John’s rehab journey as a framing device: Taron Egerton: The mandate for the production was always that it wouldn't be an out-and-out biopic, that it would lean into these elements of fantasy. The movie begins with Elton entering rehab and those scenes are what I’m most excited for people to see, because to see someone who’s so universally known in such an intimate, vulnerable situation, I think is quite unusual. And it says something about Elton and how candid and resilient he is. Elton recounts his life through rehab, we learn his story from being a young child and going to the Royal Academy of Music. And it essentially goes right the way up to the point where he goes to rehab.

On how he felt going into the role: It was terrifying. Because it’s a musical and because it’s a fantasy, it was always a prerequisite that the actors sing. So there’s a tricky thing, particularly following in the wake of something like Bo Rhap, it’s so unmistakably Freddie, the sound of it. So for me it was about singing the songs as well as I possibly could. But we were lucky in the sense that Elton and [husband] David [Furnish] are very close to the project. It started with them, and Elton has been fantastic in letting me be a part of his life for the past couple of years. And befriending me, frankly. Which has made the whole thing feel very personal and very real.

On how he went about embodying Elton John: Weirdly, I found the stuff where I played him older, easier, and I think that’s because all the time I’ve spent with Elton has been older Elton. I haven’t spent any time with 21-year-old Elton. There is footage, but it’s interesting, because people portray such a version of themselves on camera. I don’t know. For me, it all kind of came from the first time I sat down with him and we had curry together. I went over and I had a takeaway curry at his house. And we just talked for about two and a half hours. It’s such a hard thing to describe. When you are given the honor of playing one of the most adored and famous people in the world, there’s such a weight of responsibility that comes with it. And then when you meet them and connect with them generally, I don’t know, it just feels like one of the most important things I’ve ever done. I can’t really describe the feeling of having gone through the whole thing.

There’s an element of getting to look as much like him as you can, which is very helpful. There’s four rough stages of Elton. The first one being his kind of teenage bowl-cut, chunky Buddy Holly glasses. Then into the longer hair, early 20s stuff where we’re in LA. And then the hair starts to go. For the third look I shaved my hair line up higher than it already is by a couple of inches. And for the fourth and final look, I have a bald cap. There’s something about changing yourself completely and the way you look that really conditions how you feel.

One thing about Elton is that at some point in his mid-late 20s, things started to get a little bit out of control and unraveled a little bit for him I think, and there’s something to do with putting a slight gap in my teeth and changing my hair, it just didn’t make me feel very much like me. And so I created this hybrid of me and him.

That’s another thing as well, through getting to know him, I feel like there are some parallels between me and him. I mean, I’m not a genius, but in the sense that some of the neuroses and insecurities, I just recognize some things. So there’s a lot of me in there and my emotional volatility and I’m someone who has very extreme and acute reactions to things. I’m potentially a little emotionally volatile at times. And that is, I think, certainly who Elton was. So it’s just about dialing up those things in yourself, and dialing other things down.

On the film celebrating Elton John’s sexuality: I’m a straight actor playing a gay icon, so I again felt very, very keenly that if I was going to do this and do this properly that we had an obligation to honor that side of his story. So early on the film there is a love scene, it’s between myself and Richard [Madden, who plays John’s manager and lover John Reid]. It’s the first love scene I’ve ever done and it’s two young guys falling in love in a time where it possibly wasn’t that socially acceptable and I think it is a scene I’m really, really proud of.

There is a community that feels a certain sense of ownership over icons that are a member of that community, so we have that responsibility to honor that part of their story. And it’s been fantastic, especially working with Paramount on this, who have always felt very strongly that this was a part of the story that we needed to push and honor and see reflected in our film. And I’m really pleased with it, I think it’s lovely actually.

On the film not shying away from Elton John’s substance abuse: This is not a movie that glamorizes drug use. Elton’s relationship with certain substances was extremely corrosive and bad for his health and nearly cost him everything. And that was an important part of the story for me. The balance is also in making it something that is joyous, celebratory and fun to watch. And that has been the knife edge that we’ve had to walk along. And I hope people will feel we’ve done a good job of that.

On leaning into the truth of Elton John’s volatile personality: A documentary was made by David about Elton 25 years ago called Tantrums and Tiaras. It is no secret that Elton has his ups and downs. We were true to that—it’s who he is. And frankly I think it’s why we love him. So I felt very much when we were on set that I wanted to push it. Because the one person I knew wouldn’t mind me doing that, was Elton. Because he’s not precious. He knows where his strengths and weaknesses lie, and he’s very at peace with who he is.

He’s been through a hell of a lot and he’s been through recovery and he is settled and solid and knows who he is and he’s quite candid about it. So for me I always wanted there to be that duality between this sweet, incredibly caring, generous person, who just has this intense artistic sensibility and volatility, and I believe that is hand in hand with his creative genius.

On how younger audiences less familiar with Elton John might respond to the film: Elton’s music is still so played on the radio but I hope that there’s a world in which we bring music to some young ears that haven’t heard it before. Well, young-ish ears; it’s not the most child-friendly film. But young ears nonetheless. I think there’s a universality to Elton’s music. I don’t think the success of Elton’s music is entirely conditional on the context in terms of time. It was brilliant music in 1971, and it’s brilliant music now. Everyone loves Elton John, but for relatively young people like me to go back and then listen to all the stuff that made his name in the early 70s, things like Amoreena, Take Me To the Pilot, Hercules, Border Song… and you just go, fucking hell, it’s just, it’s mind-blowing, the output. In an ideal world—you can’t plan for it—I would hope that people rediscover Elton through the film.

On what playing the role has meant to Egerton: As with most people, I can pinpoint times in my life as early as five where I was aware of Elton John. I remember that video of him doing The Circle of Life when I fell in love with The Lion King when I was five or six. I remember being twelve and the Greatest Hits coming out, and me and my stepdad, who my mum had just met, who became a huge part of my life, him and I sitting listening to that Greatest Hits album, singing I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues together as he drove me to school.

Then when I was 17 and I auditioned for drama school and sang Your Song. I didn’t get in. Then I sang it again the following year and I did [get in]! I knew it was a winner. And so he’s always been there, Elton John as this kind of, idea. And then in 2016, when I’m still barely able to process the fact that I’ve been in a hit movie, for someone to say “Do you want to play Elton John?” And to go “Well how does Elton feel about it?” and hear “He really loves the idea”. It’s just fucking mental innit?

It’s just insane. Creating the film, without wishing to get too earnest, has felt like a hugely important thing for me. And a hugely important thing for posterity in some sense, because hopefully in the future it will be so many people’s introduction to Elton John. I feel like I’ve poured more of myself into it than I have anything else and so for me I feel very satisfied by the whole experience.

It’s been hard work. And essentially has been my life for the past year, 18 months, with creating all the songs and recording them and re-recording them and changing things and going back after we filmed. But I wouldn’t have changed a second of it. And I would do it all again. There’s not many things I would say that about.

And then, just getting to know him and to genuinely feel a connection with the great man. I sang with him recently, I still can’t believe that that happened. I genuinely get a bit emotional thinking about it.

Sir Elton John has appeared in more than 60 films as various versions of himself, and composed for several soundtracks, including a handful of beloved songs for Disney’s ‘The Lion King’ (Jon Favreau’s new photorealistic version comes out this July). Welsh actor-singer Taron Egerton is, until now, best-known for his leading role in the ‘Kingsman’ film franchise. ‘Rocketman’ is in theaters now. Comments have been edited for clarity and length.

[closetofanxiety]

Nitromare: My God, We’re Really Doing This

Joe has returned to the Land of the Rising Sun, but Mark and I for some reason are committed to watching every Nitro of the Vince Russo Era, when WCW went beyond the point of no return in the battle against the WWF. Tonight we’re on the second week of the first Russo reign: October 25, 1999, from Phoenix, Arizona. Let’s soak up the horror!

We open with Sting, in street clothes, coming out to the ring to demand the presence of JJ Dillon, the kayfabe commissioner. Sting lost to Goldberg last night at Halloween Havoc, but says that match wasn’t for the title, and so Goldberg should not be the champ. Dillon says there’s going to be a tournament to determine the champ, so Sting beats up Dillon. Goldberg runs out to make the save, and in the scrum, Sting’s t-shirt remains impressively tucked into his jeans. Why are they trying to make Sting into a whiny, shitty bad guy? The most natural babyface in the company since Ricky Steamboat. People want to cheer for Sting. 

The first match of the tournament is Norman Smiley vs. Bam Bam Bigelow. It’s over in about five minutes, with Norman winning. I think it was a hardcore match?

Now the Filthy Animals come out to show video footage of them taking Ric Flair out into a desert at night and dumping water on him. I’m not sure why you’d film yourself committing a crime, but the 1990s were a different time. You know who Billy Kidman looks like? The singer for Missing Foundation. It’s uncanny. There’s footage on YouTube of that guy, Peter Missing, setting himself on fire at a show in Boston. 

Rey Misterio says the Filthy Animals are going to “hump” Harlem Heat “like the dogs we are.” OK? Dean Malenko and Perry Saturn are apparently outraged, perhaps on behalf of dogs, and they run out and start beating on the Animals with lead pipes. Shane Douglas and Asya come out and kidnap Torrie Wilson. 

Now we’re backstage with Mike Tenay and Curt Hennig. Is there any American wrestler whose career was more a story of thwarted promise than Mr. Perfect? He was so good at everything, but never really got the breakthrough, either because of injuries or working for the wrong company at the wrong time, or both. 

Kevin Nash and Scott Hall are hanging around backstage. Somewhat grimly considering what we know now, they’re drinking beer from a cooler. 

The next match in the championship tournament is Hennig versus Lash Laroux, a truly forgotten figure from the WCW era. His gimmick was that he was a Cajun. That was pretty much it, mes amis. While the match is going on, Disco Inferno comes out to do commentary with Tony Schiavone and The Brain. For some reason. Hennig gets DQ’d for hitting Laroux with a chair. Disco Inferno comes in to help Laroux, and gets beat up with the chair. The match lasts maybe three minutes. 

We’re back in the ring after a commercial break with Kim Page and Mean Gene talking about the Nitro Girl competition. This was a contest to find a new Nitro Girl that I think Stacy Keibler eventually won. We meet two more finalists, both local, and watch footage of them dancing as Disco Inferno looks on. Was he the judge? His whole gimmick was that he was a bad dancer. 

The Nitro Girls thing is interrupted by DOUBLE J himself, Jeff Jarrett, recently arrived from the WWF. He immediately says the championship tournament is “a big work,” which I’m sure sounded like a good idea if you were on cocaine. Jarrett is still wrestling today; he’s currently a titleholder in AAA. He’s had one of the most remarkable careers of any American wrestler, yet I’ve never really enjoyed him.

Another match in the It’s A Big Work Tournament. Perry Saturn vs. Eddie Guerrero, which in theory should be a great match. So far each match in this tournament has featured one wrestler who is no longer alive. There are empty seats on the hard camera side; Mark notes that the revamped WCW logo reminds him of the final flag of a soon-to-be-vanquished country.

The match is not great. A few decent spots, but then David Flair runs in and hits Eddie Guerrero with a lead pipe, allowing Saturn to get the win via the Rings of Saturn. It last six minutes. 

We’re backstage, and the Revolution have Torrie Wilson imprisoned in a backstage area. “This is a great hiding place; they’ll never find us!” exults Shane Douglas, in front of a camera crew. Chris Benoit arrives and locks most of the Revolution inside a caged area, allowing him to beat on Dean Malenko. Everyone is wearing what would today be classified as Mom Jeans. Wasn’t Benoit part of the Revolution? Eventually he’d jump to the WWF along with Saturn, Malenko, and Guerrero, as the Radicalz. You could tell they were extreme, because they scorned the letter ‘S.’

Hall and Nash walk out, wearing street clothes. “It seems these new bosses we got from up North can’t have a wrestling show without the Outsiders,” Hall says, in a reference to Russo and Ferrara that 99 percent of the audience wouldn’t understand. Nash is wearing a FUBU jersey. His meandering promo is interrupted by Goldberg, who is standing in the crowd, wearing his gear and holding a microphone. As one does. “You’re both next!” Goldberg says. Technically, they can’t BOTH be next, Bill.

Macho Man and Gorgeous George come out. I don’t know why her wrestling name was Gorgeous George, but she wasn’t the worst person to wear the mantle created by George Wagner. There were so many terrible Gorgeous Georges. Even in the twilight of his career, Savage is still a compelling, charismatic performer. “Don’t hunt what ya can’t kill, cuz ya can’t kill The Madness!” he cautions, adding “I ain’t no punk bitch!” He takes some shots at Hogan and Flair. Gorgeous George is chewing gum and looking a bit lost. “I got too much money in the bank to get punked out by punks like you!” Savage yells, although it’s still unclear to whom he’s referring. Then he says he and Gorgeous George are leaving. OK. 

The Filthy Animals are searching for Torrie backstage. How did they find Shane Douglas’ great hiding place?? But the Revolution have moved off to another backstage space to complain about how Chris Benoit beat Malenko’s ass. 

Next WCW title tournament match: Madusa vs. Meng. Oh God. Madusa looks legitimately unwell. Everyone who knows Meng is terrified of Meng. He’s like nuclear war. This is not a pioneering intergender matchup: none of Madusa’s offense is effective, while Meng just stands around and growls like an animal. Madusa wrestled Bull Nakano a lot, so this probably wasn’t the scariest opponent she’d faced. Meng wins in about four minutes with the Tongan Death Grip. Remember when it was a big deal that Madusa jumped to WCW with the WWF women’s belt? Boy, they sure made the most of that, didn’t they?

Evan Karagias comes out to help Madusa. “Isn’t he gallant,” Brain sneers, and for some reason he pronounces it “guh-launt” and it makes me laugh out loud. That’s how I’m pronouncing it from now on. 

Nothing stands still. Malenko comes out and challenges Benoit and then leaves. Russo’s WCW feels like experimental theater, right down to the destruction of the fourth wall and acknowledgement of artifice. 

Mark describes Hall and Nash as “two retirees going around, causing trouble,” and this is a perfect description of what they’re doing at this point. I’m omitting about half the backstage segments, because they all last about 45 seconds and seem meaningless. 

Lex Luger and Miss Elizabeth come out, everything we know about what would happen later making it very hard to enjoy any of this. I think this is a match in the title tournament? The WCW commentary team does not do nearly as much recapping as today’s WWE announcers, and it’s kind of baffling.

It’s Luger vs. Rick Steiner, and a shirtless Jeff Jarrett comes out to join in on commentary. “We saw your shtick in the WWF, we know you’d hit a woman,” Schiavone says. “This is not the WWF, this is the WCW, and I am the Chosen One!” Jarrett replies. Jarrett is upset that he is being blamed for hitting Liz last week. Jarrett tries to hit Luger with a guitar and gets Steiner instead. Jarrett runs off and Steiner follows him. The crowd seems bored and angry. Luger wins via count. The match was maybe three minutes long. 

Kidman and Konnan are backstage. Konnan calls the Revolution “mark busters.” I can’t look at Kidman without seeing Peter Missing. Have you ever heard Missing Foundation? It’s really challenging stuff. What a group they were.

Another title tournament match, this time between Kidman and Konnan, fellow Filthy Animals. There’s a ref bump 45 seconds into the match. Harlem Heat comes out and beat up Konnan and Kidman. Who’s getting humped now, gentlemen, hmmmm? Now Rey and Eddie come out to fight Harlem Heat. In the ring, Kidman gets the pin on an out-cold Konnan. The match lasted two minutes at most. The secret of Vince Russo is that Vince Russo is not a wrestling fan. 

Buff Bagwell’s in the ring and vowing to break all the rules. “I’m going to take every little thing that’s ever been sacred in this business and I’m gonna relieve myself all over it.” Then he says, “I’m not doin’ a J-O-B, a job, for nobody ever again!” He calls out “the two idiots in the back writing this crap,” which, Jesus. Two giant bald guys in suits com out who say “We represent the two idiots in the back writing this crap,” and then proceed to beat the stuffing out of Buffing. 

We’re back from commercial, and Chris Benoit is going to wrestle Dean Malenko in a Mom Jeans Beatdown. No, it’s a last man standing match, but they’re both wearing mom jeans, without belts. That really bothers me for some reason. This is a really good match, the only good one of the night so far. Not entirely surprising. There’s no way to reflect on Chris Benoit without the shadow of his hideous crimes hanging over everything, but for whatever it’s worth, he was one of the best wrestlers of his generation. He had a graceful ferocity and total commitment to what he did that very few wrestlers have ever matched. Benoit wins.

The Filthy Animals run out to beat on Malenko, then Shane Douglas and Asya come out with Torrie Wilson. Torrie Wilson is notably taller than her captor, Asya. They should’ve got Nicole Bass to be their Chyna-alike. Douglas kind of sucked, didn’t he?

Jimmy Hart comes out with Hugh Morrus and Knobs from the Nasty Boys. Was there a new Nasty Boys with Morrus in place of Sags? Or was Knobs moonlighting? I’ll tell you what: the Nasty Boys put together a surprising number of extremely fun matches. This is not one of them: Sting comes out with a baseball bat, beats down Knobs, and gets the pin. I guess this was a no DQ match?

One thing to remember in the Nitromare: nothing has to make sense.

We’re backstage with Tenay and Bret Hart, who has what I think is a storyline ankle injury. Bret interviews like an earnest hockey player, which was part of his appeal. He didn’t have to scream or act like a lunatic to sell you on a match.

Now there’s a tag match between Konnan and Kidman and the defending champs, Harlem Heat. Konnan is also wearing FUBU; were they a sponsor? 

I’m flummoxed that they’d allow so many empty seats facing the hard camera. Why not send people in higher sections down to take those seats? This is AWA-at-the-end level inattention to detail.

Meanwhile, in the match, Harlem Heat are beating the shit out of the Filthy Animals in a mostly uninteresting fashion. It’s a slog. There’s an inexplicable screw job finish that has Schiavone asking “Who won?,” which is always a good sign. The answer: the Filthy Animals won because ... Kidman bridged out of a pin? 

Nitromare: Nothing Has to Make Sense

DDP and Kimberly come out. My God, Kimberly was attractive. And Page was insanely over with WCW fans; it’s galling how badly he was mishandled by the WWF. Did you know Page sued Jay Z over the Diamond Cutter hand gesture? They settled out of court, so we still don’t have settled legal precedent on whether you can trademark a hand gesture.

David Flair comes out. DDP is mad at Flair because Flair’s dad slept with Kimberly. Flair pulls out a crowbar and cheap-shots DDP, then starts whaling on him. David Flair looks like the character in a movie about rural 19th century America who’s described as “a bit touched.” Like a character who accidentally kills or injures a major character and then commits suicide in helpless despair. It’s not ... a great look for a pro wrestler.

DDP gets kayfabe stretchered out. Well, I believe he’s the winner by disqualification, so there is that. 

Back from commercial. Hall and Nash, in street clothes, are in the ring. Their opponents appear to be local strippers. They’re not given an introduction, so we don’t know for sure. One of them motorboats Scott Hall. The crowd enjoys it, because wrestling fans in the 1990s were not very sophisticated. The other stripper is tagged in. “This is what it’s all about,” Tony says. Nash comes in. “The hot tag! The big save,” Tony says. One of the rare moments when I feel like Lou Thesz. A third stripper with balloon-sized fake breasts comes into the ring. The Outsiders lay down and get pinned. Who says Kevin Nash wouldn’t do jobs in WCW? 

Goldberg mercifully runs into the ring and spears them both. The crowd likes it, but is also horny and mad that the woman with the huge fake breasts didn’t take her shirt off. The replay is brought to us by the Air Force, which at the time was using the slogan “Aim High.” Not a lot of that in Nitromare, I’m afraid.

I think it’s main event time. God, I hope it is. I’m so weary. Bret Hart hobbles out to the ring. He’s wrestling Goldberg, who has one of the all-time great entrances in pro wrestling history. 

Tony says Bret’s shin is hurt, when earlier we were told it was his ankle. Later, Tony says it’s Bret’s ankle. Razor sharp. 

Goldberg was not a great wrestler, and with Bret selling a broken ankle, it was hard to carry the big dude to a credible match. The story here is Bret’s insane pride and resilience, and it’s going well initially: the crowd rallying behind him as he tries to fight back against the onslaught from Goldberg. Goldberg does a good job of looking conflicted about wrestling a guy who’s less than 100 percent, which adds to the story. Goldberg finally starts working on the injured leg and then breaks the hold, hoping the ref will stop the match. Hey, this is actually not bad! 

Bret fights out of a corner and applies the sleeper, which leads to, merciful God in heaven above, a ref bump. The Outsiders and Sid Vicious run out to take out Goldberg. Nash hits the most spectacular move in his arsenal, the sidewalk slam. Goldberg is out and Bret covers him for the win. This sucked.

Grade: D

Signs in the Crowd: WCW = Where Chumps Wrestle; Everyone Hates Rey, Man (so Nineties); Ryan Gill is Gay (also very Nineties, in a bad way); IM SINGLE; Goldberg Kicks Ass; Big Sexy in the House NWO 4 Life; Hall = Ratings; Filthy Animals = Circle Jerk; Can’t Stand Me No Fruit Booties; Buff is the Stuff; WWW. Rantsylvania . Com (still active! It’s Scott Keith’s blog); WCW Monday Maestro (was there really a person who liked the Maestro enough to make a sign?); Joe B is a Candy Ass; I Pimp Pimps; Russo Where’s the Gambler? 

[sorshania]

Rocking the Trickster

Prompt:

Summary: Gabriel had learned, lifetimes ago, that the quickest, easiest way to weed out over-pompous asses making people’s lives miserable was to work at the most menial, low-ranked jobs possible. He just had to be there, minding his own business, and let the assholes come to him like bees to honey. And this job is no different than the others.

He just need to remember to keep a low profile.

Pairing: Gen

Word Count: 2763

Warnings: None

A/N: This is my first time taking part of the @gabriel-monthly-challenge and my first SPN fic in about forever!! (Yes, it took this archangel being brought back from the dead...) I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you guys will enjoy it.

Huge thanks and kudos to @chattydm for stabbing having a go at it with the Red Pen of Doom and helping me make it all much better :p

Mention of American Gods plot, I kept it vague on purpose because 1) Gabriel is not aware of it 2) I didn’t to go full AU mode (yet)

Tags:  @archangelsanonymous @lacqueluster @archangel-with-a-shotgun and @revwinchester

AO3 Link or read below :)

Gabriel had learned, lifetimes ago, that the quickest, easiest way to weed out over-pompous asses making people’s lives miserable was to work at the most menial, low-ranked jobs possible. He just had to be there, minding his own business, and let the assholes come to him like bees to honey.

Over the countless years since he left Heaven, he had worked a vast array of such jobs. Camel driver, serf, body-snatcher, lector in a manufactory... He actually liked that one! He got to entertain the factories’ workers, and telling stories was his thing. Plus, he got a high seat. A perfect way to keep an eye on everyone, especially those he decided to target for his “little life lessons”.

Heck! He even drove a truck for PEPSI for a while, delivering one of his favorite drinks all over the US. If his brothers saw what he had become… The mighty Gabriel, a truck delivery driver… Well, to be honest, Lucifer would probably bust a feather laughing.

That was ages ago. He shook his head, smiling a little as he returned his mind to the present. He took the pad the production coordinator handed him, quickly pushing all thoughts of his brothers away. It was a simple job, as they all were. He just had to to be a little more careful than usual to keep a low profile. He was in Iowa, not too far from Ohio, where he did his last job as a janitor for Ohio State. The last thing he needed was over-zealous hunters figuring out he had tricked them and follow through with their plan to kill him. Besides, if he remembered correctly, there was also a hunter congregation point, right in the next state. Another reason not to rock the boat.

 “Gabe…?” He smirked, rather proud of his idea to hide in plain sight. He rarely gave in to the temptation though, preferring made-up names or generic ones. Thankfully, naming their child “Gabriel” was still popular among parents, considering how often he heard it. But the voice calling for his attention was not the voice of his long-lost brother or sister, it was the voice of the one of the musicians he was supposed to be attached to.

Right. Focus on the job: Production Assistant, or PA as they called it, to this budding indie music group. And keep a low profile. Simple. “Sorry for that! I just… spaced out for a moment.” He made sure to sound extra cheerful as he handed the pad back to the producer. The lead guitar just smiled at him but the lead singer scoffed. Great! A Diva! Oh… He was SO on Gabriel’s naughty list.

The music group he was working with wasn’t so bad. He learned that they had become friends in high school, and the lead singer and guitarist were brothers. They kept an easy feeling of camaraderie around them, curbing most of Keith’s, the lead singer, asshole tendencies.

 He did a pretty good job at keeping it under the radar. It wasn’t *his* fault if the strings from Keith’s guitar suddenly snapped off, breaking the instrument’s neck in the process, just as he was about to start his solo. Clearly it was a sign of abuse, despite the singer’s claim and bewilderment. Of course, Gabriel had dashed off, only to come back just as quickly with a suitable replacement. That happened to be bright pink. With My Little Pony stickers all over its body and bright neon pink strings. Gabriel thought it did wonders bringing out the red in the singer’s bloodshot eyes.

Neither was he responsible if, somehow, Keith’s shampoo bottle ended up filled with hair removal product, forcing the man to completely shave the long hair he was so proud of. He kept complaining about it throughout the day and to whoever was willing to listen (or look like they cared), until the drummer told to shove it and keep his breath for singing. Besides, it was well-known that “chicks dig bald head after all”. Gabriel didn’t know if it was because of the “chick” comment or just the fact the usually silent drummer spoke, but Keith finally shut up and the rehearsal finished without any more hitch.

Granted, sending homophobic Keith to a bar hosting one of RuPaul’s Drag Race Main Challenge that specific night, may have been his doing. But heh! They played Classic Rock all the time! And you never mess with the classics. Not to mention that Keith appeared to be quite the connoisseur, judging by how often he commented and complained about his fellow musicians.

(It still didn’t beat the slow-dancing aliens Gabriel willed out of thin air, but this one was in his personal top 5.)

 All in all, the Trickster was quite proud of himself. Knocking the ever-pompous ass down a peg, but subtly, every time he acted out, was kind of fun. Reminded him of the time he took the mantle of “Loki”. Gabriel chuckled, singing softly as he finished cleaning up the record studio.

“I didn’t know you sang.”

Gabriel yelped, nearly dropping his broom. Few people could sneak up on him. He turned around to see Keith’s brother, Joey, standing in the doorway.

“Ah…” Gabriel looked away, a little embarrassed. He didn’t thought the kid had heard him. “I used to… About a few centuries ago…” It wasn’t technically a lie; the last time he truly sang, he was with his brothers in the Silver City. He glanced again at Joey when he heard him make some non-committal sound.

 The kid was an enigma. Gabriel had learned, from the first day he started working with them, that he was Keith’s older brother and that the music group was their dream. Joey mainly worked on the songs and musical arrangements, while Keith, making good use of his outgoing personality and ambition, took care of the fans, dealt with the production people, and made sure to get their names out there. Still, Joey never gave into pride the way Keith did.

He was polite, gracious even, thanking the people hovering around them both and making sure his requests were never obnoxious. That didn’t mean he was a push-over either. One time, when the producer, tired and annoyed that Keith had stormed off of rehearsal for the nth time, suggested Joey took over as lead vocals, the musician had flat out refused. And stood his ground until the producer backed down when he realised it would be foolish to continue pushing the issue.

It wasn’t as if Keith couldn’t sing. The man had talent, there was no denying it. But he was so difficult to work with. Gabriel suspected the only reason people stayed and helped was because they liked Joey more than they hated Keith. Yet, there had been times when Gabriel had caught Keith glancing at this brother, as if looking for his approval.

Still, Gabriel wondered why Joey would reject the producer’s proposal so violently. Joey merely shrugged when he asked him about it and insisted to stay behind that evening to help Gabriel finish his chores. Despite Gabriel’s protests. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t get the work done with a snap of his fingers, after all.

 “He’s not the first to suggest it.” Joey finally answered after a time. “Nor will he be the last… But… see, Keith… He’s made for this. He’s… He can shine under the spotlights like… like I never could. And I’m not jealous! I’m happy to write the songs when he works on getting our names out there. I’m happy to be there for him, so he can shine.” And he just smiled and got back to work.

It sounded like total bullshit, in Gabriel’s opinion. He had never met anyone who wouldn’t enjoy being in the spotlight. Maybe Joey just needed a little incentive…

The next time Keith was being an ass, Gabriel got the opportunity to hit two birds with one stone. It was last day after all, despite the production team not being aware of it yet, and he had always prided himself leaving on a high note. Pun not intended.

 Gabriel made a discreet rippling gesture with the fingers of his right hand. One minute, Keith was yelling and growling and ranting and being a general pain in the butt, and the next, nothing. Just… Silence. Pure. Sweet. Silence. And there was nothing to be done to change the situation.

That threw the production out for a loop. They were in the middle of recording a very important session. It was one of the rare duets sang by the brothers. And this one that had the potential to change everything and getting the group recognized. Gabriel only hoped Joey was ready to go at it, solo. He did feel a little bit guilty when he saw the fear and panic written all over the kid’s face. Best make a quick exit.

 “Gabe? Gabe?! GABRIEL?!!! WAIT!!!”

 Dammit. Joey had managed to catch up just as he was about to step outside. A few more steps and… Gabriel sighed and turned around, unable to resist the fear and worry and hope in the guy’s voice. He knew he should have flown out of there but didn’t want to risk it.

“Gabriel… You have to help…” Joey panted. “You have to sing Keith’s part…”

“Come again?”

“You have to sing. It’s the only way we can get the sing out in time.”

“You’re joking right? Why don’t you do it solo?” Maybe the kid really needed to be pointed the obvious.

But Joey just shook his head. “Can’t… not the right voice… doesn’t carry well… would ruin the song… But, yours… Yours could work… Just…”

“Joey, that’s ridi- “

“Listen, if you don’t want to do it, it’s fine… But -”

“Gabe is right… You have to sing.” A raspy voice, barely above a whisper interrupted them.

 They turned around to see Keith standing beside them. Gabriel could have hit himself. He truly was getting old. And he couldn’t just zap out there, he was really committed to see this through as low-profile as he could.

“You know it won’t work! It’s a duet! It needs to be sung by two people!” Joey protested, getting angry. “My voice is way too clear and high for your parts! I’ll end up sounding like a bad mash up of Alvin and Chipmunks, with a head-cold!!!”

“Then, we forget this, we wait for another opportunity and use this to work on new material.”

 The brothers stared at each other. Meanwhile, Gabriel couldn’t believe what was happening. Aside for the Alvin thingie part, that he could. Joey’s voice had reached a surprising high note in his distress. No, what surprised him was that Keith, Pompous-Asshole-Keith, was calmly trying to calm his brother down. Keith who was not even furious at the step back his nearly muteness was causing but who was in fact trying to find a solution. Gabriel was truly confused. Either this session must mean a lot more to them than he first thought, or he accidentally causes Opposite Day.

A heavy hand landing on his shoulder brought him back to the situation at hand. “Can you sing my part?”

Gabriel looked up to see Keith staring at him. The brothers appeared to have reach some kind of agreement while he was busy puzzling over what was happening. “Look… I know I’ve been an ass… and I have no right to ask you this.” Keith was saying. “But, it’ll help us greatly if you helped us out.”

“You… You can’t be serious.”

“Joey says you’re good. And that’s good enough for me.” By now, Keith was nearly growling, his voice giving out.

Gabriel scoffed, looking at each brother in turn.

The naked hope in their eyes tugged at something he buried a long time ago. “But I can’t play!” It was a cop-out, one last desperate attempt to get out.

And a poor one. Keith gave a lopsided small smile, as if he knew it. “I think I can help with that…”

Gabriel sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

Bloody Hell.

The recording session was surprisingly easy. It took only one rehearsal to see how everyone worked together before they started recording. Gabriel’s presence raised a few eyebrows, but the Joey/Keith tandem quickly shut everyone up. It was impressive to see how efficiently they worked together. The other musicians just shrugged, happy a solution had been found. And Gabriel really got lost in the experience. It was surprising how easy and familiar it was to just be a part of something once again.

When the producer called out “And… it’s a wrap!” and everyone just… jumped around, nearly bursting with joy. Gabriel just stood there, unable to move, feeling the pats on his back and shoulders, the one-arm hugs. He was staring at the brothers, hugging and thumping each other’s back. They let go and just… stared at each other, before the rhythmic guitar player sauntered over, saying something that made Keith roar with laughter. Or he would have, if he still had a voice.

Gabriel was suddenly hit by a wave of homesickness. It was too much to take in. Too hard to breathe. He didn’t think.

 He flew away, landing a few cities away, to try and get his bearings and calm the sudden hammering of his Grace. He usually managed to keep it at peace by entertaining himself with mortal ladies (and some goddesses), but… Nothing could have prepared him for the impact the sheer force of the tangled emotions he just witnessed, and caused.

“Well… You are not the one I had expected to find here.”

The voice came from behind him and Gabriel turned around to see a man emerged from the shadows. He was adjusting the cuffs of his tailored purple silk suit, his face hidden by the shadow cast by his hat.

“Hello Anansi.” Gabriel shoved his hands his pockets, mimicking the other’s relaxed pose. "Fancy meeting you here."

The cordial tone was a trick and they both knew it as they kept a respectful (and prudent) distance from one another.

 Gabriel’s eyes narrowed as he watched the African Trickster, half-wondering if he may or may not have been responsible for the sudden change of situation at the recording studio. Distances meant nothing for supernatural beings, and Anansi was known to work from afar. “I thought we both agreed to stay within our territories.” He said after a time. “Are you making a move?”

“Not at all.” Anansi said a little too smoothly, raising a hand, as if to indicate his peaceful intentions, his voice was singing, soothing, a mix of both Caribbean and African accents. “I am merely on my way to the House of Rock, to meet with the All-Father. Surely, you must be aware of this.” 

Gabriel frowned slightly. No, he didn't know the Old Gods were meeting. Truth be told, he wasn’t really close to his alleged fellows, not wanting to risk the off-chance of revealing his true nature. This had caused Odin to make numerous complains, and thin-veiled insults, about his lack of “investment in their plight.” Not that Gabriel really cared. “I have been travelling a lot lately.” He shrugged. “Perhaps my invitation got lost in the mail.”

“Perhaps…” Anansi said though he did not push the issue.

 Gabriel was the first to break the ensuing silence. “In any case, I shall let you be on your way.” He stepped aside to let the man pass. “While we both know Odin loves his theatrics, I won’t begrudge you your grand entrance.”

“Indeed.” Anansi tipped his hat as thanks, to which Gabriel responded with a nod.

 They kept an eye on each other as the African Trickster walked past him. Just in case.

“By the way, Loki,” Anansi said, his back now to Gabriel, judging he was at a safe enough distance, “I have heard stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Stories of wars. Stories of hurt. Stories of betrayal. Stories of brother fighting brother. Of friend turning against friend.” He turned around to look over his shoulder. His eyes were dark and unreadable, and Gabriel wondered one more time how much he knew. And if it was a threat he needed to take care of. “You might want to be careful not to get caught in the crossfire.” He said evenly.

“I will. Thank you for the warning.”

Anansi nodded and disappeared, leaving the former archangel in the dark street, wondering about what was about to come next.

THE END

[martinmcg]

THE FIRST DANCE

They had taken away the memory that Alejandro cherished most. He wanted it back. The Muninn in his shoulder whirred warmly and recalled everything. The old man relaxed, allowing the device to take him back, he did not hope – did not allow himself to hope – that this time would be different. He accepted the pain that must come.

*

Alejandro, as he has always done, looked around at the faces of friends and family. So many were now long gone. Even the community centre was rubble today, cleared for some office building that was never finished. But here were the people, young and bright. And here was the room still filled with the smell of fresh paint.

He let the soft rumble of conversation enfold him, Arsene’s barking laugh, the tinkling of glasses and the scraping of chairs on the red-tiled floor. He felt the warmth of the summer’s day seeping through the building’s thick walls and the gentle breeze from the single fan that stirred the air above the hastily cleared dance floor. His stomach felt heavy from drink and food, his head light from an unexpected depth of joy.

Finn, Tommy’s little boy, stared up at him. Alejandro smiled then and now. Finn was twice married, and twice divorced, with three kids and a big belly but here he tottered across the dance floor, his body still working out the complexities of standing upright. The boy’s face was set in a mask of fierce determination. Every step was a struggle of will against gravity, battling loose legs that only reluctantly obeyed his commands. In the boy’s fist, gripped tight and held out high, a carnation, the buttonhole from his father’s rented tuxedo.

The boy plodded towards them, dragging the focus of the room with him. The chattering faded, the band, tuning up in the corner, fell silent. The world stopped spinning. Finn swayed to a halt and raised the bruised white flower to Teresita.

“Thank you,” she said as she stooped to take the gift.

“Princess!” the boy said, eyes wide.

Teresita laughed and scooped the child up in her arms, spinning him around.

Alejandro flicked a jaw muscle to pause the play back. The hum of the Muninn, more felt than heard as it thrummed against his collar bone, settled into a lower pitch.

Teresita.

His throat tightened. He blinked away tears.

She had been, on that day, so convinced of her own happiness that it had seemed to Alejandro that a kind of joyful rapture had engulfed the whole wedding. Even her mother, who had always known Alejandro would never amount to anything, sat holding her new husband’s hand with a soft smile and her eyes bright. Teresita’s faith in him, in them together, had been so absolute that it had scared him even then. From here, knowing all the ways he would let her down, all the stupid disappointments and carelessness, the promises that he never could keep…

Alejandro blinked, restarting the recall – the Muninn whined.

Teresita kissed Finn on the forehead and set him down. The boy nodded solemnly, turned on his heel and tottered away into the arms of his parents – both gone now, God take them – and the laughing, applauding crowd.

Teresita put the flower in her hair, the white petals shocking amidst that ebony flow. She looked up, a wide, immodest grin on her face. Alejandro felt his hand reach out, the movement steadier and stronger than he had managed in many years. He felt himself brush her face with one finger, wondering again at the softness of the touch, the cool smoothness of her skin. She rested her cheek against his hand.

And there they stood, perfectly still, at the centre of the world.

The lead singer of the band started counting.

“One, two, three, four- ”

And at that moment the picture fractured and the sound crackled and a wall of static fuzz rose up around Alejandro. Over the hiss and warble a low female voice began to intone a legal statement about copyrighted material and the rights of its owners and the cost of licensing and offering him the opportunity to upgrade his package with Mnemosyne to reinsert the missing moments.

Alejandro sighed, twitched his jaw again to end the playback and felt the Muninn’s hum fade on his shoulder.

*

Alejandro flicked through his bill from Mnemosyne. He’d long ago paid off the basic charge on his Muninn so going through the bill and removing memories that were flagged with demands for copyright payments meant that the basic services of the device were available free.

He could have set his scroll to automatically reply to the bill, giving up everything that contained a memory he could no longer afford to keep, but sifting through the memories he was about to lose had become a small ritual. He’d wander down through the list, attempting to remember each incident without the Muninn, trying to work out where copyrighted material might have slipped into the memory.

Was it a tune on a distant radio? Or was a screen in the corner playing some movie? He flicked away one memory when he realized they were demanding a payment for the taste of a soft drink.

Alejandro enjoyed the puzzle even as he resented dropping each lost moment into the wastebasket. Every deletion came with a polite reminder from the sweet-voiced Mnemosyne woman reassuring him that his memories would never be deleted and were always there for him if he paid the required licence fee. It stung every time. He knew that he could never bring them back.

He’d held on to their wedding dance for as long as he could afford it. Now, though, the prices had gone up again and the rules kept changing. He had no choice.

He clicked the box and dragged the file to the corner of the screen and consigned it to the trash.

Tomorrow I will visit Filipe’s boy, he thought.

*

Alejandro wondered if he was the only one left who remembered that this building had once been a bowling alley. The neon signs were long gone, and so were the bowlers. The inside had been divided up into tiny rooms – the lanes buried under cheap flooring. Did the mechanisms still work? Were there, somewhere underneath the narrow, dirty corridors and crudely boxed-in apartments, pins and balls sitting, waiting to be rediscovered one day by a wrecking crew or, perhaps a thousand years hence, by a confused archaeologist?

He pushed his way through the junk-filled space, past discarded furniture, heavy boxes, broken toys and stacks of waste-filled plastic bags that reeked of rot and seeped colourless liquids across a tacky floor that sucked at his feet.

The door to Gideon’s room was open just a crack and violet light spilled around the jamb into the corridor. From inside music throbbed with bass so deep that Alejandro could feel it vibrating in every bone – his skin shivered with the beat.

Alejandro knocked. Waited. Knocked again. And then, when it became obvious that the music would drown out any sound he was capable of making with his knuckles on wood, he pushed the door.

There was a man with black skin, not brown but black with a hint of blue, like the deepest night sky, and stars of silver sparkled in his ears and his lips, his nose and his eyebrow, his teeth and his tongue. A line of what look liked rivets ran from the bridge of his nose over his brow and across the bald-black skin of his head.

The music snapped off and silence roared into the room.

“Gideon?” Alejandro said.

The boy looked up, suspicious at first. Then he smiled and Alejandro saw his mother in him and for an instant he was again the little boy he had once been, playing in the street with Gael and Tad, Alejandro’s grandsons.

 “Mister Marichal?” The boy stood up. He was very tall. Alejandro wondered if that was something else he’d done to himself. Filipe and his mother were not so big. “Mister Marichal!”

The boy came around the desk, ignored Alejandro’s offered hand and gave him a fierce hug, lifting the old man off his feet. Then he pulled away, looking serious.

“What are you doing down here? You should have told me you were coming, it’s dangerous down here.”

Alejandro waved away the boy’s concerns.

“I lived in this neighbourhood before your father and mother were born,” Alejandro said, laughing. “I walk where I like and no one bothers me.”

The boy looked unconvinced and again Alejandro saw his mother’s kindness.

Gideon remembered his manners, Filipe had been a good father, and rushed to clear a stack of boxes and papers from a deep armchair that was almost buried in one corner of the room. Alejandro sat, perched on the edge of the seat, and Gideon propped himself against the vast desk that filled most of the room.

“I want to remember the things they’ve taken away,” Alejandro said, tapping his shoulder where the small box of the Muninn was buried beneath his skin.

“Mnemosyne would do that, Mister Marichal.”

“Pfff!,” Alejandro shook his head. “Too much money.”

Gideon nodded, biting at his lower lip, as he took a moment before making up his mind. He reached for something on his desk.

“How long have you had the Muninn installed?”

Alejandro had to stop and think.

“Well, Teresita and I were married in twenty-one so that would be sixty-one? No sixty-three years ago.”

Gideon whistled.

“Any upgrades?”

“Not since I stopped working. That was in fifty-eight.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever worked on implants that old,” Gideon looked impressed. “That must be first generation hardware.”

Alejandro shrugged. He’d never been much interested in technology.

“Teresita was desperate to have these things installed before we were married. She was determined that it would be a day we’d never forget.” The words caught in Alejandro’s throat. Surprised by the emotion he coughed and looked away. “Now they’ve taken even that.”

Gideon said nothing but got up and began to move around Alejandro, running a small device over his shoulder and neck, nodding and tutting.

“Everyone in the neighbourhood says that you are the best person to see about Muninns,” Alejandro said. “They say there’s nothing you can’t make them do.”

Gideon tried to pat him on the shoulder, clumsily trying to reassure the old man. But Alejandro grabbed the hand, surprising the boy with the strength of his grip, and pulled Gideon closer.

“Give me back my Teresita!”

Gideon bent over the old man for a stretching, silent, moment, not sure how to respond to the hunger in Mister Marichal’s expression.

“Let’s see what I can do,” he said finally.

Alejandro nodded and smiled and Gideon took it as a signal that he could disentangle himself and go back behind his desk. He swiped his device across a scroll. A display jumped into life between them and the boy began manipulating information, figures streamed up from the desk, lines twisted and curled at eye level.

“I can do this,” Gideon said. “But there will be a price.”

Alejandro nodded.

“I have a few dollars.”

“I wouldn’t take your money, Mister Marichal,” the boy looked genuinely hurt and Alejandro had to smile. He’d known this was a good boy.

“Do you know how a Muninn works?” Gideon asked.

“I know what anyone knows,” Alejandro said. “It records your memories and lets you replay them later – you see what you saw, smelt, tasted, heard. Everything. All the experiences you had at the time.”

“That’s true, sort of” Gideon said. “But the Muninn doesn’t store your memories. It puts itself between your sense organs – your eyes, your nose, your skin – and your brain. It records the electrical impulses that your nervous system uses to communicate with your brain. When you recall something from the Muninn it replays the electrical signals from that moment in the past and amplifies them so that they override whatever you’re experiencing in the present. It feels like everything is happening again.”

Alejandro had sat through an endless demonstration by the Mnemosyne people back before the wedding. None of it had mattered to him then and he hadn’t paid attention.

“That’s not even the really clever part,” Gideon said. His enthusiasm brought out the young boy in him. Alejandro tried to imagine him as he had been, skinny, brown-skinned, always laughing. “The pathways and patterns in your brain are always changing. You learn new things. You add new memories. Old memories fade. You forget almost everything. The brain is always changing. The Muninn threads through those pathways and keeps track of the changes, it adapts the recordings it makes to fit the new patterns so you still perceive them in the same way as when they were recorded.”

Gideon looked at Alejandro as if he’d just explained something vital.

“So?”

“My system can’t do that,” Gideon said.

Alejandro shrugged, not understanding.

“So… if I pull out the memory, you’ll only be able to review it once or, if you’re lucky, twice. Watching it will change your memories and make my copy unplayable. And you can’t wait too long after I pull it onto a scroll before you watch it. After a few days the patterns in your brain will have changed and it’ll break down if you try to use it. Your brain won’t decode the signals in the same way.”

“Oh?”

“And there’s something else,” Gideon leant forward. “When you replay the memory, Mnemosyne will know I’ve tampered with your Muninn. It isn’t strictly illegal but it does break their terms and conditions, there’s a chance they’ll cancel your service.”

“I didn’t know…”

Alejandro looked away for a moment. He knew his own memory wasn’t what it was. He knew he relied on the Muninn for a lot of simple things. It would be difficult without it.

Gideon gave a tight smile.

“Mister Marichal, I would do anything to help you. You have always been good to my family. Gael was like my brother before…” Gideon stopped. Alejandro nodded. Some things didn’t need to be spoken about. “But I think you should go home and think about it.”

Alejandro looked into the palms of his hands. He hated his hands. They trembled slightly, they were lined and creased and dark with liver spots. They were old hands. He was old. He relied on the Muninn. But their fees and their rules – they were robbing him of everything he cared about

He needed to dance with Teresita again, even if it was just once more.

There was no choice to make.

“No,” he said. “I don’t need to go home.”

“What if I paid the licence fee?” Gideon dropped his gaze to the floor. “It isn’t so much.”

 “I did not come here for charity.” Alejandro’s tried not to shout but his voice was loud in the small room. He stood up – struggling out of the low armchair – and took a step towards the door.

“Just like my dad –”

Alejandro turned and opened his mouth ready to spit some angry response but the boy was laughing, hands raised in surrender.

“You’re certain?” Gideon asked.

Alejandro set his jaw firm and nodded.

“Then come with me.”

*

Alejandro had been expecting something that was more clinical, more futuristic. The walls of the little room may once have been white or cream but the paint had aged and yellowed, bubbled and cracked. You could tell from the edges that the carpet that it had started off a pale shade of blue but shuffling feet had worn the centre threadbare, the brown structure of the weave showing through. There was a single seat, a soft, battered armchair with a high back covered in a floral-patterned material that was thin and faded and had lost any charm it might once have possessed.

Gideon waved at Alejandro to sit down while he walked over to a scroll that lay on a small wooden table that was propped uncertainly against one wall. He tapped a few instructions on the scroll’s screen then pulled a skullcap of fine metal mesh from his trousers pocket. He swiped it against the scroll and then came towards Alejandro.

“Sit back, please, Mister Marichal,”

Alejandro did as he was told and the boy stretched the cap over his head.

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

Alejandro nodded, resolute.

Gideon went back to the scroll and tapped at the screen again. He paused, looking to Alejandro, but the old man gave no sign of doubt. The boy entered a final instruction.

“This will take about twenty minutes,” Gideon said, stepping towards the door. “It will work best if you can keep still and relax. I’ll come back when it is done.”

*

The dance was not elegant. Alejandro and Teresita did not sweep across the dance floor in a dramatic tango or spin in a light-footed waltz. They shuffled, they bumped and they wheeled around gracelessly to a long-forgotten pop-song that Teresita had loved.

It didn’t matter to Alejandro that his new wife trod on his toes or that they stumbled when he tried, unwisely, to sweep her up in dramatic turn.

All that mattered was her smile. She stared up at him and he saw himself reflected in her eyes and it seem that the man she saw was bigger and prouder and happier than he ever remembered being. He was a man with hope, a man who would do great things and who would always have this beautiful woman beside him.

He lifted her off her feet and she squealed his name as he whirled them both around, her dress ballooning out, one shoe flying off across the floor to land at the feet of the band’s guitarist. And when he put her down she threw her head back and laughed, her face wide and open and honest with simple pleasure. And then all their friends were around them, clapping him on the back, kissing his new wife and then dancing themselves – just as clumsily – and laughing.

It was a perfect moment.

*

Gideon put a hand on Alejandro’s shoulder and the memory dropped away. He lifted the cap off the old man’s head and rolled it up.

“We’re done,” Gideon said.

Alejandro sprang from the chair, surprising the boy with his sudden vigour, and gripped Gideon in a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” Alejandro stepped back, his eyes filling with tears. The old man wiped roughly at his face. “Thank you so much. You always were a good boy.”

Alejandro pulled out a small fold of neat bills and pressed them Gideon’s palm.

The boy, as gently as he could, refused them.

“No Mister Marichal – “

The old man pushed them back.

Gideon looked at the notes. He peeled away the top two and handed the rest back.

“That is enough.”

Appeased, Alejandro nodded then he reached up to grab Gideon’s face. He pulled the boy’s head forward and craned to kiss him on the forehead, his lips touching a cool metal stud.

“Thank you for giving me back my Teresita.”

The old man turned and walked out the door.

“Mister Marichal?” Gideon called after him but he was gone. The young man stared, confused for a moment, looking around the room.

Then he went over to the low table with the scroll.

The download from the Muninn was complete, the copy ready to play, unused.

If he returned it, the old man could have his precious memories one more time. Gideon fiddled with the mesh cap in his hands then turned towards the door, intending to chase after Mister Marichal and explain there had been a mistake.

Then he remembered how the old man had looked and he paused.

Thank you for giving me back my Teresita.

Gideon sat down in the old, battered armchair and gently ran his fingers along the studs in his skull.

Mister Marichal had been happy and that was enough. The old man didn’t need the download.

He already had everything he needed.

“The First Dance” was first published in Solaris Rising 2, edited by Ian Whates

THE FIRST DANCE was originally published on Welcome To My World

[girlontheinternet12]

In the Spotlight

Hello Readers! I wrote a story called In the Spotlight. It is about a girl who is a pop star, but she is lonely. She flies to New York for her tour and meets Blake a musician who performs on the street with his friend Noah. Critisim is welcome, but please no hate

Chapter 1

My name is Brenna Young and I am one of the world’s major popstars. I discovered when I was 18 with my covers on YouTube, that was right after my parents died in a car accident. Flash forward 5 years later and I’m now one of the most popular artists right now. I am currently at Diamond records in Los Angeles recording a new song. The song comes to an end, and I hear my record producer, Marc, yell cut. “That was great, Brenna.” said Marc. “Thanks.” I said, removing the headphones. I step out of the studio. I’m wearing a silver, sleeveless, metallic crop top with light ripped skinny jeans and my white flat converse sneakers. My dark brown hair falls to my shoulders as I take down my bun. “Okay, we need to get you back home to prepare for tour.” says my manager, Joan.  Joan has her auburn hair in a tight bun which shows off her fair skinned face. She also wears black glasses over her green eyes. “I need to prepare mentally and physically.” I said. I went outside and saw security guard, Gary, standing next to a Mercedes car. “After you.” said Gary, as he opened the door for me. Gary may be my security guard, but he is a sweetheart and gentlemen.He’d only be rough when he needs to be.Gary is bald, light skinned, and has dark eyes. He pretty much only wears black. When I sat down, my pomeranian dog, Buttercup, hopped out of my bag and onto my lap. “Aww, Buttercup, you can’t go 5 minutes without missing me can you.” I said. Buttercup continued to lick my face. “Do you want me to walk you up?” asked Gary, when we got to my apartment. “No, I’m good.” I said. “Okay.” said Gary. “See you tomorrow morning.” I said. I know what you are thinking, why does a mega popstar like Brenna Young, live in an apartment still. Honestly, I don’t know. I guess I’m just sentimental. When Buttercup and I get into my apartment, I go fill up his food bowl. “Buttercup, I think you are the only real friend I have.” I said. He barks excitedly at me. Truth be told, I’m pretty lonely. When I became famous, my friends sort of abandoned me. They hated that every time they hung out with me we would have to face the paparazzi. I went into my bedroom and pulled out my suitcase and pulled pretty much everything from my closet. Then I shoved it all into my suitcase. “Okay, now to mentally prepare for the tour.” I said. I went into the bathroom and started a bath. I grabbed a face mask from the closet, as well as bath salts and bath bombs, and anything else that could relax me. I grabbed my phone and played some relaxing music. After a few hours of soaking in the bathtub. I got out and got dressed in pajamas. I ordered pizza and opened a bottle of wine. “Nothing like a bit of alcohol and junk food to prepare for tour, right Buttercup?” I said. Buttercup just looked at me. “Don’t give me that look, if you were human, you would drink too.” I said. The first place we were going to stop for tour is New York City. Afterward, I went to my room and hopped in bed. I woke up the next morning at 4:00 am. Gary was coming to pick me up at 5:00. I put on a Rolling Stones T-shirt with a zip-up hoodie and sweatpants with my black high top converse. I wore my hair up in a messy bun. I put my sunglasses in my pocket. After, I went to pack Buttercup’s bag. Then I fed Buttercup. Then I heard knocking at my door. “You ready to go, Brenna?” asked Gary. “Yep.” I said as I yawned. I Put Buttercup in my bag and walked with Gary down to the Mercedes. I slept all the way to the airport. Joan was already there when we got there. “C’mon let’s go, we’ve got a plane to catch.” said Joan. I put on my earbuds as I followed her inside. I pulled out my phone and played the song I Want You to Want Me by Cheap Trick. We got to our gate at 6:30 and we boarded at 7:30. Of course, we had first-class tickets. I pretty much slept the entire time. Buttercup also slept pretty much the whole time on my lap. “When we land, we are going immediately to the venue.” said Joan. “Ok.” I said as I stretched my arms. Buttercup did the same. Just as Joan said we went straight from the airport to the venue. When we got there, I went straight on stage for rehearsals. Rehearsals lasted for 2 hours. After that, I went to the makeshift recording booth. There I spent 2 more hours recording new songs. “Great, we’ll need you to come in tomorrow at 9 to finish up recording.” Marc said. “So after that is my schedule free?” I asked. “Yes, you can go explore the city only if you wear a disguise, it will keep fans away.” said Joan. “Okay, great.” I said. Then before I knew it, it was time to perform the first show of the tour. After the show, I went back to my hotel room to shower. Once I was out, I heard someone knocking on my door. Whoever was knocking left before I got there. When I turned, I noticed a note on my door. I read the note, it was a scary note. I could feel my breathing getting heaving and my heart was pounding. I started shaking and sweating. I ran downstairs to where Gary was. “Gary, I just got this scary note.” I said He took the note and read it. “Okay, I’ll let Joan know and we can get more guards.” He said. I hugged him. “Thanks, Gary.” I said. 

Chapter 2 

After I finished recording the next day, I put on a disguise and went out to explore New York. I explored all around. Then I saw a guy getting ready to perform. So I stayed and watched him. He was playing Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns’N’Roses on his guitar, he was accompanied by a drummer. When he started to sing he sounded great. The drummer looked like he was having a great time. Not also did the lead singer/guitarist sound good, he looked good too. He had brown, messy, and curly hair. He had brown eyes, and light skin. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a t-shirt with jeans. When he was ready to sing the next verse after the second guitar solo, I started to sing it instead. He looked shocked at first. He looked back towards his drummer who shrugged his shoulders. He looked back towards me and smiled. Then he joined me when the chorus started. Our eyes were locked on each other as we sang. Buttercup was chasing his tail, which was his way of dancing. By the time we finished singing the song, my cover had been blown. “We need to run.” I said. “Follow me.” said the singer. He leads me through alleyways and streets, then we went into a building and into an elevator. “My name is Blake, by the way.” he said, panting. “I’m Brenna, but I’m guessing you already know that.” I said, removing my disguise. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.” said Blake. “By the way, where are we?” I asked. “We’re at my apartment.” Blake said. “You sounded amazing out there.” I said. “You too.” he replied. We walked out of an elevator straight into Blake’s apartment. “Welcome to Casa del Blake.” He said. I laughed. His apartment was a beautiful small loft. “ It’s beautiful, but how can you afford it?” I asked. He raised his eyebrow. “Sorry, didn’t mean to judge, guess I don’t know what you do for a day job.” I said. He laughed. “I perform with my friend in a band at a bar.” he said. “Obviously, you’ve been living the fairy tale life for too long now.” he said. I frowned. “Actually, I have found this life to be pretty lonely.” I said. “Well you’re not alone now.” he said taking my hand. We stared at each other for a while. “My dad actually left me this place.” Blake said, he sounded morose. “Is your dad-”  “He’s dead. He got very sick.” said Blake before I could finish. “I’m so sorry.” I said. “No need to focus on the sad, c’mon let’s dance.” he said. He went over to a pile of records and put one on. The song Karma Chameleon by Culture Club started playing. Then, he jumped on his couch. He stood on the arm of the couch and lip sang with the song. He jumped off the couch and took my hand, then we both started dancing and singing like idiots. I smiled, and not one of my fake smiles. It was a real smile. I hadn’t had a real smile on my face in a long time. We danced for hours. Before we knew it, it was dark. “Do you want something to eat?” asked Blake. “What have you got?” I asked. He grabbed a bottle of wine and two wine glasses. He filled them both up. After that, he went to the elevator which had opened. “My specialty, pizza, mon amie.” he said. I laughed. “Well, your specialty is not Italian, because you just spoke French.” I said as I siped from my glass. He set the pizza on the bar and we ate, drank, and laughed for what felt like hours. “Hey, there is something I’d like to do.” he said as he picked up his acoustic guitar. “Come with me.”  he said. I followed him to his deck. He sat down in a chair and I sat down in the other chair. “My dad’s favorite song was Forever by the Beach Boys.” He said. “He would sing it whenever he had to leave for long periods of time.”.  He looked down as he frowned. “He sang to my mom and me when he died.” Blake said. He looked at me. “Will you sing it with me?” asked. “Of course.” I said. He looked at the star-filled night sky and he started playing the opening chords of the song. By the time we finished singing the song, our eyes were locked on each other. Other people who lived in the neighboring buildings applauded our performance. “Shoot.” I said as I remembered I had a flight tomorrow morning. “What is it?” asked Blake. “I just remembered I leave for France tomorrow.” I said. “So this is all we have?” asked Blake. I could tell he was heartbroken. “I’m sorry.” I said. Then my phone rang. It was Joan calling. “I need to take this, it’s my manager.” I said. Blake nodded. “What.” I said on the phone, shocked. I hung up and smiled. I turned to Blake. “Geez, don’t look so happy about this being our last night.” Blake said. “Actually, my manager said we’re going to be in New York for 3 more days.” I said. “I’m going to perform at the Rockefeller Christmas tree lighting.” I said. All of a sudden Blake’s frown turned into a smile. “I guess the universe wants us to be together.” he said. I laughed. “Can I stay here tonight?” I asked. “Yep.” said Blake. “Let’s celebrate.” he said as he put another record on. This time the song was Take on Me by A-HA. We danced and sang the whole night.  

Chapter 3   

The next morning while I was in bed I put my earbuds on and listened to Space age Love Song by A Flock of Seagulls. “Great song.” said Blake sleepily. He only had one bed so we slept in the same bed. I smiled as I got up to go to the elevator. I asked Gary to bring some clothes and my personal hygiene stuff. Later, Blake showed me all sorts of touristy stuff. He also showed me some of his favorite places. As the song said, we were falling in love. He took me Ice skating in Central Park and we were dancing like maniacs to the music playing. It was the best 2 days of my life. I had never been happier. We were laughing and smiling the whole time. We were hanging out in his apartment with his friend Noah, who was the drummer playing with Blake when we first met. “That was crazy unexpected when you started singing.” said Noah. Noah looked a lot like Blake except his skin and hair were lighter.  “I love Sweet Child ‘O Mine, that’s why I did it.” I said. “I’ve had so much fun, even if we’ve spent most of the time dancing like maniacs.” I said to Blake. “Oh no, you’re not dancing are you?” Noah said. “What’s wrong with dancing?” I asked. “Nothing, It’s just he’s a bad dancer.” said Noah. “He is not.” I said. Blake laughed. “She must be a bad dancer too.” Noah said. “I won’t argue with that.” I said. “She’s not a bad dancer.” said Blake. “Let’s show him.” said Blake, going over to his record player. “No, no, no.” said Noah. I walked over to Blake. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing started to play and Blake and I started to dance like maniacs. “Oh my gosh, you are both terrible.” Noah said, jokingly. Blake and I laughed. “My eyes, It hurts to watch.” Noah said, jokingly. “Ok, I need to get out of here, this dancing is just too bad.” said Noah as he walked to the elevator. “See ya dude.” Blake said as we continued dancing. After Noah left, we collapsed to the floor in fits of laughter. “I’m sorry, we’ll hardly see each other tomorrow.” I said. Blake looked at me, confused. “What do you mean?” he asked. It was my turn to look confused. “Did I not tell you, I’ll be busy with rehearsals all day tomorrow, then I have to perform, and after the performance, I have to leave to get to France.” I said. “Why don’t you stay here, you said you aren’t happy with your career anyway.” he said. “If I stayed, I would disappoint millions of fans, and not mention ruin my career.” I said. “Why would that matter if you’re not happy?” asked Blake. “Because it was hard to get where I am now.” I said, starting to get upset. “You don’t think I know that, I’ve been trying to break into this business since high school.” Blake said. “I perform for drunkards.” Blake said, angrily slamming his fists on the bar counter. “You don’t get it, It’s hard to break into this business, but it is so easy to lose it all.” I said, starting to cry. “I was in a bad place, before this job.” I said. “It made me happy.” I said. “But now it’s not, you should be doing what makes you happy.” Blake said. “You don’t get it, music makes me happy.” I said. “I’m just going to stay at my hotel tonight, don’t bother coming to watch me perform.” I said. I walked to the elevator and left. When I got in, I slid down against the wall to the floor and cried. Blake grabbed his acoustic guitar and went out on his deck and started playing The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel. 

Chapter 4 

I was in hair and makeup getting ready for the show. When I was done, I went back to my room to get my bag. I found another scary note on my door. I ran downstairs. “Gary, I found another scary note.” I said. “Okay, I’ll handle this, don’t worry.” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. I felt much better after that. I went on stage to perform in the freezing cold snow. After the show, I had to immediately leave to fly to France. As I left, I saw Blake, we locked eyes, but we didn’t talk to each other. Before I knew it, I was in Paris, France. I was in the city of love, and the one person I loved was thousands of miles away. 

Meanwhile…

“Dude, I really messed up.” Blake said. Blake and Noah were sitting at the bar drinking in between songs. “You really love her, don’t you?” asked Noah, as he took a sip of his drink. “I do.” Blake said. He looked at Noah. “What do you think I should do?” asked Blake. Noah turned and looked at Blake. “You know what you need to do.” Noah said. 

Back in Paris…

 I was standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower and looking out over Paris. I started to cry a little. Paris was my parent’s favorite city. When I envisioned myself finally visiting Paris, I imagined I’d be with someone I loved. “What’s wrong Brenna?” asked Gary. “Nothing, I just wish I was here with someone who loves me.” I said. “But, you are here with someone who loves you.” said Gary. I looked at him confused. “I love you and Joan loves you.” Gary said. “So in a way, you are here with people who love you.” said Gary. “That’s true, you’re the best security guard I’ve ever had and Joan is like a mother to me.” I said, hugging Gary. “You miss that young man you met, don’t you? What was his name again?” asked Gary. I laughed. “His name is Blake, and yes I miss him.” I said. “We better get back to the hotel, you have a show in 4 hours.” said Gary. When we got to the hotel, I went to take a shower. After, I heard hard knocking on my door, like in New York. I answered the door, but whoever was knocking was gone. There was a note attached to my door. This time it was a death threat. My breathing went heavy, my heart was pounding and I was shaking. I was having a panic attack. I’ve had them before, but I’ve never told anyone about them. I went over to my computer and went on to Skype and pressed Blake’s name to chat with him. When he popped up on the screen, he looked concerned. “Are you okay, Brenna?” Blake asked. I couldn’t talk, so I shook my head. It didn’t take long for him to figure out I was having a panic attack. “It’s okay. Try thinking about when we were dancing like maniacs.” He said. My breathing slowly went back to normal. “It’s okay, just breathe.” Blake said. “Now tell me, what’s going on, why were you freaking out?” he asked. “I received a death threat.” I said. “Did you tell Gary?” asked Blake. “No.” I said. “Nobody knows that I have panic attacks.” I said. “Tell Gary and Joan, they’re there to protect you.” He said. I felt better already. “Thanks.” I said. “No problem.” He said. “I better go.” I said. “See you later.” Blake said. Then I hung up. I went downstairs to find Gary. I showed him the note and told him and Joan about my panic attacks. “We’ll make sure security is on high alert.” said Joan. Gary nodded. “Now go get ready for your show.” Joan said.

 Chapter 5 

I performed three of my songs, then when I was about to play another, my band started to play the opening chords of Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns ‘N’ Roses. I was confused. “What are you doing?” I asked my guitarist, as I covered my mic. He didn’t answer, he just looked smugly at me. When I turned back to the audience, I heard a familiar voice start singing the first verse. Before I knew it, Blake was on stage with me. I looked towards Joan and Gary and they were both smiling. During the guitar solo between the second to last and last verse, we talked. “I’m so sorry about our argument, you were right this career is easy to lose.” said Blake. “I’m sorry too, You’re right too, I shouldn’t be doing something that makes me miserable.” I said. “What are you going to do?” said Blake. “I don’t know.” I said. “Want to dance?” asked Blake. I nodded. Blake turned to the audience. “Everybody, tweet your videos to Noah_Pently.” He said. “And tag us, BlakeEdwards and BrennaYoungOfficial.” he said. “Noah is going to hate you.” I said. Then we started dancing like maniacs. After the song ended, Blake kissed me, waved to the audience, and walked off stage. I performed 2 more songs, then things went bad. Blake noticed someone in the audience raise a gun towards the stage. The person shot the gun in my direction. “BRENNA, WATCH OUT!” shouted Blake as he ran in front of me. The two bullets that were shot hit him. Gary and the security guards went to catch the shooter. “BLAKE!” I shouted I bent down to the ground next to Blake. Paramedics came on stage as the band walked off. The paramedics took Blake to the ambulance to get him to the hospital. Joan, Gary, and I waited in the emergency room waiting room. “He’s good, I’ll have to see if I can get him signed to your record label.” Joan said. “Really?” I said. She nodded. I hugged her. The doctor came out. “He’s lucky the bullets missed his heart. He should be fine.” He said. “Can I go see him?” I asked. “Yes, but he has not awoken yet.” said the doctor. I nodded and went into the elevator to go to his room. “Could you guys wait out here, I want to be with him alone.” I said to Joan and Gary. They looked at each other and nodded. I walked into the room. Even after getting shot and losing a lot of blood, Blake still looks great. His phone was on the cabinet next to his bed. I picked it up and called Noah. “What’s up?” asked Noah. “Noah, it’s me, Brenna.” I said. “Blake was shot at my concert saving my life.” I said. There was a long silence. “Noah, are you okay?” I asked. “Is Blake okay?” he asked, somberly. “Yeah, The doctor said he should be fine, also that he was lucky that the bullets missed his heart.” I said. I could tell this information relieved Noah. “You know, he really likes you.” he said. “I know, I really like him too.” I said. “Joan said she wants to try to sign you guys.” I said. “That’s awesome.” said Noah, happily. “Well, thanks for telling me about Blake and everything, see you later, I guess.” He said. “Bye.” I said. After I hung up, I put Blake’s phone back on the cabinet, I put my phone next to his. Then, the door opened. A man in black with his face covered entered. “I told you to stop this tour and never perform again.” He said. My heart started pounding. “You, you sent me all those scary letters.” I said. “And you didn’t listen.” the man said. Buttercup ran in front of me and barked and growled at the man. The man kicked Buttercup out of the way against the wall. “Buttercup!” I said. The man pulled out a pocket knife. “This time you have no one to protect you, you are alone.” The man said. “She is not alone.” Gary said. The other guards went and subdued the man and took him out of the room. “Gary.” I said, hugging him. “Are you okay?” he asked. “I’m fine, but how did you know something was going on?” I asked. “You called me.” he said. “No, I didn’t.” I said. I looked over towards Buttercup. “I think I see what happened.” I said. Gary looked at me. “When the attacker kicked Buttercup into the wall, the force must have knocked my phone off the cabinet and Buttercup’s paw clicked your number.” I said. I picked Buttercup up. “I can get him to a vet if you want.” said Gary. I nodded as I handed him Buttercup. Then it was just me and Blake again. 

Chapter 6

 I was sitting on the edge of his bed when Forever by the Beach Boys started playing over the speakers. I sang along to it as I remembered what Blake told me about how this was dad’s favorite and how his father sang when he died. When the last verse came, Blake started singing too. I hugged him. “Ow.” he said. I was sitting on the edge of his bed when Forever by the Beach Boys started playing over the speakers. I sang along to it as I remembered what Blake told me about how this was dad’s favorite and how his father sang when he died. When the last verse came, Blake started singing too. I hugged him. “Ow.” he said. “Sorry.” I said. “I’m glad you’re okay.” I said. Then I kissed him. “By the way, Joan wants to sign you to my record label.” I said. “What, that’s awesome.” Blake said. We talked until the nurse kicked me out.  The next day, Joan called a meeting. “Gary, have you talked with the rest of security?” Joan asked. “Yes, I have.” he said. “Joan, I think I need to take a break from music for a while, just until I can decide that it is truly what I want to do.” I said. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Yes, but I can finish the tour if you want me to.” I said. “Well I talked about it with higher ups, and we have decided to delay the rest of the tour until next year.” said Joan. “So it’s back home then.” I said. Joan nodded. When the meeting was over I met up with Blake at a cute cafe, now that he was out of the hospital. “So the tour will continue next year?” he asked, going for a drink of his coffee. “Yes, so I guess it’s back to L.A for me.” I said. He put his cup down. “Why don’t you move in with me.” he said. “You said you were lonely anyway.” he said. “Then I guess it’s back to New York.” I said. He smiled. “I love you.” he said. I kissed him on the cheek. Epilogue

 Blake and I had just finished moving my things in his loft. He had gone back out again, while I finished unpacking. “Okay, so I might have done something crazy.” He said. “Like what?” I asked. “I figured you wouldn’t be giving Buttercup your full attention anymore, so I got him a friend.” he said. “A lady friend.” he said. He opened up a cage and another pomeranian the same color as Buttercup walked out. She looked different from Buttercup. “I named her Peanut.” Blake said. “ Peanut Buttercup, funny.” I said. Immediately, Peanut and Buttercup got along well. “At this rate, we’ll end up with pomeranian puppies.” Blake said. “Aww, that would be so cute.” I said. Blake walked over to his record player and pulled out a record. It was Just What I Needed by The Cars. “M’lady?” asked Blake as he held his hand out to me. I smiled and took his hand and we danced the whole night through. 

The End