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myhockeyworld87 · 3 years

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What Happens in Vegas...Doesn’t Always Stay There - Jacob Markstrom - Part 1

Word Count: 4,885

POV: Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Language, Smut, Drinking (all the good stuff)

Notes: Well here it is the new fic that’s been in my head. I tossed around a couple different guys for this, but some of you suggested Marky and well looks like it stuck. Trying to do this a little different and keep this in an all read POV, so we shall see how that works. I don’t see this being super long maybe between 5 or 6 parts. Hope you guys enjoy. As always feedback is welcome. Happy Reading!

They say that New York is the city that never sleeps but whoever 'they' is, well, they got it wrong. It has to be Vegas. Lights are always flashing whether you were indoors or out, the jangly sound of slot machines can be heard at all hours and the seven deadly sins seem to be on full display twenty-four hours a day. It's no wonder their tagline for years was 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.' If only that were true.

You wish you could blame someone else but you can't. Vegas was all your idea. As maid of honor, it fell to you to plan your best friend's bachelorette party, and in your mind, there was only one spot, Vegas. Now, you were second-guessing your choice as your head was pounding like there were a thousand drummers who decided to perform at the Super Bowl halftime show, only in your brain. There was only one thought that made it through the marching band playing in your head. What the hell happened last night?

Maybe you should start off small, like where were you first, considering that the little drummer boy was now doing backflips in your head. You were definitely in bed, which was evident as you could feel the mattress underneath you. You could also feel the duvet comforter covering your body, but there was something else. Something a bit heavier, almost as if a weighted blanket was covering your stomach and your breast, but it wasn't that. It was an arm slung across your midsection and a very large hand cupping your one boob. God, you hoped it was still attached to a body. You should really take a peek. It would be the only decent thing to do.

As you gradually lifted one eyelid open, the first thing you noticed was that you were not in your hotel room, as the wall looked completely different. No reason to panic, you told yourself. Everything would come back to you as soon as this god blessed pounding ceased. Peering the other eye open, you got back to business at seeing if there was a body attached to the arm currently trapping you to the bed. Carefully, you turned your head to the side to see a very large and very naked man firmly attached to the aforementioned arm. He was gorgeous as he lay there sleeping ever so peacefully. You drank in his features, kind of like you downed drink after drink last night. His brown hair had this golden hue to it that made your fingers want to reach out and touch it, though you refrained. Then there was the beard covering his face, not too much and not too little, and now that you were thinking about it; you definitely felt some of that beard burn on your thighs. If you could only remember last night. The only logical thing to do was to go back to the start of this, back to a time when you were sober.

It started months ago when your best friend Kennedy got engaged. You honestly didn't see it coming that fast. She'd only been dating Ryan for a little less than a year, but he asked and she said yes, and when she asked you to be her maid of honor you screamed and laughed and cried, and told her you couldn't wait to plan her bachelorette party. Everyone knew the bridal shower was only for boring stuffy old aunts so that they could buy her the latest air fryer or new dish pattern. The bachelorette party was where all the fun was, and what better place to have it than Las Vegas.

Of course, everyone agreed with you. The only wrench in the plan was that Kennedy decided to up her wedding date and make it a nine-month engagement. That barely left time to find a dress let alone plan the most outrageous bachelorette party of the century. You would've said decade but twenty-twenty was fastly approaching. Thankfully, you had connections. Night one was more sedate since you all were just arriving at the MGM hotel at different times; eleven of you in total when Ryan's sister decided to join at the last minute. You booked a private room at Lago in the Bellagio for all of you to enjoy.

It was the second night, that was the piece de resistance. A limo picked you all up and took you over to Excalibur to see the legendary Australian group, Thunder from Down Under. I mean what was Vegas without seeing a male stripper or two. The next day, a private bungalow was waiting for you at Wet Republic in the MGM Hotel. One would've thought the night watching men strip naked would've been your undoing but apparently, it all started poolside.

"I seriously can't believe he pulled you up on stage and proceeded to dry hump you up there," Kelsey rehashed.

"Really, Kels?" Kennedy said downing another mimosa. "How could you not see that happening? (Y/N) has known Nate for a couple years. I mean he did get us front row tickets." This was all true. Nate, the emcee for Thunder from Down Under and you were friends, had been since your firm had done their calendar shoot two years ago. He had generously given you prime seating to the show that night and also set you up with a few other perks for the trip. "The only thing I'm surprised at, is that this one," she bumped you with her hip, spilling both hers and your mimosas. "Didn't end up going home with him last night."

"Oh my god, Kenny you did not just say that." She may be the bride and your best friend but really, she was pushing the line.

"Come on, it's not like it hasn't happened before."

At least four pairs of eyes turned towards you, Ryan's sister Gretchen being one of them. "Ok, admittedly, I slept with him, once." Both Kennedy and Kelsey gave you that look. "Ok, maybe it was twice, but he has a girlfriend now, and we are just friends."

"I'll give you that," Jade spoke up in your defense and suddenly she was going to earn the title of new best friend, not that the lines weren't blurred in your little group as you were all sort of best friends. "But what about Edward, the one with the turtle tattoo on his hip."

"You were so looking at more than his hip." Eva teased while Jade simply hid behind her champagne glass. "But yeah (Y/N), he was totally hitting on you."

"He was not."

"Oh, he was," Kennedy added her two cents. "And as the bride I take offense, they should've been hitting on me."

"Wait, why would they hit on you?" Jade sputtered. "You're taken bitch." Of course, bitch was said in the most loving way.

"I'm not dead."

"No, but I'm sure my brother wouldn't appreciate it." Leave it to Gretchen to be the mood killer. "I think I'm going to go take a nap. I'll meet you at the pool later."

She headed out the door, and honestly, you were ecstatic about it, for she was too judgmental for your liking. "Wait, Gretch, that's not what I meant."

"Leave her go, maybe a nap would do her good." They were Jade's words but your sentiments. "Now back to why (Y/N) did not take that beautiful man up on his offer last night."

"There was no offer," you insisted.

"Come on (Y/N), there was an offer. There's always an offer. Remember when you were doing promo for that Batman flick." You tried to shut Kennedy up with a death glare, but she continued to prattle on. "We all know you ended up doing the nasty with Superman."

"WHAT?!?!" Yeah, that definitely came out of the other nine people's mouths in the room.

"Thanks, Ken. No one knew that but you."

"Oops, my bad." She had the grace to at least be embarrassed about the whole thing.

"You mean you slept with that guy, the British one, tall, all muscular, extremely good looking. Damn it what's his name." You could see Eva wracking her brain for his name and you just didn't want to go there.

"Hen…"

"Yes, him," you admitted, stopping Jade before she could finish his name. "Can we please change the subject?"

"Why, when we are all living vicariously through you," Kelsey added. "Especially poor Kennedy, who is now committed to spending the rest of her life with one man."

"Geez, you make it sound like a death sentence. I love Ryan and I'm perfectly fine spending the rest of my days with him."

You had to suppress an eye roll. Not because you didn't think that Ryan and Kennedy weren't in love. If you were being honest, you just thought they were rushing things a bit. The problem was telling your best friend that; you tried in the past and never succeeded. "We know you're in love Kenny." And then because you couldn't stop yourself, you added. "It's just are you sure you want to be tied down so young? We still have our whole life to live."

"Jesus, (Y/N). We all know you're not ready for marriage and what comes with it, but we can't all be you with your fancy job in LA, meeting celebrities all the time. Some of us have real lives and want to settle down and have a family."

"Kenny, that's not what I meant." The last thing you wanted to do was argue with her at her bachelorette party. "I only want you to be happy."

"You have a funny way of showing it." The air in the room took on a chill and not from the air conditioning. If you didn't do something soon this party was going to go downhill.

"Oh, would you look at the time," Jade chimed in. "We should probably be heading down to the pool." Everyone grabbed their stuff, Kennedy giving you the cold shoulder as you made your way out of the hotel suite. Jade came up and wrapped an arm around you. "She'll be fine. She's just on edge after the whole Gretchen thing. We'll give her a few shots and you two will be good as new."

"I hope so." Unfortunately, things weren't fine. Kennedy seemed to avoid you and your attempt to make things right, even after a few shots. That didn't stop you from taking a few more. You had a strict one drink to one water rule, that you threw out the door today. Downing shots like it was your job. It was probably an hour later when you were in one of the private pools, with a few of the girls that a large group of very attractive men walked in. They were definitely different from Nate and the guys from Thunder, and at first, you thought it was some fraternity get together with how young some of them looked, but at second glance there were some gentlemen that were your age or older.

"They've gotta be baseball players," Eva whispered over after they took up residence in the three bungalows next to you.

"Nah, none of them have a dad bod." Jade was right, they were too fit to be in the MLB. You'd been around enough major leaguers to know while some were incredibly in shape, some were not. That didn't seem to be the case with this group.

"I'm gonna rule out NFL as well," you told the girls. "None of these guys look like they're an offensive guard. Those guys are huge." You noticed a few of them staring at the six of you that were in the smaller pool reserved only for the bungalows. Grabbing another shot, this had to be your fourth in just sixty minutes, you downed the drink really starting to feel its effects.

"Looks like we may just find out here," Jade said, nodding to let you know some of the guys were headed your way.

"Ladies, care if we join you?" One of the men asked, you had to admit he was extremely handsome but also gave off an air that he had more than a few notches in his bedpost.

A couple of the girls nodded, but when no one said anything, you found yourself saying, "Come on in."

"So, what brings you to Vegas?" This from a different guy, who had quite a number of tattoos covering his arms, and you had to admit that the ink just made him more attractive, that and his height. He was well over six feet tall and you didn't mind looking up to see his face as he took the seat next to you.

"Bachelorette party," Jade blurted out and you saw a few eyebrows raise.

"Tell me you're not the bride?" His breath was warm or maybe it was the sun, either way, you definitely felt a warmth in your belly that wasn't there moments ago.

"I am definitely not the bride." Shit that sounded desperate. "Though I am the maid of honor, at least I hope I still am." You looked inside the bungalow to see Kennedy in deep conversation with Gretchen.

"Hmm, sounds like there's a story there. Care to tell me? I'm Jacob by the way, though the guys call me Marky."

He held out his hand, the one that didn't have a beer in it, and you took it. "(Y/N), and I'll tell you though it's rather dull, on one condition." He quirked a brow at you. "You tell me what sport you play."

He chuckled. "What makes you think I play a sport? Maybe I'm an investment banker."

"Well, first there's your accent, though I suppose you could pull off investment banker with that. Second, you are all…how shall I say this…physically fit. A quality most athletes have and considering the number of you; I doubt this is some kind of investment banker convention."

"Ok, I'll give you that, though we could be bodybuilders or…" the lights on the billboard on the strip changed to a Thunder From Down Under ad and you saw a light bulb in his head go off. "Or male strippers." Shit, you almost spit your drink out on that one. "What, too much a stretch? Maybe it's your lucky day." He started to sway his hips in the pool, one of his friends joining him while you and Jade tried to contain your laughter.

"Nah, it's already been (Y/N)'s lucky day with them. She knows them all rather intimately."

"Jade!" you yelled at your friend, or ex-friend, though you weren't in a position to be losing anymore at the moment.

"Oops." She at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Alcohol made everyone do some crazy things and Jade was no exception to the rule.

"Intimately huh?" Jacob asked as you splashed water on Jade causing her to shriek and hide behind Jacob's friend who you learned was someone named Erik. "Have I lost the competition before it even starts?"

"There's no competition."

"So, you're single then?"

"Yes, though you still haven't answered my question." As soon as Jacob heard you say yes, he slid a little closer to you.

"What was that question again?" He said with laughter in his eyes and before you could get annoyed with him, though you doubted that would happen, he added. "I remember, just giving you a hard time. Anyhow, we play hockey."

"Oh, nice. Like professional level? Or are there minors in that sport?" You really weren't one hundred percent sure. You'd taken in a game here and there but not really paid any particular attention to it.

"We're in the NHL, playing for Vancouver. Just came out to do a little team bonding before the season starts. So, are we going to talk about this intimate encounter or why you think your maid of honor duties are getting revoked?"

"I think I need another drink to talk about either of them."

Jacob flagged down one of the personal waitresses for the area, requesting a couple of shots and drinks for you both, and you had to admit you liked the way he worked. "Now that that's taken care of…"

You blew out a frustrated breath, more with yourself than anything else. "I said something stupid right before we came down here." He kept silent, his eyes totally focused on you and what you were saying. A refreshing change from some of the men you spoke to. "I just think she's rushing into things. They've only known each other a year and we are too young to get married. She's only twenty-five, we have our whole lives ahead of us. You know?" He simply nodded his agreement before you continued. "I want to see the world, go places, and do things before I'm strapped down to one man forever. Not to mention being tied down with kids. How can Kenny not want that too?"

"I totally agree. I've gotten to see a lot with hockey but there's no way I want to be tied down just yet."

"Exactly, you totally get me." Your drinks arrived then and Jacob took one shot and handed it to you before taking the other.

"Well, I say we toast to being young and free with no commitments."

"I'll drink to that." He clinked his glass to yours and the two of you downed the drinks. It seemed like the DJ noticed the change in your mood, as the music got louder and the energy seemed to kick up a notch. You got up and started to dance in the pool; the other girls joining in. It wasn't long before you felt Jacob behind you. His hips grinding into your backside, as his large hands encircled your waist.

Drinks flowed freely the entire day, and if you were being honest, you couldn't remember a time you'd been that drunk before the sun had even set. You were laughing and dancing, and quite literally having the time of your life; your maid of honor duties completely forgotten at this point. Gretchen came up to you at some point and told you that she, Kennedy, and Kelsey were heading up and would catch up with the rest of you later. Everyone else was having too much fun with the Canucks to want to leave.

A few more drinks and an hour later, the party was winding down. Most of your friends had headed up to their room to pass out, only a few stayed behind. Jacob had somehow maneuvered you into one of the bungalows that was empty. You shared a few kisses here and there out in the pool area, but now that you were out of view of prying eyes things were getting a bit more heated. Jacob's hands were on your ass, as his tongue was down your throat; not that yours wasn't doing the same thing to him. He moaned into your mouth, the sound going straight to your core. Your bikini bottom was no longer wet from the water of the pool, but the press of Jacob's cock against it.

You both stumbled back, landing down on the large daybed in the bungalow, though somehow Jacob's reflexes softened your fall. His hands went straight to your breasts, kneading the flesh there. He was just about to untie the string of your bikini top when someone walked in. "Jesus, Marky! Take it upstairs would you!" You squinted trying to make out who it was but at this point not remembering anyone's name besides the man that was on top of you.

"Oh, shit…thought I was in my room." It was funny, you thought the same thing. "Sorry, Jay."

"His name is Jay? Like the letter?" you mumbled as Jacob helped you off the couch. "What comes after J?" Fuck you were drunk and when you were drunk you tended to ramble. You once actually talked to a damn parking meter because you thought it was a person, and you were pretty sure you could talk to one now if there was one around.

"Doesn't matter, babe," Jacob said kissing your lips. "Wanna head up to my room?"

You had to go up on your tiptoes to loop your arms around his neck. "Yes, I do." He planted a kiss on your lips then cupped your ass cheeks causing you to jump a bit.

"Let's go," he finally said breaking the kiss. You had enough sense to grab your things and tell your friends not to worry that you'd catch up with them tomorrow. They all winked and nodded or at least that's what it looked like in your head because that's when things started to get hazy. You had vague recollections of making your way through the casino, stopping here and there. Part of you thought that the two of you even stopped to play roulette only so you could have another drink.

You did remember tumbling through the door of Jacob's suite. His lips were on yours and neither of you were paying attention as he unlocked it. Thankfully his quick reflexes caught you; apparently, even when drunk, goalies couldn't lose some of those natural instincts.

His hands, you remember them being everywhere on your body, and how incredible they made you feel. His calloused touch lit a fire inside you, that had nothing to do with the alcohol. He rid you of your white swim cover-up easily, flinging the garment across the room, and then his lips were all over your body. It was easy to recall the way he made you feel, as he softly bit down on your nipple through the fabric of your bikini. You'd craved this all afternoon. It had been a couple months since you'd been with a man and Jacob was everything you'd been waiting for.

You ripped off his shirt. Your hands immediately going to his chest and roaming down his tattooed arms. He was all muscle, hard and lean everywhere, but when you slid your hand down inside his swim trunks to his cock; oh, it was hard all right, but lean was not a word you'd used to describe it. You were barely able to wrap your fingers around his girth, and as you stroked him, you realized God had not only blessed him with height but length as well. The man was made to star in a porno, you thought as you shoved his trunks down.

Somehow, during that time Jacob had managed to get your bikini top off, though you supposed with its simple string ties it wasn't a hard feat to manage. You dropped to your knees, licking your lips before taking your tongue and swirling it around the head of Jacob's cock. "Det kanns sa bra min vackra prinsessa (that feels so good my beautiful princess)." Jacob's mumblings had you pulling back and looking up at him. "Don't stop, baby." This time you knew what he said as you slowly sucked him into your mouth. There was no way that you could take him all in, so you pumped the rest of him with your fist. You hollowed out your cheeks as you sucked him inside, using every trick in the book you knew. Jacob muttered more in Swedish to you, things you had no clue as to what they meant, but judging by his reaction they were things he was enjoying very much. He threaded his hands through your hair, pulling it back so you could look up at him with big doe eyes. "Jesus," he swore, his hips bucking into your mouth at the sight of you with his cock in it, looking like that. After a few more thrusts, he pulled out shouting," Tillrackligt, enough. I think you're trying to kill me, princess."

There was something about the way he called you princess. It wasn't anything you'd been called before and most times you'd preferred babe or baby, but the way the word rolled off his tongue did things to your insides.

Jacob helped you off the ground, his lips ghosting over yours before picking you up and tossing you onto the bed. His large form handled you easily, arranging your body just the way he wanted to before slipping off your bikini bottoms. His large hands worked their way from your ankles to your calves, all the way up to your thighs; spreading your legs as he went. "So beautiful." He traced his fingers lightly over your pussy lips and you quivered in anticipation of what was to come. One long finger slid between your folds all the way up to your clit, once, then twice, and then once again. "So wet, prinsessa, and all because of me."

"Mmm, yes, Jacob." He dipped that same finger inside you then. The digit slipping in easily and so he added another. Then his mouth was there. Tongue flicking over your clit in a way that made you squirm with pleasure. "Oh yes," you moaned, caught up in the pleasure that was coursing through your veins. "Just like that." Your hips lifted up on their own accord, seeking more of what this giant of a man was doing to you. Jacob never let up, making a come-hither motion with his fingers and you found yourself unraveling around him; legs shaking, breath panting as your orgasm overtook you.

“So pretty when you cum, prinsessa.” He pulled his fingers from your pussy then brought them to your lips. You opened without any thought, licking your juices off of them. Before you could get them clean, Jacob’s mouth joined yours, kissing you while you sucked on his index and middle fingers. Your tongues mingled together, as Jacob positioned himself between your thighs. The head of his cock nudged between your folds and you sighed into his mouth at just that first touch. Slowly, he filled your pussy, until he bottomed out. Only then did he release your lips. “Fuck you feel so good.”

Jacob loved the feel of you clenching around him. It felt like he was in heaven. Part of him didn’t even want to move that’s how good your body felt, but then you shifted your hips up just a hair bit and he had to suck in a breath at the pleasure that went straight to his groin for fear he would spend inside you right then and there. He willed his body under control and only then started to move.

With every snap of Jacob’s hips, a wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your nails raked down his back, probably leaving marks, but it seemed to only spur him on. “Yes, Prinsessa,” he moaned out, as you bent your knees allowing him to go deeper. You moaned as he hit that treasured spot that had you seeing stars. “You like that?” Another moan was his answer, as he continued to fuck you.

That peculiar feeling started to wash over you. Your pussy fluttering around Jacob’s cock as the orgasm finally broke. Back arching, legs trembling, you were moaning out his name as the climax seemed to continue, as Jacob drove wildly into you. As you came down off your high, Jacob found his. With a few erratic thrusts, he was spending deep inside you with a loud groan. He slumped forward, his sweety forehead resting on yours. “Det dar var otroligt.” You looked at him curiously, your brain not working at all but also knowing he was speaking something in Swedish to you. He smiled, a glorious one that you found yourself getting lost in and you found yourself returning it. “I said that was amazing.”

“Yes, it was,” you breathed out. Jacob rolled you both onto your sides, tucking you into his. It wasn’t long before both of you were passing out.

Now here you were, finally putting most of the pieces together from last night. You looked back over at the sleeping man, who had given you such pleasure even in your inebriated state. He really was gorgeous. You honestly wouldn’t mind going for round two, after a couple of Tylenol, of course. Speaking of which you needed to get up and see if you had any in your bag. If only you could move him without waking him. You carefully took your right arm and went to move his left which was slung across you, but then something caught your eye. There on his ring finger was a ring. Oh, it wasn’t just any ring, it was a wedding ring! You knew he didn’t have it on when you were in the pool. You were not the type of woman to go hitting on a married man, let alone sleep with him.

You pulled your other arm out from underneath him, fully intending to grab your stuff and get the hell out of there when you noticed a bright and shiny diamond on your ring finger. There was also a matching wedding band. Then like a tsunami hitting the beach of a small island a memory came flooding back to you of the two of you entering the hotel chapel. This man wasn’t married to just anyone, he was married to you!

#jacob markstrom #jacob markstrom smut #jacob markstrom imagine #jacob markstrom imagines #nhl fanfic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #hockey smut #nhl smut #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #hockey fanfic #what happens in Vegas series

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jedivszombie · 3 years

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Okay gang, since there are a bunch of anons going fucking wild across the dash tonight about some joking posts about Mark Webber and Ann Neal - that were someone’s shocked reaction to the age difference between them. I thought it would be interesting to go on a little journey together.

This little journey is the story of how Ann and Mark met, and will hopefully give you guys some insight as to why the ‘sexism’ and ‘ageism’ arguments you are currently using are bullshit - and why using these words in such a buzzword way actually is not the kind of critical thinking you think it is. And why this situation is more akin to a student and teacher starting a relationship - which I think we can all agree is not advisable, even if you don’t know why.

Below the cut is going to be a little discussion of Mark and Ann the early days; the reason the age difference is iffy at best and fucked up at worst; and, a little discussion about how these situations require nuance and the ways in which f1blr often likes to blow situations out of proportion.

I have split it into three parts:

Mark and Ann: The Early Days (1994-1997)

Nuance, my old friend. Anon hate, my enemy. (tw: for racism here, be careful)

The pitfalls of discourse and the importance of looking after yourself.

A little disclaimer for you guys: I do not pretend to know anything about this relationship, other than what is readily available to learn about it from what they themselves have put out about it. I am just providing a timeline and some facts. Whatever conclusions you draw from it are your own.

Feel free to come for me if you so desire.

Mark and Ann: The Early Days (1994-1997)

We start our story in Australia in February, 1994. Mark is competing in Australian Formula Ford Championship and Ann Neal is the new media and PR officer for the category. This is their first meeting. Just so we know what’s up here Mark was 17 at the time, and Ann was absolutely an adult (apparently there is a 13 year age gap, which may not sound like much but we will get onto that later, which makes her roughly 30 when they first met).

Some key things to be aware of from this first meeting:

Mark is 17, Ann is about 30. Mark is a young racer, Ann is the media and PR officer for the category he races in.

In an excerpt from Aussie Grit, p. 57 to be exact, we get to find out what Ann had to say about the first time they met:

“She thought I was a bit of a smart-arse when we first met. ‘But I liked how bold and cheeky he was,’ she says, ‘and how mature he seemed. When I asked someone how old he was, I was shocked when they said 17 – he was confident beyond his years.’”

In another excerpt from Aussie Grit, p. 61, Mark tells us other things Ann remembers about their first meeting:

“Ann remembers our first meeting and my opening remark about her being so important. She can even remember what I was wearing – a stripey green and red top, one of those United Colors of Benetton things – so that was pretty prophetic, as things turned out!”

Now this may sound extremely cute to some of you, like they’re just having a normal ‘aww remember how we met’ moment. But let me please re-direct your attention back to the fact that Mark is 17 (and still not an adult yet if this is what you are gonna nitpick about) and Ann is very much an adult, in a position of power.

So, a teenager makes a quip about how important you are and you commit to memory what he was wearing the day it happened?

Now let’s bring in the first quote I put up there where Ann herself was recalling the first time they met. I would like to draw your attention to the following sentence: ‘and how mature he seemed. When I asked someone how old he was, I was shocked when they said 17 – he was confident beyond his years.’

Hmmmm, where have we all heard language like this used before? If, like me, you have some experience of adults trying to start inappropriate relationships with you as a teenager then you will be very familiar to this sort of language. The emphasis is on how mature he seemed, is what’s sticking out for me here tbh.

Now, if this had been a fleeting meeting, and they had met again a few years later, I would be more on board for whatever justification some of the anons have been trying to use. However, it wasn’t.

Again from Aussie Grit, p.61:

“After that first meeting we kept in touch. My family sometimes met up with Ann and Luke for weekend get-togethers, and I ensured she got her motor-sport fixes by dragging all my old F1 tapes out. By way of revenge she would bring down all her British Formula Ford tapes for me.”

Oh cool, so she gained the trust of his family and Mark was hanging out with her son. This is so sweet Alexa, play Chosen Family by Rina Sawayama. Real talk though, again if this is how it had ended - with them just being family friends - then we would not be having this conversation.

BUT, we all know how this little story ends so onwards we march. We shoot forward to late 1994, Mark has done okay in Formula Ford but his Dad is no longer able to fund him. SO, he turns to their old pal - the ever present and super helpful Ann, bless her heart - to try and drum up some sponsorship for Mark so he can race.

Little background on why Ann was chosen to try and help with this, I’ll give you 3 guesses and only one of them is correct. Yes, that’s right, it’s her experience - which she has managed to get by being 30 and having a background in motorsports. She started out as a motorsport journo and ended up dealing with press and PR for Paul Warwick (Derek Warwick’s brother). In 1986 she started dealing with Johnny Herbert’s media before working for Formula Ford in Europe in 1991.

Ann begrudgingly accepts and draws up plans with Mark, which leads him to a Yellow Pages sponsorship for his next season in Formula Ford, and beyond - how sweet, how nice, they are #winning! We stan teamwork besties! And Ann started working with Mark and his family to further his career.

Ann had a plan for Mark, as outlined in Aussie Grit, p.69-70:

“By the end of 1995 Annie told me, in no uncertain terms, that – and I quote – I had to get my arse out of there. She didn’t just mean Australian Formula Ford, either: she meant Australia. She thought it was time for me to go and have a crack at some of the big guys, and she proposed to help me go about it in a serious, business-like way.

‘How the f#*k are you going to get to Formula 1 coming from Queanbeyan?’ Anyone who wants to trace my journey should start with a piece of paper that Ann drew up on 6 July 1995.”

So, now Ann has outlined her hopes for Mark and a glimmering career in motorsport. I would like us to know that at this point in time Mark was the ripe old age of 18, going on 19.

In 1996 Ann and Mark moved properly to the UK so Mark could drive in the British Formula Ford Championship - at this point Mark is still 19. At this point he is living in the UK with Ann and her mother, and Ann’s son.

So this is probably sounding pretty okay so far and sure it’s just a business relationship with a business set up, like no real cause for concern. But then we discover that this business relationship had turned into a relationship-relationship pretty damn fast.

From the horses mouth himself, Aussie Grit, p.87:

“Back in England, Ann and I moved house to Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, on the edge of motor sport’s equivalent of Silicon Valley. We had started out as teammates and friends on a mission but over time our friendship had deepened into something else. I enjoyed spending time with her and we felt entirely comfortable in each other’s company. Moving to England was a huge step for me and I think it was a case of us needing one another and that’s how the relationship was formed.”

Okay, okay, okay so I know at this point Mark is 19/20 he’s an adult right? He can make his own choices. But, can we please admit that at best it’s an iffy situation because of the position of power and authority she was in? In his life? For his career?

There are a few other excerpts I found particularly interesting, about Mark’s family’s reaction (all from Aussie Grit, chapter 3):

“My parents came over to the UK in the English summer of 1997. While they were thrilled about how things were developing for me in racing, they’d been less thrilled by the romantic relationship that was developing between Annie and me....” “...Annie was bitterly disappointed at my behaviour. Her plan to take me to the highest level of motor sport was starting to go horribly wrong, so she left Australia earlier than planned and headed back to Europe. My family arranged for Alan Docking to collect my belongings from the house we had been sharing and the one and only car Annie and I had at that stage...Campese Management told her that they had been instructed by the Webber family to terminate her role as my manager and that Campese Management would be taking over all aspects of my career, including the negotiation of my driving contracts.“

“While I knew Annie provided the support and guidance I needed in my racing career, I was missing her in so many other ways too. We were such a dynamic force in every sense; we could make things happen when we were together. We were teammates, soul mates, call it what you want.“

“As to Mum’s concern about our age difference, that has never been a factor for us. When we began to be more open about being together, perhaps the top end of the age gap shocked a few people. In those days people were less accepting of a big age difference between partners, especially when it’s our way round. It’s not such a big deal nowadays and it makes us laugh when so-called celebrities reveal they’re dating an older woman or younger man!“

While the Daily Mail is trash, the beginning of this video is very revealing to me - particularly Jackie Stewart’s comments from 00:12.

Obviously you can make up your own conclusions from all of this information, and I would once again like to point out that none of us - not me, not the anons, not you - actually know the nature of their relationship. They have been together for 24 years - good for them! Whatever they have going has obviously worked for them, this is not me trying to shit on that or anything, and I’m gonna be real I’m not the biggest Mark Webber fan.

Nuance, my old friend. Anon hate, my enemy.

All I want to do is add some nuance to the conversation, an overview of the timeline, an understanding of what the facts are. So that some of those cowardly anons (or anon) can hop off their self-built thrones and get a grip. The sexism and ageism argument literally does not apply here, for all of the evidence and reasons listed above - if the situation was flipped we would still be calling it out. The only difference is you guys would probably be on board with it being called out.

So Ann is a woman? So, what? Do you think she’s above reproach? You think one person’s 50 note post on this site is gonna rock the foundation of a relationship that has been 26 years in making? If you have answered yes to any of these questions then you are either: a) Mark Webber himself, or b) delusional as hell. You really think that responding by sending anon hate to a teenager, who btw only made a post calling out the age difference because she was shocked and had just discovered it, is the right way to go?

You really think that sending me this message, attacking other people in such a vile and racist manner is okay?

So you don’t like Nehir and Sera? Good for you, go block them, if you follow them, unfollow them. Those options are free and readily available to you.

For me, it’s so funny to see you hiding behind that little Anon mask spewing this vile shit. The commitment you have to proving that you are just a cowardly person with nothing better to do than rag on a bunch of different people for reblogging a post, that in the long run is not going to reach the people it’s about, is outstanding. I really hope you pat yourself on the back for this one.

The pitfalls of discourse and the importance of looking after yourself.

There has definitely been a spate of ‘conversations’ that have been happening recently that have very much been straying into the land of discourse, over very small comments or posts. I think that some people need to remember that we’re all here for our own entertainment and as soon as it stops being fun - you are allowed to log off; you are allowed to block people; you are allowed to unfollow people.

Sending anon hate is so counterproductive to whatever conversation you think you are starting or having with a person. Also guys, sometimes it’s not that deep - sometimes jokes are just jokes, sometimes someone finds out something they didn’t know about a driver or an ex-driver and they make a joke post about it. That does not give you the right to send them hate, or to make racist comments in other people’s asks.

Sometimes these discussions require a debate and sometimes discourse can be good - but honestly? I’m worried about some of you guys, it is not healthy to get so angry at other people for the things they post on their blogs that you are not obligated to follow or interact with at all.

I am also worried about people who turn every little thing into something discoursey. There are causes and issues to care about in this sport and community, for sure. But sometimes you also have to pick your battles - especially when I know a lot people in this community have fragile mental health. I do not say this to patronise any of you but to just provide a reminder that you do not need to engage with everything that makes your blood boil, and furthering some of these conversations sometimes is not doing you guys any good. Burnout is real.

Please take some time to take care of yourselves, the pandemic is doing a number on all of us and I know being online gives you a gateway to being connected to people, but sometimes you just have to walk away from a discussion. Sometimes you have to just go and reblog something unrelated, or stare at a photo of your favourite driver, or listen to some angry music. Anything else to process your knee jerk reaction, to give yourself time to figure out how you feel about something and whether it’s worth engaging in or not.

#maisie talks #the post that no one asked for but we sure as shit needed #anon hate below the cut #would also like to say that i am not pretending to know shit about their relationship and this is all information provided by the couple #themselves #under the cut is a bunch of information about their relationship up to you how you take it but i know how i feel #tw racism #i went insane i've seen the opposite of god #thnx ana for supporting my rage #here i am a hundred years late and a dollar short #mark webber

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wayhavenots · 2 years

Note

Another one for graphne, #78 🙈❤️

Thank you, Alya!!

78. Know Your Enemy by Green Day

Do you know the enemy?

Do you know your enemy?

Well, gotta know the enemy, wah-hey

This was a little bit of a challenge, but I’m pleased with the amount of prompt compliance I guess lol. This turned out to be more of a Sally & Daphne friendship piece than properly Graphne, but I hope it still is satisfying!

Tagging: @homeformyheart @babycracker @griffin-wood @gryffindordaughterofathena @winterkeys

The mission was revenge.

There were no other details yet, but they would begin planning as soon as Nicholas and his new awkward British friend (who didn’t deserve a name in Sally’s internal monologue) left the house. Daphne had spent the last few weeks gathering intel on the cookie thief, in the hopes that they would use it to...to...

To tell the truth, Sally wasn’t totally sure what her best friend wanted to accomplish. The terrible tall man hadn’t known that the Mind-Over-Batters symbolized Nicholas’s love for his sister, and outside of deadly biological warfare that Sally would deem over the line, there was no way to get them back.

Still, Sally was nothing if not a loyal friend. As soon as the door shut behind the two men, she threw a devious grin at Daphne, who was still looking at the closed door. “Let’s destroy him. What did you find out?”

A burst of affection as Daphne smiled back and moved to sit cross-legged on the couch, next to Sally. You’re the best.

“So,” she began, “his name---which is already beyond stupid---”

“Agreed,” said Sally enthusiastically. “Gray. At least choose a real color.”

“His middle name is Wacker.”

“Wacker?” scoffed Sally.

“And he’s obsessed with Arizona Iced Tea.”

“We could use that,” said Sally. "Drink his tea as revenge for eating your cookies?”

“Maybe,” said Daphne, but she continued without formulating any plans. Which was fine. It was her revenge scheme, after all. “Plus, he’s addicted to Tetris on his phone. And he loves ABBA and Disney movies, and he goes off on rants about the metric system, and he does this stupid American accent---” Here, she lowered her voice and, in what sounded like an Australian accent, but was probably supposed to be British-doing-a-bad-Texan-accent-accent, drawled, “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

Sally laughed derisively, but she could feel Daphne holding back genuine laughter, and with it, genuine affection which bubbled to the surface. He did it to make me laugh. He’s really sweet when he wants to be.

And he always wants to be.

Ohhhhhh.

She felt silly for not picking it up before. Below her own feigned hatred of Gray, she hadn’t picked up that Daphne’s was feigned, too.

“I don’t think you want revenge,” said Sally softly.

Daphne sighed, her cheeks turning pink. “I like his stupid name,” she admitted with a groan.

And then Sally felt another burst of affection, tangled up with pining and guilt and self-loathing, an avalanche of thoughts Daphne had tried to bury:

And everything, everything, everything, the more I know the more I like, but Nick doesn’t have any other friends because of me and I don’t want to scare him away by being Nick’s creepy crushing broken little sister and he didn’t mean to eat my cookies actually they were his cookies actually actually but he’s twenty-two and so cute and funny and respectful and kind and I wish I wish I wish I didn’t feel this way I wish I was older and more confident and less broken loud Zero...

Sally hugged her tight, which downgraded the hurricane of emotions to a tropical storm.

Change of plans. The mission was friendship.

She wasn’t sure of the details yet, but it would involve copious amounts of Monty Python, raiding the fridge, and after some time, a lot of teasing.

#mind blind #gray black #sally alavidze #gray x daphne #oof i'm writing these real quick so sorry if it is terrible lol

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letterboxd · 3 years

Photo

High Ground.

Australian director Stephen Maxwell Johnson tells Letterboxd’s Indigenous correspondent Leo Koziol about his revisionist new meat-pie Western High Ground, working in a ‘both-ways’ style, and how he approaches the question of story sovereignty.

“Maybe we’re all feeling a little more vulnerable, a little more open to thinking about who the fuck we all are in this world.” —Stephen Maxwell Johnson

Note: this interview may contain images and stories of people who have passed away.

Not every Western has a ‘Croc Spotter’ in its production credits, but Australian Westerns are in a league of their own. The genre has long been a staple of Australian cinema; the world’s first narrative feature film is considered to be Charles Tait’s 1906 bushranger yarn about the Kelly Gang. While the likes of outlaw Ned Kelly have made good Western fodder for more than a century now, recent entries in the sub-genre—known colloquially as meat-pie Westerns—are starting to look a little longer and harder at the relationship between British colonizers and the Indigenous peoples of the Great Southern Land.

This year brings two such tales: Leah Purcell’s feminist western The Drover’s Wife: The Legend of Molly Johnson, which made our Best of SXSW 2021 list, and Stephen Maxwell Johnson’s High Ground, which was executive produced by a community of Aboriginal activists, including Witiyana Marika, one of the founding members of groundbreaking Aboriginal band Yothu Yindi. (Marika is also in the film as tribal elder, Grandfather Dharrpa, taking on a role that was intended for Aboriginal great David Gulpilil, who has retired from acting due to ill health.)

Simon Baker as Travis and Jacob Nayinggal Junior as Gutjuk.

Set in Australia post World War I, and based on true stories told by the traditional inhabitants of Arnhem Land, in north-eastern Australia, High Ground opens with—content warning—a brutal massacre by white Australian police of an Indigenous family. The story soon pairs Gutjuk (Jacob Nayinggal Junior, in his impressive screen debut) with bounty hunter Travis (heart-throb Simon Baker, in gnarly outback mode) in a manhunt that brings the opposing forces of colonizers and inhabitants to a head.

Nayinggal Junior, the grandson of Arnhem Land traditional owner Jacob Nayinggal, was not yet born when Johnson, who is a white Australian, began the long process of developing High Ground with his Indigenous partners, whose oral histories informed the film’s plot. Johnson’s connection to Yothu Yindi and his partners’ community goes back over 30 years; he directed the original music video for the band’s 1991 international hit ‘Treaty’, the first Indigenous-language song to chart prominently in Australia.

This is Johnson’s second feature film connected to the Yolngu communities in north-eastern Australia; the first, Yolngu Boy, is a coming-of-age story of three young friends on a journey to Darwin after one of the boys lands in trouble. It has been twenty years since that debut, and High Ground has been a labor of love in the time since.

Simon Baker in ‘High Ground’.

The film takes its sound design from the land and its inhabitants, turning the volume up on birds, insects, snakes, gunshots and Aboriginal song. Expansive cinematography makes sure to place characters within the context of their surrounds—a constant reminder that the land is bigger than anything happening on it. “Brutal in all the right ways, and as honest as an Australian colonial Western should be,” writes Coffeenurse. “It’s really something how the Australian Western has become the way for Australian cinema to explore the weight of colonialism and imperialism in our history and culture,” agrees Smoothjazzlord. “Stephen Johnson doesn’t shy away from complexity and I appreciate that,” writes TheEllamo.

I spoke to Johnson at length about his “both-ways” journey of bringing the film to the screen through collective research, song and storytelling.

Notes: ‘Blackfella’ and ‘whitefella’ are informal, self-descriptive terms often used by Indigenous and Aboriginal Australians and their friends. Johnson makes several references to ‘makaratta’, an intricate Yolngu term that describes the process of coming together to face wrongs, reconcile and make peace, and to ‘Country’, which is an Indigenous colloquialism describing one’s association with one’s own land and family.

Witiyana Marika (second from left) and Simon Baker (on horse) with Yolngu cast members.

Tell us how the story of High Ground came about. Stephen Maxwell Johnson: I was very fortunate in my life to have had two parents who explored the world. I grew up in the Bahama Islands, in Africa and they came to northern Australia. My father was an educator of the Yolngu people, and really, my friendships and my associations in my life have been about growing up with Indigenous cultures and people.

I've never really been disconnected from that, and the stories I grew up with—things I’ve heard, ceremonies I’ve seen—were very much a part of my education. I went to school and the stories I’m hearing, all the whitefella stories about Captain Cook and the invasion and what happened, no one ever wanted to go any deeper or open a story book to where it all began, and how old it actually all is.

As you know, it’s the oldest living culture on Earth, it’s an amazing connection to Country and the stories and the songlines. So, we came together, we made a decision to tell a story of the resistance that became High Ground, over many years sitting on Country with old men and women and family and drawing inspiration from true stories and true characters, then putting together what was obviously a fiction (but so is history).

It was about wanting to tell a deeper truth, but to create a film that was entertaining, so it really drew you in, and allowed you to come out the other end to perhaps reflect and rethink the Australia story, and, really, the greater human story about who we all are.

Witiyana Marika (front, seated) on the set of ‘High Ground’.

A unique aspect of your film is that Yothu Yindi band member Witiyana Marika is a producer. How did you connect with Yothu Yindi and establish those friendships? Well, I did pretty much all of the Yothu Yindi stuff, I made ‘Treaty’ and ‘Djäpana’ and all those clips that the band did. I directed and photographed all of that stuff. For many years, anything that was Yothu Yindi, I was there doing it. Witiyana and Mandawuy [late Yothu Yindi frontman Dr. Mandawuy Yunupingu] were two of my dearest, dearest friends—my father actually knew Mandawuy back in school days, so there’s a deep and long connection there. Witiyana picked up the mantle after Mandawuy passed away. It even goes back further than that, to discussions with old man Bill Neidjie and Jacob Nayinggal, who sort of drew up the battle lines and helped create Kakadu [National Park].

Jacob Junior Nayinggal, he’s been born and became the lead actor; his grandfather would be so pleased that his grandson ended up being the lead actor in this film. ’Cause it was always about getting a Yolngu hero leading the story of the resistance, which was what it was called back in the day.

It’s really been a both-ways journey. That’s what everything that Yothu Yindi sang about, was that idea of bridging between two cultures, that idea of coming together and sharing knowledge and respecting each other. That balance—makaratta. That’s been my journey. That is the journey.

Callan Mulvey as Ambrose in ‘High Ground’.

A big issue for people in the Indigenous film community is storytelling sovereignty: “nothing about us without us”. Do you feel that the community working closely with you to make this film meant that you were telling their story in the way they wanted it seen and heard? Well if you have a look at the credits it sort of says a lot about the process. Twenty years working together. As I said to you, I don’t see myself as a whitefella over here and they’re blackfellas over there, I see [us] as being human. They’ve been my dearest and closest friends all my life. This is us sitting down, together. Listening. Learning both ways. Bridging the gap and wanting to tell the bigger story about this country.

In this country there’s a very big story to be told. It has two different perspectives and it was about getting that right and spending the time together right. It is very much a Yolngu story; everything has been meticulously researched, and spoken about, and sung. The producers, the executive producers, all the creators in the film are predominantly Yolngu people, right across. Everything is ultimately connected and it is very much the voice of this land that we wanted to shine through in the story of High Ground.

That sort of thing came back in the day, when I made ‘Treaty’: “What’s a whitefella telling [our story]?” Are you kidding me? Mandawuy had the same reaction, he said “We’re doing this together”. Christ almighty we’ve known each other for a lifetime and we’re working together creating and telling stories. There you go. Simple as that. If anyone’s got a problem with that then I think they’re the one with the problem.

‘High Ground’ director Stephen Maxwell Johnson.

Certainly, Yothu Yindi itself was comprised of both blackfella members and non-blackfellas. Exactly. Exactly. Look. I’ve grown up with blackfellas from right across Arnhem Land, and it’s been nothing but a deep and beautiful, profound friendship. I’ve never seen it as me and them. We’re just humans. We are one. We share, we care, we love, we laugh. There is so much to be learned from the ancient culture of this country. And the land and the language and the people.

It’s a beautiful thing having that kind of connection and immersion in that world. And that’s been my life story. I’ve been very fortunate to have had that. A lot of people don’t get that experience… being able to work so closely and so deeply with my friends—and family; I was adopted in, as well.

And can I tell you, every single person in Arnhem Land is so proud of this film, it is their film. Their story. It’s been their creative process as well. Every person who is involved in the crew and the journey of the film has had a life-changing experience, for the better. We just hope that the film and the story do help contribute to that bigger conversation, that idea of makaratta and sorting out the shit and getting on with a bit of truth telling.

How was the reaction in the Aboriginal community? Have you had the opportunity to take the film back to the people in Arnhem Land, to have screenings there? First thing we did. With the elders, that’s what we all planned. They said, “right, as soon as we’ve done this, the first thing we’re going to do, we’re going to bring this back to the families and show it to the families first.” And that’s precisely what we did; we took a big screen out into Arnhem Land, and put it out in the bush, for the families to watch. It was an amazing experience.

Let me tell you, the screams and the applause, and the laughter and the tears, when they saw the film, on their Country. Their film. Their story. Obviously they can listen to the language and the songlines in the film in a completely different way. It was beautiful. I almost couldn’t stop crying. That sense of pride that everyone had in the film, they just own it. It’s theirs and it’s everyone’s. It’s a beautiful way to create something.

The community screening of ‘High Ground’ on the Gunbalanya football field in West Arnhem Land, Australia.

Did you manage to have those screenings happen before Covid-19? Well, no. The Northern Territories, as you know, was clear. I had to go into quarantine and once the Arnhem Land bio-zone was relieved just a little bit, we took the film out. We had to hit the pause button with Covid, but [then] we did it. People just drove, and flew, and walked from hundreds of miles to come to the place where we blew up the screen and projected the light.

That’s a wonderful story. What’s the reaction been from mainstream Australia? Look, very, very good. [The film’s distributor] Madman said it made double what [they] thought it would in box office. I think we were fortunate maybe in some respects coming on the back of Covid-19. Maybe we’re all feeling a little more vulnerable, a little more open to thinking about who the fuck we all are in this world. There is this kind of turning of the tide, now, of people and of a new generation wanting to learn and understand about our connection to Country.

We’re blessed with, you know, what we have right here. We need to nurture it, take care of it, respect it, celebrate it, dance it, sing it, talk it. It’s a beautiful thing to be able to tap into.

Thank you Stephen so much for your time. I just want to say I was thoroughly engrossed by your film. It was powerful, it was important. I found particularly the scene in the middle, where a Treaty signing was hinted at: that would have been a cathartic moment for the people of Arnhem Land? To think ‘that could have been what our people had done in the 1930s’, instead of the lack of a Treaty, which Australia has never had. All power to you and everything you’ve done. That’s beautiful mate, and I will say, just one lovely parting thought here, you know yes, it’s my work, but honestly it’s such a team effort. Such trust, such great friendships and collaborations to create something like this. It’s no one fella’s effort, it’s an incredible team effort.

Related content

Meat-Pie Westerns, Kangaroo Westerns, Australian Westerns: a Letterboxd HQ list

Always Was, Always Will Be, Aboriginal Land: Troy’s list of the best of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander “Australia” in film and television

Australian Aboriginal Movies: an extensive list by Wayne

Australian Films Worth Your Time: Jacob’s list of Ocker cinema

My Name is David Gulpilil: Molly Reynolds’ new film celebrating the actor’s extraordinary life

Follow Leo on Letterboxd

‘High Ground’ is available now on digital and VOD via Samuel Goldwyn Films.

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angrylizardjacket · 4 years

Text

too old to trick or treat (too young to die) // charlotte&lola (penny&jupiter)

Summary: Two Halloween costumes Tommy witnesses the creation of, twenty years apart. His cousin’s, and her daughter’s.

A/N: 4001 words. knocked this out in literally 3 hours. okay so The Road Warrior didn’t come out until December of ‘81, and Supergirl didn’t come out until ‘84, but whatever, the timeline has been massaged for a number of reasons, bare with me, suspend your disbelief abt halloween costumes. ANYWAYS this came to me very suddenly and i had to write it. i’ve had enough angst, so have cute charlie & penny halloween moments now instead please and thank you. @misscharlottelee as always owns my heart w/ her characters. also mild sexual references in the first part bcos of mishearing something/misunderstanding a situation.

[ part of the charlotte&lola au of Run to Paradise ]

----

In 1981, Tommy dresses as Mad Max for Halloween; all pulled back hair, and a truly awful attempt at an Australian accent. He’s even butchered a leather jacket he’d found second-hand, much to the rest of the household’s horror. He’s pretty proud, despite Mick telling him to shut up since Tommy refuses to stop using the accent.

Mick’s not wearing a costume, and isn’t going out with the rest of the band and the girls, he’s only here to give his opinions on their costumes, and drink with them until they leave.

Nikki’s made no secret of the fact that he’s going as that guy from A Clockwork Orange, which, okay, is actually surprisingly subdued for his usual going out attire, and Vince would not shut up about the all-white suit he bought to be John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Something about both Vince and Nikki in all white makes Tommy think everyone’s going to ask if they’re both the same character, regardless of their various accessories, and they’re both going to be mad as all hell by the end of the night; if he had to hazard a guess, Tommy’s pretty sure he’s going to find it incredibly funny, and Nikki’s going to chase him down The Strip for laughing.

Lola’s had her hair in rollers all day, and came home the other week with a legally obtained, sparkly, black, singlet, which was kind of a big deal when Lola either lives in the bands’ clothes, or steals herself pants that actually fit. Her actual costume, however, is escaping him, right up until Tommy walks into the bathroom, to see Lola, in said singlet, black underwear, and nothing else, sitting patiently while Charlotte diligently applied dark eyeshadow further up lola’s brow than he’d been expecting.

“Frank N Furter?” Tommy asked, pleased and amused, still in his attempt at an Australian accent. Both Charlotte and Lola made a face at that, but Lola confirmed after a beat, lips overdrawn, shiny, a deep berry red. The idea that Lola had ever seen Rocky Horror Picture Show in cinemas enough to dress up as it’s main character was a strangely humanizing idea for the often-seemingly feral roadie.

After a moment, however, Tommy takes in his cousin’s attire; she looks incredibly pretty, of course Charlie’s naturally pretty, but she’d gone out of her way to highlight it tonight. White dress, little tiara atop her head, makeup understated and still somehow glamorous, her hair’s still dark from where she and Lola had died it a few weeks ago in the wake of her split with Duff. Maybe they’d re-dyed it.

“You look pretty, Charlie, who are you meant to be?”

“You know you sound British, right, not Australian?” Charlotte doesn’t look up from where she’s working on Lola’s face.

“Shut up, you don’t even know anyone British,” Tommy counters, nose in the air, “and you haven’t even seen Mad Max, so shut it, you don’t know what an Australian accent sounds like.” And he’s haughty for all of a minute before he’s coming back with, “but seriously, who are you?”

A wicked grin spreads across his cousin’s lips.

“That’s for me to know -”

“- us to know.” Lola corrects quickly.

“Us to know,” Charlotte agrees, “and you to find out.”

Super ominous. Charlotte’s been cagey about her Halloween costume since they’d decided to hit The Strip on Halloween as a group. Usually, Charlotte’s overflowing with excitement about her costume, back in high school, she’d roped him, Vince, and a few of their friends into being the Scooby Gang. She’s been various animals, movie characters, and last year, she’d spent almost a month putting together a truly gorgeous Cinderella costume. For all that she was detailed about her costumes, he’d always known her to play it safe.

But this year she’s been quiet. It’s unusual. Tommy blames Lola entirely.

The girls allow Tommy to stay in the bathroom until Lola’s face is done, and then, instead of leaving, they both demand he get out, closing the door after him, giggling conspiratorially like teenagers.

“What’s their problem?” Nikki asks, attempting to apply eyeliner, though the only reflective surface he had was Mick’s sunglasses, and Mick looked about ready to throw him through a window for getting so close, and so Tommy moves on instinct, snatching the stub of an eyeliner pencil from Nikki’s grip, beckoning him out of Mick’s personal space.

“Not sure; they’re either hooking up, or plotting to kill us,” Tommy muses, trying his hardest to not poke Nikki in the eye.

“Hot?” Nikki sounds like he’s not quite sure about that sentiment himself.

They can hear Lola and Charlotte talking in low voices, indistinctly in the bathroom, and clattering, and then - Take off your fucking heels! - Charlie, loud and nervous, followed by some begrudging grumbling from Lola. Scuffling, more clattering, and grunting.

“They’re definitely hooking up,” Nikki mutters. Tommy’s turning red. He’s not a prude, Christ, not even close, but... Charlie wouldn’t... right? Not when she knew how thin the walls were... Not with Lola, surely!

“Let go of me, I don’t need you to steady me -!” Lola now, and Nikki’s stepping back, laughing at the look on Tommy’s face. He’s not quite sure how he feels about the idea of him and his cousin both having -

“You’re shaking, you’re going to drop it!”

What?

Silence, a few more indistinct, now muttered words, far quieter, far calmer, then - a loud, strange rush of liquid, like the shower being turned on, but much more immediate and shorter.

“Holy shit, dude!” Lola’s yell radiates through the whole house, followed by a loud clatter, like something empty being dropped on the tiles, and Charlotte’s response is too quiet to hear. It’s followed by what is distinctly the sound of the hair dryer, and by now, all three men in the living room are just confused.

Vince finally surfaces from his and Tommy’s room almost ten minutes later, hair appropriately slicked back, white suit impeccable, making a beeline for the fridge, equally confused.

“What the fuck is happening in there?” He asks, joining the other three, currently cutting up lines of coke on a plate, in the living room.

“I still think they’re hooking up,” Nikki says, frowning down, as if the intensity of his gaze will keep his hand from shaking where he’s trying to cut the coke.

“Wishful thinking,” Mick grumbles, sitting back and taking a long sip of his vodka.

“Pretty sure lesbian sex doesn’t involve hairdryers,” Vince has to agree, and Tommy’s frown deepens.

“They’re not -”

“Fuckin’ semantics, man, sex without guys, you know what I meant,” he headed Tommy’s protests off before he could properly speak them, and Tommy’s own frown deepened. Mick looks like he wants to protest, but also knows all three men far to well to have any illusions about the abhorrent range of pornography they had consumed.

The hair dryer turns off.

“You wouldn’t have half a fuckin’ clue about what real lesbian sex was like,” is what Mick chooses, instead, to say, and Vince flips him off, right as the bathroom door bursts open, and Lola, comically wide-eyed, stumbles out, what looks like blood splattered on her shins and thighs, high heels in one hand.

“Holy shit,” she’s gasping, laughing, disbelieving, “you guys are not fucking ready for this,” she’s looking altogether like a delighted Frank N Furter about to reveal and revel in her latest creation. The guys are so caught up in seeing Lola in her costume, that seeing Charlotte coming out after her is like being hit by a train.

She’s covered in blood. Head to toe, apart from her face, which she must have been covering with her hands. Bright right. Face serious and eyes wide and Tommy knows that expression, that look, that blood -

“Carrie!” He exclaims, “Fucking Hell, Charlie!” He announces at the top of his lungs, and Charlotte’s expression cracks to a bright smile, to delight at being recognized.

“It’s paint!” Charlotte announces, giving a spin, and suddenly the hairdryer, the chatter, the confusion made sense.

“Charlotte, you look fucking killer,” Nikki’s got a look in his eyes that reads as both intimidated and turned on, a look usually reserved for Lola, but Charlotte doesn’t seem to notice.

“Peach and Eileen are going to fucking scream,” Lola was absolutely delighted at this prospect, doing a line of coke when Nikki offered it, before pulling on her heels.

Charlotte is beaming, looking cool as hell, and delighted with how the whole costume turned out.

Only later that night will any of the boys discover the murder-scene the girls had left behind in the bathtub in their excitement to hit The Strip. Tommy feels like he’ll never get the image of the blood splattered tub out of his mind.

Which is why he finds it so baffling that he’s blindsided by it exactly twenty one years later.

In 2002, Charlotte’s daughter, Penny, now all of twenty years old, the exact age Charlie had been that iconic Halloween, and Tommy’s kid, Jupiter, eighteen and a half, the pair raised practically as siblings, had been marathoning mostly-trashy horror movies all through the month of October in anticipation for the night itself, and Johnny Hudson’s Halloween party.

Jupiter had announced their intention to dress as Nancy from The Craft for the third year in a row, which ties it with the costume they’d chosen for the three years prior to that, which was Eric Draven, the main character from The Crow.

“Yes, it’s because I have a thing for Fairuza Balk in that movie,” Jupiter had announced defiantly when they’d made their intentions known at a dinner that Lola fortunately had time enough to attend, in between tours.

“That’s how I picked all my Halloween costumes at your age,” Lola had admitted with a shrug, though that just made Tommy frown as he goes to take a sip of his drink -

“Tim Curry as Frank N Furter -?”

“Lola did you go as Frank N Furter one Halloween?” Penny, delighted at the concept, leans forward over her pasta, eyes alight with mirth at the idea, looking so much like her mother that it almost stings. Lola herself has gone red, trying to suppress a smile.

“Tom, that’s not a discussion I want to have right now, but yes,” she says, slight warning in her voice, and Tommy chokes on his drink, both because he doesn’t quite know what she means by that, and because it’s rare for her to call him Tom, but then she’s looking up at Penny, smiling enough that it creases by her eyes, “and yes,” she deliberates, before adding, “I’m pretty sure that was the year your Auntie Eileen surprised everyone and dressed up as Uncle Mick, top hat and all,” Lola said, voice warm and fond at the memory, “he had no clue how to take it, shocked him enough that he actually came out on the town with us; I think it’ll always surprise him when people think he’d be a cool Halloween costume.” And she looks to Jupiter at that, while Jupiter themselves made direct and unwavering eye contact with their own pasta, while Penny nudged them, voice turning teasing, picking up on Lola’s cue, gently ribbing her cousin about the time they’d dressed up as Mick for Halloween, if only to spite the rest of their family.

The conversation moves on, and Tommy thinks fondly of the memory of how bright Charlotte’s smile had been after she’d come out of their bathroom, looking as thought she was covered in blood.

So this year, Tommy’s hit with a strange sense of deja vu in the lead up to Halloween, with Penny being cagey, and obviously in cahoots with his own child.

“Looking badass, as always,” Tommy grins, showing off his cheap, vampire fangs, as he leans in the doorway of his kid’s bedroom. Penny’s applying lip-gloss atop their black lipstick, but gives pauses as they both turn to him, scrutinizing his party-store vampire costume. With his own kids going away for the night, Tommy had been more than happy to host a Halloween party of his own for friends still in the business.

“I feel like you used to put more effort in,” Jupiter says slowly, looking from the too-small, satin cape, back to his face, and Tommy shrugs.

“I guess I could always put on one of my old eighties stage costumes,” he muses, playing like he’s seriously considering it, acting as though he couldn’t see Jupiter and Penny’s expressions both turn horrified, “I’ve still got them somewhere in the back of my closet -”

“Oh Jesus, dad,” Jupiter hisses, “you know we all know too much about how Lola felt about that weird fetish shit you guys would wear on stage, please don’t -”

“It’s not fetish shit, Jup,” but Tommy’s grinning at how embarrassed they both were, “it’s hair metal, it was hip!”

“It’s a red and black leather harness at best, and tights; I’ve seen more conservative outfits at a BDSM dungeon -”

“Dude!” Penny’s eyebrows shot up, and Tommy’s mouth dropped open. Penny, horrified, looked to her uncle; “it was one time-” she says, trying to make things better, but doing the exact opposite right as Jupiter tries to tell him it was a joke. Penny and Jupiter look to each other, both horrified at what the other had said, how it must look.

“Pen!”

“It was Johnny’s idea!” Penny blurted out, and looked to Tommy, as if realising she was digging herself deeper, “we went there as a joke!”

“That part is true,” Jupiter conceded, but Tommy kept his mouth shut, raising his hands in surrender, as if to say ‘that’s your business, as adults, but I’d rather not know’, and he’s quick to leave them to their mutual, horrified bickering.

He hadn’t even thought to ask what Penny was going as. All he knows is that she and Jupiter had been arguing because ‘it’s a trashy movie, Pen’ - ‘I love it, so shut up; you get witch powers from being an angry loner, I get them from being prom queen’ - ‘did we even watch the same movie? That’s not -” - “then just picture the original, you liked the original!’ - ‘oh, I’m past the movie itself, it’s the - they’re both angry loners, Pen,’ - ‘yeah, okay yeah, but it’s a cool aesthetic, Jup, come on -’. That was a few weeks ago, Tommy still isn’t quite sure what it could be, beyond witchy powers. Usually Penny’s costumes were straightforward, or she’d at the very least announce them in advanced...

Tommy finds himself blaming his own, erratic and mischievous child entirely; just as Lola had been known to be a bad influence on Charlie, so too could their children mirror this dynamic almost uncannily.

It only gets stranger when, an hour after doing Jupiter’s makeup, they both seem to be in full costume, and should be ready to go, they’re nowhere to be found, but they haven’t said goodbye.

Penny comes rushing past Tommy in a whirlwind, carrying something bulky in her arms, making a beeline for the downstairs guest bathroom.

“Pen, whaddya got there?” Tommy calls out, and Penny stops dead. She’s in a pretty, white dress, with her hair all done up, and a tiara sitting on top. It’s... familiar.

“Glue?” Penny’s obvious lie has Tommy frowning.

“Glue?” He asks, with a huff of disbelieving laughter. When she swivels towards him, he can see that she’s holding a large, white, pourable bottle, the label of which, Penny is conveniently covering.

“We’re sniffing it?”

“Penny, what the fuck?” Jupiter calls from the bathroom, and Penny takes off at a run, avoiding Tommy’s further questions, and Tommy himself, who, with a sudden nervousness at whatever the real situation was, follows quickly. All he can see is large, clear plastic sheets covering every single surface and every wall, like the lair of a murderer in a movie, and then Jupiter’s face with all it’s dark makeup and sprayed up hair, as they’re apologizing, and slamming the door in his face. He’s pretty sure he read the word blood on somewhere on the bottle that Penny had put down.

“Jupiter Carlotta Lee, I’ve told you before that we don’t fuck with real witchcraft!” Tommy jiggled the handle, but the door was firmly locked, “not after what happened with Nikki and Lita!”

“It’s not witchcraft!” Jupiter calls back, and Tommy can hear Penny groan about how he’s still going to kill them.

“Don’t murder your fuckin’ cousin in there, you hear me?” He jiggles the door handle again, harder this time, not quite sure of what was happening in there, but concerned nonetheless.

“Hey!” Penny shouts back, “why do you think I’m the one getting murdered in here?”

“I was addressing both of you,” Tommy sighed, leaning his forehead against the door, defeated, “what are you doing? What’s so bad that you have to keep me locked out?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re done -”

“Jupiter!”

“It’s messy,” Jupiter explained, and followed it up with a quiet, “okay, get in the bath, take off your shoes,” clearly not aimed at Tommy, before yelling back to him, “I’d rather do it, clean it up, and then beg for forgiveness in that order before you decide whether or not you want to murder us.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to stand up there?” Comes Penny’s soft question to her cousin, followed by a phrase burned into the back of Tommy’s mind, somehow still there after everything it’s been through.

“Let go of me, I don’t need you to steady me -”

And everything clicks into place, the blood, the outfit, the mess -

“Are you pouring fake blood on your cousin right now?!” Tommy’s tone is disbelieving, and he’s met with silence, and then the slow sound of liquid being poured.

“No?” Penny calls back, before spluttering a little, “it’s in my mouth.” She hisses.

“Then close your mouth!” Jupiter hisses back.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Pennylope; Jup?” Tommy squeezes his eyes shut as he remembers exactly how much scrubbing he and the rest of the occupants of the Motley House had to do over the next week, and even then the bathroom was never quite the same.

But he’s met with silence, and then he starts to hear what can only be the excess fake blood dripping into the tub. And then the sound of a much emptier bottle being put on the bench.

“No, I am not currently pouring fake blood on my cousin,” Jupiter announces; Tommy thinks he can feel a headache forming with each moment that passes. There are moments exactly like this one, in which he is reminded that Jupiter is without a doubt his and Lola’s kid, which is both a blessing and a curse.

“Penny, stay in the tub,” he calls, “make sure you wash your feet off once you’re dry; a hairdryer helps it dry faster.”

Despite their confusion at how he would know such a thing, the pair in the bathroom know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tommy, for his part, breathes a sigh of relief; this, at least, he knew how to handle. At least they put more thought into it than Charlotte and Lola had back in the day.

Heading upstairs while they let the fake blood dry, he finds the photo Lola had dug up from her archives in her and Nikki’s garage.

Eileen, Charlotte, Lola, and Peach, all in a row outside the Starwood, all grinning from ear to ear. Eileen as Mick, Lola as Frank N Furter, Peach as Supergirl, and Charlotte, beaming, covered in blood red paint, as Carrie.

By the time he resurfaces from the wave of memories that had overwhelmed him, Tommy gets downstairs to see the guest bathroom door open.

“How messy is it?” He calls, concerned. Jupiter sticks their head out. The hairdryer is still going.

“Not as bad as I thought, should all just wash down the drain; the plastic on the walls was probably overkill,” they admit, and Tommy gives a thin-lipped grin, remembering the splatter that came up to knee height on the walls by the bathtub in the Motley House. Though, to be fair, Lola was simply pouring an entire bucket of thinned house-paint over Charlotte’s head - it was neither Lola nor Charlotte’s brightest idea, in hindsight - Jupiter, with a bottle of screen-grade fake blood from the looks of it, would have a much more controlled pour.

And Penny would definitely have a much easier time getting it off.

When Tommy sees Penny, it’s like looking into a window from the past, the way she’s beaming, pleased and bright and covered in blood, she looks so proud to be horrifying.

“What now?” Penny asks, fond but exasperated, and Tommy snaps out of his thoughts, “what exactly about this,” she gestures to her whole self, blood soaked and standing in the tub, being hairdryed by Jupiter, “reminds you of mom?”

“What do you mean?” Tommy asks, playing dumb, and Penny’s expression softens, but she still rolls her eyes, arms out while Jupiter dries her.

“You get a look in your eye when I do something that reminds you too much of mom, and yeah it’s sweet, but this specifically is a really weird thing to get emotional -”

“This is your mom on Halloween, nineteen-eighty-one,” Tommy holds out the photo so she wouldn’t have to touch it, incase the blood on her hands was still wet, interrupting his niece.

“Oh,” Penny’s voice is so quiet, “for real?” She asks, eyes wide and misty when she looks at Tommy, and he gives a fondly amused look, and nod in response. “I didn’t even know,” Penny gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh, her own gaze turning adoring as she takes in the photo once more.

Jupiter twists to look at the photo, still drying Penny, then looks in the mirror, then back at the photo, and scowls, but keeps quiet about how they’ve just realized, at least in terms of makeup and overall pallet, how similar their costume is to their mother’s. But they’re well aware that this isn’t their moment.

“Did Lola own pants?” Jupiter does mutter, more to themselves than expecting a response, and not getting one anyhow.

“Lola poured a bucket of red paint over her head in the apartment we shared, took five of us a full week to clean it all up after,” Tommy explained to Penny, smiling.

“No wonder you were worried about us doing the same thing,” Penny snorted, and leans in, looking at her mother’s smiling face; almost the same face she sees in the mirror, if not for the blue of her eyes.

“Yeah, but I should have known you two would be smarter about it, much as I love your mom, Jup, when we were young, she wasn’t exactly known for her common sense,” and as Tommy says it, even the quietly resentful Jupiter cracks a smile.

“She looked so cool,” Penny muses, “they all do; that’s Aunt Eileen and Peach, right? The other two?” And Tommy confirms as much, also making sure to note that all four women were always better at Halloween than the rest of the band; in a move that Tommy’s seen Charlotte do a thousand times, Penny rolls her eyes, smirks, and says ‘yeah, obviously’ all smug and amused.

Tommy just smiles, asks if he can take a photo once Penny’s all dry, reminds them to call Lola and Nikki if they need a lift home, and waves goodbye to them when their taxi arrives.

The minute the taxi is off the property, Tommy’s cracking open a beer, and dialing Lola’s number in the minutes before his own guests are due to arrive.

“Lols, you’re never gonna fuckin’ believe what just happened.”

#Tommy Lee #tommy lee imagine #tommy lee & oc #the dirt #the dirt imagine #motley crue #motley crue imagine #charlotte&lola #lola & charlotte #the angry lizard speaks

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be11atrixthestrange · 3 years

Text

Wendell Wilkins

Ludo Bagman meets a peculiar man at a bar.

It seemed like a normal bar. A normal muggle bar. And he really needed some normal right now. Ludo figured it unlikely there was anyone from the Ministry waiting to arrest him in an Australian muggle bar, so he took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

He took a seat at one of the barstools and noticed his reflection staring right back at him. He observed his appearance from a few different angles in the mirror on the wall behind the bar. His self-transfiguration was holding up pretty well. The red tint of his hair still looked relatively natural, or at least, like a natural attempt at an amateur hair-dye job, which made him look even more like a muggle. His eyes were unrecognizably brown, and his stature was exactly the same, because he knew that a completely different appearance would look suspicious to a British Auror.

Ludo had gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble back in England. As it turns out, it's hard to hide magic from muggles, especially if you're married to one. Eleanor's gullibility only took her so far, and when she caught Ludo levitating objects around the house, he couldn't explain himself.

He did his best to convince her it was all in her head, but unfortunately, gaslighting her wasn't the savior to his marriage he'd hoped it would be. When he came home to find her standing in their empty home, bags packed, he knew he'd never see her again. So he pulled out his wand, and wiped himself from her memory, even though it broke his heart to do so.

He was almost relieved to receive that letter from the Ministry notifying him of his crime— breaking the statute of secrecy. He laughed when he read it. If that was the only crime they had records of, good on him. He wasn't concerned about getting caught, he was concerned that they finally knew his address after all these years. But he was grateful. It was the perfect excuse to flee the country, and finally leave the memories of his happy marriage behind him. Another fresh start.

"I'll have a Newcastle," said a familiar accent beside him.

Ludo stiffened in his seat. He wasn't expecting to hear another British accent in a Melbourne bar. The likelihood of randomly sitting next to an incognito Auror was so small, he convinced himself not to worry. At least not yet.

The man next to him appeared about ten years older than him. He had dark but greying hair, thick glasses, the appearance of someone who had just gotten off an airplane, and was trying to kill time before checking into a hotel. His clothes looked expensive, but it also looked like he hadn't changed them in days. It was a peculiar appearance.

"What's the name for the tab?" asked the barkeep.

The man next to Ludo paused before he answered. "Wilkins."

Fake name, thought Ludo. He would know, because he frequently had to pause in order to remember his alias of the day.

The man named 'Wilkins' accepted his Newcastle, thanked the barkeeper, and then pulled out a notebook from his bag. Ludo turned to observe the man more closely. The notepad was already covered in neat, tiny writing, and he squinted as he read it again, a thoughtful look on his face. Ludo thought it unlikely that he recognized him, and figured his best approach would be to make conversation with the man. Worst case scenario, he'd know quickly if he had to make a run for it. Best case, he'd find out the man really wasn't a British wizard in disguise.

"Did you just fly in from London?" asked Ludo.

The man turned to look at Ludo, eyeing him up and down before shaking his head. "Been here a few months. You're from England?"

Ludo nodded. "First time in Melbourne." He extended a hand toward the man. "Leo Wilson," he stated, offering a fake name.

The man looked him in the eye before accepting his handshake. "Wendell."

Wendell Wilkins, thought Ludo. It still sounded fake, but then again, so did Leo Wilson. "Nice to meet you, Wendell," he said with a nod. He turned back at the barman. "I'll have a Newcastle too."

When he had his drink in hand, he raised his glass to Wendell. "To England," he said. The two men clinked glasses and took a sip.

"What brings you to Melbourne?" asked Wendell.

Ludo shrugged. "A change of scenery," he said. "What about you?"

Wendell paused and took a long swig of his beer before he answered. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I guess me and my wife just wanted something new." Ludo narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the man. It sounded like he hadn't quite thought through his backstory. Wendell diverted the question expertly. "Do you have a wife?"

"Had."

An empathetic look crossed Wendell's face. "Sorry to hear that."

Ludo shrugged. "It happens. What about you?"

Wendell nodded. "Monica. But if it makes you feel any better, things with her haven't been great since we came to Australia."

This sparked Ludo's curiosity. "That's too bad," he said insincerely. "Problems with the ladies. That calls for another round, I believe." He had an ulterior motive of course. Maybe if Wendell drank just a little bit more, he would reveal whether or not he was a threat. He ordered them each a second beer, and the men toasted to their marital problems, and drank.

He listened intently as Wendell recounted his relationship issues. Evidently, things had just felt off between him and Monica since their arrival in Australia. They couldn't quite remember why they decided to move, and they argued about it constantly.

There were some weird things they couldn't explain, like the general fogginess, the forgetfulness, and the constant deja vu. They couldn't seem to agree about very simple aspects of their former lives, such as what town they used to live in, where they worked, and who their friends were. Something big seemed to be missing, and neither of them could put a finger on what it was.

They blamed it on each other, and assumed what was missing was passion. Love. They decided they had moved to Australia to reignite the missing flame of their marriage, but clearly, it wasn't working.

Wendell had other theories, but they didn't sit well with his wife. His theory was that something was missing from their lives, it had nothing to do with their marriage, and it wasn't an accident. Wendell thought something sinister was going on, but Monica thought he was crazy.

"Be honest," said Wendell after draining his second beer. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

Ludo motioned to the bartender to order a third round. "No, I don't think you're crazy."

It was true. Ludo didn't think Wendell was crazy at all. And unless Wendell was a particularly gifted actor, he definitely wasn't a wizard in disguise.

Wendell was a muggle. An obliviated muggle. Ludo was sure of it.

There was no recognition in Wendell's eyes as he talked about his past life. It was the same empty stare he saw in Eleanor after he wiped himself from her memory, and it broke his heart. Seeing that same fog in Wendell's expression broke his heart all over again.

"What's the notebook for?" asked Ludo, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Wendell looked hesitant at first, before sliding the notebook over toward Ludo. "Sometimes, when I drink, I remember things, and I write them all down. I draw them if there aren't words."

Ludo studied the writing on the page before him. At first, it looked like gibberish, but he started to decipher patterns in the letters. The letters "HJG" appeared over and over.

"What is HJG?" he asked.

Wendell glanced around him as if he was concerned someone would overhear him. He shifted closer to Ludo before he answered. "I think they are initials."

"Your initials?"

Wendell shook his head. "Although Wendell Wilkins doesn't feel like my real name, I've given up trying to remember my own initials. I think those were the initials that I was meant to forget."

Ludo scowled at the paper. He turned to a previous page, where Wendell had drawn a picture of a large orange tabby cat. He turned the page again, this time revealing four words in a slanted scrawl that repeated across the page.

Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

Ludo felt his breath catch in his throat. "What does this mean?" he asked, although he knew perfectly well what it meant.

Wendell sighed. "It's Latin for 'never tickle a sleeping dragon'. It sounds mental, I know." He took another sip of his beer before shrugging. "It felt important."

It was important. Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus was the Hogwarts school motto. There was no way Wendell had written that down by coincidence. The motto was part of the school emblem, which appeared on the uniforms, the school post, and any memorabilia that a student might take home to their parents. Ludo remained certain that Wendell was a muggle, because even the most skilled obliviater couldn't wipe their own magic from someone's memory. There was only one other way Wendell would know the school motto.

"Wendell, do you have any children?"

Wendell sat up straight and looked Ludo in the eye. He appeared to study him, as if determining what answer he should give. He must have seen an earnest expression in Ludo because he eventually nodded. "A daughter. At least I think I do. I just can't quite remember."

They sat there in silence for a while. Ludo couldn't help but think about his wife— ex-wife, and wonder. Where did she go when she walked away from him with that blank stare in her eye? Did she have a notebook full of scribbles that hardly made sense to her? Was she currently sitting at a bar trying to remember her marriage? Was she also living in a constant fog, questioning her own sanity?

He had never once stopped to think about the lasting effects before he wiped her memory. Instead, he naively assumed it simply erased his problems, and moved on. But now, watching 'Wendell', sipping away at his third Newcastle, he was faced with a harsh reality. This man clearly hadn't been home in days. He looked like he hadn't slept in longer. He was three drinks deep on a weekday morning, scribbling nonsense into a notebook, and telling a complete stranger about his forgotten daughter. He clearly wasn't doing well.

Ludo was positive he'd never see Eleanor again. He'd never be able to help her. But maybe he could make up for that, by helping Wendell right now. He'd already broken the statute of secrecy once, what would be the harm in doing it again?

"Wendell, do you want to find her?"

He squinted at Ludo, assessing his seriousness. "That's what I've been trying to do."

Ludo nodded and looked straight at Wendell's somber, yet hopeful eyes. He took a deep breath. "I can help you."

Wendell narrowed his eyes skeptically. "How could you possibly help me?"

Ludo took another sip, as if to fill him with more courage. He was good at lying to muggles, but not telling the truth. He tried to ignore the feeling of foreboding that came over him, telling him that this was a bad idea. If he couldn't give the truth to Eleanor, he owed it to Wendell.

Wendell needed a friend, and so did he. This would be good.

"I can help you, because I'm a wizard. And I know what happened to you."

There was a prolonged silence. Ludo stared directly at his Newcastle, but he felt Wendell's eyes on him, burning a hole through him. He reluctantly turned to face him.

Wendell's expression was unreadable, but the blankness that characterized his eyes before had all but disappeared. His face was filled with recognition.

Was it hopefulness? Sadness? Shock? Ludo couldn't tell. After all, he didn't really know Wendell. He was a complete stranger. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all.

Then Wendell spoke softly and stiffly, as if it required a great effort to steady his voice. "You're capable of making people forget?"

Ludo sighed. Then nodded. "I'm also capable of helping them remember."

"Are you the one who did this to me?" he nearly whispered.

Ludo shook his head firmly. "No."

"Did you do this to your wife?"

Ludo froze, regretting sharing any information about Eleanor. Although he never answered affirmatively, his hesitation confirmed Wendell's suspicions.

"Shame on you."

"Wendell, just trust me—,"

"No!" Wendell shouted, loudly enough that a few people looked up. He looked around self-consciously and whispered, "I could never trust you."

Ludo studied him. Anger, and fear. That's the expression he read. He saw the same emotions on Eleanor's face right before he obliviated her.

"Everything ok here?" asked the barman, clearing both Ludo and Wendell's empty bottles.

"Yes," said Wendell, still glaring at Ludo.

"Ok then," said the man, before disappearing behind the bar.

"Don't talk to me anymore," said Wendell, who swiped his notebook back, and turned to face the bar.

Ludo could have left it at that. He should have left it at that. But his moral compass had never pointed due north, and he couldn't stand the thought of someone else knowing he was a criminal. Especially someone who didn't trust him. He was supposed to be in hiding.

Maybe he could fix it. He fished for his wand in his pocket, making sure to slip it almost entirely up his sleeve before pulling it out. He pointed his forearm toward Wendell, who must have felt Ludo's gaze on him, because he turned toward him.

Wendell's gaze drifted down to Ludo's sleeve, and his eyebrows shot up. "What the hell are you—"

"Obliviate," muttered Ludo, and he watched the anger and recognition fade from Wendell's eyes, and they were suddenly strangers again. Wendell turned back to the pages of his notebook, and ran his fingers over the words Draco Dormiens Nunquam Tittilandus. Ludo felt his stomach sink as he mourned the loss of a potential friendship. Part of him wanted to try again, because he really could help Wendell, and Wendell seemed just as lonely as Ludo. He opened his mouth to speak, and almost introduced himself for the second time.

But he didn't. Even though his moral compass wasn't always correct, it sometimes got close, and at this moment, it seemed like the right thing to do was to let Wendell be. So he held his tongue, and hoped he would find his daughter someday. Ludo fished his wallet out of his pocket, and left enough muggle money on the bar to cover Wendell's last three drinks.

"I'll have a Newcastle."

It was the last thing Ludo heard Wendell say, before he stood up, and left the bar.

#hp fanfic #hp ficlet #hp fandom #hp fanfiction

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Off Limits, Chapter 4 (Bitney/Adorney) - Veronica/Albatross

A/N: Hey guys! This is the companion story to “No Strings Attached.” Both ships are in both stories, but generally, “No Strings Attached” is Willaska-focused and this one is Bitney-focused. (Link to all chapters in order.)

Chapter Summary: A girls’ night at the local gay club just might change everything. With Special Guest Star Adore Delano.

(Special thanks to the wonderful @opalescent-cheetah and her dad for being our Australian slang consultants. XOXO!)

***

Courtney really couldn’t figure out why she was so anxious. She hung out with gay people every day. Why was a gay bar so intimidating, so much that her stomach was in knots? She supposed the idea of looking or feeling out of place was a bit disconcerting, as she’d explained to Willam earlier when they were getting ready, before Willam had tossed a dress at her face and ordered her to calm down. Now, she sat squished between Willam and Alaska in the back of the uber, leg bouncing nervously until Willam gave her thigh a pinch.

But once they got there, her nerves settled almost immediately. It was a lively, crowded club—flashing lights and thumping bass, people packed onto the dance floor. Easy to blend in; nothing to be afraid of.

And then, to her delight, a live band took the stage. (Bianca and Willam, on the other hand, weren’t so happy about that, groaning and taking the opportunity to get drinks for the group.)

The lead singer was amazing. A sultry voice, with full lips and hazel eyes, dark hair dyed a vivid emerald green. Even her name was sexy. Adore.

Courtney was enchanted, watching in breathless excitement throughout her whole first set, barely noticing when Willam slipped a drink into her hand. When they paused for a break, she turned to the others, eyes wide.

“Omigod, she was amazing! Wasn’t she amazing?” Courtney gushed.

“Yeah, she was really good,” Alaska agreed, an amused look on her face.

“We should find out if they play here often!” Courtney continued. “I mean, she’s totally worth coming back for, right? I mean they. The whole band.”

Courtney barely had time to blush at that, turning back to the stage to wait in anticipation for the next set, pretending that she didn’t notice Willam and Bianca rolling their eyes like slot machines. If they wanted to be killjoys, that was fine. Courtney was still going to enjoy the music.

The band did another short set—too short, if you asked Courtney, who felt like Adore’s eyes were boring right into her soul at one point. She watched her, absolutely transfixed, letting Adore’s smoky voice wash over her in tingling waves. When they were done, Courtney cheered loudly as Adore gave an awkward little bow. She was incredibly talented, but clearly a little insecure, and it made Courtney’s heart go soft and fluttery.

“Finally,” Willam said, as the DJ took over again. “Now we can dance!”

She dragged the girls into the dance floor, and they followed, laughing. After a song or two (honestly, Courtney couldn’t keep track—unlike Adore’s band, all the thumping house music sounded the same to her), she noticed that Bianca had slipped away, probably to get a drink. She decided to go and join her at the bar, get another drink herself.

But as she made her way towards the bar, she saw that Bianca hadn’t made it that far. She stood at a cocktail table, just past the dance floor. She was in the midst of what seemed like a riveting conversation with an unfamiliar girl. A busty redhead in a flower crown, leaning in with a hand on Bianca’s arm. Whatever she whispered was apparently hilarious, because Bianca burst out laughing.

Courtney wrinkled her nose, feeling a bit offended. They were supposed to be having a fun night out together. Girl bonding and all that nonsense. So why Bianca decided to chat up this random girl was beyond her. She kept walking to the bar, sure that Bianca hadn’t even noticed her. Not when she had such a clearly experienced girl in front of her, Courtney thought bitterly.

As she tried to wedge her way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention, Courtney felt her heart stall for just a moment when she spotted Adore at the opposite end of the counter, ordering a drink of her own.

It was only when Adore’s eyes shifted in her direction that she became all too aware that she was staring. Shell-shocked, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She was certain she had a deer-in-headlights expression on her face but her body felt paralyzed, unable to even form a small smile, just something to make her seem like less of a total creeper.

A knowing smirk appeared on Adore’s perfect red lips and soon a little wink was sent Courtney’s way.

She cast her eyes down in embarrassment, pretending to be deeply interested in the grain of the wood on the bar, when by some miraculous chance, the bartender turned her way.

“What can I get you, sis?”

“Oh, uh...gin and tonic with lime?”

He nodded, and only then did Courtney realize that the arm sliding in beside her belonged to Adore, the chipped black nail polish and fingerless gloves a dead giveaway. She looked up, meeting her piercing hazel eyes and this time, managing a small smile.

“Hey,” Adore said.

“Hi,” Courtney replied breathlessly. “You were amazing tonight. I wasn’t expecting-um, to see such a great performance. I know these places usually just use DJs all the time. But it was really so good...”

Realizing that she was babbling, Courtney clamped her mouth shut.

“Are you British?” Adore asked, head tilted.

“No, Australian.”

“Ahh. I love girls with accents,” Adore remarked, taking a swig of her beer.

“I mean, technically, we all have accents,” Courtney couldn’t help correcting, cringing inwardly at how basic and bratty she must have sounded.

But Adore simply laughed, a throaty laugh that Courtney found lovely. Once again, the bartender had perfect timing, sliding her drink over to her. A welcome distraction from her awkward babbling. She pulled a card from her little purse, but Adore stopped her, covering Courtney’s hand with her own.

“Put her drink on my tab,” Adore told him, and Courtney was grateful for the dim lighting that masked her hot red cheeks.

“Thanks,” she said softly, barely audible over the pounding music.

“Don’t worry about it, cutie,” Adore assured as she leaned in with an inviting smile on her lips, “Just tell me your name and we’ll call it even.”

A sense of familiarity washed over Courtney as she vaguely recalled the number of times men had tried similar lines with her. Back then it always felt cliché or just mildly pathetic yet when those words fell from Adore’s lips? Plump, cherry-red lips that Courtney couldn’t keep her eyes off of?

It was strangely appealing this time around.

“Courtney.”

“Courtney,” Adore repeated, imitating her accent, lips curling around the syllables in a way that made Courtney shiver. “Do you like shots, Courtney?”

“Mmm...when they’re sweet?”

Adore grinned again, ordering two lemon drops. While the bartender got to work, Adore draped an arm across Courtney’s shoulders.

“So...I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new to the area?”

“No, I’ve lived here for a couple of years,” Courtney told her, adding coyly, “It’s just...my first time here. Tonight.”

“Mmm.” Adore handed her a shot, toasting her gently. “To first times.”

“Cheers.”

They tossed back the shots, giggling.

“So, uh, I have a confession to make,” Adore said.

Courtney turned toward her curiously, causing her arm to slide off her shoulders. But instead of removing it all the way, Adore merely adjusted, fingers sliding across her shoulder blades, making her shiver.

“When I was singing...I uh, kind of noticed you.”

“You did?” Courtney’s eyes grew, the idea of Adore picking her out of the crowd giving her a thrill.

“Yeah. Couldn’t you tell? I was singing right to you.”

“I assumed everyone thought you were singing to them,” Courtney said, twirling a lock of hair in her hand as Adore slowly shook her head. “Well...I’m flattered.”

Mustering up every bit of false bravado she could, Courtney offered a confident smile, practically daring Adore to make another move. Time seemed to slow down as Adore put one finger under her chin, tilting her face up, then leaning in, eyes falling shut…

***

What the fuck was she doing?

Bianca spotted her immediately from across the bar. Flirting with that random green-haired singer, the one with the stupid name...Adore...gazing up at her as if she was the best thing since sliced fucking bread. It was strangely unsettling, seeing her act that way, and Bianca wondered how much she’d had to drink. Better keep an eye on her...just to make sure she’s okay.

She was about halfway through her own drink when she chanced to look away for just a moment to see if her other roommates could be spotted somewhere in the mass of people still crowding the dance floor. Failing that, she turned her attention back to Courtney to find Adore tilting her chin up and hovering only an inch or two above her lips.

Bianca damn near marched herself right over but in less than a second, Courtney closed that gap herself and almost instantly the pair was making out at the bar for everyone to see. Her jaw actually dropped at the sight and not too far behind it, so did her stomach.

It was awful watching Courtney kiss someone else, even worse knowing that Courtney had initiated it herself and Bianca was left to watch it all in a helpless, paralyzed state of shock. She couldn’t tear her eyes away for anything, no matter how much she wanted to. No, instead her focus remained zeroed in on Courtney, until, to her sick relief, they finally broke apart.

There was dark red lipstick smudged overtop Courtney’s own light pink but that was only a thin thought in Bianca’s mind. What caught her attention was that glassy, hazy look in Courtney’s eyes. One Bianca had come to recognize as she spent more time in bars in the late hours of the night.

Shit.

Not that Adore seemed to have any qualms about that fact—if she’d even noticed, that is. Even from the distance Bianca kept, she could see that smug smirk on her stupid face, particularly as her head jutted in the direction of the bathrooms.

Courtney’s response was delayed, as if she were trying to figure out what Adore was trying to imply, but to Bianca’s dread there was a distracted nod of the head and soon the two disappeared into the depths of the crowd.

Well, not if Bianca could help it.

Downing the rest of her drink and slapping some money onto the counter, she bolted from the bar and followed after those drunken idiots like a woman on a mission.

***

The thing that struck Courtney about Adore, more than anything, was how normal it felt to be with her. The ritual of a few flirtatious smiles and heated looks, some light touching to feel out the temperature.

She missed this simplicity, she realized. The obvious mutual attraction, the flirting with the intent of pursuit...basking in the simple knowledge that she was wanted.

There was no second-guessing, no wondering if it was just a long-winded joke or worrying that it would be called off in just a minute or two.

It was like returning home after a long vacation and finding everything still in the same place as you left it...it was just...comfortable.

Even kissing her...it felt easy and natural and fun. So when Adore suggested that they move from the bar to a location more private, she’d been delighted to follow her.

In the bathroom, Adore pressed her up against the sink, plush lips kissing her deeply, as if to devour her, wandering hands making Courtney’s heart race with excitement. They were so caught up in one another that they didn’t even notice someone else had entered the room until Bianca quite loudly cleared her throat, heels clacking on the tile floor as she approached.

When Courtney raised her eyes and spotted the intruder, her stomach dropped straight to her feet and she gasped softly. Bianca’s arms were crossed in front of her chest as she glowered deep into Courtney’s soul, filling her with shame. She gulped, fingers untangling from Adore’s messy green waves to wipe her sweaty palms on her sides.

“Hi Bianca,” she said, offering a sheepish smile.

Seemingly unconcerned with the new development, Adore moved her attention from Courtney’s lips down to her neck. Grazing her lips along the skin, there was just a hint of a mocking undertone as she asked, “Girlfriend?”

Feeling her cheeks flush from both Adore’s brazen gesture and the judgemental arching of Bianca’s brow, Courtney was forced to admit as her mouth went dry with embarrassment, “Um, no...roommate.”

“Ah,” Adore murmured between the series of light kisses she’d been placing along the expanse of Courtney’s neck. She was acting rather nonchalant, as if this weren’t the first time she’d been caught in such a situation. In fact, she seemed quite comfortable right now, almost pleased by the turn of events. Nuzzling into Courtney’s neck with her soft cheek, Adore shifted her gaze to Bianca and asked teasingly, “So, you watching or joining?”

Courtney’s laugh was immediate and loud. She was all but cackling at the question but Bianca looked far from amused. Courtney clapped a hand over her mouth as Bianca answered through gritted teeth.

A simple, disgusted, “Neither.”

Brushing off the reaction, Adore resumed marking Courtney’s throat with her lipstick. Her hands, which had been resting on Courtney’s hips, moved down to her thighs, finding the hem of her dress and working their way inside.

Courtney wasn’t sure if the rapid pounding of her heart was from Adore’s fingers, now tracing the edge of her panties, or from Bianca’s continued harsh glare, eyes black as midnight as she spat out, “I think you’ve had enough. Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to go,” Courtney replied, voice sounding small and petulant.

“Courtney…” Bianca’s voice was tense, almost a growl. “I’m just trying to look out for you, okay? You’re drunk. You need to come home.”

“Dude…” Adore turned her head toward Bianca, brow furrowed. “Are you her roommate or her mother?”

Courtney bit the interior of her bottom lip as she tried to think of something to say. Her hands slipped from Adore’s hair and landed on her shoulders, but whether that was for comfort's sake or to push her away, it was hard to say. She felt small and unjustifiably guilty as she remained trapped between Adore’s warm body and Bianca’s harsh, unhappy scowl.

Truth be told, she didn’t feel very drunk at all. Certainly not enough to be escorted home like a child. But something about Bianca trying to protect her, even in the cold and disapproving way she was doing it, softened her desire to be defiant. And wasn’t that what she wanted all along anyway? To spend some quality time with her roommate?

“Well?” Bianca snapped. “Are you coming or not?”

It was her tone, more than anything, that made Courtney’s decision for her. Maybe Courtney was being stupid and irresponsible. But she was also an adult who was having fun, and Bianca had no right to judge her and scold her like that. Hell, her own mum had let her traipse off to a new continent for university without the slightest bit of concern. So why on earth did Bianca think she could intimidate her into cutting a great night short?

“Nah,” Courtney said simply, eyes narrowing slightly as she stared Bianca down. She felt Adore smile into her skin, teeth grazing her neck.

Bianca watched her for a few more moments, expression hard as stone, before turning on her heel with a scoff and storming from the bathroom in a fit of anger.

Courtney turned back to Adore, capturing her lips in a deep, messy kiss, adamant to keep enjoying herself.

But after all that, her heart wasn’t in it anymore. No matter what she did, all she could see were Bianca’s angry eyes flashing in the dim light. Even the sweet taste of Adore’s lip gloss turned bitter in her mouth. She pulled back, struggling to catch her breath, surprised and embarrassed to find tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Shit, are you okay?” Adore asked. She grabbed a bunch of paper towels, running them under the water and handing them over.

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Courtney sniffled, wiping her eyes. “It’s not you, I don’t know why I’m…”

After studying her for a few moments, Adore ventured softly, “You like her, huh?”

Courtney bit her lip. Was she really gonna admit it, out loud? She’d barely admitted it to herself yet. But in a way, this was probably the safest place to do it. After all, Adore didn’t know her, or Bianca, or any of their friends.

She nodded, whispering, “Yeah.”

Confessing felt better than she thought it would. Cleansing.

“I guess I have for awhile, but I just...I don’t think she feels the same way.”

Adore laughed at that. Almost too hard, and for a second Courtney felt the indignation rising in her chest. Until Adore leveled her gaze back down at Courtney and said definitively, “Yeah, she does. She absolutely does. I would literally bet my mom’s life on it. And like, I love my mom.”

“Why do you...think that?” Courtney asked, a surge of hope running through her.

“Because, she barreled in here like a jealous girlfriend. And that whole thing about you being too drunk? We had one shot. And you had a couple sips of a cocktail. You’re fucking fine.”

Courtney had to admit that Adore had a point. But what about all of the times Bianca had made it clear that she wasn’t interested? Her shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

“Look, she’s obviously a bit of an idiot, for making you feel bad and doubt yourself instead of just telling you how she feels. So you’re probably gonna have to be the one to bring it up,” Adore said. “I mean, I assume. Maybe she’s a gigantic idiot who will deny it even after that. Only one way to find out.”

Courtney nodded, still not quite sure that Adore was right. Bianca had spent so much time adamantly stating why she would never want to be with someone like her. Someone inexperienced. And she had to know how Courtney felt. She had to. So if she felt the same way, why would she have done that?

Either way, Courtney knew that her fun in the club was over for the night. She gave Adore a hug and started making her way back through the club, checking the bar, the back room with the pool tables, the booths along the side. She spotted Willam and Alaska on the dance floor, oblivious to the drama, and decided to leave them be. But where was Bianca?

She stepped outside, into the cool night air, pulling out her phone. Only then did she see the brief message in their group text.

B: Tired, on my way home.

Courtney heaved a deep sigh, tears filling her eyes once again. She had no desire to return to the dance floor with Willam and Alaska; in that moment, she felt overwhelmingly alone.

“Hey,” a voice said, and she looked up to find Adore standing behind her, cigarette in hand. “No luck?”

Courtney shook her head, brushing the tears away with the back of her hand.

“Well, I’m about to take off. Do you want a ride?”

“You’re driving?!”

“No! I mean like share my uber. I might be a little drunk, but I’m not a moron.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Courtney smiled.

In the car, Adore put her number into Courtney’s phone, instructing her to text the next day with a full report.

“So listen...she didn’t seem that stupid to me,” Adore said. “But if it turns out that she’s a huge, giant idiot? Then I owe you lunch.”

“Deal,” Courtney agreed with a laugh, already feeling a bit better about the whole thing.

***

Very softly, just in case Bianca was in fact asleep by now, Courtney pushed open her bedroom door and peered inside. It was dark and Bianca’s form was perfectly visible lying beneath the sheets but it was impossible to tell if she was awake or not. Thinking it best just to leave things alone for now, Courtney started to back away until she heard a gruff, “What?”

“You’re awake?” she asked stupidly.

“Clearly,” Bianca replied, undoubtedly rolling her eyes as she sat up. “What do you want?”

“I...Can we talk for a minute? About the club.”

Bianca was silent for a moment, eyeing Courtney up and down as if searching for something. With each passing second it seemed more and more likely that she’d refuse but to Courtney’s relief, she relented with an unfriendly, “Fine. Make it quick.”

Swallowing back her nerves and clumsily flipping the light switch, Courtney began with an apologetic, “I’m sorry you walked in on that. Probably not what you were-"

“I had an idea,” Bianca interjected with a little huff, “Saw that show of yours at the bar. Everyone saw.”

The tone stung. More than Courtney wanted to admit and more than she allowed to show. But if Bianca’s intent was to get her angry too, she failed. Courtney knew coming into this that she had to stay level-headed and no matter how good it might feel in the moment just to vent out her frustrations and storm off, it’d only end up doing more damage later on. Instead, she took a moment to collect herself, taking in a calming breath to clear her clouding mind and began reproachfully.

“If you knew, why did you-” As the words fell from her mouth something occurred to her. Bianca’s eyes had hardened and her lips pressed into a tense line as she bit back more of what she wanted to say. It was in that moment that everything clicked and Courtney felt a wave of clarity washing over her. “You wanted to interrupt,” she accused.

Her head was spinning with questions but she knew she was right the second Bianca flinched. She was glaring at Courtney, almost as if trying to intimidate her into giving up this line of questioning, but after a short pause, Courtney was shocked to hear a firm confirmation of, “Yes.”

Exasperated, Courtney demanded to know, “Wha-Why?”

There was another delay in response but what exactly for, Courtney could only hazard a guess. Bianca’s glare had yet to lighten as her eyes bore deep into Courtney’s soul. Her voice was cold and nearly emotionless as she stated, “You were drunk.”

“I wasn’t. But I was having fun.”

A flash of something appeared on Bianca’s face but in an instant it was gone. It was too quick for Courtney to recognize what it was but she knew she had seen it. She had to convince Bianca to be honest with her, even if it was uncomfortable.

Slowly crossing the room, clearly not trusting her own shaky legs any more than she had to, Courtney sat on the edge of Bianca’s bed. She ignored the way Bianca leaned away from her as if she didn’t care. She understood all too well by now that this whole act just wasn’t the Bianca she knew. It was just a front for something else and she had to find out what.

“Bianca,” she inquired gently, “Why'd you want to ruin that?”

There was no answer, only a judgemental glare as Bianca remained silent and stared her down. But Courtney refused to let this go. She knew she was close to some kind of answer and nothing was going to deter her from that.

Daring to place her hand over one of Bianca’s, she again asked, “B? Talk to me. You can tell me anything, I promise.”

There was a roll of Bianca’s eyes as she scoffed at the statement. It hurt but not enough to push Courtney away or weaken any of her resolve. All she did was wait patiently, running her thumb against Bianca’s until she got a response. Just some kind of answer to explain Bianca’s behavior.

And finally after a few moments, Bianca relented enough to give an unwilling and rather confusing reply of, “Cause it shouldn't have been like that.”

Tilting her head just slightly, Courtney probed for more of an explanation and it was there that Bianca’s restraint finally ran out.

In one long huff she blurted out, “Okay, fine! You wanna fuck a girl? Go right ahead, I don’t care. Hell, go fuck a hundred girls if that's what you want! But damn it, Courtney...your first time, it shouldn’t be some drunken hookup in the bathroom of a sketchy-ass nightclub. You know that,” she stressed. Her eyes finally grew soft as she admitted, “You deserve better than that, you know?”

Quickly defending herself, Courtney began with, “Well, she offered to-” then thinking better of it, she soon cut herself off. “Um...yeah...I guess I get what you’re saying.”

Darting her eyes away for a moment, Bianca reluctantly added, “I wasn’t sure how much you drank with her...And maybe I misjudged that. But like, I didn't want you regretting it tomorrow morning, okay? You’re not like Willam. This kind of shit means more to you.”

Though she wasn’t sure she agreed with Bianca on everything, she was still touched by the reasoning. Bianca was just trying to look out for her, it seemed. She went about it horribly but the intentions were good. Giving her roommate a grateful smile, she murmured, “Thanks,” and pulled her in for a tight hug.

At first, Bianca froze at the gesture but in just a second, she recovered and returned the embrace. A soft sigh was released into the air but even still, she just couldn’t let herself feel entirely relaxed. She had so many questions left on her mind but none of them she felt comfortable asking...even after this tentative truce.

Bianca pulled away from the hug to look into Courtney’s face, one burning question she just had to know.

Without daring to look directly into Courtney’s eyes, she carefully asked, “So...uh...did you two…?”

It took Courtney a second to catch on to Bianca’s train of thought but once she had, she gave a slow shake of her head. Instantly it felt like a weight had dropped from Bianca’s shoulders and she could truly relax. A large part of her felt immense relief at the answer but another small part was beating herself up for it.

Regardless, Bianca wasn’t going to press for any more answers, so she let this particular conversation die with a soft acknowledgment of, “Okay.”

“I couldn’t really have fun after you fucking blew your top,” Courtney said.

“Oh...sorry.” A smile began to grow on Bianca’s lips and the longer she looked at Courtney, the bigger it got.

Seemingly confused by the sudden shift in attitude, Courtney let out a small, laughing, “What?”

“You got some serious clown mouth going on,” Bianca told her, her grin now barely contained, “Looks like you were fucking making out with Pennywise.”

“Shut up!” Courtney squealed, giving her a playful shove to the arm.

Trying her best to keep herself from fully laughing, Bianca slipped out from her bed, shaking her head as she muttered, “Hold on.” She immediately made her towards the bathroom caddy she left on the corner of her desk. After rifling through it for a minute, she found her makeup wipes and returned to Courtney’s side. Holding out the jar with a slight smirk, she teased, “Can't take you seriously with that mess.”

Rolling her eyes, Courtney snatched up the wipes and made quick work of running them over every inch of her ruined makeup. Giving Bianca a patient smile, asked sarcastically, “Better?”

Shaking her head once more, Bianca pulled out a wipe of her own and muttered distractedly, “Fucking Christ. All over your fucking neck, too.”

She leaned in close with it and began gently running the cloth pad over the expanse of Courtney’s skin. She ignored the tense swallow beneath her fingers and focused instead on removing every last bit of cherry red lipstick she could find. The position felt oddly intimate, especially with the way Courtney watched her with curious, considering eyes.

Trying to distract herself and Courtney from this suddenly awkward moment, she commented, “You sure that bitch wasn't trying to suck your blood out or something?”

A snorting laugh ripped through Courtney’s body as she pulled away just slightly. Finishing her work, Bianca stepped back and moved to discard the soiled wipes. When she turned around from the trash can, she found Courtney spread out across most of her bed and damn near cuddling into the sheets.

She looked to be enjoying herself, at least, as she all but rolled around and wrapped herself up in the bedding. Noticing Bianca’s amused grin and arched brow, Courtney defended herself with a sincere, “Your bed’s really comfy.”

“It’s the same hand-me-down mattress you have, Court,” she pointed out, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

Courtney’s smile stretched just a little wider as she relented with a dreamy, “Your sheets, then, dingus...They’re soft and silky.”

“I know,” Bianca retorted, poking her roommate lightly in the arm, “That’s why I got them.”

Ignoring the feeble attempt to annoy her or get her to move, Courtney simply nuzzled further into the sheets and affirmed sleepily, “Comfy.”

“Oh, my God,” Bianca muttered in an amused state of disbelief. She could see she wasn’t winning this without a fight and far too tired for any of that, she merely gave in and asked, “You want to sleep here tonight?”

Courtney tilted her face up towards Bianca, catching her gaze with heavy-lidded eyes and saying softly, “Is that okay? You’re not still mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad. But...you’re gonna sleep in that?” Bianca inquired skeptically, gesturing to Courtney’s dress.

There was a half-hearted shrug of the shoulders but ultimately Courtney seemed unbothered at the prospect of sleeping in the skimpy sequined number she had borrowed from Willam. Rolling her eyes once more, Bianca withdrew from the bed in order to retrieve an oversized, worn-out Mardi Gras T-shirt from her dresser.

Carelessly tossing it onto Courtney’s face, she grumbled, “Here.”

With great effort, Courtney pushed herself into sitting upright just enough to remove the flashy dress, flinging it to the floor to replace it with the T-shirt.

“Want shorts or anything?” Bianca asked quietly, averting her eyes.

“This is fine,” Courtney assured her even as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Holding aside the blankets, she murmured, “Come cuddle.”

Bianca switched off the lights and worked her way between the sheets. She barely had time to properly settle down before a very soft body was pressed up next to hers. Burying her face into the pillow just inches away from Bianca’s neck, Courtney gave a partially muffled reasoning of, “Warmer over here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bianca teased lightly, even as she slipped her arm around Courtney and pulled her in just a little closer. “Come here, you fucking brat.”

Courtney giggled, snuggling against her, lips grazing Bianca’s neck, near her ear, sending a shiver down Bianca’s spine. On purpose? Bianca couldn’t be sure, but she cleared her throat and turned her head away slightly.

“Bianca?” Courtney whispered, breath warm against her, fingers wrapped around her waist.

Bianca should have realized the danger of sleeping intertwined like this. She hesitated for a moment before grunting out, “What?”

“Um…” Courtney giggled again, letting out a sigh, and Bianca relaxed, realizing that her lack of boundaries probably had more to do with residual drunkenness than anything else.

“Goodnight, Court,” she said definitively.

“Night, B,” Courtney whispered.

The night’s exhaustion coupled with alcohol made Bianca fall asleep quickly. Unfortunately, she didn’t stay that way for long. Some time later, she was roused by Alaska stumbling around. Her bedding was bunched up in her hands, just barely visible in the moonlight. Odd, Bianca thought.

“Hey,” she called out into the semi-dark room.

Alaska twitched at the sound of her voice, offering an awkward excuse of, “Hey, uh, sorry, I’m just grabbing some shit and then I’ll get out of here-”

Confused, Bianca shifted around to get a better look at her roommate and inquired, “Why? Where are you going-”

“I mean, you’re obviously in the middle of some-” Alaska hurriedly interjected, sparing a quick glance to Courtney’s oblivious sleeping form.

Of course she had the wrong idea, Bianca quickly realized. Shaking her head, she tried to explain the situation, “No, it’s nothing like that! We were just talking and she fell asleep. You really don’t have to go, my guess is that she’ll be passed out until noon.”

But as Bianca spoke, Courtney began shifting in her sleep. Her arms tightened, unwilling to lose their most comfortable source of heat, and a soft little sigh echoed into Bianca’s ear.

The pair of roommates stared at each for a moment in total silence, until Alaska’s resolve broke and she made her way towards the door. As she slipped past the door frame, Bianca heard her mumbling, “Yeah, it’s cool. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

She tried calling out for her roommate but it was all in vain. In mere seconds the door was shut again.

“Whatever,” Bianca grumbled, settling back comfortably beneath the sheets. She’d tried to explain; it wasn’t her fault Alaska refused to listen. She’d just have to try again tomorrow and maybe then she’d have some better luck in clearing up whatever misconception still lingered in Alaska’s mind.

#rpdr fanfiction #bitney #adorney #bianca del rio #courtney act #adore delano #willam belli #alaska thunderfuck #college au #lesbian au #slow burn #friends to lovers #fluff #angst #off limits #just friends #veronica #albatross

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hystericalweenie · 4 years

Text

Just Another Day at the Office Series - New Experiences

George MacKay x Reader Series

Part One: Dinner is Served

Masterlist

Summary: Y/f/n Y/l/n had found herself stuck in a scenario she’d never thought she’d ever have to face: she’d been catching feelings for a coworker. While she attempted to adapt to her new job and work load, she also had to get used to these new feelings and figure out what the fuck to do with them. George made her want to take risks, she didn’t care about the potentiality of a broken heart with him, because falling in love with him made it seem worth it. Is George falling for Y/n too? Will he be able to reciprocate her feelings?

a/n: I have absolutely no personal experience in magazine/journalism career, so the information in this fic will be provided with the knowledge I have conducted from research. With that being said, please don’t be mad if this is not accurate!!! I wrote this drunk and honestly I’m not mad at how this turned out.

Warnings: This is a slow burn fic, their relationship won’t happen in one night, so if you’re not into that, check out some of the beautifully written imagines that you can most likely find under the george mackayxreader tag. I might eventually write some of my own too :P At least one person’s saying “fuck” and there’s some MUTHA! FUCKIN! SMUT! UP! IN! HERE!!!! oral receiving, oral performing, some mother freakin explicit content up in here

I held my glass of red wine up to my lips, as we both sat down after finally finishing cooking together.

“You did very well, I’m pretty shocked, actually,” he complimented, scooping the chicken into his mouth.

“Well, you did do most of it,” I chided. “But, thank you.”

“How was work today?” he asked between bites.

I waited before swallowing.

“It was good, that pitch for Connie went incredibly well,” I recalled, taking another sip out of my wine glass.

His eyebrows raised at the reference to the pitch.

“I remember you texting me about that earlier, that’s fantastic, Y/n,” his British accent was accentuated as he said “fantastic”, making me grin.

“Thank you,” I blushed, taking a moment to let his compliment marinate before I continued to eat.

“You’re succeeding immensely so far at Essence,” he praised, using his knife to cut through the tender chicken in preparation for another bite.

“Really?” I asked in disbelief.

He nodded, his eyebrows furrowing and his head tilting, as if to say “are you kidding?”

“I had no fucking idea what to do for the first, like, three months there. Barely anyone even noticed me; I would sit at the far end of the table during meetings without saying a word,” he recalled. “And look at you; your second week in, and you’ve already impressed the head of your department.”

“You couldn’t be that bad,” I retorted, not entirely believing him.

“Oh, I was,” he countered, laughing. “I was a bloody idiot, but no one trained me! How the hell was I supposed to know anything?”

“They’re horrible at training,” I agreed.

We both ate in silence until we finished our meals.

“What was the first meal you taught Dean how to make?” I queried, finishing off the rest of my red wine.

“Banana bread,” he smiled, softly laughing as he recalled the memory. “I actually have a scar on my hand from that day.”

He lifted his hand from across the table, showing me. I touched the small pink line gently, noticing that the bruises on his knuckles looked more violet that evening than the night before, matching his eye.

“How are your knuckles feeling?” I asked, running my finger ever so lightly along them.

He smiled, his blue eyes softening at me.

“They’re fine, love, they barely hurt,” he reassured.

There it was again; love. Butterflies erupted in my stomach at the word, the way it rolled off his tongue with his accent and the way he made it sound so intimate, somehow.

My finger lingered on his hand, my eyes looking up to examine his black eye. As I observed, I wondered if it’d start to turn a greenish color the next day, or if it’d take a little longer than I thought to heal. His eyes bore into mine as I pondered the healing of his wounds, my concern most likely being obvious on my facial expressions. He removed his hand from underneath mind before resting it on top instead, his eyes still watching me. I looked down in confusion at the action, my heart beating faster and faster. I gulped, my eyes slowly moving up towards his. My heart was racing, I could practically hear the quick thumps, as I anticipated what was going to happen with great fear.

“Do you want me to help with the dishes?” I blurted, interrupting the tension.

What the fuck did I just do?!

He gulped, before nodding his head.

“Yeah, right, I forgot about those,” he let out a small chuckle before removing his hand from mine and standing up from the table.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why did I do that? Why did I have to make things so awkward?

I stood up with him, grabbing my dishes with me. He opened the dishwasher after rinsing his dishes off under the faucet as I copied his actions. He grabbed some cloths and a plastic bottle of dish soap, handing me a cloth.

“You can dry them, and I can wash?” he offered.

I nodded. “That’s fine with me.”

He grabbed one of the big pans we used for the chicken, rinsing it under the steaming water from the faucet before drenching it in dish soap.

“Do you ever miss England?” I spoke up, trying to make up for the awkward interruption I’d caused earlier.

“Mmm,” he hummed, contemplating his answer.

He scrubbed the pan with the wash cloth, the noise making up for the time he was spending coming up with a response to my question.

“I miss my family,” he admitted. “And I miss some of my friends growin’ up. But, I’m so thankful for coming to New York, meeting all of the people I’ve met and the job I’ve been blessed with; I’m very happy here.”

He handed me the pan, gesturing for me to dry it. He grabbed the wooden cutting board that we’d used to cut the chicken, and repeated the same process.

“What about you? Where’d you live before New York?” he interrogated, his eyes focusing on the chore in front of him.

After drying the pan, I set it aside on the counter in preparation for the wooden cutting board.

“I lived in Oregon, a small city called Ashland,” I began, recalling all of the memories I had, filled with my mother’s laughter and my father’s toothy smiles. “We used to have this small pond behind our house, and my father and I would go feed the ducks everyday after school. God, we used to love hiking, too. After living in New York for five years, I’ve forgotten how spectacular the suburbs are.”

“That sounds much more interesting than England,” he confessed, handing me the wooden chopping board. “Although, it’s pretty cool having an Australian dad and an English mum.”

I raised my eyebrows, clearly impressed.

“How do you manage to beat me at everything?” I chuckled in disbelief.

He furrowed his eyebrows, cleaning the pot we’d used to make the spaghetti.

“You beat me in your quick succession at work,” he admitted, his eyes glancing at me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a raise within the next five months.”

I rolled my eyes, wiping the wooden board with the cloth.

“I think you’re the first guy to think so highly of my work ethics,” I professed.

He put the pot down, turning to me.

“Really?” he inquired in disbelief.

I nodded. “The last relationship I was in, the guy told me he wanted me to be a receptionist. A receptionist, can you believe that?! And, it was like he was deciding for me, even though he knew throughout college that I wanted to be a writer,” I ranted, my hands going up in the air as I angrily relived the memories.

“Why the hell did you settle for that, Y/n?” he asked seriously, handing me the pot to dry.

I pinched the bridge of my nose before taking the pot.

“I don’t know,” I frustratingly answered, drying the pot in silence.

He piled the rest into the dishwasher, putting the dried dishes away in his cabinets. He leant his back against the counter, his arms crossing, before he spoke up.

“Your last relationship was in college?”

I gulped. Did I let that detail slip?

“Yeah,” I began, scratching the back of my neck. “I haven’t really had the time for a relationship since I started working full-time.”

I hoped he wouldn’t be able to tell that I was lying. I prayed that my inevitable blushed cheeks wouldn’t turn scarlet. I begged that he wouldn’t think I was weird for not having been in a relationship for so long.

“How long has it been, then?”

I chewed my lip. Fuck. I felt like Bree had asked me the same question just yesterday, except in a different context, of course. Though, my answer remained the same.

“Two years,” I cringed at my own answer, before gesturing my hand out to him. “How about you?”

“Almost a year,” he admitted with a shrug. “Only lasted a few months, things just didn't work out.”

I laughed dryly. “Mine was a few years, he, uh, cheated on me.”

His eyes widened in shock. “No way.”

I nodded, my lips pursing. He shook his head, pushing himself off of the counter.

“How?”

“Hmm,” I hummed, bringing my knuckles to my chin sarcastically. “I think he got with another woman behind my back while we’d been in a three year relationship, yeah, I think that’s how you cheat on someone, right?”

He rolled his eyes at me, crossing his arms again as he stood in front of me.

“There’s no way the other woman could have been more beautiful than you or more successful than you, as you are now,” he admitted with a shrug. “There’s absolutely no way; this girl had to be a troll or something, and so did your boyfriend, for fuck’s sake!”

He had to be praising me the same way Bree does, right? Friends trash on each other’s exes.

“He definitely wasn’t the most attractive guy,” I recollected. “But, I was just at the phase in college where I wanted to experiment without sleeping around, which resulted in falling in love, blah, blah, blah, you know the rest.”

He smiled at my childish way of talking, seeing the immature, playful side of me.

“Y/n,” he began, his voice softer than before. He edged closer to me, his eyes focusing on mine. I panicked; what was he doing?

“Can I try something?” his voice was as soft as a whisper.

Fuck it. I was ready. I needed to be ready this time.

I nodded slowly, preparing myself for the unexpected. He stepped closer to me, his eyes still staring into mine. As they dragged toward my lips, I watched as he reached a hand out, grasping my cheek as his thumb grazed my cheekbone. I watched his gaze on my face intently in awe, as he dragged the moment, wanting to soak every bit in. He moved his face toward mine and within seconds, I closed my eyes subconsciously, and his lips were pressed ever so lightly against my own. They barely moved, as they stilled for a moment, before he pulled away.

I couldn’t tell if I was breathing. I couldn’t tell if what had just happened was even real. Whether this was a dream or not, all I knew was that I wanted him, I needed him.

My hand snaked up to the nape of his neck, before pulling himself back towards my lips. I didn’t care anymore, I didn’t care what would happen or what this meant. Nothing mattered anymore, except him. He crashed his lips against my own, his arms moving down to my waist. This time, his lips moved passionately against my own, as we created our own rhythm. Our lips moving against each other’s, I brought my other arm to meet the other around his neck, pulling him flush against me.

“Jump up,” he mumbled against my lips, his voice husky with hunger.

I did as he asked, jumping and wrapping my legs around his waist, as he supported my thighs with his hands. He walked me up the stairs slowly, making sure he wouldn’t drop me as he kept his lips attached to me. Once we’d made it upstairs, he removed one of his hands, grasping for the doorknob before actually finding it and opening the door. Closing it with his foot, he set me on the bed, as I kicked my shoes off behind his back.

His lips hungrily moved against my own, his tongue swiping against my bottom lip before I parted them, allowing his entrance. Our tongues danced together, as I heard him peel his own shoes off with his feet, as he moved his hands under my thighs and picked me up from the bed again, he placed me toward the top. He let go of my thighs, peeling his lips away from my own as he climbed up on the bed, settling himself in between my legs, as his forearms supported him on either side of my head before diving back into my lips.

My legs wrapped around his back, pulling his hips down against mine in search of my desired friction. He rolled himself against my heat, making me moan, as I felt him smirk into the kiss at my reaction. He rolled himself again, this time more slowly and deeply against my heat. His lips dragged to the corner of my mouth, to my jaw, and finally, to my neck. He used his lips to gently kiss his desired spot before sucking on it, swiping his tongue against the skin simultaneously. I let out a breathy sigh, my fingers moving to his hair to grip on the strands. After repeating the same process on multiple spots on my neck, he moved to my collarbones, peppering them with feverish kisses before his fingers found themselves at the hem on my shirt.

“Is this alright to take off?” he asked, his breathing heavy.

“Please,” I begged, vigorously nodding as my arms raised for him to take it off.

He obliged, pulling the fabric off quickly before his eyes fell to my chest. His pupils enlarged as he stared in awe at the lacy black bra I’d been so thankful I’d worn that night. His lips found their way to the valley of my breasts, sucking random spots in hopes to cover every inch of skin on my chest. He pulled himself away again, looking into my eyes as his fingers moved to the clasp in the back, as if looking for permission. I nodded, my eyes practically watering at how much I needed him. He slowly unclasped the bra, his eyes not leaving mine, before removing the bra from my skin and tossing it aside, somewhere with my top.

His eyes slowly made their way down to my exposed breasts, his jaw falling slack at the sight. I watched as he licked his lips before attaching them to one of my nipples, his other hand moving to massage the other. I whimpered, his teeth gently grazing my nipple as the pad of his thumb continuously ran over the other. He moved his mouth to my other breast, opposite hand moving to the one he’d just had in his mouth. My fingers tangled themselves in the soft locks of his hair, as the pleasure from my nipples alone made me feel like I could orgasm right then and there.

His lips pulled off of my nipple with a pop sound, sloppily littering my stomach with kisses. My fingers moved toward the hem of his shirt, wanting him to reveal his own torso. He sat up on his knees, peeling the fabric off of him quickly, but giving me enough time to stare at his abs, looking chiseled enough for him to be a statue. He smirked, watching as I examined him, before moving himself toward the end of the bed. He placed his lips back onto my skin, this time, his lips pressing soft kisses right above the button of my jeans.

I moved my fingers to the button, unbuttoning them, giving him my permission to continue. He looked up at me, his dark, lustful eyes meeting mine, as he slowly unzipped my jeans, and gently tugged them down my hips. I lifted my hips up, making it easier for him to peel them off of my legs. I was left in my panties, as his lips hovered over my heat. He slowly looped his fingers around the fabric, looking up at me for permission. Again, I nodded, licking my lips, my hips practically bucking at this point. He slowly moved my panties down my legs, his eyes widening at the sight of my pussy. His hands moved to the insides of my thighs, slowly moving them apart, giving him better access.

I had to pinch myself on the arm just to clarify that this was real.

His lips moved to press a gentle kiss on my clitoral hood. Then, he moved to press his lips against each one of my outer lips, causing me to moan in anticipation. And slowly, he flattened his tongue against my heat, licking me up in one swipe. My thighs were already a quivering mess, my hips bucking up at the sudden pleasure. He repeated the action, his eyes moving to look up at me. My jaw fell slack as he remained eye contact, slowly navigating his tongue through my folds. My head fell back as his tongue settled on my clit, slowly lapping at the sensitive bud.

I moved one of my hands back to his hair, grabbing a handful of his blond locks as my legs already began to shake. I felt him slowly bring his finger to my entrance, curling it into me. I let out a loud whimper at the sensations, bringing his finger to a slow pumping rhythm.

“Faster, George,” I begged, my chest heaving up and down. “Please.”

He moaned against me, the vibrations stimulating me even more as his tongue lapped quicker at my clit, his finger beginning to pump faster. My hips bucked against his movements, coming close to my release. I looked down, meeting his blue eyes looking up at me in awe, bringing me to my climax. I let out a scream, my breathing hitching as he continued his movements, riding me through my high. As my hips slowed, he removed his lips from me, before slowly removing his finger as well. He surprised me, moving his lips to my entrance, lapping up my leaking juices with his tongue.

He sighed against me after finishing, his hot breath against my pussy. He stood up, smirking at me as he wiped his mouth with his wrist. I watched in awe, still breathing heavily as I still wasn't recovered from my climax. He moved back up to the bed, his lips attaching to mine, allowing me to taste myself. Our tongues began to battle each other's once again, returning to our own perfect rhythm, before I rolled myself on top of him. With one knee on each side of him, I hungrily kissed him, feeling his hard-on through his jeans against my flesh.

My fingers moved to quickly undo his button and zipper, as he opened his legs for me to sit in between them. He moved his hips up, giving me access to pull his own pants down. As I peeled the fabric off of his legs, I could see the tent in his boxers, exciting me. I returned my lips to his, bringing my hand down to palm him through the fabric. He groaned against my lips, chewing on my bottom lip, as I grasped his shaft through his underwear. Teasing him slowly, I finally looped my fingers around the band, pulling them down, as his dick slapped against his stomach. My eyes widened at the size of him, wondering if I’d even be able to fit him in my mouth.

My hand moved back to his shaft, moving up and down as I squeezed him. My thighs rubbed together at the sight in front of me, his large swollen dick in my hands as his eyes stared at me, half-lidded. I moved my hand down to pleasure myself, before slowly reaching my mouth down to take him. I pressed my lips firmly to his tip, before parting them and wrapping them around the flesh. I swirled my tongue around him, feeling himself harden even more in my hand. I had to hold his cock down, as I continued to tease him with my tongue. And slowly, opening my throat, I bobbed my head down. I took as much of him as I could, feeling him enter my throat.

I forced back a gag, as I slowly pulled away from him, before bobbing my head back down again. I repeated this, pleasuring myself with my opposite hand as well. I felt his hand snake to my neck, grasping a handful of my hair as I quickened my pace.

“God, Y/n,” he breathed, causing me to quicken my own pace on my heat.

I moaned against him, sending vibrations through him, as I felt him twitch in my mouth. I gagged, taking him all in, as I felt him finally spurt down my throat. Tears ran down my cheeks as I bobbed my head, finishing him off as he continuously moaned my name, sounding like music to my ears. I swallowed his cum, as he pulled out of my mouth with a pop. Excess spit and cum ran down my lips as I quickly wiped my mouth, before wiping the tears that had escaped my eyes. He looked at me in awe as my eyes finally met him. His hands went to grip my cheeks, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones.

“Y/n, you’re fucking perfect,” he breathed, half-lidded eyes and a weak smile of euphoria.

I laughed softly, moving up to press a soft kiss against his lips. Our lips moved together slowly at a soft rhythm, the tips of our tongues dancing together. My fingers knitted through his hair, weaving through the disheveled locks. He pulled away, pressing a firm kiss onto my lips before looking up at me as I rested on top of him. My eyelids were heavy, exhausted from the action I’d just performed. My cheek went to rest against his bare chest, our skin flush against each other. His heartbeat calmed me, lulling me to sleep as my eyelids closed and exhaustion took over my body.

Boy, would I have a story for Bree.

#george mackay #george mackay x reader #x reader fic #smut #fanfic #fanfics #1917 #1917 cast

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calumcest · 4 years

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i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter two

[ao3]

here we are...look at me posting on a regular schedule who ever said i was chaotic!

@tirednotflirting i will not stop thanking you on every single chapter get ready to get incredibly bored of hearing me thank you and say how nice it is to have you on the doc because i’m saying it twice for every chapter once here and once on ao3 which actually has just reminded me to put the ao3 link on this chapter see it’s actually super useful. ao3 link inserted i love you i adore you and i cannot thank you enough for the amount of bullshit you put up with from me both generally and regarding this fic especially

me posting this fic is just please enjoy my downwards spiral (and listen to britpop)

Predictably, Noel doesn’t piss himself. He also doesn’t aim a punch at Calum when he finds out about the bet, though, which is his way of saying hope you’re alright. Instead, he just cuffs Liam upside the head, calls all of them pricks, and announces he’s going to bed. Liam rolls his eyes and calls him a boring cunt, which earns him another clip around the ear, but not two minutes after Noel and Bonehead have filed out of the room, Liam’s yawning and saying that he might turn in too. Calum, not wanting to be left in the living room on his own during a comedown, follows him out, listening to Liam mutter something about Tony and firing him because he’s almost as much of a boring cunt as Noel all the way up to their room.

Liam crashes almost as soon as they get in, passing out fully-clothed on his bed, and, as Calum’s trying to carefully pick his way through the debris littering the floor from his bed to the ensuite to brush his teeth, he trips over something that makes him stub his toe against the wardrobe and swear under his breath. He winces, gripping his toe as he looks for the offending object on the floor to give it an angry kick, and finds-

The magazine.

The magazine. The one he’d nicked from the dental surgery, the one Liam had nearly got in a fight over, all because of one tiny, glossy picture of Michael Clifford. He hasn’t looked at it since that day, too sober and too busy being yelled at every single minute of the day by Noel for playing too rough, or playing too clean, or playing at all. He hasn’t wanted to, either, hasn’t wanted to be confronted with the evidence that Michael’s carried on living without him, that he’s not that same seventeen year old boy that Calum had left behind in Sydney Airport half a decade ago.

That’s not to say he’s forgotten about it, though. Far from it - even in his pretty-much-permanently inebriated state, the little picture of Michael, stubble and all, has been playing around in the background of most of his thoughts. It’s easier to ignore when he’s with the others, when Noel’s snapping at him or screaming at Liam, when Bonehead’s rolling his eyes and passing him another joint, when Tony’s muttering about how Noel expects far too much of him, when Mark’s chivvying all of them to get up and get in the fucking studio, don’t they know they’re paying two thousand quid a day for this shit? It’s easier to focus on snapping at Noel, on stepping back from the brothers and leaving them to it, on taking a long toke from the joint, on ignoring Tony while whole-heartedly agreeing with him, on rolling his eyes as he shuffles into the live room and picks up his bass. He doesn’t have to think too hard, then, doesn’t have to let his thoughts stray from the here and now back to being seventeen and sun-kissed and in love.

Now, though, on his own, teetering on the brink of a comedown but still pleasantly drunk, Liam passed out and snoring gently on the bed a few feet away, Calum’s got nothing tying him down. There’s nothing for him to ground himself in, no stern, suspiciously-Noel-sounding voice in his mind telling him to stay fucking focused, or he’ll get a clip round the ear.

So, before he’s even really thought about it, Calum leans down and picks the magazine up, flipping straight to the page with the little picture of Michael on.

Even though he’s prepared this time, even though he knows he’s going to see Michael, older and broader and taller, his stomach still starts its best impersonation of a fucking Olympics tryout when his eyes find Michael at the bottom of the page. Christ. It’s like looking at someone Calum had seen every day for years at a train station, or maybe in a dream; he’s instantly recognisable but doesn’t quite match up to the mental image Calum’s got of him, lips a little plumper and eyes a little darker than Calum had expected. He looks like a mixture of someone so fucking familiar to Calum - the way he’s got his hands tucked in his pockets and his head tilted back a little - and someone Calum’s never met before, with the way his eyes are dark and almost hungry, the way his lashes are lowered slightly, the way he’s holding himself with such an air of confidence.

Calum sits down on the edge of his bed, disgusting taste in his mouth forgotten as he flips back to the first page of the article and starts to read. Mike, the singer calls him. Mike Clifford. It’s fucking ridiculous. Michael had always hated being called Mike, would always use his last vestiges of energy to lift his head from the toilet and protest weakly whenever Calum called him Mikey. The only time Calum had ever actually got away with calling him Mikey was when he was stroking his hair and Michael was crying into his chest, drunk and stoned and fucking miserable about Calum moving to the UK.

Mike’s our secret weapon, the singer (Damon, as Calum’s reminded) says, with an ‘air of confidence’, apparently. Calum briefly wonders what he means by that as his eyes flit to the next paragraph, mind lagging a few seconds behind. What kind of a war does he think they’re fighting?

Of course we’re a British band, Damon comments later on. We sing about British life, British experiences. Mike’s not penning songs about kangaroos and shrimps on barbies, is he? And anyway, he can outdrink the lot of us, which is what really matters. Are these really the best questions NME can come up with? Calum can’t help the way his lips twitch at that. That, at least, sounds like Michael.

It was serendipity, I think, Damon ‘muses’ a few paragraphs later, according to the journalist. We were looking for a second guitarist, and Mike had just moved over. He was living with Graham - he knew him through a friend from Sydney - and when Graham mentioned that he thought his band might need a second guitarist, Mike mentioned he could play.

It never came up in conversation before? the journalist asks, and Damon apparently ‘smiles wryly’.

That’s Mike for you, he allegedly says, with a shrug, and Calum feels a strange, hollow tug at his heart. Yeah. That is Michael. Anyway, he came along to a practice session and gelled perfectly with the rest of us. In fact, he brought some new ideas, a breath of fresh air that I think we needed. You know, the rest of us are four lads from the south who all grew up in similar circumstances and listened to similar music. I think we needed the different perspective.

That’s all Damon says about Michael. It leaves a sort of sour taste in Calum’s mouth - although, in fairness, that might just be the aftertaste of vomit - because this ‘Mike’ doesn’t sound like Michael, doesn’t feel like Calum’s- well. Whatever Michael ever was to him.

They’d never actually spoken about it. There had never been a conversation, an are you my boyfriend now, then, or what? They’d just both known - I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s all that matters. It had made it easier, Calum thinks, for him to justify it to himself when he got caught up in his new life, when Liam’s bright blue eyes started swimming in front of Michael’s sea-green ones, when harsh cackles were dubbed over soft laughter, when loud and brash northern accents started taking up more of his thoughts than gentle Australian twangs. We weren’t actually together, he’d told himself, every time he saw a letter in the post and his stomach twisted with guilt. You don’t owe him anything.

In fairness, it hadn’t just been him. Michael’s letters had stopped coming once a week, started coming once a fortnight, and then once a month. But it was Calum’s responses that got ever shorter, from pages and pages to a few half-hearted sentences, because Liam would often barge in halfway through and demand he comes down to the Boardwalk with him right fucking now, and it got harder and harder to justify to himself why he was giving up spending time with one of his best mates to write letters to a boy whose middle name he’d already started to forget. And it was Calum who had seen one last letter from Michael, tossed it on his desk to read later, and then forgotten about it until it was too late and his mum had already thrown it out. He’d barely cared, at the time, because Liam had crashed into his room, Calum’s mum tutting loudly at him from downstairs, and announced that he’d joined a band and they were the best band in the fucking world, and Calum should fucking join, and when Noel got back from tour he’d definitely join too, and they’d be the fucking second coming of the Beatles.

The guy staring at him from the picture, older and more confident, doesn’t seem like the same guy who’d sent Calum all those letters, telling him I miss you. I’m saving up to fly over to the UK. We’ll be together again, in a year or two. Don’t forget about me. It feels like there are two of him - Calum’s version, Michael, the boy who’d blink at Calum through dark, inky lashes and press soft kisses along his jawline, and this Blur version, Mike, the guy who stares back at Calum almost defiantly, like he’s daring him to keep looking.

Calum’s not sure whether it’s the drink or the drugs or whether it really is Michael, five years older and having grown into himself and built up a life without Calum, that’s making his stomach twist and turn and his heart sink like this. Or maybe it’s the guilt, all the love and regrets that Calum’s pushed down over the years and paved over with bricks of Liam and Noel and music, that’s stopping him from being able to tear his gaze away from the little Michael on the page, looking like he knows Calum’s eyes are glued to him.

Calum shifts, and in the near-silence of the room he hears something crinkle in his back pocket, and he frowns, lifting his hips up and fishing a messily-folded piece of paper out. He unfolds it, wondering whether he’s left a receipt or something in there, and finds two scrawled lines of text.

Noel’s lyrics.

It was serendipity, I think, the singer had said in the article, and Calum finds himself thinking the same thing as he stares down at the mostly-empty sheet of paper. Maybe this is supposed to mean something, he thinks. Probably just that his jeans are in desperate need of a wash.

There’s a guitar propped up next to Liam’s bed, one he’s been messing around on in what he says is boredom but Calum knows is an attempt to write something that Noel will throw a kind word or two at, and Calum’s grabbing it and setting it on his lap before he’s even really thought about it. He’s not a songwriter, never has been - he’s always wondered how the fuck Noel can retreat into a back room and come out half an hour later with a song like Supersonic - but right now, lyrics on one thigh, picture of Michael on the other, the words and the notes feel like they’re bursting to get out of his mind and down on paper.

Not for the first time, Calum’s glad Liam’s a deep sleeper, so he doesn’t have to lock himself in the too-big, too-empty living room to write. There’s something comforting about Liam’s presence, something that reminds Calum that he’s not alone, his deep breathing the thin line that ties Calum’s old life to his new life. Calum breathes along with him for a moment, a little drunkenly, like he’s trying to let as much of Liam as possible seep into his veins, maybe hoping he can absorb Liam’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and brash courage enough to get the words out without buckling under their weight.

There’s a pen on his bedside table, and he reaches over for it, uncaps it, holds it in his teeth, and starts to strum, humming along to the melody he’s had in his head since reading Noel’s lyrics. It only takes him a few minutes to find the right chord sequence, shifting into a key he knows Liam’ll be able to sing, because Calum knows he won’t be able to sing this himself. It needs a layer of removal, something that Calum can place between himself and the song and look at without having to look any further.

There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me

I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear

So I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me

This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you

The words almost seem to write themselves, ink on the page before Calum’s inebriated mind has even had time to think. Noel’s words slot in flawlessly as a chorus, the perfect contrast to Calum’s muddled, drunken musings, and it only takes about twenty minutes before the whole song’s done, every chord written, every word penned. And, to Calum’s surprise, it sounds really fucking good.

He sits back, fingers stilling on the strings, and stares down at the sheet of paper. The words look hasty, rushed, a little crooked, and Noel’s going to have questions about the shakiness of the letters, but that’s a problem for a later Calum.

He reads over it again while he’s still drunk enough to allow himself to, knowing he’ll hate it in the morning, and then puts the pen down to the paper again to write a title.

Confusion. No, that doesn’t sound right. It’s too vague, too impersonal. New to me. No, that’s a cop-out. Then and Now. No, that won’t be obvious enough.

And that’s it, Calum thinks, swallowing thickly. He wants it to be obvious. He wants Michael, and only Michael, to know that it’s about him, for him.

(“How will you know it’s me?” Calum remembers asking urgently one night, standing in the hallway on the phone to Michael, who had just called to mutter that he’s grounded, not allowed out, Calum needs to sneak in and make sure he makes it obvious that it’s him and not Luke or Ashton or else Michael won’t open his window. Apparently Luke, the sly little bastard, has taken to telling Michael it's Calum so Michael opens up for him.

“Say it’s- um-” Michael’s breaking up, and Calum clutches the phone closer to his ear like it’s going to make him any more audible.

“Say what?”

“Column-”

“Say it’s Column?” Calum’s incensed. “Michael, d’you fucking know how to pronounce my name?”

“Fucking- Columbia,” he makes out, and then the line goes dead.)

Calum only hesitates for a split second, enough for the tiny scrap of him that’s still sober tell him this is a terrible idea, and then the alcohol in his blood barges in, shouldering the remnant of his rational side out of the way and telling him do it, what the fuck have you got to lose? It’s a fucking great idea.

Yeah, Calum thinks wildly, as his pen touches the paper again. Fuck it. Michael probably won’t hear it, anyway.

Columbia.

-------

Calum plans to keep the song to himself, to sit on it and tell himself he’s agonising over whether or not to show Noel when he knows full well he’s got absolutely no intention of doing so, but, as though he can read Calum’s fucking mind, Noel corners him at lunchtime the next day.

“So,” he says, blocking Calum’s path out of the kitchen as Liam trails after Tony in the direction of the live room, complaining loudly that if he has to eat one more fucking ham and cheese sandwich he’s going to burn the fucking kitchen down. “That song. What’d you do to it?”

“What song?” Calum says, momentarily stumped. They’ve just been recording Slide Away, and Calum’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked anything up so far. In fact, he’s absolutely fucking certain he hasn’t, because if Noel’s stopping them mid-recording to shout at Tony to tighten his floor tom then he’d definitely have thrown a fit over Calum playing a wrong note, or a fraction of a second too fast, or whatever.

“You know,” Noel says. “The one. From the other night.” He’s acting a little sketchy about it, a little guarded, and that’s what makes it click - oh. That song. The one Noel had been writing on his own in the kitchen at fucking five in the morning, and Calum had finished off at about three last night, drunk out of his mind.

“Oh,” Calum says, and he feels his expression shift into something just as evasive as Noel’s. “Uh. Yeah. I wrote something.”

“Well, let’s fucking hear it, then,” Noel says. Calum hesitates.

“Not in front of everyone else,” he says, because he knows the guitars are all in the live room, and by the time it’s cleared out Noel might have forgotten about the song altogether. Noel raises an eyebrow, but nods.

“My room,” he says.

“Now?” Calum says, looking down at his sandwich. “Can’t I fucking eat?”

“Now,” Noel confirms. “We’re on a tight fucking schedule, Cal.”

“Didn’t stop you spending half of Tuesday fucking off your head,” Calum shoots back. Noel just flips him off, like that’s a fucking answer, and walks out of the kitchen, presumably to fetch a guitar. Calum sighs, stomach sinking, because he hasn’t looked at the lyrics since he wrote them but he has a slightly hazy memory of knowing he’d hate them sober. He’s far too fucking hungover to stomach the fight that’s going to ensue if he refuses to play it to Noel, though, so he just sighs again, deep and resigned, shoves half the sandwich in his mouth and heads up to his room to pick up the sheet of paper with the lyrics and chords on.

Noel’s already in his room when Calum pushes the door open a little too roughly, perched on the edge of his bed, and he holds out his second-favourite acoustic guitar by the neck for Calum to take. Calum does, yanks it out of his hands to tell him I don’t fucking like that you’re making me do this without having to say it - not that Noel will care either way - and sits down on Bonehead’s bed, pulling the guitar into his lap and smoothing the sheet of paper in front of him so he won’t have to look at Noel.

“Right,” he says, and he can hear the nervousness in his own voice. “Don’t fucking laugh.”

“Won’t if it’s not worth laughing at,” Noel promises, which is as good as Calum’s going to get from him. He swallows, positions his fingers, and starts to play.

It sounds horrible, he thinks, as he’s playing. He has to try not to wince, because his voice cracks on the words as they drip with the kind of raw honesty that only a song written about his sort-of ex at three in the fucking morning, drunk and halfway between a high and a comedown, can summon. It’s too much for him, hearing his own voice sing the words that he doesn’t want to admit that he means, overwhelms him with the way it makes his heart clench in his chest to hear himself say nothing’s the same to me, and he has to stop before he can reach the end, stilling the strings and shrugging at Noel a little tensely.

“You get the gist,” he says. Noel blinks at him. He’s not laughing.

“That’s going on the album,” he says. Calum stares at him.

“You’re taking the piss,” he says flatly.

“D’you think I’d fucking take the piss about kicking one of my songs off the album to make room for yours? ” Noel says, and, yeah, that’s a good point.

“Well, I’m not singing it,” Calum says, before Noel gets any ideas. He’s not putting that out there, him singing a fucking half-love song for Michael. He'd have to be on every drug in the world to even get all the way through it.

“Why not?” Noel says.

“Can’t.”

“You fucking can. Just did.”

“I’m not fucking singing it, Noel.” Noel purses his lips, looking like he’s weighing up starting a fight with both Calum, who’s very clearly chosen this hill to die on, and Liam, who can’t stand feeling like a spare part, versus relenting and getting something he might not like as much musically but won’t potentially end in a trip to the hospital.

“It won’t sound as good,” he says, sounding annoyed, but that’s a concession from him.

“I’m arsed,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, hard, eyes flitting across every crevice of Calum’s face like he’s trying to find the weak link, and then he leans back with a sigh.

“You sound dead fucking British,” is all he says, a little too calmly for the conversation they've just had, and Calum feels like there’s something more to it that he should be able to pick out but can’t quite discern from the careful guardedness that fronts it.

“Been here five years, haven’t I?” he shoots back, feeling like he’s on the back foot, somehow.

“Wouldn’t even know you were Australian if you weren’t such a lightweight,” Noel says, and Calum rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off,” he says. “I could outdrink all five-two of you any day, Irish blood and all.” Noel flips him off, but his eyes still look far too calculating for Calum’s liking.

“You know Blur have an Australian guitarist?” he says, and Calum can see from the shrewd look in Noel’s eyes that that’s it, that’s what he’s been leading up to, and Calum’s stomach bottoms out.

“Oh?” he says, trying to straddle the line between interested enough and uninterested enough. There’s no way Noel can know, he tells himself, as his heart rate picks up. Calum’s never mentioned any of his mates back home to Noel before, let alone mentioned Michael. And even if he did, there’s no reason to make that assumption. Noel doesn’t even know Calum dates guys, and only knows he fucks them because of one night three years ago that neither of them speak about.

“Mm,” Noel hums. “He’s from Sydney.” He doesn’t say anything else, states it like it’s just an interesting tidbit of information, but the implication is clear. Maybe you know him. A challenge, or maybe a test.

“So’s a quarter of Australia,” Calum says, pleased with how cool and collected he sounds. Noel cocks his head.

“Weird, though, isn’t it?” he says. “What’re the odds?”

“Since when are you all fucking superstitious?” Calum asks. Noel shrugs.

“Just think it’s a strange coincidence,” he says lightly. “Two British bands with Australian members, fighting to be number one.”

“Who’s fighting to be number one?” Calum says. “We haven’t even released a single.”

“Yeah, but anything we release’ll be better than their shite,” Noel says derisively, eyes narrowing, and Calum exhales quietly, because it means the moment’s passed. “Girls who like boys who do boys, or whatever. Fucking shite.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like ‘I’m feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic’ is any better,” he says, and Noel scowls and kicks at Calum’s shin.

“Just you fucking wait,” Noel says, and it sounds like a fucking threat, like Calum’s going to be held personally responsible if Supersonic doesn’t go to number one. Which, knowing Noel, is a distinct possibility.

“I’ll fucking wait,” Calum tells him, setting the guitar aside.

“Eeyar, what d’you think you’re doing with that?” Noel says, nodding at the guitar. “If you don’t want to sing it, you’ll have to play it to our kid.” The thought makes Calum’s stomach clench. He never wants to sing the fucking song ever again. In fact, he wishes he'd never sung it to Noel in the first place, wishes he'd just dealt with the taunts and jeers that would have come from Noel if he'd thought Calum hadn't been able to get a song down. It'd still be more bearable than having to listen to his own drunken, honest thoughts spilling from his sober lips.

“You really want to put it on the fucking album?” he says, and he can’t help the note of doubt that creeps into his tone. It's a good song, yeah - really fucking good, actually - but is it as good as Noel's?

“It’s good,” Noel says, which, from Noel, might as well be a declaration that it belonged on the White Album.

“Not as good as yours,” Calum says. Noel fixes him with a stare, a really, don’t you fucking dare make me say it’s better than one of mine kind of stare, and Calum sighs. It is a good song - it’s definitely better than Cloudburst, might even be better than Sad Song - but he’s not sure he can go through playing it to Liam, Bonehead and Tony. Playing it to Noel was fucking bad enough.

“Play it to our kid,” Noel says again, like he can read the exact thoughts behind Calum’s stricken expression. “I’ll sort out parts for Tony and Bonehead.”

Calum loves him.

-------

(Liam frowns at him when he trails off halfway through the bridge.

“That’s fucking mega, that is,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match his words.

“Cheers,” Calum says, and swallows thickly. Liam doesn’t say anything else, even though Calum can tell from the way his fingers are twitching that he wants to, just hesitates and then sighs and pulls Calum into a tight hug.)

-------

They finish recording the album in mid-March. It’s their second attempt, and it still sounds wrong, so their record label, in one last-ditch attempt to save it, send it off to Owen Morris for mixing.

Noel’s progressed beyond irate and lashing out at any and all of them for fucking up his precious album to complete despondence, retreating into himself, sitting staring silently out of the car window as they get driven back up to Manchester, not even rising to the bait when Bonehead threatens to steal his Sergeant Pepper vinyl. In the strange, symbiotic way that the brothers have - or maybe just because they’d shared a room for sixteen years and Liam had been at the receiving end of enough of Noel’s tantrums to know how to cope with them - Liam seems to know exactly what Noel needs. He sits close to him, throws an arm around him, pulls him in so Noel’s head is resting on Liam’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything, carries on normal conversation with the rest of them with a slight edge to his tone, like he’s challenging any of them to fucking comment on the state Noel’s in. They all know better than that, of course. Anyone who’s spent more than thirty seconds in either of the Gallaghers’ presence would know better than that.

When they get back to Manchester, predictably dull and drizzling slightly, they all head off in their separate directions; Liam and Noel to Noel’s flat, Bonehead to the flat he shares with his girlfriend, Tony back to his parents’ house. Calum, too, heads back to the boring little two-up two-down he’s spent the past five years in.

“You look a state,” is how his mum greets him when he drags his bags out of the car and up the garden path. She holds her arms out for a hug and Calum hesitates for a moment - he knows he reeks of last night’s alcohol with maybe a pinch of stale weed added to the mix - but she gives him a stern look and he relents, wrapping his arms around her and inhaling the familiar scent of home-cooking and books.

“You smell terrible,” she says disapprovingly, when he pulls away. Calum shrugs.

“I’ll shower when I get in,” he says.

“You’ll fix the wall first,” she says, and Calum sighs. Not the fucking wall.

“Not the fucking wall,” he mutters, and his mum tuts at him, but steps aside to let him into the house.

“Your dad’s outside already,” she says, as Calum drops his bags next to the stairs.

“He’s not tried to do anything to the wall, has he?” Calum says, because if his dad’s had anything to do with it, Calum’s going to have his work cut out for him.

“He said he was just going to take a look,” his mum says, and Calum swears under his breath and heads for the back door. His dad has never quite grasped that ‘just taking a look’ doesn’t require prodding and poking and, on one memorable occasion, a blowtorch.

As Calum had expected, his dad is frowning at a section of collapsed wall, a mortar board piled high with badly-mixed mortar in one hand and a brick trowel in the other.

“Fucking hell, dad,” Calum says, jogging up and snatching the mortar board out of his hands, making his dad whip around in surprise.

“Hello to you too,” he says mildly. “How was Cornwall?”

“Great,” Calum says, and takes a step back so his dad won’t smell the booze on him. “What the fuck are you doing to the wall?”

“I saved the bricks that fell out,” his dad, gesturing at a haphazard pile a few metres away. “I was going to use those to fix it.”

“Not with this, you weren’t,” Calum says, brandishing the mortar. “I’ll mix some more tomorrow. And you can’t be laying bricks in the rain.” His dad looks up at the sky.

“It’s just drizzle,” he says.

“It’s enough,” Calum says. His dad looks at him for a moment, wavering between son, if I say the wall needs fixing the wall needs fixing and you do actually know what you’re doing, before sighing and holding his hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” he says. “But your mum will have my balls if it’s not done first thing tomorrow.”

“She’ll have your balls if you do it in the rain and it falls apart again in three weeks, too,” Calum tells him.

“At least I’ll get three extra weeks with my balls, then,” his dad says as they make their way back inside, and Calum snorts.

“That was quick,” he hears his mum shout from the kitchen, a little reprovingly, as Calum sets the mortar board down on the table. He’ll deal with it later.

“It’s raining,” Calum shouts back.

“It’s what?” his mum calls, turning down the upbeat, almost disco song playing on the radio.

“It’s raining,” Calum repeats. “Can’t lay bricks in the rain.”

“It’s only drizzling.”

“D’you want to go and fucking do it, then?” Calum says, exasperated, and his mum pops her head out of the kitchen with a frown.

“Calum,” she reprimands, and he sighs. He needs to fucking shower, and then sleep for about seven years until his liver’s had a chance to process at least half of the shit he’s ingested over the past few weeks.

“Sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m going to go and shower.” His mum nods, and her head disappears again, and he hears the radio turn up again. The song’s finishing up, something about how it always should be someone you really love, and Calum finds himself nodding along as he heads for the stairs and picks up his bags. It’s catchy, he thinks, and not like anything he’s heard in a while. Maybe he should recommend it to Noel; he could do with nicking ideas off someone other than Paul McCartney once in a while.

“And that was Blur, with Girls and Boys,” the radio host announces as the song starts to fade out, and Calum’s fingers slip in the handle of the bag in his right hand, causing it to fall on his foot. He curses under his breath, trying to think about the pain rather than the way his heart’s skipped a beat.

“Calum?” his mum calls from the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, mum, sorry,” he shouts back, wincing and flexing his foot, steadying himself on the banister with his now-free hand as he tries to listen to the radio over the pounding in his ears. Another song’s started now, though, and Calum shakes himself out of it, picking up the bag and heading up the stairs to have an excuse for his racing heart and heavy breathing.

It feels fucking weird, he thinks, dumping his bags on the floor of his room and throwing himself down on the bed, to have heard Michael without hearing him. He would have paid more attention to the song if he’d known he was listening to Michael’s fingers pick out those notes. He can still hear the riff in his mind, bouncing around as it tries to find its way out but enclosed in a bubble of Michael like a good portion of Calum’s thoughts have been for the past few weeks. It doesn’t feel quite right, though, Michael’s guitar playing on Calum’s radio in Manchester. It feels like Mike, not Michael, and the thought makes him feel a little queasy.

He rolls over, staring at the blank wall in front of him as he waits for his heart to slow down. Always should be someone you really love, the guy - what was it, Damon? - had sung. It feels like a fucking joke, now, leaves a bitter taste in Calum’s mouth that that line is the first he’s heard of Michael in five fucking years. It’s like the universe is just having its way with him and laughing about it.

(It was serendipity, I think, Damon had said in the article, but Calum tries not to let the idea cross his mind.)

-------

Supersonic is, in fact, as Liam and Noel crow at least five times a day, fucking mega.

The single comes out in early April, when they’re in Middlesbrough, or maybe Stoke, or maybe Leeds - somewhere northern, cold, wet, and miserable. It’s played on the radio a few times, and it makes something warm spread from Calum’s heart to his toes every time he can pick out his own bass, every time he hears Noel’s lazy solo, Liam’s gravelly drawl, Bonehead’s overdriven chords. Even Tony’s drumming makes him grin, giddy on the high that’s him, them, him and his three best mates (and Tony) coming together to create something that, fuck whatever the charts say, sounds fucking good. It’s raw and it’s rough around the edges and it’s melodic and it’s dirty, and it’s ‘fucking rock ‘n’ roll’ if Liam ever gets half a second to comment on it, but, more than all of that, it’s them and Calum loves it.

It doesn’t do amazingly, but none of them even care, because they know it’s good. Noel’s already busy arguing with Marcus at the record label about whether Shakermaker or Live Forever should be the next single, shouting at him on the phone whenever they get somewhere with a payphone. The tour’s going well, too; there’s not been a venue they haven’t sold out yet, and the crowd actually know all the songs, now, screaming out the words whenever Liam takes a break for a swig of beer.

They’re playing Glastonbury in June, which Noel seems to think is the fucking be all and end all of their entire career despite the fact that they’ve released one album. He’s taken it upon himself to ensure that every waking minute that they’re not playing shows or off their heads on whatever substances they’ve been able to put up their noses is spent with him telling them in minute detail exactly how he’s going to skin them alive if they miss one more beat or hit the wrong string one more time. Even Liam isn’t safe, despite his lack of a proper instrument, after missing one of the higher notes in Supersonic one night in Liverpool. Calum’s never believed in God, but he thinks the fact that he was rooming with Tony and the brothers were rooming with each other that night, screaming at each other out of Calum's earshot, might be evidence of divine intervention.

Further potential evidence for the existence of God comes in the form of an invitation to an awards show to be held in early June, which is the only thing that could possibly have appeased Noel. It doesn’t stop him shouting at Liam for fucking breathing, or whatever it happens to be that hour, but it placates him enough to keep the band together, which is what matters. He starts writing like crazy, and by late May already has six songs that he claims are good enough for their second album, and Calum’s floored when Noel rips the curtain to his bunk open one night and shoves an unfinished song at him with a look on his face that says if you fucking tell anyone about this, I’ll have your balls. I’ll fucking have them.

(“D’you think me growing up in Australia brings a different perspective to the band?” Calum had asked the previous day, thinking of the interview he’d read with Damon, and Noel had snorted, not even looking up from his guitar.

“Do I fuck,” he’d said. “I’m the fucking genius here. Why, ‘s someone been telling you you’re important? Do I need to remind you that you barely even play an instrument?” Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, but it settles his stomach a little to know that Noel's not giving him the songs because of some abstract musical perspective, but because of his talent. And, maybe, because Noel might just be a little fond of him.)

The awards show isn’t anything huge, not NME or anyone that Liam thinks matters, but Noel tells them that it’s the principle, that the fact that they’re being nominated for awards is what counts, and that they’ll fucking well show up. Liam still looks like he’s going to argue about it, probably just because his instinct to do the opposite of whatever Noel tells him overrides even his survival instinct, but he grudgingly agrees to go when Calum reminds him about all the free alcohol that’s sure to be there.

The ceremony’s much bigger than Calum had expected, held in a theatre that’s had the stalls cleared out to make room for tables for artists and their teams to sit at. They’re shown to a table on the far right of the room, and Calum sees names like Elastica and Björk on the tables they pass on their way, which makes him think that this might actually be a bigger deal than they’d thought it was. Their table is tucked away in a corner, which Calum thinks probably isn’t a good sign, but can’t bring himself to care that much about when he sees the three bottles of champagne waiting for them.

They’re tipsy before the show’s even begun, barely even noticing the room filling behind them as they call for more champagne, grinning and yelling at each other across the table as they all think fuck me, we’re really doing this, then? Even Noel somehow manages to dislodge the stick from his arse and laugh along when Liam starts heckling every single act that wins an award. It’s just fucking fun, Calum thinks, watching Noel and Liam put their arms around each other and yell the lyrics to Creep as Radiohead win an award, changing out half of the words for increasingly creative variants of words for certain parts of the male anatomy. It’s just a good fucking time with his best mates.

Liam’s so caught up in the heckling, yelling rubbish! Fucking rubbish! before the winners have even been announced, and they’re all so caught up in laughing at him that they don’t even realise they’ve won an award until Marcus glares at them pointedly, and they realise that the reason they suddenly can’t see properly is because there’s a spotlight on them.

“Best live act!” Noel shouts, grinning, and Calum shoots up and out of his seat and is hugging Noel and Bonehead, jumping up and down, before he can even think about it. Best live act, fucking hell.

“Rubbish!” Liam’s yelling, sounding absolutely irate. “Fucking rubbi- oh, that’s us.” He stands up calmly, flashing Marcus a winning smile as he walks past on his way to the stage, and the rest of them follow in his wake.

“Best fucking live act,” Noel repeats, like he can’t quite believe it. Their first fucking award. "That's all me, that is."

“You wanker, you’re rubbish,” Liam tells him, as they jog up the stairs onto the stage. “You can’t even play the guitar.” Noel cuffs him upside the head, but he’s still grinning, and Liam grins back at him as they walk over to accept their awards, shake a lot of sweaty hands, and make their acceptance speech.

“Right, then, who’s first then?” Liam says, leaning into the microphone and pulling his sunglasses down to survey the crowd. “It’s gotta be you there with that weird haircut. How many haircuts you got there, four?” He leans back as the crowd laughs, looking deadpan, but Calum can see the way his lips twitch as he soaks up the laughter and smattering of applause. Calum shakes his head, grinning, and looks out at the sea of faces looking back at him, trying to really absorb the moment, anchor himself so he’ll remember it tomorrow despite the champagne. There are a few people he recognises, which feels fucking insane - that’s fucking Robbie Williams, over there, presumably sat with the rest of the blokes from Take That whose names he doesn’t know, and he thinks he can make out the singer of Radiohead in the corner, and there’s the frontwoman of Elastica, and next to her is that Damon guy from Blur, and-

Oh, fuck.

Noel’s moved on to speaking now, a little more seriously than Liam - which isn’t saying much given that he’s currently in the middle of thanking himself for being such a genius and writing such impeccable songs - but the words are washing over Calum as his eyes flit to Damon’s left, taking in the moody-looking dark-haired guy and the ginger guy, and then to his right, a dark-haired guy in glasses and-

And Michael.

Calum thinks his legs might fucking give out. Staring back at him, eyes wide and jaw clenched, is Michael. Michael Clifford. His Michael. Fucking hell.

In the bright lights, Calum can see the tension in Michael’s shoulders, the way he’s sort of hunched into himself, sort of sat up straight, like he’s ready for a fight. He can see the shock on Michael’s face, the underlying hurt and pain in the twist of his lips, the way his fist is clenched on the table. He looks nothing like Calum had ever envisioned when imagining them reuniting, no carefree laughter and bright, joyful eyes. Calum’s sure he doesn’t look much better, lips slightly parted in surprise, pure horror written all over his face, but he can’t bring himself to care when Michael’s right there, in front of him, five years older and five years prettier, making Calum’s heart skip and race like it’s singlehandedly trying to win the fucking World Acrobatics Championship of 1994.

Liam’s taken the mic back off Noel to add a quick thank you to the people who voted for them, and then Noel’s clapping him on the back as they walk offstage, but Calum’s rooted to the fucking spot, can’t take his eyes off Michael. Neither of them are blinking, and as the lights sweep from the audience to them Calum almost loses Michael in the darkness, just sees the slight gleaming of his eyes, still fixed on Calum.

“Fucking come on,” Noel nigh-on shouts in his ear, startling Calum out of it, and his feet unstick themselves as Noel puts his hand on the small of Calum’s back, guiding him off the stage. Calum tears his gaze away, looks down at his feet so he won’t trip down the stairs, and by the time he’s got to the bottom and is looking out into the sea of faces again, he’s lost Michael. He searches in vain all the way back to their table, trying to map out just how far to the right the Blur table is from the Oasis one based on where it had been in relation to the stage, but then Liam’s in front of him, waving an award in his face and grinning inanely, and Calum’s line of sight is blocked by Bonehead jumping on Liam’s back, and Noel’s shouting something at the three of them through a smile, and Calum’s being forced into his seat.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Liam carries on heckling every act that gets up on stage, waving his award around over his head like it’ll somehow further his point, and Noel almost cries laughing at the sight of him until Liam’s fingers slip and the trophy goes flying and hits Noel smack in the face. Even that isn’t enough to get more than the ghost of a smile out of Calum, whose stomach is still twisting, eyes still flitting across the crowd, breath still catching every time a new award is announced just in case Michael will have to walk past their table, traipse up the stairs to their right, look down at Calum from the stage. Blur don’t win anything, though, much to the brothers’ delight, and as soon as they realise it’s winding down Liam’s saying something about an afterparty and trying to get up and leave before the ceremony’s officially ended. Tony grabs his arm and pulls him back down, mutters something about taking photos that both Noel and Liam scoff at, but one look from their management is enough to keep the two of them in their seats, albeit with glowers and grumbles.

The hosts close the awards in the most long-winded way Calum’s ever seen, and then they’re being ushered into some back room to take photos along with all the other acts. Noel and Liam are drunker than Calum’s seen them in months, shouting and laughing and throwing their arms around each other and pressing kisses to anyone who dares walk within five metres of them, and, seeing how irritated the rest of the acts and the photographer are at their antics, they ramp it up, yelling and screaming and singing until everyone’s shooting them filthy looks and Calum’s almost managing a proper smile. His eyes have been roaming the room since they got in, looking past the miserable looking bloke from Radiohead because he thought he’d seen a flash of blonde that had turned out to be Robbie Williams’ terrible haircut, but either Blur have already been and gone or they’re still hanging around outside.

“Cal,” Liam shouts, and then Calum’s being pulled into a headlock - quite a fucking feat, actually, because it’s Noel doing the headlocking, and he’s a good half-foot shorter than Calum. “What d'you reckon, eh? Best band on the fucking planet!”

“Don’t think that was quite what they said,” Calum says, and Noel ruffles his hair before letting him go, just enough that Calum can stand up straight, and wrapping an arm around Calum’s waist. Calum leans into it, a little unsteady from the alcohol and Michael, relishing the comfort of a steady anchor to counter the way he feels so fucking unbalanced from seeing Michael in the flesh again after five years.

“You’ve got to read between the lines , Cal,” Liam says earnestly. “They might not’ve said it, but it’s what they meant.”

“Eeyar,” Noel says suddenly, grinning wickedly. “Is that who I think it is?” Liam twists, following Noel’s gaze, and Calum does the same, turning to the door and finding-

“‘S fucking Dermot All-bran!” Liam crows, cackling gleefully as Damon’s eyes flit to the three of them. He smiles, pretty and polite, and heads in their direction, and as he comes through the door with the woman from Elastica in tow, four more people file in behind him - ginger guy, moody guy, glasses guy, and, to the detriment of Calum’s heartbeat, Michael.

“Congratulations,” Damon calls, nodding at the award in Liam’s hand. He’s almost reached them, and the rest of his band are trailing behind him, and Calum’s heart is beating so fucking fast and loud that he can barely hear Liam screaming next to him over the pounding in his ears as he watches Michael get closer and closer, carefully avoiding Calum’s burning gaze.

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Fucking best band in the world, we are. Real rock ‘n’ roll stars. Not like you posh fucking wankers.” The guy in glasses behind Damon rolls his eyes, and something that looks like irritation flashes across Damon’s face, but Calum barely cares.

Michael’s still not looking at him, all of three feet away, and Calum’s skin is fucking crawling, itching with the desire to reach out and touch him, to force him to look at Calum, to slot their fingers and their legs and their lips together again, just to see if they still fit. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk all that champagne.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” the tall guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Alex. This is Graham-” glasses guy, who nods tightly, “-and Dave-” ginger guy, who holds up a hand in an awkward wave, “-and you know Damon. And our resident Australian, Mike.”

“Looks like a cunt,” Liam remarks, and Calum vaguely registers Noel and Bonehead laughing next to him, loud and giddy and a little spiteful.

“Ours is better than yours, anyway,” Noel says, arm tightening around Calum, somewhere between defensive and proud. Damon raises an eyebrow, a definite challenge in his eyes now.

“Is that so?” he says, and in the two years since Calum last heard him speak he’s forgotten how different his speaking voice is to how he sings, eloquent and deep and rich. It’s a secondary thought, though, because Calum’s still staring at Michael, willing him to take his eyes off Damon and look at Calum for just one fucking second, but Michael’s face remains carefully blank, and the closest he gets to looking at Calum is sending Liam a scornful glance.

“Aye, ‘course it is, you prick,” Liam says, brash and careless, and Damon turns to Calum.

“Calum, isn’t it?” he says. Calum tears his gaze away from Michael for a moment, enough to see the way Damon’s holding himself, and that whatever Calum says next is going to form Damon’s entire opinion of him.

“Yeah,” Calum says, aiming for bold and confident to match Liam, because that’s where his loyalties lie now, and hopes no one else can hear how dry his throat is.

“Didn’t you have a mate in Sydney called Calum?” Damon says, almost idly, turning to Michael. “Was he the one that moved to the UK?” Calum watches the line of Michael’s throat as he swallows, and tries not to superimpose the bruises his lips had left there the night before he’d left Australia for the first and last time on top of it.

“Yeah,” he says, and Calum’s heart fucking splinters at the sound of his voice. Even in that one syllable, he can hear his Michael, the same tone and sound and depth, but there’s a new edge to it, something slower and more controlled than the wild seventeen-year-old Calum had left behind. The years without Calum have added a gloss to him, a new confidence in his voice and his expression and how he holds himself, and Calum just wants Michael to fucking look at him.

Fuck it, he thinks - or maybe the champagne thinks for him - and he swallows.

“Hey, Michael,” he says quietly, and all hell breaks loose.

taglist: @callmeboatboy @sadistmichael @clumsyclifford @angel-cal @tirednotflirting @cthofficial @tigerteeff @haikucal @queer-5sos @i-am-wierd-always @stupidfukimgspam @bloodyoathcal @pixiegrl @pxrxmoore @currentlyupcalsass @clumthood

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chapter three

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #i actually have some TIME tonight to chat i will be back #thats a threat i will be returning #my laptop is like freaking out at the number of tabs i have open right now but what am i supposed to do close them?#absolutely not #theres also a huge insect in my room and i have to wait for it to leave the door or i'm trapped in my room #none of these tags are antyhing to do with the fic i'm sorry i'm just stream of consciousness in here #ignore me my brain is malfunctioning #i hope everyone is doing well i miss being active here i'm so fucking BUSY atm #but come friday i will be back for good #Back for good by take that is a banger #okay i'm seriously going to shut up now please read my breakdown

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writingfromkitchenator · 4 years

Text

Scotch and Snow

Christmas fic

Masterlist

Based on an imagine found here by @thefandomimagine

Crowley x Australian OC (Gender Neutral)

Words: 1,773

Warnings: Fluff, little bit of awkwardness and gift giving, more fluff

Normally, Crowley ignored this time of year, at least anything beyond the increase in demon deals as people decided that they wanted certain material things for their friends and family and were willing to go to any extent to do it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but the idea of Christmas had never overly appealed to him, to him, it was mostly just a waste of time and an unnecessary reason to spend time with friends and family.

It wasn’t that there weren’t people he wanted to see, but it was more that none of them really wanted to see him, and that was something that he forced to very back of his mind.

None of them, except maybe one.

It was risky though, and he’d spent the last few days deciding whether or not he could take that risk, and whether or not it would be something that would remain unnoticed, even if he was extremely careful.

His decision wasn’t made until Christmas morning, when he received a simple text message.

I know demons probably don’t care about the holidays, but Merry Christmas Crowley.

Crowley had stared at it for a long time and knew that he had to take the risk.

Ensuring he had a few extra protections on himself, he teleported as close as he dared, his face almost instantly screwing up as the heat hit him, throwing him for a moment, feeling the sun burning at his skin almost instantly.

How could anyone stand this?

The little street was quiet, a few having Christmas decorations up, including a few including animals he certainly hadn’t seen being involved in Christmas before. Shaking his head, he walked a little down the street and around the corner, a group of kids playing cricket in the street, uncaring if a car was to come down the street at any moment.

He knew it was a different part of the world, but he honestly hadn’t been prepared for just how different it could be.

A knock on the door to a quiet little home, not a decoration in sight, and the door was answered with a smile.

“Crowley,” Shannon said, leaning on the doorway. “I never actually thought I’d see you in person again, at least not here.”

He shrugged it off. “I figured, seeing as I can practically go anywhere, it would be more polite than a text in return.”

Shannon grins and steps back inside. “Come on it, we’ll let too much cold air out otherwise.”

Crowley was more than a little relieved as the front door closed behind him, the cool air settling around him, and making him give a small sigh. “Anyone would think you live in Hell.”

Laughing, Shannon returns to the lounge. “There’s probably more than a few that would agree with you, but it doesn’t usually involved the torture and everything else, and it’s not actually as hot as what it can get.”

He adjusts his suit at the mere thought. “Charming. I can’t believe you came back.”

Shannon cast him a smile. “It’s my home Crowley, I’m hardly going to let some weather dictate where I live.”

Crowley sits, frowning. “I guess I’m just too used to the cold. It was strange appearing here and just finding…heat.”

“That’s what air-conditioning is for.” Shannon takes a drink of tea. “And ice-cream.”

“Are you drinking?” He asked, sounding a lot harsher than he intended to. “Are you mad?”

“I didn’t realise there were restrictions?” Shannon raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Just because it’s hot, doesn’t mean I can’t drink tea.”

Crowley stared, and then shakes his head. “You really are backwards.”

“Welcome to Australia,” Shannon chuckled. “I take it you saw the kangaroo sled down the street? We like to adapt things to our own little piece of paradise; you should hear some of the songs.”

“No thank you,” Crowley said. “Maybe another time, I think I’ve taken all the difference I can for the day.”

“You did come and visit,” Shannon said. “You had to expect something.”

Crowley looks at them and sighs after a moment. “I did, and I hope I don’t seem too…unnerved. I wanted to offer my own, er, Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” Shannon chuckled. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say it with a certain amount of disdain to what you’ve seen.”

He opened his mouth to say something in return before taking in the living room, quickly seeing that there was no sign of Christmas seemingly anywhere around. “Do you not celebrate Christmas?”

“I do,” Shannon nods, following his gaze. “But I don’t see the need in showing it to the world, and with no friends or family visiting this year, I didn’t see the need to set up anything. It always felt like a lot of effort for little return.”

Crowley watched Shannon get up, surprised. “You’re the exception of course, never thought I’d make friends with a demon of all things, but I don’t think you mind the missing decorations. Stay there a moment.”

Shannon disappeared from the room, leaving Crowley wondering to himself for a moment, relaxing on the lounge. It was…oddly comfortable here, despite the scorching heat outside, and Shannon, well, was Shannon. They’d become friends when Shannon visited America during the year, and despite working with the British Men of Letters, Shannon had been more than reasonable, even getting along easily with the Winchester’s. It had felt like much too short a time before they returned home, and Crowley had always wondered just what it was that made Shannon so amicable.

Reappearing, Crowley was stunned to see Shannon carrying a present, and proceeding to hold it out to him. “Merry Christmas Crowley.”

“You got me a gift?” He asked.

Shannon smiled as he took it. “I would’ve sent it with Sam, Dean, and Castiel’s presents, but I can guarantee they wouldn’t have given it to you, especially if they snuck a look.”

Crowley stared at them for a moment. “You knew I would visit?”

Shrugging, Shannon gestures to the gift. “Open it.”

He wasn’t used to gifts, so it took him a moment to look at it, the rectangular gift a little heavy, wrapped it…

“Are those meant to be Hellhounds?” Crowley asked, amused.

Shannon laughed. “I do have talents outside of hunting, so yes, everyone got their own custom wrapping paper.”

Crowley looks at them. “I can’t imagine your superiors like this?”

“What they don’t know, won’t hurt them.” Shannon drinks the rest of their tea. “And besides, I’d like to see what they’ll do with their best agent.”

He smiles and proceeds to carefully open the present, still not entirely sure how he felt about receiving a gift, let alone one in custom wrapping paper, but he was even more stunned as he saw just exactly what it was.

It was an incredibly old and awfully expensive bottle of scotch.

“Perks of the job, before you ask,” Shannon said at his stunned expression. “And I looked it up, you can’t actually buy this anywhere except from the rare collector that decides to sell it, which is even rarer in itself.”

“Understandable,” Crowley said, pulling out the bottle and holding it up in the light. “Are you sure you want to give it to me?”

“Absolutely,” Shannon said. “I know you have a taste for it, and it won’t do anything here except sit on my shelf and get even older.”

“Honestly I’m of half a mind to do that myself,” Crowley said earnestly. “This is a lot.”

Shannon shrugs it off. “It’s nothing.”

Crowley could see it thought, the slight embarrassment, the increase in heart rate and careful avoidance of his gaze.

“And you don’t have to give me anything,” Shannon said quickly as he goes to talk. “That’s not the point of Christmas. I just wanted to give you something and that’s all there is to it.”

He couldn’t help it, he smiled. “Well, thank you, but I still feel it necessary to do something for you in return. It would only be fair, so name it.”

There was a clear question on their features for a moment, completely unsure, but then it was gone and replaced by something else that he couldn’t quiet place.

“Well…” Shannon was a little hesitant. “I had been hoping to be in the states for Christmas. I’m not going to lie, it was why I jumped on the job so quickly in the first place, but there was ultimately not much I could do about being sent back home. I love here, I do, but…”

Crowley’s hand rested on theirs, making them freeze and look at him. “Name your price love.”

Shannon gives a soft chuckle. “It’s going to sound ridiculous to you, I know that, but I’ve always wanted a white Christmas.”

“When you live here in this Hell like heat, I’m not surprised.” Crowley said, grinning. “Go get something warm on. It’s the least I can do.”

It must have been a strange sight, seeing someone walk out of their house rugged up to the hilt in this hot weather, the man with them in a black suit which also definitely wasn’t suited, but neither of them seemed to care. Walking down the street, it was like a blink and they were gone, the thought of it soon fading from anyone who happened to see minds.

Shannon stared a little in wonder at all the white around, the temperate cold, but bearable. Snow as starting to fall through air, and there was no missing the wide smile as they held out their hand, the small crystals landing and slowly melting away.

Crowley watched, unable to shake the smile from his lips. They joy, he had to admit to himself, was a wonder to watch, and he suddenly decided that there was nothing that he would trade this moment for, not that there was anyone he’d ever tell that to.

Shannon turned and smiled at him. “Thank you for bringing me here Crowley. It is…well, it’s beyond words.”

“Merry Christmas Shannon,” Crowley said, earnestly this time. “I hope this beats sitting at home drinking tea.”

Smiling and returning to Crowley’s side, Shannon takes his hand. “Much. Will you walk with me?”

Crowley’s smiles and nods, the two of them soon walking easily through the snow, talking about everything and nothing. The longer it went on, the easier it all felt, eventually falling into comfortable silence. Crowley thought that if Christmas could be like this every year, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all, and as much as Shannon didn’t say anything, they felt much the same.

#christmas fics #supernatural #crowley #crowley x oc #gender neutral original character #australian oc #short #drabbles

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emospritelet · 4 years

Note

Closing Library : Marshall summons Belle for a private interview with Sutherland bc she did kinda ruin his outing so his team wants to take pictures of a peaceful chat and handshakes for press

I intended to include Belle in this but kind of got distracted with Anna convincing Sutherland to do the interview. So that’ll be next if someone wants to prompt me

Politicians had to develop thick skins, and Robert Sutherland was no exception. He’d been told in no uncertain terms to go fuck himself by members of the electorate more times than he could count, and so being chewed up one side and down the other by a petite brunette shouldn’t have fazed him. And yet it had. The visit to Avonleigh was supposed to have been a success, a chance to show the Opposition that his party had succeeded where theirs had failed, a chance to get some positive headlines running in election year. He hadn’t reckoned on meeting the librarian of a provincial town with an axe to grind and no sense of decorum. Sutherland was in a bad mood, and his staff sensed it and wisely kept out of his way. Only Anna chose to spend more than a few minutes in his company, but given that she had also told him to go fuck himself more times than he could count, he didn’t mind that.

“Stop tapping your fingers,” she said absently, as she went through some paperwork. “I know you’re angry, but it’s bloody annoying.”

Sutherland grimaced, curling his fingers into a fist to stop them drumming on the arm of the chair. The press conference at Arendelle plc had gone as expected: a few questions on the defence contract and an irritating number of questions about the young woman who had confronted him, and the effect that Government cuts were having on public services. It was now mid-afternoon, and Sutherland and Anna were closeted in his hotel suite, going over the plans for the next day’s visit to a local school and hospital. Which should pass off without incident. Or so he hoped. The way things were going there would be a group of militant eight-year-olds manning barricades and calling for him to be guillotined.

“Any word on how this is playing on the news?” he asked Anna.

“Nothing you want to hear,” she said lightly.

“Fuck!” He pushed up out of the chair, and began to pace again. “So it’s all been for bloody nothing, then! We drag our arses hundreds of miles north to celebrate some good fucking news, and it gets completely derailed by - by…”

“By a young woman who just found out that she’s losing her livelihood, and the town an important public service,” finished Anna, looking up from her papers. “Apparently she got the letter telling her the library would lose its funding about half an hour before she stormed into the market square to tear you a new arsehole.”

“That’s not my fault!” he snapped, aware that he was sounding petulant, and Anna sighed.

“We can try to argue our case for spending constraints, of course, but she’s already won the battle for public opinion,” she said. “The Today programme has asked for someone to do the ten past eight interview tomorrow morning. I was going to tell them no one was available, but if you want to press the issue…”

Sutherland waved an impatient hand, still pacing.

“If we don’t send anyone at all, we stand no chance of turning press attention back the way we want, do we?” he said. “Maybe we should send Ursula.”

Anna pursed her lips, nodding slowly.

“She’s calm and unlikely to be pushed off course,” she agreed. “I’ll give her a call, tell her to prepare.”

“And what do we know about the young woman herself?” he asked.

“Her name is Belle French,” she said. “She’s twenty-eight, and she’s been librarian in Avonleigh for the past three years.”

“She sounded Australian.”

“Studied at Cambridge, and decided to stay,” she said. “She’s a British citizen now.”

“Is she likely to be giving many interviews?”

“I would, if it was me.”

Sutherland growled under his breath, running a hand through his hair in agitation, and Anna sat back, shuffling her papers.

“Apparently both The Sun and The Mirror are claiming to be running exclusives with her, but there again I’m told she’s given an interview to The Guardian too, so it might just be a load of bollocks from the tabloids as usual.”

“Well, they’ll have moved onto something else tomorrow,” he said dismissively, and she gave him a level look.

“Whether or not that’s true, the focus is still on her, and not on the 2,500 jobs we secured for the town,” she said. “She had the nerve to say to your face what thousands of people are probably moaning about over their pints. The tabloids love her.”

“They bloody would,” he muttered, still pacing.

“Of course,” she added, “it helps that she’s very pretty.”

“Can’t say I noticed,” he lied.

“Hmm.”

She didn’t sound convinced, but let it go.

“Fiona Black’s already been doing the rounds of the broadcasters,” she said, and Sutherland whirled to face her. “Apparently she called Miss French to express her support and to commiserate with her on the harmful effects of Government spending cuts on local services.”

“Oh, I just bet she did,” he muttered. The leader of the Opposition had been a thorn in his side ever since winning her party’s nomination for the leadership. “They’re not gonna let it drop, are they?”

Anna tossed her paperwork onto the coffee table and fixed him with a look, opening her mouth.

“Alright, fine,” he said wearily, and she closed her mouth with a snap.

“You don’t know what I’m gonna say.”

“No, but you’re about to tell me I should do something, it’s probably something I’m not gonna like, and it’s probably the right thing to do, so let’s hear it.”

She smirked a little at that.

“I think you should meet her,” she said, and held up a hand as he let out an indignant noise. “It’s election year. The papers will forget about this, but you know full well that the footage of her calling you a knobhead to your face will be circulating every time you go out on the campaign trail.”

“So I should let her call me a knobhead in private?” he said sarcastically. “Yes, what a wonderful idea!”

“No, you should tell her that you recognise and appreciate her passion for public service, and you want to know what the Government can do to help ensure that people don’t get left behind as the country moves forward.”

Sutherland stopped pacing, fingers tapping against his lips as he thought it over.

“Alright,” he said. “I think it’s probably best to face this thing head on, not run away from it. You’re right, that footage is gonna play every time I leave Downing Street otherwise.”

“It’s already trending on Twitter,” she said. “Hashtag FuckThePM. Not sure if that’s meant as an insult or a suggestion.”

Sutherland’s mouth flattened.

“Oh, you’re fucking hilarious.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of humour?”

“Always disappears when I get chewed out on live television,” growled Sutherland. “I presume you’re intending to make a press opportunity out of this?”

“I was thinking that now she’s had a chance to yell at you, she might be a little calmer,” she said. “Showing that you’re listening to people’s concerns will play well.”

He sighed, letting his head roll back.

“She won’t agree.”

“I think she will,” said Anna. “Just let me talk to her.”

“Time’s tight,” he said. “I want this done before tomorrow’s headlines make the press.”

“I’ll see if she’s willing to meet this evening,” she said. “Cameras outside for the meeting, but the two of you talk in private.”

He hesitated, but nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “See if she’ll meet me.”

#sutherelle fic #sutherelle #ripperblackstaff #anyelle

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cakesunflower · 5 years

Text

Quiet Hours [College!Luke AU] Ch. 1

A/N: so uhhhh i wrote a new Luke thing. it’s college!Luke being an annoying neighbor to our pretty OC named Ophelia.......that’s it. that’s all the summary i got for you. you’re gonna have to keep reading in order to learn more hehehehe

Chapter 1

OPHELIA WRIGHT WANTED to cry.

To be fair, she was a junior in college but it was only the second week of school, so having her first mental breakdown so soon had to be some kind of record. Several syllabi, books, and other papers littered her desk as she hastily tried to clean everything before having to leave. Ophelia prided herself in being a tidy person, but her rushed behavior had her knocking things down more than cleaning up, making even more of a mess than she could handle.

“You sound like a bull in a china shop, dude,” came the voice of Isabelle Harwell, who poked her black curly head into the room to see what exactly was going on with her best friend/roommate.

Ophelia let out a frustrated breath, turning to see the curiously amused expression of the tall girl leaning against her door frame. Stylishly round framed glasses sat on the bridge of Isabelle’s delicate nose as Ophelia ran her fingers through her dark hair. “I’ve got too much shit on this thing,” she complained, gesturing haphazardly to her desk. Her books and papers were piled on top of her laptop, and the HP printer was taking up a good portion of the table with even more books on top of it.

Isabelle offered an unhelpful shrug. “It’s not too late to drop out.” At the deadpanned look her friend set her, she smirked, “kidding. Come on, you can do this later; let’s go to the quad.”

The hazel eyed girl casted one last troubled look at her messy desk, before letting out a breath and grabbing her favorite denim jacket off the bed post. Pulling her arms through the sleeves, Ophelia followed Isabelle down the short hall of their apartment, passing the bathroom and bedrooms as they crossed the empty living room and went out the door. Their other two roommates, Laurel and Tanya, were most likely already at the courtyard, which only confirmed this suspicion of Ophelia’s when she received a message from Tanya in their group chat, asking where they were.

They walked down the dark orange hall of their apartment building, passing by their neighbors that never quieted down. As the resident advisor for this floor, Ophelia was in charge of the six rooms on her side of the floor, and while it’s only the second week of school, Ophelia has already told the boys living next to her to quiet down a few times already. It’s not like they were ridiculously loud—just enough to disturb her sleep at three in the morning. She wouldn’t have minded if they were loud during the day, because that’s when most of the residents played their music in their apartments. It was just dumb of them to be so noisy when it was quiet hours throughout the building, which ranged from ten at night to ten in the morning on weekdays and from one in the morning to the afternoon on weekends.

“Can’t you just kick them out? You’re the R.A.,” Isabelle shrugged as the two girls left the building and stepped outside. It was early September, but the New Jersey air was surprisingly pleasant. It barely warranted Ophelia’s denim jacket, but she loved the clothing.

“They were just laughing. I banged on the wall once and one of them apologized and it got quiet,” Ophelia informed, shooting her best friend an amused look. “Something tells me if you were the R.A., we’d be the only ones living in the building.”

Isabelle snickered, agreeing whole heartedly with Ophelia’s statement as they walked the familiar paved pathway to the courtyard. “Us minus Laurel,” she grumbled, the gold frames of her glasses glinting under the sunlight. “I swear, if she doesn’t stop stinking the fridge up with her kale smoothies, I’m gonna dump them over her head.”

Ophelia’s amused smile only widened as the two of them neared the courtyard, hearing music playing in the distance and only growing louder the closer they got. This time of day, ranging from 12:30 in the afternoon to two, was known as common hour; it was only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, where everyone on campus would be out of class and gathered in either the courtyard or one of the multipurpose rooms in the student center, depending on the weather. There would be stands of foods along with a couple of food trucks, cotton candy and popcorn machines, and the occasional inflatable obstacle courses.

It was like a carnival came by every week, and Ophelia would be lying if one of the deciding factors when she was choosing which college to attend wasn’t this weekly event. Plus, all the sororities and frats sometimes came out to stroll—which, Ophelia learned in her freshman year, was them putting on choreographed dances for everyone. Unsurprisingly, when the two got there, the courtyard was already crowded with students; the DJ set up on the wide landing in front of the student center with speakers on either side, and the smell of fried food and popcorn lingering heavily in the air.

Before meeting up with their other two roommates, Ophelia and Isabelle treated themselves to cotton candy before walking towards the part of the courtyard that the inflatable obstacle course didn’t occupy. Some were sitting on the grass, while others had set up hammocks between the trees surrounding the yard, unbothered by the activities around them.

“Some guy literally tumbled down from the top of the slide all the way to the ground,” was how Laurel greeted Ophelia and Isabelle through a snort of laughter, sparing them a brief glance as they sat next to her and Tanya Divan on the grass. “I’m surprised he didn’t break his neck.”

Tanya snickered as she took a bite of her cheese fries. “Could’ve sued the school and paid off his tuition,” she mused, earning an exasperated eye roll from Ophelia.

The grass tickled Ophelia’s exposed ankles, courtesy of her boyfriend jeans. She was wearing denim on denim, she just realized, but couldn’t bring herself to care because she felt cute so she looked cute, too, running her fingers through dark blonde hair as she listened to her friends converse. Occasionally biting into the sweet airy cotton candy, Ophelia’s hazel eyed gaze lazily wandered around, her ears picking up the music playing and mixture of people chattering. There was a line forming in front of one of the food trucks, the one that served some of the best quesadillas she’s ever had, and wondered if she was in the mood for some.

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go by Wham! was playing throughout the courtyard, and Ophelia blessed the DJ for liking eighties music as much as she did as she remained seating on the grass, dancing to the music while eating the sickenly sweet treat. A few minutes later, her friends had finished with their treats and wanted to go on the obstacle course, begging Ophelia to come, though she rejected the offer. She wasn’t done with her cotton candy, so she said she’d watch her friends’ things before they took off to the other side of the courtyard.

Ophelia wasn’t even halfway done with her cotton candy when she felt a presence to her right, turning her head and blinking in surprise at the sight of the guy sitting just a few inches away from her. Even as he sat, he was taller than Ophelia, with unruly blonde hair that was a curly mess going slightly past his ears. When he turned to look at her, bright blue eyes caught her off guard and Ophelia could’ve sworn she had seen him somewhere before. Probably around campus, though she couldn’t exactly put her finger on it. Though, what she could decide easily, was how unexpectedly attractive he was, the scruff decorating around his mouth and jaw only emphasizing the fact. How could she not remember seeing a face like that around?

“Um, hi?” Ophelia managed out, the perplexion evident in her tone as she raised an eyebrow at the admittedly handsome stranger. She was almost convinced his sharp jaw could cut glass.

The guy sat with his legs brought up, though spaced so he could rest his arms on his knees, long legs clad in black and red plaid pants. His blue eyes met Ophelia’s hazel, and she was taken aback at how bright they were. They appeared almost clear under the afternoon sun. “Hey, how’re you doin’?” he responded, and Ophelia was faced with the unexpected realization that this guy most definitely wasn’t American. He had some kind of accent coating his deep voice; possibly British, maybe Australian?

Her left hand was still gripping onto the stick of cotton candy, fingers of her right sticky from tearing it out as she placed her hand awkwardly on her knee as to not get her fingers anywhere. “Uh, good,” she responded, still utterly confused as to who this guy was. “What’s up?”

Blondie shrugged his broad, leather jacket clad shoulders, one eye closed as he squinted against the sun. “Nothing much,” he responded, and Ophelia figured he sounded more Australian than anything else. The guy then jutted his chin forward. “My friends ran off on that thing and I saw yours did too so I figured I’d keep you company.”

Confident. Ophelia followed his gaze towards the inflatable obstacle course where people were crawling through tunnels of, climbing up and then sliding down on the other side. Her eyes landed on her friends, sliding down before running back to do it all over again. An amused yet fond smile tilted Ophelia’s lips before looking back at the blonde boy next to her. If she was gonna wait for her friends to come back, might as well do it in the company of the handsome dude. “I’m Ophelia.”

The stranger looked back at her, arms still propped on his knees as a slight smirk curled at the corner of his lips, hinting at a dimple under his facial hair. “I know; you’re my R.A.,” he surprised her by saying, mirth flashing across his eyes. “I’m Luke Hemmings.”

The blonde girl’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, tilting her head as she gazed at the guy before realization struck her instantly as her eyes widened. No wonder he looked so familiar—she probably saw him at the first and only floor meeting she conducted at the beginning of last week—as well as the fact that his name also rung an annoyingly loud bell. That was accompanied by a thought that clicked in her head, and she narrowed her eyes as her upper body turned to face him more. “You’re one of guys in 4102.”

Luke’s smirk widened, the dimple deepening as a breeze tousled his hair. “Guilty,” he chuckled throatily, tilting his head to the side to allow the chunky ring clad fingers of his right hand to run through his hair, pushing it back.

Irritation sparked through Ophelia, which it rarely did when she first met someone because she was the type of girl to actually get to know a person before feeling an instant sense of annoyance. But knowing this boy next to her, as handsome as he may be, was one of the loud neighboring boys was having her press her lips together in frustrated disdain. It’s only been two weeks since the school year started, so Ophelia’s not entirely associated with the faces of the students she is the resident advisor for on their apartment floor, which allowed her to not focus on the mild guilt for not recognizing the boy next to her.

The one time she had banged on his door, it was three boys that were making noise and Luke most definitely wasn’t one of them. Ophelia let out a huff, shaking her head as she looked away and out at the courtyard. “You guys need to learn how to be quiet. You’re way too loud during quiet hours. I’ve already gotten complaints from the other residents.”

Luke shrugged, not looking too bothered that the school year’s only just begun and there were some people already annoyed by his and his friends’ antics. “‘S not my fault people don’t know how to have a good time,” was his response, eyes relaxing once the sun was hidden momentarily behind clouds.

An incredulous breath escaped Ophelia, staring at him in mild disbelief. “That’s rude. And inconsiderate,” she stated matter-of-factly, pulling out some cotton candy and putting it into her mouth.

“It’s called having fun, R.A. Ophelia,” Luke retorted, and a narrow eyed glare presented itself on Ophelia’s face at the condescending use of her duty-given title, naturally pouty lips protruding even more. Luke’s gaze flickered to her pink lips at the action, smirk faltering ever so slightly before he switched his gaze back to her eyes. They were lovely, a deep shade of hazel that, he couldn’t help but notice, looked a bit green under the sun. “Maybe everyone else on the floor should stop being so uptight.”

Ophelia’s lips parted at his words, the sweet cotton candy already dissolved in her mouth as she took notice of the serious expression on Luke’s face. Though, the slight smirk tugging on the corner of his full lips said otherwise. “Maybe the only reason people are uptight is because you guys are ridiculously loud at three in the morning. Don’t you guys have classes?”

“Afternoon classes,” Luke informed her, which made sense to Ophelia, since she could hear them be up at odd hours of the night, so having classes in the afternoon gave them ample time to sleep.

She rolled her eyes, trying to stop the smile on her face because the DJ was now playing one of her favorite songs by the Weeknd. But then Ophelia quickly remembered the smirking boy next to her, expression dropping as she pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean everyone else has afternoon classes,” she said, jerking her head slightly to move away the locks of hair that blew forward because of the wind. “Keep up the noise and I’ll write you up.”

“Really?” Luke returned, eyebrows shooting up and Ophelia could’ve sworn he looked almost impressed at what she meant to sound as a warning. The blonde haired boy lowered his legs, spreading them in front and Ophelia tried not to notice how freaking long his legs were, while leaning back with his palms on the grass. “Gonna be honest with you, R.A. Ophelia—I don’t feel all that threatened,” he added, leaning towards her ever so slightly as the dimpled smirk showed off a row of annoyingly white teeth, tone taking a teasing turn.

He had leaned close, his cheek pressed against his shoulder as he squinted up at her, the sun making an appearance once more after momentarily being hidden behind the clouds. Ophelia felt warmth rise on her cheeks at the sudden proximity because while she’s been with her fair share of boys, she was still one who was unable to control the blush from spreading when a guy looked at her with a smirk on his face and a glint in his eyes. And a boy as handsome as Luke doing so? She was lucky she hadn’t become a tomato, even if he was just sitting next to her.

Gathering her wits, she managed to respond, “you will when you’re kicked out of the apartments.”

She hoped that Luke wouldn’t call her on her bluff—they had just met. In actuality, the most Ophelia may do is demand for them to keep it down and write them up once, maybe. Actually going through and having someone get kicked out of their housing wasn’t something she thought she could go through with. It was too harsh and extreme and not something she could live with if she did it. Though, that didn’t mean she couldn’t use it as a threat, even though it may not work on Luke.

Frustratingly enough, Ophelia’s words only widened Luke’s smirk, his blue eyes giving her a once over that had her grip on her cotton candy stick tightening and heart stupidly stuttering. She watched, suddenly frozen, as Luke leaned too close for comfort while she stayed still, breath frozen in her throat as she watched him draw near. He murmured over the sound of people talking and music playing, “I’d like to see the bark that goes with your bite, darling.”

Ophelia’s stomach twisted at his words—whether it was the pleasant kind or not, she couldn’t tell, didn’t want to—as the drawl of his Australian accent sent a strange, new electric feeling through her body. What the hell? she silently demanded of her body, of that unfamiliar sensation, though she was externally frozen as she watched Luke sit back once more, throwing a wink her way before his gaze flickered to something to his right, and he got to his feet.

She watched him stand up, feeling ridiculously tiny as he stood to his full height, towering over her frame as he looked down at her. Luke gave a two fingered salute, bidding, “see you around, R.A. Ophelia,” before turning and jogging off, his mass of hair bouncing slightly as he went to join the familiar group of three boys standing about twenty feet away, which Ophelia recognized as her neighbors.

A heavy huff escaped Ophelia, cheeks puffing at the action as she shook her head in disbelief. She’s only had one conversation with Luke Hemmings, and her judgement of him was that he was a confident, smooth talker with an accent to match. But she swore, in that moment, that she wasn’t going to allow that to let him get away with being one of the most rowdy people she’s ever had to live next to.

Clicking her tongue, Ophelia reached with her right hand to grab some more cotton candy to rip out, only for her eyes to widen ever so slightly to see that her treat was missing a big chunk—a lot more than she had eaten. “What the—” her words died in her throat, eyes involuntarily flickering to where Luke had been, only to see him standing by his friends.

She squinted against the sunlight, but from the distance, saw Luke glance over in her direction as he stood talking to the other boys, the knowing smirk finding home on his face and eyes locking with hers across the yard as he raised his right hand and placed the familiar pink sweet treat into his mouth. He sent her a dimpled grin and Ophelia’s jaw slackened in an incredulous scoff as he turned to leave. She had the rattling feeling that Luke wasn’t going to make living next door easy for her.

tags: @crownedbyluke @irwinkitten @astroashtonio @glitterprincelu @softforcal @valentinelrh @hotmessmichael @meetashthere @hereforlukescruff @c-sainthood @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @babygirlcashton @calntynes @calumh-excess @invisiblexcth @inlovehoodx @soulmatecashton @calumsmermaid @kchillout @thewackywriter @akacalciumhood @calumculture @ohhmuke @empathycth @flannelpunkcalum @poppedpins @wrappedaroundcal @walkedhomealone @calistheloml @gettingjillywithit @hearts-to-the-sky @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-stan4lyfe @all-i-want-is2b-loved-by-you @calumthoodsyonce @softboycal @xhaileyreneex @rosecoloredash @asht0ns-world @cxddlyash @misskarynie @mysteriouslycali @lmao5sosimagines @monsteramongmikey @calteahood @5secondssofssummer @sublimehood @bloodlinecal @biwriting

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cinema-tv-etc · 4 years

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Sean Connery, The First James Bond, Dies At 90 From bricklayer to sex symbol, Connery was a self-made man.

Sir Thomas Sean Connery, the iconic Scottish actor and Hollywood legend who made a name for himself as the first James Bond, has died, according to multiple outlets.

He was 90.

Before he was “Bond, James Bond,” Connery was just another kid in a working-class neighborhood in Fountainbridge, Scotland. Born on Aug. 25, 1930, to Joe and Euphamia Connery, “Tommy” ― as he was nicknamed ― spent his first years sleeping in a drawer, as his parents were unable to afford a crib.

“My background was harsh,” Connery has acknowledged. “We were poor, but I never knew how poor till years after.”

“It sounds strange to say it now,” he recalled in an interview with The Scottish Sun, “but we never realized we lacked anything!”

His father worked at a nearby mill, and Connery began working at a young age to help support himself and his family. He began delivering milk at the age of 9 (incidentally, he picked up smoking at about the same age), toting bottles from house to house via horse-drawn cart. At the age of 13, as World War II raged, Connery dropped out of school to work full time and earn his keep at home.

“From the time I started working at 13, I always paid my share of the rent, and the attitude at home was the prevalent one in Scotland ― you make your own bed and so you have to lie on it,” he said in a 1965 interview with Playboy. “I didn’t ask for advice and I didn’t get it. I had to make it on my own or not at all.”

Connery joined the Royal Navy three years later, working as an armorer. He inked two tattoos while in the service: one that read “Scotland Forever” and another that read “Mum and Dad.” Both lasted longer than his navy career. Though he signed on for a seven-year stint in the navy, he was discharged after only three, sidelined due to a persistent stomach ulcer.

Following his discharge from the navy, Connery scraped by doing random jobs, working stints as a bricklayer, lifeguard and coffin polisher. He also spent hours at the gym and posed as a nude model from time to time at the Edinburgh College of Art, which still owns some paintings of him:

Connery’s first acting job came only after his bodybuilding pursuits led him to a Mr. Universe competition in London in 1953. He placed third at the competition, and while there, a fellow bodybuilder mentioned auditions were being held for the play “South Pacific.”

Despite having virtually no experience, Sean decided to go for it, and was awarded a small role. “I’d no experience whatever [at acting] and hadn’t even been on a stage before, but it turned out to be one of my more intelligent moves,” he told Playboy in 1965.

In his new gig, Connery earned £12 a week playing Sergeant Waters, a member of the chorus. He’d lied about his acting abilities during the audition and immersed himself in literature to make up for his shortcomings, reading everything from George Bernard Shaw and Shakespeare to “War and Peace” and James Joyce. “I read them all,” Connery recalled in a later interview. “I went to the libraries in every town up and down Britain.” At the same time, he began reading aloud into a tape-recorder, playing the tapes back to himself in an attempt to refine his thick Scottish dialect.

I loved him because he had this twinkle all the time … he’s a great, great character,” Millicent Martin, one of his co-stars in “South Pacific,” said. “The only thing was, nobody could understand a word Sean was saying.”

Slowly, and with much hard work, Connery overcame the hurdles ― and his indecipherable accent. Following “South Pacific,” he picked up parts in “Another Time, Another Place” in 1958 and “Anna Christie” in 1957, where he met his first wife, Australian actress Diane Cilento, whom he married in 1962.

The marriage ended in 1973, and Cilento later said he had been physically abusive. Connery once told Playboy he didn’t think “there is anything particularly wrong about hitting a woman.”

Connery remarried in 1975 to Tunisian-born French artist Micheline Roquebrune, whom he’d met during a golf tournament in Morocco in 1970.

In 1962, to the apparent surprise of both industry insiders and Connery himself, he earned the part of Secret Agent 007 in a film interpretation of Ian Fleming’s 1958 novel, Dr. No.

Many skeptics believed Connery had been miscast in the role (including Fleming himself, who described the Scotsman as more of “an overgrown stunt-man” than Bond material), a sentiment Connery didn’t go out of his way to dispute.

“Before I got the part, I might have agreed with them,” he told Playboy. “If you had asked any casting director who would be the sort of man to cast as Bond, an Eton-bred Englishman, the last person into the box would have been me, a working-class Scotsman. And I didn’t particularly have the face for it; at 16, I looked 30.”

Most of Fleming’s choices for the role were either too expensive (in the case of Cary Grant) or turned the part down; some believed the entire “James Bond” concept would flop and wasn’t worth the risk.

But audiences said yes to “Dr. No.” Connery’s performance helped nurture a box-office hit, justifying the production of four more Bond films in quick succession, in which Connery played the suave, martini-loving British spy.

In addition to 1962′s “Dr. No,” Connery starred in “From Russia with Love” (1963), “Goldfinger” (1964), “Thunderball” (1965), and “You Only Live Twice” (1967). After a brief hiatus, he returned for a role in “Diamonds are Forever” (1971) before retiring from the Bond series with “Never Say Never Again” (1983).

PHOTOS:

Sean Connery in a scene from the 1963 film “From Russia With Love.”

Connery, center, poses during a bodybuilding competition.

Connery as James Bond, posing next to his Aston Martin DB5 in a scene from “Goldfinger.”

Sir Sean Connery posed for the painting before his acting breakthrough

Connery wears full Highland dress and his medal after he was formally knighted by the queen in July 2000.

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/sean-connery-dead-dies_n_56dd9ccde4b0ffe6f8e9f04c

#Sean Connery #James Bond

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dorkery · 4 years

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I manifest, briefly, to write about this miniseries WHICH I HAD EXTREMELY HIGH HOPES FOR, and it disappointed me so much I’m compelled to write an actual review about it. In summary, of course. If I did it in-depth, it would probably have to be on my proper blog (oops shit I haven’t updated that in ages).

INTRO ABOUT JAPAN AND WWII (skip this to get to actual review of series)

TOKYO TRIAL. Ah. The Asian parallel to Nuremberg. Media about Japanese war crimes and the subsequent actions (the trial, the rehabilitation of criminals, the adoption of Unit 731 research by American forces, the conflicts between the Japanese Imperial Army and its victims) is not as extensive as the war in Europe. In fact, the Tokyo Trials themselves were not as punitive as the Nuremberg Trial (for a host of bureaucratic reasons, but also the lack of systematic eradication of Japanese citizens, but this is a very simplified explanation). And most media about the Japanese occupation is usually Chinese or Korean (understandably) even though the Japanese did a good job fucking up the Philippines, Malaya, the Dutch East Indies and so on. Also, much media about the Japanese occupation, I find, tends to be about the overall general existence of the Japanese occupation force, rather than specific historical figures (I am making a blanket statement here, I’ve watched limited amounts of Korean and Chinese language media on the Japanese occupation). There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, but the lack of quantity then leaves a viewer chomping on the bit for some good historical drama.

Part of it, probably, is due to the relative mystery of the Japanese occupation when compared to the Nazi occupation. Nazis, the Holocaust, the Third Reich are everywhere in media and have been researched and shared to death. Not so for the Japanese invasion (well, probably in English). The Rape of Nanking (book) was probably THE thing that shone a spotlight on Japanese atrocities, but it’s a drop in the ocean compared to the overall Japanese action in Asia (newsflash: the Japanese ALSO tortured the people in countries that were not China, even though yes, I will readily admit they especially tortured the Chinese populations in countries that were not China).

There is so much Good Shit TM from a edutainment perspective on stuff you can squeeze out of the Japanese invasion. DID YOU KNOW??? THE JAPANESE ARMY CYCLED - ON BICYCLES - FROM THE KINGDOM OF SIAM TO SINGAPORE OVER 2 MONTHS, CAPTURING ALL THE TERRITORY THEY CYCLED THROUGH (because the locals supported the Japanese invasion at the time - Asia For Asians! was the propaganda they put out which was total bullshit, the locals would eventually discover), AND THEN ACCEPTED A BRITISH SURRENDER. THE KING OF SIAM AGREED TO LET THE JAPANESE USE THEM AS THE BIKING ENTRY POINT IN EXCHANGE FOR “DON’T INVADE ME BRO” AND ALSO “can I have some northern malayan territory”. THE JAPANESE AGREED. You can’t make this shit up. And this is the non-atrocity part of it. The atrocity part is as vicious, but differently so, from the Holocaust (which I would prefer not to get into as that’s an entire essay in and of itself - summary: the Japanese bayonet everything - EVERYTHING - and also Contest to kill 100 people with actual Japanese swords as promoted by Mainichi and Nichi Nichi Shimbun and also soap water drinking stomach bulge boot step interrogation technique ok let’s stop this here)

You get what I’m saying. It’s an entire period of history that has not been harvested for good quality drama. And I don’t need fabricated romantic bullshit (I’m looking at you, Embun (even though you were damned good, you’re STILL BULLSHIT)). I’m talking Schindler’s List-type films, with history and gravitas and nuance. Most historical movies have immature script-writers who basically paint the Japanese occupiers as monsters (not necessarily inaccurate, but painfully one dimensional). (Digression: Recently I watched Kanang Anak Langkau which was about a Malayan (and then Malaysian) Ranger who helped fight off the Communists after the Japanese occupation ended and, man, the entire movie was flat... except the Communists??? Like, they were clearly terrible but they were well-portrayed and had great actors. So. Opposite problem. Asians are really bad at war films that aren’t Classic Period Dramas.)

As a citizen of a Japanese-occupied country, with YEARS of history textbooks dedicated to the Japanese occupation, and a generation of Japanese war survivors either dead or unwilling to discuss their experiences, in a region with... pretty bad recording of this sort of history, I think you get my interest and fascination with this entire chapter. And since I’m in a country that isn’t the centre of the Japanese invasion (i.e. China and Korea) it makes even more sense that I’m interested in the occupation and action in countries like the Philippines, Malaya and so on.

ACTUAL REVIEW OF TOKYO TRIAL MINI-SERIES

OK. Sorry. I had to get that off my chest. SO. Tokyo Trial.

This is actually the second piece of media about the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal on video that I’m aware of (that’s been dramatised). The first one was a movie, also called TOKYO TRIAL, and it was a Chinese production (in English) from a Chinese perspective. The protagonist was the Chinese judge on the bench, Justice Mei. Tokyo Trial the Movie (TT(M) from here on out) was heavily dramatised and abridged in order to make for (well, attempted) excitement, action and historical legal thrills. It gets bogged down at times with some typical pacing problems (typical for Asian films). Like a good historical legal thriller, it focuses on victim testimony and the arrogance of the accused and of course it culminates in the feel good moment where you can watch outraged/distraught Japanese war criminals reacting to their sentences. Overall not a bad movie to watch, but not really great. Made interesting only by the righteousness of the protag and the severity and outrageousness of the subject matter. But it suffers from some stuttered pacing and an extremely narrow Chinese POV (understandable, given the protag and the production).

Now. Tokyo Trial (Mini-Series) (TT(MS) from here on).

Pros: Very beautiful. Decent Actors. VERY BEAUTIFUL.

Cons: Literally everything else.

HOW. HOW DO YOU CREATE A MINI-SERIES ABOUT THE JAPANESE WAR CRIMES TRIAL WITHOUT FEATURING JAPANESE WAR CRIMES?????

Astounding. I’m truly astounded. Where to even begin.

1. The protagonist

GUESS WHO IT IS. No really, guess. In a movie about the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal, guess who the main character is. I guarantee you won’t get it.

It’s the Dutch Judge.

WHY?

The Judge, btw, doesn’t even have any kind of personal or professional link to the Japanese occupation. Even when the protag is asked by a stranded German diva about how he must have suffered during the Nazi occupation, he admits that he didn’t have it as bad as others. His family is entirely intact although they were in the Dutch East Indies when the Japanese invaded.

2. The focus of the series

can you fucking guess

it’s the goddamn judges

the entire series is about the trials and tribulations (pun fucking intended) of the GODDAMN JUDGES

DURING SERIOUS TESTIMONY OF VICTIMS AND THE ACCUSED, THE SHOTS ARE OF THE CONCERNED/CONSTIPATED FACES OF THE JUDGES

The mini-series, 4 episodes long, opens with the Dutch Judge writing to his wife and giving some decent introduction to all the major players. And then it brings into focus the various justices from around the world who will be partaking in this historical undertaking.

The President of the Tribunal is Sir William Webb, Australian. He looks great but suffers from terrible lines and staging. BTW all the characters are extremely one dimensional WITH TWO EXCEPTIONS: The British Judge (who veers between an ally, a one-note antagonist, but is then redeemed as an anti-hero - clearly the deuteragonist) and the Chinese Judge, who is soft-spoken, well-mannered, firm but not unyielding, a clear contrast to the fiery and righteous protag of TT(M). Honestly, I think he would be the best portrayal except... halfway through, Irrfan Khan appears as the Indian Judge, and honestly Paul Freeman was so good as the British (Scottish) Judge.

The entire series is about the judges politicking amongst one another and trying to argue about whether crimes of aggression (or crimes against peace) are valid grounds for a case, as these crimes have never existed before (cue arguing about the precedent set by Nuremberg).

Our intrepid (barf) protag intersperses the tense boardroom confrontations (really can barely be called that: a serious point is brought up in court, they adjourn to their chambers, they START to argue, and then the Tribunal President immediately says ok let’s all go retire for the day before any interesting or insightful conversations can begin) with one-on-one interactions with (1) a German pianist diva whom he admires as he plays violin (their duet sucks btw) (2) a Japanese intellectual who hangs out at the beach (they have zero onscreen connection and exists only to instill doubt in the Dutch judge’s mind as he contemplates the trial) (3) various judges as they begin gossiping over the latest judge to pose drama in the chambers.

That’s all. Honestly. That’s the content of the mini-series in a nutshell.

3. The pacing and the script

god it’s so

MEALY

Every scene, EVERY SCENE, is played as grave and solemn

You think this isn’t bad? Every single scene begins with thoughtful pauses and long poignant looks, even over such lines which you can picture your grandpa and uncle just quipping at each other (”The marathon begins” “I’d rather hope it would be a sprint”).

Mealy = the actual script is so awkward. It doesn’t sound like human beings talking. It’s a mouthful. ugh.

Pacing = Example: in episode 3, probably, literally 3 scenes side-by-side, 2 judges talking to each other as they walk down a path. Each scene is: A asks B about C. And then it is immediately followed by D asking C about B. CAN YOU IMAGINE??? They don’t intersperse the shot at all. It’s just 3 conversations in a row gossiping.

Pacing 2 = time passes but badly. Suddenly a year has passed, but we don’t get a sense of it unless we’re told; there’s no difference in appearance or speaking manner among the judges. there’s no real development at all, except for the position of the Dutch Judge whose position on crimes of aggression changes as he gets pulled in several ways by several people, and you end the series without any feeling of resolution or satisfaction. AT ALL. I feel like you end where you start in terms of the arguments and everything.

4. Reflections

I’ve discovered that this mini-series was nominated for an emmy in 2017 for best series. I’ve also discovered 2 reviews (ONLY) online for this series, one on a blog and on one iMBD, both praising the series for being good for history buffs that showcases an unknown part of history.

i) That is not accurate. It is a terrible series that showcases the politics and drama of the tribunal judges, and not of the japanese war crimes. literally nobody needs to know, or care, about the judges of a war crimes trial (british, canadian, US, NZ judge conspire to get the president replaced, he leaves, US judge is chosen as his replacement, HE COMES BACK, NOBODY CARES) (aside with Blakely the US lawyer and what he’s trying to accomplish in court with his controversial and it’s not explained and ignored later)

ii) Historic footage is interspersed, meaninglessly. This includes the footage of the accused and 2 victims giving testimony, I believe. It is THE MOST INTERESTING part of the series. The footage used is minimal. And it just doesn’t gel with the whole series as a whole.

iii) This show was made by a Japanese crew and NHK so.

All in all, from an entertainment perspective, Tokyo Trial failed to be compelling, interesting or noteworthy. The actors were bogged down by a bad script and weak direction. If you want to watch a show about the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal, watch the older Chinese movie - less accurate but way more entertaining, and it ACTUALLY focuses on Japanese war crimes.

#tokyo trial #netflix #review

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