#saw jesus at the hollywood bowl

[gruesome-beauty]

#boygenius #julien baker #saw jesus at the hollywood bowl #i literally can’t get through my own pictures and videos but the things i’ve looked at have ruined my life #wdym i’m religious now #take me to church!????? #bg 23 #mine

[supernovanim]

Neighbours

This is my first attempt at fanfic. To be honest I’m super bored at the moment and this just kinda happened. Let me know if you’d like a part 2, if anyone actually reads this. I wrote part 2. Feedback welcome.

Summary: It’s the middle of a pandemic and you’re bored in your new house. Until your next door neighbour makes things a lot more interesting.

Pairing: Female Reader x Dylan O’Brien

Word Count: 1273

Warnings: swearing, voyeurism, light smut, I’m british so might get some americanisms wrong

Lockdown Day 5

Looking out of your kitchen window you surveyed the bare earth with dismay. All those lovely trees, gone. At least the work had been completed before the pandemic properly hit California. According to the site survey if the roots had got any bigger your entire kitchen would have dropped three foot, which would have been especially awkward as you were now spending most of your time in here.

You’d moved into the house around a month ago. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined living in the Hollywood Hills, but your long-lost great aunt had apparently been something special in 1950s LA. And had left it all to you – given you’d only met her once, it felt more like the plot of a movie than real life. Reality hit when you moved in – the place was in urgent need of some love. The line of trees along the boundary fence being first on the list.

As they were your trees your lawyer had confirmed you didn’t need permission from next door to remove them. Still, you’d dropped a note in their mailbox, assuring them you were planning on erecting a much higher fence once the trees had gone. Except then lockdown had happened, and all your plans for a rose-entwined trellis had evaporated. Leaving you with this patch of bare earth, and next door with an uninterrupted view down into your kitchen.

You’d never met your neighbour. Apparently, he was some actor, which was hardly unusual for round here. Still, his house was nice, much nicer than yours. You could just see the end of a grey topped kitchen counter, and minimalist white floors. A fruit bowl sat on the counter containing a solitary lemon. Nice to see even rich people were struggling with grocery shopping.

Your kitchen was mostly brown – brown cupboards, brown tiles. Your aunt had redecorated in the 70s and not done much since. You’d put in a new fridge-freezer but would need to wait for the rest. Unfortunately, the salary of an advertising copywriter didn’t quite stretch to marble floors and sleek minimalist counters. You’d have to start saving.

Wondering how long you’d have to save to afford just one of your neighbour’s cupboard doors, you started making breakfast. At least nowadays you had time to do it properly, and you hummed quietly to yourself as you ground the coffee beans and cracked eggs into a bowl. Turning to your phone you opened Spotify and hooked it up to the nearby portable speaker, pressing play on the Supremes.

Just as you performed a perfect spin in front of the stove-top coffee percolator, you noticed a movement out of the corner of your eye. You looked up out of the window, which is when you finally met your neighbour. Well, saw him anyway. It was quite a sight. Dark scruffy hair, pale skin with a scattering of moles, a bit of stubble. He was wearing low slung sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, which was riding up as he reached up into a cupboard, showing a glimpse of toned stomach. Your mouth felt suddenly dry, and underneath your shirt you could feel your nipples instantly harden against the soft fabric. Jesus wept; the guy was gorgeous. And you weren’t just saying that because the only guys you’d seen in the flesh in the past week were delivering your pizza.

He closed the cupboard, holding a coffee mug. Then glanced out of the window, looking down to where you were standing, probably with your jaw hanging open.

Amber eyes met yours and blinked. He smirked, raising one hand in a slow greeting.

Suddenly conscious that your shirt hardly covered your ass, you raised a hand in return, smiled and met his gaze. Wow.

After a few seconds you returned to reality with a bang. This was a hot actor, you were a penniless copywriter. Romcoms weren’t real, and you had eggs to cook. But you couldn’t help but feel lockdown had just got a whole lot more interesting…

Lockdown Day 7

Since that morning breakfast meeting you hadn’t seen much of Dylan (yes, you’d immediately Googled him and found out his name). He wasn’t up as early as you, and certainly didn’t seem to spend quite so much time in his kitchen. Sometimes empty beer bottles would appear on his counter, so you guessed he was making the most of time off from filming.

Still, life must go one, which is why you’d arranged a Zoom date with someone you’d been messaging on Tinder. It gave you something to look forward to and would distract you from thoughts of the hot neighbour. You hadn’t had sex in weeks, and it was beginning to get to you. Hopefully this date wouldn’t just frustrate you further.

It was late evening, with the sun just setting over the spectacular view from your bedroom balcony. Inside, you looked critically at yourself in the full-length mirror. Was sexy lingerie too much for a Zoom date? What was the etiquette on these things anyway? You had chosen a pale pink lace demi-cup plunge bra. It barely covered your nipples, your breasts spilling out of the front. Teamed with the matching lacy shorts you had to admit you looked good. Obviously, you’d put a dress on before the call, but it paid to be prepared. The combination of not leaving your house, a lack of human contact, and oh yeah, the eye candy next door had made you really horny. A problem with the aircon wasn’t helping – the bedroom was sweltering. You felt a drop of sweat run down the back of your neck.

Without even thinking about it you walked into your kitchen, bare feet padding across the cool tiles. You flung open the freezer to try and find some relief from the heat. Pulling your hair up into a loose top knot, you fanned yourself with one hand, leaning on the freezer door with the other. In the darkening kitchen the only light was from within the appliance.

You glanced to your left and realised you weren’t entirely alone. Fully illuminated by his kitchen lights at his window stood Dylan, paused in surprise with a beer bottle raised to his lips. He raised his eyebrows and gulped, his eyes travelling across your skimpy outfit. Lowering the beer bottle, he mouthed something:

“Fuck”

Yeah, exactly, you thought. Covering your surprise, you bit your lip. He was shirtless, wearing just a pair of shorts and a backwards cap over his scruffy hair. His muscles were well-defined but not too much, exactly what you liked. A smattering of chest hair led your eyes down to his waistband.

Biting back a low groan, you reached into the freezer with one hand. Without even thinking about it, you grabbed an ice cube and pulled it out. Looking straight into his eyes you ran the cube down your neck, the heat from your skin starting to melt it on contact. Drops of water ran down your breasts to hit the lace of your bra. Your hand moved lower skirting your nipples and then running down your stomach. God, that felt good. His eyes followed your hand and then glanced back up at you. “Hot”, he mouthed silently.

You swallowed hard. And realised you only had five minutes before your date. You glanced at the growing bulge in Dylan’s shorts and internally shrugged. Popping the remains of the melted ice cube in your mouth you closed the freezer door, so you were now in darkness, and left the kitchen to go find your laptop. Good things come to those who wait…

Read Part 2 next!

#dylan o'brien smut #dylan o'brien fanfic #dylan o'brien fanfiction smut #dylan o'brien x reader smut #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien fanfiction

[artificialqueens]

Down with the Recipe, Bake from the Heart, 9/10 (Taywhora) - Juno

Chapter Summary: It’s the semi-final, and patisserie week will see the bakers face a tricky signature, an even trickier technical, and the trickiest showstopper ever seen on Bake Off. The four semi-finalists are all feeling the pressure, but they’re all determined to make it to the finale, whatever it takes.

WEEK 9: PATISSERIE WEEK

Tayce’s work had been almost a welcome distraction this week. Sleep had gone right out of the window for her for the last two weeks; all that occupied her spare thoughts was baking. Baking, baking and more baking. All she saw when she closed her eyes were proving bowls, baking trays, and KitchenAids - her own white one now blinding her.

Last week was too close. Shit critiques, shit bake. I need to nail this week.

Her weeknights were spent practising. Patisserie weeks were fiddly, intricate, and stressful, but she knew this was the one that separated the master bakers from the amateurs. So she’d practised until she had no bowls left, no ingredients, until her mind fogged as if with condensation, filled with no thoughts but baking.

I’m going to the finale, whatever it takes. I’m not doing all this for nothing.

——

Tayce painted eyeliner over her eyeliner, concealer over her concealer, and chugged another can of Monster - why had she let Ellie introduce her to Monster? - all while she was waiting for the connecting train at Reading Station, delayed as usual, when she saw a familiar person on the platform, checking her phone. Tayce stomach leapt to her throat as she realised it was Aurora.

Aurora was getting the same connecting train! Maybe they all did, but this was the first time Tayce had seen someone else on the same train as her.

Aurora hadn’t spotted Tayce, and Tayce’s mind whirled. Should she go and talk to her? Tayce wasn’t sure whether their NDA would stretch to them chatting in public before the show aired. On the other hand, who would know that they were just talking?

Can’t hurt, can it?

But the tannoy announcement came overhead for the train - only five minutes late, practically on time for trains - and Tayce saw that Aurora had disappeared into the crowd as she stood to board.

She couldn’t see that Aurora in her same carriage, so she found a seat and sat down with a sigh. Even though it was early on a Saturday morning, the train was already packed with people - mainly groups of women chatting and laughing, dressed in lots of fine dresses and enormous hats and drinking gin cocktails from cans; taking up all the table seats, excited giggles filling the air.

Tayce hadn’t a clue what this was in aid of - Ascot or just a wedding? - but for a split second, she’d have given everything to be as carefree as they were.

——

Signature: 24 Choux buns

“Your Choux buns this week should have a delicate and tasty filling. Twelve should be iced, and the other twelve topped with craquelin.”

“Topped with what?” Matt asked.

“Craquelin,” Noel said.

“Oh. Still didn’t understand that but alright.”

Tayce still managed a laugh, but Lawrence and Aurora on the other side of the room could only just crack a smile, and God only knew what Veronica’s face looked like in front of her.

“On your marks -“

“Get set -“

“BAKE!”

The general mood between the bakers was tense, but exhausted, as if they were all struggling up the last few feet to the top of a mountain. But although all of them were starting to bend under the pressure, Tayce was determined not to be crushed.

Even though she hated patisserie.

“It’s just so fiddly,” she’d complained to Cara during the week, the only person she’d managed to tell as part of her NDA. “I’ve done about three hundred practise choux buns and they never come out alright. I think the choux pastry just doesn’t like me.”

And whisking the ingredients together, waiting for that moment where she could check to see if the pastry was ready, gave her the chance to look around at the other bakers.

Her eyes stayed on Lawrence the longest. Lawrence had told her at the end of last week, after Bimini’s departure, that patisserie was her favourite. And although Tayce had assumed no one could like patisserie, Lawrence seemed to have regained some of her smile this week, sipping from a can of Monster herself as the choux pastry whirled in the deep purple KitchenAid on her workbench.

Veronica, with her emerald green one, was having a similarly peaceful time. Tayce had glanced at her a few times so far, mainly as she was directly in front of her, and found that every time she did, Veronica was fine. There was no clinging to the bench, no sighing, no shaking - just Veronica humming something as she put all her ingredients into the KitchenAid and let it spin, sipping her tea.

“Hi, how are you?” Blu was accompanied by Paul and Matt, coming round to do the usual on-camera talk with the bakers about the bakes.

Tayce’s stomach somersaulted whenever Blu was around - it was the accent mainly, but also Blu always seemed to be full of energy, even when the rest of the tent was dour as it was right now. Tayce couldn’t help but to smile back at her.

“Morning, love! I’m good!” She grinned. “Just trying to make sure sure my choux pastry behaves itself!”

“Oh, God, tell me about it! I don’t even know why I agreed to judge this week, patisserie is a triggering word for me after last season!” Blu laughed. “But Prue still has to recover, so here I am! Tell me what you’re doing this week, then.”

“So I’ve got two lots of choux, the iced choux buns will be full of cherries and coconut, and I’m icing the top to make it like a Bakewell tart. I love Bakewell tarts,” Tayce simpered, “and the craquelin ones, I’m doing those ones filled with vanilla cream and coffee. Bit of a kick first thing in the morning. Bit of a wake up call, you know what I mean?”

The judges had looked pleased enough with her flavours, and after they’d left, Tayce put her spatula into the mixture to test if it was ready to pipe, glancing at her timer as she did. It could have done with another minute or so to mix, but time was not on her side, so she picked up the piping bag and decided to get on with it.

“I’m making blood orange filling and a lemon curd icing for one set,” Aurora was saying on the other side of the tent, “and for the craquelin ones I’m making strawberries and lime.”

“Lime?” That was the one-word Paul Hollywood takedown. Aurora would have known that by now, but Tayce watched, a pang in her stomach as Aurora glanced down, the dimple on her cheek fading as her smile slipped down her face a little.

Come on Rory. You know better than to take that to heart.

“Yeah, lime.” Aurora nodded, but her voice was dimmed, and her dimple didn’t come back.

No, don’t start doubting yourself now!

“How’s the buns?” Tayce said, sidling over to Aurora once the judges had moved on.

“They’re fine.” Her voice was still stiff, and so were her movements. “Just getting the filling done.”

“Ignore what they said about the lime,” Tayce said into her ear. “It’s gonna be great. I know it already. I can’t wait to get out of here and taste one of them.”

“Thanks.”

But Aurora wouldn’t look at her, crouching down to look into the oven again at her second batch of buns.

“Do you want a cup of -“

“No thanks.” Aurora’s sharp voice was a surprise, as she indicated the can of Monster on the corner of the desk. “I’m good.”

“Alright! Jesus! I was only asking!” Tayce chuckled. “God, you can be a right moody mare to everyone when you’re stressed! Chillax!”

And this time, she didn’t wait for Aurora’s retort before heading to the tea tent.

She just takes out her mood on other people all the time. What’s the problem with her? She was better last week, and this week she’s back to being Mardy Margaret.

When she brought her tea back into the tent, Aurora was watching her, her hands on her hips. “You do an awful lot of talking for someone who’s meant to be baking, Tayce. You should focus on that instead.”

Maybe it was Tayce’s rattled nerves from lack of sleep. Maybe it was the semi-final pressure. Or maybe it was the raw, simple vulnerability that Tayce felt with Aurora, baring her soul, telling her that she was falling for Aurora last weekend. Whatever it was, all of Tayce’s emotions were on her sleeves, far too near to her skin …

… and this time, Aurora’s words were the last straw.

“Rory!” she yelled, “Just calm down! You’re not the only one who’s stressed here today! Stop taking your nerves out on me!“

Aurora’s jaw twisted, and she slammed down the choux buns she was taking out of the oven onto the steel with more noise than she meant to.

Lawrence, startled at the sound, turned to face them both, choux bun and piping bag in hand. “Not right now, alright?”

Tayce bit her tongue, bit back the reply that she’d taken Aurora’s moods, and her sharp words, with little retaliation the last couple of weekends, and that she was getting near to her limit with how much she would take. After all, Tayce was stressed too. Tayce hadn’t slept a wink. Tayce was just better at hiding her nerves.

She cocked an eyebrow at Aurora, who wasn’t even looking at her anymore, and concentrated on filling her piping bag, shocked at how much her hands shook as she tried.

Forget Aurora for now. We can talk calmly later. Focus on yourself.

The rest of the Signature was a blur, a fast blur of a morning which Tayce recalled virtually nothing about, until the moment she stepped out of the tent, baking completed.

The only thing she remembered about the Signature were the judges comments. And that was because they stabbed her, pricking her skin and staying there like hedgehog spines.

“Tayce, the filling is leaking.”

“The pastry could have done with a little more mixing.”

“Over baked - the choux shouldn’t really crunch.”

“The icing is lumpy.”

“I can’t get the coffee flavouring.”

At least she’d managed to correctly present the full twenty four. Aurora had managed to fill and ice twenty one of hers in the time, presenting twelve with craquelin and nine with icing; while Veronica had miscounted and made fourteen iced and ten with craquelin. Meanwhile, Lawrence might have swiped her perfect-looking choux buns straight from Paris.

While the others went back to Norton Hall, Tayce stole away, slipping through the trees back to the lake, this time alone. The bench was a little damp from the rain on Friday, but Tayce took off the jacket she’d brought for the chilly turn the weather had taken, and lay it on the bench to sit on. The ducks, tame now to her footsteps, approached her thinking she had bread.

Only six weekends too late, she thought to herself. I wonder if ducks like choux buns.

——

Technical: Cornucopia / Horn of Plenty

“What advice do you have for the bakers this week, Paul?”

“It’s all there for you in the instructions.”

Cryptic as ever. Blu giggled next to him, her hands in front of her mouth, back in her Mary Berry disguise to judge them again.

Once allowed to bake, Tayce whipped off the gingham tea towel and read the title twice before it sunk into her mind. The ingredients were sparse, the instructions were for once really detailed, and they were all given diagrams of the shapes of the parts of the horn they had to bake.

In front of her, Veronica was groaning, leaning on her workbench, her knuckles white. On her right, Lawrence was clutching her hair until it started to come out of her bun, and Aurora was pacing up and down in front of the workbench, her face thunderous.

Tayce had the mixture done in no time, but shaping it was proving difficult. Not the consistency of the diced almonds, not melting the chocolate for decorating and piping the scrolls for the top - but the shapes, and everyone was struggling to grasp how they all went together. They’d all been provided with templates for each piece of the bake on laminated paper, eleven in all that were meant to fit together, but without a picture of the finished product for reference, it was difficult to see how it all would.

“How are you doing it?” Tayce asked Aurora, leaning at the corner of her workbench.

She didn’t look up. “I - I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Tayce -“ Aurora raised her head, locking eyes with her, irritation etched in every line of her face. “I’m trying to focus. I need to do this right.”

“I do too! But we can work together, compare notes!” Tayce said, but Aurora held up her hand.

“Please,” Aurora breathed, turning her heavy eyes back to the laminated paper, the words dropping like lead from her lips, “… please just leave me alone to do this. Please. I can’t right now.”

Tayce had no choice. Every step back to her own workbench drained a little bit more of her enthusiasm through her feet as it slipped away from her into the floor. By the time she’d grabbed her cup of tea, she was empty.

Fuck it.

She had trusted the recipes all through the contest, and it had gotten her this far. She could keep doing it.

She weighed each piece of mixture and shaped them into rings, all eleven pieces in differing sizes, placing them on the baking tray and putting them into the oven to bake. In front of her, Veronica was tapping her alarm, before stepping back, fingers in her mouth, and Tayce noticed that her own nails, that she’d taken so long to grow out, were now bitten back down to the quick. A habit she’d worked so hard to break, sacrificed in the name of baking.

Veronica had put hers in to bake a minute or so earlier, but when they came out, Tayce thought they looked a little too brown, so she took hers out at the same time, the slightly paler colour looking about right. But when she watched Veronica, she realised how wrong she’d gotten the shapes.

“Veronica,” Tayce called, and she turned.

“What’s up, love?”

“How did you get yours to tilt on its side like that?”

Veronica’s Cornucopia was rounded in a curve as she fitted it together, like a horn, but Tayce’s wouldn’t form that shape, and Tayce felt like she was missing something.

“It’s on sealing the pastry. Did you have one side of each ring that was thicker than the other?”

Tayce looked at her rings of almond bake, but they were all an even thickness.

“They’re meant to be a bit thicker,” Veronica showed her one of hers, “so they fit together with a curl in them. D’you see?”

Tayce’s stomach filled with lead as she re-read the shaping instructions. She’d missed that part.

“Shit. I think I’ve got a disaster.”

“No, no, don’t say that,” Veronica soothed, “I mean - the biscuits are a bit wrong, yeah, but that’s not all that matters - the bake still has to be good, and the piping you have to do as well …”

“Vee,” Tayce stopped her, and Veronica sighed.

“I guess it’s gone a bit … pear-shaped, hasn’t it.”

“It kind of works at the bottom,” Tayce said, trying to fit the largest bits together, but the rest of it stood straight, leaving a strange shape that didn’t seem to stand up or lay flat.

“I’m fucked.”

“You’re not, Tayce …” Veronica’s voice faded away

“It’s fine. It is what it is.”

“You can still salvage it …” But Veronica trailed off again, and Tayce forced a smile to try to make Veronica feel better.

——

“Bakers, your time is up!”

Matt’s call couldn’t come soon enough. Tayce had had enough of this bake. The heat in the tent was making the piping drip, the caramel was hanging on by a thread, and the shape was definitely not what it needed to be. Veronica’s curve of the horn looked much more like it, and Tayce felt herself sink.

Once Tayce had brought hers to the front, she couldn’t help but look at the other horns, and felt a jolt of relief when she saw another one was also a mess, the same wrong shape as her own.

Oh, thank God for that.

But as she went to take her place on the stool, between Aurora and Veronica, she realised it was Aurora’s, and her blood turned to ice.

She almost couldn’t watch the judging. Paul and Blu in her Mary Berry disguise were sampling, Blu putting on Mary’s accent for the cameras, but none of the four of them on their stools let out anything more than stifled laughter and taut smiles.

“In last place we have this one -“

Tayce didn’t even need to look to see who would be raising their hand. Aurora’s face was white, chewing her nails as she claimed fourth place.

“Aurora - it’s quite over baked, the caramel is crystallised, and you’ve lost the horn shape - it’s just a pole. Not your finest hour, I’m afraid.”

Paul’s words were stacking on Aurora’s shoulders, she could see it plain as day as they weighed heavily on her. Aurora was nodding, but her eyes were blank, and Tayce was sure she couldn’t hear him.

“And third place is this one,” Paul continued, and Tayce knew it would be her, again without looking.

“Tayce - you started to get the shape right, but I don’t know what happened to the icing, and it’s a little under baked.”

Tayce swallowed the lump of whatever was at her throat and forced a smile. “Not my best!”

She felt Aurora’s eyes burning holes into her, but she didn’t turn to face her. She just focused on Veronica being called second and Lawrence coming out on top, all of them looking more and more anxious the longer judging went on.

This week was the week that the smallest thing could send any of them home. It was the semi-final. It no longer mattered where you came in Technical or Signature, because the Showstopper would probably count most. It was what the judges remembered, and the last impression could turn out to be the lasting impression.

I have to nail the Showstopper to stay. Whatever it takes.

——

“Surprise!”

When they all opened the door to Norton Hall, a loud burst of pink and purple hit them all, along with a nasal laugh. For half a delirious second, Tayce thought it was Bimini, back from elimination for whatever reason, but a few more steps revealed Cheryl, another contestant from the previous year, her smile warm and welcoming.

“Chez!” Blu immediately broke to a run past them all and leapt onto her girlfriend. “You didn’t tell me you were coming here!”

“Well how would it be a surprise if you knew?” Cheryl laughed, as Blu peppered her cheeks with kisses. “Put me down for a second, Blu! Jesus! I thought I’d get the party started! You’re all semi-finalists! We’re all semi-finalists!”

“Not all of us,” Blu remarked, eyeing her, while Cheryl nudged her.

“Babe, you’re not meant to remind me that I left the week before semi finals, that’s part of the agreement for us being on-screen girlfriends, remember?”

“On-screen?” Aurora squeaked.

“Yeah, we’re not really a couple, we’re just pretending for the cameras.” Blu said solemnly, disentangling herself from Cheryl and extending her hand. “How do you do?”

But Cheryl couldn’t keep a straight face; she collapsed into giggles as she took Blu’s hand and shook it, before slapping Blu on the arm again. “You’re a nightmare, honestly! Anyway, I can’t wait to try all your choux buns and the Cornucopias you’ve made!”

Blu sighed as she flopped onto the sofa. “Oh god, I didn’t know how much I’ve missed Norton Hall! This is where we all stayed too, you know.”

“Norton Hall?” Aurora said, putting a hand to her throat. “Is that what this place is called? I’ve been calling it Carr Hall since we got here!”

That was the catalyst. Tayce’s nerves creeping up her chest all day finally reached her lungs, eliciting a laugh, and once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. She put a hand to her mouth, but that only made her giggles bubble in her chest until they burst from her.

“It’s definitely Norton Hall, babe,” Cheryl said, shooting Tayce a confused look. “Check the leaflets. It’s got the name on it.”

But the others had fallen silent, the only sound Tayce’s uncomfortable wheezing laughter; Lawrence looking from Tayce to Aurora; while Tayce felt sharp fingers in the crook of her elbow, Veronica’s voice reaching up to her ear.

“For God’s sake, Tayce, please go and get a bun or something, please -“ Veronica steered her away to the table, and Tayce’s chuckles died down as she looked down at the buns, picking up one of everyone’s, even her own.

But as she looked at the Technical bakes, the Cornucopias, all now collapsed pastry rings, in pieces like all of their minds; all Tayce could hear as she looked at her bake were the judges words as they span round in her head -

Under baked … poorly iced … awful shape …

And Aurora’s at the other end, where the words were louder, stinging like thousands of tiny needles in her skin -

Over baked … just a pole … crystallised …

Her heart rattled against her ribs as realisation struck her so hard that stars danced in her vision.

It’s me or her.

And Tayce let her breath go, not realising she was holding it.

Whatever it takes.

Long, sharp fingers looped at her elbow again.

“Tayce?” It was Veronica, cautious and concerned, but Tayce couldn’t meet her eyes, squeezing her own shut so tightly so that she could stop herself from showing her pain by closing it back in.

“Tayce, what’s up, love?”

Veronica was gentle and her voice was soft, but Tayce’s skin was on fire, and she yanked her arm free and found her feet taking her away to the the stairs, taking the steps three at a time, ignoring the voice calling after her, a voice that was so familiar and so excruciating at once …

The door slammed behind her, closing out the world. But suddenly, her door was flung open and there Aurora was, in her doorway; the shock caused Tayce to say the first words that came to her head.

“Hey! I didn’t say you could come in!”

But Aurora’s eyes were wide, her hand trembling, as she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

“What the hell -“

“Tayce, I’m not leaving until you tell me why you’re being so weird.”

But Tayce forced a laugh. “What? What do you mean, I’m being weird?”

“You’ve been annoyed all day, you’ve had a short fuse, even though -“

“You’re the one who keeps getting in a mood whenever I talk to you now!” Tayce cried, a bitter bark of a laugh escaping her. “I wanted to help you, and you just snapped at me, even after - after last weekend!”

Aurora took a sharp breath in, a flush creeping on her cheeks as she stood, silently surveying Tayce for a moment.

“I’ve had my first bottom in Technical. I’ve had my worst feedback in Signature. I’ve not slept all week because I was so worried with all my practises for patisserie week, and honestly, now I’m scared shitless.”

Aurora’s voice was low, and Tayce watched as Aurora scrunched her eyes tightly shut, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, her lips pursing as she fought some internal battle; before finally relaxing again, opening her eyes to look into Tayce’s.

“So I’m sorry, Tayce, that I’m a bit on edge, and I’m sorry that I’ve snapped at you. I know that’s wrong. But …” The sigh she let out was slow, filled the air with fizzling nerves. “I’m going. I know I am.”

“You can’t go.”

Where did that come from? Aurora’s eyes flickered, she licked her lips.

“I already know it’ll be me. I’ve been so bad this week -“

“Stop saying that. Stop being defeatist.”

“I’m not being defeatist, Tayce, I’ve done the worst this weekend so far! It’s logic!” Aurora’s voice grew higher with every word. “All I need is to fail the Showstopper, like every time I’ve done it in practise, and -“

“Rory! Please!”

Aurora stopped as Tayce spoke, trying to regain control of her tongue.

“Tayce. Why can’t you just tell me why you’re being so weird this week -“

“Because I can’t deal with thinking about one of us leaving, alright? I can’t!”

Her voice was shrill, breaking in her throat, and she screwed her eyes shut tightly, but tears still overflowed, her whole body suddenly shaking uncontrollably. Her chest crumpled, she was laid bare again, impossible to hide anymore.

I came here to win this. I came here for the cake stand. But that was eight weeks ago. And now …

Aurora stepped back at Tayce’s sudden outburst, the explosion of emotion alien to her.

“What do you -“

“Remember when Tia went home? Remember?” Tayce interrupted her, finding words fully formed without her having to think about them. “Veronica was a bag of nerves all the next week! She still is! And Ellie, too! You were so sad. Lawrence was losing it. They were so close! They got each other through the days! Remember?”

Aurora’s voice broke. “Of course I remember.”

“That’s you, too.”

“Tayce -“

“You get me through the days. You made me smile every week. You - you were the only person to come talk to me when I was missing my Pops. You always …” but finally the words stopped, thoughts drying out, but Tayce took a shuddering breath, the most honest truth still to come. “And like, I can’t … I can’t imagine you going now.”

Whatever it takes.

… but not this.

Aurora’s expression was unreadable as she surveyed Tayce, peering into her eyes as if searching for some meaning behind them, something she was concealing.

“I mean it, Rory, I mean it, I’ve never meant anything more in my fucking life …”

Aurora tugged Tayce gently into her embrace, and Tayce yielded to her, resting her forehead against Aurora’s, and when their lips met, Tayce tried to put everything she could into the kiss, to tell Aurora with unspoken words everything that there were no words for. A kiss was the most honest language there was, right?

They might have stayed entwined for longer than they thought. But when Aurora pulled away, her lip shook, her chin quivered.

“You’d better not go this week.”

“Or you, you bitch. We need to be in the final three together. Just promise me you’re gonna bring it. Bring your best bake.”

Aurora blinked, stunned for a moment. “Tayce -“

“Promise! You can’t be giving up! Bring your best bake. Okay?”

She swallowed, nodding against Tayce’s forehead. “Okay. I promise.”

——

Showstopper: Meringue centrepiece, featuring 2 types of meringue and a dessert element.

“Most importantly of all, remember what Prue says all the time -“

“… it has to be worth the calories,” Tayce heard herself parroting back as Blu said it, the catchphrases all too familiar by now.

Once the clock started, Tayce wasted no time. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t even want to see anyone else in the room.

This was about her and Aurora now.

We both need to stay. Come on.

She glanced up, watching Veronica separate her eggs, and over to Lawrence, frowning down at her instructions as her eggs whipped alongside her. Both of them were still here, but one of them had to go next.

Please, one of you has to have a disaster. Neither of you have had one. One of you must be due one now. You can’t both be this perfect.

But as time progressed, Tayce felt it in sand, slipping through her fingers.

Veronica’s ballet design was interesting, beautifully decorated, and really showed off her dancing past; while Lawrence’s pair of meringue flamingos, proudly stood next to each other, couldn’t have looked more perfect if Lawrence had painted them pink and given them a voice box with a bird call.

She was stupid, so stupid to think that Lawrence or Veronica would slip up. Neither of them had put so much as a toe out of line since the first week, and they weren’t about to start now, not now that they’d seen how much Tayce and Aurora were failing, scrambling to keep up with them both.

“Bakers, you have ten minutes left!”

Where had the time all gone? Tayce couldn’t remember half of what she’d done, but she had meringues before her, incorporating the two different types the judges had specified, and a dessert that was delectable, she hoped.

She glanced at Aurora, whose meringues looked pretty good, if Tayce’s judgement was worth any weight. The sculpture she’d done was delicate and beautiful, the meringue lined with fruit and spun sugar. It looked similar to Tayce’s own, and Tayce wasn’t surprised - there was only so much you could do with meringue.

They still both stood a chance. Veronica and Lawrence may still have a disaster.

“Bakers! Time’s up! Step away from your meringues!”

When Noel called for time, Tayce noticed the hairline crack in the largest meringue she’d baked, holding the rest of the sculpture upright, and cursed herself for not covering it with more fruit to hide it. She looked over at Aurora’s, at the shape, seeing hers was in pretty good condition - not as interesting as Veronica’s or Lawrence’s, but one of theirs could taste bad or be under baked.

But when Tayce was asked to present it, the crack in the upright meringue that she had hoped would last until this point, crumpled and collapsed, taking the rest of the meringue sculpture with it, tumbling to the floor.

——

The wait was the longest any of them had felt. The judges’ critiques had been kind as always, but there was still of course the lingering knowledge that the unthinkable had happened.

Lawrence and Veronica were definitely out of trouble. It was down to Tayce and Aurora for elimination.

Tayce took herself back to the pond; Veronica looked as though she wanted to follow, but Lawrence caught her arm just in time, shaking her head and pulling her back up the path to Norton Hall. But when Aurora hung back, approaching the same bench slowly, Tayce couldn’t move to stop her; nor was she entirely sure she wanted to be alone now.

Aurora sat heavily, as close to Tayce as she could get, and silently rested her head on Tayce’s shoulder. Tayce caught sight in the dimming light of her fingers twisting in her lap, her left foot jiggling up and down. Felt deliberately calculated breathing against her chest.

In for three, hold for four, out for five. Tayce remembered the rhythm Aurora had told her about and her stomach twisted, pained at Aurora’s worry. She let her head drop on top of Aurora’s, and Aurora’s hand slowly crept into hers, her skin cold and the scent of her hair filling every pore of her skin.

For what was looking more and more likely to be the final time.

They spent the next fifteen minutes wordlessly watching the ducks on the pond, coming and going, water rippling out beyond them.

So calm, so regal on the surface, but underneath their legs are kicking hard as they can to keep them afloat.

Once the team hurried them back into the tent, the air in the room felt like tar, too thick to breathe. Aurora’s fingers were so tight around Tayce’s that she thought she might lose all sensation in them; and as they sat down, and Aurora let her head fall onto Tayce’s shoulder again, she tried to ignore the wetness that developed on her shirt. Willing herself not to look down so as not to cry too.

On her right, Lawrence took her other hand as she settled onto her stool, stroking her knuckles tenderly, and Veronica did the same to Aurora, like they were four penguins in a row. Veronica clasped Aurora’s left hand in both of hers, muttering soothing words that were meant to calm them both.

But of course, both of them weren’t going.

The judges were back in the room in what seemed like the blink of an eye.

The final Star Baker award went to Lawrence, and for a split second everyone lost their contact, a strange cold gap between them as they applauded. Tayce, speechless in fear, pulled Lawrence in to hug her as Lawrence fought back tears.

“I’m so honoured,” Lawrence mumbled, nodding. “Thank you.”

And then it was the person leaving. Noel’s expression was grave, unnerving for him, as he said the immortal words of “I have the awful task of announcing who will be leaving us today.”

Noel was still speaking, but Tayce wasn’t listening; Aurora’s chin rattled against Tayce’s shoulder as she curled back onto it, and Tayce rested her head against Aurora’s, turning her gaze skywards so as not to cry; Lawrence’s hand almost as tense in hers as Aurora’s as they waited for the death knell -

“Tayce.”

The weight of the room seemed to slam her into the floor.

Noel’s mouth was moving still, but words were hard to hear.

All Tayce knew was Aurora’s whole arm shaking, and the whole tent crashing to the ground around her as time stopped.

——

“It’s been … a ride.”

The producer behind the cameraman waved a hand, trying to get Tayce to say some more.

Tayce hadn’t been sure how she’d feel at being eliminated, but now that she had been, if there was any sense of disappointment, it sat on her skin, refusing to sink any deeper at present. All that was going through her mind were the happy memories, running in a showreel being projected into the back of her head.

Joe’s store-bought fondant. Ellie’s questionable towers. Pip’s tiny handbag. Cherry’s seemingly endless supply of gossip. Tia’s adequate chocolate ball, filling the room with charm. Asttina’s playful glee at whipped cream. Bimini’s crimps with Noel. Ginny’s obsession with lemon and legendary exit.

What had Tayce brought? She wasn’t quite sure.

She threw back her head and laughed at the absurdity of it all.

No one will remember me at all!

“It’s been a really great adventure. I’ve met some amazing people, I’ve had the time of my life, and I’ve put Newport on the map, baby!”

The producer waved at her again.

“What? What more do you want?”

But as the words left Tayce’s mouth, she realised that she didn’t seem at all perturbed at going home.

She tried, but it just didn’t come to her.

The cold dread, that had once threatened to creep like ivy up her chest to her heart, had been conquered by the elation of each week, by the warmth of the others there, and by the depth of care she’d found in all of the contestants, severing everything negative that she could have taken away from not winning a baking contest.

The oppressive atmosphere of the contest had lifted.

She couldn’t believe that only an hour or so ago, she was hoping for Lawrence or Veronica to have a disaster to spare her. Thinking back to it, she felt ashamed at how much those thoughts weren’t like her. It made her laugh to realise now that she’d missed out on a cake stand, but that was all. And she could buy one of those anywhere.

How could she be sad to the camera?

But after her exit interview was done, she found all three of the finalists waiting for her, waiting to see her, huddled under one big golf umbrella.

“It’s … it’s raining. Why aren’t you back in -“

“Why d’you think?” Veronica said, holding her hands up. “You didn’t think you were leaving without a proper goodbye from us did you?”

“I’ll be back next week!” Tayce laughed. “I’m only gone a week! And I’ll be here to cheer you three on in the final and -“

“Tayce,” Aurora shook her head. “When are you gonna admit that you’re upset for yourself, for not making it to the final?”

“I’m - I’m not!”

But the more she stood before them, the more it started to creep on her, disappointment …

But not for the loss, not that I’m no longer competing. That I’m … that I’m leaving these people.

“Guys -“

Lawrence’s eyes were shining with tears as she hugged Tayce, and Tayce rubbed her back as they fell. Lawrence was shaking, and Tayce was lost for words, wondering if she should be trying to comfort Lawrence or reassure her.

“I’ll give Ellie a kiss for you on the loser side,” she muttered finally into her ear as they held each other.

“You’d better fucking not,” was Lawrence’s strangled retort.

Veronica was a little more nervous, holding her arms awkwardly at her sides, unsure if she wanted contact or not. “I - look, Tayce, I know I didn’t always -“

“Oh, Vee, lighten up! Come here,” Tayce said, pulling Veronica into a hug, and Veronica wrapped her arms around her, surprising her at how tightly Veronica squeezed. “You’re an amazing baker, and you need to give yourself more credit. And a bit of a break.”

“I know,” was Veronica’s muffled reply.

Aurora waited until last. Tayce could barely stand to look at her. Her brown eyes swam with tears, her lips quivered, and she took a shaky breath as Tayce came near to her.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

Tayce opened her arms out and Aurora let herself come into them, Aurora’s chin nestling into the crook of her neck. And the longer she held Tayce, the tighter her grip became, and Tayce tried to pull her nearer still until she couldn’t -

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

The heartbreaking words were breathed into Tayce’s ear, strands of silk in the wind, but hearing them made Tayce’s stomach flood with lead, a cold wave washing over her skin, and not from the rain as it grew heavier.

Those were the words that finally made tears spill from her eyes.

She took Aurora’s face in her hands, locking eyes on hers to confirm her conviction, her voice breaking with heartache.

“You can win this, bitch.”

——

THREE BAKERS REMAIN

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #down with the recipe #juno #uk2 #baking au #gbbo au #taywhora #tayce #a'whora #bimini bon boulash #veronica green #lawrence chaney #fluff #lesbian au

[hollywooduniversityalumnus]

5. headhunter

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Another day, another lecture.

Thomas paced in front of his students, having abandoned his stance before the lectern more than half an hour ago. With only fifteen minutes left until class ended, and still much to cover, he spoke at a slightly faster speed than usual. He doubted his students noticed; most of them had packed away their notebooks already and were distracting themselves with their phones held in their laps.

Fools, he thought. Do they think I don’t know what they’re doing?

He didn’t have time to raise hell for their insolence; he had a meeting to attend. So, as much as he hated letting things slide, he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

“The more credited ‘writers’ a film has, the worse it will be. The sheer number of revisions a screenplay must go through to rack up six, seven, eight writers . . . it’s appalling!” He rubbed his temples with his fingers, as if trying to erase the memories of his time trying to – and ultimately passing on - play script doctor for an action-adventure franchise that had employed no less than eight writers to cobble together the final, nonsensical storyline that effectively alienated large droves of the franchise’s fans.

Checking his watch, he mentally cursed at the time before heading right for his desk.

“Remember, your papers on prewar and postwar experimental cinema are due next class. Any submissions sent in later than precisely nine o’clock in the morning will be deducted points. None of you could stand to lose any points, if the grades so far for this class this semester are any indication. Class dismissed.”

Thomas turned his attention to packing up his things and hightailing it out of the lecture hall. Yet, beyond the rush of feet moving towards the door and mindless chatter about what people’s plans for the evening were – did I ever consider Wednesday nights party nights in college? he wondered briefly – he could hear a few distinct voices among the din.

“Since when does Hunt check with you before he does something?” he heard Ethan Blake say.

He paused in the middle of stashing away his laptop.

After a pause, Miss Schuyler said, “I just meant . . . don’t you think he’d tell the class before-”

“Are we really discussing this in front of him?” Miss Sinclair stage whispered.

He lifted his head to find the three students still standing by their desks, looking directly at him. Upon capturing his attention, they started at being caught and leapt into extremely unnatural stances: Ethan Blake rubbed the back of his neck with one hand while staring pointedly upwards, Miss Sinclair focused intently on the palms of her hands, and Miss Schuyler . . . was still looking at him, but had pasted a terrifyingly wide smile on her face.

He glanced again at his watch. He truly didn’t have time for this.

Rolling his eyes at the trio, he headed straight for his office to grab his jacket and keys. Then, it was off to the inanely named restaurant where he’d be meeting the faculty recruiter of Southern California University’s film school.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Don’t you think he’d tell the class before ditching us in the middle of the year?” Margot asked. “He isn’t the type to cut and run. I just know he isn’t! We can’t let him leave!”

Ethan’s eyebrows rose. “You’re awfully emotional about this news.”

Margot glared at him over the table grill of Grilling Me Softly, a Korean barbeque restaurant that opened twenty minutes away from the university. Their platters of pork belly, lemon-and-herb marinated chicken, chadolbagi, and bulgogi had arrived, and it was her turn to do the cooking. She tweaked with her hair, which she’d pulled up into Sailor Moon-like buns to keep the long locks from enticing the flames.

The sight of her with metal tong poised in the air and her glare piercing him from across the circular table had Ethan quickly changing his tune.

“It’s good that you care,” he backtracked. “I just . . . if there’s any professor who would evoke that kind of response from me if there were rumours of them leaving, it would be, like, Moriyama. Someone with a heart.”

Addison, who was already digging into her portion of their wild mushroom japchae starter, nodded, cheeks bulging with food.

“He did defend me in my hearing, or have you forgotten?” Margot picked up a few pieces of meat from each plate and dropped it onto the grill, reveling in the satisfying sizzle and steam that instantly came out upon contact. “He’s not so bad.”

Addison dabbed at the corners of her lips with a napkin. “Okay, but how are we going to convince him to stay?”

A body slid into one of the seats next to Ethan so suddenly that the agent nearly leapt from his. Crash, smiling broadly, immediately reached for a bowl of soft rice and egg, chopsticks at the ready in the blink of an eye.

“Convince who?” he asked.

“Jesus, Crash,” Ethan said, pressing a hand over his heart to calm it.

“We’re convincing Jesus?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Where’s Lisa? Didn’t she give you a ride here?”

Crash, around a mouthful of egg, mumbled something about paparazzi. Margot craned her head around just in time to see her pink-haired friend arrive, settling into the seat beside her while keeping her gaze focused on one of the booths in a corner of the restaurant.

“Hey, Lisa,” she said, turning the meat over with precision.

Lisa wrangled her hair into a high ponytail, securing it with an acid-green scrunchie that clashed horrendously with her outfit and made Addison mentally weep at the fashion faux pas. She finally tore her gaze away from the corner and shot them all a look.

“Hunt’s here,” Lisa said.

Margot’s eyes widened. “Here? In a place called Grilling Me Softly? There’s no way.”

Ethan snickered. “I feel like he’d disintegrate before he’d set foot in a university student hangout, much less one with a punny name.”

“Maybe it’s another man who wears a suit every minute of every day,” Crash suggested.

“Uh, this ‘university student hangout’ is more expensive than our usual fish and chips or burger joints,” Lisa pointed out. “Still, isn’t it strange? And who is that woman he’s with?”

Margot’s cheeks flushed at the mention of a woman.

Not that she had any claim on him whatsoever. She wasn’t even sure of her feelings for him anymore. Sure, they had . . . something, but it wasn’t clear what it meant to him, and she didn’t want to act like a fool for him if he was solely focused on being her instructor.

Maybe he’s a friend now, she considered. He’s done some friendly things. He’s held his umbrella over me, drove me home after the date auction, and comforted me on the movie set. He didn’t have to do those things, but he did.

He also kissed me, she reminded herself, and she quickly busied herself with replacing the meat on the grill with new slabs, distributing the cooked pieces to her hungry friends.

Meanwhile, with the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, Ethan maneuvered his head until he caught a glimpse of the professor sitting in the corner booth. He squinted at the person he was seated across before turning back to his friends, a mixture of awe and shock on his face.

“Penelope Locke,” he said in a hushed voice. “Headhunter for Southern California U.”

Lisa’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Like an assassin?”

“Who would eat dinner with their assassin?” Ethan replied.

Crash smiled. “I would, just to say I did.”

“You wouldn’t have survived-”

“Guys.” Margot turned her attention back to Ethan. “A headhunter, eh? So he really must be considering leaving Hollywood U.”

Her stomach twisted. Though the smell of the sizzling beef and pork belly was intoxicating, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to eat any of it knowing that Professor Hunt was sitting across the room possibly planning his escape.

And then the dak kalguksu she ordered came, and her stomach untwisted itself in anticipation of the noodle soup she’d been craving for weeks.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Across the crowded restaurant, Thomas tasted the plum wine Penelope Locke ordered for them both and sighed. It wasn’t scotch, but it would tide him over until he could get home and have a few fingers from his favourite bottle before bed.

The woman sitting across from him knew his game already, but still pitched him on an open faculty position at SCU Cinematic Arts. But mostly, she kept her expression serious, even when they endured the forty-five minute “meeting” with mostly small talk and occasional glances at the paparazzi waiting for . . . whoever was important enough to be present and photographed at a place called Grilling Me Softly.

Eventually, the bill arrived. Penelope tucked a credit card into the black leather booklet quickly and handed it back to them. Thomas polished off his wine before slipping out of his seat.

“Thank you, Penelope,” he said quietly.

“Anything for a friend.” Penelope’s face was carefully blank as she added, “The paparazzi was a nice touch. They’ll hear about this meeting in no time.”

“Perfect.” He pulled on his coat. “Though I admittedly didn’t plan that part.”

He turned his head to survey the room, searching for the person who had attracted the photographers outside like moths to the table grill’s flames. A shock of pink hair that he usually saw in a bedhead disarray caught his attention, and he groaned internally at noticing that Miss Schuyler and her entourage (including the celebrity in question, Lisa Valentine) were stuffing themselves with near-reckless abandon.

“Do you know them?” Penelope asked, tilting her chin towards the group.

Thomas grimaced. “Yes. I’ll admit I’ve never seen them eat before. It’s . . . rather disturbing.”

Penelope laughed. “Good thing we arrived when we did. They might bankrupt this restaurant yet.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The week after his meeting with Penelope, Thomas settled behind his desk in the lecture hall as his Hollywood 101 class filed in slowly. He had already laid out the grading rubrics for the students presenting their midterm projects that day. And, as the presentations began, he immediately regretted staying out a little later than usual the night before, catching up with an old colleague who had since become Hillview Film Academy’s recruiter.

Seriously, Thomas thought, Lance’s continued attendance at this university is inconceivable. Who does a midterm presentation on “glossy, tangle-taming hair masks for the modern male model”?

When it came to Miss Sinclair’s presentation, however, he was admittedly impressed by the line of men’s business suits she had come up with. Though he felt she should have cited a more recent point of inspiration than Mad Men or Sex and the City, he marked her accordingly, noting the special craftsmanship and detail-conscious care that she had put into every suit on display.

I wouldn’t mind wearing the gray one . . .

Clearing his throat authoritatively, he spoke up. “I’m surprised at your drastic change in artistic direction, Miss Sinclair. I hope you have defended your decisions in the accompanying write-up.”

Miss Sinclair nodded.

Thomas checked his list. “Finally, Mister Yamaguchi.”

Spencer Yamaguchi grinned, already making his way to the door. “All right! I’ve got it all set up in one of the auditoriums. It’s a one-man show about a plucky hero, who struggles with his-”

“Save it for the show, Mister Yamaguchi.” Thomas sighed as he looked at his neatly organized desktop. “And in future, please inform us beforehand if we are to move locations for project presentations. That goes for all of you.”

Grumbling, Thomas picked up his rubrics and laptop and herded the class to the auditorium. While they settled into their seats, Mister Yamaguchi disappeared behind the red velvet curtains that obscured the stage. Among the murmuring of the students waiting for the show to begin, Thomas could hear a microphone check and a five-second snippet of music being tested on the sound system.

The lights went down.

The curtains came up.

A spotlight turned on, illuminating a backdrop of two-dimensional high-rises and streets edged with trees and parked cars.

And the song that had begun to play as part of the sound system check began and continued as the protagonist appeared.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Welcome to The Many Adventures of the Amazing Arachnid Boy!” crowed Crash from where he dangled from the ceiling, parallel to the stage. “I’m your host, Arachnid Boy himself, and this is the story of . . . me.”

From behind her, Margot could hear Professor Hunt snort. Hearing such an undignified sound from him made her smile.

The hip-hop beat kicked in, and Crash began climbing a cardboard skyscraper, freestyling about his new superpowers without stumbling over his words. His dark red leather jacket had an iron-on spider-shaped patch on the back, and he turned around to show the audience it as the song slowed down for a melancholy bridge.

“No one knows my pain, no one knows the strain,” Crash sang, “on my mental health, gotta be so stealthy . . . I know I seem witty, ‘cause I fly above the city, but when I stop, I can’t stop, I won’t stop . . .”

The beat kicked back in, and he jumped around and immediately leapt to the next cardboard building with exuberance.

“I can’t risk someone getting the drop on me, finding out my identity, putting the serenity of my family at risk . . . ya hear me, villains? Take a shot at me, you’d better not miss!”

As Crash’s show continued, Margot snuck glances over her shoulder at the professor. He seemed more shocked than anything else, and his pen was moving at lightning speed over the paper he had balanced on a clipboard.

Hopefully those are good notes, she thought.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

After Mister Yamaguchi’s self-insert rip-off of an existing superhero defeated its archenemy, the Emerald Elf, the audience around Thomas jumped to its feet in raucous applause. Thomas brought his hands together twice before returning to his notes, jotting down some last-minute observations – rhymed “city” with “litty”; did the Emerald Elf need a self-deprecating R&B solo? – and then ushering the class back into the lecture hall.

“Our presenters for next class are Miss Valentine, Miss Stone, Mister Ortega, Miss Perez, Jayden, and Miss Schuyler. The remaining students will be presenting the following class. Until then, class dismissed.”

As Thomas unlocked his laptop to begin inputting grades, he sensed someone sidling up to him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who might be approaching him.

“Hello, Professor,” Miss Schuyler said softly. Her bag was already slung over her shoulder. A quick glance to the door indicated that her friends were leaving her behind; he almost wished he could call them back in, to make sure that whatever it was she had to say was said in front of witnesses.

After the Fairy Kingdom Formal, he’d felt odd whenever he so much as looked at her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the new sensation. He worried that it meant something. But it couldn’t, could it? She was a decade younger than him. She was his student. It couldn’t be-

She told you about her childhood, he reminded himself. She confided in you. It’s not love. It’s you worrying over how she lived when she was younger. That’s all.

He wanted his thoughts to stop right there, but they kept coming anyway, like a second inner voice had joined the conversation to argue a different opinion.

You knew it was her at the masquerade. You spoke with her. You danced with her. You kissed her.

Stop.

You took care of her when she was hungry, cold, and sad. You slept in the same bed as her.

It meant nothing. It was nothing-

You drove her to her dorm after Chris Winters left her in the aquarium. She told you she thought you mattered to her, and you lived off that feeling for days after.

Stop-

You held your umbrella over her. You helped her get to her ride home with little incident.

That doesn’t mean anything-

You like her.

Stop-

You might even love-

“Professor?”

He blinked and found himself staring up at a very concerned Margot.

“Are you all right?” She adjusted the strap on her shoulder. “I was just . . . did you like Crash’s musical?”

He felt a bit dizzy. “It was interesting,” he said slowly.

“Good interesting?”

He cocked his head to the side, which didn’t help the vertigo. “I always find it fascinating when students suddenly decide that their passions have changed, Miss Schuyler.”

And, though she was an admittedly talented actress, Margot did not hide her nervousness. “Oh, yeah. I see how that could be interesting.”

“Might you know anything about Mister Yamaguchi and Miss Sinclair’s newfound passions?” he asked, mostly to see her squirm.

There, see? he told himself. I revel in making her uncomfortable, in treating her just like all my other students. This “love” theory is absolute bull-

“Maybe.” Her eyes widened comically. “I mean. Um. That’s all. Bye.”

She sped-walked out of the hall, and Thomas took a minute to gather himself before turning back to his laptop.

Sifting through his notes, he took extra time with Miss Sinclair and Mister Yamaguchi’s rubrics. They had both delivered impressive projects, ambitious if a bit contrived, but if her reaction was anything to go by, Miss Schuyler had something to do with their sudden fascinations in suits and musical theatre.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He can’t leave. He just can’t.

Margot had been standing in the main building of the university with her friends, rehashing Lisa’s surprise operatic performance as well as her own avant-garde film she directed, when she saw him hurrying towards a clearly marked administrator’s office. Though his stride was purposeful, and he attracted attention wherever he went due to his being Thomas Hunt and all, something about him radiated the energy of a man who did not want to be seen.

Before knocking on the door, she watched the professor take a deep breath.

And then he stepped through the doorway and out of view, leaving her to draw her own conclusion.

“I hope we did enough to convince him to stay,” she said quietly.

Lisa placed a hand on her shoulder. “If my rendition of Pavarotti didn’t convince him, I doubt anything could.”

“He did like your film, Margot,” Addison said reassuringly. “He didn’t trash it or anything!”

“Sad how that’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Ethan lamented.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The first class after the midterm project presentations was mostly silent. Thomas had planned it that way; after hearing some of the most illogical projects from this class, he wanted a break from them in a way that still kept them on track with the semester work. He was playing a series of short silent films on the projection screen while he finalized the midterm grades, and apart from some minor whispering – another thing he’ll temporarily turn a blind eye to, as he simply did not have the energy after faking so many recruitment meetings the past ten days – it was peaceful.

“Any word about Hunt’s job situation?”

Or not.

Before Miss Sinclair could reply, Thomas cleared his throat.

“Miss Schuyler. Care to share with the rest of us what you were about to ask Miss Sinclair?”

He’d never seen Miss Schuyler’s cheeks so red. They almost suited her, drawing attention to her high cheekbones-

Stop.

“Not with the rest of the class, no, Professor,” she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Then perhaps you will share it with me . . . after class. My office.”

She nodded, turning her attention back to her worksheets.

And, as he similarly went back to his own work, he fought to keep the grin off his face.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“You wanted to see me?”

He leaned back in his chair, setting his arms on the structured arm rests of his chair. “I know what you and your friends have been doing. Don’t play dumb. Miss Sinclair designing suits, Mister Yamaguchi doing a musical, Miss Valentine singing opera.”

She winced. “I guess we were kinda obvious.”

He rolled his eyes. “Extremely obvious.”

“Did it work? Are you gonna stay?”

Was he imagining the eagerness in her voice? The hope that permeated those questions, as if she wanted him to remain at the university, to continue being her professor? He worried he was projecting, but there was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel . . .

Made him feel.

“Do you want me to?” he asked.

She shook her head hard enough that her earrings clacked against her neck. “No. No, I – don’t leave.” She caught herself and added, in a much less emotionally wrought voice, “In my opinion, anyway.”

He looked at her, taking in her slightly trembling hands.

She looked at him, noting the curiosity in his eyes.

Desperate to know what the other one was thinking, but afraid of what they might be thinking of, they stared for a long moment in silence, trying and failing to read each other simply from body language.

Finally, he said, “Then it’s a good thing I was never planning on leaving anyway.”

She let out a sigh – of relief? he wondered – and sunk into the chair opposite him. Instantly relaxing into his own seat, he watched her take a few calming breaths before looking back at him with a new question burning in her eyes.

“Wait, so if you were never planning to leave, then why did you meet with those admins from other schools?”

He smirked. “For leverage during salary negotiations, obviously. I only do it when I feel it’s necessary, and this past year has been quite trying, particularly due to some students.” He looked pointedly at her, and she feigned shock.

“Crash’s musical was ingenious,” she argued.

“Stan Lee’s estate is on its way with a lawsuit as we speak,” he said dryly. “Dr. Seuss could – and has – written better verses.”

“Those are fighting words, Professor.” Margot’s eyes twinkled. “Crash could write The Cat in the Hat, but Dr. Seuss could not write ‘Emerald Elf Hates His Emerald Self.’”

#thomas hunt #thomas orson hunt #only fools fall for you #hollywood u #fanfiction

[deliasbabe]

The Distance Between You & I- Harriet x Matt

Words: 2,361

Warnings: Unplanned Pregnancy, Light Angst, Language

 It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Hannah Harriet Hayes always had a plan, a strict plan, especially when it came to starting a family. She had run through the scenario many times. It was Matt’s, of course; it had always been Matt’s. There was never a scenario where it wasn’t Matt’s, even when the two were broken up yet again, even when she was with another man. It was always Matt’s. The two of them would be perched on the tub, happily married, together, waiting for the second line to appear with bated breath. They would be overjoyed, after all, they always wanted kids. Matt would grin and hug her tightly, swinging her around in that way he always did when he was excited. The cast would be ecstatic and supportive when they broke the news, and Matt would make a sly joke about how there was no way their child was going to grow up to be a “jesus freak”, causing Harriet to smack his arm playfully. The two would bicker back and forth like they always did, the playful banter that had become the hallmark of their relationship, their very own love language. Harriet had a plan, he was supposed to be there, they were supposed to be in love, but people plan and god laughs, and boy, was he laughing now.

It wasn’t like the two hadn’t tried to make it work, they really did. But one bad pull quote from a terrible interview was enough to put them on the rocks, and soon they were shipwrecked. The banter turned to bickering, which turned to some not so subtle jabs, and then an all-out brawl in Matt’s office. Matt was the one who pulled the plug, after they had gone six rounds in the span of three hours. Then, Harriet collected her belongings from his house and the two barely even spoke, dancing around each other in cast meetings and rehearsals. All it took was one date with Luke and a few too many drinks at an after party for the two to end up having drunk, angry sex in the tech room, and then it was like it never even happened. Matt didn’t speak another word about it, the two never talked, he just gave the cold shoulder like he so often did, and the two did the dance that had become all too familiar, tiptoeing around residual feelings and unspoken words.

Harriet had tried to move on, but six weeks later something just wasn’t right. What she thought was the stomach flu turned out to be something else entirely, and there she sat, taking a pregnancy test in Jordan’s bathroom, alone, listening to the executive soothe a crying Rebecca back to sleep. Harriet had always been meticulous about taking her birth control. She didn’t like surprises and she certainly didn’t like being blindsided. Being unwed and knocked up would certainly put a stain on her good Christian reputation. But after the blowout, she really didn’t see the point. It wasn’t like she was having sex, even when she was with Luke the two never really seemed to be together, and truthfully Harriet always had one foot out the door. It just wasn’t right, he wasn’t him, and Harriet would be a fool if she denied the fact that she knew her person would always be Matt. So, when the second line came through clear as day, it had to be Matt’s.

Jordan could barely keep the grin off her face when Harriet broke the news. Rebecca wasn’t even six months old, the two babies would only be about a year apart, a built in best friend. Still, she was there with tissues when Harriet cried, offering reassuring words. No matter what has happened, you two are a team. You’ve always been a team. Her words were true, despite the numerous breakups and fights and religious differences they still remained each other’s biggest supporters. Harriet was still the only person who could draw Matt out of a writing rut, and Matt continued to throw her the ball every chance he could, not only bringing the show’s ratings up to rival SNL but cementing Harriet’s A-list status in Hollywood. The two worked well together, and right then that was the only thing that was keeping Harriet from losing her damn mind.

Still, the two could barely keep a relationship going for longer than six months. They spent more time pining for each other than they did in each other’s arms, and that was enough to make her heave into the bowl once again. What if they weren’t in love? What if they were both just in love with the idea of being in love? It seemed like they were made for each other, that once in a lifetime kind of love that you saw in movies, the kind that was filled with passion and excitement, the kind where your partner made you want to kiss them and rip out your own hair at the roots. That dizzy, intoxicating love. But intoxication was still toxic, no matter how right it felt in the moment, you still had to deal with the hangover, the blaring reminder that it was truly harmful in the long run. Harriet tried, but she never seemed to learn her lesson, and now they had much more to deal with than just a couple of broken hearts.

She went home early that day, feigning some vague illness in order to ward of suspicion. She just needed time to think, to figure things out. Knowing Matt would be there regardless should have been a huge relief, but all it did was turn her stomach into knots. They were always so hot and cold, so off and on. When they were on, it was great, but it seemed like it only took one small thing, one miscommunication and they were at each other’s throats, hurling insults like it was their favorite sport, not caring the damage they did. They were childish and immature, maybe a little overdramatic. Harriet had spent a majority of her childhood trying to diffuse the tension between her own parents, and she would die before she did that to her own child. But did she have a choice?

Why the hell can’t you two get it together?

The issue was, Harriet did believe they could make it work, if only they had the willpower to stop with these stupid games. They were both at fault, both too stubborn to see their own errors. Harriet hated that she still held hope, that she still was lost in that fairytale land of commitment and honesty. A part of her believed that this, this baby, their baby, could be the missing link, the thing that finally forced them to grow the hell up and put away their own selfish need to always be right. But that wasn’t fair to put on a child, none of this was fair to put on a child. A child should have a happy home, with parents who can at least be civil with each other, and Harriet wasn’t even sure they would be able to do that.

It didn’t help that Matt hadn’t stopped texting her from the moment she left. Are you ok? Do you need me to take you to the doctor? Do you need anything? Her brain was telling her to ignore it, that all it was doing was clouding her judgement. She had been swaying back and forth between making it work and cutting the relationship off completely all day, and each concerned text just made her want to leap into his arms and stay there forever. She had to be rational, she had to think this through, because it wasn’t just about her anymore.

She paced back and forth, wringing her hands as she tried to muster up the courage to reply. She couldn’t put this off, someone was bound to notice sooner rather than later, and Harri had never been a very good liar. She maybe had until the end of the night before Jordan spilled the beans to Danny, and that was being generous. She had to tell him tonight, she just didn’t know if she could. It wasn’t like Matt was a bad guy, he was a great guy, that’s what made all of this so infuriating. Sure, he was a complete jackass sometimes. But when it came down to it he was a really good guy, the best guy, the kind you could depend on, and that made it all so much scarier, because Harriet knew he would be there. But it was too late to worry about that, so with shakey hands, she sent the text.

I need you to come over tonight. We need to talk.

Then, she panicked, not wanting him to read too much into it and rush over.

About the show.

Matt, of course, had a wise ass remark on the tip of his tongue the second she opened the door. “Harri, I told you, you don’t need to rework your Nancy Grace impression. Her voice hasn’t changed in 20 years.” Matt said as he walked through the door. He always liked to act like his coming over was a hassle, yet he responded to her beck and call without hesitation. As much as he tried to keep up his macho persona, he was totally and completely whipped, and they both knew it. He never would say no to her, he never could say no to her. When she needed him, he was there, he would always be there.

Harriet threw him a look, “I didn’t call you over here to talk about Nancy Grace, genius.”

Matt gave a knowing smirk, “I knew that. I just thought we should get the theatrics out of the way before we get into the real reason.” Matt watched Harriet worry her bottom lip between her teeth, knowing her well enough to sense that whatever she called him over for was important. “What, is this about the note I gave earlier? Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of Simon and Tom but you know I can’t give you special treatment. The guys have already started calling me a pansy ass.”

“It’s not about the note.” Harriet said quickly, looking up at Matt with wide, scared eyes. This was supposed to be simple, easy, and it would be if Matt would just stop talking. She felt tears prickle behind her eyes, silently cursing herself and the damn hormones that had already seemed to have her in their grasp. She was confident five minutes ago, but staring at the object of her affections was enough to make her go weak in the knees and have the panic completely consume her. As soon as a tear escaped and she moved to wipe it away Matt was all over her, he hated to see her cry. A gentle hand on her shoulder and she was done for, burrowing into his arms and crying into his chest as he tangled his hand in her hair and held her tightly.

“Harri, what is it? You’re scaring me.” Matt said, his macho persona quickly dissolving, his eyes filling will concern once she looked up at him with smudged makeup and running mascara, “You know you can talk to me.”

“I’m pregnant.” Harriet blurted, sucking in a sharp breath before burrowing back into his chest, scared to see his reaction.

It was silent, too silent, unnerving. Harriet braced to defend herself, to tell him that she hadn’t gotten into this mess by herself, that they both were equally responsible for this shit show, but then Matt laughed, “Maybe there is a god.” And oh, if looks could kill, the daggers Harriet was shooting out of her chocolate brown irises would have slit his throat, but he just grinned down at her, and suddenly, she didn’t know if the tears running down her face were from joy or frustration, or maybe the wind had shifted direction. He grabbed her by the shoulders, studying her face for a moment with his brows furrowed, “Why are you crying? Harri… this is great!”

“Why am I crying?” Harriet asked indignantly, huffing as she wiped the snot that was dripping down her top lip with the back of her hand. “I’m crying because we’ve barely spoken in months! We aren’t married, we aren’t even together and…” Harriet ranted, only to be cut off by Matt’s lips on hers, instantly melting under his touch. 

He was good, too good. He always knew just what to say and do to make Harriet’s head spin and send the butterflies in her stomach swirling about. He pulled back, holding her face between his hands softly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Harriet, I’m here. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.” He said earnestly, waiting for her to nod before breaking into a grin, “I’m going to be a dad!” Before Harriet could even blink, he looped his strong arms around her waist and swung her around, not stopping until he could hear her soft giggles, “God, I love you.”

“I love you too.” Harriet said, giving a soft smile as she wiped at her wet cheeks.

“Why are you still crying? We’re going to have a baby!” Matt practically yelled, his excitement so palpable Harriet wondered how his cheeks hadn’t started to hurt.

“I know, I know. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I was just… scared.” Harriet admitted, ducking her head. The fear still lingered in the back of her mind, but it wasn’t the right moment for that, not when everything seemed so good.

“That I would be upset?” Matt asked, the hurt behind his eyes obvious.

“No! No… I knew that you weren’t going to be upset.” Harriet said quickly, “I just thought you would have made at least one wise ass comment by now about not knowing if it was yours.”

“It’s mine.” Matt said confidently, a condescending grin plastered on his face, “I know it’s mine.”

Harriet playfully smacked his arm with a grimace, “You’re so damn cocky.”

#This is total garbage but here we are #harriet hayes #Matt Albie #studio 60 #sarah paulson #sarah paulson imagine

[talesfromthesnogbox]

Stuck Here With you

Rating: M (Rating for explicit conversations about sex) 

Words: 3,586

Summary: Richie and Eddie are stuck quarantining themselves together... what could possibly go wrong? OR based on this tweet: "@cjkasulke: APPARENTLY you have all just been *waiting* for this moment to confess your love to your roommates, so many of you live with people you have been silently in love with for y e a r s"

Notes: This is so stupid. Yes, I wrote a quarantine fic. Yes, this whole thing is a serious matter and I am an adult who's working from home and it all sucks, and there are people dying all over the world, and I do care, but I just thought people needed a little bit of a laugh, ya know? Anyways, this is wildly out of character and not good in general, but drop a comment if you like it, or if you think I'm a horrible person, whateves.

AO3

*~*~*~*~*

Richie woke from his catnap with a startled jump as he heard the front door slam shut.

“Jesus Eds, is it 6:30 already? Did I sleep all day?” He asked with a laugh.

“No asshole, it’s noon.” Eddie slammed his briefcase on the breakfast bar and worked his tie open. “This pandemic bullshit has gotten out of control.”

“Is that why you’re home right now…”

“Yes! Jared that fucking lunatic went off and brought some girl home last weekend and now he’s got a fever, so we were all sent home, and I’m stuck in isolation.”

Eddie was pissed, but Richie could see through his thinly veiled layer of anger; there was fear.

“Oh. Do you hang around Jared a lot at work?”

He sighed. “No, no I don’t, but it’s just a precaution until he can get tested properly.”

“That’s good then, right?”

It was good. After seven full days, Eddie finally emerged from his room with a cheery smile. “Jared’s in the clear, turns out he just picked up some STD, and I get to go back into work tomorrow.” He plopped down on the couch.

“That’s great Eds, but I hate to break it to you…” Richie pointed towards the TV where the headline read “California officially shut down”.

The first few days felt like any weekend would. They had extra groceries delivered, they binged some true crime documentary on Netflix, they had a group Skype session with the Losers, they did pretty much anything that took their minds off the current situation. But then the fifth day hit.

It was only 7am when Richie dragged himself out of bed for a coffee. Sure it was early, and he had nowhere to be, but time meant nothing anymore.

Usually Richie’s clamoring about the kitchen woke Eddie up. The first few nights that Eddie moved in after Derry were rough; turns out, Eddie was a pretty light sleeper, and Richie was loud. But today, there was no Eddie in sight.

He continued on his way, pouring himself a bowl of cereal when he saw it through the window to his backyard… and promptly spilled milk all over the counter.

On the bright side, Richie had found Eddie. The only downfall was he’d found him in a pair of tiny running shorts and a tank top doing squats on his deck.

“Fuck!” Richie swore, grabbing a tea towel to clean up the mess he’d made.

“Richie?” Eddie stopped his squats and ran into the house. “What the fuck happened dickwad?”

“N-nothing, nothing happened, it’s just early and I lost my grip.”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“So um… what’s happening in the backyard there, Jillian Michaels?” Richie giggled.

“Fuck off. I usually go to the gym before work, but now that the gym’s closed, I had to improvise.”

“Ahh, I see, trying to pick up the new future Mrs. K with…” with thighs I want to wear as earmuffs and that tight ass? He was glad there was an entire counter between them to hide the fact that he was currently at half-mast.

Eddie gave him a strange look and shook his head. “Shut the fuck up. I’m a divorced 40-year-old living with his best friend, I don’t think I’m going to be picking someone up that easily at the gym. Besides, Santa Monica women aren’t really my type…”

“Oh? Well when this is all over, I know a few places we can go pick up chicks. West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, hell even Studio City. Name your type Eds, we’ll find her.”

“Aren’t you gay? How do you know so much about picking up women?”

“Closet case my boy.” Richie winked and took a bite of his cereal. “I’m as good of an actor as I am a comedian.”

“No wonder there were never any articles about how much of a playboy you were then.” Eddie said straight-faced, walking back out to finish his work out.

“Eds gets off a good one!”

*~*~*~*~*

After that eventful morning, Richie tried his hardest to stay in bed until after Eddie’s morning routine was done. One almost-embarrassing situation in his pants was enough to last a lifetime around his best friend of however-many years, he did not need it to escalate from there.

As the days passed on, the two of them found ways to entertain themselves. Eddie took to reading on the deck in the mild April weather, and Richie decided to pick up his guitar again for the first time in years.

He was a little rusty, but after a few hours of practice, it was like riding a bike, and before he knew it, he was back playing the tune he’d spent hours playing as a teenager.

Richie hummed along to the tune of “Eddie My Love” as his fingers formed the familiar chords with ease. He didn’t even realize Eddie walking in from the backyard, a stunned look on his face.

“Rich?” He jumped, startled at the sound of the other man.

“Hey Eds, sorry was I being loud?”

“N-no.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you played.”

Richie chuckled. “Yeah, I picked it up in high school after Went agreed to teach me a bit. I was in a band in college, but we kinda sucked.”

Eddie scoffed. “You don’t suck, that tune is lovely. What is it?”

Richie’s face felt hot all the sudden. “Uhh, I can’t really remember the name, just something I used to play a bunch. It’s an oldie my mom really liked.”

“Can you teach me?”

His eyes widened. “Y-yeah, here, come sit.” He moved more away from the body and more towards the neck of his acoustic, allowing Eddie to sit nestled between his folded legs. “Okay, um so you hold it like this, and your fingers go here.” Richie curled Eddie’s fingers around the neck of the guitar, placing them in the correct spots on the frets. “So we start with a G chord.” His other arm snaked around Eddie’s shoulder to show him how to strum the chord.

Eddie shivered, completely engulfed by his best friend, noticing for the first time how much he loved his arms being wrapped around him like this.

“Then we move to an E minor.” Richie shifted Eddie’s fingers again and strummed. “Then A minor, and up to D.”

Eddie moved his fingers, pliant beneath Richie’s big hand. His heart beat fast, and he could feel Richie’s breath warm on his shoulder as he played.

For a moment, Eddie could convince himself that Richie felt the same way about him, but only for a moment. They were best friends, and just because Richie was gay, it didn’t mean he was interested in Eddie, no matter how hard he wished that he was. He would never have Richie, but he’d always have this moment.

*~*~*~*~*

“Alright, that’s it. We’re getting drunk.” Richie pulled out a rather large bottle of vodka and a few other spirits. “I’m mixing you up a quarantini.”

“A what now?”

“Quarantini, Eds. We’re getting shitfaced.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Rich, there’s no way in hell I’d—” he paused. Maybe this was the perfect way to come on to Richie. Lowered inhibitions were a great excuse to do something potentially stupid, and if it all went sour, he could blame it on the alcohol. “You know what, fuck it. Mix me a quarantini.”

“That’s the spirit!” He mixed the drinks and dragged Eddie over to the couch. “Alright, we’re indulging tonight. I want not a peep from you. I never got to do any of this gay shit before, and now is the perfect excuse to start a new series. We’re watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

Eddie nodded his head. “Drag racing, okay cool, I like cars.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No asshole, drag race… like drag queens.” He popped on a random season and hit play.

Four episodes and many quarantinis later, both Eddie and Richie were yelling at the TV.

“How could they send April home, she’s like the hottest one there!” Eddie put his hands up.

“Right? Look at how hot he is ugh I just wanna…” Eddie glanced over at Richie with a smirk. “Shut up.”

“No, no, I see it.” He pulled out his phone, April’s instagram profile already loaded. “The scruff is driving me mental.”

Richie chuckled. “Eds, that sounds kinda gay.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” Eddie said, face heating up. “Um, surprise?”

“Oh… shit dude, yeah, um, congratulations. Thanks for telling me.” Richie brought his friend into a tight hug, the alcohol running through his system making him feel a little light headed.

“Thanks for being cool about it.” Eddie mumbled, pulling away a bit, but still resting within Richie’s grasp.

“Hey man, I get it… I’m a closet case too.” He laughed.

The two were silent for a moment, content in each other’s grasp, until Eddie couldn’t handle the silence anymore. “Come on, next episode. I hope Laganja gets booted, I can’t stand her.”

Many episodes and quarantinis later, Eddie was fully shitfaced.

“Come on, bedtime for Eds.”

Eddie giggled. “Yeah Rich, take me to bed.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made Richie’s heart stutter.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough from you.” Richie deposited Eddie onto the bed, helping him with his shirt, when Eddie pulled him down hard.

“Oops, sorry Rich.” He giggled. “’s not my fault, you’re trying to get me out of my clothessss.”

“You’re wearing jeans, I can’t let you go to bed in jeans Eddie. What kind of asshole wears jeans in quarantine.” Richie giggles, undoing Eddie’s zip and pulling his jeans down his hairless legs. Fuck, his legs are amazing. “Eds, do you wax?” Richie giggled, rubbing a hand up his thigh.

“Pffftt, we’re in isolation shithead, I haven’t been to my wax girl in weeks.”

A jubilant laugh bubbled from Richie’s chest. “Shit, I’ve learned more about you tonight than I have in all the years I’ve known you. You really are a twunk.”

“A what now?”

Richie planted himself down on the bed beside Eddie. “Twunk, hunky twink.”

A look of realization dawned on Eddie. “Ohhhh, that makes a lot of sense. The dude at the checkout told me I was a twunk when I went to buy those underwear without the butt.”

Richie’s brain went blank. “Eddie, do you wear thongs?”

“No asshole, the other thing without the butt. Jock something, I can’t remember.”

“A jockstrap? Eddie are you trying to kill me right now?”

“Shut the fuck up asshole! They’re good for working out in. And they don’t give me lines in my nice suit pants.” Richie was speechless. “So if I’m a twunk, what are you?”

“I—I—I think it’s time for bed.”

“Oh.” Eddie said sounding dejected. “O-or we could just hang out?”

Richie was at an impasse. He knew they were walking a thin line right now, and he shouldn’t stay, but he wanted to see where this would take him, he didn’t want to leave Eddie’s side.

“I think I could hang out for a bit.”

Their “hanging out” didn’t last very long. Within ten minutes, the two men were out cold.

Richie woke up first the next morning and left the soundly sleeping Eddie to go make a pot of coffee. His head was pounding, and as much as he knew the bright sunlight was going to burn his eyes, the fresh air couldn’t hurt.

He’d never been more thankful for his manager who also happened to be a fantastic decorator. The outdoor couch may have seemed stupid to him when he first bought the place, but at times like this, it was a great choice. He could relax, and look out towards the ocean, and forget everything that happened the night before.

That is until Eddie decided to join him.

Richie’s breath left his lungs once he got a good look at his friend. It was like a blast from the past seeing him in a pair of tiny red running shorts, much like those he wore when he was a kid, but now… now they were so much more. Richie’s mouth watered when his eyes caught a good look at how Eddie’s ass filled out the shorts. A large tank top donned his torso, one that Richie had been gifted, and definitely not been too comfortable wearing himself judging by how low cut the arm holes were. He looked hot, not that he wasn’t always attracted to Eddie, but this felt like something had changed, a sexual awakening of sorts, and Richie would never look at his friend the same way.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover.” Eddie complained as he sat beside Richie. “That stupid drink went down like water.”

“Yeah man I hear you, I feel like shit.”

“I had fun though, it’s been a long time since I’ve had that much fun.”

Richie looked over to him. “No regrets about spilling your guts then?”

Eddie winced. “Okay, maybe you didn’t have to hear about what kind of underwear I prefer.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No, I definitely appreciated that tidbit of information, Eds. I’m proud that my twunk theory was right.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward.” Richie mumbled to himself.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“N-nothing.” He said, darting inside. “Going to work on my new show, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Richie had to get out of there. Last night was a lot, sure, but something felt different today. Seeing Eddie in his boxer briefs felt almost safer than whatever the hell he was wearing today. It’s almost like… almost like he’d purposely dressed up for Richie, and it was killing him. He didn’t know how much more he could take before he combusted.

Unfortunately for Richie, this new look seemed to be Eddie’s new uniform. Richie could tell that now Eddie was out to him, he felt more comfortable being himself, but Richie hated every second of it.

He dreaded seeing Eddie in the morning, dreaded knowing what fresh hell lay beyond his bedroom door in the form of a 5’9 firey bundle of sex personified.

Nearly a month into their quarantine, it was finally warm enough for Richie to sit out by the pool. He donned the brightest swim trunks he could find and rubbed his pale skin down with sunscreen, soaking up some vitamin D.

He’d been out there for just under an hour when he heard (and felt) a splash from the pool where Eddie jumped in.

“Okay, I take back everything bad I ever said about you having a pool when the ocean is right there. The pool is definitely more relaxing than the beach.”

Richie giggled. “I told you, asshole.”

“Oh, and I totally figured out what you are now. If I’m a twunk, you’re an otter.”

“A what now?” Richie removed his sunglasses and moved to sit on the edge of the pool.

“An otter.” Eddie rested his elbows on Richie’s thighs as his calves framed his torso. “At least that’s what I think. It’s like a softer bear. You’re not quite as big and not enough hair to be a bear, and you’re still too thin to be a cub, so you’re an otter.”

“I understood exactly none of what you said except for ‘bear’. I met a bear on Grindr just before Derry that made me realize I like being the bigger body in bed.” Richie winked saucily.

“So you’re a top then Trashmouth?”

Richie’s brows rose into his hairline. “I—I—we are not talking about this right now, not when you’re this close to my dick.”

“Oh come on, you used to talk about your dick all the time.”

“Yeah, I was a closeted kid who’s balls hadn’t dropped yet, obviously I wanted to come off as heterosexual as I could.”

Eddie laughed. “Okay, good point.”

The two sat in the same position for a few minutes, exchanging no words between them. It felt intimate, it felt like Eddie was flirting with him, but he’d never been good at picking up signs. Could Eddie want this too?

“I am though.” He said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“You’re what?”

Richie’s heart thudded in his chest. “A top, I guess. I don’t mind bottoming, I like it, but I guess I just…”

Eddie grinned. “You like being in charge?”

“No, fuck no.” Richie laughed.

“Really? Huh, okay.” Eddie nodded, mostly to himself.

“Hey, what the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all Tozier.” Eddie pushed off of Richie’s legs and floated on his back towards the inflatable lounger.

*~*~*~*~*

The week that followed was agonizing. All Eddie wore was those stupid shorts and a variation of t-shirt/tank-top/fucking crop top, and it was driving Richie mental. He felt like a teenager again, he’d never had so many hard-ons in one week in his life.

It was only a matter of time before Richie snapped.

Richie was descending the stairs from his room one fateful morning and groaned rather loudly when he saw what was waiting for him.

The shorts seemed shorter, tighter on his ass (damn all those squats he does) and his already short shirt seemed to rise up, showing the lovely dimples on his lower back as he reached for a bowl from a high shelf.

“Hey Rich, can you help me… what’s wrong?”

He huffed out a laugh. “What’s wrong? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Wh—did I do something?”

Richie stared at Eddie in disbelief. “Did you… did you do someth—the shorts man, what’s with the shorts!”

“The shorts? I always wear the shorts.”

“I fucking know you always wear the shorts, that’s the problem!” Richie’s stomach rolled. He thought he was going to throw up, he’d never been this candid about his feelings in his life.

“You have a problem with the way I dress? Fuck you, dude.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward!”

Both men fell silent. The tension could be cut with a knife, it was so thick between them.

“Richie?”

“Fuck man, I’m sorry I freaked out on you like that, I just don’t know if I can take this anymore. We’ve been cooped up for a month and I swear I’ve done more jacking off in the last month than I ever did as a teenager.” As good as it felt to spill his guts, he definitely thought he was going to pass out any second.

“I—I don’t…”

“The worst part is, it’s not even just that I’m horny. It’s you! Shit man, I’ve been dreaming of you since we were fucking teenagers. And now… now here you are looking like a goddamn… a goddamn what’s the word… a goddamn snack, telling me shit about the sexy underwear you buy, and asking me if I’m a top. Eddie, I don’t know if you’re flirting with me or not, but Jesus fucking Christ, it’s taking every single fiber of my willpower to not rip your clothes off right now.”

Eddie held back a smile. “Wait, I’m sorry, what? You couldn’t tell I was flirting with you? Are you fucking blind? Actually don’t answer that, I know you’re fucking blind.”

Richie was sure he was gonna get a nosebleed any second. “S-so you were flirting with me?”

Eddie laughed out loud. “Yes you idiot! Literally since the moment I got here, I have been flirting with you. You didn’t get the hint that I have feelings for you?”

“What the fuck, no man! Like you said, I’m fucking blind. I thought you were straight until a few weeks ago!”

Eddie moved to lean against the island, closer to Richie. “You dumbass, I tried so hard the night I came out to you, why do you think I told you about what fucking underwear I wear?”

“I don’t know man, I’m not good at this shit.”

“Clearly!”

Richie cast his eyes down. “S-so, so you really like me?”

Eddie reached for his hand and interlaced their fingers. He pulled Richie closer to him, so he was pinned between Richie and the island. “I love you, dickwad.”

Richie huffed out a laugh. “I love you too.” He blinked rapidly, looking up towards the light. “Oh god, why am I crying.”

“Get over here you big baby.” Eddie detangled his fingers from Richie’s and brought his hand up to the other man’s cheek, bringing him in for a kiss. It was sweet, it was chaste, it was everything Richie wanted from Eddie when they were younger.

But he wasn’t a teenager, and he wanted more.

He dove forward, tongue clashing with Eddie’s. It was hot, it was toe curling good. He snaked his other hand down Eddie’s side, curling around his hip and moving to squeeze his ass. Eddie groaned and ground himself into Richie’s thigh.

“Fuck.” Richie said pulling away. “Fuck, how are you so hot? We’re fucking forty man.”

“Me? Dude, look at you. Your arms… your chest…” Eddie snaked his hand under Richie’s shirt, scratching at the smattering of hair on his pecs.

“Jesus man, I’m not gonna last… fuck… bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

*~*~*~*~*

The two men finally emerged from Richie’s bedroom for dinner later on with kiss bruised lips and satisfaction plastered on their faces.

“Anything good on?” Eddie asked as Richie turned on the TV. “Rich?”

Richie laughed. “You better come see this.”

“QUARANTINE LIFTED” The headline read as news anchors happily recounted the fall in new cases, and the rise in recoveries.

“You’re fucking joking.”

#reddie #reddie fic #Richie x Eddie #it fic #yup this is so stupid #yet here I am posting it #my writing

[max-will-one-day-be-okay]

Ink On Skin Chapter Two

Closing up, Ethan saw that Lex and Hannah had already gone home. He shrugged it off and locked up, glad that it had gotten a little warmer. He shrugged off the flannel and wrapped it around his waist.

A few people still walking eyed him suspiciously, not trusting him. Some women clutched their purses a little tighter, and some had their hands ready to grab something from their pocket. He hated that they saw him as a threat, he hated that they had to see everyone as a threat at night.

The only people who acknowledged him with an emotion other than fear were the hookers that liked to stay outside of his building. A woman called Tiffany and a man who went by Richard. Ethan knew that they were lovely people, so he always made sure to say hello.

Ethan got home around twenty minutes later, happy to see Greg screaming at his food bowl. As he fed Greg, he noticed that Greg was running low on food. He sighed, that meant that he would have to go to the store the next day.

Ethan hated going to the store. The store meant that he had to leave work early and go to a place where he would be surrounded by people he didn’t know just so that he could empty his wallet of anything that wasn’t already going to bills. But Greg needed to eat.

He looked at the ever growing grocery list taped onto the fridge and added cat food to the list. The front and back of the list was filled, so Ethan supposed that it was around time to go to the store. It would be nice to drink milk without a sour aftertaste and maybe have some real food to come home to.

He kicked off his boots once he was finished doing chores. He was exhausted as hell. He went to his room and changed into his pajama bottoms and decided to just go shirtless. He laid down on the couch and grabbed a red sharpie from the floor.

‘Hey.’ He sent his soulmate. He wasn’t sure if they would respond because of how late it was. He wondered what time it was in California. He was shocked when he felt the slight tingle of a message being written back.

‘You’re up late.’ It said. Ethan smiled down at it, closing his eyes and imagining who it could be. Was it the guy at the movie theater who took the late shift? The girl who lived down the street? An actress in L.A having the time of her life at a Hollywood party? There was no way for him to know.

‘You are as well, you know. I just had to work late. What’s your excuse?’ He smiled down as there was a frowny face drawn next to the comment about working late.

‘No fun. And I’m just settling down for the night. I just made dinner a little while ago.’

‘Oh. What did you have?’ Ethan asked.

‘Just pasta. It’s the only thing I really know how to make.’ They admitted, ‘What about you?’ they asked.

‘I didn’t have dinner’

‘Why not?’

He paused. There was more to the answer he thought of than he wanted to write down.

‘Don’t have much food. Shopping tomarrow’

‘Okay. Get some sleep weirdo.’

‘You too’ He drew a little smiley face next to his last comment.

Ethan grinned to himself as he tried to fall asleep. He always felt better when he talked to his soulmate. Something about them caring about him, even a bit, made him feel all warm and fuzzy in his chest. It was a feeling he wished he could hold onto forever.

It was gone when he was thrust into another one of his nightmares. This time it was more of a memory, which made it all the worse.

He was ten when it had happened. He had forgotten his homework. His teacher didn’t tell him that she had called home. He came home with a big smile on his face, proud of his loose tooth. He walked inside, and suddenly all of the air was taken from his lungs.

His mom and dad stood, waiting for him. His mom had her hands on her hips and his dad’s arms were crossed. Ethan had only been in trouble a few times before that, but he knew what those looks meant. He wasn’t getting dinner, at best.

“We got an interesting call from the school today. Can you guess what it was about?” His mother had asked him. Before he could respond, she kept talking. “Apparently our son couldn’t get off of his lazy ass and do his homework. So he might start failing.” She spat.

“Go to your room. If we see you before tomorrow morning on the way to school, you’ll regret it.” His dad threatened.

Apparently he didn’t move quickly enough, since his mom pushed him. He fell onto the bannister next to the stairs. He ran upstairs with blood running down his face. He looked in the mirror to see that his nose was bleeding. And his tooth was missing.

Ethan woke up, Greg clawing his way as he fell off of his chest. It was just enough to draw blood. He made sure his cat was okay before getting up and going to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He felt the tingle of a message and looked at his hand, ‘Are you okay?’ was written in sloppy letters.

‘I’m fine. Cat just scratched me while I was sleeping.’ He wrote back with an eyeliner pencil he had in his bathroom as he slowly applied rubbing alcohol to the wound. He groaned and then bandaged it.

He didn’t get a response, so he assumed that his soulmate had just fallen back asleep. Ethan looked at himself in the mirror and flipped himself off before going back to his bed and crawling back under the covers.

He didn’t sleep well, and woke up feeling like shit. He didn’t feel like doing anything, but Greg was on his last can of food, so Ethan got himself dressed.

He didn’t even attempt to look presentable. He knew he wouldn’t be going into work that day, which made things a little easier. He just needed to go to the store and come back. There wasn’t much that could go wrong. That’s what he kept telling himself.

Ethan pulled on a green muscle shirt and put deodorant on before slipping on some slippers. He ordered an uber to drive him to the store, glad he had put away money for when he couldn’t walk somewhere.

He climbed into the back, not bothering to say anything but a simple ‘hello’ to the driver. When he got out of the car, he made sure to give the driver five stars for driving his living corpse around.

He walked into the grocery store and grabbed a basket. He made a habit of stocking up when at the store so he wouldn’t have to go back until later. Even though it took more of a chunk out of his balance than he would like, it was worth it.

He felt like a zombie walking around. He got some cereal for himself first. Off brand lucky charms. Just as much magic for a fraction of the price. As well as some apples and bananas. If anything, they were easy to grab.

He continued to take items, even getting a box full of cat food. Ethan was glad to report that on Wednesday morning, Walmart wasn’t very full. He also wasn’t the worst dressed out of everyone there.

He used the self checkout, making sure he ignored the candy beside the area, not wanting to give into temptation. It took all he had.

He got another ride and sat down at a bench to wait until they got there. There was a Subway inside of the Walmart, so he got himself a drink and waited. He was half asleep on the table when he saw them.

Ethan suddenly felt even more sick and had to swallow bile that rose in his throat. He wished he had brought his jacket, so he had some way to hide himself. Walking into the store were his parents.

He felt sick as they walked by, praying that they would pass him. He thought that he had gotten unreasonably lucky when they walked by, but then his dad stopped, turned around, and walked over.

“Well well well.” He had a fake smile plastered on.

“Hey dad.” Ethan could hit himself for how weak he sounded.

“Look at that. You still don’t even know how to dress yourself.” His mother sneered down at him.

Ethan hated that he was shaking. He could easily get up and leave. He had been through everything, if he was in his normal condition he could easily take down both of them with no problem. Who ever said that nothing good came from fighting? Now he knew how to throw a punch.

The issue was that he couldn’t move. His stomach felt odd and any time he tried to move he couldn’t breathe. He was about to hyperventilate when they finally left, realizing that he couldn't interact with them. He didn’t miss them calling him stupid once again before they left.

It was then that he got the notification that his uber had arrived. He grabbed all of his reusable bags and walked outside. The man in the car waved him down. Ethan all but collapsed into the seat with his ten bags and box of cat food next to him.

The driver tried to make small talk, but Ethan couldn’t really process anything. He took the water that was offered and gave five stars when the drive was finished. As soon as he got back up to his apartment, he threw up.

He had just barely made it to the toilet, and he collapsed next to it. Throw up had even gotten on his shirt. He only moved when his phone started buzzing and an unknown number was shown. He picked it up anyway.

“Hello?” His voice sounded like he had cut his vocal chords with a cheese grater.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?” Lex’s voice asked.

“Sick.”

“I can tell. What’s your address?” She asked.

“What?” He mumbled, half asleep.

“What is your address? I can’t have you dying on me, we just started hanging out.”

“How did you get my number…?”

“Business card babe. Now stop avoiding the question.” Lex’s voice was stern, so he told her. She hung up after telling him not to die before she got there.

Ethan didn’t want to smell more like vomit than he had to, so on the bathroom floor he lazily took the sleeveless shirt he had on and put on a long sleeved shirt that was already on the floor. Wrinkled, but less smelly.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, leaning on the cool tile of the bathtub, then woke up to someone poking his face. He brushed whatever it was away, thinking that it was just Greg. He opened his eyes to see Lex leaned down looking down at him.

“Your door was unlocked. I put your groceries away.” She told him bluntly. Ethan was barely sure that she was speaking English.

She helped him up and walked him into his room, saying something about how light he was. He tried to mumble something defensive, but she didn’t even flinch.

“You stay in here. I’m going to get you something to eat and maybe something to drink.” She told him. Ethan didn’t respond until she walked out.

He blinked slowly, feeling as his body begged him to go to sleep. This was the worst he had felt in ages, since he had lived with his parents. His tired mind finally put together that he had had a panic attack, one directly after another. No wonder he felt like shit.

Lex walked back inside with a glass of orange juice he had bought since it was on sale and toast next to some soup. She handed him the juice and he took a long drink.

He looked back up at Lex, she was still kind of out of focus, “Why are you helping me?” He asked.

“Because I was worried about you. Hannah was too, and I couldn’t say no to her. By the way, she’s in the front room playing with your cat.”

“His name is Greg.” Ethan told her unhelpfully. Lex nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll tell Hannah when you’re done eating. Now, what do we want to try first? Chicken soup or lightly buttered toast?”

“I didn’t buy soup…?” Ethan tilted his head, which made the pounding pain worse.

“I picked some up from Panera. And that means soup.” Lex told him, smiling as she opened the lid. Ethan had to admit, it smelled really good.

He moved his hand to take the spoon, but it was shaking so badly that he couldn’t get a good hold on it. Lex took the spoon and fed him the soup. If Ethan was any more lucid, he would be embarrassed. If Ethan was any more lucid, he could probably feed himself.

That’s why Lex didn’t think about it as she started humming as she fed him. It was something she did for Hannah when she had a breakdown or panic attack, and something her adoptive dad did for her during a depressive episode.

Ethan relaxed slightly and soon his stomach was full again. He didn’t really think about it as Lex ran her fingers through his hair in a soothing manner as he slowly fell asleep. It was the type of affection he craved at all times.

When Lex was sure that he was asleep, she slowly stood up from the bed. Ethan had looked worse for wear since she had started talking to him. It couldn’t have been the beginning of the issues, since he was so light. He shouldn’t have been that easy to carry.

She smiled when she saw Hannah playing with Greg the cat. Hannah had taken really well to Ethan, faster than Lex had ever seen her warm up to someone. It made her a little more comfortable coming over when he wasn’t at work.

She couldn’t tell what exactly was wrong. From what Hannah had told her, he had seemed fine the day before, if maybe a little tired. Lex only got the way he seemed during a bad depressive episode or after a bad panic attack.

“What do we do now Banana?” Lex asked her sister, who looked up to acknowledge that she was listening. “Do we stay here until he needs something or to feed his cat? Is that weird?”

Hannah shook her head. “We should stay.” She told her older sister. Lex nodded.

That’s how the two of them found themselves lounging around Ethan’s apartment. Hannah continued to play with the cat while Lex put her feet up on the table and turned on the television to watch a shitty lifetime movie about a pregnant teenager.

She laughed at some of the poorly acted moments and soon found herself fully relaxing. The small apartment was cozy and warm, and Ethan had bought enough groceries to last through the next month.

She messaged her soulmate a few hours to see how they were doing. ‘How are you doing?’

It took maybe thirty minutes, but they responded. ‘Honestly? Not amazing. I’m sick from a panik attack and I just woke up from another nightmare. And it had started out so nice…’

Lex frowned softly, sympathy blooming in her chest. ‘I’m sorry to hear. My friend is sick too. I think he’s going through the same thing as you.’

‘That’s rough’

‘I know. I’m at his house right now taking care of him.’

‘Well he’s a lucky duck.’

‘Eh. I just bought him soup.’

‘Weird. A friend did that for me.’

‘That is weird. Now we both know we have good friends.’

‘Maybe they’re soulmates too.’

‘Maybe.’

Lex smiled down at that.

Ethan smiled down at his wrist. He felt slightly better knowing how his soulmate was at least as nice as Lex. And that was more than he could believe he deserved. Ethan took a moment to calm fully down before deciding that he needed to feed Greg.

He climbed out of bed and thanked god that the world now felt still under his feet. He walked into the front room to see Lex napping on his couch and Hannah with a purring cat in her lap.

“Hey Hannah, do you want to feed Greg?” He asked, and Hannah lit up, nodding so violently that her braids jumped up and down.

Ethan showed her how, and soon Greg was eating while Hannah had this proud grin on her face. Ethan smiled. “Are you allowed to have sugar?” He asked her. She nodded, and he got out the fixings for ice cream sundays.

He made Hannah a banana split upon her request, and made himself a sunday covered in chocolate sauce and cherries. He poured them both big glasses of chocolate milk.

They sat in his front room eating their ice cream while Lex snored away. “I’m going to wake your sister up so she can make her own.”

“Lexi is always grumpy when you wake her up.” Hannah smiled.

“Oh is she?” Ethan smiled back. Hannah just nodded and Ethan laughed. He still stood up and walked over, gently shaking Lex to get her to wake up. She did with a groan.

Instead of making her own sunday, Lex grabbed a spoon and took turns stealing from both Ethan and Hannah’s ice cream. While Ethan pretended to be offended, he still let her without much struggle.

Hannah fell asleep on his couch once they finished their dinner, and Lex looked at her little sister fondly. “I think that means that we should get going.” Lex told Ethan.

“Right. Um, thank you for helping. You didn’t need to come over, and I know that you closed up early, and that was real fuckin’ cool of ‘ya.” Ethan told her.

“I think you’re a really cool person. And If Hannah wants to keep having lunch with you, you can’t be dead. That wouldn’t work.”

“You’re so right. So we’re even?” Ethan joked. Lex laughed and nodded. He wanted to hear her laugh forever.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She asked, scooping up her sister.

“Are you walking?” He asked.

“No, my friend Deb is giving us a ride.” Lex reassured.

Ethan nodded and watched as she left. He grabbed a pen from the table.

‘I know that you are my soulmate, but until I meet you, do you think that I could date someone else?’

About twenty minutes later, he got a response.

‘Oh thank fuck. I was about to ask the same thing.’

#black friday #starkid black friday #lex foster #ethan green

[cilldaracailin]

A Kind Of Magic

Here is the next part :) 

9

“Encourage, lift and strengthen one another. For the positive energy spread to one will be felt by us all. For we are connected, one and all.”

Taron woke up cosy, the duvet pulled right up to his chin as he lay on his right side.

“Ugh ow.” He groaned. Sleeping on his right side was uncomfortable and painful on his sore arm and ribs and he had been avoiding it, mostly choosing to lay on his back, or left side. He slowly rolled to his back, cringing as he did so, feeling an unpleasant sensation of prickling torment for a few seconds, until his body settled. He looked to his left to see it was just him in the bed, Robyn’s chosen side empty, the duvet neatly pulled up to the pillow. He figured she was the reason he felt so warm and snug under the duvet but he was bothered by the fact that she wasn’t there sleeping. Taron knew without a doubt that Robyn was running on fumes and although she had willingly allowed him in emotionally, he wished he could help her rest and actually sleep.

He reached over to the bedside locker and picked up his phone. Blinking at the bright light as he unlocked the screen checking the time and the day more importantly. He didn’t want to see that he had slept another full day.

“Saturday.” He sighed a relief and even more so when he saw it was actually early morning. Just before ten but frowned when he saw another missed call from Richard. He had completely forgotten to call him back yesterday but he knew Richard would understand when he phoned him and explained why.

As tempting at it was to roll over and snuggle back into the pillow, Taron drew back the duvet cover enjoying the fresh air that the air conditioning circulated around the room and eased himself out of the bed. He didn’t feel as stiff as he did yesterday but was quite tender and sensitive from laying on his hurt side during the night.

He stood up carefully and wandered out in search of Robyn and found her standing at the island in her kitchen, cutting some fruit on a chopping board.

“Good morning.” She said brightly as he sleepily walked in to kitchen.

Robyn was quickly adding a new Taron to her mind as this half awake, messy haired Taron was definitely her favourite yet and she was trying very hard to use this new image of Taron to replace the ones that plagued her dreams last night. His mam had made an appearance too, throwing picture after picture of her son at her, telling her she had killed her child. Robyn had woken up startled at one am, after four hours sleep and just lay in the bed, again watching Taron as he slept. She got up from the bed around four and cleaned her apartment from top to bottom, including the bathroom. At nine she had a quick shower, plaited her hair in two French braids and threw on another pair of demin shorts, a Hawaiian patterned string top along with her blue converse. She opened the doors of the apartment letting the beautiful morning air and sunshine in and had set the garden up for the day pulling out two sun loungers from the garden shed, putting the cushions on the chair swing and plugging in the small water fountain too. She then started her usual weekend morning breakfast routine of making waffles, while listening to music. She was in the middle of cutting up the fruit to go with the waffles when Taron walked into the kitchen.

“Mornin’.” He replied as he stopped and gave her a hug from behind, placing a kiss on her cheek, before moving to lean against the sink.

“Sleep well?” She asked him, hoping he didn’t see the easy blush that rose to her cheeks from his little kiss. She adored how easy Taron was with his affection.

“Yeah. That bed is magnificent. Don’t think I beat my record though.”

“No but close to it. Eleven hours.”

“And how many did you get?” He asked

“A few.” She replied.

“A few?” He probed as he moved to stand beside her. “How many qualifies as a few?”

“Four?” She answered honestly.

“Nightmares?”

“Staring your lovely mam this time.” Robyn knew she couldn’t lie to Taron. He would see through her in an instant.

“Jesus Robyn. My mam?”

She stopped cutting the strawberries and turned to him. “I know your mam would never do what she did in my dream and if it makes it any better, it was four hours uninterrupted. That hasn’t happened for me in a while.”

Taron sighed. He felt guilty for sleeping so soundly when his host struggled so much. “What did you do once you woke?”

Robyn put the strawberries she had cut in a bowl and moved onto the mango beside her. “I cleaned the apartment.”

“Not for my benefit I hope.” He said quickly.

“No, just my usual Saturday clean. I want to get back into some sort a routine like I had before I moved to Florida even with you here and you are not in my way and you are not imposing on me Taron.” She said knowing he was going to apologise for turning up unannounced. “I enjoy having the company and you know I am very glad you are here.”

Taron stole a piece of strawberry from the bowl and skipped around the island as she went to tap his hand away. “I need to take my pain killers with food. What are you making?” He asked picking up his bottles of pain killers, knowing he had to take them twice a day, morning and evening.

“Waffles.” Answered Robyn as she cut around the stone in the mango.

“Waffles?” He stopped and looked at her. “Seriously?”

“It actually is my normal Saturday breakfast. It is not because you are here. I mix it up between waffles and pancakes every weekend. I just fancied waffles this morning.”

“Let me guess, you have a waffle maker.” Taron left his tablets on the counter and walked around to get a glass from the press he knew they were in and filled it with water from the fridge.

“It was actually a present from my friend Claire. I didn’t buy it myself. It is not something I would ever buy for myself but seeing as how I have it, I make use of it, only on the weekends though.”

“Waffles for breakfast and key lime pie for tea last night.” Grinned Taron as he took his painkillers, but Robyn saw his face change once he drank the rest of the water. “My trainer is going to have some job to get me back in shape when I am back filming but not because of you Robyn. I don’t mean it like that.” Taron quickly corrected himself. “I mean because I can’t train or move much. I am going to be such a pudding by the time I am back ready to film.”

“Don’t even Taron.” Said Robyn and Taron was taken back by the annoyance in her voice and looked at her to see a serious look of irritation on her face. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” She stopped slicing the mango and put down the knife. “No one should talk about themselves like that. This is why I like working with children. They don’t judge. They just see you for who you are and don’t care about what you look like. I wish the world could be seen through the eyes of a child.” Robyn walked around to stand beside Taron. “I thought you didn’t care about that Hollywood shit.”

“Well I don’t but…”

“Exactly but it gets to you and I know it gets to you but it shouldn’t. Want my honest truth?” Taron nodded. He very much valued Robyn’s opinion and words. “As a woman, if I had a choice between Eggsy and Eddie, I would choose Eddie.”

“Really?” He questioned.

“Yes really. I, as a fan of your work, watched interviews of your time of promoting Eddie the Eagle.” Robyn pointed to herself. “Huge Hugh Jackman fan. Anyway, I could easily see how uncomfortable you were every time someone mentioned your physical transformation and it shouldn’t even have been a question asked or commented on. Same for your portrayal as Elton too. It shouldn’t matter and as someone who has struggled with their own body confidence, I know how it feels. Nobody should be judged by how they look but because the world we live in, is one of a shallow photoshop society where magazines and television decide and depict how a man or woman should look, it makes those of us who don’t fit that certain look feel worthless and unattractive. I would choose Eddie over Eggsy any day because that is what is real. I don’t want you thinking that you can’t have something sweet because it will turn you into a so-called pudding. I happen to like pudding and thinking about shit like that fucks with your mind and brings you spiralling down a horrible rabbit hole. You are perfect, whether you are a pudding or a rice cake.”

“A rice cake?” Taron looked at Robyn titling his head.

“It’s the first thing that came to my mind that could compare to pudding but seriously Taron. Don’t starve yourself from something you want because of what is going to happen two months or so down the line. Shouldn’t what happened to us last week, make us even more aware that life is short and we should eat the God damn pudding. This is why I hate the pressure of having to look a certain way, or being judged for how you look because it…”

“Is what inside that counts.” Finished Taron.

“Yes it bloody is and it makes me angry to hear you talk like that. You are beautiful Taron inside and out.”

“Just like you.” Confirmed Taron. “Yes you.” He repeated when he saw that same doubt in Robyn’s eyes that he had felt in his less than two minutes ago. “I wouldn’t have said it in your office if I didn’t believe it and you cannot lecture me on my body confidence and not let me return the favour.”

“Thank you. It has taken me a long time to be comfortable in my own skin but I won’t listen to you bring yourself down like that. Nothing wrong with a little bit of pudding Taron. I told you I preferred Eddie and you are in an Irish house and Irish people feed their guests so I won’t hear you say it again and you will eat everything that is put in front of you and there is nothing stopping us from taking small walks every day and it will help to build your strength back up and the baking has really only been happening because I can’t sleep. I am actually really good during the week. I would go for an hour walk every day after work and I rarely get take out and normally cook nice healthy things and…”

Taron threw his arms around Robyn, stopping her mid-sentence pulling her close for another one of their hugs that said so much without using any words. “Thank you.” He said simply. Taron felt a sudden surge of self-confidence and assurance that he hadn’t felt in a long time and he was completely touched by Robyn’s words and the fact the she noticed how uncomfortable he was when others hadn’t. It was so refreshing to hear Robyn speak so positive about what he considered his faults and he very much appreciated her encouraging words.  “And thanks for putting the knife down before you scolded me. I thought you were going to stab me there for a minute.”

“Well I might still do if you talk about yourself like that again.”

“Luckily you can patch me back up too afterwards.”

Laughter filled the kitchen as they broke the hug. “So, waffles?” Asked Robyn.

“Waffles.” Agreed Taron.

“They come with fruit too.” She said as she walked back around to where she had been chopping the fruit.

“I am just going to have a quick shower and change. Looks like another beautiful day out there.”

“Yeah it’s going to be a scorcher. Figured we could just sit in the garden and listen to music and not do much else.”

“Yes please.”

“Go shower. I shall continue waffling.”

Taron headed back to the bedroom and pulled the duvet up the bed up so it was fully made. He went into the closet and carefully lifted his bag into the bed, straining with the effort and routed through for his wash bag. Grabbing it, he walked into the bathroom and after he had closed the door, saw that Robyn had replaced the towels he had used the day before with fresh red ones. He was actually surprised with the colour of the towels considering Robyn’s apartment was filled with cool blue tones but when he felt the softness of the towel, he knew why she had bought the red ones.

He enjoyed the rainfall shower just as much the second time but didn’t take as long as his muscles weren’t as tense as before. Looking in the mirror he saw something in his face he hadn’t seen for a long time and it was a brightness in his eyes and an almost need to constantly smile and he enjoyed feeling like that again. Routing through his wash bag, he pulled out his razor and made quick work of shaving off his seven-day beard, feeling fresher afterwards. He had to take extra care on the right side of his face but managed to get a clean shave that he was happy with. Running his hands through his damp hair, he walked back into Robyn’s room and changed into a pair of white shorts and a blue flower print t-shirt, just buttoning the bottom two buttons. Not bothering with shoes again, Taron walked back into the kitchen to see Robyn whisking some batter in a bowl with a whisk by hand.

“Need any help?” He asked.

“I am all good.” Replied Robyn and she turned to look at him. “Hey you shaved and you stole my outfit choice.”

Robyn stood with her right hand on her hip and stared at Taron. He looked like he had gotten a new lease of life after his time in the bathroom. His eyes shone with happiness that she had never seen in person before and although his clean-shaven profile highlighted the bruising on his face more, he looked so much more content in himself.

“I stole your outfit choice?” He asked puzzled.

“Yeah, I was dressed before you so I get to rock the Hawaiian vibe.”

Taron then realised what she meant, looking to her patterned top, then to his and grinned. “The print is different though.”

“I like print on you.” Robyn tuned back to whisking the batter in her glass bowl. “It really suits you but you still stole my style for the day.”

Taron laughed. He loved it when Robyn was in this wonderful giddy mood and it made her whole face light up when she laughed with him. “I am sure I can do something to help you.” He insisted.

“In the press to your left, under the hob is the waffle maker. You can take it out for me and plug it on the hob.”

Taron set up the red waffle maker as Robyn had asked. “Does it annoy you that this is red and does not match any of the décor of your home?”

“Dear God yes and that is why Claire bought it for me because she knew it would bug the hell out of me.” Robyn moved the bowl of batter over to where Taron was standing. “But it makes good waffles.” She pulled a ladle from the jar behind the hob and waited for the light to turn green.

“How many piercings do you have?”

“What?”

“I never noticed all the earrings that you had before.”

Robyn turned to him as he leant against the sink. “Yeah I went through a phase in my twenties where I got one new piercing a year. I have ten, waiting to get my eleventh and because my hair is tied back, they are more obvious plus I wear the tiniest studs.”

“Can you have that many working with children? Wouldn’t they pull them out?”

“Actually no. It’s not something that is an issue, not where I work anyway and mine are quite reserved and small studs. The kids like to count them and four are stars so I mean, I am teaching them shapes through my earrings.”

“Which one is your favourite and which one hurt the most.” He asked taking a closer look at her right ear which had the most, small crystal studs in unusual places on her ear.

“My third lobes hurt the most and my favourite is a toss up between the tragus and rook.” Robyn pointed at the piercings as she named them. “They just stay in all the time. I never take them out and I rarely change the actual jewellery. Once they are in, they are in.”

“I have one.” Taron touched his right ear where his empty piercing was. “Just one but it was for my role as Elton. I only put it back in when I was going to Florida. I haven’t been wearing it because of Kingsman. Actually, Doctor Hart had to get the nurse to take it out before the CT scan. She gave it to Richard to mind for me and I just haven’t put it back in yet. I don’t even know where it is.”

“Well if you want a replacement, I have plenty of spares.” The light on the waffle machine turned green and beeped. Robyn turned around and lifted the lid. She poured a ladle of batter into each section and closed the lid. “I have already set the table up outside for us if that’s ok.”

“Yep sounds good.”

“Do you want some tea again or I have some juice in the fridge or I could pull out the coffee maker. I have one, just don’t use it very often.”

“I am going to stick with juice I think.” Taron walked to the fridge and pulled the door open. “Ok so pineapple, orange or tropical?” He asked.

“I like to mix orange and pineapple together.”

“Excellent.” Taron grabbed the two cartons of juice and took them from the door and placed them on the island behind him. He then got two glasses and filled both with half pineapple and half orange, while Robyn pulled two plates out and dished two waffles onto each, making sure she plugged out the waffle maker when she was done.

Taron carried the glasses and Robyn the plates and together they walked out to the garden to the table where they had their eggs the previous night.  Robyn had remembered the cutlery this time and she had a large bowl filled with fruit and some American pancake syrup on the table. “Breakfast of champions.” Smiled Taron as he sat down on the same chair he had been in the night before, Robyn sitting next to him. “You really do this every weekend?” He asked as Robyn handed him the bowl of fruit, a mix of strawberries, mango, raspberries and blueberries that looked very inviting and colourful.

“Yep. Sometimes Claire comes over too but it’s more like a brunch with her rather than a breakfast and we add eggs, sausages and rashers too and if I have any potatoes left over from Fridays dinner, we would chop them up and toss them in as well.”

Taron could hear his stomach rumbling as he spooned some fruit onto his plate. “Sounds like my kind of brunch.”

“There is this little restaurant here that does this amazing breakfast. I will bring you just so can you taste this dish they make called hash – poaches eggs, potatoes, caramelised onion, rashers and hollandaise.”

“Stop it.” Taron paused mid pour of some syrup on the waffles.

“It’s so good.”

“This is so good. Thanks Robyn.” He handed her the bottle of syrup.

“I was making it anyway so it’s just as easy to make for two.”

“Robyn I know I have said it before but you just make me feel so relaxed and calm and I don’t think you actually understand apart from being at home, how hard it is for me to find a place that does that, especially after what happened in the 7/11.”

“You are always welcome here Taron. When you need a break, just call me. Remember how you said I was kind of stuck in your world?” Taron nodded as he chewed. “Well you are very quickly sticking to mine too.”

“Hey, if your world always comes with waffles for breakfast, I am there.”

A natural comfortable silence found the two as they ate their breakfast, the music filtering out to the garden from the sitting room, both enjoying the peace of the morning around them.

“When we are finished breakfast, would you mind putting the small dressing on my shoulder?” Asked Robyn as she sat back in her chair with her glass. “I didn’t do it myself this morning because I knew you had offered to help me.”

“Of course I will.” Taron was about to ask Robyn if she would help him when another voice interrupted him.

“Robyn? Robyn are you up? I can hear the music from the front door.”

Robyn almost dropped her glass, coughing as her drink went down the wrong way, wiping her mouth as juice dribbled down her chin, Taron taking her glass from her hand before it fell onto the deck.

“Robyn, you ok?” He asked as he gentled patted her back.

“Ugh shit. Yes I am but shit. I am just going to say sorry now ok?”

Taron frowned. “Sorry for what?”

“Ahh Robyn! There you are. I figured you would be up but I am surprised you are not sunning yourself already. It’s such a beautiful… Oh who is this?”

Taron watched as Robyn’s hands went to her face, a look of pure embarrassment filling her pretty features.

“Hi mam.”

Robyn got up from her chair to stand, Taron’s hand falling from her back as she moved to greet the lady who had just walked into her back garden. She was slightly shorter than Robyn, with short dark blonde hair, wearing shorts and a white pattern t-shirt with palm leaves on it.

“Hey Robyn.” Robyn’s mam walked over to the table where Taron and her were enjoying their breakfast. “I didn’t realise you had a visitor, a male visitor.” She added, Robyn immediately rolling her eyes to her mother.

“Mam, this is Taron.” Robyn turned to look him, giving him what he hoped was a very apologetic look. “Taron, this is Lizzie, my mother.”

Taron got to his feet to greet Robyn’s mam wincing as he stood, his right side still feeing raw after laying on it all night, his left hand going to his ribs. Robyn noticed the expression of pain on his face and moved closer to him, her hand on his shoulder “Go slow. You’re still hurt.”

He nodded to her and then moved the few steps to greet their visitor. “It is so lovely to meet you Lizzie.” Taron could see the shock on Lizzie’s face as she realised who he was, her blue eyes staring at him, the same shape and colour as Robyn’s.

“Taron as in Robyn’s Taron from the store in Florida?”

He smirked “Yeah I guess you could call me Robyn’s Taron.”

Robyn nearly fell to wooden deck with embarrassment as her mam finally put two and two together and grasped who Taron was.

“I usually just go by Taron though.” He added, taking a look to Robyn who was sitting on the arm rest of the chair looking absolutely mortified, finally shaking Lizzie’s hand.

“Ah wow, hi. It’s nice to meet you too.” Lizzie shook Taron’s hand, taking a look to her daughter. “You didn’t tell me Taron came to see you.”

“Guess it slipped my mind.” Replied Robyn.

“Slipped your mind?”

“Yeah, just slipped.”

Lizzie gave her daughter a very disapproving look, one that Taron saw clearly. “Well I am very glad to meet you Taron, especially after what you and Robyn have been through. Such a frightening experience for you both.”

Taron moved back so he stood beside Robyn on her left and took her hand in his. “Yes, it was but having Robyn there made it much easier for me.” He gave her hand a gently pat. “I kind of turned up unexpected and Robyn has been nothing but a gracious host.” Taron looked to Lizzie. “It’s thanks to your daughter that I am standing here. She is a truly remarkable woman and I am very blessed that she was willing to help a complete stranger.”

“She has her moments.” Smiled Lizzie, watching he held tightly onto Robyn’s hand. She thought her daughter looked tired until she took in the appearance of the man who stood beside her. Painful looking bruises and grazes spoilt his handsome face, stitches were visible on his right arm and with the few buttons open at the top of his shirt, Lizzie could clearly see where her daughter had performed the lifesaving actions that meant he was standing in front of her but more than that, she could see the connection the two had, how they were turned to each other probably without even knowing they were doing so.

Lizzie was extremely proud of her daughter if not a little angry at her for leaving Florida so quickly. She had told Robyn she should have stayed until Taron woke up, that what had happened between the two of them was so much more important than her job but Robyn being Robyn, ignored her emotions and went head first back into work.

She was stunned to see the man whose Robyn spoke so fondly of now sitting in her daughters back garden, eating breakfast with her. However, she was also glad in a way as she saw how distant Robyn had been since she got home and was very worried about how she was reacting to what had happened to her, in that she wasn’t at all, keeping her feelings to herself. It concerned Lizzie knowing that even as her mother she couldn’t help her daughter and she had no idea of the trauma that she had been through, so seeing Taron in front her gave her some hope that he might be able to break through the thick barriers that her daughter had built. She could see that maybe already he had done so as he held Robyn’s hand in hers. “My Robyn tends to get stuck in when she needs to. Gets in her trouble sometimes too but she always has everyone’s best interest at heart.”

Taron agreed. “Yes she does and I know I am very grateful for it.”

“So how long have you come to stay for?” Asked Lizzie but seeing the look exchanged between Robyn and Taron, knew that conversation hadn’t happened yet.

“Taron knows he is welcome to stay for as long as he would like.” Robyn gave his hand a little squeeze.

“I haven’t actually thought that far to be honest.” Answered Taron. “But if Robyn is happy to let me stay for as long as I like and keeps feeding me waffles for breakfast, I might not leave.”

“Right it’s porridge and water from now on!” Laughed Robyn, enjoying how Taron chuckled along with her.

“What is your shift next week Robyn?” Asked Lizzie.

“I am opening again. The new girl is on the early shift so Emma wants me there to help train her in and get used to opening the creche.”

“Great. You and Taron must come over for dinner then next week then.”

“Wait what?” Robyn looked to her mam.

“Yes yes. I want both of you over for dinner next week. The weather is supposed to stay like this until the middle of next week so let’s say Tuesday? Your dad will be thrilled to start up the BBQ.”

“Mam I think Taron would like to use this time to rest and relax after what happened and not sit through an interrogation of questions.”

“Actually…” Started Taron looking to Robyn. “I would love to have dinner with your family. I know how much your family means to you and you know how much mine means to me, so if we could, I would very much like to get to know yours.”

Robyn could see the genuine look of interest in his eyes and turned back to her mam. “What time?”

“Say seven? It will give you time to get home and ready to come over and we won’t ask too many questions Robyn. We will limit it to ten each.”

“Oh dear God.” Sighed Robyn, Taron and Lizzie both laughing at her reaction.

“Ok great. Your dad will be delighted. Now I shall leave you to your breakfast. It was lovely meeting you Taron.”

“You too Lizzie.”

“Robyn come and hug your mother.”

Robyn let go of Taron’s hand and gave her mam a hug. “He’s cute.” She whispered into her daughters’ ear. “And you’re doing a very wonderful thing looking after him. He looks like he needs it.” Robyn gave her a mam an extra squeeze.

“Taron, you too love.” Robyn moved back and let Taron take her place, Lizzie being extra careful as she hugged him. “Look after my daughter for me.” She felt Taron give the slightest of nods before she let him go. “Right well, if you need anything you know where I am Robyn.”

“Thanks mam.”

Lizzie left the way she came with a wave, Robyn sitting on the arm of her chair again, while Taron stood in front of her.

“I like your mam. She’s very like you and parents were made to embarrass their children. I think it’s just natural law.”

“I am so sorry she just invited us to dinner like that. You did not have to feel obliged to go.”

“I don’t feel obliged. I want to go. I would really like to get to know your family better Robyn and also, thank you for saying I can stay for as long as I would like.”

“I just hope you know what you have walked yourself into and don’t look to me for help when the questions get awkward and you are welcome.” Robyn stood up. “Let’s get this cleaned up and then I am claiming a sun lounger for the rest of the day.”

#Taron Egerton #Taron Egerton Fanfiction #Taron Egerton Fanfic #Taron Fanfic #Breakfast #friendship #Encouragement #Lift Each Other Up #Waffles #Family #embarrasment #Love

[wolfpawn]

I Hate you, I Love You Chapter 5

Chapter Summary -  Danielle helps Benedict with Christopher while the pair talk.Tom goes into his mothers and is brought to a realisation that the world is not, contrary to recent belief, all about him.

Previous Chapter

Rating - Mature (some chapters contain smut)

Triggers - references to Tom Hiddleston’s work with the #MeToo Movement. That chapter will be tagged accordingly.

authors Note - I have been working on this for the last 3 years, it is currently 180+ chapters long.  This will be updated daily, so long as I can get time to do so, obviously.

I think it goes without saying that I am taking some serious artistic licence with Tom here. I would hope he is more copped on than this......actually, considering the last few months, I think it may be somewhat true, hopefully, he isn't so naive, he is, after all, a (then) 35-year-old man, but let's face it, this makes the story more dramatic.

If you wish to be tagged, please let me know.

tags: @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog  @jessibelle-nerdy-mum @nonsensicalobsessions @damalseer

“How are you feeling?” Ben asked. He had met Danielle a few times through Tom and his family, she was incredibly normal, which was refreshing when you’re surrounded by actors and Hollywood. “I heard you yell at Tom about your night.”

“I just…Today is not the day for unimportant bull…” She caught herself before she swore. “Sorry.”

“I keep getting caught myself.” Ben dismissed changing the nappy. “Can I be so rude as to ask to heat some food for him too?”

“Sure, get him sorted and then we’ll organise that then.” She smiled. “It is nine in the morning, did you drive from London?”

“Someone, and I am not pointing fingers,” He pointed to his son. “Is getting up early, and Sophie is in Scotland, so I didn’t know what to do, I thought I would visit Tom, but well…”

“That blew up in your face.”

“That’s the polite way of putting it. This is so…not Tom.”

“Tell me about it, Diana is completely at a loss, so are Emma and Sarah, and for some reason, because he does not want to confront whatever or whoever is eating at him, I am Public Enemy Number One. Does he eat porridge?” She indicated to Christopher.

“Yes, but there’s no need to go to the trouble.”

“I usually have a bowl before I go to bed anyway,” she shrugged. “It’s only a little extra scoop; unless you want some yourself.”

“I am fine, thank you. Strong coffee is good. So you are…”

“I will be fine, I will go to bed for a while, then head to work early and get an assessment and an obligatory counselling session then be back to work.”

“That…Jesus, that’s rough.”

“You get used to it, in some ways, if that makes any bit of sense.”

“Do you not ever get nightmares?”

“Most weeks that something terrible happens, yeah.”

“Jesus.”

“I should have just gone to acting college.”

“Could you have afforded it?” There was a clear hint in Benedict’s voice that he was being sarcastic, clearly having heard everything Tom had said.

“Any other day, I’d have kneed him in the nuts for that, but today, I just can’t care, besides, it is clear, he is not the guy he was.” She sighed.

“Is that…?” Benedict pointed out the window.

“Mac, get down.” Elle didn’t even have to look, she knew it was the dog. “He’s the dog Tom found, yeah.”

“He looks good.”

“A bit scraggily, but yeah, he is doing well now.” She smiled.

“I am sorry.”

“What for?”

“Tom.”

“No one can apologise for him but himself. I only hope he sees sense, and when he does, that everyone is still here for him, because I think I am officially at the very precipice of telling him to go take a running jump off the nearest cliff.”

“No one would blame you. Thank you.” He took the fresh porridge and coffee from her and blew on it.

Half an hour, and a fed waddler later, Benedict thanked her, and left her home, tying Christopher into his car seat, before looking at Diana Hiddleston’s house and sighing.

*

“What was that ruckus outside Tom?” Diana asked, still in her nightgown.

“Benedict has gone into Danielle’s.” He stated angrily.

“I am not sure I follow.”

“He came here, supposedly to see me, but instead went into hers, and is in there now.”

“And why is that?” Diana looked at her son, she knew when he was at fault for something as a child, he would just give the start and end of a story, but nothing of what occurred in the intervening period.

“I was talking with Elle, and she went off on me, and he took her side.”

“Thomas,” Diana warned.

“I was tired and angry, and I may have said something, and she…”

“Gave you the truth?” Diana interjected. “You are my son Thomas, and I will always love you, but you need to get yourself in check, you are going to allow everything you worked for go down the toilet, and for what? When you were dating Susannah, you broke it off because you knew you would be too busy and did not want to drag her along, and now, you are going too far the other way, dropping it all for a woman, one who is not ready to settle down, and at twenty-six, that is fine, she is young, but you are putting it all on this one horse Thomas, and I am not sure the horse will even run the race.” Tom frowned. “Elle has a difficult job, and she wants her life outside it to be as smooth as possible, please do not make that any harder on her.”

Tom said no more, he knew once his mother found out the difficult night Danielle had, she would murder him for adding to her misery. “I need to get showered.” Diana nodded and went into the kitchen, turning on the radio.

“There was a road traffic accident in the early hours of this morning in Suffolk, a woman, and her two children were travelling back from a trip to Legoland when a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel, killing the occupiers of the car. The woman, named as thirty-four-year-old Carol Johnson originally from Brighton, residing in Suffolk, was recently widowed and had taken her children, eight year old Jeffery and five year old Jessica to the famous theme park following the death of her husband in a workplace accident in the North Sea on an oil rig earlier this summer, Jessica was said to be excited to start school next week, having bought her school supplies while in London with her mother. Police and paramedics at the scene said it was a devastating reminder of the dangers of driving while tired, and urge drivers to pull in and sleep if they feel themselves dozing off at the wheel.”

Tom sat on the steps of the stairs, listening to what Danielle had dealt with at work, feeling guilt riddle him once more. Diana came into the hallway, her face pale at what she had heard. “You don’t think…”

“She mentioned it, yes.”

“She was there?” Tom nodded. “And you were…”

“I didn’t know.”

“I think it best you leave her alone from now on Thomas,” Diana stated coldly.

Tom went upstairs without another word as Diana left the house to check on her neighbour.

*

For the rest of the time he was in Suffolk, Tom did as his mother suggested, and left Danielle alone. He was opening the window of the bathroom to leave out steam after a shower, and saw her in her back garden, a cup of coffee and a slice of apple crumble on the table, on a recliner garden chair, with Mac Tíre curled up on top of her. The dog, though small for a Sheppard, took up most of her torso, as she curled her arms around him, the dog clearly sensing her distress. He felt terrible for her, and was about to go apologise to her when his phone went off, looking at the screen, he noticed it was Taylor and clicked accept; since she was supposed to be in LA and that meant she was ringing him at five am there. “Hey.”

“I have the best night.” She half sang at him.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I sang with Nelly at Mike’s birthday.”

“What?”

“Mike Heis, the oil heir, I sang at his birthday, here in the Hamptons.” She repeated excitedly.

“The Hamptons, isn’t that on the East Coast?” Tom frowned.

“Eh, yeah, here in Long Island.”

“I thought you were in LA, that’s what you said yesterday?”

“OMG, I decided not to go, a party is so much more fun, especially for Mike, he is super rich and sweet, so I said, how could I say no, right? I mean he is practically squad approved awesome, by the way, I kissed him, so don’t be surprised to see a photo.”

“What?”

“Oh there’s nothing behind it, totally platonic, it’s on the cheek, so you’ll get over it.”

“That’s sort of, inappropriate, though, isn’t it? I mean if there are pictures.” Tom broached.

“It was a friendly one, and besides, I am not changing myself for anyone, and it keeps the cameras where they need to be. I’m tired, so I am going to bed, you’re here again tomorrow, right?”

“I need to go straight to Australia, there is one scene that went a bit awry, so I am to go there and then I am free for a week, yeah.”

“Tell them you are busy til Thursday.”

“That’s not how it goes with Marvel movies Taylor, they are in charge, not me.”

“I told my parents you are going to be here, so be here Tom.” She demanded petulantly.

“I cannot be there until I do the scene, they’ve paid the flights, I have to go.”

“Fine, but I am coming too.”

“Great.” His tone did not match the word.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Jetlag, and a small argument with my mum’s neighbour I have to sort.”

“That woman?”

“Danielle, yes.”

“She is such a bitch, Johnny, my bodyguard, told me she was trying to sneak into your mums when I was there with you, as though she owned the place, and had like a camera phone in her hand, you are better off away from her, I bet she has a hoard of things on you, waiting for the highest bidder, you should have a high fence and an NDA put on her ass. I mean, what is she paying for that house with?”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “I never asked.”

“Maybe you should, your family has money, and she is some nurse or something, and she can live next door to your mum, and only did so after you got famous.” Taylor planted a seed in his mind; he looked down, looking at the woman that had been close to his family for so long. “I mean, it’s so cliché, use the family to get to your celebrity crush.”

“Crush?”

“Yeah, she is totally in love with you, why do you think she is always running around to your mothers, dying to see you no doubt, I mean, I bet she accidentally walked in while you were there, pretending not to know you were home.” Tom thought of the first day, and her arriving home just after him from work. “I’m right, you know it. I am used to it all, I have been in this game long enough, she is practically a stalker.”

“Tom, are you there?” a voice called from outside the bathroom.

“I better go; mum is calling.”

“What time are you into JFK tomorrow?”

“Actually, it’s to Florida.”

“What, no that’s unacceptable, change it.”

“I am afraid not everyone has private jets, love.” Tom chuckled.

“You should, fine, I will send mine to get you.”

“The next flight is from there to Hawaii and then a connection to Brisbane.”

“God, that’s a joke.” She commented.

“Get some sleep love, I will see you soon.”

“You better.” She signed off, hanging up before he could say anymore.

“Tom?” He heard his mother call from outside his room in the hallway.

“Yeah,” Tom looked at the phone. “I’m here.”

“I am going to Emma’s for a few days with Danielle, what time is your flight?”

“What?” Tom demanded, opening the bathroom door.

“Emma’s, Elle and I are going there for a few days.” Diana jumped slightly when Tom opened the door.

“Why?”

“Because Elle took that crash badly, she is not sleeping at all, apparently those children, they are keeping her awake,” Diana stated sadly. “She’s been giving compassionate leave for a week, she needs a break.”

“So she is on the verge of a breakdown, that is what you are saying, that she is nuts.”

“Thomas!”

“What, that is what you are saying, is she even safe to be around?”

“How could you say such a thing, you heard the news report, and saw the photo’s in the paper, you can see her, trying to get into the car. How she hasn’t had one is a miracle. Don’t you dare speak badly of her for it.” Diana snapped.

“She is too close to the family, you need to step back from her. How do we even know her family are dead?”

“Thomas! What has gotten into you?”

“Taylor was saying…”

“I should have known.” Diana walked off. “That girl has cost you a lot of late Thomas, I have to wonder how much you will lose before you wisen up. She is off snuggling up to billionaires sons and kissing them all too closely and you are here losing everything for her.”

“She told me about that, it was platonic.” He called down the stairs.

“And yet when I met that Australian girl from The Night Manager, she said she tried to ring you about your Emmy, she was met with an automated answer, as has Elle, and I bet others too. You cannot be friends with women, but she can snuggle men, trust has to go both ways in a relationship Thomas.” She stated back to him, opening the front door. “Ready sweetheart.” He heard her call. “Tom’s car is in my way, put Mac in and we’ll take yours.”

#I Hate you I Love You #chapter 5 #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston

[joeycupcakerichter]

Zach Dempsey - Boys Can Be So Stupid

A/N: I had waaay too much fun writing this. You tell me you want a fight and every fight I was too scared to have propels me into fictional writing. Hahaha. That being said, I hope I didn’t make Zach too unlikable in this one, it really wasn’t my intent, I just get carried away sometimes. Also, I was not trying to be a dick to Alex, in my head, there is no Alex having a crush on you too or anything, fuck this is going to be longer than the imagine if I don’t shut up. Hahaha.

Request: Yes, by @ghxstseb

Pairing: Zach x Reader && BFF!Alex x Reader

Warnings: LANGUAGE. But lets be real here. Look at the show its based off of. Language shouldn’t even need to be a warning.

Prompt: “Heyy can I request a zach imagine, where the reader and zach are at the dance in s2 but they are fighting or something, and they make up. However you wanna write it I don’t mind. Thanks :) Whatever imagine that includes zach it’s great”

Word Count: 2027

Masterlist

~

Boy can be so goddamn stupid. There’s only a select number of dances in the year, and your darling, sweet idiot of a boyfriend stood you up because the “boys” needed him to go with one of the cheerleaders to “fit in”. You almost wanted to stay home, and cry yourself to sleep but if there was one thing that you’d learned in life was that these idiotic boys weren’t worth crying over. Instead, you were going to make him regret ever joining that team. The day Zach broke the news to you, you went to the mall, bought the most curve hugging dress you could find and a pair of heels tall enough to stand eye to eye with that gargantuan idiot. You asked Alex if he wanted to be your date for the night, and after repeatedly explaining to him why you wouldn’t be going with Zach, he begrudgingly agreed. The night of the dance, you spent hours doing your hair and makeup, specifically doing it in a way that you knew would drive him crazy. The little black dress you bought clung to you in all the right places and while you weren’t sure if you could really walk in the heels, damn if you weren’t going to try.

When Alex arrived to pick you up, his jaw about hit the floor. “Are you sure you aren’t going with Zach tonight?” He asked for the thousandth time.

“Alex, if you ask me that again, I swear to god I will use these shoes as the deadly weapon they’ve been begging to be.” You glared at him.

“Alright, alright.” He said, raising his hands in surrender. “Stand down. I just don’t understand why you’re wearing all that when we’re going to the dance together as friends.”

“Alright, listen Alex. Zach blew me off for this dance, because apparently the ‘team’ gets final say on who you date or whatever-”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, I think Bryce just recommended-” He interjected.

“Doesn’t matter.” You tell him, brushing the semantics off. “If his team is going to be worth more than me, then he’s going to realize how grave of an error he’s made.” Venom fuels your words at the end and Alex doesn’t question you further. After your mother takes some pictures for the mantle and expresses her disapproval of your dress, you and Alex hop into the car his dad rented for the night. You turn up the radio and start singing at the top of your lungs to whatever pop music comes on. It’s mostly effective to calming your nerves, but also gets your adrenaline running. This boy isn’t going to know what hit him. When you get to the school, Alex hurries around the car to open your door and help you out. The two of you laugh and giggle on your way into the school, walking arm in arm. Your balance in the heels surprises you, but you also have to wonder if it’s pure strength of will getting you this far.

After taking your pictures at the entrance, you finally enter the now beautiful gymnasium. It didn’t even look like the same room a bunch of sweaty boys ran up and down as they fought over a ball. The ceiling was beautifully decorated with black and silver streamers and ornaments. This year’s theme was “Vintage Hollywood” and the committee went all out. You were busy taking in the atmosphere when Alex nudge you to inform you that he’d spotted Zach. It seemed as though Zach hadn’t exactly noticed you however, which you were thankful for. He looked dashing as ever in his vintage suit but he didn’t look even remotely happy. Sure he’d laugh at his friends stupid jokes, but a couple seconds after you started watching, you saw his “date” vying for his attention, him shrug her off and her skulk off in a huff. A smirk tickled your cheeks as you relay what you saw to Alex. He just snorted at you, before asking you to dance.

As he leads you out onto the dance floor, a slow song starts to play and you’re privately thankful for that. These shoes were going to be the death of you and the slower you moved, the better. It was weird to be slow dancing with Alex though. He was your best friend, sure, but the dances you always saved for him were the fast, look like an idiot dances. True to his character though, he didn’t make it any weird than it had to and kept his hands in the appropriate places. Once the dance was over, you peeked around to look for Zach and was annoyed to see that he was gone.

“Where the fuck did he go?” You mutter under your breath. Alex also looked around and nudged you to point him out, right as he made his way out the the gym doors. “Jesus fucking Christ, whatever.” You swear under your breath. “I need something to drink.” You and Alex make your way over to the punch bowl. You turn to ask Alex if he wanted the spiked stuff or not to find Alex gone and Zach in his place. You scrunch up your nose in irritation at him, although inside you were leaping for joy. It’s about damn time he realized you were here. The look on his face told you he wasn’t happy about it either. In fact, he looked pissed. He tried to pull you over to the bleachers, but you ripped your wrist out of his grip. When he turned around to see what was wrong you just gestured at your shoes. “I cannot move that damn fast.” You shout over the music. He starts walking away but this time you follow him. Once outside he turns around, practically fuming.

“What the fuck (Y/N)? Seriously, what the fuck?” He says, his frustration bubbling over.

“What are you talking about?” You ask him venomously.

“You know what the fuck I’m talking about. What are you doing here, looking like that, with Alex?” He asks.

“I’m not allowed to go to a dance with a friend? I mean, my boyfriend wasn’t going to be taking me so I figure I have to go with someone.” You shot back.

“Oh don’t even start with that shit.” Zach spat. “I didn’t like it anymore than you did. That doesn’t mean you have to ‘get back at me’.”

“You liked it enough to go along with it.” You yelled, your temper getting the best of you. “ Just once I’d like to be just a little more important than your stupid teams.”

“These stupid teams are giving me my fucking future (Y/N).” Zach retorted. “Without them, there’s no scholarships, and I can’t do whatever I want with my life which at this exact moment is not deal with this petty ass bullshit.

“You can be on the team and still be my fucking boyfriend Zachary.” You roared. “It’s as easy as setting fucking boundaries. How do you think it feels for me Zach? To be so fucking secondary to be put on the back burner so you can keep up appearances. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not playing second fiddle to some stupid cheerleader. Either you love me and you’re proud of me like you claim, or just fucking break if off and let me get the hell over you.” Tears were forming in your eyes now, the pain you were trying so hard to push down was finally bubbling over the surface. Zach tried to put his hand on your shoulder but you pulled away from him, swaying slightly on your heels.

“Look, (Y/N), I love you, you know I do. I shouldn’t have gone to the dance with Cheryl. Bryce just pressured me into it.” Zach apologized. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you either. Just seeing you here tonight, looking like you do and being all over Alex-”

“All over Alex?” You let out a laugh, one that turned into giggling. “Alex is my best fucking friend, you know that. We danced. That’s literally it.”

“I’m sorry.” He said. “The way you look tonight.” He looked you up and down. “You just look so fucking hot. I couldn’t take it.” You feel your cheeks flush. “You just drive me wild baby.”

“Zach?” A voice called out. Cheryl. The chick he brought as a date tonight. “What are you doing out here? Who is she?” The girl asked, looking you up and down.

“Shit. Okay see, Cheryl, this is my girlfriend, (Y/N).” Zach said, anxiously.

“Okay, but you don’t have a girlfriend, that’s why you asked me to the dance.” She said, eyes narrowed. “You explicitly told me you weren’t dating (Y/N).” She looked to you. “I asked.”

“Oh really Zach. How ashamed of me are you?” You turn to him, temper flaring again.

“It’s not that.” Zach stuttered. “I just- I hate the drama. I just wanted to keep you to myself. I love you, (Y/N).”

“Good for fucking you!” You shout at him. “You’re an idiot! An absolute fucking idiot.” You throw your hands up in exasperation and head back inside.

“(Y/N)! Please, goddammit, come on! (Y/N)!” Zach called after you, stopped by his date who was apparently giving him an earful. You find Alex on the bleachers and pulled him onto the dance floor.

“Whoa, what’s going on, what happened with Zach?” Alex asked once you stopped dragging him across the floor.

“Zach’s a fucking idiot.” You mumble under your breath.

“Well no shit, but that fucking idiot loves you.” Alex assures you.

“Well he’s got a funny fucking way of showing it.” You hiss. A slow song starts and you and Alex move close again to dance along. You see him looking behind you before pulling away to let Zach cut in. You roll your eyes at him. “What do you want?” You hiss.

“I want to fix this shit between us.” He says earnestly. “I just got lectured outside and put in my place.”

“Oh, well I’m glad someone can get you to see reason.” You say, rolling your eyes. He stops to look you in the eye.

“I’m serious (Y/N), I’m willing to change, as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh so it’s either I take you back or I set you free to go be ashamed of some other girl?” You ask, eyes narrowed.

“Fuck this.” He pulls away from you and stalks off. Your eyes flood with tears again and you make your way to the door but a voice over the DJ’s speaker stops you in your tracks.

“Hey what’s up Liberty, its ya boy, Zach. I just have a special announcement to make because I have to set some shit, er excuse me, stuff straight.” You turn around to look at him shaking your head slowly. “There might have been some confusion with my date tonight. You see, I’m an idiot who would rather keep quiet rather than rock the boat, but doing that almost cost me everything that matters to me tonight. You see, I love (Y/F/N). I love her with all my heart.” He points to you in the crowd, and lights come down around you. “I didn’t want to share our relationship with you assholes, but I didn’t realize how much pain that was causing (Y/N). So I’m just letting you know, so everyone knows how much I love (Y/N) and that I have ever since communications class sophomore year. And I will do anything to make this right with you.” He turns and thanks Tony before pushing his way through the crowd to you. When you finally meet, you push your lips onto his, kissing him deeply. When you break apart, you see the rest of the jocks smirking at him and laughing to themselves before turning away.

“I love you (Y/N). I’m sorry I ever wanted to hide this beautiful thing we have from anyone. I’m luckiest man in the world that you call me yours.”

#Zach Dempsey #Zach Dempsey Imagine #Zach x Reader #Zach x you #13 Reasons Why #13 Reasons Why imagine #Alex Standall #Alex Standall imagine

[younusalgoharsvoice]

Is it permissible to watch Islamic movies centred around important figures in Islam, like the ones produced by Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Hollywood, etc? Watch this video for Sayyidi Younus AlGohar’s answer. ( https://youtu.be/Gl8HGpm1zBA )

Main points:

- People have made many videos. Hollywood has made movies about Samson and Delilah, Jesus, Prophet Mohammad, etc. Movies have been made on various topics from action to politics. But the producers of these movies decided to target the religious audience by making such movies. The ones who make these movies, to dramatise the story, they add their own twists, turns and embellishments to get the desired effect. As a result, they do not accurately convey what really happened, however, the viewer leaves the cinema thinking that what they just saw is what happened in reality with the historical and religious figures the movie portrayed.

- Just look at Pakistani dramas. If the director is part of the Wahhabi sect, the characters in his show will follow his tenets and he will use the drama to convey his belief system. And if the director is a Sunni, he will not project his tenet in the drama, but he will definitely include a scene of a Sufi shrine at some point in the drama. Films are a very dangerous tool; people will remember films better than they would remember books that were of the same length as the film scripts.  

- Growing up in Pakistan, we often heard from religious clerics about the tragedy of Karbala. The way the religious clerics described the battlefield of Karbala was scene by scene. The question then arises: was there somebody on the battlefield of Karbala who simply sat there, recording every passing moment? How could that be? The first book that was compiled in Islamic history was done so 200 years after the demise of Prophet Mohammad. And the incident of Karbala took place in 680 AD, approximately 150 years before any written record. How would those writing the record 150 years later know whether what they were being told about the incident Karbala was true or not?

- An example of how movies distort history is The Da Vinci Code. The Holy Grail was a bowl that was used to collect Jesus Christ’s blood that fell from his wounds while he was on the cross. However, The Da Vinci Code movie tried to portray that Mary Magdalene’s womb was the Holy Grail and where Jesus Christ’s sperm entered and stayed. This is how much they changed the truth. And they projected that Jesus had a child and Mary Magdalene was his girlfriend. This is all blasphemous; people made up stories like this just to make money.

- Religious films are not entertainment. If you just want to watch a movie for entertainment, then watch something else. Do not watch religious films. If you watch videos produced by the Arab film industry about Ameer Mauwiya, you will end up thinking he was a fair and great man; similarly, if you watch their films about Yazeed, you will be left with the impression that Yazeed was in the right during the Battle of Karbala. Therefore, it is better not to watch films that appear to be Islamic because they will leave a profound effect on your mind.

. . . ............ . Have a question for Sayyidi Younus AlGohar? Text your questions to us on WhatsApp: [phone] or Facebook messenger: http://m.me/alratv . . Watch the live recordings of these lectures every day at 22:00 GMT at: http://www.younusalgohar.com . .

#ImamMehdi #GoharShahi #YounusAlGohar #جائز_ناجائز #Goharian_philosophy #Sufism #ذکراللہ #SpreadPositivity #ظہورمہدی #دین_الہی #spiritual_Guide #Spiritual_awareness #اسلام #Spiritual_Heart #GodsLight #قرآن #Knowledge #مومنین #SpiritualSystem #religionofpeace #EnlighteneProgeny #Sharia #Muslim #momin #Spirituality #مذہب #right_path #Justice4GoharShahi

[pamphletstoinspire]

A Padre Pio Inspirational Story

I feel all your troubles, as if they were my own. – St. Pio of Pietrelcina

A Testimony by Fr. Louis Solcia, CRSP

Amelie Gonzales was a little girl at our parish who taught me many things. She taught me much about both life and death. Her short life was a blessing to her family and to all those who knew her. It certainly was a blessing to me.

Amelie’s mother, Amata, and her grandmother Marlene, regularly attended our Padre Pio prayer group at Our Lady of the Rosary. The family was very devout. Amelie, who followed the good example of her mother and grandmother, was a very spiritual child. Amata told me that when she took Amelie to the store each week, Amelie always wanted to buy a bouquet of roses to place in front of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Amelie was diagnosed with a rare form of lung cancer called Pluropulmonary Blastoma. It is a cancer that occurs most often in infants and children but has also been reported in adults. The doctors hoped that chemotherapy treatments would arrest the cancer. Finally, the doctors told the family that they had done everything in their power to save Amelie. They had used every modern medical means at their disposal. There was nothing more they could do.

Amelie grew weaker as the cancer progressed but strangely enough, she never looked sick. She had a desire to receive Holy Communion. Children ordinarily do not receive their first Holy Communion before the age of seven. Amelie was just five years old. But because she had a spiritual maturity beyond her years and because of her terminal diagnosis, I was able to give her Holy Communion.

Amelie told her mother that Padre Pio had come to her and had given her a blessing. One day, near the end of her life, she was lying in her bed, looking up at the ceiling in her room. Suddenly, the ceiling disappeared, and in its place she saw the evening sky, studded with brilliant stars. Jesus and Mary were there in the sky and they were smiling at her. Later, her mother showed her a holy card of Jesus. “Amelie, did Jesus look like this?” she asked. “No, he didn’t,” she replied. “He was so bright!”

Our Padre Pio prayer group had prayed for many weeks for Amelie. We all hoped in our hearts that she would be healed. But it was not to be. Amelie died peacefully in her mother’s arms on December 14, 2009. On the day that she died, she saw a white butterfly. “Mommy, don’t you see the butterfly?” she asked. But her mother could not see it. No one saw it but Amelie. After her death, Amelie truly looked like a little angel.

I had a desire to visit the cemetery where Amelie was buried and I went there on several occasions to pray. Beautiful red roses in a heart-shaped pattern had been placed on her grave by her mother. In my heart, I felt a great sadness. I wondered why God had taken such a beautiful little girl and left us all with such heavy hearts. I especially felt sorry for Amelie’s family because of their grief. But then I reasoned to myself that God never allows something bad to happen unless He can draw good out of it. I have been a priest for more than fifty years and I have always believed that. But in this situation, I struggled with God. Although at the time, I could not see past the pain of the situation, soon I would see the good that God would draw out of Amelie’s death.

Amelie’s best friend was her eight-year-old cousin, Alexis. The two girls were inseparable. After Amelie’s death, Alexis’ sister, Cassandra, had a vivid dream. In her dream, Amelie was looking everywhere for Alexis. “Where is Alexis?” she asked. “I want to find Alexis!” It was shortly after Cassandra’s dream that Alexis announced that she wanted to take instructions in the Catholic faith and be baptized. Everyone in the family was surprised. Alexis’ desire seemed to come out of nowhere. There was certainly no one in her family encouraging her to take that step. Alexis’ mother had no religious affiliation and she never took the family to church on Sunday. However, she was willing to let Alexis take instruction in the Catholic faith. I had the sense that the dream of Amelie was instrumental in Alexis’ desire to become a Catholic. Amelie’s mother now brings Alexis to our parish once a week. I am giving her the instructions myself and preparing her for baptism, confirmation and for her first Holy Communion.

God can and does draw good out of the hard and painful situations in life. We only have to look and we will see.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven – A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot … a time to break down, and a time to build up, a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones. – Ecclesiastes 3:1-4 __________________________

Joey Finn of Hudson, New York had been coping with severe asthma for most of his childhood. In 2005, when Joey was ten years old, he was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, an incurable disease that makes it difficult to breathe and eventually destroys the lungs completely. Joey’s lungs already showed the damage from the disease and he would have to have breathing treatments twice a day for the rest of his life. The median survival age for those who have the disease is in the early thirties.

Shortly after Joey’s diagnosis, his mother, Melissa Finn was introduced to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. The Make-A-Wish Foundation is a nonprofit organization which offers children with chronic, life threatening diseases, the opportunity to make a wish and have it granted. For the youth who daily struggle with incurable illnesses, the chance to have a wish come true can lift their spirits and enrich their lives. It gives them something positive to look forward to in life. The Make-A-Wish Foundation, in its ministry of compassion, has brought happiness to countless children.

When Joey said that he would like to submit a wish to the Foundation for consideration, his mother assumed that he would request a trip to Disney World in Florida. However, when he told his mother what he wished for, she could not have been more surprised. Joey wanted to travel to San Giovanni Rotondo to pray at the tomb of Padre Pio. He also wanted to see the holy father in Rome. Where did the desire come from? That is a good question. Joey did not grow up in a particularly religious household. Although the Finns were Catholics, they did not attend Mass on Sunday. As it turned out, Joey had seen a documentary on the life of Padre Pio on the History Channel which had greatly inspired him. He learned about Padre Pio’s stigmata, his prayer life, and his deep faith in God. Like Joey, Padre Pio had suffered most of his life with poor health. He was afflicted with chronic breathing problems, including asthma and bronchitis. It was an acute case of asthma that was a contributing cause of Padre Pio’s death in September 1968.

In thinking of her son’s wish, Melissa had one deep concern. She was afraid that Joey would be crushed if he expected a miracle from Padre Pio and did not receive one. She talked to him about it and he assured her that was not the case. He had a devotion to Padre Pio and wanted to pray at his tomb. He intended to offer up his prayers for all the people in the world who were stricken with cystic fibrosis and to pray that there would someday be a cure. He was certain that there would be no disappointment in that.

One recalls that Padre Pio felt a great call to help the sick and suffering, not only through his daily intercessory prayers but also through concrete action. He founded the Home for the Relief of Suffering for that very reason. He spoke of it as his “earthly mission.” There were many scoffers and detractors who doubted that the project could ever succeed. But against all odds, the Home grew and prospered and has helped countless lives.

Joey Finn’s wish was certainly one of the most unique that had been submitted to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Some of the popular requests included a shopping spree at the mall, an outdoor playground, and a trip to the Super Bowl. Occasionally, children requested a trip to Honolulu or Hollywood. But the request to visit San Giovanni Rotondo in southern Italy had to be a first. The Foundation checked with Joey’s mother to make sure that it was his wish and not hers. She assured them that she was just as surprised as anyone else when she found out Joey’s wish. Joey’s request was finally approved and in June 2007, twelve-year-old Joey along with his mother, father and thirteen-year-old sister made preparations to travel to Italy. Their first surprise came, shortly after they boarded the plane. The pilot came over the loud speaker and proposed a question to all the passengers. “Is it true that Joey Finn, who is sponsored by the Make-A-Wish Foundation, is on board the plane?” the pilot asked. Joey’s excitement intensified when the pilot asked him if he would like to step to the cockpit and turn the key to start the airplane. His reply was an enthusiastic, “Yes!” It was the beginning of an extraordinary journey for the entire Finn family.

The first stop on their remarkable pilgrimage was to Rome, where they toured the Vatican. They spent time at the beautiful Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Catacombs, the Holy Stairs and more. Along with a multitude of others, they were able to see the Holy Father and to receive his papal blessing. Joey took many excellent pictures of the Holy Father.

In San Giovanni Rotondo, the pilgrims who were waiting in line to make a visit to Padre Pio’s tomb, prayed the Rosary while they waited. Joey and his family joined in the prayers. They literally just squeezed into the church as it was closing that evening. Melissa was the very last person allowed to enter before the doors were locked.

Padre Pio’s tomb was below the main altar of the church and was surrounded by an iron enclosure. People were able to draw very close to the tomb but the iron enclosure prevented anyone from actually touching it. On the evening of the Finns’ visit, the little iron gate was unlocked and opened. All those who were present that evening were allowed to place their hand on Padre Pio’s tomb. Melissa Finn was later told that the iron gate is customarily closed and locked at all times.

The Finn family never imagined the impact the trip to San Giovanni Rotondo would have on their lives. Melissa Finn felt compelled to go to confession while visiting the monastery church of Our Lady of Grace. She had not been to confession in more than twenty-five years. Joey told his mother that when he stood and prayed at Padre Pio’s tomb, he had the sense that Padre Pio had heard his prayers. “Padre Pio has taken our family in as his own,” Joey said to his mother.

For the Finns, the time spent at Padre Pio’s monastery was a time of spiritual renewal and positive change. After returning home, they began to attend Mass together every Sunday as a family. It was something they had not done for a long time. Joey had a desire to learn more about his Catholic faith and to serve the Church. He soon became an altar server each Sunday at Mass.

Joey had been able to purchase some very meaningful souvenirs of Padre Pio while in Italy. Back in Hudson, New York, he set up his own little shrine dedicated to his patron saint and placed it on display in his home. Quite unexpectedly, he even received a third class relic of the saint. A nurse who had heard about Joey was touched by his story. She sent him a very special gift. It was a Rosary which had been blessed by Padre Pio. One of her elderly patients had given it to her. “I believe that Joey found something in Italy which is of equal value to finding a cure for his disease,” Melissa Finn said. “He found his faith, the strength that he will need in his lifetime to endure the challenges that lie ahead of him. He prayed, he listened, he learned … He did this of his own free will and with great determination.” In the final analysis, the greatest healings of all are those that take place in the human soul. __________________________

Judy Hayes of Holiday, Florida woke up one morning to find that a large lump had appeared on her neck. She went to the doctor that very morning and was put through a multitude of tests. The results were not good. Judy was diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma in stage four, the final stage. The cancer had already spread to her bones.

Before her first chemotherapy treatment, Judy went to a Catholic Gift Shop. She wanted to get some prayer and novena cards of her favorite saints. She was nervous about receiving chemotherapy and planned to pray throughout the treatment.

In the Catholic Gift Shop, the prayer cards and novenas were on a small rack that could be turned in a circular fashion. Three times Judy turned the rack and three times it stopped at a holy card of Padre Pio. However, her devotion was to St. Jude, St. Anthony, and the Infant of Prague. When she found what she was looking for, she made her purchases. She was just opening the door to walk out of the shop when she stopped and turned back. Judy felt guilty. It truly seemed like the little prayer card of Padre Pio had been calling to her. “O.K. Padre Pio, I will take you home with me,” Judy said silently. “I pray that you will be with me and heal me of the cancer.”

The chemotherapy and radiation treatments made Judy very ill. In December, she came down with pneumonia and had to be admitted to the hospital. She became weaker by the day. She lost the ability to walk. Her condition seemed to go from bad to worse. She developed dangerous blood clots and had to be treated for congestive heart failure. She was in and out of the intensive care unit. She had to go into surgery to have her gall bladder removed. Finally, after many months in the hospital, she was sent to a nursing home. However, she soon developed an infection and had to be readmitted to the hospital.

But her condition did not improve. She was placed on a ventilator for nine days. She drifted in and out of consciousness, barely holding on to life. Through the long days and nights, she petitioned Padre Pio to help her. She prayed to him, dialogued with him, entreated him, begged him. For some reason, it was Padre Pio that she addressed her urgent prayers to rather than to the saints that she had been devoted to for years.

One particularly day, as Judy lay silent and immobile in her hospital bed, she heard the nurse supervisor talking to some of the other medical staff. “Before you leave your shift tonight, prepare Judy Hayes’ death certificate,” the nurse supervisor said. “Make sure you have the doctor sign it before he goes home. I have been observing her throughout the day. She is going to die tonight.” Judy was devastated by the words. Everything within her cried out against it. She didn’t want to die. She couldn’t die! She begged Padre Pio to help her.

People everywhere were praying for Judy Hayes. One of her dear friends, who was in a nursing home, prayed a Rosary for Judy every morning at 2:00 a.m. To the amazement of everyone, Judy’s strength slowly returned. She was eventually discharged from the hospital and was able to return to her home.

After Judy’s recovery, she had a great desire to promote Padre Pio. She was convinced that she was alive and well because of his intercession. She made it a habit to keep Padre Pio prayer cards in her purse at all times and she found many opportunities to give them to others. People were inspired by her faith and trust in God. Many people were helped, just by meeting Judy.

One afternoon when Judy was enjoying an afternoon out in the Florida sunshine, she happened to see a woman that she felt urged to speak to. The woman was a complete stranger to her. Not knowing what possessed her, Judy went up to the woman and asked her if she was a Catholic. Judy was not in the habit of asking people their religious affiliation, especially not a perfect stranger. It simply did not seem like an appropriate thing to do. The woman however, did not mind the question at all, and answered in the affirmative. Judy then gave her a Padre Pio prayer card. She told her a little bit about Padre Pio and showed her the beautiful prayer on the back of the card. “Oh, you are an answer to my prayers!” the woman said to Judy. She then went on to explain her situation. For weeks, the woman had been taking care of her dear husband who had a terminal illness. She had become very depressed as she watched him slowly dying. She had not wanted to leave her husband that day but she had done so at the insistence of a friend. Her friend was adamant that she take a needed break. Her friend was taking care of her husband in her place that afternoon.

The woman explained that she had been praying when Judy came up and spoke to her. “Oh God,” she prayed, “Please send me a sign of hope. I need greater faith in You and I need strength to go on. I am so depressed. Please send me someone who will help me!” With her eyes brimming with tears, the woman thanked Judy for the holy card of Padre Pio and assured her that she would pray to him. __________________________

Marsha Jacques felt very fortunate to possess four shirts which were blessed with a first class relic of Padre Pio. The shirts had also been blessed by a holy priest. Marsha decided to give one of the shirts to her neighbor, Julie Bouldin. Julie suffered from chronic pain and many serious health issues. Julie, who had a devotion to Padre Pio, was very happy to receive the shirt.

Julie was not the only person in her family who could benefit from the relic of a saint. At that time, her brother-in-law, Jim, was in critical condition at the hospital. Jim had suffered a massive heart attack not long before which required quadruple bypass surgery. He made it through the surgery but soon after, he developed pneumonia. His condition deteriorated and his bodily organs began to shut down. He finally had to be placed on life support.

The days passed but there was no change, no improvement in Jim’s condition. He was in a deeply unconscious state and machines were now keeping his body alive. After some time on life support, the doctor told Jim’s wife, Mercy, that Jim was not going to recover. It was just a matter of time. He said that it was time to talk about the idea of discontinuing the life support.

Mercy was in a great state of distress when she called Julie, her sister, to tell her the news. Julie advised Mercy not to make any quick decisions. It was almost Christmas. It would be too hard to even think of removing the life support at Christmas time. She advised her to wait until after the holidays to consider it.

Julie wanted to bring the shirt blessed by the relic of Padre Pio to the hospital and pray for Jim. Mercy thought it was a wonderful idea. Jim was not a person of faith. He was an atheist. Although he did not believe in the power of prayer, his wife and his sister-in-law certainly did.In the Intensive Care Unit, Julie and Mercy placed the blessed shirt over Jim. They prayed the Novena to the Sacred Heart for him and put their complete trust in God. Jim remained completely still and unresponsive.

The next day, when they returned to the hospital, his condition was the same. But on the third day, there was a change. When they went into his room, Jim’s eyes were open. He seemed to be trying to communicate with them but he was not able to since there was a large tube down his throat. Mercy told him that they were praying the Novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus for him. She spoke to him of Padre Pio and told him about the relic that they had placed on his chest. She asked him if it was all right with him if they continued the prayers for his healing. Through the expression in his eyes, it seemed as though Jim was trying to tell them that he was glad they were praying and wanted them to continue.

Each day of the novena, Jim became a little more aware, a little more conscious of his surroundings. The doctor was incredulous at his improvement. “Even if he lives, he will be permanently disabled,” the doctor told Mercy. “He will have to spend a long time in a nursing home, relearning motor skills. He will never be able to work again.” But Mercy was not concerned about that. Her husband was now slowly recuperating. Her prayers and her sister’s prayers to the Sacred Heart of Jesus had been answered.

Jim was discharged to a nursing home where he received physical therapy and continued to improve. He insisted that the blessed shirt remain with him at all times. He was either wearing it or had it right beside his bed. His atheistic beliefs are now a thing of the past. He was eventually able to return to his full time job. Jim is convinced that he has been given a second chance at life through the prayers of his family.

As for me, I will always have hope, and I will praise You more and more. – Psalm 71:14

#padre pio

[bruhwhyth0]

WHY THO?

Jesus Christ I was really hoping I’d never have to do this again. I honestly don’t know what is worse, having to watch another shitty movie or rereading my old blog posts and realizing that they were lower in quality than the movies I was reviewing. Fortunately it doesn’t really matter because I know for a fact that my -2 followers don’t seem to mind. But here I am. Once again I must swallow my pride and sumit myself to literal torture all in the name of a grade. To my suprise choosing a crappy movie was almost as difficult as watching one. So many options. So much low hanging fruit. However movies of this nature can always be a mixed bag. I remember when I first started this blog a few years ago some reviews never left my drafts because I didn't have much to write about. Sometimes a movie is so mediocre, so bad, that it can’t even excel at being an awful pile of crap. I chose to write about bad movies because I figured it would be entertaining. You’d think some films, in their own demented way, could at least entertain. But no. Can’t even get that right. I’d find myself at 2’o’clock in the morning looking at my notes only to realize that I basically wrote nothing. All I had was a lingering sense of regret and confusion; like I’d just woken up from a drunken one night stand. All I could do is ask myself, “What the hell did I just watch?” So as I revisit this deserted island I call my blog for what most likely will be the last time, I want to make sure that it is worth it. If I’m going to verbally assault a movie, I’m going to make sure it is an easy target. That was my thought process at least. I soon realized that just because a movie is easy to write about, that doesn’t mean it is easy to watch.

So what movie did I force upon my soul do you ask? Why CATS of course. Because who doesn’t like Cats? Everyone loves cats. What’s not to love about an ungrateful and rude animal that walks around your house like it owns the place. An animal that bites, scratches, and claws at anything it deems unworthy. “Let's make a movie, based off the perverted 80s Broadway production that centered around these literal spawns of Satan,” said every Hollywood executive with their head up their ass. As a matter of fact they thought it was such a good idea that they dropped 95 million U.S. dollars on it.

Now before I continue, as I typed “cats budget” in my google search bar, take a guess what came up after “cats bu..”. CATS BUTTHOLE SMELL. Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is wrong with people? I tried recreating it in the search bar to screenshot but I couldn’t get it to come up, but trust me. I know what I saw. What is it with cat people man? Seriously. Really threw me off my train of thought.

But yeah, 95 big ones. A lot of good things could have been done with that money, but nope. We needed a live action adaptation of Cats. Did anyone who thought this was a good idea even see the play? That shit was weird. I didn’t watch it, cause, well why the hell would I?

But from the bare minimum research that I did do, the general consensus was that it was a shitty play that made lots of money because people are dumb and will watch anything. I guess producers were hoping lightning would strike twice. If you saw the play you would know that there is literally no plot. It has nothing. It is literally a bunch of weirdos dressed like anthropomorphic cats dry humping each other and singing for 2 hours. I swear its target audience had to consist of lonely 12 years old, sad housewives, and perverts. I tried watching the musical just to get a general reference of the living hell I was going to put myself in only to be utterly mortified. My eyes and ears didn’t last 5 minutes. How it made all the money it did baffles me. But I’m not here to talk about this crime against humanity, I’m here to rip into its bastard child. And boy, oh boy, is there a lot to talk about.

$14.99 in and I’m already regretting my life choices. Everything in my life has led me to this moment and I really wish I could change that. Thanks to what a box office bomb this movie was, I can’t rent it anywhere. I can only buy it. Figures. You're already off to a bad start movie. 2 minutes into the opening scene and I already hate it. People walking around on all fours in fursuits, licking their genitals, singing dancing, some crappy asymmetric musical. WHY! Oh god why did people make this? What kind of furry bullshit is this? I am going to be completely transparent. I’m writing this while I’m watching the movie. I’m not even 5 minutes in and I want to blow my brains out. This is not hyperbole, I wish it was. I can’t dude. I can’t watch this fucking movie. All the characters speak in these weird haikus with British accents. I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t know what anyone is saying half the freaking time. So many made up words and phrases. It's like the script was written by some Dr. Suess rejected. I genuinely have no idea what is going on. I was really hoping that for once one of my reviews wouldn’t sound like the rantings of a madman. But I can’t help it. This crap is rotting my brain. Seriously what is going on. Maybe I’m a simpleton who doesn’t get musicals, but I shit you not there is no plot. I have no idea what the hell is going on. How do you have a movie with no plot?

It’s just singing about being cats... and their FEET. JESUS CHRIST THEY HAVE FEET. No CGI paws. BARE. HUMAN. FEET. God why. How as an actor, do you go on set, act like a literal animal and tell yourself, “yeah this is gonna pan out great.” How did they sit down and go, “I’m going to sit here, lick a fake bowl of milk, sing and dance nonsense, then proceed to lick my non-existent cat balls.” I literally watched an actor snarl directly into the camera. When I went to find out who it was, I was unsurprised to see that all the pictures of the actors were gone. Just names. With a little digging I found out it was Ian Mckellen, you know, from Lord of the Rings. Magneto from Xmen. That Ian Mckellen. Yup, and he snarled to the camera like a cat. Anything for a paycheck right? Who am I to judge, I watched 2019’s Cats for an English class. Who is really losing here, cause frankly I don’t know anymore. If I have anything positive to say about this movie is that it has less dry humping than its source material. Key word less. I better get an A for this.

An hour into the movie and I still don’t know what the fuck is going on. Some dude in overalls is tap dancing. He's a “railway cat” cause he's a conductor or something. I physically cannot do this. I'm dying on the inside. A light inside me is slowly fading. Countless abhorrent musical numbers. Too many for a man to take. To put things in perspective, I did not like Hamilton. Did I respect it for what it was? Of course. Not my cup of tea though. Hamilton was a great musical, arguably one of the best, and I did not enjoy it whatsoever. Now here I am watching Cats. Just a little perspective.

As I came to the end of the movie I saw that I missed all kinds of things. There was a love plot, some kind of contest, and villain. But that didn’t concern me. All I could focus on was how I wasted an hour and a half of my life. 

An hour and a half wasted on this.

Do you think God left us because he feared what he created? I sure as hell do. The philosophers were right. Everyday Pantheism is making more and more sense. And if not that nihilism. God is dead. God is most certainly dead. Don’t believe me? The GIF above is all the proof you need.

I was hoping that for once one of these blogs would have some sense of conformity. Some sort of cohesion. Maybe an ounce of legitimacy. But I couldn’t. There is something about these movies that drain the life from you. Every second spent looking at my computer screen I felt brain cells dying. I might as well have drunk a whole 750 milliliter bottle of Everclear. That or bang my head against a wall for 15 minutes. Either would have been just as effective; and probably more efficient.

I thought that I could improve upon the quality of my blog. When I reread my old post I realized that they had no depth. I thought maybe it was me. Right? I was 15, What did I know about good writing? No. It never had anything to do with me. Movies like Cats are such horrendous abominations of human creation, that there is literally no way to talk about them with any form of professional effort. They are shallow. There is nothing to analyze. How can you analyze garbage? Art requires respect if it wants to be reviewed and judged accordingly. Cats and films like it don’t have my respect and never will. I type this with immense pleasure. Never again. Never will I ever put myself through this bull again. Thankfully, for the last time. I can ask Why Tho?

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘IN THE PRESENCE OF A CLOWN’ “I wonder why I love you as I do…”

© 2020 by James Clark

     In 1997, at the age of 80, Ingmar Bergman saw fit to return to his 1980 film, From the Life of the Marionettes, in order to disclose the further range to be found in its turmoil and small triumph. That would have been long after those “in the know about films” had figured out and concluded for others that the maestro had nothing new to show. But those very small numbers ignoring their “betters,” could be beneficiaries of exciting times, far surpassing our many masters of the viral.

From the Life of the Marionettes, telescoping, in fact, back an eye-opener of a film from the days when Bergman’s numbers were not meagre, namely, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), the crux of the matter becomes “speaking the same language.” Most invested in that action would be the language of patricians (white-hot pedants), not nearly as bright and constructive as they think they are, but knowing where the money and dominance are. The 1980 blood-bath studies what can happen when couples dare not to speak the same language.

In the film, In the Presence of a Clown (1997), there is dissonance so massively distributed that clarifying its true conflict becomes quite a struggle, a struggle worth mastering. One way of cutting to the heart of our work is the Bergman standby of optical, dialectical apparitions, wielded marvelously by a remarkable roster of great cinematographers, in this case, Tony Forsberg. The first moment gives us a murky setting and a hand moving  a stylus to a vinyl disc. Two agencies awaiting magic. The label is a rusty-red. In the Bergman film, Dreams (1955), the first scene involves a hand, in semi-darkness, pressing upon a sheet of paper immersed in a photographic solution, by which to disclose a large image of a woman’s lips. Coming into play with this nocturnal effort is Salvador Dali’s creation of, “Mae West Sofa,” a surrealist icon. At the outset of, From the Life of the Marionettes, a prostitute in a brothel, showing pronounced red lips in close-up, dies horribly, but not before disclosing a surprising gift for beauty and verbal expression. You’d think each film, therefore, might implicitly be about not speaking the language of sharp advantage, daring to have a go as an innovator of sensibility. And yes, it does. But, oh, what tiny steps being made! In the film, In the Presence of a Clown, we have permission to untangle the death throes of those being imprisoned by cowardly partners, and their own backsliding.

    Whereas the protagonist in the latter film, namely, Carl Akerblom, is a patient in a mental hospital when first we meet him, he also (somewhat) belongs to three lamps shining from the ceiling of his confinement. Each light has a function within a strange and essential logic: one for survival; one for ecstasy; and, the third, a synthesis of the other two. To make those lights become everything, special actions are needed. Our film is resolved in getting what is needed. At this moment, Carl seems to be clueless about the sophistication peeking in. He inhabits a large room, painted grey, where he is the only inhabitant, along with many other empty beds. We soon learn that he had attempted murdering his fiance, Pauline (she being a Peril of Pauline, in the mold of Marionettes’ Peter, as in Peter Pan). That could account for his isolation. But, in an interview that morning (the doctor interrupting his vinyl) the thrust of narrative becomes Carl’s verve for music, in face of a blotto of a specialist (like the blotto of the mental specialist in, From the Life of the Marionettes), putting him in the driver’s seat of being a candidate of making that dialectic click. (The wintry scene out of two tall windows is supplied with a lovely tree in the snowy grounds. With the patient lying back on his bed, we see, on a little ledge, three small flower pots. Two support tiny flowers. The third is empty. The doctor’s surname is Egermann, that being the surname of Peter the effete butcher in the brothel.) As Carl digs into the woeful biography of Franz Schubert, by way of a rather hostile challenge to the doctor to admit he’d have a “sinking feeling,” were he such an artist, we are directed to his hands and his shaking fingers. (Hold that last thought.)

   Just as we become rather skeptical of Carl as having the right stuff, Pauline, whom he had refused to see, breaches the blockade to an upshot of increased confusion. Wearing a smart Louise Brooks hair style—the year is 1925—her sylphlike presence is a contrast to Carl’s many pounds. But her arrival, coinciding with his being unable to offset a bowl movement, must seriously become an even greater impediment to future interplay. She has three buttons across her coat. On entry, she found room 2A (without a third). She lights up a cigarette, the first of many, reminding us of unfit Harry and his chain-smoking, in the 1980 film. (Does she flounder like Harry?) When Carl returns, in some array, and she tells him, “You can’t escape me,” you wouldn’t place any bets on her. She has a bandage over her forehead, and he declares, “It was your fault…” (What happened to poetry?) The musician declares, “If you’ve come to reap my contrition, you’ll get none of it… What can you have come for? The cheap triumph of seeing your future husband’s total humiliation?” She retorts, “I certainly didn’t need to come here to see your humiliation. That’s been a daily bitter diet…” Carl’s shifting the patter is something new and, at the same time, something old. “Here comes the bit about my stepmother and her jealousy…” (Here, also, is the time to realize that the rich theatrical component of Bergman’s effort—however non-readers would bridle—offers drama, not only thrilling, but unprecedented, in any field. Along, therefore, with dazzling cinematography.)

   While this vague reprise of Hollywood screwball comedy, being impressively brought to life by the Bergman film, A Lesson in Love (1954), settles in, we are blindsided with Carl’s dotage upon the supposed sanctity of Schubert, to the outcome of putting together a homage whereby a silent film would be supplemented by actors speaking and musicians playing, a roadshow hopefully plumbing marvels of creative taste and power. There has been much more at the asylum between the doctor’s visit and Pauline’s visit, and now is the time to dispense with screwball comedy and begin to broach something even Bergman had never attempted before. First of all, there is a bit more craziness in the form of another of Carl’s shut-ins, one Osvald Vogler, a retired professor of exegetics (exegetics being a critical explanation of a written work, especially the Bible). Where he sits there are, in Carl’s big domaine, there are two empty flower pots. The name, “Vogler,” has a spotted career in Bergman films—pertaining to fakery, as with Persona, The Magician and Hour of the Wolf. Carl immediately takes an aversion to the academic’s vanity, and threatens, “I’m sicker than I look.” The lecturer peppers the protagonist (and us) about “inner freedom,” and though he’s another Mad Hatter, he has a sensibility to, like a tornado, dig up random gems along with the garbage. “Subjective by self-conceived… by self unfortunately destroyed… What we call inner freedom as it is so complex that can’t be codified, analyzed or classified… For freedom is the most elevated characteristic in the human spirit… the ancient source of the Sacred One and the literal immortality of Life.” Carl tries to talk about Schubert, but Vogler is now buried in a book. He does remark, “My wife is a deaf mute. She is also rich, and I live well on her wealth” [the source of the supposed new arts]. Vogler, now troubled, comes up to Carl where he is lying on his bed.  The latter takes the troubled man’s wrists to calm him; and Carl’s hand and fingers are once again featured. Now back to his confidence, Vogler asks the new friend, “What kind of ill-health forces you to dwell in these depressing premises?” And our bemusing protagonist chronicles the violence: “The person who tried to help me out of a terrifying difficulty was rewarded with a murderous blow, so that the skin on the forehead split and blood spurted…” He goes on to claim that the incident is nothing to him; but that Schubert is. (Much more dialogue is in store here and in many other contexts. But we must distinguish between the saga’s need to convey to the film audience the crushing deadness of the situation, which affords a cue to some positivity; and our essay’s need to focus here upon a kernel of very rare and very difficult and very crucial need, which will never register to many.)

   Carl bribes his motherly nurse to forego his tranquilizers, and then he makes her listen to a bedtime story she’d rather not hear. “Sit here and I’ll tell you everything… In the old days, they used to punish criminals by sticking a sharpened wood stake into the delinquent’s arse.” (Peter the patrician meted out a similar punishment to the prostitute in Marionettes.) He adds, “The point gradually comes out, at the back of the neck… Then they raised the stake by the river, and there the wretch hung. That’s what it’s like, Sister Stella. I’ve threaded on a stake… I’ve become a sight worth seeing…” (“The person who tried to help me out,” would have been a “delinquent,” exposing a shaky bourgeoisie to depredation.) Therefore, the rally, “Don’t think I’m asking for pity, like Jesus or Mahler…or for that matter, Swedenborg [an eighteen century, Swedish mystic, and Vogler’s hero], that sentimental old whiner… Schubert Franz, he’s my friend, my beloved brother…”) He thinks to end the night smugly with, “What theatre! What an audience!” But something shoots down the arrogance and hate.

Carl (and also Vogler) want to believe that the many hours they have put into their obscure repertoires must result in a better world. That they have landed in a place implying incompetence would not necessarily rule out a singular power; but the tenor of their explications are so transparently shabby, they now stand exposed as pathetic and virulent menaces, as with the half-wit doctor in Marionettes. Therefore, after boring the nurse with his bravado, he lies alone in his bed and ushers in a phantom not trammeled with soft lies. In the 1980 film, a murderer’s wife is far more concerned with the dead victim-prostitute than a live husband in a mental hospital. Her emotive make-up becomes a compass to take off as a free-lancer, a free lover. That compass returns to Carl’s bedroom, to haunt his cowardice (Vogel’s filibuster on behalf of “freedom” never giving a thought to courage). Emanating from the snowy atmosphere outside, we find that a strange presence has lingered after his Ted Talk. His spent candle has formed an angry-looking head. The apparition, all white with a white clown hat, focuses down to her fingers, very long and with very long fingernails. She turns out to be an expert in producing an odd kinetic residue from out of those fingers. Panning back to disclose her face, we have a huge ear [picking up what mediocrities like Carl and Vogler refuse to attend to, which is to say, being tone deaf] and an elaborate eyebrow [involving what the celebrated geniuses of our planet refuse to recognize]—one of the surrealist touches in Bergman’s film, Dreams. By contrast, she has lost several teeth. (When close to killing Pauline, Carl’s frenzy included grinding out many of his teeth.) He asks, “Have you been here long?/ “Quite a while… Quite a while,” she recalls. (In fact, thousands of years.) He tries to rationalize by asking, “Am I not quite awake, sir?” Her emphatic, “No” does nothing to calm him. Her sprightly dance to come close to him is rapid and graceful, recalling the hooker’s surprising homage to the smells of the seasons. She shoves the pitcher from the little table by the bed, and curls up on it with a smile implying her few years of problematic action. Her suppleness and equilibrium announce a dimension which fat, awkward Carl knows nothing about. The stab-wound on her chest becomes apparent, but she, disregarding it from out of a twilight-reservoir no longer human but having done her part, cordially asks him, “How are you?” He admits he’s bored (something he’d never have admitted to a person), and she follows with, “How are you, Mr. Torneman?”/ “Torneman was my cousin,” he reports, “who died. He was a clever clown. He scared the life out of me when I was little…” She laughs, “For that matter, I’m no mister,” and she happily shows her breasts and adopts a come-hither attitude, a residue of her former job. (She and Torneman, having done their tiny part in an infinite and perverse cosmos.) She fiddles with her nipples; and in so doing she lines up far to a side of the luminous windows. Carl finally comes to the crux of his nightmare. “One says that one is not afraid. ‘Why should I be afraid? As there is no life after death. For there isn’t, is there?’” She replies, “I don’t go around with secrets. Is that clear?” (Maybe it should be put as, “There’s a paradox,” a paradox which Pauline will approach slightly more effectively than the Clown.) Be that as it may, the flighty Clown, replying to Carl’s, “But aren’t you all alone at the actual moment?” by nodding yes and saying, “Alone. Inevitably,” may, for all her grace, be missing something, something Pauline, “The person who tried to help me out,” might see something very rare and very necessary. The Clown teases Carl for his apparent mania about fast and shattering locomotives. Both voices cover the cliché. She covers one of his eyes to calm him. Then she stands in that blue light and her fingers look like candles. The rendezvous collapses, as did the show for the nurse—the clown drawing Carl to approximate the savaging of her, “Inevitability.”

   Despite her solid insight that Carl was, and always will be, a Lost Boy, in the mold of Peter Pan, the killer of the Clown, and the enthusiast of speaking the same language of advantage and nothing more, Pauline, in face of the mute’s monetary wealth and the boys’ garrulous showiness, gushes, “It sounds revolutionary!” Despite her soon having second thoughts—the fiancé intent upon quality pens and writing paper—she allows herself to be persuaded by his, “Let your young heart be enthused, my darling. Just for once.” Amongst the launch, one statement is too jarring to overlook, being quintessentially ironic. “New ideas produce new money!” While emphasizing the happy days just around the corner, he mimes fingers counting all that “new money.” So close to activating a true “revolution;” and so hopelessly lost. An even more pointed action within this tizzy wells up from Pauline (now recognized as the main protagonist). “I wonder why I love you as I do [when recognizing he’ll never reach heights she can demand of herself]… What do you want with other ladies… when the clear-sightedness that afflicts me quite often these days strikes? I don’t understand why I actually love you…But now, as you sit there, holding forth on your living, talking film and all we are going to do together, I just want to cry and fall to my knees…” (Later we’ll better understand her passion. His woolen sweater has spilled beyond his jacket, recalling the sheep being killed by a passion of cowardice, in the film, The Passion of Anna [1969]. She completes a frieze of a squire, kneeling to her king. [Don’t take it naively. Wait till the last scene.])

The tour is, of course, stillborn. But where we catch up to the disaster, at the village where Carl sort of grew up as a descendent of an uber-bourgeois family, the spotlight is upon Pauline and the nature of her peril and accomplishment. The wordy two, being rank amateurs, have produced an incoherent and saccharin waste of time in homage to Schubert. But Pauline’s endeavor, at a snowbound but canny locale, is a drama of the highest stripe.

   The ingenue of the film (and Carl’s current squeeze) bitches once too often about the lack of majesty, and our real protagonist, having been doing the ironing, opens the subject of placing the hot implement upon her pretty face. Exit the talking ingenue. In the midst of that unpleasantness, Pauline explains, “There comes a point where nothing is of any importance.” (That happens to be a serious mistake which she’ll have to work on. And she will.) In contrast to that rather farcical disappearance, the cinematographer is magic itself, namely, actor, Robert Atzorn, who played the role of Peter, the skittish murderer, in Marionettes. His “Petrus” is a disinterested craftsman and well aware that the spectacle is rotten. During the long night of bathos in the snow he countenances Carl’s stupidity and dangerously using coins to juice up the electrical power, a state of affairs soon wrecking the night’s flicks and placing the technician in serious danger. (Twice along this flop, Petrus is left bleeding and writhing in pain, while putting out the inevitable fires. Carl, the artiste, had left the cameraman with the slogan, “The worst that can happen is that the Temperance Hall blows up.”)

Actually, the theatrical blow-up begins hours before the talkie does a U-turn and becomes a salon. (Here Pauline’s pointless alert, that she had been outnumbered in trying to establish coherence amidst almost complete folly, establishes her lack of grip in face of a peril requiring serious ruthlessness.) Carl’s step-mother announces (Carl roaming the snowbanks), “I have come to take my foolish stepson home…I care for this careless old child. I want to give him a little security…” (Security being the watchword of Anna, the bloodthirsty fascist, in The Passion of Anna. Here, though, as was another possessive mother, in Marionettes, the passion and depth of feeling of the younger woman transcends hard advantages of law and culture, and goes on to somewhat annul the relationship in her preferred way.)

   Even more stunning a reversal of the hard-wired clowns are the patrons that night, seeing unbeknownst, the final show. You’d never know from the rich stepmother that riches of sensibility burn in those frozen wastes. But, with the new, brave Peter taking the tickets, and Carl providing little bios for the crew, we come to realize that hard lives can be lovely comets. A teacher from another town has skied to the theatre. A lady whose husband committed suicide looks for enlightenment. A man  who can barely walk can would be always counted in the audience, “if it’s a question of culture.” “Superintendent Larsson…  comes for the new…” “Fredrick Blom was a cantor and took to drink. He has a small pension and does research into chorales from the area.” (Where the latter sits, a delicate, undulating pattern appears on the wall. Such alertness is not to be gratified by the show. But its traction is a gift to Pauline, going forward.)

The approximation of the illiterate nonsense, in lieu of the broken technology, appalls the reflective gathering, and appalls Petrus and Pauline—the latter having her backside spanked, not to be missed by the supposed wit; along with Vogler, completely breaking down and having to be taken back to where he belongs. (“Your entrails will come out of your shameful orifices…”) At an interlude, one of the less sophisticated souls, comes up to Pauline and asks, “Are there many acts? I was supposed to be home by 11… I wasn’t asking because it was dull…” Over that coffee break, the teacher, seeing fit to provide a touch of maturity and class, asks, “I would like to read something… I found it long ago in a book. It’s the story of a man seeking his way. It’s as if seeking had become the main thing… and was concealing what he was seeking. The author writes, ‘You complain that you cry out, and that God doesn’t reply. You feel imprisoned and you’re afraid that it is a life sentence… [a painted backdrop of hills and verdancy is in view]… although no one has said anything. Consider, then, that you are your own judge and jailor. Prisoner, leave your prison! To your astonishment you will find that no one will stop you. The reality outside prison is indeed terrifying, but never as terrifying as your own anguish down in that locked room…’ [She continues, knowing by heart, since she is in fact the writer]… Take your first step toward freedom. It is not difficult. The second step is more difficult; but never allow yourself to be defeated by your [puny] jailers, who are only your own fear and your own pride.” The applause that follows is rudely interfered with, by Carl (one of those fearful jailers), causing a distraction by urging the folks to have some coffee, and thereupon ordering, “Now we must begin Act II.” Act II has one non-bilious moment. While relating Schubert’s demise, Carl, the careless old child, frightens his baby-soft gut and the Clown and the surreal blue light reappear to glare him down. He says, “I’m sinking.” Then he’s silent for a few moments, listening to the music. “I’m not sinking,” he declares. “I’m rising…” What can Pauline make of this? (He goes on to offer an elderly lady his help with early morning milking.) The dreadful entertainment has a grateful end. The viewers’ exits, however, are absorbing. The teacher comes over to Pauline (whose piano accompaniment in the piece is a rare aspect of seriousness), and tells her, “I want to give you this writing.” (Two glowing windows and the two women in between.) Pauline’s thank-you lacks weight. In many Bergman films, a remarkable effort of sensibility is met with puny response. (We’ll soon find out if the piano player has an A-game.) She’s a bit more touched by the researcher’s explicit praise, “Thank you for the lovely music, Miss. I interpret the Schubert sonata differently. No criticism intended. It was lovely, though somewhat feminine for my taste. But absolutely lovely. Thank you…” Near the end of the departures, a jumbled man, past his bedtime, tells the surviving performers, “This has been a great rendering of real art. Excuse me for saying so, but the play was greater than the film. Thanks, again!” Carl quickly figured out that the patron hated the dog, and enjoyed the story and the company of connoisseurs. His face shows him as, “my foolish stepson.” What can Pauline make of this?

It’s been a ragged night, after a ragged tour, and she makes a fool of herself before a bedtime she might have been able to be balance from. His sister (one of the theatre goers that night), having apparently the family instinct for avoiding any part of art (along with an estranged husband named, Mr. Bergman), invites the thespians (in the name of the stepmother) to stay the night at the estate. Pauline (a few hours before, having charmed the old girl and shared some sherry together) becoming viral, tells the breeder, “How very kind of Mrs. Akerblom. I wouldn’t grant her such a triumph…” The sister-in-law asks Carl, “Come and do some conjuring,” Carl having made far more progress as an uncle than an artist. It also seems that the uncle excels in diplomacy; but that, to our shock, is far from the facts.

   In the night, in the busted theatre, with the spent wax looking like a monster, the spirit of a poetic outrage flares again. She steps beyond a curtain, close to the chair where Pauline was sleeping. Carl wakes up, the non-event with his stepmother festering like a mortal wound. She, now awake, and knowing she had been crude in the way the film was crude, she asks, “Are you angry about something?” His reply—“Are you going to send me back to the asylum?”—conceals an agenda of advantage and humiliation. In a flash, she guarantees that he can forever be a clown. “Come over here. Come…” Carl places his head on her chest. “You’re lying!” he blurts out, like a child. “You never know the truth!” Her, “Do as you like. Just don’t think I’m afraid,” bristles with her disgust with his personal superficiality and stunted, vomitistically precious family. He pounces, pressing his thumbs under her eyes. She asks. “Am I going to die now?” He melodramatically replies, “Perhaps we both are.” She then fires back, “That’s all right with me!” That leads Carl to take away his thumbs, and he shuts his eyes and breathes heavily. He falls to his knees. She looks outside for that wise light, only now having an incisive carnal taste of her antimajoritarian direction. He pouts, “I would like to say that my step-mother is an amiable lady” His legacy concerning wholesome and clever relatives must, from her, find a way beyond hate. Carl on the screen: “For Christ’s sake, it’s my nursery, Pauline… Then we would have sat for yet another while by the fire… She [the step-mother] would have taken you by the wrist and thanked you for having taken responsibility for me…” A Lost Boy. Would she always be his servant? The Clown makes a trio in the uncanny night. (A lost trio?) Katarina would leave Peter to his Teddy Bear, in Marionettes. What will Pauline do about Carl? Here, he would go on to approaching slashing his wrists with scissors. (The staff of the mental hospital where Peter ends up notes that the once-executive must be always under scrutiny against suicide.) She would use the chorus-cliché, “If you die, I don’t want to go on living.” On a more promising note, she declares, “You know you can wake me whenever you want.” But also she has to assimilate that this is a blow-up which has occurred hundreds of times. She gets up from the chair where she was sleeping. A face is imprinted in the cloth. She places her face upon his bended head. Her fingers move into a new site. How about the rest of her?

We have ample evidence to see that Pauline, like Katarina, will make a great change beyond the film per se. Whereas Peter had come to a point where he could not sustain any relationship with Katarina, it is possible that the “conjurer” has enough love on the ball to suit Pauline’s needs. Although, within the madhouse of Carl’s and Vogler’s drivel, she could not think effectively, there are agencies lovingly nudging her to her real presence. One, as already known, becomes a fusion of her moving fingers, with moving, dynamics, itself. When placed to perfection, a world beyond advantage (beyond religion and science) comes along. A third force having been subjected to mass nullity. Moreover, a towering power had been put into her frazzled hands that last night of the crazy promenade concert, by an out-of-the-way genius—in fact, an oracle, a skiing oracle. (Bergman’s last and most thrilling of a long series of oracles tolerating a poisonous, ridiculous normality. As a sidebar, though totally lacking serious reflection, Vogler and Carl [despite hiding their outlaw verve] knew that something important had been overlooked.) The backwoods teacher had given Pauline a map to the country of her true home, a country in love with disinterested “knack” (a best gift, in the film, Marionettes). The Clown, with her deadly and joyous knack of revealing that most of humankind cannot countenance its reality, never really registers (on film) with Pauline, while she drives Carl to near suffocation three times, during that last hopeless night.  But with this lonely, beset upon woman-protagonist being a survivor as well as a victim, things can, in fact, happen for the best.

   For the first and only time in Bergman’s career (this being his swan song) he encourages others to show what his protagonist could do, beyond reaching out to his partner and his family with civility. Carl, never to attain being a figure of personal love, perhaps would attain being a figure implicated in gusto along lines of her cosmic love. The oracle counsels a “first step,” away from cowardice, away from the norm. That coincides with the loaded hand (or other bodily features becoming a switch), the motion of elicitation from a cosmos needing finite love to fully complete the knack (that “menace” of creative, emotive force, being regarded as impious by the billions of religionists and being regarded as “soft,” frivolous, by the billions of smart, crude and intrinsically cowardly drones of science—well aware, on the fly, of emotive gratifications, but reflexively trashed as a secondary item). That loaded hand which we share carries two intertwined galaxies: a thrust of delight in dance with inventions of that play—as with the beauties of sunset, which happily dovetail to our eventual death, our eventual, loving, total disappearance; and a thrust to cue the myriad crafts to create the riches of sentience. Our option, therewith, to build when the vagaries of Lost Boys and Lost Girls permit; and a harbor of play, when they don’t.

Pauline, certainly knowing much about perils, could cull from Carl his range of conjuring. Could he appreciate her skills and her needs? Impossible! As impossible as Peter Pan in his cell, flitting hopelessly with his hands against a bright window in search of an adult traction, in From the Life of the Marionettes. Finding rich possibilities in others becomes a career for her, a career she very well might come to understand as impossible (despite fine pleasures), in light of all that has been already cemented on planet earth.

#ingmar bergman

[peachesannndgravy]

All the freaks come out at night....

Ok, so I’m posting this for @gettingaphdinlarry @elusivelilme @imalouislouie && @speciiial-kay . These folks saw my post last night, so I wanted to give you context. It’s kind of a long one but here we go.

Last night, my kid && I had tickets to go watch “The Nightmare Before Christmas” in 4D @ El Capitan Theater on Hollywood && Highland. What we didn’t know was that Linkin Park was performing a memorial to Chester at the Hollywood Bowl. Traffic was horrible. So, I had to circumvent that issue && took a side street, got there a bit late to the gig && well, I knew that going back home I was going to try to go back through Highland assuming that the traffic would be gone by the time we came out.

The movie is done && I noticed a bit of traffic, so I treated my kid to some pizza && watched the Astros take Game 3 in the meantime. We finally get to our car && my kid is knocking the fuck out. I pull out && apparently forget to turn on my headlights in the chaos of making sure we put all our souvenirs (Nightmare Before Xmas goodies we got from the theater && that we bought too) in order while my kid was fighting sleep. I finally head to the street && a car in front of me is acting erratically. I notice the driver trying to tell me something. Then, he literally stops in the middle of traffic, opens his door && steps out && makes these hand motions that remind me of “Twinkle, twinkle little star”. I go around his car && then he yells, “You have your headlights off!”

I immediately realize that I do && turn them on, thanking him profusely as I do because he went through a lot of trouble to save my ass. Anyhow, so he gets back into his car && I turn on my headlights && we proceed east on Highland. I noticed that there was still some traffic because the lanes in front of Hollywood Bowl have been coned off && there are food trucks && just a slight mess. Well, I hate driving at night because the bright headlights bug me, so I don’t know wtf happened behind me but all I heard was a loud honk. I try to assess the situation from my sideview mirrors && rearview mirror. I noticed that a Flex model vehicle is crossing traffic behind me (coming from one of the small perpendicular streets) to head on west on Highland. I’m assuming the cars behind me left a gap so the Flex could cut across traffic to go to their end. However, I notice another car who is going down the coned off lane trying to cut into the traffic && head east with us. Obviously, the Flex drivier was pissed that this other car decided to nearly ram themselves onto them, especially because the other vehicle (I’m calling it a sedan) was an asshole && cut ahead of everyone else sitting in traffic by racing up the coned off lane. 

Ok, so that’s what I saw. Mind you, traffic is still a bit tangled && I got some breathing room, so I moved forward. All of a sudden, there’s a gap behind me && I noticed the sedan trying to move along until I hear the screeching burning rubber of tires. I fully turn my head to my left && the fkn Flex is fucking doing a donut && turns around toward our end instead of going east on Highland. Then, the Flex accelerates quite rapidly in front of the Sedan && cuts them completely off, even going onto the other lane. So, imagine a car horizontally blocking off two vertical lanes of traffic. Then, the fkn driver && the fkn passenger get off the Flex. I can tell all of this is happening because I can vaguely distinguish the shadows on the floor since the headlights are too bright for me to discern anything else. 

When I realize how road rage affected the Flex, I looked in front of me && thankfully there was about to get some breathing room because I noticed that the light right in front of the Hollywood Bowl museum is about to turn green. So, while I’m focusing on that, idk wtf is going on with the Flex && the sedan but I hear loud voices (I’m guessing the Flex ppl are yelling at the sedan now that they’re out of their vehicle) && I hear the sound of human contact hitting the vehicle. I’m assuming that the angry Flex are like kicking or hitting the sedan because earlier that night, I saw pedestrians hitting cars that were ignoring the yield signs for pedestrians on Hollywood outside of El Capitan && calling them all sorts of names for nearly running people over.

Ok, back to this story. So, I hear what sounds like a road rage altercation (idk if the sedan reacted, I doubt it) && then I hear a gunshot or what sounds like a gunshot. All I fkn know was “get the fuck out of here!” && I stepped on it && literally flew onto the 101 North entrance. Guess who was behind me? The fkn Flex. Idk how it caught up or wtf happened but I noticed that the Flex is now tailing me. So, I start switching lanes && the Flex is mirroring my moves. Now, idk if they think I was the one shooting a gun && then trying to high-tail it out of there or if they’re the ones who did it && are trying to scare me. I drove all the way from Hollywood to the 170 fwy && I get off by my hood literally speeding && burning rubber because I need to get these fuckers off my ass. 

I luckily was fast enough to beat the oncoming traffic coming out of my exit, so I immediately jump onto Roscoe Blvd && leave the Flex waiting behind me for Roscoe to clear up so they can join. There are apartments literally coming out of the fwy exit, so my ass fkn drove super fast into the opening of their parking structure && I made it my business to turn off my headlights from the moment I got off the fwy exit till the apartment parking structure. My kid woke up the moment I hit the brakes. I turned off my car && thank baby jesus that our broke ass neighborhood refuses to have functioning street lights because I was covered in complete darkness. I didn’t even turn around to see if the Flex drove down Roscoe or what. 

My kid wakes up notices that we’re not home && I decide to turn on the car && slowly try to turn my car around to come out of the apartment. When we do, I don’t take any chances. I literally take all the smaller streets to my house, which is like 5 mins from where I am. I finally get home && that was that. Fkn crazy drivers && their egos. It’s amazing how quickly shit escalates when people refuse to let go of their ego. That fkn Flex was a lunatic. I come home && tell only my brother && he’s laughing his ass off, of course, && his only reply, “Did you get their plates?”

Are you kidding me!? They’re trying to kill me && you think I’m going to play photographer in the meantime!? No! So, yeah.... that was my evening.

#hollywood #or hollyweird #is full of fkn freaks #road rage

[naarrt]

Saw Depeche Mode at @hollywoodbowl last night! It was an amazing night! Here is the set list: #Revolution (Beatles Song) #CoverMeAltOut #GoingBackwards #It'sNoGood (Tour Debut; first time since 2009) #BarrelOfAGun (with 'The Message' (Grandmaster Flash) snippet) #APainThatI'mUsedTo ('Jacques Lu Cont's remix' version) #Useless #InYourRoom #WorldInMyEyes #Cover Me #SisterOfNight #Home #Precious #Where's the Revolution #Wrong #Everything Counts #Stripped #Enjoy the Silence #Never Let Me Down Again Encore: #ButNotTonight #Walking in My Shoes ##PolicyOfTruth #IFeelYou #Personal Jesus (at Hollywood Bowl)

#personal #apainthati #stripped #never #everything #enjoy #ifeelyou #policyoftruth #walking #useless #butnottonight #cover #worldinmyeyes #precious #home #wrong #inyourroom #covermealtout #goingbackwards #revolution #barrelofagun #where #sisterofnight #it