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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years

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Just A Dream Away

Chapter 1/13 read here on ao3!

my piece for @harringrovebigbang!

Art and moodboard from my amazing team, @monochromegee and @shewritesdirty respectively, to come soon!

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Six months. Six months and twelve days.

That’s how long Billy has been in the hospital. In a coma. His health rapidly deteriorating.

After one month it was required he be put on a ventilator. Two and his wounds started getting infected. By month three, the hospital asked that a representative be chosen for him, just in case he didn’t pull through.

Neil Hargrove refused. Barked into the receiver something along the lines of, “What do I care if the boy wanted to go and get himself killed?” It was entirely defensive, his voice cracking as he finished his sentence, but the hospital still never contacted him again, not for updates or bills or anything. His wife was far too busy taking care of one grieving child and a lazy husband already to worry about an additional burden.

All of Billy’s extended family was still in California, had written him off years before they’d even left home for Indiana anyways. The moment his mother walked out the door, nobody else wanted him either, so they were off the table too.

The town of Hawkins had been turned inside out by the deaths of more than thirty community members, some of which were still being reported as missing so many months later. Nobody had the time, or in many cases the heart, to take care of the lone survivor.

That left only one person. The one who’d been taking care of him even before he’d fallen into a coma. The one who’d understood him better than anyone else, who’d given him a chance, who’d loved him more than anything.

Steve gets a call from the hospital, the way he is usually woken up these days. Every other morning, as soon as visitation opens, a nurse calls him for a quick update. The duties of a representative for someone unconscious, for his Billy in a coma.

He’s beyond exhausted, dragging himself to and from Hawkins General day in and day out, sometimes bringing Max or a few of the other kids along with him. Mostly because every day is the same thing, walking through the halls, facing the polite smiles from nurses who deal with this on the daily, don’t understand the way it feels to see the one you love on that bed.

If he does hear anything new, it’s usually not good news. He knows Billy is getting worse, but still he sits in that room for countless hours, watching and waiting for the moment he’s struck with a miracle, and he comes back to him.

The hospital is not quite as patient though, and since about month four of Billy’s hospital stay, they’d been encouraging Steve to consider his wards right to die. After so much time had passed by without signs of improvement, the nurses had started hesitating in the doorway when he was around, and offering kind little suggestions that were supposed to push him towards the decision to let Billy go.

Things like, “It’s not really him anymore, honey.” and, “He’s getting worse by the minute, poor thing.”, and Steve’s favorite, the one that made him leave the hospital in tears, “If he wanted to wake up, he would have done it by now.”

But no matter how true what they were saying may have been, Steve really did not want to hear it. The only reason the thought of letting Billy go had ever crossed the minds of doctors and nurses was because of what was on the news, all these up and coming stories about hospital ethics committees that were popping up all over the country recently.

They were being selfish, willing to let Billy die just because they were scared they wouldn’t be able to stand the heat that would come from keeping an eighteen year old boy on life support for as long as they had. Whether or not they actually thought they could save him was a question for another day.

So they would mail Steve countless papers and claims and pamphlets to try to reason with him, to persuade him that the best thing to do was to kill Billy because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore. It made him sick to his stomach, to think that people who were supposedly trained to help people were so hellbent on giving up on a patient.

He wonders sometimes, if they wouldn’t be so hasty to pull the plug had he been an easier case. If his father was more supportive and his biological mother present, or if the government hadn’t worked so hard to cover up the origin of his injuries. Maybe even if his representative was a nice young woman instead.

But there’s nothing he can do about it, so he just crumples the papers and ignores their premature condolences, and goes to visit Billy at every moment he can.

The drive to the hospital that particular morning feels like it takes a whole day instead of the 20 minutes the route actually is, Steve feeling like he’s suspended in time. It doesn’t seem real, taking the stairs up to the second floor, elevators were a no go after the free fall he took at Starcourt, and taking a visitor sticker and a bunch of papers from the woman at the reception desk.

He’s walked this route more times than he can count, but this time he can feel that something is wrong, different. On the top of the very first sheet the desk lady hands him, in bold black letters, are the printed words “Right-to-Die” and Steve already knows what is coming.

The woman gives him a half sympathetic look and reads off her scripted spiel. “The Hargrove boy has been unresponsive for six months now, with no signs of improvement in his condition. The recently instituted hospital ethics board wants you to seriously consider the contents of these forms.”

The words are so hollow, the look on her face mostly bored. Steve guesses this same speech was probably given to a thousand other people who’d come through this hospital, and it makes him feel nauseated just listening to it, her less than genuine pity as she reads off her clipboard, making it seem like she doesn’t even care what she is asking of him.

“It’s of course among your rights as representative to say no, but we want to remind you that he has no quality of life being artificially kept alive, and it might be best to let him go.”

“No, they told me he couldn’t feel anything. He’s not suffering.” Steve insists, and as much as he believes that he is right, the confidence in his voice is false. This was something he’d been thinking about every day for the last half a year. “You’ve kept him alive this long, right? That’s got to mean something.”

“Still, this is about him. We just want you to think about if keeping him alive is the right thing to do anymore when we can’t be sure what he’s going through. When he isn’t himself.”

Of course this was something he’d considered in his own mind, six months is a long time, and it was inevitable that a few times on his worst days, he’d have to think about pulling the plug. It was just so different hearing this nurse who didn’t know Billy insisting on it, it was just so impersonal, and it made him think about the hospital's greed, and how they probably just wanted to save money on ventilators and open up another bed.

Without saying another word to her, Steve walks away without the clipboard of papers, and off to room B-216. Of course he'd known this was coming. They’d been trying to drop hints since the moment Billy stopped being able to breathe on his own, but he’d been in denial. As long as Billy's heart was still beating, Steve had hope that he would recover if the doctors would just try.

Still, as he sits down in the chair next to Billy’s bed, he decides he doesn’t want to call Max today. He takes the desk woman's advice, as angry as it made him, and takes the time to truly reflect on the boy in that bed, with the feeding tube down his throat, the respirator breathing for him beside his bed, the IV in his neck, there because the veins in his arms had been so overused.

His hair is much longer now, just past his collarbones, but without maintenance, his blonde curls are knotted and dull. His skin is unnaturally pale, his freckles faded to nothing, and his whole body is littered with angry, dark red scars. The hole in the center of his chest still isn’t all the way healed, and the nurses are constantly fighting to keep it free of infection.

When he wakes up, they say he will be in immense pain and that he will have forgotten how to walk and talk and probably even breathe on his own. There was a chance too that his memory will have gaps in it, which could mean anything from forgetting what happened to him in July, to not even knowing his own name.

Basically if, no- when he wakes up, he won’t really be Billy.

Steve had always heard about and seen in the movies coma patients who twitch their fingers or moved their eyes, or who really give any signs of life, miraculously waking up and being themselves again, but Billy, he had only done the opposite.

At some point, he has to accept that Billy won’t be like one of those other patients, and, in the condition he is in, all pale skin and open wounds and zero signs of responsiveness, they were only prolonging his death. They had tried just about everything they could thanks to Steve’s willingness to cover the expenses, and, although he didn’t want to believe it, maybe just couldn’t accept it quite yet, it was, as the nurse had said, time to think about letting Billy go.

Not today though. He’d spend today with him at the very least, trying to push those thoughts to the back of his mind while he still could. The nurses used to say, when Billy had first been admitted and they still thought there was a chance of recovery, that Steve and Max, whenever she could come, should try talking to him, and Steve always did.

He never really has a whole lot to say, not since everything has been calming down recently. There were no more funerals to attend, no more grieving families to take a hot dish and his condolences to. The kids didn’t need him to watch them anymore, and Family Video had decided to lay him off until he didn’t have to make daily hospital commutes and he could work again. Basically, Steve’s entire world was Billy.

So it was only fair that Billy was what he usually talked about, reminiscing about everything they’d gotten to do together before the accident, telling him about what was happening with his sister now that she was getting older, and giving him updates on how many days it had been and how much he missed and loved him. One of the nurses had heard him say that once, seen him lean forwards and press a kiss to Billys forehead, but she had only turned away, pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Today though, it was much harder than usual to think of something to say to him. He always tried to leave all of the bad stuff at the door, didn’t think it would do Billy any good if he could even hear, to be listening to him always complaining or moping about their situation, but with death weighing heavy on his mind, what else was there to think about?

The anger and the remorse and the depression would be for when he went home tonight and downed a whole bottle of Fireball, Billy’s favorite whiskey, and called Robin drunk off his ass at two in the morning to tell her about how terrible he felt.

It was because he loved Billy with all of his heart that he wouldn’t put him through that. Even if it hurt more than anything else to see his love broken down and dying, which was, in Steve’s opinion, the worst thing that had ever happened to him, he always wore a smile on his face every day he walked into that hospital room.

As hard as that was, and as guilty as it made him feel to admit, Billy's sickness wasn’t the only thing making Steve miserable. He had also been through some unimaginable things himself while trapped in the Starcourt mall, and he didn't come out the other side the same.

Nightmares plagued him constantly, so that when he would eventually come back home from the hospital, he didn’t sleep more than fifteen minutes through the night. Being alone for too long warped his perception of reality, made him think everyone he knew and loved was gone, that he’d been abandoned or all his friends killed. He would constantly call to check on them, most of the time drunk and panicking, but they’d stopped picking up after the first few times. There were so many triggers too that could send him back to that night in an instant, where he’d just get stuck again.

And perhaps that is exactly why he can’t let Billy go so easily, because even if it is heartbreaking and makes him feel so empty inside being there with a version of his Billy who couldn’t speak to him or who he couldn’t hold, he was still alive. If he died now, Steve would have nothing. It would be no different from the losses everyone had suffered, the death of the chief of police and at least thirty other community members robbing them of their soundness of mind.

Letting go of Billy would just be another blow, to him and to the tight-knit community who had come so close together after the accident that rocked their little town. You wouldn't be able to tell from the fact that his room was always empty except for Steve or his sister, but the papers had revered him as a hero. Who he’d become after being hospitalized meant his death wouldn't just affect loved ones.

But more than any of that, he just didn’t want to give up on him. Pulling the plug meant sacrificing so many more moments they could have together, losing the chance to move on from what had happened. How could Steve ever know when it was the right time to do that?

When was it safe to say that Billy wouldn’t ever recover, and that they were just stretching out the inevitable? When could he feel right in letting his very best friend and the love of his life die? Deep down, past his initial reaction of shock and heartbreak, he knows he’ll never truly be ready to say goodbye, but that now was that time regardless.

Just like the nurses said, he wasn’t really Billy anymore. Who he’d been was a teenage boy with too much energy to burn, always getting into trouble and always in motion, bouncing his knee, twisting the ring on his middle finger or the locket around his neck, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette. It used to drive Steve insane how he wouldn’t sit still for anything, but now he would give anything just to have that back.

There was no personality left in him, no stupid jokes to cheer Steve up, no pestering his sister and her friends like a big brother does, nothing left in him at all that made him distinctly Billy. Steve wondered if maybe he had already given up.

If maybe, Billy wasn’t even in there at all anymore, and they were holding on to nothing just to feed their own selfishness. Steve wasn’t the most emotional of people, usually panicking before he got upset, but he could feel tears pricking at his eyes now, as he watched the slow rise and fall of Billy’s, or not Billy’s, chest, and listened to the beeps and hums of the machines that kept him going.

He knew what needed to be done. Just not today.

For now, he holds Billy's hand, unmoving and just warm enough that he could tell he was alive, and whispered to him anything that came to his mind.

If Billy could hear him, he knew he was probably tired of hearing the same stories over and over, thinking of Billy waking up and complaining about Steve being too boring made him chuckle to himself. An instant pang of regret tightens his chest, feeling guilty for being happy.

There was a really sweet nurse about the age of his mother who always checked in on him at the same time everyday, like he was the one with tubes and machines sticking out of his body. Her name was Dale, and she always peeked her head into the room around meal times to ask if he had been down to the cafeteria yet. Usually he hadn’t, and sometimes he still forgot to eat anyways, but it meant a lot to him.

Today though, she came all the way in the room, a sad look on her face, and he had to avoid her gaze entirely to keep himself from breaking down, choosing instead to focus on Billy’s slender fingers where he’d laced them through his own.

“Steve, honey, I know this is really hard for you, it’s hard for all of us when something like this happens, but you need to take care of yourself.” She was just being kind, but he wouldn’t hear it.

If this was going to be the last full day he’d ever spend with Billy, he was going to make it count. A soggy sandwich in the dingy old cafeteria wasn’t worth spending a single moment away from the other boy's bedside. He feels vaguely guilty about it, but he ignores the well meaning nurse, even as she says her generic condolences that all of them were trained to say.

He smooths out Billy's hair, brushing the part that always hung in his eyes to the side carefully, something Billy himself had always seemed to do when he was nervous. It reminds him of the time they tried to do each other's hair and Billy taught him how to make a braid, so he tells Billy about it.

When he hears the distant roar of a car's engine from the open window, it reminds him of the first time Billy drove him home in the now totaled beyond recognition Camaro, so he talks about that. A bird landing on the windowsill reminds him of sitting on Billy’s bed and talking about the seagulls and the beaches back in California where Billy had grown up, so he tells Billy that story too. The phone ringing at the receptionist's desk down the hallway reminds him of the time Billy had called him in the middle of the night to invite him out to the quarry, where they’d kissed for the first time and Steve clumsily asked him to make things official, so again, he told Billy all about it.

It's mostly a comfort to himself, keeping his mind off of the reality of the situation, but then the desk lady announces over the overhead system that visiting hours are over, and it’s time for him to go.

They had been giving him a lot of leeway here at Hawkins General, allowing him to visit every single day and sometimes with a 14 year old, which was strictly against the rules of the ICU. The end of visiting hours was a rule they always stood by though, and despite how much it crushed him to leave Billy by himself overnight, he always did it.

On his way out, he grabbed the stack of papers the receptionist tried to give him off of her desk. He would call Susan in the morning and ask her what she thought. He would try to involve her in the choice, since she’d technically claimed Billy as her dependent after her marriage to his father, who had given enough verbal and written agreements that he wanted nothing at all to do with his son while he was hospitalized that his wife could, and had, stepped in.

He went home that night with the thought in his head that this was the last time he’d do this, and by this time tomorrow, Billy would be dead.

#harringrove big bang 2021 #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #billy x steve #ej writer #story by ej!#so excited to start sharing!#chapter two will be on tumblr later today!#it’s up on ao3 already if you wanna get ahead!

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headheartbellarke · 3 years

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Speak Now | WILLEX

dear @calamitykaty - happy valentine’s day! i’m your secret valentine, and i hope you have a brilliant, lovely day!! i just wanted to say that i absolutely adore your fics hehe :3 this one is for you, i hope u like it, you wonderful human!!

& a million thanks & kudos to @screwunsaidemily / @jatpsecretvalentine for organizing this!! happy valentine’s day, raegan! and i hope today is as amazing as you are!!

✿◕ ‿ ◕✿

PAIRING(s): Alex Mercer x Willie, Flynn x Carrie Wilson, Julie Molina x Luke Patterson, past!Alex Mercer x Luke Patterson

WARNING(s): nothing haha just some fluff and we stan bobby in this house.. oh and some language

WORDS: 3.85k

SUMMARY: With his boyfriend marrying Carrie Wilson (well, in his defence, that’s his grandmother’s ‘dying wish’), Willie fancies himself to be the main character of a Shakespearean tragedy. Based on Speak Now by Taylor Swift.

KEEP READING BELOW OR READ ON AO3

Willie exhales, watching his breath crystallize into tiny ice particles. He extends a hand to catch them, but that action causes the little cloud to dissipate.

He rolls his eyes. Who has their wedding in Canada, in winter? Plus, not just on any day, but on Valentine’s Day.

He fancies that he might as well be the main character of a Shakespearean tragedy. Watching your boyfriend get married is painful enough, but to a girl? That shit makes you feel as if your heart has a screw lodged in it. He feels as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Willie likes to say that he hates Alex (i.e., the said boyfriend, the love, the light, the star of his life) – but that sentence leaves behind a bitter taste in his mouth, like he’s just had that weird cough syrup that his mother buys.

Alex’s friends can definitely see through his act, like, right now.

“Willie, relax! Everything’s gonna be alright!” Julie Molina, Alex’s bandmate, ‘unbiological sister’, and ‘best gossip partner’ exclaims. She is crouching beside him.

“Julie, I’m not the type of guy to crash a wedding and sabotage it, especially one hosted by those…” His hand moves in circular motions, pointing to the direction of the church, where Alex’s parents are probably seated.

Luke Patterson, Julie’s boyfriend and Alex’s ex-boyfriend, and current best friend and bandmate pipes in. “Homophobic, racist mingers?”

Willie grins. “Don’t know what that means but sounds accurate!”

“You know, we are saving Alex’s life, right? Literally?” Bobby Wilson chimes in, Alex’s other best friend from his position behind them. They are currently hiding behind a table laden with sweets of all kinds, and it makes Reggie, the last of Alex’s best friend-cum-bandmates’ mouth water.

“I still can’t believe that his parents are forcing him to marry a girl!” Julie exclaims, ponytail bobbing as she speaks. Luke adds, “Not just any girl, but Carrie fucking Wilson.”

“My fucking cousin!” Bobby says, looking behind to check if anyone’s there. There is, but they’re all either part of the caterer’s group, or the waiters – they are currently outside a church, where the reception will be held, post wedding. The attendees, the families, everyone – are inside the church, for the wedding.

“Hey, is Grandma Ruth really that sick?” Reggie finally asks, his eyes diverting from the sweets. Luke smiles sweetly at him. “I’m glad you finally decided to join us, Reginald.”

Reggie fails to catch the sarcasm in his tone, and he smiles brightly. Luke rolls his eyes, but a faint smile teases the corners of his lips. “Yeah, she really has stage four cancer.”

Julie says, “Poor Ruth.”

Luke huffs, “I don’t care that she’s dying – she shouldn’t fucking blackmail her grandson like that! Alex, honey, I’m dying. My dying wish, you ask? Marry someone. No, not your boyfriend of four years! Marry a girl, dummy. Homosexuality is a sin!”

Bobby adds, “Not just any girl, but your best friend’s cousin! Whose probably into Flynn, but, yeah, whatever.”

Julie smiles brightly at the mention of her best friend. “Oh, she definitely is.”

Reggie’s brows quirk. “I thought she was still into Nick.”

Bobby shakes his head. “They broke up last summer.”

Willie clears his throat, finally gaining some confidence. “He shouldn’t be marrying the wrong girl.” He exhales, and adds, as an afterthought, “Or any girl.”

“You two should be walking down the aisle, Willie.” Julie says, resting a hand on his shoulder. He nods, grateful for her support.

He remembers this morning, when he was at the grocery store, buying as many buckets of chocolate ice cream as he could fit in his arms. Suddenly, he had felt a warm hand wrap around the back of his throat, and he let out a yelp, dropping all the buckets.

He remembers thinking that the universe was against him. First, it’s the day of his boyfriend’s wedding, and along with that, someone’s here to kill him. Well, he thought, it’s better to die than –

“Willie!” A familiar voice exclaimed, and of course, it’s Julie – he realized that the hand that he thought was here to murder him, belonged to her. She was dressed in a long, pink, A-Line dress, that complimented her skin tone perfectly and – suddenly, Willie understood that it was a bridesmaid’s dress. Yep, she’s Carrie’s bridesmaid, along with Flynn.

Willie wondered if she was here to rub salt on his wound.

“What do you want?” He had mumbled, averting his gaze from her dress. Sure, it’s a pretty dress, but it reminds him of Alex, because he has a hoodie that he adores in the same colour. (It’s in Willie’s closet now, and he makes a mental note to burn it.)

“We have a plan.” She said, conspiratorially.

Willie sighed, leaning down to pick up the fallen containers of ice cream. “I’m not in the mood, Jules.”

She grinned, evilly. Or as evilly as you could while having an angelic face.

Sure, it took her a while to convince him to crash his boyfriend’s wedding, but on the way here, he felt as if it was worth it. Julie helped sneak him in, since he doesn’t have an invite – and he found the rest of Alex’s friends – Luke, Reggie, and Bobby waiting for him.

Now, as Carrie’s family emerges from the church doors, he doesn’t feel that way anymore.

“God, I think I’m gonna throw up just by looking at them.” Luke murmurs, while Julie slaps his shoulder. “Don’t say that, they look very… colourful.”

Bobby snorts.

Carrie’s family includes her parents, two of her cousin sisters and an aunt – and they are all dressed in pastel yellow. To be really honest, that colour looks like vomit. They stand in a circle in front of the church doors, and Willie notices her aunt rolling her eyes at the waiters. He sighs. This is the same aunt who told Carrie that ‘oh, honey, it’s just a phase’, when she came out as bisexual.

“Guys, guys, guys!”

Willie sees his cousin, Flynn, running in their direction, and stopping at their table. She huffs, catching her breath and he notices that she’s wearing the same dress that Julie is.

“Carrie is losing her shit, dude.” She says, once she’s breathing normally again. “Why?” Julie asks, concerned.

“Probably because she doesn’t wanna marry Alex? I don’t know, but she yelled at me for eating!” She exclaims, an annoyed expression taking over her face.

Willie and Bobby exchange a look – they all know that Carrie can get a little intense sometimes – she doesn’t mean harm, but on a day like this, you can’t really hold it against her.

“Where is she?” Julie asks, alarmed.

“She’s in the back. Her mom misplaced her veil, and its total chaos out there. Also, her gown looks like a fucking pastry.”

Everyone’s eyes widen, and Flynn sighs, looking away. “I hate everything.”

Willie knows that she’s feeling just the way he is.

Julie stands up. “Come on, let’s help her. And boys?” She points a finger in their direction. “Stick to the fucking plan.”

Everyone nods rapidly, and Reggie whispers, “Yes, mam.”

She kisses Luke, whispering something in his ear, and squeezes Willie’s shoulder, giving him a sympathetic look, before running off in the opposite direction with Flynn.

Watching Julie and Luke, Willie is suddenly overpowered by a memory, a memory that was gathering dust in his brain. He remembers a cold, dark winter morning in their – his and Alex’s – apartment. It was last year, and their first morning in that apartment, in their home. They were nineteen and couldn’t get enough of each other – even after three years of being together. Somehow, somewhere they felt as if an invisible string was pulling them closer and closer, until they merged into one.

He remembers Alex combing his fingers through Willie’s hair, and whispering, “Is it crazy if I say that this is everything that I’ve ever wanted in life?”

He had smiled, eyes filled to the brim with euphoria. “No, then that would mean that I’m crazy.”

“We’re both crazy.”

“Maybe.” He had pulled him closer, loving the way Alex buried his face in the crook of his neck.

“Willie?” Alex softly asked, drawing patterns on his bare skin.

“Hmm?”

“I want to wake up next to you every single day. Like, I don’t ever wanna be without you,”

“Me, too.” He had said, then adding, “I don’t see myself marrying if not you.”

He could feel his boyfriend’s grin. “Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about it. A little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, I’ve planned it all out.” They both laughed, and Willie felt as if he was flying.

Alex continued, “I imagine us getting married on a beautiful summer day – on the beach. Where we met all those years ago. Remember?”

Willie smiled. “How could I forget? I will love Flynn forever for bringing me to Julie’s sweet sixteen – I never thought that I’d meet my soulmate that day.”

“Yeah. I imagine Luke to be my best man, and Flynn to be yours. Julie and Carrie would be our groomsmaids, yep, I invented that – and Reggie and Bobby could be the other best men. It’s a little messy, because I love them all so much and I can’t choose – but yeah.”

“Funny that your ex-boyfriend will be your best man at our wedding.”

“Shut up, Willie.”

“Carlos could be the ring bearer.”

“I think he’s a little too old for that.”

“Well, you have a point. But he’s gonna be pissed if he doesn’t get a title like his sister does.”

“All right, he’ll be the ring bearer.”

“We could have a skateboard shaped cake.”

“We will… think about it.”

“And we won’t need a band!”

“I’m not playing at my own wedding!”

“Well, Bobby could take your place. I’m sure he won’t mind taking a day off his solo touring.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

As they went over every possibility, every dream, the world melted away and all Willie could see were the oceans in Alex’s eyes.

Luke’s voice dissipates the haze of nostalgia around Willie’s brain. “Yep, Carrie’s family went inside.”

Bobby nods. “Okay, Willie, you stay with Reggie and Luke – I’ll go inside first and distract everyone, and y’all will come at my signal.” With that, he runs towards the church.

“Uh… what is his signal…” Willie trails off. Luke and Reggie exchange a panicked look, as Reggie says, “I’m sure we’ll figure it out! Besides – oh my god, are those flamingos?”

Willie and Luke’s eyes dart to the church door, where a bunch of flamingos – Carrie’s favorite bird, apparently – are on the loose and the waiters and the staff are running around trying to catch them.

“Boys, I think that’s our signal.” Luke says, grabbing their hands and dragging them towards the back of the church, where the girls had previously disappeared into.

Luke sneezes, and Willie absentmindedly whispers a ‘bless you.’ He shifts, saying, “There’s so much dirt here! It’s like nobody cares about my allergies!”

“I’m sure nobody in Canada will ever care about your allergies, Patterson.” Flynn hisses.

The trio are currently hiding behind a curtain, the lilac shades sickening them. “Well, you wouldn’t be in this position if Alex’s lovely bride-to-be didn’t uninvite me!” Willie exclaims, looking around to make sure nobody is nearby.

“I’m sure she has a very good reason!” Flynn says, and Luke rolls his eyes, saying, “You’re saying that as if you don’t know Carrie. She’s hyper fixating on this wedding to distract herself from the fact that her parents will never accept her for who she is, from her fear about the fact that she’ll never get someone who sees and loves her for who she is and right now, she believes that this wedding would gain her parents’ favour, that somehow they’d be okay with her being bisexual if she’s married a man, a gay man at that, too – and now she’s doing everything in her power to make sure nothing gets fucked up.”

Willie and Flynn sharply look at Luke.

“Dude, that was deep.” He whispers. Flynn dabs the corner of her right eye. “You should be a therapist, bro.”

“I know, bro.” He grins.

Willie can’t stop a smile from breaking out on his face. He turns back to the scene in front of him, and his heart seizes because there’s Alex, dressed in a perfect tuxedo, with his hair perfectly done, with a perfect smile on his face, and Willie realizes that that is not the man he loves.

The man standing in front of him looks too pristine, too immaculate. It’s almost as if he is being strung up by invisible puppet strings, but his face doesn’t give away any of that – it’s absolutely blank, and Willie would have thought that the man in the front is not real if he hadn’t seen his eyes. His eyes, which houses cyclones, cyclones being fed by the apprehension, the fear, the anger, the sadness that he must be feeling inside. His eyes, that Willie loves to see first thing in the morning, showing off the parts of his soul that he is desperately trying to shield.

Willie wonders if he’ll see him standing behind the curtains. He probably won’t. Willie’s at the back of the room, and he’s at the front, waiting, waiting, waiting. For a moment, Willie wonders if Carrie is going to show up at all – because the wedding was supposed to start half an hour ago, and it doesn’t make sense why a person who has never been late in her entire life, would be late on her wedding day.

He doesn’t have to wonder long, though. The organ starts to play ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and honestly it sounds more like a death march. Willie is reminded, yet again, of another reason why this is not what Alex wants – he wants to play ‘Lover’ by Taylor Swift at his wedding.

Willie takes in a sharp breath when Carrie enters. She looks like a pageant queen – wearing a beautiful, white, classic dress. In one hand, she holds her dad’s arm, and in the other, there is a bouquet of daisies.

Flynn whispers. “I have to go. Boys, do not mess this up. Or I swear I’ll kill you.”

As the duo watch her run to the front of the room, Willie whispers, “Does she know about Carrie’s big, fat crush?”

Luke snorts. “You think so? Come on, let’s sit. They won’t be able to see us here.”

As they crouch down and make their way to the benches, Willie casts one last look at Alex, and he knows, he knows that Alex wishes it was Willie walking down the aisle instead.

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” The preacher says, and Willie’s heart erupts into a frenzy. As the room goes completely silent, Luke whispers, “That’s your cue, Willie.”

Ignoring his anxiety, he stands up with his hands shaking, and his brain telling him to just fucking run out the doors.

Alex’s eyes widen, relief flooding his features, and for a moment, he looks like the real Alex again. Willie catches Julie and Flynn’s eyes, who are standing beside Carrie, and they nod at him, enthusiastically. But the bride, Carrie – she looks absolutely horrified. And so does all the other people in this room, including Alex’s parents, his grandma Ruth, and Carrie’s parents, too.

From Alex’s right side, Reggie and Bobby give him encouraging looks, and finally, he averts his eyes back to the man he loves.

But he can’t say anything. He feels as if he’s frozen in time, and his mind completely blanks out. For a moment he wonders if this is his rock bottom.

But Luke comes to the rescue, thrusting a guitar in his hands, and breaking him out of his trance. “I remember you told me that you can always sing, even if the world was ending. So, I brought this along, as backup.”

It’s true. Music is a part of his soul, much like it is Alex’s. Music is what connected them in the first place, and music is what still keeps them connected now.

He positions the guitar, and notices that it’s Luke’s acoustic guitar. He strums it, and finally, his mind comes back to himself. He keeps his eyes trained on that of Alex, and he watches the storm of emotions in his irises.

“I am not the kind of guy, who should be rudely barging in on a white veiled occasion…” He sings, loving how Taylor Swift has written a song for every occasion.

“But you are not the kind of boy, who should be marrying the wrong girl!” He sings and hears loud gasps around the room – he knows that people expected him to be in love with Carrie or something.

“Or any girl!” Reggie adds, and Alex grins, and that gives him the motivation to continue.

“So, don't say yes, run away now. I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door… Don't wait or say a single vow – You need to hear me out, and they said speak now!”

He drags the ‘now’ for as long as he can, because he knows that the silence that will follow will be excruciating. And it is. Alex just stares at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

Willie finally looks at Carrie, and when their eyes meet, she gives him an odd look. He half expected her to kill him, but the way she looks at him, it’s almost as if she’s relieved.

Alex clears his throat, the sound piercing through the silence of the room. Whispers arise, and Willie exchanges a look with Luke, who asks him, “You want me to dig you a hole to die?”

Before he can nod, Alex says, “Uh…” He fiddles with his hands, before finally saying, “Fuck it”, and untying his tie. His mother gasps, and his father stands up, but he raises a hand.

He locks eyes with Willie, and his world spins on its axis.

“You are not the kind of guy to be rudely barging in on a white veiled occasion…But I am not the kind of boy… who should be marrying the wrong girl… or any girl!” Alex sings in that raspy voice of his, and Willie feels his heart soar. He can’t help the grin from escaping on his face, and he knows that his eyes are what Julie calls, ‘heart eyes.’ Luke grabs the guitar from Willie’s hand and starts playing along.

“And you'll say let's run away now, and I'll meet you when I'm out of my tux at the back door,”

Alex walks down the aisle, but suddenly remembers something, or rather, someone. He turns around, locking eyes with Carrie, and Willie can’t see what he’s saying, but Carrie smiles a big, soft one – one probably no one has ever seen on her face, and he sees her mouth ‘go.’

“Baby, I didn't say my vows, so glad you were around; when they said speak now!”

He finishes, and stands in front of Willie, and Willie knows that the both of them can feel the air electrifying between them.

He turns, facing his grandmother. “Grandma, I’m sorry, but you’re 93, and I’m 20. I’m not going to give up my life for you to live. I love you, though. Mom, Dad, I’m truly sad that I’m not what you wanted. But I’m not gonna apologize for being myself, nor am I gonna apologize for loving who I want to. This is my life, and maybe it’s time that I start acting like it. I can’t keep wasting my life to please you. You – you should love me for who I am, that’s what good parents do.” Alex’s voice cracks, and Willie intertwines their fingers. Alex squeezes his hand.

Carrie’s mom stands up, shaking her head. “No, no, no… you do not get to ruin my daughter’s wedding –”

Alex’s father stands beside her, his face matching the shade of Carrie’s red lipstick. “I will not accept this –”

“Will?” Alex whispers, his eyes trained on his father.

“Yeah?”

“Run.”

With that, Alex tightens his hold on Willie’s hand, and the both of them run down the aisle, and outside. Willie can hear an uproar behind him, but it fades to background noise behind the thump of his heart.

“That was so fucking romantic!” Alex exclaims, as they come to a stop before Willie’s car.

“I just…”

“Wait – I’m sorry, Willie. I shouldn’t have put you through that. I should’ve fought more; I should’ve run away or something. That was not okay. I’m a twenty-year-old adult, and I should – I should – learn to be it, and not hurt any – anyone –”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Willie says, stepping closer to Alex. “It’s alright. They’re your parents. It’s not your fault that you want their approval. But I just want you to know that I love you, all of you, for who you are. And all of us do – Luke, Julie, Bobby, Reggie, Flynn, and even Carrie. We all love you, for who you are, and we’re always gonna be by your side.”

He smiles, cupping Willie’s face. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I – I love you so fucking much.” He kisses Willie, and the latter feels like he is floating amongst the stars.

“That – everything inside – from this tux to the decorations was horrible. I’m really glad that you… you know, stopped it.” Alex says, rubbing his thumb around Willie’s cheek.

He shrugs. “Well, it was your friends’ idea.”

“Of course it was.”

“Guys! Guys, guys, guys!”

Willie and Alex break out of their embrace at Carrie’s voice, who is currently running towards them, her dress bunched in her hands. Flynn is following her, holding her veil in her arms. Julie, Luke, Bobby, and Reggie are behind them, and they all have a look of panic plastered on their faces.

Flynn yells. “Carrie might’ve told your and her parents to fuck off, and your grandma to just die already, and so there’s a fair chance that we’re all gonna get killed, now that everyone knows that we’re all behind this.”

“Also, I threw red wine at our aunt’s dress, Carrie!” Bobby yells.

“I might have told your parents that they’re failures, and Julie and I are your real parents, Alex!” Luke yells.

“Also, Flynn and I are getting married!” Carrie yells.

Alex’s eyes widen, and he looks at Willie. “I think we all need to run.”

Willie nods, and he looks around. Maybe they will get killed (probably not), and maybe everything is a little crazy right now – but what he knows is that all of them are a family, and that he’d do anything for them. He also knows that Alex is worth everything, and that someday, they will get married, just the way they want, with the people that love them just the way they are.

Plus, is it weird to say that he kind of feels like Taylor Swift right now?

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hailbop1701 · 3 years

Text

Only The Beginning

Chapter 4: My Bad...

Alas, another filler chapter. The reader finally meets Dorian! The bickering and fluff is on point my friends and I hope I got enough tension in there for you. If not there will definitely be more in coming chapters!

Thank you to my lovely Beta Reader @toppysammy! 🥰

-H❤🖖

John’s grip is tight on your upper arm. Wincing slightly, you allow him to lead you over to his car. A handsome-looking android casually leans up against the passenger side door with his arms crossed. He looks at you curiously, obviously scanning you for ID; you give him a little smile when he doesn't come up with anything. John yanks open the backseat and shoves you in.

“Rude,” you mutter, straightening in your seat and pulling your messenger bag close. Looking into the bag, you check on the heavy drive that is nestled inside. It has a small crack but otherwise is undamaged. Sighing in relief, you blow a strand of hair out of your face. Both car doors open up in front and the two detectives get in, bickering.

“Come on, John, you can’t be serious.”

“You heard what they said; rogue android turned on the security team.”

At that, you sink down in your seat feeling more guilty than before. John’s android partner rolls his electric blue eyes. “Security," he scoffs, "more like black market mercenaries. One of those men had a rap sheet longer than your attention span,”

You choke on a laugh as John sputters and glares at the DRN; you had heard about this model, but it's a wholly different experience to meet one. John shoots you a hard look in the rearview mirror.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” he barks, turning around in his seat so he can fully scowl at you. Clearing your throat, you think over your words carefully. To give yourself more time, you hold out a hand and introduce yourself to John’s partner.

“I’m John's friend--” you glance at said man; he's losing patience. Grimacing, you amend, “I think…”

The android smiles kindly and takes your hand, “Dorian, John’s partner.” His deep and polite voice puts you at ease.

Pulling your hand away, you look back at your angry best friend warily. You mull over what happened for a second before opening your mouth to explain, “Well, I figured out what happened to Julia Lawson, and it wasn’t suicide,” you jerk your head in the direction of the building.

“The creepy death squad murdered her and staged it to look like a suicide. Which, by the way, was completely obvious; they did a horrible job. Whoever had the case was paid off to keep it clean-cut and closed."

Both men in the front seat looked shocked. “You mean you figured this out in, what, three hours?” John asks with a raised eyebrow. You simply shrug, “I have no red tape I have to constantly cut through. I talked to Julie's brother; he told me what I needed to know and I figured out the rest by using the internet. Breaking in was easy--”

John cuts you off mid-sentence with a warning. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing out his frustration. Dorian looks at you like you're an entirely new species; fascination, amusement, and disquiet all flick across his face. Biting the inside of your cheek, you watch the two carefully.

“Look, Julie stumbled upon something very big and I think you should know about it,” you offer, holding out your bag like an olive branch. John watches you closely for a moment before taking the bag and looking inside.

“A hard drive?” he asks skeptically, pulling it out and handing it over to Dorian to peruse. You shrug and gave a smirk, “I downloaded everything I needed on to that thing; Julie’s ‘suicide,' who ordered it, and the plans Julie overheard that caused her death in the first place.”

Dorian plugs into the drive and the more information he obtains, the deeper his frown gets. “This is very...wrong,” he says with a wrinkle of his nose.

You grimace, “Yeah, I forgot about that part; it’s also about Speartips. Horrible name for a private tech company by the way; it's the CEO getting down and dirty with underage interns and paying them extra to keep quiet.”

Dorian stops looking through the drive and hands it back to John without a word. The android’s eyes are as hard as his partner's. John looks back to you, anger still in his gaze. Sighing, your shoulders slump. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to get caught by the mercs. The android was a new addition,” you defend quickly.

“You threw him out a window,” John points out, losing patience with you.

You throw up your hands, “HE started it! At least his body didn’t hit anyone."

John groans and shakes his head, “Pushing anybody off the fortieth-something floor is bad!” he scolds, starting the car. You scowl at John and cross your arms childishly, “Well, I didn’t like getting choked out. I panicked."

John winces at your words, his posture changing from tense and angry to sad and sympathetic. “I’m sorry, I know you wouldn’t have done any of that if you didn’t have to,”

Dorian’s attention jumps back and forth between you and John, his eyes widening as he connects the dots. “You’re the one who--” he cuts himself off and looks at his human partner.

John sighs heavily and taps his thumb against the steering wheel anxiously, “This is where the whole trusting me thing comes in.” He looks over at the DRN pleadingly. Dorian stares at John for a nano-second before nodding and keeping silent about the whole thing. He was no doubt currently wiping your presence from everything involving what just happened. From camera feeds to bystanders, taking pictures and selfies of the chaos.

“I really am sorry,” you mumble, feeling guilty for more than just putting John in the position that he's now in. Your best friend looks at you in his rearview mirror.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, his shoulders slump just a touch. “I know. You’ve been away from people--well, civilian people for a while. You have to be more subtle from now on, though, alright?”

You grimace at John’s words but nod anyway, agreeing to what he's saying. This is his home after all. He built a life here; and here you were, wreaking havoc in that home like a maniac.

“What now?” you say in a voice just slightly above a whisper. Dorian glances over at his partner, wondering the exact same thing. John purses his lips as he drives through the city. You can’t help your wry smile in response; he always makes that face when he is thinking hard about something.

“We should get you settled into a place. I’ve been keeping an eye out and I got a message from a buddy of mine. There’s a little apartment right near where I live,” he says, handing his phone over to Dorian, who downloads the directions and information.

“I guess you do want your bed back, huh?” you ask with a slight chuckle. John huffs and nods, “My couch is great and all, but it does get a bit uncomfortable after a while,” he mutters with a wrinkle of his nose.

Dorian smirks, “That explains the changes to your sleeping pattern,” he muses, making John scowl. “How many damn times--” he hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at the android only to be cut off by your snort of laughter.

John’s lips twitch upward at the sound, the tense atmosphere of the car lifting as the car crawls through city traffic. “So, Dorian, has John ever told you the story about how he became addicted to noodles?”

You immediately have the DRN��s full attention; John sputters from the driver’s seat unsuccessfully, trying to shush you.

“Well, you see, it all started when he and I traveled to China and we stumbled across this little mom-and-pop shop. The food there was to die for, what was it called…” you trail off, trying to picture the little restaurant in your mind.

“Little Bo’s.” John supplies with a fond smile.

You snap your fingers, grinning from ear to ear, “Little Bo’s! Oh, my gosh, they had some damn good food, and the owner was so sweet; she tried her best to teach John how to use chopsticks.”

Dorian chuckles, “He still can’t use them,” he whispers none-too-quietly.

John shoots him an offended look, “I can too!” he yells indignantly.

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Not very well.” he mutters, ignoring John’s slight pout. You giggle and gently squeeze John’s bicep.

“Maybe when I get settled, I’ll make you dinner,” you offer sincerely. You yelp when John suddenly hits the brakes and looks back at you with wide eyes.

“Seriously?” he asks with a grin. You snort and nod. Dorian looks bemused at the action and his jaw practically drops when John holds out his pinky for yours. Grinning, you seal the promise.

“Just let me know what you wa--”

“Chicken and dumplings," he answers immediately.

You snicker at the quick response. “I should have known,” you sigh with a shake of your head.

Dorian is at a loss for words; he tries multiple times to add something but he can’t. He’s never seen his partner this relaxed and happy before (despite today’s events) and it's odd. However, it's a good kind of odd. John deserves happiness and that’s what you seem to make him.

Just friends, Dorian mentally scoffs, smiling to himself as you and John bicker about the best dishes you've made in the past. Something deep within Dorian’s circuits says that someday you’ll end up being so much more. The heated discussion becomes a bit louder and suddenly changes to whose fault it was in burning down a rental in Rio.

Dorian sighs. Maybe not today, but someday, he thinks ruefully before verbally stepping in to divulge how John once ate a slug in hopes to not offend an old Japanese man.

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"Only The Beginning" :

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#almost human on fox #almost human #doom 2005 #john kennex x reader #john grimm x reader #john grimm #john kennex #reaper x reader #john kennex/reader #john grimm/reader #John Kennex is John Grimm #Reaper!Kennex #reader insert #hailey the queen of typos

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that-rock-chick · 3 years

Text

Love Bites

Love sucks. That's pretty much common knowledge. Combine that with addiction, money, fame, and childhood trauma and you've got a recipe for disaster.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Same shit, different fucking day.

Don't ask me how I'm balancing six days a week at my job and band practice three to four days a week, because I truly have no fucking idea. I tried college but once the band formed, I cut that out of my schedule completely.

It's been about a months since the argument with Gwen and Tiffany went down and our band hasn't practiced. I tried to be sympathetic for the longest time, but it's beyond ridiculous now. Veronica, Tiffany, and I have been wanting to do band stuff but Gwen refuses because she's mad that Tiffany is dating a man SHE broke up with. It's not like Tiffany did it intentionally, and the fact that she's letting her own personal stuff interfere with our band is really pissing me off.

We've all got shit going on, but Gwen loves being a drama queen. Veronica has suggested kicking her out of the band a few times and Tiffany has echoed the same sentiment, but I don't think my patience has thinned to that extent just yet.

But it's getting there.

Young musicans aren't hard to come by, but finding someone who fits the band's sound as perfectly as Gwen's adds on a large layer of difficulty that I'm not prepared for. We'd have to start all over, teach our new singer the songs, establish chemistry...it seems exhausting and more trouble than it's worth, at least for the time being.

"Hey Julie." Dylan greeted me as I walked past, something he does whenever we work together. Sometimes it ends up being the best part of my day.

As the day progresses, I find myself smiling a lot more than I usually do. Customers are easier to deal with and a large amount of them were actually friendly. It created a light-hearted atmosphere in the restaurant that we don't get too often, unfortunately. The time seemed to fly by.

"Good luck Dylan." I said goodbye and walked out of the front door. Dylan was always there a hour before I arrived, and an hour before I left. The rest of the staff is pretty cool, but Dylan is the only one I'd consider to be a friend of mine. He's essentially the less musically inclined male version of me.

I head to our rehearsal space for the second time this week. I've extended the invitation to Gwen, as if she needs an invitation to show up to her own fucking band's rehearsal. If she doesn't show up tonight, she's out. Our time is just as important as hers and we're all tired of it being wasted.

I'm usually the first person to show up, but some days that isn't the case, like today.

"Hey." Gwen says shyly.

I give her a blank stare and proceeded to put my things down on a table nearby.

"Nice of you to finally decided to show up." I stated plainly.

"Look, I know I've missed a lot of practice and I totally understand the three of you being pissed at me, but can you please take one second to see this from my perspective?"

I couldn't help but scoff at what was coming out of Gwen's mouth. Has she seriously taken an objective look at the situation and came to the conclusion that she has a leg to stand on.

"Okay fine. You broke up with a guy, he moved onto Tiffany, you were so jealous that he wasn't falling you around like a lost puppy, and you took it out on Tiffany."

Gwen rolled her eyes but before she could speak, Tiffany and Veronica entered the room. Anger was written all over Tiffany's face, while Veronica seemed to be as cool as a cucumber.

That's one thing I've always liked about Veronica. She can keep her cool in some pretty tough situations. That's not all there is to like about her, though. She's utterly gorgeous. Her dark skin and hair that was almost always styled in an afro were truly beautiful features that I couldn't help but admire. She's beautiful, smart, talented, and has an amazing personality. She's the full package.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Tiffany wasted no time begining the screaming match we all knew was about to go down.

"We're in the same band." Gwen managed to maintain her regular tone of voice, but if I know Tiff like I think I do, and trust me, I do, she'll keep going until she sets Gwen off and then everything will go up in flames.

"Clearly the band hasn't been very high on your list of priorities for the past four weeks. Finally make time in your schedule for us, princess?" Tiffany was speaking with her genuine emotions, but part of her wanted to get a reaction out of Gwen. She knows how Gwen feels about being called "princess".

Gwen looks like she wants to say something to Tiffany that would no doubt escalate the situation even further, but she takes a deep breath and regains her composure.

"I'm sorry, okay? For everything. Julie was right, I should've maintained my professionalism above all else...and I shouldn't have put some guy over you and our friendship."

The three of us looked at Gwen semi-shocked. That girl never apologizes for anything. Instead of responding, Tiffany tells Veronica and I that she's stepping out for a smoke.

I'm not sure if we should discuss things further or let bygones be bygones, but it's not exactly my place to make that call.

Tiffany returns just as I finshed tuning my guitar and walked up to Gwen. If I didn't know Tiffany, I'd say she was going to punch Gwen in the face with the speed she was moving.

"That whole situation was fucked up, but I know how hard it is for you to apologize to people, so I forgive you." Tiffany pulls Gwen in for a hug and for the first time in awhile, things seem okay between the four of us.

"I would like to reiterate that Gwendolyn said I was right." I smiled proudly.

"Yeah, don't get used to hearing that from me."

It was nice while it lasted, at least.

Band practice turned out to be super productive, and it hasn't been that way in a long time. We got a lot of work done today and hopefully we can keep this up for awhile. We spent about 7 hours in our rehearsal space and it felt more like 5 minutes. Time really does fly when you're surrounded by positivity.

The girls and I said our goodbyes and parted ways for the night. Tiffany had mentioned that we haven't seen each other this past month like we usually do. Of course I feel bad about that, she's been my best friend for so long. But I've been spending a lot of time with the Guns N' Roses boys...Axl in particular can be a persuasive little shit when he wants to be. I've already told the guys that Tiffany's birthday is this weekend and they can't keep monopolizing my time. I need more feminine energy!

"Julie!" I hear someone call out. I recognize the voice as soon as it hits my ears.

"Hey Slash, what's up?"

Minus Izzy, I'm becoming pretty close with the members of Guns N' Roses. I just wish that man wasn't so goddamn illusive.

Slash and I walk and talk. Clearly he's decided we're hanging out tonight. I don't mind it much since Tiffany's going out with Victor tonight, Gwen is visiting her parents, and Veronica is doing god knows what, like always. So even if I wanted to make plans with someone, it's not like I had anyone else anyway.

"I don't think anyone's at the house, besides Izzy." From the way he phrased his sentence, it was a clear indication that Slash had no interest in staying at the "Hell House" with Izzy, he usually opted to spend his nights the same way he spent his days: completely wasted. It didn't matter if it was alcohol or heroin, if it got him high, he'd take it.

But this isn't about Slash. I want to see Izzy...I might have a slight obsession with a man who has never even said a single word to me, but I mean, he's absolutely gorgeous. There's something about him that keeps me drawn to him and I'm determined to figure out what it is. No matter how long it takes me.

"Then let's go to the house."

Before Slash can process what I said so he could say no, I grab him by the arm and run as fast as I possibly can while dragging a grown man behind me. It only takes about 15 seconds of running before I realized, Slash in tow or not, I'm very out of shape. I'm running out of breath, determined to get to the band's house. I'll be wheezing all the way down Sunset Boulevard and trying to convince myself it's worth it by the time we get there. But knowing me, it won't.

We enter the house and lo and behold...

Izzy isn't there. Despite me struggling to breathe, the look of defeat plasters my face and Slash starts laughing his ass off.

"Izzy's out working, I just wanted to see how you'd react. Sure didn't think you'd go runnin to our house, though." Slash manages to get out through his fit of hysterical laughter.

"Slash! Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because I know you like him. I got the confirmation I needed. Just wait until I tell Duff!" Slash heads for the stairs, but I grab his arm before he starts his ascent.

"You cannot tell Duff." I tell him seriously.

"He can't tell Duff what?" Duff appears from the kitchen

"And why are you out of breath? And why are you holding Slash's arm?"

"She totally likes Izzy, dude. I told her that he was here and she dragged me through the streets. We almost got hit by like, 5 cars."

My shocked face slowly twists into a look of confusion as Duff rolls his eyes, pulls out his wallet, and hands Slash a 20 dollar bill.

"Dude, you guys bet on whether I liked Izzy or not?" I was part shocked, part confused, and part mortified that my crush on Izzy was that obvious. Izzy seems like a smart man, so I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of him knowing and not talking to me because I'm a weird chick who likes him without even knowing anything about him.

"Yeah, and now I'm out 20 bucks because you can't control your goddamn hormones." Duff says in mock frustration. I ignore his joke as the overthinking sets in further.

"Does...does he know?"

"Nah. The man's pretty oblivious, plus he doesn't pay much attention to anything except drugs, work, and music. It's fine." Duff reassures me.

Then Izzy walks in. The three of us get quiet when he shuts the door behind him. He looked at the guys then looks me up and down. He then looks back up at my face like he's done several times before, but this time he doesn't look away when our eyes meet, not immediately, at least. I feel my heart start beating a mile a minute at the momentary eye contact and feel myself longing for it again when it breaks.

He nods his head and walks up the stairs. I guess his first words to me will have to wait another day.

"What does Izzy do for work?" I ask, to no one in particular.

"He's a drug dealer." Duff replies nonchalantly.

I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't. Slash and Duff have their own conversation and I find myself wondering what kind of person Izzy is. I don't know what to think. All I know is he's a damn good musician, an equally gifted writer, and a drug dealer.

Who the hell is Izzy Stradlin?

#guns n' roses #guns n roses #guns n roses fanfic #axl rose #steven adler #izzy stradlin #duff mckagan #slash #slash gnr #saul hudson

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 5 years

Text

We’ll Carry On - Chapter Thirty One

We’ll Carry On Tag

General Content Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Substance Abuse, Abandonment, Minor Character Death, Transphobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dissociation, Bullying, Homophobia

February 1st, 2019

Patton wished, not for the first time, that he could just escape this house and never return. He loved his mom, honestly, he did. But Charles made loving her feel hard. Because she always sided with him and that meant he and Virgil were always the troublemakers, even when Charles provoked them.

Granny was calling their mom over and over, asking for help or something, and Mom didn’t want to help. Charles kept telling her to ignore Granny and she’d go away, but he knew Mom felt guilty about it. And as such, she was much quicker to get angry, to get upset, to point fingers.

Patton knew that Granny needed help, and he didn’t understand why Mom wouldn’t help her. After all, didn’t family help each other when they were in trouble?

July 14th, 2019

Patton was absolutely delighted that Dad’s parents, his grandma and granddad, were staying for the weekend. It had been ages since he had seen Granny, even though she wrote them when she could, it was hard with their mom pestering her for Patton and Virgil’s location. And to have two grandparents from one parent, well! That was really cool!

They talked a lot, mostly asking questions to him and his brothers to get to know them. But sometimes they’d talk beyond small stuff, and let Patton talk about Legos, or Virgil about the Goosebumps books that he loved. And when Logan talked about Jack and his other friends, he’d get this spark in his eye that made him look truly alive. Even Dee got to talk about snakes. The only one who didn’t speak much was Roman. He sat in a corner of the living room, looking like he would rather be anywhere else. “What about you, Roman?” Granddad asked. “Is there anything you really like?”

Roman ducked his head. “I like fairy tales, and theatre,” he muttered.

Logan’s head snapped up from his phone. “Wait, you’re going into eighth grade! You’re going to my high school after this school year!”

Roman looked confused. “Yes?” he said, phrasing it like a question.

“Our after-school drama club is unbelievable!” Logan said. “I’ve worked tech on stuff when the sound booth has issues, and watching those kids act? It’s amazing. You should try out for the fall play, you’d love it!”

Roman looked vaguely interested, but uncertain. “You sure? I probably wouldn’t get that good a part...even if I do well in the middle school play this year...”

“No, that’s the best part of this whole thing!” Logan exclaimed. “There’s two sets of actors! The actual people, and then their understudies. And if nothing happens to the main actors, the understudies still get to have a part, because the school rotates who plays what show on what days! So you might not get to do the Friday night show, but you could always do the Saturday matineé!”

Roman’s lips twitched into a smile. “That sounds nice,” he admitted.

“It’s super fun,” Logan said. “All my friends try to get me to perform, though I prefer helping the techs. Too much attention on me makes me stressed.”

“I can understand that,” Roman said.

“Most people don’t,” Logan replied, “So I thank you for trying to empathize.”

Patton shot his hand up and asked, “Do you know what play they’re doing?”

“Not yet,” Logan said. “Usually they don’t announce that until the beginning of the school year.”

“Oh,” Patton deflated a little. “I was hoping that I could figure out what the play was so I could help somehow.”

“Well, we could always make our own play,” Logan said with a shrug.

Patton blinked, trying to make sense of that sentence. “We can?”

Logan nodded. “I know how to write screenplays, it can be done.”

Patton grinned. That sounded amazing! “Can we do it today?”

“I don’t see why not, provided Grandma and Granddad are okay with it,” Logan said, looking to their grandparents.

“I have one condition for you five working on a play,” Grandma said with a smile. “I want you to work on it here, so your grandfather and I can see your creativity at work.”

“I have another condition,” Granddad said. “I want to see the play when it’s done, even if it’s just a silly videotape that your dad sends us.”

Patton jumped up and down and looked to Logan hopefully. “Can we work on it now?”

Logan looked a little exasperated but chuckled all the same. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll grab the laptop.”

The laptop was a recent gift from Dad and Ami to Roman and Logan, informing them that they could only afford one laptop at the moment, but if the boys shared well enough there could be a second one in the near future. If Patton was lucky, and Logan and Roman had finished whatever work they were doing, he’d sometimes get to play games with Virgil on it.

Logan left the room quickly and Patton bounced where he stood. Writing a play would be so cool! He couldn’t wait to see what happened!

When Logan returned everyone started talking. “We need a concept for the plot,” Logan said.

“We need to figure out who everyone will be in the characters!” Roman said.

“I think we should figure out a setting first,” Virgil volunteered.

Patton watched as the three of them talked over each other, until Dee jumped on the table and waved his hands like crazy. Everyone turned to look at him and he signed, “One thing at a time.”

“Dee’s right,” Patton said. “What should we start with?”

Logan, Roman, and Virgil each said what they were saying before, at the exact same time. Patton frowned and looked at Dee. He had no idea how to solve the problem of everyone wanting their way to be the right way. Suddenly, it struck him. “Why not figure out a theme?” Patton asked. “If we can figure out a theme, then we can figure out the other three things faster!”

The three stared at him, until Logan laughed and tweaked his glasses. “You’re pretty smart, Patton. Okay. What should our theme be?”

“I vote family!” Roman exclaimed. “We could make a play about our stories!”

“Or we could do something where a family fights dragons or aliens!” Virgil said.

“Why not both?” Patton asked. “Brothers who were separated because they’d be too powerful together, and they find out about each other and save the world!”

“That sounds so cool!” Virgil exclaimed.

Dee clapped his hands and grinned.

Roman clapped Patton’s back. “That’s not a half-bad idea, kid!”

Logan thought about it, and nodded. “Okay, I can work with that.”

They all sat down on the floor and suggested ideas, which Logan would dutifully write down on the computer. Patton noticed their grandparents whispering to each other, but they were smiling, so he didn’t think too much of it.

It had to have been hours that they worked, deciding to go with Patton’s idea and then starting to write a story. Roman came up with the biggest ideas, which Virgil would point out might be a bit too complex for them to pull off, and Logan would scale them down to manageable size. Dee would occasionally add his two cents to what they were doing, but was mostly happy if he could play an antihero, to use Logan’s words.

When they finally stopped, it was because Dad and Ami came into the room asking where everyone was, because they had called that dinner was ready and none of them had heard it. Roman promptly answered, “We were fighting aliens in the play we’re writing,” and left it at that, as if that explained everything.

“Right...” Dad said, glancing at Ami. “Regardless, dinner is ready. We should eat it before it gets cold.”

They all went into the dining room and slowly started eating. “So, can we get context for this play?” Dad asked.

“We were talking to our grandsons about what they liked to do, and Roman brought up the fact that he enjoyed theatre. Logan said that he liked the theatre group at their high school, and when Patton asked if he knew what the play would be this upcoming year, Logan said no, but they could make their own,” Grandma summarized. “And these boys are amazing, Emile! They were all so creative, figuring out what to write and how to scale it down to something they could do with five actors! You never told us that they were so smart!”

Patton blushed a little and all his brothers were also in varying stages of embarrassment. “It’s not such a big deal,” Roman protested weakly. “I create crazy stories all the time.”

“And I’m usually the one who drags him back down to Earth,” Logan said.

“I was just trying to be realistic with what we could do,” Virgil said.

Patton shrugged. “I think it’s kinda a big deal, if only because usually the five of us don’t all work together like that.”

“But the fact that you don’t see it as a big deal means that you are talented,” Granddad said. “I would go so far as to say extremely gifted.”

“No way,” Roman said, scratching the back of his neck, as Logan tried to not choke on the water he was drinking. Virgil looked like he had just swallowed a frog.

“The boys still aren’t used to high praise,” Ami said, looking extremely amused. “No matter how many times we compliment them, they try to play it off. I don’t think you’re gonna be successful in getting them to accept your words, Dad. Much as you try.”

“Think I’ll have better luck?” Grandma asked.

“No,” Patton said. “I don’t think the others will be convinced that what they’re doing is a big deal, at least not for a long time.”

“But you disagree?” Grandma asked.

Patton shrugged. “I don’t think it’s as big a deal as you’re making it, but it’s not nothing, either.”

Grandma grinned. “You’re the mediator of the group, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Patton said. “Usually I just say something ridiculous enough to get Logan and Roman to stop arguing, but sometimes I actually add my opinions.”

Everyone continued to playfully argue about whether or not the play was a big deal, long after dinner. When Dee started yawning, Dad took him upstairs to get ready for bed. When he came back downstairs, Granddad haltingly signed, “Can I hug you?”

Dee looked surprised briefly before he nodded.

Granddad smiled and hugged Dee gently, and Grandma kissed his forehead when Granddad retreated to the couch. Dee walked up the stairs to his room, looking dazed and shell-shocked.

Patton glanced at Virgil, who was reading a Goosebumps book. “Do you think they’re gonna do that to everyone?” he asked.

“Everyone who accepts it,” Virgil said. “They’re leaving early tomorrow morning, so they’re saying goodbye now.”

“Oh,” Patton said. “You know, Granny would hug us goodnight, but Mom didn’t do that for a while before we ran away.”

“I know,” Virgil said. “I was there too. It’s nice to have people who care, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Patton said softly. “It’s weird, but it’s nice.”

Virgil looked over at Patton from his book, and Patton was surprised to see the amused smirk on Virgil’s face. Virgil almost never was this expressive with Mom, and it still shocked him to see Virgil come out of his shell. “You say that a lot. Things are always weird but nice to you.”

Patton shrugged. “Maybe one day it’ll stop feeling weird, but today’s not that day.”

Virgil shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, I get that feeling a lot, too.”

They shared a smile before Virgil went back to reading and Patton continued to listen to Dad and Ami talking to Grandma and Granddad about everything that had happened over the past few months.

Patton stretched and yawned, and hopped off the couch, gathering the attention of all the adults. “I’m gonna get ready for bed,” he announced. “I’m kinda tired.”

“Can I get a hug before you go upstairs?” Granddad asked.

Patton nodded and walked over, hugging Granddad tight. He smelled like wood shavings, and Patton wondered if he did any woodworking in his spare time.

When Granddad let him go, Grandma kissed him on the forehead too, and Patton giggled. “I like you both a lot,” he said.

“We’re honored to hear that, Patton,” Grandma said. “Go ahead and get ready for bed, we’ll see you soon.”

Patton smiled and nodded, and headed upstairs. He was grinning the second he was out of sight. Grandma and Granddad were super nice, and he hoped that he’d get to see them again soon. When he was around them, he felt truly loved, which meant he could add two more people to the list of people he had as good people in his head. He couldn’t wait until that list was too long to remember.

#we'll carry on #sanders sides fanfiction #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #our creations #danger gays

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youknowmymethods · 5 years

Text

Content Creator Interview #8

Here we are again folks, number 8! This time we’re continuing on from last week’s interview with a bit of role reversal, @ellis-hendricks posing questions to her friend and beta @geekmama, chatting about Brit-picking, bad writing habits, favourite authors, and, most importantly, which of Sherlock’s shirts does it for her.

But starting off with a recap of last week’s intro...

We are, respectively, a Californian and a Geordie, and we got to know each other through reading and reviewing each other’s fics (geekmama’s ‘Time of the Season’ series was one of the first fics I read and loved). Geekmama has been writing in the fandom for around 3 years, and I’ve been doing the same for around 2 years, spurred on by the end of series 4 (and the ILY scene in particular). We started beta-reading each other’s work around a year ago, and are always discovering new and unexpected words and phrases that don’t translate across the pond! Although we’ve used the same set of questions for these interviews, we haven’t seen each other’s answers – so it does mean that if nobody else is interested, at least we will be!

Series

ellis-hendricks: Was there a particular moment in the series that set the ship sailing for you?

geekmama: I think it was A Scandal in Belgravia, and specifically Sherlock’s unprecedented apology to Molly, that got me thinking that the possibility was there, that it wasn’t just Molly’s schoolgirl crush vs. Sherlock’s needs when the game was on. I have to say, even though the Sherlock/Molly ship is easy to board, Mofftiss, etc., were very clever about leaving the way open for other pairings throughout the series. Even the ILY scene and its fallout could be interpreted very differently, if one was so inclined. It is really thanks to all the amazing fanfic authors out there that I jumped on board and took up residence on the good ship Sherlolly.

ellis-hendricks: What's your favourite episode and why?

geekmama: I love bits and pieces of all of them, but the one that I’ve watched more than any other is The Sign of Three. It’s heartwarming, hilarious, and only mildly heartbreaking. Even the villain of the piece, as little as we see him, has a motive one can understand.

ellis-hendricks: If you could ask/tell the series writers one thing, what would it be?

geekmama: Killing off Mary was a mistake, and I don’t care if that event sets up the entire story arc of season four, you should have thought of something else. Come on! You are brilliant writers, you could have done it.

ellis-hendricks: Do you have a controversial opinion about the series? E.g. a character who everyone else hates, but who you love?

geekmama: Or everyone loves but you hate? I’d say Moriarty qualifies. Andrew Scott is very cute, but though he’s in a number of the episodes we’re never given much insight to his character’s motives. Moriarty is pretty much just murderously insane in canon, and I don’t understand how one gets around that to write Molly/Moriarty or any of the slash pairings.

ellis-hendricks: Have you ever, when watching an episode, cracked a case before Sherlock?

geekmama: Well, if the writers want us to, then we’re given the information to crack the case before Sherlock. The series is about him, after all. The cases are secondary.

ellis-hendricks: With whom would you rather be stuck at a wedding table –

Janine or Irene?

geekmama: Janine, she is just fun and rather ordinary, whereas Irene has numerous ulterior motives under her veneer of smug vanity.

ellis-hendricks: Donovan or Anderson?

geekmama: Anderson, since he actually felt remorse for what they did to Sherlock, and came to admire him, too. There might be more to Donovan than what we’re given, and certainly that’s what fanfic is for -- I’ve made her a sympathetic character in a couple of my own fics. And apparently she and Sherlock have some pretty interesting history between them.

ellis-hendricks: Who would you rather bring back in series 5 - Mary or Moriarty?

geekmama: Mary, of course -- she is a far more well-rounded (and loveable) character. One wants to know more about her.

ellis-hendricks: Whose house would you prefer to live in - Sherlock's, John & Mary's, Molly's or Mrs Hudson's?

geekmama: Probably Molly’s, though Sherlock’s would be tempting. Molly’s looks pretty state-of-the-art in the ILY scene, if rather bland -- I couldn’t imagine Molly living in a place that’s all granite gray. It doesn’t reflect her personality at all, and I didn’t even think it could be her home the first time I saw that episode.

ellis-hendricks: In your opinion, who has been the best series villain - Jim Moriarty, Charles Magnussen, Culverton Smith, or Eurus Holmes?

geekmama: Eurus. We’re at least given some idea of her motives, and one can feel some sympathy for her, even though she is as insanely murderous as the other three. The other three are pretty equally revolting.

Your writing

ellis-hendricks: What was your first fic? What prompted it, and how do you feel about it now?

geekmama: My first in the Sherlock fandom was Visiting Hours, written in March 2016. I first watched seasons 1-3 of Sherlock in October 2015 and I’d been reading other authors’ work for several months. There were ideas I wanted to explore, and I wanted to see if I could still write at all, lol! I hadn’t written anything since July of 2013, when I celebrated a decade of being in the Pirates of the Caribbean fandom with a series of ten 50 word drabbles. Visiting Hours is only 100 words, official drabble length, and it’s held up pretty well, I think. I don’t hate it, at least.

ellis-hendricks: Which fic are you most proud of/most attached to, and why?

geekmama: This is a really difficult question since I’ve written quite a few Sherlock fics. If I had to narrow it down, maybe Idiots in Love, which is part of the Aftermath series and from Greg Lestrade’s pov, which is always fun, and The Kensington House, kid!fic from my Time of the Season series. But then there are all the holiday fics… and the historical AU’s…

ellis-hendricks: You write great AUs set in other historical periods - do you prefer this or present day?

geekmama: I’ve read, and written, a lot of historical fiction, and certainly writing it comes much more easily to me than writing something set in the present day -- particularly current culture in the UK. It’s a good thing my dear Ellis_Hendricks is willing to Brit-pick for me. I did my best, but I’m sure my early Sherlock fic has plenty of errors in that regard. That was the most difficult thing for me when I was beginning to write in this fandom. However, I have grown to enjoy writing fic set in the present almost as much as writing historical fic.

ellis-hendricks: What are your worst writing habits?/What are your most overused phrases, plotlines, etc?

geekmama: Wow. There are probably a LOT of bad habits (run-on sentences, excessive use of parentheses and ellipses, etc. etc.etc.), and overused phrases/words. As for plotlines, I find the (comparatively) reality-based canon of Sherlock to be somewhat limiting to begin with (which is why AU’s were invented, I suppose). I try not to repeat plotlines, but of course I’ve used post-ILY scenarios multiple times (and no doubt will again -- the anniversary is coming up on the 15th), and I tend to overdo the h/c as that’s one of my favorite things.

ellis-hendricks: Do you have a writing routine? Where and when? And is everything digital, or are things ever handwritten first?

geekmama: Laptop, ideally in the morning, alone in bed (except for a pile of snoozing dogs), with no distractions like music etc. I can write with the TV or music on, but it takes a lot longer to produce anything. I haven’t produced finished handwritten works since I was in high school, and when I first got back into writing in late 2003 it was on a laptop I borrowed from work -- and it was a revelation! I wouldn’t bother handwriting more than a drabble or the outline of a story, now. Computers FTW!!!

ellis-hendricks: Who do you enjoy writing the most?

geekmama: Sherlock (if I have to choose -- I love Molly, Mycroft, and Lestrade pov, too).

ellis-hendricks: Who do you find easiest/hardest doing first person POV? - Sherlock seems fairly easy a lot of the time (hopefully readers agree -- I may be way off base, who knows?), and maybe Molly for hardest. We see so little of Molly over the course of the series it’s sometimes difficult for me to get a handle on her.

ellis-hendricks: Which fic would you recommend to someone who has never read your stuff before? - Benefit of the Doubt, maybe. I like the way it came out. It was one of those that practically wrote itself.

ellis-hendricks: What do you value most when it comes to feedback?

geekmama: Any feedback is very much appreciated, from Kudos to brief comments, but it’s always nice when someone references a particular phrase or idea they liked. I know how difficult that is to do, sometimes, though.

ellis-hendricks: Would you ever go back and revise old fics - or do you consign them to history once they're published?

geekmama: If I discover (or someone points out) an error I will go back and correct it, but I don’t really revise my stories once they are posted.

ellis-hendricks: What's the nicest/weirdest bit of feedback you've ever had? And does feedback ever influence what you write next, either within a story or in terms of future fics?

geekmama: I have to say I’ve had a lot of great, encouraging comments over the years, and maybe a few negative ones, mostly on FF.net, which I pretty much ignore, though one or two brought up interesting points. I think mostly people leave a comment if they really like something, or just go away if they don’t. Feedback does influence what I write to an extent -- say if someone really wants more of a certain story, or aspect of a story, that gets me thinking how it could be done.

ellis-hendricks: Do you - or would you - write other pairings?

geekmama: Well, yes, I’ve written Mycroft/Lady Smallwood, and John/Mary, and I have a few fics that reference Lestrade/OFC. And of course there are other F/M possibilities. But mostly it’s Sherlock/Molly.

ellis-hendricks: How would you define your style? (E.g. mine was called 'fluffy realism’, which I quite liked!)

geekmama: I agree with that ‘fluffy realism’ definition, the sweetest stuff and easily related to. I would call mine “Romance” if I had to choose a word, the old definition of romance that entails fluff, angst, humor, adventure -- all the stuff that makes a story interesting and fun to read.

ellis-hendricks: What's your method in approaching a story? Do you plan methodically, or wing it?

geekmama: I am somewhere in between. With longer fic I sometimes use an outline, but more often I have a basic plot in mind, complete with ending, and think about it until I’m finally ready (and have the time) to write it.

ellis-hendricks: Who do you write for? Is it you, or are you thinking about trying to please your audience?

geekmama: Mostly me. I started writing fanfic in the Pirates of the Caribbean fandom because I wasn’t seeing fic that went where I wanted to go with that story. With Sherlock it was some of that, and the fact that I wanted to further explore these compelling characters, and writing fic was the best way to do that. But I do write for my audience, to an extent, and it is fun to accept a prompt or theme from someone and write to it. In the PotC fandom we had a weekly drabble challenge for years, and I really miss that sort of thing.

ellis-hendricks: Do you have any WIPs, and do you think new chapters will ever see the light of day?

geekmama: I do have a WIP, Souvenirs, for which I’ve written a couple of additional chapters, and hope to finish some day. But it sort of got waylaid by the whole post-ILY thing. I may finish it. You never know. I also hope to write some more of that Regency AU, Uncertain Terms.

ellis-hendricks: Are you working on anything at the moment?

geekmama: I’m going to try to write something for the ILY Anniversay (January 15th).

ellis-hendricks: What’s harder for you - writing the start of a fic, or coming up with a decent title?

geekmama: Writing the start, I guess. Titles are usually easy. It’s plot and particularly a good ending that take a lot of work.

Reading other people's fics

ellis-hendricks: What are your favourite tropes in the fandom?

geekmama: Post-ILY scenarios, for sure, h/c, kid!fic, Mary is still alive, Christmas stories. Etc.

ellis-hendricks: What things are likely to turn you off a fic?

geekmama: Bad characterizations (we read fanfic because we want more of the characters we love); poor editing / grammar; too many crazy tags; Intro posts that have TMI (I don’t want to know that you’re bad at titles/summaries/etc.), or that solicit reviews too blatantly. Well, those things and just stuff I don’t want to read -- bad porn, excessive violence (torture in particular), stories focusing on characters I dislike. I’m kind of picky, actually. But we write and read in a particular fandom for personal pleasure, and I think authors have to expect that their work won’t please everybody (or maybe anybody - who knows?).

ellis-hendricks: Can you recommend 3 favourite fics that aren't your own?

geekmama: Only 3??? Well, I’ve printed out miabicicletta’s A fearful hope was all the world, and sunken_standard’s Fumbling Toward Ecstasy, so I guess that counts for something. It’s virtually impossible to choose one of Ellis_Hendricks’ fic, they reference so many of my favorite tropes and are all of them deliciously memorable. But then, how can I leave out Quarto’s Competition? Or Emma_Lynch’s Quarantine? Or so many others?

ellis-hendricks: What compels you to leave comments on top of kudos?

geekmama: If some idea or turn of phrase stands out for me, and if the fic is well-done in general.

ellis-hendricks: Quick-fire questions!

John's TEH moustache or his TAB moustache?

geekmama: TAB (I don’t think we are meant to like his TEH moustache, are we?).

Sherlock's purple shirt or white shirt?

geekmama: Gah! Why do I have to choose? Purple, then.

Molly's stripy jumper or cherry cardigan?

geekmama: Stripy jumper, I think, as their relationship is more fully developed at that point.

Mary's christening outfit or black-ops gear?

geekmama: Christening outfit, for sure.

Submitted by OhAine: this is a joint question for Ellis and geekmama: Do you feel that working together as betas has changed the way you both write?

geekmama: Not really, my process is the same and any input from Ellis_Hendricks is given after the fact. I edit the story accordingly, but there are usually only minor changes involved. I am particularly grateful for her “Brit-picking” skill, which obviously makes her far more valuable to me than I am to her -- it’s surprising how many little differences there are between the UK’s culture and California’s. I was woefully ignorant about that when I became involved in this fandom, and I don’t feel I’m much better now, really.

Next week, Friday 12th April 2019, @thisisartbylexie interviews @writingwife-83

#content creator interviews #Sherlock #sherlolly #geekmama #ellis-hendricks

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eddiespaghettio · 7 years

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here’s your quote! “i get scared and start to think of you. is it true, do you think of me too?”

Eddie has nightmares and thinking of Richie always helps.

TW: homophobic slurs.

The anniversaries are the hardest.

None of them talk about it, how the nightmares comes back tenfold and with a bloodthirsty vengeance every July. They don’t have to. It’s evident in the dark circles under everyone’s eyes, how they are all exhausted but secretly too afraid to sleep. So they stay out as late as they can, until the streetlights come on, spending more time at the quarry and Mike’s Grandad’s farm than anywhere near the Barrens. Because even though they defeated It, the trauma doesn’t go away, and the nightmares have the facility to twist and warp themselves into terrors that are somehow worse than that of what they saw down in that sewer two years ago. There’s a semblance of reality to these new night terrors that seems to put them all in a chokehold, gasping for breath long into the morning hours; that seems to haunt them regardless of how many times they remind themselves that It’s gone.

They had only spoken about it once, last summer, in the questionable hours between night and dawn, bundled up in sleeping bags in Denbrough’s living room, just days before what would have been Georgie’s eighth birthday.

“I-I still have n-n-nightmares,” Bill said, staring down into his lap at his torn cuticles, where the skin around his fingernails had been picked until it was red and painful. A stillness settled around the room, a collective held breath that asked are we actually talking about this? Even beneath the yellow lights of the table lamps, Bill looked ashen and pale.

“Me too,” Beverly whispered, and a few congruous, sympathetic sounds followed.

“Henry Bowers is always in mine,” Mike said, with a sad, encouraging smile in Bill’s direction, and no one had to ask to remember what had happened between the boy and their infamous bully to know what haunted Mike’s nightmares. “And my parents, of course.”

Bill lifted up his head, “T-these new ones,” he said, staring unseeingly at the group of them, sitting in a halfhearted circle in the middle of the room, “My p-p-parents are t-there.” There’s a forlorn, faraway look in his eyes and Eddie knows that that Bill’s reliving the nightmares over again in his head. “They…they b-blame me. They t-tell me that they w-w-wish that I had…that I’d d-d-died instead,” Bill forced out, voice cracking, eyes shining with unshed tears in the lamp light.

The temporary paralysis that had seemed to befallen them all shattered then, as they all moved at once to swarm around Bill, pulling him into a suffocating group hug, murmuring reassurances in the gaps between them all. They eventually fell asleep, dried remnants of tears on their cheeks, in a grouping best describes as a dogpile, and promptly never spoke of it again. Eddie hadn’t shared that night, too afraid to bring his terrors into the light, secretly ashamed of what not-entirely-out-of-the-realm-of-possibility tinged fears he harboured.

Eddie has nightmares all year round, but they are never quite as frequent or so vivid as they seem to be around the anniversaries. He can handle the typical bad dreams; the ones where he forgets to wear pants to school or the ones where his mom catches him doing or saying “inappropriate” things and bans him from his friends again. Those are easy, a cake walk really, by comparison. They’re nothing like the anniversary dreams.

Eddie’s imagination has never been all that spectacular, his dreams always hazy and blurry, the details undefined like he’s purposefully unfocused his eyes, everything running together like a drippy watercolor painting. But Eddie’s anniversary dreams are almost lucid. He knows he’s dreaming, that they’re not real, but they feel real, sharp and vibrant like they’re happening in real time, and that’s what makes them terrifying. Not terrifying like child eating shapeshifter clown that feeds off your fear scary, but scary in the sense that it’s all the things he worries about in the back of his mind come true. And that’s where we finds himself again tonight, terrorized by his subconscious on a stickily warm July night.

Eddie’s sitting in their usual semi-circle in the dirt surrounding the quarry, perched on a weather worn boulder. They’re all together; even Beverly is there, having returned the summer before after convincing her aunt to move to Derry from Portland, her red hair bright like lit flames under the afternoon sun. Eddie can smell the earth, the sweet scent of the wildflowers that grow in resilient little tufts out of the rocks, and the tang of the pixi stix powder on Richie’s hands beside him. He can feel the heat of the sun bearing down on them, the almost cool breeze blowing across the water on his skin. He’s been here before — in real life, undoubtedly, but also in both his dreams and nightmares. And this is a nightmare, identical in every way as it was two nights ago and a icy ball of dread forms in the pit of his stomach.

Eddie feels the words bubbling up inside him like the fizz in an over-shook soda bottle and he tries to force it down, to swallow the words once he feels them on the tip of his tongue, but he blurts it out anyways: “I’m gay.” Everyone stills around him, Mike stopping mid-sentence from recounting some interesting tale he learned from one of his books, and they stare at him with large, judging eyes. Eddie desperately tries to jerk himself awake — if he could just move a one finger — because he knows this is going to get ugly really fast.

“I’m not surprised,” says Stan, his face screwed up in a sour expression, like he sucked on a lemon, “I always knew you were a faggot.” The reactions are always the same as the time before, like these nightmare shadows of his friends are reading off a script. But it hurts every time.

“That’s disgusting,” spits Beverly, and she pushes herself up from her seat in the dirt and stalks away, only glancing back to glower at Eddie in utter revulsion. Ben follows her out without a word.

“They still execute gays, y’know,” Mike says as he turns to leave, the expression on his face a mix of hatred and something akin to pity. “Maybe the should.”

Bill towers over him. “I’m s-s-sorry, Eddie.” Bill always apologizes, but somehow it just makes it all the more painful. “B-but we can’t be f-f-friends with a f-fag. It’s j-j-just wrong.” One by one, his friends stand up and walk away, leaving Eddie to sit alone awash in his own self-hatred.

The last one to leave is always Richie, and he stares at Eddie with a barely constrained fury in his eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, his mouth twisted in an hideous scowl.

“How could you?” Richie demands, and Eddie flinches at the acid in his voice. “Look at me, Eddie!” Eddie didn’t even realize that he had turned to stare at his shoes. “How could you let me hug you? How could you let me sleep in your bed? When you knew all this time? How could you take advantage of me like that, your best friend? That’s so dirty, Eddie.”

Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.

The words begin to run on a loop, Richie’s voice fading in and out as the sound warps, growing more feminine, veiled with a thin veneer of forced cordiality, the sickly saccharine tone his mother always uses when something’s “for his own good.” Queers are dirty, Eddie-Bear; the words reverberate through his skull. So impure. They all go to Hell, Eddie. But we don’t have to worry about that. You’re my good boy, Eddie, you’re clean.

Eddie jolts awake, flying upright in his bed, the blankets pooling in his lap. He dry heaves over the side of his bed, the phantom of his mother’s words still ringing in his head. His face is red, cheeks wet with tears he didn’t realize he was crying. Eddie wheezes, struggling to breathe, and he scrambles to grab his inhaler off the nightstand. He knows it’s all fake, that he’s not actually asthmatic, but it always helps loosen the fist of anxiety and panic clutching his lungs. He stuffs the inhaler in his mouth, breathing in the acidic taste of the salbutamol like it’s his last lifeline.

Eddie cradles his inhaler in his hands in the fetal position, the angry and disgusted faces of his friends flashing in his mind. It’s not real, Eddie reminds himself. It’s not real. His friends wouldn’t treat him like that. They’ve been friends for so long, been through so much. Eddie racks his mind for any memories of his friends responding with that must hostility. They were probably that mean to Bower’s gang, maybe that fucking clown, but they deserved it ten fold. Eddie doesn’t deserve that sort of treatment, right?

He recalls a moment back in the spring when he and Ben came across crude signs pasted on the side of the Pharmacy, HOMO SEX IS IMMORAL, and GOD HATES FAGS, handwritten on white paper in red marker. Ben had stopped in front of the signs and frowned deeply, the corners of his mouth turning down so far it was almost comical.

“I don’t understand,” Ben had said, turning to look at Eddie who had froze beside him. Eddie tried to school his face into an expressionless mask. He probably just looked constipated.

“What do mean?” Eddie asked, and closed his eyes, almost afraid to hear what Ben said next. The words burned on the inside of his eyelids like they were a brand.

“Why does it matter? Why do people care so much?” Ben said, genuine confusion in his voice. “Why do people care if others are gay?”

Eddie exhaled in a puff, “I-I don’t know, Ben.”

Ben, the ever hopeless romantic, smiled a small smile and said, “One can’t help who they love.”

Thinking about that moment gave Eddie a small semblance of hope, flickering in his chest like a firefly, but it’s short lived; the nagging voice in the back of his head interjected. Ben’s always been more of a follower. If everyone else walked, especially Beverly, then Ben would, too. Eddie curls in on himself a bit tighter, as if he could protect himself from his own mind if he makes himself as small as possible.

Unbidden, a voice is back, louder this time, but it’s not the voice of his friends. It’s crazed and angry, all over the place in pitch. The voice of that goddamn clown that Eddie can never seem to fully forget even though they defeated It and it’s been two years since. It bounces around in his head like an echo in a cavern. I’m every nightmare you ever had! I am your worst dream come true! I’m everything you were ever afraid of! Eddie laughs, a painful, broken sound, in the darkness of his bedroom. They may have beat Pennywise but Eddie’s still afraid. They beat It but he’s still scared. Eddie wishes he could fearless now.

Another memory pushes itself to the forefront, wielding a baseball bat. It’s Richie, from that day. In his imagination, Eddie envisions Richie beating the other thoughts away, the other memories. Eddie would never admit it, but thinking of Richie always helps — with his bad jokes and even worse impressions. Richie with his fierce loyalty, who is always there when it really matters, and even there when it really doesn’t. Eddie wants to believe that Richie wouldn’t hate him for being…that. Wants to believe that none of them would, but Richie most of all. And Eddie knows why, but he can’t even bear to voice the thought even in his own head.

“But soft what light through yonder window breaks wind.” It takes Eddie a solid ten seconds to realize that Richie’s voice wasn’t coming from inside his head. When he opens his eyes, he finds Richie crouched precariously outside his bedroom window, one outstretched arm hanging onto the roof shingles above. Richie shoves the window open from the outside and tumbles into Eddie’s bedroom.

“Richie?” Eddie asks dumbly, as though he isn’t staring at him from across the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Your window was open, Juliet,” Richie replies, pulling off his dirty sneaks and dumping them on the floor beneath the window sill. “Were you expecting me?”

“No, I was expecting the other weird teenage boy that crawls through my window,” Eddie says, and he can hear the rasp in his voice from crying. He hopes that Richie doesn’t notice.

“Hey.” Eddie can tell by the softness in Richie’s voice that he definitely did notice. Richie crosses from the window to Eddie’s bed in three long strides and then plops himself down at the foot of the bed, narrowly missing sitting on Eddie’s feet. The room is bathed in the yellow light of Eddie’s table lamp as Richie tugs on the chain. Eddie feels exposed under Richie’s searching gaze. “You’ve been crying.”

Eddie futilely scrubs his hands against his cheeks and eyes to try and rid his face of any evidence.

“Nightmare?” Richie asks, his eyes huge and warm, and impossibly soft behind his glasses.

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. He scoots over and Richie moves to fill the space beside him in Eddie’s tiny twin sized bed. Richie’s grown long and gangly in his few teen years, folding up beside Eddie like his limbs are too long and he doesn’t really know what to do with them.

“I have them, too,” Richie states in a surprisingly soothing tone and reaches over to straighten the collar of Eddie’s pajama top.

Eddie wonders briefly what terrorizes Richie in his nightmares. If he still is scared of werewolves like he was when they were kids, or if he’s still afraid of clowns like he was then. Somehow, maybe intuitively, Eddie feels that Richie’s probably scared of something worse, something more visceral, more nuanced. Like Bill’s nightmares of his parents wishing he had died instead. Like Eddie losing all the people he loves the most just by being true to himself.

Richie gives Eddie a small, reassuring smile that looks entirely out of place of his face.

“You do?” Eddie asks, and looks down at his inhaler still tightly gripped in his hands.

“Definitely,” Richie says, “Your mom and I break up and I can never see my Eddie Spaghetti again.”

A laugh bursts out of Eddie’s mouth before he can stop it. It’s not even funny, really, but it breaks the stiffness in the room. “I’d miss you, but I’d miss your mom’s swee-”

“Gross!” Richie just flashes Eddie a wide, crooked smile.

The lay in silence for an immeasurable amount of time ― five minutes, thirty, and hour? Eddie can’t tell ― pressed side-by-side, Richie’s bony elbow digging into Eddie’s spleen. Until Eddie can’t ignore the pressing need to just say something, the nightmare still dancing at the edges of his mind, snippets of dialogue flitting around.

“They just keep getting worse, you know?” Eddie says and it feels way too loud for the silence of the room. “The dreams, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “Sometimes your mom doesn’t even give me a kiss to remember her by.” Eddie knows that Richie’s just using bad humor to evade, but he doesn’t say anything. Richie surprises him then, as though he has some sort of sixth sense and somehow knows. “We’d never leave you, y’know.”

Eddie turns and stares at Richie with wide eyes. How does he know?

“We love you, no matter what, Eds,” Richie keeps looking up at the ceiling. “I mean, unless you go all Zodiac Killer on us or somethin’.”

Richie turns and meets Eddie’s eye then, sees the questioning, half-scared look on his face.

“You talk in your sleep,” Richie explains.

“What…what do I say?”

“Uh…once you said, ‘guys, please don’t go,’ and ‘I thought we were a family.’” They’re both back to looking at the ceiling at this point. “You cried out for Bill once, during a sleepover.” Eddie remembers that night. Same nightmare, but he put up a fight then, trying to keep them all from abandoning him. Bill had awoken that night and sat up through the night with Eddie until just before daybreak. They hadn’t spoken of the dream, just sat in Bill’s living room and watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle reruns with the closed captioning on so as to not wake anyone else.

Eddie shakily exhales. Richie didn’t know. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Would you still talk to me like that if you knew?

“I…I get scared and start to think of you.” Eddie blurts out, and wants to take it back as soon as he says it, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. He wishes the lamp wasn’t on so he could hide in the dark, but if he turned it off now it would be too obvious. Richie doesn’t respond for just long enough of a time for it to feel uncomfortable and Eddie debates taking it back, make a half-assed joke out of it, ‘cause your face is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

He opens his mouth to speak but Richie beats him to it.

“Is it true,” Richie says slowly, in this gentle, almost imploring tone that Eddie’s never heard him use before. “Do you think of me, too?”

Eddie feels like his throat is closing up, his face burning. His fingers twitch on his inhaler but he doesn’t dare lift it to his mouth. His head swims. “Yeah,” Eddie whispers. I think of you all the time, Eddie’s heart yells at him. I think of your stupid jokes and they make me feel better. Eddie refuses to say that aloud. Richie would never let it go. I always feel better with you here. What he actually says, however, is: “You…think of me?”

“Yeah.” Richie says breathily, like he’s in awe of this new information — Eddie knows the feeling — but then quickly recovers. They fall back into familiar territory like it’s a refuge. They won’t speak of any of this in the morning. “I think of this cute Spaghetti face and, poof, all better!” Eddie smacks Richie’s hands away as he tries to pinch at his pinkened cheeks. “Cute, cute, cute!”

“Spaghetti face? Are you serious?” Richie just laughs and moves to ruffle Eddie’s hair. Eddie shoves him back as far as he can go until Richie’s back hits the wall beside the bed.

“Hey, Eds?”

“What? I hate when you call me that,” Eddie says instinctively.

“C’mere?” Richie’s turned on his side facing Eddie still, his arms spread open wide in invitation, looking hopeful. Eddie hesitates.

How could you let me hug you?

How could you let me sleep in your bed?

That little reassuring smile is back.

“I won’t bite,” Richie says, and makes grabby hands at Eddie, followed by a wink that’s a few beats too long. “Not unless you want me to.”

We’d never leave you, y’know.

We love you, no matter what, Eds.

Do you think of me, too?

Eddie takes a deep breath and decides to be selfish. He scoots across the small space between them and lets Richie wrap his gangly noodle arms around him, ignoring the fact that Richie’s still wearing the same outfit he wore the entire day before, and the way that he smells like old sweat and cigarette smoke.

If — when he tells them, he decides, he’ll let it happen. He’ll face the music. Eddie’s faced worse things, right? But for now he’s going to pretend that none of it’s possible; that Richie’s right and they’ll all still love him regardless. For now, he’s going to let Richie hold him.

When Eddie falls back to sleep, it’s dreamless.

#reddie #reddie fics #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it (2017)#it movie #angst #em's shit #reddie fanfiction

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ghostydreamgirl · 6 years

Text

She Was Cool - L.H.

A/N: AU.

Word count: 3, 026

Send me an ask of what you think please!

She was cool; she was like no other girl I’d encountered and I think that’s why I liked her so much. She had this way about her.

Her name was Jolie. She carried an iced coffee and a cool look on her face when we met. She was coming over and she was a friend of my friends who were my roommates. She was nothing but a friend, or so Ashton had tried to convince me. And of course it was Ashton to meet her. She was fire in a cold night and every insect was attracted to her, and I, of course, like moth to flame, was drawn to her as well. Ashton was no different. I remember seeing her for the first time and instantly losing my breath. However cliche that may seem, it is the truth. And this, is the truth of our love story, which should really just be called our story.

It was a hot July evening and my roommates and I were hosting a pool party when it began: sudden and unrelenting. “What are you doing inside, Jolie?” I asked, genuinely curious and happy to get to say her name. To her I must’ve seemed stupid. “Waiting for you to come inside too.” She spoke softly, like I’d never heard before, communicating a different meaning than the up front version of her words. She was in front of me in a second. “We don’t get a lot of time alone anymore.” She said, slender fingers reaching up to rest on my arm. “We never did in the beginning.” I countered, unsure of why I was proposing an argument. She could be right all the time as long as she was talking to me. She looked up at me, a grin on her face. “Well, I’m sorry it took me so long to seek you out for some alone time, then.” She said in a sarcastically sympathetic way. She had a plan, I could see the gears turning in her head. She was following it step by step and I wanted in on it. But there was no way in when she was pressed up against me like this. “It’s quite alright.” I said, feeling like I was the one who should be apologizing. By now I was leaning against the counter, her body pressed against mine, her hands resting on my hips, just underneath my shirt. Her touch felt nice, soothing and cooling. She smiled at me, breaking contact. It was a loss at first, feeling instantly like I was missing something until she took my hand in hers and lead me out of the kitchen and down the hall. I didn’t know how she knew where my room was. I didn’t know and I didn’t care because she was pushing the door open, closing it and pushing me back up against it. “Luke, will you answer my question and answer it honestly?” I was nodding before she’d finished her sentence and I could tell by the devilish smirk she was wearing that she liked that. “Good.” She fell away, moving towards the bed, falling, falling, falling. I forgot everything when I saw her there. Her long, mahogany blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders and rested in small curls around her. She looked up at me through her eyelashes and pursed her lips in thought. I’ll tell you everything I remember to the best of my ability because it was one wild night. And I mean that in a sense I can’t quite communicate so just listen.

The question didn’t matter, whatever it was, couldn’t be bad at all coming from her. I was weak with her. She had all the power she could ever want over me. And if she wanted more, I’d give it to her. She was soft on a daily basis, but even softer in bed, if you leave out her toned muscles. Her words were sweet. They flowed easily from her tongue and worked magic on my ears. Luke this, Luke that. She said my name like it was the name of her favorite flower. Luke. No one’s said it the same way since. She took my hand in hers and kissed it while I was still trying to figure out how I’d gotten here so quickly. “Lu,” She breathed when I kissed her neck. A nickname had fallen carelessly from her lips, but it did not go unnoticed on my side. Do you ever hear those songs, where everything builds up at once and explodes into a beautiful sound surrounding you? That’s how I would describe that night. No, not like that, we never went that far. She only wanted to talk and I was a sucker for listening to anything she had to say. She sat up after I kissed her. Defeated already, I fell next to her. Everything was up to her whether I knew it or not. “I’m glad you’re here with me.” She said. I couldn’t tell if she meant it or not but my heart fluttered into happiness and I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face for a while. “Do you believe in love?” She asked, like she’d rehearsed it a thousand times before. It’s only hitting me now that she probably asks everyone that. I took my time answering, though I knew the answer already. Yes. Of course. I had loved before and I would love again and in the moment I was in love with her. Love is a funny thing, that’s what they all say, but really it’s not so funny. It’s heartbreaking. It hurts and it feels bad. But it’s also amazing. It’s the best feeling in the world. “No.” She wasn’t expecting that. I could tell by the way the gears stopped turning in her head. She’d only ever heard one answer and that was not it. Whatever, they’d all told her yes to get in her pants and I affectively was getting more than that. I’d took ahold of her train of thought and threw it to a screeching halt on the tracks. She did not like this, I think, but she didn’t let me know this. “Why not?” A simple question if you ignore the previous comments. I had to think. I had to keep her interested or she’d vanish before my eyes. My thoughts were running wild. Tell her what you tell the other girls. Yet, she was not one of these ‘other girls’ and it felt wrong, almost. “It’s not for me.” I said, reaching up and pinching a lock of her hair before letting my hand drop to my side. I was coming off different now, and I liked it. Cocky, cool, arrogant. “Well it doesn’t have to be for you, but do you think it exists?” She countered, voice beginning to show her stubbornness. I liked the red hot moment. She was more for icy blue ones. “If you think I’m in love then I’ll tell you love doesn’t exist.” Wrong. Try again. “If you think the finest people on this planet are in love, then I’ll tell you, it still doesn’t exist.” God, what is happening? I’m losing control and she can tell by the grin on her rosy cheeks. “I’ll tell you I’ve got a lot of lust, though.” Bring the attention back to what was previously happening, I want to get back to that. “Do you think you could ever fall in love with me?” She asked, knocking the breath from my chest, completely blinding me and I had to cough to get back to reality. “What?” She was kidding. Surely. She didn’t move, looked me in the eye and asked again. “Do you think you could ever love me, Luke?” Goddammit, Jolie, I’m in love with you right this damn second. I’ve been pining over you for months. I can’t get over the way you walk, much less the way you speak…on a list of things I should’ve said. -- The next morning I found her wound up in my bed sheets, soft breath fanning out over my chest. Jolie. What a perfect name for her, too. Her parents didn’t know it when she was born, but they’d created an angel. Her hair fell just the right way in all the right times. She’d let it down and I’d go crazy. She’d tie it up and I fell silent too. She could shave it all off and I would still be heart eyes for her. Her lips were so pink and so soft and perfectly captured in a kiss. She woke up a little bit after I did, eyes fluttering open to reveal the prettiest color. She grinned at me. “Good morning.” She said, sitting up, stretching her arms out over her. A good morning indeed. I smiled at her when she looked back at me. “What?” She asked, confused. I shook my head, leaning up on my elbow, face to face with her. She laughed and got up, quickly leaving the room, but not trying to get away, searching for something I couldn’t give her. Maybe food. I followed her out and she was in the kitchen. My roommates were already awake, and I suddenly realized we’d stayed up until almost three am just talking. Or I was listening and occasionally supplying her with a word she’d forgotten. “Good morning sleepyheads.” I met eyes with Michael and he winked at me, suggesting something with his eyebrows. I shook my head, he frowned. I didn’t see it that way. “Morning.” I shot back when it was clear she wasn’t greeting anybody. Some of our other friends were there too, all just lounging around watching their phones or laptops or the TV. “What are you looking for?” I asked, quietly so only she heard. It felt almost like we were hiding something. No one else was paying attention anymore. “I don’t know.” Out of context, this described her. “I guess cereal.” Cereal. We had that, I could give her that. But was the milk cottage cheese? “Check the milk before you use it. Cereal is in the cabinet to your left.” Suddenly, at the topic of cereal and the chance of the milk in my fridge being chunky, I fell into a pit of despair. If my milk wasn’t good enough, could I be? I needed to breathe in some fresh air. I went to the back porch, the pool water was glistening in the sun and I remembered jumping off a cliff, looking down and seeing that beautiful sight. It was almost a metaphor for Jolie. In fact, it was. She was so beautiful and there was surely fun to be had, but what if you get hurt? I told myself nothing ever gets done that way and moved on. I’d like to say now, it’s silly that what panned out in the next seven minutes was because I got insecure over expired milk. Moments later, my calm serenity was bombarded with the cool, collected questions of my giggling friends. “Yo, so what happened last night? You two just disappeared.” I looked at Calum, he was clearly amused. “Nothing happened.” “You mean to tell me, you got a girl like Jolie alone in the bedroom and nothing happened?” Michael chimed in. Sex. Sex. Sex. That’s all they cared about sometimes and in my heart I always looked past it but I didn’t like hearing it about Jolie. “Not everything you do with a girl has to be sex.” I said, shocking them both as they thought I knew they were joking and would play along. I didn’t know anymore. “Whoa, be careful. Someone’s falling in love again.” I shot Calum a glare. “Whoa, be careful. Someone’s being a misogynist pig again.” This upset him. “Whatever. I don’t need this.” And they turned on their heels and left me alone. I was greeted next with the stunning angel I was spending my time thinking about. I didn’t look up when she came out the back door and I didn’t look up when she sat down next to me. I just kept staring at the water, watching it’s movements, hoping it would pull me in. She’d never go for someone with fucking expired milk in their fridge. “I heard that whole conversation.” She said softly, like it was a lie she’d been keeping in. “You did.” I scoffed as if it was funny, but I was just tired. “Yes. I did.” She confirmed it. “I think it’s pretty cool you called them out.” “Well, I think you’re pretty cool.” I looked at her for the first time since she’d come outside. “You do?” “I do.” I was almost whispering, afraid others would hear or something, I can’t remember. But before I let myself fall further into her ‘trap’, I cleared my throat and looked back at the pool water. “Plus, it’s 2017. There’s no time for that bullshit.” I quickly got it off the subject of me thinking she was pretty cool, and she sat in silence with me. “Why do you do that?” The question was not understood and I thought she was asking why I tapped my foot excessively sometimes. “I don’t know. It’s a habit, like biting your nails or something. I don’t know.” She shook her head, laughing. “No. Why do you come close to opening up, and immediately back up and shut down again?” I couldn’t look at her. She knew. I knew she knew. And she knew I knew she knew. And there was no way to get out of this without destroying the whole thing. And so I destroyed the whole thing: safety first, kids. “I don’t know. It’s a habit, like biting your nails.” She did not like this answer, but I knew she wouldn’t ask again. The silence wasn’t peaceful anymore; it was bitter and I didn’t like it this time. I got up to leave, but her words stopped me. “I know you lied about not believing in love.” And let me tell you, in that moment, it all came together. “I know you lied about love not being for you. That’s just what you say to all the girls, right?” She paused, wanting an answer perhaps, but not getting it. “I know you lied just now, too.” Her words were slicing through my silence, down to my bone. “You do know. You’ve been hurt before, haven’t you, Luke?” There it was again, the way she said my name made me shake. “You know love is real and breathing and it beats in your heart today, but for whom, I’m not quite sure. One moment, you’re all about me. The next, you’re cowering in the corner.” Cowering. In the corner.

“Interesting of you to say.” I shot back, and things got bad real fast. “Excuse me?” She stood, eyes locked on mine in an intense game of trying to kill me with them. “You say you’re free. You say you’re happy and you say all these things about loving someone. But you’re a prisoner to your own fear.” Her eyes showed hurt for a split second before her expression hardened and she took defense again. “You’re using something I confided in you, against me?” “You’re using something I never fucking told you.”  “So it’s true then? You believe in love?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” “Don’t you get it Luke?! That has to do with everything!” She stepped closer, and closer with each word. “That’s what started this whole mess: You. Lied.” “You lie all the time, so what does it matter that I did once?” I stepped forward, unaware I was moving. “You lied multiple times. In fact, just now your best friend said you were falling in love again. You’ve been in love before. And that’s your own opinion of what I say. I believe I am free, no captive of my fears. But you’re just that.” “You speak so sophisticated for someone who fucking speaks lies. You speak in fucking riddles!” “What are you even talking about now?” “You blame others for what one person did to you. And you refuse to see what anyone else could give you for fear of being hurt again. Goddammit, Jolie. I’m right here! I’m right in front of you! Look at me before I get sick of standing up and go.” Silence. I could hear my heartbeat. I could almost hear hers. Her eyes were glossy as she stared into my eyes, searching for something, dear God let there be something. “I see you.” She finally muttered. She almost spit the words in my face. “You see me?” I asked. She nodded slowly, softly. “I see you, Luke. Is that what you wanted?” “I only wanted you to see,” My hand gripped her arm loosely, so close, sliding down to her hand to hold it lightly in mine. “that I am not that little boy frightened of loving someone so grown and magnificent. I see you, Jolie, and I am not scared of loving you. I only wanted you to see that.” I let go of her hand and my hand dropped to my side. She was shocked, her lips slightly parted. I backed up, hands swinging by my sides. “Now that you’ve seen that, I’ll leave you alone to process.” My voice came out bitter and I did not mean it to be, but things happen and you move on from them. I went inside, sure of one thing only: I needed to leave. I needed to relieve the built up emotion in my heart so I grabbed my keys and phone and wallet and headed for my car. As soon as the door closed, I wept. “Who are you?” I asked myself, but it came out jumbled and in heaps of breaths. I didn’t have the answer so I started my car and drove into the city. Where I was going, I didn’t know and I found myself parked by the beach in 45 minutes.

I’d stopped bawling by then but the pain still remained.

REQUEST FOR PART TWO

MASTERLIST

#5sos #5sos imagine #luke #luke hemmings #luke imagine #luke hemmings imagine #luke hemmings imagines #luke imagines #5sos luke #luke 5sos

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malenafan4ever-blog · 6 years

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Last day eleteo week

New Romance and Old Flames-Rated PG13

An Elena Of Avalor Fanfiction

By Zoe Fowler

For Matena Supporters

“Guess what?” Isabelle squealed. “Senorita Marisol told me that I got straight 100%’s, and I’m going to be Avalor City Elementary’s valedictorian!”

“Oh, Isabelle, I feel so bad for you!” Mateo said, his voice solemnly sympathetic, no hint of sarcasm in his words. “Being valedictorian is horrible. My speech at the eighth grade graduation was the worst moment of my life.”

“Really?” Isabelle sounded extremely anxious now. “Should I be worried? Maybe I should tell Senorita Marisol that I can’t be valedictorian!”

Naomi laughed. “Isabelle, are you having surgery between now and and graduation?”

Isabelle furrowed her brow. “I don’t have a surgery planned,” she replied slowly, looking at Naomi as if she had gone off the rails.

“Then you have no reason to worry, Isabelle. I guarantee what happened to Mateo will not happen to you,” Naomi reassured her.

“Okay,” breathed Isabelle. She looked curiously at Mateo. “What happened at eighth grade graduation? Why was it so horrible?”

Mateo practically spit out his milk. “Nothing major. Not important. Absolutely nothing worth remembering.” As Mateo spoke, he became increasingly animated and panicked.

Naomi smirked. “Yeah, it definitely has nothing to do with Samantha Banneker,” Naomi grinned evilly.

Mateo exhaled, furious. “You brat.”

Isabelle’s eyes widened. Then she shook her head. “Who’s Samantha Banneker?”

Mateo was bright red, desperately trying to change the subject. “Do you all remember the Allegria? It was a fun ship.”

“Yeah. You know what?” Naomi asked with an evil smirk. “It’s sorta reminds me of Samantha Banneker’s mansion.”

Mateo glowered. “You will die tonight, Naomi Turner.”

“Who’s Samantha Banneker?” Elena and Isabelle asked in unison, loud and angry.

“IT DOESN’T MATTER!” Mateo screamed as he stabbed the table with a fork and stormed off.

All the royal family recoiled.

They sat in silence, until Esteban exploded. “What is wrong with Mateo? He is the most immature person in the castle, my cousins and Miss Turner included! He is being completely ridiculous and thinks he can do whatever he wants!I have absolutely know idea what Elena sees in him! He…

Elena cut him off. “Sees in him? You mean like… What are you talking… We’re just friends.”

“Good for you.” Esteban resumed his tirade. “He is the most irresponsible, illogical, impulsive wreck I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. He is…”

“A kid who really doesn’t like to bring up what happened at the eighth grade graduation,” Naomi cut in gently.

“Exactly, A kid!” Esteban shrieked.

“Esteban, Mateo is a lot of things, but melodramatic is not one of them. I have known Mateo for longer than anyone at this table, with the exception of Naomi, but I have definitely known Mateo longer and more personally than you. Whatever happened to Mateo at his middle school graduation was probably really bad,” Elena gently chided her cousin.

“Elena’s right about two things, wrong about one,” Naomi cut in. “What she has right. Number one. Mateo is NOT melodramatic in any way, shape, or form. Number Two. What happened at eighth grade graduation was bad. Do you ever watch the TV show American Housewife?”

Elena nodded. “Some.”

“Have you seen the uprising?”

Elena nodded again.

“Do you know what happened to Oliver during ballet class?”

“Yes, wh…” Elena’s eyes widened as the sudden realization hit her. She put her hand over her mouth. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“What?” Isabel begged, looking from Naomi to Elena to her grandparents and cousins who still looked confused.

“Nothing,” Elena and Naomi both said quickly.

“We never watched that show,” Louisa gestured to herself, Francisco, Esteban, and Isabelle. “So what happened to Ollington-”

“Oliver,” Naomi and Elena corrected at the same time.

“Right-Oliver, anyway, what happened to him?”

Elena and Naomi exchanged a glance. Naomi seemed to be asking the princess a question with her eyes. Elena shook her head, almost unnoticaeably, but Naomi seemed to understand exactly what the princess wanted.

“So, what are we doing later today? Anyone have anything interesting?” Naomi asked, her heart in the question.

“Oh, no. Don’t change the subject,” Louisa insisted. “What happened at eighth grade graduation?” She was practically wailing now, begging for information.

“It’s not our secret to tell,” Elena said patiently. “Come on, Naomi, let’s go.”

*******

“Let’s go!” Naomi shouted over her shoulder to her friends, who were apparently far too slow.

Panting, Mateo, Elena, and Gabe chased Naomi to the ship. They were going sailing, and hopefully this time they would not end up on a remote ship in the middle of the ocean. Some 10 minutes later they were just about to cast off when…

“Wait!”

They all turned around. A girl ran up to them, long jet black hair streaming out behind her. She looked to be about their age, and was stunningly beautiful. She was wearing dark blue eyeshadow and matching lipstick. She was dressed identically to Gabe.

“Oh, guys, this is the new guard,” Gabe gestured to the girl. “Allow me to introduce…”

Mateo and Naomi spoke in unison. “Samantha Banneker.

For a few seconds, Samantha’s brow was furrowed, and then the lightbulb was turned on. “Naomi?” Then she turned toto her left? “Mateo! It’s so good to see you again. I can’t believe how long ago freshman year was.” As she spoke, a nostalgic smile spread across her face. “How are things going with your new girlfriend?” She asked Mateo.

“New girlfriend? You mean like he had an old girlfriend?” Elena pondered, tilting her head curiously.

“Yeah.” Naomi cut in. “He and Samantha dated for a year before she moved to Paararhiso.”

Elena opened her mouth to speak, but Mateo cut her off. “What do you mean, new girlfriend?”

“Um, Elena,” Samantha shot back.

Elena lost her mind. “WHY? WHY, WHY, WHY? Why does everyone think that Mateo and I are together? Esteban and Isabelle and my grandparents and now, Samantha! We. Are. Just. FRIENDS!”

Everyone took a step back. “Okay, then. Elena, why don’t we all just take a deep breath and finally share the story of what happened to Mateo during his valedictorian speech,” Naomi suggested hopefully.

“Not a chance in heck,” Mateo replied.

“Come on, Mateo, it’s not… Yeah, I can’t even sell that, it was pretty bad,” Elena muttered.

“You told her? Mateo asked, totally furious. “The worst possible person to tell, since the same thing happened after she was fr- I mean you shouldn’t have told her.”

Naomi grinned deviously as her voice took on a sing-songy tone. “Come on, say it. You guys are in…”

“Have any of you guys met Doña Paloma? You know, the annoying magister of trade, as she couldn’t handle not reminding me every ten seconds?” Samantha cut in, noticing the blush rising on her ex boyfriend’s face and the crown princess’. Also, she still liked Mateo and didn’t want to picture him with someone else.

“She called herself annoying?” Gabe asked with an eyebrow.

“No, she said she was legendary, but I feel like annoying fits better. She and the chancellor are such a cute couple,” Samantha replied.

“What do you mean?” Elena asked, eyebrows raised.

“What, you guys didn’t know that they were dating? I saw them together behind her “”world-famous emporium””.” Samantha said cautiously.

They all put their hands over their mouths, and their eyes drastically widened.

“So, you didn’t know that?” Samantha asked slowly.

“NO!” they all shouted in unison.

“Are you mad at me or him, and why?“ asked Samantha.

“You, for not telling us, and him for the same reason!” Elena yelled.

“Okay, let’s calm down,” Mateo said, gently putting a hand on Elena’s shoulder.

Samantha narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Are you sure you’re not secretly together? Before you say no, let Mateo finish the sentence he was trying to say earlier,” Samantha added.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Mateo asked, blushing and avoiding Samantha’s gaze. Samantha was NOT trying to get Mateo and Elena together, as much as it would seem that way. She was trying to make Elena hate him, which might cause a heartbroken Mateo to come back to her. She could see that they were totally, heartbreakingly in love with one another. She didn’t want that. She still really loved Mateo.

***

“Naomi! Samantha!” Isabelle called. “Do you want to help with something fun?”

“Like what?” Samantha asked slowly at the same time that Naomi said “I’m in.”

“Okay, we’re going to ask Mateo to teach Elena the sambarosa, and we’re going to set them up under the mistletoe.”

“YES!” Naomi yelled. “ I can do that!”

Samantha frowned, and then smiled. “I’m in.” She had a plan.

***

Samantha crept into the kitchen, a vial in her hand. She grabbed the goblet, and poured the poison into it. This time tomorrow, Elena would be dead.

***

“Good morning, familia!” Elena called.

“Yes, yes, yes, drink the water!” Samantha practically yelled. “Why? And why does it look pink?” She shrugged and started to lift the goblet to her lips.

“ELENA! Don’t! It’s been poisoned!” Mateo yelled as he looked at the cup. “It’s got essence of gradual poison in it.”

“Arrest her!” Gabe yelled, and Samantha was grabbed and dragged away.

“STOP!” Elena called. “Did you?” she asked Samantha. The girl, ashamed, nodded. “But, why?”

“So that Mateo and I could be together again. You are obviously in love, and you are my greatest threat. I read his diary, and talks about you all the time. He even said straight out he loves you. I have the entry right here!” She started to read out loud.

July 15th, 1534

I just realized I love her. I had always thought that we were just best friends, but we were playing hide and seek with the kids at a birthday party, and I chose to hide in a closet. She had already chosen that as her hiding spot though. I apologized, and offered to move, because it was a very small closet. BUt she said it was fine, and teasingly said, “It’s not like this is the first time I’ve ever been in a closet with a boy before.” and I felt a little upset, but I didn’t know why. Then, she started leaning closer, and so did I, but at the last second turned her head. “Not all of them were winners,” she smiled. I mean, I knew she was only joking, but for some reason, I was crestfallen. I kept wondering how to become a winner in her eyes. Then I asked myself why I had that train of thought in my head. My immediate thought was because I want her to kiss me. Of course, that confused the heck out of me, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was right. I loved The crown Princess of Avalor. But it’s truly a waste of my time. It’s not like she would ever love me back

Samantha looked up, breathing hard, tears flowing down her face. “He never loved me that much, and you deserve it, Elena. You are the perfect couple, and I’m sorry. Now take me away.”

The guards dragged her away as Elena stood there, shocked. “Mateo? Is that true?”

Mateo sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry. I am an idiot. You have every right…”

Elena cut him off with a kiss. She leaned in, pressed her lips to his, and closed her eyes. He was shocked for a second, and then he kissed her back, his hand in her hair, her hand in his, their arms around each other, the warmth from the kiss the most amazing thing ever.

Ten Years Later

“Mami?” Chloe, the eight-year old heir to the throne asked. “Why did Ms. Banneker in the dungeons say that Papi loved her?”

“Well, it started a long time ago, 13 years to be exact. Mateo was valedictorian at graduation, and the sight of a dressed-up Samantha gave your father an erection.”

“So he did love her?” a disgusted Chloe asked.

“Yes,” Elena admitted. Then she leaned into her daughter’s ear and whispered conspiritally, “But he loved me more.”

#eleteo appreciation week

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myeclecticcollectorblazeus · 5 years

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California Sen. Kamala Harris' bid for the Democratic presidential nomination is imploding even before President Trump could think up an insulting nickname for her. Once regarded as the Democrats' best hope to take down Trump, Harris has seen her polls collapse, her donations tumble, and her campaign in shambles. She claims her woes show that the country is just "not ready for a woman of color" to be president.This is rot. What the country is not ready for is another cynical and self-serving bully-in-chief who, in her case, is masquerading as a progressive.Harris, who catapulted herself to the second spot behind former Vice President Joe Biden in one or two 2020 polls over the summer, is now struggling to stay in the mid-tier. The latest USA Today/Suffolk survey shows that her support among primary Democratic voters has dropped from 15 percent at its peak to a mere 3 percent now. She is way behind South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg. Even Hawaii Rep. Tulsi Gabbard has inched ahead of Harris, a particularly humiliating development given that Gabbard viciously attacked Harris' record as a public prosecutor in California on the debate stage, just like Harris attacked Biden's alleged opposition to school busing to propel herself several notches in the polls in July. Stunningly, Harris, who everyone expected to be right at the top, is now tied with entrepreneur Andrew Yang, a political nobody.All of this is affecting her fundraising ability with her early lead dissipating in the last few weeks. She has spent $2.5 million more than she has raised and recently fired dozens of staffers because she can no longer afford them. Her New Hampshire operation is reportedly shuttered.If Harris' fall from grace could be attributed to her gender and mixed Indian and African American heritage, then, she would never have shot up in the first place. Also those very same attributes would doom the part-Samoan, practicing-Hindu Gabbard. Moreover, if the country is not ready for a "woman of color," it is even less so for an openly gay man with a husband. Yet Mayor Buttigieg is surging.Harris is right that minorities and women have to scale a higher bar for the presidency. It is inconceivable, for example, that a black man -- much less a black woman -- who behaved like Trump would ever come within hailing distance of the White House. Still, the fact is that Harris is crashing not among general election voters but even the more progressive ones in the Democratic primaries. So unless she believes her own party's base is racist and misogynistic, she should look within to understand why she is crashing and burning.The real reason she's falling is that the more voters learn about Harris' decade-and-a-half record, first as a San Francisco prosecutor and then as the California attorney general, the more they recoil. And rightly so.Harris has long billed herself as a "progressive prosecutor." To most people, that would strike as oxymoronic. But to her this meant using the carceral state that conservatives like to tackle social problems that progressives care about. She's got the mindset of a cop who wants to save you not from the bad guys but yourself. "She repeatedly fought for more aggressive prosecution not just of violent criminals but of people who committed misdemeanor and 'quality of life' crimes," Reason's Elizabeth Nolan Brown noted after an exhaustive look at Harris' record.What kind of "quality of life" crimes did she crackdown on? Panhandling, prostitution, graffiti, loitering, driving under the influence, and living in an unapproved homeless encampment. This issue set would have made former New York Mayor and now Trump confidante Rudy Giuliani proud. It is also one that targets people of color the most. Of all people, Harris should have understood that, especially since she was railing against mass incarceration and its disparate impact on poor and black communities at Yale University in 2006, when she was San Francisco's district attorney and launching her "quality of life" crackdown.But her most notorious "quality of life" crusade that disproportionately targeted people of color was against school truancy. She first launched it as the district attorney of San Francisco, an office she won after defeating her truly progressive boss who had alienated police unions with his alleged softness on crime, and then scaled it up when she became California's attorney general.On the theory that high-school dropout are more likely to become criminals, she personally championed a 2011 state law that made it a criminal misdemeanor for parents to let kids in kindergarten through eighth grade to miss more than 10 percent of school days without a valid excuse. As if that was not bad enough, she also persuaded the state legislature to back the law with harsh penalties that included a minimum of $2,500 in fines and a one-year jail sentence. In other words, to prevent criminality in the future, she criminalized parents here and now.HuffPost reports that hundreds of parents have been booked under her law, the vast majority poor minorities juggling several jobs and struggling to keep their heads above water. One particularly tragic case HuffPost highlighted involved a poor, black mom, the sole caregiver of a daughter who missed school because she was suffering from severe sickle cell. The police whisked the mom away from her home in handcuffs and then subjected her to a harrowing and expensive two-year court ordeal.Given that Harris didn't spare parents, there was no way she was going to go easy on less sympathetic offenders such as sex workers. In fact, on the pretext of stopping human trafficking, she ramped up stings in immigrant communities and aggressively targeted websites such as Backpage on trumped up charges of child sex trafficking, even though Backpage was one of the few venues where sex workers could seek clients without having to roam the streets, reports Nolan Brown. And although Harris now says she's in favor of decriminalizing sex work, she doggedly opposed the idea previously.And then there is Harris' duplicity on three-strike laws. Such laws, along with mandatory minimum sentences for drug crimes, came into vogue in the mid-1990s and decimated minority communities in inner cities. They are one reason why America has become the incarceration nation of the world. Harris campaigned against California's three-strikes law that threw third-time offenders in jail for 25 years. She pledged to invoke it only in rare cases of very serious and violent crimes. But what she didn't say then was that she counted the possession of an unauthorized firearm -- as well as sex offenses -- as "serious" crimes even though the penal code did not define them as such. In other words, her idea of "serious" crime was even more expansive than what was on the books.As if all this is not bad enough, Harris threw 1,500 people in jail for minor marijuana violations and, as Gabbard pointed out on the debate stage, argued against commuting jail sentences. She also pushed to increase the cash required to obtain bail. All of these issues have a disparate impact on people of color far more unfortunate than Harris.What accounts for Harris' draconian record?Part of the reason is that just as surgeons have a bias for wielding their scalpels to treat illnesses that can be cured by less invasive means, Harris wanted to use the law enforcement tools at her disposal to solve social problems that could be far more humanely tackled through other means. But the bigger reason is that her law enforcement career took shape in the pre-Black Lives Matter days when the progressive backlash against the aggressive policing techniques of the 1990s hadn't yet fully matured. Hence her political strategy for higher office was to present herself as a centrist by combining a tough-on-crime approach to court law enforcement conservatives and police unions with social causes that would appeal to progressives.That was a massive miscalculation that is backfiring spectacularly. Instead of pointing fingers at voters, Harris ought to do a little soul searching. Looking past her skin color at her actual record is one thing America is doing right.Want more essential commentary and analysis like this delivered straight to your inbox? Sign up for The Week's "Today's best articles" newsletter here.

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45news · 5 years

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weopenviews · 5 years

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bloggerofworld · 5 years

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The real reason Kamala Harris is tanking

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batenchantingcollectorsong · 5 years

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