#chicago used bookstores

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

[fob4ever]

i was at a bookstore yesterday that had a copy of the kerrang: living loud book that featured the FOB watergun fight article i've never seen transcribed anywhere so i made a transcript of it for archival purposes. enjoy! from kerrang, may 2005.

For a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun while wearing just underpants, Fall Out Boy bassist Peter Wentz looks remarkably chipper. Especially when you consider the person about to unload in his face is guitarist and vocalist Patrick Stump, grinning madly despite the fact that fellow six-stringer Joe Trohman has a pistol to his temple. He in turn is firmly in the firing line of drummer Andy Hurley, cackling loudly with his finger hovering over the trigger.

Passers-by stop and stare, waiting for the inevitable, messy climax of this "Reservoir Dogs" scenario. The tension mounts, onlookers brace themselves, the band get ready to open fire. Suddenly it happens.

"Argh!" screams Wentz as several litres of icy water soak him. "That's fucking cold!"

No, Fall Out Boy aren't about to blow each other away, They're having a water fight for K!'s benefit in a car park at the Chicago stop on travelling punk circus Warped Tour, where they're knocking out their "softcore" wares ("We're basically a hardcore band that couldn't cut it as a hardcore band," laughs Wentz) on the main stage alongside big hitters like The Offspring, Avenged Sevenfold and My Chemical Romance. The Windy City is more than just another stop for them; Chicago is Fall Out Boy's hometown, the place where they formed out of the ashes of their old hardcore bands, and where they still live with their parents- who are here for today's show - during the few weeks of the year they're not on tour.

It all started for Fall Out Boy here in 2001 when the members wanted a break from playing in their various bands. Long time friends Wentz and Hurley got together with hardcore associate Joe Trohman to do something a bit less heavy. Following a conversation about avant-metallers Neurosis in a bookstore, Trohman introduced Stump to the rest of the band. When their other bands folded, they took on Fall Out Boy full time.

"We wanted to do things before we were ready," chuckles Peter Wentz fondly of the early days of DIY tours for the benefit of the one or two people who would show up. "We'd plan two-week tours, just to see the world. Nobody would book us, so we had to do it all on our own."

"A lot of bands have scenes to go into and surround themselves with those people," says Stump. "We had no scene, so we would just play anywhere, with whoever."

FOB have come a long way from their humble roots. Right now they're America's fastest rising band. Radio smash 'Sugar, We're Goin' Down' has placed them squarely in the mainstream, having spent three weeks as the Number One song on MTV's 'TRL', a prime-time show usually devoted to pop acts like Maroon 5 and Ashlee Simpson. So dizzying their Stateside assent has been, they had to cancel their recent European tour in order to play the MTV Music Video Awards, where they are also nominated for 'Sugar...'. Thankfully, FOB haven't let the screaming adoration turn them into big-headed twats.

"A piece of shit with legs on it could walk onto 'TRL' and people would still go crazy," laughs Wentz. "That stuff just goes straight by me. With the fast turnover in the music industry, how can anyone have an ego"

Andy Hurley chips in. "You can be today's main stage and tomorrow's trash."

That's to find out tomorrow, though. Today among the madness of trying to plan anything on the Warped Tour - stage times are decided daily by lottery - Fall Out Boy have to try and find time for hanging out with family and friends.

"Three weeks on Warped is like three months on a normal tour," says Peter Wentz.

"Home becomes like Atlantis on tour, you wonder if it actually exists after a while," adds Patrick Stump.

Now FOB are big stars, a lot of old 'friends' have been coming out of the woodwork. Joe Trohman and Peter Wentz have polarised views on those who didn't give a toss back in the day suddenly becoming your pal once you've made it.

"The way I look at it is if someone's a dick to you and you don't know them, so what?" says Trohman. "Just care about who did support you, keep those important people close, not the people who five years ago called you a loser."

"I work the opposite way!" Wentz counters, before adding darkly, "The people I think about most are enemies. My brain works on revenge!"

Though a tight knit group of close friends, Peter Wentz is clearly Fall Out Boy's spokesman. He does most of the talking during the interview and writes the lyrics, and seems like the most driven one of the lot. As well as doing Fall Out Boy, Wentz has also written a book with tattoo artist Joe Tesaure, 'The Boy With The Thorn In His Side'. It's a dark, twisted tale that could have come straight from the brain of Tim Burton.

"I've always been into Roahl Dahl and people like that, and I was friends with a tattoo artist at the time and we came up with this idea to do a book together," he explains. "It wasn't something I felt fitted in with what Fall Out Boy is, I hate when bands do something that's not 'them'. The book is what it is, and Fall Out Boy is what we are."

Despite all thise talk of nightmares and revenge, FOB are upbeat individuals, enjoying their newfound success, while refusing to allow success to go to their heads. They'll tell you they don't like the shallowness of groupies or industry parties, and that the trappings of rock stardom hold no appeal.

"I don't feel like I deserve it," says Wentz in closing. "It's not like, 'this amount of time and this amount of shows = this kind of bus'. I appreciate what we've got. We've toured in a tiny van and it was cool, but now we're having new adventures living like this. I don't feel we deserve it more than any other bands do."

He surveys the sumptuosly appointed tour bus for a moment before chuckling heartily.

"Actually, that's a lie, we totally deserve it more than anyone else! Ha ha!"

#yayyyyyy #article

[jadeylovesmarvelxo]

Great! Can you please write an older Eddie with female reader, like maybe 25-26? And by now Eddie is a famous rock star, but he adores you, avoids groupies altogether. But when you and him go back to Hawkins to play at the Hideout just for fun Chrissy (or some other cheerleader) make moves on him, telling reader (maybe in the bathroom) "he was in love with me all through high school - I just have to move my pinky and he'll come running).

But then maybe Eddie proposes to reader on stage? :) request by @somethingvicked 💞

Angst to fluff, this is an 18+ blog so mdni.

❤️

Eddie made it big after he left Hawkins. A few years after he finally graduated and went to Chicago with the rest of Corroded Coffin, they were notified by a bigwig music producer who thought they had a real shot at being successful.

They grafted for another few years after that and after a lot of hard work, they began to get noticed. Did more gigs, got lots of exposure and recorded their first successful album.

Four albums, and four tours (one world tour) later, Eddie couldn't believe that his dreams of being a rockstar had come true.

Even with his dreams coming true, the most amazing thing to happen to him in the last few years was meeting you.

He ran into you after being chased by a handful of his fans (seeking shelter in a bookstore that you owned) that the two of you got closer and began to date.

You were younger than Eddie (26 to Eddie's 38) he was worried when you first began dating at the media attention the two of you would get. Anyone he got close to was the subject of scrutiny but you got it worse.

Eddie protected you as much as he could, put out statements in anger when the vitirol had you in tears and stressed to the max. He loved you so much and would do anything to protect you from hate.

Groupies tried and failed to catch his attention, he was a one woman man and all he wanted was you. Most of the time he loved getting you to join him on tour, but it depended on your job. When you weren't with him, he missed you like crazy.

Now he was going to Hawkins for one a one off concert at The Hideout. He couldn't wait to see his uncle and his friends. You and Eddie could catch up with everyone.

Most importantly though he was planning something very special for you and he wanted to do it surrounded with friends and family.

It would be cool to perform here in Hawkins after all this time. He couldn't wait to get the gig started.

❤️

Watching Corroded Coffin perform at the place they started out is an amazing experience, Eddie and the guys look like they are having so much fun and fans have travelled from different cities to watch the band.

You chat to Steve and the rest of the gang and feel so proud as you watch Eddie. He was in his element and looked so sexy as he shredded on his guitar, desire pools in your stomach. You couldn't wait to get him alone later.

He catches your eye, notices the way you're looking at him, winks and blows you a kiss.

The crowd is electric even once the gig finishes, everyone is cheering and going wild. Eddie jumps off the stage, walks over to you and kisses you, you feel your cheeks warm. He presses a kiss to your head then begins to interact with the crowd.

As soon as Eddie begins to mingle with the rest of the people in the Hideout, it wasn't long before a pretty blonde makes herself known.

You don't notice her at first as you're too busy catching up with the rest of the gang, then you wonder where Eddie has got to and after a quick look around the room, you find him.

He's with the blonde, she's heavily flirting. Touching his arm, giggling and playing with her hair, she's actually batting her eyes at him. You're used to groupies throwing themselves at Eddie but it still makes you feel a little shitty when you have to witness it.

Eddie looks uncomfortable when she ramps up the flirting and he makes a hasty retreat not quick enough though as she is practically purring at him to come back soon. Steve tells you she's called Chrissy.

Fuming at her blatant disregard for Eddie's feelings you follow her as she heads to the bathroom, She looks at you like you're dirt on her shoe, when you approach her.

"Yes?" you roll your eyes at the bitchy antics, fuck what was this high school? Memories from Hawkins High flood back and it makes you even more pissed. Who did this woman think she was?

"Hi, I'd appreciate it if you backed off from Eddie, your flirting was making him uncomfortable" you try to keep your cool, however the smug smile on her face is needling at you.

She snorts, flips her hair over her shoulder and moves closer to you.

"Oh please, sweetie he was in love with me all through high school - I just have to move my pinky and he'll come running" Chrissy smirks and you feel your stomach bottom out. Was this true?

Was she right? Would you lose Eddie to some old high school crush? Chrissy turns away from you and reapplies her lipstick which is cherry red, you leave the bathroom with the knot of anxiety growing in your stomach.

Chrissy looks triumphant as she comes out, you feel like you can't breathe and stirrings of panic and anxiety begin to take over you.

She turns to her friends and looks so smug. "Guaranteed he'll dump her, when I show even a hint of interest. He could do so much better"

Gareth is close to all of you, chatting to his girlfriend when he hears the comment Chrissy made.

The look on your face tugs at his heart. Eddie was so in love with you, no Chrissy Cunningham's were going to change that. Still, he doesn't like how Chrissy is speaking to you (Eddie won't either) and he excuses himself from Alicia for a moment to inform Eddie what's going on.

Eddie glares over at Chrissy, who preens at his attention. "In love with her in high school? Is she for fucking real? I was in love with about half the class at one point? She's not special" Eddie snorts.

As for dumping you for Chrissy? That he could do better than you? As if. She was deluded if she thought that. He'd tell her that if he had to. You were the best thing that ever happened to him.

Gareth looks amused and discreetly slips Eddie his surprise for you. "Good luck man" Eddie nods, nerves crawling through his veins.

Fuck after all the planning this was it. He heads up on stage, takes a deep breath and begins to speak. "Hi, can I have everyone's attention please"

You notice that Eddie is up on the stage and wonder what he's doing. What aren't the rest of the band with him? To your surprise he calls on you to join him.

"I wanted to do this here, surrounded by my family and friends, I've been planning a surprise and I hope you like it sweetheart" you feel yourself grow flustered but very very happy.

What was he planning? There's this part of you that thinks he may be going to propose, the thought of him doing it nearly brings tears to your eyes but you will them away. It could be anything, you mustn't get your hopes up too much.

You'd love to marry Eddie, spend the rest of your life with him, but Eddie had taken a long time to come around to the idea of marriage, would he want that now?

He takes your hand and kisses it tenderly, pulls off one of his rings and places it on your ring finger, your heart begins to race as you realise the dream you have, may be coming true.

"Eddie?" you can barely get the words out and his eyes are all big and shiny as he gazes at you with pure love in his expression.

"I love you so much princess, you're all I'll ever want and need. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?" He gets down on one knee and smiles, reaches in his pocket and pulls out a velvet red box, inside is the most beautiful ring you've ever seen.

You're sobbing freely now, elated and throw your arms around Eddie. "Yes!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and you see the smug smile wiped off Chrissy's face. Eddie places the ring on your finger and kisses you, tenderly cupping your face in his hands.

Chrissy scoffs and leaves, throwing you and Eddie a bitchy look as she does. Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Charming huh?" You stifle a giggle and he softens.

"Hey, Gareth told me what Chrissy said sweetheart. Fuck, she was a stupid crush in high school that vanished quickly because she's a complete bitch. You never have to worry about that" you smile and cuddle into him.

You kiss him again and look at the beautiful ring on your finger, you can't wait for you and Eddie to start your new adventure.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #older eddie munson #rockstar eddie munson

[oh-stars]

Doodles

Hurt

a Stobin Month 2024 prompt | 539 words | CW: off-screen injury | Rating: G

--

“Does this make me old now?”

Robin rolls her eyes as she sits down beside Steve. She sets her markers down in the crease of her thigh as she twists to face him on the couch. “You’re not old.” 

“Me five years ago would never fumble this hard,” Steve huffs. He goes to cross his arms, but the big, bulky cast on his left hand stops him. He glares hard at it before offering it back to Robin. 

She hums a thankful noise and uncaps the first marker. 

“Just no dicks, please,” Steve sighs, leaning his head back. “I cannot go to work with dicks on my arm.” 

“Who do you think I am? Eddie?” Robin rolls her eyes again . “I would never draw a dick on your arm.” Boobies, however, are a different story. She makes them small and at the top part of his cast where it’s most likely going to be obscured by his shirts and jackets. 

Steve pouts. “I just cannot believe I fell so hard I broke my arm during a game with a bunch of old men.” 

“Aren’t they all under forty?” 

“Yeah, but this,” he gestures to the cast, “proves that I, the youngest of the group, is old and therefore, so are they.” 

“Come back to me when you get your first gray hair, then we can talk.”

“Why would you put that on me? Do you want me to die young? Jesus Christ, Robs,” Steve practically screeches, running his free hand through his hair. 

She just smiles and starts drawing little flowers randomly on the plaster, trading out colors every now and then. He got a bright neon green, so the darker colors are really popping against the plaster. 

For about thirty minutes, Steve just watches the ceiling fan as she doodles on his arm. She’s not leaving room for anyone else to sign, and maybe that’s selfish but Steve’s hers so she’ll do as she pleases, thank you.

Robin looks down at the mostly covered work and sighs. She decides to leave two openings for Dustin and Eddie to sign – the only two of the party who live in Chicago with them right now – but covers the rest. If she left any more openings, Eddie would doodle dicks and nerd shit while Dustin would use Steve’s arm to write equations or something. At least she’s drawing stuff he actually likes. 

There’s baseballs and basketballs (which she realizes may be a sore subject right now, so she put those where they were least visible) among the flowers and little music notes sprinkled in. She even drew a bottle of hairspray in the crease of his elbow. There’s a symbol for every job they’ve worked together: an icecream cone for Scoops Ahoy, a VHS tape for Family Video, a book for that bookstore they love, coffee mug from the brief time they tried to be baristas, a donut from the bakery that Steve still works at full-time and Robin helps out on the weekends, a pawprint for the pet store Robin convinced him to try, and a bone for the museum where Robin was a tour guide (and now does research at full-time) and Steve worked in the gift shop. 

And in big letters, going down his arm, she’s signed, “I love you dingus ❤ Robin.” 

“How’s that look?” 

Steve looks over it with a fond smile, the first since he reluctantly called her from the gym this morning. “It’s perfect.” 

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

#ohstars fic #steve harrington #stranger things #robin buckley #stobin month 2024 #ohstars posting challenge #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #stobin

[kat-sribbles]

October 9th, 2001: The Beginning of Something

Ever since Quarantine of 2020, I’ve always wondered where fall out boy first ever performance was. I’ve been a fan of FOB for about 9 years now and never fully went into their history of how they started, so quarantine gave me time to do research. I came across a video of a Black Sabbath cover band and in the description of the video said that this was fall out boy first ever show they did, they played alongside two cover bands that were Chicago hardcore locals. After looking at this video for awhile, it had a date and location. October 9th, 2001 at DePaul University at Cortelyou Commons. There was my answer to the question…but it didn’t feel satisfied enough, I need to know more about this show and if there is footage of this show. This is where my search starts going into more depth.

Fast-forward to this summer of 2023, with the help of two friends, I started to do more digging on the first show. I went back to the video and saw that the channel had uploaded another video from that same night. When I looked the description of that video, it had said “This was Fall Out Boy's first show. No, we do not have any video of them. They were awful.”

(Which I do not mind that they were terrible, even the guys said it was a terrible show). I then started to search this channel name on instagram, I found that this guy who uploaded thee videos was the bassist of Stillwell (the band that is shown in the video) and is the founder of the independent record label, Forge Again Records. My friend reached out via the instagram that I found and we asked a few questions. (See picture below) he was very kind to answer some of our questions that we had about that night ( we asked about how they were booked for that show and if there was any flyers promoting this show at all).

What he told us:

He got a call from Ben Rose (the drummer at the time) and asked to be put onto the lineup last minute (this is why there most likely wasn’t a flyer with their name on it)

They opened the show that night since he needed someone to open.

He then guided us into looking at the Oral History of TTTYG from AP Magazine (issue 303). I have a copy of the mega collection of all the issues that FOB was in from AP and quickly found some key notes. (Show pictures below) not only did our search gave us some clues but also made us open to other lost media that might be out there as well!

Joe was given a link from Patrick (Patrick’s mp3 page) after meeting Joe at a borders bookstore in Wilmette

The first implication of FOB being mention was in a GuestBook post that Patrick made (picture below) on May 31st, 2001

At the show, they did not have a name yet, they were only referred to as “Pete’s New Band”

Their second show, they opened for The Killing Tree at an unknown southern Illinois college auditorium, and this is the show where they got their name from.

With all of this information, we come to a halt. We are still trying to find anyone who would possibly have this footage, there’s possibly might be someone but not 100% sure yet (I wanna note that I did look on DePaul’s archives online and couldn’t do much without going in-person to look at their archives since I do not live in Chicago, I went as far as contacting the head digital archivist at DePaul and they do not have any footage, they would only have the footage if it was donated to them). We still need help finding some Information and anything pre-tttyg.

If you know anything please contact/email us at [email protected]

(Wanna mention that I did make a similar post, you can check that out as well)

Happy 22 years of being a band & best friends @falloutboy

(And we love you back!)

(Disclaimer: please do not message the guy we contacted, he was already contacted by us and answered our questions on what we needed)

#pete wentz #fall out boy #patrick stump #joe trohman #andy hurley #so much for stardust #arma angelus #take this to your grave #fob #chris gutierrez #fob8 #fob lost media #so much for tour dust #american beauty/american psycho #from under the cork tree #infinity on high #folie a deux #mania #save rock and roll #heychris #lost media #chicago hardcore

[wosoimagines]

Tall Tales - Alyssa Naeher/Reader

part one | part two

prompt: part two to Our Own Litle Book Club where Alyssa helps open up a book store.

warnings: none.

words: 1562

i hope you guys like this cause i'm hoping to get back into writing and maybe even setting a schedule for it to help keep me on track since i'm working two jobs and can get pretty busy these days cause i've really missed writing.

Y/N POV

“So, I have a surprise.”

Alyssa furrowed her brow as I pushed the box across the table toward her. I kept a close eye on her reaction as she opened the box.

Alyssa blinked once. Then twice. And then a third time before she reached into the box.

“Are you asking me to move in?”

I chuckled a little as Alyssa held the key up in between us.

“Not yet,” I shook my head. “I bought the place next door with the money I made from my book. Which reminds me, I really do need to do something for Rose the next time she’s in town since she recommended it to all of your teammates and on her Instagram.”

“Why did you buy the place next door?”

I looked down at the table as I fiddled with the mug that had my latte in it. I had wanted Alyssa’s opinion, but she had been so busy preparing for the World Cup and the last thing I wanted was for her to feel like she had to help me with it.

“I want to open a bookstore. Is it a bad idea?”

Alyssa stayed quiet as she put the key back into the box that was sitting on the table. We had only been together for a couple of months, but her opinion on this meant a lot to me. I held my breath until Alyssa reached across the table to grab ahold of my hand.

“I think it’s a great idea. Do you have a name for it?”

“That’s a work in progress,” I said as I grinned at her. “I was hoping that you’d help me with that. And maybe help me fix it up? I’m not in a rush and Arthur said he’d keep me on the schedule until 11 so that I could work on it in the afternoon until it’s ready to open and then we’ll come up with a plan for my schedule here too.”

“How much work needs to be done?”

“I could show you around when you finish that coffee.”

Alyssa shook her head as she turned back to her coffee that was only half gone.

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

I grinned as I stepped back once we had moved the bookshelf into place. Alyssa wiped the sweat off her brow as she joined my side.

“Now we just have to put the books on the shelves.” Alyssa let out a small groan as I waved her off. “I can do it tomorrow with the others.”

“You sure you want the others to put the books up with you?”

I rolled my eyes at that before I tossed the water bottle over to her. Alyssa had met most of the people I had hired but she had insisted that the two of us do the work ourselves to make it our little project.

“You have practice tomorrow and I have the day off from the coffee shop. Besides, it would help if the others know where everything is at so that they can help people find what they’re looking for when we open next week,” I said. I had been training everyone who was hired how to use our system, but it had been easy since a couple of the people coming to work at the bookstore also work at the coffee shop with me. “Besides, you have your national team camp to worry about.”

“I can always tell them that I have personal stuff going on. I want to be here for opening day.”

“Alyssa, you know you can’t do that,” I swatted at her shoulder. We had arguments over the topic that past few days now that I had set the date for my grand opening, and it happened to be while Alyssa was going to be at camp. She’d ultimately be in town as their national team camp was taking place in Chicago, but Alyssa was worried that she wouldn’t be able to stop by for opening day. “I won’t let you put your own career on hold because of me.”

“I want to.”

“And I don’t want you to. What if they refuse to call you up later because you took time away from the team?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Absolutely not, Alyssa. I’m your partner, it’s part of my job to worry about you. I could never forgive myself if they refused to call you up because you took time for me.”

“So, you can support me as my partner, but I’m not allowed to support you.”

I sighed as I pinched the bridge of my nose. Alyssa didn’t even have a schedule for her camp days yet so there wasn’t any telling if she would have to miss opening day or not.

“Look, the team is coming for the soft launch. It was supposed to be a surprise in case you’re going to be busy on opening day,” I explained. I had reached out to Becky to help me set up the surprise. “You guys will be the first customers that we have. I wanted to make sure that you could still be a part of the opening, but I won’t let you put your own life on hold for me. And we’ll have the first book club meeting when you get done with camp. Okay?”

Alyssa stayed silent as she nodded her head. I was a little upset that I had to ruin the surprise, but if it helped to quell Alyssa’s nerves about possibly missing the opening day then I guess it wasn’t too bad to ruin the surprise.

“We’ll be the first customers?”

“Pinky promise.”

I held my pinky up so she could lock her own around mine. After all, pinky promises were the most important promises ever.

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

I grinned as I rocked on my hills as the girls made their way toward me. I wrapped Alyssa up in a hug when she got close enough. We had been on the phone just this morning, but nothing compared to being able to see her in person.

“You ready to see how it turned out?” I softly asked her.

“You know I am.”

I pulled away from her before turning to unlock the door. I waited for the girls to pile into the store before I turned on the lights. Most of the girls gasped or squealed when they could finally see how the store turned out. I didn’t mind as they started to go about the store.

I did step up next to Alyssa though as I grabbed ahold of her hand. My eyes were drawn to the display that she was looking at. There were quite a few displays about the store. We had mystery book dates scattered throughout the store, along with a banned book display and even one for our employee favorites.

“In the beginning,” Alyssa read out loud. She looked down at me. “Are those the books we’ve recommended to each other?”

“I couldn’t have opened this place without you. I wanted to do something a little extra special for the two of us,” I admitted. I had even gone as far as to make sure that all the books were in order of how we had each recommended them to each other as just another way to tell our own story. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

“Good, because you guys are also working opening day as well.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, you guys are going to come and work opening day. More press for the store and you get to come to opening day.”

Alyssa grinned before she pulled me closer to give me a kiss. I couldn’t help but melt in her arms. I was getting to live my own little story and I wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Hey, (Y/N)!” Sonny called out, causing Alyssa and I to pull away from each other. Neither of us being comfortable with showing too much PDA around Alyssa’s teammates. “How did you get ‘Tall Tales’ for the name?”

“You don’t have to tell her,” Alyssa said to me, but I was already shaking my head at her.

“Alyssa loves telling me all of the national team tales you guys get up to and she’s tall, so it kind of just worked out perfectly.”

“I knew you loved all the shenanigans that we get up to, Uncle!”

Alyssa groaned at that.

“Is ‘shenanigans’ your word of the day, Sonnett?” Alyssa asked. I immediately brought my hand up to cover my mouth to keep the laughter from spilling out. “I’m so proud of you for being able to use such a big word in a sentence.”

“Don’t be mean,” I said as I pushed Alyssa away from me.

“Let’s be realistic,” Alyssa said. She caught sight of the book in Sonny’s hands. “Are you sure you should let her read your book? She might have trouble with some of the words and subtext and all the hidden meanings in it.”

“Hey!”

“It’s okay, Sonny. You can ask me all the questions about it,” I said to the blonde defender before turning to Alyssa. “And you are getting no more kisses until you can be nice to Sonny.”

Alyssa groaned at that as I moved closer to Sonny to talk to her about some of the themes that she would find in my book.

#alyssa naeher imagines #uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines #uswnt x reader #alyssa naeher x reader #alyssa naeher imagine

[fancyfeathers]

Yandere Writing Personas

Do you ever feel like you have a persona when you write? For me when I write I feel like a reporter or anonymous writer who exposes secrets of the social scene. Sure writing may hurt other people but it’s the truth. So how would this persona work in the worlds I write for…

Bungou Stray Dogs

I would be a reporter for a well known newspaper perhaps in New York or Chicago, working in exposing the details of well known individuals, corrupt politicians, scandals with this or that star, and so on. Then on my desk one day my boss drops my next assignment, the Guild has been making moves in Yokohama, Japan and I am to go undercover as a civilian and investigate. So I pack up my suitcase and head on the next flight.

There I get a job at a bookstore or perhaps a cafe near the epicenter of all this drama, the Armed Detective Agency. The members come and go and sometimes I get bits and pieces of what’s happening from eavesdropping on their conversations, but it’s not enough. My boss is getting upset because the articles I am writing are just not enough. It is frustrating because if I don’t get this right I’m done. If I go after the Guild and expose their personal secrets, I won’t be able to get another job again once Fitzgerald finds out. If I go after the Armed Detective Agency no one would believe me given their positive reputation. If I go after the Port Mafia… well I’d rather not think about that.

Then when I’m at my lowest I get a letter from an anonymous friend. In the letter they explain on how they have been following my work and would like to lend a helping hand for both our sakes. Along with the letter is a package full of files that are labeled with different names, the names of members of different organizations I am to report on. Kunikida, Chuuya, Mori, Fitzgerald, hell even people like Ango who have no clear ties to any of these organizations. I open the files and what is inside horrifies me, photos of these people’s darlings, the truth behind all these people. I was told to use this evidence and if I don’t I will face the repercussions from both the sender and my own boss.

So I write these articles anonymously and I hear whispers from the people on the street on how they expected this sort of thing from the Port Mafia and the Guild but the Armed Detective Agency. Then one day I get a call from my boss telling me that there have been a series of brutal murders of different reporters, most likely done by the Port Mafia or the Guild to silence the stories. I have to be careful. Everyday it feels like I’m walking on eggshells and scared for my life.

Genshin Impact

I would be a child of a wealthy family, a member of high society in the social scene of Fontaine. Having to a keep my mouth shut on social issues becomes so incredibly difficult and I couldn’t possibly work for the Steambird because they would never listen to someone who has no real impact on the social scene. So instead I start a gossip pamphlet, reporting on the news that goes untold. I write on unfair trials of the Court and how the Iudex must start making decisions on his own rather than looking at the Oratrice Mecanique d'Analyse Cardinale for the final verdict, it gives no chance when evidence is stacked against a clearly innocent person. People read these pamphlets and wonder who this person is while I am just listening and making notes for my next story.

One day I am going to the Opera Epiclese with my mother to watch a trial that I plan to report on. Then after the trial I am making my way home when I spotted the Iudex with a woman on his arm, the Iudex has a partner? I dig into it, looking into old records, old newspapers and I find it. It was buried in old newspapers that was so incredibly hard to find, it was about a trial that happened a number of years ago and Neuvillette’s darling was the guilty. Then I digged further and it was a crime that violated a law that was made only days prior and he sentence was to serve the Iudex for life. It was so burried that it looked that someone was trying to cover it up.

When I publish my article Fontaine booms with rumors and needless to say the Iudex’s reputation is shattered. I hear the voices talking about how I get my hands on this information and how dedicated I was to this. That’s when a statement was released that my anonymous identity was found guilty of some sort of information smuggling and sentenced to life in the fortress of Meropide. So what do I do now? I keep writing, after all the truth is worth it,

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere genshin imagines #yandere bsd #bungou stray dogs x reader

[earlgreytea68]

Speaking of first impressions I was just watching this interview the other day (https:// youtu .be /uqUQxzn55Z8?feature=shared) and the way when they're asked about their musical influences Patrick is sheepishly like I was a fan of [Pete's] old band....... I'm just screaming thinking about it bc obviously if you're a teenage Patrick Stump navigating the Chicago hardcore scene there's no way you DIDN'T have a huge embarrassing crush on Pete of arma angelus and then suddenly this random guy you meet in a bookstore tells you he knows Pete Wentz and THEN he actually brings Pete Wentz to your HOUSE and you're trying to think about how short he is to distract yourself from how hot he is and then Pete demands that you sing for him even though you never once in your life thought of yourself as a singer but like this hot guy from a band you like is in your basement so wtf are you gonna do??????? And now suddenly you're the lead singer of his band 😭😭😭😭😭😭

RIGHT????? LIKE, HOW DID THIS ALL HAPPEN????? HOW IS IT NOT SOMETHING FICTIONAL????? SOMETHING MADE UP IN A FEVER DREAM??????

AND THEN.

The Hot and Cool Pete Wentz from Arma Angelus says he wants you to be his singer, but, like, clearly he doesn't really mean it, right? Like, any minute now he's going to come to his senses and realize you're a loser and he can do much better than you and this is a joke band and it means nothing to him and he's totally going to just move on and forget all about you so you'd better not get used to having Pete Wentz around, right???? You'd better keep all the best songs for yourself and not just hand them over to this dude who's totally going to ditch this band and walk out of your life and break your heart. Like, no way is Pete Wentz going to keep looking at you like that and quit every other band to focus on yours and promise that you're going to conquer the world together and call you his golden ticket and give you all of his words and just never let you go.

No way is that ever going to happen.

#fall out boy #fob #peterick

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … April 6

1483 – Raphael, Italian Renaissance painter and architect born (d. 1520); Almost every Renaissance painter has been thought to be homosexual by one writer or another over the years, and Raphael, “the divine painter” is no exception.

The clues, however, may be purely coincidental in Raphael’s case. As a young man he was exceedingly beautiful. As an adult he lived together with his two favorite students, Giulio Romano, reputed to be bisexual, and Gianfrancesco Penni. When he died at 37, he left the larger part of his estate to the two young men.

1618 – The Memorandum Of Valverde is a little- known but significant legal text, preserved in the National Historical Archive of Spain. It's been dated to April of 1618 and was sent by twelve residents of the village of Valverde de Alcalá to the governing Council of Castile .

It lists charges against the master of the palace, a Gonzalo Martel de los Rios, of noble origin and probably linked to the major houses of the Spanish aristocracy. He held the lordship of the town. The document lays out a rather detailed set of charges against the Lord, "offenses" committed both by the Lord and by his servants. He and his servants are charged with committing homosexual and "unnatural" acts and with "blasphemy" against God. The neighbors of the Lord called it heretical and insane what the Lord was up to with his servants in the palace.

No one knows what happened with these charges or what happened to the Lord of Valverde. The Lord's reported comment in response to the charges:

¿Qué se le da al fraile que yo sea puto, o moro, o judío? ¿Por qué no puedo yo vivir en la ley que quisiere? ¿Para qué se ha de meter conmigo?

"Why should the priest care that I'm a whore, a moor, or a jew? Why can't I live by the law of my own choosing? Why does he have to mess with me?"

1903 – Charles R. Jackson born (d.1968); relatively little seems to be known about Charles R. Jackson considering he is the author of a well-known novel which is still in print, upon which a multi Oscar-winning film was based - The Lost Weekend.

Born in Summit, New Jersey, as a young man he worked as an editor for local newspapers and in various bookstores in New Jersey, Chicago and New York prior to falling ill with tuberculosis. Jackson spent the years 1927-1931 in sanatoriums and eventually recovered in Switzerland. His successful battle cost him a lung and served as a catalyst for his alcoholism. He returned to New York at the height of the Great Depression and his difficulty in finding work spurred on his binge drinking. His battle to stop drinking started in late 1936 and was largely won by 1938, the year in which he married. During this time he was a free-lance writer and wrote radio scripts.

Jackson is best known for his 1944 novel The Lost Weekend. Made into a critically acclaimed film by Billy Wilder starring Ray Milland in 1945, The Lost Weekend is a semi-autobiographical novel detailing a struggling writer's five-day alcohol binge. He also straggled with a growing fear that he was homosexual. As a youth, he and his brother had both been sexually molested by a local male music teacher.

But it is Jackson's second novel that is interesting to us. In 1946, he published The Fall of Valor, a novel exploring a married man's growing awareness of his homosexuality and his love for a young Marine captain. Jackson was married and appears to have had two daughters, but this novel has the earmarks of first-hand experience. Long out of print, this is a significant 'lost' gay novel of the 20th century, although it appears to have been a critical and financial success at the time.

Jackson was a binge drinker who recovered sufficiently to speak to others in large groups, sharing his experience, strength and hope. He was the first speaker in AA to openly address drug dependence (barbiturates and paraldehyde) as part of his story.

Jackson appears to have spent much of his life battling the twin demons of alcohol dependency and a homosexual nature he struggled to accept, and his intense, compelling description of homoeroticism and sexual obsession in The Fall of Valor has the authenticity of a first person narrative.

After relapsing into alcoholism Jackson became estranged from his family and rented an apartment in New York City that was shared with his male lover in 1965. He died in New York in 1968 after committing suicide, never having managed to defeat his alcoholism.

1955 – The acclaimed non-fiction filmmaker, director, producer, writer and editor Rob Epstein, was born on this date in New Jersey. Epstein has won two Academy Awards for Best Documentary Feature for the films The Times of Harvey Milk and Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt. He has also won four national Emmy Awards, three Peabody Awards, two DuPont Columbia Journalism awards, a Guggenheim Fellowship and numerous other awards for his documentary films.

Epstein began his filmmaking career working on the 1978 film Word is Out: Stories of Some of Our Lives, a documentary about the lives of gay and lesbian Americans. Epstein answered an ad that read: "We are looking for a non-sexist man to work on a documentary film on gay life. No experience necessary, just insane dedication and a cooperative spirit."

In 1984, Epstein won the Academy Award for Documentary Feature at age 29 for The Times of Harvey Milk which he conceived and directed. After its theatrical release in 1985, The Times of Harvey Milk won numerous major awards including the Academy Award, the New York Film Critics Circle Award, the Peabody Award, and three Emmys for Epstein (as director/producer, co-editor, and interviewer), and went on to receive worldwide acclaim and distribution, showing at major film festivals, theaters, and on television on almost every continent. This film was selected by the UCLA Film and Television Archive and the Sundance Institute as a preservation project and a 35mm digitially re- mastered version of the film was released in June 2000.

In 1987, Epstein teamed up with filmmaker Jeffrey Friedman to form Telling Pictures in San Francisco, California. Their first film together was Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt, inspired by the NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt on the Mall in Washington DC. Narrated by Dustin Hoffman, Common Threads tells the dramatic story of the first decade of AIDS in America through stories of five individuals featured in the Quilt. Epstein won his second Academy Award for Best Documentary Feature for Common Threads, which also won the Peabody Award and an Emmy for Bobby McFerrin's original all-vocal score.

Their next film, The Celluloid Closet, based on the book by film historian Vito Russo, depicts a 100-year history of homosexual characters in Hollywood movies. Narrated by Lily Tomlin, The Celluloid Closet had its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival, was featured at the Toronto, New York, and Sundance Film Festivals (at which it won the Freedom of Expression Award from the jury), and numerous international festivals, including Berlin, Tokyo, and Sydney. In addition to winning the Peabody Award and Columbia DuPont Journalism Award, Epstein and Friedman won Emmys for directing.

In 2000, Epstein and Friedman directed and produced Paragraph 175, a film that explores a hidden chapter in history: the experiences of homosexuals during the Nazi regime in Europe. Narrated by Rupert Everett, and filmed in Germany, France and Spain, Paragraph 175 had its US premiere at the Sundance Film Festival in January, 2000, where it was awarded the documentary Grand Jury Prize for Directing, followed by a European premiere at the Berlin Film Festival in February, where it won the FIPRESCI (International Film Critics Association Award).

He and Friedman have followed these films up with "Howl", a biopic of Allen Ginsberg starring James Franco, Jon Hamm, and David Strathairn. Four short clips below.

1983 – Rick Cosnett is a Zimbabwean-Australian actor. He is known for playing the roles of Wes Maxfield in The Vampire Diaries, Elias Harper in Quantico and Eddie Thawne in The Flash.

Cosnett was born and raised on a farm in Chegutu, Zimbabwe. His family took part in community musical theater there, which made him interested in acting from an early age. When he was seventeen, his family decided to move to Queensland, Australia, in large part due to the land reforms in Zimbabwe.

Cosnett attended the Queensland University of Technology in Brisbane. He originally received a scholarship to study music but graduated with a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Acting.

Cosnett is a cousin of Hugh Grant. On 13 February 2020, Cosnett publicly came out as gay on his Instagram account.

1984 – A Louisiana appellate court overturns a man's conviction for exposing and fondling an undercover police officer. The court said that the state's law on indecent exposure requires that the defendant expose him or herself, not another person.

2010 – Playwright Terrence McNally weds Tom Kirdahy, 46, in Washington D.C. ceremony. During a small ceremony under a tree blooming with white flowers, Kirdahy read from a scene in McNally's play "Corpus Christi," in which a gay, Christ-like figure named Joshua marries two apostles:"It is good when two men love as James and Bartholomew do and we recognize their union," Kirdahy read. "Love each other in sickness and in health."

Kirdahy, a lawyer and Broadway producer, choked up as he recalled seeing the play before meeting the playwright. Actress Tyne Daly, who was currently starring in McNally's "Master Class" at the Kennedy Center festival, served as a witness at the sunlit wedding and read Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. Actors John Glover and Malcolm Gets, both starring in "Traviata," also looked on. The Rev. George Walker of the People's Congregational United Church of Christ presented them as husbands and signed their marriage certificate. It will be recognized back home in New York City. McNally's most recent play, Mothers and Sons opened on Broadway in March, 2014.

#Youtube

[lgbtqreads]

Hi! I'm working towards creating a queered adaptation of Ibsen's A Doll's House, which at the moment I'm planning on setting during the AIDS crisis either in America or the UK, and I want to be able to do as thorough an adaptation as I can. Do you have any recommendations for non-fiction books on the history of HIV/AIDS and the AIDS crisis, queer history in general in these locations, butch-femme dynamics or on butchness as an identity/presentation and its history? Histories looking at Scotland specifically would also be very useful because nowhere I've checked online seems to have any recommendations, and books that look at queer women's history alongside queer men's history or how these communities mixed and supported one another would be more useful than books looking just at men's history. Any books specifically focusing on queer doctors and politicians, and on the women who nursed men dying from AIDS would be especially appreciated. If there's anyone or anywhere you think would be another good source of advice that is also appreciated!

Thank you!

Here are a few books that address your questions, though Scotland is still a question mark for me:

How to Survive a Plague by David France

It Was Vulgar & It Was Beautiful: How AIDS Activists Used Art to Fight a Pandemic by Jack Lowery

Let the Record Show: A Political History of ACT UP New York, 1987-1993 by Sarah Schulman

And the Band Played On: Politics, People, and the AIDS Epidemic by Randy Shilts

Love Your Asian Body: AIDS Activism in Los Angeles by Eric C. Wat

[manhattancrossrip]

Hello, hi, only just followed but man am I loving the pony Ghostbusters stuff. (Cosplay a Ghostbuster myself).

Do you have any headcanons yet on what their cutiemarks mean and how they gotten them?

OKAY YEAH I DO I was waiting for someone to ask me to explain

(LONG WINDED EXPLANATION UNDER THE CUT)

egon - spores molds and fungus (mycology)

I think he probably got his cutiemark when he was a foal, the novelization of the first two movies leads me to believe that egon was very cemented in what he liked from an early age - so when he started collecting his spores, molds, and fungus he gained his cutiemark in mycology! it could also just be interpreted as a plain old talent in sciences but I like mycology for him

peter - zener cards

pete's cutiemark is zener cards! a type of card used to study the probability of esp and telepathy, peter uses these in the first scene we ever see him in and it's less so that his special talent is esp or telepathy and more so being sleazy and street-smart because of how he uses them in the scene he's introduced in - he probably got it in high school or college

winston - fighter jet shark mouth paint

winston's cutie mark is the shark mouths you can see on old fighter jets! my main reason for this is that in the novelization and original script for the movie, winston was stated to be an ex-member of the air force, so I wanted his cutiemark to reflect flying in a sort of way (also why he's a pegasus) - probably got it as a young foal when he discovered that he liked to fly and do airshows (he became a wonderbolt when he was younger)

ray - occult books

ray's cutiemark is a direct call to his bookstore (ray's occult books) but also the fact that he loves to study the paranormal and supernatural, he probably also got it as a young foal!

janine - phone

janine's is kind of my most uninspired? she's a secretary so I figured it should be a phone since that's her... job - but it also doubles as a fact that she LOVES to gossip, in the ghostbusters video game if you stand around in the firehouse for long enough you can hear her gossip over the phones, she probably got it at an older age.

phoebe - ghost trap & safety goggles

phoebe's cutiemark is mostly inspired by her supposed love of engineering! when we see her for the first time she's tinkering with the electricity in the spengler apartment in chicago, but I think she would've gotten her cutiemark in summerville - specifically when egon leads her to the ghost trap he had hidden under the floorboards.

trevor - racing flags

so with trevor, I wanted his cutiemark to be related to cars in some way! as that seems to be a major interest to him (wears car shirts constantly, knows how to drive and fix up the ecto) - since there aren't exactly ... cars in my little pony, more so carriages, I wanted to show that he likes to race, because as soon as that boy gets the ecto up and running he's speeding through a barley field - he probably got it at maybe middle school age?

podcast - recording equipment + headphones

podcast's cutiemark relates to his.. podcast - I couldn't think of anything else since his name is literally just podcast, but I'm sure it could be interpreted in another way; he probably got it when he started mystical tales of the unknown universe.

lucky - golden four leaf clovers

so, lucky's is probably the most based on her name instead of anything relating to her character, golden four leaf clovers to symbolize luck - don't know when she would've gotten them, maybe as a younger foal.

#amity rambly #ghostbusters mlp au

[leprosycock]

pls educate/ advertise f0b / peterick yaoi to me. i know nothing about it but i want to.

uhhhhh okay this is gonna be really fucking long and deranged because i've been into them for like? nine years and i promise you from the bottom of my heart that nothing i will tell you is exaggerated or made up, their relationship really is this twisted and intense and insane. a lot of this is gonna be under the cut for obvious reasons

faII out boy are officially formed in the summer of 2001 when p4trick stump overhears joe tr0hman talking about music in a boarders bookstore and feels the need to jump in and correct him because patrick is extremely pretentious and insane about music, having grown up around it due to his blues-performing dad. joe is personal friends with pete w3ntz, a legend in the chicago music scene that patrick has personally admired for ages. joe invites patrick to come try out for a band that pete wants to start on the side next to his other projects, something just for fun. patrick intends on just becoming a drummer- until he meets pete. then his life is changed forever.

to really put things in perspective, pete is 22 years old and patrick is barely sixteen when they meet. pete is an unstable college kid with unmedicated bipolar disorder and kind of a huge sex freak who's very mean to girls and patrick is a loser virginal high school kid. pete is short and covered in tattoos and his hair is buzzed and he has whiskey-colored eyes and bright big teeth and a smirky smug pouty mouth. patrick is shorter and pasty and a little chubby and he has choppy strawberry blond hair and a big pink mouth and big baby blue eyes. both pete and joe show up to patrick's house to hear him audition and patrick is wearing shorts, black knee-high socks, and an argyle sweater. we know this because pete has repeated this story of their first meeting many, many times.

patrick insists that he wants to play drums and has never thought about singing before, but pete bullies and pokes and prods until patrick finally gives in and sings for him and joe as long as pete promises to be the actual frontman and lets him sink into the background because he's unbelievably shy and insecure. pete is immediately taken with patrick and calls him "the kid with the voice" and a "golden boy" and he gives him a knit cap so he can hide his face in front of the microphone. patrick is wearing this same hat on the cover of their first official debut album, take this to your grave.

their tentative first album, evening out with your girlfriend, is a rushed slapjob full of embarrassingly delightful fruity pop punk hits that patrick today is ruthlessly ashamed of. this was recorded with two other former members, tj and chris, who eventually leave in pursuit of other projects that they believe will be more successful. they continue to be friends with the other boys for a while until pete tries to convince chris' girlfriend to use sex dice with him and this causes a rift and leads to chris cutting pete off and, by extension, the band. after these two leave, pete brings in a permanent drummer, andy hurley. andy is a pacifist and a vegan and has a voice like a kitten and is an all-around good guy and well-rounded adult who's around pete's age. they record take this to your grave. during the summer, pete takes his pet high schoolers and his fellow hardcore music scene buddy around on tour in joe's mom's shitty old van so the boys don't have to miss school. (or, more accurately, he has joe do it, because pete does not have a valid driver's license at the time.)

one of the singles on tttyg is called saturday. pete and patrick write a lot of lyrics together for this album and saturday is another joint effort. here are some lyrics:

and here is the description for the music video:

The video features all of the band, but particularly frontman Patrick Stump and Pete Wentz. Pete is killing the other band members and their friends, leaving a Queen of Hearts playing card with each of the bodies. Patrick is a detective tracking the "killer". During the bridge of the song, Patrick and Pete are seen in the same position, sitting on a bed with a wall of pictures of Pete's victims in the background, suggesting that Patrick and Pete may be the same person. In the end, Pete kills Patrick, but because Pete and Patrick turn out to be the same person, Pete dies as well.

they perform this song at the end of every show and they have since 2002. pete spent their entire tour in 2015 grabbing his dick during this song for some reason ?? idk but i have pictures:

during the tttyg era, pete and patrick become VERY fast and VERY intense best friends. patrick is extremely temperamental and impatient and has a short fuse and pete has routine breakdowns and is a general violent, obnoxious asshole who likes to torment patrick for fun, so a lot of their interactions tend to ignite like throwing a match on gasoline. he once famously strangled pete with a gas pump, has thrown punches at him in the studio, and cursed him out over small disagreements. for those curious, this feisty little sweaty golden firecracker of a boy looked like this:

just so you know what we're dealing with.

the rest of them looked like this ^ andy, pete, patrick, and joe respectively. patrick did that gay little wrist flick in photoshoots a lot for some reason

it's important to note that pete was a genuine creep around patrick and was VERY WEIRD WITH HIM. during this van days era, pete tried to carve a peephole into his bedroom door when they all shared a shitty apartment together in roscoe village and never left his side. he talks about him frequently on livejournal and their website and i will quote some of these incidents here: 04/16/05: patricks birthday is tommorrow. i am in love with him so give him presents. 06/09/05: when i want patrick to sing in my ear i call him on the phone and he does it 06/16/05: that kid is my best friend and the rest of the world could blow up and fall out boy can break up and he still will be 10/11/05: i dreamt him. q&a incidents from the official fob website:

pete fucking adores this kid with everything in him. patrick is routinely frustrated with pete and his inability to grow up, but he's still just as maddeningly in love and still maintains a sense of hero worship for him and considers him a tragic figure that needs to be protected. they become very codependent.

during van days, they record and release an acoustic album called my heart will always be the b side to my tongue. they also release a dvd called release the bats, which is a hideous nightmare clusterfuck involving a lot of pete doing really gross shit for attention such as vomiting on the floor, pissing in garbage cans, and hurting himself and his friends alongside showcasing some of their live shows and performances with other friends in fueled by ramen, a borderline incestuous record label where everyone knows each other and is constantly collabing and doing shows together. included on this dvd is a short film that pete and patrick make called bedussey. they film this while sharing a dirty disgusting mattress in an even smaller apartment than the last during their writing sessions. it's fucking awful, watch it

just before the release of their second studio album, pete overdoses on ativan in a best buy parking lot while hallelujah plays on the radio. the first person he calls is patrick, who doesn't pick up, and then he finally tries his mom and his doctor. he writes two songs about this, 7 minutes in heaven and hum hallelujah. he also talks about this incident in his book, grey, but that comes much later. not terribly long after this, his nudes get leaked and it's ambiguous for a while as to who posts them, but it's theorized that it was actually chris or a friend of his. i can't honestly remember how much of this was confirmed. pete's life is surrounded by tragedy and flashbulbs constantly popping in his eyes and it's a mix of him bringing it on himself and not finding the help he needs and having terrible, terrible luck in love and in himself.

during this time, he's in an incredibly twisted and unhealthy relationship with a seventeen year old named jeanae white. she cheats on him five million times and vise-versa and they're very mean to each other. she also plays a pivotal role in his book later on. they break up for good in 2006. there's also a vague theory that he had a brief fling with mikey way in 2004 which is referred to as "the summer of like" by those invested. it may very well be true but i couldn't give a fuck about that if i tried; i'm a peterick loyalist. he marries ashlee simpson in 2008 (most likely due to her unplanned pregnancy, even though he was pretty in love with her at the time) and has a baby boy named bronx with her. during this era, patrick is in a committed relationship with a girl named anna who eventually cheats on him and it tears him apart.

jumping back a bit, from under the cork tree is their third official studio album (if you count b side, which i do) and it contains a lot of very interesting music.

the original lyric was meant to be "just friends" and for some reason, patrick changed it to "best friends" in the final cut. the name of this song is 'i've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth (summer song)'. pete LOVES to use the idea of summer in his music, which is so interesting, because fall out boy's first tour was in the summer, he and patrick have spent the fourth of july in a beach house together (REMEMBER THIS), and their biggest projects have been produced over summers. it's also worth mentioning that pete has kissed patrick on the neck more than once during shows. even more worth mentioning that pete is REALLY fucking clingy with patrick on stage.

^ they sing this at each other. i don't really know what else to say

their next album, infinity on high, is slightly more artsy and, in my opinion, a fucking masterpiece. one of the most valuable tracks on this album is g.i.n.a.s.f.s. (gay is not a synonym for shitty) and i will explain why

"trade baby blues for wide eyed browns" alongside literally walking in someone else's shoes and physically trying to become them or embodying them is just following a theme that pete and patrick have been portraying for years, about how the two of them are inherently the same person, two sides of the same coin. pete says they experience cryptophasia, an implicit, intimate language that can only be used by twins. their next album is even titled folie a deux, "the madness of two". pete later writes about a character named martin (patrick's irl middle name) in grey, who he talks about saving the main character's (pete's) life on the roof of a hotel. "some nights it gets so bad i almost pick up the phone" = pete has said multiple times that patrick has sang to him on the phone to calm him down or help him fall asleep because patrick's voice really is that healing for pete. also possibly another reference to pete's suicide attempt and how his call to patrick failed ?

lastly, here's a quote from pete's livejournal in 05 when he was babbling about patrick:

"i know i am sal and i feel damn lucky to have the wind blowing in the thru the windows as he keeps us at 80mph. make no mistake, there is a difference between a parlor trick and true blue magic. i will remember this til the day i die."

fuck you

2007-2008 is full of massive, massive drama. alongside pete's ongoing war with the media and his almost immediate marital issues with ashlee, he's ALWAYS fighting with patrick inside and outside the studio, both physically and verbally. the band is constantly getting called sellouts and posers and were heckled very badly during the tours they did to promote folie a deux. it's kind of the beginning of the end.

for folie, pete writes a song called what a catch donnie. this is a ballad that pete writes from patrick's perspective that he is very, very nervous to show to him and almost doesn't. showing him something so heartfelt and vulnerable is dangerous given the current nature of their relationship. this is that song.

the music video stars patrick as a sea captain who's lost and lonely and trying to get home and he's eventually rescued by many of his irl close friends through fueled by ramen. but pete never appears.

after the round of tours for fad ends, they release a greatest hits album called believers never die and the coffin lid starts to slide closed. the band is well and truly dissolving; the reception for fad was very poor and miserable and pete and patrick truly cannot work together anymore and both joe and andy are tired of trying to put up with them. pete tells the boys he's going to leave and the breakup is mutual, to say the least. pete has his head shaven on stage as a ritual of mourning during 'saturday'. pete says in interviews that he thinks his name and his marriage and all the drama that saturates his life became a hindrance to the band.

fob is on hiatus from 2009 to 2013. during this time, pete forms the band black cards and seeks out a female vocalist specifically because he doesn't want to "replace patrick". he writes grey, opens nightclubs, divorces ashlee, abuses prescription drugs, and wants to die. patrick loses a bunch of weight and produces a solo pop album called soul punk. it has a very poor reception and he's bullied and tormented by fans who go to his shows just to tell him he sucks and he wants to die just as badly as pete does. he also gets married, but whatever

he bleaches his hair and dresses like this the whole tour because he's a massive faggot:

i have this whole theory about how his song run dry is about gay sex. a lot of the album is about infidelity too. he claims that this is because it's a "concept album" but it .. really kind of isn't. patrick is not very good at lyrics. (SOMETIMES. we'll come back to this too.)

pete and patrick do not talk to each other for a bulk of the hiatus. pete says that the hiatus felt like a breakup and hurt just as badly. closer to the end of this painful spell, pete calls patrick to say "i helped buy your house and now you don't even know my kid, that's messed up" and they have to learn how to be friends again. there are vague statements from the band about how they had a series of work meetings before seriously discussing the idea of reuniting. patrick also sends pete a postcard, telling him he has music he wants to show him if he's willing to see it.

in 2013, out of fucking nowhere, like a couple weeks after pete assures the media that fall out boy will never reform, they drop an album called save rock and roll and the band is back for good. as they release this album, they also release a massive and incredible series of eleven music videos for the entire album called the young blood chronicles. essentially, fall out boy plays a group called the members of the faith and they have to essentially defend music from courtney love, who plays a nazi-esque dictator leading a group of leather-clad women who want to establish a dystopia where music doesn't exist. music = faith. the women steal patrick away and put a demon in him and chop his hand off and he turns evil and starts to murder the rest of the band, including pete.

the most important track on this album is miss missing you.

pete wrote a good chunk of the lyrics for this album, as he is wont to do (this changes later on but it's still mostly pete for now), but this song is all patrick. this was a song he wrote for soul punk, but he never recorded it because, in his words, "it sounded too much like a fall out boy song". this particular installment in the ybc involves solely pete and patrick, separated from the rest of the band after joe and andy have left. this entire music video is about patrick trying to kill pete and struggling to do so, at war with his own humanity that keeps slipping through the cracks. pete has said that this is his favorite music video that the band has ever made.

relevant quotes:

"pete's my best friend. i was the best man at his wedding, i love that man to death. i'd take a bullet for him."

"[patrick is] probably my best friend in the whole world. this is one of the only people in the world that i would take a bullet for."

also! summer! summer summer summer! summer never dies!!!

2013-2014 are essentially a honeymoon phase. fob do tons of interviews, immediately make plans for a brand new album to follow srar up with, and they record an insane ep on a whim called pax am days. they do it while ridiculously drunk. it's REALLY good and SOOOO underrated and some of the most interesting music they've ever made. pete and patrick record a commentary track for the ybc. they're best friends again- admittedly less physically clingy, but they're older and more grown up and pete is more secure in his relationship with patrick. they're easygoing and comfortable and they love being around each other again and they're irrevocably in love.

late 2014-early 2015 birth their next album, american beauty/american psycho. i have a lot of emotional attachment to it because i was old enough to witness this release in real time and this was the height of my obsession. there are a LOT of fascinating things to pick apart in this album, but here are my favorites (tumblr won't let me add more than 30 images per post for some reason ?? i didn't know there was a limit but alright. Sure):

And in the end I'd do it all again I think you're my best friend Don't you know that the kids aren't al-, kids aren't alright? I'll be yours When it rains it pours Stay thirsty like before Don't you know that the kids aren't al-, kids aren't alright?

very obvious. the kids aren't alright was more or less confirmed to be about patrick and pete tended to get very lovey-dovey on stage whenever they performed it.

Do you, do-do you remember When we drove, we drove, drove through the night And we danced, we danced to Rancid And we danced, we danced And I confessed, confessed To you riding shot-gun Underneath the purple skies And we danced, we danced With windows down And we danced, we danced (Spin for you like your favorite records used to) (Spin for you like your favorite records) You were the song stuck in my head Every song that I've ever loved Play it again and again and again And you can get what you want but it's never enough And I spin for you like your favorite records used to And I spin for you like your favorite records used to

And I can’t, I can’t I can’t remember just how to forget Forget the way that we danced We danced to Danzig And we danced, we danced And when you ask, you ask me how I’m doing Like you know, you know how much better off I am And when we danced, we danced With windows down And we danced, we danced (Spin for you like your favorite records used to) (Spin for you like your favorite records)

favorite record is a big one because of pete's "patrick is an ipod full of my favorite songs" and "you ask me how i'm doing, like you know how much better off i am", a possible reference to the hiatus and their inability to communicate. i'd also like to firmly call back to pete's quote about driving with patrick and remembering that day until he dies.

and, lastly, fuck me:

I'll be as honest as you'll let me I miss your early morning company If you get me You are my favorite what if You are my best I'll never know And I'm starting to forget Just what summer ever meant to you What did it ever mean to you?

Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean any of it I just got too lonely, lonely, whoa In between being young and being right You were my Versailles at night

It was the fourth of July You and I were, you and I were fire, fire, fireworks That went off too soon And I miss you in the June gloom too It was the fourth of July You and I were, you and I were fire, fire, fireworks I said I'd never miss you, but I guess you never know May the bridges I have burned Light my way back home on the fourth of July

My 9 to 5 is cutting open old scars Again and again 'til I'm stuck in your head Had my doubts but I let them out You are the drought And I'm the holy water you have been without And all my thoughts of you They could heat or cool the room, and no Don't tell me you cried Oh, honey, you don't have to lie

-

I wish I'd known how much you loved me I wish I cared enough to know I'm sorry every song's about you The torture of small talk with someone you used to love

fuck!!!! fuck!!!!!!! summer again!!!! we're back to summer and back to the fourth of july i told you that would be important later. finding your way back home on the bridges you burned. memories of squandered youth trapped in these moments from years back and viewing someone as this grand monument worthy of worship and posterity. "my nine to five is cutting open old scars", pete's job, what he's been filling his life with for years, the music that he makes for a living. "i'm sorry every song's about you" = doesn't have to be literal. i believe it's more so about the idea that so many songs are about patrick and it's more tongue-in-cheek, despite how melancholy it is. i believe this song is a grand release for pete and a way for him to reconcile his feelings after years of confusion and longing and torment. but that's all just a theory

it's also worth mentioning twin skeleton's, which a lot of peterick truthers theorize is about pete and patrick having flings in hotels during tours throughout 06-09. it's not really definitive and it's very conspiratorial, but i do enjoy thinking about it

there's a three year gap between albums this time and then we get mania, which is by all accounts awful. people can defend this album all they want, but i think it's fucking terrible and patrick admits that it was rushed and he doesn't like it and he's right and he should be ashamed. i hate this album. it sounds terrible and there are very few good songs on it. they did a ton of promotion for this record and did a pop-up event where they had rooms you could go through based on each track of the album. they really, genuinely tried, but it was a miss. i was so frustrated with this album that i really don't have much to say about it peterick-wise, but this tour was the first time that i was actually able to see them live, so i can't really stay mad at them. they played thriller and opened with disloyal order <333 (which, by the way, is also about patrick, confirmed by pete himself! he said that "half-doomed and semi-sweet" is a literal description of himself and patrick.)

i do like young and menace, hold me tight or don't, and wilson, but none of them feel like fob. moving on.

they release the lake effect kid ep in 2018 and believers never die volume two. lake effect kid is a BEAUTIFUL fucking track and it made me actually ache for what mania could've been if they'd just returned to their roots. that'll come soon though.

Boomerang my head Back to the city I grew up in Again and again Forever a Lake Effect kid

Oh, I got the skyline in my veins Forget your nighttime Summer love on a gurney with a squeaky wheel And joke us, choke us 'Til Lakeshore Drive comes back into focus I just wanna come back to life Spark my crazy head to keep you warm at night

summer love :))) it never ends :))))))

2023 saw the release of so much (for) stardust. this is one of the strongest albums they've had since the hiatus and i really, really love a lot of it. as New as it feels, it's still very fall out boy at its core and it's full of heart and it's passionate and it's pure.

We were a hammer to the statue of David We were a painting you could never frame and You were the sunshine of my lifetime What would you trade the pain for?

^ love from the other side. pete has likened patrick to sunshine, sunsets, sunlight, and the color gold many, many times while talking about him. there are a lot of songs where he uses the sun as a metaphor for longing, something he can never reach because he's eternally eclipsed in shadow.

My moodboard is just pictures of you, but I'm not sad anymore So make no plans and none can be broken, no plans and none can be broken But I didn't take the love when I had the chance, but I swear I'm not sad anymore So make no plans and none can be broken, no plans and none can be broken

Do you laugh about me whenever I leave? Or do I still need more therapy?

Love is in the air, I just gotta figure out a window to break out Buried alive inside my dreams, but it was all a fake-out And I don't care, I just gotta figure out a window to break out Buried alive inside my dreams, but it was all a fake-out, fake-out

Oh-oh, we all started out as shiny dimes But we all got flipped too many times We did it for futures that never came And for pasts that we're never gonna change

fake out makes me want to die in the most intense way, mainly because there's something so utterly familiar about it. it's SO fob and it's one of the best tracks they've put out since the hiatus. it's also .. so ..... it's very similar to fourth of july for me. this is recovery from the pain and finally coming to acceptance while acknowledging the past, love that was never reciprocated. it's not something that ever really goes away. it'll linger, especially when you still see so much of that golden boy that you first fell in love with the second he opened his mouth and began to sing to you.

i will state emphatically that through all my speculation, none of this is meant to be taken at face value aside from the direct quotes and irl incidents. most music comes from anywhere and everywhere within an artist. artists draw from their real life and nothing has to be literal, but pete writes about a lot of real people. grey is about as subtle as a sledgehammer when it comes to his representation of people he knows irl. sometimes he's writing about exes and sometimes he's writing a story. sometimes he's writing about patrick. we never really know for sure. but it's fun to think about!

i'm really passionate about them and i adore their relationship inside and out. a lot of it is really fucked up and weird and twisted and crazy and a lot of it is genuinely so beautiful and tragic. even if they're not fucking and never have and have never thought about it, they're undoubtedly soulmates in any way you feel like interpreting that. they love each other massively and endlessly and it's a fire that has refused to really die for over twenty years. i love them a lot and i hope you enjoyed this essay!!!

#this is also just the tip of the iceberg i hope you know. this isn't even half of it . #i have so many fun facts about them locked away in my head forever and they're fucked up and sick and twisted. #bunnyaskz

[maniculum]

Whenever "Christian Fiction" shows up in the used bookstore, I find myself morbidly curious about the people who read and write this stuff.

The text from the image is below, with some of my comments in brackets. (The book is "Pierced By a Sword" by Bud Macfarlane Jr., by the way.)

Back cover:

A novel that will take you to a future that is as current as today's headlines. [Kind of a disappointing future if the best thing you can say about it is "it's basically the present".] Nathan Payne: A troubled young securities broker from Chicago. [Unless the thing he's troubled about is the ethics of the finance industry, I think I hate this guy already.] Will Nathan find the faith to win the love of Joanie Wheat -- a woman of deep Catholic convictions? Becky Macadam: A stunningly beautiful young woman, away from the faith since childhood, alone and pregnant in the heartless city of Chicago. Father Chet Sullivan: A fast-talking young priest from New Jersey with a penchant for getting into trouble. [He's not a regular priest, he's a cool priest.] Tom Wheat: The foremost U.S. expert on Marian Apparitions, desperately trying to warn the world about The Coming Tribulations. Can Wheat reach the country in time? Lee Washington: A drug dealer from Cleveland, living in the fast lane in L.A. [I am not optimistic about how this character is going to be portrayed in the book, so good thing I'm not reading it.] Will he keep his appointment with Our Lady? This sweeping new novel is set against the backdrop of historical and present-day Marian Apparitions. [I thought it was taking us to a future?] Join these unforgettable characters as their lives intertwine in a Divine Plan during the Great Tribulations! Pierced By A Sword will take you over the border between heaven & earth! Discover a new world. Change your life forever.

Review page:

Real People Love This Book… [I know that when I'm presenting reviews, I make sure to reassure the reader that they're from "real people"; that's how you know they're genuine.] "It moved me so much that I wept. I was so excited I took it downstairs to read certain passages to my mom and dad! Then I urged my best friend to read it. The themes come right out of my own life. I love it!" -- Molly Winters, Lake Bluff, IL, College Student "I really got into Nathan Payne -- he's such a great character that I couldn't wait to find out what happened to him next. I feel like I knoe the guy personally -- Nathan and the others remind me of real people I know." -- Martin Maher, Tully, NY, Financial Professional "I don't read many novels and I had low expectations. All I can say now is that I couldn't put it down. It had me turning the pages. It really moves fast. It's great!" -- Tom Baugh, Akron, OH, Businessman & Father "The passage where Father Chet and Becky Macadam talk about celibacy is one of the most insightful that I've ever read on the subject -- all this interwoven into a story with a great plot. I'm very excited about this book!" -- Eileen Biehl, Westlake, OH, Mother & Writer "The climax of the book was creative and mystical, and really gave me food for thought regarding my own life. Bud Macfarlane has a real gift for dialog and characterization." -- John Madigan, Chicago, IL, Father & Lawyer [Seriously, these don't sound like responses from "real people", right?]

#unearthed in the used bookstore

[skelly-words]

Help me with the title-

Sorry sorry sorry, ik 99% of my followers are here for my smut and i have a few asks to do, but... i'm not in the mood to write porn, so have my favorite OC work ever that's deeply personal and revealing instead.

wc-4.6k

I didn’t know why my Mom picked for us to move to the country when I was little, but there wasn’t much I could do to prevent it. It wasn’t farm country or ranch country, just the red dirt of the California desert. The house we lived in simmered on the hot rock. Then, when fall started, the Santa Ana winds would kick up dust and wildfires all over the place. My mom and I conceded to the cacti, coyotes, and wildfires for the low rent (only comparatively when living in California). I fell for the land as quickly as I adjusted to wearing shoes. The backyard could’ve been as small as my mom’s garden or as large as the sparse woods that stretched up and down the road for miles. The neighbors were few and far between, and they fenced off anything they wanted to keep to themselves. It was expansive, so I felt free.

We moved away from the suffocation of the big city, almost running from the snow and smog that the clogged highways always seemed to be blanketed in. I had to leave school halfway through the second grade and the cross-country trek was inconvenient, but anything was an improvement from Chicago. Mom missed the city but substituted with LA, making the three-hour drive with a few friends whenever they could get time off work or had a weekend free. She never tended to me much, not as a second-grader, and not when I got older either. I’d been able to read since before I could remember and my mom figured I could take care of myself if I could sound out the instructions on the back of a frozen pizza box or the fire extinguisher. 

Mom would kiss my forehead before she left and mumble something like, “Don’t let anybody in while I’m gone.” She’d always be back to get ready for work on Monday, even if that meant coming home at two in the morning. I don’t know how she expected me to know the difference between her opening the front door in the middle of the night and a murderer doing the same. I missed having her kiss me goodnight too, but I mostly stayed up to listen for her footsteps, making sure it was the sound of her heels that echoed through the quiet house.

Her plans always varied, sometimes coming home late on Saturday or rolling in as I made absurdly chocolatey milk to put in my cereal while watching Sunday morning cartoons. She’d sleep whatever was leftover of the weekend, making up for both of us.

On other weekends, we’d run errands together. I liked to loiter around the perfume counter at Macy’s while she tried on pants. Errands weren’t always clothes shopping, it was also groceries, gas, car wash, toiletries, cleaning products, a book for me from the library, and a new screen for the kitchen window. When I wasn’t in school, this was the only time I would come into town. I spent most of my time at home in the backyard or reading if the weather was particularly bad. The local library was still twelve miles away, but they also sold lightly damaged or old books for a quarter. Mom let me pick up new reading material whenever I ran out; something Nancy Drew, Encyclopedia Brown (if I could find any), and an almanac with lots of illustrations about whatever looked the most interesting. I cut myself off at three books so I could leave something good for the next kid.

Everybody read in the summer. Schools, libraries, parents, youth clubs, and ice cream parlors all offered incentives to get kids to read over the break. The library bookstore would be picked clean of anything worth reading and I’d spend more time outside that week.

Directly behind my house were live oak trees, gopher snakes, native foliage that mom called weeds, and a creek. The creek was sunken into a valley and spanned a little over five feet in width. Down in the gully, on my side of the stream, a headstone pretended it wasn’t out of place. It was tilted casually against a tree, but anyone could tell it didn’t fit in. There wasn’t even a name on it. For a few years, I went down to visit and place dandelions that popped up in my mom’s garden at the base of the cross. I suspected the family before us had planted a dead cat or dog there. The grave wasn’t new, but it wasn’t that old either. The ground dipped a little and that’s how I knew something was really under there. Leaves would collect in the basin, and I’d try to push them out without getting thorns in my fingers. In the winter, I’d fill them back in like they’d keep the guest warm. The awkward, blocky headstone and hastily dug ditch felt too innocuous for a final resting place, so I treated the grave as any gracious host would.

I cleaned the headstone too, to add to the ritual. It felt nice to care for the marble with a bit of dish soap and water after the rain flooded the creek. It widened a little each year whenever the tropical storms finally blew us a little rain at the beginning of fall. The warm equator water was always a little more than the parched soil could handle, and the banks would inch out. 

My mom and I had neighbors behind us. The waterway is what drew the separation between the two properties. I spent most of my free time at that junction, especially when the four walls started to feel more like a solar oven than home. Cool air tended to fill up around the water; most of which trickled down from the mountains as snow melted in spring. Wiry oak trees popped up around the swampy banks, building little dams and bridges with fallen twigs. The summer before middle school, I met the neighbors’ daughter. By then, I didn’t care about the headstone. Things died, probably someone’s pet a decade ago.

But the neighbors’ daughter was my first friend. She was a year younger than me, so I got to feel like I knew a lot more than she did. I’d show her how to cross the creek without falling in and she’d just stare like I was Jesus; walking on water. She was sweet and simple-minded, and I liked having the company and someone to share the woods with. Since that summer was my first time meeting her, I figured she didn’t get out much. Her skittish temperament reminded me of the squirrels that watched us play from between tree branches. It made me want to hold her close and push her out of the nest at the same time. We quickly became close. It happens that way when there’s nobody else your age within a twelve-mile radius.

Around mid-June, she started taking off her shoes to wade into the creek with me and we talked while watching the minnows navigate around our legs. She thought I knew everything, so I acted like I did. She asked me once about dying, so I offered to show her the headstone. It wasn’t hidden, but the dusty marble blended better into nature when I didn’t bother to clean it up.

“Who did you bury here?” She asked.

“Dad,” I answered her without thinking. “Uh, some of his ashes anyway.” That was the truth. But my dad practiced family law and lived back in Chicago. Mom prayed every night that he would become part of that city’s startling crime statistics. I figured he was just as well off buried in the backyard.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you.” This was my first time having a family member die. I didn’t know what to do, so I let my eyes water until it looked like I was crying. She helped me pick sourgrass and buckwheat flowers to decorate the grave. Whenever my dad did die, I knew I’d need her then too.

-

The house was way outside of town. It was fifteen minutes to the nearest gas station, which is what got her in trouble the most. As far as I could tell, that was the only reason to resent the distance. I met the neighbors’ daughter in the valley almost every day of summer. We’d walk down the creek until our feet were sweaty, then carry our shoes and shuffle back against the weak current. The path got tired and overbeaten, but it didn’t matter when every day felt fresh.

On the longest day of the year, we stayed out later than usual. The sun had set and it was nearing nine. The sky still had a bit of light in it, from the stars, moon, and summertime sun that never seemed to fade completely. Chicago skies weren’t cut out for stargazing. Holes would have to be punched through the layers of dense air and light pollution before anything besides the largest suns was visible. I could see the smallest points of light from here, stars that were lifetimes away or beginning to dim and burn out. They were beautiful.

July nights were so hot I couldn’t sleep with the sheets on. Even outside, when we were lying on the prickly leaves, I could feel the residual warmth radiating off the ground. The mosquitos drove us insane, but she stayed out to watch me point out imaginary constellations. I knew Orion and the Big Dipper, but after that, they were just lights to me. 

“I’m scared to walk home alone,” she said. I think she only admitted that because I couldn’t see her face. By then, I could tell when she was scared, which was almost always, but she didn’t want to seem like a crybaby. I’d see her brow furrow whenever I’d hand her the knife to gut a fish or push her to climb the tallest tree in the woods with me, and that meant she was afraid. If I had felt meaner, I might’ve made her stumble home in the dark by herself. But it was warm and I was so fond of July that the extra walk felt worth it. 

We tripped out of the gully, and I kept her hand safe in mine until we got on flat ground. The back porch light was left on for her. I could tell that they were the cozy type. My feelings were almost hurt by the homemade wind chimes that hung lackadaisically along with the solar-powered fairy lights. She toed her sneakers onto the shoe rack and waved goodbye to me from the sunflower doormat. I brushed her off with a nod as I disappeared into the woods to go back home. 

-

I could recognize the smell of a dead animal by now. Every time a bloated fish washed downstream or a rabbit carcass was left shredded by coyotes, the smell of death became a little more familiar. It was sweet and acidic like rotten fruit but flat and earthy like fresh mud. Dead skunk was worse because the signature odor accompanied the putrification. I went down to the creek earlier than usual. The sunrise woke me up early, and the morning mist had already cooked off of the water. I followed the smell downstream to a freshly dead skunk, partially covered by dried foxtails. I was fascinated by the carcass; both the specimen itself and the process of decomposition. The maggots were eating at it now, stirring up the fur and guts. From a distance, the shifting skin made the animal look like it was still alive, twitching and squirming on the ground. 

The smell was bad, almost as hard to breathe around as it was to look at. I picked up a sturdy stick from the ground and crouched to level with the animal. My eyes watered from the smell, so I lifted my t-shirt neckline over the bridge of my nose.

“How can you do that?” She was referring to how I gingerly nudged the bloated belly with a forked stick. She took a step back when the skunk’s writhing face rolled in her direction.

“It’s the circle of life. The skunk dies and serves as food for fly larvae and scavengers.”

“But why do you have to poke at it?” She stepped back further as I kept nudging the skunk further along.

“This’ll be us one day.” I figured flies couldn’t lay eggs on my body if I was buried, but some larvae or another would be breaking me back to carbon.

“Is it because of your dad?”

“What?”

“Are you like this because your dad died?” she asked. I had forgotten this small fact and realized she wasn’t insinuating my father skipped out on the family because of me. I didn’t know if that was any better and considered if my feelings should still be hurt.

“Yeah, it made me all spooky.”

“No.” She shook her head, more so at the way I pushed the skunk again. “I meant about how you’re so obsessed with death.”

“So, what? It’s interesting and spooky.” I vaguely reminded myself that I didn’t have any reason to be defending myself, but I had a point to finish. “What do you remember from before you were born?” I had to stop shoving the skunk because she would’ve ended up in the water with another step back.

She thought about it for a while until she knew the answer and then longer so she could find a way to avoid saying it. She saw my point without me having to say it.

“And that’s exactly what it’ll be like after we die,” I finished. “The decomposition is just getting rid of what’s left behind. This is just some meat that the maggots are munching on.” I shoved the skunk a little more and she didn’t back away. This was the part where she got my point and picked up a stick to poke at it too. I lifted a long, slender switch and handed it to her.

“If you’re sure.” She said it in a sing-songy way that let me know I was wrong. At least she took the stick from me and nudged the skunk back. “But my parents had me baptized, so I’ll go to heaven when I die.”

I didn’t really care if she thought she was going to heaven or not as we shoved the skunk onto an anthill. It left a little snail trail in some parts of the ground and the smell got a lot worse, but the ants would help uncover the skeleton quicker.

“Skunks don’t do baptism,” I said.

“So it’s just meat and maggots.” She still grimaced at the grossness as she said this, not totally convinced. Some of the ants had already started to crawl around to survey the skunk.

“And when it’s just bones, we’ll have something interesting to do.”

-

It was two weeks until summer ended, not in the fall equinox sense, but school would be starting. Pencils and notebooks had begun populating malls and outlets midway through break, but the need to complete summer felt more frantic. For me, it was the last year before a milestone. My coming of age, which if I didn’t fulfill, would make me subject to be rumored as a late bloomer. The skunk skeleton had been worth looking forward to, but something picked it up after a couple of nights. I didn’t think anything other than bugs would go for something that rotten, but the skunk was gone.

“I think I saw a dead rat a quarter mile down, yesterday.” I was consoling myself while the neighbors’ daughter precariously crossed over to my side of the creek.

“It’s a good thing the skunk’s gone.” I shot her a glare, so she corrected. “I don’t think the bones would’ve been clean by the rainy season.” She spat in the water to finish her point and made a final leap to solid ground.

“I wonder if we went to the same elementary together this whole time?” I sat in the dirt to dig through my backpack and she followed me to do the same. We were fishing today, even though there was never anything to catch. Most of the fun was in make-believing that a goblin shark could snag our line at any moment. Our backpacks matched, a coincidence, and we packed sandwiches and cold lemonade so we could stay out all day. 

“I go to West Lake,” she said. 

“Nah I went to South Oak, but you should come to Washington Middle next year with me.” I kept my tackle in a small travel jewelry box. It was leather-wrapped and about the size of my palm with a few pillowy slots for rings and small compartments to keep the other pieces from tangling together. I kept hooks and lures where the rings were meant to go and filled the compartments with an assortment of vibrantly colored trout bait. It fit perfectly in my back pocket with my fishing rod in the other.

She got her fishing rod out too. We’d made them by tying a line around the middle of a stick. A five-minute walk upstream took us to our favorite lagoon. The waterway widened and deepened to be the only place with decent-sized fish. A tree was tipped over for us, knocked into the mud. We sat on the bridge, letting the fishing line run downstream through our middle fingers; current pulling our flashy lures until it ran out. The line stayed taught from the pull of the current and I could catch flashes of the lure as it spun beneath the surface. The water made my mind go limp. I stared ahead with my hands in my lap. I’d lost one of my makeshift fishing rods that way. It caught on something and I let it pull from between my fingers.

“Do you really want me to come to middle school with you?” she asked. It was a while since we talked, but it was easy to resume our conversation.

“I think it would be fun. And we’re in different grades, so it’s not like we’ll get sick of each other.” I wound my line back up around the stick and let it go again. We fished together almost every day and had only caught two fish all summer, one each. She’d caught the first fish, a little trout, and I’d gutted it as a messy experiment. By the time I’d caught one, she was able to wash all the innards out easily with a cleaner version of my demonstration. 

“We could eat lunch together, and carpool.” She said it wistfully like it was a far-off dream.

-

I was waiting for the neighbor girl to look for live bait with me, but it had started to rain. The end of summer turned into a torrent of tropical storms that wandered up the coast from warmer climates. She didn’t like the rain, so we scrambled down the embankment each time it let up. The frequent downpours gave us the perfect conditions for catching bugs as they all collected under leaves and rocks. It was Sunday though, and sometimes her parents dragged her to church. I was digging up the foliage to find grubs until I noticed that it was sprinkling again. If she wasn’t in church already, she definitely wasn’t coming down now.

She hated to get her hair wet. Her mom pressed it on Sunday mornings and she liked to keep it smooth for as long as possible. I couldn’t empathize with the experience, but I knew the only glance I would get from her would be through a kitchen window. I crossed the stones to the left side of the creek. The water was higher than usual from the rain, and algae slipped over the surface of the rocks we were meant to cross on.

I didn’t mind the weather. The earthworms would reveal themselves and I’d collect them to use as bait or toss on my mom’s compost pile. I left my shoes and socks in the soggy leaves and climbed on my hands and feet up the slippery incline to her house. I’d hardly ever been up to her side of the creek before. There wasn’t really any point to it when we spent most of the time wandering as far from home as possible.��

Some of the lights in her house were on. The French doors grinned at me, but I didn’t see anybody inside. I walked around to the front door– listening for life and thinking about knocking– and it was apparent nobody was home.

The butt of my pants got dirty when I slid back down to my shoes. I’d see her tomorrow if the rain ever stopped, but not until school was out at 3:30. When I picked up my shoes to put them back on, I saw some beetles and pill bugs hiding beneath my soles. It seemed right to leave them be, so I sat in the mud and let my feet hang into the filling stream.

The bank was squishy beneath me, softened and sliding. Across from me, a slab of mud sloughed off the right bank. The chunk broke into smaller parts as it fell away. I thought his hair was roots, brown and wispy with soil clinging to the ends. The wild grasses were what held the hillside together when it got wet, but sometimes the grass sprouts can’t do much to keep the soaked ground together. The brittle ends of the man’s hair stuck straight out from the bank, too sharp of an angle and wiry of a texture. The roots looked wrong, so I stared and squinted through the drizzle until I caught a glimpse of his messed-up face. It was a man because I’d never seen a woman that looked so ugly. From my spot, I could watch the water uncover him. He seemed to be swaddled in transparent plastic, wrapped with the smothering care I gave my dolls as a toddler. The top half of his face protruded from the open end. More of the earth melted into the creek as the bank continued to erode. The creek washed further out until the headstone was threatened too. I could see his face through the dirty plastic. Who knows how long he’d been buried there, but I’d guess that the plastic was the only thing keeping him together. The top half of the corpse leaned out into the water like a gigantic pupae. He was a slurry inside, waiting for form and metamorphosis. He wriggled free of the ground, aided by the current, and sloshed into the rushing water.

“Some ashes.” A low whistle passed between my teeth. The banks overflowed from the ripples, staining my pants more. The body bumped back and forth against slimy rocks as it shoved off to much busier things. I could tell school would be easy tomorrow, and then I’d rush down into the gully to tell the neighbors’ daughter what I saw. It was getting dark and raining harder and harder. Mom was probably going to have dinner ready and I needed to shower. I left my shoes behind for the beetles and crossed the creek back home. 

-

I didn’t think middle school would amount to much. By the end of the day, I was tired from icebreakers and it took Mom twenty minutes to pick me up. Considering we lived fifteen minutes away and she drove like the cops were chasing her, it had taken her a while to realize she had a daughter to pick up from school. It was a quiet drive. The house was hushed by that same awful silence. The kind where it wasn’t quiet at all, but all her talking turned into a high ringing in my ears. I let her keep circling around and around whatever she really wanted to say, hoping she’d get there eventually. She kept repeating a beat on the steering wheel, and when we got settled at home, sitting side-by-side on the couch, she was playing the same pattern on a throw pillow.

“The neighbors’ little girl, Cam, passed away.” 

Mom must’ve been waiting all day to say that to me with the same nervous excitement she had about conflict overseas; any news was light if it didn’t involve her. Now, I was more curious about why she hadn’t said anything sooner, maybe it was a special treat for making it through the front door or designated mother-daughter-gossip time on the couch. Mom didn’t know I had been friends with Cam. That was the first time I’d heard her name.

“In the creek?” I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d be stuck indoors next summer due to an unfortunate drowning accident. The feeling was right for me to cry, but I hadn’t even known her name.

“What creek- Oh, no. I don’t know what happened to her. Car accident I think, Californians don’t know how to drive in this rain.” Mom stopped the nervousness and walked into the kitchen and I was left on the couch, scolding myself for not gossiping right. We were done conversing because she didn’t find middle school interesting and I didn’t have the appropriate reaction to the local tragedy. It was probably better that she got distracted by the pantry instead of talking to me because I might’ve let it slip that I knew the girl.

-

Mom didn’t cook on Monday nights. She’d have a glass of wine and fall asleep while watching the news or Grey’s Anatomy. I’d done it with her once and didn’t understand the appeal. Wine is bitter and the heavy makeup on the Anchorwoman’s face made her look too beautiful and perfect. I made mac n’ cheese for myself and switched to the Cartoon Network after Mom fell asleep. My bedtime was nine PM. It said so on the organizational whiteboard that kept track of my chores and allowance. But I strongly believed that rules were only as strong as their enforcers. I turned the volume on the TV low and I tucked myself into my mom’s side.

At some point I drifted off with my fork still in-hand.

I felt guilty later. Mom woke up and put me to bed. It was a school night, but I couldn’t sleep. While counting the dim glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, I could hear my heart beating in my ears. I went completely still and began to count the beats. My heartbeat would keep me up at night sometimes. If I was feeling anxious and my heart was wailing against my ribs, the sound was enough to stave of sleep. The rhythm would beat in my ears, my chest, beneath my collarbone, my fingertips, behind my eyes, and sometimes in my throat if my tongue was dry. So my heartbeat was all I heard as I played a bad rendition of that afternoon over and over again. That’s when I felt guilty. She really did love me like a sister. The stars were sickly and the night sky was stucco and I was never all that good to her.

I cried, thinking of how I’d miss her and how terrifying she’d look after she’d decomposed like the dead man in the river. That was how I pictured her while I grieved. I was unsure how well I’d known her, so all I had was what she left behind.

a/n- i promise i'll write something good soon, but idk, i'm feeling uninspired and bland so i revisited some stuff i wrote for creative writing class

#my ocs #oc writing #short story #short fiction

[softlyspector]

Can you do 5 "Trying to walk on ice" with marc please? :]

trying to walk on ice + marc spector

a/n: this just fueled my need for it to be chilly and fall already

"C'mon," Marc tries coaxing you again. "It's not that icy out."

You grit your teeth and clutch the railing harder. "Yes, it most certainly is that icy out!"

"I won't let you fall," Marc says, amusement in his voice, holding out a hand to you from where he stands on the pavement without aid. "C'mere - all you gotta do is let go and take a step."

You glare at him, tightening your gloved fingers on the metal banister. "Y'know, some of weren't born walking on ice, Chicago."

Marc presses his lips together, suppressing a laugh. If you were in a better mood, you might appreciate the smile more, how carefree he seems for once. "Did you just call me Chicago?"

The sole of your boot slides precariously forward before you get it to stop again and huff out a breath. "Steven wouldn't let me suffer like this," you accuse.

Marc rolls his eyes, "Honey, maybe you're just clumsy."

Scoffing, you turn your back on Marc and shuffle slowly back toward your building's entrance. "How dare you," you deadpan. "I've decided I don't actually need that hot chocolate, okay? Don't care how good it's supposed to be. I'm just fine at home."

There's no fucking ice in your apartment. It's warm and cozy and crowded and you can make due with the shitty packs of cocoa that you have somewhere in the back of a cupboard. You can put on a movie and curl under a blanket instead of traipsing through the chilled afternoon.

Marc, Steven had texted you the night before, wanted to spend more time with you, wanted to get to know you better since you and Steven were so close and getting closer all the time. Though you'd spent some time with Marc in the flat, you've never gone out with him.

The invitation had surprised you, and elated you.

Better get used to each other, yeah? Steven had said when you immediately called him, anxious and a little bit giddy about the prospect of spending time with Marc. You'd agreed, much to Steven's delight, his voice a little bit soft when he said he wants to take you to try that hot chocolate in the park. You know the one? We pass it on the way to your favorite bookstore? He noticed your sweet-tooth.

Of course, overnight the temperatures in London had plunged and turned the normally wet October streets into a hazardous mess that you were not used to or equipped for.

"Hey," Marc says, crossing the sheet of ice that seems not to affect him at all. He cups a hand against your elbow before you can get too far. "I got you. C'mon."

You glance over, at the brown eyes that you've come to know very well over the last year, and yet that you do not know at all. The umber is shaded and cool to Steven's warm chocolate gaze. "Promise you won't let me go?" You ask, tentatively loosening your grip on the railing.

"I got you."

"Promise me," you demand.

"God, I promise. Happy?"

You nod and let go, let Marc loop his arm through yours. You balance slowly and then take a couple of experimental steps forward, Marc matching you glacial pace.

So focused as you are on your feet, you miss the longing tear of Marc's gaze, how his eyes soften and his mouth tilts down.

Once you get used to moving along the ice, it isn't so bad. But you still hang onto Marc, leaning into him as he leads you toward the park. "See? Not so bad."

"It's horrible actually," you grouse.

But you smile when he laughs.

You'd never admit it, but you have a little crush on Marc. That he's handsome and has the same face as your boyfriend does nothing to help you curb it.

Something catches in your chest when you meet his gaze, because this time you see the longing in his gaze before it can disappear.

Marc just reaches up to adjust your scarf, tuck it into the hood of your coat, and says, "Don't worry. It'll all be worth it. We gotta bring it back here though. Don't want you freezing to death. Wanna watch a movie?"

You can only nod, and true to his promise, Marc doesn't let you fall, doesn't let you go.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #moon knight

[a-strange-inkling]

Day 9: Christmas Films

Chicago, Illinois 1986

When she gets home from her shift at the bookstore, she’s met with the sight of Eddie sitting on the couch, wrapped up in the orange afghan. It’s all dark except for the fuzzy blue light of the tv and a few candles lit by the window. She can just make out a bowl of microwave popcorn, a few bags of candy, a box of pizza and a bottle of wine all set up on the coffee table.

“Sit down, we’re going to watch it,” he monotones as he works the remote.

Chrissy, still covered in snow flurries, breathes a confused chuckle. “…Watch what? What did you get?” she asks as she hangs her purse on the wall peg, peeling off her layers, and taking off her boots. When she sees the empty movie cover on top of the VCR, she immediately wheels around. “I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake, I don’t live here…”

“Oh, come on, Cunningham,” he croons after her.

“Nooo! There is no way I’m watching Ice Castles with you after last night.” she tells him as she makes her way toward their bedroom.

“Why not?” he pouts. “I just want to see what all the fuss is about…”

“You said you were going to pick us up a Christmas movie!”

“It’s totally a Christmas movie!” he argues. “It’s got ice skating, doesn’t it?”

“You’re just going to whine and make fun of it the whole time and completely ruin it for me.” she crosses her arms.

He gasps, placing a hand to his chest. “I would never! I only have respect for a movie that had such a big impact on you.” He wiggles his brows.

She rolls her eyes. It’s her own fault, she should have never told him. “Eddie…”

“Come on, baby, get over her, I’ve got Skittles.” he sings, shaking the small red bag to tempt her, making the round little candies clack together inside.

With a long, heavy sigh she gives in, snuggling beside him in defeat after she changes into her warm baby blue pajamas. He’s smiley and doting in his ‘hurray, I got what I wanted’ way, wrapping her up all cozy, pouring her a glass of wine, kissing her nose, then her forehead, then her pouting lips several times. He tilts his head to the side, blinking his big doe eyes down at her. ‘Don’t be annoyed with me, look how cute I am.’

“You behave yourself,” she tells him as she eats her pizza. “This is one of my favorites! No overly critical film analysis!”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he chuckles, forefinger criss-crossing over his chest as he presses play. “I’m very excited!”

“You’ve gotten yourself all worked up over this and you’re going to be very underwhelmed.” she sighs as the familiar theme plays, warm nostalgia and comfort beginning to seep into her bones just by the sound of it.

“How can I be underwhelmed by the movie that gave you your sexual awakening?” he asks in astonishment, watching the opening with rapt attention.

“Oh, God…” she sighs.

The minute Robby Benson comes on screen driving through the snowy landscapes in his station wagon with his amazing hair, it’s his turn to get pouty. “Oh look, there’s your boyfriend.”

“Eddie…”

“What is it?” he asks, curling his hand over his lips thoughtfully, squinting, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Is it the hair?”

Coyly, she slides her hand up his back into his messy waves. “I do love thick brown hair.” she admits, massaging his skelp. He smiles and she can feel some warmth crawl up his neck, but he keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on the screen. “Oh, he’s so cool, he drives snowmobiles, he dropped out of med school, he plays hockey…” he drawls out in a low mocking tone.

“Stop.” she laughs. “You’re being ridiculous!”

About forty minutes in, he is still looking perplexed, probably wondering at what point she began to see boys differently in such a tame film with everyone wearing several layers of clothing. There’s more skin action from Lynn-Holly Johnson in her skating uniform.

When they’ve had their fill of junk food, they recline back along the sofa, Chrissy resting her head against his chest while he absentmindedly unweaves her twin braids, carding his fingers through her tresses the way he knows she loves.

She braces herself for the phone call scene. She can feel Eddie grinning when it cuts to Robby in nothing but a pair of tight white underwear.

“Oh, there it is,” he snickers mirthfully. “The moment little Chrissy became a woman.”

“Shut up.” she turns sharply, burying her face in his shirt, feeling his arms slip down to squeeze her waist.

“God, it leaves nothing to the imagination does it?”

“Stop it!” she half whines, half giggles in embarrassment.

He only chuckles louder, kissing the top of her hair. “God, you’re so cute!”

They resettle to watch the rest and Eddie grows less jealous and teasing and more quiet and invested.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs after Lexie is found wearing her dead mother’s clothes in the attic. “This is kind of a downer.”

“It gets better.” she replies, fingers tracing over the bats along his forearm.

The real moment that makes her weak and wanting is when blind Lexie is able to do a double twist with Nick’s help and then he passionately embraces her, tender and proud, rekindling their relationship.

“Oh, baby, you did a double!”

“It wasn’t perfect.”

“Well, it was damn good… what a girl. Oh, what a girl!”

It always makes her ache.

“You’re like that,” she whispers softly, leaning up to kiss him.

“A complete pushover?” Eddie jokes, but she can tell that gets to him by the way his eyes sparkle.

“You know what I mean,” she replies seriously. “I never knew anything like that until you.”

He softens, blinking slowly before taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply. “I’m your Benson, baby?” he asks.

“You’re more than that.” she murmurs against his lips.

There’s still some more comments and teasing as the rest of the movie plays out, but she doesn’t miss the way his eyes get a little glassy during the final skating routine or when he suddenly turns his head to wipe his eye.

“We forgot about the flowers.”

“We forgot about the flowers,” Eddie mimics Robby's soft spoken, melodic tone suddenly, obviously recovered from whatever emotional experience he may or may not have been having. “God, this guy,” he waves his hand at the screen. “With his stupid floppy hair and his stupid baby voice.”

Chrissy elbows him as the blue credits roll and the cheesy melody of Looking Through the Eyes of Love begins to play for the third time. “Shh…Be quiet, I love this song.”

@hellcheerxmas

#hellcheer #ice castles is such a sad soft girl movie #it’s so chrissy lol #it made her want to be a figure skater #munningham #eddissy #chrissy x eddie #eddie x chrissy #hellcheer fanfiction #hellcheer fanfic #old haunts #my writing #my fic writing #hellcheercountdown #hellcheer countdown