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alwaysahiccupandastrid · 4 years

Text

Social Media AU - Richie Tozier comes out during a show

I decided that this AU works better with a written headcanon to go with it, and so I’ve included it underneath the cut. It’s a little rough because it’s been a LONG time since I sat down and properly wrote something, but I tried!

Enjoy!

Holy shit.

He couldn’t believe he’d done that.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His manager was talking shit in his ear, prowling after him like fuck knows what, talking about “there’ll be backlash for this” and “not part of the plan”, and even “you’ve ruined your whole fucking career”. The usual stuff, really. Richie couldn’t bring himself to give a shit though, not right now. His heart was pounding ridiculously loud in his chest, blood rushing through him and making him feel dizzy – adrenaline mostly, but also some anxiety too.

Somehow he found himself in his backstage dressing room, manager still nagging him and furiously demanding answers. Pull it together, Tozier, pull it together.

“What in God’s name were you thinking?!” Brad hissed, slamming his hand down on the dressing table; the bottle of water next to the mirror topped slightly from the force of it. “This is a PR nightmare!”

“I don’t give a shit,” Richie said simply, giving a shrug. “What can I say, man? Gotta be true to myself.”

A vein seemed to throb in his manager’s forehead. “You just announced that you’re gay in front of hundreds of people, Richie, most of whom are within the demographic that are the least accepting of homosexuality! You think you’re the first gay person to be in this position? Because you’re fucking not, okay, there’s a reason PR is a thing! Your image is going to be ruined within just a few short hours of all of this!”

“So you want me to lie about it?” Richie snapped. “I’m done lying, okay? I’m done with the dumb girlfriend jokes, I’m done with the misogynistic shit that I’m having to recite, I’m fucking done! I shouldn’t be ashamed about this, it’s 2017 for fuck sake!”

“Alright, sure, it’s a more accepting time, but your fan base...in case it escaped your notice, you have a certain demographic, and it’s not ‘woke’ gay people. The people who came to your show tonight wanted to see the Richie Tozier they know and love, they wanted those jokes and that humor - not your life story and an impromptu coming out!”

“Well, tough shit to them - like I said, if I’m doing these shows, I’ll do it with my own jokes, not hiding who I am anymore.”

“Richie, it’s not that simple-”

There was a knock on the still-open door; a stagehand gawked at them, a little nervously, before clearing her throat. “Um… I’m sorry to interrupt, I… Well… These guests have VIP passes, and they wanted to see Rich- I mean, Mr Tozier right away.”

Behind her, Richie could see the rest of the Losers Club waiting awkwardly, clearly trying not to look at him or his manager. He cleared his throat and gave what he hoped was an at least somewhat polite nod. “Yeah, they’re friends of mine. Thank you. Brad,” He turned to his manager and gave him a meaningful look. “Some privacy please?”

Brad straightened his blazer but nodded too. “Of course. I have...things to try and fix. We’ll discuss this later, Richie.”

He waited until both the stagehand and his manager were out of earshot before gesturing for his friends to come into the dressing room; all of them looked nervous, clearly trying to pretend that they hadn’t overheard the argument, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind - he was just so glad to see them all right now.

“So…” He said, closing the door behind them and trying to look like he was holding it together. “What- What did you think?”

“You were great, Richie,” Bill said sincerely - and that seemed to make the others more comfortable too, judging by how they all started to smile and rush to embrace him.

“You did a wonderful job, Richie,” Beverly told him, giving him a squeeze and beaming at him. “You had us all laughing the entire show.”

Ben was grinning widely. “Far funnier than any of your old material, that’s for sure.”

“You were actually funny,” Stan said, though he was smiling fondly. “Never thought I’d say that, Trashmouth, but it’s true - if only you were that funny when we were kids.”

“Ha, fuck you too, Stan Urine,” Richie joked, but he was unable to stop himself from exhaling in relief. “I’m glad you all enjoyed the show - was kinda worried it wouldn’t get the same laughs as my old stuff.”

“Your old stuff was fake,” Mike brushed off, giving him a kind smile. “We could see it was really you up there, being yourself.”

Richie felt a little dazed by all the attention; he was briefly aware of Bill and Mike both patting him on the back, of Stan and Patty sharing a small laugh as they recounted something he’d said during the show, Audra congratulating him and saying how happy she was to finally meet all of her husband’s friends, Ben grinning widely, Beverly holding his arm and stating that she was so proud-

Eddie.

Fuck.

“Has anyone seen Eddie?” He blurted out, unable to stop himself. Everyone else fell into silence. “Oh shit. Fucking shit-”

“He just went out for some air,” Beverly said quickly, though she looked uncertain. “I think it’s just...a lot for him.”

“I gotta go find him,” Richie muttered, immediately heading for the door. “Fucking fuck...”

Ben’s arm stopped him before he could touch the handle. “Rich, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“No, I need to apologize to him, I need to explain-”

“Richie,” Bill said quietly. “You just said you’ve been in love with him since we were kids, in front of hundreds of people. Everyone will know by tomorrow, even if they weren’t at tonight’s show. It’s a lot for him to take in.”

Something anxious and vile reared up in Richie’s chest, making him feel like it was difficult to breathe. “I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked this up, oh fuck...I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Richie-”

“It’s okay, Richie, don’t panic-”

“Shit, what’s he gonna think?! Fuck, I’ve ruined our whole friendship, what the fuck is wrong with me?!”

“You haven’t fucked anything up, Richie.”

“Rich, please just breathe, okay?”

He was only somewhat aware of Beverly’s hand in his arm, gently pulling him over to the nearby chair and sitting him down. “Richie, honey, have some water and just focus on breathing, okay?”

Knowing he had no choice in the matter, he took a gulp from the water bottle she passed him, focusing on her voice and doing his best to push his fears away. Tonight was supposed to have been the opposite of this - he was supposed to be brave, to stand tall, to not be ashamed of who he was. Instead he was terrified, filled with regret and uncertainty.

A part of him was briefly aware of someone (Bill, he figured) saying they were going to find Eddie before stepping out of the room. A minute or so later, he noticed the others starting to filter out of his dressing room, muttering that they were going to give him some space to breathe and not overcrowd him - they’d wait for him outside. He could only hope that security had managed to get any fans waiting out back to go away - normally he didn’t mind signing autographs or saying hello to people, but after tonight’s show...no. He couldn’t.

You’ve really fucked this up, Tozier.

---

Beverly walked with him as they left, her presence welcome and calming; she didn’t speak, and he was grateful for that - he just knew that she understood, that she was on his side no matter what was to come. Then again, he was sure all the Losers would be there for him no matter what - they were like a family, he sometimes thought, a family of misfits and nobodies that found each other, found a group where they could be themselves.

Fuck, he loved his friends so much.

“You want me to drive?” Beverly asked finally when they reached the car park, looking around; the others were nearby, crowded together and talking amongst themselves. “Or do you have a limo these days, Mr Comedian?”

“Hilarious,” He said dryly. “No, but I have a driver sometimes. I can call him and tell him to head home for the night though.”

They had nearly reached the others before Richie realized that all of his friends were there.

Eddie was there.

His throat closed up. No, no, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t-

“Eds,” Beverly said softly, giving him a kind smile.

Eddie gave a small nod, hands in his pockets and suddenly looking awkward. “Yeah… Erm… Hi, Richie.”

Everyone was silent. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife as they all debated what to do, none of them clearly sure of what to say in this situation. Richie tried to meet Eddie’s eye, only to find the other man staring at the floor resolutely; anxiety and worry gnawed at Richie’s insides at the sight.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of awkwardness, Mike cleared his throat and looked around at everyone. “How about we go grab a drink?” He prompted. “You know, to celebrate.”

“Sounds like a good idea, Mikey,” Bill sighed with relief, quickly glancing at Richie and Eddie.

“We’re all booked in the same hotel, right?” Beverly decided quickly, not waiting for an answer before continuing. “How about we go for a drink at the bar? That way none of us need to worry about driving or trying to find our way home.”

The others murmured in agreement, though it was clear that things were still awkward. As they started to make their way out of the car park, Stan and Bill navigating and leading the way, Richie noticed Beverly’s hand leave his arm; before he could question her, however, he found himself face-to-face with Eddie - immediately his throat felt dry, voice mysteriously gone for once in his life.

“Richie.” Eddie’s expression was hard to read; he didn’t seem angry but he didn’t seem happy or pleased either, just...carefully neutral. “Look, we need to… We need to talk.”

“Yeah,” Richie managed. “I guess so.”

Eddie hesitated for a second or two before turning to call to the others over his shoulder. “We’ll meet you guys there.”

None of the other Losers commented on this; instead, Bill merely nodded and gestured in the direction that they were heading. “Sure. Take your time.”

As soon as their friends were far away enough not to overhear, Eddie looked at Richie pointedly. “Is there somewhere private we can go or…?”

“Err… Dressing rooms might still be open?”

“And we won’t be overheard?”

“No. I have a private dressing room, dude.”

Eddie rolled his eyes at this but gestured back towards the theatre. “Alright, fine. Lead the way, Trashmouth.”

Weirdly enough, the nickname made him feel more comfortable - it was almost like nothing had changed, like he didn’t just admit in front of hundreds of people that he was in love with this man, like he didn’t admit it in front of said man. For a moment, Richie allowed himself to think that everything would be fine; they’d talk it out, maybe be able to laugh it off, and it would be good. Not great, to be honest, but better than this hiding and lying.

---

Thankfully security had allowed him to go back to his dressing room, under the guise that he had “forgotten” something, and they didn’t ask about Eddie accompanying him - awkward questions would have made it much more humiliating for all parties involved, he thought. Richie wasted no time in opening the dressing room door to let Eddie in before closing and locking it for good measure, just to be sure that they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Here, urgh… You take the chair, I can sit on the table,” He offered.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie brushed off, crossing his arms and suddenly avoiding his eye. “I’m kinda too nervous to sit.”

“Oh. Thank fuck, me too.”

He noticed Eddie’s lips quirk upwards, as if he was trying not to let himself smile - that was definitely a good sign. He waited for the other man to speak first, partly to be fair but also because, frankly, he had no idea what to say.

“So… Congrats on coming out?” Eddie finally offered - and then they both burst into laughter. “Fuck, that sounds so dumb.”

“Yeah, but it’s kinda cute,” Richie chuckled before he could stop himself - and then he froze up again. “I mean… I don’t mean…”

Eddie seemed to realize what he meant and his smile faded. “Right. That.”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Richie said quickly. “I should have told you in private or something, not on a fucking stage in a stand-up routine. I mean, I was going to imply that I’m gay as fuck, that was planned, but I wasn’t going to just put it out there like that, it just happened. And shit, I wasn’t even intending on saying all that about you, but I saw you sitting in the front row and… Jesus, Eddie, I just saw you laughing and I-”

“Richie,” Eddie interrupted, and the other man fell silent. “Look, man, this is all… Okay. Alright.” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before speaking again. “What you said during the show about me…about how you feel...you meant it.”

Richie swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

“Since we were kids?” Eddie continued, waiting for the other man to nod. “Okay… Richie, I swear to God, if this is some practical fucking joke or whatever - something for you to get laughs or make fun of me or whatever dumb shit goes through your head - then I will punch you in the face right fucking now.”

“What? No, no this isn’t a fucking joke!” Richie retorted, almost offended by this accusation. “You think I would say all that shit on-stage in front of hundreds of fucking people just for a joke?! Fuck off.”

“Okay, okay, I know, I’m sorry, I just… It’s a lot to take in,” Eddie muttered. When his friend didn’t say anything, he cast a look at him, seeming to study his face, before sighing. “Rich, I’m not about to turn around and start screaming slurs at you just because you had a crush on me.”

“I didn’t-”

“I can see it on your face, dumbass. Richie,” He leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re my friend - one of my best friends, actually. Nothing you say could make me hate you...well, not anymore than I do already.”

Richie gave a small, pained laugh, though the relief was evident on his face. “Right. Yeah. Thanks, Eds.”

For a long moment that seemed to stretch on for a lifetime, neither of them said anything else; Eddie’s hand remained on Richie’s shoulder, the taller man just looking at him gratefully. There was still a nagging feeling within him, something eating up at his insides and wondering if Eddie was just hiding any anger or disgust, maybe he just didn’t want to ruin a good night; they still hadn’t really addressed the whole “hey, I’m in love with my best friend Eddie” thing either, that could be awkward-

“Me too.”

Richie blinked. “What?”

Eddie’s hand fell away, and he merely just shrugged as he looked away from Richie. “Me too. I’m...I’m gay.”

“Oh. Oh. Eddie…”

“During the divorce proceedings with Myra, I...I started to think,” He continued, almost to himself. “Actually, it was before that, before I even left Derry. I would hate myself, you know, for every time I looked at a cute guy too long, every time I thought they were handsome in their best clothes or whatever. I’d push it away because I’d think it was not okay, that I was being disgusting or dirty or…”

Richie was stunned by this, suddenly at a loss for words. “Dirty? Come on, dude, you’re like the cleanest asshole I know - there’s not a microbe of dirt or whatever the fuck on you.”

“Hilarious. Really.” But Eddie wasn’t smiling. “Look, ever since the day we...we defeated IT, I’ve thought about it. I have. I thought about you helping me out before that fucking nightmare of a house collapsed, thought about you dragging my ass to hospital and demanding I get immediate attention, about how brave you were that day. After that I decided that I wanted to be brave too - you made me want to be brave and stand up for myself.” He paused. “That sounds cheesey as fuck, I know, but it’s true. And tonight, when you were telling your own jokes, stuff you’d written and worked hard on, I realized it again - that I want to be brave. I don’t want to be scared to admit it.”

“Really?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah. But there’s something else, Rich...the only person I told before now is Bev, and that’s because she guessed, you know? She could tell, but I also knew she’d listen and not judge.” He took a deep breath. “When I was in the hospital, every time I woke up, you were there - you refused to leave me. The others would be there too, usually taking turns, but you didn’t do that - you were always there. And before that, when we were stuck in that fucking thing’s lair, I saw you…” His voice failed for a moment, and he hurriedly looked away. “Fuck, Richie, you were under the deadlights and I...I thought I was going to lose you. I couldn’t bear it, Rich - I just couldn’t. I had to do something, I had to save you even if it meant putting myself in danger.”

“Well…” Richie wasn’t sure what to say - this wasn’t how he imagined this conversation going at all. “It worked. I’m not dead.”

“No, I know. But do you get what I’m trying to say, Richie?” Eddie asked anxiously. “Why I’m telling you all this?”

“I dunno, man,” Richie said dazedly, trying not to get his hopes up - he couldn’t, he couldn’t let himself think one thing and be brought down when it was not true, not if he could help it. “This whole night has been a clusterfuck for me, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m not high and hallucinating right now.”

It wasn’t true - he hadn’t been high in nearly five years, and he’d given up excessive drinking after reuniting with the Losers. He knew Eddie knew that already, but it was the first excuse he found himself latching onto.

“Jesus Christ, Richie.” The smaller man rolled his eyes but remained otherwise serious. “I’m trying to say that I’ve...I’ve liked you since we were kids too. Loved you, actually. God knows why since you’re an idiot who annoys the shit out of me, but damn it, I love you, Richie Tozier.”

“…Fuck.”

“I was never going to tell you,” Eddie admitted, folding his arms and looking rather uncomfortable. “Even though I decided I was going to try to be brave, that I wasn’t going to keep up with a sham of a marriage, I thought that you weren’t…you know. And I thought that even if you were, then I’d be the last one you’d want to be with.” Strangely, he gave a smile. “Fucking dumb, right?”

Richie nodded. “Very fucking dumb. Jesus, Eddie, do you not see the way I’ve been looking at you? Fuck, there’s been days you’ve given me boners in public just because I was thinking about you.”

“Urgh, too much information, asshole,” Eddie huffed – but the affection behind it was obvious, his facial expression softening. “So…where does this leave us, Richie? What happens next?”

“Next?” Richie considered this. “Well, being honest, I’d love to take you out and do this shit properly, but…”

“But?”

He hesitated, giving the other man a surprisingly serious look. “But that’s your choice – if you wanna stay friends, I respect that.”

To his surprise, Eddie huffed before stepping forwards; before Richie could say anything else, he was being kissed firmly on the mouth, hands cupping his face and pulling him close. He wasted no time in closing his eyes and kissing him back, his heart soaring as his entire body came alive.

For the first time all night, the panic and anxiety that had set him on edge flowed away completely: all he felt was exhilaration and relief – and love, love for this man in his arms. Suddenly it didn’t matter about what anyone else thought – whether ‘fans’ would send him hate online, how this could impact his entire career, his manager hounding him with how much he’d regret this – because none of it was important, not as important as this, as finally being able to hold the person he loved, who he’d always loved, and being able to be open with himself as well as those closest to him.

Yeah, Richie thought to himself blissfully, he didn’t regret his decision in the slightest.

#the written part is so bad but lol whatevs i guess #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #social media au #it #bill denbrough #mike hanlon #beverly marsh #stan uris #stanley uris #ben hanscom #my writing

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atmilliways · 3 years

Note

As long as anybody didn’t find out, Pickles figured the worst scenarios he had conjured in his head would never happen.

[send me a sentence and i’ll write the next five or more lines]

You got it! This... turned out longer than five more lines, lol.

Snakes N Barrels era Charles/Pickles. Warning for one night stands, drug and alcohol mentions, questionable disguises, and Charles hitting the club with a briefcase that contains a book and condoms (just in case).

Bottles & Bodies

As long as nobody found out, Pickles figured the worst scenarios he had conjured in his head would never happen. The gossip, the cold shoulders, the colder looks . . . all the shit he’d left behind in Wisconsin, but would be so much worse to encounter again now, here, in the fucking tabloids and the faces of his bandmates, because he actually liked this life.

It wasn’t like he was ever going to fool around with any of the guys, even if Tony was pretty cute. As far as Pickles could tell none of the guys ate from both sides of the buffet anyway, and as a general rule the groupies were always girls, so it was easy enough to compartmentalize. When he was being Pickles, the rockstar, in his red gloves and makeup and tight, low-riding jeans, he hit on chicks; when he snuck out to gay bars as Pickles, just some dude, with his blue wristbands and no eyeliner or eyeshadow and slightly less teased hair and even tighter, sluttier jeans, he hit on dudes.

And usually, just to be on the safe side, he picked guys too loaded to pick him out of a lineup later.

So why. Why the fuck. Had he picked the most straight-laced looking guy in this bar to sidle up to and ask if he could buy him a drink?

Probably had something to do with the fact that he was a little cross faded on weed and booze. . . . But mostly it was that the guy—young, probably not much older than he was—was hot, and he’d wanted to so he’d gone in the bathroom to snort a little coke until it seemed like a better idea.

Hot in a preppy sort of way, admittedly, with the glasses and the blazer and the nearly combed hair, nursing a scotch and soda while reading something and taking notes in a steno pad at a small table in the corner. But once you got past that part, there was a serious set of his jaw, an intensity to his gaze as he focused on what he was reading despite the noise of the crowd, and a firm decisiveness in his hands that Pickles had found himself obsessing over in stolen glances for the past half an hour. Good shoulders, too, and Pickles suspected he was pretty fine under that blazer and button-down.

Pickles grabbed a chair from a nearby table and sat in it without bothering to turn it around, folding his arms across the top of it and grinning at the handsome stranger. “Hey, whatcha reading?”

“Naming, Necessity, and Natural Kinds, by Stephen P. Schwartz,” the guy reeled off automatically. When this wasn’t immediately followed by Pickles losing interest and wandering off, he glanced up and did a double take. “Wait. You’re, ah, Pickles. From Snakes N Barrels.”

For a fraction of a second, Pickles did his best impression of a deer in the headlights. Because yeah, lack of stage makeup wasn’t much of a disguise, but no one had ever actually called him on it before.

Then he recovered, and all his experience in bullshitting and performing under pressure kicked in. Pickles turned the wattage on his smile up a notch. “Heh, y’think? I could just be a handsome, sexy lookalike.”

The guy shook his head while still staring. “I’ve been to your shows,” he said with unshakable conviction. “I know it’s you.”

Without meaning to, Pickles laughed. “You have? Really?” He let his eyes rake pointedly up and down the other man, since he wanted to anyway. What he saw did not, in any way, scream Snakes N Barrels fan. For one thing, there was an honest to god briefcase wedged under his chair between his nice leather shoes. Not enough piercings or tats, for another—not that he could see at least, to which his lizard brain slyly added Yet.

After waiting patiently for his eyes to wander back up, the guy said seriously, “Really. You, ah.” Suddenly his confidence seemed to waver, even if his conviction didn’t, and he looked down at his book. “You stand out.”

Pickles considered. He wasn’t thinking too good at this point, which might possibly present a flaw in his whole ‘compartmentalization’ plan. . . . But he had a pretty good radar for when people were interested, and this guy was definitely pinging on it. And somehow, he didn’t really think that someone who’d brought heavy reading to a hookup den was the type to try blackmailing a celebrity in the bisexual closet. People like that had better things to do, right?

It didn’t mean everyone would find out.

He drummed his fingers on the top of his chair, barely heard it over the ambient noise of the bar around them, shrugged. What the hell. “Okay, you got me,” he said with a smirk, one he knew for a fact was particularly winning. Under the table, he stretched his leg out and rubbed the toe of one sneaker against the other man’s calf. “This your first brush with fame or are you jest happy to see me?”

There was a twitch of surprise at the sudden contact, but otherwise the guy held his ground. “Well, I, ah.” His face was reddening, though. “I like your, ah . . . music.”

“Thanks, dood.” With a wink, Pickles added, “What’s yer name, since you already know mine?”

“Charles.”

“Nice name,” he said, still feeling up the back of Charles’ leg with his foot. “So hey, Charlie. Wanna go appreciate my ‘music’ somewhere private?”

It was a stupid line and probably shouldn’t have worked, but the guy nodded and shut his book, using the steno pad as a bookmark. Pickles took the liberty of finishing the last of the stranger’s scotch and soda before getting up to leave the bar; Charles stowed his book in his briefcase and followed.

Stupid, impulsive, thinking with his dick instead of his brain as usual. . . . But hey, a guy’s gotta eat. Otherwise what was the point of it all, right?

They got a motel room a few blocks away, but not until after Pickles had pushed Charles against a few darkened brick walls along the way to give him a test drive. Charles kissed back hard, eagerly, like this was some sort of fantasy he’d never dreamed he’d get to live out. His hands ran down Pickles’ back to grab his ass and fuck he was unexpectedly strong. Pickles felt his feet practically leave the ground, literally, and moaned into it.

By the time they got into a room (which Charles had gamely gone into the motel office by himself to pay for), Pickles had him one zip away from pants-off. That was quickly taken care of, and shirt buttons undone, and sure enough, what he found underneath the crisp white shirt lived up to expectations and then some. Pickles dropped to his knees, shivering in approval when Charles’ hands went straight into his hair. He was less appreciative when he was held back from leaning forward.

“I, ah,” Charles panted, staring down at him with bruised lips and desire in his eyes. “I have condoms in, in my briefcase.”

Pickles quirked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Well, it’s. . . . I mean, because, the bar. You, ah, never know, right?”

Probably smart.

Pickles rolled his eyes but got the condom, rolled it on with his mouth, and proceeded to suck his new friend’s brain out into the protective latex. Then he tossed Charles a washcloth and a fresh Trojan and put on a show of peeling out of the tight jeans and tight t-shirt, making strategic use of the motel lotion until they could get the new condom on and Pickles climbed atop him. He eased down with his head thrown back, scrambling without looking to find Charles’ hands and press them to his hips while his head floated and spun, the perfect high. At one point he realized that Charles had flipped them over, so smoothly he hadn’t even noticed, bending Pickles bare feet effortlessly back his ears as he thrust into him with the steadiness of a drumbeat, and it all felt so fucking good.

The other stuff was good too—the rush of being onstage, free booze and drugs, groupies whenever he wanted—but there was something in this that he needed just as much. Couldn’t give up one any more than the other, got the shakes if he went too long without it. He’d picked a good one tonight, too. Unlike his usual fare, Charles didn’t seem to be any more than slightly buzzed. Usually Pickles would be offering to share a little bit of his coke right now just to keep his pick of the night awake and functioning; instead, he was being steadily, blissfully fucked into the mattress with a controlled pressure that carried no hint of sloppiness, no possibility of passing out halfway through. Which was . . . kind of a first, and kind of felt like the best sex he’d ever had (without being on the really hard shit, at least, where it was more about the trip than the actual fucking anyway).

He almost wanted to offer a few lines anyway, just so this could go on all night. . . . But it hadn’t been all that long ago that he couldn’t afford to share, and old habits died hard, so he didn’t.

At one point Charles was sprawled across the bed, head resting on Pickles’ thigh as the musician leaned back against the pillows and well-rattled headboard, idly twisting short brown hair into tiny braids that wouldn’t stay. Charles’ eyes were mostly closed when he asked, matter of factly, “I’m not going to see you again, am I?”

Pickles chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before conceding, “Yeah, prahbly naht.” He yawned, then grimaced—damn accent always thickened up on him when he was tired or coming down, and right now he was both. “Sahhry. I mean, you can still come to shows and stuff, but. . . .”

“No, it’s fine. I understand.” Charles rolled over onto his elbows, looking up at Pickles. “Knowing it’s a one time thing takes, ah, takes some of the pressure off. I’m not, ah, very good at . . . this sort of thing, usually.” He paused, looking faintly embarrassed. “I, ah, say things like that, for example.”

“Dood, me neither,” Pickles said with a laugh. It was true, and he was a little relieved to hear the sentiment echoed by the other man. He wondered, briefly, if Charles would get all weird if he admitted that he slept with women too. A lot of guys did. But that was a mistake you only made . . . five, maybe eight times, outside of doing it on purpose to make sure these trysts ended when he needed them to. Not necessary in this case, where they both already seemed to be on the same page. He yawned again.

Men or women, all of his relationships came with an expiration date that could usually be measured in hours, and that mostly didn’t bother him because there were always others waiting when he turned around. Maybe he was kind of bummed to know that he’d never see this guy again, but he’d wake up in the morning and move on. There would always be another body to tumble into the next time he turned around to scratch this particular itch.

Several years later, past the band breaking up, past numerous auditions and brief stints as frontman for other groups that never really seemed to stick, after getting over the crushing reality of defeat and admitting to himself that he’d never be able to get his voice to go as heavy as he wanted, Pickles tapped the creased business card Nathan had given him on the edge of the desk and said, “So. . . . Hey.”

“Hi,” Charles replied blandly. His hairline was showing signs of beginning a slow retreat, there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before, and he looked very professional and joyless in his gray suit and power tie, but it was definitely him. “So. You, ah, have a new band now.”

“Yep.” Pickles tapped the card on the desk again. It had been a very long time since he’d wondered any time he’d seen the name Charles or any of the variations if it would turn out to be that Charles. . . . Honestly, he’d probably only done it for a few weeks before the booze and drugs had washed away any certainty that he’d even remembered the name right. He definitely hadn’t walked into this appointment with a potential manager for the newly formed Dethklok expecting this blast from the past.

“And you’re . . . not the frontman.”

That wasn’t phrased as a question, so Pickles just shrugged. “Yeah, that’s Nathan. He’s the one who called. He’d’ve come, but he had work today, so, y’know. Here I am.” He shrugged again. “I’m the drummer.”

“I, ah, see.” Charles wrote something on his steno pad. It was, upon craning very unsubtly to see, the words Pickles the Drummer. “Nathan didn’t, ah, mention that over the phone.”

“Yeah, he’s not real chatty. Good guy though.” Pickles saw the faintest hint of questioning look and felt a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of embarrassed defensiveness over, essentially, nothing. “Not that he’s, I mean, we aren’t, no way, uh, no.”

Fuck, he regretted ever learning how to talk as a kid. But he’d never been stuck in a conversation with someone who had this particular dirt on him before—even though, technically, he had the same dirt on Charles. The 90’s were almost less forgiving of that shit than the 80’s had been, in their own way. Anxious and fidgety, Pickles started patting his pockets, looking for cigarettes or something.

Charles put his pen down with a sigh and took off his glasses, studiously wiping them with a handkerchief. They hadn’t seemed dirty a second ago.

“Pickles. . . . If you’re worried about, ah, my discretion, I can assure you that I am a professional. We don’t have to discuss our, ah, shared. . . . The fact that we’ve met before. With your band mates, or even with each other, unless you chose to do so. Either way, you can consider that information, ah, confidential.” The handkerchief disappeared into a pocket, and Charles put his glasses back on. “And I, ah, hope that you would do me the same courtesy. Particularly if I do become Dethklok’s manager.”

There the damn smokes were. Pickles tugged the squashed, mostly empty pack out of his back pocket, but paused in the middle of shaking one out as the words sank in. “. . . Wait, you really wanna manage us?”

“Of course. The demo tape you sent me showed a huge amount of promise, especially considering it wasn’t recorded professionally.”

“Damn right it wasn’t,” Pickles scoffed, jamming the cigarette in his mouth and distractedly resuming his self-frisking, this time for a lighter. “Had to record it on a fuckin’ two year old Talkboy that Magnus stole from his niece. Thing’s a piece of shit. Where’d I fuckin’ put—”

A flick of a lighter snagged his attention, and he glanced up to see Charles holding one, already lit. It was one of the windproof ones, matte black and heavy looking. Metal, Pickles thought, and leaned forward to touch the tip of his cigarette to the lick of flame, wondering idly if it was monogrammed. He tried to remember if they’d smoked anything that night, but came up blank and felt . . . weirdly disappointed in himself for not knowing.

“You want one?” he asked, and hoped he sounded casual instead of probing.

Charles shook his head. “No, I don’t smoke, I just, ah, just work with a lot of people who do.”

Pickles sat back, taking a deep drag and sighing out smoke. It was strange how this encounter was making him a little nostalgic—or maybe just making him stupid. Sure, that one night stand still stood out in his memory as the best sex he’d ever had, but it had only been one night. They didn’t actually know each other, probably didn’t have anything in common. In the space of this one meeting they’d probably exchanged more words than they had back then. But. . . .

There was something about Charles, even older. Even in that boring suit. A flicker of something—subdued interest, maybe?—dancing behind the flame as he’d conscientiously offered to light Pickles’ cigarette.

He hadn’t felt the itch for a while, but something about Charles suddenly had him itching like crazy.

“. . . Okay then, chief. We need a manager, you want to manage us, sounds like a good deal to me.” Pickles took a long drag on his cigarette and then smirked, one he knew for a fact was particularly winning. Just because the wristbands he had on now were black, his hair was tamped down into dreadlocks and his goatee long shaved off, and his jeans were loose enough to give his balls some room to breathe, that didn’t mean he couldn’t still live a little.

After all, he didn’t have any stage make-up on. That made him, for the moment, just some dude. And Charles, well . . . he could clearly keep a secret. It didn’t mean anyone would find out.

Pickles leaned forward, resting both elbows on the edge of Charles’ desk as he said, “Why don’t you tell me what you like about my music?”

#metalocalypse #metalocalypse fanfic #chickles #chuckles #charles/pickles #snakes n barrels era pickles

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

The Goode Case, 3/14 - Juno

Chapter Summary: Jaida can’t sleep, thanks to her recurring nightmare, which prompts her to relive how Jackie revealed her own gift, and how she found out about Jaida’s, in an evening that Jaida, Jackie and Brita are unlikely to forget any time soon …

(A/N: I really appreciate your supportive comments, thank you! Hopefully I will have another update ready in the next couple of days on this monster of a story. For now though, here is part three.)

Sunday 29thOctober

4.13AM

Jaida sat up, drenched in sweat from the familiar nightmare.

She blinked, and she could still see her Papa in the corner, as she had that horrible night.

The nightmare was almost always just a replay of the experience. The first time she recalled seeing a spirit.

She and her parents had stayed in the room with her beloved Papa’s body in the coffin the night before his wake, when Jaida was just seven. She’d known her Papa was in the coffin, but suddenly his spectre was in the corner, pale and blank; she’d watched him walk from the corner of the room to Jaida, while Jaida lay paralysed with fear, unable to make a sound; and reach his hand towards her, bringing his face closer …

That was always the point that Jaida woke up, and today was no different. She waited for her eyes to focus in the dark, her breathing to calm, and she closed her eyes, counted to five, and when she opened them, Papa had disappeared as he always did.

But the memory didn’t fade. It never did.

Jaida had not had many close relatives die, but she remembered her friend Marty back in senior year of high school, seeing his mom behind him, reaching to shake his shoulder, but Jaida being the only person to see her. Marty had spun round at Jaida’s cry, not seeing his mom even though she was right there, clear as crystal, to Jaida’s eyes at least. He’d then avoided Jaida the rest of senior year when it had turned out his mother had had a fatal heart attack earlier that day.

And later at college. Laura stood on the bridge, looking down at the water, then at Jaida, then at the water again. A day before Jaida had found out that Laura had leapt from that same bridge three days ago.

Part of Jaida really hated the gift – or curse, as she thought privately – but without it, she and Jackie wouldn’t have become so close so quickly. Jackie’s telepathy, and subsequent mental bond that she’d formed with both Jaida and Brita, had been weird at first, but now Jackie was the only person who knew about Jaida’s ability.

Jackie referred to it as mediumship, while Jaida just called it a pain in the ass.

Jackie couldn’t see these spirits, just as Jaida couldn’t read minds, but at least Jackie knew that she wasn’t crazy, or lying. And as the oldest, the self-appointed ‘mom friend’ of the group, Jackie would often look after them at her own expense.

For instance, at this moment, Jaida knew that her nightmare, and seeing her Papa in her room, would have made Jackie wake up, sensing Jaida’s terror even from this distance, thanks to that psychic bond that Jaida had insisted on trying out with her. Jackie would now be online, waiting for Jaida to message her if she needed anything.

Sure enough, when Jaida picked up her phone, waiting for her eyes to focus, Jackie was the only person online, apart from that one girl from college who’d moved to London and was five hours ahead.

Springing from her memory, she remembered Jackie describing her telepathy to her and Brita, after they’d taken Jackie to Vanjie’s after her first week.

————————————

It was, oddly enough, Brita’s idea. Brita was not one to suggest a trip to the bar, normally being more inclined to rest at home in the evenings one of her hoards of books and a mug of hot chocolate; but the day Jackie joined back in June, that fateful Monday, Brita was dumped. By text, as well.

Brita had pulled Jaida into the bathroom at the end of the day, outwardly as always a tower of strength, professional and proud; to crumple into a heap over the sink, inconsolable, crying so desperately that it was all Jaida could do not to cry herself.

Luckily for Brita, her seemingly endless torrent of friends rang her phone off the hook the next few days, trying to persuade her to go out, telling her to forget him, sending her pictures of plenty of hot men and women to drool over. Brita had just chuckled, but Jaida knew she was feeling the love from all angles at this time.

That week she’d already been out with her friend Paul Mantione and his sister Jan on the Wednesday; and her two older sisters on the Thursday for food and plenty of red wine; but Friday she suggested to Jaida a trip to Vanjie’s after work, as Vanjie’s was for an LGBT+ crowd which suited them both. They’d invited Jackie mostly out of politeness, not sure how she would feel in a gay bar, but Jackie had accepted with such enthusiasm that it seemed to seal the deal.

Vanessa, the owner of Vanjie’s, and Brita had been joined at the hip through most of college, but Vanessa had bought the lease to the bar after winning big money on her spontaneous trip to Vegas that time, along with her on-again off-again partner Brooke. At that time, they were off-again, which meant Vanessa wanted everyone to enjoy themselves as much as possible, and that meant free shots.

So the tequila slammer was free, and that served to loosen the pockets for one more each. Tequila slammers were not Jackie’s strong suit, but Jaida could probably take three and be fine, and the three of them had ended up in a booth afterwards with some tall cocktails, heads feeling fuzzier and fuzzier.

After two slammers and a cocktail, Jackie’s tongue had loosened considerably. She had started finishing Jaida’s sentences, and then Brita’s too. It started to become a little annoying, Jaida had to admit.

But then Jackie was finishing sentences, and starting sentences that Jaida was only thinking.

“How are you doing that?” Jaida had asked Jackie, whose face was getting quite pink. She had leaned in towards Brita and Jaida, putting a finger to her lips.

“I can hear other peoples’ thoughts,” Jackie had whispered, laughing at her own remark.

Of all the things that Jaida might have expected Jackie to respond, that had been pretty low on the list. Jaida could only stare open-mouthed, and finally nod. “Okay, that’s cool.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough now, Jacks,” Brita had laughed uneasily.

“No, you don’t understand, it’s a gift, my mom says. Well, I didn’t ask for it, and it’s a bit strange, and sometimes I don’t know what it does, so it’s like, a perfect birthday gift from relatives,” Jackie had continued, still laughing.

“Child –“

“You’re joking, right?” Brita had asked in a low voice.

“No, Brita, it’s real,” Jackie had sighed. “Okay, think of something and I’ll tell you it.”

“Alright,” Brita had screwed up her face in concentration.

“Oh, come on, you have to think of something harder than that! You’re just thinking about your birthday. It’s September 16th. I thought you were going to test me!”

The smile fell from Brita’s face, and Jaida had felt her own stomach twist uncomfortably. Jackie had just snorted with laughter at both of them.

“Your faces! Oh my god! You didn’t believe me at first!” She’d placed a hand on Jaida’s forearm. “Do you believe me now?”

“What’s mine, then?” Jaida had asked, thinking of a random date.

But Jackie had cocked an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of July 10th, but you’re trying to throw me off. That’s not your actual birthday.”

“Wait, what?” Brita had looked stunned, her eyes wide, turning from Jackie to Jaida and back again.

Jaida had felt a strange lump in her throat. “That was the right date I was thinking, but it’s not actually my birthday. How – how did you know?”

Jackie had shrugged. “I hear almost everyone’s thoughts. Mostly just whispers. So if there’s a lot of people in a group, they all get confused, but if I’m just with one or two people, I can hear the whispers.”

“Can you hear, like anyone’s thoughts? Like, can you hear Lisa Rinna’s thoughts?” Brita had asked in awe.

But Jackie had shook her head. “No, I can only hear people who are nearby, like, not more than about two metres away. So I can hear your thoughts, just the whispers, but I can’t hear Vanessa’s at the bar. Only people who are nearby. Unless they’re someone I’ve connected with.”

“Connected with?” Jaida had asked.

“So if I form a mental connection with someone, I can also know when they’re feeling an extreme emotion, wherever they are in the world. When my mom was ill, I felt it every time she woke up in pain, or was in hospital, or thought she was dying, or was scared or like, really excited when she was getting better. She’s in Toronto.”

“Is she better now?”

“She’s much better, thank you.”

“Does that mean she can read your thoughts too?” Brita had whispered.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone can. Unless you’re also psychic.” Jackie had hiccuped and then giggled. “Sorry, alcohol makes me chatty! But, I think everyone is a little bit psychic, maybe in different ways.”

And Jackie had turned to Jaida, looking straight in her eyes.

Could Jackie hear her own thoughts …

Jaida forced herself not to think about anything, to make her mind as blank as possible.

“SHOTS! Who ordered shots? Oh wait, it was me!” It was Vanessa who’d broken the spell, appearing at the corner of the booth, three more tequila shots and a plate of lemon and salt beside it. “Get some shots down your throats ladies, and maybe later get something else down your throats too!” Vanessa had cackled at her own joke.

Jaida had felt her shoulders relax a little. Jackie wasn’t a big drinker, and was a bit more drunk than she and Brita were, so Brita had taken two slammers leaving Jackie to just relax, and take a sip of the water on the table.

“Who do you have a connection with then?” Jaida had asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Whoever I choose,” Jackie had replied mysteriously, wriggling her fingers in both their directions before collapsing into giggles.

——————————————————

Jaida looked at her phone. Jackie was still online, and Jaida knew she wouldn’t log off without a prompt.

Jaida:I’m ok Jackie, thanks

Jackie: He can’t hurt you

Jaida:I know

Jackie always told Jaida this, every time Jaida had seen … someone. She wasn’t sure how Jackie had so much knowledge of all this psychic stuff, and she wasn’t even sure why Jackie was so open about it with people she had hardly met. Part of Jaida was convinced that Jackie found out about it from that night in Vanjie’s, although it wasn’t confirmed until … until that night at Jackie’s apartment.

She had a gnawing sense of regret at asking Jackie to do what she’d crudely titled “the connection thing” with her. Brita had been a bit more cautious as usual, but Jaida had wanted to know what it meant. And if it would make her know Jackie’s thoughts too.

——————————————————

In mid-July, Jackie invited them both to her apartment, as a bit of an attempt to get to know the two of them a little better. She had moved in with some girl who had so many jobs that she was never in, but left a whirlwind of clothes and bowls of cornflakes in her wake.

Jaida marvelled at the atmosphere that Jackie had managed to create. They rented, so they weren’t allowed to do major renovation, but a patterned shawl here and a plant or two there had given the plain magnolia walls some life. The living room led out to a tiny Juliet balcony with just enough room for the ashtray and a packet of menthols next to it, and a pair of dirty walking boots on the floor.

There were two bookshelves along the wall of the living area, a large oblong room with a dining table pushed against one wall. Jaida ran a finger along the titles, several French books among them too, and a small collection of Farsi books in the top left shelf.

“You got almost as many books as Brita!”

“I’ve got far more books than this!” Brita waved her hand dismissively.

“Some of these are my housemate’s as well.”

“Wait, you speak French?” Jaida pointed to one of the French titles.

“Sure. I’m Canadian, we had to take French at school.”

“And are these Farsi?”

Jackie nodded. “I’m bilingual in Farsi and English. I wish I got the chance to speak it more, normally I just chat to my mom or her siblings, when they call up. It’s easy to lose bits of it when you don’t speak it or use it too much.”

“And is this … oh, girl,” Jaida pulled the chess set out from one of the middle shelves, her eyes lighting up. “I haven’t played since seventh grade.”

“What? That’s when I started playing!” Brita exclaimed.

Jackie laughed. “You’ll both have to teach me again, I’m so bad at chess. But go ahead and play if you want, while I get the food ready.”

A beautiful smell was coming from the kitchen area. When Jackie had said she’d cook for them, Jaida had maybe expected frozen pizza, but Jackie had really put in an effort to impress them, running back and forth, chopping and blitzing noises filling the room. Jaida and Brita unpacked the chess pieces and started to play, but Brita kept calling to Jackie to see if she needed any help.

“Nope! It’s all under control!” Came Jackie’s chirpy reply each time.

In chess, Jaida had learned long ago to watch her opponent’s eyes to see where they was thinking of moving to and from, and sure enough Brita’s brown eyes flicking between the pieces gave away her every thought. Jaida liked to pride herself on having a much better poker face, letting her vision drift across the board, and trusting her instinct, even if her pieces started disappearing.

When Jackie finally came to sit in front of them, it was Brita’s move, and she was scratching her neck and licking her lips. Brita was one of those who took five minutes or more with each move, planning her strategy each time, always meticulous to take every single angle into account.

Jackie moved her gaze between them both, a small smile playing on her lips, not attempting to break the silence, just enjoying having their company in her home.

“You’re both really interesting to listen to, while you’re playing,” Jackie said finally, as Brita moved her bishop into place.

“What?”

“I mean, your thoughts, your plans for the game. You’re both strategising. You’re both just thinking about your plans.”

“Oh, okay.” Jaida ignored Jackie and moved her rook past Brita’s bishop. “Check.”

“Wait, how?” Brita peered at the board. “Ah, shit,” she mumbled as she realised. “Shit, sis, I completely missed that.”

“Sorry,” Jackie whispered, getting up and moving back to the kitchen.

Brita reached to her. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that!” She got up and followed Jackie to the kitchen. Jaida glanced at the board, then sighed and got up.

A minute later, Brita measuring out rice, while Jackie handed Jaida some vegetables from the bottom drawer of the fridge. Brita had felt like she’d insulted Jackie, and had insisted they help with some food prep. Jaida had been volunteered for salad.

“What is it?” Jaida peered into the simmering pan. “Smells great.”

“Khoresh Bademjan. It’s Persian. You’ll like it, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t. And don’t worry, Jaida, I made it vegetarian.”

“Cool, thanks,” Jaida smiled.

The food was gorgeous, although Jackie kept glancing at them, as if looking for some kind of validation – but once they were all done, Brita immediately leapt from her chair and dragged Jaida to the sink to tackle the washing up. With Jaida drying and Brita washing, Jackie insisting on putting the dishes away, they settled into a comfortable silence between the three of them.

“Thanks for everything, Jackie.” Jaida passed her the last dish and cleared her throat. “Sorry I made you feel a bit – you know, weird. That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Jackie shook her head sadly. “I’m used to keeping it to myself, but it kind of feels nice to talk about it though.”

Jaida had to admit she’d only half-considered how Jackie was feeling about talking about it.

“Do lots of people know?” Brita asked her.

But Jackie shook her head. “My mom does, and one or two of my closest friends back home. And you guys, but we’re friends too, right?”

“Sure, we have each other’s backs!” Brita pulled Jackie into a one-armed hug, squeezing Jackie into her side.

“If you’re psychic, why can’t you just wash these dishes with your mind?”

They’d rarely heard Jackie laugh louder than at Jaida’s remark. “Jai, that’s telekinesis! I’m only telepathic! Well, I say only telepathic!” And she carried on laughing. “I only hear thoughts, nothing else, I can’t move things!”

“So you can hear our thoughts, but you have to, like, connect with someone to be able to have a mental bond?” Jaida asked. “I don’t quite get it.”

“I guess … people I have a bond with, I hear more clearly. People I don’t I just hear whispers, but anyone I have a bond with, I can hear what they’re thinking really clearly, and from a longer distance.”

“Who have you got a bond with then?”

“Oh, you know, not many people,” Jackie murmured.

“Family? Friends?” Brita badgered.

Jackie sighed. “Those kinds of people, yes. My mom, a couple of my friends. One ex.” Jackie shuddered. “Bad decision. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“What about us? Would you do the connection thing with us? For work?”

Jaida hadn’t expected the words to come right out of her mouth, but now that they were, Jackie looked as if she was pondering it. Maybe Jaida had felt that she needed to make it up to Jackie for earlier. Maybe … it was a sort of morbid curiosity.

Jackie’s gaze had softened, and she’d shrugged.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Jackie mused, “if we’re working on any high profile cases together, and if anything happens to you, I would know.”

“And vice versa?” Jaida asked.

“I’m not sure,” Jackie muttered, “but nothing has really ever happened to me.”

“You can’t tempt fate, sis,” Brita chuckled darkly.

“Okay,” Jaida said, “it makes sense to do it. What do you do, to connect?”

“I’m not so sure about this,” Brita hesitated.

“Come on Brita, it does make sense. Especially in our line of work. Does it take long, Jackie?” Jaida asked.

“It probably won’t take longer than about fifteen seconds, and I just need some form of touch, and eye contact. And you need to be willing, of course.”

Jaida held out a hand on the bench, and Jackie gingerly took it, raising her eyes to meet Jaida’s.

“You sure you want to do this? You don’t want to back out?” Jackie’s voice was higher than usual, and a little bit timid, as if she were afraid to have any form of connection with them.

“Go ahead, Jackie,” Jaida tried to make her voice sound as stable as she could.

“Okay. And you have to keep eye contact, until the end. You’ll know when it’s the end.”

Jackie took a deep breath in and out, and Jaida did the same, feeling her body relax a little bit as she did so. At first Jaida felt nothing, but held Jackie’s eyes, both of them falling silent. She could see Brita shifting out of the corner of her eye, but she kept focused on Jackie, breathing steadily, normally.

The seconds passed, but nothing was happening. She could see Brita biting her lip, a little confused.

“Nothing’s happening,” Jaida opened her mouth to say, or at least she thought she did, but nothing came out of it, and she wasn’t even sure her mouth moved.

“What?” She tried to say, but her mouth definitely didn’t move that time.

Jackie was still staring into her, and it was becoming intrusive, unnerving, but Jaida found she couldn’t look away, she was becoming a little light-headed at the focus.

She felt an internal jerk, as if electricity had gone through her; felt her mind race, a whole rush of emotions and memories play back to her in her mind, some echoes of thoughts that weren’t her own; saw herself briefly through Jackie’s own eyes, felt her own hand in Jackie’s, heard herself thinking thoughts that were definitely not her …

Jackie pulled back, blinking and shaking her head wildly, and Jaida was finally freed, feeling as if she had been yanked backwards out of a vacuum. She rubbed her forehead, finding she was sweating.

“Woah,” Jaida whispered.

It was rare to see Brita scared. Her wide eyes flicked between Jaida and Jackie, her mouth agape, looking less and less sure she wanted to do this.

Jackie held out a hand to her. “Brita?”

Brita was no coward, Jaida knew this well from the various jobs she had seen Brita complete. She might have been frightened, but she nodded slowly, holding her own hand out, facing Jackie and locking eyes with her.

Jaida watched them both. Watched as Jackie’s face grew intense with concentration. Watched as Brita’s brow furrowed, as if she were in pain.

“Ow,” she breathed.

But Jackie didn’t relent.

“Oww,” Brita’s voice was weak, but she maintained focus.

They both flinched at the same moment, pain etched in the lines on their foreheads, but Jaida didn’t know what to do in this strange psychic battle. It seemed to be going on longer than she had done with Jackie, their stares so intense they could have burned through each other.

“Jackie, what’s happening?” She asked, but Jackie didn’t respond, nor Brita, both still intensely concentrated on each other.

“What’s –“ Jaida raised a hand, but they both jolted at that moment, breaking apart, Brita ripping her hand away, and Jackie looking down at the floor, biting her lip.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “it’s not meant to hurt so much. It never has with anyone else …”

But Brita, her eyes glassy, blinked twice and stumbled out of the room as if she hadn’t heard, making her way away to the bathroom.

“Brita?” Jaida started to move after her, but Jackie grabbed her forearm.

“Let her go, Jaida, I think she needs to be alone,” Jackie murmured, and Jaida stepped backwards, watching Brita’s dazed walk to the bathroom.

Jaida’s own mind was reeling at the contact. Her mind raced with questions.

Were she and Jackie now bonded to each other mentally?

Did that mean that Jackie knew about Jaida’s own sixth sense, the Bruce Willis cliché twist; that Jaida saw spirits that most others didn’t?

“Yes,” Jackie muttered. “And yes.”

Jaida saw Jackie watching her, her eyes full of something that Jaida thought was … pity.

————————————————————————

Jaida sighed at the memory. It had brought the three of them closer, that was for sure, but Jackie had refused to tell Brita what Jaida saw. Just as she had refused to tell Jaida what had happened with Brita too – she’d argued that they both needed to take charge themselves.

The clock said almost four thirty by now, and Jackie was still online, so Jaida turned her phone off. Jackie would go offline and back to sleep, as long as she knew Jaida was alright. The mom-friend, who wanted to save everyone in the world.

Jaida wondered if Jackie had craved that support, that care, when she was learning about her own telepathy; to make her offer herself so selflessly now.

She lay back down, pondering that warm July night.

And Brita … she and Brita knew so much about each other. Jaida had been the first person to whom Brita had confessed to being attracted to women as well as men, and Jaida had helped Brita plan her coming out to her sisters and parents. And when Silky had broken up with Jaida back in May, Brita had been at her house within half an hour, mopping up the tears that Jaida rarely let the world see, getting them both dressed and made up, and pulling both Jaida and Widow to a karaoke bar to belt out some tunes, Heidi hot on their heels.

Jaida smiled fondly at that memory. Jaida was a terrible singer, she knew that, and Widow was a bit too shy to sing, but Brita’s voice was fantastic. When Brita had hit the high note in Unbreak My Heart, Jaida had felt goose pimples run down her arms, before she was crying again and Widow had wrapped her up, not saying a word, simply letting Jaida unravel in her arms, while Heidi had stroked her back soothingly.

It was wrong that Brita still didn’t know what her gift was. Jackie was right – Jaida knew that she and Brita were keeping huge parts of themselves hidden from each other, even though they’d been friends for three years.

Enough was enough.

Jaida resolved to talk to Brita in the morning.

#rpdr fanfiction #jaida essence hall #brita filter #jackie cox #lesbian au #detective au #mystery #the goode case #juno #black girl magic fic #diversity fic #s12 #submission #tw death #tw suicide references

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ryansunsolved · 4 years

Note

Request: Stripper AU, but Shane’s the stripper and no one knows until Ryan ends up at the club where Shane works because it’s a new club.

I’ve seen this prompt floating around tumblr recently but I’ve never seen someone make Shane the stripper in this AU, so kudos to you anon for being creative and providing us with some god-tier stripper!Shane content. I mean, look at that boy’s legs!

sweet as wine

There he was, like disco superfly I smell sex and candy here Who's that lounging in my chair?

Read below the cut or here on ao3

Look— none of this would have happened if Steven Lim wasn’t a scheming little weasel who doesn’t respect the sanctity of Chubby Have I Bunnied.

“Never have I ever lived in Arcadia, California,” Steven said through a mouthful of marshmallows.

It was foul— but fair play, and an obvious payback for Ryan’s earlier targeted question at Steven. Ryan laughed and begrudgingly fit another extra large marshmallow into his cheeks, nudging Shane.

“I feel like you have” he smiled, pointing a finger at him.

“Hm? Have I ever lived in Arcadia, California?”

“Oh, I thought you said slept,” Ryan snorted, a rogue marshmallow falling out of his mouth like a crewmate jumping ship.

Shane bit his lip, remembering that one time, years ago when he and Ryan had just started working at Buzzfeed as interns, Ryan inviting him to stay at his parents’ house in Arcadia. He remembered that night all too clearly— the night of their first and only kiss. It was as though they reached some silent agreement to never mention it again, and Shane didn’t dare to, keeping their work relationship and his own feelings separate. But that was ages ago, and even if Shane’s feelings were still virulent in moments like these when Ryan looked soft and sure, leaning into his space, he had gone this long without mentioning it.

No need to ruin a good thing, he thought bitterly, and begun to wonder if he would have to dig out that old journal sooner than expected.

Ryan had lost the game, forced to spit a congealed mess of mashed-up marshmallow into the staff sink, much to the mutual disgust of his co-hosts, and that’s when shit hit the fan.

“Ryan, since you’re the loser, I think you should face punishment of some sorts,” Steven said thoughtfully, grinning as he reclined back in his chair.

“Now, now, let’s be civil,” Shane tutted, Ryan rising to meet Steven’s eye beside him.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know...” Steven hummed, twiddling his fingers. Shane could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Steven and Ryan had always had this peculiar rivalry of sorts. It was usually victimless and in terms of workplace conflict, relatively mild, but sometimes it got carried away. Shane could think of about ten different instances off the top of his head where the two had gone head-to-head.

“What about...you have to go to a strip-club—“

“What?!” Ryan burst into laughter, head tilting towards the ceiling as he snorted into his hands, “Wha— why?”

“—for two hours, with the boys,” Steven finished, “Come on, Ryan, it’ll be fun.”

Shane instantly paled, pulse hot and wild beneath his skin, Ryan’s laughter muffled below the ringing in his ears. He swallowed thickly, only shaken from his thoughts by Ryan’s hand, searing hot on his thigh.

“What do you say, Big Guy? You, me, Big Apple Steve, and T.J. out on the town this Friday?”

Shane looked at Ryan’s sunshine smile, those glittering brown eyes, completely unaware of the inner turmoil Steven’s simple gag had sent him into. Ryan’s touch seemed to brand his skin beneath his skinny jeans. He shivered, putting on what he hoped was a composed face.

“Sorry, boys,” he said breezily, “m’afraid I’ve got plans.”

“Booooo,” Steven called after him as he hobbled unsteadily to his feet, making a bee-line for the water cooler.

Ryan laughed, adding a few taunts of his own, but as Shane cooled his burning face against his aluminum water bottle, he noticed Ryan’s curious glance, as if trying to read Shane’s mind

____

Okay—Shane hadn’t lied. He really was busy on Friday night. What important plans he had, he couldn’t say, not even as Ryan continued to pester him for the rest of the week. He supposes that considering the nature of said aforementioned plans, it would have been wiser to cancel them altogether and just tag along. It would be easier right? He could see Ryan get drunk and danced upon by a few scantily-clad women and then Uber it back home after knocking back a few brewskis himself. But it wasn’t his fault— how was he supposed to know that the strip club Steven would drag Ryan to would be the same strip club Shane worked at?

Look, Shane wasn’t down on his luck by any means— he had recently started a promising new company with two of his closest friends and colleagues, and was still receiving a cushy contracting cheque from Buzzfeed for their Unsolved series. And despite his recent exit out of a long-term relationship, he liked to think he was doing pretty well, co-parenting a cat with a woman he still very much considered a good friend. But Los Angeles was an expensive place to live, and despite his nonchalant attitude in the Watcher Weekly, he couldn’t help but wonder, if it all went south, what would his backup plan be?

Besides, why did strippers always need some tragic background story to justify what they do? Couldn’t they just dance because they enjoyed it?

Shane certainly did, and it came as a real surprise. He never actually expected to take his brother’s friend up on the offer when Finn dragged him to a bar one weekend. They were four drinks in, intoxicated by the booze and fluorescent lights of the dim club, but that single passing comment ended up thrusting Shane into what would eventually become his side job and newfound passion.

“You could probably strip,” he joked, knocking back some fruity drink, “got the legs for it and everything.”

The guy was piss-drunk and drenched in body glitter— not exactly the kind of person you would take moral advice from, but nevertheless, Shane woke the next morning with a pounding head and an odd curiosity. It was a joke at first— like one of those bizarre hypotheticals your brain sometimes conjures up. But you never actually act on them. The only problem was that he did, and by the time he had secured his first gig, he could no longer deny that he was actually interested in a job like this. Okay, so what? He was a young, attractive man living in a particularly liberal part of L.A.

He shouldn’t have to prove himself, or feel ashamed about what he does. Hell, half the people he worked with were gay and heavily involved in the nightclub scene. And yet still, he found himself choosing not to mention this particular part of his life to his coworkers— especially not Ryan.

It just never came up, and Shane never thought that it would— that was before Ryan showed up at his strip club.

____

The atmosphere hit Ryan like a freight train the second two intimidating bouncers begrudgingly lifted up two velvet ropes, letting him, Steven, and T.J. into the nightclub.

It was rather upscale, and nothing like the sleazy, smoke-filled joints Ryan remembered from his college days. The walls were black marble, lined with tasteful vintage band posters and neon hanging emblems. An authentic-looking jukebox sat nestled in the corner, and along the stage, a line of attractive dancers had started to form.

“I can’t believe they still I.D’ed me at the door,” Ryan shouted above the music, vibrating intensely through the floor and walls.

Steven grinned, “Well, you know what they say— Asian don’t raisin.”

“What—“ Ryan laughed, unaware if Steven could even hear him over the noise, “I’ve never heard that before.”

Steven smiled and nodded towards a nearby waitress, leaning in closer to Ryan’s ear, “Maybe you can try to get a free drink. You never know!”

T.J. rolled his eyes, “Meet me at the bar by twelve. And try not to do anything that’s going to get us arrested.”

With that he left, striking up a conversation with the bartender. T.J. was a married man with a newborn baby at home— a strip club was the last place he wanted to be, but he obliged to humour Ryan and to provide a ride home if needed. Ryan, however was recently single. He and Mari had broke things off amicably about a month prior, giving her more freedom to explore her blooming career and Ryan more opportunities to film things for Watcher without feeling guilty about time spent away from home. They were on good terms, but breakups were never easy, and Ryan was more than happy to get his mind off the situation and get himself back into the dating pool. He suspected Steven’s intentions were as such when he suggested this in the first place, and overcome with a sudden wave of affection for the man, slung an arm around his shoulder.

“C’mon, Big Apple Steve. Let’s go find us some dancers.”

_____

The performances were impressive. Sultry but tasteful, dozens of dancers strutted the stage, winding around glimmering silver poles like black cats, smoky eyes glittering down at the crowd. There were a few men in the mix too, clad in tight, cropped black clothes, rippling with muscle underneath. Ryan paid no mind to them, used to L.A.’s diverse, open culture, and after knocking back a few drinks, he even found himself eyeing them as much as the girl performers. It was then that his heart stopped dead in his chest, pushing away the slow haze of liquor from his mind as his eyes zeroed in on one tall figure working the stage.

The man was unbelievably tall— towering above the rest of the performers, even the ones in six-inch heels. Through the rips in his black jeans, he could see his pale skin, broken up by delicate lace fishnets clinging to his slim long legs. As the man peeled his shirt off, his collarbones jutted outwards, lean muscle trailing downwards from between his chest. His makeup was minimal— just smudged black eyeliner and a light dusting of glitter down his cheeks and pecs, hair mussed up as if he’d just had sex. He swayed gracefully to the music, toying with the button of his jeans teasingly, stalking the pole like a predator before swinging around it once, smoothly. Ryan’s jaw dropped, and as he made eye contact with the stranger, the man visibly blanched.

“I...” Ryan choked out, pants alarmingly tight as a hot coil wound inside his stomach.

And then Shane was running off the stage, disappearing behind a blue velvet curtain as the music boomed on.

“Wow,” Steven said, equally as baffled.

“I...I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Ryan said shakily, nearly tripping over his seat.

He stumbled towards the floor, and much to his own surprise, he found himself ignoring the neon green restroom sign, heading straight for the backstage instead.

____

He found Shane hunched over a vanity with smudged makeup and a lit cigarette like a tragic Hollywood star drowning in self pity and body glitter.

“I’m not offering any private dances right now,” he grumbled, voice muffled by his hand.

“I...” Ryan said, unsure of what the proper protocol was upon finding your friend naked and grinding on a stripper pole.

He was even less sure about how to gracefully navigate that conversation with a raging boner.

“Oh,” Shane said softly, taking in a sharp breath.

“I—“

“Look—“

They both spoke at the same time, laughing quietly like it was some kind of Mexican stalement and not the singlehanded most confusing moment of their entire friendship thus far.

“You first,” Shane said almost shyly, and it occurred to Ryan then that for the first time in their dynamic, Shane might be more scared than him.

“I had no idea,” he said lamely, and cast his gaze back at his sneakers.

Nice going, Bergara. Real smooth.

Shane laughed dryly, “Yeah, that...that was kinda the whole point. Who woulda thought Steven would pick the only strip club I’m working at tonight, huh?”

Ryan smiled, scratching his neck, “Yeah. Uh— I just...” he looked at Shane, biting his lip, “Why didn’t you tell me? I know it’s none of my business what you do in your spare time but...we’re friends, Shane. You know you can share this stuff with me, right?”

Shane looked down at his lap, looking guilty, “I know, Ryan, I just...” he sighed, “I don’t know.”

“I mean,” Ryan shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. It was decidedly hard to have a serious conversation when your incredibly hot friend was half naked and sweaty in front of you. “Is it for money or—“

“No,” Shane said instantly. He shook his head, “I just...” he trailed off, looking at Ryan and offering a halfhearted shrug, “like it, I guess.”

Ryan nodded, furrowing his brows, trying to take all this information in through his beer-clouded mind.

“Okay,” he said finally.

Shane looked at him, looking surprisingly vulnerable and almost small in his chair, “Okay.”

Ryan swallowed thickly, “You were really good out there.”

Shane snorted, scratching at his chin, fingers scraping against his beard with a soft sound that send another confusing jolt of heat towards Ryan’s groin.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, surprised at how deep his voice sounded. He began to walk towards Shane, seemingly not by his own accord. “Really good.”

“You already said that,” Shane said smiling, looking amused.

“Really good,” Ryan repeated, voice husky and thick in his chest. Shane’s eyes were wide, and from their close distance, he could see as they dilated, eyes darkening further.

He licked his lips, feeling dizzy with the intensity of it all, high on the sight of Shane before him, “Still not doing any private dances tonight?”

“I...” Shane trailed off, looking at his lips, “I might be able to make an exception.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Like moving through water, Shane slowly stood up, drawing up a chair, pushing on Ryan’s chest until he fell back into it, breaths laboured as they tore through his chest. Shane circled the chair once, twice, dragging his fingertips teasingly against Ryan’s low collar before stopping in front of him, dropping gracefully to the ground on the balls of his feet, smiling coyly at him, gripping his chin. He got up again, slowly swinging his hips and trailing his hands along his thighs, dragging them up his hardened pecs before threading them through his hair, giving it a resolute tug. He poised one of his long legs on the arm of Ryan’s chair, the impressive bulge in his jeans in direct eyesight as he dragged Ryan’s gaze up to meet his own.

Shane slowly pivoted, fully into the dance now, a small smile on his face as he ground back against Ryan, grabbing his hands and placing them on his thighs, where fishnets poked out of the leg of his jeans. Ryan’s breath faltered in his lungs, “Holy fuck,” he gasped, the air knocked out of him like he’d just taken a football to the chest. His fingers twitched along the exposed line of skin, feeling like a teenager creaming his pants after getting to first base.

What the fuck.

And then Shane was pulling away, dragging him by the hand to a small couch in the middle of the room.

“Shane, wha—“ Ryan was cut off by a strangled moan as Shane pushed him back into the cushions, straddling his lap with practiced ease.

Shane smiled against his neck, starting to trail soft kisses along his jawline as he began to unbutton Ryan’s shirt.

“Fuck, Shane, I—“ he panted nonsensically, hands exploring whatever expanse of skin he could reach.

As Shane sucked a small bruise just under his ear, Ryan’s shirt popped open, nipples immediately hardening under the cool air as Shane began to grind softly down onto him, mouthing a hot line up his neck and clavicles.

“Please, please,” Ryan moaned, reaching out for him. In his clouded mind, he wasn’t even fully aware of what he was asking for until he found it in between Shane’s parted lips. He sighed into the kiss, hands cupping Shane’s cheeks as his settled on Ryan’s shoulders, rutting dirtily against the front of his jeans. Ryan gasped into the kiss, a strangled moan torn out of his lips as Shane drew his fingers down to pad at his sensitive nipples.

“Fuck!” he groaned, thrusting his hips up to meet his movements.

“Someone’s sensitive,” Shane murmured in his ear, placing a teasing bite along his jaw.

“Shane, Shane,” he breathed, eyes rolling back into his head.

And then Shane took one pec into his mouth and Ryan Bergara was a dead man.

“Ohhh!” he borderline whined, clawing at Shane’s smooth back as he nipped at the bud, laving his tongue over it and mouthing hotly between his sternum.

He ground down once, twice, and eyes glittering, placing his mouth over his sensitive nipple, he reached down with his free hand and squeezed the bulge pressing against the zipper of Ryan’s jeans. With one plaintive moan and a stuttered, Shane, Ryan bucked his hips up and stilled, wide-eyed and flushed pink under the soft lights, “I just came in my pants,” he said suddenly. “Oh my god.”

Shane cracked up, slumping against Ryan and burying his nose in his shoulder, “Oh my god, Ryan.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so hot!” he said defensively, clinging onto Shane as he blanketed his body warmly, pressing him into the couch. He pressed a small kiss to his exposed neck, and Shane smiled.

“I’m never letting you live this one down,” he wheezed, clapping him once on the ass, “I guess the viewers were right about your nipple thing.”

“S-Shut up, Shane,” he muttered, pinching him in the arm.

Shane huffed out a laugh against his neck and as the air stilled, he shut his eyes, “So...should we talk about this?”

Ryan shifted underneath him, “Nah,” he said groggily, leaning into his touch, “let’s do that when I haven’t had five brewskis.”

“Five?” Shane laughed, “Your frat boy habits die hard, Ryan. You’re gonna be a real menace tomorrow.”

“Well,” Ryan said slowly, tracing a line down his back, “maybe you should come home with me and make sure my morning is tolerable.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, feeling emboldened with each inch he grew closer to Shane, high off the post-orgasm bliss and the smell of Shane’s cologne warm and sweet against his skin.

Shane grabbed his ass, “I fuckin’ love Steven Lim.”

As Ryan dissolved into laughter, he couldn’t help but share the sentiment. And that night when he and Shane walked out of the bar hand-in-hand, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was Steven’s plan all along.

(send me a request!)

#shyan #shyan fic #skeptic believer #buzzfeed unclean #my writing #shane x ryan #stripper!shane

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cagestark · 5 years

Note

Would love a vengeful Tony - those who ignore, insult or hurt Peter in any way find that texts intended for mistresses are sent to wives, their names go missing off guest lists for important events, shady business deals are exposed, etc. Those who are kind and thoughtful to Pete reap rewards, their businesses thrive, their children gain scholarships, etc. Everything is done quietly, discreetly. Nothing can be connected to Tony, but Peter is a genius too - he knows and loves Tony all the more. 😍

Read on AO3 here.

Hope this is okay

Warnings: dark!Tony who will do anything for his precious boy. Explicit sexual content. Peter is 18+ though. Violence. Dark stuffs. But it’s still pretty soft IMO

Alternate universes are infinite. That means that there are an infinite number of worlds out there where Tony Stark does not own Peter Parker. In those worlds, Tony’s must be soft-bellied, burden with consciences that bow their backs over things like right and wrong. Maybe the attraction is there still, the lust for a boy with curls and eyes like liquid cedarwood. He probably jerks off in the dead of night for a kid less than half his age and then cries about it afterwards.

Tony feels sorry for those poor sons of bitches.

He has no such qualms. When Peter applies for the Stark Industries internship, freshly eighteen years old, Tony sees, wants, and takes. Finding out that his boy is also a super hero feels like kismet. Peter adores him. Its visible in the wide wet eyes, the flush that still blooms on his cheeks when he sees Tony naked even months after the first time. And maybe a little begrudgingly, Tony begins to feel the same way about him. His worth to Tony grows exponentially until he can no longer ignore that the boy is the most important thing in his life. Peter is precious. He is kind-hearted (foolish as kindness is), thoughtful, and intelligent.

And he is damaged.

It is months into their growing relationship when Peter finally confides in him, but Tony is no fool: he knows the signs of a bruised apple when he sees one. Peter is shy to the point of insecurity, apologizing for his enthusiasm, for the way his body looks naked, for using the wrong size coffee grounds in the French press. Tony himself has never felt the need to apologize for his own existence, so the habit in his young lover is particularly unfathomable.

Then they get drunk. Peter isn’t legal to drink—not in this country—but if he’s responsible enough to fuck who he wants to, he should be responsible enough to partake. Tony drinks scotch, but Peter coughs his face red when he takes a sip. Instead, he prefers the softer, sweeter or sour liquors and mixed drinks. They have a full bar, so Tony spends the evening making one of every kind of drink he knows just so Peter can take little sips of each, flushing with alcohol, eyes shy as he proclaims it’s good, if he like it and it’s alright, if he doesn’t.

They end up on the couch together, Peter reclined between his legs. It’s there in a soft, trembling voice that Peter begins to cry in his drunkenness and admits the love he had before, the one who bruised him.

“Tell me his name,” demands Tony.

Peter shakes his head.

“He never like, hit me,” Peter says. “But he did slap me sometimes. It didn’t really hurt, but it was so embarrassing. Like I was a, a child. Or a dog.”

Tony just hums, waiting. On the back of the couch, his hand in clenched into a fist, but still he waits. A sniper holds his breath when he needs to steady the scope.

“We went to school together—” yes, yes, go on, Tony thinks. “—he bullied me for a while. Innocent stuff. Then one day we had a heart to heart and he admitted that his animosity towards me was because he was gay. He didn’t know how to express himself, I guess. Or maybe he resented me, because I was out and he wasn’t. I don’t know. We started dating in secret, and I thought—god, I’m such an idiot. It sounds so stupid now—I thought that it was cute. We were like, enemies to lovers. Like the stories. But it wasn’t a story. Not a good one.

“Even after he came out, it felt like no matter what I did, he wasn’t happy with me. Sometimes, it seemed like he enjoyed being unhappy with me. My body was always too scrawny—this was before the bite—and I was always doing things wrong. He said that I embarrassed him. Maybe I did. I don’t know. He’d invite his friends over, the ones who used to bully me with him. They would make fun of me and he, he never stopped them. They’d say the m-most humiliating things to me. Why didn’t he stop them, Tony?” Peter asked, voice cracking, weeping into Tony’s chest.

“A name, darling. Be brave for me. Give me names.”

Peter turns to look at him, eyes red and glazed from alcohol, cheeks wet. He is painfully beautiful. “What will you do to them?”

“Nothing, my sweet,” lies Tony. Some lies are necessary things. “Nothing, unless you tell me to.”

He gives names. A whole list of them, and Tony doesn’t need his artificial intelligence recording to remember them. He doesn’t need an eidetic memory to remember them. They are burned into his brain along with the image of Peter now only thinner, cheeks wet and red because he was slapped like a dog.

Peter cries himself to sleep. Tony carries him to bed, undresses him with glazed over eyes. His mind is miles away. Once the covers are pulled up snugly against Peter’s chin, a wastebasket beside the bed should he wake and feel sick, Tony goes down to his lab, still buzzed, wearing nothing but his pajama pants. The air is cold, but he doesn’t feel it.

“FRIDAY, baby?”

“Yes, boss.”

“We’ve got work to do.”

Peter is naked in his bed, artfully covered by a sheet still damp from their lovemaking. Belly down, he props himself up on his elbows with a Stark tablet in front of him, scrolling through news stories, filling Tony in on news articles involving him.

“This article says you’re trying to create a new world order,” Peter says. This is like after-play for Tony. Besides his cock, his next favorite thing to have stroked is his ego. When he hears Tony snort, the younger man glances over, lips still swollen from the tender abuse they suffered between Tony’s teeth. Peter smiles. With a flick of his finger, the tablet goes dark. He nudges it onto the end table and rolls so that he can spoon his naked body against Tony’s side. When he speak next, he sounds sleepy. “Can you imagine that, Tony? You ruling the world?”

He hums. He can imagine that. He does. Sees it in his dreams, knees bending in supplication to him, wills bending to his way. “Can’t you, Pete?”

The boy presses a hot kiss to one of Tony’s pecks. It’s amazing how little water can help a blossom to bloom, and for Peter, he would bring down a veritable rainstorm. Look how far he has come from days when he would hesitate to brush their fingers as they watched a movie together or were in the back of the car together. He is becoming a diamond, Tony’s crown jewel. “I can see you as a king,” Peter says.

Tony grins. “And where are you, my sweet?”

Peter hums. His hand drags across Tony’s flat stomach, gently scraping blunt fingernails against where stomach becomes pelvis, feeling the muscles beneath it twitch to his whims. The boy has come twice in the last hour, but he is already hard against Tony’s leg. “I don’t know,” he says, voice low. The hand drifts lower and brushes his soft cock, which makes a valiant stir. “Maybe I’ll be your—paramour. Your willing slave. At your feet to take care of all your needs.”

Tony frowns. He leans away, loathing even the brief look of anxiety on Peter’s face at his withdrawal, the cheeks flushing with anxiety, wondering did I do something wrong, did I sound stupid? Taking the softly pointed chin in his hand, he brings them so close their noses almost brush. “You are no servant, and I don’t intend for you to be anywhere near my feet. You will be my queen.”

And like that, his blossom blooms a little more, leaning forward to press their mouths together, soft and sensual as rose petals.

The galas are a treat since he’s starting dating Peter. They make games of them, usually delightfully sexual ones that have them tugging their dress pants down in the limo on the way home so Peter can sit on his cock—though there was that one lovely night that Tony took him into the bathroom during the speeches, locked the door behind them so he could bend his boy over the sink and rim him within an inch of his life. For the rest of the night, Peter hadn’t been able to look away from his mouth, blushing and adjusting himself.

Tonight, Peter is wearing a plug. Watching him shift restlessly at dinner has had Tony half-hard for the better part of the evening. Desperate for a reprieve to clear his head, he stalks to the bar to order them drinks: a glass of champagne for Peter and a scotch on the rocks for himself. If they know he is giving his underage date alcohol, they don’t dare say anything.

It’s there leaning up against the polished bar that he overhears Peter’s name spoken from a group nearby. His hearing is excellent, and it takes little effort to block out the white noise of the room to listen in to the conversation taking place among three heads ducked together. He recognizes them: the man is CFO of a private security franchise in upstate New York that made several attempts to offer Stark Industries security services. Tony had humored him for far too long, asking detailed questions about the company’s capabilities before turning him down—and why shouldn’t he know what techniques the little guys are using? It’s smart strategy. Hacking into the man’s private servers to read his emails had been purely for entertainment. All work and no play would make Tony a very dull boy indeed.

Beside him are two women, most likely a wife and a secretary, probably interchangeable.

“—look ridiculous together. Like father and son. If he wanted to feel twenty years younger, a prostitute could have done the same thing for him and with half the work.”

“He’s a cute kid,” the secretary or wife says.

The CFO snorts. “Have some taste, Margot.”

Tony doesn’t see red. His hands don’t turn into fists, his teeth don’t gnash. He doesn’t get angry, he gets even, wracking his brain for the most insignificant details, anything that he could use to his advantage here—and then he remembers, something about a food allergy, berating the PA who went out to the local bakery for breakfast and brought pastries back to the office.

“Three more glasses of champagne,” says Tony, leaning against the bar. “And tell me. Do you have strawberries?”

When Tony appears behind them, drinks in hand, CFO’s soul nearly leaves his body. All the blood leaves his face. Even the secretary wives look anxious. One of them can’t even meet his eyes. There are probably rumors about the kind of man that Tony is and the kind of business he conducts. When his reputation does half the work of intimidating scum like this, then he considers himself thankful for it.

“Drinks?” Tony says, passing around flutes. “It’s an open bar. Please make sure to partake.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” Margot says. Sensible woman. If only she kept better company.

When Tony returns to the table with Peter’s champagne and his own scotch, the ice hasn’t even begun melt. “That was fast,” Peter says. This is his second glass, and he is already looking more relaxed, eyes a little lidded. Whether it is from the alcohol or the plug inside his ass, Tony doesn’t know. What he does know is that he himself is unbearably hard, has been since the strawberry idea came to him.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests.

It’s as they’re leaving that the other shoe drops. It must have started as a tickle in his throat, maybe the buzz of numb lips. By the time CFO realizes he’s having a severe allergic reaction, his throat has swelled and his face is turning purple. A crowd gathers, and he and Peter are part of it, the boy pressed against him back to Tony’s front. From what he can gather, the man has an epi-pen that his secretary carries, but she has left it in the Rolls Royce. By the time the valet finds her car among the sea in the parking lot, the man is unconscious.

“Is there anything we can do?” Peter asks, watching as the paramedics administer an emergency shot of epinephrine.

“I’ve done quite enough already,” purrs Tony. His hips give a tiny aborted thrust, cock aching. Peter’s chest begins to rise and fall more rapidly. It’s a warm enough night for them to shed their jackets, holding them over their arms and in front of their erections like the gentlemen they are.

But nothing they do in the limousine on the way home is gentlemanly, and that’s the way Tony likes it.

There are three names Peter gives him. By the time FRIDAY is done working her magic, Tony has entire life histories, not just for the three boys who graduated alongside Peter at Midtown High School, but for their families. Their ancestries. Tony doesn’t know where inspiration will strike, so he has FRIDAY compile everything. He reads the files leisurely in the evenings when Peter is lounging between his legs watching television or even in bed when the boy slumbers next to him.

Of the three, he knows that Flash will receive the worst of it. Tony will be the old testament God, cursing Flash and four generations of his descendants. That is where he puts his true energy, drawing from that dark well inside of him where is wrath pools. It makes him giddy, wondering how far he is willing to go.

The inspiration is endless, with Flash’s life laid out in front of him. After graduation, he went to a second-rate technical school in New Jersey after a series of rejected applications to MIT. Had he been trying to follow Peter?

Afterwards, he moved north to Maine where he works for the Gulf of Maine Research Institute, probably spending his days smelling of salt water, working on electric monitoring systems meant to replace human observers on commercial fishing boats.

Digging into his criminal record is where it gets personal. Because there is very little. One domestic violence charge, the plaintiff being the State of New York, but it takes only a little elbow grease to see that it is Peter. Flash had pled no contest. He served no time in jail, just faced parole for 18 months and a required anger management class.

Besides that, there is nothing. No more charges. Tony tells himself that the vast majority of such personal crimes go unreported—and really, would it make Peter feel any better? To know that it hadn’t been personal, it hadn’t been just him that Flash had abused?

Tony has never been a victim of abuse. While he usually doesn’t have difficulty imagining how people will feel, even in such instances of heightened emotion, Peter is an enigma. The consequences of being wrong, of hurting his boy. It’s too much to bear.

Still, he digs deeper. Flash is married to a native Maine woman. FRIDAY has social media photographs included in the file, and they look—like a couple. He won’t say a nice couple, because he desperately wants them dead. But they would probably look lovely in side by side burial plots. The smiles look genuine, arms wrapped around each other. Pictures of them together on the beach looking out at the bleak Atlantic Ocean. But he knows the kind of masks people put on for the public. He’s more interested in knowing about Flash’s relationship when the camera is off, pointed elsewhere.

“Get me their phone conversations, FRIDAY, baby.”

But whatever he expected; it wasn’t this. The tenderness between them. The loving messages sent in the middle of the day. The largest argument they have is over what they will have for dinner after Flash comes home from work, and the boy apologizes for his terse messages within twenty minutes of sending them. He sounds contrite. He sounds genuine. He sounds in love.

Why does that make it worse? Why does that make Tony angrier? Tenderness existed inside this Flash the whole time—why wouldn’t he give it to Peter? Tony logs off, turns off his systems, shuts down the lab for a while. Sometimes the wrath he keeps deep in that well inside him swells up like the tide, swells up like a spring after rain. It no longer feels like the well is inside him, but that he is in the well, looking up through a haze of fury towards a sky he can’t see.

He doesn’t want to act in anger.

The kind of justice Peter deserves is cool and calculated.

His boy is in his lap, confident enough to crawl there while the movie they were watching draws on behind them, their kissing a sensual soundtrack. Peter is so beautiful like this, when the slightest arousal melts away his inhibitions. It is animalistic, the way they lick into each other’s mouths, the biting of lips and gnashing of teeth. There is a restlessness though, a rising fever that isn’t being quenched quickly enough. More is needed. His boy needs more.

“You’re going to top tonight,” says Tony lowly, dragging his teeth across Peter’s hairless, cut jaw. He’s close enough to hear the boy’s breathy gasp. He clams up, going tense, drawing away. When they meet eyes, Peter is already anxious, unsure.

“Why would you want that?” he asks.

Tony frowns. “Why do you like having someone in your ass?”

Peter flushes. “I just—I guess I always thought that the person who. You know. Received—it’s, like, a power thing. People top because they’re stronger.”

“Are you not strong? Do you not want power, Pete?”

“I—I’ve never. I was always the one who. You know.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Tony assures. He presses his palm flat against the boy’s clothed chest, feeling his heart hammering away. When his thumb brushes the pebbled nipple, Peter shudders, eyes fluttering. “But you have power here. I’d like to show you.”

Peter swallows. “I’ll try.”

Tony blows him first, just to take the edge off. Peter’s stamina, while better than it once was, isn’t legendary. With the taste of cum in his mouth, he kisses his lover, legs spread and Peter propped between them. The amount of lube he slathers on his fingers is overkill, but it makes Tony warm: the innocence, the desire not to hurt his partner. How someone could hurt this sweet creature, Tony will never understand.

The first finger Peter presses inside him, the boy groans like he’s fingering his own ass. It’s been a while for Tony, but Peter’s pace is slow bordering agonizing, thrusting in carefully, catching softly on the rim as he pulls free. Two fingers feel fuller and Tony groans. Could he convince the boy to take him like this, half-prepared so that it might sting? But half the joy is the look on Peter’s face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth slack as he crooks his fingers to rub so gently against Tony’s prostate. When Tony moans, Peter’s entire body shakes, his cock hard and leaking, giving aborted little thrusts against the bed.

“Take me, Pete,” he asks. “I’m ready. How do you want me?”

“I—I don’t know,” Peter whimpers. He’s already gripping the base of his cock, knuckles white, wincing at the ache. Tony strokes his back to let him recover giving him the time he needs. Maybe he should suck him off again—but now he’s getting desperate himself. Let the boy come quickly. That in itself is a turn on.

Desiring to watch, Tony just presses a pillow underneath his hips to improve the angle, holds his cock and balls in one hand, and lets Peter press forward, the head of his cock nudging Tony’s rim.

“Jesus,” Peter gasps, even though he hasn’t even pressed in. “I can’t do it Tony, I can’t—”

“You can,” Tony says, low and dark. “Fucking look at yourself Peter. So goddamn strong. So powerful. You could pin me to this bed and fuck me half to death if you wanted to, and god do I want you to. You could snap me in half, couldn’t you sweet boy? Take me. Overpower me. You’re strong enough.”

Peter keens. Wet and warmth hits Tony’s hole as the boy’s hand flies down, too late to stop himself and instead wrapping around his shaft to jerk himself off, strings of cum spurting onto Tony’s cock. He watches, half-amused and more than half-aroused. Wiping a hand through the cum, Tony wraps it around himself and fucks into his fist to spill onto his own abs.

“What did I say?” he says afterwards, pressing a kiss to Peter’s embarrassed face. “So powerful. God that was hot.”

“I didn’t even get inside,” mutters Peter.

“We can try again. If you want.”

He feels the boy smile against his chest. “I—think I’d like that.”

Justice starts closer to home than Tony thought it might, because on the first page of FRIDAY’s report about Flash Thompson, Tony discovers that Flash’s father works for Stark Industries and has for years. With thousands of employees, it isn’t difficult to fathom that a well-off man growing up in New York city, but it still irks Tony to know that at any time coming and going, Peter might have crossed this man, might have had to remember. Harrison Thompson is a consumer relation’s specialist working in their marketing department. The man looks trepidatious when he enters Tony’s office bright on Monday morning.

Tony can see the resemblance between father and son. He knows a lot about this man too. His record is not nearly as clear of domestic violence charges as his son’s. Abuse is a vicious cycle in which the offended can become the offenders. The seed of violence in Flash was probably cultivated for years before he met Peter—then again, after remembering the graphic images of a battered Mrs. Thompson, Tony can’t deny that Flash’s DNA probably came from the seed of violence.

The man sits, looking like he’s ready for his own execution. “Mr. Stark.”

“Harrison,” Tony greets. “Have we met? Tell me, in all the years that you’ve worked here, have I ever bothered to meet a little pissant like you?”

“Once, sir,” Thompson says, slow. He’s sweating. “We spoke on the phone.”

Tony coos. Inside his top desk drawer is a stack of papers, which he draws out onto his desk. Forging them took no time at all. He must look unhinged, eyes glittering like hellfire is just behind the pupils, grinning the way he is. “What a shame then, that we’ve had to meet under these circumstances.”

Everybody is talking about it, Peter texts. Tony is in a meeting when he sees it, but he has no qualms about answering his boy when he should be listening to shareholders complain about the way the media is spinning Stark Industry’s image.

Talking about what, baby?

An employee you fired yesterday.

From 5th floor.

Caught him stealing from me, baby.

Firing him was just the start.

Wait until the police get their hands on him ;)

Tony. You must know.

Know what, my sweet?

Peter doesn’t answer. If he is worried that the boy will be cold to him when he returns to the penthouse for the evening, his worries were for nothing. There is dinner on the table, with candles. Dinner is only half eaten when they end up in the bedroom, and after undressing him, Tony finds that Peter has shaved. Everywhere.

“Wanted to do something nice for you, daddy,” he gasps while Tony rims him, shifts to mouth at his tight balls.

The sweetest boy.

Flash himself, Tony never even meets. Tony has maids to take out the trash in his penthouse, custodians to take out trash from Stark Tower, and Bucky to handle the more personal refuse that Tony would rather not dirty his hands with. He has a thing about his hands.

It is handled all through phone calls from his untraceable line. Bucky is one of the only men in the world besides Peter that Tony would admit he likes: the man listens twice as often as he speaks, has incredible loyalty, and also takes initiative. “How bad do you want him?” Bucky asks.

“Use your discretion,” Tony says, feet braced up on his desk. That’s code for let him live, but not easily. Through the glass walls of his office, he sees Peter getting off the elevator, waving cheerfully to the secretary. When they spot each other, the boy blushes softly, and Tony winks. “But I’m sending you a little extra compensation. There’s an additional detail that’s very important to me, and I want to see it come to fruition.”

The others are child’s play. Via anonymous tips, he alerts the IRS about one of the boys’ fraudulent tax returns. The other keeps his nose cleaner, but that is no problem for a man who doesn’t mind playing dirty: Tony empties his bank accounts, trashes his credit score, and sends several fake incriminating messages to his wife. It barely scrapes the surface of what they are owed, but he figures that there will always be time to expand on a solid foundation of misery.

The pictures arrive one after the other an hour after the sun sets on the East Coast. The boy is barely recognizable: face swollen nearly to bursting from the shattered cheekbone and orbital fracture. Bucky’s gloved hand is visible in the last picture, clutching a head of dark hair to pull the boy’s head back so his throat is visible, wreathed in livid bruises. But the dog collar looks good.

Pet Supply, Bucky says. $4.99.

Tony sends him five grand. Then he saves the pictures on a private server that FRIDAY is under orders to destroy should it be breached or should Tony die. He’d delete them altogether but…one day, Peter might want them.

And he would give Peter anything he wanted.

“Boss, you’ve received a text from Peter.”

“Read it to me, baby,” says Tony, welding mask on, sweating. FRIDAY’s voice is barely audible over the sound of the blowtorch.

“It’s a news article, sir, from Portland Press Herald, dated this morning. The headline article is titled GMRI Employee Left Paralyzed After Overnight Attack.” Tony turns off the blowtorch. He takes off the mask to reveal his smile. Peter knows how much Tony loves to hear news about himself. “Shall I keep reading, boss?”

“Please do.”

Peter never mentions it, but sometimes Tony catches him staring. The look on his face is one that isn’t easily read. On anyone else, he would expect to see fear, but this boy is finally starting to grow into his own. He is finally starting to see how he should be treated, and the ramifications he—and Tony—can rain down on those who treat him poorly. Instead, Peter looks hungry for him. So, fucking, grateful to him.

“Do you want to try topping again tonight, my sweet?” Tony asks in bed. “Do you want the power?”

Peter plants a hand on his chest and pushes him back into the mattress. Eyes heavy, he is sure the boy will finger him open, thrust desperately inside him to completion. Maybe he won’t even pull out, just rest his cock there until it hardens, and then Peter will take him again. Until he is strong and satisfied.

Instead, Peter throws a leg over Tony’s hips and sinks down on his cock. The look he gives is positively devilish, resting his hands on his thighs while he begins a brutal, perfect rhythm. He smiles, impish, delighted. Bruised apples are soft, riper and all the sweeter in spite of it.

Peter says: “I already have it.”

#starker #tw: violence #dark!tony #SIM

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punkscowardschampions · 3 years

Text

Jac & Amelia

Jac: Are you okay? My parents would've paid for a cab if they weren't sober enough to drive you back Amelia: My dad was [somewhere nearby cos JJ live in town] Jac: Oh, right Jac: you seized your opportunity then, alright Jac: Is still should've gone with to make sure Amelia: I didn't want her to, she was in too excitable a mood Jac: lol, can't really fault you that Jac: you got a headache, yeah? Amelia: I got the aura so I knew it was time to leave, last time I ignored that I was sick everywhere Jac: That's fair Jac: you do not want that unless you've had a really wild night Amelia: sorry I didn't say bye Jac: well that's okay, if you didn't have time Jac: we were just worried Amelia: is Is okay? I was probably a bit rude to her Jac: Don't worry, she seems fine Jac: you know her Amelia: yeah Amelia: alright cool Jac: make sure you stay hydrated, yeah Jac: and no more screentime Amelia: I'll 😴 it off if I can Jac: Sounds like a plan 🙂 Amelia: it sounds 😕 but I couldn't stay Jac: you can't help that you get migraines Jac: it must be so crap for you Amelia: we've all got crap to deal with Amelia: I wouldn't swap Sav for hers Jac: 😢 I know Jac: she deals so well, considering how fresh it all is Amelia: Where's her boyfriend at? It's not technically a night you can get away with chucking fireworks at your mates or cars Jac: Out on the lash with his mates Jac: or something Amelia: very supportive Jac: yeah, I know Jac: oh well, she had us Amelia: you, you mean Jac: are you not her friend too? Amelia: that's up for debate, but she'd win it over me Amelia: so it probably depends what she wants the answer to be Amelia: and who's asking Jac: She definitely views you as a friend Amelia: okay Jac: No, come on, you don't think she does? Amelia: I know she doesn't Jac: Why do you think that? Amelia: I know it because she's said a handful of words to me lately & all of them are in some way bitchy or patronising Jac: How many have you said to her? Jac: and how nice have you been to her? Amelia: I don't like her, I'm not going to act like I do Jac: Then the issue is a you thing, isn't it Jac: Savannah does like you, and it's not really on to say you know otherwise, simply because that's how you feel about her Amelia: no, it's a me and her clash Amelia: it isn't one-sided Jac: Okay, if you say so Jac: but I don't see her trying to start anything with you, and like I said, I've told you she's told me privately that she likes you Jac: she knows you aren't her biggest fan though Amelia: she would say that to you Jac: Now you're being ridiculous Amelia: no I'm not, she wants me to look like I'm the dickhead and it's clearly working Jac: well no, what she wants is friends who can support her through this tough time and not make her life any more shit Jac: I really do not think she has the time, never mind the desire, to play games to make you look like some kind of villain ??? Jac: we seriously do not need to be that dramatic about things Amelia: fine Jac: it clearly isn't but I'm not going to agree with you Jac: you're not feeling well right now, you're just lashing out Amelia: you sound as patronising as her now Jac: for giving you an excuse for your behaviour? Jac: it's being gracious Amelia: I don't need to be fucking excused Amelia: I haven't done anything wrong Jac: You're being rude to Savannah and now you're being rude to me Jac: you're attacking and saying you're being attacked Jac: just calm down and we can come back to this when you aren't in such a state Amelia: yeah because she's the only one whose dramatics you indulge Amelia: I haven't been rude to her, I've made an effort Amelia: it doesn't change my opinion Jac: You're accusing her of having some plot right now, also of not liking you, being bitchy and patronising...yeah, that's rude, Amelia Jac: and oddly enough, when she went off crying, it was not about you Jac: call it dramatics if you want, but I'd say her home life situation warrants more empathy and listening to than whatever this idea, about us being against you or something, that you've concocted does Amelia: I'm not on her radar when she isn't subtly slagging me off or wishing I'd fuck off, obviously it wasn't about me Amelia: the latter is way less subtle though Jac: You're right in that I'm not indulging this Jac: you're just wrong, that's it Jac: but if you won't listen to reason, and me, then there's nothing else I can do to change your mind Amelia: you wanting me to be wrong doesn't make me wrong Jac: you having no proof for her dislking you, bar the fact you dislike her, doesn't make it true Jac: if you want to walk around thinking people have a problem with you when they don't, that's your call Jac: it's sad but it's clearly an internal issue Amelia: there's proof in every group chat if you want to go back & read it Jac: the fact you're in a group chat together, to plan to do stuff, to talk, kinda negates that Amelia: no it doesn't Jac: totally, when you hate someone and want them to fuck off, you choose to spend time talking to them when you don't have to Amelia: she doesn't spend any time talking to me Jac: well it isn't a private chat Jac: do you expect her to ignore me and Is? Jac: if you wanna have a 1x1 she'd be more than happy, like Amelia: Oh, she ignores Is plenty Amelia: but that's not my fight to have Jac: 🙄 I can assure you, we understand how DMs work Jac: if we wanted to talk just us, we would, and do Jac: and Is seems fine to me, like I said Amelia: great Jac: 🤷 okay then Amelia: 👋 Jac: I hope you feel better when you wake up Amelia: thanks Jac: Night Amelia: goodnight Jac: [hope you do go to sleep so you don't see those gay ass stories] Amelia: [you know she will because she's not actually sick soz gal] Jac: [i mean, you do have 24 hours so bit of a long shot when you're this in love lol] Amelia: [everyone gonna be seeing it including Ty who has been lowkey ignored all night as well] Amelia: [we should say she writes something but then deletes it so Jac only knows she deleted it for the sheer gay drama of it] Jac: [none of y'all got invites to this sleepover, but yes 1000%] Jac: ? Amelia: 🤨 Jac: butt-dial? Amelia: why would I be sitting on my phone? Amelia: I'm not thrashing about with a 🤒 Jac: I don't know why you'd delete a message either Jac: unless you sent me something really 💦 meant for someone else, in which case I wanna know anyway Amelia: I can nurse myself Amelia: though there are loads of lads who would put me to sleep Jac: 🙀 Amelia! Amelia: no Amelia: 🥱 NOT whatever you're thinking Jac: Sure 😉😂 Amelia: 😣 Jac: So grouchy Jac: I'd know if you were texting someone Amelia: would you? Jac: of course Jac: what secret have you ever kept from me? Amelia: I didn't need to before Jac: you don't need to now Jac: you aren't going to shock me with your thirst Amelia: I'm staying hydrated like you instructed Amelia: there's nothing to tell, which is why I pressed delete Jac: What did you say? Amelia: if I repeat it there was literally no point in deleting it Amelia: so no, nothing Jac: Well why did you? Amelia: because it's 😳 Jac: how 😳 can it be Jac: we've known each other at our most cringe Amelia: that was us both being awkward not just me making a massive tit of myself Jac: rude Jac: you're meant to disagree Amelia: alright, I'll lie Jac: you're already being very sneaky, you may as well Amelia: okay Jac: no, tell me, dickhead! Amelia: rude Jac: you're rude Jac: you know you can't just take back a message Amelia: I have & I win Jac: you can't do it without leaving evidence Jac: and I'm not just going to drop it Amelia: 🙄 Jac: why are you saying shit to my virtual face then Amelia: how else am I supposed to speak to you? Jac: I'm not going to apparate into your room 'cos you fancy having a go Jac: don't be a baby, what did you say Amelia: maybe I was saying sorry but you're so undeserving I took it back Amelia: that'd be fitting Jac: oh right, your whole conspiracy theory Jac: you forgot for a hot sec you believed in that, yeah, sure Amelia: it's typical of you to only give a shit about what I'm trying to say when I'm not saying it anymore Jac: you left without saying anything earlier Jac: then you wouldn't speak to me 'cos you were in a huff but yeah, pop off Amelia: I didn't have time to search your 🏠 for you earlier Jac: and I said it was okay but don't act like I was ignoring you Amelia: you were Amelia: but I get it, Savannah's in greater need Jac: oh my God, do you actually get it though Jac: like could you Jac: because this is really gross Amelia: of course I do, her parents are mental and it's horrible Jac: I mean, nicely put Jac: so you don't need to be snippy with me about needing to spend like 10 minutes alone so she can talk about it without my whole family standing around Amelia: I was the one who told you, ages ago, so you already know what I mean Amelia: and I'm not, I'm explaining why I left without saying anything before you hold it against me any harder Jac: you aren't just explaining though, because that was never the question Jac: you said I was ignoring YOU Jac: I said it was fine you left, you had a migraine Amelia: because it's not just about 10 minutes alone so she can cry on your shoulder and you fucking know it's not Jac: you don't like her Amelia: she takes over everything, including my birthday Jac: She was just trying to make sure you had a nice time Amelia: then why didn't I? Amelia: if she really cares so much about what I want, why wasn't it perfect? Jac: She's not a miracle worker Jac: I'm just saying she tried, can you fault someone for having good intentions? Amelia: she cares about you two having a good time, she doesn't try with me Amelia: because guess what, chucking money at something doesn't actually count Amelia: you used to know that Jac: you can't say how much she does or doesn't try Jac: maybe she's really trying, and I happen to think she is, and I've got it on better authority than you Jac: as you said, it's not as if she's had close friends before really Jac: you could give her a break instead of being ungrateful about it Amelia: you could give me a break Jac: no, you're being mean Jac: and blaming her for problems you're having Jac: like how dare she treat you? Amelia: the problem is that you used to care how I feel about things and apparently now you don't Jac: I can care without indulging pointless bitchery Jac: if you told me what was actually wrong with you, I'd listen, I'd do whatever I could to help, you know that Amelia: no, you're not listening Jac: You aren't saying anything Jac: you keep slagging Savannah off, and I counter that and then you stop Jac: what is actually going on Amelia: I've been saying the same thing this entire time, for fuck's sake Jac: When you wanna say what's actually going on with you, and think about that in a way that doesn't involve Savannah Jac: then I'm here waiting Amelia: I don't want to spend time with her, I want to spend it with you Amelia: Why can't we literally EVER? Why does she have to be involved in literally everything? Jac: We do spend time without her Jac: but we can't exclude her when she wants to be involved, she's our friend Amelia: she's not my friend Amelia: I'm trying, I am Jac: okay, she's my friend though Jac: we can spend time together, alright Amelia: okay Jac: pick a day, pick something to do, let me know Amelia: sure, put me on the spot Jac: 🙄 god, not RIGHT now Jac: but give me something more committal than that 'okay' or it won't happen Amelia: okay!! Amelia: are you happy now? Amelia: I just said how much I miss you Jac: like I'm that desperate for attention, again, rude Amelia: clearly not if I have to be the one begging you for yours Jac: oh hush Jac: I invited you to something like, literally 5 seconds ago Jac: you were the one that ruined it with your 🤕 Amelia: I didn't mean to ruin anything Jac: I'm joking Jac: I'll survive Amelia: I'm serious Amelia: and sorry, obviously Jac: it's fine, actually fine Jac: you shouldn't worry about it Amelia: if you want me to try harder, I'll try harder, alright Jac: I'd appreciate it Jac: I think she would too, and you Jac: getting along would just be easier Jac: you don't have to be like, her own personally cheerleader Amelia: I can't work miracles either Jac: you said you'd try Jac: I don't know why it's so hard for you but I can't really ask more than that Amelia: you really don't get it? Jac: No, I really don't Amelia: okay Jac: I'll leave you to it Amelia: bye again Jac: You have planning to do Amelia: you love a competition Amelia: what happens if I lose? Jac: What competition? Jac: I'm not planning anything Amelia: so it's a test instead Amelia: it's the same question Jac: we can still hang out, as you asked Jac: I'll just be bored if you pick something boring, I suppose Amelia: when have I EVER picked anything boring? Jac: 🤷 Jac: we'll see Amelia: don't 🤷 at me Amelia: you've never been bored Jac: you're so touchy 😂 Jac: I can't do anything Friday, by the way, so don't pick Friday Amelia: do you want to assign me a day? Jac: Probably Sunday Jac: I'm working after school every other day Jac: Saturday is up in the air right now Amelia: alright Jac: free time is just not a thing I have Amelia: I know, I'm not touchy about that bit Jac: I'm not going to sit here and tell you you're not boring, Amelia Jac: what kind of midlife crisis Amelia: Shut up, I don't need that from you Amelia: I'm well aware Jac: 👉😠 Amelia: you don't need to teach me sign language either Jac: you're gonna side with the 12 year old asshole on that, are you Jac: yeah that's about right mentality wise 🙄 Amelia: according to you there aren't any sides, we're all friends and everything is 🌹y Amelia: so no Jac: Jude isn't our friend, she's my sister and she's a little bitch sometimes Amelia: yeah, again, I know Amelia: Savannah's the one who needs family introductions Jac: She knows who everyone is Jac: you're being so whiny, it's just annoying now Amelia: leave me to it then, that's what you said you were going to do Jac: Yeah, and I definitely will now Jac: christ, is it any wonder I'm not electing to spend time with just you Jac: think about it Amelia: It's already all I think about Amelia: I don't want to fight with you Jac: it's not hard, Amelia Jac: as I said, Savannah doesn't devote her time to bitching about you, or anyone else Jac: nor does she walk around with a massive strop on all the time Amelia: I'm sorry Amelia: what do you want me to say? Jac: Just stop acting like this Amelia: I'm not acting like anything, that's the problem Amelia: it's how I feel Jac: You're gonna have to sort it out Jac: it's not healthy for you Jac: or good for us or anyone else Amelia: I said I'll try Jac: you've got to Jac: it's for your own best interest Amelia: yeah Jac: yeah Amelia: 👋

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tsc-living · 5 years

Text

TMI but Alec and Clary were raised as siblings

(Requested by @dru-and-ash based on this post by @imkazbrekkerslittlebitch )

Clary looked up from her pink toenails to her brother who was reading on the lounge opposite the arm chair she was occupying. His black hair was wet and tangled from his shower and she could see the water droplets sliding down his cheek, but he didn’t seem to care. “Hey Alec?” She called and he didn’t look up from his book, but he made a hum in acknowledgement, “Can I paint your nails before we go out tonight?” She asked. He did look up then, but only to glare at her. She grinned in response.

“No you can’t.” He replied, “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I want to parade myself around like some camp fool.” He added. Alec had come out to her and their mom the year before, and she knew it was because they had been brought up by a free thinking artist even if she sometimes was obsessively overprotective sometimes.

“One day you might fall in love with some camp fool who douses himself in glitter and wears intense eyeliner and gives a shit about fashion, and you will eat your words and your disdain mister.” She said, waving her nail brush at him.

“Someone like that would never fall in love with me.” Alec said, eyes wide with disdain as if the idea of someone sparkly and obscenely happy with their sexuality terrified him. Although, she supposed it would terrify him.

“Then what type of person would fall in love with you?” She asked, a teasing smile on her face, “If you say someone like Simon I will probably have to die right here.” She added. Alec sat up straight and slammed his book shut with a resounding thud.

“Do not be ridiculous Clary! Simon is like a little brother to me, I would much rather him fall in love with you than with me, because then at least he would be a brother by law.” He said, looking absolutely horrified at the idea of being in love with Simon or of Simon loving him.

“Oh my god you sound like Mom!” Clary cried, “Simon does not love me.” She added and Alec just danced his eyebrows at her.

“Shouldn’t you go get ready anyway?” He asked, “Aren’t we meeting lover-boy in a little over an hour?” He teased. She threw the cushion at him, but he caught it easily with his annoyingly fast reflexes. She had seen him trip over his own feet because the cute boy at the cash register in the local supermarket complimented Alec’s phone of all things, and yet she had also seen him catch a glass a moment before it hit the ground.

“I have to wait for my nail polish to dry.” She sniffed and he grinned at her, putting the pillow behind his head and getting comfortable again to read.

***

Later that night, Clary an Alec were in line at the Pandemonium club with Clary’s best friend Simon. The line was long, and inside the club looked crowded, but that was to be expected with all ages nights in New York. There was boy at the front of the queue getting into trouble from the security guard for his prop, saying it was too sharp. The emo looking boy with the spiky blue hair touched the tip, bending it and explaining that it’s rubber. As the bouncer let the boy and his prop in, Clary caught sight of the frown on Alec’s face.

“What?” She asked him.

“That was a real sword?” He said, but doubt was creeping across his face.

“No it was-“ She was cut off by Simon elbowing them both good naturedly.

“You thought he was cute.” He said, but she wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or Alec. Alec’s response was to glare down at the smaller, younger boy and Simon moved to stand on the other side of Clary. She smiled and shook her head at the two of them, stepping forward to the scary looking bouncer who let her in with no qualms.

Inside, Alec and Simon looked so out of place and uncomfortable as they always did in the club and she was reminded again how they only went there because she wanted to. Alec, she knew, was always on edge and uncomfortable there. He had once said it felt eerie and wrong inside the club, like something was going to go bad or something bad had already happened there. Yet he was drawn to it, or at least drawn to going there with her due to his protective big brother demeanour. Simon was just uncomfortable anywhere that wasn’t a beanbag with a video game controller in his hands, or playing D&D, playing with his band or curling up next to Clary watching anime. Needless to say, inside the alternative night club was not his comfort zone. At least he tried, bobbing his head and shoulders to the sound of the music, whereas Alec just stood near the two of them with his arms crossed and eyes surveying. Clary didn’t mind, she had spotted the cute boy with the spiky hair and the rubber sword at the bar. He looked at her and she smiled, pushing her long red hair up off her neck and swinging her hips to the sound of the music. She may as well try something. Although it wasn’t long until she realised his gaze had gone off of her. He had straightened up, reminding Clary of a dog whose interest had been peaked by a rabbit, she could almost imagine his eyes pricked forward. However, it wasn’t a rabbit that he had noticed; it was a pretty girl with gorgeous long black hair, Amazonian long black legs, beautiful features and an old fashioned white dress with a high colour and long sleeves tapered and laced. She was the epitome of beauty and the opposite of Clary, she wasn’t surprised that the boy was no longer interested in her. The gorgeous girl was walking directly towards him, passed him, and he followed like a puppy. She sighed, watching him go and she could sense Alec was watching them as well. She lead him into a storage closet or something of the like and the door closed firmly behind them. They didn’t see the shadow of a person following behind them. A boy in a hooded jacket, dressed in all black, following behind closely. It wasn’t until he opened the door and followed in behind them that Clary grabbed her brother’s sleeve. “Did you see?” She asked and he nodded firmly.

“Go get security.” He said and before she could protest, he glared at her, “Go.” He repeated, shaking her off and heading towards the door that they had disappeared through.

“What is going on?” Simon asked and Clary whirled on him.

“Go get security, take them to the door back there.” She said and after a stern look from her, he nodded and plunged into the crowd as Clary pushed her way after her brother, catching up to as his fingers curled around the door handle.

“Clary no this could be dangerous!” He hissed, but she just raised her chin stubbornly and put her hand on top of his.

“You’re my brother Alec, where you go I go, especially if it isn’t safe.” She said, her heart pounding painfully with the truth of it, with the love she had for him. If he was plunging into a potentially dangerous situation, then she was going with him. He rolled his eyes and twisted his hand under hers, jerking the door open. He crept in and she followed, shutting the door silently behind them. It was dark inside the store room and they hid in the shadows, hugging the wall. The boy she had found attractive was bound up by a silvery coil and the dark haired goddess looking was standing nearby, the hooded boy was next to her, but his hood was down to reveal he had softly curling blonde hair. Clary and Alec ducked behind the nearest concrete pillar to watch. The blonde boy was now pacing in front of the punk kid, his arms crossed over his chest. “So,” He said, “You still haven’t told me if there are any others of your kind with you.”

Clary and Alec shared a look and she mouthed your kind at him in question, but he shrugged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The blue-haired boy sounded weak, but angry and perhaps even superior.

“He means demons,” The girl said cheerfully, “You do know what those are don’t you?” the boy looked away, his jaw working as if he was grinding his teeth.

“Demons,” drawled the blonde boy, tracing the word with his finger in the air, ‘Religiously defined as hell’s denizens, the servants of Satan, but understood here, for the purpose of the Clave, to be any malevolent spirit whose origin is outside our own home dimension-“

“That’s enough Jace.” The girl said and the blonde boy sighed.

“Oh come on Isabelle maybe it needs a lesson on semantics- or demonology.” Jace argued, but Clary was too busy deciding then and there that they were genuinely crazy. Isabelle shook her head and Jace raised his and smiled. There was something fierce about him, reminding Clary of documentaries she had seen about lions.

“Isabelle thinks I talk too much,” He said to the punk, “Do you think I talk too much?”

The blue-haired boy ignored this, “I could give you information,” He said instead, “I know where Valentine is.”

Jace tilted his head and glanced at Isabelle who shrugged her shoulder elegantly. “Valentine’s in the ground,” Jace said, “The thing’s just toying with us.”

Isabelle tossed her hair, “Kill it Jace,” She said casually and yet savagely, “It isn’t going to tell us anything.”

Jace raised his hand and Clary saw dim light spark off the night he was holding. It was oddly translucent, the blade clear as crystal, sharp as a shard of glass, the hilt set with red stones. The bound boy gasped, “Valentine is back!” He protested, dragging at the bonds that held his hands behind his back, “All the Infernal Worlds know it- I know it- I can tell you where he is-“

Rage flared suddenly in Jace’s icy eyes and Alec grabbed Clary’s hand protectively, “By the Angel, every time we capture one of you bastards, you claim you know where Valentine is. Well, we know where he is too. He’s in hell. And you-“ Jace turned the knife in his grasp, the edge sparking like a line of fire, “You can join him there.”

Clary jerked her grip free of Alec’s and lurched forward from behind the pillar, but Alec lurched after her as if to stop her. “Stop!” She cried, “You can’t do this.”

Jace whirled, so startled that the knife flew from his hand and clattered against the concrete floor. Isabelle turned along with him, wearing a look of astonishment on her face that was so familiar to Clary it surprised her for a moment.

It was Isabelle who spoke first, “What’s this?” She demanded, looking from Clary and Alec to Jace as if her companion might know what they were doing there.

“It’s a girl and a boy,” Jace said, recovering his composure. “Surely you’ve seen those before? You are a girl for example, and I am a boy.” He took a step closer to the Fray siblings and Alec pulled Clary closer to him, “Mundies,” Jace said, half to himself, “And they can see us.”

“Of course we can see you,” Clary said.

“We’re not blind.” Alec added, still holding Clary to his side.

“Oh, but you are,” said Jace, bending to pick up his knife. “You just don’t know it.” He straightened up. “You’d better get out of here, if you know what’s good for you.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Clary said, “If we do, you’ll kill him.” She pointed at the boy with the blue hair.

“That’s true,” Admitted Jace and Alec’s fingers on Clary’s arm tightened again, “What do you care if I kill him or not?”

“Be- because-“ Clary spluttered.

“You can’t just go around killing people.” Alec said firmly.

“You’re right,” Said Jace, “You can’t just go around killing people.” He pointed at the blue-haired boy, “That’s not a person, little girl.” He continued, ignoring Alec, “It may look like a person and talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person. But it’s a monster.”

“Jace,” Said Isabelle warningly, but when Clary glanced at her she saw that the other girl was staring at Alec with a strange look on her face, “That’s enough.” Is all she said.

“You’re crazy,” Clary said, backing away from him, “I’ve called the police you know. They’ll be here any second.’

“She’s lying,’ Isabelle said, but there was doubt on her face, “Jace, do you-“ She never got to finish her sentence. At that moment the blue-haired boy, with a high, yowling cry, tore free of the restraints binding him and flung himself on Jace with hands that glittered as if tipped with metal. Clary backed up into Alec, wanting to run, but her feet caught on something on the floor and she fell into him. They both fell hard into the ground, knocking the wind out of them. She could hear Isabelle shrieking.

Rolling over, Clary saw the blue-haired boy sitting on Jace’s chest. Blood gleamed at the tips of his razorlike claws. Isabelle was running towards them, she was brandishing a whip in her hand. The blue-haired boy slashed at Jace with his claws extended. Jace threw an arm up to protect himself and the claws raked it, splattering blood. The blue-haired boy lunged again- and the whip came down across his back. He shrieked and fell to the side. Swift as a flick of Isabelle’s whip, Jace rolled over. There was a blade in his hand. He sank the knife into the boy’s chest and blackish liquid exploded around the hilt. Jace wrenched the blade out as he stood, the dying boy shuddering on the floor opening his eyes and fixed his gaze on Jace. “So be it, the Forsaken will take you all.” He hissed. Jace snarled.

Before their eyes, the dying boy started folding on himself until he disappeared entirely.

Alec hauled himself to his feet and jerked Clary up after him, the two of them prepared to run. Jace was glaring at his arm where he had been wounded, but before the two siblings could flee the scene, they found their way blocked by Isabelle’s whip which curled around Clary’s wrist.

“Stupid little mundies,’ Isabelle said between her teeth, “You could have gotten Jace killed.”

“He’s crazy,” Clary said, trying to pull her wrist back. The whip bit deeper into her skin and she gasped. Alec glared at Isabelle.

“You’re all crazy!” He said, “What do you think you are, vigilante killers? The police-“

“The police aren’t usually interested unless you can produce a body.” Said Jace, cradling his arm as he picked his way across the cable-strewn floor towards Clary and Alec.

Clary glanced at the floor where the boy had died, but there was nothing there, not even a smear of blood. “They return to their home dimensions when they die,” Said Jace, “In case you were wondering.”

“Jace!” Isabelle snapped.

Jace shrugged, a freckling of blood on his face still reminding Clary of a lion with his widely spaced tawny coloured eyes, and that gold hair. “They can see us Izzy, they already know too much.”

‘So what do I do with her? He obviously won’t leave without her.” Isabelle said and Alec glared at her.

“Of course I won’t, she’s my sister.” He said. Jace, for some reason, looked amused by this.

“I wouldn’t pick the family resemblance.” Jace said and Alec glowered at him. It was true, Clary and Alec didn’t look alike. Clary had flaming red hair and was small like their mother, the same green eyes a mirror of each other. Alec was tall and built, wavy black hair and piercing blue eyes. Jocelyn, their mother, always said that Alec looked like their father who had died when Alec was two, before Clary had even been born.

“I look like our dad.” Alec snapped, “Now let my sister go.” He said, and Clary was surprised to see that he sounded dangerous. Jace, who didn’t strike Clary as someone to take direction from anyone, surprised her by nodded at Isabelle.

“Let her go,” He said quietly. Isabelle shot him a surprised, almost angry look, but didn’t argue. The whip slithered away, freeing Clary’s arm. She rubbed her sore wrist and wondered how the hell they were going to get out of there.

“Maybe we should bring them back with us?” Jace mused, “I’m sure Hodge would like to talk to her.”

“No way are we bringing them back to the Institute,” Said Isabelle, “They’re mundanes.”

“Or are they?” said Jace softly. His quiet tone was worse than Isabelle’s snapping. ‘Have you had dealings with demons, little girl? Walked with warlocks, talked with the Night Children? Have you-“

“My name is not ‘little girl,’’ Clary interrupted, “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She looked at Alec and she could see that he was thinking the same thing that she was. Don’t you? You saw that boy vanish into thin air. Jace isn’t crazy- you just wish he was.

“We don’t believe in- in demons, or whatever you-“ Alec began, but he was interrupted by Simon.

“Clary? Alec?” The Frays whirled around. Simon was standing by the storage room door. One of the burly bouncers who had been stamping hands at the front door was next to him. “Are you guys okay?” He peered through the gloom, “Why are you in here by yourself? What happened to the guy- you know the one that came in here to hurt someone?”

Clary stared at him, then looked behind her to where Jace and Isabelle stood, Jace still in his bloody shirt with the knife in his hand. He grinned at her and Alec and dropped a half-apologetic, half-mocking shrug. Clearly he wasn’t surprised that neither Simon nor the bouncer could see them. Somehow, neither was Clary and after a shared glance with her brother, Alec didn’t seem surprised either. Slowly she turned back to look at Simon, knowing how her and her brother must look to him, standing alone in a damp storage room, her feet tangled in bright plastic wiring cables.

“I thought they went in here,” She said lamely, “But I guess they didn’t. I’m sorry.” She glanced from Simon who had gone from looking worried to looking embarrassed, to the bouncer who just looked annoyed.

“It was a mistake.” Alec said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Behind them, Isabelle giggled.

***

When Clary woke the next day she found Alec and their mother drinking tea in the living room, Jocelyn had paint on her cheek and neck, and Alec was in a sweater pockmarked with holes much like usual. “Good morning sweetheart.” Jocelyn said kindly, “I was just asking Alec why you were out so late last night.” She added, the sharpness behind her green eyes belying her kind tone. Alec and Clary had broken curfew and she wasn’t happy about it. Clary glanced at her brother, hoping he would look calm and unfazed, hoping he had a logical explanation for the events of the night before, but it was clear he remembered everything and was just as confused as she felt.

“Sorry mom, we just lost track of time at the club. It won’t happen again.” She said and Jocelyn took a mouthful before replying, but Alec winced so Clary knew the response wasn’t going to be good.

“That is word for word what your brother said.” She said and Clary felt her heart sink.

“Because it’s true!” She said, but Alec subtly shook his head and Clary fell silent.

“What happened?” Jocelyn asked and Alec smiled charmingly at her.

“Nothing mom, honestly!” He said, “We just got caught up in the music. We won’t miss curfew again.” He reassured her and Jocelyn sighed.

“Okay well, we should still discuss a punishment for you both. How about over lunch, we haven’t hung out as a family for a little while. Besides we need to talk, I need to talk to you.” Jocelyn said and Clary smiled, kissing her mom’s cheek.

“Tomorrow mom, I’m going to a poetry reading with Simon today.” She said and Alec stood up too, looking just as apologetic.

“And I said I would help Luke at the bookstore before I went to class.” He said, kissing Jocelyn’s other cheek. Jocelyn looked at them with her eyes wide. It was clear she didn’t want them to go, but Clary couldn’t understand why. Alec had signed up for politics classes during the summer, like Clary had signed up for art classes although she started the next day.

“Actually… the classes are what I wanted to talk to you about. Now… I know you have both worked so hard to save up for these, but we’re going to Luke’s farm tomorrow for the summer. As a family-“ Jocelyn was cut off by protesting from both of her children, Clary feeling a hot surge of anger in her body. She didn’t want to go to Luke’s farm for the summer and neither did Alec. They had their classes, their friends, drinking coffee at Java Jones and late nights at Pandemonium to do that summer, they didn’t want to be dragged to the middle of nowhere.

“I’m leaving.” Alec snapped and Clary nodded.

“Me too.” She agreed, grabbing her bag off the back of the seat, “I’ll be home later.” She added and ignored Jocelyn’s attempts at keeping the two of them there. Alec threw open the front door, pocketing his keys and nearly smacked into Simon as he stalked onto the landing of the apartment.

“Bye mom!” Clary said and pulled her hand away as Jocelyn tried to take it.

“Please don’t be home late Alec, Clary!” She cried after them as Clary grabbed Simon’s hand and hauled him after Alec down the stairs, “We still need to talk about this!”

“No the hell we don’t.” She muttered. She ran downstairs, catching up to Alec and the two of them nearly ran into a tall, skinny man coming out of the downstairs apartment, his eyes slitted like a cat. They both stopped dead and gasped, Simon nearly running into them from behind.

“What?” He demanded, but Clary shook her head.

“Nothing sorry, nearly stepped on Madame Dorothea’s cat.” She said and Alec nodded.

“I didn’t even know she had a cat.” He added, pushing the door and walking out into the humid New York air. Clary leapt forward and caught the door before it fell closed behind him.

“Do you two need a ride anywhere?” Alec asked, standing next to his beat up old car.

“No we’ll walk, it’s just to Java Jones. Where are you going?” She asked. Alec looked down at the wheels of his car and shrugged.

“I don’t know. Luke’s then to class I guess.” He replied. Clary stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He hugged her back, picking her up off the floor for a moment before setting her down, although they didn’t let go. He smelt like sandalwood as usual, and he was warm and strong and familiar. She let go and he smiled down at her, pushing a lock of her hair off her cheek.

“Be good kid,” He said and she mockingly scowled up at him.

“You too, and Alec?” She said before he could turn away, “Mom is probably just mad we blew curfew, she won’t make us drop classes.” She said, but she knew she was just being hopeful. He mussed her hair and shrugged.

“I hope so.” He agreed, “See you tonight?” She nodded and he climbed into his car, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Okay what the hell was that about?” Simon demanded and Clary smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, let’s just go.” She said and they walked down the street towards their favourite café.

***Jace appears and Jocelyn vanishes and Clary shoves a sensor down a demon’s throat etc***

Clary woke up dazed and still with her eyes closed she caught snippets of conversation, most of which she remembered, and the voices felt familiar enough to her that she could recognise Jace and Isabelle.

“Where did you find him?” Jace asked.

“Staggering to a car with demon poison coursing through him,” Isabelle answered, “I had to drive him here and I have never driven a car before.” She added.

“You didn’t think to go and kill the demon?”

“He was going to die! Besides, I didn’t know he had been bitten inside their apartment.” Clary fell asleep to Isabelle’s petulant response, knowing she was talking about Alec.

“Yes, exactly. Valentine is back.” Jace said urgently, waking Clary up again.

“He can’t be.” Isabelle argued.

“He is!” But Clary didn’t hear anymore before falling asleep again.

“Is she going to be okay?” This time it was Alec’s voice that she heard when she came to, and she clung to it.

“She’ll be fine.” Jace said, “Hodge is the best.”

“Alec?” Clary whispered, coughing against her dry throat.

“Oh my God, Clary.” Alec said and she felt herself get pulled against him. He smelt like odd herbs and hospital, but under that was sandalwood and familiarity. She clung to his shoulders and he rocked her, stroking her hair.

“Alec?” She whispered, but he shushed her gently.

“Not right now Clary,” He whispered, “Just rest, it’s going to be okay now.” She fell asleep to the soothing rocking and his familiar voice calming her.

When she woke up again, opening her eyes to see Alec asleep in a chair next to her on one side and Isabelle cleaning her whip with a bored expression on her face next to him. Clary coughed and Isabelle’s dark eyes flicked to her.

“You’re awake.” She said and Clary nodded.

“Jace will be happy to know.” She said and Clary blushed. Isabelle rolled her eyes, “Only because he’ll be happy to know he didn’t kill you.” She added and Clary frowned.

“What do you mean?” She asked and Isabelle shrugged.

“I’ll go get him, he wants to take you to Hodge. You can wake your brother up.” She said and flounced off, her whip coiling around her wrist. Clary reached out and took Alec’s hand. Her brother sat up with a start and when he saw her looking at him he let his breath out in a whoosh.

“You’re okay.” He said, voice weak with relief as he sat down on the bed an pulled her up into a hug like he had before. She let him hug her tightly, looking at her arm where Jace had drawn on her before.

“Alec wh-“ She began, but he sighed and shook his head, leaning back to see her properly.

“It’s a lot to take in, I’ll let them explain it when they get back.” He said carefully. Clary nodded, trusting her brother. Her heart was aching though, and she had to ask him even though she knew it was going to hurt to hear his response.

“Mom?” She whispered. Alec’s face creased with pain and he pulled her back against him.

“Gone Clary, we don’t know where she is.” He whispered and she felt tears pool in her eyes.

“We have to find her.” She said and he nodded, kissing the top of her head and she realised with a start that he was trying not to cry. Alec never cried, her big brother was made of ice and steel, but it was clear that he loved their mom as much as she did.

“We will, but right now I am just glad you are safe here with me.” He said, voice heavy with emotion.

(Obviously some content directly referring to and taken from Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones) (Thank you for the request, I hope you like it <3)

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permets-tu-not-permettez-vous · 5 years

Text

Awake My Soul

Chapter 1: Midnight

Enjolras was lucky he had a backbone of steel or he would never have made it as a concert pianist. Or rather, it was more likely that this backbone of steel is precisely the reason he was one of the foremost concert pianists in the world. That and his stubbornness, which was almost as well-known as his deft and light touch on the keys, especially among conductors. The days were long, the hours grueling, and often the last thing that Enjolras wanted to do was sit on that cushioned stool that knew him so well and make music once more. And today, standing in his crisp freshly dry-cleaned suit, he dreaded the performance that was to start. He could hear the crowd buzzing outside, and as he peeked out from behind the curtain, he saw a large mass of people mingling through the red cushioned seats, talking and laughing. Probably trying to impress each other with how many composers they could critique without ever having touched an instrument, Enjolras thought cynically. It wasn’t that he was nervous. Enjolras was never nervous, and certainly not about playing the piano. It was that the thought of having to socialize with people after the performance, people who were all scraping to impress him by speaking abstract music theory, making him want to tear his hair out. It hadn’t always been this way. When he was young and had first discovered that he had a talent for producing emotion out of so many gleaming keys, he had been overjoyed. He spent hours in front of them, losing himself in music. He hadn’t ever looked at practicing as a chore; he had always loved those hours he had to himself, stroking those smooth ivory keys. He hadn’t really considered becoming a professional pianist until his eighth grade piano teacher Mabeuf had encouraged him to think about it, to go on tour and do various performances, to work with his local symphony. It had been hard, but it hadn’t been a struggle. Anyone who heard Enjolras play could tell he had a natural talent, and there was no question of them wanting to continue his path. His difficulties did not stem from piano playing; they stemmed from the culture surrounding the piano. From his youth, to his inexperience, to his penchant for picking eccentric composers to perform, the music world was shaken up by Enjolras’ refusal to stick to convention. This event was one that had been unavoidably cliché. He was doing a short Christmas tour performing Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, accompanied by symphonies dotted throughout the country, and even the world. Tonight he was in Paris. Enjolras would complain more, but he had to admit that though The Nutcracker was too commodified for the time of Christmas, he truly and sincerely loved Tchaikovsky’s genius. Now there was a man who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “rules” of classical music and composed primarily from his human experience in order to make some of the most incredibly moving and evocative music ever played. So though Enjolras loved Tchaikovsky, he just hated that every Christmas the classical world trotted out the tired Nutcracker and then put it back in its box to gather dust until the next winter. Tchaikovsky had written such transformative music, and he was remembered for a toy that came to life to visit a Sugar Plum Fairy. He was such a brilliant three dimensional person, and the consumerism of art had made him two dimensional, flat, and worn-out. He shook himself. He needed to get out of this headspace before the concert. He always didn’t play as well when he was in his head. He checked his watch. Soon he’d be stepping out on the stage, and seating himself before an expensive piano as the entire room filled with costly clothes and extravagant jewelry held their breath in anticipation. He headed back to the dressing room. On nights like this, he wished Joly hadn’t made him quit smoking.

* * *

The afterparty was about as dull as Enjolras had expected. For a blessed two hours he had practically forgotten the audience was there and immersed himself in Tchaikovsky’s bold chords and tender melodies, only resurfacing at the thunderous and yet politely refined applause that followed his final piece. Then it had been back to the reality of old white people who were bowing and scraping and using large words to impress him. That wasn’t even the worst. Enjolras detested those who knew nothing about music giving overly loud commentary on music that they had clearly read from the Le Monde or some other critique because it was incongruent with what they thought or said. This party had all of his least favorite things, people who wanted him to meet old friends, who asked him about his inspiration, who probed his opinion on the “death of appreciation of the fine arts that is currently occurring.” When Enjolras saw Combeferre from across the room, he almost melted in relief at a familiar face. He excused himself politely from his insipid conversation and made a beeline towards Combeferre, who was speaking with one of the cellists in Paris’s orchestra. Seeing Enjolras coming his way, he also disentangled himself from his conversation and met him halfway, champagne flute clutched elegantly between his fingers. “Thank God you’re here,” Enjolras breathed, feeling the anxiety in his chest loosen at just the sight of his face - calm brown eyes framed by neat horn-rimmed glasses, smile lines beginning to form at the corners of his mouth.

“That bad tonight?” Combeferre inquired coolly, taking a neat swig from his champagne flute in a way that looked elegant but conveyed to Enjolras that he too was tired of the elitism and racism that he had faced that night. “I’ve had several people look away and clear their throats or straight up leave every time I even allude to the fact that Tchaikovsky was gay.” “I see. Pretty bad, then.” “I need to get out of here,” Enjolras said, more to himself than Combeferre. “Want to go catch a drink at some hole in the wall bar where no one knows shit about classical music?” Combeferre quirked his brow. Enjolras calculated quickly - he had definitely spent enough time at this party to argue that he hadn’t skived it off. “Give me ten minutes to change and get my shit. Meet me in your car by the green room.” “It sounds like this is a high-stake diamond robbery.” Combeferre set his now empty champagne glass on a nearby table, nonchalantly, as if he planned on spending the entire evening here. Sometimes Enjolras truly and deeply loved Combeferre. “You haven’t met Javert,” Enjolras said soberly.

* * *

Combeferre drove them through the rain-washed streets of Paris after the hasty getaway that had included creeping through the parking lot without their lights on, despite the fact that Combeferre had adamantly wanted to obey the law. Combeferre was himself a classical musician and a fellow Frenchman. He played the viola, and though Enjolras knew relatively little about the viola, he loved the way that Combeferre played it. He was currently at the Lyons Symphony, but had come to Paris just to see Enjolras. They had played together in the Berlin Symphony for several years, and had bonded over their position as outsiders, fed up with the snobbery and elitism that pervaded the entire institution. One night they had openly admitted to each other how often they had almost left the music world behind because of the exhausting pace that it set for everyone, but more importantly because of the micro aggressions they saw daily. They had vowed together on that night to tough it out together - to stay to welcome the other “outsiders” that would come. And they had been fast friends ever since.

They found a little bar at a safe distance from the symphony hall, and ordered some drinks. They settled in, shedding their various layers. Enjolras was relieved and also impressed to see that Combeferre had managed to change out of his well-tailored suit and into a sweater and jeans. It made them more inconspicuous. “So - how are you finding Lyons?” Enjolras asked without preamble. He was curious. Combeferre had been there about three months, and Enjolras was itching to hear about it. Combeferre toyed with his drink, poking the straw at the ice that was sticking to the sides. “It’s alright. It’s always a little hard in the beginning. It’s nice to be in France again, quite honestly.” “I can believe it. France has its problems, but I would take it over Berlin most days.” And it was true. Enjolras like Berlin, but something about France made the fire reignite in his blood. Combeferre grinned. “I almost forgot how much you love France.” “Impossible. I’m told I’m very memorable.” “And modest too.” Combeferre shot back, before closing his mouth around his straw for a pull. “My enviable qualities aside, how is it besides being in France?” “Better than Berlin I think. Don’t get me wrong - the social circles like the donors and the regulars - they are more snobbish. But the people in the actual symphony and the conductor are much better than they were in Berlin.” “There’s always a trade-off,” Enjolras commented, rolling his eyes slightly. Combeferre shrugged. “I’d rather get shit from people I only have to see once a month than every day.” “Yes, but since they are the ones with the money, we let them think they’re right and let them act however they want even though they don’t know shit! It just means the institution of classical music never changes because none of us ever get the courage to tell a few rich people off now and again!” Combeferre shot him a look, and Enjolras deflated. “Yeah, I know. Not tonight.” “Tell me about how it’s going on your end,” Combeferre said, switching the subject. Enjolras exhaled loudly. “I feel so exhausted and worn out. I think my music has lost some of its edge because I’ve let all these toxic experiences associated with my playing seep into it.” “What do you mean to do about it?” Combeferre met Enjolras’ gaze steadily across the table, both an acknowledgment of the difficulty it had taken for Enjolras to utter those words and a steady encouragement. “I don’t know. Why do you think I will do something about it?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “Because you’re a man of action. You see a problem - you do something.” “It’s just such a big problem,” Enjolras said, trailing off. “Maybe I just need a different scene.” Combeferre sat up straighter. “Wait! I know just the thing!” His face was alight with possibility, and Enjolras felt himself being drawn in. Enjolras shot him a confused look. “What do you mean?” “When does your tour finish?” “Next week. And don’t get me wrong - I am counting the days.” And he was. Just six more days and then he was blissfully free of the Nutcracker. Javert already had a lot of plans for things to do next, but nothing had yet been finalized. “Well….” Combeferre lowered his gaze, stirring his drink with a straw, collecting his words carefully. Enjolras could tell he wasn’t sure how he would take this suggestion. “Well, what?” Enjolras said, slightly curious, but also impatient. “Out with it.” “One of my friends, Courfeyrac. I think I have mentioned him to you.” Combeferre met Enjolras’ eyes as he racked his brain. Then it came to him. “Kind of short? Curly hair? Everything he says is a rainbow?” Enjolras asked. “You could say that, I suppose,” Combeferre laughed. “He’d love that description.” “What about him?” Enjolras asked, his curiosity only heightening. “He’s a ballet dancer at the Ballet de l'Opéra national de Paris.” Enjolras whistled. “Good for him. That takes hard work. Isn’t it the oldest ballet company in France?” Combeferre nodded, his smile fading from his face. “And he puts the hard work in - he’s amazing. But anyways, I was talking to him earlier and he said that they are looking for a pianist for their upcoming performance. They want a live pianist. It’s a performance of Giselle, but they wanted to try something a little different. They haven’t found anyone yet, so Courfeyrac said to keep my ear out for any dissatisfied concert pianists who wanted to try something new.” Enjolras considered it. It was an interesting thought, and he always wanted to fly in the face of convention. But also, he wasn’t sure how much of the ballet world he could take either. That industry wasn’t exactly welcoming – it went through dancers more quickly than pointe shoes. “I don’t know.” Enjolras said simply. Combeferre nodded. “Just think about it. I mean, it can hardly hurt your career. You’re one of the best pianists in the world.” Enjolras blushed slightly. He wasn’t modest, but it made him uncomfortable when people made those kinds of comments to him. They moved on to different and lighter topics, but he kept the thought in the back of his mind even after he and Combeferre parted ways and he went back to his empty and muffled hotel room, feeling almost separate from the world that continued to move around him. The next day as he disembarked from his plane on to the soil of Copenhagen, he gave Combeferre a call. It looked like Enjolras was about to enter the world and tradition of ballet. He didn’t let himself think about it too much. He just wanted a change of pace, to be able to stay in one place for an extended period of time, avoiding the public eye for a couple of months. Or so he told himself. At the pit of his stomach he felt a clench of nerves that he hadn’t felt in years. He could only hope it was a good sign.

AO3 Link

#I hope you guys like it #please come yell in my inbox about this so I get ideas/inspo/motivtaion to keep going #have a good chunk of the second chapter already written #my writing #awake my soul #enjoltaire #exr #les mis #les miserables #les amis

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aringabrielmoved · 7 years

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I’m Gonna Change Your Life

(Chapter Two of: The Night We Met) Chapter one is on tumblr and ao3

(Again, under a read more as it’s about 5,000 words! Tagging @omuonrice because they were super enthusiastic and kind about the first chapter!)

“C’mon, are you not enough of a rebel, Joey?” Mary had a glint of fire in his eyes as Joseph flinched away from the needle that he personally believed was too close to his eye for comfort. How had Mary convinced him to do this? His dad was going to kill him, it didn’t matter that he was moved out. Mary was supposed to be his path to domesticity and respectable Christian life, not college rebellion and fake IDs. And certainly not getting a black eyebrow piercing and ripped up jeans. His mother would have thrown them into the fire.

“Fuck!” Joseph’s voice rang into the small shop they were in before he immediately covered his mouth and felt the tips of his ears heating up. He took a deep breath as the slight sting of the new piercing in his eyebrow hit him. He saw himself in a small mirror across the way and slowly looked over his own face, bringing his finger up to the barbell that was now in his skin, wincing when he touched it. “Oh my stars, what have you done to me, Mary.”

Mary’s friend Damien had tagged along and was laughing to himself in the corner at Joseph’s apparent surprise. He had only tagged along because Mary wanted another person to come and make sure that Joseph didn’t chicken out, but he was glad he had sacrificed his time to witness that. “Maybe now you’ll finally pull out that stick that your father has shoved so far up your posterior.” Damien feigned an old-timey sort of accent and broke out into laughter along with Mary.

Joseph sat up and looked a little dizzy, but he had a small smile curling his lips up slowly. He tried to act like he felt guilty, and maybe he did, but rebellion tasted bitter-sweet. “I think it looks good, Joseph, something other than khakis and good Christian spirit.” Mary was smiling a little too wide, like it was her life’s purpose to lead Joseph into rebellion and this was the first movement forward. “You’re getting there, Christiansen, slowly but surely.” Damien giggled as Mary went on. “Let’s get out of here, we’ve got progress to make.”

Of course, Joseph made sure to thank the guy who had pierced his eyebrow for the sake of peer pressure before following Mary and Damien out of the shop and to Mary’s car, that was just the right thing to do. He was irrationally terrified of what his parents were going to think, even if he was 19 now and two hours away from home while moving into an apartment next to the college nearby. College. Oh boy, that was a storm coming his way. What was he doing in college? He’d figure it out, right?

Mary ruffled his hair and he quickly sprung into real life and away from his intrusive thoughts, staring over at where Mary sat in the driver’s seat. “I’m assuming I can’t convince you to do anything fun with that perfect bleach-blond hair of yours?” Joseph shook his head as he looked at the faint streaks of red that were slowly fading from Mary’s dirty blonde hair. He was not going to do that, or anything of the sort to his hair.

“No, thank you, Mary. I’m perfectly fine with my boring blond hair.” Joseph reached up to touch his hair, as if to assure himself that Mary couldn’t mess with it and it was still there. He was already afraid that Mary was about to slash all of his jeans, though he had to admit he liked the feeling his new ripped jeans gave him. It was something different, it was his own decision, not his parents’ or his fear telling him to stick to what he knew.

“Suit yourself, Sailor, but I’m taking Dames to a friend’s house to dye his hair.” Joseph raised an eyebrow when Mary started giggling, Damien shaking his head in the back seat as they turned a corner on the way to their apartment. “Some asshole called him gay for having a purple streak, so now we’re gonna dye all of it fucking purple.” Joseph sighed and Mary pulled onto the side of the street in front of their building with a smile on her face.

Damien was grinning now too, obviously in on this joke. “Well, I just think that if purple hair really does mean homosexual, then I should be very clear that I am fully committing to purple hair.” Joseph laughed a little at that one, but he was nervously tapping his fingers on the door next to him and becoming acutely aware of the fact that there was no comfortable place for his tongue to rest in his mouth. Hanging out with Mary and her friends was nerve-wracking, he didn’t know what he was supposed to talk about or how much information he was allowed to reveal to second-hand friends that he wasn’t truly acquainted to- and what if he hit a touchy subject? What if he got hungry but was too polite to interrupt and ask for food? What if-

“Jo, cool your jets, I stopped at the apartment for a reason!” Mary unlocked the doors in the car with a click and looked over a Joseph with a sort of knowing smile. He had already put the poor guy through so much rebellious change in one day, he needed a break. “I get it, you can chill here while we go- there’s leftover takeout in the fridge.” Mary laughed as Joseph’s face lit up, his seat belt unbuckling as he let out a long sigh.

The car door swung open too fast for Joseph to hide his apparent relief, but he wanted Mary to know that he was thankful for her mercy. “You are a blessing, Mary.” Joseph stopped half way out of the door to lean over a press a kiss to Mary’s cheek, hoping that that somehow conveyed his gratitude. Mary just rolled her eyes and motioned for Damien to come up and take shotgun. Joseph finally stepped out into the fresh air, noticing how dark it had gotten- it must have been getting late. “Please be safe, call if you stay the night?”

Mary nodded and sent a peace sign Joseph’s way as Damien closed the passenger door, knowing that no matter what Joseph would worry about her while she was gone. He was a kind soul like that. “Deuces, nerd, don’t get into too much trouble.”

Joseph waved as the car sped away and fished through his pocket for the key to their apartment, struggling to shove his hand deep enough into the tight pocket of his jeans to retrieve it. As he scaled the steps to their door, he realized that his stomach was growling. They really had been out for a while, huh? He was tired, but not ready for sleep, even if the soft sheets of his and Mary’s bed looked appealing right now.

Food. Right. How old was that take out in the fridge? Joseph was not ready to be a victim of week old take out- his stomach churned at the thought. Instead, he opened his wallet and stared at its contents. At least 50 bucks, and that could go a long way for crappy filler food, a few old receipts, some of those punch out cards he always forgot when he actually went to a place that used them, and the newest addition, a fake ID, proclaiming him to be 22-year-old Jared Hanson. Was this convincing? It looked real, but did it look real to anyone else?

Joseph turned to look into the full length mirror across the bedroom, staring at himself for a moment. It was weird to see himself looking so different than he had a few months ago, but he thought he was rocking the ripped jeans. His shoes were kind of clunky, and he wished his glasses would go far, far away, but that eyebrow piercing was cool, right? He knew at least a few people who would have to do an open-mouthed double take if they saw him right now.

The piercing kind of hurt, and to be honest, the holes in his jeans were making his legs kind of cold, but he felt so empowered that he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was being an individual, a rebellious college student, and he didn’t have to have a reason for it did he? He just felt good! He was allowed to be whoever he wanted and wear whatever he wanted- even if he kind of wanted to throw on sweatpants and give up for the day. He was going to keep these jeans on and show the world, he was god damn determined.

He took one last glance at himself in the mirror before pocketing his wallet, fake ID enclosed, 50 dollars safe and sound. He was going to go out and he knew just the place. A bar, any bar really, so he didn’t know the place. He knew nothing about bars, actually. All he knew was that his 22-year-old fake ID alter-ego Jared could get into any bar he wanted to. So once he made sure he had his keys, he threw on an ugly salmon colored jacket over his shirt and locked the door behind him, taking his grumbling stomach out into the world and looking around. Gosh darn, it was cold outside.

There were a few signs with bright lights that had turned on since the last time he was outside, and the small street looked almost pretty with the lighting. (It wasn’t a very attractive street.) There was a café that had earlier in the day closed, one of those weird but cute antique stores that was probably only open on Wednesdays or something, the road to the college campus that wasn’t very far away, a small family diner with a small glowing ‘open’ sign, and all the way at the end of the street was a bar with obnoxious neon light radiating down onto the pavement. That was his fate, right?

No big deal, walk up, show someone his ID, get in, get a beer? One beer wouldn’t get him drunk, right? What would his parents think, their little boy going out and getting drunk underage, oh my stars, he would never hear the end of it. He could do it, though, show himself that he was capable of walking in that bar in his new clothes, with his new piercing, with his 1- 22 year-old self. Yeah, he could totally do that.

He could feel the light washing over him as he approached the building, his hands fidgeting in his pockets as he approached the door. His thumb and forefinger grabbed hold of his ID preemptively, and his heart was beating faster than normal without his permission. A few people outside of the bar were staring at him as he made his way to the door, following a crowd of people who looked young, but older than him. Act natural, right? Confidence is key.

A few people in front of him pulled their IDs out and Joseph did the same, getting nothing more than a strange glance before he walked into the bar. And he was in. He was in a bar. That was fine right? He was a year past legal adult. Two years under legal drinker, but he wasn’t not planning on getting wasted anytime soon. Was it morally wrong? Well, not if he shifted his morals. He realized that he had been standing in one place for too long, that he was probably expected to move and sit down somewhere.

A table would be sad, and maybe suspicious. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he was coming in alone, or the fact that he would have to talk to someone to order food or drinks. The end of the bar was fine, right? There was almost no one at the one end, but enough people scattered around that he wouldn’t look alone. He slid into a seat and tapped his fingers on the bar, hoping that the bartender would take a while to notice him.

Joseph heard the door open again, but he didn’t pay attention, more focused on toying with his wallet and rehearsing what to say when he had to order something. The man who walked in sure did pay attention to him, though. If Joseph had the ability to read minds he would know that the man’s exact thoughts were something along the line of ‘what is this poor boy doing here.’ It was easy to ignore groups of college kids drinking their final exams away, but it was not easy to ignore a scared looking twink of a college student sitting alone at the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Joseph nearly jumped out of his seat when the man jumped into the seat next to him, but he tried to calm himself down. Someone thought he was old enough to be bought a drink, and that counted for something. Was this guy nice, though? Did he want something else? Maybe it was time to abort mission. The man adopted a concerned look onto his face, hoping that he hadn’t intruded on some internal conflict. “Are ya doing okay there, kid?”

Joseph finally looked over at the man, giving him a once over. Or a twice-over. He was a little nervous. The man was easily in his twenties, and a little older than most college students, but he gave off the vibe. He had a leather jacket on that was a little too big, and Joseph could only figure that it was his dad’s. He had messy dark hair, tight-but-not-too-tight jeans, and some nice hands that toyed with the ring on his finger. Ring on his finger. Married. Phew. “Me- I, yeah!”

Joseph’s jittery nervousness thankfully didn’t scare the man away, he just slumped against the bar and motioned the bartender over to where they sat. “What do you want to drink, you look like you deserve one.” Joseph attempted to ask for beer and the man laughed at his cluelessness, and the fact that he didn’t even know what kind of beer he liked. He really was new to the bar scene. “Two shots of whiskey, please.”

Joseph realized that he was being bought alcohol. And that he hadn’t eaten. He wasn’t an expert on how fast people got drunk, but if he knew anything, he knew that drinking on an empty stomach would get him drunk faster than he wanted to be. And he already would get drunk fast if he hadn’t had alcohol before, right? He was going to turn into a train wreck pretty fast. “You don’t have to-“

“Shush, you obviously don’t know what you’re doing, you need a hand.” Joseph stared at the alcohol that was pushed towards him and then back at the man who had bought it. He could have easily said no thank you and went home. And that would be his fate wouldn’t it, being a bad rebel? No, he was going to prove himself. He snapped his head back and downed the shot like he saw in movies, feeling the burn down his throat but ignoring it the best he could. He must have made a weird face, though. “Damn, maybe not as much help as I thought you did.”

“I- yeah, thank you.” The man looked Joseph up and down this time, taking in more than he should have for being a married man. He wasn’t going to make any moves, that was the farthest thing from his mind, but he could appreciate Joseph for what he was. Especially after he took that shot. It was a little sexy. He shook his head and looked back up to where Joseph sat his glass on the table. Joseph could feel the man’s eyes, but he didn’t really care. He was confident that the guy was loyal to his wife, he seemed like a good man. “What are you doing here?”

The other man’s shot was the next to go, a laugh rising into the air once he swallowed. “Ah- you first, what’s got you in here.” For some reason Joseph figured he wasn’t a man to drink beer often, definitely a shots man. Joseph was also sure that he just witnessed the man order more shots. Wow, he might have been screwed. “And I want the real shit, you look like the most scared, failed attempt of rebellion I’ve ever seen.”

Joseph’s face went a little red, and he tried to avoid talking. He had no idea how long it would take him to start feeling weird on an empty stomach. “I- well…I don’t know what I’m doing.” The man laughed and gave Joseph another shot, muttering something about ‘me too, kid,’ that make Joseph feel a little better. Maybe they were both at a lost point in life. He felt oddly ready to spill his thoughts to stranger, and he knew that wasn’t the alcohol talking yet. “I’m supposed to be going to college, that’s why I’m here, but I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Ah, I get that.” The man looked kind of tired while thinking about that, still sipping on alcohol. “I know I look kind of old for college, but I still don’t know what I’m doing.” There was a story to be told there, and Joseph was determined to uncover it and help, but he realized he was supposed to be getting the help right now. Curse him and his kind, helpful charm.

He didn’t know how to explain without sounding like he hated his parents, but they were a part of the reason that he was so conflicted. “It’s- my parents.” Whoop, there it is. “They probably want me to study religion if anything, and I-“ He sighed as he attempted not to delve too far into why he wasn’t sure what to do. That would require insight into his past, and that was a little too personal and complicated. “I just- have other interests.”

A reassuring nod kept Joseph on the right track, encouraging him to keep going on with his story. “I really like helping people,” Joseph’s eyes lit up as he thought about the possibility of becoming a counselor, maybe even still helping with church but in a different way. “I’m thinking about child psychology- or psychology in general,” The thought….excited him more than he ever thought it would. He could really be a positive force instead of a negative one, offering help and encouragement instead of hate and violent words. “But doesn’t psychology kind of…go against my religion or something?

The man took another shot after taking a deep breath, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts. What was that, his third shot? Joseph, feeling self-conscious of his drinking ability, downed his second. He hadn’t even realized that there were two more in front of him. The man in front of him cleared his throat and Joseph grabbed his third shot, settling in for an inspirational speech. “You know what? Fuck it, man.”

Joseph grinned back at the statement, but raised an eyebrow, not sure exactly what he meant. He had half a mind to scold the man for dropping an f-bomb. Joseph sipped a small amount of whiskey and immediately regretted it, making a face before downing the rest. This was dangerous territory wasn’t it, four shots would be too much, right? Whatever, this was fun. “How so?” Was he a little tipsy? Maybe. So many questions. He did, however, refrain from yelling at the man for using the f-swear.

“Just- fuck it, it’s ’a good philosophy.” The man shrugged and looked down at his drink, possibly trying to hide a story, but Joseph was feeling adventurous and he wanted to hear it. His head was swimming a little, a weird disoriented feeling that he wasn’t used to, but he was still fine. The man did, however, snap his fingers at one point to get Joseph’s attention.

Joseph shook his head a little in an attempt to regain his concentration, a smile on his face. “C’mon, there’s more than that, give me the speech.” The man tried to look confused, but Joseph was giving a very knowing gaze, even if he almost fell off his chair when he moved too fast. “I can feel it, you want to give the inspirational speech, hit me with it.” Joseph made a hand gesture that signaled the man to go on.

“I came to college with no fucking idea what I was doing- I had just had a kid and I was trying to get my shit together, and I still am.” He had a determined grin on his face, and he downed another shot, seemingly only slightly buzzed even after Joseph had lost count of the amount of alcohol he had consumed. “But now I’ve got a beautiful 4 year old daughter and a degree in film studies because- movies are cool!” He laughs and slides a tip to the bartender as he pays for his drinks, handing a final shot over to Joseph. “So fuck it, do whatever makes you happy, kid.”

The man cheered softly as Joseph drank down his last shot, the fourth or fifth? He lost track, and he felt weird after what- a half an hour of conversation? Maybe longer? He was still kind of hungry, and he was a little nauseous…woah, a little tired, but he was fine. Totally fine. “Whatever makes me happy?” Joseph chuckled a little, but he had to stop when he felt kind of sick. Bathroom? Good idea. Standing? Nah. The moment he tried to stand he had to hold onto the bar, and he immediately started laughing at himself, quite uncontrollably.

“Yeah- are you okay?” The man stood in front of Joseph, holding out a stabilizing hand just in case he started going down. Did a few shots really hit the guy that hard? Maybe more than a few…but they had been talking, maybe he gave the poor guy too much.

Joseph vaguely registered a hand on his shoulder and he tried to calm himself down to respond, ignoring the look of concern on the face of the man in front of him. “Me? Fine- I’m fine, are you fine?” Joseph attempted to start walking again and had to stop and stabilize himself, almost losing his balance.

The man caught Joseph and made sure to keep him upright, his heart racing just a little faster than normal now that he had a drunk college kid on his hands. “Shit, man, come here.” He swung an arm around Joseph’s shoulder and let the drunken idiot lean against him, even though Joseph was a little taller. “How- is it your first time drinking whiskey?”

Joseph giggled and fell against the other man’s shoulder, not even noticing that he was being led towards the door. “It’s my first time drinking, buddy, and I think I’m doing pretty good- I’m hungry, are you hungry?” Joseph brought a hand to his stomach and thought about food, remembering vaguely that he never did order any at the bar. Man, he could have gone for a burger and some fries, something greasy and gross.

“Shit, your first time drinking?” The man sighed and pressed a hand to his face, hoping that they weren’t attracting attention from anyone else in the bar. “Did you not eat anything?” Joseph’s stomach grumbling and his nauseous-ness let the man know that he hadn’t eaten anything before coming to the bar. What an amateur. “Why did you let me give you that many shots on an empty stomach and your first time drinking?” The man quickly deduced that the kid hanging off of his arm was not used to rebelling- he got the feeling when he mentioned his religious childhood, but that solidified it.

“I wanted to seem cool- and it was free alcohol for me.” Joseph stated this bluntly, apparently losing his verbal filter as the alcohol clouded his judgement. He giggled and nearly ran into the door before the man could open it. Wow, he was having the time of his life. Poor guy wasn’t going to feel so great in the morning.

“Alright- well, I’m Robert.” The man- Robert- gave Joseph a gentle slap on the face to get his attention, and he tried to put on a friendly smile. ”And I’m gonna walk you home so you don’t accidentally kill yourself.” Robert looked out into the dark street, the realization dawning upon him that he had no idea where the kid lived. “Where are we headed to?” Robert was fully aware of how insane they looked at the moment, staring into the darkness in complete silence while waiting for Joseph to remember where his own house was.

Joseph hiccuped and covered his mouth before pointing to his apartment building, thankfully visible down the street. Ugh, he felt kind of gross. He was not going to be happy if he vomited. “Can I lay down?” He looked down at the parking lot underneath him, but it was looking more and more appealing by the second.

Robert sighed and held Joseph up to prevent him from deciding to pass out on the street. He did not put it past anyone that hungry and full of alcohol to spend a night on the pavement. At least his house was close. “Alright, you know where you live, that’s a start.” Could the drunk guy probably make it home without him? With enough effort, yes, but Robert felt like the situation was his responsibility. Hell, he could remember the first time he got drunk, and it wasn’t pretty.

Joseph turned them towards his apartment building once they walked down the street, fumbling for a key in his pocket while they made their way towards an intimidating looking set of stairs. “Yeah, well I know what I’m doing, Bobert- Robert.” Joseph let out an ugly low giggle, pulling his key out and almost dropping it. “Bobert.” Robert looked like he wanted to growl back at that name. The kid was lucky that he was drunk and stupid or Robert would have kicked his ass.

After a thankfully short walk up the stairs, Robert took the key from Joseph and unlocked the door to the apartment to save himself the key fumbling and dropping. Joseph spotted the couch as soon as they walked in and flopped onto it. God, he was going to wake up uncomfortable if he slept there. “Don’t you- you have a bed, right?” Joseph rolled over and buried himself in the couch, cuddling a pillow close to his chest.

“Too far away, time for sleep.” Robert placed the key on the coffee table in front of the couch and found a notepad to scrawl on so that the drunk kid, and anyone who stumbled upon him, would hopefully have a clue what was going on.

Robert headed for the door, not sure if he should disturb Joseph’s drunken dozing on the couch. “Good luck, kid.” A muffled groan full of tired energy was all he needed to know that the kid was alive before he vacated the apartment, laughing softly to himself as he walked down the street.

-xxxxx-

Hey- nameless drunk college kid from the bar, ( I just realized I never got your name), sorry for letting you drink yourself half to death, that was pretty shitty. I hope you’re doing alright because the second I got you here you crashed on the couch. Remember, do whatever makes you happy, kid. –Robert

-xxxxx-

“Joseph?” Mary’s voice rang through his ears as he slowly drifted into consciousness, an awful headache hitting him when he tried to sit up. He gave up and eased himself back down to the couch. Mary was holding a piece of paper in her hands and reading it over for a second time, trying to absorb the information. “Who the hell is Robert-“ Mary seemed more amazed than angry. “And did you actually go out last night, alone? I didn’t think you had it in you!”

Joseph groaned and held his head in his hands, kicking his uncomfortable jeans off after a night of sleeping in them. He could feel Mary’s eyes on his as she laughed. He looked like a mess, hair ruffled, shirt hiked up above his stomach, jeans now around his ankles. “Robert…?” Joseph had to search his mind for memories of the past night. Handsome, nice guy from the bar. “Oh! He bought me drinks last night and gave me life advice, nice guy.” Joseph buried his head in the pillow in front of him, hoping that Mary was done interrogating him.

Mary handed the note to Joseph and waited for him to turn his face away from the pillow. “Huh…was he cute?” Joseph groaned again and reached out to grab the paper, looking over it quickly with a pained smile on his face. He couldn’t seem to make the smile go away either for some reason.

“He was attractive by conventional standards.” Mary scoffed at the prim and proper way that Joseph had to put it. Joseph caught himself admitting that the man had been attractive. He needed to go back to sleep. “He was also married- why are you asking?”

“Nothing, Jo, get some sleep.” Mary giggled as she walked out of the room, heading towards the kitchen. God bless her soul, she was making breakfast. Joseph stared back at the note before setting it on the table again.

Do whatever makes you happy, kid.

Those words of wisdom would stick with him. Whatever made him happy. He had a few ideas.

#joseph christiansen #joseph #dream daddy #ddadds #mary christiansen #mary #robert small #robert #endgame roseph #arin writes #fanfic #ddadds fanfic #dream daddy fanfic

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rawinter · 7 years

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I’m excited today. Francisco Cordoba has announced his new series. Those of us who have read the series are bursting at the seams with glee. Check out The Naked Reviewerson Wed for a review!!

After two and a half years The Horsemen of Golegã was unleashed on the world Sept 1, 2017 with Book 1 in the 8 book series, Bosanquet. What do you do when your BFF’s dream vacation turns out to be your worst nightmare?

After a naïve relationship decision leaves Candice with a handprint on her face and no job, all she wants is to hide in a corner and lick her wounds. But when bestie Fiona comes begging for a last minute travel companion, what else can a true friend do but go along for the ride?

Fast forward to the bustling streets of Golegã during Portugal’s International Horse Fair. Where stunning horses and cocky macho men are every woman’s wet dream. Every woman except for Candice, that is. Horses are her least favorite animal and, right now, men rank a close second.

Determined to steer clear of arrogant males; pursued by a series of psychotic text messages, a crazed cavaleiro, and a vicious black stallion, Candice once again questions her judgment. The only thing keeping her sane is curiosity over the fascinating stranger who seems as drawn to her as she is to him. Tall, ruggedly handsome, and enigmatic, Gaspar Bosanquet is a man like no other.

Will a night in his arms change Candice’s mind about men? Or will one impulsive act become her biggest blunder yet? Only one thing is certain, neither Candice nor Bosanquet will ever be the same again.

Join them on their journey! Welcome to Francisco Cordoba’s debut novella. Available on Amazon

Explicit sex (tasteful), and some swearing.

And now to The First Chapter.

Grab your seat for a wonderful ride.

Chapter 1

“You are so going to pay for this,” Candice said, propped against her friend and using the edge of the curb to scrape fresh, sweetly pungent manure off her discolored sandal. “I already paid for it,” Fiona replied with a smile. Candice’s efforts were futile. The muck was a magnet for the sand and sawdust spread all over the road. Combined, these substances created a stinky, lumpy minefield with each pile issuing a siren-call just for her feet. Her once pristine footwear was stained beyond repair. She sighed and scraped again. “I cannot believe you lied to me.” “I didn’t—” Fiona’s words disappeared beneath the whoops and clattering hooves of a passing cavalcade. A fresh waft of equine and man sweat assailed Candice, causing her to breathe through her mouth while her friend flared her nostrils and grinned. When the noise had subsided to the general dull roar of the crowd, Fiona tried again. “I didn’t lie. I told you there’d be horses. You should’ve dressed appropriately.” “You told me there’d be a few horses.” Candice swept an arm toward a large open area and the wide track surrounding it, both were surfaced with the sand-sawdust mix. A low wood rail fence separated the open area from the track—the ‘manga’ the locals called it, making Candice view the scene through the lens of Japanese anime—and a similar fence separated the track from the road. Both the manga and the central ring were packed with horses—led, ridden, and driven. The street the girls stood on thronged with people and, inevitably, more horses. “Since when does a cast of thousands count as a few?” “It’s all in the perception. One person’s few is another person’s too many or not enough, just like one woman’s adequate is another woman’s too damn small or holy crap that’s huge. Besides, I had no idea it would be like this.” A broad grin split Fiona’s face. “Isn’t it fabulous?” Candice stopped scraping and started walking, slippery sandals skidding on the damp, uneven sidewalk. She’d only been here a couple of hours and already she was beginning to hate the artistic Portuguese mosaic street pavement. If she escaped this week without a sprained ankle at the very least, it would be a miracle. The squishiness between her toes made her shudder. “No. It is not fabulous,” she snapped over her shoulder. “It’s wet, it’s cold—you said Portugal was a warm country. It’s crowded—you said Golegã was a small town. It’s overrun with horses and cowboys, and horse shit and testicles. And this is different from Calgary, how? Ahhhhh!” Her arms wind-milled as the ground slid away under her feet. She caught a glimpse of gooey sandals against gray sky a second before her ass hit the road. “Crap!” “That hurt.” Fiona squatted beside her, green eyes full of sympathy. “You okay?” “Fine.” Candice sighed. “I always thought dignity was overrated anyway.” She examined her bleeding hand and slimed feet, and repeated her question. “And this is different from Calgary, how?” Fiona shrugged. “But look at it this way, Cans. You needed to get away from your unpleasant boyfriend—” “He’s not my boyfriend!” “—your cougar mother and her cubs—” “Two of them. Two!” “—your gay father and his fiancé—” Candice rolled her eyes. “Don’t need the litany, Fifs.” Fiona rolled on relentlessly. “—your self-centered brothers—” “As long as they’re happy.” Candice mimicked her brothers’ favorite words to her every time she complained about their parents’ split and new alternative lifestyles. “—and the dead-end job you got fired from.” “Behavior unbecoming of an employee.” Candice stretched her face and voice into a caricature of her haughty boss and surrounded her words with air quotes. “And your grief.” Fiona ended her list in a softer tone and paused before revving up again. “Coming with me provided a much-needed change. Think of it as a catalyst to propel your life in a whole new direction. Carpe diem and all that.” “The way I see it,” Candice growled, holding her sore and filthy hand to one side, “I was sitting in shit there, and I’m sitting in shit here.” She wiped the hand on her no-longer-white skirt. “The only difference is at home I spoke the language, and when I ordered a cup of coffee, I got a cup of coffee, not a thimbleful of black tar that would melt the hide off a rhino.” “Don’t be like that.” Fiona hauled her to her feet and started dusting her down, paused, and wiped her hands on the clean sleeve of Candice’s blouse. “Hey!” Fiona shrugged. “Sorry, didn’t want to get my clothes dirty, and this is wrecked already. Look, let’s go back to the hotel and get you cleaned up. Then we can go for dinner at that little café and ogle the eye candy while we eat.” Candice cringed but followed in silence as Fiona wound through crowds of olive-skinned men in tight black pants, short black jackets, and flat-crowned black hats. As far as she could tell, they were the same as the cowboys back home, with possibly better fashion sense. But for all their tight sexy attire, they were still ruled by testosterone, thinking themselves as virile and macho as the stallions they rode. Fiona seemed as much besotted by the men as by the horses she claimed to have come to see. But for Candice, fresh out of a brief and toxic interlude too short to even be termed a relationship, and unhappy with the whole cowboy scene she’d never even pretended to understand, this seven-day trip to Portugal’s National Horse Fair had rapidly assumed the guise of a nightmare. Fiona was footing the bill, but only because she hated to do anything alone. She’d planned the trip with equally-horse-crazy-man-crazy-Sarah, and Candice had looked forward to a solitary seven days secure behind the locked door of their apartment, licking her wounds and reading through the contents of box Hist. 2 from Ted’s collection. But Sarah had backed out at the last minute, and Fiona had come begging. Unable to leave her best friend in the lurch, Candice-the-mug-of-a-roommate and Candice-the-fired-without-a-reference and Candice-the-girl-with-the-most-fucked-up-family-in-the-world had smilingly agreed that a girl’s-only holiday in sunny Portugal would be just the thing. She’d closed the flaps on Hist. 2, packed Napoleon’s Wars: An International History into her travel bag and, ignoring her discomfort at having someone else pay for what she couldn’t afford, headed to the airport. There would be a few horses in Golegã. Fiona had been up front about that. It was a horse fair after all. For her friend, Candice reckoned a few—a few—horses could be coped with. But holy hell, this was never a few, and if this god-forsaken town had seen sun in the last month, she’d be amazed to hear it. Ahead of her, Fiona skirted a large pile of fresh droppings with a supple sway of her hips and barely a glance. Candice, envious of her friend’s grace, tried to do the same and promptly stepped on a turd ball. Her foot skidded, but a lucky grab at the nearby fence kept her upright. Muttering curses, she scraped her sandal on the lowest bar of the barrier and grimaced at the drab green stain on her ankle. “You coming, Cans?” Fiona called through the crowd. “In a minute.” After one final, pointless wipe, Candice moved to catch up. A large gray horse overtook her, clopping through a puddle, splashing her legs with malodorous water droplets. A brown one passed in the opposite direction, splattering her with yet more wet filth. The gray sky singled her out for the heaviest of the drizzle. Candice sighed. Fiona looked her up and down. “You’re a mess.” Without a word, Candice stomped past her into the heaving sea of masculinity. And then there were the men. Yes, the clothes were a definite plus, but the men inside the clothes? The muscles and other man bits were clearly in all the right places, but the hormones dripped right along with the sweat. So much sweat, human and equine, plastered all over them, wafting about them, worn like some super-macho membership badge. And the shit. So much shit; although, in fairness, she couldn’t blame the men for that directly.” “Candice, watch—” This time there was no fence to grab. “Ahh-ahhhhh! Ouch!” And the landing hurt. “—out.” Fiona gazed down at her, clearly fighting to keep a straight face. “Again? Really?” “Fuck off,” Candice snarled. “Don’t you think you’re pushing credulity just a bit?” Fiona abandoned any attempt to control her expression. “And right outside the hotel? I thought you didn’t like drawing attention to yourself?” “I may assist you, senhorita?” A deep, accented male voice blended with Fiona’s final words. “Oh. Fuck. Right. Off,” Candice said, loud and clear.

Book 2, The Great Gaspar Sept 15. Book 3, Loving North Sept 29 Book 4, Seeking Home coming in October. Can’t wait! Book 5, A Dama and Book 6 Keeper’s Wife coming in November Book 7, The Lone Horseman and Book 8, Candice will be out in December. If Life happens, they’ll be out in early 2018.

Visit Francisco Cordoba on Facebook today then head over and grab a copy of his wonderful books.

Don’t forget to check out The Naked Reviewers for her review and add yours!

Romance Author Showcase- Francisco Cordoba. The First Chapter I'm excited today. Francisco Cordoba has announced his new series. Those of us who have read the series are bursting at the seams with glee.

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artificialqueens · 4 years

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Hot as Hell and No A/C, Chapter 3 (Branjie)- Blackhighheels

(Read at AO3)

Three

Jose knows it might not be the best idea to come to this run down bar, but he is bored and he needs a drink. Since he left Los Angeles he hasn’t been to any clubs or bars and this shack is the only thing nearby in the middle of motherfucking nowhere.

The offer is somewhat limited and so he orders a whiskey, since that seems to be the only thing they have beside shots and beer. He remains sitting at the bar and the woman behind it, Lindsey, is a hoot and he likes talking to her. From what she’s telling him she used to be the queen bee around here, about forty years ago, until she got pregnant too young and out of wedlock and found herself working in this bar to keep a roof over her head and care for her son.

He’s so engrossed in Lindsey’s stories that it takes him a while to realise that a couple of guys by the pool table are talking about him. The words ”Faggot”, ”Gay” and ”cocksucker” are a dead give away and he doesn’t think they’d say that about anyone but him around here.

”Hey, assholes! Got a problem with my gay ass?” He yells at them. It might be the alcohol or simply his frustration about the town and what it does to people, but he isn’t willing to just take it and keep him mouth shut. And he’s not afraid of them. He’s had his share of fights in his life, both because of the area he grew up in and also because of him being so obviously gay.

The four men, or boys, come closer and he can already smell the cloud of beer that surrounds them.

”Did you faggot just call us assholes?”

”If you’re the assholes who just talked smack about me, then yeah, I did.” He turns around in his bar stool and is glad that it gives him a bit of a height advantage.

”You better watch your mouth you filthy cocksucker.”

”Mmmh…. Sucking dick’s only filthy when it’s done right. You ever tried it?”

Jose expects a punch or kick, maybe something thrown his way. He doesn’t expect one of the guys spitting right into his face.

”Guys like you are dirt and god will take care of you,” the smallest one says. He seems to be believer amongst them.

Jose doesn’t want to talk anymore though. They just spit at him. He’s done talking. Before the god-fearing idiot has even finished speaking, Jose smacks the fucker who spit at him right across the face with the back of his hand.

”Imma end you, you motherfuckers. No one spits at me, bitch! You got hands, show me! Show me!” he yells, as blood drips from the drunken teenager’s nose.

”Hey!” Lindsey grabs him from behind. ”No fights in my bar. House rule. If you really wanna beat each other up, take it outside. But I’d advise all of y’all to just leave it. You four shouldn’t even be in here or drinking, and you,” she turns to Jose ”better not make more enemies than necessary while ya here. This is a small town.” Jose looks at the four teenagers in front of him, then throws a couple of dollars on the bar and leaves. So much for grabbing a drink and enjoying a night out.

***

Brock walks out of the stable when he hears a voice he would recognise everywhere. He also knows the car parked in their driveway.

”Fuck,” he curses quietly and hurries towards the house, wiping his hands on an old rag as panic settles in his stomach. This can’t be happening! Also, he is painfully aware that his hair is a mess, he is sweaty, dirty and his clothes are stained. Usually when he sees Jose, he at least gets a chance to shower beforehand.

For the last two weeks Jose has driven Rachel and him home after each dance practise. Sometimes they stop for ice cream or food on the way back. Brock is aware that Jose only makes little bets with Rachel, bets he always loses, and then has to invite them to whatever it is he promised her. Brock wouldn’t be able to buy ice-cream and take-out three or four times a week for three people.

The time he spends with Jose and Rachel has become the highlight of his life. He doesn’t mind walking half an hour to a dance studio and then watch for nearly two hours in the overheated studio as his niece prances around the room with other girls. The short drive back with Jose makes it all worth while.

He is the funniest and kindest guy Brock’s ever met. It feels a bit like having a friend, a real friend for once, and Jose is probably the only person he can really be himself with. He can giggle when he feels like it, talk with his hands and even admit that he likes colourful sprinkles on top of his ice-cream.

However, none of it explains why Jose is here now, parked in front of his parents’ house. It’s already too late, Brock realises when he makes his way around the front-porch and find both his mother and father standing on the porch talking to Jose.

”Aw, that’s too bad you can’t tell me. Thought I’d save them the long walk, now that I’m in town anyway.”

”Sorry, we can’t help ya,” his father says in a brusk tone.

”Ok, never mind. Thanks anyway,” Jose turns around to leave. That’s when he spots Brock. Immediately Jose’s face lights up. He is looking really good today, wearing a white wife-beater, a short black and red flannel shirt and tiny black shorts. ”Hey Brock!”

”Hello,” Brock replies as neutral as possible and it takes a lot not to return the smile. He is very aware that his parents are watching their interaction with stony expressions. ”What are you doing here?”

”Thought I’d ask you and Rachel if I should drive you to dance practice today. I have to take care of some shit here in town and could take you back with me. Don’t think ya got your car fixed yet, huh?” Jose still smiles and casually leans against his Porsche. He looks like someone straight out of an ad or a tv show. Already Brock’s stomach tightens because he knows what he has to do.

”I’m sorry Sir, but that’s not necessary. Rachel and I can manage on our own. Thank you for the kind offer though,” he declines and watches the smile melt off Jose’s face when the icy tone of Brock’s voice registers with him.

”Brock! You know him?” His mother asks. She sounds surprised. What did she think? That some stranger would just show up and offer driving him and Rachel?

”This is Jose. He is Rachel’s dance teacher for the next couple of weeks. Jason hurt himself.” He informs both of his parents.

”You done with the hay?” His father stops any further explanation.

”No, not yet. I just heard voices and thought I’d check on ya.”

”I don’t need ya checking, that’s what we got guns for. I need ya working!” His father barks.

”I better get going,” Jose says quietly and his eyes appear to be so large and defeated that Brock nearly drowns in them.

”Thank you again for the offer but we can manage,” he says and softens his tone. He doesn’t want to decline. If he had a choice, he’d gladly drive around in Jose’s car all day and talk to him about everything and nothing. But it’s not an option he has.

He can’t move, he can’t do anything when he watches Jose get into the car and then drive off, leaving dust and a hint of cologne in the air.

”Don’t ya have work to do?!” his father asks him from the porch and snaps him out of his daze. Quickly he hurries back to the stable to work, to hide and to hopefully forget about the scene he was just a part of. He swallows a couple of times to keep the tears inside that his stupid overly emotional heart wants him to cry for how he just treated Jose.

***

”Care to tell us what that guy wanted today?” Brock’s father asks as soon as he sits down at the table for lunch.

”I told you, he’s Rachel’s dance teacher and I know nothing more than you do. He wanted to drive us to her dance class.”

”How’d he know your car’s broken?”

”We were late a couple of times,” Brock sighs and takes a piece of bread, rips a piece off and stuffs it in his mouth so the words he really wants to speak won’t burst out.

”I don’t like ya hanging with that folk! It’s bad enough that Ada allows Rachel to take dance lessons at that place. You being around these faggots a couple o’times a week… ya know what the people in town gonna say if they see this gay guy here? Ya know what the minister’s gonna say? You stay away from them, ya hear me!” His father is basically yelling at this point.

”I take Rachel to dance class because no one else has the time to do so, not because I wanna hang out there. I don’t know this guy any better than I know Jason, so what’s the big deal? He is a good teacher and Rachel likes him.”

”Stop eating before we said grace!” His father slaps the bread out of his hand, which drops to the floor. ”And Rachel shouldn’t be anywhere around these faggots, this music or these whore dance moves! It’s not right! Their lifestyle and everything they do’s offensive to the lord and every god fearing Christian. They don’t belong here and I want none of my family have anything to do with them. If you wanna hang out with these sinners you get your ass out of my house and better never come back.” Now his father is really yelling.

”How else is Rachel supposed to get there? By the time the lessons are done it’s dark out. It’s too far for her to go on her own. It’s not safe!”

”If I had a say in it she wouldn’t go there at all! But ya sister is letting her kids do whatever! If she lets them run with the wrong crowd, they should know what’s waiting for them!”

It’s nothing Brock hasn’t heard before. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen or felt before. He knows if he speaks another word now the fight will most likely become physical. Brock has never raised a hand against his father, but for a while now he’s taken to defending himself and his mother when the beer gets to his father’s head again.

He hates how he judges Jose without even knowing him. He even hates him for judging Jason. For a split second he wants to scream at him that he’s a sinner himself, gay like them and that even all the beatings he got as a child and teenager didn’t take it out of him.

Then he glances at his mother and her wide, scared eyes let him bite his tongue and lower his head. ”I’ll tell Ada I can’t take Rachel anymore.” He leans over and picks the bread up off the floor and uses the second to wipe his face clean of any emotion. Fury is still burning in his gut, nearly making him sick as he swallows it down and nearly chokes on it.

This is not the time though, not the time to risk it all for nothing. Jose will be gone again in about three weeks and their tentative friendship will become only a memory. What does it matter if he stops it all now, goes back to life how it was before Jose got here and starts living his harsh reality again three weeks earlier? His father probably just saved him a lot of pain and heartache. Brock knows that Jose and his friendships means too much already and he’s gotten too used to it.

”Good. Brock, can you say grace?” His mother ends the discussion with a grateful look and Brock knows he’s made the right decision.

***

”Hey, uncle Brock,” Rachel greets him after the mass on Sunday, when they are all still standing in front of the church.

”Hey honey,” he smiles.

”Can you take a look at my bike? The breaks’ not working and mommy can’t fix it,” she asks him and of course Brock follows her to her bike on the other side of the lawn. He doesn’t care that his good pants get dirty as he kneels down beside the small bike. It’s more important that his niece has a functioning bike, now that she has to ride it to dance practise and back. Brock doesn’t like it. He worries about her constantly, but there is nothing he can do.

”It’s just a bit loose, honey, that’s easily fixed,” he assures her.

”Thank you!”

”Do your lights work? I don’t like you riding your bike in the dark after practise, so we have to make sure at least these are working.”

”Can I tell you a secret?” Rachel whispers after checking that they are alone.

”Always.”

”I’m not driving back on my bike. Vanjie takes me until we reach our house and then waits with the lights turned off until he knows I’m safely inside.”

Brock feels a warmth spreading through him that nearly knocks him on his ass. He grasps the bike to keep his balance. He should have known Jose would make sure Rachel is safe. It’s so much like him that Brock feels like weeping. It’s only been three days, but he already misses their talks so much and hearing about how he cares for his niece only makes him miss Jose more. If only he could just talk to him sometimes.

”That’s very nice of Vanjie. He’s a very good guy,” Brock tells her just as quietly as she told him her secret.

”Then why do you hate him?”

”What? What makes you think I hate him?” he asks surprised and slowly gets up.

”Vanjie asked why you not taking me anymore and if you’re sick or something. I told him ‘bout the stuff grandpa said and that you can’t take me ‘cause they’re offensive and sinners and you don’t wanna be around him and can’t be his friend.”

Brock nearly crumbles to the ground for real this time. ”Rachel, how do you know about that talk?”

”I wanted to see you but then I heard the yelling through the open window and ran off. I don’t like grandpa when he’s mean like that.”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his curls. There are so many things wrong with what Rachel just said and what she overheard. But there are also things he can maybe fix.

”Honey, I don’t agree with grandpa. Vanjie is a very good and nice guy and don’t let anyone tell you anything else about him or Jason, ok? ” Rachel nods her head. ”The only reason why I’m not taking you anymore is because grandpa gets very upset about these things and he’s scared that people will say mean things about me in town.”

”Like the things they say about Jason?”

”Yeah, like that. And he doesn’t want that for me or any of us. And I don’t want to make grandpa angry.”

”Uncle Brock? I like Jason and Vanjie.”

”That’s good. Make sure you tell them. They sure need to hear it.” He strokes his hand over Rachel’s strawberry blond hair.

”Will you tell them, too? Vanjie was really sad that you not there anymore. He said, he thought you was his friend.”

”I’ll tell him,” Brock agrees.

”Promise?” Rachel goes in for the kill.

”Promise,” he says and knows he now really doesn’t have choice but to talk to Jose. Rachel will know.

***

He waits until his parents are in bed and then sneaks outside to the orchard behind their house. It’s far enough so he won’t be overheard, dark enough so he won’t be seen and close enough to the cellphone tower so he’ll have reception.

Jose has given him his phone number the first week, but he has never used it and he hasn’t given him his own. It simply hadn’t been necessary. Jose said to use the number if he needed a ride or if Rachel couldn’t come to practise. Brock had no such excuse for giving him his number.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and then finally brings his thumb down on the dial button.

”Hello?” Jose picks up after only a couple of rings.

”Hey, uhm, it’s me, Brock,” he stutters and feels stupid already.

”What’d ya want, Sir?” Jose’s tone is snide and Brock knows he deserves it.

”Rachel told me she talked to you and I think I need to clear some things up.”

”You made it more than crystal yourself what you really think about me. Ya don’t need to drag Rachel into this.”

”I’m not! I just think, like… it’s not what it seems.”

”So you not avoiding me like the plague ‘cause your father’s a bigot asshole who thinks just talking to me will sully your reputation?” Jose is yelling at him through the phone, then he suddenly stops. When he continues his voice carries the hurt he must be feeling. ”God, I hate this motherfucking town and all of y’all religious lying assholes.”

”I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. You’re so nice to Rachel and to me and helped us out so much and just…I’m sorry.”

”If you’re really sorry you’d have come here and told me this shit in person like a man. But I guess you just as much of a weaselly liar as the rest of these fucked up wanna be cowboys in this town. Grow up, start thinking for ya’self and learn how to make an apology real.” Jose hangs up on him and Brock stares disbelievingly at his phone.

At first he is shocked and sad. He’s just lost the only friend who really knew him. Not only that, but he also thinks badly about him now. How can he think that Brock agrees with his father? He must know that he doesn’t have a choice, right? He thought Jose knows… That’s when Brock gets angry himself. He is so sick of all of these people and their opinions about him and his life and what he is supposed to do and to think. He’s used to it from his family and the town and the parish. But Jose? How dare he!

Before he really knows what he is doing, he has run inside, grabbed his mother’s car keys and is on the way to the dance studio. Jose wants him to talk to him in person? He can have it!

***

Brock bangs on the front-door and his hand is still in the air when the door is ripped open.

”What the fuck are you doing here, bitch?”

”You told me to talk to you in person, didn’t you?” Brock raises his voice as well.

”Aaaah and of course the good little christian boy always does what he is told,” Jose sneers. For a second Brock wants to punch him. Instead he pushes past him into the apartment. Jason or whoever else is around, really doesn’t need to hear this conversation.

Jose lets the door falls shut and crosses his arms over his chest. ” Say what you gotta say, then leave.”

”Why are you acting like this?”

”Acting? Acting bitch! Imma show you who’s acting! You lucky I’m not kicking your ass right now for pretending to be my friend, acting all nice and cute while we eating ice cream and then you suddenly stabbing me in the back, pretending you don’t fucking know me and stop talking to me without any explanation. I don’t need any more backstabbing hoes in my life.”

”Do you have any idea what my father would have done, if he knew we were hanging out after dance practice? If he knew we were so much as talking on the regular? I don’t know who he would have shot first, you or me!”

“I’m not scared of your asshole father. I don’t give a shit about him! But I give a shit about loyalty. And you not who I thought you were! You not fucking loyal! If you’d been at that fucking bar last week, you’d have spat on me too and tried to beat me up, just ‘cause you scared of your father. You pathetic!” Jose is full on screaming at him now.

”So you got a taste of what it’s like to live here for one night? Do you know what it’s like to live here every fucking day of your fucking life? When they beat me up as a kid ‘cause I was too girly, my dad beat me up again when I got home. They threw rocks at me, spat at me and slapped me all the way through school. I couldn’t tell my parents, the teachers didn’t care and I didn’t even understand what the fuck was wrong with me!” Brock starts pacing in the small living room.

”You’re the only person who knows. The only person who knows that I’m…” he can barely get the word over his lips. ”…that I’m gay.” There, he’s said it out loud for the first time in his life. Well, yelled it at Jose. ”And you know what happens when that gets out? When only a rumour will spread? What you experienced at the bar will be my life every fucking day and worse. My parents will kick me out, I’ll lose all of my family and I’ll have nothing, NOTHING left. Maybe that’s what I deserve for being that way, maybe that’s really god’s way of punishment. But I’d rather live a lie every day for the rest of my fucking life than to lose the little I have left.” Tears are dripping from Brock’s chin by the end of his confession. He’s laid it all out now to Jose, a guy he barely knows and just because he’s the first one who has shown him any kindness. Fuck! What if… what if he tells people? What if he is so angry he will take revenge and..

”Hey, it’s ok. I understand,” Jose is suddenly standing in front of him and places his hands on his upper arms. That’s when Brock realises he’s shaking. ”It’s ok.” Jose tries to wipe his tears away with the back of his hands, but they fall faster than he can wipe them off. ”Come here, boo, sit down. You still shaking like a fucking tree,” he says. Brock has to laugh about the mishap.

”Leaf,” he corrects through his tears and hiccups.

”Smart ass. Imma get you some water,” Jose smiles and disappears for a moment, before he comes back with a bottle of water and some tissues. Brock takes the water and drinks it down, before he accepts the tissues and dries his face and his eyes.

He feels stupid now for getting so upset, for crying, for yelling all of his secrets at Jose and for coming here in the first place. ”I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” he starts but Jose stops him.

”You know what, boo? You look like you need a hug. That ok?” Jose asks him with a tender and worried look.

”I’m not good at hugging,” Brock shrugs self-deprecatingly and looks down.

”You lucky, ‘cause I’m the best at giving hugs.” A moment later Jose slowly pulls him in his arms and hugs him tightly. It’s a strange feeling for Brock and he can’t remember when he has ever hugged anyone other than his sister or his nieces and nephews. Then however, he slowly relaxes against Jose’s warm body and lets the last couple of tears fall.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks. It’s nice and soothing, comfortable and exciting. He feels safe and cared for. Jose starts running his hands up and down his back and if Brock could, he would start purring like his favorite kitten. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling.

After a while, he turns his head, his nose bumps against Jose’s neck and the scent of cologne gets stronger. Jose’s hand slides up his neck and into his hair. When Brock looks up and their eyes meet, it only takes a split second and then Jose brushes his lips against his. It’s not even a peck, more like a butterfly like touch, but Brock wants more. He stops thinking as he leans up and captures Jose’s mouth in a soft kiss.

When he pulls back his brain suddenly starts working again and he jumps back. ”Oh my god!” he covers his tingling lips with his hand and stares at Jose.

”Please tell me that’s not been your first kiss,” Jose begs, equally wide eyed.

”No! But.. Like… we can’t do this. I can’t..not… here… I’m…”

”It’s ok, Brock. It don’t gotta mean nothing. You can go back to ignoring me now. I get it, I promise. No hard feelings.” The hurt in Jose’s voice tells Brock something else though.

”I don’t wanna ignore you.” He tells him honestly. ”But I can’t… do this here. It’s too risky.”

”Alright. Friends then?” Jose smiles.

”Friends,” Brock nods. ”Just… no one can know.”

”‘Cause I’m too fucking gay for this town, I know, Miss Thing. Then you better get your secretly gay ass outta here, before anyone sees you.” The words are harsh, but the smirk on Jose’s face and the hug he gives him, let Brock know he really means it.

”We could get ice cream again some time?” Brock suggests when he is already halfway out the door.

”Text me tomorrow if you still feeling that typa way and we can do that.” They smile at each other for a moment and if Brock wasn’t such a coward he’d kiss him again. Instead he quickly leaves and vows to himself that he will text Jose in the morning and make sure he won’t lose the only friend who now really knows all of his dirty secrets and still likes him. Despite it all. Maybe because of it.

TBC

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #m/m au #slow burn #romance #angst #hot as hell and no ac #blackhighheels #tw religion #tw internalized homophobia

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disruptiveawesome · 7 years

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Some HC FAQs from a CRUX HC regular.

I guess First…What is HC? HC is Homoclimbtastic. HC is a group and, more specifically, an ‘event.’ It was founded by blah blah you don’t care about this part. Go to the HC website if you wanna read more directly

So why are you writing, Matt? Someone asked me some specific questions about HC as relates to CRUX… and I’m on 10 of literally 22 hours of flights right now… so I figured I’d put them in a doc and share them for everyone. Please bear in mind that all of the non-hard-facts in here are just my opinions. I don’t work for Homoclimbtastic. I am fortunate to count some of the organizers as friends and climbing buddies and I’m trying to do right by the spirit of the event… But I’m just a dude who has been 4 times and likes the event a lot so for you NYers who I love, to provide some context in case you haven’t been and are interested. I figured I’d give you my perspective on some of the Frequently Asked Questions…

Where ‘is’ this area?

This is “more-welcoming-than-makes-a-NYer-feel-comfortable” Fayetteville, WV. It’s situated in the heart of the New River Gorge. Good hiking, white water rafting, kayaking, boating (on Summerville lake–I’ll get to that), sight seeing, natural beauty, and, of course, climbing.

Where do we stay?

But like, okay. Lemme show you the place we stay at. This is Cantrell Ultimate Rafting, or as we call it “Cantrell’s.” The thing to note is that this isn’t a ‘nice camping’ area like what you’d get staying in a state park, or an AAC campground. It’s the extended lawn/back yard of a white water rafting outfitter. The cool thing is that it’s central, small and pretty much *ours* (the HC campers/climbers). I’ve only seen other campers there a few times and usually they keep pretty to themselves and away from us–and anytime they get near us, they are given a thorough ‘explainer’ by the Cantrell’s staff that this is *our* safe space and weekend (I’ve seen them do it myself).

Green is cabins. The office/bar/club/drag stage/and some restrooms are upper right in the red. Blue is anywhere you may wanna park. Yellow is bathrooms. Pink circles are where I’ve seen CRUXers (including me) pitching tents. But you can see there is a lot of space. Now, it should be noted that if there is a ton of rain, some of that open space, like where the ‘parking’ area is above the big cluster of CRUX tents are, its a bit waterlogged. Bring raingear/a rain fly. Oh, and bug spray.

The whole place is pretty small and you can go everywhere in under 2 minutes’ walk (See the 50′ key)

What’s the address?

Cantrell Ultimate Rafting is located at 49 Cantrell Dr, Fayetteville, WV 25840

What size tent can they accommodate

As you can see, ANY. The area that Cantrell’s has is pretty huge. :)

Can you cook on campsite

Yes, many do.

Do they have fresh water

Yes. You won’t need to bring your own in.

Do they have electric onsite or nearby

They do. They even have a camper hookup if I’m not mistaken. Electricity is available inside the bathrooms, and there are some exterior outlets at the bar/office/club/breakfast nook space.

Bathroom facilities?

The restroom/shower facilities are right there on the campsite. The restrooms and shower facilities are gendered, however Cantrell’s and HC have (I thought stated somewhere, but now I can’t find it) rules that people should use the restroom they feel comfortable in/fits their gender identity/expression. I would refer you to HC on that one to get anything more specific.

Are CRUX all together?

Not exactly. Some of us stay in cabins some in tents dotting the landscape of Cantrell’s. But we do try to keep everyone going to Cantrell’s so that we can have time with each other.

How far is parking from the campsite?

Super close, again, as you can see.

Any fast food places like McDonald’s nearby?

A few. But also wanna let you know that breakfast is made for us for a decent cost at Cantrell’s which is enough for me. And I personally like Tudor’s Biscuit World for to pick up cheap and easy pre-made crag foods (though I know some people find it gross). But omg I can’t wait to have sandwiches from SSS! AND PIES AND PINTS OMG.

Any hiking areas if I wanna just go off and do my own thing?

Yes, omg so many. <- Link from the site of Stav Basis, an adventurer/web genius/sometimes CRUXer, and I think fellow ‘this’ll be 5-years’ HCer who hikes a ton. Hey CBF! Another thing to note is a lot of the approaches at the NRG are longer than at the Gunks or a few other places we go to regularly. If you’ve been there, think maybe not as strenuous as some of the longer approaches at Rumney, but just as long. Up to 30/40 minutes, so if you’re climbing you’re getting a bit of a hike in anyway.

Are there swimming areas?

Oh god yes. It’s one of the best parts of that area. Typically, on Friday or Saturday, a WHOLE CRAP TON of HC basically spends the whole day at Summersville lake just climbing and swimming and hanging out on pool floaties:

And usually on Sunday we go to a different part of the lake and Deep Water Solo there:

I heard that this is really only for hard climbers!

This touches on a bit factual data and on the history of HC and its evolution. The New River Gorge doesn’t have a ‘ton’ of ‘easy’ crags. the area really opens up if you’re a solid 5.11 outdoor climber–that’s just the truth of the numbers. But like *everywhere* the places shown on the guidebook aren’t climbs that many of us more casual climbers are ready for (yet). Another fact: HC was originally founded by climbers who *could* climb pretty hard. Which is great inspiration for all of us queer climbers! But that doesn’t mean there aren’t *ANY* places for easy/moderate leading. We have found a bunch of great crags over the years with a bunch of ‘easy/moderate’ sport routes and bigger areas to spread out in which can accommodate groups. And, like, there is so much fun stuff and there isn’t really anything like this anywhere else, so, over time HC has grown from a more strictly ‘hard climber’ thing to a more all-encompassing thing with lots of different levels. Over the last 5 years, the attitude of the organization about ‘non hard’ climbers has changed.

But know yourself: If at HC, when there are tons of people around, when maybe you drank a bunch last night, and you’re nervous about that one person you think is hot not thinking your butt looks good in your climbing shorts, or whatever… maybe that isn’t the best atmosphere to get on your first 5.11 where the guidebook states that if you blow the crux move you could deck. If you don’t know how to clean/rappel, *AT HC, TAUGHT BY SOMEONE YOU DON’T KNOW, AT THE TOP OF A CLIMB, ABOVE 20 LOUD PEOPLE, IS EXPRESSLY NOT THE PLACE TO LEARN IT*. There are a few more snarkyish things written in several posts/manifestos/etc. by the dictators. The ‘chaperone/guest’ thing is ‘strict’ but I think the best way to think about it is if you’ve not climbed outside, you should partner up with someone who has their skills dialed in.

And, just like at CRUX events: Leave No Trace is the order of the day.

So is being good crag citizens and don’t put top rope on all 5 of the moderate routes right next to each other if another group looks like they may want to get on them, too.

And though we’re well known (HC, not CRUX per se), it’s always good to remember that not everywhere is universally friendly.

Edit/Addition: It should be noted that the fact that there are a ton of awesome climbs in the 5.10/5.11/5.12 range should be a really great motivating factor, so even if you’re not yet there, once your skills are dialed in, you can star going for those harder grades. Many of us HCers did our first 10s 11s or 12s there, but the key is to have your safety (and belay skills) TOTALLY ready:) But I get that it's something people sort of have to 'be in' to believe, just like climbing in general. How many times have we all replied "come and I'll show you that's not true" to that person who, when presented with "i'm a rock climber" says "OH I COULD NEVER..." that's what an outdoor 10/11/12 can be.

I also heard that you have to like be a super social justice warrior or else you’re not really welcome.

Not true.

(EVEN THOUGH I PERSONALLY WOULD BE FINE WITH THAT BECAUSE I’M A BRATTY SJW AND I DON’T CARE *CACKLES SOCIAL JUSTICELY*). *cough*

Anyway, this is a ‘national’ event. There are various levels of ‘wokeness’, or whatever you’d like to call it, present within the ethos of the various groups and people who attend. But as an organization the people involved are from my perspective, *deeply* interested in making sure that HC expands its attendees’ horizons and isn’t simply a gay, white cismale experience and event and they are rigorously pushing for a higher degree of inclusivity, and representation (including in their leadership) to make sure that happens.

What does that mean, really? I think that in spirit, it means ‘don’t be an asshole’. In practice, I think it means: don’t talk about/make jokes about people whose groups you’re not part of. Be how you are within CRUX and you should generally be fine. If there is an issue, someone will say something, but I don’t think of that as a thing CRUX members have typically had issues with on the whole–everyone is capable of having issues, but we’re a good group of good people.

And we’re all adults. So, assume positive intent, and if you get called out just listen and don’t be defensive. Even if you think you’re right/it was just a joke/but, but: It won’t hurt you to listen to someone without having to respond/defend yourself. It’s an exercise each of us should probably do more often. Anyway. This has gone on long enough. See you there. Climb On.

#climbing HC Homoclimbtastic

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