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lloydskywalkers · 4 years

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So on the incredibly rare occasion that I do write romance, I have the ability to write one (1) single romance and that is all, and that’s Dumb Fools in Love. Which hopefully fits here, because it’s Glass Girl’s namesake day, so i gotta at least try for @speedythecat, it’s what she desERVES.

(happy valentines this is disgusting fluff anyways i love u speedy)

Lloyd likes the way construction paper sounds. It’s kind of therapeutic, the sound it makes as he drags the scissors through the middle. It’s even more satisfying when he uses them to start stabbing gaping holes through the paper, because he went and ruined the stupid heart shape again, and now he’s running out of pink and red construction paper that doesn’t look like he took a vicious katana to it and went crazy.

“Stupid scissors—”

He doesn’t know if Rain even likes pink or red that much, Lloyd reminds himself dismally, as he untangles his fingers from the scissors. Just that they’re thematically appropriate to the essence of the holiday, or whatever, and they apparently must’ve been the only two colors that existed when whoever came up with Valentine’s Day was around. He hasn’t even found actual purple in any of the little cards he’s seen, just some floral lavender.

Lloyd glances down to the pile of pink and red paper strewn across the table in front of him, then back to the instructions he’s printed out for himself. Then back to the paper.

Maybe he can just like, die instead.

Lloyd is about ninety percent sure that he can’t be the only person to ever look up “how to make Valentine’s Day cards” on the internet before, but it still feels like a crushing blow to his pride and an overall dumb move in general as he does.

But he’s only slightly desperate right now, and he really doesn’t want to reach fully desperate, so he’s willing to suck up his pride if it means not totally ruining his girlfriend’s hopes and dreams by giving her a sub-par and ultimately disappointing Valentine’s Day card that looks like he doesn’t even understand the holiday in the first place.

To be fair, though, he kinda doesn’t.

Like, Lloyd knows what Valentine’s Day is, obviously. He’s not an idiot. He’s just…never really participated in it…as a person. It seems like all the others have cute little stories of getting paper cut-outs and candy hearts in grade school (which he can get behind, if there’s candy), but Lloyd’s experience in grade school was general scorn toward anything love-related at all. Valentine’s Day was well out of the question. Lloyd didn’t even know it existed until he walked straight into a street stand that looked like red and pink had thrown up all over it, before being drowned in like, twenty-dozen bouquets of roses.

He’d been an awful brat of a child then, so at the time, he’d dealt with it by kicking the stand over and being totally grossed out. Now, however, he’s left wondering if those bouquets are worth the money, or if he should invest in the slightly bigger ones they sell over on the east side stands.

How the tables have turned, Lloyd sighs miserably to himself, struggling to peel another stubborn strip of glitter glue from his hand where it’s dried there, sparkling mockingly at him. Finally digging the glue free, Lloyd brushes his hands off and glances down at his paper.

Go for handmade.

Well, that one’s easy, ‘cause there’s no way Lloyd’s physically bringing himself to walk into a store and buy Rain some cheesy card with a bunch of generic hearts on it. This, of course, leaves the problem that Lloyd now has to come up with the card, and the only thing that’s coming to mind are generic, cheesy hearts.

Hmm. Lloyd taps the edge of the table, humming beneath his breath. He can draw pretty well, but he’s not like, an artist. Not like Cole is, or anything. Lloyd is a lot better at cartoon characters and funny little caricatures of the others than he is, say, detailed roses or something.

Rain likes cats, right? he muses. He could draw a cat, and then maybe have it holding a heart, or something. That’d be kinda cute, maybe. And then he’d get to make some awful pun like “you’re paw-sitively purr-fect”—

Lloyd slams his head down on the table. Nope. This is why he’s not allowed to come up with the idea himself. He’s worse than all the awful grocery store cards put together.

Something in his nose tickles, and he sneezes, sending up sparkly dust all around him. Lloyd blinks, then bites back a moan. Belatedly, he realizes he’s just dunked his head in glitter dust.

It could’ve been the glue, he tries to comfort himself.

Figuring he’s already doomed, Lloyd makes peace with the fact that he’s just going to live the rest of his day resembling a blond disco ball, and lifts his head to return to task, squinting at what’s next on the list.

Make it personal.

Again, that one should be easy too, because it’s Rain. But what’s supposed to count as personal? Is it like, I-love-you personal, or here’s-a-reference-to-inside-joke-number-fifty-eight kind of personal? Should he do both? He and Rain have too many inside jokes, though, it’ll take him half the day to pick one, and he’s already running out of time. Rain’s supposed to be back at noon, and Lloyd does not have that kind of time to kill.

He drums his fingers against the table-top, staring at the outlined drawing of Rain his fingers have absently started sketching out, right next to his doodles of little cats and a mini-Overlord raging terror on the glitter glue scattered across the paper.

Lloyd frowns at the last one. Oops. Well, he can’t give her this now.

“Is that supposed to be the Overlord? You can’t give Rain that for Valentine’s Day.”

Lloyd jumps half a foot out of his chair and slams his knee into the table just so that his entire leg goes dead, his shriek of surprise strangling off as he chokes on the erupting cloud of glitter dust.

By the time he winds down coughing, wiping the reflexive tears from his eyes and glaring, Kai is just staring at him, mildly concerned and whole lot unimpressed.

“A little warning, please.”

“I’ve been standing here for five minutes, bud, it’s not my fault you’re in dreamland.” Kai glances down at the table-top of scattered construction paper and glitter dust, and his mouth trembles, like he’s holding back laughter. “Are you…trying to make a card, or mass-murdering our construction paper supply?”

Lloyd feels his cheeks go scarlet, and he sputters. “I’m not — no, I’m just—” He waves his hands in the air, wishing he could disappear. “Valentine’s Day,” he finally says, haplessly. “Rain. Card.”

“Ah,” Kai says, nodding. He eyes the butchered pile of paper. “It’s going…good, then?”

Lloyd buries his face in his hands, groaning. “I keep ruining it. I’ve never done Valentine’s Day before, Kai, this is a disaster. Rain’s gonna hate it.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Kai says, sliding into the chair next to him, patting him on the shoulder. “Rain’ll be fine with…whatever…you end up making. It’s not that big a deal.” He laughs, rolling his eyes. “I mean, it’s not like she’s going to get horribly upset because you butchered her favorite holiday and dump you for some chump with better taste.”

Lloyd freezes dead, his eyes widening. He has not yet considered this option. What if he does ruin Rain’s entire holiday with his awful gift? What if, by completely disrespecting her last name’s namesake — thing — she does get horribly upset and runs off with like, Ariya to the desert or something, and—

Kai blinks, then his eyes go wide. “Lloyd, wait — no, it was a joke, Lloyd, don’t get that look on your face — Nya!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

And that’s how Lloyd ends up cornered by his entire team at the kitchen table, covered in glitter dust and currently living out his worst life as they try to decide the best way for him not to totally sabotage his love life in one go.

“Honestly, I never really got Valentine’s Day,” Kai remarks. “I didn’t get the whole grade school experience as much, since we homeschooled for the most part. It’s just a lot of hearts and chocolate and flowers and stuff, right?”

“Um, it’s a lot more than that,” Jay rolls his eyes. “It was classroom warfare. Your like, entire life status was measured by how many Valentines you’d get. It was totally lame,” he scowls.

“I dunno, I always got a whole lot,” Cole muses. “I could never figure out why, though. I wasn’t super popular, or anything...”

They all stare at Cole for a beat, where he stands haloed beneath the kitchen lights in all his wavy-haired glory.

“Hopeless,” Jay sighs.

“This isn’t grade school, though,” Nya says. “This is Lloyd’s actual relationship, which we are helping him with, so let’s hear actual helpful stuff, please.”

“Again,” Kai shrugs. “Flowers. Chocolate. Hearts. Bam, you’re good.”

“For crying out loud,” Jay groans. “How do magazines keep labeling you the smooth one.”

“Hold on, he’s got a point with the chocolate part,” Cole points out.

“Of course, you would choose that part to focus on,” Zane sighs.

“Guys, enough,” Nya cuts over them. “I said helpful stuff, not the most generic ideas ever. I mean, chocolate’s nice, but Lloyd’ll probably eat it all before it gets to Rain anyways—”

“I would not!” Lloyd protests.

“—and the card’s gonna be the focal point, so hearts are covered.” Nya glances down the pile of butchered construction paper in front of Lloyd, and winces. “We’ll, uh, help you with that part. But first, let’s plan.” She tugs a half-torn piece of construction paper toward her, uncapping a marker. “What all does Rain like, for starters?”

“Well,” Lloyd pauses, thinking. “She does like flowers, and — no, no I am not going to ask Lief for help, no way, not a chance.”

“Just a suggestion!” Jay throws his hands up in defense. “He’s her friend, though, so he’d probably have some ideas, y’know?”

“So. Not. Worth it.”

“Okay, okay, geez.”

Nya rolls her eyes, but scribbles ‘flowers — not from Lief’ on the paper anyways. “Good, but that’s still pretty standard stuff. Anything else a little more creative? Something that really says Rain to you.”

“She likes rocks,” Lloyd nods.

The marker squeaks violently on the paper, and Nya makes a dying sound in the back of her throat. Kai breaks into snickering, and Jay whacks him on the shoulder, giggling.

“There you go, bud, perfect Valentine’s gift. Give her a rock.”

“No,” Nya says firmly, glaring at Jay. She then turns the glare on Lloyd, who immediately shrinks lower in his seat. “Rocks, Lloyd, really — okay. Okay, do you know anything else she likes? That’s not rocks?”

“Uh, she likes…glass?” Lloyd says, weakly. “And um, seashells. And tea, and — she really does like rocks, I’m serious! Like, cool ones—“

“You are not giving Rain a rock for Valentine’s Day!”

“A cool rock!”

“That doesn’t make it any more acceptable!”

“Ughhh.” Lloyd slides down in his chair with a dying moan, throwing his arms over his face. “You ruin everything. She likes those little paper cranes, I guess. And, uh…”

“You,” Zane reminds him. “She likes you. Therefore, she will most likely love anything you give her, since it’s from you.”

Normally, Lloyd would just scoff at that, but Zane’s voice is so sincere it actually helps, a little. Lloyd sits up in his seat a bit, his crossed arms loosening. “Well…”

“Yeah! So why don’t you just draw her a cat that says like, ‘you’re purr-fect’, or something?” Jay suggests. “That sounds like you.”

Lloyd slams his head against the table, once again accidentally dunking himself in glitter dust. He can’t bring himself to care this time, because the whole world apparently just knows him for terrible puns.

“Stop being so melodramatic, you’re going to remind her of her brother,” Nya clips. Lloyd chokes on his tongue, and dissolves into a fit of manic sputtering as Kai claps him on the back, encouraging him to breathe.

“—was just a joke, Lloyd, don’t take her seriously.”

“—time and place, Nya, time and place—!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

It takes several disastrous attempts and more than a few marker wars — Kai in particular is sporting some spectacular pink sharpie marks along the side of his face, and Lloyd’s got streaking red marks across his forearms as the price for protecting his own face — but Lloyd end up with one brightly-colored, cursive-lettered Valentine’s card for Rain.

He’s feeling pretty confident in it, actually. It says everything he wants it to say, while looking pretty but dignified, and it’s only got one cat on it, so he’s — he’s pretty sure Rain will like it. A lot more than any of his other disastrous attempts, he assures himself. Now all he’s gotta do is grab the flowers Nya made him promise to get, and according to both Wikihow and his family, he’ll have the perfect Valentine. Armed with that knowledge, Lloyd strides confidently for the kitchen table to grab an envelope.

Only to freeze dead when he comes face-to-face with Rain, who’s bent over studying said disastrous attempts from earlier, that he’s left out in full view on the kitchen table like a complete moron.

Rain’s currently got one of his first attempts in her hands, her finger tracing the little design he’d drawn. Her hair’s down right now, all silvery and smooth and falling over her face, so he can’t see her expression.

Lloyd is highly considering running for the hills by like, hurling himself out the kitchen window, when Rain turns around, the end her nose still red from the outside cold, freckles standing out more than usual on her cheeks. Lloyd freezes in place.

She holds up one of the ruined cards. “Are all these...for me?”

Lloyd’s soul makes the executively wise decision to exit his body right then.

“They’re — I — no, they’re for, uh—”

Lloyd’s mind backfires. Shoot, he can’t say they’re for someone else, they’ve got ‘I love you’ and other sappy stuff all over them, what’s he supposed to do—

“They’re, uh, for my grandmother.”

Rain raises an eyebrow. “Your grandmother…named Rain,” she says slowly, reading the name that’s brightly plastered everywhere.

“Her name’s Rain too,” Lloyd tries, weakly.

Rain raises her other eyebrow. She wordlessly holds up one of the cards, pointing to where “Rain Allira Valentine” is highlighted. Lloyd mentally makes a note to murder Kai later as her finger slides down to the “Mr. Rain Valentine” right below, her lips trembling as she tries to hold back a snicker.

“Um.” At least she’s laughing, Lloyd tells himself. She hasn't run off to the desert yet. “I have a better one for you, I swear. Those are just — really, really bad first attempts, which you were never supposed to see, ever.”

Please forget they ever existed, is on the tip of his tongue, but Rain’s expressions softens, her eyes fond as she looks from the cards to him.

“I don’t know, these are…kinda sweet,” she admits, her cheeks going a bit pink.

“Oh,” Lloyd says, his own face heating. “That’s! That’s good, I guess. I mean, this new one’s — it’s a whole lot better, though, and uh…” He frantically rubs the back of his head, trying to get his brain back online and working properly again. Unfortunately, the action sends a tiny shower of sparkles raining from his hand, and Lloyd remembers in horror that he never got that glitter dust out.

Rain smirks, biting back a laugh. “Hold on,” she says, stepping in close. “You’ve got some — here.”

She pushes a hand through his hair, her fingers gently tangling through the thick blond strands before pulling away, leaving her fingers stained in glitter dust. She gives a tiny snicker, then brushes at his hair with her other hand, neatly sweeping a shower of glitter dust from it before carefully tousling his hair back in place.

“There,” she says. “Now you don’t look as much like a disco ball.”

“Maybe I wanted to look like a disco ball,” Lloyd says, petulantly. “Lloyd Disco Ball Garmadon, that’s me.”

“Then I’d have to make you another Valentine’s card,” Rain says, and Lloyd finally spots the envelope she’s been keeping behind her back. “Because I definitely messed up your middle name, if that’s the case.”

Lloyd blinks rapidly. “Wait, you got me one?”

Rain freezes, looking unsure. “Um…yes? That’s kind of…the point, right? You give Valentine’s to people you lo—like—um, love.”

Lloyd’s definitely red now. “I-I probably wouldn’t know,” he finally stammers. “Darkley’s wasn’t too big on Valentine’s.”

Lloyd immediately wants to hit himself, because Rain’s here being sweet and talking about love, and he’s bringing up Darkley’s like a motor-mouthed moron. And now Rain looks sad, and is it too late for Lloyd to pitch himself out the window—?

“Well, lucky for you, I know all about it,” Rain suddenly says, firmly. “You’ll just have to spend the day with me, so I can give you the run-down.”

“That I can do,” Lloyd grins brightly in relief.

“It’s a date, then,” Rain beams, before her smile hitches in laughter. “And you, um, you have more glitter. On your cheek.”

Lloyd wipes quickly at his face. “Oh, come on — did I get it?”

“No, now you’re just — okay, stop, I’ll get it, hold on.”

Rain steps nearer again, brushing her thumb across his cheek once, then again. “There,” she nods satisfied. She doesn’t move back, though, standing close enough that Lloyd can count her freckles, and see every shade of teal in her eyes. There’s a hint of a smile left on her face, and Lloyd swallows. This would probably be like, the perfect time to—

“For FSM’s sake, kiss her, you moron, she’s totally set you up for it—”

Kai’s voice cuts off in a strangled choking sound as Nya throttles him while both Rain and Lloyd go scarlet, and Lloyd makes another mental note to murder Kai a second time later.

“Wanna go out?” Lloyd suggests hastily, his face flaming. “The candy’s probably not gonna be on sale yet, but I bet we can get someone to cut us a deal.”

“Yes,” Rain nods fervently. “Let’s — out. Go out. Of here, sounds good.”

“Great,” Lloyd says, then snatches both their jackets from the hook before fleeing, Rain trailing behind him as they sprint past the others, stifling laughter as Lloyd desperately avoids making eye contact with anyone. Rain’s muffling giggles too, though, and Lloyd can’t help breathing out a laugh as he flings open the doors tumbling out into the chilly February weather.

“So, I have a question,” he says, as their footsteps fall into pace down the street. “What do you think of like, rocks as a present?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Is it like, a cool rock?”

“I mean, hypothetically? Yeah, a super cool rock.”

“Well, if it’s super cool. Then that’d be a good one, I guess.”

“I knew it—!”

#ninjago #lloyd garmadon #rain #oc #this is the Worst of Sap #the rest of the team is here being...sort of...helpful too #anyways stan rain

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tessimagines · 5 years

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Heroes // Sirius Black - Part One

Pairing: Sirius Black x Potter!Reader

Summary: Sirius Black has woken night after night to the screams of one of his best friends, (Y/N) Potter. It’s just a dream, he tells himself. A nightmare, fuelled by the ever-darkening war around them. In the morning, she sees him and smiles, blissfully unaware of the effect that smile has on him. But when the dreams grow darker and more ominous, Sirius begins to notice the similarities between them and reality and he feels closer than ever to losing the woman he loves.

Series Masterlist is linked in my bio!

Warnings: angst, mentions of kidnapping and nightmares.

Wordcount: 2.9k

A/N: Here is the first part! I hope you all like it :) I would love to know what you think, so please feel free to leave a comment or let me know in my inbox. Gif not mine. Also, I would like to let you know, I will be adding some characters for the sake of the story. Most of these will be just names (despite one).

The dream always goes like this.

He’s tired. He can feel it in his bones and aching muscles. For whatever reason, blood coats every region of his hands, a thick layer sticky and warm on the wand he grips tight in his fist.

It's night. The moon glows bright and luminous above them. There are trees everywhere and a smothering layer of fog clings to the damp ground. He can smell rain and smoke and the rusty tang of freshly spilled blood.

He trips. He can see her ahead of him now. She doesn’t stumble like he does. She is running towards something, someone. She is determined, focused and in no way he has ever seen her before - deadly.

He follows her to a small cliff, the sound of rushing water below them. He can hear the sound of the water rushing rapidly below him and the smell of rotting leaves. It’s too dark to see anywhere below the surface.

There is someone else there but he can’t see them. He can hear their footsteps crinkling up leaves underneath every step. There could be a whole group surrounding them for all he knows. His breaths are laboured and so are hers, each one rising with an audible wheeze. When the two of them are caught against the edge of the small cliff, he finds her hand between them. Her fingers are icy cold.

And then there is a flash of green. He is pushed out of the way and he can feel as her fingers slip from his own. He catches a glint of pink and she falls backwards.

And that’s when she lets rip that scream. That fucking scream. Every time it rips a hole right through him. And no matter how hard he reaches out for her again or how loud he screams her name, she tumbles backwards and is swallowed up by the black, unforgiving water below him.

And that’s when he wakes, covered in sweat, the sound of her scream still lingering in his ears.

“Sirius.”

He jolts upright at your voice, lungs heaving. beads of sweat glisten on his forehead in the low light of the room. He watches your face change as he takes in the expression on it, a mixed look of both concern and confusion. He runs a hand through his black hair, the roots of every strand damp with sweat. He can still hear that scream and he has to double-take at you in his doorway to make sure it really isn’t coming from you.

“Hey, are you alright?” you ask, your head tilting to the side and leaning on the frame of the doorway. His breaths are still shallow and sharp and he forces himself to take a deep one.

He nods first, and when he feels his lungs can take it, speaks. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He can tell instantly that you don’t believe him but you don’t push him any further. Instead, you slowly nod, letting a small comforting smile form upon your lips. It’s warm and would normally in any other circumstance, make Sirius’ heart flutter. This time, however, it just causes his insides to drop.

“Alright, well, Ma’s got breakfast ready.” You’re drumming a beat on the wooden frame of the doorway, a smile still resting upon your lips. “She wanted me to come and get you. James is already down there.”

Sirius nods as you leave, watching as you close the door behind you. His head is light, it almost feels as if it is fluid and unnatural on top of his neck. After a moment, he tries to get up and stumbles. His hands grip the oak desk next to him, trying to steady himself. He brings the glass jar closer to himself before he conjures a bright light inside, illuminating the room.

Sirius tries to take another grounding breath. The smell of rust is still toxic in his nose, reminding him of the image of numerous trees flashing pass as he runs. It’s the third time he has had the same dream, each time waking up to that same ear-piercing scream. And every time, he will wake and you will be there waiting for him, your smile so blissfully unaware of the reason for his laboured breaths or the effect that its warmth has on him. The first time, he had almost reached out and tugged at your wrist, wanting to bring you towards himself in the hope that his own body would protect yours. The dream had felt so real, every sound, sight and smell still clear on the surface of his mind.

Every morning, he tells himself that its nothing. That the dream is nothing but a nightmare, fuelled by the war that rages on around them. And most of the time he believes it.

Because, really, there isn’t much else he can do.

James sits across from you, his black, unruly hair getting caught in the arms of his glasses. He is eating a piece of jam toast while laughing at the same time, Your mother whacking him over the head in order to settle him. She knows it won’t work and instead looks up at you and rolls her eyes.

“I’m telling you Ma, you walk more like a penguin than a person.”

“How did I raise such a rude son?” She is trying to keep a straight face but she can’t help but let it falter. Your father is sitting across from your brother, trying to stifle his laughs into today’s copy of The Daily Prophet. It deepens the wrinkles that mark his aged face and he only puts the paper down when he watches his children’s best friend enter the room.

“Ah, Sirius. Morning.” He lifts his porcelain teacup to his lips and takes a sip. Sirius doesn't notice the greeting was addressed to him and by the time he has, Fleamont’s eyebrows have already drawn closer together. “Are you alright, Son?”

Sirius nods but you can tell his mind is still distracted. It’s like there is a glaze over his eyes, keeping him just out of reach of the present. “I’m okay, thanks Fleamont.”

“He just doesn’t eat enough, that’s all. I know you have your own place now, Sirius, but I want you to stay here more just so I can make sure you’re eating.” Your mother brushes down her floral dress before pulling out a chair between you and James for Sirius. She motions for him to sit down and then pats him on the shoulder. “Eat up, honey.”

Sirius tries to smile for her, and manages well enough to fool Euphemia. You keep your eyes on him for another second, looking at the tiny features in his face that tell you something is wrong. When he catches your eye, he quickly looks away and down at the plate of eggs and toast that Euphemia has put down in front of him. “Thanks, Mia.”

Fleamont’s eyes are back on his paper, his wrinkles tightening as he reads the words on the page. He keeps his eyes on the paper when he opens his mouth and speaks, his voice as soft as it always is. “There’s been another disappearance. Two of them, Amaryllis Shacklebolt and her husband in North Yorkshire.”

“That’s Kingsley's sister, isn’t she?” James asks and Fleamont nods.

“Such a nice family. They think it’s that Flint, the one who blew up the Muggle post office in South Wales a few weeks ago. Apparently, he was sighted in their town a few days before it happened.”

Euphemia is sitting down beside her husband and reaches across to grab his hand. Her greying hair is loose and sitting freely around her face. When a strand falls in front of her eyes, she doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

“Kingsley is part of the order with us,” you say. “I met Amaryllis a few months back, coming back from a scout with Kingsley.”

Your mother shakes her head, bringing her fingers to rub the area between her eyebrows. She then looks up at the three of you, her hand still in your fathers.

“I know you three are trying to do the right thing by joining that Order. But you worry me when you go out doing stuff like that. You’re all so young.”

“Mum,” James says, that charming smile of his wide and bright on his lips. He’s doing his best to be comforting and manages to pull it off quite well. “We’re 19 - of legal age. We want to do our part, okay?”

Your mother doesn’t say another thing and just nods. The expression on her face is still one of fear and discomfort, but when your father squeezes her hand, you watch as she calms a little.

“We have a meeting tonight,” you say. Your mother looks up and you feel the need to reassure. “Don’t worry, it’s not a scout or a mission or anything, just a meeting. We won't get home till around 11 or 12.”

You mother nods, trying her best to give a warm smile. It’s only a flicker, still masked with worry for her children and their friend. You do your best in returning it before taking the last bite of your toast. James follows suit before getting up from the table.

“Alright, Padfoot. Sister. Let’s go find the rest of our little group, shall we? There is a particular redhead that I find myself wanting to snog.”

“James Potter!” Euphemia shouts, her face going a deep magenta. “Do not talk about your girlfriend like that! You have no manners!”

Your laughing when you get out of your chair, James cackling at himself in front of you. Sirius stands, his face blank and remote. His mind is somewhere else, somewhere far away from the teasing and laughing at the table. When you watch him follow James out of the room, his shoulders tense and set like stone, you can't help but sigh, the familiar tang of concern sour on your lips.

A fire crackles in the corner of the room when the six of you enter, Albus Dumbledore at the head of the long oak table. He’s adorned in his usual flamboyant robes, this time a vibrant lilac with silver stars decorating the material. His face softens into a smile when the lot of you enter and his bright blue eyes catch yours. He winks when you smile at him, watching as you take a seat down next to Sirius.

Your group, containing the usual Marauders and Lily, are still bickering with one another about the relationship status of Gideon Prewett and Marlene McKinnon. You watch as Lily rolls her eyes at your brother once again as James whips around to face her.

“I’m telling you, Lily. I saw them together at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour last Saturday. Marlene even took a lick of his raspberry ice cream! Do you take me for a liar?”

“James, all I’m saying is that I think Marlene would have told me if she was planning on going out on a date with Gideon. We’re good friends.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Your brother shouts. You can see Alastor Moody next to Dumbledore turn to James when he hears it and roll his glass eye. The sight makes you grin, before James sucks in your attention again. “Maybe she hasn’t told you because she is waiting to see how things go. I’d say most people would do that with their friends.”

Lily raises an eyebrow and swings around to face him directly. “Excuse me, Potter? Most people would do that? When I agreed to go on our first date you got up on one of the tables in the Gryffindor Common Room and announced to our entire house you were taking me to the Three Broomsticks!”

James crosses his arms and leans back into his chair, one of his trademark cocky smirks finding their way upon his lips. “Well, I guess we could say that I’m not most people am I, Evans?”

Lily rolls her eyes again and tries to hide the smile that threatens to show. You laugh when you see her playfully hit the side of his arm, and then as James throws his head back in an overly dramatic display of pain. When the two of them start at it again, you turn to face Sirius beside you.

“So, Padfoot. What’s your take on it?” When you address him, Sirius’ dark eyes turn to look up into yours. He’s happier than he was this morning, more aware of the situation and people around him. But you can still sense a tinge of discomfort inside of him, enough to make you worry.

James and Lily are still bickering only a few seats away from you, and Sirius’ eyes flicker over to them one last time before answering. “Oh,” he says, the corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk. “There is no way that Gideon could have landed Marlene.”

“Are you sure?” You laugh, cocking an eyebrow up at him. “You know, I don’t think I ever told you this but Gideon was my first kiss. Or it could have been his twin brother Fabien, I’m still not one hundred percent sure.”

Sirius smiles, followed by a laugh that exaggerates the pinkness of his lips. When you realise how close they are, your skin begins to tingle and then James releases a final shout of victory.

“What did I tell you, Evans!” James is grinning, large and bright. Lily is shaking her head while looking at Remus. “Look at the two of them now!”

Both you and Sirius turn around to face the entry of the room. Gideon and Marlene are walking in together, with Marlene’s hand sitting snugly in Gideons. You can’t help but smile at James when he gets up and struts over to them, extending his hand to shake Gideons in congratulation. Lily is yelling at him to stop, each word coming out with a laugh she can’t help but let slip.

“Jealous, Potter?” Sirius laughs beside you and you roll your eyes at him, whacking him on his arm beside you.

When everyone sits down, Dumbledore rises from his seat at the head of the table. His outstretched hands demand the absolute silence of everyone present, each movement laced with a thick concoction of gravitas and weight. When he opens his mouth to speak, not a single person dares to whisper.

“Hello, friends.” His eyes flicker around the room from person to person, the expression on his face serious. “It’s with great sorrow and pain we gather here today. Last night, it was discovered that a family member of one of our Order and her husband have gone missing from their home in North Yorkshire. Amaryllis Shakelbolt is Kingsley’s sister and we all hope that she and her husband will be recovered sometime soon.”

“It is also a great hope that the people who carried out this terror will be brought to justice. No facts are official as of yet, but it has been discovered that Oswald Flint, a well known and high-ranking Death Eater, was spotted in their hometown only a few days before the disappearance.”

“As all of you know, Flint has been on our radar for some time. And after the incident in South Glamorgan a few weeks ago, I have had many of you researching and scouting him. After this most recent event, I have been given direct orders by the Ministery that they wish two members of this Order work alongside Aurors to capture and recover Flint.”

He pauses, and then Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes are on you. For a second, your brain fumbles and your hand snaps at Sirius’ arm beside you. You’re gripping him tight, without realising, when Dumbledore begins to speak again. His eyes are glittering, and he gives a slight nod in your direction.

“(Y/N), how would you feel about this assignment?” His voice is low and composed, yet still managing to convey the seriousness of the situation. Sirius’ eyes are on you, his dark brown irises dancing all over your face. You risk a quick look at him before speaking.

“Uh-” you stutter, closing your eyes for half a second in order to try and reinstate some sort of order to your thoughts. “I would be honoured, Sir.”

There is a small smile on his lips when you agree, but within a moment, his eyes have flickered to Sirius beside you. You feel your grip tighten on Sirius’ arm. Dumbledore doesn’t even need to speak before Sirius nods at him, his face blank and impossible to read.

“Very well,” Dumbledore says, the silver stars on his robes glittering in the light of the fireplace behind him. “I will inform the ministry who will be taking this task. Now, Edgar, Is there an update on the Lestrange Brothers?”

When Sirius’ hand clasps over yours, any words that come out of Dumbledore’s mouth are long forgotten and distant. He looks at you and you try your best to give him a warm smile, letting the end of your eyebrow cock up into an arch.

“A Potter and Black, eh?” you say, letting a finger entwine with one of his. “When has that combination ever gone wrong?”

There you go! I hope you all enjoyed the first part of this series. Please let me know what you thought by either leaving a comment down below or dropping something in my inbox.

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reverseblackholeofwords · 4 years

Text

Bo and Yancy

Part Two: For the Love of Physics

Part 1 Here

Professor Beauregard grumbles to herself and speeds back to her laboratory outside of town, leaving Happy Trails Penitentiary, one of the last human strongholds in the area, in her dust. That idiotic Warden just doesn’t understand. He never takes a step out of the jail himself, and Bo can’t convince him that the world really is coming to an end right under his nose.

So she’s going to have to think of something else, find another way to get to that brainless behemoth to hand over the anomaly. It has to be his fault, and if she can only find out what he’s doing to cause all this, maybe she can reverse it. Maybe she’ll be able to bring them all back, stop this from ever happening in the first place.

She blinks and realizes that she’s heading right for a group of zombies playing golf in the middle of the road, and she swerves but... maybe a little too late. A caddie rolls up the windshield and off the back of the car. Bo hisses through her teeth. “Whoopsies.”

That night at the lab is more lonely than ever. It’s been the longest time since she’s seen another human that isn’t rotting and falling to pieces or trying to raid her lab for supplies--though Warden Bloodspatter or whatever is hardly an improvement. She stays up all night, going through the last of her coffee reserves to try to come up with a plan to break out the anomaly.

He’s bigger than her, that’s for sure, which would make him difficult to carry if she used some sort of knock-out gas. So she’d have to take him willingly, not that she thinks that would be too much trouble. By the time she has a plan that she thinks is fool proof, the sun is rising outside her window, and the zombies are gathering like they sense that she’s planning to leave. No matter.

She takes her laser gun off the charging rack and checks it for damage, and then she charges out the front door in a blaze of hot blue light.

Back at the penitentiary, Yancy is in a bad mood. It doesn’t happen too often, usually only when the Warden lets the guards rough up one of his family members a little or when he’s working out a particularly difficult lyrical conundrum. Today, it’s for a different reason.

He can’t figure out why the Warden wouldn’t let him help the professor, or why she wanted him specifically in the first place. None of it adds up to him. He’s certainly not all that valuable to either party. So why in the world would they be fighting over him like this?

“Yance, cheer up, man,” Sparkles McGee says, punching him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re too deep in your head today. Let’s go outside and walk around.”

“It’s raining,” Yancy groans. “In case youse haven’t noticed.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t like... singing in the rain,” Sparkles suggests with a waggle of his eyebrows, and Yancy’s face slowly lights up in realization. His family always knows how to make him smile.

“Well... now that youse mention it...”

Yancy and Sparkles race each other out to the yard. No one else is outside save for a single guard huddled up under the awning over the doorway. Yancy splashes through a particularly big puddle and swings himself around a light pole as he starts to sing.

He and Sparkles go through the whole song, “Singing in the Rain,” twice before they’re so wet that Yancy is sure he’ll be wringing out his uniform for days. He can feel the squish of his shoes with every step, and it would be depressing if he wasn’t so dizzy with laughing. Sparkles shoves him playfully, and Yancy slips, tumbling into the mud.

Sparkles gasps. “Yancy, bro, I’m sorry!” He reaches a hand down to help his fellow jailbird up, but Yancy just grins and pulls him down into the mud with him. “Okay, okay,” Sparkles laughs, “I guess I deserved that one.”

“Yeah, you bet.” Yancy smears mud in his friend’s hair and then gets up trying to clean himself off as best he can.

“Hey, you two!” The guard is sneering at them as if he’s finally noticed them, and Yancy frowns. “Quit making a mess of yourselves and get back inside! It’s time for lunch!”

Yancy cups his hands around his mouth. “Yeah, well why don’t youse come and get us?”

Sparkles looks up at Yancy warily. “Yance, are you sure about this? It always ends badly when you antagonize...”

“Youse heard me, ya chicken!” Yancy shouts. “What? You scared youse gunna melt or somethin’?”

The guard comes charging towards them then, and Sparkles yelps, jumping to his feet to hold his friend back. Yancy is always quick to pick fights, but he doesn’t always win them. “Yance, wh-why don’t you just apologize to the nice... big man and lets you and me go inside? Get a hot shower and some food, eh? Maybe you’re just hangry!”

But Yancy just puts up his fists and bounces from foot to foot until a blast of blue energy knocks the guard out cold. Yancy and Sparkles both turn to look through the fence around the yard at the small woman standing in the rain with a giant gun aimed at them.

“Come with me, anomaly!” she shouts, her voice much bigger than she is.

Yancy shrugs his shoulders. “Ah, no?”

Bo drops the gun to her side. “What? Don’t you want to get out of here?”

“Break out? Of this place?” Yancy gestures around. “Why would anyone want to...”

Sparkles punches Yancy in the arm again. “Not right now, Yance. Don’t you see this lady means business? She’s got a big gun!”

“Yeah, and I can use it too.” She points it at him again. “I could just kill you right here, right now, and probably save myself and everyone else a lot of trouble. But I’d really rather try to figure out what makes you tick first, anomaly!” She changes the setting on the laser gun and burns a hole in the fence, the metal melting away like ice cream on a hot day.

Yancy gulps.

“So? Are you going to come peacefully, or am I going to have to use force?” Bo asks, hefting the gun.

Sparkles clears his throat. “Uh, I think you should go with her.”

“But...” Yancy glances back at the penitentiary, at his home, where his family is sitting peacefully unaware of his kidnapping.

“Go.” Sparkles pushes him forward a step. “I’ll tell the others what happened, okay? We’ll send someone after ya,” he whispers.

Yancy nods and sloshes through the muck towards Bo. She pulls out a pair of handcuffs and links one of his wrists with hers. “Alright now, come quietly. I don’t want any funny business.” She walks him back to her Jeep as Sparkles watches nervously chewing at his fingernails.

The guard stirs where he fell in the mud, and Sparkles darts back inside before he can realize what’s happened. Meanwhile, Yancy rides along in the passenger seat, rain dripping down his window as he watches the jail shrink away to nothing.

“What are youse gonna do with me?” he asks solemnly.

Bo ignores him for a moment, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know yet,” she finally says. Her face doesn’t reveal a hint of emotion, and Yancy finds her absolutely terrifying.

He turns away from her in the seat, as much as he can with his hand cuffed to hers, and continues staring out the window--trying not to wonder what’s going to happen to him.

#yancy #professor beauregard #markiplier #rosanna pansino #bo and yancy #bo and yancy pt 2

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emospritelet · 5 years

Text

Turn Left

After her encounter with Detective Weaver and his apparent lack of interest in taking things any further, Lacey arrives back in Storybrooke disillusioned and spoiling for a fight. She and Mr Gold have been trading insults for some time, but Lacey finds to her surprise that beneath the sarcasm, her attraction to him is growing. She decides to act on it.

Part 3 of the Small World series [Part 1] [Part 2] [AO3 link]

Lacey French had never believed she would be glad to get back to Storybrooke, Maine. Especially not in October, when the air was already cold enough to snow, and the rain threatened to freeze around her. She stepped off the bus from Boston into a dull, dark afternoon, her bag in one hand and a scowl on her face. Still, at least she was no longer in Seattle. It was unlikely she would ever have to set foot in the city again, which meant she was unlikely ever to see him. Just as well.

She had not gone to the other side of the country expecting to meet someone in a bar. She had also not planned on going back to his place and having the best sex of her life. His lack of interest afterwards was something she could have anticipated, however. Story of her fucking life. Every guy she’d ever hooked up with had turned out to be a total loser, and she’d made a mistake in thinking Detective fucking Weaver might have been different.

The rain was falling harder, and she shivered, looking around as the bus pulled off with a squeak of hydraulics. Too late to grab a shift at Granny’s, even if she wanted to, and she sighed as she remembered she had the breakfast shift the next morning. For a moment the future seemed to open up before her, years of minimum wage jobs and one-nighters with assholes. It was a depressing thought, and one she shoved to the back of her mind as soon as it took form. At least it wasn’t far to her apartment, and she could take a long hot shower, open a bottle of wine, and pretend her life was something other than a steaming pile of crap.

In the end she finished the wine and poured herself a whisky, and as a result she was hungover and sullen the following morning, her limbs heavy and aching and her head feeling as though it had been slammed against the wall. Fortunately the diner was fairly quiet at seven a.m. Just Leroy and his buddies filling up on eggs and bacon before work, and Dr Hopper getting tea and a bagel before heading to his office. Lacey poured coffee and carried trays of food in a daze, Ruby flitting around her wiping tables and clearing away dishes. Lacey envied her bright smile and cheerful demeanour; clearly Ruby had done the sensible thing and gotten an early night.

The day was every bit as dark and miserable as it had been when she arrived back in Storybrooke, and it did nothing to lift Lacey’s mood. She stomped to and from the kitchen, tiny red skirt swishing around her thighs and her white shirt tight enough to make the buttons strain. Granny had cast disapproving looks at the outfits she and Ruby wore, but to her credit she hadn’t told them to change.

A brief sound of traffic and driving rain and the feel of a cold breeze hinted at the door being opened, and Lacey glanced over her shoulder as she set down Dr Hopper’s toasted bagel. She sighed to herself at the new arrival. Mr Gold was a regular, although he rarely had anything but coffee. He was as immaculately dressed as always, three-piece black suit over a red silk shirt and a heavy wool overcoat over the top. A furled umbrella dripped water on the floor, but the wind was gusting, and some of the rain had caught in his hair, tiny droplets catching the light. His hair was longer than was fashionable, brushing his collar and hanging around his face, streaks of silver in amongst the brown. Gold was a short, thin man, with angular features and sharp brown eyes that flitted suspiciously around the room before meeting hers. Lacey swallowed hard.

Great. I’m marked.

She wasn’t sure why his gaze always made her feel nervous. Perhaps it was his reputation. Gold was landlord for most of Storybrooke, including her, and was renowned for keeping strictly to the letter of every rental agreement. No ifs, no buts, no extensions. Lacey was fortunate that she had always been able to make rent, and had therefore never attracted his ire, but she knew plenty of people who weren’t as lucky. It didn’t stop him being a sarcastic asshole with her, either. Luckily she had always managed to hold her own with him, despite Ruby warning her not to bring his attention onto her any more than was necessary. It seemed like she just couldn’t help herself; she had to snarl and bite at the shitty world somehow, and Gold made an easy target, if perhaps not one a sensible person would aim at.

Gold glanced away from her, heading for an empty table by the window, leather-gloved hand tightening around the brass-handled cane he used. She had always wondered how he had injured his leg badly enough to have a limp that had never healed, but as far as she knew no one had ever had the balls to ask him. He shrugged off his coat and hung it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down and looking pointedly in her direction. Glancing around in desperation, she saw with irritation that Ruby was taking another order, and so she dug in the pocket of her tiny apron for her pad and pen and stomped over.

“What can I get you?” she asked grumpily, and Gold sat back, one corner of his mouth drawing up in a twisted smile as he looked her over.

“Miss French,” he drawled. “I haven’t had the pleasure of your surly expression and monosyllabic responses in what feels like an eternity.”

“Miss me, Mr Gold?” she asked flatly. “The feeling isn’t mutual. What’ll it be? Cup of dark and bitter with a side order of asshole?”

Gold’s twisted smile grew.

“I see your brief absence wasn’t due to taking a course in customer service,” he said snidely.

“Yeah, well, I spoke to the college admin, and it turns out you took the last spot on Human Interaction 101,” she said. “I figured you needed it more than me.”

He swallowed the grin, eyes narrowing, and she let one hip swing out, raising a brow.

“You ordering, or are you just gonna sit there scowling at me?”

“Black coffee,” he said ungraciously. “I’ll take a cinnamon Danish if they’re fresh.”

“They’re always fresh.”

“Could have fooled me, dearie.”

“Yeah, well, give ‘em a break,” she said. “Two minutes in your company and I feel like I’ve aged ten years, what chance does a Danish have?” She scribbled on the pad. “I’ll bring ‘em right out.”

She sashayed off, grinning to herself as she felt his glare between her shoulder blades.

“You got a death wish or something?” hissed Ruby, following her into the kitchen. “Gold’s put people on the street for less!”

Lacey snorted, using a set of tongs to lift one of the fresh pastries onto a plate. She set it on a tray with a clean coffee cup.

“What’s he gonna do, evict me for sarcasm?” she asked. “Bastard’s got nothing on me. My rent’s paid up and he knows it. Besides, he started it.”

“Just be careful,” warned Ruby. “I keep trying to tell you, but you don't listen! He’s got a long memory and he’ll just bide his time until you need something from him.”

“Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.”

“Oh, so we’re just up and tempting fate now, are we?”

“Rubes, don’t worry so much!” said Lacey impatiently. “I promise I won’t piss him off anymore, okay?”

She stomped out again, tray in hand, hips swinging as she grabbed the pot of coffee and carried it over to Gold’s table. He was watching her, one hand folded over the handle of his cane, fingers drumming slowly against it.

“One black coffee and a Danish, as requested,” she announced, and put the plate in front of him with a loud clunk before pouring the coffee.

“That’s an apple Danish,” he said coldly.

“So?”

“I requested cinnamon.”

“Yeah?” She squinted at the pastry. “That has cinnamon on it, I can smell it.”

“Are you going to bring me what I ordered, or not?”

Lacey sighed, snatching up the plate and stomping off again. Ruby gave her a look that said ‘I told you so’ as she passed, but she ignored it, hurrying to swap the apple pastry for a cinnamon swirl.

When she returned to his table, Gold’s finger-tapping had increased in pace, his irritation clearly growing. Lacey set down the plate with a bad grace.

“Cinnamon Danish,” she said curtly. “Enjoy.”

“Assuming the coffee isn’t cold by now, I’ll endeavour to oblige.”

She decided to ignore that.

“Yeah, well, if you want a refill, just holler.”

“If I ask for one now, perhaps it’ll be ready in ten minutes,” he said in a snide tone, and she rolled her eyes and stomped off.

“You’re playing with fire, girl,” whispered Ruby.

“I’m not playing with anything,” snapped Lacey. “I’m just not in the mood for that bastard today.”

“So I see, and you’ve been in a terrible mood ever since you got back from Seattle,” said Ruby. “What gives?”

“Nothing I wanna talk about right now.” Lacey sighed, glancing around the diner to check the status of its customers. “Look, you want to go out tonight? Few drinks at the Rabbit Hole?”

“Sure thing, but I can’t stay too late,” said Ruby. “I promised Granny I’d do the early shift tomorrow.”

“You can stay long enough to get me drunk, right?”

“Depends how quickly you drink,” said Ruby, with a grin. “When d’you want to meet?”

“Eight o’clock?”

“It’s a date.”

The Rabbit Hole was half-empty, not an unusual sight on a Monday evening, and Lacey had shoved a bunch of quarters in the jukebox to try and get a little atmosphere going. She wasn’t sure it was working. There was a small group of men clustered by the pool table, Ashley Boyd staring awestruck at that Sean guy, and she and Ruby sitting at the bar on their third drink. Lacey had been trying to explain how her trip to Seattle had gone, and was getting more agitated by the minute. She took a swallow of her rum and coke, gesturing with a finger.

“So anyway, the moment I mentioned that I was Belle’s cousin, his whole attitude changed,” she said, finishing up her story about the encounter with Weaver. “All of a sudden he couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. Fucking jerk.”

“Agreed,” said Ruby. “Did he say anything at the wedding?”

“No. Well, yes, but he was weird,” said Lacey, wrinkling her nose. “Kind of - I don’t know - kind of polite and distant, like he hadn’t had his face buried between my legs two nights before, you know?”

“Not sure I have an experience to match that one,” said Ruby, grinning. “The last person to bury their face between my legs kind of hung around.”

Lacey grunted in amusement.

“Where is Dorothy, anyway?”

“Still on that field trip,” said Ruby. “She’s back in town next week, so I’m afraid my nights off are gonna be pretty full.”

“Hey, no problem here, at least one of us should be getting some.” Lacey slumped on the bar, arms folded in front of her, feeling morose.

“So how did you guys leave things?” asked Ruby, and she sighed, pushing up again and grabbing her glass.

“We didn’t,” she said. “I mean it’s pretty obvious he wanted nothing to do with me once he found out who I really was.”

“Who you really were?” Ruby looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s Belle’s friend, right?”

“So?” said Ruby. “Why should that stop him liking you?”

“Because it’s Belle!” said Lacey plaintively, as if that explained everything. “She’s always been fucking perfect! Perfect grades, perfect attendance record, perfect poise and dress and fucking manners, and then she goes away to college and gets a perfect score and her perfect job and a fucking perfect physics professor husband! And in a year or so’s time she’ll start popping out perfect babies and have her perfect fucking picket-fence house in the suburbs!”

“Wow,” remarked Ruby. “What a bitch.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that…” Lacey let her head drop onto her folded arms with a groan before pushing up straight again. “I know I sound like a crazy jealous person, and I - well, I am, but It’s not her fault, she’s a good person. It’s just - she’s everything I never was, and my parents made damn sure I knew about it. Every time I cut class or went out drinking they’d be all like ‘oh, Belle would never do that’ and ‘Belle knows what she wants out of life’ and ‘why can’t you be more like Belle?’ It sucked!”

“I’m guessing it didn’t make you any more inclined to hit the books, either,” said Ruby knowingly, and Lacey grumbled, reaching for her drink.

“Just made me drop out even harder than I was going to.”

“So why is it a problem that the guy you banged knows this paragon of virtue, then?”

“Because!” said Lacey insistently. “Isn’t it obvious? He knows Perfect Princess Belle, and he’s embarrassed that he slept with her hot slutty mess of a cousin! That’s why he couldn’t get me out of the room fast enough!”

“I think you’re over-analysing this way too much,” said Ruby. “Lots of us like your brand of hot slutty mess.”

“Well, everything was going just fine until he found out we were related,” said Lacey sourly. “What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t know.” Ruby shrugged, and took a sip of her margarita. “Maybe he knows her a little better than you think, and that’s what he’s embarrassed about.”

“Huh?”

Ruby sighed, setting down her drink.

“Maybe the guy has a thing for petite brunettes with Australian accents,” she said patiently. “Maybe he screwed her, and he doesn’t want you two comparing notes.”

Lacey stared at her.

“What?”

“Think about it!” persisted Ruby. “The two of you hook up, have some good sex—”

“Great sex.”

“—and it’s all going fine until he finds out you’re the cousin of his best friend’s bride to be?” Ruby went on. “Why would that be a problem? Unless he already banged her and he doesn’t want you telling her he banged you and the whole thing coming out on the day of the wedding.”

Lacey blinked rapidly, thinking it over. It made a weird kind of sense, but she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “No way. Belle’s not like that. She wouldn’t cheat on the guy she was gonna marry.”

“How do you know?”

“Did you miss the part where I said she was perfect?”

“Well, it’s always the quiet ones,” said Ruby, reaching for her drink again. “Even oh-so-perfect Belle must have a few skeletons in her closet.”

Lacey was silent for a moment.

“He’s not even her type,” she said.

“Didn’t you say he wasn’t yours either, and it was the screw of the century?”

More silence. An unpleasant sinking feeling weighed heavy in Lacey’s belly, and she took a slurp of her drink in an attempt to numb it.

“If that’s true, it’s even worse,” she said gloomily.

“How do you figure that out?”

“It means she’s better in bed than I was. Fucking typical.”

“Oh, for crying out loud…” Ruby sighed and slumped forward.

“Sorry,” said Lacey. “Kind of on a downer tonight.”

“Yeah, I can see.” Ruby pushed upright, draining her glass. “Look, I gotta go, I’m on the early shift tomorrow. You want to come and have a sleepover?”

Lacey hesitated, but shook her head.

“We’d only stay up talking for hours, and you’d be tired as hell tomorrow,” she said. “Besides, I’m not very good company. Think I might play a few rounds of pool. At least that way I get to have the upper hand with a guy.”

“You sure? I don’t want you walking home on your own.”

“Yeah.” Lacey sat back, reaching over to hug her. “I’ll get Leroy to walk me.”

“Okay, cool.”

Ruby gave her a final hug and a concerned look, and trotted out of the bar, dark hair swinging behind her. Lacey turned her glass between her fingers moodily, and raised her hand to signal for another. It felt like a night for getting shit-faced.

She had intended to play pool, but found she wasn’t really in the mood, and so instead she sat staring into her fourth rum and coke, a pleasant buzz going through her. If she had any sense, she’d go home, pour herself a glass of something and watch some crap on TV until she could fall into bed. Instead she was leaning on the somewhat sticky bar, listening to someone else’s idea of decent music and wondering why her life was so fucked up.

“God, this place is dead tonight, huh?”

She rolled her eyes as Keith Nott sidled up beside her, leaning on the bar and standing a little too close. He was sending her what he no doubt thought was a winning smile, white teeth gleaming above a neatly-trimmed goatee. She wondered how she had ever found him attractive, and put it down to considerably more booze than she’d downed that evening.

“Drinking alone, Lace?” he said.

“Trying to,” she said dismissively. “Not really in the mood for company.”

“Oh, me neither,” he said. “Wanna get out of here? I got Netflix.”

“Good for you.” She took a slurp of her drink. “Don’t let me stop you binge-watching something.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he wheedled, and she turned her head to face him, giving him what she hoped was a scorching look.

“Go creep on someone else, okay?” she snapped, and he scowled.

“Well, if you want to be an uptight bitch—” he began, but then he seemed to see something unpleasant. His expression changed from annoyance to wariness, and he slipped away without a word. Lacey shrugged to herself. Good riddance.

There was movement in the corner of her eye, and she sat up, glancing around. Mr Gold had entered the bar, and Lacey was amused to see some of the customers melt away into the shadows. He spotted them, she was sure of that. No doubt adding their names to his list of those he needed to chase up for something. Guess Keith doesn’t have the rent. Gold stepped up to the bar, cane tapping against the floor, dark eyes sweeping around, restless and searching.

“I see you finally decided to come out and hang with the cool people,” she said.

She doubted he was there for pleasure; Gold was known to collect rent at unusual times, but the thought of him coming to The Rabbit Hole for an evening of drinking and fun was making her want to giggle. He glanced at her, mouth thinning a little as his eyes flicked from hers to her drink.

“Miss French,” he said, in an even tone. “I see you’re maximising your potential as always.”

Bastard.

“Well, if you mean the potential to get wasted, then yeah,” she said, pretending she hadn’t understood the insult. “Wanna help me get there?”

“Apologies,” he said coldly. “Some of us have work to do.”

“Didn’t you spend all day working?” she said. “Take a break, live a little.”

“I fail to see what business it is of yours how I spend my time.”

“Fine, excuse me for taking an interest.”

He ignored that, his eyes fixed on the barman who had just appeared from the cellar carrying trays of bottled drinks.

“Rent!” said Gold curtly, and the barman hesitated, glancing from right to left as though searching for a way out.

“Right,” he said lamely. “Uh - I’ll have to go make sure it’s all there.”

“It had better be,” said Gold, and the barman put down the drinks, nervously wiping his hands on his shirt.

“Can I - can I get you anything while you wait?” he asked. “On the house.”

“Obviously,” said Gold, in a dry tone. “Whisky. Neat. Single malt, not that swill you tried to give me last time.”

The barman gulped, and snatched at a glass, hunting for the decent whisky and pouring a large measure. Lacey watched as Gold took a sip, and the barman hurried off, presumably to fetch the rent money. Gold wasn’t looking at her, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in front of him, and she took the time to look him over, to note the way his hair gleamed in the light, the sharp lines of his nose and jaw and the swell of his lower lip. She found herself wondering what he looked like beneath the three-piece suit. Whether anyone in town knew.

It wasn’t the first time she had thought about it, by any means, but her interest had certainly increased over the past few months. Perhaps it was the fact that the ongoing battle of wills between them appeared to have entered a new and more sarcastic phase. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t afraid to stand toe-to-toe with him and trade insults, and that he seemed to rather enjoy that fact. She wondered what he thought of her; did he see her as a worthy adversary, or merely an annoyance, something to toy with when bored and then flick away when his interest had waned.

He glanced at her and away again, and took another drink, a droplet of whisky shining on his lower lip before he licked it off with the tip of his tongue. Lacey licked her own lips in response, enjoying the sudden lurch in her belly. She had once considered seducing him just to see the look on his face, and had dismissed the idea almost immediately, but now the thought returned, nagging and insistent, and refused to leave. To her surprise, she realised he reminded her of Weaver. The two dressed very differently, and Gold was thinner in the face and body, but each had the same intensity, the same air of danger and capacity for violence against those who deserved it. It made excitement ripple through her as she imagined how it would feel to let him unleash that intensity on her in a far more stimulating way. The accent didn’t hurt, either.

“Is there something I can do for you, Miss French?”

He always talked that way, she reflected. Polite, but with an air of menace, as though he could slit someone’s throat without blinking but would apologise profusely for the mess it made. He sometimes had another man accompany him on his rounds. Mr Dove was a giant of a man, and few dared to argue about their rent payment with him staring silently at them from behind Gold. Lacey got the sneaking feeling that Gold was more than capable of enforcing his rights himself, if it came to it, but he probably didn’t like getting blood on his suits.

“Just thinking that you reminded me of someone, that’s all,” she said.

“Really?”

His voice was uninterested as he set down the glass again.

“Yeah. Someone I met in Seattle. A cop.”

“Well, I won’t ask how you two crossed paths,” he said dryly.

“I picked him up in a bar much like this one, went back to his place and banged him like a screen door in a hurricane.”

Gold’s eyes flicked towards her briefly.

“Rest assured, I’m just here for the rent.”

His tone was very dry, and she tried to hold in a giggle. Lacey let her eyes run down his body, following the lines of his suit. Gold’s fingers drummed impatiently on the bar, and she noticed how long they were. Long and slender and - careful. A man with attention to detail, she imagined, taking a drink to wet her suddenly dry throat. Okay, so the last time I ended up in bed with a guy twice my age it didn’t end so well, but it was fucking hot while it lasted. Wonder what tricks this guy knows...

“So, Mr Gold,” she drawled. “How long’s it been?”

“Since what?” asked Gold dismissively, taking a sip of his drink.

“Since you had a good, hard fuck.”

Gold choked on his whisky, spraying it over the bar and making her chortle as he turned to face her with narrowed eyes.

“Are you drunk?” he snapped, and Lacey pulled a face.

“Little bit.”

“In that case I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the question,” he said curtly, whisking the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbing at his chin.

“Wow,” remarked Lacey. “That long, huh?”

“You are on thin ice, Miss French,” he growled.

“What are you gonna do, spank me with your cane?” she asked, grinning. “I’m not saying no…”

Gold’s jaw clenched, his eyes glinting.

“If you’re looking for me to raise your rent, you’re going the right way about it.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” she said, and he leaned on the bar, glaring at her.

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” he said softly.

Lacey met him stare for stare, and picked up her glass to take a slow sip.

“Nah,” she said. “You don’t break deals, right? I’ve kept to every one of the terms of that damn contract, so there’s no way you can raise the rent. Not without breaking your own rules.”

One eyebrow flicked, the corner of his mouth twitching a little.

“You’re sure you read all the sub-clauses, are you?” he said.

“Pretty sure,” she said. “Maybe you should add in some kind of penalty for bad flirting.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” he said flatly. “Can’t say I noticed.”

“Yeah, I get the feeling you don’t always pick up on those social cues we earth humans rely on.”

“Social interaction is something I neither require nor pursue,” he said.

“We all need to make a connection, Mr Gold.”

“Speak for yourself, Miss French.”

“Hey, I’m just reaching out here,” she protested. “Can’t you at least meet me halfway?”

“I’m busy,” he said curtly.

“Well, that’s probably why you always look mad,” she said, poking his forearm. “You should smile more, you’d be prettier.”

His eyes gleamed, and she thought he was amused, despite himself.

“I think my days of being pretty are very much over,” he said.

“Couple more drinks and I won’t care.”

His mouth definitely quirked at that.

“Maybe you should.”

She sat back at that, unnerved by what seemed like an uncanny ability to see right through to the heart of her, and her own insecurities.

“I’ll do what I want with my own body,” she said, irritated by her own defensiveness. Gold shrugged a little.

“Assuming it is what you want, of course.”

Lacey glowered at him, but he had turned away again to sip at his whisky. The barman returned, a brown paper envelope in one hand and a nervous expression on his face. Gold set down his glass and took the envelope, pulling out a sheaf of bills and counting them out on the bar. He eyed the barman, licked his thumb, and counted the money a second time.

“You’re short by fifty,” he said coldly, and the barman started.

“Oh. Right. Uh - let me take it out of the register.”

“Get me another drink while you’re over there,” called Lacey. “Mr Gold’s paying.”

Gold shot her a narrow-eyed glare, but nodded when the barman looked at him.

“One drink,” he confirmed. “I’m sure Miss French has no desire to be in my debt for anything more.”

“Hey, you get the pleasure of my company,” protested Lacey. “Can’t say fairer than that.”

Gold didn’t respond, but went on counting the money. He added the crumpled bills handed to him by the barman and peeled one off the top for Lacey’s drink. He then slipped everything back in the envelope and reached into the inside pocket of his coat for a receipt book.

“Paid in full,” he said curtly, as he scribbled the date and amount paid. “Wonders will never cease. I’ll see you next month.”

The barman gave him a sickly grin and took the receipt between stubby fingers. Gold slipped the receipt book and pen back into his pocket and drank the last of his whisky.

“Exhilarating though it’s been, Miss French, I still have work to do, so I’ll say goodnight,” he said. “Enjoy your drink.”

“I’d enjoy it more with some company.”

“In which case, there are any number of lumbering oafs in this bar no doubt eager to oblige,” he said. “Good evening to you.”

He inclined his head to her, almost a bow, which amused her greatly.

“You’re really not like anyone else in Storybrooke, are you?” she said. “D’you ever get tired of feeling out of place?”

He showed his teeth, a gleam of gold showing on the lower jaw.

“On the contrary,” he said. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

He turned on his heel, limping off with that sinuous stride, and Lacey watched him go, sucking rum and coke through a straw and savouring the low-down burn of her new and unexpected desire. She finished the last of the drink, and the barman poured another, setting it in front of her. A pleasant buzz was going through her, a looseness in her limbs and a feeling of contentment. It vanished as Keith leaned on the bar next to her with an oily grin.

“So,” he said. “Where were we?”

“Don’t you have rent to pay?” asked Lacey, in a bored voice, reaching for her drink.

“Not if I can stay out of Gold’s way.”

“Why don’t I call him back here, then?” she asked. “It’d be worth running down the street in these heels if it means you disappear again.”

“God, you really know how to tease a guy, huh?”

“Would I be less of a tease if I told you to fuck off and leave me alone?”

Keith frowned at her, then glanced at the door, through which Gold had recently vanished. He turned back to Lacey with a slow smirk twisting his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you’re making a pass at Gold,” he jeered.

“Does it look like it?” said Lacey, feeling herself blush, and cursing in her head.

“You’re wasting your time,” drawled Keith. “Something tells me you’re not his type.”

“Hey, what a coincidence!” she exclaimed. “You’re not mine.”

“Not what you said six months ago.”

“Yeah, that’s how I know.” Lacey took a slurp of her drink. “Would you piss off? I’m trying to get drunk in peace.”

“There a problem here?”

To Lacey’s relief, Leroy had stepped up from the pool table, thick arms folded across his chest as he scowled at Keith above a bristling black beard.

“Get lost, dwarf,” snapped Keith.

“Oh, making a comment about my height, huh?” sneered Leroy. “Real original. How about you leave the lady alone?”

“Lady?” Keith curled his lip. “She’s the easiest piece of ass in town. Surprised you don’t already know that.”

Outraged, Lacey slammed down her glass and slipped from her stool, but Leroy had already thrown a punch, hitting Keith in the stomach. He doubled over with an oof as the breath was driven from him, clutching at his belly.

“Apologise, you piece of shit!” growled Leroy.

“No fucking way!”

Keith was grimacing, but he straightened up more quickly than Lacey had thought possible, right fist flying out and striking Leroy firmly on the nose. There was a dull crack and a bellow of pain before he went down, and Lacey rounded on Keith in fury.

“You asshole!” she shouted. “Get the fuck out of here before I have you arrested!”

“He started it!” whined Keith, still holding his midriff.

Lacey noticed his eyes flick from left to right as Leroy’s friends, Tom and Walter, came over, and then he pushed past her and stomped off, muttering something under his breath about her being a slut. She dropped into a squat beside Leroy, who was holding his nose, blood running between his fingers.

“God, are you okay?” she asked anxiously. “That piece of shit! You want me to call the Sheriff?”

“Forget it,” he grumbled. “Worth it to land one on the creep. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but you’re bleeding!”

“Come on.” Walter stepped up, reaching down to grab Leroy’s arm and haul him to his feet. “Let’s go get that nose straightened out, or you’ll be even uglier.”

“Fuck you,” muttered Leroy, but without any heat, and Walter chuckled.

“You couldn’t afford it, dumbass. Come on, I think Whale’s on duty tonight. Should be able to patch you up.”

“You want me to come?” asked Lacey, but Leroy shook his head.

“They make you wait around for hours,” he said thickly, and jerked his head at Walter and Tom. “These two losers have nothing better to do with their night.”

She kissed his whiskery cheek.

“Text me when you’re patched up,” she said. “And your breakfast’s on me tomorrow, okay?”

He grinned at that, and let his two friends lead him away, a little unsteady on his feet. Lacey chewed her lip as she gazed after him, anger at Keith warring with worry for Leroy. She glanced at what remained of her drink, and sighed. A crappy end to a crappy night. Throwing back the last of it, she straightened her dress and grabbed her jacket. Time to go.

The music coming from the jukebox had changed, the twang of hard rock guitars making way for something slower and darker. It was raining, a fine drizzle, and Lacey hitched at the lapels of her jacket as she left the club, shivering a little at the sensation of cold air against her bare legs. There was a hint of ice in it, the threat of snow, and she kept an eye on the ground in front of her as she slipped into the alley that led back to the main street.

Her footsteps echoed, keeping time with the steady drip of water from one of the gutters, the distant streetlights sending out enough of a pale glow to see her path around the dumpster and a pile of discarded cardboard boxes, grown soggy and soft in the rain. A dark mass loomed out of the shadows, and Lacey stumbled a little as Keith was revealed, scowling at her.

“Tell your buddy if he tries anything again it’ll be worse for him,” he said, and Lacey sighed.

“Look, I don’t have the energy to referee your next pissing contest,” she said. “He punched you, you punched him. Would you just get lost? It’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

She stepped to the side to go around him, but Keith moved with her, blocking her way. His mouth had turned up in a smirk, the scent of beer heavy on his breath, and Lacey felt the first prickle of unease.

“You know he was defending your honour, right?” he said. “Such as it is. Kind of cute, if you think about it. If kind of pointless. We all know what kind of girl you really are.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” she said, in a withering tone. “What, you get me drunk enough to think blowing you was a good idea, and suddenly you can see into my soul? Go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t be like that, Lace,” he whined. “Come back to my place, what do you say? We kind of cut things short last time.”

“Yeah, because I had to go throw up,” she said. “Not sure if it was the bourbon or your company. Let me past.”

“In a minute. I just want to talk, what’s your hurry?”

He moved closer, and she took a step back, heart thumping.

“Keith, I mean it!” she said, hating the way her voice wobbled. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Oh, they all say that,” he said lazily. “How about I do?”

He reached out to grab her arm, and Lacey squeaked in alarm, trying to pull away. His low chuckle turned into a strangled sound as a gleam of gold appeared at his throat and he was jerked back from her, stumbling in the alley and falling to his knees.

“Excuse the interruption.” Gold’s calm, menacing voice made Lacey want to sag in relief. “I’ve been looking for you, Mr Nott.”

Keith was on his hands and knees, coughing hard, and Gold grounded his cane between his legs, the gold handle glinting.

“Your rent is due,” he said. “Past due, in fact. I’m here to discuss payment.”

“I don’t have it!” wheezed Keith.

“Then I suggest you remedy that,” said Gold quietly. “Or I’ll be taking payment in my own way. I doubt you’d appreciate the additional charges.”

“You can’t touch me, you fucking psycho!”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

“I got - I got a witness!” blustered Keith, and Gold glanced at Lacey.

“I just witnessed you attempting to assault Miss French,” he said. “You really think she’s your guardian angel?”

“I didn’t see a damn thing.” said Lacey flatly, and Gold grinned at her, his gold tooth gleaming in the dim light.

“Seems your witness is unreliable,” he said. “Such a pity.”

Keith pushed up on his knees and swung a punch at Gold, who stepped back smoothly on his good leg to avoid it. Quicker than Lacey could believe, he lashed out with his cane, catching Keith with a blow across the ribs and causing him to let out a hoarse cry as he slumped to the ground again.

“Fuck you!” gasped Keith.

Gold tutted, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s really no’ your night, is it sunshine?” he said. “Rent. Now.”

“I don’t have it!”

“God, this conversation is going in fucking circles,” drawled Gold. “What did I just fucking say?”

He lashed out again, and Keith cried out, raising a hand.

“Okay, okay!” he groaned. “I don’t have it here, but I can - I can get it!”

“When?”

“Uh - Friday!”

Gold leaned on his cane, bending over so his mouth was close to Keith’s ear.

“You’ll get it to me by ten a.m. tomorrow, or I’m gonna come looking for you, and I promise you, it will not be pleasant,” he growled. “Do you understand me?”

“Okay, okay!”

“Good.” He straightened up, fingers flexing on the handle of his cane, and jerked his head. “Ten a.m., Mr Nott. Not a minute later. Now fuck off.”

Keith got to his feet, shot a venomous look at Lacey, and staggered off down the alley, clutching his side as he went. Gold glanced at her. His chest was heaving, breath billowing out into the cold air in thick white plumes, his body quivering with rage, and Lacey licked her lips, that low-down burn tugging at her belly again.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She took a step towards him. “Uh - thanks for that. He’s like twice my size; I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do.”

“No matter.”

“Guess I understand why everyone in town’s afraid of you,” she added.

He turned slowly to face her, the distant streetlight picking out golden highlights along his nose and cheekbones and casting him in shadow.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his voice a low growl, and the tug in her belly became an ache.

“No.”

His fingers opened and closed, black leather gloves squeaking a little.

“And why is that?”

His voice was soft, and she licked her lips, taking a step towards him.

“Because you keep your word,” she said. “And because I pretty much offered it on a plate back in the bar, and you turned me down. Doesn’t often happen.”

“Sorry if I offended you.”

“I’m not offended.” She took another step closer. “I’m - intrigued.”

There was silence, but for the rhythmic dripping of water. The rain was still falling, fine drizzle catching in Gold’s hair and wetting her cheeks

“Intrigued?” he said softly.

“Kind of turned on, if you want the truth,” she added, and his mouth twitched.

“Is that right?”

Lacey took the final step, until she was almost touching him, his lips only an inch or two from hers. The air was heavy and close, as though a storm was coming, and she could feel his breath against her mouth, his dark eyes gleaming as they held her own.

“You never answered my question,” she said softly, and he swallowed hard.

“Which question was that?”

His voice was a little unsteady, and it gave her courage, made her think that perhaps he wasn’t completely indifferent to her.

“How long’s it been?” she whispered, and he glanced away, his jaw tightening before he looked back.

“Too fucking long,” he growled.

He reached up to cup her cheek, and she leaned in to kiss him, fingers sliding into his hair as his mouth met hers, hard and hungry. Rain had wet their lips, making their mouths slide over one another, and she slid her hands down his sides to slip around his waist, pulling him against her. Gold parted her lips with his tongue, making her moan as she tasted him, as she felt a part of him push inside her. It made her arousal grow, the pull of desire making her ache between the thighs.

He pushed at her, and Lacey hummed in approval as her back hit the alley wall, his body pressing against hers. There was a rattling noise as his cane hit the ground, and then his hands were on her, sliding down to cup her breasts and squeeze. Lacey moaned, pushing into his palms, and he pulled his mouth from hers, kissing down her neck, his tongue swirling over skin made wet with the rain. She opened her legs a little, a surge of desire going through her at the feel of him there, hard against her. Gold stroked a hand down over her hip to her bare thigh, pushing beneath her dress and sliding up to cup her mound. His lips found her ear, and she shivered.

“What do you want, Lacey?” he growled. “You want to get fucked, is that it? You want to get fingered until you come?”

She moaned, dragging her hands through his hair as she nodded agreement, and he wrenched at the edge of her lace thong, tugging it aside and letting his fingers slide over her flesh. A low groan rumbled out of him, and she let out a cry as he grazed her clit.

“Fuck, you’re wet!” he breathed. “I want to feel you all around me. Slide deep inside you and feel you come!”

Lacey rose up on her toes with a moan of pleasure as a finger entered her, pushing deep, and Gold groaned, sweeping his tongue over her pulse point, making her let out a tiny cry of pleasure. His thumb rubbed over her clit, spreading her fluids with slow, circular movements, and she clung to him, her breathing ragged, eyes closed as jolts of sensation went through her. Gold nipped at her jaw, mouth finding hers, the kiss hard and messy as he pushed a second finger into her. His free hand plunged into her hair, twisting in her curls as his tongue stroked against hers.

Lacey pulled her mouth free with a gasp, head thudding against the wall, and his fingers moved in short, sharp thrusts, his thumb flicking over her. She could feel herself working up to climax, and she bent her head to his neck, sucking on his skin and making him growl. His lips found her ear again.

“I always wondered what you’d feel like,” he whispered. “What you’d taste like. I’ve thought about spreading you out on my dining table and taking my sweet time with you, Lacey.”

The sound of his voice was almost too much, its low burr vibrating through her, and she raised her head to look at him, her body tingling, sensations rising up and brimming over. Gold was staring at her, eyes black in the dim light, lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl as his rigid fingers fucked her hard. Lacey let her head roll back with a loud wail as she came, heat flooding her cheeks, pleasure washing over her, and he groaned with her release, fingers thrusting as she jerked against him. She sagged against the wall, the tension leaving her body with a wave of bliss, and his kisses became gentle, his tongue swirling over her pulse.

She tried to catch her breath, her heart thumping hard, and Gold slowly drew his fingers out of her, slipping them into his mouth and letting out a deep rumbling groan of pleasure at the taste of her. Lacey watched him through heavy eyelids, still panting, and he drew them out, lips curving upwards in a slow smile.

“Well well,” he said quietly. “It appears my evening took an unexpected turn, Miss French.”

“Yeah.” She licked her lips, heaving a shuddering breath. “And if you take a left out of this alley, you’ll end up at my apartment. How about it?”

He stroked a stray wisp of hair back from her face, cupping her cheek with fingers still warm and sticky, and kissed her again. His lips pulled at hers as he drew back, and he bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“Now that I know how you taste,” he breathed. “I want all of you. I want to taste you when you come.”

“Fuck!” gasped Lacey, and felt him smile against her neck.

“I want to lick you until you scream,” he whispered. “Suck the cum from you and drink you down.”

“Jesus—” She pushed him back from her, bending to pick up his cane and handing it over. “Hurry the fuck up and take me home before I shove you down and ride you in this alley, okay?”

“It’d be hell on the suit,” he said lazily, as he got the cane underneath him. “My dry-cleaning bill is quite high enough as it is.”

“Less talk, Gold, more walk.”

He chuckled at that, letting her pull him towards the mouth of the alley and turn left. Lacey walked quickly, his hand clasped in hers, her heart still thudding in her chest. If the man’s as good with his tongue as he is with his hands, I’m in trouble. Can’t fucking wait.

It didn’t take them long to reach the apartment, and Lacey let them in, tossing her keys onto the little table in the hallway and shrugging off her coat. He took off his own, hanging it carefully on the rack as she tossed hers across the back of the couch. The lounge was what she called comfortable: cushions piled in one corner of the couch for binge-watching TV and the coffee table strewn with the usual clutter of books, dirty plates and wine glasses.

“Well, I love what you’ve done with the place,” he remarked, looking around.

“Shut up. You get the rent paid on time, you don’t get to judge how I live.”

He chuckled softly, following her through to the bedroom. It was relatively tidy for her—she had even made the bed that morning—and she flicked on the bedside lamp before turning to face him. Gold was watching her, hands folded over his cane, still in his leather gloves and his three-piece suit. Lacey put her hands on her hips, suddenly nervous, and trying to hide it. She raised her chin.

“Your move,” she said.

A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, and he lifted a hand, one finger raised.

“Take off the dress.”

She eyed him for a moment, but grasped the hem of her dress, tugging it up and over her head and throwing it aside. He looked her over very deliberately as he took off his gloves, plucking at each leather finger in turn before drawing them off his hands. He folded the gloves, slipping them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and Lacey bounced on the toes of her high-heeled shoes, goosebumps starting to ripple over her skin. Gold nodded to her.

“Now the bra,” he said.

“What about you?”

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

She sent him a flat look.

“I mean you’re kind of overdressed for the occasion.”

“We’ll get to me in time. For the moment I want to enjoy seeing you naked.”

She grumbled under her breath, but reached behind, unhooking the bra and letting it fall at her feet. He released his breath in a long, slow sigh, his eyes glinting.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re perfect, Lacey.”

“First time for everything, I guess.”

“Ah, the obligatory self-deprecation of the insecure,” he drawled.

“Fuck you, Gold.”

“I certainly hope so.”

She scowled at him, dropping her gaze to the patterned rug, but he took a step forward, slipping a finger under her chin and raising it so that he could look into her eyes.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Beautiful and perfect. Believe me.”

There was an intensity in his gaze, dark eyes fixed on hers, as though he meant every word, and she closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see it, her thumbs hooking under the waistband of her underwear. She felt the press of his lips against hers, and opened her eyes.

“Let me do that,” he said quietly, and his hands covered her own, gently pushing them away from her underwear.

Lacey let them fall to her sides, closing her eyes again as he began to kiss down her neck, his hands stroking up her body to cup her breasts. His palms were warm against her cool skin, his mouth soft, fresh stubble on his chin grazing her as he kissed lower. She rose up on her toes as he put his mouth to her breast, moaning as he sucked at her, his hands cupping her. He lowered himself down, coming to rest on his knees, and she wondered if it hurt him, if his leg was paining him as he sucked at her. His mouth moved lower, over her belly, fingertips grasping the waistband of her panties and gently pulling them down over her hips to fall around her ankles.

He glanced up at her, brown eyes gleaming in the lamplight, and Lacey ran her fingers through his soft hair, letting her head roll back with a moan as he put his mouth to her. His tongue stabbed and swirled, pushing between her folds, circling her clit as he groaned in pleasure. Lacey spread her legs a little wider, and he slipped an arm between them, lifting her leg and slipping it over his shoulder so that he could reach more of her. She gasped as he licked at her, his nose rubbing against her.

“God, you taste good,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her breath cool on her wet flesh. “I need more.”

His finger stroked over her, and Lacey moaned again, her flesh still sensitive from her earlier orgasm. The finger pushed inside her, and Gold let out a low growl as it pushed deep.

“Beautiful, silky little cunt you’ve got,” he breathed. “I want to get inside you, Lacey. I want to sink deep into you and fuck you hard.”

“Oh my God!”

Her fingers twisted in his hair, her breath coming in pants as his tongue swirled over her, his finger thrusting in and out. Her body was shaking, and she could feel her climax building, rising up through her and making her muscles tense, her breathing fast and shallow. He quickened the pace of his thrusts, his thumb rubbing over her clit, and she whimpered, her cheeks flushing, pleasure blooming within her and sending a wave of heat through her body. She came with a moaning cry, jerking against his mouth, and Gold groaned, pulling out the finger and grasping her hips, his tongue sweeping through her folds to catch every drop of her cum.

She let her fingers slip from his hair, her body tingling all over, and licked dry lips, trying to catch her breath. He pressed a final kiss to her before sitting back on his heels, a slight wince the only indication that he was in pain. His chin was slick with her fluids, glistening in the light, and he swiped his thumb across before sucking it clean and letting out a low rumble of approval, dark eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured. “Get on the bed and lie back. Leave the shoes on.”

She swallowed the comment she had been about to make and climbed onto the bed in nothing but her black high heels. After a moment she rummaged in the drawer for a condom, tossing it onto the bed beside her. Her heart was thudding hard, the air cool against her hot skin, and she sat back against the pillows, drawing up her knees a little. He seemed to be taking off his shoes and socks, and she watched as he straightened up with a grimace, unbuttoning his jacket and letting it slide from his shoulders. Gold ran his eyes over her, the tip of his tongue sliding across his lower lip, as though trying to catch the last taste of her. A tiny, smug smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she got the impression he was pleased with himself. As he fucking should be, that was awesome!

“Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Let me watch.”

Lacey’s breath caught, and she let a hand slide over her belly, inching slowly downwards. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, draping it over the back of the chair where he had hung his jacket and reaching for his tie. His eyes followed her fingers, and she slipped one in between her legs, finding slippery-wet heat and tender skin. Lacey sucked in a shuddering breath, watching his fingers pluck at the knot of his tie. Her clit was hard and swollen, and she circled it with the tip of her finger, letting out a tiny moan at the sensation. Gold’s smile grew, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Open your legs a little more,” he said. “Let me see how beautiful you are.”

The soles of her shoes were flat on the blankets, and she pushed them outwards a little, drawing up her knees as she stroked through her soft flesh. He had pulled the tie from around his neck, and went to work on the cufflinks, taking them out and slipping them into the pocket of his pants. Lacey teased her clit, rubbing and stroking, gasping at the jolts of pleasure going through her. He was unbuttoning his shirt, revealing flashes of tanned skin as his fingers moved down to his belly, and his lips were parted, his breathing hard and heavy as he watched her.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his eyes gleaming. “Finger yourself. Push inside. Feel where I’m gonna fuck you.”

She moaned, sliding a finger inside herself, where she was slick and hot and ready. He had got the shirt off, his chest smooth and lightly tanned, small, firm muscles jumping in his chest as he tossed the shirt aside. She licked her lips at the thought of having him pressed against her, at tasting his sweat as he pushed inside her, and she pushed the finger deeper, arching her back, toes curling in her shoes. When she opened her eyes, Gold was watching her with dark intensity, his breath coming hard, and she added a second finger, making him let out a low growl. His hands dropped to his belt.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered. “I need to get inside you, Lacey. I need to know if you feel as good as you taste.”

She moaned again, lifting her hips a little, eager for him, and he crawled onto the bed, hands sliding over her knees and pushing them apart as he kissed his way up her inner thighs. Her fingers were still inside her, and his lips brushed over her knuckles, his tongue pushing between them to taste her. Lacey drew out the fingers, letting him pull them in between his lips and suck the juices from them. He groaned as he did it, his mouth hot and wet, and he let them slip out, swirling his tongue over her clit and making her let out a loud moan of pleasure.

She stroked wet fingers through his hair, closing her eyes and losing herself in the sensation of his tongue sweeping over her. He pushed it inside her once, twice, and then began kissing his way up over her belly, gently pulling at her skin with his lips. His mouth found her nipple, sucking hard, and she moaned and pushed her hips upwards, feeling the hardness of him against her inner thigh, wanting him inside her. Lacey reached to her right, searching for the condom, and he took it from her, kneeling up between her thighs to put it on. She let her eyes drop to where his cock jutted outward, hard and thick, the dark hair around it spreading up a little way towards his belly, and licked her lips in anticipation. Gold fell forward onto his palms, transferring the weight of his body to one hand as he used the other to reach between her legs. Two fingers slipped inside her, pushing deep, and she writhed, lifting her hips a little, wanting more.

“So wet for me,” he breathed. “You feel like silk, Lacey. God, I want to feel you come!”

He drew out the fingers, taking himself in hand and teasing her entrance with the head of his cock. Lacey gritted her teeth, the anticipation almost painful, her belly tight with need. Slowly, achingly slowly, he eased into her, and she moaned, arching upwards as he sank deep with a long, low groan. He began to move with slow twists of his hips, grinding against her as he thrust in and out, and Lacey ran her hands up his arms, fingers combing through his hair.

“God, you feel so good!” he rasped. “So good to fuck!”

She moaned in response, her ability to form words having disappeared, and he raked his fingers through her curls, tugging her head back to draw his tongue up the length of her throat. She cried out as he bit down, and his tongue swept over her skin, soothing her. His mouth found her ear, his breath sending shivers coursing down through her body to her toes.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Lacey,” he whispered. “I’ve thought about you so long. How good it would feel to be inside you, to taste you on my tongue. To lick the cum from your tight little cunt and hear you scream!”

He thrust into her hard, pulling a cry of pleasure from her, and kissed along her jaw, warm, sticky fingers cupping her cheeks as his tongue parted her lips. She kissed him hungrily, thighs gripping his hips, the heels of her shoes digging into him, and he slipped an arm behind her knee, lifting her leg up onto his shoulder, allowing him to push deeper. Lacey let her head roll back, a cry bursting from her lips as he thrust into her with a rumbling growl. He was rubbing against her in just the right place, heat and wetness and friction making pleasure ripple through her body, and she whimpered, clinging to his shoulders with her fingernails, pumping her hips against him as she chased her climax. His cock was hard and thick inside her, the head rubbing against her deep inside, and she could feel sweat form between their bodies, making their skin slick, running between her breasts and beading on her upper lip. Gold licked it off with a deep growl, tongue pushing in between her lips as he thrust into her, and she held her breath, skin tingling, feeling the wave building inside her, feeling it swell and break.

She pulled her mouth from his as she came with a scream, pumping her hips, nails scoring his shoulders, and Gold let out a long groaning cry as he followed her, his cock pulsing deep inside her. The feel of it was incredible, increasing her own pleasure, wave after wave of bliss washing over her, heat flushing her cheeks and chest and her pulse pounding in her ears. His movements had quickened, his thrusts rapid and shallow, and she tried to keep pace with him, her flesh clenching around him, squeezing every drop from him. Her belly was starting to hurt from the strain of rocking her hips against him, and she collapsed back into the blankets, gasping for breath as his pace began to slow.

Gold thrust deep inside her one last time, the muscles in his upper arms taut and straining, damp strands of hair sticking to his cheeks as he let out a final, shuddering groan of pleasure. For a moment there was only the sound of them trying to catch their breath, and he lowered himself onto her with a sigh, his head pushing into the hollow between her neck and shoulder. Lacey stroked his hair, licking sweat from her lip, her heart pounding and her entire body tingling. She could feel him start to shrink inside her, and after a moment he pushed up on his elbows, a twisted little smirk on his face, heavy-eyed and contented.

“Well well,” he said softly. “That was certainly worth all the verbal sparring it took to get here.”

“Yeah.”

It was as much as she could manage. She was beginning to wonder if half her brain had blown out the back of her head. Absently, she stroked a trembling hand through his hair, and he turned his head to kiss her fingertips, the gesture of affection surprising her. He was still smiling at her.

“So,” he said. “Shall we call it even?”

#fic: turn left #golden lace fic #my fic #golden lace #fic: small world #rumbelle smut #lemons #some non-con touching #nothing major #in that Keith puts his hands on Lacey without her consent #and pays the price

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key-ten · 4 years

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Nell Song Recommendations

For those of you that don’t know Nell is my second favorite Korean artist. Their lyrics constantly just pull at my heart and they even manage to make sad things sound happy. And maybe just maybe I’ve cried to some of their songs. Full disclaimer most of my favorite songs by them are their sad songs but I swear they have happier music!

But i’ll be listing some of my favorite Nell songs in no particular order.

The Day Before (그리고,남겨진 것들) So this is the very first Nell song I ever heard and let me tell youuuuuu I cried. This song and video (Suicide so if that bothers you please avoid this video) deals with some heavy topics but it is just so heart-wrenching and beautiful. And from this song stemmed my absolute love of them. This song was the perfect depiction of how I felt after Jonghyun passed and spoke the words better than I could have ever done. If I had to pick a favorite song from them, this would 100% be it. Favorite lyric: How about this break up? Is it withstandable?/ Was the pain a bit less since you were ready?/ How about love? Is it doable again?/ Actually, I’m like this, I’m just afraid

Slip Away This song also makes me cry lol. This is a song you won’t want to listen to with only one ear-bud in because you’ll miss parts of the song (From the composition to the lyrics) which makes it so unique! Favorite lyric: But it’s as if you don’t know what is it that makes things so hard on me / It’s not the Loneliness that is left alone, /The tear stained heart, / Entwined moment, / The one and only truth, / It’s the sorrowfulness that everything that will be forgotten

Time Spent Walking Through Memories ( 기억을 걷는 시간) This is arguably their biggest song to date and what propelled them out of their indie status. They don’t play a single concert without it. This is just such a good song to sing. I don’t really have a favorite lyric but it’s so easy to sing along to.

Afterglow Another song about death, so beautifully done. This takes on the form of knowing your loved one is passing and wanting to hold onto them for one last moment. Favorite lyric: whisper quietly /But clearly, into my left ear/ That you were also the one for me/ That we were so precious to each other

Four Times Around the sun ( 지구가 태양을 네번) The first seemingly happy-sounding sound, but do not be fooled! It describes the hardships over getting over a break-up. First and foremost the MV to this so is very aesthetically pleasing. Favorite lyric: My sadness is always heading toward you with the same face / While the earth went four times around the sun /I longed for you and erased you thousands of times

Green Nocturne This song is very calming to me. I don’t know if it’s the music video of the man aimlessly walking or the sound that calms me but it just does. To me this song speaks about being young and fearless, going into things headfirst and getting bumps and bruises now and again but as you grow older you grow cautious because you’ve experience pain. Favorite lyric: Time made me into an adult / But I don’t think it made me strong

Fantasy This song is heavy in the drums and guitar which reminds you that they are indeed a great band. Even still it’s not really a “happy” song but I don’t feel sad listening to it. It’s just a reminder that yeah sometimes in life things will get rough but you need to accept it and move onward from that. Favorite lyric: Just accept that sometimes, there is a sadness that can’t be erased

In Days Gone By This song just makes me feel happy Favorite lyric: If I look back and think about it / I’ve held onto unmanageable amount of emotions, / I’m longing to go back to those days when I could still feel them.

Standing in the rain This rhythmic clapping throughout the song just entrances me Favorite lyric: Let’s let go and only suffer to what we can withstand

Run This song is an OST from the drama Two Weeks (which I also highly recommend). When I was first watching this drama I’d hear the OST and go “Yo this so is an actual jam what is this” And then I recognized Kim Jongwan’s voice and was like damn i’m a fake fan. This song is motivational to me although the lyrics don’t really reflect that. Favorite lyric: I fall and break everyday / I hold onto my scar which didn’t even have time to heal

Drifting Apart ( 멀어지다) This song is also about a sad breakup. Even though Nell has various songs regarding the same topic each song takes it on from a much different angle. This one comes from the perspective of the person realizing that maybe this relationship isn’t the best option for either of them. Favorite lyric: For us, could it be possible that it wasn’t love / But just a deep attachment / For us, it probably wasn’t love but only greed

Honorable mentions: Day after Day, Blue, Noise of Silence, Go, Anyways please give them a listen because I LOVE THEM

#Nell #넬 #Korean music #kpop #k pop #korean pop #song recommendations #korean indie #k indie

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markswoman · 5 years

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fool | dsc

but you can’t fall in love for the first time, you realize, if you’re already in too deep. you can fall in love for the second time, or the third, or perhaps, you realize, it’s something continuous. falling in love, maybe, never ends.

pairing | sicheng x reader | angst | 16.7k |

an: @sofhyuck since you wanted this so bad :)) [edited repost]

You only open your eyes because there’s a crow outside of your window. It’s jet black and it’s loud, caws grappling around your consciousness and ripping you out of your slumber. The crow’s noises cling to your eardrums, ringing over and over, even after the crow has flown away.

You sit up blearily. Sleep dangles on your bottom lashes, and your mouth is sticky. You part your lips and shut them several times to warm them up from the rusty feeling of exhaustion. Your jaw seems to creak as you move.

Late morning light streams in through your cotton curtains, just soft enough that it doesn’t burn your eyes as you slowly pry them open with your fingertips.

It’s almost noon, but the city seems just as tired as you are. There’s no rush of traffic on the street just outside of your fourth story window. You’re used to waking up to rush hour’s stragglers, honking noisily as they hurry to a day at work.

You peel yourself from off of your bedsheets. There’s a fine layer of sweat between your bare back and the silk. Your face feels sticky, like you’ve just come back from a run. Standing up is difficult, and moving to the bathroom is the challenge of the century. You groggily feel around for your toothbrush, jamming it into your mouth, then your cheek before blindly patting around your counter to find the tube of toothpaste.

Brushing your teeth is a chore. You squint into the fluorescent lighting of your bathroom and slowly let your eyes adjust to the day and what’s to come.

What really wakes you up is the cold water you splash over your face after you’ve brushed your hair and put your toothbrush off to the side. It jolts you awake, and suddenly your eyes are focused on your reflection in the mirror.

You look curiously into the polished glass. The person reflected back at you is thin, but you don’t look like a wafer. If you squint, you blur away into pale cream, almost paperwhite, and a mundane smudge of color for your hair. Pink lips, bright from the aftereffects of mint toothpaste, grow blurry until they’re barely noticeable on the pale oval of your face.

You tilt your head up, cradling your own chin in between your thumb and index finger to inspect your face. The skin is smooth and untouched.

Your favorite feature on yourself has always been your nose. It slopes nicely, and you think your lips are a little too thin, your eyes a little too wide when you’re not focused on controlling your expression.

You only have one clock in your house. It’s digital and made of stainless steel with a tiny little pocket of shined metal in the back to store the batteries and the gears. If the clock is hung up properly, the mechanisms aren’t visible at all, but you have never gotten around to putting a nail in your unmarred white wall.

It’s because you only have one clock that you don’t know what time it is until you step out into your living room. You balance the machine on a stack of books and leans it against the wall.

It’s eleven instead of nine, which means the city has been so kind as to hit the snooze button for you this lovely Saturday afternoon.

You only know it’s Saturday because your clock displays the date and weekday alongside the time.

Saturday, your favorite coffee shop is closed. You frown. You need a cup of coffee, and your machine broke down two weeks ago. You scratch your head idly and stand in the middle of your kitchen. The tiles are cold against your toes, so you curl them up, stumbling back out into the living room area.

You should go out to get coffee, you decide. It seems like a fairly sound plan of action, so you nod to yourself once and go back to your bedroom, throwing open your closet and tugging on a gray hoodie to go with your jeans. You smooth your hair down once with your palms, and toes on your shoes at the door.

It’s spring, and luscious green dusts along the edges of the sidewalks, spilling over from the designated areas for flowers and shrubbery. The air is damp, like the last rainfall, and you take care to step over the straggling snails that had surfaced after the last rain.

The city is like a coloring book, with little patches of green that never pass the beige lines of the sidewalk. The blades of grass shimmer with remnants of morning dew.

You walk with no real aim, just one foot in front of another. You never look down, and you never look back. You trust there will always be ground underneath your feet to catch you and that every step will somehow, someday, take you somewhere.

You don’t come to a stop until you find a cafe. In the part of the city where you’ve been walking, cafes are not a regular occurrence. It’s all metallic skyscrapers and high end shops.

You tilt your head and peer in the window of the coffee shop to get a better look before turning on your heel to walk up to the entrance. You wrap your fingers around the metal doorknob and pull. The front door chimes.

The cafe is shaped like a pyramid tipped on its side, half buried into sand that time has glued into cement. The base of the pyramid is a straight wall made of pine, starting from the ground and shooting straight into the sky. It would go on forever, but it’s cut short by an intersection. A three dimensional intersection is an edge. The ceiling of the shop cuts the wall short, sloping down at a straight, but drastic angle.

There’s no hallway to the coffee shop. The door leads straight into the massive, right triangle prism, but it has the same effect. Darkness leads to light and compression leads to release. It’s a step from the strangle of the city into the fresh breath of another world.

You stumble upon the shop on a day when the sky is a pale lilac, and the clouds are grey pencil smudges against the hazy sun.

The one upright wall is made almost entirely of glass, with pine pillars keeping up the integrity of the structure so physics can’t crush the cafe into little pieces. There’s a seam where the glass wall and the sloped ceiling meet and light fixtures hang by braided metal ropes, laced with ivy leaves.

There’s one barista, leaning with his hip against the counter. He’s holding a white cloth and rotating it against the inside surface of a mug. His eyes are hidden under a mop of almost white hair.

You glance around the shop once more. The light catches the surfaces and reflects, creating a subtle, dream-like effect. The cafe seems to be permanently etched into a fleeting moment and every second is just different enough. The sun never captures the world the same way twice.

“Espresso,” you say to the barista.

The barista nods his head in acknowledgment before turning away to fiddle with the machine. You have been to enough coffee shops that you really should know the inner workings of the coffee building process, but you’ve never looked into it with too much detail. You back away slowly from the counter to find an open table amongst the masses set up in the shop.

You settle for a seat near one of the large expanses of glasses, drumming your fingers along the tabletop and humming through scales as you glance idly out the window. Spring is the season in which everything is supposed to wake. There’s very little nature in the city, just concrete jungles and metallic high rises. The comparison doesn’t seem quite as apt. You think that the city in the spring looks very much like the city in the fall, and it’s a pity that a world dying is so similar to one coming to life.

The coffee shop is relatively empty, with the exception of a couple making quiet conversation on one of the couches towards the back of the shop. The barista steps out lazily from behind the counter, thick lashes brushing against his skin as he tries to swipe the sleep from his eyes with one hand while holding your coffee in the other.

“Espresso,” the barista says blandly, putting the saucer down in front of you with a clack.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly. The barista turns away without a second look, stalking back to his post behind the counter.

The mug for the espresso is clear, made of glass, resting on a matching glass saucer. The drink itself is split into two layers, one a deep brown, nearly black, the other almost a caramel color. you watches as the layers keep their balance even after you lift the cup to your lips and take a slow sip.

You like coffee. The first time you tried it, you had spat it out into your father’s lap. Your father had lurched up and roared at you while maids hurried to pat his pants dry.

“It’s bitter,” you had complained.

Your father had frowned until the wrinkles were deep set lines in his face before shaking his head and walking out of the room.

Coffee is one of those things that, you think, is an acquired taste. It’s naturally fragrant, and the smell of coffee beans is almost universally pleasing. But the taste itself isn’t quite as easy.

You like coffee because it’s real. You drink it black, with no sugar and no cream, because it’s best in its raw state when you can really taste the bean as it’s meant to be. You suppose your love for coffee was inevitable. It runs in the blood.

You sigh and take another slow sip of your espresso and decides that you like this place. They make the coffee just thick enough and just potent enough. It has substance. You will come back.

You wonder if your father ever sold beans to this venue before deciding, no, probably not. It’s not a chain, and it probably doesn’t generate enough revenue to warrant your father’s attention. No matter how much of a coffee lover your father is-- was-- he was always first and foremost, a businessman.

The espresso disappears quickly enough, and as the taste begins to fade away on the tip of your tongue, you feel extremely dissatisfied. You order another.

Time disappears somehow with a sun that slowly rises and slowly sets, no longer in the center of the sky when you shake yourself out of your daze.

You glance around to find that the couples that were here during your arrival are long gone, empty seats left in their places. There’s someone new in the store, leaning against the counter as the barista grinds the beans, a grating whirring noise of the machine before the soft sound of hot water trickling through the filters.

“One espresso,” the barista says, just as dully as before, sliding the saucer over the counter into the new stranger’s grasp. You check your watch. It’s just past three in the afternoon. Your stomach growls in protest to lack of food.

You watch blankly as the stranger fetches his espresso and settles into a table for two, propping his feet up on the other chair. You watch for just a moment too long and the man meets your gaze, giving you a look of confusion and curiosity before shrugging off his shoulders and glancing away.

The man is wearing a business suit, and there’s a briefcase leaning against his chair. He looks young and his hair is slicked back into a clean part. He’s handsome, almost strikingly so, but you find yourself continuing to stare, not because of his face, but because of his attire and the way he sits.

This man is an intern perhaps, you can tell by the way his sleeves are rolled up and his tie is loosened, several stray hairs coming loose from stiff gel while the man leans his weight back on the chair. He’s not entirely professional, not clean and pressed like your father was. He’s messy around the edges.

At last, you look away. You’ve been here for hours already, there are four identical cups stacked on top of four identical saucers. You figure if you order another it would be unnecessarily strange. Your stomach is sore because you drank the espressos on an empty stomach and it would be wise to go and find yourself a late lunch.

You stack all your cups and dishes neatly and leave them on the table to be cleaned up. You stand up slowly, stretch, and make your way to the door.

–

You tell the story of your life in snippets. You were born into a family of three, as an only child, the precious child of a businessman and a housewife. Coffee beans were a family trade, passed down from generation to generation. Your life is all facts and information, you think, because there’s really not much to tell. All good stories root from a main character with some sort of disadvantage, and you have none. Your greatest tragedy is that you have no tragedies at all.

A year after university, you quit your office job and told your father that you needed some time to find yourself. Your father had put one hand on each of your shoulders and looked you directly in the eyes. You aren’t sure what you saw there, but it must have been more convincing of an argument than the one you had formulated in your head. It took less than a minute for your father to slacken his grip and agree.

“Do what you need to do,” your father said, patting you on the head twice before walking away.

It’s difficult finding oneself. If you were to describe the feeling, you’d liken it to the feeling of being stranded in a body of water, paddling just enough to keep one’s head above the water. No matter where you turn, all you can see for miles and miles is the same thick, black, rippleless expanse of sea. No matter how far you swim, you won't find anything and there’s no resolution. You just grow very, very tired.

You can’t remember when you didn't feel lost. There was a time, of course, reason says it can only be so long since you had begun to feel this way, but you can never remember. It’s a dense fog that settles over your memories and filters what you figure was a much brighter reality. You know other people can tell, when they rock back on their heels and give you a look of pity. The worst part, is you can't even justify this feeling. It strangles you daily, but there’s no definite reason. You’re happy, you should be, you just can’t explain why you’re not.

You lease an apartment in the city and portion off your savings to last you through the year. You never call your parents and they never call you. It feels as if the nothing is eating you alive. Slowly, it’s become this meandering between home and coffee shops, somehow hoping that one day you’ll find solace amongst the beans and answers in espresso.

–

The next morning, you wake up slowly, eyes adjusting hesitantly to the light streaming through your windows. You find sleep never cures your exhaustion, but you indulge yourself in as much of it as possible. Your comforter is indeed comforting, you muse.

Aside from the warm nest that is your bed, there’s not much to look forward to throughout the day. You indulge yourself in coffee shops almost daily because you can't entirely forget the life you must return to, but also because it’s something you genuinely enjoy. You’ve never had anything but good experiences at coffee shops.

The cafe that you stumbled upon slowly becomes a favorite. You begin frequenting it until you remove your previous favorite from your list entirely. It’s a shorter walk anyway, you reason. The barista never changes his poker face, greeting you with a nasal “Hello, espresso?” before making the cup for you and passing it to you over the counter. He never asks for your name, and you never ask for his.

The shop fits seamlessly into your routine and you begin to look forward to your daily routine. You leave just before noon, and leave a little after two. Sometimes you stop for a sandwich in a shop just before, and sometimes, just after.

The first week that you visit the shop, you accidentally fall asleep once. You wake up with your cheek plastered against the window, steam billowing out from your mouth and fogging up the glass. When you pull your head up straight, you can see your own print against the glass. You’re groggy and disoriented. You straighten yourself up slowly, groaning softly as you feel a crick in your neck. You really prefer falling asleep in your bed.

You wince, cracking your jaw and glancing down at your half empty cup of coffee, far too cold to drink now. You sigh and look at it idly until you hear a soft chuckle from your right. Your head snaps up and you glare at the source of the laugh, pinpointing immediately on the man you recognize from before.

It’s the intern, you realize. The same slouchy style and the same sly grin. He’s watching you shake yourself awake and much to your embarrassment, he’s laughing. This man is chuckling with the side of his index finger brushing against his bottom lip and his eyes brashly directed at you. He doesn’t look away when you return the gaze.

It annoys you that this man is laughing at you without the slightest bit of shame. You stand up in a huff, smoothing your hair down the best you can, and gather your dishes in order before storming right past the laughing stranger and out the store.

On your way back to your apartment, you find your mind fluttering back to the thought of that strange young man. There’s something about him that bothers you. He’s the kind of man that you would have known at your workplace before you quit, young and ambitious with that sprinkle of boyish playfulness that has yet to wear away. Still, you can’t help but feel that something is a little bit off.

–

You don’t really know what you’re doing. Coffee shops and sleep are a routine, but not anything with purpose. The issue is that you aren’t so sure that you want a purpose. It makes you tired to search for something you don’t care for. You have so much time, and nothing to do with it.

You think, that this is the curse of your generation. The privileged with too much time have no purpose, because they don’t suffer. A painting with no shadows is flat, two dimensional. If there’s nothing to contrast excellence with, no sense of relativity, how is one to know what is truly good?

Days blend into nights, and you find that just three months into your respite and two weeks into frequenting this new coffee shop, the routine isn’t enough to keep you grounded. You lose sense of time and much like everything else, it becomes a meaningless expanse of nothingness that branches on forever from your fingertips.

It’s two weeks after the odd stranger first laughed at you that you see him again, or is it three weeks? You would never know. You fall asleep again, this time on one of the couches towards the back of the shop, and over a cup of latte that you don’t even manage to take a sip of before you’re lost to dreamland.

You jolts up suddenly, squinting immediately to block the sunlight searing through your eyes. You check your watch and finds it’s half past three. you’ve been sleeping in the shop for three hours, and you haven't even had a sip of your coffee. How pitiful.

You feel like you’re being watched, so you slowly lifts your head and glance around the cafe. There’s a boy sitting at the centermost table, leaning back with his feet propped up on the chair across from you. He’s wearing a uniform for a local high school, your old high school. The boy is covering the bottom half of his face with his hand, with his elbow resting on the table, but his eyes are definitely focused on you. You furrow your brows and the boy looks away.

You look back down at your now cold latte and silently debates as to whether or not you should attempt drinking it. You did pay for it after all. At last, you grit your teeth together and lift the cup to your lips, taking a hesitant sniff before sucking down a mouthful of it. It’s cold, as expected, and not all that appetizing, but it’s bearable. You suck down the rest of the cup and scrunch your nose as you swallow.

When you leave the shop, you glance back into the store, just as the door is swinging shut. That boy in the uniform is staring at you again, but this time, you stare back. The boy is definitely the same person as the intern from a couple weeks ago. How bizarre.

You could have sworn the man you first saw in the suit was long out of high school, out of college even. However, you’ve also positive that you’ve not mistaken, the boy and the man had the exact same face. Logic reasons that they are the same person.

You have questions, but you don’t want to ask directly. It would be strange, especially if you were to be mistaken. Instead, when you get home, you devise a plan. You’ve only ever seen the man when you’ve fallen asleep, or stayed around late. Tomorrow you will go to the coffee shop later.

As you peel open your package of instant noodles and put a pot of water on your stove to boil, it occurs to you that it’s a bit absurd. Perhaps it’s just a boy who is particularly advanced and has an internship. Maybe it’s a man with a thing for prancing around in his old high school uniform. As the water starts to bubble, you put your thinking on hold to slice up the mushrooms, tofu, and scallions that are lying unchopped on your cutting board.

As you toss the mushrooms into the pot, you decide that the only reason you are so fascinated with this man, or this boy, is because he’s so lost within his world of nothing that he’s willing to grasp onto anything at all to distract him. He just wants a sense of adventure, you reason.

The mushrooms soften and you unleash the entire packet of flavoring into the broth, stirring it twice with a wooden spatula before tossing the brick of dried noodles in two. You aren’t interested in this stranger for anything more than his abnormalities and because you desperately need something to do. You’re finding yourself, you decide, and every little step means something.

You sigh and stir the pot slowly, squinting through the steam floating out of the pot to see if the noodles have softened enough to toss in the scallions. After a couple of minutes, you toss them in and add in a cracked egg for measure. You watch as the clear goo instantly solidifies and turns white, billowing out to catch the rest of the egg, like an exploded airbag. You turn off the heat and reach for your oven mitt to pour the food out from the pot into a big ceramic bowl.

You feel oddly satisfied. Here, you have dinner, and tomorrow, you have something to do.

–

The next day, your internal alarm clock wakes you up bright and early, long before six. You frown when you realize that you have risen before the sun, and make yourself a cup of tea, accidently stewing the earl gray just a tad too long and drowning the bitterness with milk.

The windows in your living room have no curtains, so you get a clear view of the sun rising, coating the sky with a thin wash of pale orange as you spoon sugar into your tea. You feel around for your remote, and turn the volume down on low to the local station. They’re doing the weather. The weatherman tells you that it’s Sunday, and that today is going to be sunny.

The television is a dull hum in the background as you bang around your kitchen, popping bread into the toaster and eggs into the pan. Slow breakfasts are the best, because mornings are the time between sleep and human interaction, it’s that stretch of time before you need to start having pretenses and before you need to think about what words to say.

You deposit your toast and fried egg onto a plate, shaking your pepper grinder twice before twisting the knob and sprinkling crushed peppercorns all over your fried eggs. You add a pinch of salt and pull a fork out of the silverware rack before sweeping your food back up and returning to your spot on the couch.

You don’t particularly enjoy watching the morning talk show on the local channel, but you also don’t particularly enjoy anything else on television at this hour, so you don’t reach for the remote.

One in the afternoon comes slowly. It takes a severe amount of discipline for you to try and stay awake. The glimpse of your white sheets that are visible from the sliver of open door to your bedroom seem so inviting. It takes every bit of will that you have to keep yourself from diving into their warm embrace.

At last, it’s two, and you stand up the instant that the clock switches it’s numbers to report the target time. It takes you almost no time at all to shrug on your jacket, tuck your keys into your pocket, and head out the door.

It’s relatively cold, especially considering that it’s long since been spring already, and if anything, summer weather should be seeping into mother nature’s veins. You bury your chin deeper into the collar of your jacket, protecting what you can of your face from the biting wind.

By the time you reach the coffee shop, you push open the door in a rush and sink into the warmth. Your boots clack against the hard, weathered wood of the floor and you shake your hair out of your face.

The shop is empty, with the exception of an old man set up with his laptop in the far corner. You look around again, just to make sure the stranger isn’t there, before heading up to the counter to confront the barista with your order.

“Espresso,” you say, and the barista nods.

After you pick up your drink, you go to your usual spot by the window and watch.

You wait quietly as the minute hand on your watch creeps by. Soon, it’s two thirty, and even the old man in the corner has long since left.

The sun sets slowly, in a perfect arc across the sky. It’s nearly summer, so by three it hasn’t quite set, but it’s on its way there. There isn’t much artificial lighting within the coffee shop, it’s almost entirely dependent on the natural lighting that streams through the transparent wall of windows.

The longer you wait, the more the shop dims. you wouldn't describe the feeling as losing hope, for you have long since forgotten the term, but as each minute ticks by you feel disappointed. This stranger, whose name you don’t know, has failed you, and although it doesn’t quite make you sad, it’s a lost opportunity for you to feel happy.

It’s been a long time since you’ve done even the littlest thing with conscious purpose, and when the barista walks over to your seat at four thirty to inform you that, “Ma’am, we are closing down. I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store.” You slip into your jacket and go back home the way you had come.

–

You have trouble sleeping that night, which is something that you rarely have an issue with. The wave of comfort never comes and you feel uneasy, tossing and turning in your blankets to try and ebb yourself into sleep.

It’s the first night that breathes of summer, an almost stickily humid breeze trickles in through your open window. Your blankets stick to your skin until you pry yourself out of them and shove your window shut. You debate turning on the air conditioner and when you finally goes out to adjust the thermostat, you frown to find that the switch is stuck. You curse quietly and slip back into your room and try to find a cooler spot in your covers.

It’s as if there are little creatures stapling your eyelids open; it hurts them to close them and it hurts to keep them open. You finally drift off when there’s a pale light outside. You don’t dream.

You wake up late, jolting up abruptly. Your sheets jerk up with you, plastered to the skin on your legs. You’re groggy and everything is sticky, damp with sweat. You groan, back cracking audibly as you climb out of your bed. Your palms hit the floor first so your torso is dangling over the side of the mattress. You’re stuck in the position between being on the floor and being on your bed and you pause for a moment before deciding how to proceed. You end up flopping onto the ground ungracefully, lying there for a long time before peeling yourself up off the floor.

The sun sears through the windowpane and it’s even hotter than last night. You rub at your arms, but the thin sheen of sweat won’t rub away. You need to shower; you feel disgusting.

You’re slow in the shower, rubbing gently at all the knots in your back and closing your eyes while the hot water soothes the layer of stickiness off your skin. When the hot water runs out, you step out reluctantly and towel yourself dry, heading back to your room to get dressed.

It’s hot, so you walk around in just a tank top and a pair of shorts for as long as you can, until you glance at the clock and realize it’s already two thirty and you should go out to get something to eat.

You groan and slide a cotton t-shirt over your head. Black, it attracts heat, but your white one is in the wash. Your hair is still a little damp, but you figure it’ll just help you keep cool. You slide your keys into your purse and step out the door.

There’s a sandwich shop about a fifteen minute walk from your apartment that sells hot pressed turkey paninis for half price on Mondays. You make sure that your wallet is in your purse, then hurry down the stairs to start walking.

When you walk places, you do it with a purpose. you never look into other stores and you never watch people. For some reason, when you pass the coffee shop, you tilt your head just slightly, to toss your hair out of your face. You catch a glimpse of the shop in your peripheral vision. You stop in your tracks. There’s a figure at the center table, leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the seat across from him.

It doesn’t even take a moment of hesitation for you to backtrack and head for the cafe door.

The man sitting there is the same one as before, except this time, he’s someone completely different. Same sly smirk as his gaze surely meets your from behind his sunglasses, same body language, and same oozing confidence. This man, today, is wearing his pants hanging so low on his hips that you can see a sizable strip of his briefs. He’s wearing a uniform, a high school uniform, but not the same one as before. You don’t recognize this uniform.

“What are you today?” You ask directly, standing behind the chair across from the stranger and leaning against the table. You fingers are splayed out on the table and your brows are furrowed.

The stranger slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers over the top of them, smile never sliding off his face, “What do you mean?”

“I want to know why every time I come here, you’re dressed as someone different.”

The stranger chuckles and slides his feet off of the chair across from him.

“It’s a project,” he pauses to stretch pale pink bubble gum between his teeth and his fingertips. The elastic candy snaps back as he sucks it back into his mouth, pursing lips and raising an eyebrow before chewing again. “Feel free to sit.”

“What kind of project?” you ask. You’re surprised that you ask out of genuine curiosity rather than courtesy. Typically, if someone brings up a subject, it would be impolite not to ask, but here, you actually want an answer. You’re surprised to find that this stranger’s response yanks you out of your routine state of unfeeling into true interest.

“I–” The stranger pauses to frown, his eyelids darting shut for just a moment as he takes in a deep breath, shoulders falling with the breath’s release, “I wonder if I should tell you?”

You notice how it isn’t a question directed towards you.

This person sitting in front of you, be it a boy, or a man, or a god, or a king, rubbing his left thumb in small circles on the surface of the table between them. He looks incredibly frail. He looks incredibly lost.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say, stirring your coffee slowly with the little sliver of wood that came out with it on the dish, “It doesn’t really matter if whether or not I know.” Your mind is backtracking, desperately trying to reverse your confrontation towards this stranger. The questions had been wracking your mind for days, but now, you wonder if these are some of the questions best left unanswered.

The stranger looks up sharply, “What do you mean?”

“I mean it doesn’t matter,” you clarify, “because it was silly of me to ask.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously and purses his lips. He looks at you curiously before the sly smile returns to his face, “Maybe you should get something to drink.”

There’s an exchange that seems to happen between the two of them, one that requires no words. You are a bit staggered by the immediate connection between them. You’ve barely just met this guy and they can already communicate without words. How bizarre.

You nod and stand up to go place an order. By the time you return, you don’t even remember what you said to the barista.

“I think,” the stranger runs his index finger around the rim of his cup. He never finishes his sentence.

You offer your hand over the table for a handshake while stating your name and you wait for his response.

The stranger looks at your hand for a moment before returning the gesture, “My name is Sicheng.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Gazes are cautious, sizing each other up, like they’re playing one grand game of poker and trying to raise the other twice their money.

“So who are you today?”

“Kid with too much money,” Sicheng answers immediately. Your eyes trace along the high school uniform as unbuttoned and slouchy as the clean lines will allow. Sicheng has paid attention to detail, his watch is really quite nice.

“Last week?”

“Kid with not enough money.”

“The week before.”

Sicheng snorts, “Yuppie.”

You lean back.

“I bet you’re wondering why?” Sicheng prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m wondering,” you glance up as the barista calls your order, “For whom.”

Sicheng presses his lips together.

“I think... This might be a good idea,” Sicheng smiles.

–

The cafe closes every day at 4:30, so you end up leaving together right after you finish up your coffee.

“What do you do?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Sicheng replies as they turn around a corner.

“Your profession is nothing?” you frown.

“I do nothing,” Sicheng smiles, “What about you?”

You blink, “I guess, I do nothing as well.”

“Unemployed?” Sicheng raises his eyebrow.

“No,” you shakes your head, “Not working by choice.”

“Me too.”

“Where are we headed?” You ask abruptly, changing the subject, just as Sicheng’s expression gets more serious and the smile slips right off his face.

“I don’t know,” Sicheng says, looking away.

“I know a sandwich shop--”

“Let’s go,” Sicheng interrupts, “You show the way.

The street that the coffee shop is located on is relatively quiet because it’s a small back alley, quite a bit away from the main streets. Sicheng walks normally for a couple blocks, but as passersby increase in number, his gait seems to shift. His steps grow wider, and he sways more from side to side, like a real teenager who is trying to find himself and is trying on different personas.

“This way,” you step a little quicker, taking the lead, and Sicheng follows.

The sandwich shop is tiny, literally a large indentation on the side of a building. There’s a large circular shape cut out of a wall that intersects at the very bottom region with the ground. There’s enough room inside for a counter and a little space behind it. It’s incredibly minimalistic, with the hot grills right by the cash register and a large stainless steel refrigerator positioned next to a counter with a strip of cutting boards for the ingredients. The walls are black and all the instruments are silver. Just because it’s small doesn’t mean quality is diminished. It’s your favorite sandwich shop and the pretty young cashier always knows your order.

Sicheng stands hunched like an adolescent without confidence, gnawing on his lip and fiddling with his belt buckle.

“Can I have two of my usual?” you order, forking over the cash. Sicheng fumbles for his wallet, but you stop him with a shake of your head.

“Thanks,” Sicheng mutters. You blink in surprise. The confidence of the man back in the coffee shop is completely gone, sublimated into the muggy air, replaced by the jittery nervousness of an adolescent trying to find his identity.

You get your hot sandwiches in a paper bag and leave together.

“Let’s eat these in the park,” you suggest, “There aren’t many people over by the trees.”

“Yeah,” Sicheng shrugs, muttering under his breath, “Sure.” You can’t take your eyes off of him like this. Something about the way Sicheng is acting rings true with you. He reminds you of yourself as a teenager, too lost in trends and the rich world of money and opportunities to figure out who you really are.

There’s a park across the street from the sandwich shop, enclosed within high brick walls. Walking in through the gates is like walking into a world far from the city, brimming with foliage and life. There are tall trees and fountains of cool water trickling down rock structures. Although it’s never really silent, it’s never loud either, not like the city is, with all the honking cars and shouting people. The light tinges green as it streams through the cracks between the leaves, and once they reach an empty bench along the pathway, they can barely hear the noise of the city outside the tall brick walls.

You unwrap a sandwich and put it in Sicheng’s hand. Sicheng glances around and visibly straightens his posture. The man you met in the coffee shop is back.

“Tell me about this,” your sandwich wrapper crinkles as you peel it back to reveal the toasted bread inside, “thing of yours.”

Sicheng still seems hesitant, and he rips back the paper on his sandwich more slowly than necessary.

“Or tell me about yourself,” you offer, “Who are you?”

Sicheng answers much more quickly after that, “I pick a persona once a week.”

“Why?”

“People are idiots,” Sicheng takes a large bite of his sandwich, cheese oozing all over his fingers, “They always make assumptions on me as a person by superficial things like clothing and social status. My question is as to how people treat me if I become one of them on the surface and how that changes how they act.”

“So you dress up as different--”

“Different cliques of people,” Sicheng nods and takes another chomp from his sandwich, “Then, I try and assimilate into their culture and see if I can fool them all.”

“But--”

“My goal,” Sicheng says, a look of determination glazed over his eyes, “is to make every fool believe.”

Your sandwich is untouched, melting in your hands, cheese dripping over the edges and down the lines of your arms.

“You should eat that quickly,” Sicheng points out with a nod of his head.

You take a massive bite.

“I took a break from–From real life,” Sicheng says, peeling the sandwich wrapper back more, “I found myself lost. I thought that taking a break would help me decide who to be.”

“It didn’t help,” you whisper.

“Hm?” Sicheng glances, “Did you say something?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, I felt more lost than before. It was this freeform bullshit excuse of a life, revolving around sleep and food. I wanted to fix it, not waste my time. I figured I should do something trivial, stupid almost.”

“Doesn’t seem that stupid,” you say, taking a small nibble of the crust of your bread, “You’re questioning society. It’s practically an art.”

“It didn’t start off that way. It started off as, if I dressed like this, would I get treated differently? It wasn’t structured.” Sicheng has stopped eating, crumpled wrapper and last remains of sandwich dangling off his fingertips like an accessory. It looks almost like a cigar, steam blowing off of the toasted bread like puffs of smoke. “But I think when you do things off of impulse, they’re very reflective of the things that really bother you. Stereotypes were part of what pissed me off to no end before, and even if I run away, it’s still coming back, you see?”

You wonder if what Sicheng says is true. What do your impulses say about you?

“Anyway, yeah,” Sicheng shrugs and tosses the last bit of food into his mouth, chewing slowly, “Some would say it’s a bizarre pastime, and I say it’s a way to reconcile things with myself. All the things in the world that piss me off, I want to figure them out from the inside out and then, maybe I’ll understand.”

You don’t think you can conjure up a response to that, so you take a big bite of your sandwich and nod earnestly as you chew.

“Anyway,” Sicheng glances at his watch, “The kids at the high school get out of classes relatively soon, so I need to head on over there if I want to see if I can blend in.”

It takes you a moment to realize it’s an extended invitation. Sicheng is asking if you’d like to come with.

“Yeah, I don’t want to hold you up,” you say, swallowing quickly, “I’ll head home then.”

“Thanks,” Sicheng says as you stand up and wipe the crumbs off your pants.

“For what?” You glance back, “The sandwiches were pretty cheap, don’t worry about it.”

“No,” Sicheng shakes his head and chuckles, “Thanks for asking. Nobody has ever asked before.”

–

When you finally get home, the sun is setting. You still want something to eat because one sandwich is not enough to satiate an entire day’s worth of hunger. You frown at the lack of groceries in your refrigerator. It looks barren. You grumble and fish out a pack of tofu and dumps the cubes into a bowl with vinegar and soy sauce to soak.

You sit on one of the stools by your kitchen counter as the tofu cubes marinate. You wonder, in this stretch of time away from your family and from the world you grew up in, why the first semblance of true interest in something was voiced through excitement, and why this excitement was for something as simple as asking a strange man in a coffee shop why he was so strange.

You expected the feeling to go away after you left Sicheng in the park, but it hasn’t. There’s still that thrumming sense of expectation within you and you’re honestly confused as to what you’re expecting. The adventure is over, after all.

As you drop the blocks of tofu into a hot saucepan, you wonder if tomorrow morning, everything will be back to normal.

–

It’s not. The next morning, you wake up with that same nagging feeling in your gut, urging you to do something, reach for the goal. The problem is you don’t know what you should be searching for. You buy a clock for your bedroom, an old style kind with two massive bells on the top of it and a small hammer in between the two of them to make blaring noise when it’s set to go off. It’s really just a trivial purchase, but as you set it on your nightstand, you see it as a momentous change in your mentality. Who needs an alarm clock if they have nowhere to be, right? But at the same time, the first night with the clock, you don’t use the alarm setting on it. You never flip that little switch from off to on, and it serves simply as a timepiece. You spend a lot of the next week indoors. You leave twice to go the the mart and drag back bags of groceries, but other than that, you spend most of your time on the couch watching television or surfing the net, lazily jumping from video link to video link until you end up watching pointless cat videos for hours on end. You buy a calendar when you’re at the mart buying tomatoes. When you get back, you pin it on the plain expanse of wall just above your nightstand, dangling about a foot above where the silver alarm clock rests, silent. You buy a thin, red marker when you’re at the mart getting pepper paste. You set it just to the right of the clock and mark off the date every day after you wake up. On a Wednesday, you’re sitting on your couch, as usual, and it’s two forty five. You’re watching one of those channels that is half infomercials and half shows for middle aged housewives. “It’s important to stay active!” the host says. They’re talking about retirement plans. “Don’t stay inside all day! Go out! It helps keep the mind young and active!” You stare blankly at the screen. There’s something about watching a wrinkly old retirement planner encourage the osteoporosis plagued generation to be more active and more youthful that forces you to turn the tv off and slide your feet into your shoes. You walk out of your apartment in a daze. You don’t even react when the first burst of muggy summer air punches you in the face. You let the heat curl around you and drag you out into the massive blanket of drowsiness. You stumble along, half asleep and half melting, until you come upon that coffee shop. You glance at your watch. It’s three. You glance inside, and Sicheng is there. It’s hot, you decide, and the cafe has air conditioning. It’s also been a long time since you’ve had a coffee that you haven’t made yourself. If you go inside, it’s not because you want to see Sicheng. You’re strangers again. All your questions have been answered. You’re going in for coffee and nothing else. With that thought, you shove open the front door and noisily makes your way inside. The barista glances up at you and tips his head as if to ask for your order. “Espresso,” you say, but you’re not looking the barista in the eye. Your eyes are trained down on your wallet, which you’ve put on the countertop. There’s a metal piece on the clasp, shiny and reflective, and you’re staring down at it, using it as a mirror of sorts. Sicheng is there, leaning back in his chair, and he’s watching you. You realize, bemusedly, that Sicheng is watching you watch him and watch him on to infinity. As the barista slides your cup to you over the counter, you decide to stop thinking about it. It’s a paradox, you decide, and there’s no use twisting your head around something you can never solve. When you pick up your little saucer, balancing your cup in its spot, you’re hit with a wave of panic. Are you supposed to sit down next to Sicheng? Sicheng’s sly smirk and confident gaze seem to suggest that’s what’s expected. Naturally, you breeze right past him to your normal spot by the window. You can see out of the corner of your eye how Sicheng’s head swishes along with your line of movement. You chuckle underneath your breath. There’s immediate tension, but it’s not hostile or unpleasant. As you two sip away at your beverages, you steal poorly concealed glances in each other’s direction. You catch Sicheng staring at you more than once, and at a certain point, Sicheng stops trying to play it off as looking out the window behind you. It’s a bit ridiculous, you think, but it’s also a bit fun. It’s silent playful banter, and there’s something about the massive glass paneling and the way it filters the bite out of the heat and dulls it into something comforting that adds to the atmosphere. The bright sun reflects off of the small hanging plants within the shop, adding a soft green tinge to the beams of light. At last, when all you have left in your cup are the tasteless foamy bits, Sicheng walks over. He’s dressed casually today, in a large, wrinkled shirt and slightly baggy jeans with stains of something that you assumes is paint. “What are you today?” You smile as Sicheng sits down across from you. “What do you think I am today?” Sicheng counters. “Starving artist,” you eye the sharp line of Sicheng’s jaw as he turns his head briefly to glance out the window. “Hm,” Sicheng smiles, “I wonder.” “You’re not going to tell me?” You place your cup into your saucer with a clack. Sicheng looks at you, eyes skimming up and down your face. You feel like you’re being analyzed, a bug under a microscope. At last, Sicheng grabs your wrist and pulls it towards him, lying your arm across the table. Sicheng pulls a black pen out of the front pocket of his shirt, shakes it twice, and then pops open the cap. You holds your breath as Sicheng presses the tip to your skin. Sicheng is close enough that you can smell the linseed oil wafting off of Sicheng’s skin. Starving artist for sure. Oil paints. Sicheng’s handwriting is rough, and the press of the pen against your skin is hard enough that it verges on painful. “Come to this address on Sunday, three o’clock.” Sicheng says as he presses the last several characters into your skin, “Bring a camera.” With that, Sicheng stands up and puts the cap back on the pen, slipping it into his shirt pocket and turning away. “I’ll expect you there,” Sicheng says, not turning back to look at you. When the bell at the door chimes to signal Sicheng’s departure, you stare at the black letters written on your skin, each line traced by the gentle reddening of your pale skin. Defiance urges you not to go, but as you trace the lines on your arm, you have this sinking feeling that curiosity is going to win out this time. –

Sunday comes quickly, but you convince yourself into thinking it’s forever. You wait like a child, expecting a visitor, clammy hands, nervously looking at the address that you’ve transferred from your arm to a sheet of scrap paper. The intrigue is back, full force, and you are staggering in its wake. You rip through your cabinets to find that old camera that your father had gifted you for one of your birthday’s. It’s unused. Cameras, especially digital ones, are made to capture instantaneous moments that need to be held onto. You have no need for that, but it was a gift, and Sicheng said to bring a camera. You sit there during that time between the night of Saturday and the morning of Sunday. There’s a massive cup, filled with ramen. There’s an egg half submerged in the soup. Yellow and white in a big sea of red. The noodles are already gone because you finished them, but you left the egg there, untouched and treading in broth. The camera is out of its box, and you have fitted it with batteries and an sd card. It looks almost alive, except for the bits of dust that you couldn’t clean out of the cracks. You fall asleep on the couch, egg uneaten and dust settling further into the inner workings of your camera. You wake up with a sudden lurch, terrified that you’ve overslept. Your clock tells you that it’s barely eleven and you relax. You take your sweet time getting ready, showering slowly even though you don’t need to. You love slow mornings, you think to yourself, as you turn your toast over in your hand and use a knife to spread raspberry jam all over it. Summer rain, you notice when you glance out the window. You expect it’ll be cooler today. The droplets hit the window pane and it seems to fit, like some sort of perfect orchestral composition. Strangely, it lifts your spirits as you toss your dishes into the sink and strap on your watch. You stand in the center of your living room and wonder if you should wear a raincoat. But you have an umbrella, you decide, so it seems unnecessary. You hate the waterproof material against your skin and you’re wearing long sleeves today. You leaves your apartment at five past two, shaking out the umbrella before stepping out into the rain. You have the slip of paper tucked into your purse. You recognize the street name. It’s actually not all that far from where you live, but knowing yourself, you expect to get lost within the first five minutes. You do. You have to loop back three times before getting back onto the right track, and by the time you finally find that fateful street sign with the same words etched with ink into that piece of scrap in your pocket, it’s already almost three. When you start down the street, you fish the paper out of your pocket and try to match the numbers to the numbers on each building door. You aren’t actually sure what you expect, but it isn’t an apartment complex. It’s a tall, sleek building– surely incredibly high in property tax. You stand in front of the sliding doors, checking to make sure it’s the right place. It is. The doors slide open and you slide your umbrella shut. You step in cautiously and check the address on the paper. You wonder if you copied it down wrong. You step into the stairwell and climb up three flights of stairs. There’s a security pad at each level’s door. You stand, puzzled, and stare from the slip of paper to the keypad and back. You press the four digits written at the end of the address into the keypad and it makes a satisfied click. You pop open the door. You peek in through the door, expecting to find a hallway. Instead, you find a door, with a waiting area. There’s no mistaking your destination. You’re supposed to be here. You breathe in and out twice before rapping your knuckles on the door in time to your exhales. You knock five times, then stop, clasping your hands together in front of your lower stomach. Your camera is in your purse. You’re standing in front of this big gold-emblemed door. There’s a massive doorknocker, the head of a lion, but you use your knuckles instead. The floor is a checkerboard of black and white squares underneath your feet, and everything that isn’t the door is white. It’s as if the door is saying, “Hey, I’m what you’re here for. I have to be. There’s nothing else here.” And it is. You are here for that door and as you wait, you’re here for the sound of footsteps on the other side of that grand door. There’s this sense of claustrophobia in that little white excuse for a room. It’s not meant for anyone to stay long, it’s a waiting space and nothing more. When the big door finally opens, it’s more than relief, it feels like a blessing. Sicheng’s face is there, smiling, eyes crinkled up at the corners and teeth bright. He’s not wearing anything bizarre. There’s no costume today, it’s just a heavy blue sweater, hanging just barely off his left shoulder, and tattered jeans. “You look nice,” you say, awkwardly shuffling your feet and Sicheng holds the massive door open. Sicheng laughs, sound resonating off the walls, “Come in, come in. Take your shoes off in here.” He gestures to a shoe rack on the other side of the gigantic door frame. You step through it and take off your shoes. “I bet you’re wondering why I called you here,” Sicheng says, turning his back to you and beginning to walk. You follow him. The apartment doesn’t match the door, but it does. It’s so minimally furnished, but it’s so maximally designed. It’s a very expensive, but very empty space. “I am,” you say as Sicheng leads you into another room. There are no doors, it’s one big space separated by partial walls. There’s a table in this room, and a couch big enough to sit five. Neither of the pieces of furniture match the room’s design. The architecture suggests a grand dance room, There’s a wall that’s entirely mirrors, and a wall that’s entirely windows, not unlike the cafe. The table and the sofa look out of place, as if dragged off the streets. They’re not arranged nicely around the edges of the room, but haphazardly placed in the center of it, just slightly off skew. The sofa faces the door they entered from, and the table is placed diagonally so that the long edges face the corners of the room. There’s a bunch of miscellaneous items on the table. You squint at it. They seem to be little pots full of cream color. Sicheng is by the table at this point, using a wooden stick to stir a pot of something viscous. “You’re here for this,” Sicheng says, lifting the stick into the air. The substances drips like hot, thick sap from the sad little popsicle stick onto the surface of the table. “What would this be?” You ask as you step closer, taking the camera out of your bag. “This is how it happens,” Sicheng smiles. “How...” “I’m starting a new one today,” Sicheng says. Now his smile has meaning. You place the camera and put it on an empty space on the table. “And you’re going to help me make the transformation.” “Why me?” You blurt. Sicheng looks at you like you’re crazy, “Who else would I ask?” “I don’t know,” you shrug, “a friend?” Sicheng’s smile is mysterious, “There’s no one more fitted to call than you. I’m glad you’re here. Aren’t you?” You don’t answer. You shrug. “You are.” Sicheng laughs. The sound rings echoes. “I’m glad.” “What am I helping you with?” You ask, eyes skimming along the pots of color and slime all over the table. “I’m going to show you how I do this, and you’re going to help me.” “What specifically?” You frown. Sicheng holds up his index finger, as if to say, “Wait here just one second.” Then, he dashes out of the room. He comes running back with a leatherbound book in his hands. “What’s that?” “This is the journal that ties it all together,” Sicheng says, opening the book to the first page. He passes it to you and you run your fingers along the first set of open pages. The first two pages are blank, the two pages that you’re not supposed to write on. “I need to do some serious makeup for this one,” Sicheng says, stirring that sticky fluid again, “and I figure I’ll have some trouble taking the pictures.” “Pictures?” You question. “Open the book.” You peel back the next page. Sicheng’s handwriting is gorgeous, like script, it loops to form elegant words. My goal is to make every fool believe. The words don’t fit the penmanship, you think. You flip the page. There’s a polaroid picture pasted in the center of the lined page, held on with four flimsy pieces of scotch tape. Sicheng’s loopy handwriting names the event just above the picture. Project Homeless Sicheng is entirely unrecognizable in the picture, decked out in rags for clothes. He’s not just playing dress up. There’s something genuine in those eyes, staring up into the lens. He would fool anyone. You imagine him sitting in the rain, smiling up into a polaroid camera he’s holding by himself. A homeless man taking a picture of himself when nobody else looks, just to document the fact that nobody looks. Nobody looks long enough to see through the facade. You stare for a moment too long. “There’s more than that one,” Sicheng chuckles. You glance up to find Sicheng holding the stick above his face, letting that mystery substance drip all over his face. His eyes and mouth are closed shut. “You know,” you breathe as you turn the page, “There’s something about memories and identity that I read in school.” “Hm?” Sicheng keeps his mouth shut as he dips the stick back into the container and scoops more onto his face. It looks like raw honey. It’s probably some sort of rubber. “People, if they keep lying to themselves, can convince themselves of a new identity,” you says as you flip the page. Every page has a polaroid picture, always taken by Sicheng himself with whoever he’s with. He stands out, but he blends in. Sicheng chuckles. “Say, what is that you’re putting on your face?” You ask. You close the book because you’ve reached the end of the content. The book is still half empty. “Homemade concoction,” Sicheng says, tilting his face back up. The stuff seems to harden as it dries, dripping down his face in globs. It looks like amber colored sagging fat. “What are you supposed to be?” You ask. Sicheng applies more to the sides of his face. “Project senior citizen,” Sicheng says through gritted teeth as he waits for the substance to harden. You blink. “There’s foundation on the table,” Sicheng says, “Help me put it on. There’s a sponge somewhere too. As soon as it’s dry. I’ll tell you when.” You find the bottle of flesh colored makeup and the little circular sponge. You stand next to Sicheng, the book and the camera on the table, waiting for further instructions. “Now would be good,” Sicheng says stiffly. You nod and pour some of the makeup onto the sponge. “Just pat it on?” “Yeah,” Sicheng shrugs, “Doesn’t have to be perfect, I’ll fix it up later, this is just the base.” You scrunch up your nose and pat the sponge on Sicheng’s strange jelly face. Sicheng takes one glance at your expression and barks with laughter. “It’ll look better later,” Sicheng says, taking the bottle and the sponge from you and taking over the job himself. He’s done within the minute, his entire face washed over one, yellow-toned color. “You look really yellow,” you comment. “It’ll look more natural once I get to add some finer details. In the room to the left there’s a black bag full of clothing. Can you fetch that for me?” “Yeah,” you shrug and pad off to the room. You spot the bag in the corner and sweep it up before returning to find Sicheng squatting in front of a mirror. He’s holding a palette of assorted colors and using a brush to sweep them across his face. You stand back with the black bag still in your hand as Sicheng leans over the mirror, painting years onto his face. He’s good, the wrinkles look realistic, and those sagging lumps of jelly turn into sagging skin. The more Sicheng adds to his disguise, the more realistic it becomes. Every layer of fine powder comes with more of the moldable jelly, forming little marks and dents into Sicheng’s new skin. At last, he steps away and spins towards you with a vigor unbefitting of his appearance. “How do I look?” “Old,” you say, “But your voice--” Sicheng corrects his voice, letting it squeeze from his throat in broken crackles, “How do I look?” He says again. “Perfect,” you breathe in awe. Sicheng grins, the mask moving with his face. It looks just a little bit off, but only if looked at closely. “Give me the bag,” Sicheng reaches out. “Nobody ever notices?” You ask as you pass the bag to Sicheng. “Nobody looks long enough,” Sicheng says. He pulls a massive shirt out of his bag, something to button up over his sweater. It’s very plain and very old. He tugs off his jeans and replaces them with a pair of dinky looking corduroy pants. You glance away politely as he changes. The transformation is complete. Sicheng’s shoulders begin to sag as if he has the weight of an entire lifetime on his shoulders. “Your job,” Sicheng says, voice creaking, “is to take pictures. I’ll tell everybody you’re my granddaughter.” “Granddaughter? Don’t you think that’s pushing it?” Sicheng shrinks even more on himself, “No, I think nobody will ask.” He smiles. Sicheng looks in the mirror and fidgets with his clothing, pulls on a wig, messes with his makeup. Then, he nods once. “Let’s go!” He encourages. You follow blindly as Sicheng bursts out of the apartment, racing down the stairs. The second the front door to the complex is open though, Sicheng’s pace drops steeply. He staggers like an old man, clutching at his back and grasping and you for balance. They walk slowly to the nearby park. You breathe in the fresh air and drink in the greenery. There’s a set of chess tables by the children’s sand pit and a duo of old men arguing over the pieces. Sicheng takes your hand and carefully hobbles over. Then, once the two old men take notice, Sicheng is the perfect actor. “This is my granddaughter,” he smiles shakily, “Do you have room for two more players?” The two old men exchange a glance and shrug, “Sure, why not?” It’s almost like magic, the way Sicheng seamlessly slips into the role. It’s not until they’ve been playing chess for an hour that you realize that Sicheng isn’t acting at all. Sure, the appearance is different, and the voice, and the small mannerisms. However, although you’ve known Sicheng for such a short time, you feel that everything that comes out of his mouth is something he would say, regardless of costume. The other old men tell stories about their lives. Times that you and Sicheng have not lived through, but Sicheng fakes right through it. You take pictures. This is insane, crazy, extreme, but you are utterly fascinated. When it gets dark, the other two men leave and Sicheng and you head back the way you came. You stand at Sicheng’s front door and you look at each other, both searching for something within the other’s eyes that may or may not be there. “Come back tomorrow,” Sicheng says firmly, “One o’clock.” You do. Every day of the week from Sunday through Friday, you end up coming back. You don’t return to the chess playing duo of old men in the park, but Sicheng always manages to find a little group that is more than willing to adopt them into their little family. Every day is the same, but your interest never dwindles. It’s utterly fascinating to see how different Sicheng is treated, just because of appearances. “Come back tomorrow, one o'clock,” Sicheng tells you on Thursday, “But Saturday, I don’t do this. Saturday I stay home.” “What do you do on Saturdays?” You wonder. Your camera is heavy in your hand. There are hundred of pictures stored on the sd card, you’re sure of it. Sicheng smiles, “I do nothing at all.” –

It’s Friday. The last day of Project Senior Citizen. You and Sicheng are walking back from the park and you watch carefully as Sicheng becomes more and more himself on their way to the coffee shop. By the time they push open the door, his back is completely straight, and he’s walking like a young man despite the wrinkles on his face. The barista looks at him funny, but doesn’t ask questions. You sit together at the table by the window, making small talk over the men in the park. There’s no meaning to their words, nothing deeper than surface level, and years later, you finds that you can’t recall any of it. If you do, it’s a snippet, and a snippet of something much more important. “Say, you only ever keep one picture, right?” You ask, taking a sip from your ice coffee. “Yeah,” Sicheng nods, he uses a fork to split a scone down the middle, “Only one.” “What do you do with the rest?” You wonder. “I throw them away.” “It seems like a waste.” “Does it?” Sicheng stirs his coffee, “I don’t think it is.” “Do you mind if I keep the ones you don’t use?” You say. You’re flipping through the pictures on your camera. “Yeah, do what you want with them.” “Can I put them online?” Sicheng glances up, meets your gaze, then drops it again. “No?” “Yeah, you can, so long at the one picture I pick is seen by nobody but me and you.” “Yeah,” you agree quickly, then you hesitate, “But why?” Sicheng leans across the table and rotates the camera so the both of them can see it. He slides his thumb against yours and presses down so that the pressure of your finger holds the next button down. “I like this one,” Sicheng says, “If you could get it printed, I’ll put it in the book.” “Oh,” you blink, startled by the sudden contact, “Yeah, sure.” You can see Sicheng smiling through the makeup and the mask. “Besides, if everyone can see that one picture, it isn’t special anymore.” Sicheng smiles brightly, the makeup is cracking at the corners of his mouth. He looks up suddenly, smile falling off his face, “We should go,” he says, glancing nervously out the window, “It looks like it might rain.” You leave together, headed back in the general direction of both your apartments, when it begins to pour from the sky. As the rain hits Sicheng’s face, the mask seems to come off with it. The jelly is solid, so it doesn’t melt off. Instead, that thin film of adhesion holding Sicheng’s face to his face breaks apart so chunks of fake flesh fall to the ground. Sicheng doesn’t make an effort to salvage the pieces and instead leads the charge towards a bus stop foryoulter. He takes your hand, pressing warm, dry palms together to protect them from the rain. When they’re under the safety of the small plastic roof, Sicheng peels off what remains of his fake face, grinning broadly at your look of disgust. “Gross, huh?” Sicheng taunts. “Ew,” you agree as Sicheng rubs off the little flakes of makeup near his hairline. Sicheng laughs at you and makes a cup with his hands, extending them out from under the shelter to catch some of the rain pouring onto the streets. He splashes it onto his face and pops out his fake teeth, rinsing the pieces with rainwater and stuffing them into his pocket. “I don’t have an umbrella,” Sicheng says. “Neither do I.” “We could run home?” Sicheng suggests. You look at him with such distaste that Sicheng laughs and mocks you. “I don’t look like that.” “Yeah you do,” Sicheng fights back, “Don’t worry, it’s cute.” “I’m not cute,” you say stiffly. Sicheng raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else. At a certain point, with the two of them standing together in silence, Sicheng unbuttons his massive button down shirt, leaving him in the same sweater from before. You eye him rolling up his pants before looking back out into the droplets of rain pelting down onto the sidewalk. There are no people, no cars, just gallon after gallon of never ending water. “It’s better with company, you know,” you say, eyes not wandering from the pouring rain. “It’s better with your company,” Sicheng amends. His eyes don’t meander either. “Uh,” you aren’t sure what to say, “Thanks?” There’s a long pause. “Would you like to come again next week?” Sicheng asks. You look at him, “What?” “Do you want to come and help me with my project for next week too?” It’s almost funny, because Sicheng is asking you this question like you’re both in school again. Will you come help me with your project? It’s hard to decide if this is more or less sad, because on one hand, it’s something so much bigger, but on the other hand, it’s something so much bigger than they can ever be. “Yeah,” you shrug, “Sure.” Sicheng smiles so genuinely that you can’t help but stare. “Same place, same time,” Sicheng laughs, “and I’ll see you Sunday?” “Yeah,” you whisper, “Yeah, I’ll see you then.” “I’m glad,” Sicheng says, delighted, “No one can walk a path entirely alone. It’s good to have a partner in crime. Crime against social structure!” You decide that Sicheng is right. The rain stops. –

You begin to accompany Sicheng on all his adventures. You’re there as a piece of the background. A daughter, a friend, a sister, whatever is needed for the occasion. The only constant to your identity is your camera. You take hundreds of pictures and upload them all online. You organize each set and label it accordingly. It’s simple, just a method of collecting images and memories. Weeks pass slowly. You find the sense of anticipation never leaves, but the feeling of emptiness does. Slowly but surely, you start waking at a set schedule. You aren’t sorry to let your old routine go. Sicheng is a fascinating creature, not just in what he’s doing, but also in his philosophies and his way of living. You finds yourself captured by Sicheng’s words. You can’t help but stare when Sicheng smiles. Your favorite image of Sicheng is when Sicheng is getting dressed for the day, putting on his costume. It’s always when Sicheng looks the most engaged. You try and take a picture of it once, but Sicheng swats you away and forces you to delete the picture. “Only of the project,” he insists. Sicheng is adventurous, every project is something entirely different. After senior citizen, he dresses himself up in drag and sees what it’s like to walk around if everyone assumes you’re a housewife. You follow around as a daughter, constantly impressed at how good Sicheng is at makeup. After housewife is dentist, then plastic surgeon, then mailman, and then after that you can’t quite remember exactly which one is next. You know somewhere in the mix Sicheng tries to see what it’s like being a prostitute and hauls you around as his pimp. There’s a point in which Sicheng pretends to be dying on the street as a rich man, and the reactions from passersby are horrifyingly different from the reactions when he pretends to die on the street as a poor man. With each project, Sicheng seems to affirm his theory about humanity, that people are awful because they design their morals and their actions all around aesthetic qualities. Every project makes him more horrified, yet more determined. You watch with your camera, snapping a picture at every moment when Sicheng seems to slip, just a little bit, and every moment when he doesn’t slip at all. Your little website for storing the pictures grows massively, and you find that people have discovered it. People wonder what it is. People ask questions, but you never answer. At last, there comes a query that you can’t quite ignore. In the winter, just over six months since you first met Sicheng, you get a phone call. There have been dozens of projects since then, every set uploaded and organized on your website. The call is from a museum. They want to have an exhibition of Sicheng’s work. “No,” Sicheng snaps when you tell him, “Absolutely not. I told you, all the pictures in that book are special, nobody else can see them. Just you and me.” “But that’s not the pictures they want,” you frown, “They’ve been looking at the other ones, the ones I’ve uploaded onto the internet.” Sicheng stares at you, “Oh?” “Yeah. They called me last night.” “But it defeats the purpose of this entire thing. You’re making something that outs societal norms into a display for people trying to fit into societal norms. Nobody goes to galleries for shits and giggles! It’s all pretending for approval from others.” You’re quiet for a moment, letting Sicheng’s words sink in. Sicheng is about to leave the room in a huff, when you gently rest your fingertips on his wrist. Sicheng freezes. “But wouldn’t that be great?” You wonder, “To out the social construct in front of the social construct?” Sicheng is hard headed, single minded, and impossibly stubborn, but those words get him. You stand there, fingers wrapped around Sicheng’s left wrist, as Sicheng changes his mind. “All right,” Sicheng decides after a minute. The preparation for the exhibit is all very much a blur. Sicheng and you end up not being all that involved in the actual construction or design of the exhibit and end up just continuing on their own way, continuing to fill up Sicheng’s book of projects as the museum workers do everything for them. Opening night is in January. There are hundreds of people flooded into the new exhibit to see the work. Sicheng and you are both there to greet people, but once the first couple people trickle in, Sicheng pulls a vanishing act and disappears. You are left fending off the questions and find that you can answer almost all of them, just as Sicheng would. Eventually, the exhibit closes for the night. As seas of people ebb back with the tide and out into the moon of the night, you’re left by yourself. You thank the curator, go the procedures, and then you feel strangely alone. The feeling of nothing seeps up like smoke from the edges of that exhibition room, creeping in long, spirally tendrils, threatening to draw you back in. “Sicheng!” You shout. There’s no response. You storm into the next room, searching for any evidence of this life. Sicheng wouldn’t have left you here alone, no matter how uncomfortable he is. “I’m here.” You find Sicheng seated on the floor in the very last room, right by the very last photograph. He’s sitting there, back hunched, head just a couple inches from the wall. If his face were cut off and placed into a nice black square with a nice white border, that expression could be one of the pieces in the exhibit. The project maker could be a project within himself. “They got it wrong,” Sicheng says, just loud enough that you can hear. You walk over to him, standing and looking down as Sicheng sighs. “What did they get wrong?” You ask patiently. “Here, in the brochure, they don’t get it. This blurb about the entire exhibit, it’s wrong.” “What’s wrong about it?” “Dong Sicheng has engaged in a series of projects. Changing himself to fit a series of stereotypes that he himself doesn’t belong to in order to create a captivating image of metamorphosis and become a true chameleon.” You say nothing. “They got it wrong,” Sicheng says, rolling his head back and shutting his eyes. His forehead crinkles. “It’s not about fitting yourself to other people. It’s not me changing myself. I don’t change, it’s the superficiality that changes. They’re missing the point.” You rest your hand on Sicheng’s forehead to smooth the harsh lines out. “It’s not project,” Sicheng whispers into your ear, “It’s project. I want to be a projection of society, just changing the first layer of skin, the first layer of identity. I’m not transforming, I’m not changing as a person, it’s just–It’s just perception and– They’re wrong, they got it wrong. They got the entire point wrong.” They’re here, on the floor of some museum’s gallery after the visitors have left and lights are all off. There’s just a few lining the darker corners, protecting against robberies and vandalism. Except for the color washing through your cheeks and the warmth of Sicheng’s skin, the entire room is black and white. “You know, I say this. I say I want to project a persona, in every single picture, every single project,” Sicheng says, his voice crackles like an old recording, threatening to break with every turn and twist. “I’m here, and I’m doing this, but it feels almost like I’m lying to myself. You know, we’re here because we’re showing these rich, privileged people that once you put on the mask, all that respect and justice goes out the window based on such superficial qualities. But,” Sicheng takes your hand, “Oddly enough, I don’t feel like I’m getting the last laugh. It feels wrong.” If there’s any moment to fall in love, you realize, it’s here. Lost in the melancholy beauty of this situation, two people falling together by defying social structure, finding themselves in a place where social status is admired and revered. The audience of the entertainment is also the source of the joke. It’s a loop of satire, and it’s cynically beautiful. You think that this is exactly what Sicheng started out to do. Imagine how beautiful the image would be. These two figures, torn out of the loop of their own game, sitting together in a gallery after hours. Imagine how much more beautiful the image would be if they fall in love for the first time. But you can’t fall in love for the first time, you realize, if you’re already in too deep. You can fall in love for the second time, or the third, or perhaps, you realize, it’s something continuous. Falling in love, maybe, never ends. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, sliding down to sit next to Sicheng against the wall, “Because it’s not about who gets the last laugh. It’s an ideal, and it will always stand. Even if the man behind the idea is gone, it’s still there.” Sicheng glances up. Maybe that’s why breakups hurt so much, you realize, because if love were to terminate, if it didn’t accumulate, it wouldn’t hurt at all. It only hurts because it keeps on going. “I’ve always wanted to ask,” you whisper, “What happens when the book is done?” Sicheng stares at you for a moment in the darkness and presses his palm to your cheek. “I’ve thought about it a lot,” Sicheng whispers, “and I had this plan when– I had a plan.” “What happened to the plan?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s still intact,” Sicheng says slowly, “I’m just not sure if I want to go through with it anymore.” You brush your fingers against Sicheng’s, still resting on your cheek. Sicheng’s hands are abnormally warm, like he has a fever, but when you rest your foreheads together, he’s not sick. Just his hands burn hot, wrapping themselves tight around your fingertips. He pulls your fingertips up to his lips and just holds them, suspended in a kiss that’s not quite there. “Funny thing is,” Sicheng chuckles weakly, “This is nothing like what I expected it to be. I thought I would find myself and there are less and less pages in the book now. I thought I’d grow more detached, but--” Sicheng glances at you, “Then there’s you. It’s like I have a limited amount of time to decide what is me and what isn’t, and decide what’s obsolete.” You wonder why Sicheng seems so affected by the mortality of his little leather notebook. Why he seems to look at you with a pained look. It’s not like you’re going anywhere. “There’s a time limit on everything,” you point out. Sicheng stares at you. “Yeah,” Sicheng sighs, “Yeah I know.” –

After opening night, Sicheng and you don’t return to the exhibit. Three weeks later, Sicheng gets a shipment to his apartment. All of the photographs are given to him, in their frames, with the plaques. There’s a note sending the museum’s deepest most sincere thanks. You arrive at Sicheng’s apartment on Sunday and when you knock, nobody comes to the door. You knock and knock and knock, but nobody ever answers. You see all the boxes, stacked at Sicheng’s door, with the thank you card right on top. You check the shipment slip. It says it’s been here since yesterday. Since Saturday, the only day that the two of you don’t meet. Has Sicheng not come out of his apartment? You stand there, slamming your fists against that big, ornate door for half an hour. Nobody ever comes. Should you call him? You don’t have his number. At five o'clock, you walk away and take the stairs back down out to the street. Disappointment is harsh, and Sicheng has never let you down before.

–

You wake up on Monday in a fit of frustration. You glance at the clock, the digital nine barely registering before you’re out the door and storming down the streets. You need coffee. It’s your last solace. You arrive at the coffee shop at ten in the morning, just for a cup of coffee, nothing else. Instead, you find Sicheng sitting at his usual table, head cradled in his hands with four cups of coffee sitting in front of him. All the anger in youe body seems to magically disappear. You eye Sicheng cautiously as you place your order, wondering if he has even recognized your presence. There’s no motion, so you assume not. When you get your coffee and drag out the chair across from Sicheng, only then, does Sicheng look up. “You moved,” you say. It’s not a question. “I did.” “The museum shipped the exhibition pieces to your–” “It’s fine, they can keep them. Someone will take them.” You squint at him, “Are you running away?” You ask. No answer. “Are you running away from your method of running away?” You sit at the coffee table, knees locked together as you peer up at the man at the table across from you. It’s the same table where you first met, but this time, it looks like Sicheng doesn’t want to be there. He’s looking everywhere but at you, eyes darting desperately away from the point. “You need to finish,” you say directly, placing your palms on the tops of Sicheng’s hands, pressed flush against the surface of the table. Sicheng stares at their hands, joined together on the table. “There’s only one page left before the last one. I– I’ve had the last one planned for– for a long time.” “So then it’s only one more,” you encourage, “Sicheng, you can do this.” “What if I don’t want it to end?” Sicheng whispers. “Why wouldn’t you want it to end?” you frown, “This is the whole point, you know, the finale.” “There’s a lot of things,” Sicheng breathes, “That are best left unfinished.” You lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest, “Like what?” “I don’t know,” Sicheng mutters, “Books, movies–” “But if they don’t end--” “Life? Love?” Sicheng is quiet again. You don’t really have anything to say. “But,” you try, “If you leave something unfinished, isn’t it tragic? It’s a dream for eternity. It’s like Peter Pan, the boy who loses everyone to time because he’s doomed to forever.” You think that Sicheng says, “There are some things that are best left for forever,” but you’re not sure. Sicheng turns away. “Do it?” you try, one last time, “Please?” Sicheng looks at you, face motionless. Then he nods. “I promised myself that I needed to finish. I can’t run away from reality forever.” “Yeah,” you grin, “Every project is fake, some role that you can play. The second this is all over, you can play yourself again.” “Yeah,” Sicheng agrees. He doesn’t seem too spirited. “I have a proposition,” you say. Sicheng glances at you hesitantly. “What?” “I’ll build your last project for you.” “How?” “I’ll show you,” you point at Sicheng and then point to yourself, “How to be me.” Sicheng still looks reluctant, but intrigued, “What do you mean?” “Remember how I told you that my father sells coffee beans for a living?” “Yeah.” “I do too, and I want to show you how I was. How I am, I guess. Or at least who I was before--” “You don’t have to,” Sicheng says quickly. “I insist, Sicheng I want you to finish this, and I think you might actually enjoy it this way.” “What makes you think that?” Sicheng scoffs. “Because I’m going to show you how to be me.” “Why would that interest me?” “I think it’s something that comes with love,” you say, “You want to learn everything about the one you love, right?” Sicheng says nothing. “I want to learn everything about you,” you shrug, “It only makes sense to return the favor.” “You’re going to show me your spot in the social infrastructure,” Sicheng says. “Yes.” “Because you love me.” “Yes, and because you love me too,” you purse your lips, “Don’t deny it.” Something seems to change within Sicheng, and he smiles weakly, it’s as if he’s let something go. “Yeah, yeah, I do. Let’s do it.” You are pleased that Sicheng has agreed, but you can’t help but see the same sort of “off” quality in Sicheng’s face at that exact moment. The same “off” quality in every one of his pictures. You forget about it because Sicheng stands up, leans across the table, and kisses you right on the mouth. –

You begin on Tuesday. Sicheng says that they can do it on Saturday this week too, since it is the second to last one. You are elated. You bring Sicheng to your house and show him the photobooks that you’ve kept stashed away in the back of your closet, effectively walking him through your entire life. You tell Sicheng about coffee beans, the flavor, the roast, the blend, and all the complexities of the passion passed down your family for generations. Sicheng listens, absorbing the information. Sicheng fits into the role perfectly. He dresses the way you used to and as Sicheng is reciting the list of coffee beans that you gave him, you remember when this all started. You remember being so confused at Sicheng’s intentions, confused as to how to help. Things have changed a lot. The disappointing thing is that although this is probably the best week of your life, Sicheng seems to grow increasingly weary as time passes. The more he learns about who you were, the more tired he seems to be. It’s as if he’s sick. He seems to be desperate for something, but you don’t know what. Whenever you ask what’s wrong, Sicheng just shakes his head and says he wants to sleep. The entire week, Sicheng doesn’t go home. He sleeps on your couch for an hour before climbing into your bed. His arms snake their way around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. It’s nothing more. Sicheng just holds you to his chest, breathing soft and steady as he settles back into sleep. It seems to comfort him. It’s the only time that there aren’t lines of stress imprinted into his forehead and you treasure those moments. You love being so close to Sicheng all the time, love the soft brushes of Sicheng’s lips against your temples when you’re trying to explain something, or trying to make dinner. You love the prospect of forever, the suggestion that although the two of them are so fucked up and so lost, you can find yourselves here, in each other. It’s horrendously pretentious, and disgustingly cliche, but you still yearn for the things you hate. You want to be happy and you want to feel safe in the way you are. You wonder if Sicheng feels the same way. You ask on Thursday, “Do you like staying here? Do I make you uncomfortable? You don’t have to force yourself if you want to go.” Instead of answering, Sicheng lifts you up and kisses you. You take Sicheng to all your old spots, the bar where you used to meet your friends, the coffee shops you used to sell beans to. You watch as Sicheng plays you. Sicheng kisses you often, as if to make up for all the time you spent together and wasted by being cautious. You kiss him back, feeling the warmth of his touch and sliding your lips together comfortably, only pulling away when you’re both out of breath. Friday night, Sicheng has a crisis. You go to the mart only to return home and find Sicheng gone. You dump the groceries into the fridge and run out into the street, screaming Sicheng’s name. You find Sicheng at the park, sitting on the bench quietly. “Why’d you leave?” “I’m a bad person.” Sicheng says blankly, looking off into the distance. “What?” “I–” he glances at you, “It was a test.” You are confused, “What test?” “I wondered how you would react if I left.” You frown, “Don’t leave again.” “Yeah,” Sicheng stands up slowly and takes your hand. You walk back together.

Saturday evening, Sicheng says he needs to go home. “I’ve already been here a week, I should probably go and take care of my place. At least a little bit.” “Yeah, okay,” you shrug. “The projects are over. You’ll find out what the last page is for,” Sicheng says brightly. You squint at the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop?” You ask, “Three o’ clock? The coffee house around the bend?” “Yeah,” Sicheng smiles weakly and presses a kiss to your forehead. He’s about to walk out the door when he turns around and takes your hand. “I’m not sure how I feel about ending it. I promised myself I’d return back to reality. Everything that is a project has to cease as soon as I’m done.” “Yeah,” you smile encouragingly, “But all the projects, all the disguises are still you, deep down. You are all those things, but you’re not at the same time. It’s little bits and pieces that make Dong Sicheng who he is.” “But I have to forget,” Sicheng says, “Every person that I pretended to be. Every project in that book is supposed to be someone I’m not. A facade that I play the part of for a period of time before dropping the role in favor of something new. So it’s all a lie.” “But lies are built on truths. You can’t have one without the other,” you counter. Sicheng shrugs, “When it comes down to it, it’s still a lie that I need to let go.” He leans down to kiss you on the nose. He spins on his heel and opens the door. “Bye.” “I’ll see you at three,” you say. –

You knew the day would come when Sicheng would find a way to break their routine of breaking routine. You’ve always been excited for Sicheng’s last entry. It’s a surprise that you have anticipated for a long time. Sunday, you wake on your own with no assistance from your alarm. There’s a crow perched outside of your window, peering in at you curiously, cocking its head when you meet its gaze. In all honesty, the crow is probably looking at the contents of your room, but you can’t help but feel that the bird is staring directly at you. The creature shudders, shaking off the remnants of morning dew, before spreading its wings and dropping out of sight. You blink slowly before pulling yourself out of bed. You stumble into the coffee shop five minutes before three. The light does something almost enchanting in the wintertime, light bouncing off of the icicles that drape off of the shingles, dangling like ornaments along the wall of windows. The rays bounce off of so many reflective surfaces that it creates the illusion of a thousand sources of lights, like there are tiny little suns illuminating worlds of their own in every corner. You stand for just a moment too long at the welcome mat of the store. The barista gives you a look and you wipe off your boots on the provided rug, rushing to order your usual. The wood always smells a little bitter with coffee, a bite of sap sweetness that naturally forms in older wood. You suck in a lungful of air and blow into your palms, breathing life into your trembling pink fingers. The barista slides your mug to you over the counter and you thank him, gently looping your finger through the handle and hobbling off to your usual table. You’re early, and it’s not unlike Sicheng to be late, so you ready yourself for a long wait, relishing in the feeling of warmth curling in your stomach as you sip down the liquid from your cup. “That guy wanted me to give you this,” the barista says, holding out Sicheng’s notebook, “He told me to say sorry.” The leather book is worn. Inscribed on the very last page of Dong Sicheng’s leather journal is his last entry, in the same format as all the others. Sicheng’s loopy handwriting starts about two fingers-widths away from the left border, beginning with a massive, ornamental P. Project, it says. Project, as it always says. You hold your breath as the tips of your fingertips brush against the smooth edges of the polaroid picture pasted into the center of the very last page. It’s the picture they took at the museum. The one they took together on Sicheng’s flimsy old polaroid camera because it was just a stamp of a memory and not something actually important. “My goal is to make every fool believe” is inscribed on the first page of this journal, and it’s the thing you think of first when your eyes draw back to the top of the page to reread the words panned out in Sicheng’s sloping penmanship. Just to make sure your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. They’re not. You read the words over and over again. Project “in love” Lies, you remember. Let every lie go, you remember. Make every fool believe, you remember. You look up at the cafe around you. You’re all alone. He made every fool believe.

#nct scenarios #nct imagines #winwin imagines #winwin x reader #sicheng imagines #sicheng x reader #nct fanfic #nct 127 fanfic

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royalnugget42 · 5 years

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Fools in the Rain

This is just some really late Valentines Day Destiel that I hope y’all enjoy.

Tw for some kissing towards the end if that bothers you

Dean wakes to noises in the kitchen. Nothing big, not even the sound of dishes, just the weird resonance of footsteps against empty, high-ceilinged walls. Whoever this is seems to know their way around, seems comfortable. It’s probably nothing.

And yet, his paranoia isn’t going to let him sleep until he investigates properly. Just because something is quiet doesn’t mean it’s friendly. In fact, in his line of work it was usually the opposite. Gritting his teeth against the cold night air, he shifts the covers away and slips groggily out of bed.

When he gets to the kitchen he realizes he was overreacting. Castiel is sitting at the table, eating sugary cereal out of a box. “What a dork,” Dean thinks to himself, thought he can’t help but find it endearing. He does his best to leave before Cas notices, but unfortunately Cas chooses that moment to clear his throat.

“Hello, Dean.” His customary greeting.

“Hey Cas,” he says, walking over and sitting opposite him. “Any reason why you’re up early? Not that you need sleep but, you know you usually stay up in your room. What’s up?”

He sighs. Dean takes a moment to notice the lines on his face deepen. It breaks his heart but Cas looks tired. More than tired; he looks completely drained.

“I tried out a dating app.”

Dean has to do a double take to make sure he’d heard right.

“A what?”

“A dating app. I’ve seen humans do it before, so I thought I’d try. It is Valentines Day after all.”

Dean nearly swore. Cas was right, the holiday had passed him by and he had barely noticed. He chose not to dwell on that troubling fact for the moment.

“And? Did you get stood up or something?” he asks. Honestly what kind of idiot would pass up a guy like Cas, though? He was handsome enough, and he was incredibly caring. Unbidden, he thought why he hadn’t asked Cas himself if all that were true. Because I’m not into guys, he berates himself.

“No, she was there, and we had a wonderful time. We went to a bar, got drinks, went outside and then she tried to drain my body of blood,” he says, so matter-of-factly it was like he was listing the steps to fix a busted car engine. The poor son of a bitch got matched with a vampire.

“Oh man, I’m sorry. You just can’t catch a break, huh? First April, now this?” Dean cringes at himself as he sees a flash of pain cross his friend’s face.

“Don’t remind me. At least it didn’t get that far this time.”

There was a gentle pause. The two of them sat calmly, enjoying the comfort of each other’s presence. It is in this moment that they both begin to realize something about themselves. Not much, but something.

“Dean I don’t know what to do. I just want to be human, to do the things that seem to come so naturally to everyone else,” he mourns, breaking the quiet.

“Now hold on,” Dean interjects. “Love doesn’t come naturally to anyone, it takes time, practice. Hell, I’ve been trying at it all my life, and I’ve barely got one inch of a handle on it. Nah, man, real love takes time. It’s not something you look for really, it just kind of...finds you.” He pauses, wondering briefly where this advice comes from. Where in his life he could have learned that? Maybe there was a subconscious part to it? Or maybe he was just shooting crap out his ass.

“How does that help me? I just wish I could learn this stuff faster. I don’t even-“ he frowns, embarassed. “I don’t even know how to dance.”

The way he looks right now, it reminds Dean of the first night he spent with him. Cas had admitted to being somewhat inexperienced in the human experience, and with the Apocalypse hanging over their heads and the threat of an archangel looming in the foreground, they’d gone to a bar to get him laid. Of course they didn’t succeed, but at the time it had felt so perfect, and he couldn’t have possibly understood why.

Now he did understand. That was the first time he had looked at Castiel and seen something more than a soldier, or an angel. For a quarter of an hour, he was human, just some friend that had been brought along to a bar. Not even that. He wasn’t just some friend. He was Cas. Something had been left unspoken that night, something Dean didn’t have the energy or maybe even the capacity to comprehend.

At this moment, Dean has a choice to make. There are two ways this can end. Option one, Dean grabs some beers, and together they drink and laugh and do their collective best to forget. The words they need to say will remain unsaid, at least until the next time he or Cas gets hurt, then they can do this all over again, year after year. Option two? Dean has thought he would need to be much more drunk than he was right now, but looking at Castiel, angel of the lord, brought low by a crappy Valentines date, he suddenly knows what has to happen.

Cas didn’t know how to dance. Dean has to be the one to take the first step, to open his hand and ask.

“Do you still have that tape I gave you?”

Cas looks up, some small understanding in his eyes, but a shred of doubt as well. Despite this, he follows, letting himself be led.

“Of course. Why?”

Dean rises from his chair, and gestures. They walk in syncopated tandem down the halls, to the garage. The impala is there of course, parked in its usual spot. As he stands at the car door, Dean holds out his hand for the tape, again asking for permission. Of course he knew Cas still had it, still kept it in the inside pocket of his coat. The pen on the label has faded a little, but it still reads clearly “Deans top 13 Zepp Traxx”.

They continue, wordlessly and utterly unsure. Every step they take has an unspoken plea of permission, and at every step the answer is to take another step. Dean opens the car door, and Cas climbs in the passenger side. The car starts and their eyes meet. A smile. A nod.

The car rumbles, crunching over gravel and settling just outside the bunker. Cas is already out of the car. He’s no longer unsure. He knows what Dean is asking. Maybe he’s known for longer than he thought he had.

“Fool in the Rain” starts to sing from the speakers. It’s not a slow song by any means. It bounces. It’s bitter in the way that only a major key song can play, but it’s about love. It’s about waiting. It’s about wanting and listening and dancing around each other like the magnets in a motor.

They aren’t dancing to it yet, but they’ve been dancing all the same. They sit quietly against the good of the car and listen to the sound of Zeppelin pouring out of the cassette player, watching the forest at night. Finally, effortlessly and yet with every ounce of his resolve Dean turns to Cas, and for the first time since that first step, he speaks.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, stretching out his hand to Cas.

Cas answers quickly. He knows what Dean is asking, and his answer is, has been, might always be yes.

Their hands interlock and they dance.

It’s not perfect. After all, Cas barely knows how, but he allows Dean to lead him, step by faltering step. They pull closer to each other, chasing the pace of the song. It’s a little too fast, and there are a few times when they both misstep together. At this, they laugh. They alternate the lead and course correct when they can, shrug it off when they can’t.

About a third of the way through the song, rain starts falling, trickling down the bare trees, and splattering on the magic of the song. Cas is the one to take initiative, pulling them both under the roof of the Impala. In the backseat, Dean becomes aware of the closeness of Castiel to him. Cas turns to him, and Dean asks him with his eyes, one last time. He moves in answer, connecting their lips.

It’s harmony. For half a second neither one moves, then they press on, pulling shallow breaths and pulling closer, closer than they ever might’ve dared. The tape plays on, and it’s a full minute until they pull back, barely listening to the lyrics calling out through the now pouring rain.

“...And the thoughts of a fool's gotta count

I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block.”

The ‘I love you’ isn’t unashamed, isn’t a cry and scream of declaration and desperation. It’s whispered beneath kisses and guitar strings and drums. It’s only preceded by two fools in the rain.

#kissing #destiel #spn #valentines day #little angst #mostly fluff tho #fluff #boys kissing #led zeppelin #mixtape #dancing #hurt/comfort #vampires briefly #consent

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veryotl · 6 years

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Vocal Unit song ranking

So I’m not really sure how to introduce this, since usually I write things like this off of an ask someone sends me and not just because. But basically, since maybe Love and Letter I’ve been expressing more and more my general dissatisfaction with Vocal Unit since they keep doing ballad songs and not really shifting genres at all. It’s not necessarily that I dislike ballads, but more that I want to see Vocal Unit expand and try new styles. Unfortunately, what ended up happening then was that a lot of my reactions to their songs became negatively framed, and most of my analysis on their songs were set in Vocal Unit’s overarching style instead of based on each song. I’ve never really gotten the chance to analyze them as individual songs instead of as a whole, so I decided I want to make a post that gives me the chance to do that. Since the format I’m most used to is a ranking, I’ve decided to keep that structure, so here is my ranking of Vocal Unit songs from least favorite to most!

6. When I Grow Up

Actually, it was very hard for me to pick one that was my least favorite, because as individual songs, I like them all very much. But if I had to pick, it would be When I Grow Up, for the reason that is that it’s very straightforward. It keeps the same structure throughout the entire song, the backing remains pretty much the same, there’s not a whole lot of build or progression to the song. I’m also not a huge fan of the high harmonies throughout the song, because they’re a little too forward in the mix and it can make it seem a little bit too sharp. Although, on the plus side, I really like the way Woozi’s voice fits into this song. I like the vibe of the song, too. It’s very steady and relaxing, and it feels just like sitting outside watching the rain fall and being unaware of time passing. As for lyrical content, the concept is very simple and straightforward as well, which nets extra points for keeping to a theme. Overall, it’s a very nice feeling song, but I feel like it’s easily assigned to background noise, just kind of the feeling of a song you wouldn’t skip, but you might not seek out on your own often.

5. Come To Me

Come To Me's biggest strength is probably the vocal ability, it does have some of the best vocals of all of Vocal Unit’s songs. They’re very mellow and easygoing, and it doesn’t sound like any of them have to particularly strain to hit the notes. However, the style of vocals doesn’t particularly suit the backing track at all, which seems to call for stronger, more upbeat tones. My first reaction was that it sounded like someone took a ballad track and laid it over a tropical house pop song like Really Really, and I still feel like that analysis is pretty accurate. Come To Me has the opposite problem of When I Grow Up, and that is that it does progress and change as the song goes on, but it doesn’t keep to a theme well. In lyrical content, it’s a very mellow, good feeling vibe, with lots of references to nature and emotions, kind of acting like a meeting of the ballad and tropical house genres. I can tell they tried to explore a new genre, but the melody in the vocals doesn’t match with the backing track much. It is still a very good feeling song to listen to, though.

4. Don’t Listen in Secret

At first, I was really disappointed with Don’t Listen, because it started out so understated with just vocals, piano, and a really quiet guitar, and the lyrics made it seem like the whole song should just be... stronger. But then, after the first chorus, there’s this building that starts to happen, adding drums and Seungkwan’s voice beginning to get stronger, and then immediately following that with DK. It builds into this almost... jazzy nightclub sounding song, where I can picture Woozi at a piano and Seungkwan and DK in snazzy suits at mics singing and Jeonghan and Joshua snapping their fingers and it’s this really cool kind of soundscape that I hadn’t expected from the song. If I were to improve this song, I might add a bit more instrumentation to compliment the stronger vocals DK and Seungkwan bring, but it’s also possible that the addition would make the song overwhelming and hurt Woozi’s more breathy chorus. Lyrically, this song does something I like too, which is like, writing a song about the song you’re writing. Popular Song does this same concept a little bit better, but altogether it’s a good concept and a pretty interesting soundscape that makes this song memorable.

3. 20

I argued with myself quite a bit about the order of these last three, since the faults and strengths are all different, but I finally decided on this order. 20 is an incredibly simple song with very pop-influenced instrumentals and vocals but it’s still done so well. The lyrics are simple, the progression is simple, but it only feeds into the idea that this is a song written to invoke either the excitement looking forward to your twenties or the nostalgia of looking back at a simpler time. It invokes the feeling of lightheartedness and optimism that perfectly encapsulates what the pop genre should be used for. It’s basically the ultimate feel-good pop song, that you listen to when you want to make new good memories or remember the good old times. The biggest fault of the song is that with the exception of Woozi who fits the genre extremely well, the vocals are a little weak. But considering it was debut era, and the allowance of the genre of the song, it’s not even that big of a subtractor from the enjoyment of the song.

2. Pinwheel

The realization that I actually really like Pinwheel was what inspired me to make this post in the first place. I was really hard on Pinwheel at first because I wanted to see other things from Vocal Unit, but Pinwheel actually does improve on a lot of the problems earlier ballads had. The vocals are really strong, the musical progression is memorable and really done well, the melody is creative particularly in DK’s playing with the rhythm in his chorus lead up and the bridge. The harmonies are well blended into the song and aren’t overwhelming, and the lyrics are just beautiful. It uses metaphors and visual pictures to invoke the feeling of loneliness and waiting, and it’s absolutely the most beautiful song Vocal Unit has done. The one complaint I would put for the song itself is that the final chorus had a lot of buildup behind it but not a lot of payoff. After the phenomenal bridge and Woozi’s lead in, I would’ve liked the final chorus to have a bit more of an impact behind it and a little bit of a change behind DK’s little bit of harmonization. However, it’s an absolutely gorgeous build and a great execution.

1. Habit

Habit is a pretty overlooked song in the conversation of Vocal Unit songs, but I think it’s Vocal Unit’s best song. Firstly, the emotion in the song is expressed perfectly, from Joshua’s quiet and unpolished vocals to start the song and the understated nature of the verse that bursts into sound in the chorus, to the lyrics which encapsulate not only the pain of someone becoming a habit and then disappearing but also the bitterness of being easily forgotten when you’re still constantly catching yourself preforming the habit. There’s also a lot of memorable lyric delivery as well, with Woozi’s “I must seem like a fool” hitting like a punch. It’s so sad and so perfect. What really puts it over the top for me, though, is that they use Joshua and Jeonghan so well in the song. Instead of relegating them to backing vocals, they give Joshua a place where his softer vocals would be impactful, and give Jeonghan a place where his vocal color can shine instead of being overpowered by the other vocalists. They still keep DK and Seungkwan in the song and give them fitting parts too, where their emotional strength can shine and be noticeable, but they allow the other members to have just as impactful parts of the song as well, and I really appreciate that. I feel like Habit just perfectly uses the style of the song, each of the members, and Woozi’s writing ability. Even some more technical skills like using silence in certain parts to hitting the last chorus with lots of adlibs and harmonies to make it seem stronger is executed perfectly really driving home the message and the style of the song. It’s definitely my top Vocal Unit song.

Bonus - Special Songs

I decided not to do the Adore U remake or any of the Vocal Unit versions of other songs, but I did kind of want to touch on a few special Vocal Unit songs. Namely, Simple and the Vocal Unit Band stage. Mostly I wanted to talk about Simple because it’s one of my favorite Seventeen songs as a whole, and I think the lyrics are some of the best Woozi have written, because it connects very strongly with a lot of emotions for me similarly to Tomorrow Today by JJ project. While I enjoy hearing Woozi write story songs like Pinwheel or love songs like 20, I really do wish he would attempt some more songs like Simple that really show his emotions and connect with him as a person and his experience. And then for Vocal Unit Band I just wanted to talk about it because I need 0 provocation to bring up that it was the best thing that has ever happened to me. DK has a pretty good voice for pop rock, and I’m really glad they explored that some. I really hope we get to hear some more of Seventeen exploring genres like this in the future, maybe in some rock ballads or some SHINee-style exploration into retro themes.

#clover overthinks seventeen #seventeen #pledis 17 #woozi #jeonghan #seungkwan #joshua #dk

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hellagaymccree · 6 years

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Movie Date

When this fan art came across my dash again I remembered how much I love it and suddenly wanted some fluff with pinning dorks. or I tried

[more fics by me] [consider supporting me through ko-fi]

McCree can’t seem to stop the rhythm his feet got tapping on the floor. It’s been twenty minutes like this. Twenty minutes waiting with sweaty palms and remote in hand since Rainer, the last agent in the rec room left with a knowing grin of what’s about to happen in here. If she came back—or Kimura, or Shannon, or Phelps, or any of the others that knew—they would probably laugh or feel sorry for him. But McCree wouldn’t blame them; he was a fool to think Gabriel could get away from his busy schedule to watch some old movies with him.

Gabriel knows how Jesse feels about him, it was thrown on the table in the ruins of Illios when the targets were closing in on both of them and Jesse thought there was no better moment than the present to spill his feelings for his commander. Just as he faces Gabriel, shoots an upcoming enemy and opens his mouth to say what his heart wants to confess, Reyes also makes a confession of his own. The feelings were mutual, and McCree never felt more alive than in that moment. After that, he was the devil with a revolver, taking souls and shooting for his life. He wasn’t gonna die knowing Gabe felt the same. He was gonna live and take it somewhere.

That was a week ago. They tiptoed around each other for seven days, not knowing how to address each other, and Jesse’s urge to kiss Gabriel grew too much to bare being near him without being able to. Finally, McCree blurted out the question when they bumped into a hallway: “would you like to see a movie with me?” Neither felt like actually going out, besides they wanted to be able to talk as much as they wanted and get to know the little details left unrevealed from one another—if there are any. Both have grown too close over the years and practically know each other’s life story.

Once Jesse told his group of closest friends in Blackwatch—most of them who like to stay until late in the rec room—they promised to be out of sight by nine. Jesse sprayed some cologne, washed his teeth, put on a nicer shirt than the standard Blackwatch black one and fixed his hair to look less of a mess. It was just both of them hanging out, like they’ve done before. He knew he would get the hang of it once they started talking, if Gabriel ever came.

The movie menu loops on the TV for the hundredth time as McCree sighs and decides to stand up and turns it off. Then he hears heavy, but quick footsteps and his heart skips a beat. He turns and sees Gabriel appearing and clearing his throat when he notices Jesse was already watching.

“I’m sorry,” Reyes says and slips his hands in the pocket of his pants, “Work swallowed me after the hostage situation went south in Tokyo.”

“Ah,” Jesse nods and understands. They had that mission yesterday where they had to rescue some hostages, but once they got them out, they discovered one had a bomb with him and time was almost up. Sadly the guy didn’t make it, he sacrificed himself when he realized they had to time to take it off him and get it far away from everyone as possible. He piloted one of the Blackwatch shuttles into the air and blew up with it. That’s something McCree knew Gabriel would have to deal with. “No problem, I was just thinkin’ about grabbing a snack. Want anythin’?”

Gabriel looks at Jesse like he’s thinking about something else. It’s a way that makes Jesse’s stomach feel the good kind of weird, cheeks flush and look away. “Popcorn?”

“Same idea,” McCree tips his hat as a ‘farewell’, “I’ll be right back, try not to miss me.”

Gabriel huffs and McCree bumps his arm with Gabriel. Jesse’s heart almost runs out of his chest when Gabriel’s pinky reaches out for his, as if he doesn’t want him to go. He thinks about asking Gabriel to join him, but he’s already sitting down on the couch.

McCree returns with two beers and a big bowl of popcorn. Gabriel is still there, laid back on the couch, legs spread and relaxed as an arm extends over the backrest even when McCree sits by his side. He places the bowl between his legs and hands Gabriel his beer before the movie starts.

----

McCree wakes up groggy; his tired eyelids and body beg him to drift back into unconsciousness. The movie has ended when he looks at the TV, the menu back on loop. And then his eyes widen when he feels a warm breath brushing his neck, and the heat of another body spreading from his left side. The weight of it trapping Jesse in place. He’s laid on the couch, and Gabriel’s on his side, tucked between Jesse’s body and the back of the sofa. His nose and mouth are pressed to the cowboy’s neck as he breathes softly. The commander’s soundly asleep, eyes actually fully closed instead of twitching and his body fidgeting like Jesse has seen him during missions. McCree moves his left arm lightly and realizes it fell asleep under Gabriel’s body as his hand lays on the commander’s hip. They must’ve been like this for a while. He pins his fingers to Reyes’ waist, his pinky finding soft, warm skin in the gap between the shirt and pants. McCree could melt easily in the moment. His heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings and he’s sure Gabriel could feel Jesse’s pulse beating rapidly against his lips if he wakes up.

McCree doesn’t want him to though. He feels at peace even if a storm rattles his insides and his bones burn with a fever. He wants to sing out of joy even if he knows his voice will quiver. He wants so badly to look down and kiss those parted, plum lips that have haunted him for years, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

Gabriel nuzzles Jesse’s jaw with his nose as he hums and whispers, “Jesse.”

Shit, I’m fucked, Jesse thinks as his face darkens and he grabs on to his hat as if he’s about to drop from a rollercoaster. His stomach flips and butterflies tickle his lungs. He’s suffocating underwater and soaring through high skies at the same time.

He thinks of every unwanted touch that happened in Deadlock, that old skin is burning away with every breath Gabriel takes and Jesse’s being reborn. All those names he was called are nothing compared to Gabriel’s teasing answers (conejito, mi cielo, cariño, dulcito, angelito) when Jesse calls him pet names. He sees his past lovers now like bread crumbs of personalities and things he didn’t want in a partner until he ended up with the perfect match: Gabriel. He’s the only body he wants pressed against his own. The only lips to call his name and kiss away the tears that slip out once in a while. The only gaze he wants when Jesse is at his most vulnerable times.

His feelings for Gabriel are big; chaotic and beautiful at the same time. He’s a madman when he’s near Gabriel, but also the best agent he can be. Reyes taught him many things, and Jesse likes to think he also helped Gabriel discover aspects of life he didn’t know before.

Gabriel gets closer, as if his body wants to dissolve into Jesse. He can feel Reyes’ heart picking up a faster pace against his body. He can feel it alive under Gabriel’s thick, scarred skin and muscles. He wants to trace it over his chest, mark it forever with ink or love bites; make it his own.

“You smell good,” Gabriel mumbles as his nose rubs against Jesse’s neck.

Jesse chuckles nervously as he notices Gabriel’s eyelids fluttering open, “Wanted to look n’smell nice for ya.”

Gabriel hums in appreciation before he lifts his head and Jesse does the same. “I’m sorry I,” he pauses to bite his bottom lip, “ruined our date.”

“Oh,” Jesse can’t help saying. He hadn’t used this word for this knowing how busy Gabriel his lately and how that could’ve changed things between them. If he called it a date, he feared it would make talking to Gabriel hard, which it has never been the case. “If ya call this ruining it, I wanna see what you call a successful date.” If lying on the couch, snuggling close to each other with Gabriel’s breath down his neck is a bad date, then he wouldn’t mind having more of these again. “It’s ok, sugar.” Before he can stop himself, he moves his pinky over Gabriel’s skin and feels the commander’s body going lax beside him as he sighs and smiles.

Gabriel’s gaze lowers to Jesse’s lips and the cowboy does the same as he bites his own bottom lip, tempting the commander to follow on whatever he’s thinking of. Gabriel’s mouth parts to take a deep breath before he makes the leap and kisses Jesse, who’s ready for him and answers in a blink. It’s like a dream, maybe better. Jesse has dreamt a million ways he would kiss Gabriel. There’s the dramatic ways like in the battle field, with bullets flying around them, or both arguing and there’s fire in their eyes as Jesse pulls Gabriel for a searing kiss. The sad ways, one of them bleeding to death in the other’s arm or before parting for separate missions that will take them an ocean across for weeks. The casual ways of catching him off guard around base or before leaving Reyes’ office. He once thought of doing it under the pouring rain in London, with the cold water running down between their lips as their savor them of each other.

Yet, all those perfect and spontaneous moments feel weak to this one. It’s simple, not even planned, but it’s a dream come true. Now Jesse could kiss him when they say goodbye, or when he leaves Gabriel’s office. The next time they’re under the rain and thunder drums in the sky. When a battle is too intense to leave it for later or under a mistletoe over the holidays.

When they pull away, Gabriel’s eyes are still closed and Jesse takes his lips in to lock the taste with him. He wants to savor it along with the memory, hide it away where nothing can corrupt it. This is the kind of first date Jesse missed out on and didn’t know he wanted until now. He wants to go to a movie theater next, just to miss half of the movie as they make-out in the dark. He needs to take this man to a nice restaurant, and a walk on the park as they eat ice cream. He wants to give him flowers, chocolates and everything Gabriel desires. He wants to offer him the world and get nothing in return except Gabriel’s heart. By how close and fast he feels it beating against his, he believes he might already have it, as Gabriel has Jesse’s.

#mcreyes #mcreaper #writingramblings

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the-mf-bread-babies · 4 years

Text

20/6/20

× REBUILD III ×

+ RUNAWAY RENEGADES +

[ COLLECTION I ]

“backstories”

∆ VOLUME TWO ∆

“Odd Beginnings”

· PART ONE ·

———————————————————

CHAPTER ONE

DINER DATE

It was a rainy night. The clock inside the diner probably hadn't been fixed in decades, which only made time pass more slower for Jason. Jason Aronowitz Watanabe, 16 years old, was waiting for his first date to arrive at the restaurant. His mother and father were sitting in front of him, eagerly awaiting for her too. Among all the excuses the two had speculated, the son had grown tired and realized that maybe he didn't want to do this in the first place.

Jason stared at the unmoving clock, the sound of rain pattering filling his ears. God, it would be such a good time to sleep right now. “Honey, she's probably stuck in traffic,” said Judy, his mother. She spent hours to do her hair, makeup, and outfit. This might have been her son's date, but her and her husband's was going to take place as soon as the girl had arrived, and it was ten times more grand than Jason's. They had a reservation at Chili's.

Hisashi Watanabe, Jason's father, kept his eyes focused on the road outside. Maybe this was her. No, then that one. Also no. Well, hopefully Jason's not getting pranked or whatever. Oh, that's a cool truck. Bye, cool truck. Damn, that reservation's probably busted by now. So long, paradise pie. Two hours to get here and both dates are probably cancelled by now. Jason looks sad. Actually, he always does, it's understandable, but this time's sadder than usual.

“Jason, look outside!” The father whispered excitedly, pointing out the window. “Whatever. I wanna go home.” Jason grumbled angrily, his voice slightly cracking either from crying or just puberty. “Sorry, just… a limo,” Hisashi uttered quietly. “We can order something if you want,” Judy suggested, awkwardly smiling, her big sunglasses shielding the intense mix of emotions she was feeling– anger, disappointment, sadness. Also, hunger.

“Mm,” Jason replied cryptically. “Waiter! Can I get a menu, please?” Judy yelled out, startling the two men. She ordered something, her voice being reduced to mumbles by Jason zoning out, eyes fixated on the table. “Sweetie, do you want a milkshake? They have cookies and cream,” His mother asked, gaining back his attention. “Um, okay, sure.” Jason answered, giving his mother and the waiter a polite smile. “Thank you.” He went back to zoning out.

His parents were having a conversation about something unimportant, and the restaurant was awfully ambient. There was a jukebox, but that, too, was broken. This seemed like an appropriate situation for the boy to get distracted from everything and daydream. Damn, it would be so cool if he could play the drums. Ah, to be a transformer. Imagine going to have a heart transplant surgery, and Gerard says, “Babe, it's okay,” and then when it's done you ask the nurse who gave you the heart and she replies, “Frank Iero,” and you and the other three remaining members go get pizza or whatever. Poor Frank. Was that a bell ringing. Oh, to be a lamb in a field, eating grass. Ew, imagine eating grass…

HELLO.

A shadowy figure towered over Jason threateningly, katakana surrounding her. Who the hell is this?

“Do you need money?” Judy asked quietly, counting some dollar bills, thinking this was some random person. “Yeah!” She shouted excitedly. “Gimme five hundred thousand dollars, stat!” Jason's face turned to the girl. Her shirt read “TACO,” with an image of a cartoon taco below it. Cloaking the ugly t-shirt was a blue jacket that seemed quite old and vintage. Well, at least her outfit is matching. “Um… are you…” he asked the girl.

“Your date for tonight, partner!” Oh, she has braces. Yeah, seemed like a braces person. “Awesome! Now you two don't do any funny business, okay?” Jason's dad stated, pointing. “Dad, what.” “Well, off to visit your mother!” He added, his arm around Judy, the two scooting out of the seat to make room for the girl. “Cool! Your dad knows TF2?” The girl said, her face sparking up in joy. “I was an animator for the shorts,” Hisashi revealed, much to the girl's excitement. “HOLY SHIT!!! CAN I GET AN AUTOGRAPH?!” She yelled out, turning the heads of some people in the diner. “Sure thing,” he answered, signing a napkin. “Okay, bye, you two,”

Jason's eyes met the girl's, realising he forgot what her name was. Um… well, her brother's a senior, right? Tony… Tony Blenderson… Bender… Flanders… Uh… “Hi! You're Jason, right? From History?” She asked, raising his fear more. How did he even agree to this in the first place? Oh, right, their moms are friends. “Um, yeah, and you're…” Oh God. Grave mistake. “Man, I don't know! Most people just call me by my last name. First names are boring, you get me?” She confessed, calming him down slightly. “Oh, uh… yeah! Uh, so I can call you…” “Anytime!” She added confidently. “Huh?” Jason said, confused. “Henderson, man! Hendersonville is actually an actual place, by the way! Could you BELIEVE IT?!” Jason awkwardly agreed, not knowing what to do. “Yeah… like Disneyland or something…”

The conversation went on, with the occasional text from Jason's parents. “So then I was all like, I know karate, you dumbass,” she started, Jason trying his best to understand what the hell she was talking about. “And this stupid little goat starts headbutting me, and I'm bleeding and stuff, obviously, keep in mind I had a hamburger, that's important, okay,” The boy nodded his head along. “So, yeah, that was how gender equality is. Yeah, zoos are dumb, they're bad,” “Yeah, like, it's not good for them and stuff,” Jason said, finally having some material for the conversation.

He paused for a bit, unsure if the other was going to add anything. “So, uh, what do you do? Like, um, in general, yeah,” he asked, sipping his milkshake. “Kill people.” She blurted. “Okay. I like collecting stamps.” He replied jokingly. “HAH! God, what a riot you are! Oh boy, STAMPS!!!” Henderson laughed exaggeratedly, thinking it sounded natural, and possibly cute. “Yeah…?” “Yeah, not real people, but like, I play video games a lot. You ever play Slime Rancher? I've got six thousand days on that guy.” She confessed seriously, crossing her arms. “Also, used to play Overwatch, but that was so last rebuild. Now, in this one, I prefer Garden Warfare. You know, the FPS Plants vs. Zombies game?” She casually added, Jason sending his usual confused nodding and raised eyebrows with a slightly opened mouth as a reply.

Jason thought for a bit. “I play Apex,” He said disappointedly. “Oh, didn't it end because of that big rapper guy? Marshmello? Yeah. Sorry, dude.” Henderson comforted. “Um. I guess?” Jason ate the Oreo on top of the milkshake. “Yeah, and I also listen to emo stuff. I was born in the wrong generation.” He said, stirring the drink. “Oh, like PSY? Yeah, my old neighbor listened to him.” .. huh. “Um… yeah, and like, MGR and stuff…” “Cool! What's that stand for, again? My cousin listens to Chaos! in the Gathering, Nuclear Lad, thirty three tailors, so I know emo.” Henderson bragged. “Oh, it stands for My Geological Rocks! It's because they're pretty rock, and one of them saw this book where the title was ‘Geological Rocks’ or whatever, so they named the band that.” He explained truthfully. “ Oh ! That's Dumb ! ” She blatantly said, her hand loosely swinging a spoon.

“Oh, shit, you don't have food. Um, do you want some?” Jason realized, offering Henderson the scraps of his milkshake. “Nope! Lactose intolerance, baby!” She confessed, a hint of sadness present in her face. “Oh. Sorry,” He said as he slurped up the remains quite loudly. “Should I ask them for a menu?” Jason asked, clearly not wanting to do so. “I ate a toasted toast sandwich earlier, so I'm not really hungry.” “A toasted toast sandwich is a piece of toast slotted between two other pieces of toasted bread. With butter spread on some of them.” Henderson explained in detail. “Is it good?” Jason asked fearfully. “Duh,” she said. “Oh, okay,”

The two sat in silence. The room was quiet, even the chattering of the other customers were gone. Henderson waited patiently for a waiter to come by, her face staring at the table. “That's a weird stain.” She uttered, poking hesitantly at it. “Probably tea.” Jason added, looking at the stain. “Yeah,” Henderson agreed, resting her head on the table. They stared at the stain for some time. “So, uh, you like Jar-Jar’s Odd Journey?” Henderson asked, looking up at the other. “No, I don't watch anime,” he replied, prying at the stain with his fingernail. “Oh, okay. But like, do you like Jar-Jar’s?” Jason paused, looking at her and squinting his eyes, thinking what she was meaning to hint, then slowly realising it. “Well, do you like Power Princesses? With the cat lady and the other lady?” He asked slyly, smiling from ear to ear. “Yeah… literally and…” Henderson inspected Jason's jeans. “metaphorically… you know…” Jason inspected hers too. They both cuffed them, even though Henderson's were already a good length, now a bit too short, resulting in a very prominent hint. “So yes, I do watch Jar-Jar, then,” he replied. They nodded, smiling in Mystery.

“So, why'd you even agree to this?” Jason asked, facing her. “I dunno. Felt rebellious to steal my sister's date, I guess.” Jason leaned back in his seat, blinking interestedly. “So, if it weren't for you meddling fool, I would've gone on a date with a CRSCO girl, huh?” “Sksksksks and I oop,” Jason questioned dramatically. “Yes. That's actually why I'm late; I drove here by myself.” Henderson confessed, smirking. “And I knew I wouldn't like this date if it was at some fancy restaurant, so I picked somewhere I could eat, hence why the location is so unsuitable.” “The distance, especially. That was so my family couldn't track me down.” “As if they'd care.” Henderson folded her hands together on the table and put her head down and stared at them, her hair swinging dramatically in front of her.

“Well that's bad. And bad… ass,” Jake stated, tilting his head awkwardly. “Like, your family, that's bad, like, your brother's a… he's not nice, necessarily, but you stealing a date from your sister and driving to some random-ass diner in the middle of nowhere, that's some Gone Girl shit.” he explained, eyes burning with awe.

“I mean, I've had some friends from band that met your sister, and from what I've heard, and I'm sorry for being nosy, but, I mean, it really justifies this whole… thing. So, uh, yeah. Sorry,” Jason continued as Henderson moved her Orbs to meet his.

“So, how'd it feel to set her room on fire? Were the firefighters and shit? Again, sorry for being nosy.” Jason asked casually, doing his first attempt at the three-paragraph thing. Henderson giggled uncontrollably, wiping tears off of her Orbs. “Wha– FIRE?! Who told you that? I only just threw some of her stuff out the window, but SETTING IT ON FIRE WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN, JASON!!” Jason sat up, stammering in response. “B-But, um, like, uh, Tristan, from band, the school band, said that– you, uh, like, it was midnight, and he woke up because of all the sirens, and– yeah.” Jason explained, his voice nervously loud, and his hands gesturing wildly. “Oh!” she yelled out, remembering the experience.

“That was the time I tried modifying the hell outta french fries and I set the kitchen on fire! Like, I was pouring the fries in, then the fire just shot up, like, ten feet, and my hair almost caught on fire, the smoke alarm was ringing, it was hell, man, hell,” Henderson explained excitedly. “So, yeah, someone called the fire station, next thing I know, I'm getting yelled at severely, and I can't play video games or go on my phone for three weeks!” Jason nodded in awe. “How did you… mod… fries?” He asked in confusion, rubbing his chin. “Oh, I put olive oil, safflower oil, cooking oil, and corn oil, also I used a flat frying pan, put in two brands of fries, made sure it wasn't overcrowded, also put a thick layer of seasoning on the pan and I folded it like scrambled eggs.”

“So yeah, a literal recipe for disaster. Never doing that again.” Henderson stated, although she was most definitely going to make the same mistake in a few years with Rachel. “Ah. I see. Why the flat frying pan?” Jason asked. “Oh, the other pans were in the sink and I was lazy.” She replied, making a disappointed face. “also i'm pretty sure that it caused the oil to like. yknow. vooooshhhhh” Henderson added, sinking her face into her hands.

Jason thought of a more embarrassing moment. “Wanna know that time I went to the ER because I was too goth?” “Wait, two times! One, I ate black lipstick, the other, I got choked by a…” Jason sunk his head down. “homemade e-boy necklace…” Henderson cackled loudly, slapping the table. “How the hell do you get choked by that?!” Jason pursed his lips sadly. “I was wearing the necklace first and put it on backwards, big mistake, it had a really heavy padlock, then my binder, which was way too tight, so it was choking me, but I was wearing my turtleneck, and my arms were stuck, so I just smacked the dresser violently.” “And that's how I came out to my parents.” Jason said, smirking and crossing his arms together. “Thankfully, they let me buy a better one that didn't, like, kill me.” He added.

Henderson's jaw was hanging open in surprise. “You're trans too?!” Jason pogged in response, “TOO?!” The two shared a very intense and complicated series of high-fives and fistbumps, screaming in joy. “Man, so this is why you stole that dumbass’ date!” “Solidarity!” Jason stated, smiling. “Thanks for saving me, uh…” He paused, waiting for a confirmation. “Uh… I dunno. Girl?” Henderson replied, shrugging. “Girl! I am Dude!” Jason shouted, giving her a thumbs-up. “Cool! Hi Dude!” She yelled out, earning a very strong high-five from Jason. “Hell Yeah !!!!!!!!”

“Man, you want something to celebrate? This shit's nice as hell.” Jason asked, visibly in a better mood than before. “To hell with it! Cheesy Frickin’ Fries for the lady!” Henderson shouted in joy. “And for the man?” Jason thought for a bit. “Truck” he uttered, giving her an emotional gaze. Get it? Gaze? “Ah, okay. Truck it is, then,” Henderson confirmed before raising her head to get the waiter's attention.

“Waiter ain't here. Should I? Go to the counter?” She asked, pointing to the front of the diner. Jason nodded in response. Henderson approached the counter, her hands in her pockets, her eyes looking around. There was not a single person to be seen, the pies sitting on the rack softly, asking to be stolen and devoured. “Be… do…” she whispered softly, her hand reaching to the pies, only to be stopped by the other one. Disappointed, she went back to Jason, frowning.

“God hates us.” She uttered, her head pointing up. “No one at the counter, no one near the entrance, so no friggin’ cheese fries.” She grumbled, “Drove five friggin’ hours in the friggin’ rain just for this dumbass shit. Can't even have the friggin’ pies, that's illegal,” Jason looked at her sadly. “Hey, it's okay, I brought snacks,” He pulled out a packet of chips from his hoodie pocket. “Here's the fries…” Jason placed a slightly melted cheese slice onto the table. “And here's the cheese!” “Hipster, innit? All deconstructed an’ stuff,” He said happily, swinging his arm a la Grunkle Stan.

“What a gentleman. Thank you, Jarnathan Jarstar, my brother,” Henderson said gratefully, unwrapping the cheese slice packet. “Good job, uh, Catra,” Jason commented, opening the chips packet. As they dined happily, a tall, scary figure approached them slowly and murderously.

“Ya can't bring outside food in here.”

“It's against the rules, kiddos.”

“Might getcha banned fer life if yer not careful enough.”

“Aah!!” Jason screamed quietly. The figure revealed itself under the illumination of the ceiling lights— a man, presumably middle-aged, dressed in a cheap chicken costume, donning a knight helmet. “You wouldn't make the cut. Ya just wouldn't.” The man uttered cryptically, confusing the two. Was this weirdo the mascot or just some guy? “I have pepper spray, creep.” Henderson threatened, pointing the self-defence tool at the costumed man. “Like that'll do anythin’.” He pointed out, glaring at the girl.

In response, Jason pushed the man, Henderson following suit by vigorously kicking the life out of him. Blood oozed out of the now-stained costume as he begged for help, trying his best to explain the current situation. “Stop! Please stop!” He yelled out, only for the helmet to be removed by Henderson, who was ready to punch the hell outta him.

Some balding white guy sporting bad facial hair had been the culprit all along. Jason pulled the remains of his hair and threw him to the floor, yelling. Out of the blue, a group of people showed up, coming to the rescue and pulling them apart from each other. “Whose idea was to be threatening again?!” The man in the chicken costume yelled out, clearly angry at all of them. “Run!” Henderson shouted, grabbing the snacks and dragging Jason out of the diner, only to be chased down by the others.

“Who the hell was that guy?!” Jason yelled, running. “I may be weird, but I definitely don't know that guy, and definitely not enough for him to just show up like that!” Henderson shouted back, confused. “Guess it's some weird kidnapper, then? Or a really odd mascot.” Jason said, dashing around the street corner. “Probably!” Henderson ran past Jason. “Hey, wait up! I was kicked outta the track team for a reason, Henderson!” The boy yelled, running out of breath. The girl went back to him, feeling a bit guilty.

“I, uh, have asthma.” Jason said, pulling out his inhaler. “Oh, um, I'm, uh, really, really, sorry.” Henderson nervously apologized, her mind wondering what would happen if Jason died right then and there. Oh, she'd definitely have to go to court. Maybe it'll be like Legally Blonde. Jason stood back up, gesturing to Henderson to keep going. “Hey, I'm okay, go ahead.” “You can leave me here if you want. Death isn't a big concern for me; I'll meet all the MGR members, then when I go to hell I can punch Brendon Urie in the face…” Jason struggled out. “… because he's like, racist,” “Bob Bryar too, man,” Henderson nodded slowly, not knowing what the hell kinda emo thing he was referencing.

Jason looked behind Henderson, surprised. “Hhhh… they're not killing us…” he tried out, pointing to her back. “Oh, hey, yeah. Let's go hide somewhere.” Henderson suggested, looking around for a good shelter. “I'm gonna tell this to my parents first…” Jason said, moving down to sit on the ground. “Oh, man. There's no reception here.” He revealed, getting more and more scared with every second they stayed there, the possibility of them being caught and killed or whatever growing steadily.

“I mean, we are in Ohio, Jason. There's a bigger chance of us stumbling into a big-ass cornfield than us getting reception in some super rural town like this.” Henderson sighed. “This place is called Van Wert, Jay. How friggin’ hillbilly is that? Van Wurrrtt, yee-haw,” She commented angrily. Jason took a deep breath and stood back up, scanning the horizon.

“Well, hard to find a place where we won't get shot immediately when entering, especially at this hour. I mean, gun store, bar, creepy pharmacy, another gun store, mom and pop, mom and pop's gun store, shooting range, farmer's market, café (with a rifle under the counter), barbershop, ranch–” Henderson smiled from ear to ear as she heard what Jason just said. “RANCH?! WITH HORSES?!”

tob e fucketh continue

a uhhh Notes by Rocco Wulfram North

oh that names so epic omg

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bobbystompy · 4 years

Text

My Top 75 Songs Of 2019

Previously: 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011

First time going below 100 songs since 2015, and I cannot wait. Giving this extra juice already.

As always, criteria and info:

This is a list of what I personally like, not ones I’m saying are the “best” from the year; more subjective than objective

No artist is featured more than once

If it comes down to choosing between two songs, I try to give more weight to a single or featured track

Each song on the list is linked in the title if you wanna check them out for yourself; there is also a Spotify playlist at the bottom that includes the majority of the songs

This is usually the part where I put up a pump up video, but we are going with something a little different this year.

youtube

(It was stuck my head. Blame Blink-155.)

75) YG - “In The Dark”

The video begins with YG chugging a full tequila bottle -- sure. This song is very bad. It’s like he’s in a competition to make the verse lyrics worse than the chorus lyrics (spoiler alert: the verses “win”); not even satanic imagery can save this.

74) Solange - “Stay Flo”

Here’s a weird take: wouldn’t Solange’s career be way more fun if everyone slept on her? Instead, it’s hype on hype -- plus being Beyoncé’s sister -- which makes it nearly impossible to deliver. This has a fun beat/vibe but is kinda boring... and was still easily my favorite off her album.

73) Art Alexakis - “The Hot Water Test”

My doctors told me that I had a disease / I will slowly fall apart until there’s nothing left that looks like me

This song makes the stakes clear immediately. It was released a few months after I saw Art play in June 2019 on my birthday. At the intimate show, he revealed his multiple sclerosis diagnosis as if we were all his closest friends. Something like this is never easy to deal with -- a similar announcement by the Lucky Boys Confusion singer did not help matters -- but music can help such a painful situation, and it’s clearly Alexakis’ exile here.

72) The Cranberries - “In The End”

A very suitable sendoff for the band following the passing of singer Dolores O’Riordan. The recording story (via NPR):

O'Riordan died suddenly in January 2018 at 46 years old and left behind the vocal tracks to what was intended to be the band's latest album. Now, O'Riordan's bandmates have decided to complete that album, In The End — the last album the band will release — in her memory.

[...]

In June 2017, O'Riordan and Hogan started emailing album ideas and demos back and forth to each other. O'Riordan had been very open about her struggles with mental health and addiction, which would affect the band at times, but they wanted to make a new album. Hogan says that when they were emailing those demos, she was in a good place. They started laying down her demos.

"All of that was kind of behind her," Hogan says. "She's kind of found a way to cope with the mental health thing. That's why she wanted to write so much. That's what she kept saying, 'I have so much to say, I just need the music to put it to.' "

Hogan says O'Riordan's apparent stability is what made her death even more tragic and devastating. (Officials ruled O'Riordan's cause of death to be accidental drowning due to alcohol intoxication.) But after a period of mourning, the remaining band members remembered they still had O'Riordan's demos. As Hogan remembers, they finally had the courage to start listening to them again in late February and, with her family's permission, started recording in April. "We spoke to her family and said, 'Look, how do you feel about us finishing the album?' And they were really supportive," Lawler says. "They were delighted, actually. They gave us their blessing."

Hogan says, in a sense, they were used to O'Riordan not being in the studio when they recorded — "Dolores hated hanging around the studio once we worked on our parts" — but, of course, this time was different.

71) Raleigh Ritchie - “Time In A Tree”

Exercise time. Play the first minute or so of this song without looking at any YouTube visuals.

/waits for you

OK, who are you picturing singing this? Got your image?

Well, whatever it was, you’re wrong -- it’s GREY WORM HIMSELF.

This was the best thing about “Game of Thrones” in 2019, sadly.

70) Culture Abuse - “Goo”

Simple, effective, gets out before you can dislike much.

69) Lil Pump f/ Lil Wayne - “Be Like Me”

Sometimes, a song starts, and you can just tell it’s going to be ignorant. Even before the vocals kick in. This was probably our moment here:

Between that and the beat, it’s like the only thing you can think is “Ohhhh, he’s about to say some horrible things about women.”

Other choice lines:

- “Yes, I’m hella ignorant, I don’t give a fuck” (he even says it in the song)

- “I take drugs like it’s Vitamin C / I’m a millionaire, but I don’t know how to read”

This song almost feels like it existed already.

68) The Get Up Kids - “Satellite”

Finally, our first rock song with some punch. This probably takes the crown from both DMB and P.O.D.

67) Bad Religion - “My Sanity”

BR is historically my favorite band, so it is rather deflating to see them so far back on this list. That said, it is Year 40 (!!!) of their existence, so some can be forgiven. Yet... we’ve never needed them more, you know? It’s this weird mixture of resentment but understanding.

66) Billy Liar - “The Righteous & The Rats”

Gonna see him (them?) open for The Bombpops in March; looks quite promising. Has an old school Brit punk feel.

65) Beach Slang - “AAA”

Beach Slang never lets you forget they love -- no, like, LOVE -- The Replacements. When this cover dropped, I googled “replacements AAA”, and, surprisingly, nothing came up.

Ohhh, what I fool I was. After more digging, I discovered a band called Grandpaboy who performed “AAA”.

“Oh, damn -- he finally went outside the box with this pick.”

No. Grandpaboy is fronted by Paul Westerberg. Singer of, you guessed it, The Replacements.

James Alex wears his heart on his sleeve so hard, he might as well give the heart a little jacket so his heart can wear its own heart on its sleeve.

HE DID THAT TOO?!

You can’t even make jokes about this band; they live in the jokes with their damn earnestness.

64) Gesaffelstein & The Weeknd - “Lost In The Fire”

Even lesser known Weeknd-involved tracks sound like they could lead a soundtrack or close out a festival. Are you familiar with this one at all? It has 87 million views on YouTube. Abel is never not not playing.

63) FIDLAR - “By Myself”

Started from the bottom and I’m still at the bottom

Falling apart never felt so carefree and burdenless.

62) Constant Elevation - “Fuck Runnin”

As hardcore punk as this list is gonna get. All glory to Vinnie Caruana. Though none of his solo tracks from 2019 made it, this has an undeniable energy and confidence. Plus probably the best song title of the year.

61) Maren Morris f/ Brandi Carlile - “Common”

A focused duet that drills into relationship dynamics before throwing a personal theology wrench in the middle of the chorus.

60) Anti-Flag - “Christian Nationalist”

AF going in on the white, religious right. This is like throwing a 50 mph pitch to -- /looks up good baseball players -- Pete Alonso.

59) Cokie The Clown - “Punk Rock Saved My Life”

This is less of a song and more of a confessional essay, and it gets harder and harder to look away with every revealing detail. If NOFX’s Fat Mike needed this character as a vehicle to get all of these autobiographical details off his chest, hopefully it’s a helpful therapy.

58) White Reaper - “Might Be Right”

“Judy French” is such an untoppable song, but “Might Be Right” has a similar dynamic.

57) Denzel Curry - “RICKY”

Denzel Curry as a rap moniker is such a slam dunk.

/looks up actual name

!!!

56) Ariana Grande - “break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored”

It takes a special kind of hot girl twisted to issue this unflinching request while totally pulling it off.

55) Goody Grace f/ blink-182 - “Scumbag”

Not sure if Goody is a Soundcloud rapper, punk rocker, or some kinda emo hybrid of both.

A few asides:

- Have we ever -- ever -- heard Travis Barker this subdued on drums?

- On the Blink-155 podcast, Goody said he gave Tom from the Plain White T’s a songwriting credit because he unintentionally lifted some melodies from “Hey There Delilah”, but... I really don’t hear it at all; like, it sounds maybe in the same key but not much else?

54) Jonas Brothers - “Sucker”

Despite their popularity in the past, I do not think I could name a single JoBros song. That changed in 2019 with this poppy, light, clappy, Maroon 5-style single.

53) Goo Goo Dolls - “Money, Fame & Fortune”

Someone -- coulda sworn it was Brendan Kelly -- said this was Goo Goo Dolls sounding like Fake Problems, and that is spot on.

52) AJJ - “A Poem”

A poem is song that no one cares about

This short, folky tune led to one of my favorite Twitter exchanges of the year, when I reached out to a music journalist with a question and AJJ came flying off the top rope.

51) DaBaby - “Suge”

This song is fun, but I really don’t get it. Beat is cool, flow is fine... this is the new face of hip-hop? His name is DaBaby! What are we doing here?!

50) Laura Stevenson - “Jesus, Etc.”

Taking a classic and doing it full justice/adding some harmonies.

49) blink-182 - “Not Another Christmas Song”

Blink’s 2019 album “Nine” was very, very bad because it tried too hard and was not good. This song, released later in the year, takes an opposite approach and actually works. We get lyrics that are discontent, even clumsy at times -- the “I miss fucking in the rain” line is so out of place/cringe-y but actually feels real and not workshopped by 10 producers. The trio can hopefully use this better b-side to figure out the best songwriting should flow out of you without having to go through multiple stations on a conveyor belt first.

48) Dave Hause - “Eye Aye I”

This song has a lot I love (catchy chorus, wistful thoughts, hairline analyses) and a lot I don’t (genuine use of the word “old bores”, Van Halen getting respect), but one thing is clear: Dave Hause is in complete control.

47) Beck - “Up All Night”

I’ve casually followed Beck’s entire career and would not have guessed this was him if given 100 chances. As an exercise, I’m going to pull up the 2020 Coachella lineup and randomly point to an artist.

/pulls up lineup and points

I got Daniel Caesar. If you told me this was Daniel Caesar, that would probably make more sense here.

46) Shawn Mendes - “If I Can’t Have You”

Randomly came into Shawn Mendes tickets in 2019, and good gracious, that was something. Other than parents, we were the oldest people there by a lot. Getting to watch thousands of teens and preteens legitimately having the best moment of their lives was downright inspiring. When you’re that young, it’s not even hyperbole. Phones were flagrantly out; I’m talking 20+ minutes of straight video being filmed. I wanted to judge so badly, but if you gave me an iPhone at my first concert when I was 14, who the hell knows how egregious my behavior would’ve been. As fun as the whole experience was, I never wanted to be in a grimy punk club more. Sometimes, leaving your comfort zone makes you appreciate your home base more.

This is a rock solid pop song, but there are way too many you/you rhymes to not penalize it some.

45) Big Thief - “Cattails”

The whitest song you will ever hear that isn’t written by Vampire Weekend.

44) Bayside - “Prayers”

Bayside went super metal with their 2019 release “Interrobang” (such a sick name). So yes, the guitars are a touch harder than you might be used to, but the chorus soars; a great hook transcends genre.

43) Naughty Boy & Mike Posner - “Live Before I Die”

Few had as interesting of a year as Mike Posner. Following a breakup, the death of his father, and the death of Avicii, he decided to walk across the United States of America. He legit became Forrest Gump, right down to the beard and grown out hair.

In the video, you can see how a snakebite hospitalized him and almost derailed the whole trek. After a rehabilitation period where he almost lost his leg, our man finally makes it to the Pacific Ocean. If nothing else, watch for the ending -- it’s exhilarating.

42) Post Malone - “Wow.”

Post is flexing in this one; we’ve got slow motion jamming with the Red Hot Chili Peppers, international flights, a dancing beard guy, and a Fall Out Boy name check which really makes them sound cooler than they are now.

41) Bryce Vine f/ YG - “La La Land”

Sometimes, these summertime Cali songs write themselves. That is until YG comes in and flips over the board before you can finish the game. By the time the Coachella reference is dropped when Bryce comes back in, you realize 1:47 may have actually been a better endpoint for the song than its 2:47 length.

40) David Rokos - “Backseat Drives”

It’s winter in Chicago, again and until forever. If you haven’t been to the Jewel in the South Loop or Marshall Field’s before they changed it, just listen to this so you don’t actually have to.

39) Simple Creatures - “Drug”

Mark Hoppus and the dude from All Time Low give us this synth-pop bop that feels like the duo shooting their shot at a real mainstream pop hits. It didn’t quite get there, but they should feel OK about where it landed.

38) Chris Cresswell - “To The Wind”

My interest in The Flatliners ramped up considerably in 2019, as their near decade old record “Cavalcade” got plenty of spins (peep “Filthy Habits”; just stunningly incredible punk). Though they did not release anything this year, their singer put out “To The Wind”, a longing song about missing someone.

37) Kesha f/ Big Freedia - “Raising Hell”

Kesha, with the help of New Orleans’ Big Freedia, gives us another one. I’ve personally dug Kesha for a while now, but when is it time for us as a society to put her into the all-time conversation for pop artists? She has at least, like, seven HOF certifiable bangers. Plus she kills a guy in this music video.

In conclusion, I think this could translate to a country song very easily.

36) No Lenox - “Marquee”

Illinois/Japan’s No Lenox are back with Reuben Baird on the mixer and legendary masterer Collin Jordan (of The Boiler Room) on the, well, master, and the fullness in sound leads to the assault that is the “I saw your name on the marquee / Your friends were milling around outside” part. They only play it once, but I really could’ve gone for closer to five.

35) Red City Radio - “Love A Liar”

Rapid fire Red City Radio gets this one done in exactly 120 seconds.

34) Barely March - “Lead Single”

This sounds like Joyce Manor turned up to a 17 out of 10 before unexpectedly turning into a hellogoodbye song.

33) New Lenox - “Old Words”

Not a typo from two songs ago -- legitimately a different band. This one was written by your boy. The first 15 seconds were from a demo recorded 1/2/16 before developing the rest in 2019 (after some encouragement). We have Dave Rokos on guitar/bass, Dave Hernandez on hums, and Brian Bedford on some very temporary sleigh bells. Themes: online dating, resolutions, exes, currents, Black Wednesday, hope, and Carly Rae Jepsen stage banter.

32) MakeWar - “Sails”

Honey, I can’t make it on my own

You might get some Gaslight Anthem vibes as the vocals come in, but by the time the song ends, MakeWar leaves their own imprint on this impassioned ballad.

31) Sheryl Crow & Johnny Cash - “Redemption Day”

Was gonna say Johnny’s voice could move mountains before realizing no, Johnny’s voice is the mountains.

30) American Football f/ Hayley Williams - “Uncomfortably Numb”

Sensitivity deprived I can't feel a thing inside I blamed my father in my youth Now as a father, I blame the booze

An unlikely collaboration that makes you forget about its unlikeliness by the two minute mark. The two voices trade spots, mesh, harmonize, and weave throughout this beautiful song.

Asides:

- Blake from “Workaholics” in the video?!

- Choose to interpret this song’s title as a Pink Floyd diss

- “I’ll make new friends in the ambulance” should be a 2005-level emo lyric that we all mock, yet it’s somehow one of the most stunningly appropriate closers of the entire year

- I wish my friend Luke was with us to hear it

29) Stuck Out Here - “Embarrass You”

Stuck Out Here got onto my radar with 2014′s amazingly named “Getting Used To Feeling Like Shit”. Five years later, they’re back -- and not feeling much better. The Toronto quartet’s Bandcamp describes the song like this:

They’re fucking up, but unlike previous releases, they’re finally holding themselves accountable.

You can even kinda hear their Canadian accents in the “I’m sorry I embarrass you...” part.

28) The Weeknd - “Heartless”

The Weeknd will be on these lists as long as he continues to make music even 1/8th as good as this.

27) The Chainsmokers f/ blink-182 - “P.S. I Hope You’re Happy”

A simple song that’s a touch more clever than you first realize. The Chainsmokers guy is giving me some real Owl City vibes. Also, how airtight of an apology is the line “I blame myself for when I was someone else”. It’s like the modern way of saying “When I was a child, I spoke like a child”.

Also also, the “I will find a way somehow...” harmony in the pre-chorus is as pretty as music got in 2019. The Chainsmokers are so sonically pleasing, whether you end up liking the music or not.

26) Vampire Weekend - “Harmony Hall”

ooooooooh, that crisp guitar in the intro

25) Alex Lahey - “Don’t Be So Hard On Yourself”

If Carly Rae Jepsen can get a sword, why can’t Alex Lahey get a god damn saxophone? HIT ME.

That solo, combined with the “Mighty Ducks” reference in the chorus, make this song untouchable.

24) Lizzo - “Truth Hurts”

Let’s be clear: this did drop in 2017 but was technically re-released in 2019, so it does qualify for our list despite the criteria threatening timeline. Anyway.

The walking piano part, the iconic intro line (with a lawsuit!), the Minnesota Vikings reference (causing a Green Bay radio edit), and all of the damn positivity. Lizzo was among music’s big winners this year, and her success made you wonder how the hell someone this talented was slept on for those two years.

Let’s end with the purse.

23) An Horse - “Ship Of Fools”

Awkward band name, but a song that makes you pay attention. Kinda like Tegan and Sara, had they stayed more rock. So much urgency in the vocals and lyrics.

22) Charli XCX f/ Lizzo - “Blame It On Your Love”

Trippy vid; Charli continues to give us anthems. Wasn’t super high on the Lizzo cameo, but it somehow made more sense in the context of said video.

21) Sincere Engineer - “Dragged Across The Finish Line”

Sincere Engineer is back -- you can tell from the second those guitar leads get goin’. Drums from 1:19 to 1:36 = /heart eyes emoji. My buddy Cox said his next tattoo very well could be the outro lyric “Too dumb to succeed, too honest to cheat”.

(Bonus fact: they did a beer collaboration/show with Pollyanna Brewing Company in 2019.)

20) Lil Nas X - “Old Town Road”

Was unwilling to listen when this first dropped solely because of how horrible Lil Nas X’s name is (”What if a rapper came out named ‘Lil Jay-Z X’?!”)... what a foolish notion. One billion streams and a Billy Cyrus cameo later, I wouldn’t have been able to miss out on the Song of the Summer (and year) if I tried. More notes:

- Picked this because I had to, but “Panini” is legit good (200+ million streams)

- Went with the original (sorry, Billy), which is a beautiful 1:53 long (brevity, brevity, brevity)

- Did you know: Lil Nas X uses a Nine Inch Nails sample on the beat? This Rolling Stone interview with Trent Reznor is super interesting

Reznor calls “Old Town Road” “undeniably hooky,” but once it exploded, he took a back seat to the phenomenon. “The reason I haven’t stepped in to comment anything about it is, I don’t feel it’s my place to play any kind of social critic to that,” he says. “It was a material that was used in a significant way and it turned into something that became something else, and those guys should be the ones the spotlight is on…. They asked if I wanted to do a cameo in the video, and it was flattering, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I don’t feel like it’s my place to shine a light on me for that. I say that with complete respect.”

Still, Reznor is amazed at how the song became a juggernaut. “Having been listed on the credits of the all-time, Number One whatever-the-fuck-it-is wasn’t something…I didn’t see that one coming,” he says. “But the world is full of weird things that happen like that. It’s flattering. But I don’t feel it’s for me to step in there and pat myself on the back for that.”

19) Gryffin & Carly Rae Jepsen - “OMG”

What doesn’t this little bop have? It’s kinda Chainsmoker-y and tingles like cool breath hitting the back of your neck.

18) Craig Finn - “Blankets”

You travel your whole life just to get out to the place you’re gonna die

I love everything about this song: the artwork, the intro, the climax, the command Craig Finn has from start to finish -- with such a payoff. Now several albums in, the greatest compliment we can give is that his solo stuff now feels more essential than Hold Steady releases*. You can even hear it in this line: “When we got to the Twin Cities / I said ‘Man, I know some songs about this place’”. Another life.

17) Carly Rae Jepsen - “Now That I Found You”

Carly always keeps us in the sky; picking one song was difficult because the album is even more fulfilling as you get to put the pieces together.

16) Billie Eilish - “Bad Guy”

Different genres*, but Billie Eilish lived up to her hype in the exact same way Lana Del Rey did in the earlier part of the decade. Lana said she was the gangster Nancy Sinatra and totally fucking was. Billie feels like something potentially even bigger. Nearly everything about her aura lets you project (or even second guess, if you’re a skeptic). Is she dead-eyed because she’s high or disaffected? Or just Aubrey Plaza? Is it her or her brother that’s pulling the strings? How can someone so young be so good already? In the skinny fashion era of All Achilles Everything, how is she rocking such loose fits?

“I never want the world to know everything about me. I mean that’s why I wear big baggy clothes,” she said. “Nobody can have an opinion because they haven’t seen what’s underneath.”

“Nobody can be like ‘Oh, she’s slim-thick, she’s not slim-thick, she’s got a flat ass, she’s got a fat ass,’” she continued. “No one can say any of that because they don’t know.”

It almost seems too easy, but how much sense does that make to you?

Great jokes aside, I have so much anticipation for what’s next, with assured belief in its potential. Pitchfork:

In 10 years, she will still be well under 30. Let’s hope the planet survives that long.

Yes.

(* - though not totally)

15) Ben Gibbard - “Filler”

Before you check Gibbard’s, please listen to the original by Minor Threat. That’s what he had to work with. From there, a total transformation while doing the near impossible -- keeping its beating heart.

14) Martha - “Wrestlemania VIII”

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Third favorite song title of the year/favorite music video of the year. This is energetic, bratty punk at its finest; also surprised to find out it was British, but, based on the upcoming tour dates and YouTube description...

This is a silly & frankly quite rubbish video but when you are a band trapped within surveillance capitalism's endless hunger for content trying to promote a tour sometimes things will be a silly & frankly quite rubbish.

I love them. Seriously didn’t even notice the accents in the singing until I knew to look for them; now, it’s all I can hear. Also, the part in the video where they finally show someone with an instrument, only he stops playing guitar halfway into the solo (/crying emoji).

THEY SAY ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDA

13) Chance The Rapper f/ Ben Gibbard - “Do You Remember”

Chance The Rapper dropped a one hour and 17 minute album in 2019 because he is a monster. I could not name three songs on it, but this one stood out big. It’s Chano doing what he does best: reminiscing and evoking summer in his city. Gibbard on the hook gives it that 2005 nostalgia while also making you say “Damn, it’s been nearly 15 years since 2005?!”

Fav two lines:

1) “Used to have obsession with the ‘27 Club’ / Now I'm turning 27, wanna make it to the 2070 club / Put the 27's down, Lord, give me a clean lung / Took the ring up out the box, I know this ain't no brief love”

2) “That summer left a couple tan lines / I love my city, they let me cut the line on the Dan Ryan”

(If you know, you know.)

Two more asides:

- If you Google “death cab for cutie”, the next autofill from there is “do you remember”. Rough for the legacy.

- “My daughter on the swing like the 2017 Cubs” is a line that confused me, but here’s how Genius explained it:

Chance is talking about a memorable summer and the things that made him happy. This line continues that theme when he raps about his daughter happily on a swing and how that’s similar to the 2017 Cubs. The Chicago Cubs won the World Series in 2016; therefore, the 2017 season was one of celebration and relaxation as the pressure of the 108 year drought was over.

12) Lana Del Rey - “The Greatest”

I miss Long Beach, and I miss you...

Listening to this song feels like watching the cement dry on a classic in real time. Lana Del Rey’s galactic “Norman Fucking Rockwell!” dominated lists at the end of 2019, and she -- to borrow her word -- fucking deserved it.

- The Beach Boys line is so god damn perfect

- The guitar solo (soooo sick)

- The breathy singing; the crooning; the notes that go up and then down until you’re surrounded by melody

- The perfection of this album name (minus the very iffy exclamation point) will have me comparing nearly any other all-time album title for probably the rest of our lives

- Tried playing this album during my Monday night pickup basketball run, and it very much failed... but that’s about the only thing it couldn’t do

- I’m told the dude with her on the album cover is Jack Nicholson’s grandson (named Duke Nicholson, because of course)

11) Off With Their Heads - “No Love”

If you do not like punk rock, this will be unlistenable. If you do, what a treat! I love how dissatisfied and put off he sounds, and, while there are a few more lively songs remaining on the list, none in 2019 got fast-tracked to my workout/pump up playlist at this speed.

Factoring in the band’s van accident (occurred after the release of this song), the “There’s nothing I could say that’s ever gonna make it right” outro becomes hauntingly clairvoyant.

10) Drake f/ Rick Ross - “Money In The Grave”

We need to face facts: it was a down year for stadium hip-hop. Nowhere on this list do you see Jay, Em, Kendrick, or Kanye (rest in peace). This was my favorite rap song of the year, and it couldn’t even crack the Top 5. Similar to his beloved Raptors -- who are being celebrated here -- it’s almost as if Drake needed some injuries outside his own locker room to get the crown. But I’m done being bummed, let’s focus on the good:

- Ohhhh, the intro (”I mean where. the fuck. should I. really even start?”)

- The way he says “grave” in the hook like he can barely contain

- The hook itself -- read it out loud: “When I die, put my money in the grave”

- How cool Ross sounds when he breaks in

- The Zion reference

The bad:

- Rarely take this angle, but really wouldn’t mind if it were longer

- Misogyny

9) PUP - “Bloody Mary, Kate And Ashley”

Second favorite song title of the year, 6/8 time signature, satanic references, drugs, hallucinations (maybe), and, yes, the Olsen twins.

8) Better Oblivion Community Center - “Sleepwalkin’”

“It’s impossible to count...”

The intro, as the tempo gets jarringly slower and slower, ironically helps you acclimate quicker. This Phoebe Bridgers/Conor Oberst collab was my No. 1 played track of 2019 (the album coming out in January definitely helped). The song builds to Phoebe’s solo part:

You like beer and chocolate I like setting off those bottle rockets We can never compromise But fighting 'til the death keeps us alive

It’s sung so well, you can almost feel the heat of the spotlight on her through the stereo. The lyrics could be anything.

The chill guitar solo takes us out.

7) AM Taxi - “Saint Jane”

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Adam Krier is such a rockstar, he had me shouting “I’m no hero, at best a zero!” within my fifth listen -- and I was skeptical as hell when I first heard the line. But that’s about where it stopped. You can tell this song is going to rip even before the vocals come in. When they do (”These fears don’t die, you get older and they multiply”), it’s just fucking time to go.

6) Taylor Swift - “Paper Rings”

My favorite pop song of 2019. Tay is firing on all cylinders; every lyric is exactly where it’s supposed to be; boppy and fun and sincere (while still being light-hearted). Still holding out minor hope it will be a single in 2020.

5) Pkew Pkew Pkew - “The Polynesian”

I’ve always said the best songs make you want to live the lyrics, whether they are positive or negative. This one had me researching “polynesian wisconsin” faster than I’m comfortable disclosing. And yes “bed bugs” and “needles” were both in the Top 7 recommended searches after those first two words.

Pkew Pkew Pkew collaborated with Craig Finn on some of their lyrics on 2019′s “Optimal Lifestyles”, and I’d be blown away if he doesn’t have fingerprints on this one -- the storytelling is pristine. Go into this open-minded, and I’d be shocked if you weren’t shouting the “Goatees, tall cans, camo pants, and Packers fans” mantra by the end.

Bonus story: this St. Patrick’s day in Chicago, I asked my friend Sara (Wisconsin native) if she’d ever stayed there, and she held up her elbow and showed me a scar from the hotel’s water slide. Your boy was over the moon.

4) Spanish Love Songs - “Losers”

It gets harder, doesn’t it?

Dylan Slocum has a way of not just writing depressing songs -- many lyricists are good at that -- but specifically depressing songs. This song contemplates death, homelessness, squandering your limited time on the planet, credit card debt, leeching off your parents because you have no other choice, crippling illness, and completely giving up because there genuinely is no other choice. The last lines are, without any hint of winking, “We’re mediocre. We’re losers. Forever.”

It’s wonderful.

Two straight Top 4 finishes for SLS; their 2020 album should be something special.

3) oso oso - “the view”

If Jade Lilitri is making personal progress in “microscopic strides”, you wouldn’t be able to tell by his songwriting. Every tune has a way of warming up your entire body and being. This grabs you, whether it’s the laid back guitar or the mismatched quick drums or the big ass chorus. While it came down to this one or “basking in the glow” (an actual single), the bridge here puts us over the top:

But not as much as the phone ringing Not as much playing my house Not as much as the way her goddamn voice sounds It's like taking in sun And then taking it back I fall into old habits I'm stepping over your cracks again

Her voice? This song.

2) The Menzingers - “Strangers Forever”

This song makes me want to rip up walls, sprint through streets with no destination, shred my lungs screaming off rooftops, bash hands drumming the steering wheel until my sprained fingers beg me to stop. It is such a perfect encapsulation of my favorite band of the decade and possibly of all-time.

Scranton’s sons gave me everything and more from 2010 through 2019, so it’s fitting they end so high here. This is probably the most clownable sentence of them all, but I am so constantly thankful I am alive to experience Greg Barnett’s songwriting. What he creates, I can only compare to the best books or movies or athletes or even personal relationships.

The way the guitar alternates in the headphones to start, the drums that go big and push the song along, the reverb vox that certainly could have less reverb, the “it is what it is”-style lyric of “My miserable memory’s making me more miserable”, the oceanic imagery, the quiet bridge that explodes into a final chorus. Barnett said the overall theme was inspired by Leo Tolstoy’s “Anna Karenina”.

In it, the character Darya Alexandrovna learns of her husbands infidelity and declares: “Even if we remain in the same house, we are strangers — strangers forever!” The idea of becoming a stranger to someone you so intimately know stuck with me, and became the overarching narrative to this song. Dolly’s statement is definitive, but she also realizes the trappings of 19th century patriarchal Russian society. It’s a complex conundrum, and while lyrically I speak in the first person, this song exists in a world outside of my own personal experiences. I wanted to write about the finality of relationships that need to end this way. Strangers Forever.

My only gripe is I wish there were more. But I’m the same person who never wants them to stop.

1) Signals Midwest f/ Sincere Engineer - “Your New Old Apartment”

Only one song could make me fear missing the chance to be with the love of my life the same year I married her. As discussed in “The Polynesian”, the best songs have the consistent ability to put you in someone else’s shoes. You are either reliving something you personally experienced or maybe taking it all in for the first time. And that can be powerful -- especially dealing with anything big picture.

“Your New Old Apartment” launches me into 2009 without ever asking. Age: 23. My life was transient, I had no career, I didn’t even believe in marriage. I left my retail job in the Chicago suburbs for an unpaid newspaper internship in New Jersey. When I saw the people I loved, I always tried to make it count. Still do.

The descriptors and feeling are suffocating, right from the jump:

I only saw you a couple times last year Once at a wedding, once at a funeral I wore the same clothes to both, and I was worried you would notice ‘cause yours were impeccable

That’s me, then. Not knowing how to dress but hoping to get by anyway. I remember talking to my buddy P before buying my “work clothes” and learning you needed to match your shoes with your belt. Boyish adulthood.

The song continues, and the narrator is filled in on 5-year plans. It may be cliche to speak, but every current moment is simultaneously your youngest and oldest. Being in my early 30s now, it is so easy to scoff at anyone’s best laid plans, but I’m also the same cat who thought The Wonder Years’ “Jesus Christ, I’m 26 / All the people I graduated with / All have kids, all have wives, all have people who care if they come home at night” was life-defining, because I was the same age when that dropped, and it always hits the hardest when it’s all around you.

What I love about these lyrics are the careful observation mixed with mature-behind-his-years restraint. For a very long time in my life, I did not think I would get to be with my wife as anything more than a friend. When you are forced to come to terms with those potential realities, you must make concessions and convince yourself they’re OK. So when it’s revealed the narrator’s muse is married, he resigns himself to hopefully seeing the person more and at least being adjacent to the life they are living. It is tragic but still something. It is alternate hope in the hopeless.

I can picture myself listening to this song that wasn’t yet written while leaving a 2009 or 2010 or 2013 wedding and wishing I told her everything. But I wouldn’t have -- not then. I would have poured my heart out into a diary and quoted a line or three from this at the bottom. But that was then, this is now.

In 2019, her new old apartment will be my new old apartment, and that will never be lost on me.

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Bonus coverage. Since we are at the end of the decade, I rounded up our No. 1 song from each year and have that below:

2010: The Menzingers - “Time Tables” 2011: Jay-Z & Kanye West - “Gotta Have It” 2012: Carly Rae Jepsen - “Call Me Maybe” 2013: Kanye West - “On Sight” 2014: The Menzingers - “Where Your Heartache Exists” 2015: Big Sean f/ Kanye West - “All Your Fault” 2016: The Menzingers - “Lookers” 2017: The Menzingers - “After The Party” 2018: Horror Squad - “I Smoke The Blood” 2019: Signals Midwest f/ Sincere Engineer - “Your New Old Apartment”

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It’s time to stop writing. Thank you so much for reading.

Spotify playlist is here, featuring 70 of the 75.

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