LTL, FTP and all that Jazz. Compared to some of the stories here mine is fairly tame, but considering my age at the time, the effort I had put into the whole affair and the resulting payoff, I would consider this pro enough to fit in here.
I’ve lived in Germany almost my entire life, yet through a twist of fate, I grew up learning the English language as a native speaker, since my father emigrated to Germany from the USA. As such, I’ve always had an American accent when speaking English and I’ve never met anyone who thought they felt the need to complain about it. Every time a teacher asked why I spoke English so well I replied that I am a US National by birth because my Father is from the US. All my teachers seemed quite impressed, except this one Hag, half a lifetime ago… If there ever was an award for creepy Anglophilia, she’d be neck deep in honors and certificates. Instead of encouraging me to speak more so that the other students could learn proper pronunciation from an actual native speaker, like many other English teachers at my school back then did, this woman thought it necessary to berate me for “speaking in such a horrible and filthy manner” and “cure [me] of that insufferable atrocity of an accent.” Mind you, these were actual quotes from this woman. My dad was no help at all. He was fairly ignorant about me being bullied by one of my own teachers, and even went so far as to yell at me to “suck it up and respect my elders”. So, yeah, I stuck it up. It didn’t help that I also wrote in American English (you know, color instead of color, tire instead of tyre, cookie instead of biscuit, that sort of thing) and the Hag had the audacity to write these “mistakes” up as double errors, meaning I got twice points deducted for spelling errors that weren’t even actual errors! I was so fed up with this woman and it wasn’t even two months into the school year.
[The way you said “I love you.“ + 15. Loud, so everyone can hear]
Michael breathes in, hoping that more air in his lungs will give him a sudden, magical boost of confidence that’ll get rid of the nervousness currently flowing through his veins. When it doesn’t, because that’s life, he gives the steering wheel one last squeeze before he fetches the goddamn heavy boombox from the passenger seat.
He gets out of the car and stands outside of the Heere household. No backing out, Michael. It’s time to get your fucking cheese on, Michael. Fortune favors the brave. Or the stupid. But this is for Jeremy, so he’s fine with being either.
Before his brain can convince him to back out for the nth time, Michael texts Jeremy, sealing his fate tonight completely. Now or never.
Cheese. It. Up.
hey i heard u liked carly rae look out ur window
Is the Queen Of Pop herself in the driveway?
He pockets his phone, ignoring the incoming buzzes from Jeremy’s messages because he’ll understand soon enough. Michael jams the volume of the boombox to the loudest it can go, and presses play right as Jeremy’s head pops out his bedroom window. Emboldened, he lifts the boombox above his head while The Queen of Pop blasts out. Worlds fly by. Drove by your place and stopped again tonight–
“Michael,” Jeremy says, mouth hanging open. “What are you doing?”
“Come down and find out!” Michael yells, deciding to yell some more to quell the drumbeat in his chest. “And I can’t lie. I like the feeling, how you make me shy. I share my secrets and I will not hide–” and he can’t see Jeremy at his window anymore. He really hopes that means he’s going down the stairs and not dying from mortification because Michael is the world’s worst boyfriend.
Thankfully, that thought only lasts for a few seconds and a couple more lyrics because Jeremy is out his front door. He’s clad in pajama pants and one of Michael’s sweatshirts, his hair a mess and his face slightly flushed. Michael thinks he looks beautiful but he lacks the eloquence or composure to communicate this. Instead, he just sings in probably the most terrified tone, “GIMME LOVE.”
“Oh my god, what is happening?” Jeremy says, a hand on his face, but he’s smiling. That’s probably a good sign. “That’s a boombox, holy shit. You have Carly Rae on cassette?”
“I made it happen for you, dude,” Michael tells him. “Only the best tunes for your promposal.”
And fuck. Whoops. There goes the cool intro he had planned, he thinks as he frantically thinks of what he can do to salvage the situation.
Cause I want what I want, do you think that I want too much?–
“Do you wanna fuckin’ go to prom with me?” Michael blurts, immediately wanting to smack himself in the face. The only thing stopping him is the boombox that would crash over his head if he did. He’d end up with a concussion. “Fuck–It’s just. I remembered when you told me forever ago that you secretly liked cheesy shit like boombox proposals and I figured I could totally make that happen. But, wow, this is going pretty awful so far because I had a speech. I asked Jake to help me write index cards. I told him it was for debate, but it’s just me talking about you.” Okay, a concussion actually doesn’t sound too bad right now. “They’re in my pocket. The index cards, I mean. But I can’t get to them because of the boombox, and yeah, I had a plan. Which isn’t happening anymore. So, uh. Do you want to go to prom with me!”
It’s the way we are together. Wanna feel like this forever–
“Why are you yelling?” Jeremy asks. His hand is still on his face, but Michael can see the goofy smile behind it, thank god.
“Because I’m nervous?” Michael laughs, because this is all ridiculous, really. His heart is beating fast and loud and his hands are clammy and he’s got a beautiful boy right here, smiling at him. “Because I’m standing in your yard and holding this thing is starting to hurt my arms. Because you’re my boyfriend and I’m asking you out to prom and you technically haven’t given me an answer, which! Is totally cool! Don’t feel any pressure to answer right now. Or ever, if you want. I’m–”
“Michael,” Jeremy interrupts him. He lowers his hands, and god, he’s something. Jeremy is blushing real bad to the tips of his ears and Michael realizes that Jeremy hasn’t stopped smiling this entire time.
“Yeah?” Michael says dumbly. Really, if anybody expects him to be coherent in the face of this, they don’t know what they’re dealing with. Surviving Jeremy Heere is an endless struggle.
Jeremy takes a deep breath. Then another. Then he shuts his eyes and he says,
No. No, he yells.
“I love you!” And the thing with Jeremy is that he’s pretty goddamn loud, when he wants to be. If the dulcet tones of Carly Rae Jepsen didn’t stir the neighbors, this definitely did.
Michael doesn’t know what to do with himself. A part of him wants to cry and kiss Jeremy and another part wants to ask why the fuck are we like this? But really, he’d never want to have it any other way.
“Why are you yelling?” Michael asks, overcome with love.
“It seemed like the right thing to do?” Jeremy shrugs.
Belatedly, Michael realizes that most of their I love yous were quiet affairs. At six years old, whispered happily in a pillow fort. At twelve, muttered while Michael helped Jeremy up from scraping his knees. Sixteen and the words spilling out to an empty passenger seat as he watches Jeremy walk away. Seventeen, breathless in between kisses. (I love you, I love you, I love you.)
There’s something exhilarating about being loud. About people hearing. Knowing.
“I love you too!” Michael yells over Jeremy’s bark of laughter. “But uh, is that a yes or a no or an ‘I’ll think about it’ or–”
“Put down the boombox, Michael, holy shit, of course it’s a yes.”
“Oh thank fuck,” Michael says in reply to both the things Jeremy just told him. He’s about to thank him because his arms were really starting to hurt, but he doesn’t get to talk at all because Jeremy grabs his face and kisses him.
He stops thinking about anything else after that. He just lets his hands fall to Jeremy’s waist and kisses back, trying to say I love you without saying anything at all.
Cause I want what I want, boy you, it’s what I need. Gimmie love, gimmie love, gimmie love, gimmie love–
(They’re interrupted a few seconds later when an honest to god airhorn sounds from Jeremy’s house.
“Ugh, dad,” Jeremy sighs against Michael’s neck.
“I actually have Marry Your Daughter on cassette too.”
“If you play that anywhere near my dad, I’m breaking up with you.”
Request: regaltempo said:Hello! My request is a
Peter Quill x Reader. The reader is a human too, who likes and plays classical
music on violin, and one day when you think everyone is asleep in the ship you
practice on your violin, but little do you know Peter is listening to you on
the other side of the wall. After you’re finished he shows himself and asks for
a dance and you play a cassette tape of classical music and dance the waltz
together. Thank you! Peter probably has
never heard of classical music before. That could be why he is so interested in
hearing the music at night. And the reader could be surprised that he doesn’t
know and they compromise and he teaches you how to dance and you play classical
music for him during the night. And maybe some kissing.
“I don’t think she likes me,” Peter groaned quietly, sitting
in the pilot seat of the ship and swiveling the chair back and forth
nervously. His friends sat behind him,
listing to him complain for the last several hours and growing impatient at the
incessant whining session. “She sits in
her room all day and barely says two words to me.”
“I agree that she does not like you. It’s obvious and you are quite right in
finally noticing it,” Drax nodded eagerly, reaching out to slap his friend
supportively on the arm, only to have him pull it from his reach. “This makes you sad. Would you like to me to speak to her for you
and find out why her hatred runs so deeply?”
Stephanie Crowe was especially happy on January 21, 1998, because her parents had saved up to buy her a new phone for Christmas and she was permitted unlimited calls; the twelve-year-old was busy chatting to her friends when her mother bade her goodnight and went to sleep.
The next day Stephanie’s grandmother made a gruesome discovery; when she went upstairs to fetch Stephanie for breakfast she discovered the girl lying in a massive pool of blood near her bedroom door. Stephanie had been stabbed eight times with a long-bladed knife, and drag marks indicated she had first been attacked in bed before her killer pulled her to the floor and slashed at her chest. Strangely enough, there was no sign of forced entry into her room, and the words ‘kill KILL’ had been scrawled in pencil on the wall near her body.
Due to the fact no sign of forced entry was found, the police immediately began to pursue Stephanie’s brother, Michael, for her murder. Michael Crowe (14) had been hosting a sleepover with two friends in the room next to Stephanie’s, and admitted to playing his cassette tapes loudly during the hours she is believing ved to have died. Police found his stiff composure indicative of his guilt, and after ten hours of vigorous questioning Michael broke down in tears and confessed to murdering his sister. His two friends present that night were also arrested.
Despite a marked lack of evidence the three boys were charged with murder and put on trial as adults. However, just before the trial was to begin the police had a breakthrough; a shirt they had confiscated from a homeless man showed positive for Stephanie’s blood. The three boys were immediately cleared and the charges dismissed.
The ‘homeless man’ had been questioned just one day after Stephanie’s murder, after a neighbor complained he had been hanging around the street peering into windows. The cops had disregarded him as a suspect as they believed he was schizophrenic and not capable of murder. After Stephanie’s blood was found on his shirt the police launched a manhunt and made televised appeals to the public, but to no avail; the mysterious homeless man has never been captured, and Stephanie Crowe’s murder remains unsolved.
he is a walking, talking and dreaming monolith. that thing in his chest is a multi-functional organ which can be used, for example, to establish a Wifi network, to hypnotize people, to play cassettes and CD:s or to listen to radio. he has an ability to travel long distances through hopping in and out of a special dimension. he likes to float freely in space (his body is not harmed by vacuum), lie on his back on the ground daydreaming, and snuggling with people.
“You know,” Dean said, leaning back
on your bed as he watched you rifle through your closet, “you don’t seem awful
excited about this date.”
You hummed softly. He wasn’t wrong.
It’s not like you were dreading the coffee date, but it did give you
approximately the same amount of adrenaline as a trip to the grocery store did.
You had hoped no one would notice that, but it would be asking a lot to expect
the guy you spent most of your time with to overlook your blank expressions and
“It’s just not a big of a deal,”
He gave the back of your head a
confused look. “First date in what, five years, not a big deal?”