#Greenwich Exchange

[kyreniacommentator]

ARUCAD Enters Collaboration With Pakistan Greenwich University

A protocol has been signed between Arkın Creative Arts and Design University (ARUCAD) and Greenwich University Karachi campus, to enhance and promote mutual academic collaboration. This protocol allows for student and faculty exchanges between the two universities. Continue reading ARUCAD Enters Collaboration With Pakistan Greenwich University

[ssweetleaf]

graphic nature.

summary: you’re a sex worker, and ray finds you selling your body for time, something he’s told you he doesn’t want you doing again.

raymond leon x fem!reader

includes: SMUT 18+, shit ending be warned, handcuffs, slapping, ray’s in love but he just can’t show it :((

a/n: so this is kinda weird, i don’t know where this came from, i didn’t have the energy to really finish it, so if it seems rushed, that’s because it is lol, maybe I’ll write a part 2 if i feel like it.

˖ ࣪⭑

With not a lot of time on your hands, there was a big reason why you did what you did. And however frowned upon your job description was, it kept you alive, kept you fed— kept you with a healthy wad of time on your wrist.

Roaming in the wealthy streets of New Greenwich offered you countless men to spend the night with, prostituting yourself in exchange for a hefty fee, a couple weeks, hell, maybe months worth of time clocked onto your watch once you were done.

So, like any other night, you waited, clad in a pretty dress and pantyhose, garters showing, all lacey and cute— in no time a patron drove up beside you, window down and sleeves rolled up, making sure the ticking of his years were on show.

You were about to bend down, lean against the door of his car, give him a few of your usual lines, a teasing smile playing on your lips while he offered to take you back to a hotel suite.

But not today, it seemed.

“Can’t begin to count how many times I’ve found you doin’ this, y/n,” the familiar voice sighed mockingly, and you turned to find him, Ray, the most well-known time keeper of the area, and your most loyal customer. “Just can’t seem to get it in that dumb brain of yours that what you’re doing is illegal.”

You turned back to the man in front of you, only to soon have him realise who had caught you, speeding off down the highway in his stupidly flash car, leaving the timekeeper to chuckle from behind you, the leather of his coat squeaking when he decided to cross his arms.

“What’re you gonna do, Ray?” You rolled your eyes, stepping closer towards him as if trying to intimate him in some way, though your attempts were futile. “You gonna arrest me?”

He smirked, cockily running his tongue along his teeth, smacking his lips before giving you a pout, one to mock you, to make you feel small.

“Y’know, sweetheart, maybe I will.” He hummed, slowly moving in closer, faces merely centimetres apart, mouth so mind-numbingly close to yours, your eyes staring dumbly at his pretty lips, all plump and glistening from running his tongue along—

With a sudden harshness, he spun you around, bending you over and pressing you firmly against the hood of his car. Your cheek smooshed against it while he took both of your wrists and pinned them behind your back, the jingle of handcuffs rang through your ears when he opened them up, slipping them over your wrists before tightening them with a sharp click on each side.

The metal dug into the flesh of your wrists, biting raw rings around them when you tugged and squirmed.

“You-” you started, struggling from under his gaze, one of his palms pressed to the space between your shoulders, keeping you in place. “You can’t do this, Raymond!”

Ray chuckled, pressing closer towards you, leaning his face against your cheek when he hovered over your back.

“I’m a timekeeper, honey,” he cooed mockingly, tip of his tongue grazing the shell of your ear and it caused a shiver to run along the length of your spine. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

You whined, huffing out a breath, tugging and tugging at your restraints as if somehow they’d just slip from your wrists with no problem.

“Besides, I thought I told you,” he ran his tongue along his lips, smacking his spit, breath fanning along your neck. “Only I get to touch you, you’re my whore and you work for me, you understand?”

You stayed silent.

He huffed out a breath, disappointed in your lack of participation, spinning you around so your back was against the hood instead, bringing his big palm up to your cheek in a sharp, searing smack, heavy and painful enough to jolt your head to one side.

You whimpered at the sting, feeling your cheek bloom with the welt, the warmth of his handprint still heavy on your skin.

“Let me say this nice and slow for you, sweetheart— I know you’re just too stupid to understand,” he clutched at your throat, fingers closing against the sides of your throat, squeezing almost mind-numbingly. “I said. Do. You. Understand?”

He punctuated his speech with little squeezes to your throat, your breathing laboured from the constriction, wanting so desperately to claw at his wrists, but those stupid handcuffs got in the way.

“Yes,” you choked out, nodding as best as you could, lashes fluttering from the lack of oxygen. “I-I understand, Ray.”

“Good girl,” he pouted, cooing at you mockingly and shaking your head from side to side. “wasn’t so hard was it, dumb girl?”

From the position you were in, you could get a good look at him. You had missed him- missed this, you hadn’t seen him for a while, his mind occupied on chasing down a certain Will Salas, of course he had made you promise to stay loyal, to not seek any men to take you home, to accept any form of touch that wasn’t his, but how were you supposed to agree? Your time was ticking, you couldn’t afford to mope around and wait for him, you had to work, to seek wealthy men and drain them of their time in exchange for sex.

“Missed you,” you spoke, barely above a whisper, eyes flitting over his form watching his jaw clench and nostrils flare. He couldn’t meet your stare.

“M’takin’ you home,” he muttered, pushing you by the shoulders and swinging the passenger door open.

“Will you at least take these cuffs off?” You pouted, turning your head to bat your lashes at him from over your shoulder. His lip quirked up in a smirk, sponging an oddly chaste kiss to your cheek before pressing his mouth against the shell of your ear. Your breath hitched.

“Not a chance.”

-

Raymond drove you to his apartment, it wasn’t the first time you had seen the place, in fact you had become quite familiar with it— little glimpses of Ray’s life littered the space, his taste somewhat minimalistic, but oddly homely.

He pressed you against his front door once it clicked closed, hands still awkwardly positioned and you struggled in a feeble attempt to break free from your restraint.

Ray’s mouth was on yours in an instant, mostly tongue and teeth, spit trickling down your chin at the rough attack of it all. He cradled your jaw in his hands, suckling your tongue between his lips, groaning at the breathy sighs you emitted.

“All mine,” he murmured against your mouth, pulling away to give your cheek a slap, a silver string of spit still connecting your mouths together. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

Your tongue swiped over your swollen lips, eyes hooded, completely submerged in the will to submit.

“M’yours,” you whimpered. He slapped you once more and your cheek bloomed with heat.

“Again, say it again.”

“M’yours, Ray—” you leaned forward to nudge your nose against his. “all yours.”

He sighed, the sound akin to a whimper when you uttered his name, his lashes fluttered and he pressed his pelvis firmly against your belly.

He was hard. So fucking hard, and your mouth watered, longing for it to be in your mouth, the taste of his pre-cum on your tongue, just lapping and suckling for as long as you could handle.

“Feel what you do to me, baby,” he groaned, grinding against you, fingers tangling in your hair and his lips on your jaw. “S’all your fault.”

You bit at your lip to suppress a needy moan when he shrugged his leather coat from his shoulders, hands back on you again in an instant.

“Thought I told you to wait for me, sweetheart,” he spoke, brows furrowing and you itched to smooth the crease out with the pad of your thumb. “thought I told you to stop whorin’ around.”

Ray’s hand slipped to your throat, fingers and thumb pressing against the sides of your neck, leaving your head all swirly and light.

You frowned, choking out your words between breaths.

“I don’t have the time to wait for you.”

He was selfish, too much of a coward to take care of you and settle down with you instead of fucking promises out of your mouth, having you say you’re his when he wasn’t even yours.

It frustrated you.

“Oh, it’s time you want?” He chuckled dryly, “gee, honey, thought I wasn’t just one of your customers.”

He lifted his sleeve, the seconds on his arm ticking downward— tickticktick, until he reached behind you and pressed his wrist against your own.

The seconds, minutes, hours all went down in a blur, transferring to your time, adding on a hefty amount.

You gasped, trying to push him away as his life span quickly became merely hours.

“Raymond-” you struggled in his grip. “Raymond, stop it!”

He pulled away, his clock down to an hour, that was all. Fifty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds, fifty-six, fifty-five…

“See,” he breathed, pushing your hair to tuck behind your ear, “now you have all the time in the world.”

[senditcolton]

I'm Still Glad I Met You

Isn't it profound, how such a brief experience can be so special?

summary: Emmaline 'Emma' Evans never expected to be in Paris, searching for inspiration to bring back to her new cafe in New York. She certainly didn't expect to meet Nico, a stranger who doesn't feel like one. But is it just the City of Love twisting her emotions, making her fall for someone who is sure to be temporary? Or is this is the start of something real? song inspo: need by taylor swift word count: 12.5k warnings: hinted intimacy (non-explicit), brief language, resolved angst. written for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange to @offside-the-lines with love 🤍❄️🖋️ bonus epilogue!

Au nom de l’équipage d’Air France, nous vous souhaitons une bonne journée.

From the large windows, Emmaline Evans watches the darkened tarmac pass, her plane headed towards the gate. There was still a small part of her that couldn’t believe that she in Paris. It was exciting even though she wouldn’t be able to explore until tomorrow. But she knew to hold her excitement close to her chest, letting her head guide her instead of her heart.

She wasn’t here for a vacation. She was here for work.

While this trip was an early birthday gift from her parents, it was bought with the express purpose of helping her prepare for the opening of the café she and her best friend Morgan had been planning for the past year and was now only 4 months away.

La Crème de la Crème. The best of the best. That was the name and that was the goal; to bring a bit of France back to Greenwich Village and impress all who walked in with Morgan’s coffee talents and Emma’s pastry skills. And what better way to bring Paris to New York than to take inspiration from the City of Love itself?

Pulling her phone out from her purse, she checks the time. 8pm. She scours through her memory until she remembers that New York is six hours behind. Opening her messages, she shoots off a quick text to Morgan.

Landed! I’m going to get to the apartment and then try to sleep. How are things going over there? sent 8:08pm

The rustling of the other passengers pulls Emma’s attention from her phone, realizing that it was time to depart from the plane. She hastily grabs her items, lugging her suitcase from the overhead bin and makes her way through the airport. She utters a quick thank you to the universe for her knowledge of the French language or she would be completely lost. It isn’t until she has successfully grabbed a cab and began the route to the Paris apartment, does she check her messages again.

It's all good here! The rest of the equipment came today so the plan is to finish installing that today. And then all that’s left is the menu, staff, and décor. received 8:16pm

You make it sound so easy. sent 8:37pm

Babe, we’ve been planning this for ages. We are literally in the homestretch! received 8:42pm

I know, it’s just… ugh. I wish you were here with me. This is our dream after all. sent 8:44pm

I do too. But I’m perfectly fine holding down the fort here. You just focus on Paris and all the amazing desserts you’re going to recreate when you come back stateside! (don’t forget to make notes about the coffee as well!) received 8:49pm

I don’t know coffee nearly as well as you but I’ll do my best. Thanks, Morgan. I literally couldn’t do this without you. sent 8:53pm

You know it. received 8:54pm

A small chuckle escapes from Emma’s throat at Morgan’s reply. She sighs, looking out the taxi window, blinking a few times at the sights in front of her. She was so absorbed in the everything she left behind that she wasn’t even paying attention to where she was. She had entered the city limits. She arrived.

Paris. The city seemed to sparkle as she rode down the narrow streets and alleyways. It was early in the evening which meant the streets were crowded with people. Emma had always believed that New York was the city that never slept but she had a feeling that Paris would prove her wrong.

The taxi pulls up to the Airbnb that Emma rented and she takes her luggage, thanking her driver before grabbing the key out of the lockbox and making her way up the narrow staircase. She looks out the small window, looking at the city stretching out in front of her, the lights of the Eiffel Tower shining in the distance.

These next 4 days would be magical. That much she was sure of. What else could this experience be described as?

~*~*Day One*~*~

Emma had been in Paris for less than 16 hours and she had already found so much inspiration. It wasn’t just the cafés that she had stopped at so far, it wasn’t even the assortment of treats she had already eaten; it was the city. She thought the stories she heard about Paris were exaggerations – no city could be that amazing. People surely had to be over-romanticizing the city of romance. But they weren’t.

Here, in this moment, sitting at the Café de la Paix outside the Grand Hotel, watching as the people passed her by, listening as the chatter of multiple languages bouncing off her eardrums… she realized those stories were true. The city itself brought about its own kind of energy, cocooning her in a beautiful dream. The afternoon sun was warm on her face and Emma could only hope to bottle a mere drop of this feeling and pack it in her suitcase to bring back to New York along with her notebook that was already filled with scribbles and notes about the delicacies that she had sampled.

“Je peux me asseoir ici?”

The slightly butchered pronunciation pulls Emma out of her reverie. She looks over to see a man standing with his hand lightly resting on the chair across from her. She shoots him a smile, her hand gesturing towards the seat.

“It’s all yours.”

“Is it that obvious that I don’t speak French?” the stranger asks her as he sits down, a sheepish look on his face.

“I never said that,” Emma laughs, her lighthearted teasing pulling a relaxed smile onto his lips. “But you shouldn’t feel too bad,” she continues. “I’ve noticed that if you have even a hint of an accent, the locals here switch to English, even if you actually know how to speak French.”

“I take it that’s happened to you?”

“The American is hard to mask,” she replies with a slight shake of her head. “I’m Emma.”

“Nico,” the stranger replies, reaching for her outstretched hand to give it a polite shake. “So, American huh?”

“Born and raised. What about you? I don’t mean to pry but I do hear a… unique accent.”

“I’m from Switzerland but I work in America,” Nico explains.

“And you’re in Paris for…” Emma asks, unsure why she is so interested in this – very handsome – stranger’s story. But Nico doesn’t seem to mind her questions as he gives a small shrug and replies with that same gentle smile on his face.

“My job. Some press work,” he says, vague but nonchalant.

“Wow. You’re from Switzerland, you work in America, but your job also takes you to Paris? Quite a world traveler.”

“I’m very lucky,” Nico says before turning the question back to her. “What about you? Are you here for work or pleasure?”

“Work. But maybe a little bit of pleasure?”

“Well, now you’ve intrigued me.”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’d still love to hear about it.”

“Really? I don’t want to waste your time,” Emma says, hesitant. However, she can’t deny the small spark of hope that flutters in her chest over the prospect of Nico wanting to talk to her. Who wouldn’t deny the attention of an attractive and kind stranger?

“I have nothing planned for the rest of the day,” Nico assures her. “Plus, you’re one of the few people who has been welcoming to me, outside of the people from my… company.”

“Are the Parisian’s living up to the ‘stuck up French’ stereotype?” she laughs.

“Unfortunately for them, they are,” Nico replies with a laugh of his own. “But I guess it is pretty fortunate for me.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Because then I wouldn’t have run into you.”

Emma feels her cheeks flush as his casual flattery, her head ducking down in shyness. When she looks up, she can see the grin on Nico’s face – as if he enjoyed making her flustered – and Emma is struck with the strange juxtaposition of wanting to playfully wipe that smirk away but also wanting to make sure it stayed just so she could see it more.

“Well, if I’m going to tell you my life story, I’m going to need more coffee,” she finally replies, before waving over the waitress.

The day ends up being a waste for Emma – well, at least in the work sense. She doesn’t leave Café de la Paix until late, sun hanging low in the sky; not nearly enough time left in the day to hit all of the cafés, boulangeries, and patisseries that she planned on visiting. But she finds that she doesn’t care. Because all those ‘wasted’ hours were spent talking to Nico.

He was funny and sweet and charming and drop dead gorgeous. Talking to him felt so natural, like they had known each other for ages even though they just met that day. The entire experience of him sitting across from her in a Paris café, listening to her stories, telling her stories of his own, and constantly shooting her that beautiful dimpled smile… it felt like something out of a dream.

The cynical part of her psyche wanted to shake her; he was a stranger and she was caught up in the romance of Paris. That was all. But the hopeless romantic side of her wanted to stay in this cotton-candy colored haze for as long as she could.

Which is why, now, as she sits in her rental apartment, her notebook splayed open in front of her, she isn’t brainstorming a menu or planning the ingredient list for the café or even scrolling through Pinterest for interior design inspiration.

Instead, her eyes are tracing the scrawl of numbers that Nico wrote in the top right-hand corner.

A number that was written as a request for him to join her on her exploration of Paris.

And – after she banishes that negative voice into the corner of her mind – Emma enters the number into her messages, texting him an invitation to meet her at Du Pain et des Idees on 34 Rue Yves Toudic.

She falls asleep to the knowledge of Nico’s reply.

See you then. received 9:18pm

~*~*Day Two*~*~

This was absolutely ridiculous.

That was all that Emma could think as she closes the door to her rented Parisian apartment.

Granted, a lot of things about this situation were ridiculous. The fact that she was in Paris. The fact that she was there to help open her dream café. The fact that everything she ate tasted better than she could ever imagine.

But the most ridiculous part of all? Nico.

The man that she had only met yesterday and yet… there was something about him. His gentle eyes, his soft smile, the dimples in his cheeks.

He was at the boulangerie when she arrived, a coffee in hand and an Escargot a la Pistache for her. Another thing to add into the ridiculous column – that pastry was the reason that particular store was on her checklist.

And then the day that followed… even more unbelievable. Walking down the Parisian streets with Nico by her side, taking multiple pit-stops into cafés and patisseries and boulangeries, talking about everything but also nothing at all. Nico stayed by her side into the late afternoon, until his job called him away.

There was a constant battle in her mind about why this was happening.

The hopeless romantic was telling her that this was fate; she was supposed to meet Nico here in Paris and they were supposed to experience this moment in time together. That there was a reason, some grand universal scheme, that out of all the tables he could’ve chosen to sit at in Café de la Paix, he chose hers.

The cynic, however, was telling her this was nothing. He chose that table because it was open. He accompanied her today because it came with the promise of delicious French cuisine. And sure, maybe he liked the way she looked. Perhaps that was the reason he stuck around; he was a young handsome man in a foreign country who was simply looking for a good time.

But if that was all he wanted, why choose her? He could easily pick up any beautiful French woman at any bar or club, spend the night with her and then forget her name come morning. Why spend an entire with her, seeming perfectly happy keeping her company, even if that company included her ranting to him about the details of pastry and desserts, something he admitted he knew nothing about?

That unknowable ‘why?’ was haunting Emma. Was she being paranoid? Or was she being careful? Or was she just overthinking about something and someone that was temporary?

In three days’ time, she would be on a plane flying back to New York and whatever she had shared with Nico would be over. She would never see him again. That wasn’t something that her emotions were lying to her about. That wasn’t something refutable. She would never see Nico again. Because that is what this was: temporary.

The thing is… it didn’t feel temporary.

If this was fate or destiny or whatever, it didn’t feel like Nico was supposed to come into her life for a few days and then leave without another word exchanged between them. It felt more intentional.

But, once again, perhaps her emotions were twisting this reality into the fairytale that she so desperately wanted her life to be.

Emma is startled out of her spiraling thoughts by the shrill sound of her phone ringing. After rummaging through her bag, she grasps her cell and is surprised to see Morgan’s number flashing on her screen.

The spike of fear that rushes through her clears her head faster than even the strongest cup of coffee. There was absolutely no reason for Morgan to be calling unless it was an emergency; money troubles, delivery issues, hell it could even be something worse like mold or an electrical fire. Emma quickly accepts the call and lifts her cell to her ear, mentally preparing herself.

“Girl, you better tell me what the hell is going on with you,” Morgan’s voice echoes through the line, clear as day even with the white noise of New York in the background.

“What?” Emma asks, taken aback by Morgan’s unexpected words.

“Nuh-uh, you don’t get to avoid this,” Morgan quips, confusing Emma even further.

“Morgan, I really don’t know what you are talking about,” Emma sighs.

“The pictures? The angles? That love-struck look on your face in every single one of them?”

“What are you talking about?” Emma repeats.

“Babe, come on. I’ve known you for years now. You think I don’t know what it looks like when you’ve tripped head over heels for someone?”

Finally, the fog lifts from Emma’s brain.

“You’re talking about the pictures I’ve texted to you,” she sighs, collapsing onto the couch. In an effort to keep Morgan updated, she had asked Nico to occasionally take her picture – across from café tables or in front of other classic Parisian sights, all which she sent to Morgan with a quick message or an even faster emoji.

“What else would I be talking about?” Morgan says, the exasperated tone that Emma had grown to love hitting her eardrums.  

“I thought you were calling me because there was some type of emergency.”

“This is a freaking emergency!” Morgan shouts, causing a laugh to fall from Emma, one which is ignored as Morgan barrels on. “My best friend has been struck by Cupid’s arrow in the City of Love!”

“I have not.”

“Don’t deny it. Now, spill. Who is the mysterious French gentleman?”

“He’s actually Swiss,” Emma retorts, knowing that Nico’s nationality was the least important reason Morgan was calling. A thought that is practically confirmed by Morgan’s next words.

“What?”

“Nothing. His name is Nico. He’s in Paris for work. I met him at Café de la Paix yesterday.”

“Really? That’s it? That’s all I get? The CliffsNotes version?”

“Well, to be honest, that’s all I really know. I mean, we’ve talked about family and childhood and general get-to-know each other things – food, movies, all that – but that’s it,” Emma explains, the words feeling stupid as they come out of her mouth.

When talking to Nico, she didn’t mind that they kept things surface level. She knew the reason for it. It was because of that word that continued to plague her – temporary. No point getting into the ‘deep stuff’ when all this would be a distant memory soon.

“Is he handsome?” Morgan’s voice sounds again, her focus on what she considered ‘important’ forcing a laugh from Emma’s lips.

“Drop dead gorgeous,” Emma sighs, Nico’s eyes and dimples and smile dancing through her mind.  

“Have you slept with him yet?”

“Morgan!”

“What?” Morgan exclaims, her own laugh seeping into her words. “I feel like it’s a very relevant question: have you slept with the drop-dead gorgeous man you met yesterday, who is choosing to spend a day of his vacation with you?”

“I told you, he’s here for work. And we didn’t spend the entire day together.”

“Not important. Have you slept with him?”

“No, I haven’t,” Emma replies, the smile clear in her words.

“Bitch, why not?” Morgan shrieks, causing Emma to laugh once again.

“Because. Besides, you should know I don’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah, I know, not since you got out of school. But come on! First off, I take it he’s not a pretentious wanna-be pastry chef, right?”

“He’s not.”

“Alright. Secondly, you’re never going to see him again so what’s the harm?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Emma sighs as she sinks deeper into the couch cushions, the joy dropping from her voice at yet another reminder of this being temporary.

“Woah, okay,” Morgan says, her own voice softening at the sadness broadcasted in Emma’s. “Something else is going on here.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly, it’s not considering how upset you sound. Come on, it’s just me. Your best friend in the whole wide world who may tease you a bit but would never actually judge you.”

Emma takes a deep breath, looking around her apartment, trying to get her thoughts in order. Her eyes move to the window where she can still see the shape of the Eiffel Tower in the distance.

“It’s just…” she begins, hesitating, worried that the words will sound ridiculous. But she relaxes, remembering that it’s just Morgan. “I’ve never felt like this before. Nico, he’s… he’s so sweet and so kind. I mean, like you said, he’s spending his free time to hang out with me. Like, that must mean something right? I mean, if he wanted a piece of ass he could find one easily.”

“Not one as hot as yours,” Morgan interjects but Emma pays no mind to her words.

“It seems like he cares about me as more than just a potential hookup. And when I’m with him… it’s easy, like we’ve known each other for ages. Part of me wants to say that all these emotions are fake because – y’know – it’s the ‘City of Love’ and Paris just making me think this is more than it is but… I feel like I could fall in love with him.”

Emma can hear Morgan’s intake of breath, a tell-tale sign that she opened her mouth to speak but Emma cut her off before she could utter a syllable.

“I know that’s stupid to say about a man I met less than 36 hours ago. Plus, like you said, we’re never going to see each other again. His job apparently takes him all around the world so the chances of running into him after this are slim to none. But since I like him this much – in a way that is beyond casual – I’m worried that if I sleep with him or hell even kiss him, it will just make it harder to get over him. Which, again, is silly that I’m worried about getting over someone that I will might spend a maximum of four days with. Like – it’s just – I don’t know.”

Emma heaves another sigh, her hand moving to run through her dark hair before a half-hearted chuckle escapes her.

“This is why I don’t do casual.”

There is a small pause as Morgan takes in all of Emma’s words, the only sound filtering through the phone being the ambient noise of both of their respective cities. Emma finally hears a sigh from the other line before Morgan’s voice comes through.

“Listen, you know I’m not much for soulmates and true love and all of that. But I think you should just embrace it, whatever it is that you are feeling.”

This time, it is Emma who is about to voice a retort and Morgan who stops her before she can.

“Yeah, you’ll probably never see him again. Yeah, this is all temporary. But isn’t that even more reason to dive in headfirst while you can? Better to live a life of mistakes than a life of regret.”

Emma lets Morgan’s final statement sink in, her brain moving a mile a minute. She was right: what was there to lose? The question whirls around Emma’s head, the answer to which doesn’t instantly appear. The only thing that Emma could think to utter was another sigh.

“You know, sometimes you give really good advice.”

“It does tend to happen from time to time, thank you for noticing,” Morgan laughs. “And hey, regardless of what you decide over there in Paris, maybe this whirlwind romance will give you even more inspiration for the café!”

“And sometimes you give advice like that,” Emma jokes, the exasperation in the tone obvious.

“Eh, you win some, you lose some. I’ll let you get some dinner and sleep. Keep me updated – this time on everything not just the food, please and thank you.”

“Will do. Bye Morgan.”

Morgan replies with a quick goodbye before the call ends, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts once more. The hours pass and after ordering some takeout, Emma sits down at her small kitchen table. While she eats, Emma flips open to the back page of her notebook, writing down all the emotions and questions swirling around in her head, trying find some logical solution to her current predicament.

She’s in the middle of making a pros and cons list when her phone screen lights up with a message. Not thinking much of it, she doesn’t bother looking at the preview before unlocking her phone, ready to read another quip from Morgan. She is halted in her movements when she sees Nico’s name on the screen.

Hey. I had a lot of fun hanging out with you today. I was wondering if you wanted to do it again tomorrow? I have the evening off and would love to take in some Parisian nightlife. received 7:58pm

Emma’s eyes dance over his words before jumping back to her own looped handwriting on the pages of her notebook, trying to add this message into the tangle of possibilities. She is about to type up an excuse about why she can’t before a familiar voice echoes through her mind.

Better to live a life of mistakes than a life of regret. What’s the worst that could happen?

Yes, it could be a huge mistake letting Nico get any closer, letting him mess with her emotions any more than he already has. But maybe, just maybe, this was meant to be. And as Emma chews over those two possibilities, another question enters her mind.

Which would hurt more? Getting over Nico or never giving him a chance?

Emma looks back to her phone, the answer obvious to her now. She deletes the previously half written message before typing up a new response.

What did you have in mind? sent 8:06pm

Anything’s good for me. Just as long as you’re there. received 8:10pm

~*~*Day Three*~*~

Emma thought that she would get used to this feeling; the feeling of existing in a dream. It seemed to happen every hour she spent with Nico by her side. And now, the evening air warm as the two of them sit outside of Carette, the sweet taste of macarons in dancing across their tastebuds with the Eiffel Tower shining directly across the Seine… it was something out of a romance novel.

Emma glances across the small table towards Nico, wondering if he felt the same. He catches her stare and when that beautiful smile appears on his face, the butterflies erupt in her stomach. No one else had been able to illicit that reaction from her with something as simple a smile.

“Anything you would like to do next?” Nico asks, wiping the remnants of his dessert on the small paper napkins.

“Not really. I – well, we’ve – hit most of the cafés and stores on my list so I don’t have really anywhere I need to be,” Emma explains. Nico nods, acknowledging her words with a small hum. “I might just head back to my apartment. It is getting kind of late.”

“Need any company?”

His words catch Emma’s attention, the potential entendre clear within them. Emma shoots him a questioning look and it seems that her expression makes Nico realize how it must have sounded.

“I mean, not like that, I, um – what I was trying to say was would you like me to walk you home – keep you company on the way to your place,” he stumbles over his words and in the streetlights, Emma can see his cheeks turning a rosy pink. She assuages his fear with a soft laugh.

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Okay,” Nico sighs, his hands running through his hair.  He smiles again, one that Emma returns, before he lifts himself from his chair, holding his hand out to Emma. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Emma says, placing her hand in his as he helps her from her seat. Emma is about ready release her grasp when she feels his grip slightly tighten, an action that brings another questioning look on her face.

“Is this alright?” Nico asks, his voice soft.

The butterflies in her stomach flip into overdrive at his gentle request. Although she had agreed to this – Date? Meeting? Rendezvous? Whatever. – with Nico, a part of her was still hesitant to make a more daring move. To dive head first as Morgan said. Vulnerability had never been much of a strong suit for her.

But considering that Nico was looking at her like she hung the stars, that sweet earnest expression on his face, she realized that she didn’t care if her heart would be broken by the end of this trip. Because whatever she shared with Nico… it was magical.

Why not keep the magic for as long as she could?

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corner of Emma’s lips as she adjusts her hold around Nico’s hand, weaving her fingers through his.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice wavering a bit; a waver that Nico hears but silences with a small squeeze of her hand and that bright dimpled smile.

The two of them leave the small café, walking hand in hand across the square, through the Trocadero Gardens to the Pont d’Iena bridge, the Eiffel Tower standing tall in front of them. The water of the Siene is a soft soundtrack below them and Emma finds herself caught up in the beauty of Paris.

Part of her thought that the novelty of the city would wear off eventually. But it seemed that Paris revealed something else wonderful to her every second she walked down its paved streets. As her and Nico walk underneath the sprawling base of the Eiffel Tower, Emma’s eyes trace the steelwork; its gentle arcs, its cross-work patterns, the diamond in the center that she knew lifted up and up, the lights hung on every intricate weld. This vacation was one of the best things that ever happened to her, that much she was sure of.

And it was made even sweeter with the presence of the man by her side, still holding her hand.

She looks over towards Nico, his eyes connecting to hers, a smile appearing on both of their faces. She lets him lead her away from the tower, down Champ de Mars.

Emma had previously thought that the city was manipulating her emotions, getting her hopes up over someone who didn’t feel the same. Now, she thought that perhaps the city brought Nico to her for a reason. That the city wasn’t scheming to break her heart… it was planning to open it and let Nico – with his gentle eyes and soft smile and adorable dimples – change her for the better.

Her daydreams are interrupted by a chorus of ‘oohs’ falling from the mouths of other tourists around her and Nico. Emma looks and sees a few people with their camera’s aimed behind them and when she turns, her jaw drops.

There in the background, the Eiffel Tower stands, it’s thousands of lights now flashing, making the entire structure look as if it was covered in glitter.

“I haven’t been able to catch the light show since I got here,” Emma whispers, partly to herself but her words also land on Nico’s eardrums. “I always forgot when it started.”

The two of them stand there, taking in the sparkling spire before Nico’s voice breaks the brief silence.

“Do you want a picture?”

“Could you? That be amazing,” Emma says, reaching into her purse before she stops. “Oh, right. My phone died.”

“I can use mine,” Nico replies without any hesitation, reaching into the pocket of his jeans.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he says, phone now in hand.

Nico starts to take a step back, his hand slipping from Emma’s grasp. But before he can fully let go, her fingers tighten around his. The action takes Nico by surprise, his eyes jumping to their intertwined hands before looking back to Emma.

“Take one with me?” she asks, her own voice soft, the question seeming to hold more weight than it should. Emma watches as a flicker of hesitation passes across Nico’s face, the uncertainty making her anxiety jump. But Nico once again silences her fear, his expression morphing back into that smile that made her heart skip in the best way before he gently nods his head, stepping back towards her.

Nico turns their bodies so the Eiffel Tower is behind them before holding out his phone. Emma takes a small breath before she moves, slotting her body next to his, her free hand lifting to rest on his chest. Every movement is tentative, unsure of how much Nico will allow. But when Nico drops her hand to wrap his arm around her body, pulling her closer, Emma relaxes. Her body curls into Nico’s, head resting on his shoulder as Nico angles the camera to capture the shimmering tower in the background.

Nico’s thumb presses the shutter button a few times before moving the phone closer to them as his hands navigate from the camera to the photos. Emma looks over the images, the smile never leaving her face. Each picture is beautiful; the two of them looking incredibly happy, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. She turns her attention away from Nico’s phone, back towards him. But when their eyes connect, her breath catches in her throat.

The look on Nico’s face is one that Emma has seen a thousand times before, but only in movies and television shows. A look that had never once been directed towards her. A look of utmost gentleness, the yearning in Nico’s irises gleaming with the same intensity as the light show still happening behind them.

Nico’s head dips closer towards Emma’s upturned face and Emma finds her own body is stretching up to meet him. They pause, bare inches in between them and Emma can feel the gentle brush of Nico’s breath fanning across her cheeks.

Another moment of hesitation, the air thick with indecision, waiting for someone to make the final move.

In the end, it turns out to be Nico that leans in, closing the gap between them and capturing Emma’s lips in a gentle kiss. The press of him against her surprises Emma – not because she wasn’t expecting it, not because she didn’t want it, but because she couldn’t quite believe it was really happening.

The touch of him, the taste of him… it felt too good to be true.

But when she feels Nico start to pull away, the shock subsides and the hunger takes over. Her hands blindly lift to burrow into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, dragging him back into her as she reciprocates the kiss.

This time, it is Nico that is taken aback by her intensity but it is brief – a minuscule surprise – until he matching her passion, his own hands tightening around her waist, pulling her body impossibly closer to her. The kisses deepen, the two of them enveloped in the desire that had been steadily building for the past two days.

Eventually, they fall away from each other, dazed from the kisses shared. Emma glances up at Nico, the smile on her lips mirrored on his.

“Wow,” he whispers, his hand lifting to delicately brush his fingers across Emma’s cheekbones, causing a light laugh to escape her.

They stand there for a moment, still wrapped in each other’s arms. Emma’s thoughts spin in her mind; questions about what this means and if this changes anything. But eventually, one voice takes over.

Embrace it, Emma.

She wasn’t sure if that voice was that of her best friend or of Paris or her own, but it didn’t matter who spoke. All that mattered was that she listened.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be tomorrow morning?” Emma asks, the words light with the crooked grin that twisted itself onto her lips. The smirk is quickly matched by Nico, this time the double entendre being anything but unintentional.

“I don’t. Why do you ask?” he says, his own voice teasing.

“Oh, there’s just this café right next door to my apartment that I think you might enjoy,” Emma nonchalantly replies, matching his taunt.

“Planning another brunch?”

“It opens pretty early. And people always say that first customers get the freshest food.”

“Breakfast then,” Nico says, his agreement to her anything but subtle offer painted clearly on his face. 

“Perfect,” Emma replies.

Nico leans forward, kissing Emma once more and if there was any question left in either of their minds, it was erased by the need coursing through their bodies. Nico pulls away, his arms falling from Emma’s frame – albeit reluctantly. He takes a single step back before offering his hand once again, one that is immediately accepted by Emma. Their fingers intertwine as Emma takes her place by Nico’s side. He looks down at her, his eyes bright.

“Lead the way.”

~*~*Day Four*~*~

The gentle morning sun rouses Emma from her slumber. The plush sheets brush against her bare skin, the warmth trapped within them comforting her, lulling her back into her dream. Or, more accurately, the dream of last night.

The brush of Nico’s hands against her skin, the strength of his hold on her hips, the feeling of his lips tracing her silhouette, the softness of his hair in between her fingers, his strong arms wrapped around her as they both fell asleep.

Arms that were no longer holding her.

Her brain slowly registers the emptiness surrounding her as she blindly reaches behind, hoping that her palm would land on the solid form of Nico. But when her hand lands on the softness of the sheets and solidness of the mattress, Emma’s eyes open.

She lifts her body upright, muscles protesting, still sore from last night’s activities. Her gaze dances around the studio apartment, finding it completely empty; only the fabric of her own clothes scattered across the floor.

Emma’s heart drops, the critical voice that had been kept dormant coming back in full force, assuming the worst.

He got what he wanted. He coerced himself into your bed and you were foolish enough to let him. And now that he accomplished what he set out to do, there was no reason for him to stick around.

The soft chime of the doorbell echoes around the apartment, cutting of the voice before it had a chance to berate her further. Emma sighs, lifting herself off the bed and grabbing the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door She throws it on before walking down the stairwell towards the entrance door.

She isn’t concerned about who is waiting on the street. It was most likely a delivery person who mistook her door for the side entrance to one of the stores next to her. But when she swings the wooden door open, the French poised on her lips, she is silenced by the sight of Nico standing on the other side of the threshold, a bag hanging from his arm and two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to take your keys and make you think you lost them or something,” he explains, the sheepish look gracing his features. Emma stares at him for a moment, her thoughts rearranging themselves at the realization that she was wrong and he didn’t simply abandon her.

“It’s alright,” she says, stepping to the side. Nico crosses through the doorway as Emma closes the door behind him. He lets her climb back up the stairs first before they both re-enter the apartment.

Nico breezes over to the small table in the kitchen, leaving Emma still standing bewildered near the entrance. She watches as he sets down the two coffee cups before fishing into the brown paper bag and removing a pair of eclairs.

“I probably should’ve waited for you because my French is terrible. Thankfully, the workers remembered you so I trust that they got your order right,” Nico explains, shooting a smile her way. “You must really like that place if they know your name after only three days.”

“Wild & The Moon has great food. I think I’ve stopped there every morning since arriving,” she says, walking towards him and taking a seat in one of the chairs. Nico settles into the opposite seat, that soft smile on his face.

“Well, I’m not going to be one to disagree with a pastry chef,” he laughs, his cheery demeanor breaking through the thin wall that Emma had hastily created around her heart when she woke up to find him missing. She returns his grin, although it is slightly half-hearted. She can see her hesitance register on Nico’s face but Emma doesn’t address it. Instead, she grabs the coffee he placed in front of her, taking a small sip.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

“It’s perfect. Exactly what I always order,” Emma replies with a small shrug.

“That’s good to hear but it’s not exactly what I was asking.”

Emma looks back up at him, his eyes trained on her face. His emotions were painted so clearly onto his features; concern, confusion, and an inkling of fear. Emma sighs again, shaking her head slightly.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s bothering you so it isn’t nothing,” Nico shoots back, the earnestness in his statement startling Emma. Nico hesitates before reaching his hand out, brushing his fingers against hers before intertwining their grip. “Tell me, please.”

Emma takes a breath, the words sticking in her throat, unsure whether to tell him the truth or to brush off his worry again. But she decides to embrace it – every emotion, the good and the bad.

“I thought you left me,” she whispers, looking back up at him. “Took off after I fell asleep because this – whatever this is – is casual. And that’s what happens with casual.”

Emma immediately regrets the words when she sees Nico’s face fall.

“Is that what you think about me?”

“It’s what my worst intentions thought,” Emma answers honestly. “I’m glad I was proven wrong though,” she continues, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. One that Nico blissfully returns.

“Last night…” he begins, pausing to deliberate his words. “Last night was amazing. Really. But I want you to know that I loved hanging out with you before that. I don’t want you to think it was all a ruse to get in your pants.”

Emma wants to tell him that she didn’t think that but it would be a lie so she just keeps her mouth closed, listening intently to Nico instead.

“I really like hanging out with you,” he concludes, looking back at her.

“I do too,” Emma responds with a smile.

She doesn’t tell him that she thinks she’s falling for him, or at least could see herself falling for him. Because, while this connection may be pure and genuine, that didn’t erase the fact that this wasn’t going to last. She was leaving tomorrow, back to New York. He would leave soon – back to wherever it was that his job took him next.

Instead, they sit there in silence, eating their food and sipping their coffee. It is a silence filled with a sense of comfort but an overlay of sadness as well. This was likely it for them.

“Today is your last day in Paris, right?” Nico asks, breaking the silence by voicing the unavoidable truth.

“Yeah. My flight is tomorrow at 9am.”

“Anything you want to do for your last day?”

“Still want to hear me rant about French pastry?”

“I have to admit, it is pretty entertaining,” Nico laughs, that jovial sparkle in his eyes. “And I was serious; I like hanging out with you. I don’t have anywhere I need to be so why not spend the day with you?”

The butterflies start up again; both at Nico’s sweet words but also at the heated way that he is looking at her from across the table, his eyes dancing over her frame. His gaze makes Emma suddenly aware of the only thing that is separating her bare skin from his sight is the fabric of her robe. She smirks, the desire sparking again as she lifts herself up from the table.

“Well, I looked at my notes and I actually managed to hit all the shops I wanted to,” Emma muses, taking a few steps towards Nico. “So, maybe we could go to the Louvre.”

“See the Mona Lisa?” Nico asks, his body turning towards her as she walks closer.

“Although I hear that it can get insanely crowded.”

“A little claustrophobic, wouldn’t you say?”

“My hosts – the couple who owns this apartment – left a long list of tourist spots that are close by. Some gardens, some museums…” she continues, her hands toying with the bow holding her robe together.

“That sounds relaxing,” Nico responds with a small hum.

“But I also have to do laundry and pack and I would prefer to not leave that to the last minute.”

“Completely understandable.”

“So, I don’t know really know what we should do today,” Emma sighs, her body settling between Nico’s parted thighs, the tie of her robe now partially undone, the fabric falling off one of her shoulders. His hands reach out and a small shiver rushes through Emma’s body at the sensation of his fingertips grazing the back of her thighs.

“Maybe we should just stay in?” Nico playfully suggests, his hands dancing up and down her bare skin.

“And waste our last day together?” Emma teases. Nico smirks up at her, one hand moving to the front of her body, gently undoing the remaining tie before slipping beneath the fabric, his fingers grazing her hipbone.

“I’m sure we can find something to do to pass the time.”

~*~*A Year and A Half Later*~*~

“Is the Frasier ready to go?” Emma shouts into the kitchen, her voice startling the few customers waiting by the pick-up counter.

“It’s loaded in the back of your car with the macarons and the components for the mille-feuille,” her sous-chef April calls back. “I’m need to grab profiteroles from the racks and we should be good to go.”

“We have all four flavors of macarons?”

“Yes, boss. Everything is accounted for.”

“Good. Be ready to leave in less than ten minutes,” Emma calls, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors, walking behind the café’s main counter. She weaves her way through the two baristas working on orders towards the pastry display. Leaning down, her scan over the pastries, taking inventory of what is left and what need to be replaced. She is almost halfway through her task before a nudge on her shoulder pulls her attention away from the case. Emma glances up to see Morgan’s blue eyes looking at her from underneath her blonde bangs. Wordlessly, she hands Emma a cup filled with a latte.

“You work her too hard,” Morgan says, nodding towards the kitchen, her words referencing April.

“Nothing she’s not used to,” Emma says, taking a drink. “Trust me. The chefs at her school were likely a hundred times more terrifying than me.”

“I don’t know, you’re pretty scary when you’re stressed.”

“Stressed? Who says I’m stressed?” Emma replies, her eyes turning back to the pastry case. “We need to replenish the Pain au Chocolate as soon as possible. It’s one of our best sellers so those five will probably be gone by the end of the morning rush and we don’t want the customers waiting.”

“I’ll get Jacob on that when he’s done taking orders. And you’d be stupid if you weren’t stressed.”

Her words bring Emma’s attention to her best friend and co-owner, her brows downturned into a scowl.

“Don’t give me that look,” Morgan scoffs. “Only a year since our business opened and a professional hockey team has asked us to cater their charity brunch? This is huge. You should be freaking out, it’s okay. You don’t have to hold it together for appearance’s sake, at least not in front of me.”

“You look pretty calm,” Emma retorts.

“I screamed my lungs out in the walk-in fridge when I got in this morning.”

“You should’ve told me. We could have screamed together,” Emma laughed, taking another sip of her coffee as her and Morgan departed from behind the counter, sitting down at one of the small tables in the corner.  

“With nothing but the eggs and milk as our witnesses,” Morgan laughed. The two of them look out over the café, the sound of customers talking and the hiss of the milk steamers echoing around the space.

“This is insanity,” Emma sighs.

A year. A single year from the grand opening of their café, La Crème de la Crème, and they were already more successful than they could’ve imagined. And now, in a few minutes, Emma and April would be driving across the Hudson to cater for the New Jersey Devils charity brunch.

“If you meet the person that decided to take a chance on us, give them a giant kiss on the mouth from me,” Morgan says, her testament causing Emma to laugh.

“If you want to kiss a hockey player, you should come yourself.”

“Gotta make sure this place doesn’t burn down. But who knows, maybe you’ll fall madly in love with a hot stranger like you did the last time you went to a different city without me,” Morgan jokes. The reminder causes Emma to roll her eyes.

“Will you ever let that go?”

“Have you?”

The blush that invades Emma’s cheeks is all the answer Morgan needs. Yes, it had been a year since the café opened, another four months on top of that since Emma returned from her ‘research’ trip to Paris. And she would be lying if she said she didn’t find herself still thinking about the man she met there.

Nico. He still occupied a space in her mind, ever since that last kiss they shared as he helped her into the taxi the morning she left. It was hard to let him go even though she knew that it would probably be for the best if she could just forget about him.

“The backstock should last you through the morning. If it doesn’t, Kenneth is coming in at 1. April and I should be back before then but if not, he can run the kitchen until we arrive,” Emma says, finishing off her drink and lifting herself up from the table. “Remember to have Jacob stock the Pain au Chocolate.”

“We’ve got it covered here,” Morgan says, her smile calming Emma’s beating heart. “Just focus on being the coolest pastry chef, impressing all those important people, and bringing in new customers.”

Emma responds with a playful salute before disappearing back into the kitchen. April is waiting for her by the back door, black chefs coat on, the café’s name written in cursive script over her breast. After confirming everything was in the car, they both hop in and start the drive to Newark, New Jersey.

Emma sends a thank you to whatever power there was for making traffic light, the trip not taking nearly as long as Emma had suspected it would. They are soon arriving at the hotel, pulling up to the entrance. After a quick explanation of who they were and why they were there, a few hotel workers come out to assist them as they bring their food into the kitchens.

“I’m going to find the organizer, ask where they want us to set up. Just get everything ready to be assembled and then we will go from there.”

April gives Emma a small nod in acknowledgment, turning her attention to the boxes of food in front of her. Emma leaves her to it, following the signs to the ballroom. She walks through the open doors, finding the room decorated in the red and black – colors that she now knew to be the teams –tables filling the space around a small stage.

On one wall lined with banquet tables, she spies an elegant woman holding a clipboard talking to the hotel staff, who Emma was told were providing the rest of the food. She makes her way over, the conversation hitting her ears, confirming that this was the person she needed to speak to.

Emma stands off to the side, waiting for the discussion to conclude before stepping forward.

“Hello. I’m Emmaline Evans, the co-owner and pastry chef from Crème de la Crème,” she says, holding out one of her tattooed hands.

“Oh, yes!” the woman says, graciously accepting Emma’s handshake. “I’m so glad you made it. My name’s Nicole, I’m one of the people who helped organize this brunch. Are you all settled, everything good?”

“Yes, my sous-chef is in the kitchen right now getting the plates ready. I just wanted to introduce myself and say thank you for the opportunity. It means a lot for our new business.”

“Of course! Though, I should really introduce you to Jess. She is the one that came in telling us about this amazing café in Greenwich that we just had to get,” Nicole explains, her bubbly personality infectious, making a smile break out on Emma’s face.

“I look forward to meeting her. I’ll probably be out once everything is prepared, introduce myself to some of the other guests and check to make sure everything tastes alright.”

“Perfect! I wouldn’t expect anything else from a savvy business woman, neither will any of the guests. A lot of driven people here,” Nicole explains, before turning to face the banquet tables. “We have the traditional breakfast fare here and your table is over there,” she gestures to a table a short distance away. “We decided to keep the sweets a little separate from the rest.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Emma nods, taking the layout into memory. “Would you like us to delay bringing the food out so there is a space between the main course and the dessert?”

“Is that alright for you? I think that would be best.”

“Absolutely.”

“Amazing. You can bring out the food at, let’s say 11:30? We might still be in the middle of speeches and all that but that could work out because after we’ve wrapped up there, we can direct people to your delicious food.”

“Of course. I’ll go back and get everything ready. We’ll be out at 11:30.”

“Perfect. Thank you again!” Nicole exclaims and Emma is about to extend her hand for another handshake until Nicole sweeps her into a hug instead. Emma embraces it politely before pulling away and disappearing back to the kitchen. On the way, she sees the beginning of the crowd trickling in, her eyes glancing over the guests decked out in expensive dresses and suits.

This was a golden opportunity and she wasn’t going to waste it.

She breezes into the kitchen towards the corner where April had completely set up everything in the few minutes she was gone. Emma explains the timeline and they both set to work; April filling the profiteroles with their whipped cream center and Emma assembling the layers of the mille-feuille. April finishes first and sets about arranging the macarons and profiteroles on the platters provided before moving to cut the Fraiser into slices and placing each piece on their separate plate. Emma finishes assembling the mille-feuilles and glances at the clock.

“Alright, we’ve got a few minutes. Finish plating the Fraiser and bring those out first. I’ll take the macarons and profiteroles and then we can both bring out the mille-feuille.”

“Sounds good. Do you need any help with the platters?”

“No, I should be fine,” Emma says, leaning down to pick up the silver tray the macarons were placed on. “We’ve got the labels for everything, correct.”

“Yes, boss. Do you want me to bring those out first or last.”

“Last. We can arrange the table how we see fit and then label the plates instead of having to shuffle everything around.” Emma is about to leave the kitchen before she turns back to April, the platter resting on her shoulder. “You know you don’t have to call me boss.”

“Force of habit,” April laughs, her brown eyes sparkling as she looks up from the Frasier. “You can stop pretending that you don’t like it.”

“Ha-ha,” Emma utters a sarcastic laugh before leaving. She retraces her path to the ballroom, hearing the echo of an amplified voice guiding her steps.

Emma slips in, the tables now filled with guests, their attention turned to the front stage as she sees Nicole as well as few other beautiful women standing by the podium. She registers parts of their speech; happiness for how the season was going, excitement for what was coming, reminder of the charity they were here for, and of course a call for generosity in donating. Emma makes her way around the perimeter of the room, coming to the assigned banquet table before setting the platter down. She moves back catching the eyes of April walking in with the platter of Fraiser and directs her with a nod of her head.

A few trips later, Emma is standing in front of the table, her eyes gazing over the assortment of the food she was proudest of. It looked beautiful, the whites and golds and reds and pinks and browns of the desserts creating a stunning mosaic, each section labeled in the same elegant cursive that graced her chef’s jacket.

“I’m going to go back, clean up the kitchen and get ready for any food we might have to bring back,” she says, looking to April.

“Don’t you want to stay here? You’re the chef after all,” April asks from the other side of the table.

“I plan on making the rounds a little later, get a little more personal interaction. I have no doubt that you’ll make an excellent first impression of our company without me.”

Emma sees her words register in April’s mind, a smile gracing over her features before it shifts to serious, her body lifting to stand a little taller.

“I won’t disappoint you, boss,” April says, her words serious but punctuated with a small wink, causing Emma to playfully roll her eyes. She doesn’t give another response, departing the ballrooms. She is only a few steps out of the door when she hears the final announcement echo from the speakers.

“Now please enjoy some delicious pastries from Crème de la Crème Café.”

Hearing her company name announced along with the applause that followed – although she knew the cheer wasn’t directed towards her – made her heart leap. Everything was perfect so far; all that was left was for the guests to like the food.

Emma cleans, packing the equipment they brought into her car and assembling a few take-away boxes that she hoped she didn’t have to use. She leaves the kitchen, taking a quick stop in the bathroom to wash her hands and adjust her appearance, making sure not a hair was out of place. She takes a few deep breaths, straightening her jacket before moving back into the ballroom.

She takes in the sight of plates filled with her food on tables, the smiles on peoples faces and it makes her relax. Emma catches sight of April still manning the table, her smile never wavering as she hands out desserts, her lips explaining each delicacy. She catches Emma’s eye, sending her a wink before turning her attention back to the guests. Emma lets out a sigh before she gazes around the ballroom.

“Oh, there she is! Emmaline!” she hears a voice call, locating Nicole sitting at a table waving her hand. Emma smiles, weaving through the crowd until she reaches her.

“Everyone, this is Emmaline Evans. She’s the chef that created all these wonderful treats for us!” Nicole explains and Emma smiles, nodding her head to the other guests sitting there.

“How is everything tasting?”

“Delicious!” one of the gentlemen at the table says. “Why haven’t we heard about your restaurant before?”

“We actually opened a year and a half ago so we’re relatively new.”

“Well, you are sure to get some new customers if your food always tastes this good,” he laughs, extending his hand. “Erik.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Emma says, accepting his handshake.

“I can guarantee that the food is always this good,” another feminine voice sounds from across the table. Emma turns her attention to a brunette smiling at her. “Definitely worth the drive to Greenwich.”

“Oh, right! Emmaline, this is Jess. She’s the one that insisted we book your company,” Nicole explains, the words forcing Emma to extend her hand eagerly, Jess accepting it with grace.

“Thank you for the opportunity. It really means a lot to me and my co-owner Morgan, so thank you for taking a chance on us.”

“I knew it wasn’t going to be that much of a risk. I’ve been forcing Nate to drive me to New York on his days off so I can get your food,” Jess says, nudging the shoulder of the man next to her – who Emma can only assume is Nate. “You deserve way more recognition. And, when I heard about a small woman-owned business, I knew I had to give my support. Kind of what we do.”

The other women at the table laugh in agreement, causing another smile to break out on Emma’s face. She politely stays for a few minutes, answering queries about the food provided, the menu at the café, and other general questions. Slowly, her body registers the weight of someone’s eyes on her from across the ballroom. A lull in the conversation allows her to lift her head and look around.

When her eyes land on the source of the stare, her heartbeat falters in her chest.

It had been over sixteen months since she had last seen him but she swears she could recognize those gentle brown eyes and that flowing chestnut hair anywhere.

A few tables away sat Nico; the man that she met in Paris all that time ago. The man who enchanted her from the moment he sat with her at the café table. The man she never thought she would see again.

He was here.

Emma quickly snaps out of her trance, breaking his gaze and turning her attention back to the guests in front of her with a polite smile. But beneath her composure, her thoughts were as erratic as her heartbeat. She steals another glance back in Nico’s direction, finding him in a conversation with the young man next to him, that familiar dimpled smile on his face.

“Apologies,” Emma says, interrupting the conversation taking place around her. “I should greet the other guest, check in on them.”

“Oh, of course! We’ve kept you long enough,” Nicole speaks.

“You should go talk to out team leadership,” the man next to Nicole says – Jesper, she remembered. Emma watches as he twists in his seat, eyes roving over the room before stopping, his long arm pointing to a table. “Over there.”

The directionality of his gesture has Emma’s heart skipping again, the anxiety only heightened when she follows his point to the table where Nico sat.

“That’s our captain, Nico, and our two assistant captains, Jack and Ondrej, along with their partners and a few others,” Jesper says turning back to Emma, who quickly plasters a gracious expression on her face.

“I will make sure to stop there, thank you,” she says before departing, moving only to the table next to the previous.

She was going to keep her word – she just needed a little time.

Emma introduces herself to multiple guests, answering the same questions, and handing out more business cards than she could count. She navigates the ballroom, slowly making her way over to Nico’s table. She swears that every time she moves closer, she can feel Nico’s eyes landing on her more frequently. She manages to focus on the guests in front of her enough that no one suspects anything is amiss. But she knows that the effort is half-hearted at best. The other part of her brain is twisting itself in knots over the prospect of speaking to Nico again.

She never expected to see him. She certainly didn’t expect to see him at a work event. In the fantasies that she allowed herself to occasionally indulge in, they would always run into each other at a bar or in the park or even on the street. In those daydreams, he was single and the magic from Paris would still be there between them.

But now, Emma is forced to make her brain prepare for the possible reality that she was about to walk into: that he was here with an insanely beautiful woman on his arm and the romance in Paris was exactly what she feared it to be – temporary.

It didn’t make it any better that she would have to reckon all of those heartbreaking truths with a pleasant smile on her face; the shield of professionalism she was forced to maintain that could absolutely not crack.

 Emma concludes her previous conversation, taking a deep breath before turning towards the table she had been avoiding all afternoon. She walks up to the edge, glancing around the faces of the guests, trying not to let her eyes linger on one face in particular.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she speaks, calling their attention to her. “I’m one of the owners of Crème de la Crème and I just wanted to check in, see how everything was tasting.”

“It’s fucking fantastic!” the dirty blonde next to Nico exclaims, causing Nico’s head to turn with a glare and a hiss of ‘Jack!’. A blush invades his cheeks before the man – Jack – looks back towards Emma. “Sorry, I mean, it’s really, really good.”

Emma laughs gently at his words before speaking.

“It’s alright. I’m glad to hear you like it that much.”

“It really is delicious,” the stunning blonde woman next to Jack speaks. “Is your store located in Newark?”

“No, we’re actually located in Greenwich Village in New York. But this was an amazing opportunity for our business that we just couldn’t pass up.”

“That’s awesome. Do you normally cater?”

“We’re relatively new to the catering side of food service. We do provide food for smaller parties: birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations like that. This has been out biggest event yet so this was also a test for us, to see if we could handle it.”

“Well, I say you passed with flying colors!” the woman smiles. “Could I have your card? My sister would love this and her birthday is coming up.”

“Of course,” Emma says, her hand dipping into her pocket to retrieve a card.

“Actually, could I have two? I might slip one in this guy’s hockey bag as an anniversary reminder,” she laughs, nudging Jack’s shoulder.

“When have I ever not wooed you?” he laughs.

“I’m not saying you haven’t. This is just a subtle hint about what a few delicious macarons might do.”

Emma nods, grasping the two small slips of paper and extending them to her.

“Could I also have one?” an all too familiar accented voice requests.

Emma turns her attention to Nico, her eyes connecting to his. She doesn’t give a verbal response; just another nod of her head. She hands two cards off to Jack’s partner before turning to Nico, holding a business card out to him as well. Emma suppresses a shiver that threatens to run through her body as Nico’s fingers graze against hers as he takes the paper from her hand.

“Planning on surprising a special lady, as well?” Jack teases. The question is innocent when coming from his mouth but it stops Emma’s heart as she waits for the answer – preparing for the worst.

“If by special lady, you mean my mom when she flies in for the mom’s trip, then yes,” Nico jokes back, his eyes flickering back to Emma. “Besides that, no one else comes to mind.”

Emma lets out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding at Nico’s subtle admission; he wasn’t seeing anyone, at least not seriously. The other women at the table were with his teammates, not him.

“Could I ask where you learned how to cook?” another gentleman at the table asks, his voice turning Emma’s attention to him.

“Of course. I went to The French Pastry School in Chicago, which is one of the only schools that focuses exclusively on pastry creation,” Emma explains, her eyes darting towards Nico as she contemplates her next words. “But I was also blessed with the opportunity to travel to Paris and experience the authentic Parisian cuisine first hand. That trip inspired me in many ways.”

From the corner of her eyes, Emma watches as a smile tugs at Nico’s lips.

“I’ve been to Paris as well. It’s a beautiful city with amazing food.”

“Right, you were there a little over a year ago, with the NHL European press tour,” another guest says, providing answers to questions that Emma didn’t bother asking back then. He told her that he was there for work. That wasn’t a lie. She just didn’t know that this was his job.

“It was an amazing trip,” Nico replies, his eyes darting to Emma, the weight behind his words only noticeable by that recognizable sparkle in his irises.

Emma’s own smile graces her features. Their silent conversation reminded Emma of passing secret notes, communicating in a way that only the two of them could understand. The hope soared in her chest but she pushes it down in an effort not to get caught up in the moment. She excuses herself, sneaking one last quick glance over her shoulder at Nico before making her way over to April.

She forces herself to focus on the moment at hand, taking stock of the remaining food, the event dwindling down. Emma helps April carry the remaining leftovers into the kitchen, instructing her to pack up the food and load it into the car before helping the hotel staff clean the few remaining dirty dishes.

Emma makes her way back into the ballroom, gathering the remaining business cards from their table, as well as the labels before helping the staff pick up the plates scattered on the tables.

She is absentmindedly gathering the plastic plates into a stack, reaching out to grab the last plate at the table. But before she can, it is taken by a strong hand before it is extended to her. Emma lifts her eyes to thank whoever it was in front of her but her voice catches when her eyes connect with Nico again.

“So, Paris, huh?” he asks, the question loaded with a myriad of emotions that Emma couldn’t even begin to place. She takes the plate from his hand with a smile.

“Yeah, it was a really wonderful experience.” 

“I bet.”

“Ate a lot of good food, saw some beautiful sights,” she continues, a mischievous smirk appearing on her face, her eyes never leaving Nico’s. “Met this really great guy.”

Emma swears that she can see the sigh escape Nico’s chest – the potential fear leaving him as his body relaxes, his tentative smile shifting to match her grin.

“I was worried you didn’t remember me,” he confesses. Emma’s eyes soften at his admission, her head slightly shaking in disbelief.

“Did you really think I’d forget?” she murmurs, her own words just as much of a confession as Nico’s. She watches his brown eyes shift, the confusion dancing within them.

“At the table…”

“I had to remain professional,” she explains, gently cutting him off. “Talking about a whirlwind romance I had with the team captain in front of potential clients – some of which are his teammates – isn’t really the way to get rehired.”

“Good point,” Nico laughs, the sound echoing around the almost abandoned ballroom, his hand lifting to run through his hair. His chuckle pulls a giggle from Emma’s own lips as she shakes her head again.

Their laughter dwindles until the silence covers them again. Emma can’t seem to tear her eyes away from him and it is clear that Nico feels the same. The two of them stand there, taking in the sight of the other, seemingly convincing themselves that they were really standing in front of each other. That this wasn’t just a fantasy.

“In truth,” Emma says, breaking the fragile silence, “You’re hard to get over. No one I’ve met since Paris has even come close.”

The broad smile that appears on his face makes Emma’s happiness increase, the subtle admission that she was also currently unattached understood by Nico.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he tells her, the words bringing a small teasing laugh from Emma.  

“Didn’t know you missed me that much,” she jokes.

Her words seem to catch Nico off-guard. Her green eyes follow Nico’s movements as he reaches into the interior pocket of his suit jacket, fishing out his phone. His fingers move, tapping on the screen and scrolling until he pauses. A smile tugs at his lips as he stares at whatever was on his phone before he turns the device towards her.

Emma swears her heart skips for the hundredth time that day as she takes in the image on the screen. It’s the picture they took that night in Paris – the night everything changed. Her eyes dance over the screen, looking at the ease in which her body was resting against Nico’s, the way his arm was wrapped around her frame, the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the background.

“You kept it,” she whispers.  

“Of course, I did,” Nico responds with just as much tenderness. Her eyes flicker back up to the man in front of her, the look in his eyes an echo of the one from that same night. She watches as he hesitates, seemingly debating the words he was about to say. Whatever doubts he had, they apparently weren’t enough to stop him as he speaks again. “I don’t know if I ever missed anyone as much as I missed you.”

If her heart was beating erratically before, it practically stopped at Nico’s gentle words. The desire, the yearning, the emotions hanging from every syllable hit Emma like a freight train, his need bringing forth her own. A need that she tried – desperately – to get rid of for months because she thought she would never see him again.

But he was here. He was real. And he missed her.

“I missed you too,” she admits, the confession not feeling dangerous or terrifying. Instead, it felt as simple as breathing. It felt as easy as it always did when she was next to him. It felt like Paris.

Emma and Nico look at each other, the truth of their admission floating around them, seemingly enveloping them in that love-struck haze that they existed in months ago. In a different city. In a different country.

“I don’t know if this is way too forward but I’d like to take you on a date. Or, I guess another date. If that’s alright with you?” Nico asks, his words still hesitant. Emma responds with a gentle smile.

“That sounds perfect.”

“I can’t promise that it will be as magical as Paris though,” he laughs.

Emma’s expression falters a little at his words, the fears from Paris returning along with the joy. Their reunion felt enchanting right now but maybe the shock of seeing each other again after all those months was the only thing causing this sensation. Maybe after the moment died, the worry that invaded her mind in Paris would be proven true: that it was just the City of Love that fueled their connection.

Embrace it. All of it.

It is that small voice of bravery and vulnerability that sounds, the declaration echoing in her mind. Emma takes a deep breath, summoning the courage she felt in France and letting it fill her body, letting her heart guide her actions. She reaches out towards Nico, letting her hand creep closer to his, her fingers brushing over his skin.

The energy that surges between them when their fingers intertwine is powerful. Those fireworks sparkle stronger than anything before; stronger than the lights about them, stronger than all the lights on the Eiffel Tower. That electricity has Emma looking up at Nico, seeing the same emotions dancing on his face. That touch was proved a fact that they knew in their hearts to be true but their heads still doubted.

That this – whatever it was, whatever they shared those months ago… it wasn’t temporary. It wasn’t the city. This was real.

“Paris wasn’t the magical part.”

tags: @tkachvkmatthew @m00nlightdelights @cixrosie SIGN UP FOR MY TAGLIST HERE

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … December 17

Paul Cadmus - portrait by Luigi Lucioni

1904 – Paul Cadmus (d.1999), American painter, is best known for the satiric innocence of his frequently censored paintings of burly men in skin-tight clothes and curvaceous women in provocative poses, but he also created works that celebrate same-sex domesticity.

Born in New York City on December 17, 1904 into a family of commercial artists, Cadmus studied at the National Academy of Design and the Arts Students League. He lived in Europe from 1931 to 1933, where he traveled with artist Jared French and where he produced his first mature canvases.

In the 1930s, Cadmus became the center of a circle of gay men who were prominent within the arts in New York City. This circle included his brother-in-law, Lincoln Kirstein, who helped found the American School of Ballet, and the photographer George Platt Lynes, for whom Cadmus frequently modeled.

In the 1930s, Cadmus used caricature, satire, and innuendo to veil the homoeroticism of his subjects, which radically pushed at the boundaries of acceptability. Cadmus's 1933 painting The Fleet's In! was selected for inclusion in a show at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, and in 1934 it placed him at the center of a public controversy.

The Fleet's In

Like many of his early works, the painting is ostensibly heterosexual in its depiction of sailors flirting with young women, who may be prostitutes, but it nevertheless manages to suggest a homosexual exchange between a well-dressed civilian, who sports a red tie, a widely recognized signal of homosexuality from the turn of the twentieth century, and a sailor to whom he offers a cigarette.

The painting's homoerotic subtext led to its removal after the opening of the exhibition. Frequently cited as one of the earliest incidents of government censorship, the removal of the painting was almost certainly motivated by homophobia.

Cadmus's painting Coney Island (1935) also became the subject of controversy. Its portrayal of local residents engaged in provocative (heterosexual) antics enraged Brooklyn realtors, who threatened to file a civil suit against the Whitney Museum of American Art.

Similarly, his commission for the Port Washington post office was also scandalous and was cancelled: the mural he produced, Pocahontas and John Smith (1938), so emphasizes the buttocks and genitals of the Native Americans that it obscures the subject, which is the rescue of John Smith.As a result of Cadmus's notoriety, his 1937 exhibition at Midtown Galleries in New York attracted more than 7,000 visitors.

Other early works of particular interest for their homoeroticism are YMCA Locker Room (1933), Shore Leave (1933), and Greenwich Village Cafeteria (1934). Like The Fleet's In!, these works also document homosexual cruising and seduction.

In Cadmus's paintings, significant exchanges of glances signal sexual longing and availability, often in the very midst of mundane activities. His work documents the surreptitious cruising rituals of an urban, gay male subculture in the 1930s.

Cadmus's painting What I Believe (1947-1948) was inspired by E.M. Forster's essay of the same name, in which the novelist expresses his faith in personal relations and his concept of a spiritual aristocracy "of the sensitive, the considerate, and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human condition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos."

What I Believe

Cadmus's allegorical painting, which depicts such figures as Forster and Christopher Isherwood in Socratic poses, makes clear his intellectual allegiance to the humanism that Forster depicted as gravely threatened by fascism.

In still other later works, such as The Bath (1951) and The Haircut (1986), Cadmus explores the joys of his long-term relationship with his partner and model, Jon Andersson. These paintings are particularly touching in their illustration of an entirely ordinary but rarely depicted subject: the domesticity of a same-sex couple.

Although he stopped painting towards the end of his life, Cadmus continued to draw at his home in Weston, Connecticut, particularly portraits and figure studies of Andersson, his favorite model and companion of 35 years.

Cadmus died on December 12, 1999, five days shy of his 95th birthday.

Tony Tavarossi and bike

1933 – Homo-masculine proto-leatherman Tony Tavarossi (d.1981) was a native San Franciscan who was as important to gay liberation history in San Francisco as his contemporary, the drag-queen politician José Sarria.

He came out at the age of twelve under the tables (literally) in the curtained booths of the South China Café at l8th and Castro streets. He nick-named himself "Tony"; his birth name was Elloyd Tavarossi.

He was a “walking oral historian” who in his own personal history set in motion a “domino effect” in gay liberation history:

Tony Tavarossi founded San Francisco’s first bike bar or leather bar, the Why Not? (1960), where he was himself arrested for propositioning an undercover cop, thus closing the Why Not? in a raid that was a rehearsal for the police raid on the Tay-Bush lnn (1961) which emboldened Chuck Arnett to hire Tony in opening the legendary Tool Box bar (1961) which, as a symbol of masculine mutiny, fortified the gay resolve to found the Tavern Guild (1962) to protect gay citizens from harassment by the San Francisco Police Department.

Tony Tavarossi said later that the gay bar scene in 1966 was a riot led by a mixed crowd of Levis-wearing leathermen, straight-trade hustlers (many of them ex-Gls from World War II and Korea), and tough drag queens.

He died of AIDS ]u1y 12, 1981, two days after the epic fire that destroyed the Barracks baths on Folsom Street, putting an end to the turbulent 1970s.

1939 – James Booker was a New Orleans rhythm and blues keyboardist born in New Orleans, Louisiana, United States. Booker's unique style combined rhythm and blues with jazz standards. Musician Dr. John described Booker as "the best black, gay, one-eyed junkie piano genius New Orleans has ever produced." Flamboyant in personality, he was known as "the Black Liberace."

Booker was the son and grandson of Baptist ministers, both of whom played the piano. He spent most of his childhood on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where his father was a church pastor. Booker received a saxophone as a gift from his mother, but he was more interested in the keyboard. He played the organ in his father's churches.

After returning to New Orleans in his early adolescence, Booker attended the Xavier Academy Preparatory School. He learned some elements of his keyboard style from Tuts Washington and Edward Frank. Booker was highly skilled in classical music and played music by Bach and Chopin, among other composers. He also mastered and memorized solos by Erroll Garner and Liberace. His performances combined elements of stride, blues, gospel and Latin piano styles.

Booker made his recording debut in 1954 on the Imperial Records label, with "Doin' the Hambone" and "Thinkin' 'Bout My Baby", produced by Dave Bartholomew. This led to some session work with Fats Domino, Smiley Lewis, and Lloyd Price.

In 1958, Arthur Rubinstein performed a concert in New Orleans. Afterwards, eighteen-year-old Booker was introduced to the concert pianist and played several tunes for him. Rubinstein was astonished, saying "I could never play that ... never at that tempo" During this period, Booker also became known for his flamboyant personality among his peers.

After recording a few other singles, he enrolled as an undergraduate in Southern University's music department. In 1960, Booker's "Gonzo" reached number 43 on the United States (U.S.) record chart of Billboard magazine and number 3 on the R&B record chart. Following "Gonzo", Booker released some moderately successful singles. In the 1960s, he started using illicit drugs, and in 1970 served a brief sentence in Angola Prison for drug possession. At the time, Professor Longhair and Ray Charles were among his important musical influences.

As Booker became more familiar to law enforcement in New Orleans due to his illicit drug use, he formed a relationship with District Attorney Harry Connick Sr., who was occasionally Booker's legal counsel. Connick would discuss law with Booker during his visits to the Connick home and made an arrangement with the musician whereby a prison sentence would be nullified in exchange for piano lessons for Connick Sr.'s son Harry Connick Jr.Booker recorded a number of albums while touring Europe in 1977, including New Orleans Piano Wizard: Live!, which was recorded at his performance at the "Boogie Woogie and Ragtime Piano Contest" in Zurich, Switzerland – the album won the Grand Prix du Disque. He also played at the Nice and Montreux Jazz Festivals in 1978 and recorded a session for the BBC during this time. Fourteen years later, a recording entitled Let's Make A Better World! –made in Leipzig during this period– became the last record to be produced in the former East Germany.

In a 2013 interview, filmmaker Lily Keber, who directed a documentary on Booker, provided her perspective on Booker's warm reception in European nations such as Germany and France:

Well, the racism wasn't there, the homophobia wasn't there –as much. Even the drug use was a little more tolerated. But really I think that Booker felt he was being taken seriously in Europe, and it made him think of himself differently and improved the quality of his music. He needed the energy of the audience to feed off.

Booker died aged 43 on November 8, 1983, while seated in a wheelchair in the emergency room at New Orleans' Charity Hospital, waiting to receive medical attention. The cause of death, as cited in the Orleans Parish Coroner's Death Certificate, was renal failure related to chronic abuse of heroin and alcohol.

Cashman with Paul Cottingham

1950 – Michael Cashman, born in London, is a British former actor, and a Labour politician. He has been a Member of the European Parliament for the West Midlands constituency since 1999.

As a child actor he was cast in the role of Oliver Twist in the original run of Lionel Bart's musical Oliver!, but he is possibly best known for his role as Colin Russell in BBC TV's EastEnders - a character remembered for being a participant in the first gay kiss in a British soap opera. He also appeared in the ITV drama serial The Sandbaggers and the Doctor Who story "Time-Flight".

Cashman was a founder of Stonewall, an Honorary Associate of the National Secular Society and a Patron of The Food Chain, a London-based HIV charity.He is a trenchant critic of discrimination against minorities within the European Union. He is leading a cross-party coalition to tackle the rise in homophobia throughout Europe. He has in the past supported the gay pride march in Warsaw, which he attended. He is also the President of the European Parliament's Intergroup on gay and lesbian issues.

In 2007 he was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Staffordshire for his human rights work.

In line with current guidelines the European Parliament paid his domestic partner, Paul Cottingham, £30,000 per annum for his work as Cashman's "Accounts Manager, Personnel Manager and Payroll Administrator". Cashman registered a civil partnership with Paul Cottingham, his partner for 31 years, on 11 March 2006.

In March 2011 Cottingham was diagnosed with a very rare cancer, angiosarcoma, and he died on 23 October 2014 in the Royal Marsden Hospital, London. He was cremated in a humanist service at the City of London Cemetery on 7 November 2014.

Cashman was appointed Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in the 2013 New Year Honours for public and political service.

On 23 September 2014 he was created a Life Peer taking the title Baron Cashman, of Limehouse in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets, which is also his birthplace.

1959 – Gregg Araki is an American independent filmmaker. He is involved in New Queer Cinema.

Araki made his directorial debut in 1987 with Three Bewildered People in the Night. With a budget of only $5,000 and using a stationary camera, he told the story of a romance between a video artist, her sweet-heart and her gay friend.

Two years later, Araki made a name for himself on the festival circuit with The Long Weekend (O' Despair). Produced, directed, written, photographed and edited by Araki (for his own Desperate Pictures Company), this very small-scale Big Chill derivation involved a group of recent college graduates brooding over their futures during one woozy, boozy evening.

He followed this up in 1992 with The Living End, a road movie about two HIV-positive men whose paths cross one fateful day and the tumultuous relationship which ensues. Premiering at the Sundance Film Festival, the film was nominated for the Grand Jury Prize.

Araki's next three films comprised his "Teenage Apocalypse Trilogy."

Totally Fucked Up (1993) (Totally F***ed Up in publicity) chronicled the dysfunctional lives of six gay adolescent people who have formed a family unit and struggle to get along with each other and with life in the face of various major obstacles.

The Doom Generation (1995) was a black comedy brimming with graphic violence, cultural symbolism and relentless eroticism. While largely trashed by critics, the piece won a measure of respect in a number of circles and is available on DVD and VHS in both rated and unrated versions due to several sex scenes as well as the violent climax.

Araki's next venture was the ill-fated MTV series This Is How the World Ends (2000), which was meant to have a budget of $1.5 million. The network only gave him $700,000 and hoped to find partners to finance the difference. Araki offered to make the pilot episode for $700,000, and MTV took him up on it, but after the pilot was shot it was not picked up for broadcast.

Nowhere (1997) was described by its director as "A Beverly Hills, 90210 episode on acid". It centered around a group of bored, alienated adolescent people in Los Angeles during a typical day of kinky sex, drugs, and the requisite wild party.

Following a short hiatus, Araki returned with the critically acclaimed Mysterious Skin (2004) based on a novel by Scott Heim, which tells the story of a teenage hustler and a withdrawn young man obsessed with alien abductions, and how they both deal with the sexual abuse they suffered from their Little League coach when they were children.

Araki self-identified as gay until 1997, when he entered a relationship with actress Kathleen Robertson, whom he directed in Nowhere. The relationship ended in 1999. Araki has since mainly dated men. He now identifies as bisexual.

1968 – Fabrice Neaud, born in La Rochelle, France, is a French comics artist. He got his baccalaureate in literature (option graphic arts) in 1986. He studied philosophy during two years. Then he entered an art school and studied there four years. In 1991 he quit the school. For four years he had been looking for a job, making a living on various works.

He is a co-founder of the Ego comme X association. In 1994, the first number of the Ego comme X magazine was released. In it, Fabrice Neaud published his first works. It was the beginning of his Journal (which is a diary in comics), an ambitious autobiographical project. The first volume of the Journal was released in 1996. It got a prize Alph'art (best work by a young artist) in Angoulême in 1997.

From an entry in his Journal

Fabrice Neaud keeps on drawing his Journal. Three more volumes have been published between 1998 and 2002. He published also many short stories in Ego comme X, Bananas and other magazines. Some of his works have been translated into Italian and Spanish. A reviewer notes, "But Neaud isn't a simple diarist: he's also an artist concerned with various problems of our society, including homophobia and gay life in small towns." His works have been the subject of academic papers.

2007 The Parliament of Hungary gives the same rights to registered partners as to spouses with some exceptions: adoption, IVF access, surrogacy, and taking a surname.

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

“Many of the women in Heterodoxy moved in corresponding circles and maintained similar beliefs. They were “veterans of social reform efforts,” writes Scutts in Hotbed, and they belonged to “leagues, associations, societies and organizations of all stripes.” A large number were public figures—influential lawyers, journalists, playwrights or physicians, some of whom were the only women in their fields—and often had their names in the papers for the work they were performing. Many members were also involved in a wide variety of women’s rights issues, from promoting the use of birth control to advocating for immigrant mothers.

Heterodoxy met every other Saturday to discuss such issues and see how members might collaborate and cultivate networks of reform. Gatherings were considered a safe space for women to talk, exchange ideas and take action.”

In the early 20th century, New York City’s Greenwich Village earned a reputation as America’s bohemia, a neighborhood where everyone from artists and poets to activists and organizers came to pursue their dreams.

“In the Village, it was so easy to bump into great minds, to go from one restaurant to another, to a meeting house, to work for a meeting or to a gallery,” says Joanna Scutts, author of Hotbed: Bohemian Greenwich Village and the Secret Club That Sparked Modern Feminism. Here was a community where rents were still affordable, creative individuality thrived, urban diversity and radical experiments were the norm, and bohemian dissenters could come and go as they pleased.

Such a neighborhood was the ideal breeding ground for Heterodoxy, a secret society that paved the way for modern feminism. The female debating club’s name referred to the many unorthodox women among its members. These individuals “questioned forms of orthodoxy in culture, in politics, in philosophy—and in sexuality,” noted ThoughtCo. in 2017.

Born as part of the initial wave of modern feminism that emerged during the 19th and early 20th centuries with suffrage at its center, the radical ideologies debated at Heterodoxy gatherings extended well beyond the scope of a women’s right to vote. In fact, Heterodoxy had only one requirement for membership: that a woman “not be orthodox in her opinion.”

“The Heterodoxy club and the work that it did was very much interconnected with what was going on in the neighborhood,” says Andrew Berman, executive director of Village Preservation, a nonprofit dedicated to documenting and preserving the distinct heritage of Greenwich Village. “With the suffrage movement already beginning to crest, women had started considering how they could free themselves from the generations and generations of structures that had been placed upon them.”

Unitarian minister Marie Jenney Howe founded Heterodoxy in 1912, two years after she and her husband, progressive reformer Frederic C. Howe, moved to the Village. “Howe was already in her 40s,” says Scutts, “and just got to know people through her husband’s professional connections, and during meetings and networks where progressive groups were very active at the time.”

Howe’s mindset on feminism was clear: “We intend simply to be ourselves,” she once said, “not just our little female selves, but our whole big human selves.”

Many of the women in Heterodoxy moved in corresponding circles and maintained similar beliefs. They were “veterans of social reform efforts,” writes Scutts in Hotbed, and they belonged to “leagues, associations, societies and organizations of all stripes.” A large number were public figures—influential lawyers, journalists, playwrights or physicians, some of whom were the only women in their fields—and often had their names in the papers for the work they were performing. Many members were also involved in a wide variety of women’s rights issues, from promoting the use of birth control to advocating for immigrant mothers.

Heterodoxy met every other Saturday to discuss such issues and see how members might collaborate and cultivate networks of reform. Gatherings were considered a safe space for women to talk, exchange ideas and take action. Jessica Campbell, a visual artist whose exhibition on Heterodoxy is currently on display at Philadelphia’s Fabric Workshop and Museum, says, “Their meetings were taking place without any kind of recording or public record. It was this privacy that allowed the women to speak freely.”

Scutts adds, “The freedom to disagree was very important to them.”

With 25 charter members, Heterodoxy included individuals of diverse backgrounds, including lesbian and bisexual women, labor radicals and socialites, and artists and nurses. Meetings were often held in the basement of Polly’s, a MacDougal Street hangout established by anarchist Polly Holladay. Here, at what Berman calls a “sort of nexus for progressive, artistic, intellectual and political thought,” the women would gather at wooden tables to discuss issues like fair employment and fair wages, reproductive rights, and the antiwar movement. The meetings often went on for hours, with each typically revolving around a specific subject determined in advance.

Reflecting on these get-togethers later in life, memoirist Mabel Dodge Luhan described them as gatherings of “fine, daring, rather joyous and independent women, … women who did things and did them openly.”

Occasionally, Heterodoxy hosted guest speakers, like modern birth control pioneer Margaret Sanger, who later became president of the International Planned Parenthood Federation, and anarchist Emma Goldman, known for championing everything from free love to the right of labor to organize.

While the topics discussed at each meeting remained confidential, many of Heterodoxy’s members were quite open about their involvement with the club. “Before I’d even heard of Heterodoxy,” says Scutts, “I had been working in the New-York Historical Society, researching for an [exhibition on] how radical politics had influenced a branch of the suffrage movement. That’s when I began noticing many of the same women’s names in overlapping causes. I then realized that they were all associated with this particular club.”

These women included labor lawyer, suffragist, socialist and journalist Crystal Eastman, who in 1920 co-founded the American Civil Liberties Union to defend the rights of all people nationwide, and playwright Susan Glaspell, a key player in the development of modern American theater.

Other notable alumni were feminist icon Charlotte Perkins Gilman, whose 1892 short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” illustrates the mental and physical struggles associated with postpartum depression, and feminist psychoanalyst Beatrice M. Hinkle, the first woman physician in the United States to hold a public health position. Lou Rogers, the suffrage cartoonist whose work was used as a basis for the design of Wonder Woman, was a member of Heterodoxy, as was Jewish socialist activist Rose Pastor Stokes.

Grace Nail Johnson, an advocate for civil rights and an influential figure in the Harlem Renaissance, was Heterodoxy’s only Black member. Howe “had personally written to and invited her,” says Scutts, “as sort of a representation of her race. It’s an unusual case, because racial integration was quite uncommon at the time.”

While exceptions did exist, the majority of Heterodoxy’s members were middle class or wealthy, and the bulk of them had obtained undergraduate degrees—still very much a rarity for women in the early 20th century. Some even held graduate degrees in fields like medicine, law and the social sciences. These were women with the leisure time to participate in political causes, says Scutts, and who could afford to take risks, both literally and figuratively. But while political activism and the ability to discuss topics overtly were both part of Heterodoxy’s overall ethos, most of its members were decidedly left-leaning, and almost all were radical in their ideologies. “Even if the meetings promoted an openness to disagree,” says Scutts, “it wasn’t like these were women from across the political spectrum.”

Rather, they were women who inspired and spurred each other on. For example, about one-third of the club’s members were divorced—a process that was still “incredibly difficult, expensive and even scandalous” at the time, says Scutts. The club acted as somewhat of a support network for them, “just by the virtue of having people around you that are saying, ‘I’ve gone through the process. You can, too, and survive.’”

According to Campbell, Heterodoxy’s new inductees were often asked to share a story about their upbringing with the club’s other members. This approach “helped to break down barriers that might otherwise be there due to their ranging political views and professional allegiances,” the artist says.

The Heterodoxy club usually went on hiatus during the summer months, when members relocated to places like Provincetown, Massachusetts, a seasonal outpost for Greenwich Village residents. As the years progressed, meetings eventually moved to Tuesdays, and the club began changing shape, becoming less radical in tandem with the Village’s own shifting energy. Women secured the right to vote with the ratification of the 19th Amendment in 1920, displacing the momentum that fueled the suffrage movement; around this same time, the Red Scare saw the arrests and deportations of unionists and immigrants. Rent prices in the neighborhood also increased dramatically, driving out the Village’s bohemian spirit. As the club’s core members continued aging, Heterodoxy became more about continuing friendships than debating radical ideologies.

“These women were not all young when they started to meet,” says Scutts in the “Lost Ladies of Lit” podcast. “You know, it’s 20, 30 years later, and so they stayed in touch, but they never really found the second generation or third generation to keep it going in a new form.”

By the early 1940s, the biweekly meetings of Heterodoxy were no more. Still, the club’s legacy lives on, even beyond the scope of modern feminism.

“These days, it’s so easy to dehumanize people when you’re only hearing one facet of their belief system,” says Campbell. “But the ability to change your mind and debate freely like the women of Heterodoxy, without any public record? It’s an interesting model for rethinking the way we talk about problems and interact with other people today.”

[ofbluesandyellows]

In Rainbows - TASM! Peter Parker / Reader

Summary: Peter Parker as the colors of the rainbow.

Word count: 5,191

Warnings: swearing, kissing lol idk, it’s mostly fluff. So yeah,

a/n: this is a little something that came to me two weeks ago, hope you enjoy it. Tried to edit it but maybe there are a few errors there, lmk if you see them. Have fun :)

Meeting Peter had been a happy coincidence. 

Red was all you could see while the photographs became from white pristine paper into an unknown image. Some were already hanging from the thread up your head while you waited. Fortunately enough you had chosen a moonless night to work on your photos at college. So when the door swung open there was no risk of ruining your work.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Thought it was empty.” A voice said at your back.

“It’s alright, I’m almost done.”

The person stood beside you, eyes scanning your work and you turned to him just in time to see a smile appear on his lips. 

“Those are great shots.” He nodded with his head at the photo that was already developing in the transparent liquid. “I was there that night too, they’re a powerhouse.”

The Strokes had an unexpected gig on Wednesday and you had the fortune to get tickets and stand right in the press area to snap a few photos of them. You were really happy with what you got. It made you fill up with pride to hear someone else appreciate what you captured.

“They totally are, you took photos too?” you asked, turning to him, fully looking at the tall boy by your side. 

He seemed quite familiar now that you noticed. 

“No, a friend got us tickets, just went to have a good time.” He shrugged, putting his backpack on the floor with a thud. “What’s your favorite song of theirs?” 

He hadn’t stopped smiling at you. He started to put all his things out on top of the table. His camera, strap still on, the rolls of film and his phone. The screen was crashed and the edges of it battered, it had personality just like him; with his jumper and his tousled hair as if he had run just to make it there in time, as if he knew you could be leaving soon and didn’t want to miss you.

Of course you wanted to pretend that was the reason for his sudden rush a moment ago. 

“Well, I’d say the classics of course, YOLO and Welcome to Japan are just gems but I guess from their last album I really enjoyed Ode to The Mets. What about you?” 

And it started a full on conversation on your favorite The Strokes’ songs, it was easy to talk to him about music, about art, about playlists and pastries. With each word exchanged you could feel him getting closer to you, arms brushing, laughs shared, eyes making excessive staring, heart beats speeding and hands sweating. 

The boy finished hanging his photos, you could see friends laughing, dogs and incredible landscapes of the city. He had a good eye you wanted to tell him but he beat you to it with a new thought.

Casually, he leaned his side on the desk, arms crossed over his chest, pushing his biceps out, yeah you noticed. 

“They are doing another show in Brooklyn tomorrow… I got an extra ticket if you… you know… if you wanted to go… I could—we could meet there… I don’t know.” He said eyes going from your face to the rest of the room. 

You weren’t sure how but you could notice his whole face going one or two shades darker. It was hard to see under the red lights but the invitation made you feel funny inside, matching with all the rest of your body reactions during the half an hour you’ve been there. You balanced the options; he was sweet, and he was nervous and you were nervous too and you had nothing to lose really.

“Sure, I’d love that.” 

And he beamed, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes twinkled. “Great! Cool, so it’s in Brooklyn Steel. There's a subway nearby. If you live in Manhattan I could wait for you there or outside the venue, you tell me, it’s your choice.”

“I mean you can come pick me up, I live in Greenwich… and if you like we could have dinner before.” You felt your heartbeat in your throat.

“Oh…Yeah! Yeah sure, of course I know a pizza place, if you like Pizza of course.”

You chuckled. “I do love pizza, so it’s a date?”

His whole body filled with air and sudden pride. “It’s a date!”

“Cool,”

“Cool…. by the way my name is Peter Parker.” 

He laughed, extending his palm, which got your smaller one wrapped perfectly. 

You told him your name. “Great to meet you Peter Parker.”  and he grinned boyishly. 

•••

Orange wasn’t a color you often found yourself leaning towards, it never meant much to you, but it had been six months since you and Peter started to date in a very serious way. So you wanted the day to mean something, an unconscious choice,that was being expressed in an orange outfit, you tried it on and unexpectedly it looked good on you. 

Still the color meant nothing much, nothing until he said: “I love you.”

His lips were on the shell of your ear as you waited in line to get some gelato. Peter had his arms wrapped around your middle, he squeezed you a little tighter as his words reached your ear getting seared in your brain, the moment was typical almost ordinary, but it was golden hour and the sunbeams were casting a film of orange peachy tone, your heart somersaulted, belly twisted, and your lips turned upwards in the widest smile you’ve ever given to anyone. 

“I love you too,” you responded, turning in his arms, and you kissed Peter on his soft lips, he tasted like honey and something completely Peter’s. 

The sunset was upon you. Cherry and choco mint gelato flavored kisses. Peter left a peck on your forehead as he turned up to the sky while you walked down the busy streets of New York, a grin on his cold lips. 

“Look, you match the sky.” He pointed.

Furrowing your eyebrows you looked up as peachy skies started to turn slightly bluish on the far end. Peter gave a light tug to the fabric covering your ribs.

You indeed were matching the clouds and the day. From that moment on, orange made you reminisce about the first ‘I love yous’. 

Meaning was found in color.

•••

One night as the tv showed the film ‘Big Fish’ Peter found you crying on the couch to the scene where Ewan McGregor’s character had finally found the girl he loved and showed her how much she meant to him by flooding the outside of her house with flowers. The most beautiful act of love you’ve seen in a movie. 

You gasped when on your birthday the rooftop of your building was covered in yellow flowers, they probably weren’t as many as the movie had but you loved how the variety of them left a scent of sweetness and freshness in the air as Peter settled a picnic in the middle of the improvised garden, daffodils, roses, daisies, you weren’t even sure how many of them were there but you loved it.

“Over here,” With a flourish he showed you the path to the picnic and you followed him, fingers intertwined.

“Peter Parker you shouldn’t have,” hands on your chest and inevitably your nose tingled, your eyes watering.

Peter gave you a sweet smile.“Of course I have to! It’s your birthday honey, you deserve all the nice, most beautiful things there are in the world and I know the quantity of flowers isn’t near as the ones in the movie but the budget’s a bit tight this week.”

His face went a bit pink as you sat down the plaid tablecloth. 

Your heart squeezed. Reaching for his hand, his attention fully on you. 

“I love it, everything, even the mismatched set of plates and the fact that you are wearing the most horrible pair of socks I’ve seen.”

Yes, they were also yellow, they had tiny bright green cars printed on them. You snorted as Peter sent you a sharp look.

“What!? These are my good luck socks, I wore them when I met you, that has to mean something.” He smirked, “They're special.”

“That doesn’t mean they are pretty nor cool.”

Peter scoffed, he threw a napkin at your face, “I’ll let it pass because it’s your day. And I love you and respect you too much to start an argument over my styling choices.”

Another snort on your behalf and you didn’t see it coming but Peter launched against you. You both laid on the cloth as Peter held his weight on his elbows to not crush you. Kissing the tip of your nose, then kissing your lips. Soft lips over smiles and low chuckles.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

“Thank you for being the absolute best.” 

And all you saw was Peter’s chocolate eyes, the light freckles forming on his nose thanks to the summer time and a halo of yellow all around you.

•••

Peter had been so scared, literally he thought of cancelling last minute but a talk with May served him well. He loved you and he needed to show a bit of support, especially knowing your family would be there and this was the first Christmas you two spent together. 

You two took the subway all the way to Queens. Your mom’s side of the family had this pretty lovely house with a huge garden and one of the biggest kitchens Peter has set foot on. 

Peter wasn’t into Christmas but knowing it meant so much for you he made an effort, besides he wanted the rest of your family to like him, to love him if possible. So when your cousin asked you both to babysit littler Tommy while she put her new born baby to sleep, Peter couldn’t say no, and there you three were in the middle of the kitchen decorating gingerbread cookies with the five year old Tommy who had found a liking for Peter very quickly.

Maybe he could feel his Spidey senses too, kids had that kind of ability too sometimes, to predict stuff and shit. Well, Peter read that once so maybe it was true.

Sitting on the kitchen island Peter handed little Tommy a cookie as you put different color frostings on display for them to start their artsy gourmet pieces. 

Peter went for something that made him feel too clever, you’ve known for a while anyway. 

Red and blue, black lines, white eyes.

“A Spider-Man cookie, really Peter?” your voice was a bit judge-y but Peter saw your smile as you shook your head, and it made him chuckle. “Smartass.”

“Well… It made you smile. But it’s not just a Spider-Man cookie, it’s a Christmas Spidey, right Tommy?”

You laughed as Peter showed Tommy his Spidey-cookie, a Santa hat badly shaped on top of the masked hero. Tommy let out that childish giggle that made the both of you beam at the kid.

“See, Tommy boy appreciates my art, you should do the same, baby.” 

Rolling your eyes Peter smirked and continued on decorating cookies with the little boy in front of him.  

It warmed your heart seeing Peter getting along with kids, it made you think of the future, and in that moment the thought of a little Peter didn’t sound so bizarre.

“Can someone bring the little bunny I left in the car?!” you heard your cousin call, and just as an instinct you turned to Peter.

“Go ahead, we have it under control right ,Tom?” the kid probably didn’t know what you were talking about but he still gave you a nod.

So Peter saw you leave the kitchen. 

At some point during the decorating session, Peter needed the color green to complete his Christmas tree cookie. He only found green frosting inside a transparent plastic bag. With a shrug he took it between his palms.

“It can’t be that hard right Tommy.” The kid with those big doe eyes, grinned at him.

“Do it!” Tommy squealed. 

Peter laughed and started doing the edges of this tree. 

But the doorbell rang, Tommy jumped in his spot startled, Kiki the dog started barking, everything happened within the same five seconds and Peter– with incredibly enhanced reflexes put a little too much pressure on the bag. 

The next thing he and Tommy saw was green, green splashed everywhere in the kitchen specially Tommy’s face and Peter’s shirt. 

“Oh,” Peter said in awe.

“Uh oh, you are in trouble!” Tommy said singsonging, pointing at Peter’s shirt. And a second later he started maniacally laughing.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh too. This was definitely not the way he wanted to impress your family but at least Tommy knew how to lighten the mood.

Steps were heard as the two boys in the kitchen cackled louder while they licked their green fingers.

You appeared on the threshold, agape as you saw the explosion of color, snorting you went ahead to try and help the little kid, who only laughed harder at your face.

That was a moment in time that your family always reminded Peter of. Peter felt like he belonged right there and then when everyone made fun of him and Tommy’s green face.

•••

Coney Island was shining prettily against the darkness of the night, Peter had texted you four times to meet him there. He went to check near the cotton candy stand, you weren’t there.

He had been working his ass off for Jonah the whole week, so now that he had free time, he wanted to do something different and fun with you, and what could be more fun than going to Coney Island and getting on those rattly dubious carnival rides? 

The carousel was packed with parents and screaming kids, as loud music blasted all around, you weren’t there either, so he kept on walking. A man with a bunch of blue balloons was falling asleep on his spot near a trash can. 

Peter’s brain had an idea. He brought a balloon and wrapped it on his wrist. Took his phone out of his jeans and snapped a quick selfie.

Sent it to you instantly.

Peter🕷

I’m the guy with the blue balloon. Hurry up baby I’m starving :(

Two seconds later his hand buzzed and there you were, another selfie you had a blue balloon too.

You 🍯

Matching, now let’s see who finds the other first. 

Loser buys dinner. 

Peter smirked, he had missed you so much the whole day.

Peter 🕷

Deal. You are so gonna lose,

Forgot I got enhanced sight x

You 🍯

Too much talking Parker

We’ll see about that.

Peter loved a good challenge, and meaning he was getting free food and probably a bunch of kisses was enough incentive for him to start looking.

Five minutes and Peter decided to cheat a little. Hopping on the ferris wheel had been the worst idea ever, his eyes tried to focus on blue balloons but the colorful lights caused the opposite effect, overstimulation to his poor eyes, Peter felt dizzy.

When his ride ended, shoulders slumped, and a defeated sigh escaped him but it didn’t matter. He ran to your arms. Balloons tangling between one another, and Peter didn’t care if he had to buy dinner, he was just so happy to see you there.

“I won!” you grinned, as Peter’s hands found place on the side of your face. 

“Yeah I let you.”

“Nah, I saw when you went in there,” you smiled, as he caressed your cheeks with his thumbs. 

Peter leaned in to kiss you, it was sweet and full of love. 

“I sabotaged myself with those lights, so yeah I let you,” you rolled your eyes and Peter chuckled. “Come on, let’s get rid of these,” he punched his balloon, hitting your face with it.

“Hey!” 

He snorted, and kissed your forehead, “Sorry.”

“Just because you are buying dinner, but let’s keep them. This was a good idea to find each other in the crowd.”

“Blue Balloons seem to be better than GPS, right?” 

Peter tried to put his arm over your shoulders but the threads of the balloons were too twisted, thread tugged at your wrist wrong, you yelped and Peter grunted.

“Not very practical when I want to hold you closer.” Peter quivered his brows, but neither made the effort to unravel the knots of ribbon. 

You simply intertwined your hands and walked down Coney Island ready to eat your weight on hotdogs.

•••

“But baby my love my everything, this is so cool! I can go to work, get there faster, pick you up. We can drive to visit May, your mom! We can go on a weekend trip!”

Your face was a mix of fear and curiosity. The bright motorcycle was parked just outside your apartment building, it was indigo blue and it sparkled when the sun hit the paint. You couldn’t lie to yourself, it was a pretty motorcycle, however…

“But it’s dangerous!”

“But it’s convenient!” Peter put out a helmet from his backpack. “Look, I even bought you one! Come on, let's have a little ride, it’ll be fun.”

“Peter-“

“Don’t Peter me, c’mon”

With his doe eyes Peter persuaded you to do the unimaginable. You hated when he swung you places, the momentum of the web slinging made you want to vomit and you didn’t enjoy fast rides so this felt like a mixture of both things. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as you put the helmet on.

“Hold onto me, if I go too fast let me know, okay?”

Your hands surrounded his waist, you weren’t too sure about the motorcycle but you trusted Peter with your life, so you nodded against his back.

“I got you baby.” 

The roar distracted you from the sudden movement, eyes closed tightly you felt Peter’s abs clench when he made a sharp turn or when he had to make a stop.

“You okay?” 

“I guess… so far,”

“It isn’t that bad, try to enjoy it.” 

You both were speaking loud to hear the other through the helmets, but Peter could sense your shaky hands against his stomach and the way you tensed your body on the curves.

But a few minutes later you started to loosen your grip on his body. Your eyes wandered as you moved between the city… Some streets were less trafficked than others but it was nice to feel the wind and the passing by colors. You didn’t even notice when Peter added a bit of velocity, you were immersed in the sensations.

The Brooklyn bridge was ahead, the view of Manhattan was breathtaking at the hour, some street lights were already turning on but the sky still reflected itself on the skyscrapers, mirroring the view.

“Move in with me?”

“What?”

You weren’t able to hear him because of the wind and the helmet.

“That you should move in with me!” Peter shouted.

“What movie?”

“For fucks sake,”

Peter mumbled as he came to a stop. His motorcycle roared still, but the noise was a lot less. Taking the helmet off, he turned around and took yours too.

“I said… move in with me”

Your eyes grew big, a little shocked, “Oh,”

“I mean we already spend pretty much all the time together so I thought… um, never mind, it was just an idea.”

You grabbed his shoulder, “I’d love to. I was just surprised you asked me all of a sudden. But yeah, let’s do it!”

Peter felt relief and a wave of euphoria. He hopped off the motorcycle, helmets hanging from the handlebars. He nestled your face between his hands, kissing you deeply, he smelt like sun, leather and spandex, with a touch of lemon thanks to his shampoo.

“I have everything planned, we can move my desk to the other room and we can make that an office for when you work from home, we definitely need to throw out my mattress, yours is way bigger and more comfy. Oh and we could get a dog, you like dogs I like dogs so why not.”

You were beaming at your boyfriend as he kept on rambling about the new accommodations of the apartment, what breed of dog and if he even had to buy new cutlery. 

“It’s alright, we can figure that out later.” The wind swirled around you and it all felt right. Even the oh so horrible motorcycle felt less wrong, like it had to be part of your trip or this decision. “We can also get rid of this indigo monstrosity too,”

Peter furrowed his brow, “I just bought it, come on, it's so cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “It is not, it’s dangerous and you won’t even use it.”

“Oh I definitely will, I look so hot on it.”

Rolling your eyes you gave him a good reason to not like the motorcycle, “that’s why I don’t want it, people will be looking at my boyfriend a little too much.”

Peter smirked, “oh so you agree I look extra hot on the motorcycle, huh. Knew you liked it, kinky.”

“Oh shut up!”

“You love me, don’t try to deny it.”

You grunted, but a smile slipped on your lips. Peter took the helmet and was about to put it on your head again. 

“Love you.” He kissed your forehead sliding the plastic thing, he gave the top of it two knocks, making your head rattle.

“Ouch.”

“Oops,” he put his on and there you were again on the road back to Peter’s apartment, your new home.

•••

Lazy Sunday, as Peter liked to call them. They were pretty much that, after a long night of patrolling, he finally slept until his body couldn’t stand being in bed.

There had been five months since you moved in with him and he couldn’t be happier. You threw a party a month after you were settled in. May made meatloaf as if an army was about to arrive at the apartment, you and he had to eat that for two weeks straight until the last bit disappeared. 

Peter didn’t want to see or hear the meatloaf again, like ever in his life.

So lazy Sundays for him consisted of sleeping, working on his laptop, kissing you as many times as he could, washing dishes and watching basketball games. Sometimes he would change a burned out light bulb or fix the sink’s pressure but that day Peter decided to do laundry, it was his turn so he put everything in trying to finish the task as fast as possible.

When you came back from the bakery, with a fresh baguette and a slice of lemon pound cake for Peter, he went into the kitchen to prepare milkshakes at noon.

“We should wait until after lunch time, Peter,” you pointed as you put the dishes in place.

Peter grunted, “we can have early dinner instead, come on you love my strawberry milkshakes.” 

And with pouty lips and twinkly doe eyes how could you say no to Peter Parker.

“Fine… but I want mine to be extra creamy!”

“Your wish is my command, baby” 

He kissed the top of your head and started to work.

Two hours later Peter was trying to fix some of the coloring and contrast of his photos to send to The Bugle. Kendrick Lamar played through his laptop speakers as he nodded along.

“PETER!”

And Peter flinched on his spot, he sank deeper on the couch, pretending he hadn’t heard you shout his name. Kendrick did a good job trying to make this more believable.

“PETER!” 

Shit shit shit

Peter was panicking, he didn’t even know what he had done to get that tone from you, but he wasn’t risking it.

Maybe that was a bad move on his behalf, because when you appeared in the living room with  puckered lips and flared nostrils he feared for his life. Not literally but he knew something was coming down.

“What did you do to the washing machine?” you asked him, pretending you were totally chill, calm, but it was obvious you were about to lose it.

“Uh… fabric softener?” 

“What else?” your brow cocked and Peter wasn’t sure what his answer should be.

“I—um… clothes…” you sigh didn’t help him solve the puzzle, “listen honey, I don’t know what happened, I just did what I saw you doing, what May taught me.” 

Peter half shrugged. 

Crossing your arms over your chest you pivoted on your spot, “come see what happened.”

Peter winced, knowing that whatever it was was worse than he imagined.

The little room where the washing machine and the dryer machine were, had all the clothes on display just for him to see. Peter’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” he said. Hands on both sides of his hip bones. 

“Yeah oh, now what are we gonna do?”

“I… don’t know, baby.”

Your eyes turned to him, seeing his whole face contracting as he tried his best to not laugh.

“Don’t dare laugh Parker, this isn’t funny, those right there were my best pair of shorts!”

But Peter couldn’t hold it, he snorted and started laughing, until tears were forming on the corner of his eyes. Immediately afterwards you let yourself get involved in the same stupid feeling.

The clothes were violet, not lilac or pink, bright violet. Peter’s suit was the only cloth item that remained in its true colors, red and blue. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Peter was trying to stop laughing but the more he looked at the scene the funnier it became.

“Yeah you shouldn’t have, but you did it.” a little smile tugged at your lips, “at least you’ll have to use violet shirts too, and socks, I mean you wear those horrible yellow socks anyway so I don’t think that would be an issue for you.”

“Oh, not this again,” Peter was grinning, “but yeah right, I don’t care about the socks, violet isn’t my color tho, but it’s what I deserve.”

“Next time wash the damn suit alone”

“I will…” Peter saw you collecting the clothes, his whole body—even when he felt a pang of guilt for the damage he cause—felt alive, happy and eased, this was the most mundane thing that could’ve happened to him today and he was almost grateful for it, because he loved having moments like that with you. Homey, normal and funny. 

He loved spending life with you, no matter what happened or what color his underwear was, his life was technicolor since you were in it.

“Did I tell you the same happened to me a couple years back, I told May I washed the American flag, just so she wouldn’t suspect of me being Spider-Man…”

Peter said this between laughs, reminiscing of the past.

“And why didn’t you put it in the washing machine alone..”

“I forgot… I’ll buy you another pair of shorts I promise!” 

“Ugh, shut up spider boy!”

•••

Black was all you saw, lying in bed next to Peter as the rain pelted on the windows. His chest was pressed to your back, you being the little spoon.

Peter kissed the back of your neck as his arms wrapped your middle, putting you as near as your bodies could ever be. 

You didn’t need light nor words to express how much you cared for him or him for you, it was all in the actions, in the deep breaths he took to inhale your shampoo scent and the still lingering perfume notes on your skin. 

It was in the way he made tiny little circles on your stomach, his hands finding a way under your shirt and his lips brushing the skin of your shoulder. You felt his heartbeat at your back and you smiled, Peter made you smile when he was falling asleep and all of a sudden he jumped on his spot, that feeling of falling off the bed when you are getting swallowed by sleepiness. 

He grunted and snuggled against you.

Of course he felt your belly wiggle with the silent laugh, but Peter didn’t care his lips only turned upwards, enjoying just the feeling of you between his arms. Your hands found his, fingers tracing the shape of his fingers and the edges of his hand, his trapped yours and it  made you giggle, his index and thumb found the new addition in your ring finger. 

In the darkness everything felt more personal, this was a reminder of what the future held for you two, secret actions no one needed to know, so you twisted to face Peter as he fixed himself to let you. 

The pitch black room wasn’t an impediment, on the contrary it gave you permission to brush your knuckles over Peter’s jaw where a stubble was forming. Your lips found his naturally, Peter was almost out but he let you kiss him, only his hand giving your hip a light squeeze.

Rain was the soundtrack you fell asleep to. Peter your comfort, and darkness, the witness of little moments of joy and love.

•••

White were the balloons, the tablecloths and your wedding attire. 

The flowers decorating the space were yellow, they had to be. 

Seeing Peter dressed in black with his bowtie and teary eyes at the altar, all you could think of was how fortunate you were, how much you loved him and how happy your life became the moment you saw him under red lights.

Forever promises were made, with more I love yous than one could dare to count, and a bunch of kisses once they let you kiss one another. 

“I’ll forever be here for you, you are the joy of my life, the light, the sun, the stars, the moon, my compass and my reason to be who I am.” Peter kept on whispering even after the ceremony. With each word your heart grew a size, you couldn’t believe you felt this strongly  about someone.

First dance with Baby I’m Yours by the Arctic Monkeys in the background felt like the right call. Peter made you twirl and you sang to him, as he hid his face on your neck, kissing it lightly.

You saw your mom and May crying at some point; little Tommy became the ring bearer and was even more fascinated by Peter when for his birthday he got a lego collection of none other than Spider-Man. 

Cake was lemon sponge and they served strawberry milkshakes along with other alcoholic beverages. Peter and you danced until your feet couldn’t take one more step. 

“I love you!” 

“No, love you more!”

“Lies,”

“I asked you out, remember? I have dibs.” Peter pinched your nose.

“But I accepted, so I have the last word.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, pressed his forehead on yours, eyes connecting with your own. He leaned in, eyes fluttered shut and there; lips collided with so much care, love and softness you could feel fireworks inside you, colorful, fiery, bright and alive. 

Loving Peter Parker was like every single one of the colors, everything merging together, forming a rainbow inside your heart.

[emma23]

Not even a little brotherly :

Llewyn davis x reader

If you want to support me, take a look 💕

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The air in the dingy Greenwich Village apartment smelled faintly of old records, burnt coffee, and Llewyn Davis. Y/N didn’t mind, though—she had gotten used to the musician’s cluttered space and his peculiar charm over the years. The soft strumming of his guitar hummed from the living room, where Llewyn sat on the battered sofa, lost in the melody he was trying to perfect.

"Are you going to feed me, or am I supposed to starve while you chase the same two chords for hours?" Y/N teased as she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Without looking up, Llewyn smirked. "Why cook for you when you always steal my food anyway?"

She rolled her eyes and sauntered into the kitchen, pulling open his nearly empty fridge. "It’s not stealing if you’re too busy brooding to notice."

Llewyn’s chuckle echoed from the other room. "Touché. Check the cabinet; I think there’s still some peanut butter."

Y/N groaned. "This is why you need me, Davis. Left to your own devices, you’d die of malnutrition and bad taste in food."

"Good thing I’ve got great taste in music," he shot back, grinning as she appeared with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.

She plopped down beside him, legs tucked under her, and handed him the jar. "Sure, keep telling yourself that while you starve."

He took the jar with a mock glare. "This is why I never let you stay here for free. Too many insults."

"And yet, here I am," she quipped, stealing the spoon to take a bite of peanut butter before he could.

The banter was easy, the kind that only came with years of knowing someone—too many years, perhaps. Llewyn’s sharp wit and her equally cutting comebacks had always been their dynamic. It was comfortable, familiar, and safe.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

They had met as kids, two awkward neighbors thrown together because of proximity and shared afternoons at the park. Y/N was bossy, always telling Llewyn how to play house or forcing him to sing while she danced. He was stubborn, refusing to take direction and constantly mocking her lack of rhythm. By the time they were teenagers, their bond had shifted into an unspoken camaraderie, one where they could exchange glances across a crowded room and know exactly what the other was thinking.

Y/N had been there through everything—Mike’s death, the failed gigs, the couch-surfing. She was the closest thing to stability in his chaotic life, and he knew it. But she wasn’t just a crutch for him. She had her own way of complicating things, always showing up with her bad decisions and tangled emotions, forcing him to be the voice of reason when she couldn’t be.

The tension had been building for months, ever since she had started dating some guy named Eric. He was decent, polite, and boring as hell. Llewyn hated him instantly.

"You’re jealous," she accused one night after he’d made yet another sarcastic comment about Eric’s boring wardrobe.

"Of Eric?" Llewyn scoffed. "Please. The guy looks like he irons his socks for fun."

"Well, maybe I like a little stability in my life for once," she shot back.

"Stability?" Llewyn’s laugh was bitter. "That’s what you’re calling it now? Settling for mediocrity?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You don’t get to criticize my choices when you can’t even figure out how to keep a roof over your head, Llewyn."

He winced, and she immediately regretted the words. But he didn’t respond. Instead, he went back to his guitar, strumming aimlessly, a sure sign he was trying to avoid the argument.

A week later, they were back to normal—or as normal as they could be. Y/N was sitting on the floor, sorting through Llewyn’s record collection, when she found an old, scratched album of his and Mike’s music.

"You don’t talk about him much," she said softly, holding up the record.

Llewyn looked up, his expression guarded. "What’s there to say?"

"You miss him," she pressed gently.

"Of course, I miss him." His voice was quiet but firm. "But missing him doesn’t change anything."

Y/N nodded, setting the record down carefully. She hesitated before speaking again. "Llewyn, I—"

He interrupted her, his gaze intense. "Don’t say it."

"Say what?"

"That you’re basically my sister," he muttered, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

Y/N froze, heat rising to her cheeks. "I wasn’t going to say that."

"Good," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Because there is absolutely nothing brotherly about the way I feel right now or have ever felt in your presence, ever."

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

"I wanted to marry you when I was six," Llewyn continued, his voice low. "And I wanted to do very, very rude things to you at eighteen."

Her laugh was half-nervous, half-disbelieving. "You’re kidding."

"Do I look like I’m kidding?" Llewyn’s expression was serious, his dark eyes locked onto hers.

She swallowed hard. "You’re such an idiot," she whispered before grabbing his shirt and pulling him into a kiss.

Y/N woke up to the sound of Llewyn humming in the kitchen. She pulled on his oversized shirt and padded out to find him making coffee, his guitar leaning against the counter.

"Good morning, Mrs. Davis," he greeted with a smirk.

She groaned. "Don’t call me that."

"What? You wanted to marry me when you were six, remember?"

"Pretty sure that was your delusion, not mine."

He grinned, handing her a cup of coffee. "Admit it. You’re just as hopeless as I am."

Y/N took a sip, hiding her smile behind the mug. "Maybe. But at least I don’t iron my socks."

Llewyn laughed, pulling her into his arms. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

"And you’re lucky I have terrible taste," she shot back, kissing him again.

"Do you think Eric would give me his iron? I could really use it for my socks."

[neutron-stars-collision]

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 4 - North Greenwich Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 3 Summary: Neil's brief disappearance does nothing to extinguish the sparks. As he returns, you make a series of discoveries about each other and grow ever so much closer. Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, ridiculous amounts of flirting as per usual. Buckle up bc we're amping the pace a little... ;) Author's Notes: Well... that was a long break between the chapters 🙈 My apologies, turns out that having a job takes away the little joys in life like writing silly stories. Anyways, here we are, at last. With another 10.7k. And this one's packed with many good, fun things ;))) Some of those scenes had been months in the making (if not years, considering I first mentioned this AU to Shet in like 2021? I think?). So, yeah. They had it long time coming. More cameos, more nonsensical POV changes and, above all, more certified idiocy by them two kids. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

What Neil’s departure from London did not do was change the way things worked between you. Although you only had meagre information about his whereabouts (such as that he was within the same time zone but in a different country), there was no sense of a breach building in the space of that strange yet solid connection. With the anxieties surrounding the imminent ‘Don Quixote’ premiere keeping your blood pressure high daily, you more than enjoyed being able to pick up your phone and message him whenever possible.

He did not always respond immediately, but it was not a must. What mattered was that Neil eventually got back to you. Never disclosing any information about his work trip, apart from the fact that it was warm there even in mid-October, he still made the effort to keep up with your antics. In that sense, the insanity of the date you had risked changed absolutely nothing.

But it also changed everything.

It was as if your free will chose to conspire with the soul’s desires to get what they wanted. Namely – Neil. Because as soon as you had even begun considering breaching the line separating friendship from every other kind of relationship, your brain decided it was done.

Being his girlfriend was not on the list of priorities or wants, but getting in his pants definitely was. It was almost freeing to admit.

The only question left after all that soul-searching was whether Neil wanted you like that, too. Sometimes there were no doubts about that, either.

Almost a week in, with the ballet previews looming on the horizon and no chance of sleep anytime soon, you huffed an annoyed sigh and picked up the phone from your bedside table. Bleary eyes registered the hour (five past midnight) as you opened apps randomly, already giving up on the promise of sleep. It took you another few minutes to make up your mind, open the texts and stare at the conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours since the last exchange concerning the warmth of the climate wherever he was. You had been (fruitlessly) trying to make Neil send you a picture. Of himself. Not necessarily without clothes, but that was the dream. And a girl was allowed to dream, right?

Squinting at the screen, you hesitated for another millisecond before typing out the simple question:

/ 🏹, 00:15 am/ Are you missing me yet?

Neil did not make you wait for long.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ Obviously.

/✝️, 00:26 am/ I’m barely coping here, sunshine.

/ 🏹, 00:29 am/ Gee, you’re making it too easy.

/✝️, 00:30 am/ Making what too easy?

/ 🏹, 00:33 am/ Missing you.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ See, I thought my cheeky line would get a lukewarm response, so I was prepared to tease you further.

/ 🏹, 00:34 am/ And now I’ve no quips to offer.

/✝️, 00:39 am/ Apologies. I’ll do better next time.

/ 🏹, 00:40 am/ I’ll make sure of that.

/✝️, 00:42 am/ And what punishment do you propose?

/ 🏹, 00:43 am/ I’ve always wondered what you’d sound like if you begged.

/✝️, 00:44 am/ It could probably be arranged.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ I’ve no qualms about getting on my knees for a beautiful woman.

/✝️, 00:45 am/ But that would hardly be a punishment.

/ 🏹, 00:48 am/ Yeah, but if I let you have that and then left you… on your knees, so painfully hard with no release… How would that feel?

/✝️, 00:51 am/ You win this one.

/✝️, 00:52 am/ And yes, I’m blushing. Fiercely.

/ 🏹, 00:59 am/ Good, I was hoping you are. Goodnight, Neil.

As you hit send on the last message, your head hit the pillows with an audible ‘oof’. Your cheeks burned; the blush invisible in the dark yet still very much there. That was the problem with Neil and your chats. It was impossible to say when they would turn in that direction. When you would both lose control and follow a line of conversation that probably never should have happened. Not that you were complaining.

It was good to know what you could expect from Neil. If things happened the way you wished, they would. Admittedly, he’d look good on his knees. That was a fact.

That night you only got five hours of sleep, but who counted it anyway. What mattered was that you had some excellent dreams. Dreams that you hoped would end up prophetic.

On other days, your conversations were a little more serious. Like that early afternoon when you just finished the final in-costume run of the Cupid variation and exited the ROH to wander the streets of Soho. Whenever you felt close to losing your sanity, the walk around those familiar spots always did the trick. It was easier to breathe, to hope that you would not fuck it all up when the curtain call came. To believe that imposter syndrome was nothing more than a vile bitch.

Sighing against the thoughts muddling your brain, you took out the phone and immediately noticed the new message:

/✝️, 1:49 pm/ How’s the garden of the Dryads coming along?

/✝️, 1:50 pm/ It probably goes without saying that you’re my favourite ballerina.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ Damn, that’s high praise. Especially considering that I’m the only ballerina you know.

/ 🏹, 2:06 pm/ I think the garden is coming along nicely. Not so sure about Cupid, tho.

/✝️, 2:08 pm/ I call bullshit on that.

/✝️, 2:09 pm/ I just know that you’re brilliant.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ Doubt, she said.

/ 🏹, 2:12 pm/ ‘Cause like… How do you deal with the overwhelming weight of expectations?

/✝️, 2:18 pm/ I mean, I panic and lose it instantly, but generally speaking, I think you just sort of… ignore it and trust you are good enough.

/✝️, 2:19 pm/ I know that you are, Cupid. This role was made for you.

/ 🏹, 2:22 pm/ Elaborate, please. I need my ego stroked.

/✝️, 2:23 pm/ Well, she sorts of saunters onto the stage and has a minute to dazzle everyone, yeah?

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ Which is exactly what you did to me.

/✝️, 2:24 pm/ You’ve got this.

/ 🏹, 2:26 pm/ God, you’re irreconcilable. Better come back so I can force you to sit through this.

/✝️, 2:27 pm/ Working on it as we speak.

A smile painted itself on your face with an inerasable stroke of brush. Neil’s constant support and cheerleading were a welcome surprise. Sometimes, your meeting almost felt like a divine intervention. That is if you believed in such things. Because the odds of gaining both a fascinating man to pursue and a friend were quite low. And yet.

As you looped your steps back towards Covent Garden, you made the mental note to visit the box office and add a request for the guest list. It was a rare enough event to have someone you could invite to the performance. And have the right to believe they would come. You were not going to squander that sort of chance.

***

The whirring ceiling fan was starting to get on his nerves with its endless sputtering. And it was not even working, as far as Neil was concerned. The sweat still clung to his skin and trickled down his back to a point where he seriously contemplated ditching the shirt. And that rarely happened. Especially not on the job, with the whole squad confined to a medium-sized safehouse.

The bustle of the city streamed through the windows, cracked open so they could let in fresh air while still having a chance of keeping them safe from snipers and the like. Granted, one could never be fully prepared for an inverted shot, but it was worth trying not to get killed. Especially during a mission that technically was just a recon. Though Neil knew better than to believe The Protagonist when the man claimed something was perfectly safe. He meant well, sure. But despite the appearances, he did not know everything.

So, the windows cracked open three inches had to do. Neil sighed, annoyance digging deep beneath his skin to stay there for a little longer. It was another one of those boring, yet technically productive afternoons in the safehouse. Today, the task was to plan a hypothetical pincer movement. Just in case, they said. Well, Neil sure did hope the case never came to be.

He glanced at the blacked-out screen of his phone, the muscle memory betraying him as he picked up the device almost mindlessly and opened the conversation with Cupid. It had been a few hours since the last chat, which was pretty usual. They did not need to talk all the time. Neil knew that. He also knew that it was probably better they did not talk constantly. Considering that 3 out of 5 conversations always ended up dirty, up to the point where he was blushing like an idiot. And, sometimes disappeared in the bathroom to deal with some troublesome effects of those chats.

Yes, considering all that, Neil knew it was best they took some breaks. But also-

“Blondie, can you give us a hand with this?” the yell from further inside the apartment acted like a bucket of cold water tipped over his head unceremoniously.

Neil whipped his head up, glaring at the open doorway. Unfortunately, being referred to as ‘blondie’ was becoming more frequent. The petulant nature urged him to ignore it, but he knew that was hardly the last one. With another long-suffering sigh, he heaved himself out of the armchair and called back:

“I said I’m coming,” granted, that was over fifteen minutes ago, but everyone could get distracted. Right? “Would it hurt you to ask nicer?” he stalked down the corridor toward the living area with an arched eyebrow.

It was not surprising to meet a mirroring expression on the faces of Ives, Wheeler, and Jeremy sitting in a trifecta of judgment. Neil had no doubts about his place in that makeshift courtroom.

“Yes, when you’re slacking,” Wheeler dropped the disapproving glare with all the air of nonchalance and pointedly glanced at the table covered with maps and blueprints.

Neil had no choice but to sit down in the remaining chair and offer an apologetic pout to anyone willing to hear him out:

“I’m not slacking. I’m just-” whatever excuse he could whip out on a whim got interrupted prematurely.

“Otherwise occupied with your girlfriend. Yes, we know,” Wheeler raised her head once more with a dismissive wave of hand, making Neil consider the possibility that she was close to losing it right there and then.

That possibility was always worrisome, for no anger could compare to that of his friend. Especially when she was pissed off.

But that careful consideration was nothing in the face of the two realisations brought forward by that simple assumption. Firstly - Cupid was decidedly not his girlfriend. Secondly – fucking Ives.

Neil glared at the man in question, hoping his eyes would reveal the murderous intents hidden underneath as his clarifying statement broke the awkward silence:

“She’s not-” he never finished that sentence (perhaps for the better), for the harsh sound of his ringtone filled the room with cacophonic clamour. Neil scrambled to pick up the phone without as much as glancing at the screen, “Hello?” the tentative opener sounded ridiculous even to his ears.

Soon, it was clear he should have checked the caller before picking up.

“Hi, Neil,” Cupid’s silky tone caressed his ear through the device.

Neil knew she did that purposefully, solely inspired to make the idiot inside him blush and giggle like a loser. Make no mistake; Neil was certainly a loser. And an idiot.

Once he felt the shock pass enough to ensure he would not drop the phone he repeated the greeting.

“Umm, hi,” from the corner of his eye, Neil could see the accompanying trio stare at him without trying to be covert about it. Absolute assholes “You’ve never called me before” trust him to state the obvious.

For a second, Neil considered faceplanting onto the table. Equally, the idea of jumping out of the window sounded appealing. The thoughts of potential demise were interrupted by Cupid’s reply:

“I know. I just thought it might be fun to spice things up,” she was definitely enjoying this and the damage she has caused. It was audible in the lightness of her voice, the vowels curled by a cheeky smile he could hear as she asked, “How’s your day?”

No longer happy to ignore his audience, Neil turned towards them with another glare. All three stared back, with Ives going as far as shooting him a knowing smile.

“It’s fine, except for my team being desperate to berate me,” Neil directed the venom in his voice at the trio as Wheeler casually got up from the table and put the kettle on.

The light chuckle from the phone almost made him feel better about it.

“That’s rude,” her remark contrasted with the laughter he could hear in her voice. Yet it was too late to raise the alarm or prepare for what would follow, “Would it be better if I reminded you what a good boy you are?” as soon as Cupid finished the question, Neil felt the full-body reaction she wanted.

A shudder ran through his spine as his face flushed pink. On a last conscious thought, Neil leapt up from the chair and paced towards the window, hiding from the group. A half-swallowed groan broke through his mouth as he tightened his fist, hopelessly trying to forget how those two words sounded on her lips. It was pathetic.

The more tragic outcome was that now Cupid had even more blackmailing material in her arsenal.

“Jesus Christ, you’re evil,” Neil knew he still sounded wrecked.

There was no way of hiding that. Of making her forget this had just happened and the conclusions she could draw from it. Neil barely resisted the urge to smash his head into the window.

“Oh, so it would help,” as expected, Cupid sounded delighted by what had transpired. The cheeky smile he liked way too much was undoubtedly present on her face as she added, “Not so dully noted” may he rest in pieces, apparently, “When are you coming back?” the question sounded almost out of place.

Yet even in his muddled mind, Neil knew it was genuine. That she wanted to know. If that fact meant anything at all, he did not know. And he tried his hardest not to think about it too much.

“Why? You miss me?” ignoring the chorus of ‘awws’ behind his back, Neil allowed himself to ask.

Even if only for emotional validation. Because while she has hinted at it before, Neil was never tired of being reminded. The whole thing with her might have been hopeless, but it did not change how he worked. How his heart ticked and what beat it chose. Tragically, romanticism was tricky to get rid of. Neil experienced that first-hand.

“You know that I do,” Cupid did not mind humouring his whims as she offered a simple admission without a fight.

With all his predictability, Neil could not hold back the idiotic grin from making an appearance. Sure, it had no future, but that did not make him less eager to play along. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Famous last words and all. Probably.

“I should be back in a week. More or less,” that was the hope, anyway.

The few stray thoughts that had somehow escaped the web spun by Cupid, and her attention reminded him about the work still left to be done. Like the fucking pincer movement plan. With threebastards taunting him mercilessly. So much fun.

“Fab. I got you a great seat for the premiere, so… You know what to do,” the hopeful note in her voice was worth the future pain.

He had no doubts about it. The fact was that Neil was looking forward to the ballet. The hazy memories of seeing ‘Swan Lake’, aged six, hardly compared to the Royal Ballet company. It was a good enough reason to attend. The other excellent reason was Cupid herself, but that was best unsaid. And unthought. Somehow.

“Got you,” ignoring the ridiculous thoughts, Neil offered her a smile she could not see and a silent prayer cast into the heavens that he was not lying unknowingly.

“I know you do. You’re a good boy, Neil,” Cupid’s strike came with no warning.

Yet again, she dropped her tone a notch and whispered the damned two words with a breathy sigh. The metaphorical nail to the coffin this time was how she said his name, almost caressing the letters. And yes, this time it worked, too.

Neil had the mind to faceplant into the window and groan with frustration. The inescapable blush warmed up his cheeks as his body shivered. Some… particular parts of his physique also showed interest in what was happening, eternally oh so eager to betray his wish to stay unbothered.

“For fuck’s-” the choked curse got swallowed by the mightiest effort on his side as Neil took a steadying breath and asked, “Why?”

As if happy to punish him, Cupid laughed.

“Because it’s fun,” the unspoken duh made him both more annoyed and more bewitched by her, “I’ll let you work now, but…” as did the carrot dangled in front of his face like the sweetest of baits.

Always the idiot, Neil could not possibly ignore it.

“Yeah?” he could hear her take a deep breath as if steeling herself for a difficult admission.

“I’m glad we’ve met,” Cupid whispered the confession without as much as a pause between the words.

“Me too,” his reply got lost in the static as she hung up.

Letting out the breath he did not know he was holding, Neil lowered the phone onto the windowsill and stared at the city outside. Well then. The call would take a while to process; that was unquestionable.

“Aw, aren’t you two cute?” Ives’ teasing threw Neil out of that pleasantly fuzzy mind space with all the grace of an elephant.

He turned around with the glower at the ready. This time, he could not bite back the curse:

“Shut the fuck up,” on an afterthought, Neil added, “Please,” noticing the soldier open his mouth for a quip, he dropped his tone to a warning timbre. That called for a final caution, “Unless you want to start looking for a new physicist,” his glare slipped over the trio before Neil settled at the table and unfolded the blueprints without another word.

***

When that awaited text from Neil came, bearing the information that he was back in London and happy to meet you whenever you did not jump for joy. Definitely not. What you did do was grin and discuss the possible rendezvous immediately. When that Tuesday afternoon arrived, with the glory of a decent rehearsal and a good coffee in your paper cup, you happily bypassed the crowds at Green Park and skipped the steps down to the correct platform.

That twenty-minute walk to the station was a blessing, just as much as a curse. When Neil proposed the time you could meet on the train, you did not correct him about your location that day. Or that grabbing the Jubilee line would be entirely off the quickest route back home. You just accepted the time and place and ignored the voice at the back of your head reminding you that this was not how you usually behaved.

It could go fuck itself.

Once you settled on the platform, one glance at the watch told you the next train would be the right one. The strange giddiness sparked in your veins, but you blamed it on the three-week gap between the meetings. It was just that, nothing more. Obviously.

The autopilot carried you through the motions until you had boarded the carriage and came face to face with the cause of all this idiocy. Neil smiled, instantly clocking you before you had even placed both feet inside. It was impossible to keep your face neutral, returning the grin and manoeuvring around the commuters to sit next to him on the three plastic chairs facing the sliding doors.

Then, as if seized by insanity, you propelled your body forward with the arms coming up around Neil’s neck to embrace him tightly. His freeze took approximately twenty seconds to thaw as he returned the hug with equal strength. You could feel the warmth of his breath hitting the crook of your neck and making you fight back a shiver that would not do. Instead, you let yourself breathe him in, rest in the moment that was potentially a mistake. Still, you were not going to treat it like one. Not when the warmth of his hands seeped through the clothes as they rested on your waist.

When the lurch of the train reminded you of reality and all its flaws, you ruefully disentangled from Neil and met his wary gaze. His blue eyes scanned your face as if looking for clues towards the reasons for the madness you just allowed yourself. When that offered no answers, Neil broke the silence with a careful observation:

“I didn’t know that we’re doing hugs,” his impassive face offered no clues either, triggering a wave of uncertainty you had to smother.

Because what if you went too far? What if that was not what Neil wanted?

“We are now,” the confidence was missing from the statement, making you add a crucial question, “Is that okay?” you could hear the insecurity in your voice, betraying the worries.

They disappeared the moment Neil flashed you a smile, his hand lightly patting your knee as a complement to the simple reassurance:

“Sure is,” lowering his gaze to catch yours, Neil winked.

Thank fuck. It surely made life much easier. Or the plans you might or might have not made regarding him. Now that the crisis had passed, you shifted in the seat to find a more comfortable position and allowed yourself a selfish look, measuring him up as usual. The slight tan line revealed by the rolled-up sleeves confirmed what you did know about his disappearance. The minor tiredness in how he carried his body strengthened your guesses. The rest of him blinded you as always.

Especially the three buttons left undone, revealing a strip of his chest. And inspiring ungodly thoughts in your head. Ignoring that what could not be addressed. Especially not right now in a carriage full of people. You switched your attention to the other crucial topic. Everything was better than being arrested for public indecency. At least you did hope so.

“How was the trip?” you noted the shift in Neil’s posture.

How he strengthened in the seat, the mask back in place. Although his mystery had fallen into the background over the acceleration of your dynamic, it was still very much present. You had to figure him out. Had to crack the case. Even if it killed you.

For now, though, simply asking mundane questions had to be enough.

“Well… it was fine. The usual” the answer did not help much, however.

Neil looked as if he knew how enigmatic it sounded but could not do anything about it. Upon your questioning look, he only shrugged and offered no further details. This time, you could not let the moment pass without a comment. You rolled your eyes, a frustrated huff interrupting the silence with petulance:

“God, you couldn’t be any less mysterious if you tried,” although anger was not one of the present emotions, you knew Neil would understand the message as you glared at him without heat.

He winced as if admitting to the guilt you hinted at and turned to you with a more open expression on his face:

“Sorry, it’s uh… maybe one day,” Neil met your gaze meaningfully, making you keener to believe him.

You held his gaze for a beat, even if only to have an excuse to look into his eyes and see Neil without the veil of pretence. It was easy to hope one day he would tell you more. That there was one day, somewhere along the line, waiting for you. That whatever was happening would not burn to a cinder in two weeks and leave you bereft. As things like this tended to do.

“I’ll hold you to that,” before breaking the eye contact, you reached for his hand.

It was another insane reflex that was difficult to explain, even to yourself. Yet, still, Neil went willingly. His long fingers tangled with yours without resistance and allowed you to rest your joined palms between the seats, almost like a beacon to whoever was curious about your meeting. And you could see the nosy stares, the inquisitive grandmas eager to judge and label everything and everyone existing within their vicinity.

You used the warmth of your connected hands to anchor you in the present as Neil asked:

“How’s the imposter syndrome? Did it fuck off at last?” the softness in his eyes could undoubtedly be fatal.

As was the way he knew what to ask and hit the jackpot without even trying. Because, of course, the feeling of not being good enough did not disappear. Of course, you still got up every morning with the vague desire to approach the ballet director and tell her you are giving up. That you cannot do this. It almost seemed like Neil could sense your thoughts.

Which was both terrifying and appealing, if you were to be honest. It would make your job easier if he knew exactly what you were thinking. About him.

“I wish,” the suffering sigh was a cheap trick, but viable in your books, “I still think I’m going to embarrass myself, but well,” not willing to give up the comfortable weight of his hand in yours, you offered Neil a one-sided shrug “Can’t exactly capitulate now” the desperate edge to that sentence did not escape his attention.

Sure, you would not actually give up, but that did not mean you were not half-heartedly wishing it happened anyway. Ideally, in the form of someone else doing the job for you. Pathetic, innit?

Neil squeezed your hand, capturing your attention without needing to try at all. The frown was still present on your face, its force turning the corners of your mouth downwards. As always, Neil seemed to see through all that you were not saying. He met your gaze (which was a feat considering you were happy to look anywhere but at him) and spoke:

“I wouldn’t let you,” there was an edge to his voice, a steely resolve that told you the conversation was gaining another layer.

A different destination to the one you had expected at first. Although, with how your chats recently played out, it was to be anticipated. Probably.

Without giving yourself the time to overthink, you leaned closer to Neil and placed a hand on his thigh. You could see his eyes widen upon the move, the pupils blowing up in the quickest form of flattery a man could give you. Sharpening your smile to the perfectly saccharine variant, you delivered the prepared lines:

“Oh yeah?” his thigh muscles tensed underneath your hand as Neil’s mouth fell agape without him being fully in control of the reaction. It was adorable. And an ideally ripe ground to lay the final strike, “You’d force me? Have your way with me?” the sparks in his eyes were a pretty addition to the already gorgeous picture.

At that moment, you knew that you had missed this. No texting could ever replace the real thing. The back and forth with the arresting strength of his eye contact and the unpredictable suspense of what would come next. Like the sudden softening of Neil’s features and an unexpectedly tentative counter to your bold questions:

“If you’d let me,” he swallowed hard as if desperately trying to get rid of the thoughts in his head and simultaneously unable to shake them off.

As if ripping the thread connecting him to you and shortening it at an alarming rate was causing Neil physical pain. The revelation acted like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your palm. It was difficult to shrug it off as if it was nothing. It nagged and prodded until you could do nothing but stare dumbly at him, feeling every passing second like a wasted beat of time you would never get back.

Before you could get your shit together in any way, it was too late. Neil had already jumped to conclusions, as you worried he might. His brows furrowed as his teeth nibbled on the chapped bottom lip in a familiar nervous tic. Slowly, as if navigating a mined battlefield, he shifted in the seat, widening the space between you by a fraction. You noticed it anyway.

“You don’t mind that this sort of thing keeps happening?” the question was completed with a vague gesture, slashing the air between you awkwardly.

The inflexion offered no space for doubt. Neil concluded that you very much did mind. That somehow you were not an active and eager participant in the heavy flirting and mutual teasing. Neil was an idiot.

And you had to put that point across instantly.

“Why would I mind?” without thinking, you let your fingers repeatedly stroke his forearm as you leaned back into his orbit to confess what ought to have been obvious, “I mean every word I say to you. Including all that post-Watershed talk” it was delightful to see your favourite smile disrupt his frown.

At the same time, it was nice to have it out in the open, no longer unsaid and implied. Because you did mean it. And you did want it. Whatever Neil would offer, be it a friendship or more. The choice was his.

You could pinpoint when the weight lifted off his shoulders and let him breathe deeper. You stared as Neil absorbed and processed the information, his blue eyes showing a spectrum of emotions. Some were unreadable. Other more obvious, like the devilish sparks that always guaranteed the conversation would take a curious turn. Or the cautious hope, making him look so much younger and innocent. Your unoccupied hand itched with the desire to brush his golden locks from his forehead, so you tightened it into a fist hidden in the coat pocket.

Just like you hid everything that had no place in your life.

At the periphery of your attention, you could register the called stations. Or the fact that your stop was mercilessly getting closer. Only one question could make you forget the reality altogether:

“So, what would you do if I kissed you?” when Neil asked, you were glad you had never forced yourself to look away from him.

That hesitant hope was still there, lightening up his eyes. You let it pull you in, as there was no need to search your heart for an answer. It was fair to assume Neil knew that, too. The question was only a preliminary. But it was still admirable he asked. People rarely did.

You shrugged, highlighting the evident conclusion he hopefully had already reached. It would have been easy to close the gap and let that be the answer. Too easy. It was enough that you could hardly ever look away from him, constantly drawn and arrested by his eyes.

Forcing yourself to break the spell, you met his gaze and offered him an impassive smile. If only to keep up the façade for a little longer.

“There’s only one way to find out, Neil,” you hoped that was enough, that he would understand the ball was back in his court to do as he pleased.

You also hoped Neil came to the right solution. Sadly, that did not seem to come to be just yet. One glance outside the window alarmed you about the surroundings and that you were arriving at your station. The frown twisted your mouth downwards as you risked a glance at Neil. The disappointment in his eyes told you he already caught up.

Two choices were waiting at your disposal. You could either stay, miss your stop to find out what would happen next. Or you could choose cowardice and leave the carriage, delaying the fateful moment a little longer. Definitely not forever.

It was hard to say why you chose the second option. Why you stood up without as much as a look at Neil and feigned a cheery farewell that felt foreign on your tongue. Later, you were keen to pretend it was just the influence of the moment. A sudden spell of insanity.

“Oops, that’s me. See you soon,” it was a miracle that you did not trip in the haste to get out.

You barely registered the surroundings as you bolted towards the sliding door and stepped onto the platform, missing the gap by mere millimetres. It was pure luck that you did not walk into any poor soul as you attempted to get away from the train as fast as possible.

You did not get the time to flee. All because you did not consider one thing – Neil had a choice, too.

When you felt a hand take yours and pull you back, there was that split second of panic. Your disoriented mind rapidly flicked through at least ten different disastrous scenarios, starting at a random appearance of Liam and ending at a violent assault you were about to be subjected to. Only then, at the very end, your brain pushed forward another observation. There was something familiar about that handhold.

Before you had a second to follow that thought, the interrupter pulled at your hand, making you whirl around to face them. Your widened gaze fell upon the undone tortoiseshell shirt buttons and wandered up the neck to land on Neil’s blue eyes, patiently staring back at you. It took you another second to understand what happened. And another one to begin processing what it could mean. Why he did it.

Without being aware of the movement of your body, you stepped closer to Neil, tightening the bubble you both had created in the middle of the platform. People bypassed you as they rushed to the train with the beeping doors hastening their steps. But that hardly mattered. It was just white noise. Unimportant and ignorable.

Unlike Neil, who closed the gap between your bodies to mere millimetres, and wordlessly repeated the question from before. The answer did not change. You offered him a tiny nod, not feeling the need to speak. The surrealism of the moment could not be labelled anyhow.

From the second you had tasted Neil’s lips, you knew it would not be something you could forget. That the feel of him would burn into the cortex of your brain and stay there to haunt you for eternity. You were right.

Your eyes snapped shut as soon as he closed the distance and covered your mouth with his in a soft kiss. His gentle and pliant lips caressed yours attentively without effort, making you cling even closer to him. Your arms came around Neil’s neck as your fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck. It took another second, a blissful beat of existence, to make you kiss him back. Just as carefully. Just like you never kissed anyone before.

Neil’s relief came through in a short gasp, let out into your opening mouth, and the warm weight of his palms came up to rest on your waist beneath the open coat. Following the logic you did not understand, you tilted your head and allowed his prying tongue to lick into your mouth. The liquid heat traversed your veins, warming up your skin as Neil took his time to map out the inside of your mouth. Suddenly, the instant connection you felt made sense. Things clicked into place as you breathed the taste of him and breathed out the uncertainty. It felt right. Good. Unforgettable, even.

It felt like no first kisses and endless one-night stands ever did. And that made no sense.

Soon, that first kiss evolved into another and then the next. The platform, the people and the noise faded into the background as you swapped kisses, barely interrupted by quiet groans and swallowed gasps. On its own accord, your hand ventured up to tangle in his hair, grabbing a fistful of the golden locks and tugging in time with a particularly hungry nip taken out of Neil’s bottom lip. The reward of a barely stifled moan was more than worth it.

As was how Neil held you close and returned your kisses with equal zeal. He matched your energy and pushed you further until the remaining part of your conscience worried about being arrested for public indecency.

When the burn of your lungs excelled that of your soul, you placed a palm over the centre of his chest and pushed Neil back. Just a fraction. Just to catch your breath. His answering whine felt like another spark of pride, making your eyes glow with self-satisfaction. That was better than any other form of gratification you could think of.

When you finally forced yourself to blink your eyes open and look at Neil, you were met with kiss-bruised lips and darkened blue eyes, showing nothing else but hunger. At least ten increasingly ridiculous religious metaphors battled for leadership in your mind, but you pushed them all aside. The most accurate comment went to two simple words, pushed forward by the strength of your soul’s crudeness. Fucking hell. In the best of meanings, that is.

Following deeply rooted instincts, your tongue darted out to thoroughly trace the expanse of your bottom lip. And get remains of his taste, that you had already started missing. As far as kisses had gone, this one was pretty damn spectacular.

Neil seemed frozen, his eyes fixed on your mouth as if that was the only thing he could do. Admittedly, it was adorable. Yet, still, you decided to break the spell, the only way you could think of:

“I think your train has left,” you glanced over his shoulder, noting the expectedly empty platform.

Only now, when the haze of the kiss (or rather a whole make-out session) had begun to lift, you could understand what had transpired. And that Neil was keen to delay his return home for the price of a kiss. Or for the hope of a kiss, for clearly, he did not think he would get that far. Idiot.

You could see it now, back on his face. The slight disorientation and confusion suggested Neil could barely believe that what just happened was real. He blinked twice, then again, as if forcing himself to wake up and met your gaze with wide eyes. Without thinking, you allowed the hand you had pressed flat to his chest to venture up, stopping when your fingers started grazing over his neck. That was the trigger Neil needed to return to reality. He seized your adventurous fingers in a loose hold and placed your joined hands back over his heart. You could feel it racing.

“I’ll wait for the next one,” Neil offered you a half-smile, the uncertainty shining through the tentative joy in his eyes.

It was not something you were used to. Usually, after a kiss like that (never even preceded with a question, because who the fuck still asked for kisses?), you only ever got smugness. And an attempt at a smooth transition to sex, which did or did not succeed, depending on the participating party). Never uncertainty. Never shyness. Never contentment with what happened without pushing you for more.

You didn’t know what to do with any of it.

“No regrets?” the question was also one that you never asked before.

Not after something as trivial as a first kiss. But then, nothing was the way it usually went with Neil. That much was quite clear.

“Not really. You?” as if sensing your growing uncertainty, Neil did not hesitate before answering the question.

He squeezed your fingers, still wrapped in his palm and met your gaze with something almost resembling confidence. Somehow, that was enough. You took a fortifying breath to gather courage and discard the doubts. There would be more than enough time to deal with them later. Hopefully.

For now, there were other things to do and say. Like answering Neil’s question and reclaiming the conversation from its sombre paths. Especially since no cell in your body regretted the kiss. Or any other thing you had ever said or hinted at to him. It is just that somehow, somewhere along the line, your normal confidence had been wiped off the table. And it felt like it was never to be seen again. Not like before.

You hoped to ignore that bit of revelation, too.

“Nope. I’d offer a coffee at mine, but… I think some things need a better build-up,” you hoped the chaos in your head was not easily seen as you dropped the line with an attempt at the usual smoothness and met Neil’s eyes with remaining poise.

You meant that, too. A part of you, the same that had difficulties ending the kiss, wanted to continue it wherever it may lead you. You were quite sure you knew where it was going. And you certainly wanted that. But, at the same time, rushing into it seemed… wrong. As if the fact that you also wanted to be friends with Neil needed a little more respect. A little more time.

You could tell he understood from the way Neil nodded, his eyes still blown out by the darkened pupils.

“Agreed,” he shook his head slightly as if trying to clear it before glancing at the timing screen over your heads. Whatever the impact those 7 minutes of waiting had, the next thing Neil did was to heave a sigh and set his weary eyes on you, “Actually, I might walk back home. Should probably clear my head,” a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Without overthinking the act, you seized his hand and started for the stairs. Just because you were not yet taking him home did not mean you could not drag out the goodbye. Right?

Right.

***

Although the kiss was not forgotten and only added to the general restlessness, you never mentioned it again. It was another layer added to the sprinkled, complex mess that was your relationship. A tiered cake that had so many flavours it was impossible to label it using a concise, less than five-word description. It just did not get discussed.

That was both a blessing and a curse, considering that with mere days left till the public Don Quixote premiere you could barely handle one type of stress and uncertainty. Let alone two. The reality check deadline crept up on you without warning, catching you pacing the flat for over an hour the evening before the official pre-premiere. The event always happened at least a night before the opening soiree and was reserved for the press, Royal Ballet directory and special guests of honour. It also meant that every detail of the performance had to be up to par if one wanted to continue advancing the career in the company. Which you did want. Desperately. It was just bloody unfortunate that the usual insanity of anxiety now was interlaced with something else.

Something that made you stop the pacing and pick up the phone only to open the messages and stare at the text conversation with Neil. It had been a few hours, and considering the 9 pm on the clock, you had a fair right to believe that he might be asleep. Maybe. But that could hardly deter the part of your brain that tended to get ahead of itself. Especially fuelled by stress and anxiety.

Without letting yourself falter, you typed the question:

/ 🏹, 9:04 pm/ Are you still up?

Luckily, you only had to hold your breath for an answer (or a lack of it) for less than 5 minutes. For that, your lungs were eternally thankful.

/✝️, 9:08 pm/ Is this the moment you ask me for dick pics?

A ridiculous guffaw broke the silence of your flat, along with that necessary intake of oxygen. Conversations like those still happened daily and only increased the want you could not get rid of if you tried.

And you didn’t try. There was no point to it.

/ 🏹, 9:09 pm/ Nah. Not yet.

You were having fun, chatting the shit on the daily with someone who seemed more than eager to keep the ball going. That was partially why you reached out on a whim, desperate to get out of the flat even for a little while. After all, asking Neil offered a fifty-fifty chance of an entertaining evening. All other intentions did not have to be disclosed. Even in your mind.

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ That’s a relief.

/✝️, 9:10 pm/ How can I be of service, my lady?

/ 🏹, 9:11 pm/ You’ve no idea, babe.

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ I was thinking of going to the dance studio, that’s open till midnight. Do you want to come?

/ 🏹, 9:12 pm/ You’ve said you wanted to see me dance so…

After sending the third message, you put down the phone and exhaled. That nervousness residing in your bones was new. It was almost as if it mattered what Neil’s answer would be. As if you cared whether he would say yes to the tentative proposition. None of that had ever happened before.

The urge to faceplant into the pillow was derailed by the buzz of an incoming message. With embarrassing speed of reaction, you read the texts:

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ Happily.

/✝️, 9:15 pm/ When and where do we meet?

You grinned. As you copied and pasted the location pin into the message, you could already feel a different type of nervousness enter your system. It was time for Neil to see you dance. You would also see him for the first time since the kiss. It was high time someone covered this topic on wikiHow. Or, at least, you thought so.

***

Although the Royal Ballet had more than good enough facilities at the Covent Garden building, the company could also use a studio by the Southwark Underground Station whenever you felt like it. Conveniently, that alternative place was open till midnight on weeknights, offering a one-in-a-million chance to run over the choreography for a billion times more before the pre-premiere. Without an audience of your fellow ballet dancers and their critical eyes, at that.

The other perk to the external studio was that nothing stopped you from bringing someone from the outside along. Nothing except for maybe the deeply rooted fear of showing Neil what you could do. Or couldn’t do.

That fear had not left through the Uber drive from your flat, growing in force from the moment you set your eyes upon Neil waiting outside the studio with a smile on his face. You exchanged the usual niceties, bypassing the awkward tint to the interaction with an avoided hug and nonsensical commentary from your side.

The nerves seemed to reach the peak as you left Neil in the main ballet studio room, the space lit up sparsely to maintain the strangely surreal atmosphere of those late autumn nights in London when nothing seems to be tangible and real. Having left the house in a pre-planned rehearsal outfit, you only took off the unnecessary layers, leaving you in a simple bodice and a wrap mid-thigh skirt and pulled on the woollen leg warmers to keep the chill at bay.

Luckily for your racing heart, the ritual of putting on and lacing up the pointe shoes always did its magic, allowing you to centre yourself and take a couple of deep breaths. Until there was nothing left but to march out of the changing room and connect your phone to the speaker, the right track ready for you to press play.

But before you could go that far, you made the mistake of locating Neil in the room. He had settled on the floor opposite you, his back pressed to the mirror-covered walls of the studio. He stared as you entered the invisible stage and offered you an encouraging smile. A slow, gentle warm-up was a valid opportunity to falter. A necessary step you had to take while also admitting that it was convenient. Although, Neil’s attentive gaze following your every move was much less convenient.

Once you had run out of all other options, you started the music, put down the phone and took up position. Desperate to rehearse as much as possible, you chose to go through the entire dream sequence at the end of Act 2. As always, the Minkus score did its magic, helping you settle into the movement and almost forget about everything else.

You followed the steps with practised ease, hearing the dull thud of pointe shoes hitting the hardwood floors with each landing between the orchestral notes. When the cue to finish was near you were almost out of breath. The pearls of sweat clung to your temples as the sweetness of exertion burned through your muscles and tendons. When those final notes rang off in the quiet studio, you held the finishing pose and waited for the music to end. The resulting silence was deafening.

Slowly, as if pained to do it, you opened your eyes. Neil was right where you had left him; his gaze seemingly never trailed away. But the exact look on his face was different. Instead of the ease and unbothered nonchalance he tried to emit earlier, Neil was now speechless. Dazed. His mouth was still agape, and he had to remind himself to close it before swallowing hard. You tried your hardest not to let that get into your head. You failed.

“So… what do you think?” unable to keep quiet for much longer, you released the question into the ether with a permanent frown and a minimal level of conviction.

It seemed to be what Neil needed to wake up from the stupor. He shifted, pulled up his knees to his chin and eyed you with a bright gaze. The desire to look away rose with every minute, but you tried to endure it. Somehow.

“You’re brilliant. Do you know that?” the matter-of-fact tone threw you off kilter, bringing out an automatic (albeit manic) grin from its hiding back onto your face.

Neil mirrored the expression instantly, only widening your smile in the process. Feeling the need to move again, you flexed your calves, completing a set of rapid changements. Only once that was done you could attempt to answer the question.

“Maybe,” you shrugged, unwilling to stray onto that sort of honest territory just yet, “It doesn’t hurt to hear it again, though,” unable to ignore that one voice at the back of your head that had not been convinced, you asked, “Was it actually… good?” the emphasis on the word was automatic.

You could tell Neil saw right through your faux nonchalance as he smiled, a different type of fondness shining in his eyes. That, too, was best left alone for now. The observation was shelved among others of its kind in the darkest cavern of your brain. Ideally left alone for good, never to be touched or thought of again. Just in case.

Neil’s gaze never strayed from yours as he offered you an answer without a hint of exasperation:

“As far as my virgin eyes could tell, it was perfect,” the corner of his mouth rose in the makings of a familiar smirk.

It eradicated any illusions that he did not know what he was saying. Or the effect the sentence would have. You closed your eyes against the sight, hopelessly willing the inconvenient feelings to disappear.

By now, it was painfully clear that Neil could be a bastard when he wanted to. It was just another thing that you liked about him. Perhaps too much.

For a second, you debated following the easy way out he had offered. It would have been effortless to take up the tone and turn the conversation into yet another pleasant back-and-forth that could potentially lead you past the talking. Past that one kiss, that had lowkey driven you insane with the promise of potential.

But the doubts were still there. They still clouded your mind like a flock of hungry birds of prey hunting for a bite of flesh. And Neil was the only person you could talk to and know he would listen. That he would care. For some reason, it was a crucial thing to share. An important topic to raise. Here and now.

“Allow me to ignore that double entendre potential for a second,” your apologetic frown was accepted with a subtle nod and meaningful glance.

“You’re excused, Cupid,” Neil grinned, evidently taking pleasure from the nickname you became fond of.

Especially because it was him, who bestowed it on you.

“Thank you,” shaking off the sudden rush of affection, you completed the gratitude with a cheeky addition, returning Neil’s smirk, “Sir,” only once noted his answering blush, it was safe to delve into what you really wanted to tell him. You took a deep breath, completing half a pirouette to face the mirrors on the wall and asked, “Do you ever feel like you’re just constantly pretending? Like the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ deal, except you never stop faking it?” training your gaze on the hardwood floors, you stared at the tips of your pointe shoes.

The worn-out, ragged edges caught your attention for a split second. You took a mental note to break in the brand-new pair and prepare them for tomorrow’s show. On the periphery of your vision, you could see Neil’s reflection. You could feel him staring, the intense gazing boring holes in the back of your head. But not even that could make you turn and face him.

“Pretty much every day,” Neil’s reply made you look up, meeting his eyes in the reflection. That was not an answer you had expected, “I’ve found that sometimes, if you’re lucky, all that pretending can fool the brain, too,” he signed off the addition with another reassuring smile.

Still, the scepticism reigned free as an unbidden scoff tore from your throat, forcing you to swallow down the sudden desire to retreat from the conversation. Years of practice did not seem to share Neil’s thesis. Things never got easier. You doubted they ever would.

“I’d hope so. Except that, I’m not sure I am that lucky,” that was a given, an undeniable fact of life like the laws of physics or the ignorance of the Tories. Unchangeable. The familiar wave of frustration threatened to pull you down as you allowed the insecurities to speak their part,“I may appear as a fucking cool cat, confident and all, but… I’m not,” hearing the broken note in your voice, you swallowed hard, unable to look at Neil anymore. There was only one final thing to add, “And I wish I could be,”

There. The curtain has fallen, revealing the truth underneath. Now, it was clear Neil had no illusions left about you. No reason to think of you highly. Somehow, you felt lighter. Sure, still unable to meet his gaze, even in the reflection, but it was better that way. Now, when you did disappoint him somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, it would be much less surprising.

You had no doubts whether that moment of disappointment would happen. It always did.

“You have every right to be. Because you are” when Neil spoke, at first, you did not register it. His words flew right over your head before being caught by your heart, desperate to find anything to hold on to. Only then did you hear what he said. You looked up in time to see the remains of the fading blush on his cheeks, “If that even makes sense,” he shook his head slightly as if scolding himself over the awkward reassurance and stood up. The tense shoulders betrayed the lightness he still tried to emit, “Trust me when I say I feel useless and stupid every minute of every day,” the weariness in his voice clashed with the disbelief you felt when hearing what he said.

That made no sense. The turmoil made you turn around in a half-pirouette and face Neil with wide eyes and mouth agape. Your brain was experiencing severe computing issues, the smoke almost sizzling out through your open lips.

He was none of those things. You barely resisted the urge to close the miles between you and shake him by the shoulders, all the while screaming at him to stop saying such bullshit. You did not do any of those things.

“But you’re… you,” instead, you gestured vaguely towards him, armed with words that were not enough.

No words seemed to be apt to describe him. Neil was just… impossible. Ineffable in his wonderfulness. Much better than anyone you had ever known. But that was something you could not say. Not now.

“In my books, that’s not necessarily a good thing,” Neil glanced at you with tired eyes, kicking around at nothing as he slid across the parquet in his socks.

When you entered the studio, he started unlacing his shoes before you could protest. Said something about not wanting the cleaner to have more work. The comment made you smile too brightly before you excused yourself into the changing room and hid your face in the palms of your hands. That state didn’t seem to have passed.

In an effort not to do anything stupid, you backed away till you could feel the barre against your back. Only then you met his searching gaze and made sure to show Neil the extent of earnestness on your face:

“It is. I’ve never met anyone like you, Neil,” the admission was met with a surprised double-take, so you decided to soften the tone with a stupid addition, “The hottest priest in London and whatnot,” you did mean that one, too.

Neil’s huff of laughter felt like a dodged bullet.

“Funny,” the bright sparks in his eyes confirmed the praise with doubled force, making you turn back towards the mirror to avoid being blinded by the strength of his affection. That stuff could be dangerous, “You’re the hottest ballerina in London, so we’re even,” once you registered Neil’s words, the silky tone of his voice that had not been there just a second ago, you knew that trouble was coming.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him close the gap. The warmth settled in your cheeks as you felt the comfortable heat spread around your body. That pleasant anticipation ignited in your bones with every step Neil took. Somewhere, at the edges of reason and logic, you knew you still had a choice. You knew that whatever he had envisioned in his mind, could easily be stopped with one word from your side. What was the problem?

Mainly that you didn’t want him to stop. Did not want to cut short the moment slowly blooming into something crucial. You could feel it buzz beneath your skin as Neil took the final steps towards you and leaned in. His hands came to rest upon the barre, millimetres from yours. Not quite touching but enough so you could not ignore his presence. You could feel the heat from his body as Neil pressed his chest to your back and whispered into your ear:

“A cool cat,” in normal circumstances, the call-back to your rant would have made you laugh.

But those weren’t normal circumstances. Not with Neil’s proximity, his hands slowly tracing invisible lines up your arms. You could feel his breath on the nape of your neck, creating goosebumps effortlessly. And the thing was – this wasn’t anything new. It was far from the first time someone had done this. Far from the first time you had been tempted by someone who desired you. But it was the first time they seemed to take their time for it.

Your head felt dizzy with the revelation as Neil’s fingers lightly brushed the neckline of your bodice and journeyed down. It was a first in the fact that he did not even try touching your breasts, instead respectfully settling over your ribs and tapping a vague rhythm over your heated skin. Without searching your heart, you knew that you did not mind it. Not one bit.

You covered one of his palms with yours, firmly pressing it against your waist and raised your head to seek Neil’s gaze. He was already looking back at you, the blue eyes of his eyes dark and consumed with something you wanted to call hunger. The same feeling could be easily found on your face.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” you frowned at the hoarseness of your voice and the breathless tint to the question.

For the first time, it was impossible to fake your reaction. Impossible to pretend you were not affected. Neil’s answering smile, full of confidence and mischief, made that discovery seem fine. Not troubling at all.

“Is it working?” the warmth in his eyes made you feel safe, not threatened by the potential of what could happen.

Not viable to the pains of consequences. That seemed enough.

Enough to make you gently tug at his hand, asking for the freedom of movement to turn around and face him. Only then, with Neil’s curious gaze beaming down on you like a desirable spotlight, you placed his palm back on your waist and offered an honest reply:

“I think you already know,” as proof, you picked up his other hand and guided it to press against your chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat.

The wolfish grin you received in return was worth any leftover sense of shame and embarrassment. Neil leaned in, and just as you were about to close your eyes, awaiting another life-changing kiss, he left a promising peck on the edge of your jaw. On its own accord, your hand tightened over the wooden railing as you exposed your throat for his use.

Neil wasted no time leaving a trail of kisses down the slope of your neck, only just being careful enough not to leave marks. Each kiss felt like a hot poker pressed against the tender skin of your neck, blazing hot and impossible to shake off. You closed your eyes, letting the sense take in the sensation of his tender care. Of the contrasting burn of stubble, scratching at your skin with a delicious sting.

Every kiss took time, only then to be sealed with a lick of his tongue, eliciting your quiet gasps and barely kept in groans of pleasure. The wave of insanity rose, threatening to take over your brain, save for one consistent thought. One revelation.

No one had cared this much before.

Letting go of his hand, you tangled your fingers in his golden strands, lightly tugging to gain his attention. The answering groan was sure to enter the library of sounds and images you liked to relieve in private. But before you could attempt to formulate the desire painted across your face, the door to the studio creaked, disrupting the silence.

You gasped in shock as Neil took half a step back, warily eyeing the doorway. A thousand curses lodged themselves in your throat as a silhouette of an older man, armed with a bucket and a mop, peered inside the room with a scowl. Fucking Rich, the Janitor.

The older man scanned you both from head to toe and sighed.

“It’s closing time, kids. Go home,” his gravelly voice acted like the much-needed bucket of cold water.

As he turned back towards the darkness of the corridor, you met Neil’s eyes. The depths of exasperation visible there told you this business was far from over. You certainly hoped so.

[orionsangel86]

Subtext Glorious Subtext! A Dreamling on Netflix analysis in The Sandman - Part 1

A Walk With Death

In order to make the story flow better, the show moved Men of Good Fortune forward so that it takes place directly after The Sound of Her Wings. This choice was brilliant for several reasons, and I already talked about that extensively in this post. The Sound of Her Wings comes at a point where Dream feels lost and without purpose, and his sister shows him the value in his role, and in hers, and reminds him of the beauty of humanity, and how to love it again. Then as Tom Sturridge has been quoted as saying, Dream realised that if he could feel so much for the people he met so fleetingly at the moment of their deaths, what did he feel for the man he had known for 600 years?

To help bridge the two separate issues into one episode of television, we get some new short conversations between Death and Dream that don’t occur at all in the comics, where Death asked Dream about Hob.

Death: “...And then there’s your ongoing project. How’s he bearing up after all this time?”

Dream: “Who? Hob Gadling? I don’t know I was forced to miss our last appointment.”

Death: “Well I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

They briefly speak of him again before they part when Dream says:

Dream: “I too am late for an appointment.”

Death: “Tell him I said hello.”

Whilst these exchanges seem minor, and are added to make the episode flow better, Death implies two things here that are non existent in the comics - 1. That she keeps tabs on Hob, or at least has her own assumptions about the nature of his and Dream’s relationship, given the emphasis she puts into the word “love”. 2. That she believes Dream tells Hob about his family, or at least her, and if he doesn’t, that he should.

In the comics, Dream never reveals who he is to Hob, and Hob only really figures it out during the Wake and then after when talking to Death. Hob is a character who is usually isolated from the main storyline. He doesn’t interact with anyone else other than Dream until his conversation with Death in the Wake, other than the one off story in World’s End told from Jim’s POV (Which I have written about separately here where I consider how Hob's relationship with Jim has the potential to add him to the long list of canonically queer characters in the Sandman TV show.)

In the show, Death telling Dream to tell Hob that she said hello gives some prompt that this Dream, in the show, should be revealling who he is AND telling Hob about his sister. Whether he does or not remains a mystery, but the implication is there. It puts an expectation in the minds of the audience, one that comic readers wouldn’t have. There is a prompt for audiences to imagine how Dream and Hob’s reunion should go, and that it should include him revealling himself and telling Hob about his sister. It ultimately encourages the audience to expect Hob and Dream to be closer automatically than they ever are in the comics.

Return to the White Horse

I could wax poetic about Tom Sturridge’s micro expressions as Dream, but there is already a really nice post from @mimisempai​ about his expressions in his scenes with Hob here which I love. When Dream first leaves Death in the park and sets off to find Hob we follow him as he makes the surprisingly short walk from Richmond to Greenwich (lol, its a 4 hour walk, 1 hour drive, and 2 hours by train FYI - though funnily enough the New Inn is actually right by Richmond Park so Dream would have to walk all the way back there from the White Horse Tavern. But the London that exists in The Sandman is clearly a different place entirely!) It is a connector scene between two comic issues that I think give some lovely little insights into Dream's state of mind at the time.

In the comics, Dream meets with Hob after dealing with Hector and Lyta Hall, and it is his desire to meet with Hob that leads him to neglect Lyta and not explain anything to her fully. Ironically Dream wanting to repair his relationship with Hob in the comics is very partially to blame for the bad impression he leaves on Lyta, which ultimately ends in the whole mess in The Kindly Ones. There is no such connection between Hob and Dream's untimely end in the show (which is an interesting element given how the show swaps out comic!Dream's foreshadowed ending in The Kindly Ones in The Sound of Her Wings with his happy reunion with Hob as well.)

Instead, we get to see Dream walking nervously through the busy streets of London. He smiles awkwardly to the man in the doorway, an attempt at human interaction that he fails at spectacularly when the man recoils, simply because Dream is strange and offputting to normal humans (which makes Hob’s reaction to him later even more meaningful). His reaction to the school kids is to close in on himself, shrugging his shoulders and looking down, as if wishing he was invisible. All of these moments indicate how uncomfortable he is in this setting, and also possibly nervous at this appointment he is late for. All of these moments are added in contradiction to how comfortable he is with Hob at the end of this episode. Still so freshly free from his traumatic experience in the glass cage, having had nothing but cruel words and mistreatment from humans for over a century, it is clear he is still getting used to being out among them again now that his sister isn't a comfortable presence by his side. The music in this scene swells and adds anticipation. This is building to something important.

When he arrives at the White Horse we get that beautiful zoom in of his face as he realises the tavern has closed down. The shock and hurt and loss flickering across his face. At this point the audience still doesn’t know the meaning of this, but it is the emphasis that remains in mind as the scene changes and we get a different Dream, with a paler face, a sour expression, and a terrible hair cut. I love this transition because it makes it so clear how he has already changed. If the microexpressions weren’t obvious before, they are now. This is a different Dream, and one you don’t really want to meet. A Dream who hasn't been unconsciously building a friendship over 6 centuries. A Dream who thinks very little of the humans in his charge.

It is this Dream who first meets Hob Gadling, in 1389. Please read on to Part 2 to dig into that meeting. :)

[jatpfebfanfest]

ATTENTION JATP SECRET PHANTOMS!

Important Date Change!

I know everyone is looking forward to the gift exchange! Unfortunately, we will need to make one final date change for it.

The new date/time for the start of Gift Exchange will be March 3 8pm UTC/Greenwich Mean Time.

Looking forward to seeing what you all have come up with.

[fideidefenswhore]

Cromwell was suddenly in trouble. He had taken the lead in advocating a policy which the King now emphatically rejected, or which the King made all but impossible to achieve. His enemies were circling, principally Anne, who faulted him for vacating his Greenwich apartments in favour of the Seymours. In Anne's mind, Cromwell had become Henry's procurer, having already become Chapuys' confidante and dinner companion. This mysterious relationship (which included the exchange of expensive gifts) once provoked Anne to declare that she wished Cromwell's head off his shoulders. She viewed the minister's tilt toward the Emperor as an attack upon herself; and though she chose to play along, she knew that an Anglo-Imperial entente would leave her out in the cold. It may even have been she who persuaded Henry to scuttle the alliance. Moreover, Anne was not alone; she stood at the head of a court party. If she turned against him, the entire Boleyn faction would follow: her father, Wiltshire; her brother, Rochford; the Chamber minions Henry Norris and William Brereton; and Cranmer, the [Archbishop of Canterbury].

Thomas Cromwell: Machiavellian Statecraft and the English Reformation, Patrick Coby

[richwall101]

The Corn Exchange - Bristol UK

The Exchange is a Grade I listed building built in 1741–43 by John Wood the Elder, on Corn Street, near the junction with Broad Street in Bristol, England. It was previously used as a corn and general trade exchange but is now used as offices and it also accommodates St Nicholas Market.

The Exchange underwent major building work in 1872, including roofing over the courtyard, and again in the early 1900s when the City Valuer's Department moved to the building. Since World War II the external clock tower has been removed and the roof lowered.

Outside the building are four bronze pillar tables dating from the 16th and 17th centuries, known as "nails," at which merchants carried out their business. and from which the term 'Cash on the Nail" comes. At the front of the building is a clock showing both Greenwich Mean Time and "local time" before GMT became the national time across the country allowing the railway timetables to be rationalised

[snycock]

Weekly chat reminder

Please join us for the weekly TS chat on Saturday, January 11th, at 7 pm Greenwich Mean Time (GMT)/19:00 UTC. That could be as early as 11 am if you’re on the west coast of North America, or 2 pm if you’re on the east coast, or 7 pm in the UK, or early Sunday morning in Australia or New Zealand.

We’re in the usual place: http://us25.chatzy.com/81935648447483. There’s nothing to download or install, just choose a name and a color and click on “join chat.”

Our topic this week: What if TS was a musical? Which episodes would be good musical episodes? What songs would you want to hear the guys sing?

The holidays may be over, but you can still enjoy TS Secret Santa! Here’s where you can find all the Exchange stories and Drabble Day pieces: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2024_TheSentinel_Secret_Santa/collections

See you there!

[scotianostra]

On 7th May 1544 the Earl of Hertford who had landed an army at Leith days earlier, began what is known as The Burning of Edinburgh, marking the beginning of “The Rough Wooing”.

The Rough Wooing was an attempt the English made to force the marriage of King Henry VIII’S son Edward, to Mary, Queen of Scots.

This all started after Mary’s father James V lost the Battle of Solway Moss in November 1542. By all accounts there wasn’t a lot of bloodshed at the battle, the main outcome was over 100 “high value” prisoners were taken by the English, it was using these prisoners that Henry had a bargaining chip, but having said that the Scottish Reformation was now starting to gather pace and the Scots in general, well the nobility, were split into two factions, those loyal to the status quo and close ties with France i.e the Catholics, and those who wanted to forge closer relations with England, the Protestants.

James V had died within weeks of losing at Solway, and days after Mary Stewart was born, this left James Hamilton, Earl of Arran as Regent to the infant, Arran was initially all for this marriage and signed the Treaty of Greenwich in July 1543, which accorded a peace between the countries, Mary to marry Edward, it was also agreed that Arran’s son James would marry Princess Elizabeth, the daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn.

Even though, as I said, some Scots supported the treaty, the Scottish Parliament renounced the Treaty of Greenwich in December 1543. Add to the mmi Arran dramatically switching sides after a meeting with Cardinal David Beaton and him agreeing to a rival plan to send the Scots queen to France to marry the dauphin, Francis.

Well of course Henry VIII, nit a man with the best of temperaments was furious and declared war that same month.

The English landed at Grantor on May 3rd and were met with very little resistance as they marched took Leith and encamped there until heavy artillery arrived on the 5th on more English ships, these guns were to be used against Edinburgh's gates and the castle.

The main English force approached Edinburgh on May 6th and were met by the Provost Adam Otterburn and two heralds. Otterburn offered to give up the keys of the town on conditions. Hertford refused to accept as he had no authority to bargain. An English herald went to the Castle, and returned with the news that the Earl of Huntly and Lord Home had brought 2000 horsemen to defend the town.

Hertford ordered his artillery up to the Canongate to Edinburgh's Netherbow Port, the east gate into the city. During this operation some of the English gunners were killed small arms fire and archers exchanged blows, but after three or four rounds, the gate was breached and the English army stormed through killing 300 to 400 defenders. They attempted to set their heavy artillery around the area we know as the Lawnmarket, on the way to Castle Hill, but the Scottish cannons from the castle easily picked them off, with that Hertford ordered a tactical retreat. At the end of that day, the English retired from the town to their camp at Leith after starting a number of fires.

On 7th May, they returned to the city starting more fire-raising and looting, Lord Hertford and his companions wrote that they watched Edinburgh burn from a hill beside the town and could hear "women and poor miserable creatures" crying out and blaming the Cardinal(Beaton). This may have been English propaganda, but they were known to have sent pro-English agents instructed to spread the word that the invasion was solely the fault of Cardinal Beaton, who was accused of leading Arran astray. The aim was to ferment anti-catholic feeling and bolster the protestant faction.

Contemporary accounts suggest every building in the capital, including Holyrood Abbey and the palace, was burnt. Only the castle held out against the invaders. Scottish artillery within the Castle harassed the English forces, who had neither the time nor the resources to besiege the Castle, their ships were filled with looted goods at Leith and sailed south in two ships that had belonged to James V of Scotland.

The English army retreated over land, burning villages as it went, so although Edinburgh faired the worst many other towns and villages were destroyed, including Craigmillar Castle, Musselburgh, Kinghorn, Haddington, Tranent, Dunbar, St Monans, South Queensferry, a part of Pittenweem and Burntisland.

Although Edinburgh was not again threatened by the war, rebuilding was a slow process. New buildings were built on the exact site of their predecessors.

The Scots gained some revenge the following year at the battle of Ancrum Moor. An army led by Arran routed an English force, which had been marauding in the Borders. Mary was eventually sent to France in 1548, by this time the French had sent some troops over to help defend Leith, Arran with the backing of most of his nobles by this time, steadfastly refused to negotiate in any way.

A peace treaty between France and England in March 1550 effectively ended the conflict. A formal peace was agreed with Scotland the following year.

The phrase ‘Rough Wooing’ is thought to derive from a remark attributed to George Gordon, Earl of Huntly by Patrick Abercromby. “We liked not the manner of the wooing, and we could not stoop to being bullied into love.” This was popularised by the writings of Sir Walter Scott. By the mid-19th century the term had began to appear in history books, the conflict was originally known in Scotland as the Eight or Nine Year’s War.

[kafkaoftherubble]

看到别的《不灭》粉针对“长生不死”的看法，在下小感

// Some thoughts on Immortality vis-à-vis To Your Eternity

------------------

Why is there a (sometimes hidden) assumption that being immortal automatically means the following expectations:

being incredibly intelligent

hella knowledgeable

an expert generalist

"the one with the answer" in the entire group?

It's prevalent in pop culture which, I'm gonna guess, is a product of tons of fiction and myths that "say so."

But I think people take these assumptions for granted way too much and start to impose a universality that I don't think holds up to immortal characters who are human or possess human brains.

The qualifiers "human" and "possessing human brains" (or human cognition) are very important here. If this immortal is non-human, then this critique isn't aimed at them. Read on if you like, though.

The (human) brain is simply not an infinite memory space the way a computer database could theoretically be. Limitations are one of the most important factors that shape the course of a brain's evolution; hell, I once wrote a ramble regarding the difference between an AI's information processing vs. human cognition.

(Yes, it was outfitted with citations. Yes, it was completely unprompted and no one asked for it. At all. You may start to notice a pattern regarding me.)

Children generally get to learn and absorb as much information as they like with minimal cost until they're of a certain age, and then the pruning of neurons starts. The number of neurons we have is reduced because the brain now favors depth instead of breadth of knowledge. You cut off the things you don't actually need in your life to free new neurons for any domain that needs it.

This isn't just about memories. It's about things like your optical sense, your auditory sense, the whole shebang. Every part of your brain is constantly vying for free real estate to bolster its own domain; it's a relentless competition for neurons.

What does that mean?

It means even if you're immortal—so long as you're human or possess a human brain—you'll always be limited in your knowledge and skills. You can try to learn as many things as you want, but you're doing it at a cost, all the time.

Think about it. How well do you remember everything you've ever learned in school?

Do you remember the details of, say, the differing carbon pathways for C3 and C4 plants? Do you remember there are two kinds of mechanisms?

Do you remember how to calculate a region's longitude and latitude using their timezone via employing the Greenwich Meridian Line as a reference point, or a region of a known timezone?

Do you remember how to exchange inch to centimeter, or pound to kilogram, or Celsius to Fahrenheit, without using a converter?

How about recalling the detailed history of all four ancient civilizations and their ways of life: the Mesopotamian, the Egyptian, the Indus, and the Chinese?

So on, so forth. I don't know what everyone studied in their respective education system, but chances are, there is a lot of shit we have all "forgotten" even if we spent an inordinate amount of time committing them to memory back then. If you know the answer to any of these^ questions, then chances are you either just read/learn about them, or you regularly engage in this domain. Knowledge is never permanently stored in an individual's brain... because it can't. That's right; even skills and knowledge are not permanent in one's head. Impermanence, baby!

And that's my problem with the assumption of The All-Knowing Immortal.

While it's true that an immortal human has all the time in the world to study every knowledge humanity has accumulated as a whole, they can never have all knowledge at their fingertips, because at every acquisition of something new, they disregard what is judged to be unimportant and unnecessary by the brain to free up new neurons. There is always something the Immortal doesn't know—not because they have never heard of it, but because they have forgotten about it.

But surely immortality shapes someone such that they are different from a mortal being, right?

Correct! It does, and I think in at least two major ways:

(1) Expertise

Even a mortal being could gradually become an expert in one or—in the case of a polymath—various domains. Again, a mature brain favors depth instead of breadth. The more you practice, the more your neurons refine and develop, and the more skilled you become. That's how experts are created.

Since an Immortal has a lot more time (and with time comes resources and opportunities) to hone their skills in several domains, it stands that they will be incredibly expert in these domains over a long period.

The catch, though, is that they are only an expert in the domains they frequently engage in. It doesn't translate to being an expert in literally every other trade under the sun. It doesn't even mean they will become an instant expert after some light-reading about those trades because expertise ≠ genius. Some domains' knowledge may afford the Immortal an easier path to understanding related domains, but it still doesn't mean the Immortal is gonna be a pro and galaxy-brain at it without effort and cost.

(2) Experience

Experience is gained from how long one experiences life, so naturally, an Immortal is gonna have a lot of that. This is why I do agree that an Immortal should likely be one of the wisest in the group... but I don't think this rule should be universal to all immortal beings either.

What if an Immortal spent 40 years of their life in isolation, as a hermit, whose only occasional companion was a phantom-like observer who called them out anytime he felt like the Immortal was underwhelming?

The human brain's growth and learning depend on sociality. An isolated Immortal loses its most important source of learning, so of course, they would now be even less experienced than a poison-tasting woman who traveled around and recorded her adventures and knowledge in a book.

----

That's right. This post has always been about Fushi... because To Your Eternity was in the title of this ramble. Ha! Read the signpost before you enter next time, you dorks! I gotcha good!

While some criticisms against Fushi's suboptimal intelligence and knowledge are warranted (and even those that aren't warranted are still interesting arguments to think about), I think people's expectation of what an Immortal being should be has gotten in the way of them seeing/appreciating Fushi as a "different kind of Immortal."

Fushi's default form is a 14-year-old boy who, for the longest time, has been living alone. That's a boy who's been deprived of social learning for a long enough time that it might have caused some brain damage (technical). That's not counting the fact that a 14-year-old brain simply isn't mature and is easily overtaken by impulses. I'm of the hypothesis that Fushi's beholden to the form they take; the proof is in how, whenever they change into one, they begin to exhibit their attributes.

Fushi's saddled with quite a lot of trauma—in fact, their trauma starts almost immediately and constantly after they are active beyond being a piece of rock or moss. What's the second word they learn after "Arigatou?" Wasn't it 痛い ("it hurts")? All of that stuff can indirectly hamper their social learning.

Fushi's base Nameless Boy form may also just be... well, not good at social learning. Or, Fushi themself isn't good at it. In other words, Fushi might just be... autistic. Bit of a headcanon there, though.

That's not all. While Fushi might have chosen to read a ton of books and whatnot, what do you think their interest will be? I don't think it's science, or politics, or philosophy, or looksmaxxing—the point is, they choose their own domains to engage in.

And even if they had read things like, I don't know, Trigonometry and Beauty or The Philosophy of Algebra or Sun Tzu's Art of War—my previous point about how knowledge can still be forgotten when those neurons fall into disuse still apply. And that's if Fushi was paying attention to what they were reading in the first place, because if you're not attentive, then good luck encoding things into your long-term memory effectively.

------

So what does all of this amount to?

Well, it means one may think Fushi is a dull-witted Immortal,...

...or think Fushi is a different kind of Immortal.

An Immortal that isn't as common a depiction as most others we knew in pop culture, to boot. Stil, they exhibit the two things Immortals should possess in abundance compared to a mortal being.

Firstly, they display expertise in wielding their powers (they are actually a very competent fighter come the Modern Arc and the Future Arc when they want to be). They are skilled at cooking and are generally the best at remembering the quirks, characteristics, and inclinations of every person they know well enough.

Why? Because these are the domains they engage in all the time.

Secondly, they exhibit an abundance of experience accumulated through their long lives. But here's the twist that I adore To Your Eternity for:

While the experience of an Immortal is usually depicted as a net benefit that shapes that Immortal into becoming wise, Fushi's abundance of experience as an Immortal is sometimes detrimental to them.

I'm talking, of course, about trauma as one of the main components of their experience.

We've discussed previously that Fushi's growth might have been hampered by the sheer trauma they had undergone at the start of the story. But here's the thing: their experience since then didn't exactly improve all the time. The grueling trial that was The Assault on Renril? Their previous attempts at fighting back Nokkers with varying results? Being stuck in a molten iron Prison Gate oh wow it's like Gojo ohmygod cube? Kahaku? You can list them yourself.

Even as normal human beings with limited timespan, we often find our own less-than-savory experience—including trauma—debilitating or even unbearable. Now imagine being an Immortal who keeps collecting experiences like these. Imagine yourself saddled with the suffering you've already gone through and beholden to more trauma and suffering as part of your experience living forever.

These are your experiences.

Have they made you exceptionally wise?

Not really?

Aye, that's the point.

-----

If I have to give a TL;DR for this, I guess it's:

"Guys, I think we should give Fushi a wee bit of break, doncha think, lads?"

I know they are an Immortal. And people expect an Immortal various things in a story. But they are also a lot more than what common depictions of eternal beings are like.

Fushi is, to me, a very interesting exploration of being an immortal, and one I appreciate for

deconstructing the assumptions people make about Immortals in general

and deconstructing the "shouldn't an Immortal be wise because of their experience" understanding most of us might have.

Thank you for reading my ramble. Check your eyesight when you have the chance just in case reading all of this gave you a myopia. Don't say I didn't warn ya!

-----------------------

I'm... gonna pretend this is my "Happy Fumetsu Tuesday/Wednesday" post of the week—which I haven't been doing for a while now. I might as well retroactively pretend this ramble was part of a tradition-that-is-never-really-observed-for-real, too.

[cksecretsanta]

Our ao3 Collection

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/cksecretsanta23 if you click ‘join’ at the link we can approve you (you may need to check back a day or two later to check that you’ve been approved, as we're not sure ao3 sends an email confirming). we will also likely send out some invites in the lead up to the 25th (if you haven’t already joined at the time)

you can submit your gifts/works to the collection at any time after you’re approved to join, but the works will not be visible until they are revealed on 25th December 2023 @ 12am (GMT). You can continue joining and posting your works until the end of 15th Jan 2023 @ 12am (GMT).

(12am GMT on the 25th December is also when it is okay to start posting secret santa reveals on tumblr)

please don’t forget to appropriately tag / cut / apply relevant warnings to your work as we do have a few participants under the age of 18 in this gift exchange and we don’t want them to stumble into something they shouldn’t be seeing.

and don’t forget to tag @cksecretsanta23 and #cksecretsanta23 so we can reblog your gift here and everyone can see what a creative legend you are. as always, if you have any issues with joining or have questions don't hesitate to reach out.

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