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siriusleee · 12 days ago

Text

beating, twice

↳ 3.8k words

↳ simon has a new heart

↳ author's note: this has been sitting in my google docs since december of last year. so i'm posting it now because i've become stuck and can't figure anything else out with it

The mountains had never appealed to Simon; he preferred the asphalt jungle of London; the glittering beetle eye concrete of New York City. Easier to disappear into, the pulsating feel of the crowds giving him a sense of anonymity. But at discharge, the doctor's told him to take it easy - to enjoy retirement.

"You're not exactly a young man anymore Mr. Riley," the military doctor said, a silver wedding ring glittering on the back of her clipboard. "You're being medically discharged - you need a plan to keep yourself healthy."

A new identity. A retirement account. A generous do-over to a life filled with one time only regrets. His heart had been grafted over with a piece from a soldier who died in the same blast that nearly killed Simon. He'd told the doctor when he woke up that he could feel it squeezing his heart, but the doctor told Simon that it was just psychosomatic - he knew there was a new piece to his heart and so he felt it.

It took a year of rehab before they finally got tired of him, and another six of bureaucratic hell before the paperwork was finally processed.

The relocation specialists asked him where he wanted to live - Simon didn't know what to say. He'd been all over the world, and yet the name of a singular town couldn't crawl towards his lips.

"You can just point at the map," the specialists had said, fingers twirling a pen. "Some guys do that." So that's what he did - the clock ticking in his ears growing louder and louder as he stood, stupidly, staring at the map on the wall. He tried to count the seconds. How many had passed? Two minutes? Three? His eyes scanned the map, looking for places that he hadn't been to before, places that didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth.

And then he spotted it - a little dot on the map nestled in the Black Hills. No where he'd even been before, or nowhere he had a memory of. But that graft on his heart squeezed when he saw the name, and before he could think, he was tapping the map with his fingernail.

"Alright - I'll have you a place in a week."

The compulsion to walk starts the moment the last box is moved in; the pile of boxes pathetically small in the little house the military bought for him. Or maybe it was once a safe house - Simon didn't know and he didn't care. The walls are faded and the porch sagging, but it's a fresh coat of paint on the water stains that have plagued him. Simon can sense the neighbors peering out at him from behind their curtains; they twitch back into place when Simon steps out onto the porch, the wood moaning beneath the weight of his boots. The sky threatens to spit snow onto him; the first snowfall of the year comin' soon the movers had quipped to him. Simon hadn't replied, just grunted as he passed over the two hundred dollars he owed for moving everything in.

The air bites at his exposed face. When was the last time he was exposed like this? When was the last time he was allowed to show his face like this? Something like self-consciousness presses against him, making it hard to breathe until he tugs his hood over his head and he can breathe again.

The grass crunches beneath his feet, curled brown to protect itself from the oncoming storm. He doesn't look at where he's going, just lets his feet take him where they want to go as the sun slips beneath the treetops. The town falls to sleep around him as his boots carve patterns into the concrete.

The music stops him short. It's entirely out of place on the starlit street - the notes tripping over one another to spill out onto the asphalt with a gentleness that rolls through the darkness. It makes him sick to his stomach with something he can't place, some feeling on the edge of his tongue that he hasn't felt since Johnny's funeral, since he heard gunshots and saw the way Price's hand shook as he shook the hand of Johnny's mother. The absence of something he refuses to name. He's sure he's never heard it before, but it pulls him back to sand beneath his boots and to the hum of Blackhawks above him.

The street is devoid of life; light spills out of the windows and onto the streets, little jewels that hang onto the rough and cracked concrete of the sidewalk. The music is faint- a radio turned down so a conversation can be heard. The entire street is frozen with him, the little flurries that were attempting to collect on the street cracks hang heavy in the air, breathing with him.

Simon doesn't know how long he stands there, hands in the pocket of his jacket and letting the music wash over him. But it stops eventually, and the entire street lets go of the breath it's been holding; the flurries start to fall again, faster to make up for their pause with Simon.

It suddenly occurs to him that he must look like a fucking freak, standing there on the sidewalk, David beneath Michelangelo's hands. It takes every bit of strength in his body to keep his boots moving, moving away from the last notes that linger and swirl around him.

He walks all night, finally falling into the bed with no sheets when the sun starts to peak back out.

He gets a job as a mechanic. His references - names all made up and cell phone numbers that lead forgotten CIA workers whose only job is to answer and read a script- give him the best recommendations, and the old man running the garage doesn't really need Simon to know how to do anything other than change spark plugs and change the oil. The man looks Simon up and down, and Simon catches the POW-MIA embroidered on the man's hat, and that's that. There's something that passes between the two of them that neither of them speak about, but they recognize it in each other's eyes. He starts the next Monday.

He doesn't need the money. Between all the years of hazard pay that wasn't eaten away at by daycare fees or wedding bands, he has a small fortune to practice spending, but he needs the distraction from the walls that should be holding up his military honors, but instead hold blank emptiness. He hasn't been able to unpack anything. He just digs through each box when he needs something, slicing his hands against the knives and sharpened memories.

He walks his path ad nauseum. Each night there's a new symphony that washes over the little town. He tried, more than once, to not be a fucking creep and stand in the middle of the street listening for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. But even across town he could still hear the music creeping its way through the buildings and beneath the cars.

It stalked him beneath the street lamps until he was pulled back towards the street, trying to figure out which house the sound was coming from.

The snow is thick on the ground, being pounded flat each night by his boots by the time he discovers which house it's coming from. The curtains are pulled back, light spilling further out onto the street than usual. The window is pushed open and the music doesn't pour out, but rushes over itself angrily. He finds himself drifting towards the open window - the music is a siren song to him. He knows it. He knows.

He knows this song. He doesn't know how he knows it, he just knows that it pulls on his grafted heart in a way that's painful.

She plays with the kind of look a person has after years of practice. Simon recognizes it as the same one he has when he cleans his gun - the look you have when you don't need to fully pay attention to what you're doing because your body knows it by memory. The song ends abruptly - the last note wrong. It stops Simon in his tracks - 15 yards from her window. He suddenly panics, thinking she's going to look at and see him standing there. She must have stopped playing because she finally caught the stalker who's been standing on her street each night.

But she doesn't.

Instead she stands, and reaches across to slam the window shut. The house shutters from her anger, and she pulls the curtains closed. A moment later the sliver of light that was left is extinguished and Simon knows then, he needs to move.

He's getting too comfortable. He spends too many nights outside her house listening to her play - too many nights getting closer to the window until he's found that he can stand right on the sidewalk and see her through her curtain when it's closed.

He learns the pattern of each song by heart until one night when he passes by and the street is silent. There's no light in her windows - he immediately thinks the worst. The gun at his waist feels a thousand pounds; he reaches back to grab it as he walks up her steps.

The front door is cracked open, and his heart jumps to his throat.

Each room is empty - nothing seemingly misplaced. When he clears the final room, his shoulders sag, his gun finds its place back in its holster. He suddenly feels like creep being alone in her house.

Her.

He doesn't even know her name, and he's standing in her living room. A decrepit calico cat meows angrily when he walks by the couch, and then bounds out from its hiding spot beneath the couch to rub against his leg - completely unafraid of Simon.

The place is empty - almost depressingly so. It mirrors his own house, no relics of family or friends. The only thing that looks used regularly is the piano. He runs his hands across the top, and it spooks him.

He leaves, making sure the cat is left sleeping on the couch and the front door is shut tight.

He finally figures out her name when he sees her standing in her driveway, kicking the shit out of the passenger side of her car.

Hands tucked tightly in his pocket, he stops a respectable distance away before speaking.

"Car trouble?"

She jumps, swinging around to face him. Her face is closed, guarded from him as she takes in his face and he wishes he had his mask back - wishes it wasn't strange to wear a mask out in the civilian word, wishes -

"Yeah it won't start; the piece of shit."

Simon keeps his spot on the sidewalk as he speaks, worried that if he moves towards her, she'll move away.

"I work at the shop in town if you want me to give it a look."

She's shrewd; she looks at him like she's waiting on him to say something else, and he knows she's used to men hitting on her. But he can also tell she's desperate, and he can see the argument inside herself as she debates letting him look at her car.

"I'd like that."

Her starter is completely fried, and he tells her that. She kicks the tire, but this time all the fight is removed from it, and it's a pathetic kick.

"Thank you for telling me," she says as if the words are bitter on her tongue.

"I can fix it for you this weekend if you want."

"I can't afford it. And I'm not sleeping with you to pay for it."

Simon snorts in spite of himself.

"I'll get a recycled part - don't worry about it."

The argument inside herself is written all over her face, and even when she reaches out to shake his grease stained hand and tells him her name, the fight is still written across the wrinkles in her face.

It's still there when she hands her phone to him, tells him to put his number in and to text her when he's on his way back over.

"I can't afford this, you know."

Simon can barely hear her as she speaks over the engine, her words crawling between the houses and housing of the innards of her car to reach straight up to him.

"You can pay me later."

"I just told you I can't afford this."

Simon's mind lingers on the emptiness of her house that he'd seen the week before - he knew better than he wanted to how little she had at the moment. But he can't let her know that, can't let her know that he's traced the inside of her house while she was gone.

When he's satisfied with the noise of the engine, he slams the hood shut. She's leaning against the driver door, her breath fogging around her - it crosses Simon's mind that he could corner her right here, tell her what repayment he wants. but he's not a fucking freak.

He's not.

So instead he wipes the grease and dirt from his hands onto his jeans where it mixes with the grease and dirt from work and mirrors her lean.

"Cook me dinner?"

The hint of a smile starts to creep on her face, but she bites it back. She picks at an invisible piece of lint on the sleeve of her sweater before she answers.

"You want me to cook dinner for you? How do you know I can cook?"

"I'll take my chances."

She chews on her chapped lips before sighing, boots kicking at her tire.

"Come by tonight, alright."

He doesn't own anything fucking nice. He's pushed all his clothes around - in the back corner his dress blues hang sadly, and everything else has a grease stain on it.

"This is ridiculous," he growls to himself, annoyed with everything all of a sudden. He reaches into his back pocket to his phone. He's just going to fucking cancel. This is fucking stupid. This is-

She's sent a picture. He doesn't know what he's going to see when he unlocks his phone, but a little piece of him has some hopes. It's a chicken in the oven, surrounded by oranges like something out of a magazine his mother would have flipped through in the grocery line.

Hope this is enough to repay you :)

"Fuck," he says to his pants that hang limply, and they say nothing back to him.

He chooses the jeans with the least amount of stains.

She's wearing a skirt with a slit dangerously high when she opens the door.

You shouldn't wear that around the wrong men, he wants to tell her, but he is the wrong man, and he knows that, but she doesn't. He doesn't want to be the first person to tell her that about him.

His repaired heart knows the curves of her - somehow he knows that if he were to run his hand up the part of her thigh the slit is showing, there's going to be a scar there, he knows -

"Are you alright?"

"'Course. The smell stopped me."

"That bad, huh?"

"Terrible."

She wears a hint of a smile as she steps to the side to let him in; he catches a whiff of her perfume, vanilla and tobacco and whiskey, and he's got the sudden urge to lick the base of her neck. He holds himself back, hands held behind his back as he follows her through the living room, past the piano, and into the kitchen.

The scruffy cat comes out of the shadows to intertwine around his ankles like they're old friends. A pot boils on the stove and the chicken is on the side, steam pouring off the golden skin.

It scares Simon how at ease he feels in her kitchen, how the kitchen table's chair is so comfortable to him. She's tense - he can read it in the tightness of her shoulders, in the way she taps her nails against the counter.

Simon's heart beats too fast watching her flash around the kitchen and nearly jumps out of him when she places a plate in front of him.

It feels familiar in a way that terrifies him.

He's like a stray dog - she fed him once, and he keeps coming back. She only complains once.

"I'm a teacher, you know. I don't make enough money to keep feeding a big man like you."

Simon buys her groceries after that, his own refrigerator growing empty as he spends more dinners at her house. He knows they both feel it - they both feel how fucking weird it is that they can orbit each other so easily despite knowing nothing about each other.

He reads in the evenings. She doesn't have much, but she has more books than one person should, and she plays the piano and he pretends not to know the pieces. He pretends that he hasn't stood outside her house night after night committing each song to memory.

If she finds it suspicious that he hums along too fast, picks up the melody too fast, she doesn't mention it.

"I was married once," she says, like it's a dirty secret. She taps her fingers against the glass of her beer, a sharp staccato that increases in speed like it's her heart.

Simon doesn't say anything, just takes a drink of his own beer to quell the storm that's conjured in his chest. Married once? He doesn't know what he's supposed to feel, but it can't be this, can't be this anger that suddenly starts beating against the architecture of himself, the anger that unhooks something in his blood.

"It wasn't very long," she continues, the rhythm of her ring getting faster, "We only were married for a year before we divorced."

Simon's beer hits the countertop with a little too much force.

"Why'd you divorce?" He doesn't mean for it to sound so eager, so fucking needy, but if she hears the edge to his voice she doesn't say. He needs to know what led to the destruction of her first marriage, so he doesn't make the same mistake with her.

"We were kids, you know. We shouldn't have gotten married to begin with, but neither of us had anyone else. And there was no one there to tell us it was a bad idea."

"Where's he at now?"

"He's dead."

Her ring stops tapping.

"He died in a bomb blast almost two years ago. He was in the army, and he was deployed. There was nothing left of him for them to ship back to me. I didn't even know that he listed me as his family."

Simon's mouth is suddenly dry, and he feels like he's going to choke. She's still not looking at him, her eyes are still trained on the red neon sign behind the bar, so she misses the way he presses his hands into the bar to keep them from shaking.

"I just thought I should tell you," she says, half turning in her chair to finally look at him.

The ground beneath him has shifted, he's off tilt and he doesn't know what to say. I might have his heart in my fucking chest and that's why I feel this way about you.

"Can you take me home, please?"

There's a million things he wants to say, a million ways he wants to take that request. He swishes them around in his mouth with the last of his beer.

"'Course, love."

The two beers are nothing to him, but she's a different story. She stumbles on the ice in the parking lot, and steadies herself on his elbow. She doesn't let go until he opens the passenger door of his truck for her and he helps her climb in. Her foot bounces as he pulls out of the parking lot. It's a three minute drive back to her place, four for him to put the truck into park.

He expects her to unbuckle, to climb out. But her hands don't inch towards the buckle. She seems to steel herself for what she's going to say next, and he's waiting on her to tell him that she noticed how weird he's been - she doesn't want him to come back.

"Do you want to fuck?" She asks suddenly, and the abruptness of it takes Simon off guard.

"What?"

"Do you want to fuck?"

Simon's hands grip the steering wheel so hard he's surprised it doesn't shatter beneath his grip. He waits just a moment too long, and she scoffs, unbuckles the seatbelt and has her hand in the door handle before he can react.

He reaches across to grab the handle from her, keeping her from opening the door. She won't look him in the eye, instead pushing roughly on the door to try and shake it loose from his grip.

"I didn't say no." The gentleness in his voice shocks him, but it's not enough to get her to look at him.

"You didn't say yes either."

She breaks the door from his grip and slides out, her skirt hiking up high enough that he catches the edge of her curves.

His stolen heart beats, trying to escape his chest as she disappears inside - to get the fuck out from behind the steering wheel, to knock on her door and explain that his timing is bad, he doesn't know what to say and when he's supposed to say it. He tells himself he's going to leave when the light from her bedroom turns off - he just wants to make sure that she's safely asleep before he leaves.

But the light doesn't go out.

His watch creeps past midnight before the front door opens again. The nightgown she has on makes his hands sweat - it peeks out below the heavy jacket she's thrown on top. She veers towards the passenger door and when she climbs in, Simon's hands start to shake at the amount of thigh that flashes him.

"Why don't you leave?"

"I wanted to make sure you were safely asleep."

"You saw me walk into my house."

"You never know."

And she doesn't ever know. She doesn't know what kind of horrors could be around each door. Simon wants to explain that to her - explain what he's seen to her, but he doesn't know how to do that. He doesn't even know how to broach the subject of the million things that he should be telling her.

"Why didn't you want to have sex with me?" She asks in a small voice that Simon hates, and he hates himself for being the reason she sounds like that.

"I didn't say I didn't want to."

"Then why didn't you say yes?"

"I don't want to just fuck you."

Her knee bounces nervously.

"Alright. We can do the other stuff."

He almost tells her, more than once, about the heart that beats in his chest. Once, when he had her folded over the piano, and again, when she tangled their legs together in her bed and the ancient cat was purring on his chest.

He's too cowardly.

#my fics #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #ghost cod x reader #ghost #simon riley x you #cod x reader #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwii #mw2 #ghost mw2 #cod ghost #zombie au

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sgiandubh · 5 months ago

Note

Anon rebelde.

Detecto un nerviosismo muy revelador en Mordor. La finalización del rodaje abre un escenario nuevo acerca de las posibles interacciones de Sam y Cait fuera de esa burbuja de trabajo, ya sabes, solo es fan service por lo tanto nuevo tablero de juego con unas fichas que se pueden mover, hasta cierto punto porque no olvidemos que queda todo lo relacionado con la 8 y última temporada, libremente. Y hay una cosa que me intriga acerca de los planes futuros de Cait. Mordor da por hecho que va a permanecer en UK ya que esa casa que compró va a ser su residencia habitual pero las ultimas noticias de hace ya tiempo era que esa residencia estaba inhabitable y me pregunto si ese factor ya está resuelto. Por supuesto dejo en tus manos actualizar esta duda.

Dear (returning) Anon Rebelde,

Lamento mucho la respuesta tardía a tu mensaje. Como siempre, el otoño parece ser esa época del año en la que las cosas se aceleran, por algún motivo aún oscuro, hasta ese agradable paroxismo navideño. Pero, sin más dilación, traduzcamos primero lo que me enviaste:

'I'm sensing a very revealing nervousness in Mordor. The end of filming opens a new scenario regarding the possible interactions between Sam and Cait outside of that work bubble (you know, it's just fan service), and so we've got a new game board with pieces that can be moved, to a certain point, because let's not forget that everything related to the 8th and final season still remains open. And there is one thing that intrigues me about Cait's future plans. Mordor assumes that she will remain in the UK since that house she bought will be her habitual residence, but the latest news from some time ago was that that residence was uninhabitable and I wonder if that factor has already been resolved. Of course, I leave it up to you to update this doubt.'

I don't think we need to comment more on the nervousness (you're elegant, I would rather call it hysteria) across the street. If these people are so damn RIGHT about everything, how come they seem to have completely blown a fuse, five minutes after their well-oiled, mean routine came to a brutal stop? Smooth operators (remember? LOL for an entire geological age) they are not, and never were; still, it's a thing to behold, just seeing the amount of clones trying to step into my backyard. You'd never make me believe that an entire battalion of newbies suddenly follow me, with empty pages and a whole list of shipper contacts to boot. And then we have those Anons, whose dull, morose perseverance is only matched by their obsessive cruelty. Anons who, mind you, are pretty much transparent in their style, punctuation and stylistic mannerisms - all of these always betray them, and yet they keep going on and on and on. Pretty mental, if you ask me.

The dubious advantage of answering late is that now we know C was eventually (and predictably) spotted in London, at an intimate dinner hosted by Jessica McCormack, a jewelry creator and Zoë Kravitz, Lenny's daughter and an actress in her own right. No family vacay in the sun with McGill and as soon out of Scotland as S - their pundits are worthless. We could logically assume a hefty part of her life will be spent in London, where all the glitz and the glam and the networking are, rather than in rainy and industrious Glasgow. And I cannot help but wonder what do all these people make of their own relationships, and the immediate vision I have is one of a very monotonous life, eons away from all that glamorous gypsiness. Which is quite alright, if you ask me. What is ridiculous, however, is to naively assume that everyone makes the same choices as them.

But you asked me about that house and I think it's time to share with you what I can share at the moment. For obvious reasons, I have obliterated the address and kept from the single document I am about to quote (there are several more in my possession) only the essential parts. The researcher I was, once upon a time, cringes at the thought. But it's better to be safe than sorry: encouraging stalking is certainly not a responsibility I am willing to take, even if the new address is known by all the factions of this fandom and even if the documents are public, therefore usable.

For context purposes, let's just remind that C's new "residence" is a high profile carriage house built in 1841 (featuring a wine cellar!), that one can see even on Wikipedia and in all the architectural guides of the city.

As such, it is protected by the national legislation and local regulation on heritage - the Scottish competent authority being Historic Environment Scotland (https://www.historicenvironment.scot/). They have a three-tiered listing system, with more or less flexible protection criteria and regulations. C's house is an A listed property ('outstanding example of a particular period, style or building type'):

It is a criminal offence to make any alterations to an A listed building without prior proper consent, on top of all the other planning permissions applications:

Any update or repair must, therefore, be vetted by the local city council, after a rather lengthy procedure of public consultation, where anyone (NGOs, but also private persons) can send comments. Quick aside, here: why would someone as private as C buy such a prominent property, situated on top of an elevation, nonetheless? I have my own idea about it, which is easy to guess, I suppose.

The house was bought in December 2022, for a hefty amount exceeding 2 millions GBP, way above its asking price of 1.6 million GBP:

Permission for further alterations was duly sought, several times. I will just mention one of those applications, which I could almost find comical (but no, I don't, really). Let's see where this takes us.

It took the new owners almost four months to submit the first application to the City Council. You'd say the architect's office was probably busy: fair enough. But then, this lackadaisical rhythm carried on, almost as if no prior strategy to address existing problems of the property and/or maximize the profit of a very expensive acquisition had ever existed. Almost as if one of the owners, or both of them didn't really GAF about the whole affair - and it is true and readily available online, that all the applications have been managed by ahem... The Manager himself or his appointed agents. C seemingly had nothing to do with the entire process: a bit curious, don't you think?

The second application (and the one I am going to talk about, here and now) was sent for consideration in July 2023, almost seven months after the sale was concluded. Curiously still, it aimed to widen the driveway entrance and make substantial changes to the entrance of the property. Discretion be damned, of course - how odd, huh?

It was flatly refused in September 2023 by the City Council, pending three objections from a neighbor and two national and local heritage protection charities/NGOs (Architectural Heritage Society of Scotland and Friends of Glasgow West):

With a bit of patience, you can read all the documents - they are not that hard to find, after all. I will not comment further upon them, as I find the above clear and enlightening enough. There is, however, one detail that definitely made me smile, remembering what brought me here first:

This, to be exact: 'the paving of the driveway (...) could lead to potential surface water/rainfall discharge onto the public footway and carriageway'.

As compared to this (remember? LOL):

[Remember: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/720483288334090240/it-all-starts-with-a-smoke-alarm]

There seems to be something odd going on between McGill and water damage. Carelessness, perhaps? I wouldn't dare presume.

Anyways. The entire permission tango with the City Council ended early March 2024. Since then, radio silence. The Taj Mahal stands empty, with not a sign of busy kerfuffle, as far as we know. I am well aware that the owners have three more years to go until the permission would be useless and they'd have to reapply again, but given the nature of the other planned updates (vacuum glazing, anyone?), I would doubt it is okay to wait until March 2027.

I hope this answered your question and I am once more grateful for your patience, Anon Rebelde.

#anon #fandom #shitshow #legal

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abiiors · 7 months ago

Text

𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚠𝚘 — 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚟

✧ — 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

✮ a/n: this is surprisingly fluffy. sorry about inserting another zelda game into a fic, it will happen again. majora’s mask my actual beloved <33

✮ cw: nothing i can think of for this one, it's pretty clean apart from a bit of dirty talk at the end

✮ wc: 2.8k

like clockwork matty’s gone when jules wakes up.

she doesn’t mind it all that much. at least that’s what she tells herself. it’s not like he’s her boyfriend, it’s not like he’s obligated to stay and give her morning cuddles or make her breakfast in bed. (not like max had ever done any of those things either)

but jules shrugs it off and gets dressed. she has a whole day ahead of her and work too.,she can’t just dwell on silly little things like these.

her day goes without a hitch. to her utter relief, carly doesn’t ask anything about any…noises she might have heard the night before. then again she’s busy on the phone arguing with someone when jules enters the living room.

“packers and movers,” she mouths, crease between her brow, and jules is suddenly reminded that in two weeks time, she’ll be alone here. carly will be gone.

she feels a little tinge of sadness, but she’s happy for her friend. she knows how much this means to carly.

throughout her entire shift at the local hmv, she goes through a throng of emotions—nervousness over living alone, excitement over having the house to herself, sadness over not having her friend right there. the entire time she does things on autopilot, dividing her time between thinking about her situationship with matty, and thinking about living alone for a change.

when jules returns from her shift, carly is on the phone again, loudly complaining by the sounds of it.

“babe, they’re trying to rob me blind!” is all she catches from carly before jules makes her way to her bedroom, turning on her 3ds and loading up her second run of majora’s mask.

before jules relaxes and buries herself under the blankets, she sends matty a text.

jules: u up? matty: not in london for the rest of the week :(

she frowns. not that she should know about his whereabouts at all times like a girlfriend would, but she would have thought he’d say something. then again, perhaps it’s best he keeps her at arms length—she’d do well to learn that too, not let him in so quick despite all his flirting and sweet talk.

dawn of the second day, 48 hours remain flashes on her screen. jules cracks her knuckles and casts matty out of her thoughts.

the rest of the week she spends much in the same way, stuck in the same routine—she has work and then some other things to do, then she hangs out with carly, lets her vent about how expensive moving is.

“i’ll help you,” jules declares, “fuck those packers and movers, we can pack up your stuff.”

“it’s so much though!” carly whines, dramatically throwing her head onto jules’ lap. jules strokes her hair. it’s poofy and unruly, but one by one she smoothes the clumps of curls with her fingers.

“why don’t you ask adam for help?”

carly hums noncommittally. “i think i will, maybe rope his friends in too.”

for a bit they’re both quiet, thinking about two very different things jules imagines.

“flowers came for you today,” carly mumbles, head still on jules’ lap. jules wrinkles her nose.

“from max?”

“mm, chrysanthemums, i think. i put them in your room.”

chrysanthemums… that’s certainly new. maybe max thought buying her newer, better flowers instead of an actual apology would help.

it still surprises her that he keeps sending flowers. sporadic as it is, even after six months of radio silence from her side, after six months of blocking him completely and moving on even if it’s partial.

“i guess one more bouquet for the storage closet,” she shrugs and carly frowns at her.

“you’ve been keeping them?”

“leaving them to rot, more like…”

“jules,” carly sits up, looking at her with more than a little skepticism, “you’re not… you’re not holding on are you? because trust me, that boy—”

“i’m not.” jules declares, her voice firm. and she means it too. it pains her that such a big part of her life is over, but she doesn’t miss max as much as she thought she would. and sure she thinks about him occasionally—a voice at the back of her head telling her to do things a certain way—but that doesn’t mean she’s holding on.

“i just haven’t gotten round to disposing of them yet.”

“sure,” carly mumbles. “but the more you keep it jules the more the rot is going to spread. that closet’s gonna smell horrid.”

“i know, i—” she holds onto carly’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze, “i’m gonna clean it okay? soon.”

and they leave it at that. jules promises she will help with the packing. she even manages to feel absolutely nothing when she chucks the flowers in the closet. there’s a whiff of decay though, not strong enough to make her eyes water, but definitely strong enough that she can’t keep doing this for much longer. besides, she’s already gotten rid of all the sunflowers immediately, she can do the same with the others.

it's sunday, she deserves to relax first.

jules starfishes on her bed, holding the nintendo right in front of her to load up the game. her fingers move deftly on the buttons, going through the motions almost on autopilot until her eyes close of their own accord. until sleep weighs heavy on her limbs.

she doesn’t know when she sets the 3ds aside and dozes off.

jules wakes up to sounds coming from outside her room—male voices, and then carly—going back and forth about something. she frowns and gets up, smoothing the wrinkles of her t-shirt and opens her door.

it creaks louder than it ever has, and just like that, she’s there in the corridor, with five pairs of eyes staring right at her.

carly, adam, ross, george and matty.

matty.

staring at her with a strange look in his eyes, like he’s seeing her for the first time. subconsciously, she pats her hair down, realising it’s still a little mussed from sleep and pulls the long sleeves of her t-shirt over her hands. a nervous habit.

“hi…” she raises her hand nervously. carly breaks the silence first.

“oh my god, sorry! i was going to tell you they were coming over to help me move some stuff,” she smiles a little guiltily, “did we wake you up?”

jules waves her off, stifling a tiny yawn. matty’s still staring at her, still unable to look away. does she have something on her face? something stuck in her hair?

“do you remember them?” carly asks, about to reintroduce. and sure, it’s fair because she is seeing adam, ross and george after a good few months. matty though…

she sneaks another glance at him, only for him to quickly look away and stare at his feet. from the corner of her eye she sees george frowning at him.

jules nods, politely repeating her hellos. “do you need help?”

when carly nods, jules joins them, passing by matty to follow her into her room. he looks up, properly staring at her for the first time and smiles. she notices the little crinkles by his eyes, notices how his hair has grown a little more in the week she hasn’t seen him. it’s curled more than before, and jules has the most peculiar urge to reach out and touch it. to tug on it just to hear him hiss.

she’ll have to do that the next time he’s in her bed.

“hi jules,” he whispers in the same sing-song voice he always does, so close behind her that his breath practically tickles the nape of her neck.

she almost grins, biting her lip. “hi matty.”

his hand grazes her elbow, almost like he’s going to pull her into his chest and start fucking her here in the middle of the corridor, in broad daylight while their friends are a few feet away. jules shakes the thoughts away, schooling her face into a bright, friendly smile once she enters carly’s room.

“alright!” carly stands with a determined look on her face, hands on her hips and her face twisted into a frown of concentration. she looks so endearing, jules almost coos at her.

“ross and george, i need you to help me with furniture.”

a little group mumble of ‘yes, ma’am’ follows which she acknowledges with a sarcastic smile.

“adam and i will pack my clothes,” she looks at him, this time with a real, tiny smile. then she stares at jules, and at matty who’s standing right next to her.

“matty and jules, need you to pack my things in the kitchen. she will know what’s mine.”

they both stare at each other and then back at carly, nodding once. jules wonders if everyone in the room can tell they’ve been fucking each other. is it obvious on their faces? does she have it written on her forehead or something? does matty?

but even as she lets momentary paranoia consume her thoughts, she knows she’s overthinking. everyone else is busy doing their assigned tasks, even matty is half-way out of the room.

there’s also that weird little nervous flutter that she feels. she’s only spent time with him to have sex. never… never otherwise.

“did you have a good week?” she asks, her voice an almost practised level of polite. matty falters mid-step.

“yes…?”

“mmm, good.”

and then she clams up again, unsure what else to say.

“is—”

“you—”

they both speak at the same time, stopping and staring at each other wide-eyed. jules clears her throat. “you go first.”

“you alright?” he cocks his head in confusion. “you’re being so weird.”

oh god he can tell she’s overthinking and over-analysing, can’t he!?

“you’re being weird!” she retorts. real fucking clever, jules! matty, predictably, frowns some more, and takes a step towards her.

she almost thinks he’s going to kiss her then, a casual little kiss that absolutely leads to nothing sexual. but that would be breaking a major rule. besides, all he does is brush a little strand of hair away from her forehead and tucks it behind her ear.

the entire thing takes about half a second. and yet to jules it feels like the longest time ever that she stands here with sunlight streaming in the kitchen and matty about six inches away from her.

“alright, i won’t push,” he holds his hands up by his side, like he’s surrendering.

and as much as it bothers her that she doesn’t know what to talk to him about when they’re not having sex, for that, she is still grateful.

“i can do this!” matty declares with renewed determination.

the two giant cardboard boxes that carly assigned to them have been sitting on the kitchen floor for nearly ten minutes now. jules and matty stare at them as if they’re mentally preparing themselves for the battle—no, the war—they’re about to face.

if it were possible, jules is sure they’d both have eye of the tiger playing in their heads in perfect sync.

“we can do this!” he jumps in place twice to pump himself up, slaps his chest like some prized fighter about to enter the cage. jules snorts.

“can we?” she asks, scepticism clear in her voice and winces when matty narrows his eyes at her.

“jules, no…” he sighs, “where’s your can-do attitude?!”

and those really are famous last words. he is especially determined because he was the one to declare—quite proudly, if she remembers correctly—that they will not “cross the box budget” (whatever that means). and now here they stand, figuring out ways to tetris everything into the two boxes that are frankly…not big enough…

jules bites her lip, stifles a smile.

“let’s do this then. us against the…oh, what is it? a game of kitchen tetris? yeah, us against…that.”

while matty stands there, hands on his hips and glaring at the boxes, jules takes the time to look at him. his hair is just as unruly as always, curls sticking in all sides and still so perfect. he’s once again in a pair of ripped black skinny jeans and a band t-shirt (fugazi)—an utterly mouth-watering combination, if she’s being honest.

but he’s determined to win this imaginary fight against the boxes and so she picks up a set of plates and stares at one of the boxes in concentration too.

matty hovers behind her, mirroring her position while his chin rests practically on top of her head and mumbling something to himself.

“it’s not the boss of us,” he whispers; eyes crazy and hair even crazier as they stick in all directions. he does look like a bit of a mad scientist. it’s an almost impossible task to not laugh out loud when he scratches his chin. jules keeps her snort to herself.

“we should start,” she turns to him, stealing a little look at him again, allowing herself the indulgence of lingering on his face. he really does look so domestic in the soft light of the kitchen.

domestic… jules shakes her head and clears the thought away just as fast as it came. she has no business thinking about domestic and matty in the same sentence.

“we should,” he agrees.

“so i think,” she sets the plates down in one of the boxes, “we should put big things in one box and the smaller ones in the other…”

“no but then one of the boxes would be more crammed.”

“matty!” she crosses her arms in front of her chest, “there aren’t a lot of big things. there are a lot of small things!”

“jules!” he mimics her position, swooping down so their noses are almost touching, “we’ll sort the bigger things out first and then cram the smaller things into corners.”

she throws her hands up, exasperated. “that might break things!”

“we have bubble wrap!”

“matthew,” she cuts him off, a little surprised she’s used his full name, but she’s too deep into this now, almost on the tip of her toes to glare a bit better at him, “i will whack you with this pan. listen to me!”

that seems to break his resolve. in a split second, matty’s mouth stretches into a grin and he giggles, he laughs like an imp, backing away just a smidge. “you’re so cute when you threaten.”

jules blinks, completely speechless, and matty grabs her jaw, tracing his thumb over her bottom lip, dragging it down. “so hot too… we’ll have to try that next time, i think.”

it really should bother her more how quickly he disarms her. because in one second jules goes from wanting to whack him in the head to wanting to be absolutely railed on the kitchen counter. her cheeks heat up, so does the rest of her body.

“you’d like that?” she asks, voice quivering, “for me to be a little more commanding?”

“jules…” his voice is equally as breathy, fanning her face while he backs her into the kitchen counter. the marble digs into the small of her back, matty’s chest presses into hers. jules exhales, feeling the familiar heat coiling in her stomach.

“i’ve thought about you,” he swallows roughly, “thought about fucking you every day of this miserable week, i–” matty chokes.

jules wishes she could kiss the shit out of him right there. but that would be breaking a rule. as much as she wants it, they can’t go at it right here like horny rabbits while everyone else is right in the next room.

“thought about how you taste, jules,” matty continues, voice so low it’s almost a growl. her skin feels like it’s on fire.

“i—” she almost whimpers, trying to desperately tell him what she wants.

a split second passes and matty flinches, stepping back completely.

“everything alright?” it takes her a moment that it’s not matty she’s hearing, it’s george, staring at them with confusion written all over his face. jules tries to discreetly clear her throat.

“yeah, mate, just figuring things out,” matty waves him off. george stares at him with a strange smile on his face.

“we could hear you bickering all the way in carly’s room.”

jules still feels like she can’t speak without giving herself away. so she just laughs, the sound fake and unnaturally high.

“we’re good,” matty nods at him. “we’re good, right jules?”

“hmm? yes.” she cringes at the sound of her voice, smiling blankly at george and hoping he believes her.

“sure,” he shrugs and leaves. jules tries to control her thudding heart and swallow through her dry mouth.

“let’s pack this, shall we?” matty winks at her like nothing’s just happened, like he’s all calm and composed even though she can see the evidence of it quite clearly. jules doesn’t push it though. she just busies herself into the packing.

the rest, she can figure that out later.

#✮⋆˙ - when i knock at a hundred and two #matty healy x oc #matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #matty x oc #matty x reader #matty x you #102!matty

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mtcremovalsposts · 6 months ago

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How To Pack Clothes for Moving

What is the Easiest Way to Pack Clothes for Moving?

Tips on what to do when packing clothes to avoid damages.

Keep hanging clothes on hangers

Fold the clothes properly and keep them in dresser drawers

Line suitcases and cardboard boxes with packing paper

Reuse package boxes of your shoes

Use plastic baggies to protect the jewellery

Wrap sharp objects to avoid accidents while packing

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packersandmoverslondon · 4 days ago

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Moving Made Easy: House Removals in Paddington and London

Moving to a new home in Paddington or anywhere in London can feel like a big task, but it doesn’t have to be stressful. Whether you're relocating across the city or just down the street, having the right support makes all the difference. House removals and packers and movers are more than just about lifting boxes; they’re about ensuring your belongings arrive safely and that your move is handled with care and efficiency.

In Paddington, with its busy streets and tight spaces, having professionals who know how to navigate the area is a huge advantage. They will take care of everything from finding the best route to parking your vehicle, so you don’t have to deal with the hassle yourself. Instead of scrambling to organize and pack, you can rely on professional movers to get your items safely to your new home without any added stress.

In addition to the logistics, professional packers and movers in London are experts in properly packing your belongings. They use high-quality materials and techniques to protect your items, making sure that everything from glassware to large furniture is secured during the move. This level of care ensures that your things arrive in one piece, and you won’t have to worry about the fragile items you’ve worked hard to collect.

When choosing the right moving company, it's important to find one that offers transparent pricing and reliable service. You’ll want a team with experience, a solid reputation, and the right equipment to handle the job efficiently. Plus, many companies offer additional services, such as storage options or unpacking help, which can be a huge relief when you’re settling into your new space.

Hiring experienced house removals in Paddington or London can save you time, effort, and the worry of handling everything yourself. With professionals on your side, you can focus on what really matters; making your new house a home.

Ready to make your move? Get in touch with a trusted moving company today!

#packers and movers #house removals #moving services #moving company london

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internationalremovals23 · 2 months ago

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10 Tips for a Smooth Flat Removal in London

Moving to a new flat in London can be an exciting chapter, but it’s no secret that the process can be stressful. From packing your belongings to hiring the right movers, there are plenty of moving parts to consider. To help make your relocation hassle-free, here are ten practical tips for a smooth flat removal in London.

1. Start Planning Early

Begin your planning as soon as you know you’ll be moving. This will give you enough time to book one of the best flat removal companies in London, organize your belongings, and manage logistics without last-minute stress.

2. Declutter Before You Pack

Packing unnecessary items can increase your moving costs and waste time. Take this opportunity to declutter your belongings and donate or discard items you no longer need. The lighter your load, the smoother the process.

3. Research Flat Removal Companies in London

Not all flat removal companies are created equal. Research and compare reviews, services, and quotes from multiple flat removal companies London has to offer. Choose a company like South London Removals that specializes in reliable and affordable moving services.

4. Pack Strategically

Invest in high-quality packing materials, such as sturdy boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape. Label each box with its contents and destination room to make unpacking easier. Start with non-essential items and leave daily necessities for last.

5. Measure Your Furniture and Doorways

One common moving hiccup is realizing your furniture won’t fit through the door. Measure your larger items and the doorways of your new flat to avoid any surprises on moving day.

6. Notify Relevant Parties

Inform your utility providers, bank, and other essential services about your change of address. This will ensure a seamless transition of services to your new flat.

7. Pack a Moving Day Essentials Box

Prepare a box with all the essentials you’ll need on moving day, such as toiletries, snacks, important documents, chargers, and a change of clothes. This will save you from digging through boxes during your first night in your new flat.

8. Consider Parking and Access

London’s narrow streets and parking restrictions can make moving tricky. Check with your local council for parking permits or access rules to avoid fines and delays.

9. Communicate with Your Removal Team

Keep an open line of communication with your flat removal company. Provide them with details about your flat’s layout, stairs, or elevator access. This will help them prepare adequately and work efficiently on moving day.

10. Stay Calm and Flexible

Even with the best planning, unexpected challenges can arise. Stay calm and adaptable to handle any last-minute issues that may come up. Hiring experienced flat removal companies, like South London Removals, can make all the difference in navigating these challenges smoothly.

Following these tips and choosing the right flat removal company can make your move in London a breeze. At South London Removals, we take pride in providing reliable, professional, and affordable flat removal services. Contact us today to make your move as smooth as possible!

#⁠Flat removal companies London #⁠Flat removal companies #⁠House removal companies #⁠House removal companies London #House moves #⁠House removals #⁠Home Movers London #⁠Flat Movers London #⁠Flat Movers #⁠House Movers London #⁠Movers in London #⁠Packers and Movers

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flagellant · 2 years ago

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I mean on one hand the focus on "wearable" high fashion is laudable, it's a sign that the industry and its houses are understanding people as people rather than trends and it's a possibility that this is the start of something new and glorious.

And then on the other hand it's all just so uninspired and bland and cowardly, there's no art to it there's no meaning or message, it's just the same Italian sons of bitches making the same black suit their labels make every year, a formality expected rather than a method of making art worn upon the body, and these pieces of shit are still to this day only paying lip service to things like "wearable" high fashion because how many of these pieces are being designed with multiple body types in mind? Hell, how many are being designed with anything other than standard modeling sizes in mind? Labels shouldn't be allowed to be noteworthy and stand-outs for Daring to sell their clothing at a Size 14, for chrissakes.

It's all just. So banal. So droll. It makes it so that the actual movers and shakers are either the up-and-coming like Iris Van who just completely refuses to acknowledge whatever any other maison is doing, or they're old guard like Westwood just reliving the glory days when McQueen reigned like a king over London and the rest of the world was forced to sit back and watch things change in his wake.

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vansandhands · 2 years ago

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Tips for a Stress-Free House Move

Creating a Moving Checklist is the most important when planning a relocation. Obtain quotes from movers, declare and organise your home, purchase packaging supplies, measure the dimensions of the new room, plan any renovations, schedule a day off from work to move, start packing the goods you use the least, and carefully pack and mark every last item by room.

Vans and Hands offer the expertise and knowledge to help you move, from an apartment in the city to a home in the suburbs or from the calm countryside to the heart of London.

Read Top 11 Tips for Moving a House Stress-Free for a fun and stress-free move.

On the day of the relocation, make sure everything is clean and damage-free, check for damage and snap photos, and vacuum any region of the house that could be difficult to access after the furniture is set up. Moving into a new home includes using the right size boxes, weighing heavy items, leaving empty spaces, mixing items from different rooms, labelling each box with a description of its contents, taping, and unique crating.

To ensure easy packing, use a couple of pieces of tape and pack pictures in paper or bubble wrap. Packing the kitchen involves a lot of different types of items, such as dishes, cups and bowls, glasses, and shoes. Pack clothes in cardboard boxes, and suitcases, or leave them in the dresser. Storing TVs should be double-boxed or stored in a separate box with packing paper.

#moving house tips #moving tips #moving tips and tricks #tips for moving into a new home #house moving kent #home mover in London #man and van in london #man with a van london #house movers london uk #office removal companies london #office moves london #office relocation tips #moving house van hire london

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finding-you-in-any-world · 4 months ago

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Prompt for procrastinatic writing: anything time-travely (theres not enough of those 🥲)

Hello, anon! Thank you for sending me a prompt - I hope this is okay!! I am not very well versed in time traveler fics 🥲 sorry!

But I hope you enjoy this little Drabble!!

If you’d like to send me a prompt, please do!!

Dan and Phil are moving from their first London flat in 2017, but when they wake up for moving day they’re in a strange room that looks like a hotel - but has some of their stuff.

“Do you have any more boxes you need to tape up, Dan?” Phil asked, walking into the bedroom. He almost tripped over Dan’s feet, but was thankfully able to keep himself from falling. Dan was laying face down in the mostly void bedroom. Phil could see that his eyes were open, staring off into space. Lately, if Dan was alone for the better part of an hour, Phil would find him like this. Dan did not acknowledge Phil’s question, just continued to stare off into space.

Phil stepped over Dan’s torso to have a seat by his head. He crossed his legs, and decided to card his fingers through Dan’s hair one time, feeling the waves bounce through his fingers. He took a breath, waiting for the rant that usually follows him finding Dan in this position. It did not come. Instead, Phil asked “What’s wrong?”

Dan shrugged his shoulders, letting the silence sit before he answered. “What if they find out?” Dan asked, voice slightly muffled through the carpet.

“What?” Phil asked. By this point in the day, he had been packing for hours, and even though the gas man assured him that it wasn’t, he was starting to feel like the gas leak was getting to his head.

Phil felt like normally he would have been able to know what Dan was talking about, without having to ask - Phil took a lot of pride in their almost telepathic connection after almost eight years together. But Phil was too tired today to allow his brain to work.

“About the - you know…” Dan continued to mumble. When he was met with silence, Dan huffed. “About the two flats, Phil.”

“Oh… Oh. We will be extra careful this time, Dan. Don’t worry. Don’t forget - this is only temporary.” Phil’s fingers found their way back to Dan’s hair, attempting to smooth the worries he could feel radiating from Dan’s mind. Phil would take them away, if he could. “We will only live there as long as it takes us to find a house we like, okay?”

Dan nodded. Phil looked down at Dan, could see the tears begin to bubble up in his eyes. “Hey, no - no, come here.” Phil whispered, sliding his thighs under Dan’s head. “We will find a house, and it will have a - a cherry blossom tree right in the middle of the house. And a slide that delivers you from the bedroom to the kitchen, where a robot has automatically made you a coffee - okay?”

Phil watched Dan’s face, the bubble of tears that threatened to spill over, turned into a wet giggle. “And a room that’s like no windows - and everything in it is black. And we will have the biggest tv, and all the games.”

Dan nodded, quietly resting his head against Phil’s thighs. “Let’s go to bed, we can finish the rest in the morning when the movers come, okay?” He felt another nod, and stood up carefully. He grabbed Dan’s hand and helped him up.

Dan woke up in a strange room. Dan looked around, trying to take in the room. It was fairly dark from black out curtains that reached the floor.

He could feel Phil beside him, still soundly asleep. After so many years, he’d be able to recognize the feeling of Phil beside him. Dan tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes to get them to focus on his surroundings. From what he could make out of the room, everything was black and white. There was a set of built-ins to his left, mostly black, and a chair in the corner. Did they somehow end up in a hotel room last night? Dan attempted to sort through his memories from last night.

After crying on the floor of the bedroom, Phil pulled him to bed, offering him distracting videos and kisses until they fell asleep.

A globe of light began slowly rising next to him. He couldn’t remember where he was, and it was starting to freak him out. As the light began to illuminate more of the room, he tried to take in more specific details.

Is that - is that the butt chair? Dan rubbed his eyes, trying to get closer. And - and is that his teddy bear? And a picture of Phil’s family? What the fuck was happening?

He turns over to shake Phil awake, he could hear the fear in his voice. “Phil, Phil. Wake the fuck up. Where the fuck are we?”

Phil began to stir, blinking at Dan. Dan watched Phil glance behind him, eyes squinting trying to focus. He naturally reached behind him, trying to find his glasses. His hand found a pair, and without looking, put them on his face. They were a clear pair of glasses that Dan had never seen before.

“Are we at a hotel? What happened last night?” Phil asked. Dan tried to fumble with the fancy ass lights beside him, trying to get more light in the room.

“No,” Dan answered. “This is our shit, Phil.” To emphasize the point, he stood up and grabbed the picture of Phil’s family from the shelf it was on. He handed the picture to Phil and threw himself back onto the bed.

He put his head in his hands and felt Phil touch his shoulder. “Dan, where the fuck are we?”

#dan and phil #phan #phanfiction #phanfic #actually more like a Drabble

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