#again this was the au office though not the uk one

[pynkhues]

I feel very uncomfortable abt the Fred Astaire biopic given he absolutely did not want one to happen and was extremely clear about that. If it ends up happening I will 100% think less of everyone involved including Tom, it is a sign of extreme disrespect imo and Tom does not need the money it is just a fuck you I can do what I want, akin to spitting on FA's grave.

I think the problem with Tom Holland isnt his agent because lets be real, his agent and team are excellent. I think from interviews etc Tom is not that interested in film as an art form, doesn't seem aware of indie or foreign directors doing interesting work, and is pretty anti-intellectualism in general. So when he tries to "go indie" he tries to go for projects that seem gritty or interesting on paper, but end up flopping and coming across "THIS IS ACTING, TAKE ME SERIOUSLY." Tom has the power to approach indie directors he likes and get movies funded for him to star in like Robert Pattinson with Safdies, Claire Denis, etc etc. But Tom is not the type to know who Claire Denis is. He should work with someone like Jeremy Saulnier, that is my advice to him lol

I totally respect your uncomfortable feelings about it as a topic, anon! You're right, Astaire was clear about not wanting a bio pic on his life, because he - in his own words - never wanted to feel misrepresented, and any adaptation or exploration of his life as a result feels inherently disrespectful of that wish.

At the same time though - - I don't know. I guess I tend to have two questions about a bio pic, which is a) what is its purpose? and b) who's it for?

(Full disclaimer: I don't disagree with you - I just also have mmm, a mixed bag of feelings on the topic, I guess, haha.)

So let's talk a little about bio pics

Because it's an interesting conversation, right? They've always been a staple of filmmaking, both for better and for worse, and I do think they vary a lot as a genre. Some of them are naked mouthpieces for the individual or their estate, some are ways to enshrine or disparage an historical figure, some are about capitalising on a current popular trend, some are ways to explore a historical movement or era, to lend it greater understanding or cultural context through a particular person, or to keep an important figure from being forgotten or remembered in a way people with a vested interest might not want them to be remembered, and hell, sometimes I think a bio pic is just about telling an interesting story.

Does intent matter? Yeah, I think so, and I can understand why, in that context, intent can feel immediately malicious when the person a story is based on or inspired by was against the idea, but I don't necessarily think that's automatically the case.

I guess, in that sense, that brings it back to who a bio pic is for. I actually tend to think bio pics are at their worst when they're for the person they're about. Like, I enjoyed Elvis as a piece of entertainment, but as a bio pic it fails on more counts than it doesn't, in no small part because it was for Elvis. It was for his legacy, his daughter and grandchildren, his diehard, uncritical fans, and, in my more cynical moments, for Graceland too. It was about reinforcing a legacy instead of truly exploring it.

And exploring it is important. Good bio pics can help to shed more light and bring a deeper understanding to crucial moments and figures in history, and how someone wants to be represented or understood in that I don't think is entirely their decision. We don't exist in a vacuum; our stories, our histories, the roles we play in the world, aren't ours alone to dictate the terms of. We play roles in other peoples lives, from those who know us, and in the case of many public figures, those who know of them, and to make the decision unilaterly that our legacy can't be explored beyond us is I think both naive and potentially dangerous.

I don't know. It is complicated, and I'm not even saying that I'm entirely comfortable either with the fact that it's happening, especially given there are two Astaire bio pics in the works right now (ironically the other one's cast Jamie Bell, which is kind of funny from a Billy Elliot trivia standpoint), but like I said in my last post, I don't know if I believe that Astaire's wishes should stand so resolutely as others. After all, the law doesn't recognise that stipulation, and if it did, what would there be to stop other people using that as a sort of media gag to prevent critical bio pics that challenge the legacy of a public figure i.e. the counter point to Elvis being able to be this year's Priscilla?

I guess I'm saying that our histories might feel like a thread that belongs to us, but they're ones stitched into the fabric of time and of culture. They inform relationships and families, and in Astaire's case an artform and an industry, and to me, I don't think that means that he owes anyone more than what he gave in his lifetime, but I do think a version of his story lives beyond him - both in the lives he touched and the culture he influenced - and for better and for worse, that's not something he'll ever have complete control over.

Let's talk about Tom Holland

I agree and I disagree on this front - as a total cinephile, I truly feel the pain of him not having known who Pedro Almodóvar was in that one interview, haha, but I don't necessarily think that's an issue. After all, it's literally what he has an agent and a manager for. They should be looking at talent across the board and guiding him towards people they think he'd work well with, especially given he has worked with indie directors before - like, gosh, Kornél Mundruczó was the establishing director on The Crowded Room, and Antonio Campos directed The Devil All the Time.

But you're right - the projects aren't right, and I don't think that it helps that he doesn't seem to be well versed in cinema enough to be able to articulate what it is that he likes and doesn't like, and I also don't think that it helps that he skews young and doesn't really match the styles of the directors he's said he wants to work with (Tarantino in particular I think he doesn't fit the type for, but in looking up a couple of things to reply to your ask, I found out he did meet with Bong Joon Ho last year who I actually think could be a good fit for him).

I like your picks for directors a lot though! I think you're right about Jeremy Saulnier in particular. and while I'm not his biggest fan, I think Justin Kurzel could have a really interesting role for him in that sort of similarly masculinity-soaked indie vein. I also think (and gosh, these aren't even that indie these days, haha) Alex Garland, Karyn Kusama, Dan Gilroy and Marielle Heller would be interesting directors for him.

And while they're not indie, I do also think he'd do well in a Coen Brothers or a Baz Luhrmann.

But who knows at this point. He certainly runs the risk of being Peter Parker forever right now.

[alfgifu]

Fic analysis 7. Hands to the wheel

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47188921/chapters/118896205

Word count: 70,497

Chapters: 16

First posted: 16th May 2023

Last chapter up: 6th July 2023

Summary: 

The Last Emperor of Astandalas asked for peace. Cliopher Mdang travelled half way round the world of Zunidh to broker a ceasefire for him.

He may have, just slightly, exceeded his remit.

How and why this came about

The list of short follow up stories with a ‘where are they now’ theme included one for Lady Angusta and Lord Oriaz, a pair of bosses I had invented entirely to be bad at communicating with one another. I had in mind that this would be the Examination Scandal that’s referred to in the books, and I had also mentally joined the dots to a reference to Cliopher firing the entire Upper Secretariat.

Originally I’d planned to do a very short piece from Lady Angusta’s pov of her being fired. I thought I could keep it to one chapter, tick it off, and get on with my life.

By the time I got the blank page in front of me, though, I found that I was more interested in Cliopher’s view on the Examination Scandal. And Cliopher’s view on the aftermath of Littleridge. And also, how do you go from being the emperor’s new secretary to effectively running his government? That’s a big leap!

As an aside, the head of the UK civil service is the Chief Secretary to the Cabinet, and those appointed to it often have worked as Principal Private Secretary (PPS) and head of the PM’s Private Office before they get the appointment, but these are distinct roles. Victoria Goddard’s reference points would presumably be Canadian, where the head of the civil service is the Clerk of the Privy Council and is also described as secretary to the Cabinet. I’ve just been down a wee rabbit hole of recent post holders’ career histories and it looks like the pattern is a little different there. They’ve more frequently had ambassadorial and foreign policy experience.

Cliopher, Sayo Normal Man, seems to take on all these jobs at once.

Anyway the question of what might lead him to fire all of the Upper Secretariat - to even be in a position to fire all of the Upper Secretariat - was the real spur for this fic.

Then of course I went back to figure out how that started. I did at least this time have a reason for backtracking to do more build up - I really wanted to show how big the shift in power and authority was, and to fit in some of the early moments of recognition that must have happened between him and HR.

This was also written before Game of Courts which gives Conju’s perspective on some of these events, so like all of Embers it’s somewhat AU now on the friendship between Cliopher and Conju.

What worked and what didn’t

I was finally beginning to lose faith in my ability to judge how many chapters remained in a longer fic, in that I was still saying ‘probably three more to go’ but by this stage I was saying it with some uncertainty.

I made a list at the start again, this time of all the things that needed to happen or be resolved over the course of the fic. That was much better than a list of jobs Cliopher could have that I made at the start of Embers, because from the start I could think about how all those things related to one another and how I could bring them in together.

It wasn’t long before I realised that the real shape of the fic had to be everything hitting Cliopher at once until he cracked and took charge. I also realised fairly early on what the major twist would be, and I was pleased with how it landed.

I wasn’t expecting this to be so much fic-as-therapy but it worked.

It was also fun including little bureaucratic in-jokes like Inkstone (tip o’the hat to UK government cat Gladstone) or naming a chapter after an economics treatise (Cliopher is a Keynesian, bite me). 

There was definitely a stressful point mid-story where I wasn’t sure what shape would come out of all the pieces I was wrangling, but the experience of writing Embers gave me the confidence to push ahead anyway and it did all come together despite the total lack of a plan.

What I learned from writing it

This is a better fic in every way than Embers was - better titled, better shaped, tauter and punchier and more structured. What’s interesting is that so little of that was intentional. Perhaps the lesson should be that if you pile enough things on top of a character and work a way through them, the plot weaves itself.

I also found that things that felt self-indulgent to me often added depth and were worth including. Again, having the confidence to relax and write what I wanted was rewarding. It was important to me to show the shape of the achievements Cliopher would need to land before he could practically run the government, be the emperor never so enamoured with him, etc. But it was also important to show that relationship developing too and the growing trust between them, while staying true to the level of uncertainty Cliopher still canonically has several hundred years later. Having all of these things in the back of my mind actually made it easier to write each scene - I didn’t think each time ‘how will this fit into those narratives?’ but the themes naturally came through in the way they informed the progression of events and the characters’ reactions each time I asked myself ‘what happens next?’

I also reached the end of Hands to the wheel entirely done with grinding out two updates a week to build out the Embers narrative. This was where I finally felt confident enough to start picking things up on a whim and writing what I wanted to write - which would include a couple more Embers pieces but would also include a lot more experimentation and [jazz hands] drama from this point on.

[k-kizkhalifa]

The Little Office With The Entrance In The Back

Summary: Harry and Draco are married and living in a small town in Muggle UK called Oldham, and Draco is bored of their Muggle life but, not because it is a Muggle life. He understands why they're living a Muggle life, but no because he is missing something he didn't know he was missing until he came across a very specific genre of movies and books and media, and Harry was just happy to see him smiling again. Tags: CW Mention of Murder, CW Mention of Blood, Cross dressing - exploration (at the moment), Implied slash fiction, a little bit of unhinged!Draco, little bit of a toxic-relationship, humor(?)*, Hitman!AU, a little angst in there (I KNOW BUT IT IS ME WE'RE TALKING ABOUT.) A/N: Y'all I made a mention, @klinefelterrible gave me life, and I probably did something else entirely. Anyway, this may be a one-off, or it may be a collab project (hopeful). (Title is long, will probably change.) ~ kiz

*I'm not as funny as Terrible, so like forgive that and expect some dialogue changes if they still want to work with me on this collab after reading this intro/background. Eh.

Introduction:

The Muggle way of life was everything Harry remembered, but didn’t necessarily miss during his years of learning how to navigate the Wizarding World, but he couldn’t deny there were times it was easier in the Muggle world. For one? He was just Harry -- or Potter, to Draco; but he was just Harry to everyone else.

Harry who now worked down the road in the little office with the only entrance in the back. Yes, that Harry, still, just Harry. Harry in the dark cloak, and sometimes seen with a little wooden stick. No one knew though just where he came from. How he came about. One day, just there, setting up shop, with his husband. 

Draco drew much more attention, at least when they first arrived in Oldham. The beautiful white-blonde haired man with those intense gray eyes and a sneer at most anyone who ever dared to approach. It wasn’t so much that Draco didn’t want to get to know anyone, he just didn’t. He was a little cautious, a little on the safer side. He gave up everything for them to be where they were. Harry away from the spotlight, and Draco maybe a bit on the run. Harry wasn’t blind to it, the way over the last few months life seemed to disinterest his husband. 

Draco had tried everything he could to understand the Muggle ways, so much so that they didn’t use magic much anymore, and then Draco found movies. He had always been one to read, he really enjoyed it and oftentimes would tear through books in little to no time, Harry wondered how he even enjoyed them with the rate at which he consumed them. 

Then the movies. 

Pulp Fiction, though a few years old at the time Draco found it, had captivated him. Paired with another movie he had watched more times than Harry could even attempt to count, something called Fallen Angels. Draco had quickly become so interested in these stories and everything he could find into this newly introduced way of the world of crime, murder, on-the-run-.... Harry tried to be patient and understanding that this was something that Draco felt he could resonate with. That this life was something he understood, in some way. Though, he wasn’t sure he had ever actually killed someone, but he knew in all actuality there were parallels. 

He wasn’t blind to that. 

Harry was not blind at all to those simple facts. At all.

As they stood there, Draco in an outfit Harry had never seen him in before. Some ridiculous retaliation to a comment Harry made in passing as they walked by a shop, a few days ago. A dark gray dress with a slit up the side clinging to the model mannequin and a comment about how good Draco could wear that same exact outfit. 

Harry would like to say he wasn’t shocked when Draco Malfoy walked out of their shared bedroom in the dress, and a pair of rather tall heels, but no, Harry had nearly fainted at the sight. Barely allowing Draco out of the house, and only doing so when the man growled out that he looked too good to be stuck inside for the night when they already had plans. 

Plans at the queer bar in uptown. They had never been, but Draco was all about trying new things since Pulp Fiction and Fallen Angels and whatever those new books he was consuming at lightning speed were suggesting in his mind. 

Harry still didn’t understand how it went from just movies and books and any other media he could get his hands on at the idea of being a criminal murdering people...to where they were now.

Right, right. Back to it. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter standing there on an empty sidestreet around 1:45 AM in Oldham. 

“What the fuck, Draco?” Harry breathed out as he stared down at the lifeless body laying in the street before them. 

“I told you I would do it.” 

“YO-- You can’t just go around-- Draco!” Harry whipped around in shock, staring at his husband. “You killed him.” 

“I told you three drinks ago if he asked you to dance again, I would kill him.” Draco said simply, “he asked you to dance again.” Harry blinked, glancing back at the body before him. He had seen Death before, sure, of course, he had... well, but this was different. This was Draco Malfoy killing someone, more importantly this was his spouse killing someone. 

“Draco.” Harry took a breath, tilting his head back and looking up towards the dark sky, “you have to be fucking kidding me right now.” 

Draco extended a leg, nudging the arm of the man with his heel before making a face, “he got blood on my dress.” 

“You don’t fucking say?” Harry, still focused on the sky, snapped at him. “You sliced him from ear to ear.”

Draco didn’t answer, not for a moment, and Harry didn’t look. He couldn’t. Not right then. Because his only thought was, he is fucking insane. Harry had seen it, the moment it happened, the smile that flashed across his face as lunged forward quick and nimble, even in the high heels. The smile reflected the feeling on when a joint pops -- you know the tension in your ankle as you stretch and roll it slowly and pop there it was, the relief. That’s what the smile told Harry. The relief that Draco seemed to be searching for. 

“Are you mad?” 

“I’m not ecstatic, if that is what you are asking, Draco.” 

“No, I-- Look, I mean you’re either going to help me with this, or you’re not.” 

“Or I’m not.” Harry said evenly, giving him a once over, “this is your fault.” 

“Mm,” Draco nodded, “my fault?” 

“You’re the one that did it, right? Your fault.” 

Draco sighed, and gave a look around, before pulling out his wand. He gave himself a once over clean, very focused on the blood staining his dress before stowing his wand again. Harry fought back a laugh, despite everything that had happened over the last ten minutes, because lord knew he didn’t check his surroundings before cutting the man’s throat. My husband is insane, Harry thought while watching him clean himself off, I mean, absolutely insane. 

“SO,” Draco said suddenly, “at least carry him for me, I’ll put... your jacket over him.” 

Harry shook his head, “I am not dealing with this.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes, offering a pout, “you’re just going to leave me out here, alone, on a Saturday night?” 

“I think you can handle yourself,” Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Potter!” He whined, stomping his foot, the sound of his heel clacking loudly on the pavement. Harry flushed in excitement, his body responding and for once he might have hated himself for that response. “I’ll do that thing you like.” 

“Which thing?” 

“You know, the one I don’t.” 

“I don’t think there is anything you don’t like, Draco.” 

Draco sighed, and folded his arms, “just help me.” 

“This is it,” Harry jerked his jacket off, tossed it over the bleeding, dead man on the ground and bent to heave him up. “Don’t talk to a single fucking person.” 

“There is no one out here,” Draco answered, happy as Harry turned and led them down the road, “where are we going?” 

“How am I supposed to know? You tell me, you’ve been studying for this, apparently.” 

Draco laughed, Harry glared. “Sorry, sorry,” the blonde said softly, “I... it just happened Potter.” 

“No, you told me you wanted to do it and then you did it. That is a planned murder.” 

Draco glanced around, spotting off to the left 10 or so dumpsters behind a locked gated fence. “Over there.” 

“Someone will find him,” Harry said, though he followed as instructed. He was always very good at listening to instructions. 

“I mean we’re Wizards aren’t we? We can get all our evidence gone.” Draco said, his wand out again, and Harry watched the gate open and they stepped in. “Oh gods.” The blonde groaned, covering his nose, “hurry up!” 

Harry fought the urge to give him a look of annoyance, and he heaved the man off his shoulder to the ground near his feet, peeling his coat from his bloody upper body. “Do your magic then, Draco.” He said with a wave, stepping back slowly, to give Draco some space. 

“Who is there?” 

Harry froze, and Draco stood there, looking over his shoulder as he slipped his wand away. “I saw you open the gate!” The voice met them again, before light flooded them and the sound of a gun cocking.

“We were just... uh, having some fun.” Draco said, peering around Harry. “Right, honey?” 

“Yeah, fun.” Harry nodded and turned around slowly, arms raised. “Just fun.” 

“In the tras-- is that a body?” 

“No.” “Yes.” 

Harry fought back a groan, fuck! Draco gave them a very passive look. 

“You killed that man, and brought him here to dump?” 

Neither answered that time. 

“Stay,” he said, and Harry watched as he gave a wave to someone off to the side. “I got someone for you to meet.”

Draco glanced over at Harry with that smile. That relieved smile on his face. That the joint just popped smile right across his beautiful alabaster face, his gray eyes bright and playful for the first time in months, hell maybe even a year. Harry didn’t know, but it had been so long since he had seen his husband like that, since he had seen his Draco like that. He felt his heart stutter, love filling him all over again. 

“Good thing we’re Wizards, eh?” Draco winked.  

After the ‘someone for them to meet’, a guy named Darian, talked them into employment, really it wasn’t like Draco needed much convincing. It was Harry that needed it the most,  and love, some of the most cliche shit he could ever think of, won over in the end. 

Or, maybe it was the relief that Draco felt. The playfulness in his eyes, the smile on his lips. Harry lost enough more than once to the world, he wasn’t in the habit do it anymore. He wanted Draco safe, and he wanted to see that smile. No matter the cause of it. 

So, he was Harry. Just Harry, that Harry.

In some Muggle town with the little office and the only entrance to the building in the back walking in with his dark cloak, and two cups of coffee, greeting his husband with a kiss and a good morning as he drummed his long black nails on the desk while on the phone, using some codeword for money, and some codeword for killing, and come codeword for they’d be available that evening to check it out.

[artemisbarnowl]

What is life like in Melbourne? I’m looking into moving there from the UK and would love some insights and whatever else from people who live and work there 💕

I've only visited the UK briefly as a tourist so I'm not sure how to compare them in a way that's going to give you useful info. But I'll give you info at least. Please sit comfortably and we'll begin.

Melbourne has 5 million people in it, but is also quite a large sprawling urban area, so it doesn't feel really packed and busy. It sits on a bay, so it doesn't get freezing but does have the '4 seasons in one day' jokes which are true. I never really got in the habit of checking the weather in the morn before I left for work until I moved away from melb where the forecast was such that I could dress appropriately without surprise.

When I talk about what I love about Melbourne I mean inner suburbs and CBD (which is a beautiful grid and shining example of urban planning for the now that is weighed down by no plans for the future). Public transport connectivity is decent (comparable to London imo) but wait times, delays, and travel times on trams and buses might be relatively crap depending on your experience. It's no Moscow metro (my beloved), but you can probably get to where you're going somehow. Also e scooters have popped off. Further out there's no trams and there's more big gaps between train stations (the train lines are arranged like spokes of a wheel around a central city circle. There will be another city loop slightly overlapping the current one in service next year). This is what I despairingly call The Suburbs. Where you probably need a car to get around and it's like at least 20 mins drive to Anywhere for dinner, groceries or fun activities. Mostly Melbourne is not overly hilly so bikes are an option but infrastructure such as bike lanes is really hit or miss depending on area. Especially good in the inner north. Melb inner suburbs are very walkable and I love love love that. I lived in the inner north and could walk into the CBD to do whatever.

In terms of culture things I think Melbourne is the most international of Aus's capitals in that it has a lot of different people but also that there's a lot open late. Sydney probably can and will make the same claim. But that's it. The rest of Aus is a country town. Major shops will probably close 5.30 or six mon to wed but there's plenty of stuff that's open later. You can always find a bar* or 8. There's plenty of different cuisines in gourmet or fast food dining. There's a cafe in the CBD that's open 24 hours where I can sit outside and have a pot of green tea WHENEVER I WANT. Bookstores open til 10pm. There are lots of events throughout the year and lots of cultural institutions to visit on a whim for free! Some are paid also obvi but I find it difficult to be bored when I can go to the museum to see taxidermy or the NGV for art for free whenever. I am a zoo member which means I get to hang out in a beautiful park/garden which creatures for free whenever I want. Again as you go out further this becomes less true. Fringe cities at the ends of train lines are likely to have what you need to live but less fun activities less often. Not nothing though!

Melbournians really do love wearing black. Especially in winter. They also love strategic Grey. I thought people were exaggerating until I left. A head to toe black outfit is uncommon enough to be remarkable where I live now. Even in a regular boring office where people wear very muted colours I'm the only one who does it. There is no functional difference between the a mourning outfit and one of a Melbournian. it's common wear sneakers with a lot of seemingly formal or corporate outfits, but not thongs with jeans. That's some weird Sydney nonsense.

Being around the bay there's plenty of places to swim in summer! Most of the bay is bordered by beach, most famous and reachable from the city is St Kilda beach. Which is excellent and beyond reproach if you're not Australian and 'fine' if you are. Traveling down towards Mornington Peninsula they get better. 5km makes a difference to the grain of the sand. Some are more fine, can get more coarse and shelly as well. Never stony. Only a little bit of seaweed here and there.

There are parks in the heart of the city (nothing huge like Hyde though) and little wildlife corridors or reserves in most suburbs but it's not an especially Nature city. It's only one hour by train and bus or by car to the Dandenongs (a low mountain range, not to be confused with hugely underated immigrant suburb of Dandenong in melb) though which have cool temperate rainforest national park, lots of gardens (huuuuuge rhododendron garden up there), little b&bs, english style cafes (miss Marples in Olinda is the most famous) and lots of walking and biking. I say one hour but Melbourne as an area reaches right to the base of the range, which is why you can get a bus from the shops. There are national parks that are native woodland or grasslands closer to the heart of the city but these are less special to me because that's the standard nature I see every day of my life. There's a pink lake in south melb which is fun. But I love tree ferns and fresh damp dirt and the tallest flowering trees in the world!!

If you have more specific Q's feel free to ask. I am a city gal at heart but did live rurally originally and frequently do short stays (2 weeks to a month) in rural or remote areas so I am used to comparing amenities and connectivity.

*Melbourne has regular bars but also is very big on rooftop bars. Sydney has some, but other cities hear rooftop bar and think 'bar inside but with views or on top floor of building. Probably formal'. Melbourne roof top bars are on the roof. In the open air (maybe some shade sail) and it's very much a casual thing. Jugs of beer or sangria, chips, feels like a good barbeque rather than a refined cocktail bar. Those are often in basements.

[piastrinorris]

busy streets and busy lives • ralph penbury x reader

A strange day at work gets even stranger when you meet a man who claims he's from 1926. With no certainty as to when he can get back, you decide to take him in until that time arrives.

masterlist | prev. | next

Tags: Timewasters (series), modern!au, slow burn, mutual pining, idiots in love™, fluff, some angst, swearing and mentions of adult themes throughout, eventual adult content, alcohol content, penbury is a fanon surname

Word count: 5.8k

A/N: Thanks for all the love on chapter 1, gang! This one's a real slow burn so I hope you're all in for the ride, haha. Also, I had picked the date Ralph arrived at random based on the general timeline I have for this fic, but it was only when making the fake text screenshots that I realised that the following day may have been a major event in the UK, so I'll leave it up to you to decide whether or not Ralph was responsible for that one lmao.

Also!! Big, beeg love to everyone in the jq server for enabling, encouraging and basically co-writing this whole premise, but especially to @hawkinsbanishedhero whose one-off typo, as featured in this chapter, inspired the absolute monolith this fic has become. <3

You wake up to a shooting pain in your back and an ache down one side. You groan as you stir into consciousness; for years you’ve always been able to pride yourself on the ability to sleep literally anywhere perfectly fine, you’d never understood why your friends always complain about back pains and knee pains when you’re all still relatively young, but now you get it.

You manage to pull yourself to standing and stiffly make your way to the kitchen to make yourself some breakfast. You look over at your closed bedroom door, wondering whether to wake Ralph up before you go to work. You don’t have to be there for opening, at least, but you do hope he’s not one to lay in for too long. Besides, the earlier you can get in to catch up on admin stuff before Head Office complain at you, the better.

As though he could read your thoughts, the door opens and a very sleepy Ralph emerges, rubbing his eyes to adjust them to the sunlit room. It’s positively adorable. “Morning,” you smile at him. “Sleep well?”

“Ah, good morning!” Even through his yawns, his voice remains very prim and proper. “I slept delightfully, apart from the occasional din coming from outside. I only noticed that when I was already awake, though.”

“Yeah, perks of being in South London, police sirens are pretty much 24/7 here. You get used to it,” you shrug, and Ralph looks horrified, ignoring your silent offer to make him a cup of tea.

“So, crime just happens? Everywhere? And it’s all just par for the course?!” he asks in shock. You nod, and he frowns. “I don’t think I want to leave the house.”

“You might need to someday, bud,” you point out, still making him one just in case. “I need to go to work, and you might end up going stir-crazy in here all the while,” you gesture at the four walls of your living-kitchen space.

“Yes, it is rather… Cramped in here,” Ralph comments with an upturned nose, though he takes the cup of tea that you slide over to him happily enough.

“Yeah, well. This is how far £900 a month gets you,” You shrug as you take your first sip, and Ralph chokes on his.

“I beg your pardon?!” he sputters out. “Ni- Nine hundre- How much is that really worth?!”

Nodding silently, you hold a finger up and take your phone out. As seems to be routine whenever you and Ralph learn about the stark differences between your time and his, you take your turn to react, almost choking and spitting out your mouthful. “Nineteen pounds?!”

“Well, that still sounds rather extortionate to me!” Ralph replies with wide eyes.

You walk over to where you had last thrown off your jacket and dig out your purse, taking out a £20 note and handing it to Ralph. “This, right here, would have been enough in your day to pay for this whole flat for a month.”

Again, Ralph scrunches his nose in disgust. “I rather feel as though you’re being swindled.” He holds the money up, turning it over and over in his hands. “Is this what money looks like nowadays?!”

“Yeah! Here,” you empty the monetary contents of your purse out onto the kitchen counter. You explain what each note and coin equate to. “I’ll leave them here in case you need to go to the store and get something. C’mere,” you wave him over to the window, pointing down below to a row of shop fronts at the bottom of another estate of flats. “There, on the corner, that’s a supermarket. It’s like, a greengrocers, a pharmacy and a clothing store, all in one. Then, next to it is the gardening store, my number one money sink.” You gesture to the houseplants that adorn the room.

“You do grow a lot of plants,” Ralph muses, smiling to himself as he gently holds a monstera leaf.

“All legal stuff, I promise,” you laugh. “But, yeah. Landlords don’t allow us to have pets, and so I’ve gotta have something to take care of. Of course, if I’d have known I’d be adopting a man born in the Victorian era, I might not have spent so much…”

Ralph, now more awake, bounces on the balls of his feet. “I-I can take care of them if you would like! Our gardener used to teach me all about how to water plants. It came in handy, being out in the garden sometimes. Much… quieter, out there,” Ralph falters, running the leaves between his fingers.

You place a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, “Wanna talk about it?”

He takes a deep breath in as his shoulder tenses up under your touch. “Oh, no, it’s quite alright, you’ve got enough on your plate as it is!”

“Okay. Well, if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m more than happy to hear you out,” you rub your palm against him in a single circular motion before pulling away. “Don’t feel like you have to bottle things up around me, okay?”

Ralph chuckles, though there’s no amusement in it. “Oh, it’s fine, honestly, I’ve no trouble with bottling things up. Rather, it’s the fact that I don’t that leads to most of my problems!”

“Okay. You know what you’re happy to share, I’m not gonna push you. But don’t make yourself sad unnecessarily, ‘kay?” You hold your little finger out. “Here, I want you to pinky promise me.”

This time, Ralph does crack a smile. “Pinky… Promise?”

“Yeah!” you grin. “Like, you know how usually big decisions are made with a handshake to make them official?” Ralph nods. “Well, little decisions that still require a commitment are usually made with a pinky promise. It’s like a handshake, but only linking your little fingers. So, pinky promise me you’ll always tell me if there’s something I can help you with? This whole mess is scary for both of us. But we’re in it together.” You smile softly at Ralph, and he returns it. In the early morning light, you can see freckles bouncing off of his face. Of course he has freckles.

Ralph sticks out his little finger, too, and you wrap yours around his for a moment before letting go. “That was… Fun,” his ears tinge a slight pink. 

“It was!” you grin. “Now, what would you like for breakfast? I’ve got cereal, I could cook you some eggs and bacon. Or, ooh, there’s one more shop I can show you!” You point out the last one in the row. “That’s a bakery. We can go pick up some fresh pastries if you wanted those, too.”

“Whatever is easiest for you,” Ralph insists. You pour him some cereal and milk in a bowl, stick a spoon in it and hand it to him, offering him to join you on the sofa.

“Okay, so while I’m gone, I obviously don’t expect you to sit here twiddling your thumbs until you get back. Now, this thing here, it’s called a television. Sometimes called a telly, sometimes called a TV. This,” you brandish the control at him, “is called a remote, it’s how you control it. You know how you could project films and stuff onto a screen, in your day?” Ralph nods. “This does that without needing a projector. And you can get all sorts of shows and films on there. I wouldn’t recommend you watch the news, just because… Well, you know why,” you pull a face and he nods slowly. “But I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll like, there’s enough out there, that’s for sure.”

“Okay, so the T… V… I can watch people perform on here?” Ralph asks, and you nod. You show him how to flick through channels, and his eyes light up. “Fascinating!”

“And if you want to listen to music, there’s a special speaker, here,” you point to your Amazon Echo. “It has a name, and you can talk to it. So you could say, Alexa, play me some jazz,” you hold your finger up to tell Ralph to wait as the speaker flashes blue.

“Playing songs from playlist Jazz Classics,” the smooth robotic voice tells you, and sure enough, the room fills with the sounds of brass and percussion working in an upbeat harmony.

Ralph absolutely giggles in delight. “Marvellous! What a spectacular creation! And I could ask it to play any sort of music?”

You nod, telling the Echo to stop. “You can even tell it to play music based on what mood you’re in. So, if you need to wallow for a bit, you can have some sad songs to listen to, or if you’re feeling high-energy, you can ask for songs to match that. That should tide you over,” you nod as you take his bowl and yours to the kitchen sink. “I’ll be back around lunchtime to drop you off some more clothes and I’ll get you some lunch too, but if you want a snack in between, feel free to make yourself a sandwich, or…” Another quick Google search tells you toasters were around in 1926. “Or toast! You could make some toast, if you wanted. We’ll go food shopping soon and get more specific snacks for you, but I gotta get going.” You throw your jacket on.

“But what about your money? What if you have to pay for something?” Ralph asks, concerned.

“Don’t worry, mate, I’ve got it covered. That’s yours, yeah?” You point to the kitchen counter. “You can use it however you want when we go out. Just… Don’t go crazy, okay? I don’t exactly break the bank.” You throw your jacket on and wave him goodbye, “See you at lunch!”

Once you leave the flat, Ralph suddenly feels completely stranded. He tries to drown it out by pressing buttons on the “remote” until something shows up. It’s a show about people buying houses that are bare, and fixing them up to sell on. Ralph feels as though they end up looking worse, but he understands why he would feel that way. He just doesn’t understand the modern style, that’s all. It’s not their fault that taste clearly deteriorated over time. Then he watches a show all about “antiques”, though again, it takes him a while to acclimate to recognising certain pieces of furniture as items he’s witnessed being sold in stores just before he left for the army. He wonders, if he keeps watching, will there be an item that once belonged in Penbury House?

His mind wanders back to that comment you had made yesterday. Penbury House. A home that had been in the family name for generations upon generations, now a lowly bookstore. What could have possibly led to it being lost? Were there truly no more Penburys? Had Victoria gone absolutely mad and lost the entire family fortune? Was his accidental trip through time the catalyst to the death of the Penbury name as it was once known? Well, wouldn’t Mother and Father have a lot to say about that. Typical Ralph, can’t hold onto anything. Not even the estate tied to him by his last name, the only thing giving him any purpose.

He realises he needs a distraction. Something to keep him busy. You had mentioned something about toast, the kitchen staff had been very excited to receive a toaster oven not long before Ralph left. He remembers helping the cook, who didn’t know how to read, understand the instructions. It only toasts one side at a time, Ralph knows this. Spurred on by his pride, he finds the bread and puts it in the toaster. 

As he’s trying to find the right button, switch, dial, lever - there’s so many extras on here, which one does he touch? - Ralph begins to get overwhelmed again. Echoes of his parents’ quick deflections, telling him to go ask the staff. The staff telling him that they’re far too busy to entertain children - other than the nanny, of course, who also made it very clear that she was only tending to Ralph’s needs because she was paid to do so. Victoria finding the art of making friends becoming second nature to her, and yet not to him for some reason. It’s not fair, he was just like her. So what made people want to be her friend and not Ralph’s?

Head swimming as the toast pops up, he remembers to turn it around to make sure it cooks on both sides - not realising that both sides had already cooked quite well. Soon, a strange smell starts to fill the flat. Then smoke quickly starts billowing out of the toaster. Ralph, terrified, slowly starts backing towards the door. Then an alarm of sorts goes off. Ralph wrenches the door open and backs out, his moon-wide eyes staring in horror.

Someone from the flat opposite opens the door and starts yelling, running in to unplug the toaster oven, pick up some… Tool that clamps together when they press it so, use it to take both slices out to throw them onto the counter. Ralph watches, back pressed to the wall as though he's tethered there, as this brave soul opens as many windows as they can before marching out to him, coughing their lungs out. "The fuck is wrong with you?! Who are you?! Are you supposed to even be here?!"

Ralph finds himself too stunned to speak. The neighbour rolls their eyes. "Do you at least know the person who lives here?" Ralph nods. "We'll see about that."

Being at work again, ironically, feels like it's been a century despite it only being a day. But the floor is running smoothly, everybody's here and working just great. You're even on track to finish all your admin stuff at long last, when - your phone rings as your neighbour's name pops up. You answer it, confused as to why they would possibly need to call you. “Hello?”

“You dating a dickhead, by any chance?” You hear their voice, a constant panicked hooting that - despite you having just met him - you could easily place as Ralph hyperventilating, and your smoke alarm in the background.

You sigh, “Not dating, but my… An old family friend is staying. Proper sheltered guy, sounds like a massive Tory. Is he okay?”

“Sheltered to the point of not knowing how a fucking toaster works?! I should call the fucking police on him for endangering the whole block!”

“No! No, please, I - Like I said, he’s just very… Look, I don’t have time to go through his life history with you -” read: I don’t have time to bullshit something right now - “but can you just… Keep an eye on him while I get back? I promise, he’s not bad, he’s just…”

“An absolute idiot?”

“Yeah…” You sigh.

“Alright. But only because you’ve been so good about keeping my cat secret.”

“I’ll buy Cheese her favourite tuna on my way home as a thank you!” you squeal in relief as you hang up.

You quickly ring up some clothes in the same size as the ones you’d given Ralph last night, explain to your staff that there’s an emergency at home and to call if they need anything - but please, god, don’t need anything, you think that last part to yourself.

Grateful you took your car this morning, you’re able to get back in a matter of minutes. You run into the supermarket to grab a can of tuna, a toothbrush for Ralph and, in a stroke of genius you’d had on the drive, a SIM card. You manage to successfully pay for everything - thanking whatever's out there that your phone's wallet system actually co-operated with the self-checkout for once - and run everything back to the flats, wanting to prioritise getting back to Ralph over getting the car into the right car park. You can do that once your poor neighbour is relinquished of their Ralph-sitting duties.

Once you get to your floor, you see your door still propped open, and your neighbour sat in their open doorway. With a relieved sigh, you fish out the can of tuna from your carrier bag and hand it over. “I will supply as much of that, and anything you want, as thanks for all this. Please don’t be mad at him -”

They raise a finger to interrupt you and lean over, revealing Ralph sitting on the floor of their flat, absolutely beaming as Cheese the cat paces in front of him, rubbing her head and body against his knees at every chance she can get. Ralph even pets her on occasion, which she takes happily.

Your face drops. “How - I have to use that tuna just to get a sighting of her when I come round and feed her!”

Your neighbour shrugs. “I’m just down here because I’m still convinced she’s doing it to lure me into a false sense of security -” You laugh with them at that, and they sigh in resignation. “But look at him. He’s harmless, isn’t he?”

You nod. “He’s just… Not used to living life on his own.”

They rasp as they stand up. “That’s an understatement. What, was he in some sort of imprisonment?!”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know. I just know that he wanted to get out of where he was. And he ended up here, with me.”

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, then.” A look of realisation dawns over their face as they grin at you knowingly. “Isn’t your flat a one-bed -”

“I am sleeping on the sofa!” You point at the pillow and blanket that still remain strewn over the back of your couch, just about in view of where your neighbour had kept open to keep watch of the flat. Your neighbour laughs as your cheeks turn pink. “I’m not expecting him to stick around, so I’m toughing it out until he can find his feet.”

“Yeah, well,” they shrug. “Just teach him how to use things in a way that doesn’t involve committing arson, alright?”

Ralph finally notices that you’re stood in the doorway, and the delight on his face immediately turns to shame. He stands and bows his head, quickly heading out and into your flat, not making eye contact with you. You frown, though nod a final thanks to your neighbour who thankfully nods back in understanding, and follow him in. “Hey, you alright?”

“I have failed you,” Ralph says simply, his back turned to you.

You walk over to him, deciding he probably doesn’t want physical contact just yet. “No, you didn’t, I did. I should have left instructions, it’s not your fault you didn’t know how it worked.”

“Is it all ruined?” he asks in a small voice.

You put your bag down on the kitchen counter to look at the toaster and shake your head, throwing the burnt toast away. “It’s absolutely fine, Ralph. Promise.” You lean down until you can make eye contact with him and offer him a smile. “Need a hug?”

Ralph, looking on the verge of tears, nods and you walk over to him with your arms outstretched. He buries his face in your shoulder as you feel his breaths become more and more regulated. You smell the smoke still clinging onto his shirt and tap his shoulder to get his attention. Once you’re out of his embrace, you can’t help but wish you’d lingered just a moment longer. You empty out the shopping bag you’d brought in, telling Ralph, “I bought you some new clothes. And a toothbrush. And something else I’m going to show you later. Go have another shower, get that smell out of you.”

While he’s in the shower again, you go to your junk drawer, thankful that you’d decided not to throw away your old phone when you upgraded through your contract. Putting the new SIM card in, you put your old phone on charge and start Ralph-proofing it. You delete all apps except for Google, so that he can find things out for himself. You’d tell him about Alexa’s capabilities there, too, but you feel as though Ralph isn’t quite ready to understand it can’t answer everything. Not like the internet can. While he's somewhat safe in the shower, and while the phone charges enough to power on, you quickly make sure your car isn't getting towed. That would just be the icing on the cake today.

Still, once you're back in the flat, all that stress seems to ebb away when he comes out of the bathroom. “You look smart,” you chime as he walks out wearing the outfit he’d chosen for himself from the clothes you'd provided: a brown plaid shirt and some jeans - you'd overestimated to be safe, but they didn't appear too baggy. Enough for a belt to manage, but they could fit better.

“Well, I couldn’t find a - a suit to co-ordinate anything with, or a tie, so I’ve had to make do. I hope this is suitable enough,” he brushes his shirt down with his hands and fiddles with the collar.

“It looks great, Ralph,” you reassure, waving him over. “Now, this is gonna be a really big thing I’m going to be teaching you about now, so we’ve gotta focus up, okay?”

You teach him how to send a text message to you, the only contact in the phone now. You teach him how to call you. You have him practise calling by going to your room and waiting for him. He gets all giddy when he’s figured it out. You teach him that if typing is difficult, he can press a button, speak into his phone and the words will come up. You also tell him that if he taps the last square on the screen, and types in a question, it’ll tell him everything he needs to know.

Once that’s out of the way, you remember something. “Ah, shit. Uh, hey, Ralph, I’m supposed to be going over to my friend’s place tonight for dinner. If you want, you can join us, or I can cancel -”

“No, please don’t cancel on my account! Oh, but I can’t be trusted on my own here, can I, oh blast…” Ralph falters, but you once again put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Nah, don’t be silly, you can come with, it’s fine.” You send the group chat a message:

“They say they can’t wait to meet you! All’s good,” you grin.

“It certainly isn’t, what about your job?” Ralph asks with a frown.

You sigh. "Let me make you lunch, I'll pop back in to finish my stuff. It's been a slow one and I've got a good team on so hopefully they understand if I need to dip early to come back to you. Literally, just text me or call me if you need anything, promise?" Ralph holds out his little finger and you link it with an affectionate smile. "I'll leave the spare key out here on the counter if you want to leave. And anything you want an answer to straight away, that I might not have time to answer, you can tap that last square on the main screen and type in the box, okay?" Ralph nods. You make the pair of you some sandwiches and take yours on the road with you, fishing out your spare key and showing Ralph where you're putting it ("just in case").

By the time you've driven to work, you have a notification on your phone, which you finally read once you're back in the office:

Once you're finally done with admin stuff, for the time being, you go back out onto the floor to check on your team. You fill them in on an old family friend coming to stay, he had a bit of an unfortunate incident with a kitchen appliance, all is well but you're keeping your phone on you just in case. They, naturally, want photos and details, which you promise them soon. When you notice you haven't heard from him in a while, you text him:

Your coworkers watch you with amused concern as you go from snorting with laughter to looking at your phone in horror:

Opting to simply wave them all off rather than try to explain what you'd just witnessed over the past half an hour, you help your sales assistants out as much as you can until you feel another buzzing in your back pocket. Half-terrified at what Ralph could possibly text next, you brace yourself:

You let out a stressed breath as you send that last one, and finally, your team wear you down. You explain that your new temporary housemate now has free reign to leave the house, and after the events of the morning, you'd started to regret letting him. When you tell them all that he's 25 (which technically isn't a lie, he's got the body of a 25 year old), they assure you that even the most simple-minded of men surely could only navigate so far. Still, you can't help but pace the shop floor anxiously, refolding shirts and reorganising displays, until:

Laughing with relief, you excuse yourself for the day. You tell the team that you feel awful for leaving them, but they seem to understand that you have a greater purpose ahead of you.

You call Ralph to tell him that you're on your way home, mostly to make sure you don't still hear the sounds of the street behind him. Thankfully, there seems to be some jazz music playing in the background, so he must have figured out how to get music playing, too.

You unlock your door to see Ralph humming along to a tune, wiggling himself around rhythmically as he sprays the leaves of some budded flowers with water. He acknowledges you with a wide, genuine smile. "Hello!" He singsongs. "I thought I'd spruce them up a little before they go to their new home. Just a couple of African Violets, the shopkeeper said. The ones already in bloom on display looked quite wonderful."

It's not that you're not happy to finally see him excited about something he knows about already, but this is the same man who almost burned the whole flat down making toast just hours ago. Still, look at him. It's nice to see him acclimating.

Since Anna doesn't live too far away, you and Ralph walk over to her flat. He's holding his plants and looking extremely proud of himself, until someone almost walks into him and he's suddenly pulled back into the reality of the streets of modern London. His big eyes dart around as he desperately looks out for danger, wrapping his arms around his gift protectively. You take him by the cuff on his wrist and guide him, weaving through strangers who couldn't care any less about their surroundings.

You hadn't told Anna to expect a gift today, and so she seems thrilled to meet Ralph and take the plants out from his grip. He immediately follows her to start babbling on about what the shopkeeper had said were the best conditions to keep them in. Once she's finally able to set them down, Ralph is still tailing her, looking expectantly for more reaction. Amused and slightly confused, Anna reaches up to pat Ralph on the head. He giggles and rushes over to you. You and Anna share a look before you lead him to meet the rest of your friends.

Scott, Connor and Grace all greet Ralph enthusiastically, and he seems to be bursting at the seams at the prospect of so many people being happy to meet him. He stays relatively quiet as you catch up with your friends.

"So, Ralph…" Scott starts. He goes back to looking terrified. "How are you settling in living with this one?" he shoves your shoulder, and you bat him away, playfully flipping him off.

Ralph looks taken aback at such a casual display of vulgarity, but he continues, "Well, it's only been for the one night, and there's certainly a lot to learn about… This… London," you can tell Ralph doesn't lie well, and appreciate that he's trying to word things in as honest a way as possible. “But, your friend here is a remarkable host and teacher,” he nods, smiling to you. It’s up there with one of the strangest compliments you’ve ever received, but it makes you blush nonetheless.

Anna asks for some help in the kitchen, and while Connor is the first to stand up, Scott pushes him back down with a slowly emerging smile on his face, looking directly at you. “Why don’t you give us the chance to get to know Ralphie here?”

You narrow your eyes, “Why do you say that like you’re in your villain arc?”

He laughs, immediately softening. “I just wanna know what makes him tick. Get to know what he really thinks, y’know?”

Ralph’s eyes dart between the two of you. “Rest assured, I have to reason to lie about anybody here in the slightest!”

“I’m just yanking your chain, Ralphie,” Scott laughs, though Ralph is not amused.

Connor rolls his eyes, “Don’t let him put you off us, Ralph. You can get to know us, too, without a certain someone embarrassing us in front of their new friend,” he pulls a face as he points to you with his thumb.

Ralph grins with excitement, his feet running on the spot where he sits. “Do you have a lot of tales to tell between you, then?”

“Oh, we’ve known each other for years. Went to school together.” You explain as you stand, following Anna’s anguished look from her kitchen door. 

Ralph licks his lips, sadness dawning on his face. “Does that mean you all knew Lauren, too?”

Scott pulls a face, “How do you know Lauren, of all people?!”

Quickly assigning yourself as damage control, you pipe up, “Before he came to me, when he was living elsewhere, he met Lauren, Nick, Jase and Horace.”

“And yet he only mentioned Lauren…” Scott teases.

“Would you stop?” Grace slaps Scott’s shoulder as he laughs, moving over to accompany Ralph, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “Clearly things didn’t work out. Her loss, mate.”

Even Connor gets in on the teasing as he snorts with laughter while pointing at you. “What a twist of fate, remember when Nick -”

“You know I never actually asked him out, right? I wussed out at the last minute and just told you all that he turned me down,” you interject, to almost everyone’s groans.

“Nah, that makes sense,” Anna calls from the doorway. “Explains why you’re still such a chicken these days. Speaking of chicken,” she ushers you into the other room hurriedly.

As your friends grill Ralph on what he knows about you so far (“Very little, I’m afraid!”), what his intentions in London are (“Sort of making it all up as I go along, really!”), and his tastes (“I’m really not quite sure, um, I’m quite new to all of this… Modern… I’ve always known the classics, you know?”), you help Anna with her final preparations. 

“So, how long d’you think you’re gonna keep him around for?” Anna asks.

You shrug, “It’s not really up to me. It’s whenever he’s ready to go back home, I guess.”

“I wonder where home is for him,” Anna frowns, and you shrug, focusing on your task. “He’s so… Out of touch. I know Scott was out of line guessing he’s escaped from a cult,” she mouths the word, “but, like, would him going back home really be the best thing?”

“Babe, you’ve known him for all of five minutes, and all you know about him is that he bought you some plants.”

“Exactly! You two are made for each other,” she muses, to which you grab a tea towel to flick at her.

“I’ve only really known him a day, myself,” you counter. 

“And still you let the man live with you,” Anna raises her eyebrows at you.

You shrug again, “I dunno, he’s harmless, i’nt he?” You look over at him, a trace of wistfulness in your gaze as you watch your friends tap his phone for him, pointing things out to him. “I guess we’ll just see what happens.”

Once everything is dished up, you go out to the other room to call them all to pick up their meals. “Hope you haven’t traumatised Ralphie too much,” you comment.

“Not at all!” Ralph beams. “Look at how many new people I have to call and to text message now!” He shows you the addition of your four friends’ numbers in his contact list.

“That’s great, Ralph,” you nod with an affectionate smile. “Now let’s go eat. Sorry none of your favourites are on the menu tonight, mate.”

“Ooh, what are your favourites?” Grace asks.

“Oh, anything with aubergine on the side is always a five-star meal for me!” Ralph grins, and Connor and Scott snort with laughter.

“Hey!” Anna scolds. “No vulgarity at the dinner table, please!”

Ralph frowns. “What is it that’s so vulgar about aubergines?!”

You see multiple people start volunteering themselves to teach him, and hold your hand out to stop them all. “Ralph, there are some questions that you’re better off finding the answers to all by yourself.”

Ralph gasps and points at you, “By using my phone!” You click a finger gun back at him in affirmation. He excitedly taps out a sentence - part of you wants to double-check for him, but you don’t want him to be entirely dependent on you, and besides, he’s a grown man - and frowns at his phone. “Hm, perhaps it takes a while for it to find the answer.”

You groan, “Has the data not kicked in yet? Sorry, that’s on me.”

Dinner goes by delightfully. Of course your friends would make Ralph feel at home. They are home. You wouldn’t even be able to tell amongst the table that one of you was actually from old money - really old money, at that. After dinner, everyone practically fights over getting to play their favourite songs to see how he reacts to them. You could cry every time you see how genuinely happy Ralph looks - though you didn’t want to pry too much behind his back with Anna, you are curious about his life back home. He doesn’t seem too happy thinking about the past, and if he’s so hung up on Lauren, who he barely knew, there can’t have been much luck with any other relationships. Maybe you’ll get to learn more about him. Maybe you won’t have enough time.

But, for now, you’ll happily take the arm he extends out to you as the song changes, laughing as he twirls you amongst the friend group you’ll happily share with him, for however long he needs them.

next chapter

[phoenixyfriend]

Keep thinking about that Midsomer Murders AU. Generally defaulting to the Barnaby and Troy as investigators instead of SW characters

Anyway

Anakin did the initial killing, but it was one of those murders that would have gotten a "the courts would be very kind to you" kills. There are a few mentions in the show about deaths that are committed in self-defense, so it's definitely in keeping with the show themes.

Anakin found out that Palpatine had helped arrange for Padme's death in childbirth, which hadn't seemed suspicious at the time, but Maul came by two and a half years after with evidence of Palpatine having the medical equipment sabotaged. He went to confront Palpatine about it, in a 'please tell me this isn't true' or ' someone's faked recordings of you doing a bad thing, you need to know before he goes to the press about it' way. Instead, Palpatine cops to it for... no reason (much like how he just kind of waits around for the Jedi after telling Anakin he's a Sith in canon) and mentions offhand that he had something to do with Shmi's death a few years prior to that.

Anakin throws a punch or two. Palpatine dodges with an unexpected level of elderly spriteliness.

Anakin says he's going to go to the press. Palpatine warns that, if he could kill off Shmi (seemingly unfortunate run-in with gang violence in Nevada) and Padme without anyone being any the wiser, then he can do the same to someone else Anakin cares about. Obi-Wan's avoided it so far, but there are far more fragile people in Anakin's life, and death rates for children in accidents…

Anakin freezes up. Panics. He maybe gets violent. There's a suspicious grab at a nearby sculpture (which is, in itself, suspicious) used as a bludgeoning weapon. Anakin knocks him out and then starts rummaging about the desk and office to find better proof of Palpatine's crimes, something that can't be swept under the rug.

Palpatine wakes up without Anakin noticing. Pulls a gun. Threatens Anakin to stop. Shoots to graze. Anakin panics again, goes for another 'knock the man out,' and then tosses the gun out the window into the nearby river. Leaves this time.

The 'knock him out' was more than that, and Palpatine is dead by morning due to a brain bleed.

Anakin doesn't come forward and confess, though he supposedly would get treated relatively well by the jury for the several murders and threat to his children (though he doesn't have it on record), and since he had a gun and didn't use it.

Towards the end, when he's asked about why he didn't confess to it all, he says that Palpatine was a very wealthy, very careful, very powerful man, who probably had back-ups in case of his death, and either someone would ensure he spent decades behind bars, or would kill him as soon as he got out.

There's a moment halfway through the episode where someone finds out that Anakin has a list of Where The Kids (and Dogs) Go If Something Happens (the list starts with Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, then Bail, Sabe, Aayla, Owen, Sola, in that order) (Rex will be added to the list if/when he and Anakin decide to tie the knot) Anakin is asked about the list, which is significantly more detailed with more clauses than what most people have, and Anakin admits that, since he almost died when he was nineteen (car crash that took his arm), and Padme did die when he was twenty-two, he's a paranoid mess about the kids having someone if he dies.

There's also a general background to Anakin ending up in English village life in the first place. Shmi was a single mom in Nevada, the dad turned up when Anakin was nine because ??? IDK reasons he didn't know Anakin existed until then. Shmi wanted to marry a local guy (Cliegg) but if Anakin went with Qui-Gon, then a rich grandfather (Dooku) would shell out for a fancy magnet school in England.

Qui-Gon died soon after Anakin was legally in the UK, ended up raised mostly by Obi-Wan with some input from Dooku, after reaching out to Shmi to talk over the options. Anakin needed stability, so Anakin was raised in Dooku's country estate, which was relatively close to Big Fancy School. Dooku's usually in London for business, Anakin moved out after getting married, etc.

Padme's foreign (probably Italian, because Varykino just gives me Italian Villa vibes, but we could also go with the fashion sources and make her Mongolian), and her family is mostly still living in her home country; this is also why Sola is last on the list of people to get the twins.

Priority goes to family and to geography, so the twins stay in/near a place with familiarity if they suddenly lose Anakin. Owen comes before Sola because Owen and Beru want kids, while Sola already has them, and there will be less of a language barrier in Nevada.

[bluejayblueskies]

i cannot stop thinking about tma hell's kitchen au

(@f0xesand0wls thank you for enabling me)

- elias is the head chef, and peter and gertrude are his sous chefs. there are 20 total chefs in the competition: red team: jon, tim, georgie, daisy, naomi, agnes, gerry, jordan, helen/michael, oliver blue team: martin, sasha, melanie, basira, mike, jude, julia, jared, jane, manuela

- the black jackets are jon, martin, tim, sasha, georgie, and melanie, and the finalists are jon and martin. the winner is probably martin, but it doesn't really matter, because the actual plot of this is a jonmartin rivals-to-friends-to-lovers slowburn

- annabelle is the one who puts all of the film and audio together at the end. jmart watch the show once it's put on television and go 'what the fuck i didn't say any of that' because that's how reality tv is babey

- martin is one of those chefs who does poorly at the beginning but gets better and ends up in the final two. even though he's not on the same team as jon, jon is like 'this guy sucks' and maybe martin messes something up for jon early on and jon decides he does not like martin.

- jon is so nervous that he's going to screw up and get sent home early (he doesn't have formal culinary training and feels deeply underqualified) so he's very stiff and overly professional at the beginning. he relaxes over time as he becomes more confident in his own cooking and as he does well at challenges and dinner services.

- somewhere around chapter/episode 5, martin tells jon that he doesn't have any formal culinary training and that he said he did in order to get into the restaurant job he had prior to coming on the show. he's been cooking for his mother since he was ten though, and jon surprises himself by saying that that's a lot more impressive than studying technique in france or something. that's the catalyst of their transition from rivals into friends

- somewhere around episode 8, jude (who got switched to the red team a few episodes prior) gets eliminated, but on the dinner service before she does, there's an incident in the kitchen and jon's hand gets burnt pretty badly (not so badly that he has to go home, and he fights through the rest of dinner service because of course he does). he insists he doesn't have to go to the hospital for it, and elias reluctantly agrees and has the medic look at it. in the dorms later, martin helps jon unwrap it and put more burn cream on it and change the bandages and... yeah <3

- daisy and jon do not get along at first, and daisy actually tries to sabotage jon early in the season/fic. jon nearly gets eliminated because of it and he is not happy. then, a good few episodes later, the red team wins a challenge and they go on some sort of outdoorsy award and something happens and jon saves daisy from getting seriously injured. they're on better terms after that.

- when jon, tim, sasha, martin, melanie, and georgie get black jackets, elias (like every actual season of hell's kitchen) brings their family members/friends in for them to see. jon gets his grandmother, tim his brother, sasha her mother, georgie her best friend alex, and melanie some of her ghosthunt uk (the restaurant) friends. the only person martin has is his mother, and they tell him that she was too sick to come, but he can't shake the feeling that she just didn't want to. she didn't even agree to make him a video. it's a very awkward affair, and after the challenge (which tim wins) jon stands by martin while they're... idk, peeling 200 pounds of potatoes or something and they talk about it and they talk about a lot of their personal lives. for most of the competition, they're very aware that they're on camera at all times, but jon decides that being there for martin is more important than worrying about that.

- jon wins the next black jacket challenge and, when asked who he wants to invite on the reward, invites martin. they get to go wine tasting in a beautiful vinyard together and then they get some time to sit in the vinyard and just relax. martin probably realized he had a crush on jon around... episode/chapter 8? pretty soon after his admission that he doesn't have formal training. this episode is when jon realizes that he has a crush on martin, and the wine tasting suddenly seems very romantic and he gets very flustered. martin just thinks he's getting nervous since they're getting closer to the end of the competition.

- it's martin and jon in the finals. martin has tim, melanie, basira, and agnes on his bridage and jon has sasha, georgie, daisy, and gerry. in the middle of the entrees, something goes very wrong in martin's kitchen (not because of martin, because agnes burns like... ten racks of lamb or something ridiculous like that) and it looks like martin might not even be able to finish and he's freaking out just a little bit, so jon does something incredibly stupid and tells sasha to take charge of the kitchen for a moment and goes over into the other kitchen and pulls martin aside and takes martin's hands in his and is like 'it's okay, you're okay, everything's going to be okay. you're extremely talented and an amazing chef and an amazing person and i love you and this is not your fault and you're going to go back out there and get things back on track.'

jon goes back to his kitchen, elias yelling at him the whole way, and martin kicks agnes out and gets his kitchen back under control and they have no other issues that night. and martin's brain completely skips over the 'i love you' until the end of service, when the adrenaline wears off and they start to clear down and jon gives him this smile and suddenly martin remembers and he's like 'oh fuck'

but jon doesn't say anything about it so martin assumes he hadn't meant to say it, because of course he didn't, because they're competing for a job and $250,000 and he probably just heard jon wrong or something. jon probably said 'i love your cooking' and martin's just being stupid and letting his crush get away from him. so they both go back and sit in the dorms and wait for elias to call them up to his office. meanwhile, jon also remembers that he accidentally let i love you slip and he's having a bit of a crisis about it because on the one hand he meant it, but on the other hand he should not have said it then and martin hasn't said anything, so maybe he didn't even hear.

still, martin needs to thank jon. so he's eventually like 'thank you for what you did back there. i don't think i would have made it through service without what you said.' then, after a moment, because it is a competition: 'why did you help me? you could have let me drown and you'd have a secure win'

and jon just shrugs and says, 'because you needed help, and i... i care about you. i didn't want to see you fail. you are a good chef, martin, and i... i know you deserve this job just as much as me. you can go work at elias's restaurant and i can go back to mine and... and that'll be okay, if that's what happens'

and martin realizes suddenly that jon lives across the country from him normally and he doesn't know if he'll be able to see jon after this (chefs are busy people, after all, not a lot of time for family and such) and before he can really think about it he's like 'i wouldn't be okay with that' and then when jon just looks at him he clarifies, 'i... i don't want to just go back to living in [washington?], working all day and coming home to an empty apartment, and you'll go back to [new york?] and i... will i even see you again? because it's been so nice, being here, being with you, and i want to see you again, jon. every day.' he hesitates a moment, then decides fuck it, if i'm wrong, at least i'll only be embarrassed for a little while longer and says, 'what you said during service. did you mean it?'

and jon, tentatively, is like, 'that you're a good chef? yes, martin, i meant it, of course i did' and martin's like 'no, the... the other thing you said. right in the middle of it all. i- i don't know if i heard you right, and i just... i need to know if you meant it'

and it would be easy for jon to say no, to pretend like he didn't. but instead, he sits next to martin on the couch and takes martin's hand in his and nods and says, 'i... i've meant it for quite some time, i think' and he smiles at martin, a little bit shy, and martin's overwhelmed with affection and he reaches for jon's face, leans forward, and--

and the phone rings. unfortunately. because elias made a decision

- martin's door opens and jon's doesn't. jon thinks he should feel crushed, and he does feel disappointed, but mostly he's just so, so happy for martin. martin is stunned, and tim and sasha and georgie and melanie and basira and daisy are waiting for him below to congratulate him. martin's stuck in a round of thank yous when he turns and sees jon, who's run down the stairs to join the celebration and is looking at martin with those same eyes he would get when he was determined to win a challenge or finish a dish that needed two more minutes in one minute. and then jon just hugs martin, so tightly martin can barely breathe, and he mumbles into martin's neck, 'i would very much like to kiss you, but i very much do not want our first kiss to be on national television' and martin laughs and hugs jon tightly in return and mumbles back, 'i love you too, jon. just in case it wasn't obvious' and even though jon just lost, he's never been happier

- (they watch the show when it comes out together half a year later, in the little bit of free time they have around running their own respective restaurants, and they spend the whole time picking it apart

jon: okay i did not say that, where did they even get that from??

martin: god do i really look like that from behind...

jon: oh christ. martin, i- i think they thought i wanted to have sex with you. ugh, they've put on weird romantic music. red lighting. i hate this. i clearly did not--no, martin, don't give me that look, you know what i mean.

martin: wow, this makes us look like terrible chefs

and, at the end:

jon: christ, of course they were recording us in the dorms after the last service. this is a cooking competition, not a romance.

martin: eh, it was a bit of a romance.

jon: hush, i'm trying to watch. they're about to announce the winner. i don't have much hope for this chef martin; after all, he did burn that risotto back in episode 2--

martin, trying not to laugh while he glares at jon: oh my god jon let it go)

[scribbly-dee]

Inspired by this post

I adore corruption arcs, so I graded how well the non-archivist characters would have damned humanity if they had been the archivist.

Sasha James 11/10, would be an ideal archivist, this plus her height is probably why the stranger monster targeted her before she could peak

I have a soft spot for any au that knows Sasha has never seen a brain cell in her life and that any unhinged!Sasha au is really just a regular Sasha au. Picture it with me. Sasha and Jon have parallel archivist tracks, until Sasha (my beloved show off) decides: you know what would make me more efficient at snooping? Becoming a Human Google. And things accelerate. The Web doesn't even need to bother with subtly magic lighters, it slaps all 14 marks on her at once by pulling up next to Sasha in a windowless van with "free secrets 👍" written on the side.

After the Unknowing, Sasha takes over the institute from Elias instead of Martin and Peter. With Tim dead, Jon in a coma, Martin lonely-snatched, Melanie compulsively homicidal, Daisy in the coffin, and Basira on autopilot, she quickly bonds with Rosie, the ultimate nosiness enabler. Sasha is a fully marked archivist for a good long while, but doesn't start the apocalypse right away because she's eager to read ALL the ominous notes Elias left, so the watcher's crown statement is in her to-be-read pile. When the apocalypse starts (Rosie: "Hey, Sasha, I just read something extra fucked up that Elias wrote, wanna see?" Sasha: "God yes."), she books it to become the pupil with Rosie as her anchor. Mayhapse an anchor-archivist polycule with Archivist Jon and Martin? Mayhapse Jon is just a normal eye avatar here and deeply invested in all of Sasha's eyepocalypse statements, so it's Sasha and her plus-three? Mayhapse it's a race across the eyepocalypse wasteland between Archivist Sasha and Archivist Jon to usurp Jonah and become the pupil?

Tim Stoker 2/10 dude's here for a good time, not a long time

The only way I see this working is if Elias disguises not-stranger clues as circus related so Tim is motivated to investigate. Otherwise, his archival assistants are way more curious than him and disobey his direct orders to 🍹chill🏝. Jon, Sasha, and Martin inadvertently bring marks home to him like cats bring home dead birds. He asserts his agency when he decides the best course of action? Actually? Just blow up the archives. This unfortunately puts him in a false sense of security, and Elias makes him read the watcher's crown statement by cat fishing him on grindr and sending the ritual as a dm mid conversation.

Daisy Tonner - 9/10 archivist, would have started doomsday before she was at the archivist job long enough to use her PTO

Daisy already had a lot of experience hunting down fear-entity-related people in sectioned cases, which means she possibly canonically already has all the marks from just hunting avatars who use their powers in self defense. The reason she lost one point is because she's too much of a jock to read, only nerds are culpable to watcher crown statements, so this would be the only delay but oh what a delay it will be.

Melanie King - 7/10 archivist, points awarded for achieving her breakthroughs by smashing her head against a wall until she literally breaks through, points deducted for doing so in full clown makeup.

If Jon got a handful of marks by just asking anoying questions in the same room as an avatar, imagine how much faster Melanie would get marks by bringing her trademark Chaotic Brat personality on fear entity investigations. The apocalypse would have started in like two seasons: one season to hire her off the streets and establish shakey, complex relationships with her new assistants (Jon and Sasha put in the time with the institute but were passed over on this promotion for some random YouTuber (plus they're tighter with Tim and Martin, so proletarian solidarity against the boss)).

Then a second season to stab every mark and get stabbed in return. Melanie would blitz through all 14 marks because what precious little impulse control she starts with is slowly replaced with slaughter juice. One fun moral ambiguity to explore could be if Melanie tries to use her new, dangerous Eye/Slaughter powers to revive her reputation and platform in the supernatural community now that she can, ya know, identify supernatural things for the first time ever. Does she acknowledge her entire career up to her hospital episode apparently only investigated fake sightings? A better question to ask is whether Basira, Tim, and Jon ever let her live down how Ghost Hunt UK's professional dignity was contingent on the legitimacy of her sCiEnTiFiC gHoSt eQuIpMeNt in those episodes, so the temperature spikes set to dramatic music were well and truly just temperature spikes and dramatic music. Sasha found a clip of that music playing as Melanie narrates "it's a message... from the other side..." and made it as her text tone.

Also, it would be hilarious if Melanie tried to kill Jonah on sight in the panopticon, once again botched assassination attempt number 1,963,538, and then Jon quietly snuck in to finish the job on his first try just like in canon.

Jon: "What, like it's hard?"

Basira Hussain 3/10 archivist, her eye alignment manifests as office gossip, like a normal person

Basira has the most formidable super power of all: the power to nope tf out of any conversation or plan she wants. She therefore would probably take 10x longer to start the apocalypse than any other archivist because her fatal flaw is refusal to directly engage with a lot of personally difficult things (like the slaughter bullet surgery she organized, Daisy In General, etc). The marks will be slow going if she resists putting her safety on the line or invests time in making good plans (which is smart, but unhelpful for dooming humanity). She would for sure still get marked and end the world because once she's convinced of a plan (aka Elias convinces her of a plan), she's ruthlessly efficient. So I'd stay out of her way that last year or two, she marks the entities right back at them.

Martin Blackwood 2/10 archivist, considering a prerequisite for creepy eye avatar staring is the ability to make eye contact.

S1 Archivist Martin would probably dote too much on the employees under him to be hugely susceptible to Elias' isolation-dependant manipulation. Any progress Martin inadvertently achieves toward the watcher's crown goal would have to be contingent on it helping his loved ones, which is perfect fuel for a "corrupted by good intentions" arc. This would be key because Martin has superb bullshit and manipulation detection, making the marks are tricky but not impossible to orchistrate considering Jon can't stay put in a safe corner for 10 minutes and Martin's mother would refuse to stay with him where she's safe from avatar threats.

Imagine the petty drama when Jon and Sasha learn he got the promotion they wanted because he lied on his CV.

Other than that, Martin would be even worse about pit stops on the apocalypse road trip than Jon because his Kill Bill mode would have no off switch. Does Archivist!Martin and his anchor Jon ever reach the panopticon? Eventually, but not until after they lose points for significantly reducing the apocalypse fear quantity. Would Annabelle survive to deliver her cryptic MaCHiNAtIoNs and achieve the Web's goal? Hard No, additional point reduction for neutralizing the multiverse invasion. Points potentially earned back if Martin's Web connection is strong enough to come up with the multiverse invasion plan on his own, though.

Georgie Barker 4/10, as a fearless coward, all the fear she feeds to the entities would be khaki flavored. They'd get their apocalypse, but they probably wouldn't enjoy the meal.

Similar to Basira, Georgie has the super power to Fuck This Shit I'm Out. She would overall be a subpar humanity damning archivist; a major archivist success factor of Jon's is that he has enough affective empathy to be afraid with every statement giver he reads, so when Jon archives a statement, he unintentionally contributes to the fear soup seasoning. Combined with how Georgie doesn't want anything to do with entity drama, so any corruption specific to the watcher's crown would stagnate. Even her casual exposition conversations would go like

Georgie: "I've connected no dots."

Melanie: "you've connected a lot of dots??"

Georgie: "I've connected shit all dots."

The reason she gets one more point than Basira is because Georgie's fatal flaw is the passive observer quality the Eye tried to stoke in Jon. Her level of engagement oscillates between two extremes, impulsive over commitment and judging from a distance. This would probably lead her to geting involved just long enough for her involvement to become irreversible, at which point she would try to cut that shit out of her life after it's trapped her. She'd linger, barricading herself on the margins of this problem as the marks that are targeted at her slowly tally up until boom. Apocalypse is on and she only half understands what's happening.

Georgie would wander around an apocalypse hellscape confused, but vibes and physical health fully intact. Anchor!Melanie would have quite the emotional journey starting with Georgie on that pedestal Melanie placed her, and ending with a slaughter avatar stabbing the person who convinced her to work on her slaughter inclination.

[where-dreamers-go]

James Conrad x Fem!Reader (Soulmate AU) Part One

(A/N: I wanted to experiment with another soulmate alternative universe. Predominantly in James’ point of view. This has been (slowly) in the works for a long while. Again, I went back to this now in 2021 when this was typed from a notebook in 2019. I kind of forgot about this one…my bad. So this is for @girl-next-door-writes Bingo Challenge~! Yeah, I know I have a few other insert readers that I’m working on, but this one was basically finished and I can’t believe I forgot about it. Part One, Erica? Yeah, I know...we get there when we get there. Bingo Card: Soulmates Warnings: Brief and vague mentions of people not surviving on Skull Island. Word Count: 3,246 words )

A world with ancient creatures long forgotten and slowly being remembered was an intricate puzzle. There were believers, those who were neutral, and those who spit negativity at the notion of something against their beliefs.

A society and world where soulmates could found one another on their own was exciting for the hopeful. Bioluminescent glow of the skin acted as a compass with one’s soulmate in place of North. A part of the body closest to the direction of one’s soulmate would glow. It could be the tip of a nose, an extended elbow, or any small pinpoint glow unless one’s soulmate was closer. The more near to one’s soulmate, the larger the glowing area. 

✧ ✧ ✧

James’ skin never glowed more than the size of a small coin. He had traveled more than the average citizen. He had been a captain, Special Operations, but was a civilian once more as a hirable tracker. Yet agreeing to go aboard his last job changed everything. What he knew about the world and her creatures was altered. Skull Island was only a part of it all.

On top of being forced into Monarch’s containment and learning that there were other monsters out there around the world—his skin was glowing in large patches. It was distracting for himself and those with him. The others were getting quite interested and offering to help. As it had been glowing more noticeably since he and Mason were briefed on the ancient super species.

“I can handle it. Let’s stay on topic, shall we?” James asked, as he walked out of the concrete holding room.

“Are you sure? Because—,” the boy, Houston, swallowed his words at the quick glance from James. “Right.”

It was no secret that the two scientists, Houston Brooks and San Lin, found James’ glowing skin to be a big deal. Seeing someone’s skin glow about the size of their hand was nothing to ignore. Yet that was what James intended to do. There were larger situations to consider, especially as the two scientists took Mason and James to another area—finally—once they were on board.

“More of your skin is glowing,” said Mason, her voice hushed.

“I know.” James stated, but not as flatly as he intended to end the conversation.

“I wonder who it is,” Houston stated.

“Someone in Monarch definitely,” San added.

“Again, may we stay on topic?” James looked pointedly at each of his companions.

“Sorry.”

“Yes.”

He did not have a clear idea where they were being lead in the government building, but he did know it would lead to more information on the matters Monarch was involved in.

✧ ✧ ✧

Work had been left ignored, procrastinated for hours. Your eyes studying your own skin as its bioluminescence when you had walked through the compound and as you sat in your small office.

You were brought into Monarch almost a year ago with promises of knowledge and helping others. Your curiosity had sucked you in. It was a home, workplace, and life like no other. There were many surreal moments, definitely, considering ancient creatures not being just legends. Something a zoologist like yourself dove into researching.

You were happy. You had a purpose of helping others. The more you learned and researched, the more you felt actually fulfilled. Also, the more paperwork and notes you had pinned to the wall and filed onto your desk.

Seeing your skin’s soulmate glow broaden in size seemed more otherworldly than writing down a wingspan for Mothra.

Sighing, you rotated your forearm as the glow spread to your bicep.

This week just keeps getting more intense, you thought. First an expedition on Skull Island, now—

Knock knock

You quickly rolled down the sleeves of your shirt.

“Hey, (Y/N).” Houston walked in through the open doorway, “got a minute?”

“Sure.” You answered, standing from your seat.

Three more people walked into your office, one of which you recognized as San.

“May I help you?” You asked as you made an effort not to make any direct eye contact with the newcomers for at least a moment longer.

“Ah…” His eyes were on the man he had brought with him.

“Houston?”

He coughed before speaking and turning his attention elsewhere, “This is Mason Weaver—.”

“Hi.” Mason waved, a woman with dirty blonde hair.

“Hi,” you smiled and waved in return. The glow appearing out of your hand. You quickly tucked your hands behind your back. A glow then brightening your face.

“—And…this is James Conrad.”

“Hi.” The tall man swallowed dryly, his face and neck glowing warmly. Extremely obviously.

Oh, dear, you thought.

Clearly, out of everything that happened in the past week, he was not prepared for meeting his soulmate. Neither were you.

“Hi.” Your voice lacked the strength you were hoping to pull out of yourself for one second away from your work. Although it did not seem to hurt any of the introductions.

Quiet quickly took over your small office. Multiple pairs of eyes looked between you and the Mister Conrad. With your desk behind you, you were a cornered little mammal.

“So, what’s your job here?” Mason asked, breaking through the other’s silent stares.

“I’m a zoologist and here at Monarch I try to figure out how these species live—survive in their environments. Hoping to learn about their evolution and habits. Basically the animal kingdom.” You answered, your shoulders slacking some.

“She also has an interest in mythology, which is a great help to us,” Houston piped up.

“If I was more into cryptology it would make this a little more fun. If not give me a small head start when I first came here.”

“Speaking of head start…How much time do you think we have?” Mason asked.

“Time… Uh. Considering we survived this long as a species, how technology is progressing, and how your expedition unearthed some of the creatures….I would say that we still have time before the world—our society as a whole—knows them as facts. That much can be said.”

“That’s good news.”

“But that doesn’t mean all humans or even our technology will be prepared for their arrival or even living amongst them.”

“I’m not sure I want to live next door to one of them,” Houston pointed out.

“The creatures already live here. They were here first.” San added.

“We are the ones who must adapt.” James said, arms crossed over his chest.

Your breath came in quickly as your eyes reminded you of the man’s own bioluminescence. It covered all of his arms’ skin that was visible from his short-sleeve shirt. Mesmerizing you in thoughts that seemed too supernatural and much too distracting for the topic at hand.

“Are we not gonna talk about you two’s skins glowing?” Houston asked, jolting you out of your thoughts.

You straightened up hastily.

“Learning all we can about ancient creatures that could possibly destroy the human race and other creatures of the world comes first.” You said, though perhaps more to yourself. It wasn’t entirely a ‘no’.

“Agreed.” James stated, arms still crossed and glowing.

You had only taken a glimpse at him from the corner of your eye.

“Alright,” Houston drew out the word. “The world is top priority.”

“As it should,” San added. “And we should show Mason and James the other wing. Show them their rooms and where they can eat.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Mason said as she turned towards the door.

“Likewise,” you smiled.

“A pleasure,” James said shortly before leaving just before Mason.

Houston and San gave their short goodbyes as they left you to your work.

You plopped down onto your chair. Heart thumping loudly in your chest, you shuttered as you let out a breath of air.

“He’s here.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Mason and James were shown more of the facility on the way to the living area. A whole opposite wing inside of the secret facility where those in Monarch could stay. It was impressive. Their separate rooms would be the final stop on the tour.

James wondered if there would be no leaving that place. After time, would he want to?

I’m going to have to help people. I’m alright with that. If they need help—the world, I’ll do what I can. He thought as he counted off the doors they passed.

Houston and San lead the way.

“I can’t believe you didn’t stay and talk with her,” Mason declared from beside James. “Actually I can. Nevermind.”

“There’s no time.” James said.

“That’s a poor excuse for someone who just heard that we do have time. Years even.”

“But would it be worth it?” He countered.

“That’s up to you and her. You could also learn a lot more about this place.”

“I think I’ve heard enough about this place for one day.”

He knew that Mason was trying to bait him, but also to genuinely help. It wasn’t an everyday thing to hear about someone finding their soulmate; let alone see it happen.

It had to happen this way, didn’t it?

When night fell and James was finally alone, he was reminded of everything he had pushed to the back of his mind. Well fed and cleaned up, he laid in bed. He could not help but to stare at the glowing of his skin on his left side. It meant that you did not leave the facility either. Could you though? He reached out his left arm and watched as his entire hand glowed. Bright whites and warm yellow tones. Even when he was in the UK his skin never glowed more than the size of his thumb. His soulmate was there. Alive and healthy.

He sighed.

Normally he would not even think about his soulmate or even remember about a glowing patch of his skin because it was always out of sight or not enough to notice. Too many changes and discoveries. Then he met you. However brief of a meeting, James had felt something spark in his mind and his veins. Somewhere in him, he felt a connection. An interest that rooted itself inside of him where he could not see.

Closing his eyes, James settled with his thoughts.

She’s safe. That’s what’s important.

✧ ✧ ✧

James awakened from his half-sleep state from a knocking on the room’s only door. Rolling out of bed, he walked to see who needed to see him. It was not until his entire front was glowing brighter than yesterday did he know for certain who was behind the door. He flicked on the room light. Sleep faded from his mind completely.

He took a breath in.

Upon opening the door, he did not mind greeting who he saw.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you smiled all tense with your face all aglow.

A small smile curled his lips.

Guess it didn’t take her long to figure out which room I was in.

“I’m sorry if it’s too early.” You said, voice hushed.

“It’s fine. Truly.”

“I was just…wondering if you were okay.”

He could of laughed at the statement, but he chose against it.

“Considering I was lucky to return alive from an island full of monsters, was taken against my will to be brought here, was shown a presentation of other monsters on the planet, and still haven’t left this place—I would have to say that simply ‘okay’ doesn’t quite fit.”

Silence filled the hall.

James felt a twinge of guilt seeing the mixture of hurt on your face unfiltered. Your fingers intertwined tightly. He waited to hear what you would say.

You finally found words you wanted to share, “Monarch tends to be a bit dramatic and secretive, but I think that’s because it’s difficult for Monarch as a whole to find people they can trust.”

“They seem to trust you a great deal.”

“I’ve just gathered information. I’m a zoologist and I also want to make sense of what our world really is—but that doesn’t mean I’ll figure out everything we should even know about one of these creatures. I do my best. I don’t go out recruiting or anything. I haven’t even been out in the field in months.”

He saw more than he had yesterday how the subjects at hand were making you distressed. Seen from how your eyes looked panicked and you hid your hands in the sleeves of your sweater.

“I’m sorry for what you went through on the island. No one should have gotten hurt or…,” your voice trailed off.

“Each of us knew the risks—to a degree.”

“But you weren’t told the truth. It wasn’t fair.”

James leaned against the doorway. New thoughts coming forward in his mind.

“Were you available to go to Skull Island?”

“I—,” you cocked your head at him before your eyes glanced elsewhere. “Bill Randa told me to look over my research. Basically like writing a second draft to a paper. He told me that I was missing something. But…we didn’t have any new information coming in at the time.”

“Any chance he was wary of whether or not you would have told those he hired why we were really there?”

That would have been helpful. But Houston and San did not say anything either.

“I…I don’t know. I’ve never told a secret before. Not that any of this is really a secret. It’s more like myths and stories that people wouldn’t likely believe at first glance.”

He watched as you rubbed your arms still deep in thought.

James straightened up.

“Would you care to come in? I think we’ve stood out here long enough.” He smiled.

You smiled kindly in return.

“Would it be alright if we talked about something other than monsters?” You inquired.

“Sure. Did you have anything in mind?” He dearly hoped you were not going to ask about the War or that part of his past that interested most others.

No doubt she had heard something from Houston or San. Or she asked.

To his surprise and only partial relief, you held up a single glowing finger.

Right. That.

James’ chest rose and fell before he nodded in agreement. The man moved back inside the room given to him and held the door open as you gingerly entered.

As you passed him the side of your face glowed a bright white that his eyes seemed to follow without a second thought.

Seconds ticked by and you were both still standing around and not sure what to do as you both glowed, keeping a distance.

You rose your eyebrows, amused with the silence.

One of us has to say something, he thought.

What was there to say? It was not the most ideal of circumstances around.

“I…I must apologize for being so blunt when we met.” James said. “Everything has just been adding up and piling on more information. I didn’t want to put any of that emotion towards you. None of this was expected.”

“It’s alright. I mean, I always figured I’d miss my chance at meeting my—uh, you know…”

James nodded.

“Because of my work and usually being inside or one place. Not really moving around. Plus I figured I’d somehow walk right passed or something and not notice because I’m focused on other things.”

“Your work is important to you. That’s good.”

“Yeah,” you smiled a bit as you rested your hands on your hips. “Nothing like good work ethic in something your interested in. Though right now it’s quite the topics.”

Narrowing his eyes for a moment, James figured you were talking about more than just monsters. About him, perhaps?

We keep dancing around the soulmate subject. What do we even want? What do I want?

“It’d been nice to focus on other things.” You said.

What?

The corner of your lips quirked up as you looked at him.

“Things about what other people do or are interested in.” You clarified. You had read his expression well enough.

“I’m not sure what information I could offer.” James stated softly. “I was still a tracker for hire when Monarch offered me the job.” He had not entirely wanted to bring that up to you, however there was not much else. How personal did he want to be? This was the most time he had spent in your presence since meeting you the day before. To him, you did not seem the radical type like those he encountered while on Skull Island. Time would tell when he would open up more to you. Even the whole soulmate subject was a heavy topic.

You seemed determined enough to push through the conversation.

“Could…,” you pressed your lips together in a tight line. Eyes no longer meeting his. “This is probably extremely personal, but—if you wanted to…would you had been able to find me on your own?”

“The glowing would had made it exceedingly easier. Yes.”

You nodded, taking in his words.

“Would you?” He asked.

Eyes returning to his, your shoulders perked higher. You shook your head.

“Even working for Monarch, I couldn’t.” You said quietly. “I think it worked out though.” You shrugged, trying to defend your happiness of meeting James.

She really is happy to have met me. Finding me though…That’s what I figured, he thought. She can’t travel the world with her expertise without support. She couldn’t have been able to find me in Vietnam. Seeing her office, she probably would had been helpful on the trip. He froze at his thoughts. No. That would had been terrible.

“I know that we agreed not to speak about any more monsters, however,” he inhaled visibly, “I am glad that you were not on that expedition.”

“Why?” Your question was out of curiosity not pride.

“Your presence would had made it more complicated. None of it would have been of your own doing. Rather, uh, the stakes would have been higher. Greater.”

Just the start of his mind thinking about if you there bothered him. The creatures, the people, unknown environment they found themselves in, and the secrets that were held.

“Oh…that sort of makes sense.”

“Sorry,” he took a step closer to you. “It’s just there were guns being pointed to anyone who disagreed with the Lieutenant Colonel. And if you were there I’m sure he would have used you as leverage or had threatened you or worse. Our glowing skins would have made us easy targets.”

“Not to forget the wildlife as I heard briefly.”

“That too. I’m so glad you weren’t there and I say that with much respect to you.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

That didn’t sound forward, did it?

“At least this is a much more safer environment to get to know one another.” James said.

At the closer proximity he could see that even the tip of your nose was glowing. He had never seen someone’s entire face illuminated before. To know it was from his presence, gave him an emotion he could not immediately place.

“How long do you plan on staying?”

The question struck him deep. James had not even left Vietnam when the war was over and even in Monarch he was not sure where he would stay. Was there a place for him in Monarch? He was a tracker and they were discovering monsters who lived below the Earth’s surface. He could find work there, but could he find a life there?

“As long as I am needed.”

~~~

(If you love my writings and want to support me, I have a Ko-Fi where you can buy me a coffee. I would be eternally grateful.

Best wishes and happy reading.)

~~~~~

DreamerDragon Tags: @cubedtriangle

James Conrad Tags: @

**Let me know if you would like to be tagged in insert readers, either through replies, ask, or message.**

[transgenderboobs]

tender tma fic recs

everybody’s dying bitch let’s get u some Tender Content :-)

i update this whenever i find a new fic i like btw xx

jonmartin

take sides in divided cells not strictly a jm fic but still one of my favorite fucking fics. there’s plenty of jm flavored tenderness involved. martin tells his father off and i’m fucking living for it 

hello my old heart one of the first tma fics i ever read post-160. obligatory safehouse pining fic

Prenons-nous la main another safehouse pining fic. i do love this flavor of fanned fiction

Hyphenate tender tender proposal/wedding planning fic

i always have a sense of trembling (but so does a compass, after all) again not, strictly speaking, a jm-centered fic. it’s a quick look at how martin is recovering from the lonely that i am absolutely obsessed with

woke up in a safe house (let's get married) v cute proposal fic. softest possible use of beholding powers imaginable 

here and where you are cute lil soulmate au. jon n martin’s soulmarks look like the evil eye.

Diary the mortifying ordeal of being known but make it unbearably tender

vanished in the waves this one is kinda sad. martin cries about a painting of a lonely goose on a mug which is the most relatable and endearing thing i’ve ever read and it makes me wanna cry in real life

Office Party pining across the years !

sweet, clean and comforting this one is just.....pure safehouse fluff!!!! that’s it!!!

i don't wanna say it out loud flirting thru office memos. both lighthearted and a lil sad!

don't end quite possibly my fave jm fic out there currently. one of the first tma fics i ever read, i lost it for a long time but could not stop thinking about it and finally found it again and got really happy about it. this fic introduced me to the very iconic trope of “there were two beds but they shared one anyway.” it’s just very gentle. i love martin so much

thanks for the company au where maritn and jon fall in love becuz maritn makes the friendly eyeball monster in his nightmares tea and plays cards with him :)

When Words are Inadequate cooking as a love language babey!!!!!

Taking Stock i just think martin blackwood deserves a break and so much comfort

the This Must Be The Place series. post-lonely/safehouse fics abt. the concept of home. which u all know i am a slut for

Hearing You i can’t pretend to know the intricacies of uk regional accent discourse but i love martin’s perfect voice and i will read infinite fics where jon loves and comforts him about the absolute bullshit his parents pulled

the commodore “alternate title: jon and martin steal a cat”

heirat jon, brainless, extremely gay: hey i know i just yoinked u out of the lonely but let’s get platonically married so u don’t fade away again

be kind, i beg you another safe house fic !

Sam nie pojmuję, jak w twe zajdę progi martin keeps calling jon petnames in polish that jon understands them all thru his archivist powers. and then for the same premise but with irish there’s also Conas A Deirtear ‘Grá’ As Gaeilge, which made me cry real actual tears in my real actual life and want to walk into heavy traffic so like. be warned!:) thisun’ll rip ur heart clean out

stranger, stranger texting au? kind of? mistaken identity? jon and martin are literally the actual worst at using dating apps.

fell in your opinion when i fell in love with you au where martin confronts jon in s1 and it actually goes well. ft. martin’s metric fuckton of abandonment issues which i love for no reason at all don’t worry about it 

Though recent books are bolder safehouse fix it/no apocalypse au fic, a cat adopts jm and stops jon from finishing the statement :3c very cute

let the soft animal of your body GRIPS YOU BY THE FUCKING SHOULDERS COOKING AS A LOVE LANGUAGE COOKING AS A LOVE LANGUAGE COOKING AS A L-- the near unbearable tenderness of jon and martin cooking for each other in the safehouse. i am DYING

nothing so bright and delicate jm pining and resting together, through the years :~)

to eat well at this point i’m just collecting Food As A Love Language jm fics. i could just, pardon the pun, eat them up! :~}

lying to our friends and colleagues i’m so obsessed w this fic’s concept. jm were dating pre archive and Fake Not Date after getting hired so it doesn’t look like jon’s playing favorites. this is the only e-rated fic on here, but the sex scene is easily skippable !

dead sea this is not exactly a jm focused fic. its more a martin character study - and a pretty heavy one, at that - but there’s some very tender jm moments <3

clear the area post canon martin comfort fic that knocked me the FUCK OUT.

the things'll be going my way after today series: a cute, silly, dorky, fluffy,  marvelous t4t jmart series that absolutely delights me and makes me feel gender euphoria

Martin gets a good cry sometimes i allow myself to experience catharsis by reading fics where martin gets comforted and has a little bit of a breakdown about it. super sweet and tender

iceberg blues lovely little lonely study fic. i also spend an unreasonable amount of time thinking about naomi herne and evan lukas

Letting Luck In The Door au where jm meet and bond over finding some abandoned kittens outside the institute n nursing them back to health<3

and then that word grew louder and louder some safehouse martin introspection. this kinda thing always gets me.

Corporeal Phenomena i have been really vibing on soft melancholy martin introspection fics lately, and this one really tickles the stem nerd and the neurodivergent in me. martin thinks about Love as a concept

lighthousekeeping yet another Food As A Love Language + martin introspection fic <3 

for shade to shade will come too drowsily anotherrrrrr martin introspection fic abt depression and love. this one is very sweet but extreme emotionally evocative 

Courage in the Dark a no institute au abt martin coming out as trans to jon <3

what the girlfriends

shake your graveclothes off ik everyone and their mother has been reccing this fic but. it’s really good please read it

so come home, honey HHHHHH so fucking sweet. tender wtgfs hurt/comfort featuring melanie Quitting

UPDATE: LIFE AFTER THE END OF THE WORLD! Quitting Youtube + what I'm doing next! :) ghost hunk uk updates! it’s ADORABLE

feel your fingers trace my hand it’s just Fluff that’s it that’s all there is

but we got heart everyone needs a coffee shop au !

timsasha 

a better fate than wisdom did someone say timsasha fake dating au??? no??? just me??? well here’s one anyway! 

if you try, sometimes (you get what you knead) FOOD AS A LOVE LANGUAGE!!!!!! not a strictly ts centered. more found family-esque but but ts flavored. made me ACHE like nothing else!!!!!!!!!

Will They, Won't They turns out it IS possible to make me cry in 500 words or less!!!!! 

paradise i held onto i have been entirely undone by the mental image of sasha standing in tim’s kitchen sleepy and soft wearing his shirt.

Finding You sasha lives au but make it Yearning!!!! so sweet and so melancholy. left me wanting More

drop me a line, when you can post-jane prentiss sasha lives au featuring lots of Yearning Over Text

you'll remember me post-unknowing au where they’re Both still alive :-)

love enough to make you feel brand new YEOWCH! not gonna lie to u lads, this one hurts ! just a look at tim’s Feelings. owie. holds him in my arms

misc

it lives behind your teeth not exactly tender, so i’m putting this in the misc section. a basira character study with a heaping helping of gut-wrenching longing. very bittersweet.

at certain hours it all breaks down bruv this fic.....idk how to even begin putting it into words but i am so obsessed with it. martin basically saves the world with the power of love and kindness

the family unit is hilarious and cute. the one lonely eyes fic i’ll let myself rec. gertrude pranks elias with a baby.

i have to rec avatar groupchat, which is possibly the most iconic fucking fic out there. elias gets bullied RELENTLESSLY, by LITERALLY everyone, it’s cathartic. 

the mirror of the fire of my mind, burning is a REALLY GOOD gertie/agnes fic. forget “they only met once” this is my canon now 

An Eye for an Eye is not Tender but good lord is it a fun read so i’m gonna rec it here anyway. no pairings or anything, just an archivist gerry au w/ the Ultimate role swap

Know my name and all of my hideous mistakes again, not really tender, so i think it needs to be in misc. in fact this one is deeply sad, but the line “Remember us the way we were” fucking KILLS ME every time.

Client notes 2017/10/15, BLACKWOOD, M.K. or, the “martin tries therapy fic,” because my favorite genre of fic is now “blorbo seeks professional mental help”

Together We Sang canon divergence martingerry childhood friends au with an Actual happy ending. wah

and the obligatory self-plug. here’s my mag fics on ao3, and i should have some tma ficlets in my writing tag

[thetranquilteal]

The Vintage Calendar [AO3] by @thetranquilteal

With the ending of her contract with the UK Armed Forces, all Claire Beauchamp wants for Christmas is to enjoy a quiet holiday in Scotland with her long-term boyfriend Frank Randall. While visiting with close friends, however, Claire is gifted with a vintage advent calendar that sets her life on a path she never expected... one that leads to Northern Badgers star, James Fraser. 

Modern Day AU loosely based on the Netflix Christmas movie ‘The Holiday Calendar’. New chapter posted every day!

Day 1: Candy Cane

Claire wrapped her dressing gown around her a little tighter as she shuffled across the living space to the kitchenette, early morning light guiding the way. She placed the kettle on the stove and set about preparing tea, her cold hands fumbling with the canister.

“Still cold, love?” Frank came up behind her and rubbed his hands up and down her arms gently, trying to generate some heat.

“Yes,” she admitted with a light laugh as she wrapped her dressing gown around her a little tighter still. Mrs Baird’s Bed and Breakfast was quaint and in an ideal location, in the very centre of Inverness, but it was not as warm and cosy as she would have liked. “I just can’t seem to shake it.”

“Here,” he took the spoon out of her hand and guided her out of the way, “let me finish the tea. You go and sit by the fire.”

“Thank you,” she kissed him on the cheek and made her way around the couch towards the purple armchair that had caught her eye the moment they entered their accommodation. She paused, though, when the vintage calendar caught her eye.

“Frank?” Claire called.

“Hmm?”

“Did you open this?”

“Open what, darling?”

“The calendar that Mrs. Graham gave us.”

“No, I haven’t had the chance to have a closer look yet. Is there there something for today, then?”

“Yes,” Claire’s brow furrowed as she reached out and picked up the little figurine sitting in the already open doorway. “It’s a little candy cane.”

The sun had long since set by the time Claire wandered the streets of downtown Inverness looking for somewhere to stop for a warm drink. Sparkling lights and Christmas decorations adorned each side and muffled festive tunes could be heard from many of the doorways she passed. She couldn’t bring herself to walk through any of them however, the lights seemingly too bright and vibe feeling too thick, and instead kept walking, taking turns here and there looking for somewhere a little more quiet to spend her evening without Frank.  

It had been a productive day, first studying various heavy tomes with the Reverend at the Manse and then a few hours spent at the local library looking over what Claire considered to be mounds of papers brought to them by the librarian, a large eyed woman with thick glasses, all too happy to deliver more than they could possibly read to their table along with what seemed to be a never ending cup of candy canes. It was there Frank had discovered a new lead, a handwritten note suggesting some rituals performed during yuletide centuries ago had a deeper and more intricate history than previously believed. Seeing the light spark in his eyes, Claire had encouraged him to continue his research and told him not to worry about their plan to spend the evening together - they had a whole month in town and one evening spent apart wouldn’t ruin anything after all.

The streets got darker and Claire subsequently got calmer, slowing her walk to a much more casual stroll, a warm looking restaurant now set in her sights. Suddenly a door opened to her left and a group of people flowed out, merriment evident in their faces if not their voices, each carrying boxes of what looked to be homemade Christmas decorations. She instinctively moved to the side to get out of the way, just barely dodging a stray oversized candy cane to the head and waited patiently in the entrance of an alleyway for them to pass.

“Druid!”

Claire jumped and turned to find an older man standing in an unassuming doorway staring at her. He was dressed in a shirt and kilt that had certainly seen better days and she looked around quickly to make sure that he was, in fact, looking at her before responding. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Druid!" The man repeated, waving for her to come in. "Ach, come on lass! I cannae stand here waiting for ye all night. Come in before ye attract attention!”  

“I don’t-”

Obviously frustrated by her hesitation, the man grabbed her hand and pulled her inside, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man so seemingly agitated.

She stumbled slightly but regained her balance in time to watch the man leave her just as quickly as he had found her to join a group of men huddled on one side of the establishment. She pushed her indignation aside for a moment to look around and - found a very ordinary tavern. It made sense that she hadn’t noticed this place herself, she thought. It was free from glitz, glamour and - perhaps most significantly - any holiday glitter. Overall, it was rather dark and grungy with lanterns and fireplaces providing a warmth she hadn’t experienced all day.

Determined to remain calm after such an undignified entrance, she squared her shoulders and walked up to the bar, raising a hand to attract the attention of the barkeep.

“Local cider, please.”

The man nodded and Claire settled herself on a stool and, feeling less conspicuous, took her time studying her surroundings more closely. Individuals and small groups were scattered here and there, their collective chatter on par with the music playing through speakers overhead.

She accepted her drink and handed over the required amount of cash. She took a sip and smiled at the taste. 'Life was too short to not enjoy the drink in your hand' as her old Commanding Officer used to say. Half way through her drink the group of men huddled by one of the open fireplaces caught her attention again when a pained grunt travelled across the room.

Just ignore it, Beauchamp. Enjoy your drink, Beauchamp, she thought to herself and for a moment she managed to do just that. Until she couldn’t stand it any longer. "Dammit, Beauchamp."

Claire got up, drink still in hand, and made her way over, their discussion becoming clearer with every step.

“Well, what if I-”

“-I dinnae need yer help!”

“Ye cannae-”

“-one phone call-”

“For the love of-”

There, amongst five or so men, each talking over the top of one another, was a young red haired man sitting on a chair cradling his arm. So busy arguing amongst themselves, they barely noticed her presence.

“It’s fine-”

“-force the joint back, myself.”

“Don’t you dare!” Without thinking, Claire pushed through to stand in front of the injured man. “Stand aside at once!”

“What??”

“Stand aside, she says!”

“Here,” she turned to the loud and overly short bearded man closest to her and handed him her glass. “Hold this.”

“Hold this, she says!”

Claire tuned out the discussion around them and focused on the task at hand.

“Now, what’s happened?”

“Ugh,” the patient grunted as he shifted in his seat, “landed on the ice wrong. Cannae lift my arm without it hurtin’.”

“How long ago?”

“An hour mayhap.”

Claire nodded in understanding and reached out a hand. “May I?”

The man looked at her for a long moment before taking a swig from a glass on the table and visibility gritting his teeth in anticipation. He nodded his consent.

“Do you have a history of instability in this shoulder?” She asked as she palpated the area gently.

“I’ve dislocated it once before,” he admitted with a grimace.

“Or twice,” a gruff and somewhat familiar voice added in, the man responsible for... introducing her to this pub, she suspected.

“Or twice,” her patient reluctantly admitted. “But no’ in a long while.”

“Hmmm… you really ought to see a doctor. Are there any clinics open this time of night?” When he didn’t answer she turned to look at the other men who in turn were equally nonvocal and completely unhelpful. “No? Well, it looks to me like you’ve suffered from shoulder subluxation - a partial dislocation, that is - and it’s fixed itself already. So long as you keep your arm immobile and make sure to rest, I don’t see why you can’t wait to see your doctor tomorrow.” Decision made, Claire stood up and turned to the others. “Fetch me a long piece of cloth or a belt. And some ice from the bar.”

"Fetch me, she says!”

“Ach, shut up ye drunk eejit and do as the lady says,” a tall, bald headed man with a thick grey beard Claire hadn’t noticed before came forward, his authority evident in how quickly the so-called ‘drunk eejit’ complied.

Requests quickly in hand, she turned back to her waiting patient and went about efficiently setting his arm in a sling, the young man following her movements closely.

“Taking a guess you’ve done this before?”

“I’m a nurse,” Claire shared as she pulled the knot tight.

“Aye, you work at the hospital? I havenae seen ye there before.”

“No, not that kind of nurse,” Claire chuckled at Jamie’s confused look and handed him the ice pack before clarifying. “An Army Nurse. But now I have to say I'm curious. Do you frequent the hospital often, Mr…?”

“Fraser," he paused as if waiting for something. A particular reaction from her perhaps? "But you can call me Jamie.”

“Claire,” she reciprocated with a smile. “Under normal circumstances I would offer to shake your hand but considering your current predicament I must advise against it and instead remind you to keep the ice on your shoulder for no longer than 15 to 20 minutes at a time. Do you have a physical therapist?”

“Aye, he does,” the bald headed man came forward once again, a hand on Jamie’s good shoulder. “And I’ll make sure he sees them on the morrow.”

“Wonderful,” Claire nodded with pleasure and turned back to Jamie, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Now, I believe you owe me a drink.”

A/N: Candy canes. Candy canes everywhere! From here we diverge from canon-adjacent and take a path that is much more Hallmark. // Are you looking forward to seeing what figurine will be waiting for Claire tomorrow?

[dexiao]

Reminiscence (m) | Lee Taeyong and Kim Doyoung

Synopsis: Doyoung and Y/N have been dating for some time and just moved in together on the day they ocasionaly met Taeyong, Doyoung’s old fuck buddy at a café. Doyoung just didn’t expect to still have feelings for him.

Pairing: Kim Doyoung x female reader x Lee Taeyong

Words: ~3.3k

Genre: non idol!au,  a little bit of angst, fluff, smut

Warnings: polyamorous relationship, dom!Doyoung, sub!Taeyong, handjob (male receiving), oral sex (male receiving)

This is a work of fiction. It does not portray the real personality of any of the members.

The day Y/N accidentally first met Taeyong, she and Doyoung had been dating for almost a year.

She and Doyoung had just moved in together into a new apartment, close to Doyoung’s office, and were still getting to know the neighborhood – at least the parts you don’t get to see when you visit a district with work purposes only.

The couple entered a café, not so small, with something between half a dozen and ten tables, not to mention the seemingly enormous variety of sweets of all different colors that were displayed in the glass counters. They chose a more reserved table, close to a wall, and sat facing each other and holding hands on top of the wooden piece of furniture.

After deciding to order a mocha, Y/N lifted her gaze up to meet her boyfriend’s face, noticing his attention focused on a point behind herself. His eyes and mouth were open, eyebrows lifted in what Y/N interpreted as a surprise expression.

Since there were only a couple of tables taken besides yours, it was easy to discover what Doyoung stared at – a pale man with bright red hair, a slit in his left eyebrow and ears full of piercings, heading towards the counter with a soft expression after shyly smiling at an employee. His outfit was all black.

“Lee Taeyong?” Doyoung spoke loudly, standing up from his chair. At his call, the man turned his face towards their table, ears and face going immediately as red as his hair.

“Kim Dongyoung?” the man asked. His voice wasn’t as rasp as Y/N imagined based on his appearance. He approached the table as Doyoung reached out for a handshake. He shyly bowed at Y/N as Doyoung introduced the woman.

“This is Y/N, she’s my girlfriend Y/N, this is Taeyong, an… old friend of mine.”

“It’s nice to meet you” I said with an open smile. His expression made his discomfort evident.

“Nice to meet you too. You two are a beautiful couple.”

From his posture, it seemed to Y/N that things couldn’t become weirder, but then Doyoung sat down again and invited Taeyong to stay and have a coffee with them. He promptly refused to, due to a supposed appointment he had within a few minutes.

“Oh, so do you work nearby?” Doyoung asked.

“Yes, my studio is just a block away. Why do you ask?”

“Y/N and I just moved to an apartment a few blocks from here. Maybe we’ll see you around.”

“Sure” Taeyong responded, holding a closed smile. “But I really do have to go now, I’m sorry. It was a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

That night, Doyoung told Y/N about his past with Taeyong.

Of course she knew about his bisexuality even before they started dating, but they never really talked about past relationships. At least not mentioning names.

Just as Y/N experienced while dating Doyoung, he was more on the dominant side with Taeyong as well. Both the boys went to the same college and lived in the same floor of a building, eventually meeting in the hallway and the elevator. Their relationship, however, wasn’t serious.

They were obviously attracted to each other, to the point Taeyong broke up with his girlfriend straight because of the guilt he felt from having a crush on Doyoung, his neighbor.

As weeks passed by, they got into a friends with benefits-like situation. Casual one night stands, in an agreement to not nurture feelings towards each other.

And it worked pretty well.

Taeyong was really submissive to Doyoung, leading him to explore dominance and to experience having an amount of control over someone else he didn’t think of having before. Both of them discovered a lot about themselves during this time.

As the semester ended, Taeyong graduated and moved out to the UK for specialization, and Doyoung stayed in South Korea. They lost touch. It was natural, as each of them continued busy with their own stuff, not wanting to disturb the other in his pursue of success.

Three years later, here they were. Taeyong apparently still hadn’t gotten over what Doyoung used to call ‘a phase’ of constantly changing his hair color – though Doyoung had never seen him with red hair before.

Also, now Doyoung had a serious commitment with Y/N and their relationship.

But it didn’t stop him from getting butterflies in his stomach at the sight of Taeyong becoming so flustered in front of him. As shy and softhearted as before. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander to whether Taeyong would still have the same behavior under his touch.

About a month ahead, the couple managed to meet Taeyong again at the same café more than a dozen times before he finally gave into their persistence of having him over for dinner.

Y/N and Doyoung had an amazing homemade Italian style pasta almost done by the time Taeyong arrived. His hair was now a light tone of brown and he wore a black turtleneck with black pants, a brown coat hanging over his shoulders. Doyoung dressed pretty similar to him – black pants and gray sweater – while Y/N had a long sleeved bright yellow dress.

The three began drinking the wine Taeyong brought from the moment he stepped inside. All of them were noticeably nervous, but Y/N and Doyoung tried their best to not make Taeyong feel left alone. Y/N asked him about his work, college and personal life, since she didn’t know him besides what her boyfriend chose to say about the older man.

At first he seemed uncomfortable, releasing nervous laughs until the wine started making effect and relaxing him up, letting him be more spontaneous.

After they ate the pasta Taeyong had complimented a thousand times during the meal, a long silence settled as each of them stared at the empty plates and half empty glasses. The table was round, so they sat in a triangular shape.

Y/N’s hand reached for Doyoung’s on top of the table. The move didn’t go unnoticed by Taeyong, who didn’t have the self-awareness to not look at Y/N.

He was so confused.

It couldn’t be possible to like so much the person who literally dated the person he secretly wanted to date. Y/N’s personality was so captivating and bright, but still as caring and nurturing as Doyoung’s. And she was pretty. Of course she was.

And she noticed as the older man absentmindedly gazed at her, fingers playing at the edge of his glass.

Y/N pressed her boyfriend’s hand tightly before standing up, removing Taeyong from his daydream.

“I guess it’s my cue now” she stated, smiling softly.

The woman leaned and left a chaste kiss on Doyoung’s lips, to which Taeyong felt guilty to but watched happen nonetheless. Then she turned to Taeyong, whose face and ears were red (it was impossible to know if due to the wine of to the scene he just witnessed). The older’s eyes followed her movements as she leaned and pressed a kiss on his cheek before heading to her and Doyoung’s shared bedroom.

After a few steps, she stopped and turned to Taeyong again.

“It was great having you here. I really wish you can come more often.”

Then she left her boyfriend and his old crush alone, drunk, mildly turned on and facing each other.

That night, Taeyong and Doyoung had a long and drunk talk. Doyoung explained how things were different from college, how he and Y/N started dating and what they expected for the future. Taeyong couldn’t understand why Doyoung was telling him all this, after all, he owed him nothing.

That went on until the younger spilled out how he felt about Taeyong. That he wanted to become close again and that it was okay if Taeyong did not want to, but Y/N felt just the same way as him and if he wasn’t committed to anyone, what's wrong with trying?

The matter was that Taeyong’s mind was slowed down from all the wine and nothing Doyoung said from that point on made sense to him. He left the apartment without giving Doyoung an answer and thinking he could just avoid the subject if they met again.

Doyoung, whose mind was clearer, noticed how he scared the shit out of Taeyong. Of course that was not the way he hoped the night would end, but he and Y/N came to an agreement before on Taeyong being fully aware on the ground he was stepping onto if he actually accepted to try this thing.

From that night on, the couple changed their approach.

They stopped going together to the café. Instead, since that was the only place they were sure they could meet Taeyong, they decided it was best to not see him together, in an attempt to make him feel less pressured.

The dinner night was never mentioned again and they avoided talking about each other with Taeyong.

Eventually Taeyong accepted to sit and have a coffee with Y/N, then with Doyoung. And then again with Y/N and so on.

He got more and more responsive to subtle touches on his skin, becoming confident to do the same as time passed on. Fingers brushing as he passed the menu, light touches on arms in the middle of a conversation.

Y/N invited Taeyong to a date in the park, and that was the first time they kissed.

It started so slow, as if they were afraid from one another, lips touching very lightly. After a few seconds, Y/N noticed the man release a heavy breath, which was enough to convince her it was okay to go on, that Taeyong did enjoy it. So Y/N pressed her lips harder against his, sliding the tip of her tongue over his bottom lip and deepening the kiss. Her hands cupped Taeyong’s face and determined the pace, while Taeyong used his only as support for his body.

Y/N found him to be a lot different from her boyfriend. While Doyoung was more dominant, Taeyong was the complete opposite. Even when it was clear as water that he wanted it, he wouldn’t make the move. She enjoyed being in that position and taking the lead, though they did nothing but kiss for hours, until both had lips so swollen they actually hurt.

The following day, Doyoung casually met the older at a flower shop. It was a surprise for both, and Doyoung felt afraid of Taeyong trying to avoid him or feel ashamed because of what happened between Y/N and him. Nevertheless, Taeyong was completely in his normal self.

Doyoung walked him back to his studio and asked if he could give him a kiss before going back, which Taeyong didn’t even reply with words. The older just closed his eyes and nodded, opening his mouth in expectation. Watching the scene, Doyoung couldn’t help but feel as he needed Taeyong in his life again. He was so innocent and precious Doyoung wanted to keep him in his pocket and protect him from the world.

For Taeyong, the man’s kiss tasted different. Not only different from Y/N’s, but also different from the past they had together. Doyoung’s lips were still has soft, his mouth still as warm; still, he could sense the carefulness irradiating from the younger man.

Other times he’d meet either Y/N or Doyoung at the café, they would greet him with a kiss so close to his mouth (still not on his mouth) it was frustrating. Taeyong tried his best to show them with touches and gazes that he wanted more, but it seemed to him that neither of them noticed his effort, and voicing it out was a big challenge.

The trigger was the day he sat down with Doyoung and ordered a cappuccino.

As Taeyong rambled about something that happened at work, the flow of his words was suddenly interrupted by the realization Doyoung was bringing a hand to his face. The younger brushed his thumb over Taeyong’s bottom lip, wiping a little cream spot. Taeyong closed his eyes at the sensation and tried to not react, but it was impossible when his heart beat so hard and fast as if wanting to break his chest. He wanted to lean his head and suck Doyoung’s finger into his mouth, to show him how needy he was, to make Doyoung feel pity for putting him in this situation.

However, he waited some more seconds to open his eyes again and start breathing again as well. Doyoung stared at him seeming worried and asked if everything was okay. Of course things weren’t okay.

As they walked out of the café some minutes later, Taeyong closed his eyes to expect the torture of Doyoung’s kiss on his cheek, but it was his lips that felt the touch.

This time he wasn’t able to contain a sigh as Doyoung distanced himself. When Taeyong opened his eyes again, his vision was blurred and he felt a lump in his throat preventing his voice to come out normally.

“Please, Doyoung” he begged. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Doyoung brought one hand up to caress the older’s left cheek.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to push you” he said softly.

But that wasn’t what Taeyong meant and he got more frustrated, tears unwillingly escaping his eyes.

“It’s not that” he spoke, looking down.

Doyoung calmly asked what was the problem, gently making Taeyong face him again and wiping his tears away.

“I want you, Doyoung. And Y/N as well” he said in one breath. “I want you both to take care of me, make me feel good. It has been a while now” tears kept rushing down his face, even when Doyoung kissed him and told him he and Y/N would be more than happy to do whatever he asked for.

Four months after that episode, Taeyong woke up in the middle of the night with an uncomfortable feeling between his legs. Involuntarily, he ran his right hand through his clothed crotch, realizing he had an erection.

Though he tried to for some long minutes, Taeyong was unable to go back to sleep, so he sat restless and leaned his back against the headboard of the enormous bed. The dim light from the street allowed him to observe Doyoung peacefully asleep in a white t-shirt on the other side of the bed, as well as Y/N in a nightgown in the middle of them.

Taeyong was getting more used to sleep in their bed than his own. He was getting used to be their baby.

It’s not that the man couldn’t take care of himself. Not only he could, but he did it for a long time. He wasn’t a child. He knew his body, he was able to recognize his necessities. Taeyong was an intense person, and that was noticeable at first sight. He was used to commit seriously to whatever he proposed to do, especially when it came to work; he worked hard to be the best, to do the best job.

But at the moment, he just felt helpless as his cock began hurting from the erection while the people he loved slept right next to him. He needed relief, and still couldn’t avoid the thought that jerking off right now to the amazing sex they had last night was wrong.

Mindlessly, the man reached for his phallus inside his clothes, bringing it out and just holding it, feeling the warmth of his palm against the pulsating member. Taeyong was decided to not jerk off, though he couldn’t keep his hips totally still, slightly thrusting into his fist, eyes closed to make the most of any sensation he could get, biting his lip to avoid releasing any noises.

And since he closed his eyes, he wasn’t able to realize the moment Doyoung woke up and watched the older quietly whimper for a few seconds before waking Y/N with a kiss at the nape of her neck, squeezing her waist with his right hand.

Y/N woke up with low hum that went unnoticed by Taeyong, who remained focused in the sort of failed attempt to please himself in silent. Doyoung’s body pressed against Y/N’s back and she suddenly became conscious of his hip upon hers.

The woman brought her right hand to Taeyong’s thigh and gently squeezed it, making him immediately open his teary eyes in surprise. His gaze shifted between Y/N and Doyoung, seeming desperate for help.

“Shh… Do you want help, baby?” Y/N whispered.

As Taeyong nodded and mouthed an almost inaudible “please”, she moved to Taeyong’s left, kneeling by his side, leaving him in the middle of her and Doyoung. The other man also moved closer to Taeyong, with a caring look in his dark eyes and a soft smile.

Y/N’s head rested on Taeyong’s shoulder for a moment, caressing his thigh and gazing at the hard cock, red tip glistening. She turned her head to face him, guiding his face towards hers with her left hand.

“Can I kiss you, baby?” she asked.

Taeyong hummed and closed his eyes, leaning in to reach her lips. The kiss was gentle as Y/N rushed her hands over his torso.

After watching the view for a while, Doyoung decided to join the couple, kissing Taeyong’s right thigh without getting up. His right hand reached for the other man’s erection, pumping it softly, taking whimpers from Taeyong’s lips into Y/N’s mouth.

One of her hands went under his t-shirt to play with his sensitive nipples, squeezing them one at a time; her kiss dropped to his jaw and neck, freeing Taeyong’s moans and needy whimpers.

Doyoung removed the man’s hand from his own member in order to properly please him, tightening his grip over the flesh. Taeyong was already so aroused that even small touches made him feel like tumbling down, which was perfectly visible for the other two.

“Y/N, spit” Doyoung demanded.

The oldest growled as Y/N’s kisses abruptly stopped, opening his eyes to watch as the woman let a long string of saliva drip from her tongue onto his pulsating shaft. Y/N knew it wasn’t necessary since Taeyong’s cock was already wet from the pre-cum oozing from his tip, but her boys loved it messy.

She kept just watching as Doyoung started jerking Taeyong again, as the man closed his eyes again and made small hip trusts into the younger’s touch.

Then he reached Doyoung’s busy arm with her left hand, signaling him with her eyes to stop movements and let go of Taeyong’s dick. As he felt the touch vanish, Taeyong opened his eyes in despair, right in the moment Y/N bent in front of him and took the head of his member inside her hot mouth, sucking it lightly before pulling off to look at Taeyong’s face.

Doyoung raised himself and supported his torso in one elbow, the other hand still resting against the other’s leg.

When Y/N leaned in to lick at Taeyong’s cock again, Doyoung went in as well, both sticking their tongues out and licking it up and down repeatedly.

Taeyong whined and bucked his hip up, the sensation and the scene in front of him triggering his orgasm. His eyes fluttered shut involuntarily as spurts of cum trailed out of his cock. Y/N and Doyoung alternated the leaking member into their mouths, both eager to taste Taeyong’s seed.

As his climax ended, Taeyong squirmed in overstimulation as Y/N kissed the head of his softening cock before dropping it and kissing Doyoung, mixing the cum in their mouths. The couple moved to allow Taeyong into the kiss, having him taste himself.

“Now let’s go back to sleep, huh? You were so good to us, love” Doyoung whispered, kissing the other’s cheek and laying down again. By the time Taeyong recovered his breath and laid down again, dick back into his clothes, Y/N and Doyoung were drifting into sleep, caring to cuddle the oldest who laid in the middle of them. Doyoung rested his head by Taeyong’s, and Y/N positioned herself in the curve between his shoulders and neck. Taeyong mumbled a "thank you so much", and feeling Y/N's warm breath hitting his skin, he finally went back to sleep again.

A/N: I chose to put this by the end of the fic since there is a huge spoiler lol this is the first of all poly fics I worked on that I feel confident on posting (even though it does not involve a threesome or more than one person being pleasured). Also, about the disclaimer about not portraying their personalities - can you imagine Taeyong, as the cleaning maniac he is, just going back to sleep? LOL Feedback is always welcome!

[oc-character-development]

Okay hear me out on this headcannon/ kind of AU thing that my brain decided to bug me with at 1 am this morning:

Crowley HATES the 14th Century, that is CANNON fact given in the show.

A lot of fanfics if covering this focus on Crowley catching the plague, not Aziraphale (if there is a fic out there about Aziraphale dying of the plague I’d love to read it!) but it would be worse for Crowley if Aziraphale discorporated and not him:

1348 Venice (I dunno why Venice, I just feel like Aziraphale and Crowley were sent to Italy at some point after the Roman era and Venice just seemed to fit could be Rome though)

The Black Death has hit the city, Aziraphale is sent by Gabriel there to do blessings (since the plague hasn’t hit The UK yet) and Crowley is sent to cause trouble and make sure pestilence is being happy spreading all this disease. The don’t know each of them are there (it’s in the early days of the Arrangement or before but they’re still good friends at this point)

Aziraphale goes to a monastery as a monk (come on, Aziraphale definitely did time as a monk or something like that anyway at some point) and Crowley poses as an elite members of the higher class (easier to cause trouble that way).

Crowley avoids the plague the best he can but he’s still horrified by the deaths. But Aziraphale is in the thick of it, so of course he’s going to start to feel unwell.

One day Crowley bumps into Aziraphale and they go for a drink and a catch up and then decide to meet up again before they go back to their respective offices.

Aziraphale essentailly suddenly ghosts Crowley and the demon knows something isn’t right.

So he barges into the monastery demanding to see ‘brother Aziraphale’, ignoring the fact his feet feel like he’s standing on hot sand. The monks direct him to Aziraphale, realising he’s a friend of the angel (who they know is an angel they aren’t stupid but fail to recognise a demon).

Aziraphale is sweating and had clearly recently vomited up blood and was extremely weak and Crowley recognises that he has the plague. And he immediately tells Crowley to go away because it’s not safe for him to be in a holy place that coupled by the fact there’s a lot of people lying in the church with the plague. it’s a double whammy of danger.

Crowley doesn’t budge. He’d been discorporated before (Just by complete accident) and he knows it’s not pleasant so stays with Aziraphale plus they’re friends at this point and factoring Crowley’s crush on Aziraphale it’s breaking his demonic heart to see him like this.

Aziraphale complains about the paperwork ahead which makes Crowley laugh and then they just talk.

Eventually as the sun goes down Aziraphale starts to blink out of consciousness.

Crowley wants to say something, anything about his feelings but he can’t. So he holds his friend’s hand to let him know he’s not alone.

Aziraphale wouldn’t remember that bit (or won’t mention that again knowing fully well Crowley would deny ever being nice).

Eventually Aziraphale goes and Crowley is left alone. Holding his best friends body.

Crowley cries a little (although he’d never admit it) and worries that Aziraphale won’t come back.

Luckily, he has the right mind to keep Aziraphale’s body in good condition and eventually Aziraphale comes back (of course he does).

But not before Crowley makes a trip back to Hell and Hastur thinks it’s a good idea to try to bring up the fact that that plague on earth discorporated an angel and that Heaven was so stupid to help and get involved and therefore the angel deserved it for his stupidity.

Crowley almost punched him for saying that . Almost.

But that century became the worst century ever and Crowley had hated it ever since.

[prince-claremont-diaz]

enough

Summary: Just weeks after the end of the first wizarding war, life still has not quite returned to normal. In a way, all Sirius can hope for is to be able to care for Harry when he needs him most. If only he could be enough.

Rating: general audiences 

Content Warnings: angst, ptsd 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382685

AN// Yes, another raising Harry AU. I don’t know why I write these so often, just go with it.

Enough

“We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.”

— Richard Siken

The weeks following the end of the war, the end of James and Lily Potter, were miserable. Despite the celebrations going on elsewhere, rejoicing in the fall of the Dark Lord that had made everyone’s lives a living hell for years, those who were hurt the most, those who loved and lost, were anything but celebratory. There were still funerals and memorials to go to, graves to be dug, buildings and people and societies to rebuild and repair. The end of a war was a relief, yes, but it was little more than that.

With the turning of October into November, it was one of the coldest winters the UK had seen. The air was bitter and unforgiving, blowing people over and knocking the leaves off trees in the blink of an eye. There was no snow or hail, only rain or simple dreary grey skies, rarely a sliver of sunlight peering out between the grumpy grey clouds. Not even a crackling fire or a pile of blankets or the company of a friend could warm the grieving’s cold heart.

For Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, especially, it was their hardest winter yet.

Sirius fought tooth and nail with Dumbledore, yelling until his voice was hoarse and pacing in his big, circular office until his feet were aching and he feared he’d walk a hole in his soles, determined to make sure little Harry had a home in which he was loved. He argued with Dumbledore for weeks and weeks, hardly sleeping more than a few hours and never consecutively, too run dry with fighting yet another battle.

Weren’t they supposed to be finished fighting?

At last, barely a week before miserable November could roll into December, the old wizard finally gave in and allowed Sirius to take full custody of Harry. Before then, Harry had been staying with Sirius technically illegally as he impulsively stole Harry away from the front step of the Dursley’s before they could even wake to find the little toddler. There was no way he was letting him go to stay with those monsters.

Even once Harry was officially Sirius’ and he no longer needed to battle for his care, it still did not make it any easier.

Sirius and Remus had a relationship of their own to fix, just like the rest of society needed to fix the broken remains of the war. After months of arguing and mistrust and hiding and betrayal, they both knew that they needed to work through it all, both for themselves and for the sake of Harry. It was a tentative and slow repair, but they were making it work.

Ever since his parents died and he was swept away to live with his godfather, Harry had changed a fair bit already, Sirius couldn’t help but notice. He was much quieter than before, having been a giggly and excitable one year old, now left quiet and still, barely even walking anymore. Where Harry had once been nearly impossible to catch, whether he was scurrying around the house or garden or riding on his little toy broomstick, he now refused to do more than crawl or sit and watch his surroundings.

And, oh, how dreadful his crying could be.

Sirius couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but somewhere in the early days of living with him, Harry gained a newfound attachment to Sirius and Sirius only. Whereas before, Harry had been perfectly content to be passed from friend to friend, James and Lily needing all the support they could get, Harry now refused to be out of the room from Sirius and was nearly always in his arms. He was better with Remus than others, but sometimes he would even be wary of him. On the worst days, Harry wouldn’t even let Sirius go to the toilet without screaming the whole house down.

Today was one of those days.

It was mid-December now and Sirius woke up barely after the crack of dawn, Harry’s shrieks carrying all the way down the corridor and jolting him awake so suddenly he nearly fell out of bed. Beside him, Remus gasped awake, sitting up on his elbows and turning to Sirius with a frown.

“I’ll check on him,” Sirius muttered, throwing the blanket off his legs and climbing out of bed without bothering to turn on the light.

He padded across the small corridor, Harry’s screams still echoing around the house almost painfully. Gently, Sirius pushed the door open and stepped inside, Harry’s crying getting even more unbearably louder. Sirius flicked on the little bedside lamp and felt his heart crumble at the sight of his godson.

He was sitting up in his crib, gripping onto the bars in both his chubby fists, head thrown back as he sobbed and sobbed. Tears and snot rolled down his little face, leaving a growing wet patch on the front of his onesie.

“Harry?” Sirius murmured, heartbroken, voice cracking.

Harry looked up at Sirius through the bars and his crying instantly began to quieten into the faintest sobs, though he was still hyperventilating worryingly. Sirius crossed the little room, carefully prying Harry’s fists from the bars of his crib and lifting him out of the crib. Sirius swayed back and forth in the middle of the room, holding Harry to his chest, rubbing his hand up and down his back in an effort to calm the infant down enough to stop hyperventilating so much. Harry clutched onto the fabric of Sirius’ oversized shirt, face tucked into the crook of his neck and leaving another wet patch with his tears. Sirius glanced out of the gap in the curtains and saw the very beginning of the sunlight peeking into the room and knew it would be futile to attempt actually getting back to sleep again.

Finally, after a few minutes, Sirius was able to settle Harry’s crying to sniffles and the occasional whine. When he tried to test if he could put Harry down again, the toddler tightened his grip on his shirt and Sirius felt his pulse picking up sharply. Sirius sighed, relenting and accepting that it was going to be one of those days.

Carefully, Sirius carried Harry back to his and Remus’ bedroom, shifting him to one of his hips. He was only partly surprised to find Remus sitting up in bed, lamp turned on and a book propped open in his lap. He glanced up from his reading when Sirius entered, cocking a questioning eyebrow.

Sirius shook his head, closing the door behind him with his foot and moving over to the bed. “He won’t even let me put him back down,” Sirius whispered, clambering into bed with difficulty, trying not to drop or disturb Harry. He shifted against the headboard until one of his shoulders was pressed right up against Remus’, Harry’s face tucked against the other side of his neck.

Nobody said a word for a long, long time. Remus continued reading his book and Sirius cradled Harry in his arms, running his thumb up and down one of his chubby arms. He looked at the lightning bolt scar on his forehead, almost hidden by the messy dark curls, an imperfection on someone far too young. Harry blinked up at him, tear tracks still glimmering on his flushed cheeks and those bright emeralds surrounded by bloodshot veins.

“I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Sirius whispered into the quiet. He looked down at the toddler in his arms, now sucking his thumb and staring up at him.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Remus murmured, putting his book down and turning his head to look at Sirius. He frowned. “It’s hard to raise a toddler in general nevermind a traumatised one when you’re barely 22, Sirius. You’re doing the best you can.”

“But what if it’s not enough? What if my best still isn’t enough for him?”

“It will be,” Remus replied, certain. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the side of Sirius’ head, right where his temple was, hidden by his shoulder-length hair.

“I’m letting them down. James and Lily and Harry,” Sirius murmured. “Harry shouldn’t be stuck being taken care of by such a wreck like me.”

Remus put his book to the side and shifted to sit on his knees, wrinkling his forehead as he looked down at Sirius. “That’s bullshit and you know it. They didn’t make you his godfather for nothing, Sirius. They trusted you and they… they wanted you to take care of him just in case…” He combed his fingers through his hair, looking down at his old and slightly hole-y pyjama bottoms.

“I just wish I could help him. It’s not normal to be this attached to someone, is it?” said Sirius. “It physically hurts to hear him crying when he misses them or he can’t find me for whatever reason and I can’t even help him.” He rearranged Harry in his arms so he could sit up more, bending his knees to let Harry lean against them. He still grasped the front of Sirius’ shirt, eyes wide as he stared at him.

“You were the first person to find him after—after it happened,” Remus said gently. “And then you were the main person he saw when you were trying to get Dumbledore to let you take him in. And he always adored you more than the others. Perhaps he’s clinging to you for normality or something. He trusts you.”

Sirius considered this for a moment, thumbing the fabric of Harry’s onesie. Harry didn’t like it when people moved too quickly, too abruptly, always startling and bursting into tears, so Sirius had fallen into the habit of moving much slower and gentler than he was used to. Now, soothingly stroking Harry to keep him calm, he just hoped it would be enough.

As they started the rest of their day with cups of strong tea and curling up by the flickering fireplace, Sirius hoped it was enough. As he carried Harry everywhere on his hip, talking in low voices and spending over an hour talking Harry into even touching his yoghurt or toast, he hoped it was enough. As he sat Harry on the bathmat when he went to the loo because Harry screamed when he tried to go without him, he hoped it was enough. When he held Harry close as he napped on the couch and let Harry tug on his hair and sent apologetic looks towards Remus every time Harry avoided him, he hoped it was enough. When he had no choice but to sleep in the rocking chair in Harry’s bedroom, magically softened, so that Harry could sleep, leaving Remus by himself in their room, he hoped it was enough.

On the hardest days in which hardly a word was spoken in the house and grief seemed to settle over them as thick and heavy as lead, all Sirius could hope for was to be enough. And deep down, as he rocked gently back and forth, watching the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest as he finally slept, he supposed it was.

[bluejayblueskies]

Written for @lesbianbirds​ for the @tma-valentines-exchange​ 2021!

Words: 8.5k Relationships: Melanie King/Georgie Barker, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: AU - Cat Café, Fluff, No Fear Entities, Established Jmart, Getting Together WTGFs, First Kiss, First Date, Mutual Pining, He/They Pronouns for Jon

Summary:

From the first moment Melanie King from Ghost Hunt UK walks into Georgie’s café, Georgie is utterly smitten.

|| Ao3 ||

.

The coffee pot is empty. Again.

 With a long, drawn-out groan, Melanie opens the cabinet above the kitchenette sink and pulls out the container of unbearably cheap coffee that Martin had picked out last month when he’d restocked the cabinets.

 (“Melanie, I don’t drink coffee, how am I supposed to know what is and isn’t ‘a good brand’?” Martin had said, sounding affronted and snappish in that way he always gets when his beverage-purchasing decisions are questioned—though that typically only applies to tea.

 “Martin,” Melanie said, trying to keep her voice calm and neutral despite forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “If it’s less than five pounds, it’s not good coffee.”)

 Soon, she’s got a pot brewing. The smell of it is almost enough to drag her out of the mid-morning fog that’s got her eyes unfocusing on the screen, making her see things in the footage that aren’t there. Some people would say that none of the things they point to in their videos as proof of the supernatural are real, and while it’s true that artistic license is a good portion of the job, their footage is not tampered with. Ever. She just sometimes has to look at it for hours to find what she’s searching for.

 Thus, coffee.

It warms her from the inside out as she sits back at her desk and begins to click through the footage, despite the acrid, sooty film it leaves on her tongue that has her grimacing. She almost doesn’t notice that she’s emptied her mug until she picks it up to take a sip and finds it absent of liquid.

 She’s debating the pros and cons of having another cup less than an hour after the first when Martin’s voice drifts over from the doorway, sounding amused. “I thought you said you didn’t like that coffee?”

 Melanie sets the mug down on the corner of her desk with a clink and says, “Yes, well, we do what we have to to survive around here, Martin. Even if it is suffering through some terrible coffee.”

 When she turns to look at Martin, there’s a small smile on his face that one might call a smirk if they knew him well. “Think you could put that suffering on hold?” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Jon’s café opened today, and I was planning on stopping by for lunch. They’ve got an espresso machine?”

 Melanie’s nose wrinkles before she can help herself. “Ugh, sorry,” she says, waving a hand at Martin as if that can alleviate the small furrow that’s appeared in his brow. “It’s just—the first and only time I’ve ever seen your partner, they spent most of their time lecturing me on the inaccuracies of my show! Our show, Martin! While we were out recording something! On tape!” To herself, she mutters, “Part of me wants to release them as bloopers just to see what happens. ‘Ghost Hunt UK: Selfish Prick Edition.’”

 “They did say they were sorry,” Martin says, sounding apologetic. “And- well, I mean, to be fair, a lot of the things they pointed out actually were facts we’d gotten wrong in the research, so…”

 Melanie gives him a look that could cut through bone. “It still shouldn’t give them the right to just say whatever they—”

 She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. She’s already had this discussion with Martin at length; it doesn’t bear repeating. Her therapist, at least, has been trying to get her to stop dwelling on past angers. “Fine,” she says, hoping that her words don’t sound too forced. “Can you just- can you promise me this won’t turn into another attack on our legitimacy? Please?”

 Martin’s smile is relief and delight in equal measure. “I promise,” he says in a way that from anyone else would seem empty but coming from Martin is binding and true. “They’ll behave.” He laughs lightly and continues, “Though they did just do this deep dive on London subterranean tunnels—checked out nearly every book in the library and everything. Maybe you could talk about the Millbank Prison tunnels we’re planning on exploring next week? Might be fun, to debate facts off-camera.”

 “Sure,” Melanie says, entirely unconvinced. “That won’t go poorly at all.” Before Martin can respond, she pushes back from her desk with a small sigh and says, “All right, then. For you, Martin, I will visit Jon’s- what was it, a cat café?”

 “And a bookstore!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks flushing a light pink.

 “Right,” Melanie says, suppressing another sigh. She does like cats, after all. And espresso. She could certainly use some right now. “I suppose we’re taking our lunch break now, then?”

 “If you’re free.”

 “Well, given that I’m my own boss, I can safely say that I am.”

 Melanie slips on her coat and follows Martin out of her office and out of the building, leaving her empty coffee-stained mug balanced on the edge of her desk.

 .

 In retrospect, not setting up a gate to keep the cats out of the food preparation area was probably a bad idea. Georgie sighs and swipes the three muffins with bite marks in the sides of them into the bin, resolving to stop by the shop that night to pick up the requisite supplies to keep the fluffy, bread-loving felines she’d so dearly and painstakingly selected from the shelter from ravishing the food they were meant to be serving to the customers.

 “That would be the Chairman,” Jon says, reaching around Georgie to slide the glass cover over the remaining muffins. “He can be quite clever when he puts his mind to it.”

 “Hm, but not when he’s meant to be keeping out the pests, I suppose,” Georgie says with lips curled into a smile almost against her will. The cat in question is sat on the windowsill, carefully grooming his rich black fur in full view of passersby and the few customers sitting at the tables. It’s still early, Georgie tells herself, and they’re new—not a lot of built-up rapport yet. Give it time.

 She’s never been known for her patience.

 Jon’s just handed off a steaming mug of tea to a customer—oolong, she thinks—when he turns to her with eyes alight, like he’s just recalled something, and says, “I’m not sure if I told you, but Martin’s stopping by today. Have- have you met him yet?”

 With careful neutrality, Georgie says, “I have.”

 Jon seems to take that at face value, his face relaxing into a light smile as he busies himself with another cup of tea and says, “Well, he told me he’d stop by around lunch today, just to say hello and to see how the café is coming along. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you again.”

 Georgie’s… not quite so sure about that. The first and only time she’s ever seen Martin was when she, he, and Jon had gone out for drinks one night, about two weeks after Jon had started dating him. Martin had sipped his tonic, pressed himself closely against Jon’s side, and spent the entire night not-quite-so-subtly staring daggers at her every time she laughed at something Jon said or reached out to lightly squeeze his hand. She’s never found jealousy a particularly good look on a person. (Particularly when it’s completely unwarranted; she and Jon broke up years ago, before he’d even left uni, and the thought of her being some sort of romantic competition is honestly a bit laughable.)

 And so maybe she’d never made an effort to reach out again, deciding that one awkward night of drinks was enough for her. Martin had certainly never made such an effort in return.

 “Sure,” is all Georgie says before turning back to the muffins.

 They take a few more orders, make a few more drinks, and chase the Chairman away from the muffins more than a few times. Jon tries to tell Georgie that they’re supposed to be putting three pumps of vanilla in their lattes, which is ridiculous—it’s always been two pumps, it’s not Georgie’s fault that Jon has a secret sweet tooth. The disagreement is teetering just on the line between bickering and fighting when the little bell above the door clangs. Georgie’s eyes automatically follow the sound.

 The first person she sees is Martin, black-and-white scarf wrapped up to his chin and cheeks flushed a rosy red from the cold. His face splits into a wide, cheery grin as he spots Jon, and out of the corner of her eye, Georgie sees Jon soften. She recognizes the expression on his face from when they dated in uni; it’s the same as the one that would surface when the Admiral would jump on his lap or when Georgie would bring him tea or when he would spot her across the quad in between classes.

 Being in love is a good look on Jonathan Sims, Georgie thinks absently, and not without fondness.

 Then, Georgie’s eyes alight on a second figure, following Martin in through the doorway. Her coat is zipped all the way up to her chin, long black hair twisted up into two tight topknots messy enough that they appear to be born more out of convenience than out of fashion. She’s almost as tall as Martin, nearly as skinny as Jon, and Georgie thinks she sees a glint of metal on the side of her nose, on the shell of her ear. Her mouth is tilted into a frown but her eyes are curious as they wander about the café, landing first on the cats, then on the bookshelves lining the walls, and then on the coffee grinders and stainless steel water heaters behind the counter.

 Her eyes find Georgie. And Georgie realizes with a start that she recognizes her.

 “Jon,” Georgie says, but Jon’s already gone, stepping around the counter with a mug in their hand and an infatuated grin on their face directed entirely toward Martin—and maybe a bit toward the cat that’s decided to make its home in Martin’s arms. So Georgie follows him, brushing past the orange-furred Minister as she does so and trying not to sneak too many surreptitious glances at the woman she’s seen hundreds of times on her laptop screen, framed in neon greens and black-and-whites and sepia tones.

 She clearly doesn’t succeed, from the way that Martin follows her gaze to the woman before saying abruptly, “Oh! Right, sorry—forgot. Er, Melanie, this- this is Georgie. Jon’s friend!”

 Melanie—Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK, standing here in the middle of her cat-café-slash-bookstore—regards Georgie with a look she can’t quite place. Then, Melanie holds out a hand. Her fingernails are painted a glittering green, Georgie thinks, then realizes she’s been staring at the hand altogether too long and reaches out to shake it.

 “Right, Georgie. Georgie Barker. It’s… it’s nice to meet you.”

 Huh. Her hand is softer than it looks on camera.

 Before Georgie has time to unpack that thought, Melanie gives her that look again, and Georgie realizes that it’s scrutiny, with a bit of curiosity behind it. “Huh,” Melanie says, like Georgie’s just given her a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel. “You sound familiar.”

 “Maybe I’ve just got one of those voices,” Georgie says with a disarming smile. She’s still holding onto Melanie’s hand. That’s a bit weird, isn’t it?

 She lets go, though that doesn’t help the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. The butterflies climb up her throat, loosening her tongue, and she says without thinking, “Or maybe you’ve heard my podcast? What The Ghost? It- it runs every other Saturday.”

 Melanie’s eyes grow just a bit wider then. “No,” she says disbelievingly. “Georgie? Martin, your partner’s best friend is What the Ghost? Georgie?”

 Martin’s eyebrows dip into a frown. “Er… yes? Sorry, I- I suppose I never really mentioned it, did I? Sort of… assumed you already knew. Small ghost hunting world and all.”

 Melanie looks at Georgie with a sharp, delighted glitter in her eyes. “Huh. Jonathan Sims’ ex is Georgie Barker from What the Ghost?. Who also owns a cat café. Stranger things, I suppose.”

 “Slash bookstore,” Georgie says with a smile. “And besides, Jonathan never told me that Martin’s Melanie was Melanie King!”

 “Oh, they talk about me?” Melanie says with a smirk.

 “Only when absolutely necessary,” Jon says sullenly. Their grimace contrasts quite starkly with the trio of grey kittens they have cradled in their arms. One is valiantly trying to climb up into their hair. “Besides, I thought it was obvious. Martin does sound for Ghost Hunt UK, he has a coworker named Melanie, therefore Melanie is Melanie King of Ghost Hunt UK. It’s really not that much of a leap, Georgina.”

 Georgie swats at Jon’s arm. “You never said she was a coworker! Jonathan Sims, this entire time you had a connection to Melanie King and you never said anything?”

 Jon directs their sullen look at Melanie. “I wouldn’t say… connection, per se.”

 “We’ve only met once, and they spent the entire time criticizing my setup and my story,” Melanie says, arms crossed and chin jutting out defensively, not dissimilar to a cat with its hackles raised.

 “If that’s what you call fixing your facts, then fine,” Jon says with equal posturing, their mouth set into a firm line. “I admit that I should have waited until after we had left the shoot, but I will not apologize for correcting obvious mistakes!”

 Melanie’s mouth opens, retort ready on her lips, when Martin says quickly, “Jon, why don’t you show me that book you were talking about? The, er, the one about the overlap between sea monster myths and geographical phenomena? I think you told me about the Scylla and Charybdis one last night, but I can’t quite remember what event you said it correlated with? A tsunami, maybe?”

 Jon’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. They rub an absentminded thumb over the head of one of the kittens, chew on their bottom lip, and then say, “A hurricane, actually, which caused tsunami-like effects when it—here, I’ll just find the book for you. I think it’s in the back room.”

 “That would be lovely,” Martin says, giving Georgie a wide—and not-too-subtly apologetic—grin before following Jon past the counter and into the smaller secondary part of the café meant only for books, the Minister trailing closely behind.

 Melanie’s forehead is still set in a frown, but it softens a bit as she looks at Georgie and says, “Er. Sorry about that. Not my best first impression, arguing with someone else’s best friend in front of them.” Her lips curl into a smile, sharp and teasing yet warming Georgie to her core. “Maybe I can buy you a coffee to make it up to you?”

 Georgie doesn’t really drink coffee, much preferring a strong green tea; the caffeine gives her headaches, and she’s always found it too bitter for her liking.

 “That sounds lovely,” Georgie says. Then, with a teasing smile of her own, she slips back behind the counter and adopts her most put-upon customer service voice. “What can I get started for you?”

 .

 The next two months are… well, they’re really quite lovely. The café picks up after the first few days (which may or may not result from Georgie shameless plugging it on that week’s episode of What the Ghost?), all future muffins are saved from devastation by the cheap plastic gate Georgie picks up from the shop, and every day Jon talks her ear off about whatever book he’s last consumed.

 When he’s not talking Martin’s ear off about it, that is. Because Martin stops by the café nearly every day, to the point where Georgie’s sure his bank account must be suffering from how many pounds he’s shelled out on coffee and sandwiches (which, as they’re set at Chelsea prices, are not cheap). He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He sits at the corner table, the one that lights up wonderfully in the noonday sun, with the Baroness sat upon his lap—a slim calico with a notch in one ear who’s taken a liking to Martin. Jon sits at the table across from him, both of them wearing those silly little infatuated smiles on their faces as they talk that Georgie is surprised haven’t faded even after nearly six months.

 Maybe she should make more of an effort to get to know Martin. She doesn’t remember the last time she saw Jon quite so… peaceful.

 And then, of course, there’s Melanie. Who accompanies Martin to the café sometimes, more and more as the weeks stretch on until it’s almost every day that Georgie gets to admire the sharp slant of her nose and the way that she smiles, like she’s just heard a joke and finds it very funny indeed. Georgie ends up hiring extra staff—Tim and Sasha, who interviewed together (which was strange) but who connected so well with Jon that she thought it a shame not to hire them both—and so she can take a few minutes off when Melanie stops by to talk. They talk about what places they’re planning on investigating and their most ridiculous episodes and the kinds of messages they’ve gotten from fans (ranging from flattery to outright hate mail). They talk about their favorite kinds of pastries and where they prefer to spend their Friday nights and their records for the number of drinks consumed in a single sitting (which Melanie wins by a large margin). They talk about their university years and their friends (because Jon’s really quite lovely once you get to know him, Georgie says, and What do you mean you don’t like Martin? What’s not to like? Melanie says) and their favorite childhood memories.

 “My dad’s allergic to cats,” Melanie says one day, her fingers buried deep in the Chairman’s fur as she talks. “I always wanted one when I was growing up, got proper annoying about it for a while before he finally told me that it just wasn’t going to happen. We got a dog instead—Dandelion, she- she was wonderful, really, an old dog from a shelter—and then I moved away for uni, and the flat I’m in now isn’t pet-friendly, so…”

 She makes a helpless gesture with her free hand. “This is nice, though,” she says and scratches the Chairman behind the ears. He makes a small, contented noise. “Shelter cats?”

 “Yeah,” Georgie says, a hint of fondness slipping into her voice. “They’re all up for adoption, technically. We’ve only found homes for a few of them though, which if I’m being totally honest, I’m not too disappointed about.”

 “They do grow on you,” Melanie says. The Chairman meows again, as if in assent.

 “Mm,” Georgie says. Then, after a moment: “I’ve already got a cat at home, though, and he doesn’t take well to other cats. Tried once and it didn’t go well; had to have a friend take the new cat, felt right awful about it too.”

 Melanie makes a sympathetic noise. Then, with a small smile on her face, she says, “What’s his name?”

 “The Admiral.” At the look on Melanie’s face, Georgie laughs lightly and says, “Yes, yes, I know—I have a naming type. Jon’s already teased me more than enough for it—though I honestly think it’s rubbed off on him.” Her eyes light up, and she digs her phone out of her pocket. “Here, do you want to see a picture of him?”

 She flips through the approximately two hundred photos of the Admiral on her phone before saying, nerves making her voice a bit too high, “I, er. I get off at five today. Do you… do you want to meet him? In person, that is.”

 Melanie’s smile is like caffeine, sending her heart stuttering in her chest. “Do you even have to ask?”

 So then Melanie’s in her flat, and she’s petting her cat, and she’s taking tea—black, just a bit of sugar—in the large yellow mug that Georgie likes, and she’s just so achingly beautiful that Georgie thinks she might die. Most of the time Melanie wears her hair up, in high ponytails or coiling braids or twin topknots, like the first time Georgie had seen her, stuck through with pencils or chopsticks or, on one memorable occasion, plastic forks. 

 (“Look,” Melanie had said, cheeks heating with embarrassment, “one of my chopsticks broke as soon as I got to work, and all we had were the forks. No, stop laughing at me—Georgina Barker, this is not funny!”)

 But sometimes Melanie wears her hair down and Georgie realizes how long it is, brushing just above mid-back. It looks soft. Georgie finds herself wanting to run her fingers through it so badly that her hands twitch by her sides, but she doesn’t ask. She’s not that far gone yet.

 It’s one night at Georgie’s flat, when Melanie’s got the Admiral on her lap and there’s a film going in the background that neither of them is paying any attention to, when Georgie realizes exactly how ‘far gone’ she really is. When Melanie says, haltingly, “So, you- you said you’d done a piece on the Black Lady of Bradley Woods, right?”

 Georgie’s brow furrows as she thinks back. “A few seasons ago, I think.” She thinks she remembers Jon dragging up a history book for that one and lecturing her for a good hour and a half on the War of the Roses until she finally relented and changed the script to include a large section on it. “Why?”

 “Oh, just- just wondering.” Melanie looks down at the Admiral; he gives a particularly contented purr and nuzzles into her hand, drawing a small smile to her face that Georgie immediately memorizes and files away for later. “I… I was thinking of doing a Ghost Hunt UK episode about it, actually?” she says, her cheeks coloring a light red. “And I thought—well, since you have some experience with the subject, maybe… maybe you would consider. Er. Guest-starring on the episode?”

 Georgie’s mouth is suddenly very dry, her pulse quick as a hummingbird’s in her throat. Honestly, Georgina. It’s not like she’s asked you out on a date.

 (Though Georgie would like that. She would like that very much.)

 “Only if you’ll guest-star on What the Ghost?,” Georgie’s mouth says, entirely without her permission. But once it’s out there, Georgie finds that she really, really likes the idea of it. Them, tucked away in Georgie’s guest room that she’s converted into a studio, talking about ghosts and laughing and reading the horrible adverts she’s forced to incorporate—well. It sounds very lovely indeed.

 “Oh, an ultimatum?” Melanie says, humored. Her smile is like wildfire, sending Georgie’s cheeks alight with flames that threaten to consume her utterly. “Well, then. I accept your terms, Georgie Barker. Perhaps you would like it in writing?”

 “Oh, over a cup of tea would suffice,” Georgie says, and she knows that her face is nearly split in two by a grin and that she probably looks utterly ridiculous. But she can’t find it within herself to mind.

 .

 “I need your help.”

 Jon nearly drops the stack of books they’re holding. The yelp they let out is quite undignified, and if asked, they will maintain that it never happened. (And since they’re in the back room of the café, there’s nobody around to hear it but the two of them.) “Jesus,” they say, shooting Melanie an irritated look softened by the shock still making their heart beat at a rapid-fire pace. Then, a bit petulantly: “Help with what? If I recall correctly, the last time I tried to help you, you decided you never wanted to speak to me again.”

 “That wasn’t helping,” Melanie says through gritted teeth. “That was being condescending and rude in front of my coworkers.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and says, “But this isn’t about that. Believe me, I would much rather not be talking to you about this—”

 “Great,” Jon says flatly. “I’m charmed.”

 “—but,” Melanie continues, the look on her face dreadfully pained, “you’re Georgie’s best friend, so I really don’t have any other options.”

 With no small amount of apprehension, Jon says, “Help with what, Melanie?”

 Melanie’s expression is not unlike that of someone who’s just sat down in the dentist’s chair to get a tooth pulled. “What’s Georgie’s favorite food?”

 Jon just stares. “What?” they say after a long moment of silence.

 Melanie makes a frustrated noise. “Fuck, Jon, do you want me to spell it out for you? Should have known this was a waste of my time—”

 “I don’t think Georgie has a favorite food,” Jon says quickly when the bite to Melanie’s voice grows sharp at the edges. “Maybe- maybe lángos?” At Melanie’s blank stare, they continue, “It’s, er. It’s deep-fried flatbread? She always orders it from the takeaway Hungarian place she likes—er, Miko’s Kitchen, I think?”

 “Takeaway,” Melanie echoes. “Yeah, that’ll do.” After a beat, she says, begrudgingly, “Thanks.”

 “Right,” Jon says, equally as begrudgingly. They’re not really sure they want to know, but—

 “Why do you ask?”

 The tips of Melanie’s cheeks go pink, and she says brusquely, “No reason.” She spins on her heel and makes to leave; then with her back to Jon, she pauses and says, “Do not say anything to Georgie.”

 “What?” Jon says, confused. “Why?”

 But Melanie’s already gone.

 Jon stares at the books in their hands, then at the door that leads to the rest of the café. They see Melanie disappear through the front door, the bell jingling behind her.

 “What?”

 .

 Georgie’s always liked routines. They provide structure to life that she finds comforting, and there’s enough room for variation within them that she doesn’t get bored. Wake up, get dressed, go to the café, come home, do some work on the next What the Ghost? episode, and go to bed, with room in between for other things, like watching that newest documentary on seals with Jon or waking early for a run.

 Her new routine goes like this:

 Around noon on most days, Martin and Melanie come into the café, sending the bell over the door jingling and approximately ten cats meowling insistently at their feet until Martin scratches beneath each of their chins in turn and Melanie collects some of the treats that Georgie keeps behind the counter in her hand and tries to pretend like she doesn’t like the way that the cats rub against her arms and hands when she kneels down to feed them. Martin orders a cup of tea—usually black with milk and a sugar, but sometimes it’s Earl Grey or gunpowder green—and Melanie gets an espresso drink that makes Georgie’s head ache just looking at it.

 And as she hands the mug of tea to Martin, she’ll say, conversationally, “So, Martin, what kind of tea does Melanie like?”

 Or: “Is Melanie more of a savory or a sweet kind of person?”

 Or: “What’s Melanie’s favorite movie? Does she enjoy movies? What kinds of movies?”

 Today, Georgie hands Martin his tea—black with milk and a sugar, the usual, nothing noteworthy or special about it—and says, casually, “What’s Melanie’s type?”

 Martin nearly drops his mug. “Sorry, what?”

 Georgie’s face begins to heat, but she barrels on. “You know—her type. Men, women, blonde, brunette—who she likes.”

 Martin’s staring at Georgie like she’s got three heads. “Uh. I have no idea?” His cheeks are tinged with pink, and Georgie does feel a bit bad for making him uncomfortable, but the curiosity burning up inside her is a powerful thing. It keeps her mouth closed and her expression encouraging as Martin stutters out, “I- er, I think she- well, that is to say, I’m fairly certain that she- er, that she doesn’t… date men? At- at least that’s what it seems like!” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Last year, this chap—Greg, maybe? I don’t know—asked her out for dinner after one of our shoots. He was nice enough, you know—strong jawline, that kind of ‘swooshy’ hair, nice teeth—”

 Martin’s face flushes a deeper red, and he cuts himself off. “Right, anyway. She said no, like it was obvious—not in, like, a mean way! Just like she was surprised by the offer. And when I asked her about it—” Martin shrugs. “She said he ‘wasn’t her type.’”

 “I see,” Georgie says, keeping her tone carefully neutral and trying very hard to pretend like butterflies haven’t taken residence in her stomach. “Thank you, Martin, that’s very helpful. Enjoy your tea!”

 “Wait,” Martin says, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Why did you want to—?”

 “Ah, sorry, I- I’ve got another customer to deal with,” Georgie says quickly, deliberately ignoring the fact that the till is being sufficiently managed by Tim at the moment. “Great seeing you, Martin!”

 Georgie thinks Martin might have said her name again, maybe even asked her a question. But she turns and retreats to the other end of the counter before she can hear it, brushing a curious Chairman away from the gate as she does so. And if her cheeks are as red as the heat in her face leads her to believe, at least Tim doesn’t mention it.

 .

 It’s after the seventh time that Melanie corners Jon in the back room of the café and grills him for details about Georgie that Jon finally gets it.

 “Oh,” Jon says, apropos of nothing, sitting tucked into Martin’s side on the couch in his flat, the drama that Martin had wanted to watch playing softly in the background. “Melanie likes Georgie.”

 Martin makes a sputtering, choking noise at that, something in between surprise and disbelief. “Okay?” he says, in that confused-yet-intrigued voice he gets when Jon changes the topic in a way that makes perfect, logical sense to him but that Martin can’t quite follow.

 “It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, waving his hands in the air absently. “All of a sudden, Melanie wants to talk to me, but only about Georgie, and only when Georgie’s not around. And it’s all what’s Georgie’s favorite food? and does Georgie like parks or museums better? and what kinds of flowers does Georgie like?”

 Martin sighs. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

 “And when I tried to tell her that just because Georgie and I dated, it doesn’t mean I know what kind of flowers she likes, she got this weird look on her face and just- just left.” Jon pinches the bridge of their nose between their fingers. “And then today, she asked me if Georgie likes women.”

 Martin lets out a stifled laugh. “Just like that?”

 Jon nods mutely. “I suppose it’s rather ridiculous it took that for me to figure it out.”

 Martin laughs again. “Maybe. I didn’t realize that Georgie liked Melanie until she asked me what Melanie’s type is. Nearly dropped my tea.”

 Wait. What?

 Jon shifts so that they can get a good look at Martin’s face. “Georgie likes Melanie?”

 Martin’s expression folds into confusion, then realization, then something softer. “Oh. Yeah, she- she does. Huh.”

 Jon considers, very briefly, making a joke about terrible taste. The amount of restraint they exercise to keep it in is truly monumental. They’re sure that Martin can see it written all over their face, though, given the chastising look Martin gives them. 

 “Sorry,” Jon says, though technically they’ve done nothing that warrants an apology. Then: “So I suppose we ought to tell them, then?”

 “What?” Martin’s looking at Jon like they’ve just suggested they microwave the water for their tea. “No, no, we should definitely not tell them.”

 Jon frowns, shifting in place so that they can more fully face Martin. “Why not? If there’s mutual attraction, I don’t see any problem with helping to- to push it along a bit. Lord knows we could have used the help.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, not unkindly. “If Georgie would have suggested that you ask me out, or even told you that I liked you, what would you have done?”

 “I—” Jon stops, sucks in a breath. “All right, fine, I probably would have reacted poorly, or more likely just wouldn’t have believed her. But, as Georgie keeps telling me, our experiences are not universal.” They cross their arms over their chest with a sigh. “I just hate that trope, where the entire plot revolves around some- some misunderstanding or intentional obfuscation of information that keeps the love interests apart.”

 “I know,” Martin says gently. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe they’d take it well. But I honestly don’t think it’ll come to that. Melanie and Georgie aren’t nearly as emotionally repressed as we were—”

 “Hey!”

 “—and besides, even if we don’t tell them outright, it doesn’t mean we can’t nudge a bit here and there.”

 “Nudge,” Jon echoes.

 Martin gives them a conspiratorial grin. 

 “Martin,” Jon says, trying to keep their smile under wraps and failing miserably. “You know how bad I am at subtly.”

 Martin takes Jon’s hand in his and squeezes before pressing a soft kiss across their knuckles. He doesn’t say a word.

 Jon loses the fight with his lips, and they curl upward against his will. “Fine, fine. No promises, though.”

 Martin hums, giving Jon’s hand another squeeze. “You know we’re going to have to rewind the movie, right?”

 The groan Jon lets out is more than a little overdramatic. “Why you like this- this drivel, I’ll never understand.”

 “Hey, this drivel won two BAFTAs.”

 “Ugh. No accounting for taste, I suppose.”

 The end of the movie is, predictably, bad. But when Martin presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead before standing to go wash their mugs, Jon can’t bring himself to mind.

 .

 It’s two and a half weeks later that Jon finally, inevitably, slips up. Which, in his defense, is twice the amount of time he thought it would take for either Georgie or Melanie to finally ask the other out. So really, it’s not his fault at all.

 It goes like this:

 On Saturday nights at eight, Jon goes to Georgie’s flat, they order pizza or Chinese or Indian, and they put on paranormal investigation videos. Technically, it’s research—coming up with new places or events to make a What the Ghost? about, seeing what the rest of the community is doing, familiarizing themselves with other people’s work in case they ever need to network. In reality, it usually devolves into Jon picking apart their research as sloppy, unsubstantiated, complete falsification of facts, an utter embarrassment to the field of paranormal research and Georgie complaining that that’s not even how ghosts work, you can’t use an EMF there because of the power lines, that’s not even an orb that’s a dust particle on your camera lens. 

 In short, it’s the highlight of their week. Jon had to cancel once, and Georgie never let him hear the end of it.

 Tonight, they’re watching an investigation of the Cambridge Military Hospital, and Georgie’s nearly reached a fever pitch, her increasingly frustrated hand-waves having narrowly avoided knocking over their half-full wine glasses twice now.

 “—and that’s just a few reasons why they’re doing it all completely wrong!” Georgie says, ending the sentence with a long, drawn-out groan. “I swear, one of the only respectable shows in this business is Ghost Hunt UK.”

 Jon eyes Georgie with no small amount of skepticism. “Well. Respectable is pushing it a bit.”

 Georgie spins and points a stern, accusing finger at Jon. “Do not start. Nit-picking aside, Melanie’s tactics are solid, and at least she doesn’t blatantly fabricate her results!”

 “Just plays it up for the camera, then,” Jon says under their breath.

 “Jonathan.”

 Jon bites back a groan. “Fine.” Then, like pulling teeth: “I… suppose that, historical inaccuracies aside, if… if I had to choose a show that I believed to be the- the least fraudulent, I might—might—be inclined to pick Ghost Hunt UK. But I cannot excuse sloppy research, Georgina.”

 Georgie’s sigh is labored. “I suppose that’ll have to do.” She turns back to the television, and as she does so, she says, “You know, I thought that since you two were spending more time together, you might have warmed up to her.”

 Jon just stares at her. “What?”

 Georgie shrugs, reaching for her wine glass. “She comes into the café all the time now. I assume you’re not meeting up in the back room to discuss your mutual love for weird, esoteric books, right?”

 Jon’s face heats up, and they press their lips very firmly together. “I… no. I suppose not.”

 Georgie hums, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m just glad you two are friends now. God knows it’ll make it less awkward when she comes over to record for the next episode of What the Ghost?.”

 “The next episode of—?” Jon cuts off with a sigh. “Georgie, you didn’t tell me that you were bringing Melanie on as a guest star.”

 Georgie looks at Jon then, a strange expression on her face. “Is there something wrong with that?”

 Jon reaches for their own wine glass, guilt coiling in their stomach. “No, I- I’m sorry. You just never mentioned it.”

 Georgie gives Jon an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I- I suppose I thought maybe she’d mentioned it to you?” A small laugh. “Unless you were actually talking about weird books.”

 “No,” Jon says sullenly. “That would have been nice. That would have involved actually talking and not just being grilled for information about you, and what you like, and whether or not you would like her.”

 Two and a half weeks of carefully maintained restraint crumbles in an instant, and Jon’s wince is full-body. Georgie’s eyes are burning into the side of Jon’s face, and they say quickly, “Er. Forget I said anything, please.” They gesture to the screen helplessly. “I- I think they’re analyzing their footage now.”

 “Jon,” Georgie says, setting her wine glass down on the table with a clink. “What did you just say?”

 “Georgie,” Jon says, “I am begging you.”

 “Jonathan Sims.”

 Well. So maybe it’s entirely their fault. In for a penny, in for a pound, they suppose.

 So they send a silent apology to Martin, set their wine glass down again, and open their mouth to speak.

 .

 Martin’s got Jon’s head resting on his chest and his arm curled around Jon’s back, the linens soft beneath them and his mind half-drifted off to sleep, when Jon says, quietly, “Georgie knows.”

 “Mm?” Martin says, not quite awake. Then, after an extended pause, the words register, and Martin says, “Oh. Did you—?”

 He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Jon’s already nodding, the motion sending his hair tickling against Martin’s chin. “It was an accident,” he says, his voice small. “It- it just came up, I didn’t mean to—”

 He cuts off with a wordless noise of displeasure. Martin’s arm tightens around Jon, his thumb rubbing small circles against Jon’s arm. “Hey, hey. It’s fine. You know I would never be mad at you for something like this, right?”

 Jon makes a sound remarkably similar to a scoff. “Yes, I know. It’s not- I’m not guilty, just- just frustrated.” There’s a small pause. Then, Jon says, quieter, “I suppose I’m worried that Melanie’ll hate me for it. We- we’re not friends, per se, but she trusted me not to say anything to Georgie. She asked me not to say anything, and I- I did it anyway!” 

 “You didn’t mean to,” Martin says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple. 

 “I don’t think that matters much.”

 Martin just hums. “What did Georgie say?”

 Jon pauses for a moment. Then, with a small chuckle, he says, “Uh. I’m pretty sure it was something like, ‘Thank fuck, I’m asking her out tomorrow then’?”

 Martin can’t help it; he laughs, more audibly than Jon, and soon they’re both giggling on the bed, Jon’s laughter a warm, rumbling feeling against Martin’s chest. “Well,” Martin says finally, once he’s gotten his breathing under control a bit. “I suppose that’s good, then.”

 “Quite,” Jon says, an audible smile in his voice.

 There’s quiet for a moment. Then, because Martin can’t resist: “So it really is that easy, then? One person can just ask the other out? Goodness, why didn’t we think of that?”

 Jon makes a noise Martin could only describe as grumpy. “Go to sleep, Martin.”

 “All right, all right,” Martin says, humored. Then, after a moment: “I love you.”

 Martin can feel Jon smile against his chest. “I love you too.”

 .

 It’s not utterly freezing outside the next day, which Georgie is infinitely thankful for as she leaves the café in the hands of Jon and Sasha at quarter to five and makes the short commute to Melanie’s studio. She’d considered, briefly, just asking Melanie out at the café—pulling her aside to ask her a question, or possibly spelling it out in the windows if she was feeling bold—but it felt a bit too stale. And besides, Fridays were always busy days at the café, and between taking orders, restocking the pastries and sandwiches, and taking care of a mishap with a certain grey-haired, muffin-loving cat, Georgie had barely had time to flash Melanie a smile, much less ask her out on a date.

 God, Georgie hasn’t been this nervous since uni.

 Georgie’s been standing outside the studio for only a few minutes, debating whether or not to go inside or to just wait on the sidewalk for Melanie to come out, when a familiar voice says, “Georgie?”

 The butterflies in Georgie’s stomach flutter, trying to climb up her throat and out of her mouth. She turns to see Melanie standing just a few feet away, her cheeks and nose dusted red from the chill and a hat pulled firmly down over her forehead and ears, a little logo of a ghost emblazoned upon the front of it. 

 The What the Ghost? logo.

 Georgie honestly thinks that, in this moment, she might actually kiss Melanie King right here and now.

 Instead, she says, “Are you off work?”

 Melanie’s forehead creases, and it’s so cute. Georgie wants to reach over and smooth it flat again. She keeps her hands firmly in her pockets. “I have a few more things to do with the footage, but it shouldn’t take me more than half an hour, so- yeah, soon, I guess? Er, why?”

 “Um.” Georgie shifts in place, the nerves in her stomach overtaking her quite suddenly. The words stick in her throat like honey, and she clears her throat once, like it’ll free them. “I’ve been, er. I’ve been wanting to try this new Indian place, over in Clapham? Martin, uh--he says you like Indian food?”

 Melanie’s just staring at her. Georgie steels herself, tries to ignore the stutter of her heart in her chest, and says, “Also, there’s a new Paranormal Activity in cinemas, if you’d like to go with me. After dinner, that is.”

 Georgie waits approximately a second and a half before saying, all in a rush, “A date, Melanie. Will you go on a date with me? Tonight, if you’re free.”

 Then, Georgie clamps her mouth shut and waits. No matter how badly she wants to talk to fill the silence.

 The silence that only lasts a few seconds before Melanie laughs, her face breaking into a smile of disbelief, and says, “Oh. Yes, I- that sounds lovely.” Then, enthusiastically. “Yes, absolutely.”

 The butterflies flutter once more, excitation and elation filling her in equal measure. “Great. Do, uh. Do you want to meet there, or…?”

 Melanie blushes, which is a sight that Georgie thinks she’ll treasure forever. “Why don’t you just come inside?” she says, opening the door to the studio. “We’ve got central heat and shitty coffee.”

 “Ah,” Georgie says as she steps inside. “That explains the daily visits to the café, then.”

 Melanie’s cheeks grow a more vibrant red, and she looks away quickly. “That’s not the only reason,” she mumbles. Then, louder, and a bit hesitantly: “Do- do you want to help me with the footage? It’ll, er. It’ll go faster with two sets of eyes, and Martin’s left already.”

 “Yeah,” Georgie says, her throat so swollen with affection she can hardly breathe. “I- I can do that.”

 Never, in a million years, would Georgie have said that her ideal date began sitting behind a desk in a too-cramped office, staring at a screen and pointing out little glitches in the editing to be smoothed out. But her hand brushes against Melanie’s every so often when she moves and her knee is pressed up against Melanie’s where she’s sitting next to her in a chair they’d dragged over from Martin’s office, so it’s really no wonder that Georgie’s cheeks are flaming and her heart is stuttering in her chest by the time they finally get to the actual date part of the night.

 And it just feels so… easy. Georgie takes Melanie to the Indian place, and they sit and eat chicken vindaloo and paratha under the red-yellow glow of the lights, just low enough to feel romantic but not so much so that Georgie can’t see the way that Melanie’s eyes light up when she talks about her latest hiking trip at Beinn a’Chrulaiste in Scotland.

 “I’ve always wanted to hike St. Kilda,” Melanie says, twisting her fork in her chicken absently, “but, y’know… it’s got the Lover’s Stone, which is super popular with couples, and it always just felt weird, I guess.”

 “Maybe we could go someday,” Georgie says, because she’s always been a bit too bold for her own good.

 Melanie looks surprised for a moment before a small, coy smile comes across her lips. “I dunno—hiking through the wilderness is quite a bit different than sitting in your bedroom talking into a microphone. D’you think you’d be up for it?”

 “I’ll have you know,” Georgie says, stabbing her fork at Melanie for emphasis, “that I do field research too! Jon’s the one who does most of the ‘history’ bits of it.”

 Melanie lets out a small, bitten-off groan. “Right. Yeah, that tracks.” 

 Georgie considers telling her that she’s very much like Jon, in a way. But she decides that bringing up exes is not exactly the best first-date conversation material. So she picks up on a story about her last field research trip out to Minsden Chapel and brushes the topic away for another day.

 For another date.

 Georgie can’t stop smiling.

 The film is fine, if a bit trite. Melanie’s hand in hers, coming to rest there thirty minutes in, is much, much more than fine. And when Georgie can’t stop herself from flipping her hand over and twining their fingers together, she’s rewarded with a small squeeze and the faintest of smiles, caught out of the corner of her eye.

 They live on completely opposite sides of London, it turns out—Georgie in Acton and Melanie in Dulwich—and so the grand gesture of walking Melanie to her doorstep and then leaning in for a kiss like some couple out of a rom-com is out of the question. Still, Georgie is nothing if not persistent. So when Melanie stops in a secluded spot just outside the cinema, makes a small, aborted gesture that’s almost a shrug and says, “Well, I- I suppose this is it, then. I, er. I had a nice time,” Georgie decides that she’s something of a hopeless romantic after all, and her hand squeezes tighter around Melanie’s when she goes to pull away.

 “Yeah,” Georgie says, certain that she sounds utterly infatuated but unable to convince herself to care. “Yeah, me too.” A pause. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

 Melanie lets out a short, clipped laugh. “Yeah, that- that sounds lovely.”

 Georgie can’t help herself. “Are you free tomorrow?”

 Melanie’s look of surprise quickly morphs into an amused grin. “Tomorrow? God, am I that good of company?”

 “Mm, just a bit,” Georgie says with a fond grin to match. Her other hand comes up to brush gently against the side of Melanie’s cheek, the pads of her fingers catching against a few stray strands of black hair that have fallen around the shell of her ear. She hears Melanie’s breath catch as she takes a small step closer, enough so that the space between them is filled with the tension of too close not close enough. Then, teasingly: ”How do you feel about coffee?”

 Melanie’s laugh is closer to a snicker. “Oh, I think I’ll manage.” A pause. Then: “Won’t be as good as yours, though.”

 Georgie’s heart does something funny at that, a twisting, swirling sensation in her chest. “Flatterer,” she says, but it comes out barely more than a whisper. 

 Were they always so close together?

 Melanie looks at Georgie then, something hot and burning in her eyes that Georgie feels reflected in her own mind, body, and soul. Her hand squeezes around Georgie’s, just once, and she says, “I’d very much like it if you would kiss me now, Georgie Barker.”

 And so Georgie threads her fingers gently in Melanie’s hair, leans in, and kisses her. And everything—the softness of her lips, the little sigh she gives into Georgie’s mouth, the feeling of her hair between Georgie’s fingers—is so, so much better than she’d ever imagined it to be.

 She kisses Melanie, memorizing the feel of her lips beneath hers, and begins to chart her way forward to all the kisses to come. She envisions the little kisses, like this one, and the passionate kisses, and the chaste kisses to a forehead or temple or back of the hand, and the sleepy kisses in the morning when neither of them would be awake enough to do much else than smile against the other’s mouth and trade quiet hellos. And with each passing image, the ember in her chest grows more and more until it’s fully ablaze, heating her from the inside out with a burning desire for what’s to come.

 Melanie squeezes her hand once more before departing, leaving Georgie with a quiet I’ll call you and a smile so soft Georgie fears she might break it if she holds it too close. Georgie stands outside the cinema for a moment more, watching until Melanie disappears into the shadows, with lips and palms burning with a quiet, comforting heat that she can feel despite the nip of winter air against her skin. Then, she turns and begins to make her way back to her flat, a nervous energy curling in her stomach as she walks that finally, when she opens the door to her flat to reveal a very insistent Admiral rubbing against her ankles and purring at the approximate volume of a chainsaw, resolves itself into a bubbling excitement.

 She can’t wait to fall in love with Melanie King. 

 Georgie feeds the Admiral, flicks the lights off, and goes to bed. And if her dreams are full of inky-black hair and thin-fingered hands and soft lips, pressing warmly against hers, then she finds she really doesn’t mind much at all.

[uswnt5]

i’m back and boy do i have things to say. buckle up it’s a loooooong one

first off, an i cannot stress this enough, fuck Merritt Paulson. that’s it, that’s the tweet. thanks for coming to my ted talk.

don’t worry i’ll get to THAT. but first, not taking Brianna Visalli or Ally Prisock? dumb moves LV, but not the first of the night tbh. like not even one of them? Kizer is good, but a rookie with no experience at all? would love to know the train of thought on that one. unsurprised by Sky Blue and North Carolina (should’ve protected Merrick imo), good picks though. bit confused by Spirit, would’ve gone for Dougherty-Howard young but experienced, but they picked two rookies instead so we clearly aren’t valuing having any actual playing experience in LV. we only care about height for a 6’1 keeper but ok.

a rookie defender from the Reign and Michelle Betos. again so much better talent to take from Reign and you took a rookie who you *think* will come back from Sweden. she probably will but i would’ve taken someone in their mid 20s who had experience for you to build around and is already proven considering all the rookies you’ve already taken. and a keeper who just tore her acl?? idk when Betos will be ready but you now get to choose between a rookie keeper and an injured keeper when you could’ve taken Britt Eckerstrom and a different player from Reign (Rosie White, Jasmyn Spencer, Taylor Smith) . sidenote wonder who Reigns new international keeper will be now that they don’t have any lol.

Orlando. oof. not much to choose from i know, but like two Aussies? after the great Aussie nwsl exodus? i know Foord has a relationship with the coach, but she’s loving Arsenal and Lia Walti and i don’t think she’s planning on returning soon. Alanna Kennedy could also very well stay overseas especially if she doesn’t want to move, staying overseas looking more attractive in my opinion. wouldve looked at Pickett or Konya Plummer but it seems LV is pulling a Hail Mary and crossing their fingers about them coming back to the league (and other *side eye*). not to mention UK is closer to AUS and with them having the WC in 2023 i wouldn’t be surprised if that’s another reason they stayed in europe.

Press, unsurprising i think we all saw that coming. Utah just looks like it’s sinking and nobody is throwing a line out to help. willing to bet you don’t see Vero come back, maybe even Gunny with how things are going.

ok here we go. i will preface this by saying i have been a Thorns fan from the start, so this is devastating. my heart really does hurt, and seeing fans be so disgusted with the Thorns front office? deserved. i don’t think anyone really expected it to happen with the talent Portland left available. i mean considering LV’s entire team is rookies you’d think they would throw some experienced players in there, you know ones who will actually come play for you? Tobin not being a Thorn anymore just doesn’t seem real or right, and maybe that’s dramatic, but more than literally anyone else on that team, she IS Portland. this is a player who dedicated her entire career to helping build this club, and the way everything went down this year, dirty. having stated on multiple occasions (literally a month ago too) that Portland and the Thorns are her home, she had every intention of going back and playing there. now she won’t even get a proper sendoff? and Paulson is going to make statements that she’s irreplaceable? then get her back you dumb fucking idiot. i KNOW there is a long game here but Portland couldve waited for this exact thing to happen next year with LA, which it probably would’ve, and given a proper sendoff to the player who has been the heart of your team from its start. we’ll never know, but some back door deal could’ve and should’ve been made to leave her, especially with who else was available, but LV/Portland just uprooted a settled 30 year old life and i’m not ok with that. if they don’t at BARE minimum retire #17, oof, prepare for a riot.

i hope Tobin stays in Manchester until at least december 2021 and doesn’t report after the Olympics. i would even be down with a permanent move to the wsl as a fuck you to the nwsl. this draft reminded me of how disgusting it is that the NWSL does not give players autonomy of their own careers, jerking them around without any care for their feelings or lives. you cannot claim to be the best league in the world and then treat players this way. nobody can tell me Tobin is thrilled about this at the end of the day, even if she’ll get to play with Press, she just lost the home and team she spent years building and probably thought she’d end her career with that’s got to be devastating. furthermore, LV currently using the two of them as clickbait knowing the chances of them ever reporting there are about as likely as Donald Trump getting elected for a second bc ‘voter fraud’? fucking gross. Christy Holly was problematic af when he coached before, you think they want to go from Casey Stoney to that? absolutely fucking doubt it.

currently: really unhappy, very sad, also angry. thanks for reading and would love your thoughts and sorry for all the cursing

I love cursing, don’t ever apologize for that! I’m sorry you’re hurting, too. It’s awful to see it go down like this. The problem is, there really wasn’t another way. Crystal got her wish so essentially they had to give up Tobin. I think they were banking on putting enough talent out there to distract Louisville into taking other players but alas, it didn’t work.

I’ve said earlier but I’ll say again, this hurts, but at the end of the day, at least Tobin and Christen get to go through this experience together and it’s not one left having to deal with it while the other has a safety net. They are each others safety nets now and that’s a cool thing. 

When it comes down to it, I think them staying in Manchester until Dec 2021 is exactly what they’ll do. That’ll give them time to come back to the states for the holidays and settle into LA (if they get that move), get a house there, and start ramping up media for the inaugural season. Fans want it. I really do think it’ll happen. I mean, look at the Rebellion 99 watch parties that they already have for CP and she’s not even an LA player yet. They simple LOVE their hometown girl. 

T&C and the first overall pic in 2022 for Louisville exemption like @xowoso said seems pretty spot on to me. 

For now, lets all just take a breath and thank our lucky stars that they are playing in Manchester right now and not actually having to make a 2020 decision about agreeing to go to Louisville. Let’s see where this WSL season ends up and if they can get into UCL before we stress too much. They’re happy and thriving together and I think we should hold onto that for now. 

And if it makes you feel better, maybe sleep in your Tobin Thorns jersey tonight.