#as i thought it was. anyway. it was only a tenner so it's whatever

[ayliffe]

might have just bought a little soul/cocaine socialism on vinyl. teehee i'm so quirky

[lululandd]

part-time psycho;

pairing: yandere!ghost x f!reader

wordcount: 1,921

warning: mentions of murder, implied cheating, jealousy, possessive behaviour

note: please understand this is fiction, i do not condone any of these behaviours irl (also on ao3)

summary: 

He’d be out drinking with his work friends, he said. Won’t drink too much because he had to drive home after, he said. You don’t have to pick him up because he doesn’t know what time he’ll be back, he said. Some of his friends might get super drunk and he might have to drive them home, he said.

Those were the things you remember him saying before he kissed you goodbye. 

You were roused from sleep by the sound of the front door slamming, and then people talking. There was an unfamiliar voice besides Simon’s, but you try not to listen too hard. But even your sleep-addled brain noted how odd that there were giggles and chuckles one moment and then… dead silence. Something felt wrong, the little voice in your head—the voice that kills people in horror movies, Simon would say—tells you to go check to see what it is. Groaning a little to shake the lethargy from your bones, you get out of bed and walk towards the stairs, but you only made it halfway down.

A woman was sitting on top of him, on the sofa. The woman Simon introduced you to months ago. His co-worker, his teammate, the person that has taken a bullet or two for him and vice versa. You can’t lie, she intimidated you from the very beginning. Their apparent closeness, their easy banter that you can never follow, the countless inside jokes, the way her hand always landed on him when she thought you weren’t looking, and her features. They were so similar to yours, and you don’t know which is worse, whether you came into his life first, or her.

Drowsiness left you as anxious dread seeps in. They spoke too quietly for you to hear, but you don’t care. Friends don’t sit on each other's laps like that, and certainly not facing one another. Feelings of inadequacy filled your mind as you walked briskly towards the front door and took off, grabbing whatever coat was on the hook. You just had to get out of there, far away from what you had just witnessed. Wiping the tears that blurred your vision, you notice your feet take you to the nearest pub, and you stand outside dumbly for a couple of seconds. 

That night was bitterly cold, and you wished you had taken a thicker coat. Putting your hands in your pocket, you realise you have no money. You didn’t take anything but the spare house keys, your phone, and the coat on your way out. The slippers you're wearing are the fuzzy kind meant for indoors. Digging in your pockets, you hoped past you left a couple of quid in there. You found two tenners in the inner pocket, and you shuffled inside to get a drink or two.

The pretty bartender with the large earrings noticed you immediately and asked whether you need help and if she should call the police. Glancing at the mirror behind the bar, you saw you were a complete and utter wreck and she was right to be worried. You made sure to convince her that you were just sad and not some victim of domestic abuse before ordering some shots. She gave you a worried look before grabbing the drinks.

You downed both drinks in quick succession as soon as they arrived. The first burn hadn’t even registered fully before you chased it with another one. Today’s not the day for sane choices and comfort, you need to dull the pain as quickly as you can.

It’s funny, being tipsy. Your brain doesn’t even know when it started, you suddenly are. It doesn’t matter much anymore that Simon had brought a woman that looks much like you home, you can live just fine without him. It’s not like he’s the best boyfriend anyway, he left so often and so long sometimes you don’t feel like lovers. Maybe he had already demoted you from that position long ago and you were too stupid and blind to notice.

It took you a while to realise someone was sitting next to you. Letting out a deep sigh that definitely lasted longer than you thought you could, you didn’t even have to look to know it was him.

“Will you be coming home tonight?”

You’ve heard this tone before. It’s the careful one he uses when he knows you’re upset. The voice that is laced with sympathy and understanding. But this time you don’t know if that question was borne out of malice or legitimate concern, so you ignored him. The glass of water that the pretty barkeep gave to you looks very interesting right now.

The silence stretched for a painful amount of time before it was Simon’s turn to sigh. “Would you believe me if I told you I was drunk and rejected her advances?”

You were bitterly reminded of how she was sitting on his lap earlier. How close her face had been to his. How her hands had been curling on his neck, and his hands probably sitting on her waist. You didn’t see or didn’t remember, but that’s where your mind placed it, the only logical place it could be.

He slid his car keys your way. “Wherever you’re going, at least take the car. Don’t take cabs this late at night.” And when you didn’t react, he left.

You left the pub after your fifth glass of water and a repeated play of Justin Bieber’s ‘Baby’—the staff were laughing while you heard one yell out profanities from the backroom—to check on the car. It suspiciously had your wallet, his hoodie, some cash haphazardly thrown on the front seat, and a large knife when you checked the glove box. You looked at your phone and mass texted your friends to see which one of them was awake and kind enough to let you crash at their place for the night.

One of your best friends replied, and you decided to go there immediately. They kindly offered their place for a week or two, but you ended up leaving on the second day. You had calmed down a little, and your friend suggested you talked this out instead of just making more and more assumptions in your head.

“The longer you’re not talking, the more your brain makes shit up.”

You joked that they just wanted you out asap and it ended up in a pillow fight that made you forget about your problems for a little while.

Driving home was the hardest. The scene keeps replaying in your head and your brain racks up the jealousy. How long have they been going behind your back? Is he just dating you because he can’t have her for some reason? Was whatever he was saying true, that he rejected her advances?

You found a parking spot not far from the house because for some reason you didn’t want him to see you coming.

As you opened the front door, you were met by two set of eyes looking bewildered at your direction. Simon’s arms were still on her waist while hers were draped over his shoulders.

Fuck these people.

Fuck him.

You threw Simon’s car keys on the floor and walked out, ignoring his pleas for you to wait and listen.

There was only one place to go now. Your parents. They welcomed you graciously, knowing you had a fight and wanting some space from your boyfriend even when you didn’t tell them at all about what happened. A week went by without any calls or texts from Simon, you decided it was time to go back and pack the fuck out of your stuff to live with your parents for a while. Why should you even think about being with him when he doesn’t even try to apologise. Living with your parents has reminded you what love could–should–be. Waking up next to each other every day, knowing they’re safe and within reach and not whatever it is you have with Simon where he goes missing for months at a time without contact. It was nice waking up to the sight of your parents chattering about, jokingly telling you to not burn the house down as they go to work, reminding you of your teenage years.

Thankfully Simon wasn’t home when you went to pack. It’s decided that you’ll only take your clothes for now and leave the paraphernalia for later. If you’re lucky, his job called while you were away and you can pack in peace.

But you weren’t so lucky.

“You’ve lost weight.” You jumped at the sound of his voice. Simon was a deathly quiet man when he needed to be. You didn’t hear the front door being open and shut or even his footsteps. He looked awful, his face unkempt with bloodshot eyes, his hair mussed, and his clothes dishevelled.

“I’m not wearing makeup so I look shit.” You retorted.

You had to look away as soon as you saw him bristle. He stayed silent for a while, his gaze focused on every facet of your face before going back to staring you down.

“Why are you lying?” His voice came as a quiet snarl, a low gruff that sounded like it hasn’t been used in days. 

“Because that’s also what you’re doing.” You threw the meanest look you could towards him, and you’d like to think that’s why he broke eye contact with you. Unable to help yourself, you continued, “Rejecting her advances my ass, Riley.”

Hearing his last name, he proceeded to cut across the room and reached for you, strong arms instantly curling around your waist as he turned you around to face the open armoire. You felt the need to run, to fight back, but what else could you do but submit? The man is 193 centimetres of pure trained muscles that can hold you full nelson for however long it takes him to fuck you in front of the mirror until he feels satisfied, while you run out of breath carrying the neighbour’s fat tabby for two minutes. You are a little rabbit at the mercy of a wolf.

Weak.

Pathetic.

“I'm truly sorry you had to see me when I tried to lure her into a false sense of security.” He pulled you even closer, your back gently bumping against his chest. “If I drove you to where her head is buried will you finally believe me?” 

Only half the words registered in your mind, “Simon this isn’t funny.”

Trying to wriggle away awarded you with a hiss and him nuzzling on the crook of your neck. 

“Wasn’t joking, love.”

“Simon.” You pleaded desperately. You felt sick. You knew he was a dangerous man, but he had told you, convinced you, that he would never hurt y–

Realisation hits in a revolting wave of nausea. He had never said he wouldn’t hurt others. “Simon?”

“Yes, dear?” He muttered, lips pressing intently against the sensitive parts of your ears.

His hold no longer felt safe, there’s desperation and a dangerous kind of hunger lingering underneath his touch. “D-did you keep a trophy? Of her, I mean.”

You think if he could just show you some sort of proof, you could somehow take it and just start running.

“Why the fuck,” Simon’s voice was suddenly laced with seething fury that you flinched in his arms. “Would I keep trophies of people that caused you pain?” His statement chilled you to your core and you stopped trembling for a moment. 

A choked, terrified whisper escaped you. “S-Simon?” Sickness curled your stomach, your knees buckled as you swayed. You don’t know when your Simon had left and replaced with this monster, or whether there was a Simon at all in the first place.

You felt his lips twitch and curl into a smile on the junction of your neck. "Yes, love?"

“Why was that plural?”

[spunkpunx]

Are Friends Electric? - Alex Turner - Part 2

Plot: Jackie brings her new fella to the boys first gig.

Warnings: Smoking, Underage Drinking, Explicit Sexual Reference, Abuse, Swearing

Word count: 2794

Sheffield 2003

I wasn't actually sure I liked Chris as much as I thought I did. When he had asked for my phone number I had felt so excited and flattered, after all, he was a bit older, he was out of school, he had a job...

...And he was attractive. His hair was short back and sides, and he was tall with lean muscle. Sure, he wasn't the best dressed, but he dressed like most boys did, trackies and trainers, and a polo shirt with the collar popped. And he could drive.

I loved that part. I could phone him and he'd drive round and pick me up, give me lifts about and sometimes we'd just drive for a bit. Then he'd pull into some car park round the back of Tesco's or something and we'd kiss and fumble and he'd put his hand in my bra and I'd let him but we never went the full way. Not in the Tesco car park. I did once give him a handjob, but it was very rushed and awkward, so I didn't like to count it.

Alex hated him. I could never figure out why. They weren't each other's type of people, I supposed. They met at the pub and straight away Chris gave him a friendly thump on the back, and from the look on Alex's face, I instantly knew they wouldn't get on. It was a shame, after all, Al was my best mate. There were times when I couldn't bear to turn him down if I had plans with Chris. Usually I lied and told Alex I had to help my mam, or tell Chris something had come up and I couldn't make it. I was pretty sure neither of them knew, maybe not certain.

Maybe Chris wasn't my person. We hung out, but conversation was short, we had nothing in common, other than birthplace. He liked cars and techno, I preferred cameras and Roots Manuva. We didn't even support the same football team. He liked to talk about car parts a lot and I never had a clue what he was on about. Still, I liked him enough. He knew exactly when I wanted to be left alone and exactly when I wanted to be held. He was sweet sometimes as well, he even bought me flowers from the petrol station once.

Alex had a habit of getting increasingly miserable the more Chris was mentioned. Even Matt teased him about it, or so I'd heard. I didn't hang out with the band that much because I didn't want to infringe on their practices, but whatever information I couldn't get from Alex, I would get out of Jamie.

The gig at The Grapes was exactly the kind of situation I had been trying to avoid. Alex and Chris and alcohol all in the same small space. I really didn't like bringing him to things, but he asked me specifically and I couldn't find a reason for me to go on my own.

"How are ya doing, mate," Chris greeted, clapping Alex firmly on the back. I noticed him scowl slightly before replying.

"Fine, and you?" he answered, through his teeth almost, although he managed to force his tone to be slightly more friendly than his face quite convincingly. Chris clearly didn't notice. Alex was sipping at a can of ginger beer, obviously still 17 an unable to get served. All of the boys weren't drinking, Andy and Jamie were still about a month off their birthdays. I could sense Alex's embarrassment as he wrapped his hands around the can, shielding it from Chris. He noticed.

"Can't get served?" Chris jibed, giving Alex another overly forceful clap on the back. "It's fine mate, I'll get you a pint." If Alex looked embarrassed before, right now he looked absolutely mortified. Chris waved the bartender over.

"2 pints of Carling and...?" He turned to me expectantly.

"The same," I told him with a smile.

"And the same for the lady," he finished, handing over a tenner.

"No worries, hows your Da' getting on?" the bartender asked Chris, pulling the pints.

"Not too bad Paul, 'is leg's a bit better now, off the crutches an' all that."

"Ay, that's good, although, knowin' yer dad he'll have been loving the attention," the bartender joked, and they both laughed heartily. Alex and I made a brief moment of eye contact, caught in a joke neither of us understood. Chris handed over both our pints and lead us toward one of the free tables. As he walked ahead, Alex put his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

"Hey, I know yer've got a pint now but I grabbed you this before," he said, pulling a red can out of his pocket. I recognised the flames around the black writing immediately. A can of ginger beer.

"Cheers, Al, that's great," I told him honestly. I felt oddly flattered that he remembered what I liked.

"They didn't have any D&B," he explained further, grinning. I slung my arm around his shoulder and dragged him to the table, laughing.

"Yer daft you are," I teased him, and then I felt a hand on my hip; Chris, prising me away from him. I felt a slight rush of anger, but kept it within. He didn't mean anything by it. I sat myself down beside him, taking a gulp of my pint.

"Right well, I better go help the boys set up, fookin on in fifteen minutes, I'm shittin' myself," Alex told me, smiling slightly weakly.

"Is Simmo coming down?"

"Course he is."

"When you see him tell him where we're sat."

"Alright."

"And I'll see the boys after but tell 'em good luck," I smiled, trying to subtly reassure him. It wasn't much use, he wasn't looking at me properly.

"Alright," he agreed.

"And Al?" I asked, reaching forward and giving his hand a squeeze. He looked up. "Good luck tonight, you'll smash it." He forced a smile, I couldn't imagine the nerves he must have been having.

"Cheers Jack, I'll see you after yeah?" he asked and I affirmed with a nod of my head. With that, he turned and headed toward the stage. A hand slinked itself onto my waist, and I thought to myself about how nice it was Chris was here. There were plenty of reasons why he was just right for me, and all I did was give him a hard time about it in my head. A gig at The Grapes was not a place I ever pictured him, and yet he'd come, especially for me. We chatted for a few minutes, and then were interrupted.

"Alright Jack?" a friendly voice greeted. Simmo sat down opposite the two of us.

"Ah, you're Simmo then?" Chris asked.

"That'd be me, and you are...?"

"This is Chris, my, erm, boyfriend," I explained, hoping neither noticed the slight hesitation in my voice. If either of them did, neither addressed it.

"Oh that's odd, I thought you and Alex were a thing," Simmo said simply in response. Now, if I knew Simmo at all, I could be 97% sure he was saying this to stir shit, and I'd be fucked if I wasn't to get him back for it at some point.

"Don't be stupid Si," I told him, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, but coming across as a lot more snappy than I intended.

"Alright love, don't get yer knickers in a twist," he teased. That wound me up more than anything. I bit the inside of my cheek slightly.

"'Scuse me I'm going fer a piss," I announced, standing up and getting around the edge of the table, while trying to come across as casual, unwilling to give Simmo anything to pick up on. Unfortunately as the words left my mouth, I recognised my own tetchy tone.

"Hey babes, hang on a sec, 'e's only joking," Chris consoled, but I could tell he was trying to keep a straight face. Blokes always had to patronise me like this.

"Don't call me babes, you sound like a nonce," I snapped, perhaps a little harshly, grabbing my bag and swiftly making my way to the toilets. Once I was inside the doors I kicked the sink, cursing to myself as it hurt more than I had anticipated, before taking a moment to gather myself up, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I lit a cigarette, inhaling and then sighing out the smoke dramatically. I felt my lip quiver, but still held back tears. I was so wound up but she couldn't let Simmo ruin the gig for me, the stupid twat. The door opened and I quickly stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the sink, not willing to be told of by some virtuous prick.

"Shit, this is the wrong bathroom," a familiar voice said. I turned round to see a very flustered Matt.

"What gave it away?" I teased.

"Well, you're not a bloke."

"Thanks for noticing," I grinned halfheartedly.

"You alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just heard you kick the sink."

"Oh," I replied, defeated. Matt laughed. "It were just Simmo winding me up, Chris as well actually," I admitted, and Matt took a further step into the bathroom to give me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Simmo's a fookin' prick anyways, and if you ask Alex, so's your Chris," Matt consoled.

"What's his beef?"

"Dunno, jealous?"

"Not fookin' likely," I chuckled. Matt raised his eyebrows slightly, but said nothing.

"Anyway mate, I better get out the ladies toilet before I get pasted for bein' a pervert. We're on in 5 minutes anyway."

"Oh right, well proper good luck to you then Matt, you lot will smash it, I bet," I smiled at him.

"Cheers pet, I'll see yous after the gig then," he replied, opening the door to leave.

"Aye, will do."

I swept the cigarette off the sink and onto the floor, putting on some chapstick before leaving the bathroom to find a spot near the stage for the boys to start playing. They were all setting up their amps when I got there. I caught Matt's eye and gave him a thumbs up, which he returned. Alex looked like he was shitting himself with nerves, I could see by the uneasy look in his eye and the way he was chewing his lip. I caught his eye and he gave me a weak smile, and I mouthed back what I hoped was a reassuring "go on."

He hooked the lead over his guitar strap and plugged it in, coming over to the mic, giving it a shaky test, which caught everyone's attention. A few people gathered with me on the "dancefloor", holding drinks in one hand.

"Hello, we're t'Arctic Monkeys and we're gonna play a few songs for you," Alex began, almost mumbling into the mic. A few audience members, myself included, let out some reassuring claps and cheers. He met my eye for a moment, smiled, and i saw his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. "Our first song is called Ravey Ravey Ravey Club and it goes like this."

The guitar began, a fast introduction with Jamie playing rhythm. Alex strummed the guitar fast, and when he sung the words were almost indiscernible. He was putting on an accent that he didn't have, which was odd to me, it made sense for Alex to be that self conscious but I reckoned he had no reason to be shy. The audience seemed to appreciate the music as I noticed a few raised eyebrows. I suppose it was a rarity for a pub band in Sheffield to have a singer who could sing.

A hand slipped around my waist and I felt Chris kiss my neck and mumble a soft 'sorry' into my ear. I didn't reply, but leant back into him instead. Alex continued with the song, and I smiled at how much he was enjoying himself. Matt was doing brilliantly on the drums, I had no idea how good he was. Andy was doing the typical bass player move and looking bored, and Jamie was making his best attempt at being 'rock 'n' roll' without moving about too much. At one point Alex screamed a line and it took all my willpower not to laugh for fear of knocking his confidence. The song ended and the audience applauded, I wooed my support. Alex had a smile on his face, letting out a thrilled "yeah!".

The set continued, Alex gradually gaining confidence throughout the songs. They did a cover of Rockafeller Skank, which I thought was brilliantly genius. Even Chris liked that one, probably because it was the only one he knew. At that point we were both suitably drunk. Si came up and apologised, then offered me a dance in return, which I reluctantly accepted. It was a right laugh because Si was enough of a dick to prance about like a twat whilst simultaneously holding me by my hands and dragging me to dance with him. By the time the song had finished I had tears in my eyes and all irritation had been long forgotten. It was odd to dance to Alex's voice singing the White Stripes, but funny nonetheless. After that he stepped up to announce the next song.

"This next one is for you Jackie, thanks for coming tonight," he mumbled into the microphone. This was met with a wolf whistle from the back of the room which made my cheeks flush red. The band then continued to rush through a cover of I'm Only Sleeping by The Beatles. That also made me chuckle, a cheeky dig at my tendency to oversleep. Chris seemed a bit bothered by that, because he came away from the bar and grabbed my arm slightly, pulling me away.

"Jackie, why would he do that?" he hissed to me, away from the crowd. I furrowed my brow at him in confusion.

"Do what?"

"Fookin' dedicate a song to you and shit like tha'" he snapped, hand still on my arm. "He's not your fookin' boyfriend, I am." His grip tightened on me. I drew back slightly but he kept me where I was. "It's embarrassing, he's not to do it again you understand?!"

"What the fook Chris?!" I exclaimed, surprised at his sudden controlling behaviour. I pushed against him, trying to get away but he pulled me into a suffocating hug. I let him, trying to avoid creating a scene and ruining the Arctic Monkeys' first gig.

"You're my girl okay? I can't have you hangin' about with all those other lads like some slut," he told me. I nodded into his chest, feeling stifled and slightly scared, waiting for him to let me go. "Good girl."

Chris didn't leave me for the rest of the set, he held onto my wrist most the time, at least until he noticed a girl he knew and sloped off to the bar to buy her a drink. I found myself not caring. The boys came off stage and I went round the back to help them chuck their various instruments into the back of Andy's van. Whilst we were out there I ended up next to Alex, having a smoke. The whole Chris thing has shaken me up and I couldn't help having a dampened mood. I chewed the inside of my cheek.

"What did you think Jack?" Alex asked me keenly, grin on his face. I smiled, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

"Yous were fookin' brilliant Al, I'm dead proud," I told him, trying to sound as happy as possible.

"Yeah it was pretty good, are you alright love?" he asked, putting a hand on my arm.

"Yeah, am fine. Sorry Al, I loved your whole gig, it's just Chris being a dick'ead before, ruined my mood a bit."

"What 'append?" He turned to me, eyes soft and understanding. I explained what went on, seeing his face harden slowly.

"But I think I overreacted," I finished.

"Nah, not at all love. That's a fookin' red flag. You need to break up with him."

"I should... gave me a bit of a fright when he acted like that." Alex pulled me into a hug and I returned it, trying not to burn him with the end of my still lit ciggie. I pressed my face into his shoulder. His white polo shirt smelt of his house and him, and unfortunately a bit like sweat.

"Do it now, then you won't have to see the cunt tomorrow. I can come with you if you want."

"It's probably best it's not you, I'll take Matt."

[echo-bleu]

Chapters: 3/5 Fandom: The Gifted (TV 2017) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clarice Ferguson | Clarice Fong/John Proudstar, Lorna Dane/Marcos Diaz Characters: John Proudstar, Clarice Ferguson | Clarice Fong, Marcos Diaz (The Gifted), Lorna Dane Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 01, Sort of fix-it, Disabled Character, Hurt/Comfort, Lorna and Andy stayed, Slice of Life, Ficlet Series Series: Part 2 of The World As We Know It Summary:

Sequel to The World As We Know It. Snippets from John's life in DC in the six months before season 2.

Chapter 3

It's been an eternity... If anyone is still reading, the remaining two chapters are already written so I'll post them in the next few days. This one is sad.

“We're almost there,” John says, indicating a door on the side of the decrepit building they've been going up to. Lorna opens the door.

“There's stairs,” she says.

“We're going down?” Clarice asks, poking her head in behind Lorna.

“Yes,” John answers. “It's down in the tunnel under the city.”

“You need me to get you down there?”

“If you don't mind.”

“Okay, I just need to go down first so I can see what's down there. It's too dark.”

Clarice and Lorna walk down the stairs together, followed by the Struckers.

“Ready?” Clarice calls from the bottom of the stairs.

A portal starts growing in front of John. He waits until it reaches the ground completely before wheeling through, Marcos at his heels.

“Thanks,” he nods to Clarice. He hates that they have to do this, but this is one more place that's not accessible to him. He knows he's lucky to have Clarice, to have someone who can still get him up and down stairs when there is no elevator. Today is too important for him to miss, but he suspects other mutants will have renounced because of the lack of accessibility.

“Couldn't they have chosen a place more...” Clarice trails off.

“Savory? Lighted?” Lorna proposes with a smirk.

It's true that their surroundings aren't the best. The room they're in was once a cellar, and it smells strongly of mold and old cigarette. John tries to avoid the images that always come with the smells, and they're mostly old enough that he can ignore them, but he has to stop himself from holding his breath.

“They needed a place where the Sentinel Services aren't going to show up,” he answers. “And there should be a lot of people, so it's not easy getting everyone together.”

“What is it really, anyway? You didn't say much last night.”

“Mutant Day of Remembrance,” John says, wheeling himself to another door. “It was started after 7/15 to remember all the mutants lost to violence every year.”

“Like, those killed by the police or mobs?”

“Yes, but also the mutant kids murdered by their parents, anyone who was killed because they were a mutant.”

“I see,” Clarice bites her lip. “I'd never heard of it before.”

“It's not...we keep it quiet, because there's too much risk of the Sentinel Services crashing a vigil. In Atlanta, we'd just have our vigil in the forest, but here the mutant presence is a bit more organized.”

John remembers the first year after 7/15, when he and Pulse went to their first vigil in Tucson just before Pulse was captured. John and Lorna did their vigil on their own the next year, in the still empty bank. He's never missed a Day of Remembrance. But this year is going to be different.

They finally arrive at their destination. It's a large room whose corners are lost to the shadows, the lights coming from projectors placed on the floor and flashlights. It’s already mostly full – more mutants in the same place than John has seen in years, if ever. Many of them are sitting on the floor, some carrying sleeping bags and packs. He knows of the mutants who live down here in the tunnels, who call themselves the Morlocks – they’re the ones who organized this vigil.

Lorna points to the center of the room, which John can’t see from his low point of view, and takes the lead, careful to clear a path for him to go through. The conversations around them are muted, whispered, people’s heads held down, and John can feel Clarice react to the sad and solemn atmosphere by lowering her own eyes.

They reach a less crowded area where a table has been set up. It’s surrounded by stacks of boxes, and John approaches to see that they’re filled with white candles.

“Welcome,” an older mutant nods at them from his seat behind the table. “You’re welcome to take as many candles as you need. Anything you can donate will help us fund this vigil and whatever’s left will go toward rehoming mutants who need it.”

“Of course,” John says, digging into his pocket for his wallet. They don’t have any money to spare, but he can’t stand the thought of just taking from other mutants in similar situations.

“John, can you explain?” Clarice asks him quietly.

John finds a tenner and empties his coins into the collection jar. “We’ll light a candle for each person we lost,” he murmurs into Clarice’s ear. He can see Marcos and Lorna speaking quietly to the Struckers out of the corner of his eyes.

“Oh,” Clarice’s eyes widen in understanding.

John moves closer to one of the open boxes and counts the candles he places on his lap, the knot in his throat tightening. “There will be speeches first,” he tells Clarice as she picks up a candle with an unreadable look on her face.

“It will start in a few minutes,” the welcoming mutant tells them.

It’s not hard to spot. Before they can move away from the table, Lorna and Marcos still bent over a box, a light orb rises over their heads, growing as it levitates, and everyone around them moves back to leave a large space empty in the middle. People who were sitting down stand up, and Clarice and Lorna automatically arrange themselves around John so that he can stay at the edge of the empty circle, where he can see what’s going on.

“Welcome everyone,” a black man steps into the empty space, letting his voice carry across the echoing room. John notices the eye patch and the brand in the shape of an M on his cheek. This is Erg, the leader of the Morlocks. “Thank you for coming. I know the trek here was risky for many of you.

This year has been the most brutal for mutants since 7/15. To this government, we are nothing but numbers, and even they have all but given up on counting our dead, the ones that their decisions, their police, their dogs murder. But we will not. We will remember.

Our kind is only allowed to come together for funerals, and now even for those we have to steal and hide. Today is a day of mourning, and a day of remembrance. We have all lost friends, family, loved ones, and all of them deserved to live.

I could make a whole speech about our humanity, about what we have in common with non-mutants and why mutants deserve to live as much as anyone else, but I believe this ship has long sailed. People have been saying these words over and over for so many years, and history shows that appeals for tolerance don’t change the world, if they do not go hand-in-hand with real, violent action. We don’t, we should not, have to prove the worth of our existence.

We will resist. Even in the darkest hour, we will stand together and fight back against those who would see us eradicated. We will remember the names of those we lost and we will build ourselves a space to thrive in spite of those who try to erase us.

Today we remember. Tomorrow we will seek new ways to fight, because this war is not over.

Thank you.”

*

John doesn't care about the tears running down his face as he lights his candles. Lorna and Marcos are crying just as much. Most of the people around them are.

The Struckers still look a bit wide-eyed, but Clarice has taken her own candle and started to look for a lighter. John hands her his and doesn't ask. They all have people to honor today.

The settings are different, but the process is the same as all the other times. They advance to the center of the room, Lorna holding John's candles by their metal base as he needs both hands to wheel himself. John puts his brakes on when he gets to the base of the memorial, where dozens of candles are already lit. He hesitates a little, feeling Lorna's step falter behind him when she understands why, but he wants to put his candles down himself.

“Marcos?” he asks. “Help me down?”

He can get from his chair to the floor on his own, but not really in any orderly fashion, so it's easier this way. Marcos comes up beside him and helps him stand up a little, with one arm around his shoulders. John does his best to put his weight on his legs despite the lack of braces, and Marcos gently lowers him down to his knees. John loses the position quickly, sitting down fully on his legs and using one arm to keep himself upright, but it's good enough.

Lorna brings the candles within his reach and kneels beside him, joined by Marcos and Clarice. John places the candles for his Marine brothers, first, murmuring their names so low that he's probably the only one who can hear. He's put down candles for them every year since the beginning. He, Lorna and Marcos quietly speak the names of every mutant they lost at the station, taking turns at lighting the candles. Clarice silently adds her own candle, and John smiles at her sadly.

He looks up when he feels movement behind him. The Struckers are still there, watching, but Reed kneels with his own candle. “For my father,” he says quietly. “Otto Strucker.”

John nods at him. He still has two candles in his hands.

“Augustus Milligan,” he murmurs. “Pulse.” He's lit a candle for Pulse for the last two years, but this time feels different, more bitter.

“I don't know the names of the Hound we killed,” Lauren whispers.

John looks up to her. “You don't need names,” he says.

“And we should light one for Chloe, at least,” Caitlin says. She and Lauren step back to get more candles.

John contemplates Pulse's candle, the little flame dancing in front of him, until they come back. It doesn't hurt quite as much, now, thinking about him, but he still feels the guilt of leaving him for dead. To get captured and tortured.

Both Marcos and Lorna have laid candles of their own, too, for people from their former lives John has only heard about. Caitlin and Lauren come back and light candles for the Hounds who died in Atlanta. Andy doesn't participate, but John can see him watching, can see his eyes shine in the candlelight.

The last candle is the hardest.

“Sonya Simonson,” John says, as clearly as he can through the tears running down his face. “Dreamer.”

Lorna lets out a sob, and Marcos puts his arms around her. Clarice lays a hand on John's shoulder as he places the candle down with the others.

All the other lights in the room have been switched off, and the glow of the hundreds of candles arranged on the floor is beautiful and haunting, lighting the stone of the high ceiling where it spreads in arches like a cathedral. The room is silent but for the shuffle of people taking their turns lighting candles and a few sniffles.

Clarice kneels down beside John and lays her head on his shoulder as he hugs her close to him. Lorna reaches her hand out to them and John pulls her and Marcos in for a group hug, weeping for their fallen friends.

The Mutant Day of Remembrance is inspired by the Trans Day of Remembrance (Nov 20) and the Disability Day of Mourning (March 1). If you don't know about those, you can look them up. If you live in large western city, there are probably vigils held on both of those days.

(tagging @eveningspirit @killeroftrains @ittybittymattycommittee just in case you want to read)

[doof-doofblog]

"... Till There's Absolutely Nothing Left!"

Monday 28th September 2020

Good evening everyone! Hope you've all had an enjoyable weekend! As of today I will back being up to date with my blog posts. I'm looking forward to seeing what this week of episodes have in store! Let's not waste any time and jump right into it!

Tonight's episode started with Max still looking for Ian, Max is wanting to get his hands on his money, he's already fuming at Ian for dodging him and ignoring him. Ian has come up with excuses upon excuses to Max for not being able to get his money to him urgently. As Max leaves after having a word with Kathy, Ian is seen peering behind the door-frame, as if he's been hiding from Max, which we know he is - he's avoiding him like the plaque! Ian is such a weasel isn't he? Why doesn't he just grow a pair and admit to Max the truth, it's only a matter of truth before all his secrets come out!

Meanwhile, Gray and Karen are catching up at the club. Karen informs Gray that Mitch is currently sleeping at the salon as he's not welcome at the house for having doubts about Gray. Gray tries to ask Karen not to act harshly on Mitch, as everyone is still grieving for Chantelle. Karen can't believe he's sticking up for the man who's basically accused him of murder, it's then she turns to him and says "You're such a good man!" ... the only thing my brain is saying is "If only you knew Karen, if only you knew!" Ooooo I can't wait for Gray to be found out, it's going to be SO good when he finally gets seen for the murderer he truly is!

Oh yes! At the hospital, Denise is still watching over her biological son, Raymond. Ellie seems to be surprised that Denise is back visiting him, as they chat she informs him that Raymond made it through the night and he seems to be slowly recovering. Denise is visibly relieved, Ellie also seems surprised by her reaction. -  I'm not 100% sure what to make of Ellie, it's been revealed she's going to be a type of villain? I have my speculations about this current storyline, I'm really excited to see where it's going to go, but something tells me it'll be a battle of who gets custody of the young child. I think, perhaps, Denise will try and get Phil on side - if she tells him everything she knows about the adoptive family passing away, Phil will probably do the right thing and help Denise get custody of her son. But how is Phil going to act when he learns about Ellie and what will she do to get in their way? - Ellie asks Denise if she'd still like to help out and Denise insists that she'd love to, she's instructed by Ellie to get some new pyjamas for the young boy, Denise is only willing to do whatever she can for the boy so she goes off without hesitation. As she leaves, Ellie looks really suspicious - why would Denise want to help? Is she just being a good Samaritan? Or is there more to it? (Oooo I can't wait to see when Ellie finds out who Denise actually is!)

At the club, Mick walks in on Frankie taking pictures of Ollie, at first it seems only friendly and as if she's doing no harm, of course Mick is a little suspicious as Frankie barely knows the child. But it's when he grabs the camera without her looking and takes a look at the photo's, he realises there are quite a lot of photo's of Ollie that she's taken, plus also ones of other family members. When Frankie realises, she makes the excuse that it's Street Art Photography that she's doing. Mick does seem very uncomfortable at the fact that he's been photographed without his knowledge, he asks Frankie is kind of polite way to not to post them on social media and maybe to delete the images, mainly because Linda would feel uncomfortable about it. Frankie promises to do as he asks, but surely his mind must be racing? Who is this girl and why is she taking photos of him and his family?! I've heard some kind of rumour that perhaps Frankie could be Mick's secret daughter, but I'm not 100% sure whether to believe it's true, I mean, it could be - but who knows?!

In the cafe, Stuart is visibly excited to be marrying Rainie, both Callum and Ben are watching on as he's happily smiling as he's having a conversation on the phone with his future wife. I thought it was cute, personally, after so long of being such a dark character, Stuart is finally getting some happiness - and I think he bloody deserves it, as does Rainie! As they're saying their goodbyes on the phone, Ben makes a silly comment to Callum "A tenner says this marriage doesn't last as long as this goodbye!" - It's lovely seeing Stuart all smiley! When he finishes the call and turns to the boys he starts talking about how weird it feels, him getting married and then Callum moving in to the Mitchell's, it's then Ben says that he'll be a Mitchell now he's living under their roof! It's funny as all these one liners comes out, I'm thinking to myself, he's pretty much there now after what he's doing to Phil! As Stuart leaves after reminding Callum of his Best Man duties, Ben again makes a comment of Callum and his Dad being best mates, it seems as if Callum comes clean to his boyfriend, he reveals that he and Phil have been chatting a lot recently, plus he reveals the big news about Phil offering him a job to work on the family firm side of things, Ben is clearly surprised and perhaps confused to hear this news.

In the laundrette, Kathy and Bobby are picking up their clothes from Linda, I just want to say that I absolutely loved the moment when Linda couldn't remember where she had stored their dry-cleaning - B for Beale or C for Cathy, only for it to be under K for the correct spelling of Kathy! I don't know why, I just thought it was brilliant! As she finds the clothes, she overhears Kathy and Bobby talking about Ian's money problems, Kathy informs Bobby that Ian needs this new contract otherwise he wont be able to pay Max back! Linda knows the situation regarding Max and his money, is she going to do the right thing and tell Max? He deserves to know what's happening and what's happened with his share of the restaurant. I kind of hope she does.

Back at Ruby's, Denise and Jack are catching up. He questions Denise on where she has been, she claims she's been shopping and the thing she bought she's planning on taking back anyway. Suddenly Jack's phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call, as he moves to one side, Denise watches as Phil makes his way into the club and sits by the bar. Will she tell him the truth about his son? Next minute, Isaac and Sheree are seen in the club corridor, they appear to be talking about Isaac's run in with his boss about the allegation of him using drugs, as they both walk in they see Denise on the other side of the club, and then Phil sat at the bar. Phil is the one to break the silence and makes a snide comment about him coming to see his dealer. Isaac isn't wanting to hear another word, it's only then that Denise gets involved in the conversation and reminds Phil that's he's not as innocent as he makes out, claiming he doesn't his granddaughter to be taught by a druggie, when he was addicted to crack a couple of years back. She basically insults the Mitchell family name, accusing them all of being criminals! Isaac, Sheree and Jack watch on in disbelief as Denise stands up to Phil! It's a pretty brilliant scene I have to say! Something tells me though that Denise is only doing this because of being reunited with her son, Raymond, who Phil just so happens to be the Father of. As she leaves the club, she appears to be holding a gift bag, we see that it's a set of boys pyjamas that Ellie asked her to buy for Raymond, she then suddenly decides to bin the clothes and walk away.

Back at the Mitchell household, Ben is looking like he's wanting answers from Callum, he wants to understand what his boyfriend has been asked to do. Then suddenly it clicks, he realises that Phil has asked Callum to perhaps get him inside information about what the police are looking for and what they might want. Ben can't understand why Callum would risk losing his job and his future if he was to do what Phil was asking him. He explains to his boyfriend that he is good and that is one of the reasons why he loves him. It's then that Phil walks in, Ben wants answers now! Why is he bringing his boyfriend into this? Why is he making Callum do dirty work? Phil explains to him plain and simple, it's good for business and he's part of the family now, which is why it will work! As Callum and Phil both leave the room, Ben is stunned!

Back at the Vic, Karen is drowning her sorrows in a pint when Kheerat walks in. She tells him not to even think about causing any more trouble, he tries to defend himself, whether it was right or wrong, he cared for Chantelle. He loved her. Karen asks him to picture Chantelle if she was to hear their conversation, she'd hate everything that was happening. Kheerat pauses for a second, thinking that actually what Karen is saying is true. He agrees, he apologises to her and promises not to say anything again and peacefully leaves her with her drink.

At the Beale's house, Ian is looking ready for his meeting, he greets Charmaine and welcomes her into his home. At first, she feels perhaps his house is a little bit unprofessional, as she's after a catering company, you'd think the restaurant would be a better place. Ian insists that she enters his living room where there appears to be a dining table very elegantly displayed with cutlery and dishes. It's then Ian introduces Bobby to Charmaine, and she is instantly aware of who he is. She reveals, much to Ian's surprise, that Bobby and herself had been emailing about a charity named The Lucy Beale Foundation, which Bobby has designed and created himself. Ian's shocked and his ears are ringing as Charmaine admits that Bobby had her reaching for her cheque book, he instructs Bobby to get themselves some food and invites him to join them both for lunch.

Meanwhile, back at the laundrette, Max is opening up to Linda, revealing that Jack is wanting to be a proper family with Denise and the kids, he's worried that Jack might end up asking him to move out. He reveals he's contemplating going to New Zealand to go and see Lauren and Louie, even promised little Abi that he'd take her, once Ian returns his money to him. As Max is revealing all this to Linda she can't help but look guilty, she tells him not to get the little girl's hopes up. Instantly, that doesn't sit right with Max, why would she say such a thing? Why would Abi be disappointed? He moves in on Linda and can see that she's hiding something, he asks her why she's looking so guilty, she backed into a corner, she can't let him think everything is okay when truthfully it's not, she lets out a sigh - will she tell him what she knows?!

Back at the Beale's, Bobby is talking confidently to Charmaine, explaining how much he had to rebuild his life and how much he wanted to focus on turning such a tragic event in his life, to potentially something positive. Charmaine is truly touched by Bobby's honesty and asks whether Ian will match her donation to the charity, Ian insists he will but turns the whole subject back on to the catering contract. She says that she can see how much it means to him, it's then that Ian starts to take advantage of Bobby's idea and - I don't know whether you guys think so too - but does he actually lie saying he's doing it to honour Lucy?! Or is he just playing at her heartstrings just so she'll sign on the dotted line?! Bobby is clearly annoyed with his Father for making such a claim, just then Max storms in - (Linda has told him everything then!) - Max storms in on their meeting and bellows to Ian that he knows he's been lied to for weeks, he's stolen his share of the restaurant, his life savings and he wants them back!!

Back to Denise, we can she's on the phone to Ellie, explaining that something has come up regarding the little boy's pyjamas. Suddenly, Jack walks in on her phone call and she hangs up almost immediately. Jack is already realising that something isn't right with Denise, he asks who it was that she was talking to on the phone, but she brushes it off saying it wasn't important. It's then Jack is asking her for answers, asking why she let rip on Phil earlier in the club, she explains she was trying to stick up for Isaac. Jack informs her that that is not their fight and they don't need to get involved. Denise apologises and reassures him that there is no need for her to speak to or even go near Phil Mitchell ever again!

Meanwhile, back at the Beale's - Max is keeping quiet as Charmaine apologises to Ian and states that she can't do business with him after what has been revealed. Once again, Ian is trying to worm his way out of the situation, telling her that him and Max had an informal loan arrangement in which the terms have been disputed. Max isn't having anymore of Ian's lies! As Charmaine leaves, he reveals he knows about him using his money to buy the Vic! Max instructs him to sell the pub so he can get his money back - I don't know whether you guys noticed, but as Max and Ian are arguing, Bobby is seen counting under his breath, quite tensely squeezing or pinching the side of his arm - is this a coping mechanism? Can he not handle confrontation and big arguments at the scene of where his sister died? Max almost goes lashing out at Ian, as he does so, Bobby shouts at them to stop fighting! Ian tries to calm the situation, he explains to Max that they will find a solution, but not in this current situation where everyone is shouting to have their say.

I'm not 100% sure where Mick and Linda are staying right now? To me it looks like Kush's old apartment, or it could be Ted's old apartment? Who knows? I know I'm wrong, so if anyone could shed some light on where Mick and Linda are currently living, I'd appreciate it! Anyway, Linda admits to Mick about telling Max everything she knows about Ian buying Sharon the Vic with Max's money. He jokingly calls her a "Grass!". As they both get comfortable on the sofa, Mick opens up about his concerns about Frankie taking photos of Ollie. He explains to her that she had taken pictures of the family from a distance, he tells her that Frankie told him it was art, but should they be worried? Linda seems pretty unfazed, she suggests that that is what teenagers are like nowadays, taking pictures of people and things and calling them art. Which, to be fair, is kind of true?! It's clear to tell that Mick is unsure, only time will tell exactly what Frankie's obsession with Ollie and the Carter family will be.

The final scene of tonight's episode, I feel was an absolutely brilliant one! Ian walks into the Queen Vic cellar and realises the light isn't working. As he goes to grab some alcohol, we can see Max lurking in the shadows. He softly speaks to Ian and slowly approaches him, now Bobby isn't around they can carry on their conversation from earlier on. Ian is now finally backed into a corner as Max gets closer. Ian proposes to pay Max back in instalments, at first Max sees that as an insults, why would he agree to that?! But then Ian confesses, it's the only way he'll be able to pay him back the full amount. Max looks to floor, nods and agrees to the arrangement, but he gives Ian one final warning, if he missing any payment, then he will come for him!!!

I think it's finally about time that Ian got what was coming to him, let's just hope he'll be able to pay Max back every penny. What do we think tomorrow's episode will have in store?! I hope you enjoy this post and I hope you all enjoy the rest of your evening. I'll be back tomorrow folks! Goodnight! xXx

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Don’t you miss London in any way since you are British? Wouldn’t you love to come back especially after Brexit? Do you think London has changed for the worse that its not worth living there anymore?

Yes, I do miss London. I do want to go back....but not yet. I’m enjoying living and working in Paris. Brexit doesn’t affect me as I also have a Norwegian passport and I qualify for carte de séjour (a sort of residential work permit).

It was the wit Stephen Fry who said “The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.” He captures the essence of London it’s so diverse that anyone can fit in. That is its strength and its weakness compared to other maga cosmopolitan cities like New York in the West or Shanghai in the East as its only rival.

But to my mind London has  more - arguably the same as New York but definitely more than Shanghai - in terms of energy and vibrancy with a very unique English topping of eccentricity. Something you would never find in Paris for instance where things are quite socially stodgy and snobbish. The dinner parties I attend in London are far more down to earth and vibrant as well as eccentric and very fun compared to the ritualised boerdom of super pretentious dinner parties of the Parisian crowds I get roped in - a caveat, most but not all.

London to me is like city state much in the spirit of a medieval Florence. It has no moorings to the rest of the country or the nation. It’s a bubble. or I should say bubbles within a giant bubble. There a diversity of communities each rubbing up against each other. Mostly for the good but some times not so good. Despite urban problems that affict growing mega capitals London for me still remains a wonderful place to live. 

When people ask me about if I enjoyed living in London I have to ask which London? We all live in our concentric social circles in London and people as much as place help define our sense of belonging and happiness. I don’t look at London in an abstract way in terms of favourite places but in terms of the bonds of friendships made and sustained from childhood onwards. 

Samuel Johnson said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” In my case, it’s because I wanted to expand my life experiences that I left London. I get bored easily and I have restless feet. I left London because it became too small for me. Or rather the world I inhabited became too socially claustrophobic for my tastes. I needed to get out and seek adventure and challenges elsewhere at least for the next chapter of my life.

I do love London and I often go back there for work reasons as well as personal ones when I can. I am a member of a few gentlemen clubs (many allow women in now) and its old genteel atmosphere centres me and paradoxically helps me to see London in slow motion even as London around me is fast moving and changing. I also don’t miss key events that I can only experience in London like the ballet and the theatre which is unrivalled in the world. And of course there are some events on the social season calendar which I can’t miss because of family obligations.

Every city has its unique charms but only a few touch the heart and soul. London - or at least the London of my childhood - is one of them. But for how much longer I don’t know.

London seems to be galloping towards a new and uncertain identity, one that puts ‘stuff’ before substance, and more importantly, money before class (as in good taste). Brexit’s impact on London doesn’t bother me in the slightest as London will adapt as it always does. It will muddle through which has always been the English way to solving any problem: just muddle through.

Still, it’s the little things I notice rather than the obvious macro ones. It niggles me and prey on my mind long after I witness the offence.

So let me give you an example of what I mean.

I did a hard day’s shopping in Knightsbridge and was waiting to meet a dear old friend from boarding school to play catch up. She’s always bringing me up to speed on the gossip in our circles and most of it goes in one ear and out of the other as I’m bored by it but interested and polite enough to listen if only to feel happiness and relief that I actually do live away in Paris.

So there I was waiting for her. She was late as usual. I was sitting in a quintessentially English hotel restaurant in Knightsbridge over Christmas. I watched a young man about the same age as me approach the door. He was dressed in a wool long coat with a velvet collar that looked a little snug, although it was beautiful and had the look of Turnbull and Asser about it.

My heart soared, as he held the door open for an elegantly dressed woman who was on her way out, then approached the restaurant and confirmed he was there and waiting for a guest, a living illustration that manners maketh man.  When he took his coat off it was to reveal what was the uniform of my father’s generation, right down to the waistcoat, bottom button left open, and polished shoes. The suit he was wearing could well have been inherited from his father - probably Savile Row - but the whole was a thing of modest beauty and seemed to fit with the Christmas decorations and season of traditions. This was a well groomed young gentleman who had dressed for the occasion, and the occasion was a treat, an extravagance, something not of the every day.

I ended up at a table diagonally across from him and his companion, probably his wife or partner, excited to be there and also impeccably dressed and I watched as a party of flashy men of indecipherable East European origin arrived five minutes later. They didn’t speak much English and were wearing a selection of very tight floral shirts with white cuffs and collars. Block printed, purple and lime and many other colours unsuitable for December, but there you have it and while my suited object of admiration sat unserved, the party in the middle of the restaurant made up for their lack of fluent English with magnificent finger clicking skills.

You might say this is and always has been the way of the world, the wallets were on the table, money clips clearly visible through the skintight shirts, but one thing was different about this picture, something unpleasant. The restaurant staff fawned on them, and the couple opposite me sat, waiting politely for the two gin and tonics they had ordered.

Meanwhile, gaudy bottles of Ace of Spades Champagne arrived stage centre, possibly the world’s flashiest wine container, gold and shiny and terribly gauche. They were closely followed by four sets of twins, female ones, who sat down at the table amongst the flowery shirts and were each poured a glass of fizz which they silently sipped in minimal clothing.

Meanwhile in the other corner, the unassuming couple who had come in first were still waiting for their drinks, and I watched while the gloss went off their day, and the pall of poor relations settled on them in the corner.

This scene will be familiar to anyone who lives in Central London and it’s sad. The bottom line has always been a vital consideration in the London restaurant scene, there has always been a special table for regular customers, that’s the way of things. Until recently however there has also been that very British recognition that the chap who has saved up all year to take his wife to a special lunch should be treated as if he is also a regular guest and one of equal value at that.

It’s these little acts of tradition and custom that are the life blood of the civic life of a city. Lose this and you slowly erode the pillars of civility.

This obnoxious veneration of money to the exclusion of everything else has reached fever pitch. Restaurants that used to be just that, dining rooms that you could sit and eat lovely food in, providing a bubble away from the day to day stresses that we are all party to, are now restaurants with private clubs upstairs. Meanwhile private clubs that used to be simply  private clubs now have VIP areas – VVIP areas – which is at least a bonus in that you can avoid the more ghastly members as they are all in those bits.

What does this all mean? Does it mean that everything from eating out to where we shop is now Instagrammed or Facebooked, leaving us defined by our purchases and spending habits alone? It is certainly starting to feel like it in London (and worryingly small signs of it Paris too with rich Russians and Arabs buying up most expensive aprtments in the city), where a hundred pounds is the new tenner, and consumption has reached improbable proportions.

Strangely though, no one seems any happier, quite the contrary. Are the new Rich Kids of Instagram really something to aspire to? Is bad taste the new good taste?  Strange times are upon us, when 16 year olds sit in a cordoned off areas of clubs and restaurants flashing their cash and getting on and off jets. I see this first hand as I sometimes get to fly on private jets purely for work reasons at the largesse of my corporate clients. I always thought the Euro trash aristocrats girls at my Swiss boarding school were entitled airheads but the present nouveau riche incarnation don’t even have a sense of ironic self awareness or taste.

Human beings love a boundary, well they have for the whole history of mankind to date, anyway. If in one generation we get rid of all the traditional social conventions, from buying our own homes, saving, working hard, not buying whatever we want whenever we want it, where will we be?  Perhaps instant gratification will lead us all to a new kind of life, a new place where we all live for experiences instead of taking out a mortgage, where nothing we do is our fault and no consequences to our actions.

I have always loved the quote ‘Don’t give up on what you want for what you want now’ and believe that delaying gratification is the defining characteristic of mature adulthood.

Perhaps values, traditions, less is more and simple kindness will make a comeback. In the meantime, restaurants will empty of customers like the well mannered gentleman on the corner table, and I will continue to feel uncomfortable that we are losing something vital not just in London but increasingly elsewhere in great European cities I travel to.

Thanks for your question.

[jowritesthingss]

A (Demi)Boy and His Demon: Prologue

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Pairing(s): LoSleep (Logic | Logan + Sleep | Remy)

Rating: Teen

Content Warning(s): lots of swearing, religion mention, demons mention, injury/blood (Remy gets a papercut)

Length: 1,418 words

Brief Summary: Sleep-deprived writer Remy accidentally summons a serious-and-seriously-fed-up demon named Logan. Prologue. In Which Remy Inadvertently Summons a Demon

Fic Masterlist!

*

In Remy’s defense, he hadn’t exactly meant to summon a demon in the middle of a coffee shop on just another typical Tuesday.

And they most certainly hadn’t meant to bind the poor sap to them for the rest of their (presumably now-shortened and miserable) life.

But there he was.

And that was exactly what he had done.

But—erm, well. We’ll get there.

-

“Remy!” a familiar voice chirped as said enby pushed the door open to his favorite haunt. “Do you how do?”

“Ugh. Like, horrible.” The answer was instinctual at this point. Usually it was just sarcastic, but on a deadline like this? Satan had nothing on the wrath of an editor.

The echo of the bell ringing bright through his ears, Remy walked over to the front counter, where his good friend and caffeine addiction enabler stood. They tried in vain to pretend that they were swaggering and not at all staggering from sleep deprivation and lack of caffeine.

“So it’ll be the usual for you, then, yeah?” Emile smiled, and god, for all the years they’ve spent working as a barista themselves, Remy would never understand how Emile could stay so upbeat while on-shift.

“You know it, gurl,” Remy answered, fishing out his wallet. “Although gimme the largest size this time, hun’.”

Emile clucked sympathetically, already turning and getting started on Remy’s iced coffee. “Deadline coming up?”

“Uh-huh. Tonight.” Remy sighed, slapping a ten dollar bill onto the counter. “I’m due to get the script for chapter sixty-nine to Remus, but like, he’s been too busy giggling over the number of the upcoming chapter to finish the one we’re supposed to publish tomorrow. Virgil’s on the warpath, and I’ve been roped into designing shit to make up for Remus falling behind.” He rolled his eyes.

“Golly, that sure sounds rough.” Emile slid some ice into Remy’s coffee before popping a lid on it, swirling it a couple times, and sliding it across the counter with some verbal sound effects to accompany it. He picked up the tenner and began to punch things into the cash register, counting out change for Remy. “But I believe in you!”

“Gurl, you shouldn’t. I don’t,” Remy snickered. They reached back into their bag, groping around for their reusable straw. Pulling it out, he popped it into his cup. “There’s a reason I’m the brains behind the writing of this operation, not the art. You think I’d be working with those idiots if I had a choice?”

“Yes, I do,” Emile said mildly. He handed over Remy’s change.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fair.” Shoving his change into the tips jar, Remy rolled his eyes. Again. They did that a lot. Which, how could he not, when he was surrounded by so many dorks?

“Anyways, I’ll be in my usual corner, I guess.” Remy jerked their head towards their usual corner table. “Lemme know if you need any help back there, babe. Or if any tea needs spilling.” They winked at Emile from behind their sunglasses before turning and heading to sit down.

Once seated, Remy pulled out his laptop and the battered spiral notebook that he kept most of his ideas for their comic in. Exchanging their sunglasses somewhat reluctantly for a pair of blue light glasses, he booted up his computer. Then, after setting everything up in its typical position and connecting to the wifi in the coffee shop, Remy allowed themself a moment to sit back and sip at their iced coffee.

The contrasting tastes of sweet white mocha and bitter coffee filled his mouth, and Remy felt his shoulders relax for what had to be the first time in twelve to twenty-four hours.

Classes earlier in the day had been an absolute nightmare of scribbling in margins and surreptitiously typing the script up on his phone when professors weren’t looking. Then the night before had been a horror-filled dream sequence of exhaustion and trying to write actual content down without falling asleep on the keyboard and waking up with the L key imprinted on their nose and sixteen pages of keysmashes.

So suffice to say, Remy was not having a good time. But the iced coffee? It warmed their gay little heart. It made things just a bit more bearable on days like this.

All too soon the buzzing of his phone reminded Remy of their subsequent impending deadline and doom, and he came crashing back down to earth.

Sipping once more at their iced coffee, Remy set it off to the side, slipping in his earbuds and focusing in on the Word document in front of him. They began to type.

-

Three hours and two refills later, Remy had finished chapter sixty-nine, had sent it to Virgil to look over, and had even started on chapter seventy for a good measure.

Until Virgil sent back his edits, Remy’s focus of the moment had shifted to designs for chapter sixty-six, which Remus should’ve started drawing a few days ago, but nooo, the asshat wasn’t even done shading sixty-five, which was supposed to be posted in...Remy consulted their phone...in roughly six hours now. Fuck.

Remy couldn’t draw for shit, but they could research like nobody’s business, and designing and sketching was simple enough, so he wasn’t entirely unused to getting dragged into stuff like physical character designs and the creation of symbols and outfits (Remus was far too oafish and uncoordinated when it came to fashion, anyway).

Shaky as Remy’s art was, Remus certainly knew how to pick out what he liked from Remy’s miserable excuses for sketches, at least, so their partnership worked well enough...even if Remy privately thought his similarly-named partner acted like a dolt and smelled like minute ramen (and not even the good kind! more like the shrimp kind, and what the fuck kind of imbecile eats shrimp-flavored microwave ramen).

Finally satisfied with the roughly-sketched summoning circle that they had copied from the web, Remy exited out of Google Images.

Summoning circles, Remy had to admit, were a new topic of research for him. Their story—a Good Omens-type comic centering around an angel and a demon trapped in the human world—had required plenty of research into religion and religious imagery, of which they had not been a fan, but for some reason summoning circles had never really cropped up on their radar.

Remy may not have been a fan of the concept of angels, but he certainly wasn’t a fan of the concept of demons and the occult, either, so digging through the ominously dark websites had been...interesting. Eventually they had just given up and straight-up copied a summoning circle at random. They could take that and go from there, adding their own flair to it.

Remy looked down at the shaky summoning circle he had sketched out before him. It was kinda lopsided, but it was whatever. It was also much too boring, if you asked him. When they sent Remus their final reference, they’d put a note in the margins telling him to add some of that weird gory imagery stuff he was obsessed with. “Creep would really like that, huh,” Remy muttered aloud to himself.

Scrutinizing the copied circle for a few more moments, Remy mentally listed out some of the changes they wanted to make—an extra line here, a circle there, take out that square—and they reached into their backpack for one of the random looseleaf sheets of paper he always had floating around in there. Only, they grabbed at the wrong corner of the paper.

Feeling the sheet of paper slice into their pointer finger, Remy quietly hissed out a breath. “Fuck.” He drew his finger out of the bag, pulling it up to his face to get a good look at the injury, and shit, the papercut was bad enough that it was actually bleeding.

“Goddammit,” Remy cursed as a few drops of crimson splattered onto the paper in front of them, blurring over the details of the summoning circle he had drawn.

Remy popped his finger into his mouth and sucked at the smidgen of blood leaking out. Deciding to actually look at what they were sticking their hand into this time, they turned to the left, fully intending to practically stick his head into his bag to find a napkin and that pesky sheet of paper both.

This was how they came to be aware of the person who appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to stand to the side of their table.

.

.

.

Prologue || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six

*

This was supposed to be a one-shot, but Remy told Logan to hold their coffee and then bullied me into making it a prologue and six chapters’ worth of useless gays. I accept my defeat with dignity and insist that it was, in fact, actually my decision in order to get used to writing multi-chap things again before I tackle my Big Bad AUs.

Want to be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[lemonietrinket]

Mishap ||| Yuta x Reader

Summary: Yuta is not known for his woodwork skills. He is also not known for any common sense that would also come with it. However, good things can be made of the worst scenarios, and Yuta is not completely inept—no matter what Winwin tries to assert. Genre: Comedy Warning(s): Some swearing (2x s**t) Word Count: 2361 Theme Song: Rock it For Me - Caravan Palace AN: I tend try to make my oneshots gender-neutral but in this circumstance, this is a fem!Reader. Sorry if this puts anyone off :(( Also this is written in 3rd person so, that’s a thing? Anyways this has been a long time coming (remember that yuta fic i mentioned i was writing back in like november of something? this is it bois) so I hope the wait has been worth it

~~~

Yuta had made a mistake.

This wasn’t unlike Yuta who, known for many talents such as his sharp tongue and wit, as well as his dashing good looks, was not particularly known for rationality and sense.

And—yes, perhaps in hindsight he should have asked the landlord how thick the apartment walls were, and yes, perhaps he should have requested Johnny’s help in the matter, who, though lacking in the same departments as Yuta, did possess more of a proficiency in woodwork. However, that would require more than three levels of sensibility—an area of which, Yuta was steadfastly stuck at level two. 

And so, there Yuta lay, crooked upon the debris of his IKEA shelving he’d been attempting to attach to his wall; the lower half of his body in his apartment, the rest... well, that was in next door’s.

Now normally, he would have presumed, this wouldn’t have been such an issue, lacking the grand scale characteristic of Yuta’s mishaps. The person who inhabited the next-door apartment was very busy, he’d rarely bumped into her, and when he had, it was always notably a very brief encounter. Always in a rush, Y/N was a good neighbour, Yuta knew. Never one to bother a soul, she was respectful, determined and very focused upon her job. Yuta also had discerned—from that good wit I mentioned earlier—that she was also rather easy to fluster.

He hadn’t inclined to discover it, and was rather startled to find it, but the first time he spoke to her and he’d met her gaze, she plundered from the realms of reserved and controlled into (oh he couldn’t help but describe) a bumbling, blushy mess.

Which was cute.

But he never had intended to encroach on your personal space. You were career-focused, and he probably also had too little time, if he was quite honest with himself; in the end, he figured that your story was not for his co-authoring and thus he would, quite rightly, let you be. 

However, Fate—or was it Misfortune?—had other ideas.

Because this was a Yuta-scale mishap. 

As not only was Y/N in the front room of her apartment when Yuta ever-so-suavely-and-totally-not-accidentally flung himself through the wall, she was also only garbed in a very, very small towel. 

.

Truth be told, this was another action of Fate or Misfortune, as Y/N had, in fact, messed up her timings again.

Keeping on top of all the small, consistent tasks of her job that each day held was an easy enough assignment. However, the ability of micro-managing seemed to not have seeped into her home life, hence laundry day had been the most recent victim to pay the price.  Thus, Y/N had relinquished her exit from the shower to be garbed in a spare, slightly-bigger-than-average handtowel.

It did the trick—it wasn’t as if anyone was going to see her, right?—and all seemed well, even as her boss who out of poor mind—or was it spite, because quite frankly why would a man in possession of a soul call on the landline after being begged eight times to not do so for the sake of a humongous phone bill—rang the landline to enquire about the progression of a report she was managing.  She headed into the main room, shivering at the chill emanating from the window left ajar out of habit, and answered, carefully and intrinsically masking her exasperation so he would be unprepared for the earful he was going to receive the next morning.

The wired phone that seemed like a good idea at the time (which was based on the vintage style, block baby blue matched to the curtains and looked chic as hell—just a shame the lead didn’t extend beyond a couple of feet) hung loosely in her hand, held at just a distance so the cold plastic wouldn’t come into contact with her bare skin and brand her with stab of iciness.  Even as the man tumbled through the wall and onto her silver carpet.

Her eyes drifted across the cacophony of torn plaster, scraps of tawny grain strewn amongst the immaculate sea of grey, before they rested upon the sheepish smirk of the man pretending that this hadn’t impacted his confidence in the slightest.

“Hey.” He flashed a gleaming smile. Though upside-down, it perhaps appeared slightly more menacing.

Y/N screamed. It was uncharacteristic, but a reflex nonetheless and she sighed at herself exasperatedly, willing her body to move towards something to throw instead.

Yuta’s grin immediately slipped from his face, as he spun himself onto his front, a palm levied in an apology. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, this was a mist—”

Y/N clutched at her towel, haphazardly trying to pull the hem further down her thighs, while not letting it slip from her torso, her feet twitching to head towards the kitchen. 

Yuta felt his throat tighten out of sheer embarrassment, snapping his eyes closed and pushing through with his frantic apologies. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m not looking—I won’t! You... I...”

Watching him tilt his head away, his eyes no longer trained on her, Y/N managed to retrieve her rationale, as well as her breath. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I...” he swallowed, hand falling to support himself on his elbows, “was putting up a shelf—”

“A shelf? You’re in my apartment!”

He glanced back, biting his tongue to stop himself remarking ‘only half’, he knew this was not the time for jokes, and kept his eyes firmly closed. “I know, I’m sorry, I misjudged—”

“Yeah, no shit!”

“—the wall, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Stay here!” Y/N ordered. “Don’t move! I’m not discussing this with you right at this moment, when I’m not...” Words faltered as she was reminded of her bare skin.

“No, of course, I’ll be right here, I promise. Please, do whatever you need.”

The sincerity in the strange man’s voice shocked her, to say the least. She still wasn’t going to leave him to his own devices, however. A spark of inspiration hit her, as she snatched her mobile from the end table, propped it up on the sofa and set the camera on record.  Then she slipped back into her bedroom, throwing herself into the first clothes she could find.

Yuta very hesitantly opened his eyes once he heard footsteps pad away and a door close. 

The first thing his eyes met was the mess he’d made on her lovely carpet. The next thing was the sight of just how little of the shelving remained, with bits of wood scattered like a shipwreck upon a silver ocean. The final thing was the phone propped op on the couch opposite, no doubt recording his moves.

Smart, he thought, as he sheepishly waved at the camera lens.

Y/N returned very quickly, slipping back through the door, her eyes focused upon the man sat like a schoolboy amongst his carnage. Dressed in unmatched pyjamas, her features were harden in concentration. In her hands was a wooden pole, fashioned with a metal hook at the end. Yuta swallowed thickly. She was holding it most definitely as if she knew how to use it to make it hurt. 

And Yuta couldn’t deny that she probably did. 

“What’s your name?” she demanded, after several seconds of eyeing him up and down.

“Yuta. Nakamoto Yuta.”

“You live next door?” 

He nodded compliantly. “Always have done. I was here before you moved in.”

“How long?”

“Sorry?”

“How long were you here before I moved in?” Her eyes searched his for something. Yuta couldn’t tell what however.

“I...?” he stuttered. He didn’t know what to say to that, or to reassure her. “I don’t know, really. A few months? I haven’t really been counting anything.”

She stared him down, eye to eye, weapon brandished to her intruder. He raised his head further, palms raised in surrender, slightly fearing the worst.

Then she put down her guard, hook knocking the floor. 

“I recognise you now,” she sighed, looking at him with disdain, “you really are my neighbour and you really did just break through my wall because you really are that shit at woodwork—Jesus. Christ.”

How she hadn’t recognised him at first astounded her too. He had grown out his hair, yes, and he seemed a little broader, but his eyes were the same dark spools of wonder that she’d accidentally stared into for too long in that one encounter. And anyhow, it wasn’t as if the small changes made him look any different, it just made him look more...

She caught her words before she finished that sentence. He fell through your wall, she asserted in her head, you cannot go anywhere near words like that around someone dumb enough to—

He cocked his head quizzically. She was talking as if she knew him, after all.

Y/N discarded her weapon—which he now recollected was a tool to pull down the ladder on the side of the building—against her sofa which she collapsed onto, retrieving her phone languidly. It was as she pressed the button to stop recording when she glanced at him.  She paused. “Mark? Friend of yours? He told me one time that you’re not exactly the best at woodwork.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Oh Mark! Mark Lee? Yes, yes, good friend of mine!” It was only then that the realisation sunk in. “Wait, Mark said what—?”

“You didn’t hear anything from me,” Y/N sighed, leaning forward to get a closer look at the mess of the wall and on her floor. “Well, that must be a good... what? Tenner? Down the drain?”

Catching onto her question he shook his head. “No, 30. Plus hinges.”

Her eyes widened. “Jesus.”

He picked at one of the slabs, splintered at one end and snapped completely at the other. “Yeah, I made the mistake of choosing one of the slightly more expensive units...”

When he looked back up, Y/N was shaking her head desperately, brow creased and vision narrowed upon the hole in the wall.

“Yuta! You—” she exclaimed, hesitating before looking at him. Her eyes were pained, breath shaky as she clenched her fists at her knees.  “Do you have any idea how much that is going to cost, Yuta?” she managed. “I can’t afford barely any of the prices required to fix that! Do—do you know how much your stupidity is going to cost me?!”

The words fell from his lips without a moments hesitation. “I will pay for all of the repairs,” he said earnestly, “I’ll cover all of it.”

The woman was stunned to say the least. Her breath stopped, silenced, and hung in the air as if it had been snatched away from her, as she stared into his eyes, searching for honesty.

“You’ll pay?”

“Yes.”

“For all of it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll take full responsibility?”

“Of course!”

“You’ll pay f-for the hole?”

“Yes.”

“And the re-plastering?”

“Yes.”

“And the paint?”

“Yes!”

“And my broken plant pot?”

“There was a plant pot?!”

She pointed to the scattered soil and ceramic shards to his right, and the overturned shrub bowed amongst it.  “Yes, his name is Jeffrey.”

“I’m so sorry Jeffrey!”

“It’s ok he’s a strong boy.”

“Thank god. I’ll pay for Jeffrey too.”

“For his lavish new pot?”

“He’ll have the best damn pot in the entire garden centre.”

Honesty was all that she found.

She straightened in her seat. “Well that’s going to be a lot of money.”

“It’s fine,” he waved a hand, “it’s my fault entirely, and besides, you’ve got better things to spend your money on.”

She frowned. “Like what?”

He glanced around her apartment’s living room. “Fancy things no doubt. Things to make you happy, things to make you smile. Things you need to distract yourself from all the mess required to fix the huge ones stupid men make of your walls.”

She laughed softly at that. Though she stopped herself, there was something about the way he spoke that meant she couldn’t help but be amused, even in spite of the situation. His voice of silk, ebbed with a lilt of something, and flowed through her head like streams of water flowing back to the sea on a sun-kissed beach.

“I think you’re right,” she hummed, rising to her feet. Stepping carefully towards the carnage, she outstretched a hand. “Need some help, Mr Nakamoto?”

He took a glimpse down at the pieces of wood and plaster and bits that made up a wall. A glimpse was all he could muster though, as he felt his eyes be drawn back up to meet yours again. He felt the need to stare into them for as long as he could, not that he could deduce quite why. “I think I could use some, Miss...?”

“Y/L/N.”

He took your hand, levying himself out from the carnage with your aid.

“Thank you, Miss Y/L/N.”

“My pleasure,” she replied, curtsying swiftly with a scoff as she headed towards her dining table.

Dusting himself off and checking the scale of the mess, he only looked up when she returned. He accepted her open laptop with open arms, but confusedly to say the least. It was logged on, with the cursor flashing along the search bar. 

“Y/N...?”

She peered over her shoulder coyly. “Well, you promised to get me the best pot for Jeffrey. You’d better start searching for it.”

He grinned, feeling relief wash over him. Sitting on the sofa where she had been perched, he placed the laptop upon his thighs.  “And once I find it?” he enquired neatly, eyes glimmering at the back of her head, caressed with tresses catching the setting sunlight from through the window.

Slapping a replacement pot found from the depths of her cupboards on the table victoriously, Y/N stepped over towards Jeffrey laid strewn on the carpet. Cradling him in her hands, she made her way to temporarily re-home him. “Well then... I guess you’d have to take me to the shop and buy it for me.”

Gazing at your back, he felt his lips twist into a smile, catching onto what you were inferring.

Maybe this wasn’t a mishap after all. Perhaps it was a Yuta-scale twist of fate, instead.

~~~

AN: im sorry this is so late, but its up now!

i tried real hard to funny i hope i succeeded :((

thanks for reading!

Masterlist

[teenagedelirium-com-blog]

Teenage Delirium - A Substance-Fuelled Coming-Of-Age Story Chapter 1

1.

Ground zero. The start of the end, my ultimate downfall. These thoughts weren’t running through my young mind in that marquee, no, the only thing was a sense of excitement, youthful exuberance one might call it. It was an 18th birthday party of one of the preppy girls, her name’s irrelevant, she would want nothing to do with our like but we managed to slip our way into her back garden and out of the heavy rain. The sound of the music overtook the pitter patter of the rain on plastic and the small dancing area was the centre of attention. People sat at tables close to the aux chord which had a playlist blaring the latest hit music but the three of us sat at the very end of the plastic enclosure, well away from everyone else.

           It was myself, Adam and Luke in the corner sitting on lopsided plastic chairs digging into the dirt. Adam was the first of our little group of friends to try drugs, he did ecstasy when I was 15 (He was 16) and I had just met them for the first time. It was a further year and a half before the fateful night in question, Luke didn’t take drugs or smoke, he was completely against our new-found lifestyle that is to say. He looked down on drug usage and excessive drinking, he wouldn’t even drive to get a hangover chicken roll and an energy drink the day after a few beers. That’s beside the point though, so there we were all amped up when a text message came through. It was from Nate, our dealer at the time.

He said “Pink ladies in stock, very strong. I’ll do three for 20.”

That is to say he had ecstasy in stock, pink ladies being that particular press. The worrying thing was the price, as we were young and naive we’d pay a tenner for a single pill, otherwise known as ecstasy, unless we were moving bulk.

             I said “He sent me a text saying he has pink ladies in stock, have you tried them?”

             Adam said “No, never. The Ikea pills were lethal but those ones look good. Why are you asking? Are you thinking of taking one?”

            “I don’t know, it’s a good offer and let’s be honest this party is dead, there’s no fun to be had here without either a lot more drink or some drugs.”

             “But tomorrow is St. Patrick’s day so I’d say you’d be better off waiting until then, no?”

             “I can afford to buy the three of them, have a half tonight or maybe a full one and save the rest. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

            “It’s up to you at the end of the day, my advice would be to wait until tomorrow but you do you.”

            I asked “How long are you guys out for?”

           Adam said “It’s half eight now so another three or four hours at least, what about you Luke?”

           He said “Another while anyways, I’ll walk home with you John.”

             I said “You’re walking my way so, that’s grand.”

My phone was opened up and a website for pill reports loaded, since we didn’t know anyone who had taken the pills before we had to put our trust in online self-reported experiences. It didn’t go well, the first article spoke about a number of people hospitalised in South Wales after taking it, next was a forum post accusing it of being cut with speed.

           I said “This doesn’t look good, no wonder he’s selling them off for nothing.”

           Adam said “You know what that means though?”

           “No, what?”

           “They’re strong, very strong. Maybe half a pill could do you for the night, that’s six weeks of rolling.”

           He made a good argument, money was tight and six nights escape for the price of a couple pints seemed tempting. The text was sent to Nate and a drop arranged, he would meet us outside the house in twenty minutes and the drugs would be bought on ‘Book’, meaning you get the product before a payment is made.

           They were tense times leading up to the initial purchase, anything could’ve happened but nothing did, he arrived soaked, we had a quick chat as he was a schoolfriend of mine before he dropped out, and the drugs were obtained. When we went back inside and to the back we produced the little pink pills and examined them in private, shielding them to the view of some of the onlookers. Luke wanted nothing to do with this and even moved his chair further away from us as not to be associated with the peak degeneracy going on, we decided that one would be crushed and snorted. The reason? It was easier to know how much you’ve taken as it can be measured at a smaller scale.

          We set our plan into action, firstly we’d need some plastic. Luckily at the time I had a pack of filtered reds and we crushed it up in the end piece of plastic from that. Adam held the open bag of powder above his jeans sitting down as I stood in front of him to shield him from onlookers, Luke cowered in the corner.

          I said “Whatever you do don’t spill it.”

          He snapped back “I won’t, I need to move it a little bit over…”

He tipped the bag and it all landed on his crotch, his blue jeans now had a dusting of pink powder over the zipper.

          I said “What the fuck man? I said don’t drop it!”

          “I’m sorry… God damn thing… it slipped from under me.”

          “Well what the fuck are we going to do?”

Well what could we do? It was a shitty situation for everyone involved, but the worst part? The smug look on Luke’s face, he was there to enjoy the shit storm.

           I said “We’re not leaving it go to waste, that’s for fuckin’ certain.”

          Adam said “I agree but what can we do, there’s no way to get it back into the plastic. We’re out of options here.”

          “No we’re not” I said, “There’s one option left.”

          I pulled out my wallet and handed him my CPR training card, he took it and looked at me as if my face was a pair of tits.

          “Rack it up.”

          “What? You can’t be serious?”

          “Do it!”

            “All right…”

           “Luke stand your lanky arse in front of me while this happens, Adam stay still and this will all be over in a minute.”

I grabbed a note from my wallet and rolled it up before snorting about 75% of the mixture. After it was done there was no small talk or anything for a few minutes, we just sat there and pretended it didn’t happen. That should have been my low-point, my rock bottom. Little did I know the bar would be far, far lower in the years to come. The outcome of that faithful night changed my life forever, who is to say positively or negatively.

          The come-up was slow and gradual, there were mixed feelings; butterflies about taking drugs for the first time and the placebo effect. But after an hour I was standing up vibing to the music and rubbing my hands on the plastic ceiling. The LED lights they had set-up looked amazing and the crowd embraced me instead of shunning me away like an outsider. It was the first time in a long time I felt as one of them, a part of the collective. It would take me a lot of time and tears to leave the collective but that didn’t faze me walking home that night.

          Adam asked “How are you feeling?”

          I said “Amazing, the street lights are so beautiful, everything is so nice and colourful. I wish this could last forever.”

          He said “That’s the problem…”

And that was that, I was hooked. It only took one pill and it was game over. Yeah I had tried weed and synthetic weed before but that never appealed to me, it was too strong a high compared to some of the harder drugs which were more subtle. But for that night I was happy, walking home with saucers for pupils, doing ecstasy for the first time felt like falling in love someone, everything seeming prettier. Little did I know there was plenty of drugs and love to come in the months beyond.

Read chapter 2 at www.TeenageDelirium.com

[general-du-vallon]

so... way back in November (I just went to find out when) @rhesascoffee asked for a prompt off a list that was passing out in the pharmacy or smth, and... I ... here. Have this. It is half a fic cus the rest of it was too dramatic. 

um, WARNINGS: Athos is a recovering alcoholic and anxious and grouchy and I don’t know a whole lot about adiction so im super sorry about that, idk 

Athos loves and hates his home. It’s a nice house and he’s by the river and the village is right on the edge of Oxford but still, somehow, weirdly, a village. It has a post office for Christ’s sake. NOWHERE has a post office. It’s twenty god damned seventeen. It also has a Facebook group to be fair. He tries to stay away from that but he’s pretty sure that doing so just makes him more gossiped about. They also have their own tiny little pharmacy and Athos has been going there to get his prescription filled for the last few weeks. Because who doesn’t want the entire village to know one is taking antidepressants? It’s not like he even is depressed. They help him sleep. Not that it’s anyone’s business. Anyway he checked the Facebook page the first few times he picked them up but nothing’s been said so maybe the pharmacist is actually as nice as he seems. Athos stops and blushes.

He’s stood in the middle of the road on a zebra crossing and that is perhaps not the most normal course of action to choose but it doesn’t really necessitate the beeping. Athos walks extra slow on the walk way and stops a few more times, just because it’s HIS right of way and if he IS a bit head in the clouds it’s NOT his fault it is the FAULT of the mother fucking flashback earlier. And, maybe, just maybe, the two glasses of wine. But only maybe. Anyway, he meanders over the zebra crossing (that’ll be on Facebook later) and then marches off purposefully, just to tripply piss people off. He stops in at the corner-shop for cigarettes (the nicotine is in no way good for him but that and the wine are old coping mechanisms and they’re comforting and he doesn’t really give a fuck). The woman behind the till tries to sell him a vape, so he very gently swears at her without thinking.

“Oh goodness,” he mutters, looking down at the countertop. “I am sorry. I have a young cousin who seems to be beginning a cult and I did not mean to take that out on you, ma’am.”

“It’s sir,” the man says, glowering.

“Oh. Right, sorry. Sir. Of course,” Athos says, looking up a moment. He doesn’t usually look much at people. “The eyebrows. Of course.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Athos says. “Only, you have very masculine eyebrows.” There’s silence so Athos hastens on. “They’re lovely. Um.”

“Thanks. I think. So, no vape, just the death sticks.”

“Yes, sir,” Athos says. “Please and thank you.”

“Packet of death sticks coming right up, Athos,” the man says. How does he know Athos’s name? “Everyone knows your name you’re a famous author.”

Did he say anything out loud? Athos looks around and feels paranoia close in. He puts that down to a.) the flashback, b) the excessive amounts of coffee he consumed post freakout in a great big freaking freak out, c.) the wine he drank to try and calm down. He probably just made a shocked face. He pays for the death sticks, waves goodbye to his new friend with the impressive eyebrows, and heads over to the pharmacy. The cheerful but muted bell goes as he steps inside and he’s greeted by the biggest pumpkin ever, sat round and shiny on the counter, a happy face carved in it.

“Good evening!” the pharmacist calls from the back. “Be right with you, help yourself to the cookies! Vegan on the left, nuts in neither but not swearing to that if you swell up like Veruca Salt!”

Athos peers around the pumpkin and finds two plates. He tries a biscuit from each and decides the vegan ones are, somehow, weirdly, better. He eats another two of those before the pharmacist comes out, drying his hands on a tea-towel in a not-very-reassuring way.

“Sorry. Oh, hi Athos,” he says.

Athos is reassured. He is ALWAYS reassured by the pharmacist. He’s big and wide-shouldered and fat and he’s beautiful and he has the warmest welcoming smile and just exudes competence. He looks a bit off today, but then again Athos is a bit off himself so he sets the cigarette box down so he can find his scrip.

“Hello Porthos,” Athos says, remembering the name he was told a few weeks ago, as he roots about.

“It’s on repeat,” the pharmacist says, going over to the computer.

“What?” Athos mutters, emptying his pockets of conkers, pretty leaves, a slim poetry chapbook, pens, ink cartridges for a pen he lost years ago, receipts, bus tickets, a KitKat and a tenner - Athos pauses to be happy about those two finds -

“Your prescription,” the pharmacist says. “Here we go. Yep, came through yesterday, I’ve already filled it. Good.”

“Why is it good?” Athos asks, restocking his pockets (he stows the KitKat and tenner safely).

“Never mind.”

A bag is passed over the counter and Athos sticks that in his pocket too.

“Nice pumpkin,” Athos says, then turns to go.

“Cigarettes,” the pharmacist whispers.

Which is vaguely creepy but Athos takes it in stride because after all it is halloween and smoking is bad and the pharmacist does run a quitters day every week so maybe he’s trying to spook Athos into joining. Athos picks up the smokes.

“Death sticks,” he corrects, idly.

“What?” the pharmacist says, faintly. Probably from confusion. “Oh, fuckitty fuck.”

“It’s not that bad, I don’t really smoke. Just a little,” Athos says, glancing up in time to see the pharmacist go crashing to the floor in an almighty collapse of: himself, the book off the counter, both plates of cookies, and the giant pumpkin. “Porthos!”

Athos puts the cigarette box back down and pushes himself up on the counter so he can peer over. Porthos is already stirring, blinking confusedly up at the ceiling. Athos hesitates, then gets down and walks around the counter, kneeling at Porthos’s side, helping him sit up, picking bits of cookie out of his hair. The pumpkin is intact and the plates are unbroken but the biscuits were less lucky - they’re shattered, bits of them everywhere.

“Sorry about that,” Porthos says.

“Hm,” Athos agrees. It was terribly rude. His lips twitch at the thought. He brushes cookie off Porthos’s funny little pharmacist smock. “Terribly rude of you.”

“Sorry,” Porthos says again, sitting against a wall and closing his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Migraine. Been bugging me all day, suddenly decided to explode.”

“Time to go home, then,” Athos whispers, hoisting Porthos up off the floor. Porthos stares at him when they’re up. “What?”

“You’re strong,” Porthos says, awed. Athos ducks his head and blushes.

Porthos is always doing that, making nice little comments. Last time it was about Athos’s shirt, because it was a nice one and apparently made his eyes incredibly blue. Then there was the one about his hair being luxurious and the one being envious of his ‘beard skills’ and the thing about his fancy shoes and his shoulders. It has maybe been flirting. Athos isn’t sure. Pharmacists don’t usually flirt with him .

“I need to lock things?” Athos suggests.

“Oh. Here, here, just… give me ten minutes then you can walk me home and fuss at me. It’s closing time anyway, in half an hour,” Porthos says.

“Fuss at you?” Athos asks, letting go.

Porthos staggers a little then waves a dismissive hand and vanishes into the back. Athos collects his death sticks and hovers in front of the counter, glaring at anyone walking by who looks like they might come in and disturb whatever is happening out the back. Porthos comes out, bag over his shoulder, in the middle of a glare and laughs which is hardly fair. Athos takes his elbow and steers him to the door. Porthos locks it behind him then offers Athos his elbow again, touching his forehead and rubbing a moment before setting off with a sigh.

“I know this is a small village but I don’t know where you live,” Athos says.

“‘s’fine,” Porthos says. “‘preciate this.”

Athos nods. Porthos doesn’t live far, just up the road and off to the left, toward the river, in a nice little house with a yellow-painted front door and a big brass knocker in the shape of a badger head. Athos winces at it, it’s so bright, but doesn’t comment.

“Thanks,” Porthos says, riffling in his pockets and coming up with keys. “I’d invite you in but I’m gonna just throw up and lie down in a dark room and not move for a year. Give me your number?”

“It’s 128,” Athos says, dumbly. “The house has a name though, I called it Chickens when I was drunk one night and apparently I registered it with the post office another drunk night. So it’s Chickens.”

Porthos stares at him for a long time before grimacing and rubbing his face, giving his head a tiny shake.

“I have no idea what… what? Never mind. Your phone number, Athos,” Porthos says, holding out his phone and wiggling it at Athos.

Athos takes it and punches his number in, adding himself to Porthos’s contacts. He appears in the list under an ‘Airbag’ and ‘Argonauts’, and above a ‘Bear’ and ‘bill’ and ‘breadsticks bill’. He passes the phone back and Porthos stares at for a minute, swallows, leans on the door. Athos takes the keys and unlocks the door for him and Porthos mutters a thank you and staggers in. Athos closes the door quietly behind him and walks away. He goes down to the river to sit and smoke his way through half the pack of death sticks and eat his KitKat. Then he calls Aramis.

“I had a drink,” he says, when Aramis gives his usual, stupid, languorous, seductive ‘hola mi amor’. “I had two. It was only wine. I’m smoking my way through twelve cigarettes. I’ve had six so far. I ate a KitKat too.”

“Hi Athos, nice to hear from you, glad you called,” Aramis says. “Call your sponsor. Then ring me and tell me nice things.”

Aramis hangs up on him, which is quite rude really. Athos calls Treville.

“I had two glasses of wine,” Athos says, when Treville grunts hello. Treville makes an affirming sound which, yeah, when Athos calls it’s always because of a drink because that’s the point of Treville. “I’m smoking twelve cigarettes. That will help. I drank a lot of coffee.”

“You know coffee will only help so much,” Treville says.

“I didn’t want to work out why,” Athos whispers.

“Ok. Where are you?”

“By the river. The wine is still at home. I went to get my meds, the pharmacist fainted dramatically.”

“What do you want to do, if not think about what triggered this relapse?” Treville asks.

“I dunno. Can you come take the wine away? Can you do that, is that a thing you do?”

“No. But I will,” Treville says. “Seeing as what I’m MEANT to do is suggest you ask a friend to do it and I know you don’t have any friends except me.”

“What about Aramis?”

“Is he going to come remove wine bottles for you?”

“No. He hung up on me.”

“Besides which he’s in Chile,” Treville says, dryly. Which is probably more pertinent than the hanging up thing.

“He’s rude.”

“Yes. What else?”

“Smoke the rest of these. Did you hear about the pharmacist?”

“Yes, I was ignoring that particular dramatic pot of worms for the moment.”

“It’s not my dramatic pot of worms, it’s Porthos’s.”

“Anything you want to do other than talk to me about irrelevant pharmacists?”

“Don’t think Porthos would think much of being called irrelevant. No, I don’t want to talk to you at all, I have no choice in the matter though do I?”

“You do as you please, Athos, I’m neither your mother nor your nursemaid. I’m here to help if you want it, if you’d prefer to go back…”

“No,” Athos admits, to himself as well as to Treville. “No. Ok. I had a flashback, I didn’t want to face it, and so I… Did Not Face It. The way I used to not face things. I hid from it.”

“Yes,” Treville says.

“It was nice,” Athos whispers.

“Smoke your cigarettes, take a nap, have something proper to eat in fact I’ll take you to dinner. I know you won’t eat otherwise and you can get out of the house. Come to mine for dinner, I will pick you and your wine up, the wine from the house, you from the river.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah, better than a bottle,” Treville says.

“Better than Aramis,” Athos says, but Treville’s already hung up. Athos rings Aramis, remembers again he’s in Chile and hangs up on ‘hola mi’. He waits. His phone rings. “You’re in Chile. It’s costly.”

“You have so much money you don’t know what to do with it,” Aramis says. Which is true. Athos hangs up and rings him back. “Athos!”

“Yes, yes,” Athos says because he is being a tiny bit ridiculous. “A pharmacist fainted dramatically when I went for meds.”

“Oh? Oh! Is this the sexy guy who winked at you and made you wet yourself?”

“I did not wet myself. Not that such a thing is shameful, incontinence is a fact of life.”

“I didn’t mean piss I meant-”

“Why are you talking?”

“Is he the winky one?”

“Yes, yes. He winked at me and I may have rang you in a… in a moment of confusion.”

“You were in a tizzy! Ha! Yes these are nice things to tell me. Matthew is a jerk,” Aramis says.

“Your brother is a lovely man who you love very much. If you want to come weep on my sofa when you get home for missing him, you don’t get to complain about him. One or the other remember?” Athos says, which is a deal he made when Aramis was asleep so it might be fair if Aramis doesn’t remember.

“Yes ok, weeping on the sofa is probably better,” Aramis says. “So, why did the hunk faint?”

“He didn’t, he had a migraine I think he just fell over. He said ‘fuckitty fuck’. I supposed he was talking about cookies or somesuch.”

“Cookies?”

“He had cookies. They were vegan and delicious,” Athos says, then he spots Treville coming through the meadow and sighs.”Treville’s here.”

“Alright, that’s good. Is he going to feed you and make sure you sleep?”

“I believe that is his nefarious plan.”

“I’m glad, Athos.”

“Are you really cross with Matthew?”

“Nope, just that I’ve been here three weeks and I am ready to come home and be alone. Without him. For five goddamn minutes YES! MATTY OK ALRIGHT I AM COMING it’s dinner time, Ath,” and then a stream of Spanish

Athos bends over his knees laughing at the way Aramis switches so seamlessly between conversations and remembering sharply how he and Thomas and familial and brothers and he finds he’s not laughing he’s crying.

“Oh shit. Bye Aramis,” he says and hangs up.

Treville comes and drags him to his feet and then into a hug so tight Athos hasn’t breath to cry and anyway he’s safe enough not to need it. Treville lets go and they walk to the car in silence, at least three feet of space between them. Treville gives him a snickers bar and a juice box and drives through the darkening evening back into the city and to his nice terraced house and his nice domestic husband who merely says a warm hello to Athos and indicates his room is ready. Alaman is always like that, he takes Treville’s dramas in stride. Treville takes in waifs and strays and Alaman feeds them. At least Alaman’s daughter isn’t there at the moment, instead living in London and running some rebellious and wonderful magazine while wearing the newest Doc Martins and being political with her girlfriend Ninon.

“Athos,” Treville says. “Food, meds, sleep.”

Athos eats, takes his meds, and goes to bed.

II

Athos like the Bodleian. It took him a while to find his footing there and not have horrible imposter syndrome that made him want to scream in the middle of the Radcliffe Camera just to make noise. He like the Oxford Professor Aesthetic, though, and sitting in the Bod for hours, especially Upper Reading Room, with the light streaming in the great windows, the quad out there being historic, is great. As is napping there in the weak winter sunshine. That is also aesthetically pleasing. Athos wraps himself in the scarf so big it might as well be called a shawl that Aramis brought back for him this time, and pulls his beanie down and leans back in his uncomfortable chair, arms crossed over his chest, and dozes, his books gathering dust on the desk before him.

Of course he gets signal up here, unlike when he hides underground in the Gladstone Link (it’s term time, down there is full of undergrads now, sweating and tapping at laptops). His phone buzzing on the table is distracting. It’s on silent and it doesn’t vibrate but it lights up and he can just tell it’s still ringing. And then it goes dead and silent and his heart does a horrible tight flip dive thing and he thinks it was probably Treville ringing to tell him Aramis died in an accident or Aramis ringing to say Treville was in the hospital Alaman holding his hand and weeping over him. He sits up and grabs his phone and jabs it with shaking fingers until it lights up for him. There’s an unknown number coming up as a missed call and a text comes in as he watches, from the same. He opens it and doesn’t breathe until he reads the first few words - hi it porthos - then he breathes really really fast and has to put the phone down on its face while he hyperventilates. Finally he gets a drink of water and tries again - hi it porthos wnt 2 gt a coffee? - Oh. That’s not so bad. Athos nods.

Ok. when? Also use whole words please

Nw? im n twn?

No. Words

Now? I am in the city like a gentleman of leisure?

Ok. Blackwells ten mins

Use whole words please

Athos packs up his things, puts his books aside with a note to say he’s still using them and everyone better get their grubby hands off on pain of death (there’s a form he can’t actually say that. Sadly) and hurries down to the Div School entryway. He calls Aramis from under a random statue, rushing until he’s under the old Clarendon building then stopping and waiting for Aramis to answer.

“Hola mi amor,” Aramis seduces.

“I’m being spontaneous. I’m getting coffee with winky. Now.”

“Goodness. Go you. It’s the anniversary Athos, piss off.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I have flowers for you and I made dinner for later so we can just heat it up, and I got the good blankets out and Harry Potter to watch, and there’s ice cream for afters and I have my ‘cuddling human’ hat on.”

“Right. Good about the coffee. Be calm, you’re nice, he already likes you.”

“Just better not call him winky.”

“Or The Irrelevant Pharmacist.”

“Or that. Love you, be kind to yourself. Bye.”

Athos hesitates before hanging up, listening to Aramis’s breathing, checking he’s ok and not ragged or crying or on the edge of panicking. No, he’s fine, just Athos doing the panicking then. He laughs and clatters down the steps and across the road, dodging a bike and six stupid tourists, and running up the steps into the bookshop. Porthos is stood, peering at a display table, squinting. Athos hurries over and then isn’t sure how to announce himself.

“Need my glasses,” Porthos mutters. “Can’t tell if this is queer or just really colourful.”

“It’s not gay but it has a rainbow,” Athos says.

“Oh!” Porthos jumps upright and spins, nearly knocks over the table, and sits down heavily on the floor looking up at Athos.

“Hi,” Athos says, holding out a hand. He pulls Porthos up to his feet. “Sorry.

“Right, hi, um,” Porthos says. “Oh, you look nice, that’s a good scarf. It looks like you could hide in it. Don’t though, flushed with the cold is a good look on you, you look so alive.”

Athos blushes and glowers, frustrated at the blushing. Porthos smiles and he looks pleased, he probably does this on purpose, getting Athos flustered and blushing. Athos strides to the stairs and up them to the coffee shop, queuing. He takes his hat off and Porthos, at his back, laughs.

“What are you drinking?” Athos asks.

“Cappuccino,” Porthos says. “My treat.”

“No,” Athos says. “I’m rich and stubborn, I pay. Ask anyone.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything but somehow, when it comes time to pay, Porthos gets there first and Athos has no choice but to let it go. He carries the coffees, at least. He can assert his masculinity there. Not that he minds too much about paying but really Aramis is right he has too much money. He should do something with it. For now he sets their things on a table by the window (it’s November and not quite Christmas shopping so it’s not too busy right now) and goes back for cake. Porthos watches him there and watches him back, cheek on his fist, elbow on the table, and he scoots Athos’s chair out with a foot when Athos needs to sit and Athos notices that he, like Samara, wears Doc Martins.

“They’re good right?” Porthos says, proudly sticking his feet out for their surveyance. “Yellow for Hufflepuff.”

“And the door knocker. Damn it,” Athos says. “You’re a nerd.”

“Yep,” Porthos says, smiling proudly. “I’m a Hufflepuff nerd.”

“Ravenclaw,” Athos says, sighing. “I’m Ravenclaw. My friend is obsessed.”

“Right. Your friend.”

“He calls you winky but not like the house-elf just because you winked at me,” Athos blurts out. He grimaces.

“Alright. I am super good at winking,” Porthos says, unphased. “Learnt it from my stepdad. He taught me this, too.”

And then Porthos does the most amazing thing ever. He wiggles one ear, raises an eyebrow, then the other eyebrow, then the other ear, like a wave across his face. Then he winks.

“Wow,” Athos says.

“I’m keeping you,” Porthos says, laughing, looking stupidly fond for someone who barely knows Athos. “If that impresses you, I’m keeping you.”

“I’m not for sale,” Athos says, primly, taking a drink of his hot chocolate (he keeps coffee back, these days, because the caffeine makes him jumpy but also it’s more useful if he doesn’t drink it all the time).

“Can I have a marshmallow?” Porthos asks. Athos blinks at him, realises he got some on a side plate (he’d forgotten he did that, the whole ‘do you want marshmallows’ had confused him). He pushes the plate over and Porthos lights up. Athos feels his own face do a ridiculously fond thing for someone who barely knows Porthos. “I guess I am ok with being kept, if that’s your reaction to a few marshmallows.”

“They’re good! Like tiny fairy pillows,” Porthos says, dumping them in his coffee and waiting a moment before scooping them out gleefully, slightly melted, and making a right mess. “Lovely. Thank you. I have a lot of nicknames, the lads are gonna love winky though.”

“The lads. Your contacts have ridiculous names.”

“Yeah, that’s Charon’s lot, they’re a bit of a bunch of dicks but they get good weed.”

“Should a pharmacist smoke? How do you know I’m not a cop? Is this an in-public conversation?”

Porthos laughs again and shakes his head at Athos.

“You’re not a copper, I know the police. Oh don’t go getting that look, I’m not from a broken home or a bad neighbourhood and my Mum’s alive and well thank you very much,” Porthos says. “No sob story here. My step dad was a cop.”

“The one who taught you,” Athos says, and attempts the face-wave. It does not work judging from Porthos’s hysterical reaction. “So there’s ‘Charon’s lot’ who are ‘the lads’.”

“Yeah?” Porthos says.

“I dunno I was trying to make conversation and divert your attention from my facial gymnastics,” Athos mutters.

“Oh ok. I’ve got Flea, too. She used to be one of the lads, as it were, but then she grew up and decided that, like Hailee Steinfeld, she wanted to be like most girls. Ok I’m being facetious. She and Connie are the best feminists ever,” Porthos says.

“I’m lost.”

“Sorry. My friends,” Porthos says, then takes a gulp of coffee and comes up with froth on his moustache, hands tight around his mug. “I’m a bit nervous.”

“Don’t be. I like you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Athos says, relaxing as Porthos goes all shy and uncertain. Athos softens his smile. “You’re nice to me, you haven’t put my meds on the Facebook group, you make vegan cookies that actually taste nice.”

“It’s not that hard you’ve just got to-” Porthos stops. “On Facebook? Jesus, of course not.”

“You’d think that was obvious.”

Porthos is silent for a while, then changes the subject to books, also softening. Athos reaches out and takes his hand and they stay like that for two hours, heads bent close to talk quieter, hands warm in each others. It’s enough for Athos but he worries, as they get up, that Porthos will want to do something like kiss. Porthos just takes Athos’s hand for a moment, then says goodbye. Athos trails back to the library for a few hours before heading home to do some Aramis caring. Aramis is just asleep on the sofa in the middle of the third Harry Potter and Athos is just tenderly covering him up and brushing hair off his forehead and searching his face for wellbeing when there’s a knock on the front door. Athos waits to check Aramis is properly  asleep being going to answer it, glaring hard at whoever it is dares disturb Aramis. It’s Porthos.

“It’s late,” Porthos says, stepping back.

“Yes,” Athos says, smiling and leaning on the door frame, deciding the Porthos can knock. As long as he doesn’t wake Aramis.

“You left your wallet at Blackwells,” Porthos says. “I went back for my helmet and found it. Right pair, we are.”

He holds out what is indeed Athos’s wallet. Athos stares at it, wondering how he got in and out of the Bodleian without his card, trying to remember. He might have not had it, he knows most of the guys there, one of them might have let him through if he’d been persuasive enough. He’s done it before, not for at least ten years though. But no, afterall, he has his card slid in his phone case. That’s how he did it, he had his card. His mind manages to recreate the moment from scraps of recall, now. He takes his wallet.

“Surprised you didn’t notice,” Porthos says.

“Oh I’m like that,” Athos says. “I’d invite you in but Aramis is here Grieving.”

“Right, sure, of course,” Porthos says. “No, I wasn’t here to… I heard the capitalization in that. Really?”

“Do not mock me I am a kind and caring friend,” Athos says. Then, softly. “He was a soldier.”

“Ah,” Porthos says, pushing up his sleeve to show off a tattoo. “Me too.”

“That might mean something to him,” Athos says, staring at the inky mark. “Nothing to me.”

“It’s not complex or symbolic, it says Sergeant Du Vallon you plonker. I was a drunk squaddie,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes. Athos looks closer. It does indeed say that.

“Ah,” Athos says.

“I made Lieutenant before getting out,” Porthos says. “They were gonna make me captain but I decided to be a pharmacist instead.”

“Really?”

“No. But that’s how it worked out,” Porthos says. “Tell him I’ll say a prayer.”

“You’re religious?”

“Not particularly, I go Sundays with my Mum though. That’s tomorrow. So I’ll put in a good word for your friend with my friend up there,” Porthos says, then gives a lazy, sarcastic salute and heads off, hands stuck in his pockets, looking like he has a film score in his head for ‘picturesque walking away’.

Athos goes back inside and finds Aramis awake. He sits on the edge of the sofa, a bit shellshocked, and takes Aramis’s hand, strokes Aramis’s hair.

“Porthos is going to put a word in with God for you,” Athos mumbles.

“That’s nice,” Aramis says, around a yawn. “Can I go to bed here?”

“Mm. Mine’s got the hot water bottle in to warm it for you. I’ll be up in a bit with tea?”

“Thanks. You’re good at this, don’t let anyone tell you different ok? Do it your way, it’s a good way.”

Athos smiles and sits up, letting Aramis go. He makes them tea and takes his ipad up so they can listen to BBC funnies and then an audiobook. He sleeps with Aramis, like they used to do as boys at the international school. They’d both moved about and had long periods of nothing but letters but they quite often ended up at the same school again, bouncing around the circuit, Aramis’s Dad a wine merchant and Athos’s military. Athos holds Aramis all night and when Aramis is deeply asleep Athos cries for him, for his lost friends, for Marsac. Mostly for Aramis.

III

“Can you get that, love?” Porthos calls from the kitchen.

Athos is at Porthos’s house. On a week night. Athos is a little baffled by this, it’s not the first time it’s been two months, Porthos likes cooking, but it’s still baffling. And being called ‘love’! (though Porthos has been doing that since their second coffee meeting when he realised it made Athos flush a little). And being asked to open the door! He loves Porthos’s house, though. From its quirky geeky door all the way to its tiny back garden of tangled weeds and overgrown lawn and wild flowers. The carpet in the hallway is red so Porthos feels important, there are photos in frames all over the walls and surfaces, of Porthos’s Mum, his aunt and her wife, his dog when he was little, Charon and Flea in various states of aging. The livingroom is small and attached to the kitchen, only separated by a curtain, the furniture is mismatched and all so comfortable. There’s a little table, with a huge avocado plant on it, that has a horse head and tail and feet. There’s a coffee table with a glass top and fish in blue liquid underneath, just plastic fish floating around like forgotten toys. There’s a small dining table in the corner but it’s always covered in stuff, the two chairs also, clothing and papers and letters and books and every bloody thing. Athos gets up with his wine that is actually grape juice but Porthos could only find a wine glass clean, and goes to answer the door.

“Hello, I’m Flea, this is Constance, and we picked up Treville wandering around the village and brought him along he’s basically Porthos’s Papa and we’re his sisters so,” Flea says.

“I met you last week,” Athos points out, opening the door wider, staring at Treville. “Hello, basically Porthos’s Papa.”

“I thought it better not to say anything. I didn’t realise at first to be fair,” Treville says.

“Thought turning up on the doorstep and startling me a better idea,” Athos says, nodding.

“I didn’t mean to show up on the doorstep,” Treville says, rubbing the back of his neck, then his eyes widen. “Athos.”

“It’s grape juice. Porthos (whose Papa you practically are) does not do dishes,” Athos says, stepping aside.

Constance (who Athos hasn’t met - she looks awesome she has converse shoes) and Flea are watching like this is great TV. Athos blinks until they all file in. They all go to the kitchen and Athos takes a moment in the hall, absently downing his grape juice, before heading through. They’ve all made themselves at home; Flea’s sitting on the counter eating pasta sauce with a spoon out of the pot, Treville’s taken over cooking, Constance is half in the fridge calling out foods and Flea’s calling ‘no’ to each. Porthos is leaning on the counter between Flea and Treville. They’re all talking. Athos, completely overwhelmed, wants to flee, but Porthos catches sight of him and beams a welcome. It’s a tiny kitchen. How they all fit is beyond Athos. He goes to the living room. Porthos follows, calling something back.

“Treville is my sponsor,” Athos mutters, staring at the blue carpet. “And my friend.”

“Oh,” Porthos says. “He’s not great at information sharing.”

“No. Clearly,” Athos says. “You don’t seem shocked.”

Porthos sighs and goes over to the window, opening the curtains so he can look out dramatically. Athos goes to stand beside him, tucking himself under Porthos’s arm and against his side. He’s warm and comforting and it’s reassuring. Athos shuts his eyes.

“My mum dated him for all of four months. They were friends. He got into a parental role by accident, through proximity more than anything. He’s great, when he realised I’d grown attached he stuck around, even after him and Mum drifted apart. But he’s not me Dad, and he’s not good at communicating, and our relationship is… complicated,” Porthos says, resting his cheek against Athos’s head. “He did something a long time ago that hurt Mum. He acted like my Dad without actually being my Dad. He hurt me. He comes and goes and when he’s gone it was hard.”

“Ok,” Athos says.

“Love him to bits, mind,” Porthos says. “Is it gonna interfere with sponsor things?”

Athos snorts. Treville is the most unconventional sponsor Athos has ever had (he’s had a few over the years and across various attempts at sobriety). It might add a complication, but they’ll get by. Or Athos will find someone new.

“Doesn’t matter,” he decides. “We’ll sort it, either me and him or me and someone else. This comes first.”

“Um,” Porthos says.

“Not before my well-being you twat,” Athos says, elbowing him.

“Ow. Just making sure. I’ve seen you and Aramis off on a gloom-streak remember,” Porthos says.

Which is fair enough. That had been an Afternoon.

“Also, twats are wonderous beautiful things, so thank you for the compliment,” Porthos adds, distracting Athos from That Afternoon.

“Sorry,” Athos says, a little sheepish. Porthos has Opinions about Cunts. “Are we going to be social?”

“Wasn’t really planning on it,” Porthos says, lips twitching.

“Dinner!” Flea yells from the kitchen.

Constance throws the curtain dramatically aside and Treville brings the pasta through in a big pot, Flea brings garlic bread, Constance brings salad. They sit on the floor around the coffee table and eat in more-or-less companionable silence. At once point Flea reaches over to squeeze the back of Porthos’s neck in an affectionate move that settles something in Athos. Seeing Porthos connected to people is nice. It reminds Athos of Aramis. When they’re done eating they get stiffly to their feet, Treville cracking his back and grumbling about Porthos’s lack of proper dining options, and take various soft-furnishings. Athos is slow and ends up stood a little awkwardly. Constance clears a kitchen chair for him and offers it with a flourish.

“Or you could sit on me,” Porthos suggests, patting his thigh.

Athos blushes and sits on the kitchen chair, unable to keep from being prim and keeping his knees neatly together, hands neatly resting on them, sitting up too straight. Constance laughs but Porthos looks stupidly pleased about it as if it’s something wonderful, Athos being a weirdo. It goes ok, the surprise of Treville showing up slowing eking away. Athos ends up on the sofa with Treville, their feet up on the sofa, drinking strong coffee and talking politics (nights usually ended like this but with whiskey, thus the coffee, though it’s not bad tonight per se. Just habitual). Porthos and Flea paint their nails or something, Constance watching and taking pics and videos for instagram. Athos tunes out quickly of that chaos and leaves them to it. He feels a little light headed but he’s sure he’s far less caffeinated than he should be by twelve am if he’s been drinking coffee for these past hours. He takes his mug suspiciously and peers into it, then narrows his eyes across the room at Porthos, who is making silly faces into Constance’s phone camera. He notices Athos’s gaze and looks up, goes all wide eyed startled, then puts on the most innocent look. He holds a hand up to his mouth, a barrier between him and Athos, and whispers something into the camera then does lofty innocence. Athos gets his phone out and checks instagram. There’s Porthos, same innocent look from another angle. Athos presses play:

Uh oh my boo just noticed I’ve been switching his coffee out for decaf gotta be mr innocence himself, followers. Shhh.

Athos scrolls through the comments. They say things like ‘I ship it’ and ‘who is mr mystery, mr innocence?’ and ‘when will we meet this mystery boo!’. Athos firms his mouth and looks over at Porthos again. Porthos’s lips twitch. Athos watches it on the video story and likes the way Porthos’s eyes get crinkles.

Boo is reading your comments stop he is sending death glares

The comments start at ‘aww’ and go from there, ending on ‘I want to sit on your face PhantasticPharmacist’. Athos blinks at that one.

Guys, my boo is sat right there reading your dirtinesses. Come on internet, be good for me. Ok I’m peacing out, do nice nail art and tag me so I can see! Goodnight.

Porthos blows the camera a kiss and it blinks out. Athos scrolls idly through Porthos’s insta for a while. He hasn’t looked before but now it seems Porthos is internet famous. Or at least a little. He has followers, anyway. A couple of hundred of them. His insta is mostly pictures of his nails, Flea’s nails tonight, Constance’s hair, a make up tutorial video. Athos clicks a link in the bio to YouTube and clicks on the first video.

“No, don’t-” Porthos says, as the first strains of sound emit from Athos’s phone. It’s too late, though.

Athos watches in fascination as Porthos, in odd lighting, peers into a bulb-frame-lit mirror, starting to do his make-up. It goes on in silence for a few seconds then sound buzzes and cracks like the beginning of a record, and then a strung out feminine voice starts to sing, wordless, cracking, and underneath it a deeper voice, also feminine, weaving ‘If I were a Boy’ by Rhianna into the wordless notes. The video switches sharply to Constance, sat on a toilet with a small mirror touching up her lipstick and examining her hair.

“What?” Athos says.

“It’s a music video,” Porthos says. “Um, yeah. You can stop now.”

Athos turns it off, as requested, but not before Porthos sings along in the mirror, glittering his cheekbones.

“That’s so cool,” Athos breathes, looking at the video, frozen on Porthos with his eyes shut doing eyeshadow. “That… is so cool. You’re YouTube people!”

“No. Flea and Constance do music and rope me in now and then,” Porthos says. “I mostly rant about films on that.”

Athos pokes the back button and sees, as Porthos says, a list of film names with exclamations, ‘@’ signs, ‘~’, ‘#’, ‘$’ and more in various awful combinations of keysmash or Asterix and Obelix style swearing. He so badly wants to watch one, but Porthos doesn’t seem to want him to so he doesn’t. Even though there’s a rant about Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, which was awesome and terrible and conflicting and Athos badly wants to hear Porthos’s opinion.

“I should get going,” Treville says, stretching. He claps Athos on the back, gets up and kisses Porthos’s hair, then wanders out.

“Bye!” Constance calls, settling in.

“Yep, see you!” Flea calls, also pointedly getting comfy.

“Oh piss off,” Porthos says. “There is going to be no drama for you vultures to watch. Go make Athos more decaf coffee.”

“I think I’m good actually,” Athos says, lips twitching. “Though I am far more sleepy than I planned to be and it’s freezing outside, do you mind if I crash here?”

He’s slept on the sofa once before (after That Afternoon - Porthos had been baffled but accommodating). He likes it, it’s comfortable; he’s short, it fits him.

“Yeah if you want,” Porthos says, looking pleased. Athos’s lips twitch. “Alright. Athos is ready for bed, so I’m kicking you two out.”

Flea and Constance, terribly entertained for some reason, nudge and cajole as Porthos flaps at them and busies them toward the front door. They spill out onto the drive laughing, running to the car.  Porthos gets busy making faces and giving the finger to Flea and Constance who have the interior lights on and are clearly still laughing hysterically. Athos, cold, reaches around him and shuts the door on the chaos.

“Oh, right,” Porthos says, turning, smiling. “Cold.”

“Yes,” Athos says. “I’m happy on the sofa.”

“Don’t be daft, I am gonna take you to bed and ravish you,” Porthos says.

“I’m ok with that,” Athos says. “But maybe slower.”

“Slow ravishings. Got it,” Porthos says, nodding solemnly before grinning again. He reaches out, though, and goes all tender and gentle, fingers touching Athos’s cheek, nudging his chin up till Athos looks right at him. “Slow as you like.”

Athos nods, embarrassed. Porthos pulls him into a hug and mutters some things Athos doesn’t catch, then bounces a little and pulls back to look at Athos. He grins conspiratorial and takes Athos’s hand, leading him up the stairs. There are more photo frames wonkily hung on the way up, a bendy distorting mirror at the top (Porthos pauses to pose and make faces), and then the hallway is lined with framed posters from concerts, plays, films. Athos wants to mooch and nose at all of them but Porthos is flinging open doors dramatically to announce ‘bathroom’, ‘airing cupboard’, and then he holds a door for a second and wiggles his eyebrows at Athos. ‘Bedroom’, he whispers, stupidly seductive. Athos’s lips twitch and Prothos gives a little laugh and opens the door. The room is… messy. Clothes on the floor, a pile of teetering books on a desk, an open wardrobe. The bed’s unmade but looks inviting and warm, and quite clean. The curtains are open and Athos can see quite well. He looks at the walls, looking for more photos or posters.

There is one. It’s A2, framed next to the wardrobe. It’s a picture of a flower. Or… not. Athos tilts his head and reaches to put on the light. Definitely not. There are labia. And a clitoris. There’s writing all around it in a pretty swirl: Proud Cunt Owning Men! And little black stick figures. Athos stares at it for a while, then moves on. There are a few costume designs pinned up, lovely inky lines and fluffy spreading watercolours, elongated necks, high heeled shoes, sequins, black scribbly writing and arrows. Athos moves closer to one, then another.

“Did you do these?” he asks.

“Yeah, for our drag show,” Porthos says, sitting on the bed and pulling off his jumper and t-shirt. “Heating should come in for a bit around now, will you be warm enough?”

“Sure,” Athos says, turning away from the wall adornment and back to Porthos.

“Are you gonna watch me undress?” Porthos asks, shifting.

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” Porthos says, grimacing and looking down at himself, arms around his body.

“You’re lovely,” Athos says. “Beautiful. Wonderful. You look incredible. Do you have anything I can wear as pyjamas?”

Porthos gets him a really big soft t-shirt with ‘Who’s the Huffliest? This guy’ written across it, a picture of a badger swaggering, and a pair of boxers. Athos goes to change in the bathroom, awkward and a bit humiliated about that. When he gets back Porthos is wearing grey cotton pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that says ‘I be Hufflin’’ and another badger. Athos smiles.

“‘puff pride,” Porthos says, eyes on the carpet, hand rubbing the back of his neck. He looks up and meets Athos’s eyes all of a sudden, chin tilting up in desperate pride. “I’m not ashamed of my body, I don’t mind being naked with you, I’m just not ready yet. I won’t… I’m not ashamed.”

“Oh. I thought,” Athos says, then laughs. “I’m not ready yet, either, I thought I was hiding from you.”

“I thought you were giving me privacy,” Porthos mutters. “Should’ve known you weren’t that observant.”

“Hey,” Athos says. Though, fair enough, he doesn’t notice everything. “Can I watch your YouTube videos some time?”

“Sure,” Porthos says, sighing and sitting on the bed. “Not ashamed of that, either. Just that I’m out everywhere, you know? I dunno what I’ve told you.”

“No idea,” Athos says, sitting beside him. “Told me about what?”

“I’m trans.”

“Oh. Me too, what a quinkydink,” Athos says, sarcastically. “I know that, Porthos. Duh.”

“Oi,” Porthos says, sounding hurt.

“You told me,” Athos says, poking him, exasperate. “I don’t know what to do with touchy Porthos.”

“Hey,” Porthos says. “I’m not ‘touchy’. Just uncertain, give over would you?”

“I’m uncertain too,” Athos snaps, then feels sheepish. “it makes me abrasive. Sorry.”

“What an evening,” Porthos mutters. “Ok. Shall we… lie down?”

“Are you ready to sleep?”

“Not really,” Porthos says, laughing. “Are you?”

“No.”

They end up lying on Porthos’s floor and smoking weed. It’s a vice that Athos is actually ok with and not addicted to. It just makes him limp and giddy, lying on the floor among Porthos’s things is lovely, listening to Porthos rambling on and on and on about Hufflepuff house and Newt Scamander who he was so sure was Arabic and probably Iranian but who he still loved and Cedric who is so good at quidditch and didn’t really die it was all a trick and Professor Sprout the absolute best lesbian in the world and probably dating Madam Hooch and on and on and on. Athos shifts so he can rest his head on Porthos’s stomach and feel the rise and fall of his breathing as he talks and smokes. Athos falls asleep somewhere between the Many Lesbians of Hogwarts and the Fat Friar who is probably only the best ghost in the whole entire universe. Porthos wakes him, later. It’s dark and the warm.

“Bed time,” Porthos sing songs, pressing kisses to Athos’s cheeks.

“Carry me,” Athos suggests, lifting his arms and crooking his knees.

Porthos snorts and refuses to do that even though Athos is ever so little and light as a feather. Athos ends up on his feet, Porthos still curled on the floor. Athos hauls Porthos up and Porthos suggests Athos carry him and goes boneless and giggly. Athos drags him over to the bed and they collapse onto it. They wriggle under the duvet, Porthos still vibrating with giggles, and then Porthos starts snoring loudly, lying in a great sprawl on his back. Athos pokes him until he lies on his side. He expects Porthos to be a snuggler, but he’s not; he leaves Athos half the bed and Athos falls asleep too. In the morning Athos discovers that Porthos is after all a snuggler, he just migrates and octopuses in his sleep: Athos wakes up encompassed, squashed, embraced, Porthos’s breath hot on the back of his neck.

“Are we going to do talking?” Porthos asks, over coffee.

He has coffee anyway, Athos has orange juice and toast doing the not caffeine thing again. Porthos is eating an orange, leaning against the sink. He’s dressed and showered, did that almost as soon as he woke up, disentangling himself a little embarrassed.

“I don’t,” Athos says, clipped, watching him.

“Only, that’s stupid,” Porthos says. He makes a rabbit face at Athos. “Sorry I cuddled you without checking. I was unconscious though so you can hardly be mad.”

“I’m not,” Athos assures.

“Ok. Do you like it? Is that what you want?” Porthos asks. “In the daytime, too?”

“I am having breakfast,” Athos says, and finishes his toast in silence, refusing to answer Porthos’s questions.

When he’s eaten he gets up and leaves quickly. It’s not until he’s home that he realises he’s still wearing Porthos’s t-shirt.

IV

Athos is lying by the river, in the grass. It’s cold but he’s got a good coat on. He could lie on the ground at home where it’s warm but Porthos might find him there and Athos is still humiliated after running away in the morning, two weeks ago. Not that Porthos has contacted him or tried to get in touch in any way. Ok that might be a bit of the problem. He can’t call Treville to complain like he usually might. He could call Aramis but Aramis, on the run up to Christmas, is deeply unhappy and could probably do with a break from Athos Drama. Or maybe Athos Drama is just what he needs, as a distraction. Athos is considering this, looking through Aramis’s tumblr (many many reblogged gif-sets of Chris Evans and Chris Hemsworth and Hamilton stuff), when someone comes and lies down beside him. It’s Porthos, obviously, because who else would find him in a field in freezing November and lie down next to him?

“I’m sorry,” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Porthos says, sighing. “I wasn’t looking for you you know.”

“No?”

“I was walking,” Porthos says, shrugging. Athos feels him shrug.

“I can ignore you if you like,” Athos says.

“Doing a good job of that,” Porthos says. “You have my t-shirt, I like that one.”

“You shall have it back,” Athos says. “Are we breaking up?”

“How am I meant to know? You haven’t said a word to me since I asked if you like cuddling,” Porthos says.

“I did, I told you I was eating breakfast,” Athos defends. It’s pretty weak even to him. “I’m hopeless at this.”

“I don’t care,” Porthos says, indignant and frustrated, Athos can hear it. “And don’t you sigh at me like that. I get that you have had this reaction before and it’s nothing new to you. It’s new to me and I’m allowed to react to you ignoring me.”

“It’s not like you texted or anything.”

“It was my duty to text, was it? Me who owed you an apology? Who ran off with a demand that we Never Ever Talk,” Porthos grumbles. Then huffs. “You’re meant to care for me. That’s all it is; caring. You know how to do that.”

“I do?”

“If you don’t I’m not teaching you,” Porthos snaps.

“Fine,” Athos snaps right back.

“Fine,” Porthos returns.

“I do care for you,” Athos mutters, grumpily, into his coat collar. “I just don’t know how to… talk about it.”

“Then find a way to communicate it to me. A way that includes not running away when I ask your consent for something. I, by the way, do like cuddling. You never asked. I liked sleeping with you, you never asked that either. I was ok, that morning, feeling a bit scared but ok. You didn’t ask. You didn’t ask me anything, Athos.”

“You need a litany of questions?”

“I need you to check in,” Porthos says. “I need us to be clear about consent and intimacy. I need to be able to ask you things, when I’m uncertain.”

“Well maybe,” Athos snaps, then stops. Why is he even arguing this? He’s been waiting for an opportunity for the past fortnight and now he’s fucking it up by scrunching up defensively. “Maybe I should apologize.”

“I don’t want to make you do things.”

“No. I am sorry, actually, I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch so I could tell you. I thought perhaps you needed space, I can see now I should have let you know I was giving you space, not just made assumptions,” Athos says. “I do like cuddling but only pre-arranged. No stealth hugs. In the day time. Night time, if we’re sleeping together that is consent for hugs.”

“Promise,” Porthos says.

“Are you ok?” Athos asks. Porthos snorts. “Now. For real.”

“Yes,” Porthos says, softly. “I’m ok.”

“Good. Shall we walk?”

They do, to Iffley lock and then turning back on themselves, still wanting to be together, and heading toward Sandford the other direction. Porthos reaches tentatively for Athos’s hand and Athos gives it to him, then remembers what Porthos said about needing verbal assurance when he was uncertain (that’s what Athos thinks he meant, anyway).

“I am ok with stealth hand holding,” Athos says.

Porthos smiles at him, face a bit pinched with emotion. Athos shakes his head and stomps on a bit, then comes back and allows the intimacy, allows himself to be a little tender, allows Porthos to be whatever he is. They stand close, holding hands, until Porthos’s breathing steadies, then they walk on. Caring for Porthos isn’t, afterall, so difficult, Athos decides. He likes it, he really likes it, his heart feels big as he stops again to let Porthos, distracted by looking at something, catch up. He touches Porthos’s chest and then his cheek and Porthos smiles bemusedly at him. They walk onwards.

[d0gdaze]

3.

The body swap au a surprising amount of people asked for, actually.

Read on AO3 / Summary

Pairings: Eddie Kaspbrak / Richie Tozier

Warnings: swearing, sexual references

Chapter 3/?

Prev | Next

Word Count: 4676

Eddie’s playlist

Mother Nature must have had it out for someone in Derry, because the storm hit hard. Overnight, the roads were flooded, trees bared of their leaves, some smaller ones nearly uprooted from the harsh winds, and though it had since reduced down to a drizzle, the sky remained dark and threatening well into the morning.

Richie didn't like the rain. Everything was wet and cold and grey, and that one part of the roof in the hallway always leaked, and the thunder meant he barely got any sleep, and his midday smoke breaks with Beverly were compromised. But, rather than feeling miserable about the weather, he woke up on that Tuesday morning with a newfound appreciation for it.

The storm had blown the power out.

There wasn't any music, or horrid singing.

The window was still closed.

Eddie wasn't awake yet.

Holy shit.

The grin that took over Richie's face then and there was only comparable to a child's on Christmas morning. Giddiness bubbled up in his chest, and he giggled – actually giggled – at the feeling. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this unashamedly happy right after waking up – to be honest he thought this might be the happiest he'd ever been, maybe period. He chose to blatantly ignore how sad that fact was.

This was going to be a great day, he thought.

He practically skipped down the stairs at seven-ish, graffitied-to-all-hell backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing (relatively) fresh clothes and his favourite, most obnoxiously coloured hawaiian shirt over a white long-sleeved one, with his hair hanging over half his face, still damp from the shower. Morning showers, ah, how he'd missed those.

He hummed a tune absentmindedly as he went about collecting his shoes from where he had thrown them haphazardly into the living room the day before. He couldn't quite place where he'd heard it, for a while. He was just about to shrug it off, until he caught himself subconsciously singing.

“I used to think maybe you loved– FUCK,” he hit his palm against his forehead, as if he could physically dislodge the song from his brain. “Damn it, Kaspbrak.”

Beverly raised an eyebrow at him as he strutted out of his house, half a minute after Mike announced their arrival via car horn, smiling wider than she had ever seen him.

“What the hell are you so happy about?” she asked as he approached, faking a scowl.

“And hello to you too, gorgeous,” he winked, and proceeded to make a show out of taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, planting a kiss on her knuckles. She snorted out a laugh and yanked her hand back.

“Seriously, did you hit your head or something? Wait,” she did a double take, mouth falling open in an overly exaggerated gasp, smacking her hand over her heart, “did you actually shower? Who're you trying to impress, Rich?”

He shrugged, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

“Nobody, my dear,” he reached forward and took the cigarette from behind her ear, turning it over in his fingers before putting it in his own mouth. She made an annoyed sound in protest, but didn't actually stop him from doing so. “Today's just my day, y'know? I can feel it.”

“Well, could you bring it down a notch? You're making the rest of us look more miserable in comparison,” she brought her hand up to ruffle his hair. He laughed, jerking his head away. Something shiny caught his eye as he did.

“Would ya look at that,” he said, slightly muffled by the cigarette, and leant down to pick up the piece of copper. He held it up in front of his face, squinting slightly to make out the engravings.

“Lucky penny,” Beverly teased, crossing her arms over her chest, “guess it really is your day.”

“Yup,” he flipped it in the air and caught it, then shoved into the front pocket of his jeans, “guess so.”

“How goes it, Mikey-boy?” Richie asked as he squeezed himself into the back seat, without half the usual displeasure.

“It goes fine,” Mike replied, “you're very chipper this morning. Anything interesting happen?”

“Maybe,” Richie said, smug as anything, for some reason. Mike shot him a slightly confused glance in the rearview mirror but didn't press the matter. “Sadie's? We have heaps of time.”

“You still owe me for yesterday's,” Beverly reminded him as she swung herself into the car, “but I'm game.”

“Oh shoot, hold on-” Richie started patting himself down, searching his pockets for spare change. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, awkwardly thrusting his hips up as he did. He pulled out what he thought was a dollar bill and dropped back down into the seat. “Here's- oh!” He held up the crumpled tenner, attempting to straighten it out a little.

“Aw, Richie! So nice of you to pay for everyone!” Beverly grinned before snatching the note out of his hands. Richie let her take it.

“Just give me the change, yeah?” he laughed. An old Billy Idol song faded in on the radio.

Oh yes, he thought, sneaking one look back up at Eddie's window – he could just see out the back windscreen that the curtains were still closed – this was going to be a great day.

Eddie was having what was possibly the worst morning that anyone had ever had in all of human history, and it was unbelievably unfair, because he had never done anything wrong in all his life and he did not deserve this to be happening right now at all, and the universe or whatever was making him go through this terrible fucking morning obviously had a personal vendetta against him. He may as well have just crawled into a hole and died because that would have had a better outcome than what was currently happening. Everything was SHIT and FUCKED and every other cuss word out there all rolled into one – and even then it wouldn't be enough to describe how downright awful this morning was for Eddie Kaspbrak.

His internalised tantrum came and went, only really lasting for five seconds before he unclenched his jaw and took a breath. Really, it wasn't that bad. Not great, sure, but not the end of the world, and he knew that, it was just good to let all the frustration out preemptively. His alarm hadn't gone off, and for the first time in four years his mother had woken him up, immediately jumping to the conclusion that he had contracted a debilitating illness overnight and that was the only reason why he would still be in bed at – god forbid – quarter past seven in the morning. He had spent a good five minutes trying to convince her that no, he was fine, his alarm just hadn't gone off, and he could still make it to school if he hurried, and she had reluctantly let him get out of bed.

Hurrying, he soon discovered, was not something that came naturally to him, nor was it something he was particularly good at, especially when factoring in the compulsivity he had when it came to his bathroom routine, the lack of power – and therefore light –, and his mother asking him if he needed help with anything every three seconds, making him feel more like an invalid and less like a kid who woke up an hour late. But he did the best he could do under the circumstances, which involved brushing his teeth with one hand and pulling his socks on with the other, and ended up leaving the house – albeit looking just slightly disastrous – with just enough time to make it before the bell rang if he turned his walking speed up a to a power-walk and didn't stop by his locker first.

So he walked, fast, granola bar shoved into his pocket that he only grabbed in a last-ditch effort to calm his mother's nerves so she would release her death grip on his shoulder long enough for him to bolt, one hand desperately trying to flatten his hair out to a mildly presentable degree and the other swinging wildly at his side in time with his steps. It had stopped raining for the most part, only spitting lightly now, but he could deal with that. He just had to keep the pace up, and get to school. Easy enough, right? Today was going to be an okay day, he thought, if he could just get to school without any issues.

But you know what they say, when it rains it pours.

Okay, so maybe it was kind of a dick move on Richie's part. But he deserved it! For what he did the night before! So it was okay! Right?

They had picked up their shakes – and damn, they were good, as always – and were on the way back to school when they saw him; head down, walking quickly, undoubtedly going to be late. He looked a lot less put together than usual, even from behind.

Richie knew he probably should have just given the poor guy a break, maybe just flipped him off out the window and let it be. He knew he probably shouldn't have done what he did, that he probably ruined the kid's whole day. And at the very least, he knew he probably should have felt some sort of empathy after the deed was done.

But the opportunity was just too good to pass up, and Richie was nothing if he wasn't an opportunist.

So yeah, he told Mike to drive through the puddle.

Okay, he may have ordered, and then begged him, and then bribed him that he would do all his homework for a month, and then bribed him with fifty dollars. And then lurched forward and grabbed the steering wheel anyway. Not that he was desperate or anything.

It was almost majestic, in a way. The wave of water – so much water, it really didn't look that deep, honest – sprayed up from the tires and hit Eddie – the poor bastard had turned around when he heard the car approaching – face on, absolutely drenching him from head to toe. And Eddie stood there, shocked expression, hands held up in a feeble attempt to block his face from the onslaught. And they drove away, Richie absolutely beside himself, howling with laughter and full of sadistic pride, Beverly with her hand covering her mouth as she tried not to spit vanilla milkshake all over the dashboard, and Mike just- well. Mike watched Eddie get further away through the side mirror, feeling guilt bubble up in his stomach. Because that's who he was, way too sympathetic. Sometimes Richie was worried it was going to rub off on him. He wasn't sure if he could handle being a good person.

“Oh, COME ON.”

Eddie watched after the car, at that four-eyed twit in the back seat, looking like he was going to piss himself from laughing so hard. He hadn't been driving, but it was so clearly his fault, judging by the middle finger that came flashing up through the window just before the car turned a corner, and by the fact that he was an asshole, and only he would think this was funny.

He was soaked, and dirty, and definitely covered in germs, and his books would be all wet, and his shoes were going to be soggy and uncomfortable all day, and his hair was going to frizz up and be all over the place, and it was cold out so he was probably going to get sick, and he was still fucking late for school.

He should have just turned around and gone home, had a shower and gone to bed, but that would have meant admitting defeat – and facing his mother, and possibly a hospital trip to check for water-born diseases, but mostly admitting defeat –, so he took a deep breath, swallowed his pride and kept walking. His shoes squeaked with every step, and he found himself pouting – actually pouting. And he wasn't crying, it's just that there was dirt in the water and it got in his eyes, and he was only sniffling because it also got up his nose. And he wasn't going to cry, because he was an adult and adult's don't cry because they get splashed with puddle water. He was going to go to school and change into his track uniform – thank god his mother made him bring it in a plastic bag, something he never understood nor appreciated until now – and he was going to miss some, if not all of first period, and he was going to feel miserable and uncomfortable all day, and people were probably going to laugh at him, and it was all going to go to absolute shit, but he was going to deal with it. Like an adult.

He was also going to murder Richie Tozier, but that could wait.

By the time he got to school, class had already started, and the hallways were mostly deserted. He made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, head down, trying to look unsuspicious, though he wasn't sure how well he was doing.

The thing with walking with your head down, with wet hair hanging down over your face, is you can't actually see where you're going, and eventually you're going to run into something. Or someone, in Eddie's case.

He fell back, rather unceremoniously, onto his arse. The person who's back he had just barged into only stumbled forward. Eddie thought, briefly, that that was unfair.

“Watch it,” the person spat, spinning around once they regained their footing. “Oh.”

He looked up, squinting against the fluorescent lighting. Of course it was Stan. Because the awkwardness from the day before wasn't enough, obviously.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth. Stan swallowed visibly, then offered a hand out to help him up. He looked at it for a few seconds, before standing up by himself. Stan frowned, narrowed eyes scanning him as he brushed himself off.

“Did you,” he said, almost hesitantly, “take a shower with your clothes on or something?”

“Hilarious,” Eddie replied, deadpan. He straightened out the hemline of his shirt. “Obviously not.” He restrained himself from throwing an insult in.

“Okay. Really though, why are you all wet?”

“Why don't you ask your friends?”

Stan shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Richie?” He winced slightly as he said it, almost compassionately.

Eddie gave him a look that he hoped said, 'No shit, sherlock. Who the fuck else?'

“Sorry,” Stan said, quietly, ducking his head and biting his lip. Eddie studied him for a drawn out moment.

“Why aren't you in class?” he said, his tone a lot less snarky and a lot more genuine. Stan's head shot up, frown dispersing, replaced with what could have been a smile if you looked close enough, side-on, possibly with the aid of a magnifying glass..

“Study period,” he answered simply.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They held awkward eye contact for what was probably the most uncomfortable five seconds either of them had ever experienced. Eddie sucked his teeth slowly, letting out an odd, slightly embarrassing squeaking sound.

“I should g-”

“I need t-”

They both spoke at the same time, cutting each other off. It was followed by incredibly nervous laughter from Eddie. Stan scuffed the toe of his shoe on the linoleum.

“I should be studying,” he said, a little loudly, then creased his brow, looking as though he had surprised himself a bit.

“Okay,” Eddie replied, almost breathlessly, for some reason.

“So,” Stan continued after a moment, “I should go. To the library. To study.”

“O- kay?” Eddie repeated, the end of the word raising up an octave.

Stan licked his lips, eyes darting around Eddie's face. Eddie suddenly regretted every choice he had ever made that lead to this exchange.

“Bye then,” Stan said, before turning and leaving faster than he had seen anyone turn and leave before.

“Bye,” he said, even though Stan was already out of earshot.

He regained himself, waiting for his soul to return to his body after it ejected itself out of humiliation, and started walking towards the bathroom, making a mental note to never look Stan Uris in the eye ever again. Not that he thought that would be possible now.

“I feel bad.”

It was lunch, and Richie and Mike were sitting at their table in the corner of the cafeteria, closer to the food line and away from the doors. It was situated directly across the large hall from where Eddie and his two nerd friends sat, and when Richie positioned himself just right in his seat he had a perfectly clear view of the sad-sack himself, who appeared to have switched out into his gym clothes – and gym shorts, damn them to hell –, hair still a bit wet and unkept – a very unfamiliar sight – and looked downright depressed, hunched over a seemingly untouched wholemeal sandwich. Not that Richie was looking, or anything.

“Well, ya shouldn't,” he said, pointing a plastic fork in Mike's direction, who hadn't been able to rid himself of his guilty, vaguely queasy expression since that morning. “He was one-up last night, and now the score is even. It was a fair shot.”

“Yeah, but look at him,” Mike glanced over, and Richie's eyes followed. His friend – Barry? No, Ben, yeah. The one with the stutter, or was that the other one? Anyway – whats-his-face had moved to put an arm around his shoulder. “We should apologise.”

“Don't you dare,” he said, ungraciously shoving a forkful of mac and cheese into his mouth, “no apologies. It's a rule.”

“What's a rule?” Beverly slotted herself in next to Richie, while Stan appeared beside Mike, dropping a chemistry textbook on the table. “Am I missing out on something?”

“Not a thing, sweetcheeks,” Richie said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek before she pushed him away with a look of disgust, “s'just Mikey here,” he swallowed his mouthful of pasta, “Mikey here wants to go say sorry to Kaspbrak. But we don't play like that, and he knows it. Ain't that right, Stan the Man?”

Stan glanced up from the book, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, I was actually gonna bring that up. What did you do to him?.”

“Nothing, just drove through a puddle that he happened to be standing next to and he may have gotten a little rainwater on his cardigan. Not even a big deal.”

“He was drenched, Richie.”

“How would you know? You talk to him this morning?”

Stan looked back down at his textbook.

“Maybe.”

“You're not going soft on the fucker, are you Stanthony?”

“Don't call me that,” the tips of Stan's ears flushed pink, “I just think you should apologise for this one. You know how he is about-” he hesitated, just for a second, nose wrinkling, “hygiene and stuff. This might have been a step too far.”

“Stan, are you- fucking hell,” he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Guys, no one's saying sorry, got it? It's done. It's over. I got my kick in, he'll get me back with some pathetic bullshit tomorrow. That's how it works. We fuck with each other. No one's allowed to feel sorry for him.” “But-”

“No, Mike! So fucking what, he got his clothes a little wet. Boo-fucking-hoo. Maybe it'll teach him to dress better.”

“He dresses pretty much the same as Stan,” Bev pointed out, “if you think about it.”

“Nah,” Richie rebutted, “Stanley dresses like, like,” he gestured his hand towards Stan, lip pursed as he tried to think of an analogy, “Stan dresses like your cool english teacher, you know? Like that one that every one likes and he's kinda chummy with you and lets you call him by his first name, you feel? He pulls it off. Kaspbrak looks like your shitty math teacher who probably plays golf on the weekends and gets pissy if you use your phone in class. Scratch that, he confiscates your phone if he even sees it. You know the type. He's probably gonna buy a station wagon in the future.”

There was a moment of silence, all three of them looking at Richie with varying expressions of confusion.

“That was-” Beverly said, “oddly specific.”

“Thank you,” he smirked, smug, as if it were a compliment. “Now are we done? We all agree to not apologise?”

He looked between Mike and Stan. Stan rolled his eyes, returning full attention to his textbook. Mike opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but shut it after a moment and nodded, dropping his gaze to the tray of food in front of him with the same guilt-ridden expression.

“Great! Now that we're all on the same page,” Richie stood, picking up his tray of half-eaten food, “I'm gonna go chain smoke under the bleachers, like the good christian boy mama raised me to be. Miss Marsh?”

“M'eating,” Beverly replied, stuffing another tater tot into her mouth.

“Right,” he took a step out, not at all looking where he was going, “see you losers la- OOF.”

Eddie Kaspbrak was not an intimidating person. It was practically impossible for him to scare people. He was barely five foot five, standing much shorter than his friends and most of the other boys in the school, and quite a few of the girls, and despite being rather fit, he looked quite frail. When he was a kid, his mother use to say it would be easy for someone to pick him up and snap him like a toothpick, and he believed her, because back then anything his mother said was basically god's word. He wasn't hit with the same puberty truck that Bill and Ben were – instead it was more like a puberty tricycle. He never quite shot up, never quite lost the roundness in his face or had his voice drop an octave like his friend's had. He didn't necessarily still look like a child, but he definitely wasn't going to be fooling any liquor store employee or nightclub bouncer any time soon. And the clothes he wore only aided to accent his non-intimidating qualities, the light coloured sweaters, the faded jeans, he knew his wasn't exactly the manliest of wardrobes.

All in all, Eddie was the last person you would expect to be able to make someone feel small.

Richie Tozier had never felt smaller in his entire life than in the moment that followed.

As timing would have it, Eddie had gotten up and travelled across the cafeteria to the garbage bins to dispose of the sandwich he wasn't going to eat. He knew he would unavoidably have to walk right past Richie's table, so he made sure to do as he always did when needing to avoid confrontation; head down, walk quickly.

Richie had stood up, lunch tray in hand, unaware of his proximity to the other, still busy conversing with his friends. He had taken a step, then another, out into the walkway. Eddie hadn't looked up. Head down, walk quickly.

Richie took another step, and turned around.

Eddie looked up, only a split second too late, but too late nonetheless.

Richie sentenced had been cut off by the sound of his lunch tray first hitting Eddie square in the chest, and then clattering to the floor.

The collision drew attention from only the immediately surrounding tables, hushed whispers replacing whatever conversations were taking place previously.

He didn't react, at first, just froze, jaw tight, gaze stuck on the floor, midway between the yellow plastic tray, face down with bits of food splattered beneath it, and Richie's worn down combat boots. His breath was so slow and shallow, there was a point that he wasn't even sure he was breathing.

Richie, for a moment, was sure Eddie had died standing up. He was unnaturally still, just staring at the ground, completely stone-faced. I broke him, he thought, I actually fucking broke the kid.

Eddie looked up, finally, at Richie's face. He decided, seeing as his brain had apparently tried to reboot itself, to base his reaction on Richie's next move. He raised one eyebrow, oh so slightly. It said; this is a test. Answer it wrong, and I will kill you.

Richie was unbelievably put off by the look that Eddie gave him. It wasn't angry, upset, annoyed, anything he was expecting. It was a challenge. The fucker was challenging him. And he really wasn't going to like what would happen if he lost.

“So,” he started, thinking harder about his word choice than he ever had before, “I know you're not going to believe me, but,” he paused, slowly raising his hands up in front of him, as if a gun was being pointed at him, “that was totally an accident.”

The calm before the storm, as they say.

“What,” Eddie said, barely a whisper, “the,” his hands balled into fists at his side, so tight they started shaking, “fuck.”

“Oh Richie,” Beverly muttered from the sidelines, “you poor son of a bitch.”

“Are you actually kidding me, Tozier? Wasn't this morning enough? You have to get your fucking chucks in twice in one day?” Eddie decided then and there, that being an adult was overrated. He was a brat, and he was going to be a brat.

“Chill out a bit, man,” Richie took a brave step forward, snapping his head around to the growing number of spectators, “It's just a stain, it'll come out.” His voice was hushed, praying to every god he knew that this wouldn't escalate in front of everyone.

Eddie was fuming by now – and, ironically, kind of having the time of his life –, his face heating up, and chest heaving. He saw Richie flinch, for a fraction of a second, and felt proud.

God, he was a sadist.

“Just a fucking stain, are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious, Richie?”

Richie wanted nothing more than for an eighteen-wheeler to come crashing through the wall of the school, killing him instantly. “Calm your shit, Kaspbrak, I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? You're fucking sorry?” Eddie had to remind himself that he wasn't supposed to look happy while this was happening, purposefully deepening the scowl on his face. “You are the most inconsiderate, infuriating, irritating,” fuck, running out of synonyms, “disrespectful, single-minded, asshole-piece-of-shit-stoner dickwad,” dickwad? “that I have ever fucking met and I hope you burn in hell, you absolute fucking-” “KASPBRAK.”

Both the boys jumped, as did quite a few of the onlookers who had gathered around their little love spat. Mr. Wagner, the school principal, had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, looking red-faced and mildly disarrayed, to say the least.

“Sir, uh, we were just-”

“Can it. Detention,” he pointed a spindly finger at Eddie, who scoffed a high pitched scoff, and then at Richie. “You too.”

“But I didn't-”

“No but's.”

“BUT SIR-”

“TOZIER.”

Richie let out a defeated sigh.

“Yes sir.”

The man took a deep breath, shooting a look between both of them.

“This,” he gestured to the tray and the food on the floor, “cleaned up.” He turned to look at the crowd of students. “Nothing to see, git.”

Everyone dispersed, going back to their own seats, leaving only Richie and Eddie standing there, pretty much robbed of all their dignity, staring each other down like they could set fire to the other with their eyes.

“I hate you,” Richie spat, top lip upturned to show his teeth.

“Go to hell,” Eddie returned, with the same amount of passion.

“I'm already there, princess.”

“Oh, fuck off, asshole.”

“You fuck off.”

“How 'bout both of you fuck off!” Beverly stood, grabbing Richie by the arm and pulling him away towards the doors of the dining hall, but not before shooting Eddie a look over her shoulder. “He'll see you in detention, hotshot.” She punctuated her sentence with a wink.

This is the worst fucking day of my life, he thought.

Tag list (bolded won’t tag):  @fanficisgoodforthesoul @i-is-gazebo@dandeliontozier @panicatbakerst @howellhxlic @musicalsaftermusicals@bernaynay @bust-a-move-bev @reddie-to-go @richietoaster@omgboiledcabbages @reddietofall @flowersiren @lousytrashmouth @get-fcking-reddie @finnwollfhards @bjrdies @steve-harringtwin @thecastlebyers@books-and-donuts @valenschmidt @grasshoppper @80s-trashmouth@beepbeeprichiellc @little-miss-hellraiser @okay-i-get-it-alreddie @finn-trashmouth @welctothelosersclub @kaspbrakseggo @lolahood @sad-synth @turtleneckrichie @reddieforanything

[joshslater]

Unexpected Haircut pt. 2.5

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"Now, try this on," he says and hands me a cream white sweatshirt with a big Lonsdale logo across the chest. I do as he says and replaces the tight T-shirt with the looser sweatshirt. It's barely on before his dick is in me again, slowly massaging my prostrate. The chastity device is back on, and my dick is painfully struggling inside it, leaking precum like crazy. Too bad, since I'm now half-wearing some Puma joggers. He wants to make sure all of the clothes fit before I leave, as he still has all the receipts. And apparently he wants to have sex with me in every single piece of my new wardrobe. "We must test them under realistic conditions," he said which made me blush. And test we did. He put on a cock ring and we've gone from room to room, doing different positions on different furniture, swapping out one piece of clothing at a time. I don't know why I'm surprised by his stamina. He owns several gyms and looks like it.

"I think this is the last one," and hands over a pair of glossy adidas shorts, light blue with dark blue stripes. As I put them on he carefully removes his cock ring. "Let's finish in bed. You ride me as hard as you can, keeping the shorts on as far up as you can." He lies down comfortably on the bed, naked except for a T-shirt, with his arms behind his head. He closes his eyes. I climb into the bed, straddles him, lowers my shorts a bit, and carefully inserts his dick into my now well-loosened hole. His faint smile grows into more of a proper smile. I want him to enjoy this. I don't know if that means I want him to last as long as possible or to squeeze out another load from his as quickly as possible. I start to lift and lower myself on his dick, and find the right angle to rock back and forth that feels the most like what he had been doing for the past however long it's been. Once I find that I try to match the frequency that he seemed to keep for most of the time. I'm hoping he has shown me, inadvertently or on purpose, what is best for him.

I can feel a slight squirm below me, and continue just the same. Then there is a moan, and I know for sure I'm doing things right. He hasn't let anything slip out during the entire evening. I would like to speed up, but know that no matter what I do I will not come again tonight, not while in the cage, so I keep doing the same. It goes on for what probably feels like much longer than it actually is, until I hear the best sound I've ever heard. A deep squeal over and over, as I feel him pumping cum into me. Then we both remain still for a moment, me sitting with his dick up in me. Then he opens his eyes, looks at me, and asks "Do you want to watch me shower?"

He has a rather large bathroom directly adjacent to his bedroom. As I climb off him he tells me to pull up my shorts and "keep it in", meaning his cum. He athletically jumps out of bed. I do as he said and follow him into the bathroom, where he directs me to sit on the floor, looking into the shower. With slow and deliberate motions he steps into the shower and turns on the water. The water makes his white T-shirt cling to his body, and reveals his pecs and abs through the fabric. He isn't posing exactly, but he certainly isn't just taking a shower either. It's like a porn movie playing out right in front of me. I sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, trying my best to keep his seed in my ass while my dick continues to strain the cage. He is taking off the T-shirt and slowly and deliberately lather himself with soap, taking care to not miss anything. The legs, the ass, almost masturbating when cleaning the foreskin, the front, the armpits. It's the sexiest thing I've ever witnessed. He rinses thoroughly, picks a bottle of shampoo, and thoroughly lathers his hair while the water streams down the rest of his body. His movements are exaggerated, clearly putting on a show for me. Finally he lets the water clear out the foam from his hair. He makes a few flexing poses in the water before turning it off. He then takes just as much care with a large, fluffy bath towel to dry himself.

"The shower is all yours. Try the green bottle. I'll prepare your room." he says and leaves me just as horny as this morning, despite hours of fucking.

I strip, step into the shower and turn on the water. He has one of those really wide showerheads up high, creating something more like rain than a normal shower. The warm water feels fantastic on my sore, exhausted body, and it makes a completely new sensation on my head. I lose track of time as I just stand there soaking while what we just did flashes through my mind. The green bottle, I recall as my gaze is unfocused on the rack of hair and body products. The "refreshing and revitalizing menthol, eucalyptus and tea tree" soap lingers and tickles, like a chemical reaction with the skin, and makes it even more sensitive to the impact of the rainfall. I'm again lost in thought for I don't know how many minutes before I reluctantly turn off the water, dry myself with another towel. With neither Lonsdale shirt, adidas shorts, nor socks obviously ruined, I put them all back on and go look for Chris.

I find him in the guest bedroom. He has just finished collecting all my new clothes from all over the place and put them in a pile on the sofa in the room.  He is back in jeans and shirt. "We have so much to do tomorrow, I think it is best we go to bed now. You look so good in that. You should sleep in it. See if you like it."

After he left I'm considering what he said. On the one hand it felt really wrong to sleep wearing clothes, especially these ones I'd just had sex in. On the other this was his weekend to control, so why not try it? Was it his weekend to control? I decide to try it anyway and exhausted I immediately fall asleep.

His footsteps outside the door wake me up.

"Breakfast's ready in the kitchen. You're ready?" he says and leaves without waiting for an answer? A bit sleep drunk I wonder why he would think I'm ready, until I realize the bedside lamp is still lit and I'm lying on top of the bed wearing socks, shorts, and a sweatshirt. I step out of bed and immediately feel sore in places unfamiliar to me.

In the kitchen Chris is sitting on a barstool by a small kitchen table, already eating from a bowl. He is dressed much more relaxed than yesterday, T-shirt and shorts. He motions for me to take a seat at another barstool with a similar bowl in front of it. As I get closer I see it is full of fruits and stuff, but I can see from his already started bowl that there is yogurt below.

We eat in silence until he finishes his bowl. Then he then lays out his plans for the day. We'll start with some cardio, because he does every day. As he says it I feel the soreness from yesterday a little extra. After cardio he has an outdoor surprise for me, and then back at his place to relax and have a soft evening at home.

"Sounds great," I say without actually having any details on any of the things he talked about. I swallow the last spoonful of yogurt.

"Ok, let's go."

"Like this?" Just as I say it I realize that the shorts and sweatshirt I'm wearing are perfectly fine gym clothes, as are basically everything in my new wardrobe.

"Add shoes perhaps," he says and winks at me, and puts both our bowls and spoons in the dishwasher.

I put on my new Air Max TN and he some adidas running shoes, and we exit the building.

"Ok, keep up with me," he says and dashes off. I do my best to keep up, but cardio isn't my thing. Sure, I spend all my day walking and carrying stuff, so I'm not a couch potato, but it's walking, not running. It only takes a few blocks before my breathing is getting loud. There is a park to our right, and he leads me in there and stops by the first bench.

"Take a seat," he says with an effortless voice. I sit down, and he right next to me. He grabs my arm and puts a finger on my wrist to feel my pulse. He concentrates on his oversized, black wristwatch. "Ok, let's sit here for a few minutes."

I realize I'm checking him out. Again. He looks so relaxed, watching the pedestrians outside the park. He grabs my arm and checks my pulse a second time. "Ok, let's make a slow jog around the park and then back home." We don't share the definition of "slow jog" and I'm tasting blood all the way around the park and back to his place, but at least I'm not worried about killing myself.

When we step in through his front door my legs tremble. I have no idea how we can do anything more today. "Go upstairs and swap into the grey Nike tracksuit," he tells me. I kick off my shoes and wobble up the stairs to do as told. I keep the socks on, but replace the shirt and shorts. I would normally shower, but whatever I sweated during the sprint dried up during the jog.

Back down the stairs I see that Chris has changed into something quite different from what I've seen him in before. He's wearing a black hoodie, black Nike joggers, and the same running shoes. In his hands he is holding one of those radio-controlled anal vibrators, and a tube of lube. "Ready for a different game?"

"Yeah, I guess I am." "Your shoes first."

My shoes are still warm from the run. Then I drop the joggers, bend forward, and I can feel the vibrator slide in easily, right up to my prostate. Once outside again he says "Let's try it" and rubbed my head at the same time as I could feel a quick vibration in my ass. It's sent a shudder of pleasure through my body. Fuck that felt good.

"Ok, I'll explain what we are going to do. I'm going to give you small tasks, and you have to do them without giving away when I zap you. Ok?" "Yep." We exit his place, and only a few buildings down the street he stops and hands me a tenner. "I want to you go into Saeed's over there and act suspicious by the beer fridge. Once I buzz you pick a can of lager, pay, and come out with it." "Suspicious?" "Well, loitering. Shouldn't be hard."

With that, I walk across the street into the small supermarket. I don't really know what acting suspicious would look like, so I walk slowly down the aisles picking up stuff, looking at them, and putting them back as if I'm not really interested in any of them. I also try to keep out of sight from Saeed or whoever is at the checkout counter. It's not that big of a place, so I'm soon a the back by the fridges, and it doesn't take many minutes to look through all the brands of beer and soda in there. Still no signal, so I do the same as I did with the shelves. Open fridges, pick up cans to look at them and then put them back.

"Can I help you?" the cashier asks me from the other end of the aisle. He's in his fifties and looks middle eastern. "No, I'm fine," I answer, and continue to aimlessly eye the cans. "What are you looking for?" He is still keeping his distance. "Just a beer." "Buy one or not, but do it now." I'm not sure what it is I'm hearing in his voice. It's something unsettling and unfamiliar. Is it anxiety? Fear? I don't know what to say or do, so I just continue to stare through the glass door of the fridge. "Leave. I want you to leave," he continues. At that moment I can feel the tingle of the radio-controlled bullet in my ass spreading its vibrations through my body. My locked dick helplessly strains against its confines. I'm a confused mixture of emotions. I'm horny as fuck again, surprisingly, but I'm also feeling bad for having caused Saeed or whoever his distress. "I'll have this one," I say, grabbing a cold Heineken from the fridge in front of me. He doesn't see me, I realize. He sees a skinhead in a grey sweatshirt and joggers trying to nick some beer cans from him. "£1.49," he says, remaining in place, looking at me. I walk up to him and hand him the tenner I had stuffed into my pocket. He grabs it and walks over to the register to bring my change.

"What the fuck was that?" I ask Chris when I'm out of the store. "It was embarrassing. I think I scared him." "We have work to do then. Open the can and have a sip."

Next up is a string of clothing stores, a book store, and some other small shops where Chris has me sip my Heineken until I'm asked to leave. Instead of having the vibrator as any cue, Chris is just buzzing that whenever he feels like. Sometimes it's when I drink from the can, sometimes when someone notices me, sometimes I can't figure out at all why he pressed the button. When we walked through a sports store together he buzzed whenever we looked at clothes he approved of. With the can long since empty and more of a prop he tells me to bin it and we enter the lobby of a small hotel that looks upscale.

"Tell the staff you need to piss and ask where the loo is," Chris directs me. I walk up to the check-in counter and halfway through the sentence I get a shock of vibrations on full blast so my voice shifts noticeably. I must look like a lunatic or drunk. Despite this I'm directed to the bathroom by the stone-faced manager. At the urinal, just as I'm about to bring out my dick I remember I'm locked and decide to use one of the stalls instead, in case someone else enters. But then I realize I can't sit down because I might lose the vibrator. Standing there with the cage in hand I'm afraid I might dribble all over the joggers, and wet stains would show really well on the light grey fabric, so I lower them all the way to my ankles before I start pissing.

"You took your time," Chris remarked as I met him in the lobby on my way out. "Yeah, I'm still getting used to the cage." "Ready for lunch?" I first thought that would be a bit early, and I don't have a watch or my phone with me, so I haven't been checking the time. When I glance at the wall clock in the lobby I see to my surprise it's already well past noon. "Yeah, I'm actually a bit hungry," I realize.

We walk a couple of blocks while Chris explains that he and his father would always have a walk on Saturdays to a chippy near where he grew up, so the first thing he would always do when he moved somewhere was to try out all the local chippy shops to find the one that resembled his memory the best. "So is this one the one you like best?" I ask as he stops us outside an ordinary-looking fish and chips shop. "Nah. This one is good." He orders two fried haddocks with chips and two beers. Then all throughout the meal he pushes the vibrator button every time I attempt to drink. The first time I dribbled some beer on the front of my sweatshirt. The second time I spit out some on my chips, but the rest of them I was ready for.

"I'm a board-licensed massage therapist," he says once we are back at his place. "Would you like a thorough full body massage?" What kind of stupid question is that. Of course I would like one. "It can be quite the experience," he warns and brags at the same time. He tells me to get naked, except for the socks. He brings out a foldable massage table from a closet and sets it up in the middle of the upper living room, and tells me to lie down on it. He studies me for a moment. "I want to use some oils. I want you to glisten like an oiled-up porn star. Can I shave you?" I feel dumb for thinking that he already did shave me, only to too slowly realize he means all the body. "Yes," I answer, still without not entirely having thought it through. But once already answered I couldn't really think of any good reason not to.

"You just relax. Close your eyes if you want," he says and leaves the room. I decide to do as he says and shut my eyes. He comes back a few minutes later and puts down a tray next to me. He grabs my right arm and moves it up over my head. He wipes my armpit with a damp towel and I can feel shaving cream being applied. Is he using a brush? Somehow I don't want to look, content just feeling it. Then I feel the razor gliding across the skin. Then another wipe with the towel. Despite moving slowly and deliberately it's over in a blink, like he has practiced this a lot of times. Then the same on the other side. Move the arm, wipe, brush, shave, wipe.

His hand moves across my front, and I can feel him rubbing the trail below my belly button, but he doesn't wipe or brush or shave. Instead he picks something from the tray and then there is the click of the lock of the dick cage. Again, a few deliberate movements and my dick is free. Wipe. Brush. This time he is taking a lot of care with the razor, whatever type it is. I really don't want to look now, but somehow I feel like if someone were to hold a razor blade against my dick I want it to be Chris. I can feel him expertly moving up and down the shaft, around the groin, and working on the ballsack while stretching it. I'm having a 90-degree hardon all throughout. I'm a bit surprised given yesterday, but then again he has been teasing me all day.

After he wiped all the area he continues to wipe down the right leg, all the way down to the sock that he scrunches down to my ankle. I'm having a flash of indecision. Would I want shaved legs, but then it hits me how silly it would be to draw the line there, and not when he shaved my head or my nuts. He works on the legs with the same slow efficiency as the rest of the body. Wipe, brush, and then with long strokes he shaves the legs.

Once both legs are done he returns to the tray and I feel something poured on my chest and warmth slowly spreading from it. The smell of locker room eucalyptus confirms some sort of athletic cream is in the mix. He quickly works the liquid all over my upper body, across the chest, to the neck, down the arms, and in my armpits. He takes some more and massages it all over my dick and balls. It's not Bengay, but still quite the sensation, as if I hadn't had a lot of them recently. He continues down each leg.

"Let us wait for that to work a bit. Flip over." "What?" I open my eyes and almost feel disoriented looking up at Chris. He's wearing a skin-tight white top that shows off his muscles just as well as naked. I'm already fully erect, but I can see from his smirk that he knows what I'm thinking. Almost reluctantly I flip over and put my face into the hole in the padded table. "Hey, I forgot about this," he says and pulls out the vibrator with a rude slurp sound.

[chloepalmerblog]

Photoshoot 2: @mygangsterwraps with @lorena_f  & Interviews.

In this photoshoot, I worked with a model called Lorena. She is a social media influencer and a model. She is originally from Spain. She is local to me, therefore she is always up for a photoshoot with me. She would like to use the images for her social media (Instagram). She requested to have one or a few of images edited within a few days of photographing; as she wanted to use the image for International Women's Day. One of the outfits had a top which said ‘woman power’, therefore it was a good image to post on International Women's Day. This was not a problem to send the images asap, as I usually edit the images within the first two days of photographing. Most of the time, if it is not late, I edit and have the same day turn around for my clients. I find it easier sometimes to get it done and not to forget that I have a bunch of images left to edit. Above is her Instagram to give credit and to show you more about her. 

I already had @mygangsterwraps as a contact to work with in the future. We both wanted to work with each other on a collaboration but with my last degree, I had enough people and brands to work with, so I was unable to work with them. However working with them for my major project, would work well as they use vintage and recycled fabrics. 

Firstly, we spoke about how many items and what items to borrow for the photoshoot. I said the model is very blonde and blueish eyes. This would help the brand try and choose which colours and styles would suit the model best. I sent an image of the model too to help sway her decision more. Any of the earrings would have been suitable, so I started choosing earrings. Then I thought to myself, it would be best to use the earrings that are made from recycled fabrics. Instead of the owner picking products form what stock she had, she decided to make the earrings from scratch using these recycled fabrics. She chose colours that would suit and look best on the model. She also let me borrow a hair scrunchie and hairband, these would be used to accessorise the earrings to create an overall look. Also these hair accessories helped keep the models hair out her face and see the earrings more clear. 

Below is an image of the earrings sent to me by the brand:

I was very happy with what earrings she has made for the photoshoot. There is a range of colours, styles and patterns. I asked that some would be the heart shape, thin circles and the thick circle shape. I wanted to show as much variety in the magazine to advert what gangsterwraps have to offer. I did ask for some leopard print earrings as I knew animal patterns would suit the model. We have photographed before and she can style the animal print well with other pieces. My favourites were the bright blue pair, the heart shape is sweet and unique. I feel like the blue will suit the model best as blonde goes well with this colour. They have easy to wear, take on and off. Lorena was very excited to wear and model these pieces.

Before the photoshoot, I sent Lorena (model) the image above of the earrings. This would give her the chance to style what outfit would look best with the earrings. I was not bothered about the bottom half of her outfit as most of my shots would be head shots or mid body shots. The more I get of her body in the frame, the less focus becomes on the main focus; which is the earrings. She had planned what top and jacket is going to go with each earring shown. This made the photoshoot quicker and structured as we knew what she was wearing for each item. I did not make sure the clothing was sustainable as it was not the main focus, only that they complimented the jewellery. 

Lorena picked good tops and jackets to match the earrings. For example, for the blue earrings, she wore a black top with blue writing on. Also the yellow/green neon jacket complimented the earrings too.

The weather was very sunny so there was lots and lots of light available. This made the images quite bright so when I was editing, I had to reduce the brightness and highlights. The background was not as important as the foreground for this photoshoot. The aim was to photograph the earrings and head pieces on the model. I decided to pick a local that was easy access for the model and myself. Also I wanted it to be simple and aesthetically pleasing. I chose Chew Valley Lakes. Below is a map to show where the area is. 

The location had the lake/water to use as a background, then we had the greenery and the woods to use. I did not want any strong bold colours showing in the background as the jewellery was very bright anyway. All attention would be drawn to the earrings and head pieces. 

Overall, I was very happy with the outcome of the images. Within an hour, we managed to photograph each product with a different style look and location background. We had our cards near by so changing outfits and jewellery was very manageable. Both Lorena and Gangsterwrap owner was very happy with the images. They said they will be able to use lots of the images. Lorena has already posted an image on her Instagram. I was especially happy with the wood images, the lighting through the trees was beautiful and just lit the model perfectly. I love the atmosphere that is created by the darkness of the woods and the model being lit by the sunlight shone through the trees.

Below Is a contact sheet of the edited images:

Below are two interviews, one by the model and the other by the owner of gangsterwraps. We will include these in the magazine, along side the images. These interviews will help us and the reader get to know the person more and their ideas may be new and not heard of. This will benefit us to be more sustainable and also show others different ways of doing so.

Interview with Lorena (Model):

1) Where do you shop the most for your sustainable clothing items?

Mainly eBay and my local St Peter’s Hospice charity shop for vintage finds but I have recently found new pop ups like Lone Design Club (where you get anything from clothes, accessories and jewellery that is sustainable and/or made with recycled materials) which have a more modern feel.

2) Is it important to you to be sustainable? If so, why?

There are so many reasons! The impact of the textile industry on the environment, the carbon footprint of garments made in faraway countries, the amount going to landfill...I glad that in this digital era the message is reaching more and more people that we need to start making changes now; fashion is one of the biggest industries that need a change of perspective when it comes to sustainability. 3) What is your number one tip for shopping for clothes sustainability?

Always check the actual length and width of garments (specially when buying online). I love vintage dresses (40’s/50’s) but sizes are completely different today from what there were in that era, so don’t get caught out. When buying in charity shops I look out for pieces that are a bit different from whatever is the current trend in the high street (I have lost count of how many times those finds have been conversation starters!) but always making sure they fit my body type and that I can make them work with the other clothes I own. 4) What is your favourite sustainable clothing item that you own? 

A vintage pink and white polka dot dress I found at my local charity shop...I nearly didn’t pick it up (as it had a unusual tailored cut) but when I tried it on I knew I was onto a winner! It just fitted like a glove and accentuated all the right bits! (And it only cost me a tenner!) 5) Do you prefer shopping sustainability in person or prefer to use apps/websites?

I actually do most of my shopping online as I’m a very conscientious shopper; I rarely buy things on a whim or by chance so I like to compare and contrast and make sure I consider things like quality (I find vintage and repurposed garments are more long lasting), wearability (as before, no point in buying something you can’t make work with the clothes and accessories you already own) and cost per wear (I’m always willing to pay more for essentials like coats, boots and handbags as I know I will be using them more often in the years to come).

If buying on a charity shop, for example, I tend to go to several of then with the theme in mind (say I’m after a red cocktail dress) and focus on what I’m looking for and if I can find it, move onto the next shop, otherwise it’s very easy to get distracted (home decor, I’m talking about you!) As a working mum, my time is precious!

Interview with Owner of @gangsterwraps:

1) What is your business? Please give a description about the business and what you do.

At Gangster Wraps we make earrings and accessories from vintage,  recycled  and expensive fabrics.

2) Who runs the business? Please introduce yourself.

My name is Roo,  i have recently become involved in Gangster Wraps as a brand.

3) How do you make the products?

Our earrings and jewellery are wrapped and sew by hand,  and other items are made using a sewing machine.

Is the materials recycled? If so, where do you get the fabrics/equipment from?

we source  fabrics from secondhand shops, and also use fabric cut offs from other businesses that would normally be waste.

  4) Why do you think it is important to be sustainable?

It's important to do our bit for the environment and protect this world as we only have one.

5) In your business and in general, how do you support the sustainable movement?

Buy sourcing second hand and reusing fabrics that might otherwise go to landfill. 

[emhoardsbooks]

about time

James uses the hidden messages in spotify playlists craze to tell Lily how he feels. AO3

A/N: written for @emmelinevvance , happy birthday fam | listen to To: Lily and To: James

Peter renamed the group chat to Sirius owes me a tenner.

Sirius renamed the group chat to Eff You Pete I’m Poor

Peter renamed the group chat to You’re the richest person who’s had to do nothing for it I know.

Sirius renamed the group chat to no that’s jim

James: can we just agree that Sirius needs to be paid and then address the important matter here

Peter: *I* need to be paid.

James: right, whatever

James sent a link

Remus: what the hell is this I thought you hated buzzfeed

James: i do but look at this

Peter: people making playlists that spell out a message?

James: it’s brilliant

Sirius: you *have* always been a mixtape guy

Remus: yeah remember when he made us actual mixtapes last year and we all he to go to pete’s cause he’s the only one with a cassette player still

Peter: not my fault james and i are the only cultured ones

Sirius: nah mate you’re just too sentimental to throw out your bloody cassettes from when you were like 5

James: A N Y W A Y

James: im gonna make one for lily

Remus renamed the group chat to This Is Going To End Badly

James: lads I’m serious!

Sirius: last time i checked that was me

Peter: stfu

Remus: didn’t you and lily just start being friends? are you sure you wanna risk that?

James: i can feel something is different between us… i think it’s time

Sirius renamed the group chat to *Rafiki voice* It Is Time

James: stfu

----

James opened Spotify and stared at the screen for a good three minutes before creating a new playlist. In the name slot he typed, “To: Lily.”

And then he vigorously back spaced and retyped, “Dear Lily.” He did this four more times before settling on what he had written originally. He already felt like he was making a fool of himself and he hadn’t even sent her the playlist yet. Maybe he should just make her a physical mixtape.

But no. Because then he’d have to do it in person and she’d need to borrow his cassette player- or worse- Peter’s. That would be bloody awkward.

He leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at the blank playlist on his screen. James knew he was supposed to create a message out of the songs, but what did he want to say? There were so many things.

I love the way you brush my hair out of my face for me when I’m cooking.

I love the way you get a little dimple in your right cheek when you smile.

I love the way you wear green because you know it bring out your eyes.

I love your eyes.

I love your kindness.

I love your wit.

I love you.

That was what he wanted to say. How was he going to say all that in one playlist? Remus was right, this was going to end badly. It was doomed. He was doomed. His relationship with Lily was doomed and he should quit while he was ahead. James tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Maybe if he just rested for a while, an idea would come to him.

----

Remus: you have to talk to james

Lily: what’s wrong with him now?

Remus: I like how you say “now” as if there’s always something wrong with him

Remus: cause you’re right

Remus: but this time he has this insane idea in mind and he’s having no luck pulling it off. talking to you calms him down so maybe it’d help

Lily: hmm

Lily: well since you said i’m right, i *guess* i can talk to him

Remus: you’re the best lily

Lily: you can stop flattering me I already agreed to do it

----

The truth was, Lily would agree to talk to James any time and she knew that Remus knew she would. As she let herself into their flat with the key they had given her a few months ago, she thought about when that had developed. When exactly had she been willing, eager even, to talk to James Potter?

Maybe when he had found her crying in the hall after a particularly bad encounter with Severus, and brought her into his flat and fed her brownies. Maybe it had been when he piggy backed her to the health center on campus after she twisted her ankle trying to skateboard faster than Sirius and hadn’t even complained when the pain made her squeeze his fingers purple. Or maybe it had been when he told jokes and laughed so hard that it felt like the coldness of winter was melting away.

However it happened, friendship had finally blossomed between them and Lily found she liked it quite a lot. She liked James quite a lot.

The door to his room was open and he was sprawled out on his bed with his arm flung over his face. Ever the dramatic one, this boy, she thought as she lightly knocked on the door frame. He slowly peeled his arm away from his eyes and when he saw her he sat up faster than she’d ever seen him do. It was adorable and a little pang of warmth blossomed and spread from her stomach to her chest.

Shit.

“Don’t get up on my account,” she teased as she crossed the room and sat next to him on the bed.

“Of course I’m getting up for you, you’re our guest,” he muttered. Lily could tell he had been dozing. His glasses were askew and his voice was gravelly.

“Oh shut up.”

Before she knew why she was doing it she was pushing him back down on the bed and nestling herself into his side. There was a stunned expression on his face and she could see the sides of his neck darkening. Hers was too, so maybe it was a good sign. Maybe he felt flustered and nervous and like butterflies were beating drums in his stomach too. She reached up and brushed his hair away from his face. He sucked in a little breath that made her head spin.

“Remus told me you have something on your mind,” she said quietly. “Just rest for now.”

They fell asleep like that. Later, Sirius came to ask them if they wanted to order Chinese or pizza for dinner. When he saw them, Lily curled into James and James with the most content, peaceful expression on his face he’d seen in years, Sirius quietly shut the door and let them be.

----

Peter: jim is in love

Sirius renamed the group chat to D U H

Remus: you twats better leave him alone

Remus: don’t fuck it up for him

Sirius: language, remus

Remus: I hate you

Remus: james? james just ignore them ok?

Peter: we’ll be on our best behavior, promise

Sirius: we won’t scare evans away

Sirius: although *you* haven’t done so already so i don’t know how we could

Remus: sirius

Sirius: what!?

Sirius: he’s not even reading our messages anyway!

Peter: yeah he’s too busy trying to make that bloody playlist

Remus: … you do have a point

Remus renamed the group chat to Just Tell Her How You Feel

----

Lily: did I do something? u guys haven’t been talking to me much this week

Lily: especially james..

Sirius: you’ve done a lot of things evans

Sirius: that time you stole remus’ bike

Sirius: that time you told mcgonagall that *i* put the goat in the library when it was clearly you and marlene

Sirius: that time you punched pete for winning a bet fair and square

Sirius: that time you bewitched our jamesy into falling madly in love with you

Lily: …..

Lily: come again?

Sirius: that time you told mcgonagall that *i* put the goat in the library when it was clearly you and marlene

Lily: THE PART ABOUT JAMES YOU SHIT HEAD

Sirius: oh yeah

Sirius: well he’s obviously in love with you despite trying really hard to just be a nice friend

Sirius: because you wanted to J U S T be friends and he all he wants is to not cross the line and to make you happy by giving what you want

Sirius: but no you had to be all charming and make him love you anyway

Sirius: i swear to god if you break his heart…

Sirius: evans are you listening

Lily: yeah sirius

Lily: I’m listening

----

James finished the playlist at one in the morning. Ever since that day when Lily had shown up, and calmed him down without knowing why she had to, he had been renewed with an intense urge to finish what he had started. He had to tell her. He couldn’t keep seeing her like this- soft, warm, and loving- if he wasn’t going to tell her how he felt.

And maybe, if she didn’t feel the same way, she’d pull away. That’d be for the best really. Then he could stop pining after her. Stop wishing that every little brush of her hands could lead to more. Stop wishing that he could whisper sweet things to her instead of plots to slip pink hair dye into Peter’s shampoo. Maybe he’d even stop loving her.

He never would.

----

She shouldn’t have been up so late. She should have been catching up on her sleep after finally submitting her final university paper ever. But Marlene had wanted to go out and celebrate so Lily had gone too and now they were finally staggering back into their flat at nearly two in the morning.

Lily wondered if they could hear her. Could James, whose room was directly below their lounge, hear her stumbling to the couch and flopping onto it? Sometimes she hated how close their flat was. She hated being only feet away from him but still an entire floor apart. She never wanted to be apart from him.

Lily heard her phone ping and considered ignoring the message. Whoever it was, they could wait until the morning. But she was too curious, as usual, and checked the screen anyway.

James sent a link

She clicked it and it opened Spotify. The name of the playlist immediately caught her eye. To: Lily.

As she skimmed the songs it took a moment for her drink befuddled brain to realize the message hidden in the titles. But once she saw it, it was like she sobered up immediately and her heart began beating wildly in her chest. And even though it was now half past two and she should have been sleeping, Lily sat in her lounge and listened to the playlist James sent her.

She cried as she listened to it. She cried because Sirius had been right and this wonderful, sweet man really did love her. She cried because she realized that all along she had loved him too.

Below her, James tossed and turned in bed, trying to sleep even though the nerves were eating him alive and he needed to know what she thought.

----

Lily sent a link

The notification was the first thing James saw when he checked his phone in the morning. He had finally fallen asleep, if only for a few hours. He immediately swiped his phone open and clicked the link, his heart pounding in his chest as he did. It led him to a Spotify playlist.

To: James.

He was just processing the message in the song titles when there was a knock on his door.

“Come in,” he said. He was well aware of how hoarse he sounded but it felt like his heart was in his throat so who could blame him really.

“James.”

He looked up and Lily was there. She looked like she had gotten even less sleep than he had. He really shouldn’t have sent her the playlist in the middle of the night like that but he wasn’t able to wait any longer. He had to know.

And now he did.

By the time he had untangled himself from his blankets and gotten out of bed, she had crossed the room and was standing in front of him. She slowly raised her hands and rested them on his shoulders. He had always thought about this moment. Being close enough to count the freckles on her nose, she the shades of green in her eyes, feel her breath on his face. How far he would have to lean down to reach her lips.

“Lily I’m sorry if it was forward of me,” he started but stopped when she smiled and rolled her eyes at him. There was that little dimple and the crinkles in corners of her eyes. When Lily smiled like that, James knew everything was going to be right.

So he kissed her.

----

Remus renamed the group chat to james and lily are A Thing™

Peter: took long enough

Sirius: how do you know before me

Remus: my room is next to james’

Sirius: so?

Peter: oooooo

Sirius: pete gets it before me that’s honestly offensive..

Sirius: oh

Remus: yep

James: boys it’s lily

James: stop texting james he’s busy ;)

Peter: jfc

Sirius: i can’t believe we *wanted* this to happen

Remus: I can

Sirius renamed the group chat to Great now Remus has starry eyes.

Remus renamed the group chat to stfu Sirius

Sirius renamed the group chat to M A K E ME

Remus: …..

Remus: ok

Sirius: huhkugab.,,

Peter: ! ! !

Peter: JAMES

James: you guys lily said to leave me a l o n e

Peter: k

Peter: just thought you’d like to know remus just marched up to sirius, pushed him up against the fridge and started snogging him

James: fuCK that’s stainless steel those prats better get off my kitchen applian c es or e lse

----

Lily reached over and slowly took James’ phone from his hand. After reading the messages that had his mouth hanging open in shock she just laughed.

“It’s about time,” she said. James looked at her. His hair was tousled and his glasses had been knocked nearly off. She loved the soft way he gazed at her. The way he made it seem like she was the brightest, most wonderful thing in the room and that he was as happy as can be just watching her.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

He kissed her again and Lily melted into his arms.

[equesv-blog]

now you see me sentence starters.  contains 150 lines from the first film. some of these are lighthearted, some of these are angsty, some of these are suggestive --- it’s a mixed bunch. you can send in a sentence or a ☆ for a randomised one. feel free to change the wording, pronouns, names etc. to fit!

“ A lady has to have handcuffs. ”

“ A sucker is born every minute. ”

“ Ah. You have big daddy issues. ”

“ All right, so here's what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna go inside. I'm gonna scope the place out. You wait out here. I will come back and get you, okay? Do not come in. ”

“ Always be the smartest guy in the room. ”

“ And while you're doing it, ____, would you mind reenacting your look of absolute befuddlement for me? ”

“ And your pathetic attempts at fawning to gain my trust... I mean, come on. ”

“ Are you sure I can’t interest you in a glass of wine? ”

“ At no time will you be anywhere other than exactly where I want you to be ”

“ Close the door. Bad apartment building. ”

“ Come close. Get all over me. ”

“ Come on! This is bullshit! Whoever thought of this is a sick sadist! ”

“ Come on, give me some good news on a hotel room, please. ”

“ Could we have this conversation later, please? ”

“ Could you be any more of a condescending ass? ”

“ Do me a favor. Visualize your most adventurous sexual experience. ”

“ Do you feel exploited? Or did you have maybe a tiny, tiny bit of fun? ”

“ Don't ever tell me to stay in the car. Ever. ”

“ Dude, I've seen everything that you have ever done. You're like... I idolize you. Seriously. ”

“ Either you have a cease-and-desist, which you don't, or you should leave. ”

“ FBI. Sort of. I need your car. Thanks. ”

“ Faith is a luxury I don't have any time for right now. ”

“ Find your way back yourself. ”

“ He's gonna die in here. ”

“ Hey, listen, for the record, I have always been a 100% believer. And the amount of energy I have expended to keep these infidels on point... ”

“ Hey, man, I'm so sorry for kicking your ass. Really. ”

“ How do you say ‘stop’ in French? ”

“ I believe that some things are only discovered if you take certain leaps. ”

“ I came to get you. I'm worried about you. ”

“ I can't tell you how long I've waited to see the look on your face. ”

“ I could care less about magicians in general. ”

“ I did not see that coming. ”

“ I didn't ask you. I asked him. ”

“ I don't know if can do this, all right. I don't want to go to jail, you know? ”

“ I don't know what I'm doing here. ”

“ I don't know what you would do anywhere else. ”

“ I don't want a profile. I need a name. ”

“ I feel like I'm playing with somebody wearing ankle weights and flippers. Keep up, ____. Keep up. ”

“ I just got my ass handed to me. ”

“ I saw all your anonymous posting on my website. ”

“ I think some things are best left unexplained. ”

“ I told you, he’s useless. ”

“ I want to cut them off at the knees. They got power? Cut it. They got phones, electricity, water? Cut it. Squeeze them out. I want them to feel our presence. ”

“ I want you to spend the rest of your life in this cell, staring at four walls and wondering how you missed it. How you let yourself be so blinded by your ego that you convinced yourself that you were one step ahead when you were always two steps behind. ”

“ I warn you, I can maintain my resolve much longer than you can maintain that phony arrogance. ”

“ I'm exhausted, and hungry, and cranky. ”

“ I'm having a drink. ”

“ I'm here for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That's it. Then I'm gone. ”

“ I'm here, like it or not. So we can work together, or you can continue to follow behind asking the same exact questions I'm asking. It's up to you. ”

“ I'm just trying to create the space for wisdom. ”

“ I'm picturing... Don't tell me... Beach. Cocktails. Florida? ”

“ I'm sensing you are a control freak. ”

“ I've been watching you for a year. I know all of your little tricks. ”

“ If I find out that you are anything other than who you say you are, I swear... ”

“ If I stay out of your head, I'm never gonna get into your pants. ”

“ If I want something to cease or desist, it does. ”

“ If it makes you feel any better, this wasn't about you. ”

“ If you can get this bill from me, you can have it. ”

“ If you don't trust me, just tell me. ”

“ If you want to keep playing into their hands, go for it. I'm just trying to understand how they think. ”

“ In a rare moment of vulnerability, I'd like to express a sentiment to you about our relationship. ”

“ Is my money being well-spent? ”

“ Is that how Jesus did it? ”

“ Is this what you do? Some kind of sick trick you do to women? ”

“ It doesn't make any sense, and I don't think logic will solve this for us. ”

“ It happened to you, doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen to us. ”

“ It was just an observation. Second observation: you are beautiful. ”

“ I’ll take that as a huge compliment. ”

“ I’ll tell the chef. ”

“ I’m gonna nail you. ”

“ I’m not your assistant any more. ”

“ I’m the main attraction. ”

“ I’ve never seen her speechless. ”

“ Just answer the question, okay, smartass. ”

“ Leave him! There's nothing you can do! Let's go! Leave him! ”

“ Let me be the first one to kick my ego to the curb. ”

“ Let's just drop the theatricality, all right? The cameras aren't rolling in here. ”

“ Little too sentimental for me. ”

“ Look at him. He's just sitting there on his ass. ”

“ Nice hair. ”

“ No, no, no, don't do that. You're not doing that thing to me. No. ”

“ No. I'm sorry. I was an asshole. I was drunk. I'm at a loss. ”

“ No. No way. He died right in front of my eyes. ”

“ Oh no, nothing’s ever locked. ”

“ One more secret to lock away. ”

“ Only he would take it as a compliment. ”

“ People say I'm ‘hard to read’. That's an American expression. Do you understand it? ”

“ Please tell me why this was not about me. ”

“ Promise me, next time, you will back me up. ”

“ Remember, if the oxygen mask comes down, put it on the lawyer first. ”

“ Says here you were fairly famous at one point. ”

“ So he never made you feel special. And, trust me, you deserve to be made to feel special. ”

“ Something wrong with that soda, Miss? ”

“ Stay out of my head, you perv. ”

“ Thanks for keeping me honest. ”

“ That smile on your face. Is it real? ”

“ That was actually pretty good. ”

“ That’s a lot of excitement for a crime. ”

“ That’s a man who loves his work. ”

“ That’s very nice. I’m touched. ”

“ The instant that you even show the slightest crack in that smug facade, I'll be there. ”

“ The one thing that I couldn't imagine happening was you. ”

“ The trick usually works better when I'm not strapped in here. ”

“ This has been one hell of a ride for all of us. But it's time for us to disappear. ”

“ This is a weird way for you to find out. ”

“ This is all for show. Correct? ”

“ This is one time I'm not happy being right. ”

“ This isn't the first time I've been threatened. And I'm still here. ”

“ Viva Las Vegas. ”

“ We cannot quit now. We've started something bigger than all of us. We have to finish it. ”

“ Well, I didn't tell you where I was touched. ”

“ Well, when I first met you, I thought you were kind of a... dick. ”

“ What I hate is people who exploit other people. ”

“ What game are you playing? ”

“ What? I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you say ‘magicians’? ”

“ Whatever you stand to make... I'll double it, if you expose them now. And destroy them. ”

“ When you’re ready to go to Paris, just say the magic word. ”

“ Where did you bring us? ”

“ Where's the real money? ”

“ Who are we working for? And are we prepared to go to jail for them? ”

“ Who are you? What do you want from me? ”

“ Who doesn't love a good magic trick? ”

“ Who exactly are you anyway? ”

“ Why didn’t anyone ask me if I did it? ”

“ Why don’t you do me? ”

“ With all due respect, isn't there a cost, though, to this game? ”

“ Wow. Thanks. Let me mull over that offer of cheap and meaningless sex. ”

“ You are literally begging to be arrested, you know that? ”

“ You are missing the big picture here, ____. ”

“ You can do whatever you want when this is over, ____, but until then, you stick to the plan. ”

“ You do realise this is a game? ”

“ You have a very good eye, sir. ”

“ You know I don't wear spandex. ”

“ You know how I feel about resolution and logic. ”

“ You know, I hate to say this, but you are all wrong. ”

“ You little shit! ”

“ You need to have a little faith in me because I've done nothing to deserve otherwise.

“ You wanna know who sat in that chair before you? Mob bosses, murderers, and thieves. And you know who put them there? The guy sitting in this chair. ”

“ You were abandoned. ”

“ You were right. It's bigger than all of us. ”

“ You're always talking about wanting to be treated like an adult. Now might be a good time to start acting like one. ”

“ You're like Buddha, if he wasn't so enlightened. ”

“ You're like Jesus, if he was arrogant and all of his miracles were fake. ”

“ You're very tightly... How should I put it? Um... Corked. Now, recognizing that you have physical needs not being met, and strictly in the vein of helping a sister out, I invite you to think of me as your own personal corkscrew. ”

“ You're worried about me. Well, I'm worried about you. ”

“ Your ass is mine. ”

“ Your average therapist is gonna charge you $200-$300 for this sesh. Me? I'll take a tenner. ”

“ You’re dismissive enough about me when you’re sober. ”

“ You’re having lunch with him in 45. ”

“ You’re the game. You’re being played. ”

[heyitscmei]

To Build a Home

Characters: Keith, Shiro Pairing(s): Shiro/Keith Warnings: Potential spoilers for s2 Notes: Sheith Week Unlimited - Day 1: Dreamer, Late night cuddling and post-war plans Read on AO3 Summary: Shiro supposes that it’s only fitting that, in light of old dreams having come true - no matter how unexpectedly - it’s about time they figure out some new ones to hope for. So when Keith rolls over to face him that night and says, “I think I want a house,” Shiro isn’t surprised.

Shiro remembers the way he and Keith used to talk on the Garrison’s roof about the bigger things that awaited him.  Them, Shiro would remind gently, because Keith was going to get there too.  He remembers listening to Keith talk about flying and freedom and aliens.  He remembers watching Keith as he grew more animated, talking about conspiracies and theories and just - aliens.

There are few things Shiro finds quite as charming as the way Keith looks when he’s lit up that way, talking more than most people have come to expect from someone like Keith.  Maybe that’s why he remembers it so vividly even though it feels like a lifetime and a half has passed since that time.

“I’ll be waiting, so you better keep up, copilot.”

“Future copilot,” Keith corrects.  “But you don’t need to wait.  I’ll catch up to you without the handicap.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shiro supposes that it’s only fitting that, in light of old dreams having come true - no matter how unexpectedly - it’s about time they figure out some new ones to hope for.  So when Keith rolls over to face him that night and says, “I think I want a house,” Shiro isn’t surprised.  Not really, anyways.  They’d all been musing about future plans after all.

“Didn’t you say you were going to find your family?”

“Yeah.” Something about Keith’s expression is soft Shiro finds himself robbed of breath.

“Did you ever think… I mean, it’s a big job for one person.”

“I can handle it.”

“Of course you can.” There’s no doubt really. “I just thought you might want... some help?” Shiro deflates, but Keith seems to understand.

“Are you offering?” He asks anyways.

“Yeah?” Shiro frowns before repeating, more confidently, “Yes. If you don’t mind the company.”

“I never mind your company,” Keith says simply and Shiro smiles.

“If there’s anyone out there, we’ll find them.”

“Yeah.  And then after that I want a house.”

“What kind of house?” Shiro prompts.  Keith pauses to consider this and Shiro admires the messy hair splayed over the pillow, reaching to brush some of it out of Keith’s face.

“A big house,” Keith decides.

“Roomy.”

“Yeah.  So there’s enough room for us and any strays you manage to bring home.”

In spite of how long they’ve been together, the fact that Keith’s dreams automatically seem to include him never fails to fill his belly with something warm and tender.  It’s incredibly reminiscent of how they are and have always been, from the Garrison all the way up til now.

He reaches for Keith who instantly shifts closer into his arms.

“What makes you think I’m going to bring home strays?”

“Don’t think I forgot about the dog incident, Takashi.  You won’t be able to turn them away.”

“You got me.  But let’s not forget who raised 3 baby birds and a kitten because they were hurt.  You’re no better than me, Kogane.”  Keith just smiles at him.

“So we’ll need plenty of space then.”

“Point taken.  Would there be enough room for kids in this house?” Shiro asks.

“Kids?”

“We could go to your old orphanage,” Shiro offers.  “Or we could consider surrogacy.  Our baby might get those pretty blues of yours.”

“That sounds nice,” Keith sighs.

“So I take it there’s room.”

“We’ll make it work.”  Keith tucks himself beneath Shiro’s chin and Shiro lets jet black strands tickle his chin.  “We should be able to stargaze too.”

“The shack seemed good for that.  Though it’s a little small.”

“Let’s renovate.”

“We’ll need new furniture,” Shiro says, huffing a laugh. “Your table is a little....”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  My table was fine.”

“Keith.” The man in question laughs.

“Okay so we’ll get a new table.  Let’s just refurnish the place.  The couch isn’t very comfortable either.”

“So how does our wedding go?” Shiro asks because he’s curious.

“Are you proposing?”

“Do you still need me to?”

“I guess not.” Shiro feels warm lips pressing a kiss near his heart.  “I’m pretty set on marrying your dorky ass.”

“Awe, sweetie.  I’m pretty set on marrying your dorky ass too.  So our wedding?”

“Can’t we just elope?”

“Do you really think Pidge, Lance and Hunk will let us get away with that?” Shiro chuckles at Keith’s groan.  “Allura and Coran might not let us get out of it either.”

“I can almost hear it…”

“We would love to witness a tradition Earth bonding ceremony!!” Shiro says in a poor imitation of the Princess’ voice.

“Oh god no.  Let’s wait until Hunk and Lance get married first.”

“Maybe I don’t want to wait,” Shiro says, rubbing circles into Keith’s back.  “I think you’d look good in white.”

“I know you’d look good in white,” Keith retorts.

“Who’s going to be your best man? Hunk or Lance?”

“Neither. I’m picking Pidge.  They’re a safe option.”

“Hunk isn’t so bad.”

“You’re right, but will Pidge forgive me if I don’t choose them? What about you?”

“Matt, if we can find him.”

“Maybe one of your nephews can be the ring bearer,” Keith muses.

“The princess can officiate.”

“I bet Lance will catch the bouquet.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Pidge was telling me that he caught a tenner with his mouth in the mall’s fountain.”

“He what?” Shiro feels Keith shrug.

“I don’t know.  I was too busy keeping my knife, navigating alien bathrooms and running from security.”

“Sounds like you had an interesting trip.  Okay so Lance catches the bouquet. What else?”

“You cry at the altar because you’re a sap, but that’s okay because I think I’d be crying too.  Lance will probably make fun of us, but he and Hunk will have been crying the hardest.”

“Do you think Hunk will want to cater?”

“I hope so,” Keith groans.  “His cooking’s amazing.”  Shiro nods in agreement.  Hunk could probably make them an amazing wedding cake too.

“My family’s gonna be so proud,” Shiro comments.  “Mama kept telling me to “ask out that nice boy you like so much already.” Imagine how she’ll react when we get back and finds out we’re engaged.”

“I guess we’ll have to find rings.”

“I always knew i was going to propose to you with a space rock.”

“I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of our house.”

“Do I get a turn?”

“Whatever you want.,” Keith says fondly.  “You could just carry me into the bedroom though.”

“I think I’d be okay with that.”

“Any other questions?” Keith asks around a yawn.  Shiro considers this.

“Nah, I think we’re good.”

“Now go to sleep you sap.  We need to win this war first.”

“Yes, sir.”  They fall quiet and Shiro listens to Keith breathe, waiting for his breath to even out and letting it lull him into sleep.

This, he thinks, is a dream worth fighting for.

He can’t wait to make it come true.