#book a moving van London

[see-arcane]

With a total of 1,176 votes tallied, the preferred plushie poll winner with 28.8% of votes is…

What a close one! Jonathan came in with 27.7%, the mysterious Mr. Morse with 24.9% and, delicious irony of ironies, London Dracula with 18.9%. Rest in pieces. Now, what does all this mean going forward?

First, just to reconfirm: I will absolutely be looking into the costs for having more than one plushie character produced at a time. For all that Mina has the top spot if it comes down to a solo run, Nobody Wants to Separate the Gothic Horror Soulmates, even as wee little plushies. It hurts my heart to think of. Mina and Jonathan deserve to sit side by side on everyone’s pillow. Just as Quinn Morse deserves to haunt the pillow next to theirs while casually throttling and carving London Dracula into pieces. For enrichment.

But beyond that, some other key things:

How is this getting done?

Sadly, I was not a cool enough kid for Makeship to greenlight a collaboration with me. Tragique. But while I was sitting around waiting for them to get back to me, I had time to browse around for other options. During that sniffing around I dug up a couple of promising manufacturers—one of which has some really neat options for not only plush toys, but all sorts of bric-a-brac like stationery, shirts, bags, cups, et cetera—and I plan to reach out to them for quotes to start with. Nothing really gets to move forward until I can nail down prices and the amount of X plushies to be made.

I am more than a little hesitant to tell anyone MAKE ME 1000+ PLUSHIES, PLEASE, THE TUMBLR POLL SAID THEY’RE GOOD FOR IT. These aren’t as simple as print/make-on-demand products, so I need to be careful estimating the amount of folks ready and willing to drop money on the little guys. But I will keep everyone updated on the numbers regardless!

Sooo is this a crowdfunding thing or an investment or what?

Don’t know yet. I am still between jobs at the moment—reminder to check out my Ko-Fi if you want to drop me a buck or commission some art!—but if this is something I can safely drop some of my own money in with the guarantee that it will let me do better than break even, I’ll do what I can out of pocket. However, if the cost of making something of good quality turns out too steep, I’ll start looking into stuff like Kickstarter and Backerkit and so on. I want to be sure I’m not gutting anybody’s wallet to pull this off and I want to be double-sure that what we’re paying for isn’t some flimsy throwaway junk. We are all here on the same Dracula book club starving artist site, so It Has to Be Worth It and not a money-sink for anyone.

Got it. Any other info to spare?

For the plushies specifically, this is when I’ll start:

Polishing up the current four designs into cleaner illustrations with different angles to provide for mockup samples with whoever I pick to manufacture with. If I get stuck on something—(which is likely)—I may throw up another poll to bug everyone about palettes and fashion choices. I have a few more designs I haven’t dropped yet for Epilogue Harkers, a non-Bloofer Lucy, and keychains that I’d love to share too!

Eyeballing materials. I’m already picturing a very close-cut cloth for the build and clothes, but I need to decide on filling too. Stiff overstuffing to hold a pose versus softer/lighter plush for floppy cuddleability. 

Poking at other character roughs, ala the Suitor Squad, the Weird Sisters, Van Helsing, Renfield, and Baby Quincey. And if all of those go well…

…maybe some designs for other favorites in the public domain playground. (Looks meaningfully at Clarimonde, Carmilla, Victor Frankenstein and the Creature, the King in Yellow, too many others.) ((But that’s all far-future stuff at the moment.))

Cool! But you also mentioned something about other merch?

I did.

Because goddamn do I want some Dracula-themed stationery. Journals! Memo pads! Pens! Every day we don’t have these things with the Harkers’ mark upon them is a victory for the forces of Count Dracula’s document-destroying evil. Likewise for shirts, totes, mugs, keychains, face masks and other things that could use some novel-flavored goodies. Hell, I’ll probably even get on with making stuff for The Vampyres to link on my website too. Because I am. Maybe behind on that. By several months.

Anyway.

I’ve got to start working on some designs for those too while the plushie process is progressing. Pray that my carpals don’t get tunneled.

Nice! Sounds like your plate is pretty full. So that’s it, right?

:)

Arcane?

:3c

Arcane. I need you to tell me this is all you’re working on.

>:}

Arcane.

Please stand by.

I have a little treat brewing for the Dracula Dailiers and @re-dracula folks in honor of a very special day for our good friend Jonathan Harker.

[crepesuzette2023]

Hold up ,,, Mal called Paul his love in his diaries?

Yes. In his autobiography. He also analyzed their relationship in his diaries. For some context, here's a longer passage from Ken Womack's book, Living the Beatles Legend (Chapter 31).

As January 1970 came to close, Mal began drifting into an emotional slide that has been developing over the past several years. "Seem to be losing Paul," he wrote on January 27. "Really got a stick from him today. He let me down," and ominously added "Fixing a hole," "Pepper," and "directorship" to a growing list of disappointments. Apparently, the conversation had turned yet again to the issue of Mal's servile role in Paul's life, with the roadie believing that the association was bounded by friendship and love. "A servant serves," Mal wrote, "but he who serves is not always a servant," he added, echoing John's philosophy from December 1968. "Love is as sharp and piercing as a sword, "Mal reasoned, "but as the sword edge dulls — you sharpen it. So love's keenness needs honing — needs honesty." *

[...]

On February 11, Mal joined John and Yoko for a lip-synched performance of "Instant Karma!" on Top of the Pops, with the roadie, clad in beige suit and a light-green tie, playing the tambourine. By this juncture, Mal's long-standing relationship with Paul was in freefall. A few days earlier, he have been awakened by a 1 p.m. telephone call from the Beatle. It went "something like this," he wrote in his diary:

Mal: yeah? Paul: I've got time at EMI over the weekend. Would like you to pick up some gear from the house. Mal: Great, man. That's lovely. Session at EMI?! Paul: Yes, but I don't want anyone there to make me tea. I have the family – wife and kids there. Mal: [thinking to himself] Goes my poor head, "Why????" **

By the next week, Mal found himself behind the wheel of the Apple van, moving Paul's gear from EMI Studios to Morgan Studios, another Northwest London facility where Paul could work incognito. At one point, Neil cornered Mal about Paul surreptitious recording sessions, demanding to know more. "Where's Paul?" he asked, to which Mal tersely replied, "Not telling you."

In other instances, Mal ordered a Mellotron for Paul, while keeping him fully stocked with plectrums and other gear. In late February, Paul asked Mal to move everything back to EMI, where he was set to record "Maybe I'm Amazed" in Studio 2. For Mal, everything came to a head at 7 Cavendish Ave., when "my long love, Paul, to whom I have devoted so many years of loyalty, turned around to me and said, I don't need you anymore, Mal." *** *, ** : Evans, "Diaries." [1963—1974.] 10 vols. Malcolm Frederick Evans Archives. Entries from Jan 27 & Feb 5, 1970.

***: Evans, Mal, 'Living the Beatles Legend: Or 200 Miles to Go.' Unpublished MS, 1976. Malcolm Frederick Evans Archives.

[incorrectbatfam]

I h3ad cannon athat all the batfam members have had/are still in their emo/goth phases.

Example:

Bruce dressed as a bat and punches criminals at night (I also head cannon that he listens to the rolling stones and MCR)

Anyways thoughts?

Also what were the other batfam members emo/goth phases like?

Dick: He was hella neurotic in his late Robin/early Nightwing days. That plus his mullet and guitar tells me he probably tried to live out of a used van he bought for $700 after a fight with Bruce only to come home a week later when someone knocked on his window.

Jason: He's the theater/classic lit goth. When he was younger he would read by the glow of a candelabra even though the lights work perfectly fine. Post-resurrection, he graduates to the biker anarchist who has no problem launching a molotov at a CEO's mansion.

Tim: He's from the 90s. He's sitting in that Y2K grunge-emo-punk gray area where his playlist is a mix of the Clash, Nirvana, and Green Day. He's coloring his hair with Kool-Aid, playing with makeup, ripping his own clothes, and talking about new songs on AOL.

Damian: He's aiming for dark academia, but that's hard to pull off if you know what American schools look like. He annotates the margins of his books with notes he thinks are insightful but are actually just basic observations. Also he listens to Imagine Dragons.

Duke: This kid isn't emo or goth, he is a punk through and through. Sassing the cops? Jumping off a bridge? Leading a ragtag vigilante team? If he wanted to, I bet he can pull off a leather jacket with some homemade spikes while blasting Bad Brains and Death.

Cullen: Canonically, he watches anime and Supernatural, and I've made a lot of Tumblr references with him. He's definitely your quintessential 2010s emo nerd—Black Parade, fandoms, the whole shabang. He also definitely followed Dan and Phil.

Stephanie: She strikes me as the early 2000s pop-punker—think MySpace and Avril Lavigne. She probably had a Not Like Other Girls phase that she quickly grew out of. I can see her cutting posters out of magazines and sneaking her MP3 under an oversized hoodie.

Cassandra: She canonically listens to Killswitch Engage, so I like to imagine what she was like as a baby metalhead. Maybe she thrifted a Pantera shirt and chopped her hair with safety scissors. And at concerts she's absolutely up front when the wall of death happens.

Barbara: I think she dabbled in a little bit of everything without ever outwardly expressing it. Her playlist is all over the board, from softer rock to screamo. She also experimented with makeup a little, like black lipstick, and is more involved in the activism side of things.

Harper: She's definitely industrial punk with a huge emphasis on the DIY aspect of the subculture. She strings soda tabs into chains, turns old screws into boot spikes, and even learned to give herself tattoos. She also absolutely has a drawer full of patch pants.

Carrie: She's a TikTok e-girl, leaning into the pinks and purples along with black and white. She turns fishnet leggings into gloves and has a bunch of animal ear headbands. She also listens to Melanie Martinez and Tame Impala regardless of if they count as alternative.

Kate: Queer people play a huge role in the punk scene and vice versa. I can absolutely see Kate jamming out to an early Pansy Division track or searching places like Bandcamp to support smaller indie artists. Also she has a jacket that says "Nazi punks fuck off."

Alfred: Before punk and its subgenres, Alfred was canonically a delinquent and in that day, delinquency meant gelled-up hair and moving like Elvis. The hair didn't work out for him, but he was able to catch one of the first shows Buddy Holly played in London.

Selina: Alt cultures are based on not having much and working with what you got. Selina would use the five-finger discount at big-box stores and save her money to support small businesses. She also went around listening to free local rock shows on Fridays.

Bruce: He listened to the Rolling Stones before, but his first real intro to the scene was a handmade zine he found on the floor at school. From there, he explored more underground artists and took up journaling as a way to vent his feelings. And then: Batman.

[bremser]

Berenice Abbott at 18 rue Servandoni

The portrait on the cover of Julia Van Haaften's 2018 biography "Berenice Abbott: A Life in Photography" and at the top of Abbott's wiki page is by an unknown photographer. It was taken for the small newspaper Paris-Midi, published June 14, 1928. Keystone France agency, and now Getty owns the rights and incorrectly dates it as 1927, while Wikipedia dates it as "1930s."

At the time, her studio was at 18 rue Servandoni in Paris, we see the fireplace and door in the background in other portraits, such as the portrait of James Joyce's daughter, Lucia. There's a classic Atget at 15 rue Servandoni, but it's from 1903-4. Atget died in 1927 and Abbott, along with Julien Levy, saved his archive. By 1930 she was in New York City, where Walker Evans made his great portrait of her.

Van Haaften writes that in search of lower rent, Abbott moved to the rue Servandoni studio in early 1928. Abbott kept a clipping of the newspaper, but there's no further detail about the portrait session in the biography.

I was curious about the photographer of the portrait and found Getty has a handful of other frames from the same session that I'd never seen.

Most interesting of those frames is this contemplative shot showing the windows of her studio, maybe some photo chemicals on the table. A puff of smoke emanates from Abbott's cigarette in the same place where someone has left their fingerprint on the negative or print. There's a strong reflection or light leak in the top left corner of the frame. Van Haaften describes the rue Servandoni studio offering "beautiful north light."

Looking at the building on Google Earth, there is one north-facing spot that has the large windows similar to the 1928 portrait, seen in the center of the screen grab below.

Another detail Van Haaften mentions is that it took Abbott months to install electricity. An electric spotlight is on a tripod behind Abbott in the standing portrait. In the alternate angle you can see a not-to-code wire dangling.

So, who made these portraits? The Keystone France agency was an off-shoot of a popular stereoview company based in Meadville, Pennsylvania, hence "keystone." If you've ever flipped through old stereoviews at a vintage shop, you recognize this brand. The French agency was founded by Alexandre Garai in 1927 (whose brother Bertram started a related Keystone in London in 1914). The Met has one photograph by Alexandre Garai, taken in 1927. The jpeg is tiny, but indicates a modern perspective. While it's possible Garai is the photographer, his brother's ethos seems to have been to be the boss ... and never touch a camera.

The identity could be buried deep in Getty's London warehouse, which stores 80 million photographs and negatives. When these frames were scanned and metadata added to Getty in 2010-2016, if there was a name on the back of the prints, it probably would have been added then.

From the photos themselves, it's difficult to say if Abbott had a rapport or was familiar with the photographer: her default intensity is remarkably consistent her entire life, up until the last portrait of her in 1991.

(left, rue Servandoni 1929, right: Hank O'Neal, Berenice Abbott, Last Portrait, Monson, Maine July 17, 1991)

From the resolution, the depth of field on the lens, these are probably shot with a 4x5 or larger camera. It looks like the photographer shot the lens wide open, the camera in the standing portraits looks very much in focus, while Abbott's face looks slightly out of focus.

Two of the four frames have similar damage, could be a development problem, but could be mold later while in storage. Abbott's Paris portraits of the period were shot on glass (as much of Atget's body of work was), though by the late 1920s glass plates had mostly been replaced by film. Annoyingly, Getty is one of the best places online to see her Paris portraits, but the Steidl book is highly recommended. Seen together, you realize why Man Ray felt threatened, or at least annoyed, by his former assistant.

The photographer was either challenged or in a challenging environment. Abbott was often a withering critic, one can imagine a green photographer shows up to make portraits and encounters a prickly subject. With the seated portrait above, at first glance, I thought maybe the print has a piece torn out of the left side? Or is it a modern lamp intruding on the composition?

It's difficult to tell with the window portrait how much of it is a metering mistake or the potential development issue, but it looks several stops overexposed to be of use in publication of that time. Today, with our phone cameras taking three frames and digitally merging exposure, we can romanticize the top half of her body dissolving into the light is as the "magic of film."

I'm calling this the "last" frame of the session, based only on the fact that her pose and facial expression has shifted from intensity to a mix of boredom and exasperation. The photographer told her to sit on the day bed with tea and a book, "look relaxed," but she wants nothing to do with it.

[shinycollarboneapologist]

a tale of brief encounters (and the one time it actually isn't so brief)

(part 2 to clandestined, or the one where matty tries to call elle’s bluff)

word count: 8.6k

content: MINORS DNI! mentions of alcohol and drinking, matty is a jealous baby, mutual pining, george cockblocks, smut, fingering in front of a mirror, and matty uses the term “good girl” a lot, also slight age gap (3 years). (i also have not read through this yet, so please do not hesitate to tell me if something is wrong or weird thank u)

with the turn of the season comes the inevitability of elle’s trek home from the hectic haze of school and work and the return to some sense of normalcy. it’s inundated with the promise of rest and relaxation, a chance to stretch her legs and finally start cracking on that growing pile of “to be read” books or change up her style, get cracking on those internship applications. it also comes with the promise of returning to george’s couch, a tradition dating back to when she initially committed to a university and moved out of their shared childhood home. It was the promise that both would have a month or so of uninterrupted brother-sister bonding time (it also gave her the opportunity to work and make money without having to pay rent). 

the season changes and so does she, trading in her sweaters for shorts and sundresses; its unnaturally hot for this time of year and the sun is fully shining instead of peaking through the clouds. it’s early in the morning when she gets the call from george that he’s outside with a borrowed van. stomach flipping, elle tells him that she’ll be down in a moment. there’s that underlying promise that there would be someone with him. it was tradition after all for george and matty to come to get her. she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about him once these past few weeks. but her unrelenting anticipation is soon replaced by disappointment at the sight of a lone george waiting outside the building. it’s short-lived, though, as she finds herself quickly distracted by loading up the van with some of her essentials. she’s hardly lifting a finger because in true george fashion he’s lugging most of the heavier items, a bit begrudgingly but he’s doing it anyway.

the ride back to his is smooth. there’s not many people on the road due to the time of day, and he even makes it a point to stop and get the both of them some fast food breakfast and coffee along the way. george asks about the internship and elle answers, raving about the london office and all of the coworkers she has yet to meet and how one of her roommates was also awarded a position there so the duo plans on commuting together. elle asks about the guys, carefully skirting around the topic of his own roommate. and after he talks about ross and hann, she doesn't bring up matty, a bit too scared to ask where he is or how he’s been. his absence is felt in the car all the way home and elle finds herself having to push away dangerous thoughts of him more often than she would admit to. 

the apartment is empty when they arrive, much to elle’s dismay. a smile replaces her frown, though, as not to seem too dejected. even if there was no kiss, no longing, no desire, she still would miss him and his antics and the big welcome home that he’s always given her. the day passes by as she makes herself at home in the small two bedroom apartment, claiming a shelf in the bathroom and setting up a stake on the pull out couch. it almost feels empty without matty messing around and hiding her stuff as she tries to organize herself. she can’t help but feel dejected in a way, chest feeling heavy as she tucks herself onto the couch after the long day. 

sleep comes easy, but doesn’t stay that way. it’s late when elle hears a clanging by the door, the jingling of keys and giggles coming from outside in the hall. not this. it takes a second for the door to open and the culprits to be revealed. 

matty’s wrapped around another girl, lips feverishly pressing to her own and hands roaming her body. its dark, but the small amount of light coming in from the door is enough to illuminate the way he’s pressing himself against her. she’s gasping, her own hands clutching onto him and pulling him close. there’s stifled whispers falling from his lips, elle can hear the hush in his tone, and his friend’s incessant giggling. the door to the hallway shuts and he begins to move her inside, closer to where elle is trying so viciously to not be seen. bile rises to her throat. 

“oh, hey there, ellie belly,” he hums. 

ellie belly. the nickname weighs heavy on her brain, he hasn’t called her that in ages. and surely, she had thought something would change following the kiss and the things he muttered into her ear and the way his hands gripped her waist. but evidently, it’s still the same. at least it is for him. 

she rolls over, wanting the couch to just fold back up and crush her with it, but not before his eyes meet her’s and he sends her a wink in the dark that turns her stomach. 

“who was that?” the dark haired girl breathes out, as he begins to back her into his room. 

“no one important, s’just my roommate’s sister,” the door is shut and that’s when the tears come. 

—---------------

elle is pretty good at avoiding matty for a few days. 

she pushes herself to stay longer at the office, take the longer train ride home and the more scenic walk up to the apartment building. and it’s easy to do so. he’s rarely home when she is, and even when he is around there’s not many interactions between the two of them that aren’t mediated by george. 

“you going out tonight?” george asks, walking up to the bathroom that she had been hogging for what he saw as hours. his face comes to view in the mirror as he pokes his head into the open door. 

elle smiles at him, nodding as she lowers the music playing from her phone, an old throwback song, “yeah a couple of the interns wanted to celebrate the completion of our first week at the office.” 

he returns the smile and steps into the room, leaning against the threshold of the door with his arms crossed over his chest, “hope it doesn’t end up as a repeat of your eighteenth birthday. you remember that?” 

eyes narrowing, she puts the curling iron down and turns to get a full look at him, scoff falling from her lips, “it will not!”

“that’ll teach you to go shot for shot with me and matty,” he’s full on grinning now, “spent most of your night in this bathroom here if i’m correct.”

his words bring elle back to the flavored vodka and redbull induced night, can still taste the bitterness on her tongue and the copious amounts of sports drinks she had consumed to not spend her night in the hospital. it all started when matty made a comment on the “girly” drink she had in her hand, challenging her to take a sip of his much more “macho” mixed drink. it wasn’t half bad, surprisingly, and he promised the girl that he would buy her as many as she wanted so long as she finished them all. an opportunist at heart, elle accepted but soon found herself clutching her stomach and being led out of the dingy london club by george and matty, her friends and the rest of the guys trailing behind the three of them. the night got foggy from that point on and the first thing she can vaguely remember is waking up in george’s bed with a cool rag on her forehead and a pounding headache. 

“enough from you. it was all matty’s fault anyway,” elle chides, turning back to the mirror to continue fixing her hair. 

“oh yeah, because he force fed you all those drinks,” george tuts his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“alright, get out before i burn you with this,” elle waves the iron at him. he only holds his hands up in mock surrender. 

“do you need a ride? i think matty’s heading out tonight, was gonna dd for him. can always drop you off as well,” george asks as he exits, leaving elle to ponder the thought. 

“where’s he going?” she tries not to seem too enthralled by the question, instead trying to busy herself with the hot curling iron and a stubborn strand of hair, “i’m not gonna ask you to taxi me around if he’s going somewhere and i’m out of the way.” 

she hears george utter the name of a club. it’s familiar, has her pausing the music to hear him again as he repeats it. the curling iron slips from her hand and there's a slight burning sensation bubbling up on the skin on the top of her foot. 

“fuck!” 

when the realization of matty being at the same club finally sinks in, the hot metal doesn’t seem so painful. she reaches down quickly and grabs the tool, placing it back on the counter. 

“elle, are you alright?” george asks, poking his head back into the bathroom. 

“yeah. i’m fine,” she mutters, more so trying to convince herself than anything, “guess i’ll take you up on that offer, then.” she gives him a half-smile. he nods apprehensively, but doesn’t push the issue. and elle is grateful for that. when he dips out of the room once more, she lets out a long, exasperated sigh. 

she was fucked.

matty returns moments before they’re set to leave; the first time elle has seen him solo and not entangled with one of his friends. his presence cuts into her bravado with a knife, tugging on the threads of her confidence and pulling against them until they’re taught enough to snap. she finds herself messing with her outfit more, playing with the straps of her dress and fiddling with the hem. he notices, because he always does, and offers her a sly smirk, lips curled around his teeth. if things were different, it would have hit her right in the gut, eliciting a burning sensation. and while it did that now, elle was conflicted with a sense of wanting to shy away from it all. 

in a turn of events, matty lets elle take the passenger seat claiming the back of the van is “too decrepit for sweet ellie belly.” she cringes at the nickname, rolling her eyes as she slips into the passenger side. his eyes are hot on her neck, burning holes into her skin. she can feel them lighting little fires, a stark comparison to how cold he had been to her the week prior. 

the ride is quick, her thoughts muted by george and matty’s antics. her stomach churns when george asks if matty plans on bringing home a friend tonight. the older boy only laughs, his eyes catch elle’s before he slips out of the van, offering a sly smirk and a stomach-fluttering wink. elle is nauseated and thankful that he’s ran ahead to meet up with his friends at the door. 

“call me if you need anything, yeah?” george smiles from the driver’s seat. elle nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before she follows matty’s suit and slips out of the car. loud music permeates the air of chatter around the entrance which is saturated by the bodies of those waiting to get in or enjoying a smoke. there’s no sight of matty, though, and elle is thankful for that. she just wants him to stay out of her hair and out of sight for as long as possible. 

“elle!” 

elle pivots on the balls of her feet, spinning around to see charli and sophie. she wraps her arms around her friends as they squeal and cheer their hellos, despite the annoyed glances from those around them.

“is that george in the car?” charli quips while they pull away. she raises on her tippy toes to attempt to see in the van that’s slowly pulling away, tugging her lowcut top down a bit and fluffing up her hair, “go ask him if he wants to come have a drink. s’on me.” 

“don’t be weird, char.” elle groans, dragging her friends towards the entrance after turning to wave george off. 

the club is packed, littered with bodies from wall to wall. and despite the lack of room to move let alone breathe, elle is happy. it leaves little to no anticipation that she would be forced to interact with matty. the girls are quick to distract her from it all, buying her drink after drink and shot after shot. the music is vibrating through her body, mixing with the alcohol she’s quickly consumed to create a sense of euphoria. she needed this. 

“that guy over there has not stopped staring at you since we came in,” sophie smirks, handing elle another drink. her head nods over the girl’s shoulder and elle twists around to follow her gaze. 

sure enough, a guy; about six foot with a mop of golden curls and tattoos littering his slender arms, has his lip tucked between his teeth. his aloof demeanor matches the off-set smirk thats on his face. elle won’t deny he’s attractive, she has a type clearly.  a small, bashful smile pulls at her lips. she offers him a wave, which he returns. elle is quick to turn around, giddy as she faces sophie once more. 

“he’s coming over.”

“no he’s not, shut up,” elle’s cheeks feel warm, stomach twisting in delight.

sophie nods, wide eyed, “elle, he’s uh right behind-”

“hey,” his voice is deep, sending a shiver down elle’s spine as he finds his place carefully next to her.

“hi,” she returns the gesture. if the lights in the club were not so dim, she was sure he would see the rising flush from her neck. 

“what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he quirks, nodding his head at her.

“am i not allowed to be here?” she tilts her head to the side, looking up at him with doed eyes.

“never said that. think running into you made my night significantly better, actually,” his arm worms its way around her waist and elle’s smile only deepens. she curls her lips around the straw of her drink, sucking down the bitter liquid while keeping her eyes locked on his.  

his name is alex. he’s a musician in a local band, lead singer and guitar player. he grew up ten-minutes from where elle’s family moved and he was actually in her maths class. 

she has a type. 

her attention is only pulled from his momentarily. and in that moment she’s kicking herself for even looking away.

across the bar, matty is stood nursing a drink. he looks like he’s paying half a mind to it as his head bops to the beat. their eyes lock for only a moment. his attention is pulled down to the arm around her waist and the guy slung around her neck. alex’s lips are hot on her skin, albeit a bit messy. a soft gasp falls from her parted lips, consumed by the thickened air around them. her eyes fall shut as his teeth drag over the sensitive skin just under her ear. 

when her eyes open, matty’s gone. 

“well well well. what do we have here?”

even in her alcohol induced euphoria, elle would recognize the timbre of that voice anywhere. the way his lilted pronunciation rolls off his tongue, hangs in the air like smoke and vanishes away before she can hang on too tight. his presence usually elicits flutters in her stomach, a pounding in her chest and a bright smile. this time, however, the disdain burns heavy on her tongue. he’s got a thing for being places he shouldn’t be at the times where its least opportune. the hand on her waist tightens, drawing her in closer to the stranger’s grasp. she wants so badly to remember the guys name, it sits untouched on the tip of her tongue because the only name she can remember is-

“matty,” elle huffs, “what are you doing here?” 

“just wanted to see how little ellie belly was doing,” he reaches up and ruffles her hair. it draws a chuckle from the man wrapped around her (andrew? jamie?). elle feels her shoulders slump, stomach twisting instead of fluttering. matty doesn’t relent, “though, it looks like she’s doing alright for herself.” 

“do you know this guy?” scott! his name is scott, asks from next to her. 

“unfortunately,” elle mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. 

matty snorts with a roll of his eyes, “i’m matty. and you are standing way too close to the precious cargo.” his hand is outstretched, staring directly at the arm wrapped conveniently around elle’s waist. she feels small under his gaze. and even smaller as the man stood next to her reaches out his unoccupied hand.

“alex,” their hands collide in an uncomfortable sound, “and i’ll stand right here until she decides to tell me off. which i hope she doesn’t, by the way.” 

matty’s tongue rolls against his teeth. it clicks against the roof of his mouth as an emotion elle has yet to pinpoint washes over his face. he covers it up quickly with a half-lipped smile, looking between the two of them, “next round on me?” 

he does buy the next round, with alex soon following with another and there was a third bought by matty and a fourth by alex. with each slam of an empty pint glass and smirk thrown in her direction, elle feels like she’s shrinking. small enough to weasel away from the testosterone induced challenges that have been plaguing her ears for the past thirty minutes or so, but alex’s hand sitting firmly around her waist and matty’s darkened stare are enough to keep her in place. 

“is one of them about to pee on you? or is the meat-fest pointless?” sophie huffs, though she’s already downed another drink bought by matty. 

“this is getting ridiculous. i just want to get out of here,” elle sighs. 

it doesn’t matter how loudly either of the girls talk. the two men are paying them no mind. instead,both of their chests are puffed outwards and elle can tell from the way matty is standing that he’s trying to appear taller than he is, though he and alex stand around the same height. its paired with their obnoxiously timed sly digs in between the casual conversation about alex and matty’s one shared common interest: being musicians in a local band. 

manicured fingers reach up to tug on the sleeve of alex’s shirt. there’s no budge. no movement aside from the arm that was once around her waist slipping a bit. brown eyes dart down, and a smirk rises on matty’s lips. elle feels sick. he looks pretty pleased with himself. she needs to work harder, remind the man that was so wrapped up in her moments ago that she was still standing there. so, she tugs again. 

alex shifts to face her this time, dazed smile on his lips. 

“do you wanna get out of here?” elle all but begs into his ear; she just wants to be put out of her misery of watching the mirrored images bicker. 

“oh…oh…yeah,” he nods. thankful, elle lets their fingers intertwine.

“we’re gonna head out. see you, matty. thanks for the drinks,” she nods her head in matty’s direction. 

his expression is unreadable, like he’s mulling over something in his head. as annoyed as she is, elle would kill to be able to crack open his brain to see what exactly was going on in there. the wheels were definitely turning, whether good, bad or indifferent. as badly as she wanted to get out of there, she more so would spend the next few hours picking his brain. yet, alex serves as a viable distraction. a means to break her from the matty-induced spell. 

alex extends his hand out to shake matty’s once more. the brunette looks down at the outstretched hand, then back at the way elle has so comfortably enclosed herself around alex’s arm. he meets her eyes, eyebrows arched in an “are you sure about this?” expression. 

“why are you looking-” 

“dunno if you want to take her too far, mate. she might blow chunks on those nice new trainers you got there,” matty seethes. 

elle stiffens, hoping that the otherwise loud roar of the conversations around them and the overwhelming bass of the music would drown out the sound of matty’s voice. his words hang around in the thickened air, though, long enough for alex to slowly lower his hand. 

“matty-”

“mate, what are you talking about?” alex chuckles uneasily. 

“meant what i said. was her birthday. at this very club, she got so shit-faced couldn’t even walk straight. yacked right in that corner that she was probably about to take you to,” matty continues, vindictive bites laced within the syllables that fall from his mouth. elle so badly wants to catch them all, bury it all deep below the surface. this has never happened before. he’s never done this. 

“matty, stop,” she pleas. her requests fall as quickly as alex lets her hand drop. 

alex, all six-foot, messy auburn-hair, guitar playing lead-vocalist of him, laughs beside her. 

“think that’s the same night you belted out shakira the whole way to the cab? right, elle?” matty’s looking at her, expecting an answer. but how can she answer when her tongue feels heavy against the roof of her mouth? when the words she wants to utter are jumbled and foreign? how can she answer when the one person that’s always made her feel like the only person in the room is treating her no better than the lime he discarded on the bar?

he doesn’t wait any longer for a response. instead he continues, “it was a fucking mess, dude. the bouncers had to cone it off. my brand new trainers were stained.” 

elle’s chest feels tight, throat constricting as she tries to gasp for air. she would much rather deal with matty’s incessant stare, the darkened gaze and the brooding attitude than have him obliterate any chance with blonde-haired alex right in front of her. when the two of them laugh in cohesion, she feels a knife puncturing at her heart, eyes glazing over. 

she’s worming her way away from the group before she can hear anymore of what matty so graciously has to say. the tears come before she can make it all the way outside, ignoring the concerned stares from strangers.

 the cobblestone lined wall provides little relief to her heated body, heart hammering hard against her rib cage. she’s gasping for air, choked sobs drowning out the bass from inside. never in her life did she believe that of all people matthew fucking healy would be the one to take the piss out of her. it was bad enough that he’d pretty much pretended like she didn’t exist the entire first week of her arrival, ignored her texts. was this how he felt all along? was their friendship instilled in convenience of her stroking his ego when she complimented the band?

her shaking hands cover her face as the sobs rack through her body. she’s pathetic, feeling no bigger than the ants that crawl on the sidewalk. she envies them, despises them even. they at least get to crawl away from their problems and are able to get squished under the shoes of those that don’t care about them. meanwhile, she’s helplessly tangled up in the one problem she has. 

matty.

“elle?! where the fuck are you?” his voice collides with her ears oppressively. her stomach twists, “why- why did you leave?”

he’s out of breath; shoulders rising and falling quickly.

she puffs out a laugh, wiping at the tears that have collected under her eyes. 

“why did i leave? are you that fucking dense, matty?” 

he gulps, adams apple bobbing. 

“can you go get sophie and charli for me? i want to go home.”

“thought you were catching a ride with me and george,” matty takes a step towards her. its tentative, like he was mulling the action over in his head before he did it. so, he can think. he just picks and chooses when to do so. 

“don’t want to be anywhere near you, actually.” 

she watches as he winces and rubs over his heart, “sheesh. that one hurt, sweets. wait, are you crying?” matty’s face softens but she turns her face away. 

“elle.”

“leave me alone, matty,” she mutters. its pathetic the way her heart raps against her ribs harder as his hand comes in contact with her shoulder. the tiny little fires under her skin burn brighter and faster than ever before. 

“why are you crying?” he presses, tone unwavering.

“I’m not,” her voice betrays her as a sob escapes between her parted lips. 

he scoffs, “then what’s all this?” 

“i just don’t understand what i did to make you hate me so much,” elle sniffles, rubbing at her eyes. 

“what are you talking about?”

she inhales slowly, “you, fuck, you made me look like a fucking idiot. Fucking telling him all those embarrassing stories, won’t even look me in the eye at the apartment, avoiding me like the damn plague. matty, if you hate me, just fucking say it.” 

he’s quiet. 

he’s quiet and she’s fucked it. again. 

“if you regret kissing me just say it. i can take it. m’a big girl.”

matty stares at elle. long enough that she can feel his eyes burning holes into the side of her face. her head spins again, resonating within her brain is the sound of silence. its loud, overpowering her racing thoughts. she wants him to say something, anything. matty could recite the abc’s to her and she would be content. 

“say something.”

he flicks the butt of his finished cigarette to the ground. if it were any other person, she would have scolded them for littering, chastise them until they picked it up. but matty did it in a way that had her heart racing. his eyes coast over her when she finally looks at him again. her own eyes plea with him. elle needs him to say something, wants to hear the words that will finally put the nail in the coffin. if he rejects her maybe all those years of pining and going after guys that look and act like him will be in the past. maybe she can move on from the love sick crush she’s been harboring for so long. maybe. 

“eleanor daniel, are you dense?” 

“what?”

matty’s frame looms over her, pressing her body up against the wall as if he needed her to stabilize him, “i asked if you were dense.” 

she’s never seen him look at her that way before. 

“i don’t know what you’re getting on about, matty,” elle gulps. she can feel her heart beating in her throat; a rhythmic thumping that she’s positive he can hear from how close he is to her. his hand comes to rest at the base of her neck, thumb stroking over the heated skin, “just wish you would stop being so mean to me.”

“i don’t hate you. i want you, elle,” he exhales, “so fucking badly that it’s killing me knowing i can’t have you.” 

its her turn to be struck into silence, chest rising and falling slowly under the weight of his palm. her tongue juts out to flick over her bottom lip, blinking slowly. 

“you what?”

“you’ve been plaguing my thoughts since the last time i’ve seen you. but it can’t happen again,” matty murmurs, voice falling just above a whisper, “it shouldn’t have even happened the first time. you were crossed, didn’t want that to be the first time i kissed you.”

“you’ve been thinking about kissing me?” 

“do you only speak in questions?”

“only when it comes to you.” 

they stand in a comforting silence, though its tensed by the way his hand slides down from her neck to the curve of her waist. its slow, sensual and leaves a trail of goosebumps on her exposed skin. he leans in close to her and elle is almost convinced that he’s about to seal the space between them by pressing his lips against her own. the very lips she’s thought about at least ten times a day in the weeks following their last kiss. he doesn’t, though. instead he leans to her ear, hushed whispers against the shell of her ear. 

“i want to kiss you again, elle. but we can’t.”

she shudders, eyes fluttering closed as he presses a kiss just below her earlobe, “says who?”

“the laws of physics. george.” his voice is muffled as it reverberates against her skin, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. 

“george doesn’t have to know,” she refutes, nails dragging along his skin. he shivers underneath her hold. 

 its quiet again, aside from the cars that drive past and the occasional melodies escaping from the constant opening and shutting door of the club. 

“are you drunk right now?” matty asks, eyes pouring into elle’s as he lifts his gaze. his eyes are dilated, chocolate brown irises almost non-existent in the wake of his enlarged pupils. 

she shakes her head, but he pinches at her side.

“n-no. are you?”

“no.” 

his lips find hers before she can even find the courage to ask him to do so. its softer than their first kiss, slower and exuding a sense of comfort from their longing. he tastes of the bitter whiskey he had been sipping on the whole evening, yet it was uniquely matty. a taste elle was sure she would never get off the tip of her tongue. his hands wander over her body, falling from her waist to the curve of her ass through her jeans. they settle there, squeezing at swell. her mouth falls open in a gasp and he takes the initiative to slide his tongue between her lips. 

elle moans, and that’s when matty’s movements come to a screeching halt. he pulls back hastily though she’s frozen in time, lips still pursed and chin still tilted towards him. 

“we can’t do this again,” he hushes, moving his hands from over her jeans to rest at her waist once more.

“matty-” she exhales. she wants to ask him how he can kiss her like that and then decide on his own accord that whatever that just was is to never happen again but he’s quick to cut her off with a bruising kiss. it’s hard. the way his lips collide with her own and the force behind him as he pushes her back up against the cool cobblestone of the wall. the bricks dig into her back, yet elle pays them no mind as she lets herself get lost in the kiss. her hands move from the back of his neck up to the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting and pulling at the unruly curls that habituate there. he groans against her lips, gripping at the bare skin of her side. elle’s almost certain that there will be moon shaped marks left tomorrow but she has half a mind to care. 

the marks would prove to her that this was real.

–

its late. its late and the impending sound of her alarm is enough to make elle question her own sanity as to why she’s staring at the cracks in the ceiling instead of sleeping peacefully. she rolls over and reaches for the phone that’s plugged in beside the makeshift bed, eyes squinting as she tries to make sense of the bright screen. 2:04. groaning, she tosses the device aside. instead of peacefully falling among the pillows, it clatters to the floor, the noise disturbing the otherwise serene apartment. getting up to grab it would ruin the promise of sleep, yet she was feeling rather thirsty and with the kitchen only a few strides away maybe it made sense to lazily remove herself from the warm blankets. she’s pulling herself up with a sigh, fetching the phone from the floor and gently placing it on the arm of the couch, and makes her way to the kitchen. her steps are lithe and careful, not wanting to ruin the sound sleep of the two other occupants. 

her back is to the threshold, hands nimbly searching the familiar scuffed cabinets for a glass. she retrieves one, hips swaying to an unsung melody that ricochets through her head along with thoughts about matty and the events of the past few nights. the longing and the waiting and the kiss, how could she forget about the kiss? there’s still a phantom memory of it that lingers along her lips, almost as if he wanted her to remember. did he want her to remember? or was the “this can’t happen again” that he uttered true? and if that were true why did he look at her like that before? why did his body encapsulate her up against the wall? why did he breathe down her neck to elicit goosebumps? why did he avoid her at dinner? why does he barely hold a conversation? why-

“can’t sleep?” 

elle jumps, soft shriek falling from her lips. she snaps her head around, eyes locking in on the culprit in the dimly lit room. matty, of course. he looks like a vision; sleep stained eyes, hair awry on the top of his head and hips adorned with low hung pajama pants. her heart races and she’s not too sure if its from the man stood before her or the way he invaded her thoughts. he always invades her thoughts. 

“hasn’t anyone ever told you its rude to sneak up on people, matthew?” she chides, setting the glassware down on the counter beside her.

“hasn’t anyone told you that its rude to leave people hanging, eleanor?” he counters, arms coming to cross over his chest. 

“you’re the one who said that it couldn’t happen again. i was just seeing to that,” she utters and takes a step towards him. 

he scoffs and with a roll of his eyes he follows her lead, stepping forward as well. his eyes trace down to her hips, lingering on the curve there. elle usually cowers under his stare, but this time she feels a sense of bravado wash over her. he’s not as intimidating as he thinks he is. 

“i’m not drunk,” she urges, arms tentatively reaching out towards him. elle half expects matty to shove her away, “or high for that matter.”

but with another step forward, he’s got her backed into the counter, “neither am i.”

elle swallows thickly, her throat feeling constrained under his darkened gaze. he looks starved, depleted of whatever she was offering and she wanted to give it to him, regardless of the implications at hand.

“so kiss me.” her voice is barely audible over the sound of their labored breaths. 

“what was that? couldn’t hear you, sweets.” his hand rises to rest at the base of her neck, almost possessively. it matches the heat in his glance and elicits a wave of fire beneath her skin. 

“i said kiss-” 

before elle can finish her request, matty’s lips crash into hers. they fill in the void that was once left behind, molding and pulling. there’s sparks reverberating through her skin, clawing through her bloodstream. this kiss feels different. for what it lacks in the awkward learning of what makes the other tick, it’s garnered the all expansive exploration of putting those pieces together.  its all teeth and tongue crashing into one another. his teeth dig into her bottom lip, tugging at the tender flesh. a surprised gasp falls from her occupied lips, granting matty the access he needs to slip his tongue into her mouth. elle presses herself up against him in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. 

the counter digs into her back as matty’s hands roam all over her body through the thin t-shirt she’s adorned with. she needs more, craves more to dull the ache that’s overtaking her from within. as if he’s read her mind, matty’s knee pushes it’s way between her legs and presses deliciously into her heated center. with a swivel of her hips, she’s overtaken by a radiation of pleasure. it’s a small wave washing over her, but its enough to satiate the climbing impatience that’s growing inside of her. she feels his leg prop up more, an invitation for her to buck and grind against his knee as much as she likes. and she does. over and over, building a rhythm that has her aching for more. 

“can feel you soaking my knee through these sorry excuse for shorts, darling.” he groans against her lips. 

all she can do is whine, digging her hips a little deeper. maybe if she shifted up a little more-

“i’ll give you what you need, sweet girl. just be patient.” 

she’s been patient for weeks on end, having to pretend that the desire bubbling deep within her was nothing more than a farce. it takes everything in her not to whine, though she’s pretty positive he would like it more if she did, as he pulls away. 

“get on the counter,” he utters. there’s a commanding tone though his voice is nothing more than a whisper. elle stands there, stunned into silence and paralyzed with want. her breaths are baited, eyes tracing over his face for a few times. everything seems to set in at that moment: what she was doing, who she was doing it with, the proximity of her brother, the nagging feeling in her chest and the desire pooling in her core. she feels like she could melt into the floorboards, be washed away with the rain. the feeling of his lips linger on her own, she still feels the traces of him in her hair. 

“did i stutter? or do you need me to do that for you, too?” 

her mouth opens but nothing comes out in time. 

their tryst is up as the sound of a door being swung open pulls them from the heated embrace. matty steps away, quickly and for the first time in all the years that she’s known him, elle can see a trace of fear on his face. he's breathing heavily and situating himself a few paces away from her heated body. elle is positive her own reaction mirrors his as george pokes his head into the kitchen. 

“all right?” he yawns, “so fucking dark in here. we pay the electric bill for a reason.” his large hand reaches around to flip the light on, leaving all three of them to blink blearily. 

elle grabs the once abandoned cup from the counter, chugging down the rest of the water. it all feels too much: matty consuming her with his heated stare, wearing the remnants of her arousal on his knee while george is a few centimeters away drinking orange juice from the carton. the silence is unbearable, eating her alive bit by bit until she’s nothing more than a mess of herself- fragmented and torn to pieces. 

“as fun as this has been, i have to piss. goodnight again,” george presses a sticky kiss to elle’s forehead and is off, venturing into the dark of the living room. 

elle doesn’t exhale until she hears the door to the bathroom shut. 

“see you in my dreams, ellie belly,” matty hums while offering her a whimsical smirk before he stalks off as well. 

this is sick. sick and twisted and if elle was the tiniest bit religious, she would be on her knees right now begging for forgiveness. she should be sleeping, blissfully surrendering to the lulls of peace. but instead, she’s thinking about animalistic groans, the pressure between her legs and a mop of curly hair. the kitchen is cold and lonely without the heat of his body pressed against her. there’s a phantom of his knee lingering between her legs. she could cry, which seems to be the only thing matty’s been good at making her do recently. 

a door shuts in the distance, and with it closes the small opening she had. the floor looks like a promising place to crumble up and wallow. 

but it’s late and the red numbers on the microwave only burn an unwanted reminder into her brain that she has to be up in a few hours. as she rounds the corner between the kitchen and the living area that she was residing in, her eyes fall to the slightly ajar nature of matty’s door. she gulps. it’s never been left open before, especially not this late at night. because he usually has a girl over, her conscious reminds her. she could be such a bitch sometimes. elle chews on the inside of her lip. what if he just forgot to close it? what if he’s not in there? what if he really meant it couldn’t happen again? 

she toys with the idea of just going back to sleep, though she knows that sleep won’t come easy and the promise of being able to get off with matty is more enticing than the comfort those pillows would offer her. maybe he would let her grind up against his knee again, or dip his head between her thighs and use that sinful mouth on her until she was shaking.

her legs carry her through the door before she can construe another miscalculated scenario in her mind. chest rising and falling as she pushes the door shut behind her, hand gripping onto the handle like her life depended on it. she had half a mind to twist the door open again and slip out, hoping he didn’t notice her. she could play it off like she thought it was the bathroom. she could pretend that she was confused or sleep walking or-

“thought i would be able to call your bluff,” he grins wryly once the door is shut. elle spins around to stare up at him, breath caught in her throat. he’s lost the shirt he was wearing before, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his waist. her eyes dare to travel from his waist, but she doesn’t know if she has the strength to keep off of him if she does.

they’re at a stand-off; squared away and facing each other. elle’s mind is spinning out fantasies about what it would be like to be one of the girls that gets to spend the night tucked away behind these four walls. and by the way he’s staring at her, she feels as if she’s been caught. she wouldn’t put it past him to be able to read her mind.

“just wanted to bring you water,” she blushes, offering him a sheepish smile.

“you don’t have any water in your hand, elle.” matty comments from his stance in front of his dresser, arms crossing over his chest and head tilting to the side. 

she feels exposed, shying away from his gaze and turning around to face the now closed door once more in an attempt to make a run for it. maybe this was a mistake, a bad idea shrouded by the thoughts of matty and his devilish grin. 

“oh. silly me, must have forgotten it i-”

“you didn’t come to bring me water, did you? you came here to finish what we started, hm?” he’s pressed up behind her. his lips are on her neck, pulling a breathy sigh of his name from her mouth, “use your words, elle.” 

she could fold right there. his tongue pokes out and licks a trail up to her ear, “i’m waiting, sweet girl.” 

but how could she think let alone speak with the way he’s touching her and kissing her and making a mess of her brain. her thoughts feel scrambled and mushed together. she melts into his stance, mewling lowly. every nerve ending in her body feels as if its aflame. there’s no way to extinguish it alone, at least not with the way he’s dragging his fingers around her thigh and sucking deep welts onto the exposed skin of her neck. 

“please i’m so-” his fingers trail up her thigh, pushing the lame excuse of shorts to the side. skilled fingers find her clit, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive bud. she whines, head falling back into his shoulder. its the relief she needed, craved even. but she needs more, wants more.

“wet. you’re so fucking wet for me, dirty girl,” his teeth pull at her earlobe as he finishes her stuttered thought, “is this what you wanted? hm?”

“yes, want- fuck, want,” his pace on her clit increases, head feeling heavy. 

she moans lowly, reaching down to grip at his wrist. he lets her, watching her blissfully as she puppeteers his hand against her cunt. 

“feels good, doesn’t it?” matty grins. all elle can do is sigh out a whine, squeezing her eyes shut. her nails dig into his wrist, “i know, pretty girl, i know. need you to be quiet for me. can you do that?”

she nods, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“being so good for me,” matty’s lips drag down her neck, teeth scraping over the bruised area from before. an unabashed moan falls from her lips. he’s quick to turn her head towards him though, sealing his lips to hers in a heated kiss. the last thing they both need is an intrusion from the other house guest.

he swaps his fingers for his thumb, using the leverage to slip a finger inside of her. she clenches around him, the action going straight to his untouched dick that’s hidden within the confines of his pajama pants. elle feels it pressing up against the swell of her ass.

“matty,” she mewls against his lips. its hard to think with the way his finger dips in and out of her, almost in time with the motions of his thumb on her clit. she’s writhing against him, legs feeling as if they could give out any moment.

his long finger slides in and out with ease, toying and teasing at her silky cunt. she nips at his bottom lip, tugging the plush flesh in between her teeth. a low moan rumbles up from his chest, and elle’s convinced its the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. the sound is imprinted in the depths of her brain, something she knows she’ll think about for the rest of her life.

“think you can handle another?” he puffs out, slowly pulling his lips back from her to search her face for approval. 

she nods quickly, mouth falling agape as he adds another finger. his fingers work in and out of her at a blinding pace. his own mouth falls open as he mirrors her face, watching her only a moment before he’s pressing his lips back to hers to capture all of the broken moans that slip into the air. 

elle’s facade is crumbling, quickly. a familiar yet distant burn brewing in the depths of her stomach, a rubber band that's almost ready to snap. matty adds a third finger. elle hisses at the blissful stretch, eyes rolling back into her skull. she’s done for.

“you’re still such a needy thing, aren’t you?” his teeth drag along her neck, trailing a line straight to her jaw. he presses heated kisses along her jawline. his fingers hook up inside of her. and that’s when he finds it. 

if elle was in heaven before this had to have been the vip club. a choked sob lingers in the air, cunt clenching around his fingers. 

“right there,” she chants the syllables over and over like an oath, the words floating out in the heated space between them. and who is matty to deprive her when she looks so pretty begging like that? his fingers dip in and out, finding the exact spot each time. her knees wobble, hand gripping onto his shoulder for support.

“gonna fucking dream about the way you’re clenching on my fingers like this. letting me fuck you like a good girl,” he moans into her ear. its almost too much between his fingers deep inside of her, the sinful whispers in her ear and the sound of her arousal filling the room. she’s close, the rubberband stretching thin as she’s about to snap.

“you close?” he asks. she nods languidly and he hums out his approval, “you wanna cum?” 

elle nods again, almost scared to let herself speak. she’s so close, can practically taste the promise of the sweet release. another moan of his name falls from her lips, she feels him shudder from behind her. eyes squeezed shut, in total euphoria. 

“open your eyes, elle,” he husks into her ear, “want you to watch yourself as you cum.” 

elle’s eyes open slowly, locking with the eyes of her reflection in the mirror. she’s never seen herself like this before; cheeks flushed, eyes wild, lips swollen. she looks as fucked out as she feels. its the image of matty behind her, his own lips parted and hushing the filthiest sayings into her ear that has her clenching tightly around his fingers and choking out an almost too-loud moan of his name. he shushes her, working her through her release with a soothing kiss to her lips whilst he slows down the onslaught of his fingers. his unoccupied arms wraps around her quivering body, holding her upright as she gets rocked by wave after wave. 

“so good, sweets. you did so good for me,” he coos, kissing at her cheek. matty slips his fingers out from her, leaving elle to whine at the loss of fullness. he laughs. elle half expects him to wipe his fingers on the strewn towel on the back of his door. that’s what every other guy has done before, at least. 

he doesn’t though. instead he pops the digits into his mouth, sucking off her liquid arousal from his fingers. she stares at him, wide-eyed as he moans around his own fingers. matty’s eyes pour into her own. she finds it hard to catch her breath.

“taste even sweeter than i imagined,” he smirks at her dumbfounded expression, “oh, sorry. should i have offered you one? s’kinda greedy of me that i took all three for myself.”

“oh. uh.. no. no thanks,” elle blinks blearily, swallowing thickly, “i’m uh… i’m gonna go uh.. clean up and head to bed. thanks for that.” 

“not a problem. anytime you want another mind-numbing orgasm, you know where to find me,” he grins cockily.

elle’s cheeks sting but she can’t fight back the smile that’s curling on her lips, “sure thing.”

she smooths the hem of her shorts down, blinking a few more times as she hastily walks towards the door. there’s no way in hell that that just happened. it was something ripped straight from her thoughts, a mirrored image of the way she’s been thinking about him for weeks. her chest rises and falls quickly, hand reaching for the door knob. she needs to lay down immediately.

“oh and elle?,” he calls just as her hand comes in contact with the cool metal of the handle.

she tilts her head towards him, “hmm?”

“i meant it when i say i’ll dream of you,” he offers with a smirk and pink tinted cheeks. 

and in that moment, elle know she’s going to dream of him too. 

[humbledragon669]

S1E2 – The Book Write Up P2 – 11 years ago and The Present Day/Thursday (2 days to the end of the World) (up to Aziraphale and Crowleys’ arrival in Tadfield)

Alright, let’s get dug straight in, shall we? There’s a lot of background narrative being covered in this section, including the introduction of quite a few new characters.

Let’s start with Anathema. I don’t have a lot to say about her intro scene, but I do have two questions:

Why THE HELL is her mother allowing her to draw in that book? It’s the only copy of a 350-year-old book that contains prophecies that have all proven to be correct. In reality that book would genuinely be priceless, and we will see later in the series that the book is still considered valuable to the family. I don’t like writing notes in my cheap paperback books, so the idea of a child drawing IN COLOURED PENCIL in this book chills me to the bone, yet her mother just lets her do it without so much as a blink of an eye. Mad woman.

We know that the book contains prophecies up until the end of the world. We also know that at least one of the prophecies contains an actual year (1980 – the one with the Apple). Furthermore, we know that Anathema is named specifically in one of the prophecies. Just how many Anathemas did this family have in the hopes that one of them would be the one to save the world? Logically, only children born after 1980 would be eligible but that still leaves at least one generation of descendants prior to the one we see in the show. I suppose there could be another prophecy that states what year “the” Anathema was to be born but I like to believe that somewhere there’s a little group of related women called Anathema all fighting over who gets to save the world.

Next up – Newton. Again, not an awful lot to say here, other than the camera crashing into his bedroom window makes me laugh every time I watch it. I don’t know why this specific moment was chosen to break the fourth wall just as much as I don’t know why I find it so funny.

Having worked in IT for more than ten years, I can say without a doubt that there really are people like poor Newt who are cursed with breaking anything computer-related just by looking at it. They’re exasperating because they usually think the whole thing is one big joke and hold their technology incompatibility up to be some sort of prize. At least Newt has the decency to look abashed by his strange “gift”.

Newton’s home location is confirmed to be Dorking in his first present day scene when we see his mother shipping him off to a new job. We don’t know the location of the United Worldwide Holdings (Holdings) office in which he attempts to establish a hold as a wages clerk, but I can say for certainty that the location of his introduction to Shadwell is central London. For those whose UK geography is worse than my own, it would take over an hour to get to central London from Dorking, regardless of the transport mode of choice. This has always struck me as rather odd – it’s clear that Newt has difficulty holding down a job. The home that he apparently shares with his mother looks pretty run down from the outside, suggesting that money isn’t exactly a commodity in their household. So why would you take a clerical job, that likely doesn’t pay much, in a place that’s over an hour away? Perhaps Neil and Terry just chose Dorking as Newt’s hometown because it has a slightly funny sounding name…

Side note: the chances that the Hot Dog van that Newt and Shadwell get their drinks from would be allowed to park there, right behind the Houses of Parliament and directly in front of Westminster Abbey, are null. I would even go so far as to suggest that Shadwell himself would likely be moved on pretty sharpish from his chosen pulpit. Makes a pretty impressive backdrop though, hey?

Let’s just take a moment to have a chortle at Shadwell’s ideas of what sort of activity would give the game away for any self-respecting witch:

Speaking as the last in the line of Welsh “wise women”, I can (pretty much categorically state) that none of my ancestors have done any of those things. Maybe apart from calling the cats funny names, though most of my maternal line had/have a strong dislike for animals of the feline variety. My cat is called Kishi, which is supposed to be Japanese for “love bound to Earth”. It’s a wholly inappropriate name for her, as she’s really just a massive prick, like every other cat there is.

Why does Newt stop to listen to Shadwell here? Why not just ignore the crazy man on the pedestal like every other person in London? Obviously that would cause a bit of a plot problem. Perhaps it’s his ancestral right driving him into the arms of the Witchfinder Army – there are certainly crazier things that happen in the GO universe! As it turns out, Newt’s recruitment is well-timed, what with there not being any soldiers of rank higher than sergeant, and only one of those at that.

Easter egg time!

This ridiculously quick shot of Shadwell’s newspaper gives us a veritable treasure trove of Easter eggs/nuggets of information for the keen eye:

Shadwell’s address is confirmed as located in Crouch End.

The reference numbers for the adverts begin with the letters “GO”.

There is an advert for a lost book, which we can just make out is one of Terry’s – “Colour of Magic”.

Save the best for last! The advert for a lost hat clearly describes Terry himself, and his signature hat and scarf. Not only that, but he apparently lost it in a book shop in Soho. I wonder which one that could be…

This fleeting glimpse of newspaper is a perfect representation for one of the main reasons I love this show so much. Most casual audience members will never see it. Some more interested parties will see it and think little of it. Others, like myself and likely anybody reading this waffle, will not only see it, but understand the references and then squeal with delight at the little present that was left for us to find. It makes me feel valued as a fan whilst at the same time as if I’m sharing in a secret that the creative team has left for me. This is great television making at its very best.

Quick Easter egg here in Jasmine Cottage: the image that Anathema has pinned on the wall to represent the Antichrist is the same as the one used on the playing cards from episode 1 (albeit in black and white):

When we find ourselves back with Crowley in his apartment, he’s clearly furious with himself about losing the Antichrist. We also learn that he discovered the joys of tending to houseplants in the early 1970s. I’d like to think he inserted them into his life after the event that takes place in 1967 between himself and Aziraphale (which we will see in the next episode) – perhaps he was looking for something that he could try to use as some sort of poor substitute for his true desires? The presence of the houseplants and the timeline for his discovering of them is included in the book, so in honesty I doubt this was the intention for their purpose, but I like the possibility nonetheless. The scene with the houseplants provides a little nugget of information that we can store for reference for later – Crowley’s houseplants actually shake when they’re frightened.

Once again, I don’t have much to say about the next scene: that of Newt’s arrival to the Witchfinder Army’s HQ. I will pause briefly to note the wording of the notice on Shadwell’s door:

This calls to mind the phrase used by Aziraphale to refer to Crowly in episode 1. I’m not sure there’s anything in this as “foul fiend” has often been used to refer to demonic or evil beings. That said, it’s difficult not to try and make some connection, given that the two uses of the phrase are so close together in the show. We will later find out that Shadwell is working for both Aziraphale and Crowley for the same purpose, so defying the “foul fiend” in this case becomes somewhat impossible.

Quick pause for a moment of appreciation for that strut that David pulls off in this next scene. Honestly, there are professional supermodels that couldn’t manage that sort of casual arrogance, even if somebody told them they could stay thin and eat whatever they wanted for the rest of their lives.

This is the first time we find out that Crowly has adopted a first name for himself. I’ll talk about it a little more in the write up(s) for episode 3, so for now this is another piece of information for us to store for later.

I quite enjoy just how awkward Aziraphale sounds leaving a message on the answerphone. Dealing with the unannounced arrival of two angels in his book shop he can handle, but having to leave a message instead of speaking to Crowley direct? Perish the thought. This seems to me a quite human attitude to have – when answerphones started to become commonplace, people (on the whole) hated leaving messages once they realised the person they wanted to speak to wasn’t going to pick up. What I find interesting about the conversation that they do have is that Aziraphale’s suggestion is actually incredibly obvious. In fact, it’s about the only possible scenario that would make any sense. Crowley’s disbelieving expression would suggest he doesn’t feel the same way:

Still, at least this conversation tells the audience that this pair haven’t given up on working together to try and stop Armageddon just yet (it would be a pretty short and disappointing show if they had, wouldn’t it?!).

At this point in the episode, we are introduced to Crowley’s driving style which could be described as suicidal dangerous. He seems pretty confident with it though, so it’s unlikely this is out of the ordinary for him, urgency of their mission notwithstanding. Aziraphale doesn’t actually seem that bothered by it initially, not until we hear the horns of other angry drivers, where it becomes apparent that he’s actually very uncomfortable indeed. We’ll see a fair amount of material on the theme of Crowley’s driving and its effects on Aziraphale in this episode, almost like we’re being set up for something…

Crowley is pretty insistent on the use of “we” in this scene, despite the fact that Aziraphale really didn’t have anything to do with losing the Antichrist (he just took Crowley’s lead on this one). The angel doesn’t really dispute it though, though perhaps he’s just too worried about being discorporated to argue.  What is pretty obvious is that Crowley does not appreciate being told how to drive, and it makes me wonder how many times they have had conversations exactly like this before.

I’m going to wrap this part up with a quick round-up of the “The Them” scenes in Tadfield, prior to the arrival Aziraphale and Crowley in the village. As with much of the other narrative-based scenes in this episode, I don’t have much to say about them, but I did make note of a couple of (potentially) interesting things:

Pepper’s middle name is Galadriel. For those people who have managed to live their lives without any sort of interaction with Lord of the Rings up to now, this is the name of an Elven queen in that universe. As much as it would be cool for there to be some sort of subtextual Clue hidden in her middle name, I think it’s more likely it was just picked because it was a fitting one for the daughter of a reformed hippy.

Anathema recites parts of an infamous speech from Shakespeare’s Macbeth here: Eye of newt and […] tongue of dog. What I find interesting about this is that there are two ingredients in the potion recipe that have been omitted (a frog’s toe and the wool of a bat), leaving only the two elements that can be found in the show – a Newt and a dog. Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of this, not least because I’m not even sure what relevance the rhyme has to what she’s doing at the time she recites it. Not to mention that she hasn’t actually met Newt at this point, so would have no knowledge of his name (to the best of our knowledge, he’s only referred to as “man” or “boy” in Agnes’s prophecies).

Wensleydale brings up the Spanish Inquisition when in the woods, which we know Crowley has claimed responsibility for (to his Hellish masters). I absolutely love the way that the religious reasoning for punishing people is so masterfully undermined by Brian’s earnest reasoning here. I should point out that in addition to being a hereditary Pagan, I am staunchly against organised religion (not faith; I consider that to be an entirely different concept and feel that it’s integral to the spiritual identity for pretty much everybody. I believe we should all have the right to follow our chosen faith without the overbearing interference of organised religion) so the satiric tones that people who were being executed would have been grateful for their persecution if they had understood the reasons behind it fully really strikes a chord with the religion-cynic in me.

There’s an interesting little set detail here in the Them’s den:

These look like old-school weighing scales to me. In the context of the conversation that the Them are having about torturing witches, these could be said to be a reference to the practice of weighing people accused of witchcraft against the weight of a bible to determine their guilt. Alternatively, it could be a reference to the scales we will see later in the series as the summoning object for Famine. Or it could be nothing. I doubt that last one though.

That brings us quite nicely to see Aziraphale and Crowley arriving in Tadfield, which feels to me like a good place to finish this part of the write up. I’m going to be tackling a couple of important moments in the next part (can we say “wall slam”?), which I’m aware have been discussed at length already, but I have things to say and I’m going to say them. They’ve probably all been said before, but they need to get out of my head and into a piece of writing so I’m going to say them anyway. Questions, comments and discussion on this part welcome as always!

[dark-is-d3ad]

OK, I'm moving soon, and I'm currently sitting in the middle of my ravaged flat surrounded by boxes, jars, and all sorts of things you never know you even had before it's time to go pack them up.

So here's a bunch of soapghost headcanons about moving in together.

• They end up helping each other to pack things. The flat they chose is a two-bed in Epping, really close to the forest. Easy to get to when they come back for a break, technically still in London, but in a quieter area on the outskirts of the city. Ghost checked for a multitude of things, including ways to get in and to retreat, hidden cameras, and he's making a custom surveillance system for it. You can never be too safe, right?

• The second bedroom is going to become Johnny's art studio. Ghost has dibs on the living room, he's got a huge TV and a PS5. And his humongous bookshelf will also go in there. They plan it out perfectly, so that they can spend time together, but also can have their alone time without bothering each other.

• Ghost refuses help at first, but then Johny just shows up with his portable speaker, and hangs out with him. It's a little distracting, and he has way too many books, they run out of boxes. Ghost never tells him, but he's grateful, it was getting overwhelming.

• Ghost's place looks neat, if not a little barren, his things are all sorted to perfection. He's got a collection of shotguns, too. And a huge table, perfect size to work on them comfortably. Cleaning and servicing guns never fails to calm him down. His favourite is an older one, a Benelli M2. It's in pristine condition albeit a little worn, its barrel needs to be changed because it can only last through so much shots, but Ghost kinda wants to keep it as it is, even though it's not practical. He's sentimental about it. They spend a lot of time packing them all up carefully.

• Johny actually asks him to come over, because his adhd gets unmanageable when he goes through all his things, and it's easier if a very specific person makes him stay on track, otherwise he'd be still stuck there reading his diaries and going through his pile of sketchbooks, and oh, the drawing supplies, he has the urge to use that beautiful box of designer gouache his sister gifted to him literally right now because he forgot about it, and now it's so tempting. Ghost thinks of it as of a mission, so he comes up with a strategy and keeps it tactical. And he makes Soap take breaks every once in a while.

• Soap's stuff doesn't fit into the van. Even with the furniture dismantled and packed, he's got so much things, a lot of them art supplies, a huge easel, half-finished paintings, canvases he forgot about or he hadn't had time to come back to. And his bed is freaking huge. They finally cram it in, but it's a really tight squeeze. Comparing to this, Ghost's was half-empty. Thank god their new place is on the bigger side.

• Ghost gets distracted, too, when they pack the paintings. He's not an artsy kinda guy, yet they are so good, he's entranced. It's Johnny's turn to make him focus. Soap doesn't think much of his art, and Ghost makes a mental note to compliment it more often. He really wants to see more. Hell, he'd even pose, if Soap ever asks for it. He won't tell him though.

• There's a "do not touch" black sketchbook with a little white scull drawn on the cover, and Soap flushes deep red and packs it away in record times. Ghost is intrigued beyond measure. He has assumptions of what's in there, and he sneakily checks it out when Soap goes to pack his clothes. It's full of sketches of him. Soap actually took his time to study him, he thinks, even the tattoos are all looking exactly right. The ones from the shower make him wonder if Soap actually memorised him that well or he got some sneaky reference pics (how did he manage that, the bastard). It's got notes, too. It takes an effort not to read them, but Ghost feels like he already intruded a bit too much, so he puts the sketchbook back where it was. Just in time, because Soap pops out with an absolutely ridiculous coat in his hands, and goes "hey, look what I used to wear when I was 18!"

• Ghost has a freaking lot of random jars. They're all empty. When asked about it, he confesses that he wanted to make jam, his grandfather used to make a lot of it every summer. It's one of the good memories he has, and there's not so many of them. He tried to make it once, but failed, and had to throw away the whole batch. They keep each and every one, although it seems stupid.

• Johnny's art stuff is a whole lot. He's got tree branches and clay, and a fucking mannequin (it scares Ghost every time he walks in Soap's living room, because his side vision registers it as a person, and he can't get over it). The mannequin has a crooked smiley face drawn on it with a sharpie. There's sheets of metal, fabric, a lot of acrylic, and a ton of instruments. He was trying to get into modern sculpture, Soap says, it didn't really work out. Needs more 3d thinking. Ghosts proposes to try again after they move. He's good at fixing stuff, and he's really good at guerilla warfare, they'll find a way to make even the weirdest thing Soap comes up with hold together.

• Soap's got little led garlands wrapped on every vertical thing at his place. At first Ghost thinks it's stupid, but when the night comes, and Soap lights all of them up, it actually feels almost magical. They sit on the floor with mugs of tea and coffee, and, although it's messy and everything is moved out of place, it's still beatiful, and it feels so safe. Ghost finds himself feeling more like a 5 y o than he probably ever did, sitting there just watching lights slowly light up and fade. He's never been good at making his places cozy. He'll ask Soap to work on their new flat to make it more like that. He really wants the lights there, too.

• Johnny's mugs are all different. He's got the "guns and coffee" with a redrawn Starbucks logo, the mermaid holds two pistols. Ghost gets the "under all your tattoos you're still a mainstream cunt" one when it's Johnny's turn to make tea. He pretends to be offended. There is a pink one with "unt" on it. It makes sense when Soap turns it, and the handle finishes the word. There's one with lots of bees, and it reads "bear daddy". Ghost makes the stupidest jokes about it.

• Ghost hasn't got a lot of kitchenware, and all his plates and mugs are white, the cheapest ones from IKEA. And he's only got one chair. No guests - no need. Johnny finds it a little depressing, but says nothing.

• Johnny's spicerack is probably the second biggest collection he has after his art stuff. He likes cooking, and he likes trying new recipes. His favourite go-tos sit separately on the kitchen counter. Ghost has to admit that he's really good. Ghost's spices are just salt and pepper, which gets him "and you live like that? Lt!" from Soap.

• When they finally move their stuff in, a call from Price comes. There's things to do like right now, get ready in 5, be at base in an hour and a half. Ghost likes his work, yet he can't help but get a little grumpy. He really wanted to get it over with. And to see what comes out of it with all things in place. And to have a chill evening with Johnny, watching these little lights again with some quiet ambient playing on the background. "It's OK," Soap says, "we'll get it sorted when we come back."

OK, that's gonna be it for now, I have a sad option and a silly option to go for, but I'd rather make a part two and separate them.

[pseudowho]

hellooo Haitch, how are you ? Wanted to drop by and tell you that I enjoyed rereading some Nanami pieces from you now that you've been reblogging them with new headers Also wanted to ask you 2 things : 1. Tips for becoming a better writer ? As in how to improve flow, narration, description (without becoming overbearing), how to make characters more human and less unidimensional 2. Favourite books you've recently read and that you'd recommend ? i've been rereading old favourites like Lolita and the Catcher in the Rye and I desperately need something new :( Thanks a looot

Hiii! I'm having a hard week. It's my grandmother's funeral tomorrow, and I'm horribly afraid. I'm getting by, though. Thanks for asking 💕

TIPS FOR BECOMING A BETTER WRITER:

Read more, and read-- I cannot stress this enough-- challenging and variable material. Difficult books. Classics. Crappy chick-flicks. News articles. Thrillers, romances, murder mysteries, philosophy books, fantasy books. Research pieces. All of them add to the reference library in your mind than you can use to compare to. These all help with flow, narration, description, because they all give you styles of writing to imitate.

Onomatopoeia is your friend. Not just, in individual words (crash, plop, honk!) but in sentence structure. Someone who is angry but calm may sound staccato, crisp-- their words, their sentences, should snip accordingly. You're describing a slow-flowing river? Languid, lazy, loose and fluid rolling sounds bring it to mind.

Trust your reader. Show them, don't tell them. If your setting is a coffee shop, with bright yellow walls, sunflowers outside, and wonderful coffee that always wakes them up, at their favourite table by the window? Don't TELL them the coffee shop is that way. Show them through the way your character interacts with their environment. For example: "Kento's hands grazed those sunny petals, always reminding him, curiously, of a Van Gogh piece his grandmother displayed in his childhood. Stepping into the shop, blinded by the sunshine splashed on the walls and the earth-roast aroma, he spotted his regular table overlooking the street, still free; his barista seemed to have anticipated his arrival, sliding his drink to the front of the queue with a smile." See? The story is moved along AND the reader can picture the environment. Trust them to see the things you infer, without having to DIRECTLY SAY "the walls are yellow, there were sunflowers outside, and this was Kento's regular coffee shop". Capiche?

Some idiot once said to keep everything to the point. Whilst this is true, to some extent, your words choices should be luxurious, in that there is ALWAYS the perfect word for a mood, a smell, a taste, a touch, a feeling. Each word you choose being just so makes a story feel rich and flavoursome. The fact is, if you are struggling to describe something and you find yourself piling sentence after sentence of almost correct words...leave it. Come back when the correct word is there.

If you Selfship, SELFSHIP HARDER-- talk to these people in your head. Build scenarios with them. Savour their reactions and their responses, don't see them through rose-tinted lens either. Cross-reference them with people you know, people you HAVE KNOWN, find the perfect words to describe them to other people.

Empathise harder. Empathy is the core of understanding someone's character. Walk a mile in their shoes. It helps, trust me.

FAVOURITE STUFF I'VE READ LATELY:

I adore Natasha Pulley's "The Watchmaker of Filigree Street" and its sequel "The Lost Future of Pepperharrow". The Ben Aaronovitch "Rivers of London" series is also excellent. If you want a great atmospheric, beautifully perfect scene-setting ghost story, go for "The Haunting of Hill House" by Susan Hill. "Pachinko" (I can't recall the author and I'm away from my bookshelf) is another favourite of mine. "The Poppy War" is the first in a trilogy by R.F.Kuang, and although it was her debut novel and there are traces of immaturity there, she is blossoming and I genuinely threw the second book across the room at one point because the angst and plot-twists hit me so hard.

Phew.

I'm no professional writer, so these are just my thoughts.

Mr Haitch lectures in English Literature and Creative Writing, so the "trust your reader" is one that he offered.

Good luck, thanks for thinking I'm good enough to advise you on this.

-- Haitch xxx

[butternuggets-blog]

My take on modernising Dracula:

Jonathan arrives in Transylvania knowing the language as well as any other tourist, but when everyone starts trying to tell him that Dracula's a monster he thinks they have a problem with him because he's a capitalist.

The voyage on the Demeter takes place on a cargo ship instead of a sailing ship. The crew wise up towards the end that they have a vampire in their midst and actually try to fight back, but are unsuccessful.

Lucy is a charity worker and child psychologist who is in a deeply committed polyamorous relationship with Quincey Morris, Dr John Seward, and Arthur Holmwood. Since she's only allowed to marry one of her boyfriends, she decides to go with Arthur, since the wealth he will inherit from his father will allow them all to live comfortably together.

Professor Van Helsing is a semi-retired expert in rare diseases, both physical and psychological, who has moved from a medical position to an academic teaching role. He was one of Steward's mentors while he was completing his degree, and the two became quite close. He discovered that vampires exist after witnessing the results of an attack and a turning, and left the medical profession for the academic field shortly after because it gave him the freedom to move around and hunt vampires.

Jonathan and Mina get married in the hospital in Budapest where he is recuperating after his escape from Dracula.

The final confrontation with Dracula goes down exactly like it does in the book, except the villagers help mount an attack against the brides in the castle with Van Helsing, allowing Mina to stay with the others. Quincey still gets shot, but John stays with him and manages to patch up the wound enough that when Van Helsing arrives he can stabilise the wound with surgery.

Jonathan slashes Dracula's throat and Mina stabs him through the heart.

Additional:

- The castle and village are isolated from the modern world by nature and also by a lack of wifi. There's no phone signals up here either. It's a deliberate attempt by Dracula to keep the common local knowledge that he's a vampire local knowledge. If the villagers can easily get outside help, his ass is grass.

- Lucy uses her knowledge of the welfare system in London to target vulnerable children who are being neglected by the system and won't be missed by their carers.

[neednottoneed]

I’ve been trying to articulate my feelings with Rebecca London and I think it’s this—it’s too many changes to the script/song order and not enough finesse on the translation.

At this point, most/all productions of Rebecca are translations of the German original. They do not add new songs, they don’t cut songs, they might swap some order occasionally or add more dialogue in some scenes but they do not fundamentally *change* the core of the show. The costuming, the set, the interpretations-those are what get changed. The script and score get translated and localized, yes, but they’re not writing new songs for it.

London has made so many changes it feels like a weird piecemeal adaptation. I understand the original demo of the show was in English, I understand it’s an English book and English writer (of the novel), but the way things have been moved around and added and removed is SO jarring as to be a different show. It makes what’s currently there that was in the original feel out of place and calls even more attention to the awkward translation work in a way other productions do not.

The only removal I’m fine with tbh (besides Zauberhaft Natürlich but we know my feelings on that) is I’m An American Woman, and that’s because I think that song serves as a shorthand purpose in other shows that it doesn’t in English. In English, where your characters are British, Mrs Van Hopper’s over-the-top Americanness is clearly signaled the moment she speaks by virtue of her accent. In other languages, not so much, so you have to have American Woman to telegraph that. It’s a fun moment, sure, and gives the actress plenty to do, but it makes sense why it was cut.

[vickyvicarious]

why are you people hyping up jonathan harker he was fucking useless LMAOOOOOOO

just on the background while the doctors always did actual work and had insight and schemes and godalming and morris used their $$$

meanwhile he just fell on his knees crying I DEFY YOU STARS OH MY DOOMED LOVE

Oh, anon. I know I probably should just ignore you. However, I first of all find this ask very funny, and secondly you are giving me a golden opportunity to brag about my boy, here. I'm definitely gonna take it.

Behold - an incomplete list of things Jonathan Harker has done:

survived for months alone in Dracula's castle, maintaining a delicate balance of not rocking the boat too far and getting killed, but never giving up fully/seizing every chance to try and learn more or find a way out (letters, wall-climbing, etc.)

the only person to harm Dracula (shovel scar) and live (the only others were Renfield and Quincey, both of whom died the same day). the only person to hit him more than once (shovel, cut his coat open, sliced off his head). one of the two people who killed him (sliced off his head if you missed that one)

escaped by climbing down a castle wall and fleeing on foot through mountains full of wolves, without any warm clothes

was the person to recognize Dracula in London, and to direct the group to Carfax

did literally all of the footwork required to track down Dracula's boxes. began this task on his own without being given direction, and was well underway on it before even linking up with the others. (insight!)

bribery! lots of bribery! using his own inherited money at least part of the time ($$$!)

also, lied to/tricked various sources that he was either still Dracula's attorney, or utilized Arthur's status, to get information (schemes!)

suggested to a surprised Seward that Renfield may be reacting to Dracula and is "a sort of index to the coming and going of the Count." (insight!)

was van helsing's biggest primary source confirming what his research said about vampires, as seen in big speech day when he told everyone 'vampires do this (as seen in Jonathan's diary)' like five separate times

was the first to move to attack Dracula on October 3 (at his house not the asylum), galvanizing everyone else into action

um, kinda a big thing that he never considered his love doomed? like. yeah. willing to go to hell/become a vampire himself to stay with Mina. willing to doom everyone else for his love if necessary but never to give up on that. fell on his knees (I'll grant you) immediately... to comfort Mina when she felt unclean. set aside his immediate impulse towards revenge in order to comfort her first.

but also. very much willing to act to prevent such an outcome? urged everyone else to get on the move so he could go kill Dracula for everything he'd done?

nonetheless, didn't put his personal catharsis/revenge above the goal. was willing to take a backseat for the sake of success in the initial plan and just play guard rather than insisting on being the one to stake/behead him.

...honorable mention again for beheading him anyway in the end. Jonathan literally killed Dracula, bud. (fucking useful!)

I love all the main characters, and am not interested in devaluing anyone's contributions. The doctors are very smart (among other things) and important. Arthur and Quincey are very rich (among other things) and important. Mina, who you failed to mention, is extremely clever (among other things) and important as well. Jonathan, surprise surprise... is also all of those things!

And I love him. He's been my favorite character since my first time reading this book long ago. I (don't actually) regret to inform you that Dracula Daily has only increased that love, as well as vindicated it by seeing many other people agree that he's a great character really screwed over by adaptations, and thus even if I were generally inclined to feel upset about these kinds of messages, this'd still miss the mark. Rather, I thank you for the opportunity to reflect on some of the many ways Jonathan was an integral part of this vampire-hunting team.

[wherebettertoescape]

A Little Life - Harold Pinter Theatre

For anyone who does wish to attend this production, please don’t take the content warnings lightly - the self-harm is graphic and two characters have full-frontal nudity. 

I (Freddie) attended the matinee production at the Harold Pinter Theatre in London on Sunday 7th May

THIS REVIEW/ANALYSIS DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR BOTH THE NOVEL AND STAGE PRODUCTION, SO PLEASE BE AWARE!

Trigger Warnings: talks of self harm, child abuse, sexual assault, domestic abuse and more

There’s no discernible reaction from the audience when Luke Thompson as Willem makes his entrance onto the stage. He’s wearing a dark blue hoodie, the hood pulled up over his hair - perfectly innocuous, nothing spectacular or grand as he walks about the stage. The lights are still bright, the audience is still chatting, laughter is filling the room. And Luke Thompson as Willem is onstage frying himself some bacon and eggs.

What has struck me again and again whenever I reread A Little Life - because, yes, I get a masochistic kind of joy from putting myself through that pain repeatedly - is the intimacy of it. Naturally with any book, the reader is granted the chance to feel close to the characters, to garner a look at their lives behind the veil. But if you were to ask me, I would say that there are very few - if any - novels that create this illusion as Hanya Yanagihara’s does. For 813 pages you are allowed to experience this life as they are, to experience snapshots of their lives - the good, the bad and the unimaginably horrifying - even as the rest of New York, the rest of the world, goes on as normal, with no thought spared to what is occurring within the walls of Lispenard Street and their subsequent homes. 

The awareness that despite what Jude is revealing to the readers about his past, the beyond nightmarish history he has, the world is continuing to go on as normal was perhaps the aspect of the novel I adore so much that I was most scared about losing in adapting it for other mediums.

But from the moment Luke Thompson stepped onto stage, transformed into Willem and beginning to go about his daily life, with the moving images of New York streets surrounding him in his apartment, I knew that my worries had been unfounded. Ivo Van Hove with his unbelievable direction paired with Jan Versweyveld’s set design had found a way to maintain that understanding. 

Throughout almost all of the performance, there is no moment of stasis. Be it JB and Malcom painting and working at desks on the right side of the stage, or Andy reading his book in his clinic, or the ever-present Willem and Harold. 

The former is always in the same spot on a sofa at the back of the stage, flipping through scripts, determined to make it big as an actor, pouring all of his attention and focus onto learning the lines, dedicated to making his dream a reality, and yet always there ready to support Jude. In the second act, Luke Thompson takes the exact same pose when listening to Jude revealing the details of his childhood, desperate to understand his best friend, and at this stage his lover, in the same way he had been desperate to make it as an actor.

Harold, however, spends much of his time on stage left, stationed at the kitchen set up. Constantly in movement, cooking several dishes throughout the course of the play. A reference, perhaps, to the number of Thanksgivings Jude is reported to have spent with him and his wife, Julia (absent from this adaptation). 

Despite the eternal loneliness that James Norton as Jude exudes with just his presence, he is only truly alone for a few moments - the harrowing whisper of “x equals x” that he gasps out after Elliot Cowan as Caleb leaves him naked in the street. It is then that he is alone onstage, laying in his blood, until he is retrieved by his loved ones and taken to rest on Andy’s hospital bed.

It is this detail of James Norton’s performance as Jude that I found the most powerful - which is saying something, considering that I am considering suing him for emotional damages, hasn’t anyone ever told him to think about using his acting powers for good, rather than evil? He captures a side of Jude that I had not previously considered - Jude views himself as a side character in his own life. He doesn’t feel worthy of attention, of his friendships, he is lonely in spite of being surrounded by those he loves the most and as a result feels unable to call out and ask for the help he desperately craves but does not believe that he deserves. 

The contrast between this and the fact that Jude is always centre stage is immense and almost disconcerting to watch and caused me to spend the entire performance practically begging him in my head to just turn around, they’re right there!

But this desire to be helped and to be heard is brought to life by the presence of Nathalie Armin as Ana. The first person in Jude’s life to truly care about him, and the only female in this adaptation of the novel. Armin has a commanding presence on the stage, even as she is a mere figment of Jude’s imagination. Dressed in all black, a stark difference to the bright set, allowing her to melt into the darkness when the spotlight focuses on Norton. 

In many ways, Ana vocalises the audience’s own thoughts - pleading with Jude to confide in his friends, desperate to stop him from harming himself further, and the relief in Armin’s expression as Jude finally tells Willem his story. 

The choice to keep the cast small causes a heavy weight to be put on Elliot Cowan’s shoulders, as he is tasked with portraying three different, truly heinous characters. Even without the costume changes, however, I truly believe it would be possible to tell which of the three he was in each scene.

Cowan gives truly fantastic portrayals of each of the villains of Jude’s life, as Brother Luke he shows the softer touch which allowed for him to manipulate Jude in his innocence, he never handles Norton roughly when playing the part of Brother Luke. Carefully pulling him along, coaxing Jude to trust him to the point that the child does not realise just how wrong it is what Brother Luke asks of him. 

This acting from Cowan makes Jude’s words all the more heartbreaking in Act 2 when talking to Willem, as the audience is able to see why Jude insists that Brother Luke was different, that he did love him.

When taking up the role of Caleb, however, he becomes the manifestation of everything Jude believes about himself. He has none of Brother Luke’s gentleness, but all of his intensity and possessiveness. The last that we see of Caleb, is when he lifts Jude up by the arm, Norton’s body used to reflect the words he says - “x equals x”. Being with Caleb has brought to life Jude’s darkest thoughts of himself, and Jude views this as proof that no matter what he will always be the same. Damaged and unlovable, to be blamed for everything he had been subjected to in his youth.

As Dr Traylor, Cowan’s words are clipped and straightforward. He is the most detached of Jude’s abusers, not caring for his name and only referring to him as “a prostitute” and reinforcing what Jude already believes about himself. It is not until Jude’s “release” that we see any true kind of emotion from Dr Traylor. Cowan shows Dr Traylor with a manic kind of joy upon forcing Jude to run from him, all the while on the tail in his car. The chase scene is long, and dramatic with the incredible musicians rising in volume and intensity with their instruments. The length of the scene forces thoughts back to Jude’s earlier response when JB asked about his legs - “I used to run cross country”.

In all of his roles, Cowan has the same commanding presence onstage as Armin. The moment he leaves the wings, regardless of who he is in that moment, the audience’s attention is drawn to him. As though by sheer glares and willpower we will be able to change Jude’s story, that we as mere observers will be able to push against Cowan’s slow, purposeful steps and keep him away from Norton. 

Zubin Varla and Emilio Doorgasingh gave masterful portrayals as Harold and Andy, respectively. They are markedly different to the presence of Willem, Malcom and JB - in what proves to be a very physical play, Harold rarely touches his son, while Andy only does so as necessary in his medical examinations of Jude.

This respect for Jude’s boundaries when it comes to physical contact is what truly sets Harold and Andy apart from the other older figures in Jude’s life (those villains played by Cowan). Varla’s portrayal of Harold is always evaluating his own movements, always second guessing himself before moving towards Jude - he does not seek out the easy, casual contact shown by the other three young adults. But when Jude comes to him for comfort, Harold is always eager to provide it.

The final scene of Harold and Jude embracing - Jude in his wheelchair, Harold knelt on the ground in front of him, with the rejected trays of food scattered on the floor around him - when Norton practically falls into Varla’s arms, sobbing into his shoulder, as a screen slowly comes down to hide them, JB on the outside, is one that I believe will stay with me for years to come. 

There is an emotion in Varla’s voice when he confides in the audience the story of Jacob, his first son. And in that closing scene we are forced back to that monologue, when he confesses to anyone listening that when Jacob died, there was a little part of him relieved, as that meant it was over. And although it is heartbreaking, it is this statement that makes it no real surprise that when the screen lifts again, Harold is alone in front of that wheelchair to report Jude’s suicide.

Where Armin’s Ana shows the sympathetic side of the audience, the aching desire to hug Jude and promise him it will be okay, to protect him both from the world and himself, Doorgasingh’s Andy exhibits the rougher side of it. His frustration at Jude’s abject refusal to accept help, his anger at watching someone he loves destroy themselves. The hopelessness he feels when his advice goes unnoticed, and his frequent calls to Harold and Willem - often screaming at the two people Jude is closest to, desperate for them to be there for him more.

Andy does not have the same stage presence as many of the other characters do, instead he - and the same can be said for Malcom - almost fades into the background at times. But they are there, ready to pick up the pieces. Both Doorgasingh and Wyatt are spectacular in their characterisations. In the novel, Andy and Malcom show an awareness that they are not the most important people to Jude, that they cannot help him in the ways others can, and in this adaptation, the actors bring that feeling to life.

They are there, working in their own lives, on their own projects. Malcom quietly sees what Jude refuses to acknowledge about his worsening condition and accommodating for it even despite the push back of his best friend. And Andy who can be seen pacing at the side of the stage, calling Jude when he can sense everything is getting too much for him - they are both there for him in their own quiet ways, and their loyalty and love for Jude is never questioned by the audience. It is also important to note that in this adaptation of the novel, neither of these characters address the audience directly - the only two whose focuses are solely within the story with no fourth-wall breaks.

Omari Douglas as JB, on the other hand, stands out more than anyone. First as a result of his costumes - often more brighter than those of his castmates - and then just as how he presents himself. Anyone who watched his performance in It’s a Sin will recall how Douglas’ presence demands to be noticed, and this is carried forth onto the Harold Pinter Stage. He captures the heart of JB’s character - desperate to be heard, to be needed by his friends. Charming in his own way, despite how his messy character causes him to betray his friends at several points in the story. 

Douglas transitions well from how JB is around his friends - brash, loud, confident - to how he truly feels when talking to the audience. His voice is softer, he somehow seems a little smaller as he talks about watching Jude, how he feels Willem doesn’t value his friendship as highly as the others, how he feels they don’t need him anymore.

While JB’s drug addiction is rather rushed in this adaptation - it’s discussed at length in the novel - Douglas eloquently displays his anguish to the audience, his desperation to quit. A previously difficult to like character, after having seen him mock Jude’s disability, and betray his trust, the audience is able to empathise and understand him better. And when it is just him and Jude left at the end of the show, Douglas doesn’t say anything, but takes up the same space as had previously been filled by Willem and Malcom. He quietly watches Jude - just as he had before with his painting, only this time, it’s out of concern for his friend, rather than concern for his career and viewing him as a muse.

I have already mentioned how this production brought me to tears on several occasions, however none made me sob more so than Luke Thompson’s monologue at the end before his car crash. Having already read the book several times, I had known that this was coming and yet it didn’t stop me from hoping that somehow I’d misunderstood the plot point and that Willem did actually survive. So when Thompson took centre-stage and I knew what was next, my sister took my hand as the two of us prepared ourselves.

Beyond the tear-jerker of a monologue, when I later considered the adaptation as a whole I wondered over the choice to mention Hemming at that point. Perhaps this mention worked some some of the audience, however for me I felt it should have been mentioned earlier, as it is in the novel. With Willem only mentioning Hemming before he dies and only in reference to Jude, it caused me to reflect somewhat poorly on their relationship. It’s a minor point about the adaptation, however I do wonder if mentioning his older brother earlier, before Jude himself begins to use a wheelchair, it would have been more impactful.

I could sing praises about the chemistry between Norton and Thompson onstage - however considering I have the voice of a dying seal, it’s probably best that I don’t. Instead, I’ll simply say that their interactions in the second act, as Willem confesses his attraction to Jude, and he struggles to understand it caused my heart to skip a beat. 

Norton captures Jude’s innocence throughout the play perfectly - from the moments that he slips into his childhood self in flashbacks, to when he’s so unsure in his relationship with Willem, unused to being with someone who does genuinely love and care for him. 

All in all, I enjoyed this stage adaptation of A Little Life - if “enjoy” can be the correct word for a production that brought me to tears and caused me to question the meaning of life. It was hauntingly beautiful, heartbreakingly sad and utterly harrowing. I don’t believe I’ve ever been quite so moved by a whole troupe of actors and the way that they characterise their roles. While I certainly have some criticisms and hang-ups about this show and the story in general, I shall save those for another post, hopefully less long and wordy.

Would I return to the Harold Pinter Theatre to watch it again given the choice? Truthfully, I’m not sure. While I fell in love with these actors, the direction, set design and music, I’m unsure if I could watch it again and feel the same level of intensity as I did on this watch. Also, I cried enough to give myself a headache by the end - so if I were to watch again, I’d have to remember to bring a water bottle to ensure I stayed hydrated.

[do-it-jakey-baby]

Dreams in Ink

Danny Wagner x f!reader

Synopsis: Danny has booked in to get his third tattoo with a very sentimental reason behind it.

Warnings: mentions of needles, tattooing

A/N: This was a special request for one of my pookie’s birthdays!! HBD my gorge baby g, this one’s for youuuuu. 🎂🫶🏻

Today was the day.

Even though he’d done this twice before, the nerves still gnawed away at him. But what better way to commemorate playing at the Royal Albert Hall than getting a new tattoo? He and his brothers had dreamed about this moment since the inception of Greta Van Fleet, and now it was actually happening. So many years had been spent preparing for this very moment, they were all truly grateful for the opportunity and determined to make it a night to remember.

The band’s assistant had taken care of the booking, Danny explaining what he wanted and letting her do her thing. She’d found a cute little studio, not too far from their hotel. All he needed to do was show up, which alleviated some of the stress of the experience they were about to embark on. The entire band loved being in London, the city was so vibrant and the fans were just as passionate as back home in the States.

Following his usual morning routine, he stepped out of the shower and took great care when it came to his bouncy curls. He’d learnt along the way to use a cotton t-shirt to dry them, plopping them on top of his head as he got ready for the day. He then raked his hands through the curls and applied a gel to set them, scrunching up through the ends to the base. Once he was happy with the form of his ringlets, he grabbed his room key and headed out. Usually, his brothers would tag along to the studio, but today they were all feeling the effects of the pub that they situated the evening before, so a member of the security team was his only company. They arrived at the studio five minutes early, Danny’s palms beginning to sweat with anticipation. A bubbly, bright eyed girl with long, blonde hair approached him as he walked in through the door.

“Hi there, do you have an appointment?” She smiled, showcasing her pearly white teeth.

“Hi, yes. Daniel Wagner, my appointment is at 10.”

“Fantastic, if you could just fill out this form for me and I’ll let Y/N know you’re here. She’ll be over to show you the design in a minute.”

Danny filled the form out and gave it back to the girl, then took a seat in the waiting area.

A few moments later, the tattoo artist made her way through the thick, forest green velvet curtains that separated the reception from the main studio. She was possibly one of the most beautiful women he’d ever laid eyes on, with her silky, mahogany hair and cherry red lips.

“Daniel, right?” She asked, squatting down in front of him with her iPad in hand.

“Uh, yeah. But you can call me Danny, if you like. Most people do.” He wanted to smack the heel of his hand into his skull, why was he getting so flustered?

“Ok, well hi Danny. I’m Y/N. I’ve got the design here, if you wanna have a look and let me know if it’s what you had in mind.” She flipped the screen around in her hands and held it out to him.

He’d chosen the outline of the Royal Albert Hall. It seemed fitting, given the importance that playing there held in his heart. He peered down at the screen, noting that the design was exactly what he’d hoped for.

“That’s perfect!”

“And we’re going on your wrist?”

“Yeah, please.”

“Fab! Ok then, I’ll get the stencil sorted and then we can get started.”

With that, she stood up and walked back through the curtain, the smell of her perfume wafting through the breeze as she moved past him. It was such an alluring fragrance, subtly sexy but warm. It reminded Danny of a summer night back in Nashville, sat around a campfire with a glass of whiskey in hand. It smelt like home. In fact, he’d been so fixated from it since the moment she’d left that he hadn’t even noticed his name being called.

“Danny? You ready? Not having second thoughts now, are we?” She chuckled. Oh god, her laugh was so musical, the sweetest melody.

“Yeah, sorry... Lost in thought.”

“Come on back, let’s get you stencilled up.”

He entered through the curtains with her, walking out into a relatively small, but homely studio space. There was another artist at work in their own booth, a partition dividing the two spaces for client privacy.

“Ok, so I’ve printed out three sizes, so if you take them over to that mirror and try them on for size. Once you’ve picked the size you like, I’ll pop it on for you.”

Danny approached the mirror and held the three sizes up to his arm, deciding on the smallest of the three. The artist then shaved his arm and applied the stencil solution, then pressed the stencil down onto his wrist. She carefully peeled it off, urging him to go and take one more look before she began. Happy with the size and placement, Danny laid down on the couch and extended his arm out to lay on the rest. She slipped into her latex gloves, then took a seat on her stool.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, a little nervous though. This is my third tattoo, but it’s still pretty daunting.” He let out a nervous laugh, which brought a smile to her face.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” She winks.

She dips her machine into the small pot of ink, then stretches the skin of his wrist between her finger and thumb. She leans in, her breath tickling along his skin, causing his breath to hitch right at the moment the needle makes contact. She pulls back, her eyes clapping onto Danny’s.

“Are you ok? Was that too much?”

“No, no. Sorry, carry on. I’m all good.”

She rubs her hand across his arm, trying her best to soothe his nerves. He can tell that she genuinely cares about her clients, which is incredibly endearing.

“As long as you’re sure. I can help take your mind off it if you want? Tell me why you chose the design.”

She goes back to her position and begins to etch the line work into his skin, giving him occasional reassuring glances and listening intently as he explains the meaning behind the tattoo.

“Well, me and my brothers are playing at the Royal Albert Hall tomorrow night. It’s been a huge dream of ours for the longest time, so it’s extremely sentimental.”

“Wow, you’re playing there? You must be pretty big, huh?”

“I guess you could say that.” He chuckles.

“Tell me about your band. It’s so cool that you’re getting to live your dream.” She grins.

“Well, I’ve known the guys for what seems like my whole life. They are blood brothers, but really we’re all brothers. They are my best friends, such an amazing bunch of guys. Sam was my best friend growing up, we were practically attached at the hip. Still are. Josh and Jake are twins, a few years older than Sam and I. Jake’s dream was always to start a band, so the rest of us just kinda went with it. Music has been such a big part of our lives, we’re so influenced by it. It great that we now get to influence people too.”

“Danny, that’s amazing! It sounds like you guys are really close, getting to do what you love with them must be so fulfilling.”

“Yeah, it really is. I get to travel the world with them, explore countries we’d have never got to see if it wasn’t for the band. We’ve actually just finished up the Europe leg of our world tour. Next stop is North America again, then we go onto Japan, Australia, and New Zealand.”

“Damn! Ok I’m gunna need to know the name of your band, sounds like I have some listening to do.”

“It’s Greta Van Fleet, but please don’t feel obliged!”

“If you’re good enough to tour the world, I’m sure you’re good enough for me.”

She finishes up the rest of the tattoo, wiping down his wrist with cooling green soap which is gratefully received.

“So, what do you think?”

“I love it, thank you so much. And thanks for chatting with me, it really did take my mind off it.”

“Anytime.” She gives him a sweet smile. “Here’s a sheet with some aftercare information on it. It was lovely meeting you, Danny. I hope the show goes well tomorrow.”

“Likewise, you made me feel so comfortable today. It really was a pleasure, Y/N.”

She blushes slightly, then composes herself, running her hands through her hair.

Fuck it. Here goes nothing…

“I’m sorry if this is too forward, in fact please don’t feel like you have to say yes. But I had a lot of fun chatting with you, and I’m free this evening. If you don’t have plans, would you want to come out for a drink with me?”

She mulls it over for a minute, the cogs turning in her head.

“Yeah… sure. I don’t usually accept offers from clients, but something’s telling me you’re different. Here’s my business card, shoot me a text.”

Danny holds the card in his hand, looking down at it. He smiles, then looks back up.

“Great. I will. I’ll see you later? Thanks again for today.”

“Yeah, see you later, Danny.”

[samcatcher]

When in London.

Chapter 5. masterpost

This night was a night that I would always remember. It was an experience that I took with me everywhere. Sometimes when I’d see all of the boys together, I couldn’t help but think about this night. It was the night I (almost) heard a full greta van fleet set for the first time.

Sam and I spent the day together watching TV and talking. Just talking. It was so relieving to speak my native language so regularly again. I shared with him almost everything that’s going on and happened in my life. He seemed to remember every part. Him on the other hand, he remained kind of a closed book. Only really opening up to me if I asked a question. It did make me feel like I was talking about myself too much but every time I looked over at him he looked so content to be listening to me.

At around four, Sam left the house to go and set up with the boys, exactly like he did yesterday. He looked sad to be leaving me and he gave me a lingering hug as he left. I watched him wait for his cab with his bass in his hand, I watched him get in, I watched him drive away. After the remnants of Sam were gone, I started to get myself ready.

The moving van with all of my furniture still hadn’t come, it wasn’t coming until the weekend. Luckily, Amelia is an avid going out party girl, so I raided her closet for any sort of club dresses or outfits. Anything that wasn’t shirts or leggings. Amelia’s closet wasn’t my style, I missed my heaps of going out clothes and dresses and jewelry but it was fine for the time being.

I tried on this tight black dress which ended at mid thigh. It had white lace trim around the bottom and white straps. It looked like lingerie and to be honest I’m not fully convinced it wasn’t. I didn’t mind though. I’m not sure how Jean would have felt about it.

I felt confident after trying on the dress. Looking at myself in the mirror I felt the excitement for the rest of the night bubble up. So I quickly took off the dress, placed it on my bed and went and ran the shower.

I had a full packed shower. I washed my hair, I shaved my entire body, exfoliated my skin as well as everywhere else and I lotioned everywhere after. I brushed my teeth twice and as I was plucking my eyebrows the fourth time I looked at the clock, I had an hour for everything else.

I quickly cleaned up all of my stuff in the bathroom and moved to my room to start on my hair and makeup, which had to be simple now I wasted all of my time in the bathroom. 

After blow drying my hair and giving myself subtle sexy smokey eyes, I gave myself one last look in Amelia’s full length mirror in her bedroom. She was in there getting ready too, it seemed like she was going to make us a little late.

“Who are you looking good for?” She teased me as I checked my ass in the mirror.

“Just me.” I replied in the same tone and laughed at her suspicious expression.

I sat on Amelias bed and put on my white ankle socks and my black docs. Then I pulled out my phone and checked my messages. Nothing, good.

At around 6:30, Amelia and I began to make our way to the venue. The show started at 7 so we had half an hour to get a cab and go. Luckily we managed to find one almost straight away and we reached the venue at 7:05. The warm air felt like summer in France. Though London’s air felt more like home to me.

We got into the venue, which was this small pub-like place. There was a stage and a bar, that was about it. There were chairs and tables around the stage and you could see all four band members joking around and wasting time setting up on stage, while the owner stared them down angrily.

One of the twins was shouting about something and making only himself laugh. The other twin was vigorously trying to wipe something off of his fretboard. Sam was sitting alone on the edge of the stage. He was tuning his bass by ear. He looked so absorbed in the sound. His jaw jolted forwards and his lips pursed as he focused. Danny was the only one that noticed we’d arrived, he was approaching.

“So ladies, are you excited to hear Michigan’s best rock band?” He said smugly and nudged my shoulder.

I furrowed my brows.

“Sure am.” I said trying to hide my hopelessness for this band.

He laughed and turned around, then mouthed something to Sam, who looked at me and frowned mockingly. Something I don't think he expected was one of the twins catching a glimpse of what Danny had just mouthed.

“So, you’re not convinced?” A small curly headed elfish man was approaching. A cartoon smile which shocked me as he grew closer. Josh Kiszka.

He animatedly crossed his arms and I looked around nervously.

“It’s okay, I get it.” He pretended to tear up and then broke his act and immediately started chortling. 

“Fine. I am so super excited.” I said in a reassuring tone however I don’t think they were convinced.

Amelia next to me nudged me, because she had found us a table close to the front, Sam's side. We sat down and waited anxiously.

“They’re really good, you’ll be surprised.” Amelia whispered to me as we continued waiting. It was now 7:20.

Sam glimpsed at me and smiled, then turned around to watch his brothers cue him in. Josh started nodding his head and tapping his foot to Danny’s opening drum beat. 

All four boys joined in at once, and I paid attention to each of them, studying their movements and mannerisms as they focused on the beat and chords they created. 

Danny jolted his head and flipped his hair, moving his arms with so much power and speed, and pattern, every now and then he would gasp for air, yet he was always smiling. You could tell he loved what he did and wanted to do it for life. 

Jake kept his speed and focus on his fretboard, moving his fingers with gracefulness. He made it look so easy. Every now and then he would move his head up to look at his brothers, then he would move his focus back down to his gibson. Which was, and still is, beautiful. 

Josh would open his mouth wide and smiley, you could see his tongue vibrating in his mouth. He would close his eyes when he hit a vital part in the song, and move his arms up and down in time with his tapping foot. Between verses he would close his eyes and jolt his head. Warming up for the next spiral of notes he would hold. 

And finally… Sam. I wish I got a chance to look at him, but since the show had started my phone hadn’t stopped ringing. I ignored it for 3 minutes as I took in the first 3 boys, although when the first song ended I started to get worried, so I decided to sneak off to the ladies room to check my phone. 

It was obviously Jean. Constant text messages and phone calls asking where I am. Although I sighed, something in me sensed there was some sort of emergency, so I shot him a quick text.

Lyla: Is there something wrong?

I didn’t realize I had sent the text in English until he replied in French. Cursing me, saying I was being inconsiderate and that there was no point of us speaking at all if we weren’t speaking french, I apologized to him saying that I was just used to speaking English at the moment, and I got left on read.

Rolling my eyes I stepped out of the bathroom after standing in there for 20 minutes trying to get something out of my angry boyfriend. trying to hide my now spoiled mood, when I sat down I rubbed my face with my hands, and although Sam was in the middle offsetting up his keyboard, he still noticed my mood, and a worried look casted upon his face.

I was able to get a good look at him playing now, and once I started to stare I couldn’t look away.

With one section of hair tucked behind his ear, the other section remained down, framing his face. I could see the side of him as the piano was facing west, and I could see his bare feet striking the pedals and keeping in time with the song. His jaw was rotating, and his lips pursing. He would put his all into the piano, jolting his body forwards with each note he played, and he would close his eyes until he released the keys, opening them to find the other one to strike. He looked so serious and focused, yet penetrated by the music, he followed his brothers with his eyes, then subtly looked back down at the keys, he didn’t have one eye on the audience though, which was what I didn’t expect, his other brothers seem to be fueled and drawn by the audience, however Sam just focused on the music he created, and I also just assumed he had stage fright and couldn’t bare to look into the crowd of English Pub Goers. 

I was mesmerized, I couldn’t take my eyes off. Until I was snapped out of my trance by Amelia, who must have caught me drooling. She winked at me, took a sip of her drink and looked back onto the stage, her focus was on her brother, who had just done a big goofy smile her way, as it was Sam’s solo at the end of their song flower power, and he had a break to take a drink and interact with the crowd.

My gaze never left Sam, he was 60 seconds into his 90 second solo, and beads of sweat were rolling down his chest.

It looked like the rest of the room had lost interest, and I was happy. For some reason I felt slightly jealous that other people were seeing such intensity from him. And although friends filled the room, I felt like he was playing to me, for me, as stupid as it sounds. When his solo was finally finished he looked up, but not to the crowd. Then he simply walked off stage, as the show had finished. I was shocked, it went so quick. The boy only played 4 songs, as unfortunately the pub had to close unexpectedly due to some sort of infestation, I didn't want to know much more about it.

The manager let us stay behind to help them pack up their things, and once Sam had finished putting his stuff away (he finished first because the others kept getting distracted.) He came over to me and Amelia with a shy smile.

“How was I?” He asked us.

“I loved the solo right at the end.” I said to him, my eyes wide, slightly starstruck.

“That was actually written for Jake’s guitar but we changed it to my keys because Josh wanted me to get some spotlight at the end.” Sam laughed.

“I still think it sounds better when I play it.” Jake said as he walked past holding his guitar, being extra careful not to bump it on any chairs and tables as we went by.

Sam rolled his eyes then stared at the floor, I think he secretly agreed with Jake. 

A few seconds of silence went past which was interrupted by the ringing of my phone again. I scoffed and went straight outside, forgetting to excuse myself from Sam and Amelia, inflicting worry on the two.

The summer air was freezing tonight, and I shivered as I turned the corner of the pub, away from Sam’s brother’s and into an alleyway to answer my phone. 

Me and Jean had probably the largest argument we have ever had that night. I found myself screaming down the phone in French. I felt like I should have been holding a cigarette and wearing a fur coat. The funny part is I can’t even remember what the argument was about. I just know how devastated it left me. And after 15 minutes of screaming and crying down the phone, he hung up. Leaving me sobbing in an alleyway of an unknown pub.

I looked up to see Sam slowly inching towards me, holding my jacket I had left on the back of my chair.

“You left this.” He simply stated. However I could see everything he was thinking behind his eyes.

I sniffled and nodded, embarrassed that Sam had seen me cry so early into our friendship. He didn’t show any judgment, nor did he ask any questions, he just pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and offered me one. I politely declined.

“French girl don't smoke?” He rhetorically asked, slightly shocked.

“I used to. Way too much.” I replied and laughed back more tears.

Sam stepped closer and wiped my eyes for me, then pulled me in for a tight hug.

“My brothers went back to their hotel, Danny and Amelia are waiting for you, they don’t know you’re upset though, if they did they would have rushed over I’m sure-” He said, looking back.

“Thank you Sammy. I don’t know why but I’m glad it was just you that found me.” I gave him a lighthearted smile.

We walked out of the alley and were met with Amelia and Danny, who were looking at something on Amelia’s phone. I assumed it was a recording Amelia had taken of the band.

“Shall we go?” Amelia said as she looked around at all of us, I smiled and nodded, and she smiled back. We all started walking back to the house. The group engaged in conversations about the show that night, but I just stayed quiet, blaming it on something to do with tiredness.

When we got to the house I said a brief goodnight and went straight up to my room, I took off my clothes and exchanged them for comfortable pajamas. I didn’t even bother taking my makeup off, I was mentally drained mostly from Jean and I had only been here a few days. I passed it off as a rough patch while we adjusted. But it was more of a scolding, burning patch. Which left me depressed and unexcited about his visit soon.

The next morning I had no reason nor intention of getting out of my bed. Jean wasn’t coming until Saturday and the moving van had been delayed once again. So I layed there drifting off and waking up all day. I didn’t have an appetite nor energy to move. Everyone just assumed that I was having a lay in. 

At around 12:45 Amelia knocked on my door asking me if I wanted something to eat, because she had noticed I hadn’t left my room all day. I politely declined and told her I wasn’t too hungry. She nodded and left. Although we have been friends for life, we’ve never been good at comforting each other. I liked being left alone and she liked being held.

Another few hours went by and another few tears. Crying about a man was something I barely let myself do but Jean had really hurt me this time. I rolled over onto my stomach and put my head in the pillow, I decided to just cry it all out. 

20 seconds of silent sobbing later I removed my head from my pillow and grabbed a box of tissues from the suitcase on the floor next to my bed. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. As I was doing so there was another knock on my door. I didn’t say come in, but it opened a few seconds later anyway. 

Sam came in smiling with a cup of coffee in his hands. Although his smile dropped once he saw the state I was in. 

“What’s wrong Lyla? Everyone thinks you’re hungover.” He said, concerningly. 

“I would rather them think that.” I said and choked back a few more tears. 

Sam tilted his head to the side and then left the room not saying a word. I was a little bit disappointed. I really wanted him near me for some reason. 

Although my disappointment turned into wonder once he came back holding a beautiful acoustic guitar, with flowers painted up the fretboard. It looked new and never used. Which is something that’s rare with the aesthetic of Greta Van fleet. Something told me it was his personal one. 

“One rule that I’ve had since I was sixteen is take an acoustic wherever you go. You never know when you might need it.” He said proudly. Then he asked, 

“Can I play something for you?”

I smiled, imagining him lugging guitar everywhere, even if he didn’t use it at all. I nodded my head and moved my legs so that he could sit at the end of my bed. With the guitar in his hands and his hair up in a messy bun he smiled at me, then he handed me his cup of coffee to hold. I took a secret sip. 

A few seconds went by of him staring at the floor, probably trying to channel the chords to what he was going to play. 

I laid my head back down on my bed but angled my head so that I could still see him. He tilted his head to meet my eyes and smiled, then looked back at the guitar and started to play. 

He was playing the song I was mesmerized by the previous night, flower power. He told me that his solo at the end was originally written for acoustic, so I’m guessing that is what he was warming up to show me. I’m assuming he played the whole song to show off a bit. 

Unfortunately I never got to hear the solo, because about a minute and a half into the song I started drifting to sleep. The playing was slow and relaxing. Like a lullaby version. I couldn’t help my eyes from closing and my breathing deepening. 

Just as I was about to fall asleep, Sam's playing stopped. There were a few seconds of silence, as he was probably trying to check I was sleeping. Then I felt a hand caress my face and hold my chin with a thumb. I felt a hand move a piece of hair away from my face and stroke down my arm. Lingering there for a moment. I fake stirred to try not to smile. And he let go of me. He moved to the blanket further up my arms and stayed staring at me. 

after a few moments of feeling his stare on my ”sleeping” body. He got up off my bed and left the room quietly. That’s when I finally let myself fall asleep. For the first time without crying that day. 

chapter 6

[a-night-like--this]

The Cure photographer Paul Cox: “Robert Smith is a normal bloke – but he has a presence”

Cox tells us about his new photo book 'The Cure "Stills"', years of working with the band, and recent correspondence with Smith

By Andrew Trendell | 6th January 2023

The Cure's Robert Smith shot by Paul Cox

Photographer Paul Cox, who has released a new book of his images of The Cure, has spoken to NME about his experience of working with the band and his correspondence with frontman Robert Smith over the years.

The Cure, who recently completed a lengthy UK and European tour with a string of acclaimed shows at London’s Wembley Arena, are expected to release the long overdue ‘Songs Of A Lost World’ – the group’s first new album since 2008’s ‘4:13 Dream’.

To give patient fans something to digest in the mean time, Cox recently released The Cure “Stills” – a book documenting his long visual relationship with the band since he first started shooting them for a magazine session back in 1980, before soon taking photos of them during a Top Of The Pops performance. Their shoots together would often start in the early afternoon and go on until the early hours of the morning.

The Cure on ‘Top Of The Pops’ in 1980, shot by Paul Cox

“I was quite young, and they came across a little bit intimidating – but interesting; and that was always the thing,” Cox told NME about their first meeting. “You get a little bit of a vibe off people. From that one little session I just kept pestering them and got to shoot them more and more.”

Cox continued: “Robert is a very down to earth person – a normal bloke – but he has a presence when he walks into a room. He knows what he wants and nothing is going to stand in the way of how he presents himself. He won’t do interviews for the sake of it, he won’t do pictures for the sake of it; there always has to be a reason and he’ll put his all into it.

“Working with him over the years, he always puts a lot of effort in. That’s not him trying overly hard but just knowing what needs to be done and projecting himself in a certain way. He’s just great to photograph and a real character.”

The Cure’s Robert Smith shot by Paul Cox

Despite Smith’s image as one of rock’s most iconic figures, Cox doubled down on his reputation as “a normal bloke”.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like inside Robert Smith’s house, but I think it would be fairly normal!” he said. “I can imagine him putting a shelf up. He’ll do things himself. When we were doing the book, I first asked his permission out of courtesy, then he ended up curating it. It took so bloody long because of various things happening and people dying and whatnot. It took five years to do this book when it could have taken six months.

“Anyway, while we were putting the book together he was actually moving house at one point. He didn’t get people in to do it for him. At one point he told me, ‘Oh, this is the 10th trip I’ve done in a van!’”

The Cure, shot by Paul Cox

As for what his photographs reveal about the band, Cox said that The Cure “haven’t changed at all really”.

“You see their fashion changing slightly like when they went for the suits for a bit in the ‘80s, but generally Robert Smith in particular hasn’t changed at all – the big hair, the red lips, the eyeliner, his commitment. How many bands have survived as long as them? Not many.

“The members dip in and out, but I would imagine that [Smith] is really hard work to work with, but he’s just so driven.”

Cox went on to say that he “didn’t know” if he’d ever work with The Cure again, or if the band would be likely to do many more photo shoots.

“In the kindest way, they don’t need to promote themselves pictorially,” Cox argued. “They are what they are and can get by with a little drawing. Photography and what photos are used for have changed and now taking new photos is kind of unnecessary most of the time.”

The Cure, shot by Paul Cox

Smith has repeatedly teased the band’s upcoming record to NME as a dark, “merciless, relentless” piece, inspired by a period of great loss following the passing of several family members, and in a similar spirit to their 1989 gothic art-rock masterpiece ‘Disintegration’.

Quizzed on if he had any inside knowledge on ‘Songs Of A Lost World’, Cox replied: “No, not at all! Haven’t they been working on a couple of albums? I know one was supposed to come out back in the autumn, but I can understand why it didn’t. Sometimes you won’t hear from him for three months at a time, then he’ll come back with shitloads all at once! A lot of personal things have happened in his life over the last few years, and he just puts his priorities in the right place.”

The Cure “Stills” by Paul Cox is out now. Visit here for more information.

The Cure “Stills” – by Paul Cox

Speaking about the book in a statement, Smith said: “The ‘look’ of the various incarnations of The Cure, through many different periods, is inextricably linked to Paul’s pictures; his vision, expertise and patience played a huge part in portraying us, not just as we wanted to be, but as we really were.

“An excellent photographer, and an excellent man… and a very good job he wasn’t put off by the very weird job that was The Cure on top of the pops in 1980!”

[theunderestimator-2]

Reading stories of betrayal, despair & friendships going south from “Wally …Did You No Wrong” by Ron Evans:

some of you may -or may not- be familiar with the sad & obscure tale of the lost Sex Pistol, Wally Nightingale, Steve Jones & Paul Cook’s schoolmate who actually put the initial pre-Pistols band together as a trio & provided the classy rehearsal space (“Riverside” studios in Hammersmith, London, where the boys could sneak in since Wally’s dad worked there as an electrician) but got the boot because Malcolm McLaren had decided he didn’t fit the image he had envisioned for the band, being the geeky & uncool kid with the ‘old man’s glasses’. He was completely erased from the Pistols history in a heartbeat, as though he had never existed and the rest is known R’n’R history.

Wally’s story remains a fairytale gone bad, one in which the dishonest get all the glory while the good guy is left with bollocks, and Ron’s book is so rich in first-hand feedback and so well written that sometimes it’s hard not to actually see the narrative played in your head as a scene from a movie that hasn’t been filmed yet. Like the heartbreaking part where Wally’s pals come to his parents’ house, after he was ousted from his own band, to get all the gear that he kept in his bedroom: guitars, acoustics, amps, saxophones, foot controls and harmonicas that had been nicked throughout the band’s lifespan. Wally had been gutted but he managed to keep it all in with dignity (he was such a lovely bloke that he even went for a drink with his ‘former’ bandmates that same night after he got the axe) and when they came with a van to move the gear, he dutifully even helped them to unplug and pack everything up, carefully putting everything in their cases, while his mum and dad silently stood in the hallway, till his mum broke into tears and had to be hurried into the living room while shouting that they owed Wally:

“I could hear her crying as I went back upstairs to say goodbye to Wally. His bedroom door was ajar and I looked through the gap. All I could see was that second-hand Les Pau copy he’d bought in order to start the band sitting on its stand, and Wally sitting on his bed crying”, says his schoolmate Steve Hayes.

Needless to say that the late Wally Nightingale is my all-time favorite R’n’R anti-hero, the most underrated figure in the entire history of punk & the undisputed champion of punk rock underdogs, and Ron Evans, his younger schoolmate/neighbor/friend/bandmate in Key West -the band Wally Nightingale played after the Sex Pistols- has done an excellent job in documenting Wally’s tragic path to self-destruction. You can order the book from his site: https://www.ronevans.rocks/, as well as his cool music, which you can also enjoy on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/1z5w6O0737uoAZutq48mrn