#broken brolly

[salllzy]

The deal #1

Being an omega in Hell was not ideal, being an omega in a contract with the King? Was far worse. The terms of the contract were simple, he was to provide the King with an heir, male or female it didn't matter. After the birth he was to cut all contact with the Royal family and never interact with them again, to say that the interactions with the King were cold was an understatement, once a week he was called to the king's room where they would have sex and he was left dissatisfied and longing for more. The deal with the Queen hadn't been intended, rather he had been trapped between a rock and a hard place. Vox had greatly injured him during the last extermination, the media demon had used it to attack him while he had been fighting with angels. The Queen had found him before he could get to his daughter and she had tortured him until he had agreed to her demands. Once he provided an heir, he would be set free, or if the King grew bored of him. They were the only ways he could get his freedom back. The only reason he kept going was because of his daughter, his princess, he endured so that he could go back to her. Then he got the news that he had been dreading, he was pregnant, the King had taken the news in stride, but other than a brief flicker of interest? Alastor was left to do it himself, attend the appointments, shop for maternity clothes, he dealt with the cravings, the pain in his breasts, the lactating, he dealt with his swollen ankles and bad back by himself. It was times like this that he wished Sarah was here, she would make a wonderful older sister if given the chance. She had always wanted a sibling or two, but well, her mother had run off with a French man to have a better life. Afterwards, he had been left to care for an infant daughter, and the thought of having another relationship didn't cross his mind. In Hell he had tried his hand once more with Vox, only it hadn't worked out and it had led to a toxic relationship. Vox had always been pushing him, to modernise, to change his appearance, to try different things. Alastor had no problem with wearing different clothing or changing his hairstyle every once in a while, but he was the Radio Demon, radio was his medium and as much as Vox hated it, he wasn't going to change. It had led to a fight of all fights and they had broken up, or rather he had beat Vox into a bloody pulp and then tossed the ring that Vox had gotten him back at the media demon. Sadly Vox hadn't received the message and for years afterwards, he had been constantly trying to 'woo' Alastor back. He had no intention of ever going back to Vox.

Then his due date arrived and he had wrongly assumed that the King would perhaps be a bit more interested, but he wasn't. The birth had been long and difficult, there was no midwife to help him and more than once he had feared that he would lose the baby before they had even taken their first breath. When he had heard the cry of a baby he had almost collapsed with relief, but his work hadn't been finished, there was still the afterbirth to deal with. Once he had cleaned her up, a daughter, he had given birth to a daughter, there had been a knock at the door. He wasn't even given enough time to answer before the King walked into the room and removed the baby from his arms, he was then grabbed and tossed out of the mansion, blood and amniotic fluid still covering him. Acid rain began to pour down, causing his skin to burn. A brolly appeared and he looked up, red eyes meeting red. "Oh papa, let's get you home." With that the pair of them disappeared into the shadows, unaware of the figure standing near a window watching them. Gold eyes turned to his daughter when Lilith had proposed the idea he hadn't been on board at first, then Lilith had told him not to worry and that she would take care of everything. Silently he would admit that the Radio Demon was everything that he desired in a partner, powerful, cunning, and unafraid to get his hands dirty if it meant protecting his own.

But what he couldn't abide by was a cheater, he wanted someone who would commit to the relationship with him. The Radio Demon was incapable of it.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Reading Nevermoor to the 8 year old…

Chapter 9

Had a long discussion about the mechanics of the brolly rail, and which end of the umbrella you’d hold on to and how it would be strong enough (we’ve broken a lot of flimsy brollies in our house). It sounds fun and like flying but she thinks her hands would get sweaty.

Very interested in the dead fireblossoms.

We do not like Baz. He’s too obsessed with what people look like and doesn’t care what they actually are like inside. And he treats Morrigan like a Thing.

Nunya is a hilarious joke…

We like Jupiter’s low voice. She thinks it would give people goosebumps and maybe stop their brains working properly. Can he control people like that because he stops Baz talking?

Surely the Wunderous Society people don’t believe in the Wundersmith as well? It’s obviously just a story… she is clear about this because Jupiter said so.

Noelle is awful… maybe the worst yet.

At this point we are guessing that Morrigan’s knack is ‘confidence’ - because she was really brave and did the right thing even though people might then bully her too.

The jelly drop was hilarious. She did feel a bit sorry for the toads… but thinks Hawthorne is funny. Hopefully they can stay friends.

[picnokinesis]

I was gonna do this in the tags but I actually wanna make it a proper rec list to give some of my favourite artists some love haha, so sorry op, feel free to ignore this. But! Using the metric of monthly listeners on Spotify, since it's the only metric I have (and since Spotify Wrapped just dropped), here are some of my favourite little guys:

Chncer - 77 monthly listeners - discovered these guys listening to a radio show about local artists when I was up in Carlisle for a few days. They haven't got much music out but I love their song Put the Sun in My Hand

Beautiful Boy - So, these guys don't seem to be on Spotify, but they have 143 subscribers on YouTube. They have this song called But You Do that I absolutely adore, but I can't actually find it anywhere anymore, other than an acoustic session that they did here

Breakbeat Heartbeat - 696 monthly listeners - if you like sad chiptune music, then these guys are for you haha. Really love the tracks You Were My Friend, Constellations, and I Need You

Brolly - 7,435 monthly listeners - these guys have a fantastic album called Wolfe which I love a ton, but especially the tracks They Run, They Hide and Love Grew Legs (which has made me cry more than once haha)

Unknown Chapters - 7,488 monthly listeners - these guys are such a vibe. Highly recommend the songs Born and Bred and Frozen Bones

Blackchords - 15,541 monthly listeners - I think I discovered these guys through their song Into The Unknown, but honestly their entire self-titled album from 2009 is fabulous, especially the track Broken Bones

The Jerry Cans - 15,731 monthly listeners - I only found out about these guys a month or so ago, but they are SO so fantastic. They include a lot of traditional throat singing which is sounds so cool (especially when they get the violin to kind of mimic the pitches of it). Highly recommend both the albums Inuusiq and Echoes, and especially the songs Ukiuq, Nirliit, Qaumajuujusi, Havava, and Atauttikkut

There Will Be Fireworks - 24,875 monthly listeners - absolutely love these guys. Their album The Dark, Dark Bright is one of my favourites, it's SO good. Highly recommend the songs River, South Street, Something Borrowed, Roots, and Bedroom Door

Voice of Baceprot - 32,959 monthly listeners - these guys are genuinely so so awesome. Highly recommend PMS and School Revolution, but they also do some sick covers so I recommend checking out their live shows!

Twin Pumpkin - 37,287 monthly listeners - I need to listen to more of this guy, but I am soooo obsessed with their song Monolith

Wake Owl - 51,475 monthly listeners - these guys have this gorgeous EP called Wild Country which is just sooooo so good, especially the songs Wild Country, Gold and Grow

Okay I think I'll leave it there for now, although I'm sure I'm forgetting some. Special shout out mention to some artists that I think less people will have heard of but had a bigger monthly following than the above and so didn't quite make the list:

Luca Wilding (Book of Fate, Carmen)

Racing Glaciers (the entire Caught in the Strange album, and the Don't Wait For Me EP)

Wojciech Golczewski (the album The Signal, and The Priests of Hiroshima)

aeseaes (Carrion Comfort, All in Blue)

Civil Twilight (Oh Daniel, Holy Dove, Human, and Letters from the Sky)

Barcelona (Come Back When You Can, Lesser Things - please listen to Lesser Things - and Response)

Matthew and the Atlas (the entire album Morning Dancer, the entire album Temple, To the North, Out of the Darkness, Counting Paths)

Bloodywood (who are like, well known in certain circles but not others haha - listen to everything they've ever written though ALSO NEW TRACK ON FRIDAY and I am going to be SO normal about it)

Anyway hope someone enjoys this lol. Talk to me about music I love so much music

enough about taylor swift already. reblog and tag the smallest, least known artist you listen to

[lindsaystravelblogs6]

Days 7-9, 1-3 July

Day 7    Tuesday, 1 July

Another new financial year and Michael’s birthday.  More importantly for us, is that today marks forty years exactly since Heather and I have been together and officially thirty-six years of marriage.  I am just so glad we ‘found’ each other and started our life together forty years ago today.

We woke slightly later to cloudy skies after a little overnight rain, but we stayed in our room for most of the day.  Despite the clouds and some rain from about noon, it was a lovely cosy feeling and the view is just as good in the rain as in the sunshine.  We certainly are lucky people.

As the evening drew close, the rain increased and we were tempted to cancel our dinner reservation but decided that forty years together required some celebration, so we rugged up, donned raincoats, put our brollies up and headed to Malabar, one of our favourite restaurants in Sydney.  (It has moved two doors closer to ‘our’ place since we last ate there.)  It is an Indian restaurant that we have patronised for many years.  It was originally called Bombay in the 1960’s and early ‘70s but changed to Biriani for another thirty-odd years and is now Malabar – and I have eaten in all three iterations numerous times.  It has had some wonderful historic photographs along its walls for many years, and I have written about them more than once, including in some of my earlier blogs.  The owner told us that he still has the original glass plates from 1905 when the photos were taken – apparently, at the end of the Raj, his family were told to take what they liked, and the priceless photographic plates were part of the spoils.

One section of the Malabar wall-art

When I booked the restaurant, there was a box to tick if the meal was for a special occasion and I said it was our anniversary.  As a result, we were wished a ‘happy anniversary’ as we walked in (dripping from our soaking walk in the rain) and by both waiters who served us.  There was a touching ‘welcome and congratulations’ card on our table and the owner came past three times to ensure all was well, stopping twice for quite a chat.  We over-ordered as usual, but only slightly, and when we finally asked for the bill, they came with a little ice-cream dessert, including a sparkler that had everyone else in the restaurant wondering what we were celebrating.

We got rugged up again for the walk home and collected ‘our’ brolly from the rack and headed out into the cold and wet.  Heather started putting the umbrella up and it was broken so we realised it wasn’t ours and went back to exchange it for the correct one.  Alas, there were about twenty umbrellas there, but ours was not – someone must have decided that ours was better than theirs and took it.  The owner came over and emptied all the umbrellas from the box and tried to give us his own one – a big sturdy one instead of our little flimsy one.  We declined but selected one that opened properly and walked home getting very wet again in the process.  It had been a lovely evening to end a wonderful day.  There were some electrical works going on near our building, so the power was turned off at about 10.30pm, but we were snug in bed by then.  But around 1am, we were regaled with a very loud buzzing/whirring noise that woke us.  I went looking for the source, but it appeared to be right through the building and after half an hour, I was just getting dressed to go down to Reception when it stopped.

Day 8    Wednesday 2 July

After becoming a bit sore from our trek in the rain last night we decided to spend the day at home again.  It rained quite a bit last night and it was quite windy – but nothing like the scaremongering that has been filling the news about a ‘two-in-one bomb cyclone’.  I think it is a beat up although there has been some reported damage along the coast but not in Sydney.

We did quite a few puzzles and then Heather rugged up and went across the road to buy a few extras, including milk, so we could have cereal for breakfast.

I spent time on my blog and editing photos on and off during the day and finally posted some stuff about our first three days here.

Despite all the warnings not to go outside in the terrible cyclone, it was mild and sunny almost all day with mainly gentle breezes, so we went out walking in the mid-afternoon.  We had wanted to visit the Piccolo Bar, a favourite of ours, but it had been closed when we went there a few days ago.  The enormously colourful guy who ran the bar for sixty years was part of the attraction – he was always fun, flamboyant beyond description, funny and quite naughty.  He was known as the King of the Cross but when we arrived, we learned that he was no longer there.  He sold the business a couple of years ago and died at age 91 only a couple of months ago.  So sad.  The Cross has lost another icon, an irreplaceable character who added colour to dozens of lives every day.  Vale Vito (Vittorio Bianchi).

We had an expensive drink and some nibbles and chatted with the staff and then walked home again to watch the news, eat dinner and snuggle up in bed.

Thinking about Vito’s death reminded me that one of the issues that took a bit of our time a few days ago was encouraging LACVI to acknowledge the death of one of the Board members we had close contact with for several years.  We got what we think was a good outcome, but we are anxious to avoid getting dragged back into the business.  I get on pretty well with one of the current Board members and he asked me about a minor issue that they were proposing to implement in a couple of weeks’ time.  It would have been catastrophic and would probably have been the end of the whole organisation and possibly all of the clubs too.  Fortunately, I was able to fill him in with a bit of historical corporate knowledge and they have very fortunately abandoned the idea.  Simple things in themselves but those two issues probably involved close to a day of our time here.

The El Alamein Fountain that we pass most days

Day 9    Thursday 3 July

Another day of severe weather warnings with the sun still shining brightly and Sydney looking absolutely perfect.  I don’t understand the BOM at all.

We had another long chat with Susan on our way out this morning.  As a result, we just missed a bus and had to wait quite a while for the next one.  It took us to the Australian Museum where we wandered for two or three hours, focusing mainly on the Gould Bird Exhibition and some Lightning Ridge opals and some from other places.  The Museum had recently undergone a massive restructure and many of the exhibits we like have been replaced with more recent trendy stuff.  We are not sure that we would bother visiting it again – it is simply too politically correct and of much less interest to us.  But we had lunch there – quite enjoyable but very expensive.

I reckon restaurant priced in Sydney are at least 20-25% more expensive than in Melbourne. You can’t get a beer under $10 and a small glass of very ordinary wine is likely to cost from $15 to $25.  There are very few BYO places and if you do find one it will charge at least $5 per person corkage.  Bottles of wine start at around $50 and I saw one on the menu for $3,500.  We have eaten out several times and even a light lunch will set you back close to $100.  Everything has become ultra-trendy and not at all to our liking.

After lunch, we caught a bus and the light rail down to the Markets at Haymarket.  They have also just been renovated (it is still a work in progress), but it doesn’t seem that much different.  A few better restaurants in an eating hall, and there seems to be more produce than I recall, but it is still very strongly oriented to the international tourist market – predominantly aimed at China and SE Asia.

We didn’t venture far into the market but enough to get a taste of it and then we crossed over to Chinatown.  

It hasn’t changed much, and I would have liked to have eaten there but we had already had lunch.  We walked up and down and eventually sat down for a drink at a pub.  It was getting a little cold, so we decided to head for home and purchased some Vietnamese food for dinner.

Back in our room, we did most of our packing and had showers before eating our dinner and rolling into bed for an early night.

We were listening to some great music – a concert arranged by a friend of ours – and we both got a bit emotional.  It was so beautiful watching from our window, listening to the voice of the angels and feeling the dread of leaving here in the morning.  Not only could I hear the choir, but there were quite a few birds revelling in the dusk and the frequent melodic calls of the Pied Currawongs, always delightfully evocative of wondrous times, transported me further into my nostalgia.  I feel that three-quarters of my heart is here, and it will be such a wrench to leave it all behind tomorrow.  I have never felt such a strong attachment to any other place and apart from the beauty and excitement of the place, every corner evokes a memory, sweet or otherwise, that ties me to the two- or three-square kilometres around here.  Obviously, it is the erotic and the exotic adventures of my rich experience here and it would not be the same if we were here permanently, but I feel an unbreakable bond with this tiny corner of Sydney.

Window-gazing!

[indorset]

Reader insert #2

Prompt: None. Inspired by this scene in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

Summary: An explanation to the gif above. Unknowingly (I didn’t plan on it when I started writing) set in the same verse as “visiting Hogwarts”.  Can be read as a stand alone.

Words count: 801.

Rating: G

Warning: none. Though if anything comes up to you, do let me know. 

A/N: I couldn’t resist the forehead touch (again). It’s so soft, just like Newt Scamander. 

You casted a drying spell as you discarded the broken brolly aside; London’s weather was as rainy and gloomy as ever. A pile of papers and envelopes on the floor caught your attention. Casting a quick Reparo at the brolly, you picked up the mails. The flat was dark and quiet.

“Newt, I’m home!” You called out. 

Our home, you smiled at the thought. You have been living together for two weeks now, and it still felt like a dream. There were some adjustments to be made, small arguments over who stole the blanket at night, but you wouldn’t trade anything in the world for this domesticity that you two shared. 

You were sorting through the mail– Muggles, while blessed for their invention of electricity and the sewage system, had managed to send all sorts of bills to be paid– when you heard a muffled clang toward the bedroom’s direction. 

Probably inside his suitcase, you thought, since the bedroom remained dark. You put the sorted mail on the mantelpiece and discarded the rest with a flick of your wand, then quickly made your way to the source of the noise. 

The suitcase sat open on the bed. As you approached, you caught sight of a picture of Newt and you by the bedside table, illuminated by the faint glow of streetlight. You drew the drapes and whispered Lumos, electricity bills be damned. Your face broke into a big smile as you picked up the picture. Newt kept many photographs around the flat: of you, of the two of you together, portraits and sketches of his and your beloved creatures. Your favorite of the two of you had ended by his side of the bed. Your finger traced his face as he softly gazed up at you. Even in a photograph, you could still see his freckles, dotting like stars. 

“Merlin’s beard!” The shout from inside the suitcase startled you. Putting the picture down, you hurriedly took the steps descending down to the wonderland that is Newt’s suitcase.

“Newt! Is everything alright?” You found him hunched over by his desk, cradling his arm close to his person, his great blue coat laid abandoned nearby. 

“Y/N! You’re back!” Newt’s bright, sunny smile immediately abated your worries. You couldn’t help but grin back at him. But that didn’t last long. 

“Stars! What happened?!” You gasped– there, where his skin was visible, were teeth marks in shades of reds. Newt’s white shirt was soaked with sweat. You started to examine him profusely. Those looked like–

“Murtlap’s bites?” You ran your fingers gingerly over a mark by Newt’s collarbone. His shirt was unbuttoned down the first three, leaving his chest half exposed. You felt Newt’s breath hitched as your fingers brushed against the angry red of his skin. 

“Yes. I have been… observing different reactions one might get when bitten by a murtlap. So far, it has been quite harmless. The only thing was that… flmns…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” You looked up at him as he averted his gaze, cheeks pink. You didn’t realize your face was so close to him. You could see his constellations of freckles so clearly from here. 

“The only serious reaction was… flame out of the anus.” He mumbled the last bit. Your lips thinned as you tried to hide a fond smile at your magizoologist. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was published right before you moved in together. Only Newt Scamander would work on a revision so soon after the book’s premier. His compassion and dedication would never cease to amaze you. He did it not for recognition nor fame, but purely out of his compassion and dedication to the magical creatures.

“Let’s treat these bites, then you can go and update your manuscript, yes?” You brushed the sweaty hair out of his face and pressed a kiss on his freckles, his cheeks warm under your lips. You started to pull away, only to find his lips on yours. You leaned into the kiss as one of Newt’s hands caressed your face, the other a comforting warmth at your waist. 

You reluctantly pulled apart and rested your forehead against his. “Exactly how much flame out of the anus are we talking about?” You said cheekily.

Newt’s face is a whole other shade of red that you had never seen before. “I would say it depends on the diet one consumes.”

Your laughter rang through the space. If this was how it’s like with Newt, you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him. But that would be for another day. While the future was exciting and full of possibilities, you were content and happy at this moment in time, surrounded by the fantastic beasts and the love of your life. 

[missameliep]

Love Thy Neighbour - Part 1

Book: Desire and Decorum AU (Modern Days/Neighbours) Pairing: Prince Hamid x Elizabeth Foredale (OC) Rating: Teen and Up  Word count: 5k

Summary: After a bad date, it seems the universe heard Elizabeth (OC) and decided to grant her wish. But will she accept the gift or will she throw it away like a broken brolly? Notes: * All characters belong to Pixelberry (Briar Daly, Prince Hamid, Bartholomew Chambers and Yusuf Konevi), except OC. * English is not my first language. * No Warnings. Just a silly and fluff story. * I want to thank @princess-geek​​ for being my beta. Thanks for always being so kind to me! 😘

* This is my submission to CFWC Silly Love Stories and I don’t know if we could do this or not, but I did... This fic is a combination of two of the prompts (Day 3. Roommates/neighbors (canon or AU) and Day 5. Meet cute), and this part of the story focus on the meet cute. Thank you for hosting this event @choicesficwriterscreations​​, the prompts were really inspiring! 

The soft jazz is replaced by the city’s very own symphony the moment Elizabeth steps out of the pub. She was a little bit tipsy, which is unusual for her, especially in a weeknight, and free – or so she thought, until the masculine voice called her name.

They already said their polite goodnights inside, like good-manners commands. The date was officially over. Elizabeth could pretend not hearing it and keep walking. And so she does. But he calls again, much closer, and his hand touches her arm. She can no longer ignore him and a defeated sigh escapes her lips before she turns around to face him.

“Oh, sorry,” she apologizes like she always does. This urge to apologize, even if you did nothing wrong, is it some inexplicably British characteristic engrained in their genes, or simply her own eagerness to avoid conflicts?

“We should do this again,” the man suggests with a smirk, leaning closer and staring at Elizabeth with those bedroom eyes again. “Or perhaps I can change your mind about that night cap...”

Seriously? Is he expecting to bed me? How absolutely clueless can he be?

Taking a step back, Elizabeth says the first thing that pops in her head, “Wait for my call.”

Her voice is firm, her tone is serious and she does not laugh. And this is enough to make him smile, also gives her the chance to reunite with her friend, who forces herself not to laugh too.

Linking her arm with Briar’s, the two rush to the pedestrian crossing, and in the blink of an eye, reach the opposite sidewalk.

“Wait! You didn’t get my number!” the man shouts.

The two do not look back, zigzagging their way around patrons exiting another pub. The soft summer breeze tousles their long hairs and carries their giggles through the night. The liquor consumed in the pub in this past hour enhanced their cheerfulness and darkened their cheeks, but did not steal their enviable skill wobbling around four-inch heels.

Faces flushed, they get in line and hop on the bus after a group of chatty tourists with their bags from a famous fast-food restaurant, that impregnates the air inside the vehicle.

“Were you as bored as you looked, Lizzy?” Briar asks out of breath, sitting in one of the last two seats on the back of the bus.

“More!” she admits, taking the last spot, and the persistent smile fades from her lips. “I thought London’s dating scene would be more exciting…”

“It usually is. It’s rare to end up with two guys as snobbish and boring as the ones your grandmother tries to set you up with.”

“Lucky me then!”  

Tonight was the first time in many months Elizabeth willingly went to a date, engaging in most of the expected pre-date rituals, including almost biting every single nail out of anxiety, wondering if this would be the one to end her unlucky streak. However, this was not it. This date makes into her Top 5 Worst Dates, which is quite an accomplishment considering the list includes the time she almost set her own dress on fire and that one-time date night ended in a trip to the ER because Michael accidentally hit her nose with his elbow taking off his shirt and then fainted at all the bleeding and hit his own head at the coffee table which prompted more bleeding – a memorable night for all the wrong reasons, including the fact her father had to drive both teenagers to Edgewater’s hospital and the awkward conversation with him that followed.

“At least they were easy on the eye,” Briar nudges her friend’s side.

“That is true. And the only other reason why I stayed,” Elizabeth admits at last, concealing with one hand the flush that reddened her cheeks. The first reason was to prove a point to herself, which she partially did. “But good-looks do not compensate for all the rest… I’m still shocked that he was being serious about scientists not sharing their findings with the public… It felt like Twitter was talking back to me...”

“I still think you should’ve accepted his invitation.”

“Not funny.”

When Briar speaks again, she mimics the man’s pretentious accent. “Have you been to the Cornwall, Elizabeth? The weather is exceptional this time of the year!”

“I barely survived one hour with him. How would I endure an entire weekend?”

“Booze,” Briar replies not skipping a beat. “Drunk Lizzy is easily amused. And you could always shag him and shut him up…”

“What?” Elizabeth gasps, looking around to see if someone else is paying attention to their conversation. Lowering her voice so only Briar can listen, she states, “I will not sleep with him so you can go sailing in his yacht!”

“That’s rude. How many times one must tell you it’s not a yacht, it’s a Sunseeker?” she retorts, stressing the brand’s name like the man did, correcting the two of them moments ago.

Elizabeth playfully slaps her arm, and their laughs are muffled by the rush of new passengers hopping on the bus. Amidst them, a tall man in a navy-blue suit with dark hair perfectly styled back, who looks like a walking ad for one of those ridiculously expensive watches. His dark eyes scan everything around like a kid in an amusement park for the first time and he smiles to himself, trying to hold at one of the vertical poles near a group of teenagers.

“Look at that!” Briar practically shoves the mobile on her friend’s face, reclaiming her attention back. “Another match! And he texted me! Should I text him now? Maybe I should wait. No, I’ll text him.” She answers her own questions, already typing, then glances at Elizabeth. “And since you insist on not creating your own profile,” Briar says with non-veiled criticism, “I can ask if he’s got a cute friend and we could go on another double date this weekend.”

“I’m done with dating for now, Briar…”

“You can’t give up after one bad date.”

“You know it’s way more than one bad date…” Elizabeth sighs, and her gaze fixes at the window, contemplating the buildings sliding, a pensive expression Briar knows well enough.

Taking a deep breath, Briar smiles and tries to lighten the mood, “Without going on a bunch of awkward dates now, how will we get the material for our exceptionally funny anecdotes in the future? Imagine how boring it would be to tell the story of how you met the one on the very first attempt… Who wants that?”

“The one?” Elizabeth tucks some curls behind her ears and stares quizzically at her friend. “We’re not twelve anymore, Briar…”

“Hey! Don’t you quit on me, Lizzy!” Briar points a finger at her and chides, but her tone is light, and the words lilt with laughter, “You got me believing in all that gibberish in the first place.”

“If there really is something like that, maybe I’ll just sit at home and wait for the one to knock on my door. If it’s meant to be... he’ll eventually come, right? I hope he likes coffee...”

While Briar protests, delivering a passionate speech to demonstrate how wrong she was, Elizabeth smiles and watches people moving around when the bus sighs to a stop once more.

Some passengers occupy the recently emptied seats, and the man in suit clumsily draws back, letting people walk past him. Neck stretched, he surveys the space at the back and moves forward, distancing from the door in the hopes of an emptier place to stand. Judging by his awkwardness, Elizabeth wonders if he ever used public transportation in his life and is reminded by her own awkwardness when she first moved to the city.

“You have to put yourself out there, Lizzy,” Briar concludes, and Elizabeth looks back at her. “And take chances. Otherwise, how you’ll meet someone?”

“For once, I just wanted the universe to throw a nice guy my way and say: Hey! Here you go! You deserve a good one! Take it!”

“Life will not literally throw a guy on your lap, Lizzy,” Briar says, between giggles, “That’s not how it works and you know it…” The woman was still talking when the engine purred. The bus sped up, jostling the passengers back and then to the side, when the driver made a wide turn to the left.

Not everyone was prepared for that turn, it seems.

The sudden move draws a surprised gasp and an unintelligible interjection from one of the passengers standing at the back. The person slides, unable to find purchase as if standing in the deck of a storm-tossed ship. At last, the tall figure falls over Elizabeth.

It takes a moment for Elizabeth’s brain to process what has happened, but when it finally does, she realizes the man in the navy-blue suit had landed on her lap, and was currently sitting there with his mouth hanging open and eyes open wide, scanning the surroundings in confusion. When his stare lowered meeting her gobsmacked expression, she froze, unable to look away or say anything. They hold each other’s gaze for many breaths, a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment. Impossible for her not to stare. His warm tawny skin almost glows, even under the fluorescent light. The man lingers in place, perhaps distrusting his own legs, perhaps not knowing the proper etiquette to follow when you find yourself sitting on the lap of a complete stranger.

“…And I want a million pounds!” Briar’s voice dripping with laughter resounds and breaks the haziness that fell upon them.

The man quickly pulls himself up, and a string of apologies flies from his mouth. His voice is deep and melodious, and he’s got an accent she doesn’t recognize.

Did he overhear our conversation?

Discreetly, she steals a glance at Briar, who definitely doesn’t have the same concern.

Giving her a thumbs up, her friend mouths soundlessly, “He’s cute!”

“I am terribly sorry, miss,” he repeats, a hand resting over his chest and his dark eyes focus on her and only her.

His words convey nothing but honesty, and maybe a hint of shame. But some people are exceptional liars, as Elizabeth knows too well.

At some point, he admits not riding the bus very often.

“I’ve never took this bus. And I wasn’t expecting that turn and –”

“It’s alright. Really…” Elizabeth reassures him, under Briar’s and the man’s attentive gazes, and he stops apologizing.

“If you’re hurt, I can take you to the ER.”

“Thanks for your concern, but I’m fine,” she says again, and his worried frown is replaced by a smile that grows wide, dimpling his cheeks, and almost reaches his ears. This is possibly one of the most beautiful smiles she has ever seen, not only because of his perfect lined white teeth, but mostly because it is genuine and makes his eyes sparkle like they hold entire constellations in his orbs.

Am I staring? That’s creepy.

“Are you certain?” he asks, his eyes lingering on her face. “I feel I should compensate you for this nearly injury I caused…”

“Oh, no. There’s no need. Just be careful,” she says softly, without meeting his gaze, pink blooming on her cheeks and neck. “I can’t guarantee I’ll break your fall next time…” The words sound way more flirtatious out loud than they did in her mind, and it is too late to take them back when a grin parts his lips.

“I’ll remember that. Or perhaps I should keep you around. For safety reasons, obviously.” He winks, and Briar muffles the lowest squeal with her hand.

Unaware of the thoughts racing in Elizabeth’s mind, Briar gives her an encouraging nudge, but instead of talking to the man, Elizabeth stands up.

“Oh! Look! That’s our stop!” she says and shoots a glance at Briar, who looks confused but also rises to her feet. “Excuse us.” The man moves out of their way, and she whispers a thank you.

When the doors open, she dares cast a last glance at the man and the smile that accompanies the quick wave of goodbye of his hand is far less genuine this time. Perhaps disappointed his charms did not work on her. He really was charming, though.

The bus speeds up, and her eyes follow it.

“That’s not our stop,” Briar states, arms crossed in front of her chest and a disappointed look on her face.

“I thought we could go for ice-cream. It’d definitely cheer my night.” Elizabeth says breezily, another decision she regrets considering how phony she sounds.

Briar’s heels tap on the sidewalk following her, and she hisses, “Lizzy, you are unbelievable.”

“Excuse me?”

“Life just threw a geezer guy at you, like you wished for and what you do? Run away!”

“First, I wished for a nice guy. And second, that was just a coincidence. Or worse, he was eavesdropping and put on that little show…”

“Even better! If that’s true – which I don’t think is the case, by the way –, it means he was really invested and not afraid to make himself look like a completely fool in public because of you...”

Elizabeth lowers her eyes, and fidgets with her ring. No use crying over spilled milk, like mamãe¹ used to say.

“I didn’t know what to do. And I barely escaped one obnoxious dude tonight, I should not push my lucky.”

“The only reason I’m not fighting you over this now is because I love ice-cream. But whenever you complain about your love life in the future, I will remind you of tonight and how you ignored fate… Perhaps you just left your soulmate on that bus like a broken brolly…” Briar muses.

“Soulmate?” Elizabeth echoes and stops to look at her. “Aren’t we getting way ahead of ourselves here? That was just a random stranger on a bus. A cute one, I admit. What if he turned out to be a serial killer?”

“What if he turned out to be a great guy?”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Elizabeth shrugs and resumes walking down the street. “He’ll be the Schrödinger’s mate of our future anecdotes.”

Briar snorts with laughter and links her arm with her friend’s. “You’re such a nerd.”

 A few days later

Elizabeth holds the door open for her friend and once inside, Briar halts in front of the lift staring at the bright red metallic door.

“Do we really have to climb the stairs?” Briar’s voice sounds even more nasal when she whines her question, even though she already knows her friend’s answer by heart at this point.

“You can take the lift, Briar,” Elizabeth replies with a smile, her tone as light as the green summer dress swaying with each of her steps, “I’m just not taking it with you…” The memories of Briar’s primal screams echoing inside the confined metal box and ringing inside her ears still vivid despite it being over a year.

“What if it breaks again?”

Elizabeth looks back at her and then at the lift’s door, probably a reminiscence from the original one installed in the 1970s. The malfunctioning lift and the bad plumbing and the terrible mobile reception due to the freakish thick walls built to survive bombings are the main reasons the rent is unusually affordable in this area of the city. But Elizabeth does not mind any of that. She was lucky enough to get a flat adorned with one of the beautiful white porcelain tubes, a view from the street with the charming red brick façades and the trees of heaven, and the perfect light that brightens her mornings when she drinks her mug of coffee by the window. Why would she complain? Instead, she will happily climb the stairs to the cosy flat on the third floor and call it exercising.

“Considering how old this thing is, it’s very likely to happen sooner or later…”

“I don’t want to be trapped alone!” Briar says, watching Elizabeth disappear around the corner.

“And I don’t want to be trapped with you and your powerful lungs.” Elizabeth’s voice resounds from the corridor, while she keeps walking.

A moment later, heels click on the floor behind her. Judging by the sound, Briar is sprinting.

“You know, if I did not do that,” Briar starts, catching up with her, “we could’ve been trapped God knows how long! You should thank me, Lizzy! And my lungs!”

“We were only trapped because you convinced me to break the rule in the first place. I’m not falling for that again…”

Briar sighs and follows her friend upstairs.

“Just so you know, I’m counting this as exercising and I’m not going jogging with you tomorrow…”

“Fair enough.” Elizabeth giggles, and looks over her shoulder.

The rest of the way they do not talk. Dragging herself dramatically slow, now and then, Briar mops about being too tired or mumbles about exchanging her for a friend who lives in a building with a usable lift. They have been friends far too long for Elizabeth to take her threats seriously.

“Grandma sent bonbons. I’ll let you have some if you ever make it up here...” Elizabeth utters a little louder to her friend, but receives no reply, she probably hasn’t reached the second floor to add dramaticity.

Elizabeth crosses the doorway, and the lights flicker to life with a buzz. Stepping into the poorly lit corridor, and halfway to her flat, the lift door flies wide open, almost hitting the wall and a tall man carrying a large box manages to extract himself out, pushing an even larger box with his foot. He’s got a full beard and black hair, and his face brightens when he smiles at someone inside apartment 3C – the one where Miss Thompson used to live until a month ago.

“These were the last ones,” the man says, and he speaks English with an accent.

“Thank goodness!” a voice comes from the apartment, and she assumes it belongs to the white man with brown hair who walks outside. Grinning, he takes the box from the other man’s arms and goes back inside. The bearded man picks up the remaining box and follows him.

“Where do I put this one?”

“Are those shoes? So, bedroom,” the reply comes from a third masculine voice inside the apartment – a somewhat familiar voice. Where did I hear it before? She muses, but cannot put a face to the voice, while they keep speaking, and no one seems to remember to close the door.

Forgetting good-manners, Elizabeth allows her curiosity to get the best of her. Walking carefully to stifle the sounds of her footsteps, she halts in front of the door. Any sign of Miss Thompson’s former presence has been erased from the living room where now stand two dark haired men with their backs turned away from the door. Contemporary furniture and a wide-screen television replaced the old upright piano and the vintage burgundy couch, where she sat to drink tea with the former resident many afternoons. Without the wallpaper, the room seems brighter but also far less welcoming. It lacks life. A rather dramatic change from what it used to be, and it makes her wonder about the new residents.

Oblivious to her prying eyes, the two talk in a low voice in a language she does not recognize while the bearded man from the corridor fidgets with wires from the television set, the other man, equally tall and dark-haired, inspects the content of a box over the coffee table. The black trousers and white dress shirt he’s wearing are too elegant to be moving furniture around and contrast with the casual clothes of the two she’s spotted on the corridor.

Raising his eyes from the box, the man in white chuckles, and Elizabeth catches a glimpse of his face. His smile is wide and genuine and must be the most alluring one she has ever seen. The voice is not the only familiar thing about that man.

Finally, recognition dawns on her.

But it cannot possibly be him, she tells herself. That would be too much of a coincidence!

The sound of heels tapping on the checkered floor startle her, and she jumps back. Her heart races but Briar doesn’t judge or tease her for spying, on the contrary, her attention already captured by the men inside.

“Are those your new neighbours?” Briar says softly, peeking around Elizabeth. “Oh! They’re handsome. Do you think they’re single?”

Elizabeth shrugs and tries to pull Briar away from the doorway.

“That lad looks awfully familiar, doesn’t he?” she whispers, and Elizabeth purses her lips and fidgets with a curl. A slow mischievous smile curls Briar’s lips. Her eyes sparkle and Elizabeth knows that she knows.

“Ohmygod! That’s the cute lad from the bus, innit?” Her whispered words do not sound like a question at all, and the grin on her lips an indication she is enjoying this discovery way too much. And there’s nothing else Elizabeth can do about it now, besides trying to reach her own flat. She turns around, but a hand around her wrist stops her from moving.

Ignoring Elizabeth’s warning glare, Briar raps her knuckles on the door.

“Welcome to the building!” The brunette’s nasal voice rings loudly, and the men turn to look in their direction, surprise turning into appreciative smiles that accompany their thankful words.

“Only my friend is moving in, though,” the bearded man says, and Briar’s grin almost reaches her ears. “We're just helping him out.” The man nods, indicating the smiling white man who returned to the living room, possibly attracted by the sound of conversation.

“That’s nice, innit?” She says, her eyes flicking from her friend and back to the man in the white shirt. “My friend Lizzy lives right next door. 3B. If you need anything – and I mean anything at all – just knock on her door. She loves to help!”

“You are very kind,” the man in the white shirt says and his eyes focus on Elizabeth, a persistent smile on his lips.

Despite the friendly expression, Elizabeth notices there’s no sign of recognition in his expression. At all.

How could he not recognize Briar? Or me? He was literally sitting on my lap. And I know he took a good look at my face…

The way her stomach sinks almost makes her consider this feeling is in fact disappointment.

Perhaps I overreacted that day and it was just an accident.

After they parted that night, there was absolutely no expectation of ever seeing him again. London is a huge city. Millions of people live here. And she rarely rides the bus, especially that line. Hence, how would they meet? Yet, against all odds, he was standing right there, looking at her like that, not remembering how rude and awkward she acted.

Mustering the courage to end that interaction before she died of sheer embarrassment, Elizabeth politely welcomes him and wishes them all a good evening, then drags Briar with her.

When the door closes behind them, the laugh Briar was holding escapes in a loud snort, and then she bends with all the laughter she cannot repress anymore.

Elizabeth stares at her for a moment, watching her face turn redder and redder, then put the purse and shoes on the closet. The situation is absurd, but a mere coincidence, she tells herself, while filling the electric kettle with water and turning it on.

Wiping the tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers diligently to not smudge the mascara. “Apparently, it’s not only death you cannot cheat on...”

“That’s just another coincidence,” Elizabeth says matter-of-factly, and walks to the bedroom. The other bouncing right behind her and into the room.

“Lizzy, you can call it whatever you like, but you can’t escape fate!” Briar flings herself on the bed, and her chin rests on her hands. “What did you say that night about the one knocking on your door? It’s so very likely to happen now…”

“He still can be a horrible person,” she mouths soundlessly, pointing at the ventilation, reminding Briar how the sounds can be carried from one flat to another.

“He’s got friends who are helping him move,” she points out, “He cannot be that bad.”

“Who knows? We know nothing about him.”

“And whose fault is that? If you let me talk to them, we would have plenty of information. I’m trustworthy and people open up to me like that!” Briar snaps her fingers.

“It doesn’t matter. He didn’t remember me.”

“How do you know?” Briar eyes her and smirks. “Were you expecting him to just throw himself at you again?”

“I was certainly not!” Elizabeth retorts, but the look on Briar’s face indicate she was not convinced.

“Besides a guy like that with those fancy clothes probably dates only those... gorgeous... long-legged women…  with perfect hair… who look like models… and not someone like me…” Elizabeth says.

“You say that like you were a bridge troll and not a beautiful woman yourself. Give yourself some credit.”

“I’m just saying…” – Elizabeth shrugs and removes the earrings and necklace and returns them to a drawer – “You saw his clothes… His stuff… I’m not this dude’s type. And he’s not mine either.”

“Oh, please! He is totally your type! Tall with a nice smile.”

“That’s not my type.”

“It totally is,” Briar retorts and starts listing her friend’s crushes, using her fingers. “…and Harry’s friend from Eton, Michael, and that older guy from the library... the one who had to duck to walk into the reading room –”

“I only said Nathaniel was intriguing!” Elizabeth cuts her off. “His knowledge about poetry was fascinating.”

“Right! Poetry…” Briar winks. “And last but not least, Luke Harper and his million-dollar smile.”

“We are friends.”

“You looked too dreamily at him for just friends.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dating Cordelia now and they’re perfect together.”

The kettle hisses, and Elizabeth walks back to the kitchen.

“I’m making tea. Fancy a cuppa?”

Briar nods, and Elizabeth turns back around, opening a box over the cabinet. “Peppermint?”

“Chamomile for me.”

Pouring the hot water into the mugs, she catches a glimpse of Briar when she sits on the chair by the window and resumes the preparation.

Elizabeth hands Briar the mug and sits on the other chair. Their gazes are drawn to the quiet street and they smile. They know each other well and long enough to communicate even in silence. The same thought on their minds. Taking the reels of their lives and moving to London was something both planned since they were teenagers, and they made it. They are living the dream. Well, almost. Elizabeth lives in a great neighbourhood but in an old and neglected building, while Briar lives with two of her older cousins at a house at Hounslow. Though she will not complain much; it’s still London and she is always welcomed to stay for the night either at Elizabeth’s or at their friend Annabelle’s flats.  

After a few moments, both sipping their teas and lost in their own thoughts, Briar touches Elizabeth’s arm. “Lizzy,” she starts speaking in a low conspiratorial tone, avoiding her words to be carried away to the ventilation, “if you fancy your hot clumsy neighbour, don’t miss your chance. You may regret it later.”

Elizabeth puts the mug down, and fidgets with it for a second, nails tracing the floral pattern, until a smile curls her lips. “You forgot rule number three: neighbours are off limits. Too much drama.”

“Says who?”

“Miss Thompson. And she was very wise.”

“You know she dated Mr. Lee from 5C, Karl from 4D, that guy from 7A and –”

“None from the same floor. That’s rule number four. In case you broke rule number three. Chance meetings are easily avoided that way and the highest the floor, the least likely for them to use the stairs. So, you’re safe.”

“What if you break rule number four?”

“Then if things go bad, you have to move out. That’s rule number seven.”

“Is that why she moved?”

“Bad knees. Apparently using the stairs often for so many years took its toll…”

“That’s silly. Miss Thompson’s rules do not apply when it comes to fate… That should be rule number five.”

“Actually, rule number five was that one about the locks,” Elizabeth corrects her. “Which reminds me that I still need to fix mine.”

“Don’t you dare!” Briar puts the mug down, eyes bright with mischief, and the words just spill from her mouth as the ideas pop in her head, “You should use that as an excuse to lock yourself out of the flat and ask for his help. At night. Oh! Wearing just a bathrobe and sexy lingerie.”

“What?” Elizabeth gasps.

“Better yet. Nothing underneath.” She shoots a meaningful look at her friend whose face is frozen with shock.

“That’s ridiculous!” Elizabeth says at last, voice raising with outrage, “I will not do such a thing!”

“Suit yourself.” Briar leans back in the chair and sips the tea.

“Besides, if you’re right, I don’t have to do anything, just have to wait until he knocks on my door…”

“I know I’m right. Wait and see. It can happen any minute now.”

They share a look in silence, and instinctively peek at the door, waiting for something to happen. The last time they dared the universe, a man fell on Elizabeth’s lap, perhaps he could just come and knock, despite the functional doorbell. Who knows?

After a long pause in the most absolute silence, Briar speaks first, “Okay, I don’t know how it works exactly. It might take a while. But mark my words: It will happen.”

“Or you are simply mistaken,” Elizabeth teases and leans back on the chair too. Sipping the tea, she revels on the fragrance of the peppermint, while contemplating the gentle sway of the tree crowns blown by the breeze outside.

Two sharp knocks on wood startle her and Elizabeth almost drops the mug.

Her eyes widen and her head whips to face the door, and then back to Briar, whose attentive gaze is trained on her. Elizabeth’s lips part and the words almost topple, “Did you hear that?”

Briar’s head bobs, and the other puts the mug down on the table. Her fingers run through her curly hair, pulling it back, and she raises to her feet.

Barely two steps towards the door when a snort of laughter resounds. Elizabeth looks back at her friend, who was trying to cover her laugh with her hands.

“Was that you?” Elizabeth leans forward and playfully slaps her arm. The guffaws erupt in the kitchen. “I cannot believe you!”

“You should’ve seen your face!”

“Seriously, Briar? Have you no mercy on my nerves? I almost broke my favourite mug.”

“Admit it, Lizzy!” Briar says almost breathless, “You’re not as sceptic as you think. And you tried to fix your hair, which means I’m 100% right!”

The admission does not come, at least not in the form of words.

=====

Notes:  Mamãe - Portuguese word - means mum, mamma, mama; a (name for one's) mother. 

[writing-for-life]

Thanks for both of your additions, @orionsangel86 and @tickldpnk8

Yes, and it rained twice. Once when he talks to the Fates, and once when they say goodbye. And both times, she’s the one with the brollie. He’s the one (sort of) getting wet—I think they couldn’t have it made more obvious if they tried.

And I love what you said about the comparison to Burgess and the binding/protection circle. It ties in with the whole “not one of us can be trusted”-schtick.

I really think they should run with it, for all the reasons laid out. Plus, they look good together (not as godawful as that panel from “Sandman Universe: Thessaly” I’ve just posted. I think I’ll never be able to scrub that from my brain 🙈). I am shallow like that, LOL.

The Wanda/Ruby merger has its origin in the casting call as far as I’m aware. They were explicitly stating the chauffeur thing for Wanda and tying her character to the beginning of Brief Lives, but I can’t find it right now (I’ve definitely seen it though).

I love the comics and always will, but I don’t mind changes in the show at all. As long as the overall arc/message stays intact. So changes like the above ones wouldn’t be problematic for me.

I agree with what you wrote about keeping Hob/Morpheus as subtext and stand by my opinion that, while I have no problems with Dreamling as a ship/head-canon and find the ambiguous undertones in the show cute, I’d prefer to keep the focus on their friendship. And there’s certainly room to expand Hob’s role slightly to give him more screentime.

Their friendship is exactly what makes their relationship *different* from all of Morpheus’ other disastrous relationships, and that’s important. I get that show-only-fans might not see it that way, but once you read the whole arc, you understand what changes would be okay and which ones would turn the whole thing on its head beyond recognition.

I personally would honestly see turning it into romance as devaluing what their relationship is about, and I’m still not afraid to say it. I’d also not be sure where to take a romantic relationship between them in terms of narrative. It would either end in disaster, which, again, wouldn’t be what their whole arc stands for (plus, it would also upset Dreamling fans). Or it would lead to a completely different ending, and I honestly can’t see Neil being on board with that. Morpheus *has* to die. Call me cruel, but him choosing life (as in completely changing the arc) is just the biggest no for me. That’s the one time where I have to say: Yes, we all had our hearts broken, and it’s fair to feel “I wish it weren’t true”, (I sure cried my eyes out more than once), but the story is meaningful *because* of that. If we change it to some run-of-the-mill YA novel with a straightforward happy ending, we don’t make it better but worse in my view.

Sunday Mourning leaves enough space for a somewhat open ending which the shippers can interpret in a way that’s meaningful for them. And I absolutely think they will go down that route, and everyone will be happy because there is a *lot* to play with that will neither alienate comics- nor show fans.

Thessaly, Johanna and a weird meta about musical motifs (amongst other things)

As a little intro: A lot of people in the fandom want to see Thessaly cut from the TV adaptation, or at least see her changed substantially. I am not necessarily one of them because I don’t think it’s always necessary to blur the lines between fiction and reality that way, and I would be alright with portraying her in a similar way as in the Audible adaptation (where a lot of things have already been changed to make her character more palatable to 21st century audiences). It would also make Morpheus look a bit less morally grey (I mean, he falls in love with someone who is essentially a terrible person, knows it and doesn’t seem to give a shit. Then again, he often is morally grey, and people like to forget that ;)).

Having gotten that out of the road: I *do* think that “A Game of You” is hard to translate to the screen. I absolutely love it in the comics, but I think it’s one of those arcs that is tricky to do well for TV. I’d even go as far as saying it might be a dealbreaker for some people who haven’t read the comic/are show audience only, and it might jeopardise a potential S3. Not because of Thessaly or the plot as such, but because it operates on a similar plane as The Doll’s House, which was jarring to a lot of people in S1. And The Doll’s House has a far more straightforward arc and more Morpheus in it—AGoY has none of these things. I’d personally love to see it, but I would also love to see Morpheus’ full arc being brought to the screen, so I am a bit conflicted. I still think, and of course that’s just a personal opinion, that it would be best to just have little bits and bobs inserted into Season of Mists and do the whole Cuckoo arc as an animation, but that’s just me.

@tickldpnk8 and I already speculated wildly about S2, and sole speculation it is, but maybe you want to check out that post. I’m getting carried away here...

After that longwinded intro: Are we going to get Johanna instead of Thessaly?

What I actually wanted to write about is why the longer I think about it (and I’ve been thinking about it since S1, I'm really that sad), the more I can’t shake the feeling that they *will* replace Thessaly with Johanna. And the fandom is totally divided about it—some love the idea because they had undeniable chemistry in S1, others hate it for various reasons (doing Johanna dirty, keeping Thessaly "intact"--you name it).

I personally think it might actually elevate the story because it would make Morpheus look better (*if* that's what we want--I'm not really sure I do), and that’s what show-only-fans seemingly gravitate towards. As already hinted at, Thessaly/Murphy always seemed a rather unfathomable relationship, and it didn’t just make Murph look stupid, but also, as already mentioned, morally grey and not very discerning in his choice of women (hmm, maybe he just isn’t ;)).

Falling for Johanna wouldn’t be any of this. And it would be so easy to show why it went horribly wrong without making either of them look bad, and you could still feel for both of them. If we think about Johanna’s worst nightmare (literally), it’s what happened to Astra. So she would absolutely and unequivocally support someone like Lyta, who worries about her child. And she would do it for all the right reasons, and not because she’s a selfish bitch who just wants a longer life or is generally spiteful.

And it wouldn’t be hard for Morpheus and Johanna to hook up either. They could even leave the original idea intact: Thessaly just dreamed of him, and they started talking in dreams, bla bla bla. We already have the set-up for that in S1. Morpheus took away Johanna’s nightmare. She could just be grateful, relieved, whatever, and dream of him. Done. And we don’t even need to explain that at great length, because in the comics, we never really see them hook up anyway and just find things out after the deed. Although I personally *want* to see them get hot and heavy on screen, but that’s just me having my mind in the gutter because why would you not to show two sexy people with so much chemistry doing exactly that. However, I’ll survive the disappointment if they don’t—just 😂

But it’s not just the plot. It’s also everything we’ve seen in S1. I have already talked about this in other threads, most recently with @orionsangel86, but literally every shot with them in S1 was framed as a romance shot: the proximity, the play on height difference, the camera angles, the lighting. These are deliberate choices, either to hint at what’s to come, or to set up a distraction, MacGuffin, whatever.

Then the mention of “None of us can be trusted.”

Or the RAIN. I mean, I am so surprised no one has commented on that waterfall of RAIN when they say goodbye (or I’ve just not seen it). You cannot read the comics and ever believe again that Morpheus and rain, no matter where, doesn’t hint at terrible relationship outcomes.

Musical themes, oy!

But the thing that really got me was the use of musical motifs, and I am unfortunately showing my background from a former life here because I can never listen to a movie soundtrack without getting analytical about it. Johanna’s theme is called “Johanna & Rachel”, and it would be easy to just think of it as that. And yes, it is a love theme, but it doesn’t just play for Johanna and Rachel. It plays in Morpheus’ and Johanna’s last scene as well.

And here’s the kicker: Dream’s and her theme complete each other, as in: They both have what the other one is missing. They are musically extremely close, but not identical. Let me explain:

If you think of the opening lines of both of their motifs in scale degrees (like 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-(1)), they look/sound as follows:

Johanna (her motif begins right at the start, so I didn't timestamp it)

1-(minor3)-7-(2)-(1) | 1-(major3)-m7-1

If I put all of “her” scale degrees in a row, they are: 1-2-3-7

Dream (you actually hear his leitmotifs, and their subtle differences, best in his scenes with John Dee):

1-(7)-(6)-(5)-(4) | 1-(7)-(6)-2 (video is timestamped)

1-(7)-(6)-(5)-(aug4) | 1-(7)-(6)-2 (video is timestamped)

If I put all of “his” scale degrees in a row, they are: 1-2-4-5-6-7

Morpheus is missing the third (3). Missing the third, which s considered one of the most consonant intervals and DYNAMIC, also hints at his character, but that just as an aside.

Johanna has the third (both in its minor and major form). 

Johanna is missing the fourth, fifth and sixth.

Morpheus has them, in various forms (major and augmented—especially augmented intervals are highly unstable and create a lot of friction).

What they share/have in common are 1, 2 and 7:

The tonic (1) is what everything else hinges on. The supertonic (2) is musically fraught with tension and seeks to resolve into the tonic--back to base or a conclusion/resolution, if you will. The seventh (7), both as a leading note or subtonic, is also that: Tension that needs resolved.

So all they have in common is tension that needs to resolve into some sort of resolution.

(And before we are pointing out the obvious: of course both tunes have more notes in it respectively, but we are talking about the main motifs.)

What’s also super interesting is where their overall themes are going. Johanna’s is initially darker, but it actually has a lot of ascending lines and “light” before plunging back into darkness.

Morpheus’ seems a lot more regal (for lack of better term), but the lines are mostly descending. This becomes even more apparent when we are not just listening to the opening theme, but to the several variations of his theme (his presence can be felt literally everywhere, even in Desire's theme).

It just freaked me out majorly the moment I heard it for the first time in contrast. But I like to over-interpret musical stuff because I just hear it so clearly. I *do* believe that composers do these things on purpose, even if just subconsciously, because we can't separate what we know about a character from how we perceive them musically (I do it as well). Of course that doesn’t always mean that it’s exactly the purpose I am thinking of, or that it hints at whatever is to come. My brain tends to run away with these things.

But yes, musically, they are totally "on track", so let's run with it. I'll admit my embarrassment later when this all goes into a completely different direction ;)

(Also tagging @honeyteacakes in this since I encroached on your comments recently)

[penelopecar]

Yeah, the weather was fucked, the events of the evening had been fucked- actually, Penny thought, the entire week had been fucked so why not spend Wednesday night paying homage to the weird and wild by getting suitably blacked out at a blackout party? Admittedly, it wasn’t the best remedy for a broken heart and a troubled mind but it would have to do for now, since Penny was short on friends and surprised that Sasha had invited her at all. In reality, it had been a long time since she’d felt like the pariah of Darkwood, 2014 but the feelings were surfacing again all too quickly and instead of hiding away in her parents home like she had done the first time, she was going to to party until she didn’t care anymore this time.

When she met a familiar figure in the shadowy streets of Darkwood, she raised the case of Rekorderlig cider in her hand, “Blackout Party, innit,” she chimed with confidence, as if she hadn’t just learned about the concept herself. “Might as well. I’ve nothing better to do in this weather and I don’t fancy standing ‘round here with my brolly like a twat all night, d’you?” 

[lewdmeridian]

Brolly’s Routine

The Prince woke up earlier than anyone in the castle, including his own servants and assistants. Unlike other rulers and authority figures, Brolly preferred to take matters into his own hands, and that involved patrolling the kingdom, arresting criminals and stopping any illegal activities taking place during the wild nights of New Meridian and Canopolis.

He could always count with the unconditional support of his soldiers, but still, in order not to be a burden to his men, he trained his body from a young age; a bit of fruit and a protein shake followed by fifteen minutes of meditation to clear his mind, so he could focus on the next part of his morning routine; warm-up exercises.

Stretching his arms and legs, Brolly would usually wear light clothes, like a t-shirt and shorts. Some of the people that worked for him thought he loved the sight of his own body, as he always did his exercises in front of a mirror, but nothing further from the truth. The only thing Brolly could think while warming-up was to get better every day.

Next, it was fencing; after putting on his fencing jacket, he would train alone, honing his skills. He was a promising swordsman, but knew he was still far from reaching the same level his mother had. The way his jacket hugged his muscles gave the impression that he wasn’t wearing anything at all...

After the fencing training, it was time for kick-boxing. His muscular arms and legs weren’t just for show. In fact, he never had his own looks in mind when he decided he’d become a reliable warrior that could protect others. He simply wanted to get stronger, to be able to face any challenges. Taking off the fencing jacket, he was now wearing just shorts, throwing punches and kicks at a practice dummy. The sweat rolling down his pecs and abs, and the way his biceps and triceps tensed every time he threw a punch... Just one of many reasons the oblivious redhead was considered the most prized bachelor in the whole kingdom.

Finally, Brolly decided to end his routine with weight-lifting. Tales of him fighting against Axeton, the -supposedly- incredibly dangerous Gigan terrorist spread like wildfire; the prince being able to stop a direct kick from the criminal by puffing out his chest, or how he managed to keep the giant in a choke-hold were just a couple of the less exaggerated rumors. What was undeniable though, was that he had the body of an Adonis; as he kept lifting more and more weight, his muscles bulged as if they were to to tear off his skin. The huffing and panting would be enough to get anyone hot and bothered... Good thing he always trained alone, or people could get the wrong idea. He didn’t know, but he stole many dreamy sighs from the cleaning staff, as well as his fellow soldiers, both women and men alike. After all, who could resist the urge to be held between those strong arms and against his perfectly chiseled torso? How many people actually wanted to kiss every single inch across his body?

Fifteen minutes of cool-down exercises later, Brolly hit the showers to get ready for the business part of his day; he was still the crown prince and every problem in the kingdom wasn’t going to be solved through brute force, after all. No one but him should know, but he spent enough time in the shower relaxing, closing his eyes and letting the warm water fall down his body before grabbing a soap bar to lather his body. Could it be that the prince actually dreamed of feeling the hands of someone else caressing his body and admiring all his hard work? With how stoic he was, it would be quite a shocking surprise to know he craved to be worshiped by a passionate lover that could melt away his worries with the gentle touch of their hands, taking their sweet time to touch him all over...

The sound of something falling abruptly brought him back to reality though; no one else should be around, much less inside the showers at that hour. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he went to investigate, and noticed something lying on the ground... It was a tiny camera!

The flustered prince quickly crushed it in his hand and put his clothes on to look around for any other devices... Was he being spied by an enemy nation?! ... Or by a pervert? He found another camera hiding behind some of his training equipment, that he quickly disposed of... Who could do something so abhorrent?!

☁ “Hey big bro! You finished with your training or what? You look like you heard Andy of the Cosmos was getting cancelled!” Gamp, Brolly’s little brother, walked into the gym and smiled at him. However, his little smug smile disappeared when he noticed Brolly holding a broken spy camera in his hand.

☁ “Oh, look at the time... gotta go!” The little scamp was in cahoots with Peahen, the android from Lab 8 that could create portals out of nowhere; turns out they put those cameras and sold the videos to the several people in the kingdom who had a crush on the crown prince! Brolly will have a stern talk with his little brother later, but for now... He’ll have to live with the fact there are spicy videos of him floating around, much to his dismay, and to the rejoice of his fans.

[robertdowneyhiddlesbatch]

Delicate

Chapter 1: good dog

"Fuck me, Thor."

Y/n always thought that almost every time she entertained herself in bed. As an Aussie, Y/n had grown up on Chris Hemsworth, following him all the way from Home and Away. It was quite by accident, really, since her last foster mother was very much into soap operas.

As much as Y/n loved Thor Hemsworth, today's exclamation was a curse since she was sopping wet from the rain. Thankfully, she'd just made it into work, safe from the downpour.

"Told you to take a brolly!" Her coworker/roommate teased as she peeled off her coat.

In Australia, January was one of the hottest months of the year. In SoHo London, in the opposite part of the world, it was the wettest.

"Mhm, yeah. Thanks for that obvious tip!" Y/n shlepped into the back room and switched into her work clothes, after she barely managed to clock in on time.

"Any tips today?" Y/n asked Troy as she joined him behind the counter. She was referring to the tip jar she kept, hoping to collect money for her favorite charity.

Troy peaked a look from the window.

"Not many people," he answered as thunder broke.

"You mind if I bring my schoolwork out?"

Troy's family- well, his older sister- ran the coffee shop in SoHo: Beans and Books. Trish and her friends had combined their love of coffee and books to make a little café/bookstore, popular among the youth.

Y/n had been lucky to find a flatspace that Tony was renting, and was soon given a job at the café. Most of her transfer student funds went into tuition, books and rent, so working gave her some spending money.

"Nah, you should be good. Just look attentive if anyone comes in."

Y/n brought her work up to the counter, and was able to get plenty reading done since not many customers came. Troy took most orders from anyone who had come. But 5pm came around, marking the end of the work day. On drier days, it meant rush hour, but on an overcast day like today, they didn't expect many people. It picked up close to 6, and Y/n had to put her schoolwork away to focus on the customers.

A group of school students had left a covered table, with left over pastries still on the plates. Thankfully, they left a decent tip. Y/n was just taking away the last of the plates when something ran through her legs, making her drop the dishes.

Immediately the dog began lapping at the fallen pastries.

"Bad Bobby! Stop that!" The dog's human tugged on his leash, pulling him away from the mess he'd created.

"I'm so terribly sorry," the man leaned down to help Y/n clean up his dog's mess. "Bobby really wanted out from the rain."

"Oh, it's no big deal!" Y/n smiled at the capped man. "I just don't want him eating broken china, otherwise he's welcome to the pastries."

The man sheepishly chuckled and deposited the shards into the bin.

"Sorry for that, again. Perhaps I can buy some for him."

"That makes sense. The window's over there. I'll just be around."

Y/n showed him to the display as she went to put away the bin. Then she helped him pick some pastries and he ordered himself a coffee. The man went over to the checkout, and was looking around for his dog when he noticed the many bookshelves.

"Is that Cymbeline?" He asked, nodding to the shelf with the rest of Shakespeare.

"It's Shakespeare, isn't it? The owner likes to have all the books by any author, if she can help it."

"It's only, Cymbeline isn't as popular as the rest of his work."

"A shame, really. I quite liked the unfortunate story of Imogen and Posthumus. I don't know what's worse, dying like Romeo and Juliet, or having your lover not trust you."

The customer laughed gently at her woe as he paid for his things.

"I played in Cymbeline once. In a West End production."

"Must've been fun!"

"It was! Do you mind if I sit and read a while?" He looked out the window. "I don't think Bobby has a mind to leave."

"Not a problem! Help yourself."

The man thanked Y/n and went to get a book before he sat. Then he gave one pastry to his spaniel as he enjoyed another himself.

It was quiet in the shop for a while, only two customers in the thirty minutes. And then Troy came back from break.

"Bloody hell!" He screamed as he came in from the back door.

"Hey, Y/n! Do you think Thor might give it up if you blew him?"

Y/n immediately looked at the customer, who was looking at her with an amused brow.

"Y'know. Works for the both of you!"

Y/n slapped Troy's arm hard as he approached the counter. She eyed the customer and Troy instantly grew up, apologizing for his comment.

"Unfortunately, Chris Hemsworth is very married. With three kids!"

The guest laughed, unable to miss the loud reject in the small space.

"I'm going to stop talking now." Y/n blushed and focused on a chore around the café.

"Did you know, his wife's the Latina girl in the Fast and Furious movies? The one with Hobbs, not Letty."

"Oh, yeah! Man, I love those movies. No regard for physics."

"Still sad about Paul Walker, though."

"Yeah. I saw his movie, Hours. Kind of a flop, but it was cute!"

Y/n and Troy talked about the Fast movies for a while, then Troy went to do inventory for the next day. Y/n meanwhile, took a refill to her customer.

"So, you really fancy Hemsworth, do you?"

"Only since Home and Away. Soapy, I know. But that's mostly what they played at the foster home."

The man grew curious. "You're a foster child?"

Y/n and the man talked about her past, which part of Australia she was from, and how she came to London. She was studying journalism at Kingsway College, hoping to travel the world. Their conversation was interrupted by a loud crack of thunder, and Bobby jumped up from his spot, tangling his leash through y/n's leg as he went to his owner. The man picked up the pup while Y/n worked on releasing the leash.

She handed the man the leash back, and he offered to let her pet him, which she took him up for. Thunder roared again.

"O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world.

"And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy, which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, which scorns a modern invocation."

Y/n smiled as the man joined in finishing the quote from King John. They stayed staring at each other until Bobby whined.

"I should get back to work."

"Thanks for the coffee, y/n."

"Any time...um?"

"Ehehe. It's Tom."

Y/n smiled.

"Tom."

Y/n started walking back to the counter, but stopped in her track.

"Odin's beard! That would be Chris and Tom?" She asked, without turning to look at him.

"Eheh. Guilty," Tom replied sheepishly.

Y/n bit her lip. Damn!

"And I call myself a Thor fan!" She finally turned around, cheeks red.

"I've never missed a Marvel movie, and here I've missed you!" She whispered as she sat back down on the edge of her seat.

"Well, I don't look quite Loki like at the moment."

"So rumor confirmed! You really do like your classics."

"Well I should hope so. I majored in classics at Cambridge."

Y/n wanted to know more, but customers came in and she left Tom. Troy came out too, to help with the rush as the rain had stopped. The song on the store playlist changed and Troy began loudly singing along.

"That's what people say, mm mm!"

God, Troy loved his pop songs. Y/n happened to look up at the moment to see Tom having a sip of his drink.

Damn! That was Tom Hiddleston, she suddenly remembered. And Troy was blasting Taylor Swift. Y/n stomped on Troy's foot, making him stop singing.

"Ow! What the hell?" Troy cried at her.

"Change. The song." Y/n gritted at him.

"But it's T-"

Y/n grabbed Troy's shoulder and shoved him below the counter.

"Yes. And that's Tom Hiddleston out there!"

Troy instantly lifted his head to take a peak, but Y/n name yanked him down. Troy took the chance to change the song.

"Don't draw attention to him!"

"Sorry! Can you believe it? A famous person at our café?!"

"Yeah!"

"I gotta call Trish!" and Troy ran off to call his sister.

By the time he was back, Tom was ready to leave.

"Mind if I buy a box to go?" He asked, as if it were trouble.

"Not at all! Let me get you one." Y/n got a box and filled it with Tom's choice of pastries before ringing him up.

"I'm sorry about Troy," she said quietly. "He's a die hard fan of Taylor Swift."

"It's no issue. He's got good taste in music. I wouldn't stop reading Shakespeare just because he dumped me!"

Y/n smiled an apologetic smile.

"I hope you come again!"

"I hope to see you again as well. Good night, Y/n."

Tom began to leave, but Troy yelled.

"WAIT!"

Tom stopped by the door, feeling everyone's eyes on him. He pulled down his cap and sighed.

"Sorry, you forgot to sign the receipt."

Tom turned and walked back to the counter.

"Troy, I take it?" he asked as he took the offered pen.

"That's me, but if you could make it out to Trish, my sister."

Tom smiled and autographed the napkin to both of them. He turned to leave, but then walked to Y/n.

"I'm going to see a play at the West End this Saturday," he told her. "Would you care to join me?"

Y/n turned pink at the question and shared a look with Troy.

"I could pick you up from here."

"Y-yeah! She should be off!" Troy spoke for her.

"If...if it's not too much trouble."

"I think I can manage. I'll pick you up at around 5-ish?"

"I look forward to it!"

"Excellent. I'll see you then. Good bye, Y/n. Goodbye, Troy."

"Bye Tom! Bye Bobby!"

As Tom walked out the front door, Troy's sister came running in through the back one.

"Where is he?'

"Where's who?" Troy teased his sister.

"Tom Hiddleston, THAT'S WHO!" Trish growled at him.

"Oh, you just missed him a second ago."

Trish stood staring at the front door.

"Can you believe it? Tom freaking Hiddleston. In my café! How lucky am I!!"

"Not as much as Y/n. She's got a date!"

[write-place-write-time]

Found It

[ Can be read as a sequel/companion to "Lost It", or as a standalone ]

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

“Bit busy, mate.”

“Baker Street. Come at once.”

“Sherlock, I’m trying to -- No, Rosie, no biting! -- change Miss Nibs here--”

“Bring her along. I need you both.”

“For what?!”

Click. 

John Watson pulled the mobile away from his ear with a resigned glare. Young Rosie babbled and grabbed at it, wriggling herself out of the 18 month frock he’d just wrestled her into. John turned his glare to his daughter, who giggled at him unashamedly.

“Between you and your godfather, nudity is trending at an all time high,” he grumbled, though there was no heat in it.

****

Upon arriving at 221b, the Watsons were met with a perturbed Mrs. Hudson, dashing out the door with her brolly and handbag. 

“That boy is a menace, I tell you,” she said in between cooing at Rosie. “Got himself all aflutter and refuses to tell me why.”

John frowned at that. “Aflutter? Is he…?”

“He’s clean, of course, but he’s also cleaning. Sherlock Holmes, cleaning the flat!” She tutted, striding off towards a cab. “Good luck, you two!”

John and Rosie shared a look, making their way in and up to the flat.

The faint scent of lemon cleaner and fresh sugar biscuits wafted down the stairs as the Watsons entered their home away from home. The flat was clean. No sign of newspapers, weaponry, abandoned teacups, nor assorted baby-care items strewn about the space. Any paraphernalia of Rosie’s was organized in a designated area that John was impressed to find both conveniently out of the way and visible from all angles of the living room. 

The yellow chair from the corner was positioned across from his, angled in companionship with Sherlock’s own. There was a soft, cherry red afghan that John had never seen before draped over the back. The mirror above the mantle was clear of any chemical residue or hand-swipes (from clearing off residue to use the mirror for its intended function); even Billy the skull looked especially clean, as though the teeth had been brushed. The bison skull was free of dust, and the headphones had been replaced by a -- “Flower crown?” 

“John, Rosamund, hello!”

John turned from the baffling sight of the bison and its floral corona to where Sherlock’s voice had sounded behind him in the kitchen, and his jaw dropped. 

The consulting detective stood barefoot in jeans -- jeans -- a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, purple dish-washing gloves, and a flour-powdered green tartan pinny. John gaped, trying to gather and understand the sight before him.

“Lock!” Rosie squirmed until her confused father set her down.

“Yes, hello, Rosie,” Sherlock grinned down at her, shucking his garish gloves and tucking them in the pinafore pocket before reaching out to assist the toddler in her steps toward him. “Your father’s gone quite fish-faced, hasn’t he?”

“And your godfather has gone domestic,” John shot back, fighting a grin. “What’s all this then? Have you finally had one-too-many nicotine patches? Therapist electro-shock you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he scooped the girl up and brushed a kiss to her chubby cheek. “Shut up, you’re late.”

“Yes well, little Nudist Nancy refused to cooperate with her wardrobe. What’s the urgent business then?”

“I want to have sex with Molly Hooper.”

John sputtered, “Oi! Tiny ears, Sherlock!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his retort was cut off by John’s second sputter of, “Why the hell do you think Rosie -- a toddler, mind you -- and I would be able to help you with that?”

Sherlock maintained his same passive look, but the creeping pink tinge on his ears gave John insight to his friend’s nerves. “Well, seeing as you have experience -- three continents, was it? -- and the proof of said experience is currently chewing my apron strings, who else would I call upon for aid in such a matter?”

John blinked. “Irene Adler. Your mum. Mycro--”

“Please don’t mention my brother in this context lest I subject myself to eternal celibacy,” Sherlock grimaced. “The Woman is not a wise decision, as it would be ‘not good’ to consult a lesbian dominatrix in love with me about intimacy with another woman. Mummy is right out. She explained the whole ordeal when I was twelve and made Father blush so hard I think he still looks sunburnt. No, it has to be you, John Watson.”

He grinned and made his way back to the kitchen, setting Rosie in her high chair with a freshly baked and cooled biscuit that she immediately set her eight new teeth into. John followed, still baffled.

“Does Molly know you want to… y’know?”

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. 

“Fine,” John capitulated. “Does Molly know you wanna get off with her?”

Those ears grew pinker as Sherlock busied himself with washing the baking materials like a normal adult human. “I don’t suppose how she’d know. She hasn’t asked.”

“She hasn’t asked? Christ, Sherlock. You two have been dating though, right? Coffee two weeks ago, dinner at Angelo’s last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Did you by any chance, oh I dunno, kiss her goodnight?”

Ears were now pink to the bottom of their lobes. “Last date, yes.”

John grinned behind his friend’s back, snagging a cooling biscuit. “Did you snog?”

Huffing, Sherlock turned. “What’s the difference?”

Through his biscuit, John said, “Kissing is just kissing. Snogging is a bit more involved.”

Sherlock made a face and crossed his arms. “Juvenile.”

“Which means it wasn’t a snog, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was satisfactory.”

“Oooh, ‘Dear Penthouse Forum’--”

“Oh shut up, John.” Sherlock dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, in a full pout-soon-to-be-sulk as he face-planted into the tabletop.. “It’s pointless and you are deplorably unhelpful.”

Daughter of deplorably unhelpful friend reached out with her tiny hand and patted her godfather’s curly head. “Lock! Okay?”

John sighed and sat opposite Sherlock. “Look, I’m taking the mick. You’re not the sexual deviant Janine crowed about in the tabloids, and you’re not the unwitting virgin that Mycroft and Moriarty claimed you to be.” He paused. “Are you?”

Sherlock’s answer was spoken low and into the tabletop. “No. The Woman once in Karachi. Janine… sort of.”

John blinked, fought off a triumphant I-knew-it grin, and cleared his throat. “Right, well, sex with Molly is a different beast, though. Molly Hooper is a friend. She’s your pathologist. You did say the L-word to her two months ago.”

Sherlock hummed, Rosie still petting his head.

“She’s not like Janine -- you actually want Molly. She’s not Irene -- you trust Molly.”

Sherlock mumbled something.

“What?”

Sherlock’s head popped up. “With my life, my body, my very soul if such a thing should exist. She matters most. She counts.”

John’s lips quirked up in the corner. “Yeah. And then Sherrinford…”

“I am quite wholly aware that I love Molly Hooper, John. It’s why I want this to go further. It’ll-it’ll mean something. For the first time.”

“Have you told her since then?”

The brief silence was answer enough. John nodded. “Well then that’s it.”

“Hmm?”

“You need to find it.”

“It?”

“Your courage,” John smiled softly. “You admitted you loved her under extreme, traumatic duress. Not ideal. But it is what it is. And what it is is terrifying.”

Sherlock held his gaze, not quite understanding.

“Look mate, Mary…” his voice caught on his wife’s name, his eyes sliding to their daughter who was peering at Sherlock in a very uncanny Mary-like way. “Mary said it first. She knew I loved her by our third month anniversary. She beat me to the punch, and what I never expected was the fear in her eyes right before she said it.”

“Fear?” Sherlock frowned. “Out of the two of you, Mary’s penchant for fear was far less likely than yours, army training notwithstanding.”

“Right. But Mary was like you, and affairs of the heart affect psychopathic geniuses differently than us poor mortals.” John fixed him with a knowing grin. “Mary was afraid of rejection, as anyone would be. But she did it anyway, like she always did.”

At this, Rosie slammed her little hands down on the table, demanding both men’s attention. “Mawee!” she crowed, proud to know her mother’s name.

They chuckled at her, Sherlock kissing her pudgy hand. “So I need to just… to just say it?”

“Well, don’t spring it on her like a booby trap or pop out of a cake with it,” John advised. “But yeah. Boiled down to its bare essentials, she’ll either return the sentiment and snog you silly, or she won’t.”

His friend blanched. “And if it’s the latter?” he whispered.

John smiles sadly. “Then you’ll at least know, and can begin to move on. But Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

He reached over, and in his awkward way, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It won’t be the latter.”

The men shared a look that only brother-in-arms and former flatmates would understand.

The look was was broken by Rosie clapping her hands and giggling madly. John tickled her belly. “Yes, all right, Miss Nibs, let’s treat ‘Lock to some chips.” He looked to Sherlock, who smiled gratefully. “This kind of battle needs a well-fed soldier.”

    ****

🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵

Sherlock was playing his violin when Molly arrived that night, a soft melody she had yet to hear. Possibly a new piece for his sister? He looked up as she came into the flat and dropped her bag and scarf on the coffee table. Hmm, she thought, the entire flat is spotless. He definitely wants to impress tonight.

“Hullo, Molly.”

She smiled at him. “Hi.”

He nodded to her yellow chair, still playing that light, tender song. She slid out of her flats and curled up into the chair, her oversized jumper pulled over her bent knees. As she settled in, she looked over the detective. He was so casually dressed, jeans and a white button up with sleeves rolled up, feet bare and warmed by the small fire in the hearth. Molly hugged herself, happy to see him so relaxed. He’d been through a lot since Sherrinford and their phone call. She too was still coming back to life from the ordeal and the knowledge of what happened on that horrible island and at Musgrave Hall. A particularly sweet note rang out, and she watched him feel it. Oh but she loved him. Doomed to, it seemed. Well, doomed might’ve been harsh -- destined sounded better.

The song ended as her ruminations did; she clapped quietly, smiling at him. He gave a small bow and set his violin aside, turning and gazing at her intently.

“Did you want me to order a takeaway?” she asked, curling her toes as he held that same searching gaze. “Maybe Chinese? My treat.”

“I love you.”

Molly froze. “Well, er, you got our cheque at Angelo’s, so this one is on me--”

“Molly Hooper.”

She stopped rambling, tears pricking at her eyes. “Sh-Sherlock Holmes.”

He came to kneel before her chair, his eyes still on hers. “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Sherlock’s hands, warm and sure, gently grasped hers. His pulse beat erratically under his skin, she could feel it match hers. Her heart was screaming, her mind refusing to remember the last time she’d heard him say it. When it’d been torn from him by his sister and her own pride. She simply stared at him, let his confession wash over her and through her like a sea breeze after a storm.

Sherlock slowly let her hands go, and he stood gingerly. John’s voice, so sure that Molly would requite Sherlock’s affection, taunted him in his mind. He cleared his throat, a curious and unfortunately familiar lump forming, and made for the kitchen, scrounging for the takeaway menus.

“Chinese, yes?” he called back to the quiet pathologist, his mouth working fast to fill the silence and not panic. "I’ll get it ordered. With rain imminent, it’s best to order now. You’re probably craving that house lo mein you like -- always are when you’ve worked in the lab, can’t figure out why though it isn’t exactly a mystery, probably just a chemical reaction to the, well, chemicals you’re working with that have you ravenous and craving sodium and carbohydrates and various proteins--”

He stopped abruptly at the feel of her small hand on his. He looked up and Molly’s cheeks were damp, tears slowly spilling down, but her eyes were kind, dark, and calm. 

“I love you,” she said simply. “I love you, Sherlock.”

She came up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his, taking advantage of his relieved shock to -- as John Watson had predicted -- snog him silly. 

    ****

The takeaway was never ordered, but the fresh-baked biscuits were consumed heartily. 

The imminent rain arrived. 

The tidy flat remained so, save for the shed clothing upon the bedroom floor of a consulting detective and his pathologist.

[mz-hide]

Mowing the Lawn - Chapter 1

Aka: a Dragon Ball Z AU slash fic.

Chapter 1

Summary: Mowing the lawn (in almost every sense of the term). Goku and Vegeta have a secret relationship. Turles has a cute dealer and needs someone to smoke his pot with. Raditz thinks the only thing hotter than the weather is his moms' new lawnmower boy. Ships & Pairings: Son Goku/Vegeta, Raditz & Turles, Raditz/Turles, Gine/Seripa | Fasha, Bardock/Toma, Bulma Briefs/Yamcha, Brolly/Raditz, Brolly/Turles, Daiz/Turles, Daiz/Raditz/Turles, Bardock/Turles, Bardock/Toma/Turles        Contains: Gay Sex, Established Relationship, Casual Sex, Fuckbuddies, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Secret Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Alternate UniverseAlternate Universe - Human, Threesome - M/M/M, Threesome, seducing the pool boy, Dirty Talk, Smoking, Explicit Sexual Content, Resolved Sexual Tension, Open Relationships, Open Marriage, Age Difference, Sexual Roleplay, Friends With Benefits, Sexcapades, masturbation      

You can find the rest on my AO3 page (username: originalmonkeyhydes)

Being well in your twenties meant that visiting your girlfriend during a martial arts retreat could no longer be considered “sneaking out.” Especially if your old, slightly pervy master was not only aware of your intentions, but had subliminally encouraged you to do so. Even so, Yamcha was feeling too nostalgic of the old times to abandon the expression. It added some thrill to the cherished -once forbidden- habit. He was in high spirits, despite not having won the tournament. Against opponents like Goku, Krillin and Tien, he would have to have been delusional to think he ever stood much of a chance in the first place. Nevertheless, he couldn’t say he wasn’t proud of himself. All of master Roshi’s students had done extremely well. His girlfriend would have poked fun at him for not having won a medal, but it mattered very little. Yamaha knew she had a very special consolation prize in store for him that night, after all. As per usual, they’d gone out to the pub to celebrate. Master Roshi had had one drink too many, so Goku and him had to walk him back to the hotel. As the walked their old master waddle his way into the hotel’s entrance, Yamaha noticed a short, sleek silhouette leaning against a tree, right in front of their hotel. He didn’t have to look twice to know who it was and neither did Goku. Yamcha had noticed the way his friend had kept looking around after the finals. The man hadn’t participated that year, and had waited until the very end to make his entrance. Just to see Goku fight. And now he was casually hanging around their hotel, with no one around. There was no doubt who he was waiting for. “Hey, Goku, I’m thinking of sneaking out tonight. Bulma’s father owns a flat here in town, he’s letting her stay there. Do you wanna come with?”, he suggested, his eyes darting to the figure leaning against a tree, right in front of their hotel, “She probably has a couple more beers and something to snack on. You can come over, keep the party going.” Bulma probably wouldn’t have had anything in against the idea. Tien had retreated to his room long before and Krillin had wondered off with his girlfriend and her twin brother. Celebrating her victory in the female tournament, no doubt. Yamcha didn’t know how to feel about leaving his friend alone with that person. Goku, the other hand, didn’t seem to share his buddy’s worry. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun, guys.” Goku could be clueless at times, but he could sense that Yamcha had looked forward to that night for a reason. His friend looked somewhat relieved to be discharged of some moral responsibility. “You sure?”, he asked again, already turning to be on his way. Goku turned down the half-hearted invitation with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be fine”, he reassured. “Have fun!” And with that, Yamcha left him, daring to sneak just one last glance over his shoulder once he was at a safe distance. Only then he saw Goku make his way to the tree. The man moved a few steps forward to meet him. The young man couldn’t help but grimace. He’d seen them fight before. It had been the most brutal face off Yamcha had ever seen in a competition. The year they’d met on the ring they’d wound up with broken ribs and dislocated shoulders. They had both been disqualified. After that, encounter, it seemed they’d trained exclusively to face off again in the next tournament. Except, Goku had put on so much mass he had to change category. So their rematch had had to wait. Every casual encounter after that had been charged with unspeakable tension. Yet, for some reason, it didn’t seem to be solely confrontation now. There was something going on between those two, Yamcha just couldn’t put his finger on it. There wasn’t much more he could do but wonder, since he never stuck around enough to find out.

“You reek.” Such was the greeting Goku had walked over to. “You think?”, he wondered, hooking a finger on his collar, sniffing. “That’s odd, I did take a shower. At least, I think so.” Coal-black eyes darted to the medal that hung on the youth’s strong chest and back up again, without a word. Goku simply smiled. He knew the man’s pride would need to leave some things unspoken. “It’s been a while, Vegeta.” The man took a step closer. They stood like that, one breath away from each other, staring. The lack of a reply didn’t bother them. Most of their conversations were spoken in silence. “There’s beer on your breath”, Vegeta observed, matter-of-factly. “Been out celebrating with the gang”, Goku explained, amiably, “Just to have a couple of drinks.” “And your friend?” “He’s off having a couple more at Bulma’s, I think.” “I could use one or two myself”, Vegeta insinuated. Goku took the money he held up between two fingers, quirking a brow, in a way that was more knowing than inquisitive. He knew what he had to deposit in the awaiting palm in return. “Get a few. I’m not drinking if I’m drinking alone”, the older man instructed, putting Goku’s room key away in his pocket.   “Gladly. But it’s going to be hard walking you back to your hotel if we’re both drunk”, Goku pointed out, “Where are you staying at?” “Nowhere. I wasn’t planning to come. This was an impulse decision. I took the train this morning.” “You must be tired, the journey’s quite long”, Goku pointed out, blinking. “Not really. I slept on the train.” The younger man tilted his head, his eyes softening. His rival glowered as a precautionary measure when he saw him lean closer. “And you came all this way just to see me?”, Goku murmured. “I said nothing of the sort, fool”, the other man retorted, turning his head away. “What I said was that this was an impulse decision. That’s all.” Goku pursed his lips a bit. Then, he sighed, defeated, straightening himself up again. “Don’t come back with convenience store garbage. I don’t want cheap stuff.” “But there’s no other story nearby!”, Goku complained. “Good. Take a walk. The shower will be free by the time you get back”, the other replied, drily, as he walked past him towards the hotel. “Hey, ‘Geta?” The man turned to glare at him, irked by the nickname. “What’s in your impulse-decision-trip bag?”, Goku wondered, a sardonic, lopsided grin on his face. “None of your business, Kakarot”, Vegeta retorted, flaring up just slightly before storming into the entrance hall, with clenched fists. Suddenly, Goku was all too willing to take that walk to the nearest supermarket.

[kanna-ophelia]

Chapters: 1/1. 1700 words. Rating: General 

Ineffable Husbands Week Prompt: Rain / Storm / Downpour

Additional Tags: Love Confessions, First Kiss, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Kissing, Sappy, Post-Canon, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, No one can sulk like a demon, Ineffable Husbands Week 2019

On AO3 

On Wattpad

Rain

The problem with living in London was that even in Spring it rained too bloody much. And the kind of human Crowley tried to be was not the kind who carried a sodding umbrella around just in case, thank you very much.

By the time he thought of magically producing one, that is, two seconds after the skies opened, he was already drenched to the skin, and surrounded by humans who might see. He sighed, looking for a place to duck away and produce a quick black brolly, when the rain suddenly stopped falling on him.

For a moment he wondered if he had accidentally arranged for the rain not to fall on him, which tended to be a bit of a giveaway, and then he felt a soft, radiant presence beside him.

“Your umbrella,” Crowley said coldly, “has ducks on it. With tartan bow ties. Do you have any respect for my dignity?” He reached up to share a grip on the umbrella handle anyway. His hand brushed skin that somehow send a warming glow right down his cold arm.

“None whatsoever. And they’re charming."

Crowley snapped his fingers and was dry, but not warm, except where his hand was against Aziraphale’s own. He shivered.

“Cold blooded serpent,” Aziraphale said fondly. The angel exchanged hands on the umbrella handle, holding it from his right, outside hand. Crowley wondered why, and then he felt a solid, heavy arm around his back, drawing him in close by Aziraphale’s side. “Here. Body heat should help."

Crowley could feel his mind break a bit. Heat. Body heat. Yes, it was warm. And also soft. And… cuddly. What was the angel cuddling him? He never cuddled him. Could he embrace back? He’d have to exchange his own hands first. Embarrassing. But. Close. Arm around him. Why? So nice. But, why?

He could hear Aziraphale chuckling softly in his ear, and decided to pull himself together. Right. Let go of umbrella. Put arm around waist, very casually. Cool. Right. No big deal.

Even through the overcoat, Aziraphale felt warm and solid and comforting, and Crowley forgot to do with his feet and tripped. His arm tightened around Aziraphale’s waist, and the arm around his back steadied him.

“Thankss, angel.” Now he was hissing. Just perfect. Cuddling under a white umbrella with cutesy ducks on it, tripping over himself, clinging to an angel, thanking him, and hissing. It was a good thing he had broken with Hell, because he couldn’t face the ridicule.

“You are very welcome, my dear."

A plump young woman with a rainbow undercut and a leather jacket gave them a quick smile as she passed, the kind of smile that Crowley had seen young queer folk give them before, that’s such a sweet old couple, look at them, hope I find someone like that one day. It always gave him a quick stab of pleasure, that they were acknowledged in some way, even if it was just a fantasy and Aziraphale was always oblivious to it himself.

“Have you ever thought about it?” Aziraphale was looking after the girl, thoughtfully.

“Thought about what?"

“What the humans assume.” Crowley stared. Aziraphale was still not looking at him, but the lips of his ears were pink.

He had to be sure. “What,” Crowley asked very carefully, “do they think?"

“That we’re lovers,” Aziraphale clarified and then, in case even that wasn’t clear enough, “that we’re romantically and sexually involved."

Crowley’s blood was pounding in his ears. “Have I ever thought about it?"

“Well, it’s a human pleasure, and one I’ve never experienced, although I’m sure you have. There doesn’t seem to be any reason not to try now, that’s all. Have you ever thought about it? I mean,” and no just his ears were pink now, “with me."

“Have… I… ever… thought… about it?” Crowley was having difficulty keeping his tongue in a human enough shape to talk. “In the last six thousand years, you mean? You… you… could you be any more bloody insulting?"

He pushed away and stormed off into the crowd, not bothering to look back. Maybe Aziraphale was standing looking forlorn and alone and confused and reflecting on what a heartless prat he was.

He hoped so.

Storm

He spent the next few days causing chaos as if he’d never been chucked off the payroll. He was a demon, after all, the original Serpent, and eventually Hell were going to realise what a precious resource they had and crawl back to him begging for forgiveness, and then he would—he didn’t know. Probably reject them. That wasn’t the point.

Storms, burst drains, network outages, public transport strikes, the latest episodes of reality tv shows being mysteriously wiped just as they were about to go to air, the entire cast of the Archers coming down with laryngitis, the entire South Kensington museum area developing the smell of sulphur and brimstone, which was conveniently similar to rotten eggs. He hadn’t worked so hard in decades. Centuries.

Crowley was prepared to ignore pleading or apologetic calls to his answering machine and voice mail, but there weren’t any. However, brides and grooms found that storms magically cleared above them on their wedding days, the city bankers had sudden changes of heart and made major donations to the poor while raising their employees' salaries, and despite the constantly rain and lightning, the daffodils and tulips had never bloomed so beautifully or resiliently in living memory.

Right. If that was the way it was to be, then, this was war. He… he was going to do something about those bloody ducks. He wasn’t sure what. Turn them pink and give them fangs, probably.

Downpour

He climbed in the Bentley, his precious Bentley, the only thing in the world that truly loved him and never let him down.

He screeched down to St James Park, pulled over, and pulled the break on just as he noticed the angel sitting quietly on the passenger seat.

“Isn’t that a frivolous use of a miracle?” he snarled. “And not very angelic, either, breaking into a car."

“No one is counting now, I think.” Aziraphale fidgeted, his beautiful fingers twisting around each other. “I didn’t trust you to answer your phones."

“I wouldn’t."

“Precisely."

Aziraphale glanced at him quickly, took in the frown, and dropped his gaze back to his twisting hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you."

“You did a bloody good job, anyway."

Aziraphale sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Can we just forget it?” There were miserable tears on the edge of those golden lashes, and Crowley steeled his heart against them. “I can just find someone else, if I really want—"

“Who?"

Aziraphale blinked. “What do you mean?"

“Who do you have in mind, angel?"

“Well, no one in particular. I was just—"

“Six thousand years. Six thousand years, I’ve been in love with you, and too terrified to show you any signs of infernal lust in case I chased you away. I can just find someone else.” Crowley bashed his head against the steering wheel. “No one in particular. Oh, good, glad you had a convenient demon around for an easy first option, better than risking corrupting a human. Have I ever thought about it? Oh, angel, I hate you."

There was a long silence, and then suddenly Aziraphale laughed. It was his sweetest, lightest chuckle, and Crowley sat up and glared at him.

“So that’s it. I could feel you cared, but—in love? Really?"

“Don’t laugh at me. Yes, in love. Romantically and sexually, as you so clinically put it."

“I’m sorry. I really am."

“I know. It’s not your fault.” The anger suddenly drained out of him, and he just felt tired and hurting. “And I don’t hate you."

“Good. Because I love you."

“I know. I shouldn’t take it out on you. You can’t help being an angel. You just took me by surprise, that’s all."

“Crowley, my dearest. Listen. I’m in love with you."

He whipped his head around, snake-like, looking for a mistake, for the following “I am in love with all of God’s creations, even you, and you are my dearest friend,” but Aziraphale was blushing and trying very hard to look straight at him without looking away and how much courage did that take, for an angel that always glanced away from temptation, and that expression in his eyes, he had seen it before and it was for him and probably he should move or say something but wait, in love, he was in love and Crowley had just confessed too, hadn’t he, and Aziraphale had said...

Aziraphale sighed again, as if waiting for the noise in Crowley’s head to quieten down a bit was just too much for him, picked up one of his hands, and kissed it. Slowly, lingeringly. The back of his hand, each knuckle, one by one, fingertips, turning it over to kiss his palm and his wrist.

Crowley’s voice came back, hoarse and hissy, but there. “Romantically and ssexually."

“Yes, my dear. Or else I hardly would have proposed—"

Crowley grabbed his head and mashed their mouths together. It was awkward at first, all lips and teeth, but they pulled back a bit and lips parted more gently and tongues touched and it didn’t matter if it was awkward at all, it was everything, the mouth against his and the soft wide chest pressed against his narrow one and the arms around him.

“I love you."

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale kissed him again.

“You love me."

“Yes, dear."

It was a good thing the Bentley didn’t have seatbelts or bucket seats, or the angel certainly would have had a seatbelt on and it would be hard to clamber half onto Aziraphale’s lap to kiss him again from a more comfortable angle.

“Really, beloved, we’re in public.” Beloved.

“The windows are all fogged up from the heater.” He trailed little kisses down a silky lovely neck, and Aziraphale made a noise.

“But the humans..."

The skies opened to a sudden downpour of rain. “Have better things to do than peer into parked cars like perverts. Oh, Aziraphale."

The angel’s hands were so warm, so soft and now cradling the side of his face. “Let’s go home."

“Which home?"

“Well.” Aziraphale kissed his nose. “You’re the one with the bed, dear boy."

“Right,” Crowley said happily, and Aziraphale’s hand was on his thigh, warm and possessive, all the way back to the flat. **** Comments, kudos and other support gratefully received. <3 Still working on my WIPS, but a little more slowly due to Ineffable Husbands Week! @IneffableHusbandsWeek

[a-butterfly-on-his-tummy]

Treat People With Kindness

The London rain falls in big splats on the pavement as Harry holds an umbrella over him and Grace, making their way towards the car. School has ended for the day and it’s time to go home. Pulling open the passenger door to the black Range Rover, Harry holds the brolly so it overlaps with the roof, allowing a space for Grace to climb up without getting wet. Closing her door, Harry moves to open the driver side, collapsing the umbrella as he pulls his legs in to rest under the steering wheel.

“Brrr.” Harry shakes his head, allowing the small amount of rain that dripped on his head to fly off onto different parts of the car. Turning his body slightly, he looks back at his daughter who is staring nervously out the window. “What’s up, Buttercup?” Harry questions.

“Hmmm?” Grace looks at her father, distracted by what is on her mind. She didn’t hear Harry.

“What’s going on? You alright?” He asks again, starting to worry that something big is filling her with worry and anxiety.

“You know my friend. Her name is Ana?” Grace starts. Harry nods before she starts looking out her window at a car that is parked across the street. “She…. can she come sleep at our house?” Her eyes are pleading as she looks at her father.

“Like, for a sleepover?” Harry smiles softly, attempting to understand what his daughter is trying to say. “We can talk with her Mum, maybe see if Friday would be a good day.”

“No daddy. Tonight. Can she sleep at our house? And her Mumma and her sister?” Her voice has turned to a beg as her eyes fill with concern.

“Why tonight, Gracie Bug? What’s goin’ on that the whole family would come for a sleepover?” Confused by her request, Harry turns his entire body in his seat so he can get a better look at the situation.

“She is sleeping in her car tonight, Daddy. And look…” She points out the window at Ana’s mum, attempting to pull the car’s window up, but it seems to be stuck. “Their window is broken. I don’t want them to be rainy, Dad. Please can they sleep over?” Grace’s voice is a prayer to her father, hoping his already giving heart would be open to giving this family a warm bed to sleep in.

“I’ll be back, Gracie. Stay in the car please.” Harry pulls the hood of his jacket over his head before opening the door. Popping open the umbrella, Harry looks both ways, allowing a car to pass before he runs over to the woman who is frantically trying to get her window to roll up.

Harry notices the car is filled with their belongings, only leaving enough room for the kids to squish inside, and his heart breaks. His umbrella covers the woman and she looks up, making eye contact with Harry.

“Need some help?” Harry says with a smile on his face, hoping the woman will allow him to do something to support her family.

“Oh, Mr. Styles. We are just fine. Thank you for asking.” Her voice trembles as she attempts to pull on the window again; her fingers are numb from the cold and struggle to hold the the glass up. It falls back in the crack, and she lets out a frustrated sob.

“Oh please, call me Harry.” He says, moving in to look at the window a little closer. “Looks like something is up with belt that rolls the window up and down. I think you might have to take it to get looked at.” The woman breaks down, dropping her head to the roof of the car, unable to stop the tears that are flowing from her tired eyes.

“Just one more thing I can’t fix.” She mumbles, and Harry’s humanitarian heart jumps at the opportunity.

“There is a mechanic shop just down the road. Why don’t you let me help? I can pay for it to get fixed, and I think there is an ice cream shop next door. The girls would enjoy a treat on this dreary day.” He fights everything in him to keep his emotions at bay, smiling widely in an effort to bring a little sunshine into this woman’s day.

The woman looks up, tears streaming down her face. “Seriously?” Her voice cracks, wondering if this kind man is serious. Harry nods with a smile. “You have no idea how helpful that will be. Save us from freezing tonight.”

“Let’s get you out of the rain. Will the car drive?” She nods, opening the car door to hop inside. “Brilliant! We will meet you down there.” Once the woman is safely in her car, Harry jogs back to the Range Rover, ready to help this family out the best he can.

Letting out a deep breath, Harry buckles his seat belt while he explains to Grace that they will take Ana’s car to get fixed, and they are going to grab some ice cream.

“Ice cream?” Grace says in shock. “We never get ice cream.”

“Well, sometimes ice cream helps people smile, and that’s what we are going to do. Just don’t tell your brother. He will get jealous.” Harry tried to crack a joke to brighten the mood. He parks the car in the parking lot at the mechanic’s shop, taking Grace inside where he tells the employee he will pay for them to fix the window. As the woman and her two daughters begin to exit the shop, Harry leans in close to the employee, asking them to put on a set of new tires and do a inspection to make sure everything else is okay.

Meeting up with the girls, Harry takes the four beautiful ladies into the ice cream shop, allowing them to each get a double scoop of any type they want. The girls happily skip over to the small pink table by the window, chatting about what flavors they chose and why it’s their favorite.

“May I know your name? I don’t believe I’ve asked, and I am sorry for how rude that is.” Harry apologizes as he sits down at the table next to the little girl’s mum.

“Oh yes.” She covers her mouth as she swallows the bite of chocolate ice cream she just placed in her mouth. “I’m Lily.” Reaching her hand across the table she shakes Harry’s, formally introducing herself. “Thank you for doing this, Harry. You have no idea how much it means.” Her eyes look tired, worn from stress and lack of sleep. Her eyebrows seem to be set in permanent worry mode, and Harry is concerned there is more to her story. He wants to help.

“Grace mentioned to me that Ana said you will be sleeping in your car? Are you planning on sleeping rough tonight?” Harry cuts to the chase, hoping that Lily will open up about their situation with enough information that maybe he can find them somewhere to go.

“Oh goodness.” Lily looks down at her cup of ice cream, swirling her spoon around the mound of chocolate yumminess; she is embarrassed. A tear falls from her eye, splattering on the table like an artist flicking paint at a canvas.

“I want you to know, I’m not judging you. Just want to see how I can support.” Harry says kindly.

“Well,” She starts. Her voice shakes as she takes a moment to breathe deeply, attempting to calm the sobs that are at bay. Her eyes dart back and forth between Harry and the ice cream she is stirring in front of her. “We got a notice three days ago that we had to be out. We pay our rent every month but our contract was up, and the landlord wants more rent than we pay, I guess. We can’t afford to make rent any higher. I already work two jobs, trying to keep us afloat. We have nowhere to go. My family lives in Scotland, and I don’t have the money to make that move.” The attempt to keep her emotions hidden fails as she cries to Harry, explaining her situation. “I’ve never been in these circumstances before. What if I lose my girls? They are my everything and I feel like I’ve failed them. I feel lost and I don’t know what to do or where to go. ”

Harry’s mind immediately goes where his daughter’s went when she heard the news. They have room in their house. The guest room has a king bed in there; they could share, or he could find some blow-up mattresses. Give them a place to stay for the night, but it doesn’t fix the problem. They can’t live with the Styles family forever. He starts to think, listening to Lily tell her story when the solution hits him.

“I know some people at St. Mungos. I’m pretty sure they can help connect us to a place where you can stay, and because you have the girls, you will be a higher priority. They should be able to help find a place for you to live before too long. I can’t have you and the girls sleeping rough; it’s wet and cold and I don’t feel right about that.”

The desperation on her face makes Harry’s heart hurt. He wants to bundle all of them in his arms and take them home, but deep down, he knows this is a better option. St. Mungos can connect them to a place where they can live permanently. The shelter is just for a small period of time.

“That would be lovely, Harry. Do you know the number?” She asks, a small thankful smile creeping on her face as her tears begin to slow down.

“I’ll do you one better. Grace and I will take you over there. I want to make sure you are in a good place.” Harry replies, allowing the girls to finish their ice cream as they wait for the car to be fixed. Lily bursts into tears as she sees that Harry had paid for new tires as well.

“Here we are.” Harry says as they get out of the car and walk towards the doors of St. Mungos. Lily takes a deep breath; she is anxious and Harry can feel it wafting off her like the vibrations from an earthquake. Harry wraps his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his side, attempting to comfort her in this time of need. “I’ll be here the whole time. Don’t worry.”

The girls skip towards the door, unaware of the situation. Opening the entrance, the family makes their way inside.

“Hello?” Someone yells down the hall to them.

“Hi.” Harry says, making his way towards the voice.

“How can we help you?” The lady looks up at the group in front of her.

“This is my friend Lily, and her two girls Ana and Scarlett. My name is Harry and this is my daughter Grace.” Harry introduces the clan. “Lily and her girls have nowhere to go. I don’t want them sleeping rough tonight. I was wondering if you have anything open.”

Lily’s tears flow down her face as Harry speaks for her. The woman pulls her two girls close to her side, rubbing their shoulders to comfort herself more than the girls who are unaware of what is happening.

“You are in the right place.” The kind employee says. “We actually just had a family unit open today, and it’s in this center so you won’t have to go anywhere. We will keep you safe. Come in and have a seat; we will need to fill out some paperwork.”

A sigh of relief is released from Lily as she moves further into the office, sitting down on the chair. The kids rush over to the pile of toys, playing with each other while their mother fills out the pile of forms. The kind woman explains that the family will receive full meals; they have a laundry service and a room just for them. They are able to stay until St. Mungos can help them find a home. The facility will connect her to the council where they will find housing that will work for their budget.

Harry’s heart feels lighter as the lady explains that the family can stay in the shelter for as long as they need. Is the situation ideal? No. But they are safe and warm and will get more connections than Harry even knew existed.

“Okay. The paperwork is done. Should we show you where you are staying?” The employee stands, walking out of the office to lead the way down the hall. “This is the women’s and families’ section. Your room will be in here.” Walking through the open door, the employee shows the family where they will be staying.

The girls bolt for the bunk bed, climbing on, giggling at each other as they roll back and forth. The queen bed is made with fresh sheets. The family rooms have their own bathroom with a tub, which makes Harry feel a little better as he looks at the barren room.

“You are welcome to bring in anything you have in your car.” The woman says with a smile, leaving us alone in their new home.

“Look at this awesome room!” Harry says with excitement to the girls, hoping that his energy will make the transition a little bit easier. “This will be a good place to stay, and I heard they have a playground outside; when it stops raining i’m sure you could go play.” The girls shout with happiness at the thought of playing on the slide.

Harry turns towards Lily, smiling softly at the mum who looks a little less scared for her life. “Are you going to be okay?” He asks seriously, knowing that if she says no, he might just pack them all up and take them to his house.

Her eyes soften as she looks at her two girls. “I think so.” She nods, reassuring herself that it’s going to be okay.

“I gave you my number; if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.” Harry says, moving towards the door, wanting to let them adjust to their new reality.

“Thank you, Harry. For everything.” Lily says honestly.

“Happy to help.” He nods with a smile. “Gracie bug, we probably should get going. Let them get situated.” Grace jumps off the bed, holding her arms out preparing for hugs from her friends. The girls hug goodbye and Grace makes her way towards her father. “Please call if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Harry. You have changed my life today, and it means more than I can express.” Lily moves in and gives Harry a hug, thanking him for the impact he made.

Grace and Harry make their way out of the building, waving goodbye to the employee who helped their friends, and into the car. Grace buckles her seatbelt and Harry jumps in his seat, clicking his buckle in place.

The emotions from the day hit him, and without warning the tears begin to fall. His head falls to the steering wheel as he cries for this family who is in need.

“Daddy? Why are you crying?” Grace asks, unsure of why her father is allowing his emotions to rain as hard as it is outside.

Lifting his head from the steering wheel, Harry attempts to take a deep breath. “It’s just difficult leaving them here. They are in a situation I hope we never have to experience, Bug. My heart just hurts for them. I wish we could do more.”

Grace takes a moment, thinking about what her father is saying. “But Daddy. They are okay; not in the cold car. They get to sleep on a bunk bed, and that is so cool.” Her positive outlook on life comforts Harry.

“That’s right, my love. They are safe and warm, and that’s what matters most.” Harry puts the car in reverse as they drive away from St. Mungos. His tears fall from his eyes for the rest of the night as he worries about the little family who was in such desperate need. Before he goes to bed, Harry prays, thanking God for this experience that has changed his life in more ways than one. Thankful for a daughter who was looking after a friend, treating her with kindness and love, just as he preaches.

[sophieelinorbrown]

Six or so years ago when I was last in Paris, I went to the Louvre and I saw the Mona Lisa. She was in a big, central room that had multiple access points and while it was fairly crowded up front, I'm pretty sure I just about stumbled across it.

Her main digs are being renovated right now, though, so she’s been temporarily relocated to a remote island somewhere off one of the Louvre’s most far flung wings. A person of sound mind and body might consider a more central location given that roughly 50,000 people per day come specifically just to see that one painting, but I have come to understand that we are dealing with an evil mastermind. Only the purist of sadists would hide something that sought after so devilishly.

Let’s start with the initial line. 

You’d be right in thinking, “Holy shit, that’s a long line. But at least once I get to the front of it I can see the Mona Lisa in that little Auditorium thingy”. 

No. You are wrong. 

The Auditorium has nothing to do with her. She’s not in there. Forget the Auditorium. Much like an iceberg, the visible part of the line represents maybe ten per cent of it? Now is the time to get your affairs in order because you are probably going to spend the next seventy years in this line.

One nice touch, however, is the complimentary umbrellas given out at the front end of that initial line. Because you are essentially a big dumb ant under the giant magnifying glass of the pyramids above the foyer, to prevent spontaneous combustion they loan you a brolly.

Once you’re through the ant-burning zone, you are unceremoniously herded up a staircase and into “two lines” to go through the security check points.

This is the first of many bottlenecks you will experience on your journey today. The second bottleneck will follow immediately. It’s a real one-two (three-four-five-six...) punch in terms of bottlenecks. You are funnelled into a narrow hallway, which is terrible for traffic flow but does work a treat consolidating those two lines back down again.

By this point you’ve been standing shoulder to sweat-stained shoulder with  piles of other clueless art connoisseurs for a good half an hour. The air is stale. You’re starting to taste regret, but you think it’s been so long now, surely you must be getting close. How young and naive you are in that moment. You’re barely halfway.

Like lambs to the slaughter, you approach an escalator, and are shuffled mindlessly onwards and upwards.

One escalator. Then around the entire perimeter of the room to another escalator. It seems as if the Louvre has gained extra floors somehow in this particular area; floors which are only accessible via escalators. It doesn’t feel like it obeys the laws of physics, but that makes perfect sense given the lawless state you almost certainly have now entered.

At last you reach the top floor. There is sunlight. There might still be a god??

Or... maybe not. Your despairing throng still has to seep through this impossibly long room to get inside. There’s a banner of Mona Lisa at the doorway, presumably as some sort of morale boost. To my eye, it feels more like the propaganda of a tyrannical dictator. Toil, peasants. 

Along with bottlenecks, the other common theme of this perilous journey is false hope. Every time you think you’re getting close, your hopes will be dashed. It’s like Da Vinci posthumously installed a complex series of mirages to accompany his painting.

When you finally make it to that doorway... PSYCH! She’s not in there.

You now have to march, single file, in a dense zig zag that folds in on itself and also spans the entire room. I’ve given up all hope by now. My spirit is broken. I just want it to end. I no longer care about the stupid painting, but I’ve come too far.

Finally, we make it to her room. Or, as I like to call it, Dante’s seventh circle.

It’s even bigger than the preceding one, with longer and more zig-zagging lines. People start to lose their minds when they catch a glimpse of her. It’s been four score and seven years since we first embarked on this voyage, it feels like, and now here we are. We’ve grown. We’ve changed. We’ve aged horribly.

A small area directly in front of the painting is cordoned off, and only small groups are allowed in at once. We have long since abandoned common decency, and as each section is let in, it’s every man for himself. Elbows are jabbing with a vigour usually reserved for the front row of a stadium concert. People are pushing and cramming in, desperate to get that Mona Lisa selfie. 

I'm despondent. I don’t want to be here any more. I drag my feet into the front section and stare at this stupid famous painting with her stupid face and stupid half smile, hating this inanimate icon so irrationally. 

We’re in there for, I don’t know, two minutes maybe? And then we’re told to move on. Get your photo and get out.

As I exit the room, leaving her behind, I feel intense relief. The ordeal is over.

See you in hell, Lisa.

[10kiaoi]

For the 007 Fest Anon prompt: It was an unexpected meeting. Notes: Unbetaed, some mentions of violence.

The heat of the water was a balm against the aches in his scarred body. Seeing it in the mirror earlier had been an odd experience, like it had been a costume he’d put on rather than him in the mirror.

Water cascaded off his body in a rush as he stood up. He spared a glance at the documents scattered across the working desk while rubbing his hair dry with a towel. Hazel eyes stared up at him accusingly.

The clock struck seven.

Time’s up.

-----

The weather lent everything a dull cast, all varying smudges of grey and blues, broken only by the streetlights coming to life. Rain was patter against the waterproof membrane of his brolly. Typical London weather.

The bus stop was little more than a signboard drilled to the pavement. No cover or shelter like some of the ones with higher foot traffic sported. Nowhere to hide or run.

He glanced at his watch again. 19:36 hours. The bus was running late.

Then.

The distinctive apple red of London’s famed double deckers left afterimages in his vision with its starkness. He angled his brolly, making sure the neither the driver nor the few alighting passengers or the dome security camera attached to the side of the bus would catch his face.

His target was a bedraggled thing, floppy hair soaked and clinging to scalp even under the meagre protection of the hood of a parka. He had stepped off the number 36 at the last moment, racoon-eyed and bleary. Then hazel eyes flicked up.

Time had frozen.

The bus’s engine rumbled and it restarted its circuit of the city. It left him and his target alone on the sidewalk.  

“Bond?” His target’s eyes had widened, disbelief and shock plain to see. Then his target was taking big strides, uncaring of the rain pelting down and absolutely soaking his clothes. He stopped uncertainly a ways away, close enough to touch.

The instant recognition was harder to swallow.

The cold metal hidden under his coat was a stone around his neck. He should have reached for it by now, with the rest of traffic dispersed and the street quiet once more. Should have been hauling his target into an alley and finishing what he set out to do.

It wouldn’t take more than a minute for him to leave a cooling corpse behind.

“Why did you bring two brollies then?” his target questioned softly, a narration not unlike his own inner voice, after a tense moment in which nobody knew how to react.

He didn’t have an answer. His hands trembled, an inexplicable urge to? Do? He clenched down tightly on the handle of the brolly.

His target watched him knowingly.

“Richard,” He hesitated, swallowing around the thick lump in his throat, “ My name is Richard Sterling.”

His target’s hand was warm, fingers closing over his own around the brolly handle before it was dropped. “Whatever you need it to be,” his target affirmed. The hug was no different from any other. No different from the women he’d pressed up against in passion in between hires. The hood fell back when his target pressed his face against the side of his neck, spectacles digging in painfully.

The quiet “welcome home, James,” was a lance right through his heart and memory.