#bunch of old guys in the pub play how can i keep from singing please

[carfuckerlynch]

i feel like the frequency with which governments ban dancing, a fundamentally harmless, although obviously vital, form of individual and cultural expression. really does emphasize how much the state (any state) is hostile to human life

[scienceoftheidiot]

In my move, I’m also moving all my drabbles, prompt answers and short stories with my OCs. Here’s an old one.

In case you don’t want to click on the link, the short story itself is right here under the cut. It's 3.5K long, so beware.

No prompt for this one, just Desden and Diane going out for a drink, except it doesn't go the way they expected. Some parts will be rewritten in the future, or a new part added - I have already written a part where they discuss the event at the end, and I'll share it after ;)

In case you don't want to click on the link, the story is right there under the cut. TW : sexual harassement, ableism

“And what’s this song saying, then?  “I said I understood it, didn’t say I can immediately translate all the songs that we get to hear in every bar we end up!”

Desden patted Kalinka on the head. He had not been through his first pint yet, while Diane had drunk one and a half. Music was blasting from the pub’s sound system, but most of the patrons were following a sports event on TV at the other end of the room. They were alone near the counter.

“But you said you knew this one! Also, we have only ever been to one bar and it’s this one. And I’m sure you can.” Desden straightened up, more amused than annoyed.  “Oh, of course I can! … but not just like that and with all that noise and -«

He tilted his head backwards at the roar that just came up from the back of the pub.

“Who scored ? »

“The… blue ones…? » “Well, thank you very much, but which town is it? »  “I have no idea. You should know, if you’re that into it! » “Didn’t know there was a match tonight. Also it’s rugby, yes? Not football, if it’s football we’re leaving this filthy place. »  “Gosh, you snob, yeah it’s rugby, of course it is. Two secs… okay so it’s us against… Toulon?”

Desden grinned, his face lighting up behind the dark glasses that hid a big part of it.   “Whoah, so not only are we playing tonight, but we scored then! We’re the blue ones! » “How’d you know that? »  “I know so many things, you wouldn’t believe it. We’re blue. They’re… white ? » “Oh, please! And they’re red.”

Diane tapped her bitten nails against her glass – nearly empty. The song she wanted to know about was not finished yet.

“Come on, what does the song say?”

Of course, she didn’t really care about it. She did that for the playful exasperation it prompted in Desden. They probably both knew it, judging from the more or less annoyed, crooked smile on his face. He had a dimple in his right cheek – not on the other side, for some reason. It made his smile even more asymmetrical. How come Diane had not noticed that before?

“Right now, I don’t know! why do you want me to do that? » “Cause I ask you to? Nicely? »  “You’re drunk.” He gave a high-pitched chuckle. “As if you weren’t. That was the ugliest laugh, by the way.” “And I am not singing yet. If you want to hear that you’d need to get me many other drinks. Care to do just that?” He said while tipping his now empty glass in her direction.

Diane suddenly thought about something, and sobered up a little.

“Is it okay for you to drink that much? Haven’t you told me you have balance problems? » “Oh, this is cute. Are you afraid for me? »  “Seems like I’m the only responsible adult, here, so, I ask. »

Desden straightened up and got a little more serious. “It’s okay. I’ve drank only one pint of light stuff, and I’m big. I shall be alright. Besides” he added, and the smile was back “I know you’re strong enough to carry me home. » “Shut up.” As Diane was getting up to head for the bar, a pair of hands abruptly landed on her shoulders, nailing her down to her stool.

“Hey lady? Why don’t you join us for the next round? Drink to our certain victory?” She stiffened. She had almost bit her tongue in surprise. She cast a glance at Desden, who looked lost, frowning. But even if she thought she could handle it, she couldn’t communicate it to him like that. Right now he couldn’t even know half of what was happening. Especially that that stranger had his hands on her.

She had to play it nicely. She didn’t want to make a fuss.

The guy was starting to vaguely massage her shoulders. It sent shivers of disgust down her spine. A bunch of guys near the TV screen had cheered as he talked to her and was now looking avidly. She’d have thought they would be a group of random older rugby supporters, but they were more probably students –and well dressed, at that.

So there were others. She’d have to be diplomatic. She turned to the man – roughly her age, or a little younger, maybe? – dressed fancy, him too, with thin metal rimmed glasses, and what he probably thought as a charming smile. Judging by his dapper style, he and his friends could be from one of those expensive business schools, those were in the city centre, not that far. You never saw people like that near the campus – she knew that from all the times she’d been there for a run.

She tried to smile back at him.  “No, thanks. I was having a good time with my friend here, and I’d like to go back to that. You don’t need me to cheer for the team, eh? You got your mates for that. Have a good evening. Bye. » “No need to be rude, girl. Just thought you’d be happy we save you from doing your charity thing here, that all.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see Desden lick his lips, and red slowly rise to his cheeks and ears.  “I was not rude. You are starting to be. Please leave us alone.” Her sudden mean look probably worked, because the man finally let go of her shoulders, and walked away with his hands out, in a “I didn’t do anything wrong” gesture.  She let out a big, if a little shaky, sigh. Desden spoke in a tiny voice. “I am sorry. We shouldn’t have come here. We should go home.” He was already getting up – and probably felt dizzy doing so, as she saw him suddenly grappling the table. She chose not to say anything about it. “Why, did you know there were going to be assholes in this place? » “No, it’s a nice place, it never happened before, but – »  “Then I say we get another drink and leave when we want the fuck to and not before. »

Desden hesitated. He was still half standing, but loosened his hold on the table. “I am not looking forward to more interaction with this type of people. I may sound like a coward, but I am always afraid they could go further. » “And what? »  “Please.” He shook his head and made a face. “Don’t let me say it out loud. » “He won’t do anything. Don’t worry. » “I’ll worry if I want to. Just… please, try to understand.” He was visibly upset. “I don’t mind being called names and such. I don’t care. There’s just nothing to do but let them talk. I just don’t want to get in trouble and I especially don’t want you in trouble either.”

She didn’t know what to say. He didn’t go on any further and motioned towards his ever faithful backpack. Kalinka immediately got up. Diane noticed just now that the bright red colour of the backpack definitely clashed with the plain, if nice, clothes he wore from work. But was the same colour as his shoes. Bright red chucks.  She was going to make a lame joke about it, to try and lighten the atmosphere, when the whole group of guys that had been cheering in front of the TV came back towards the bar and them. The game was over. Despite the points they’d scored earlier, they’d lost. She locked her eyes on her beer, avoiding the men’s stare. Desden himself had sat back. She didn’t know how he could have told, but there were probably too many people around at the same time for his taste.

The man with the glasses stopped by their table again. Too close from her, his back towards Desden. “See, girl, we lost. Should have come with us instead of staying here babysitting. We’d have won.” Diane didn’t want to be diplomatic anymore. She wanted this guy to eat his words.  “Just get lost already. Leave us alone! » “Oh, yes, or what? Your boyfriend’s gonna kick my ass? Send his dog? »  “Yeah, Damien, eh!” Another one was standing next to Desden; he looked quite drunk – and quite tiny next to him. “So, what happens if I do this?” He waved his hand in front of Desden’s face; in doing so, his sleeve brushed Desden’s shoulder, who jerked away as far as he could while keeping his hold on the table. He was as red as his backpack and was biting his lips furiously. They had to leave. “Look, he moved! Eh, wait, is he mute, too, or what?”

Diane didn’t give them a look, leaned over the table and pressed Desden’s hand. “You were right. Let’s go.” He just nodded in answer. They both got up, and she led the way, Desden and Kalinka right behind her, feigning to ignore the sneering men around, bumping into them when they wouldn’t move. They managed to get to the counter.  Desden mumbled. “I’ll pay.” She did not argue.

“Yeah bring him home, tuck him into bed. How much does he pay you, really? Do you sleep with him, too? Is it part of the contract?” Desden felt Diane stop. Like this was one comment too many. They were in the street, now, and he would have thought the men wouldn’t have followed, that they would have stayed inside and carried on with their drinking, forgetting about them as soon as they left. But they apparently weren’t drunk enough for that.  He tried to talk to Diane. “Come on, let’s just leave. It’s okay. Let’s go now.” He had found her sleeve, and was tugging at it. But she wouldn’t move. The guy was still talking – more or less saying the same things on repeat, nothing really inventive.

This type of person was not something he’d encounter often, but he already had. There was nothing else to do than retreat to another place. Most probably home because he was beginning to feel tipsy and that wasn’t good.

“Diane, let’s go. Please.” It had no effect on her. He let go of her arm; he actually was ready to leave without her, that is, if he hadn’t feared for her. She moved away from him, not speaking; he had no idea whatever was going on, or through her mind, at this moment. Frustration and fear were getting on his nerves. Again.

Until he heard, more or less at the same time, the guy suddenly shut up, and a perfectly audible, painful crunch. And then tables or chairs collapsing.

Diane shook her hand, trying to relieve the pain of the punch, and walked towards the man she had just broken the nose of – but surprisingly, not the glasses. She looked down at him from all her height – not much, and he was still half lying on one of the fallen tables – and said in a low, growling voice she didn’t even recognize herself :  “One : I am boxing since I am seven. Also, I grew up with three sisters, it teaches you. Two : you are an arsehole. Three : he is not my boyfriend, but if he was, I’d probably be a lucky girl. He is much more of a man than you’ve probably ever been. You are filth. Go home, arsehole, you’re drunk.”

“You are ALL fucking going home. You’ve ruined my terrasse, bloody tossers!” The barman – where had he been all this time? –  put his hand on Desden’s shoulder. “You okay, mate? Need a lift? I been late on this, but I’m not a cunt.”

Diane was shaken. The guys were all silent, shocked, too. Sobered up, hopefully. She was. She deliberately turned away from them to walk by Desden.

He was white as a sheet. How had he turned so suddenly from totally red to white was a mystery. He took his glasses off – the first time Diane had ever seen him do so – keeping his eyes closed, he rubbed his face with the back of his hand. He started slowly: “No I think I’ll be okay… I have…” He stopped, then bursted out, something between a genuine and a hysterical laughter. “I think I have a bodyguard!”

“You’re all fucking drunk. Piss off, all of you, or I call the cops. » “You should call the cops! Look what she did! She broke his fucking nose, man! “Yeah, well. Want me to call the cops, I’ll call the cops. Then you’ll have to explain to them why you were harassing a woman and a blind man. Good luck. I was going to throw you out, well, I couldn’t predict she would react like that. Too fast for me. Now fuck off. And I’m keeping an eye on you boys. You ain’t following those two. In fact you’re going to stay there for a while. Now,” He turned towards Desden and Diane, who were already leaving, “you two, piss off.”

Here they were, walking in the middle of a deserted street – it wasn’t that late, but it was a week day. Desden had finally calmed down, but still had random bouts of giggling. Diane felt torn between the same kind of maniacal laughter and the need to throw up. Not because she was drunk.

It took a long time before Desden spoke.  “This was -«  “Terrible. »  “Epic. I have never had anyone fighting for me before! » Desden smiled a broad smile.  “What? I didn’t fight for you.”

Diane was still angry. She had to calm down. “And you make it sound like it was a noble fight or whatever. I just punched him.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the trembling in her voice, but he probably could. “I just grew sick of him and I had too much to drink. Sorry. This guy, he… He fucking touched me. Twice. The first time he put his hands on my shoulders, and then he ostensibly grabbed my… It’s… it’s disgusting. And he kept being fucking rude to you. Like you weren’t even there. “I am sorry. Really.” He couldn’t help but chuckling again: “And I know. I actually was there.”   “Do you really find this funny or is it the alcohol, or adrenaline showing?  “Probably all of this. Sorry. » Desden let his head down and stopped talking.          They walked silently again for a few minutes. Diane envied the ignorant calm of Kalinka, who was just there doing her job, and had apparently already forgotten the tension of a few minutes ago. She could see the top of the footbridge. Arrived there, they would part ways – Desden lived nearby on the other side, and wasn’t really into people walking him home, as she understood. Right now he had his hand on her arm, but he could probably manage. He wasn’t really drunk and knew those streets like the back of his hand. She still felt bad about the idea of letting him go alone, though, after what happened. Or maybe it was her who needed someone to walk her home. And probably stay with her. They had reached the footbridge, drenched in a harsh orange light. Diane felt an urge to look over the railing, to have a look at the river at night, to see if the furious rambling she could hear translated into something that resembled what she felt. The river was pitch-black. Not even the slightest, orange-y bit of foam. She sighed. “You okay? I mean, seriously.  “Yeah, allright.  “Well, you definitely don’t sound okay.  “I am, though.  “Mmh-mhh.”         Desden didn’t look nor sound convinced. He had stopped next to her, and was taking his cane out of his backpack – a sign that he felt at least a little drunk, as he could walk the road back to his home following only his dog, usually. She had seen him do it countless times. She wanted to stay with him. Not to protect him, not to make sure he made it home safely. Because she was not sure of making it home safe herself. Because she felt like going back to her empty flat would make her scream.  Because she felt she needed to be held and told she had not done a terrible stupid thing, and that she wanted the arms holding her to be his.  “You don’t want company, walking home? You do sound pretty shaken.  “Desden, you’re the one always claiming you’re not made of glass. Am I the one who is, then?  “Well, obviously not… Okay, okay, it’s just that I don’t like to leave a friend alone like that.  “Are we going to accompany each other back home until the end of the night, then?  “No need to be all witty, eh. Sorry. I’ll go. Just… take care, ok? And don’t think about this too much. It’s nothing. He deserved it. If he gets it taken care of right away, there will be nothing to see in a few weeks.  “Would you have punched him, if you could?  “I don’t know. I… don’t think so. Never been a fighter. I’m a coward, really. Always been. “Do you… do you think he’s going to file a complaint against me?  “He doesn’t have your name, right? The only thing he has that could help find you is me.”         None of them moved, nor talked. It seemed they didn’t know how to leave. She was reluctantly stepping away when he spoke again. Desden had apparently been thinking, because he suddenly said, as if continuing their previous conversation: “And that little speech you gave? It was great. Especially that part about me not being your boyfriend, but –  “Wait, you heard that?  “Well, I have good ears, but I’m pretty sure the whole pub heard it, Diane.  “Shit. It was… anger talking. I hate this type of people. When I’m angry I just ramble, it’s nothing, sorry. “Really? So you don’t actually think what you said?” Was it her or did his hand on her arm, he had put it back there somehow,

tightened a little?  “What, about you being a better man? Of course, what, yes I do!”  “No.” He took a step closer to her. She could feel the warmth in his breath, now. His hand was definitely holding her arm tighter. The crooked smile had returned, but he was not giggling anymore. “About the fact that you’d be lucky if I was your boyfriend.” She didn’t know what to answer. Because she didn’t know what she actually thought about it. Yeah, it was probably true, but… He let go of Kalinka’s leash and brought his hand up, apparently hesitating. Then he smiled again, and felt for the side of her face, lightly resting his hand on her cheek. “Can I?”  “Uh, yeah?” He was going to touch her face. That was what blind people did, right? Like, in film. It felt awkward, them being – admittedly alone – doing that in the middle of the street.  On the other hand, while she had been disgusted by the touch of that man in the pub, she could feel blood pounding in her ears right now…  But Desden just quickly trailed the line of her chin, stroked her lips with his thumb, bent over and kissed her. A very sweet kiss. A very unexpected one, too. He could probably feel she was surprised by her slight recoil – he had a step back, too.  “That… you didn’t actually say yes for that, right?” Red was back on his cheeks, and he looked confused, head tilted on the side. She had never noticed how much of an open book he was. You could read everything on his face, and she couldn’t even see his eyes. He was obviously as embarrassed as she was. “Miscommunication? “Yeah, I… sorry.  “No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He let go of her arm. “Sorry, I thought… Alright, I’m probably still drunk. I should go.”         She should have let him go, called it a day and went home too. That was the right thing to do. This was definitely not the time to do anything else. She caught his arm – remembering too late that he hated that, let go of it and just hugged him. The top of her head didn’t even brush his chin.  Desden took his time to close his arms around her, and did it very slowly, as if she was a small animal anything could frighten into flight. He sighed.  “If we’re going this road you probably should talk a little more, alright? Or miscommunication will happen.”  He could feel her answer as much as he heard it, as she kept her face pressed against his chest. “Okay. “We still… friends, then?” He felt pained to have to say so, but he’d rather state it and keep her close than have her run away because he was dumb. He’d been definitely dumb to think she was anything else than a friend. It was good. He didn’t have many. “No more of this. Friends. All right?” He felt her head move against him. Just to hold her was good enough.  “All right.”

Taglist : @heirsoflilith @hughstheforcelou @shutterbug-12 @omg-okimhere @foxesandmagic

[madamebaggio]

EVERYDAY DISCOVERING SOMETHING BRAND NEW - JonSa Modern AU

Summary: Jon and Sansa have been leaving together for seven months and they're great friends.

Best friends.

Even if Jon is completely in love with her. Not that he's about to tell her. He isn't.

Then Ed Sheeran came and ruined Jon's life.

Or: Sansa loves "Shape of You", Jon just loves her shape.

***

Notes: This is a one-shot, that can also be found here.

***

Jon Snow was a simple guy; he didn’t need much to be content. He loved his job, his apartment, his dog and the friends he had.

He was perfectly happy to stay home and watch a movie or football, but he was also fine with meeting his friends on a pub for a pint.

Probably this simplicity was the reason for Jon’s calm. Now, he was no pushover, but he was the type of man that acted with calm and restrain on most situations. Jon’s self-control was legendary. He never started a fight, and he didn’t encourage them. He was the guy asking everyone to calm the fuck down.

However, Jon felt like his self-control was close to over and done with.

The reason?

Sansa Fucking Stark.

Now, on his normal days, Jon could take a deep breath and explain the story calmly: he was best friends with Sansa’s older brother; Robb. He practically grew up inside the Stark’s house, and he had a great relationship with the younger kids as well.

Not Sansa, though.

She’d been aloof even as a little girl. By the time she hit high school, she was way to cool to hang around most guys, especially awkward loners like Jon. She was a bit of a bitch back then, but it was okay. Jon had been annoyingly emo during those years and Bran had been half vegetarian. Things are weird during high school.

After he moved from Winterfell he didn’t expect to see Sansa all that much. She’d moved to King’s Landing to pursue a life of glamour and Jon was -as stated before -a simple person.

He kept in touch with Robb, Bran and Arya, and time passed.

Then, one day, he was talking to Robb about his flatmate Sam, who’d married and left him all alone with rent.

That was when Robb had uttered the fatidic words; “You’re looking for a flatmate? Would you live with Sansa?”

Apparently, she’d had some kind of problem in the South and was moving away from it.

(It took Jon three months, but eventually he managed to get the story from her, and it took all of his self-control not to go South and kill Joffrey.)

At the time Jon had been unable to say “no”. It was Sansa, Robb’s precious little sister. Sure, they’d never been close when they were young, but he could remember the sweet girl that would occasionally ask him to play with her and her Barbies, or steal her a lemon cake from the kitchen, because he could reach the counter and she couldn’t.

Of course, he’d said “yes”, even though he was a bit fearful of this arrangement.

At the beginning, it was… Hard. Sansa wasn’t the girl he remembered; she was quieter, closed off, even a bit scared.

Even though she was his flatmate and they shared every single bill, she acted like she was a guest around the apartment; asking permission to do everything, even painting the walls of her own room.

Jon learned he had to be careful with her. Some days, when he was really tired from work, and she’d come around asking if she could use the blender, he almost wanted to snap at her and say of course she could, she lived there!

But he could see it in her eyes: she was scared that this was exactly what he’d do. Because that was what she’d been living with: an abusive person. She was healing, and Jon snapping at her over something like that, just because he was tired, would be the worst thing possible. So Jon was patient and calm with her until she started to feel more and more comfortable.

Which brings Jon back to his quickly fraying self-control.

After seven months living together -yes, seven months – they’d become friends. Very good friends, actually. They had rituals -footballs matches with beer and Chinese food every Thursday. They talked about anything and everything. Sansa teased Jon about his glasses and he teased her about her strange fixation with unicorns. She cuddled and spoiled Ghost so much, the huge dog was starting to think he was a lap dog.

He’d stopped cringing when he saw a tampon box and started making her hot chocolate when she was on her period -she had terrible cramps. She fixed the buttons of his shirts, and mended that one ancient t-shirt he insisted on keeping around.

They cooked dinner together, watched tv together, went grocery shopping together… They were nauseatingly domestic -Theon’s words.

And some might ask, “What’s wrong with that?”

Well, many things, actually.

And it wasn’t the tampons or the unicorns, or even the dozen coats by the entrance door. Nope. It was the dancing. And the shorts.

Mostly the shorts.

The thing was: once Sansa became more comfortable around the house, he’d see her humming and singing along songs that were in her head. Then she started dancing.

And Sansa Stark didn’t do silly, half-assed dances. Oh no. Even her little dances around the houses were…

Jon would rather not think about the word. It’d only make it worse.

Then, there were the shorts. Sansa had a bunch of those. They were really short shorts. Or maybe her legs were just that long.

And the combination of shorts and dancing?

Yes, Jon was in trouble.

If it was only that -the fact that she was too hot to handle -maybe Jon’s self-control would be fine; but it wasn’t. Sansa was whip smart, amazingly kind and sweet. She had a secret dorky side that was cute as hell. Her smile could light up the room and Jon was helpless every time he saw it.

He as fucking whipped.

The thing was… This was Sansa; Robb’s precious little sister. She was also his flatmate and friend. He might be crazy about her -not just the shorts and the dancing, but her -but some things weren’t meant to be and he was fine with that.

He was.

Really.

Ed Sheeran ruined his life.

Well… Actually, Jon wasn’t so sure about that. He had a love-hate relationship with that fucking song and how much Sansa loved it.

Pros: Sansa dancing to it.

Cons: Sansa dancing to it.

There were no winners on this. Much less Jon himself.

Sure, perhaps he was being over dramatic, but it’d been weeks! He just wanted to find Ed Sheeran and punch him for that song.

Or maybe give him a hug.

Jon was still deciding.

“Hey, Jon.”

He smiled when he saw Sansa sitting on the couch, painting her toe nails electric blue; Ghost was dutifully guarding her from his position on the floor. Then Jon noticed the shorts. Those were the purple denim ones; they had silver stars on the back pockets.

He was going straight to hell.

“Hey, San.”

“Listen…” She paused to check her work, before turning fully to him. “Marge is giving a barbecue on Saturday. Do you wanna come?”

Jon groaned. Margaery’s idea of barbecue involved copious amounts of alcohol, a DJ and -likely -the police eventually coming to end it.

He was way too old for this.

“I know.” Sansa giggled upon seeing his face. “I know it’s not your thing, but Harry’s going to be there and I’d appreciate the help.”

Harry was a wanker that Margaery had introduced to Sansa, in hopes they’d date. Jon had secretly hoped the whole time they wouldn’t.

They hadn’t, but apparently Harry hadn’t gotten the message that Sansa wasn’t interested, because the prick always tried to corner her when they were in the same place.

“So now I’m your body-guard?” Jon grinned at her.

“Jon, please!” Sansa whined. “I want to go, but he’s so annoying…”

“Ok, ok.” Jon surrendered -he already knew he would. “I’ll go.”

Sansa squealed in delight.

It was just a barbecue. What was the worst it could happen?

xXx

Good Lord, Margaery Tyrell was fucking insane!

That sure as fuck wasn’t a barbecue. It was a rave!

There was a DJ alright. ON A STAGE! There was also a bonfire -in the middle of the day -and a lot of alcohol.

No barbecue was to be seen there.

Jon had stuck around Sansa -probably looking like a lost puppy or a stupid boyfriend.

Harry Hardyng was as idiotic as his name suggested, and he’d tried to talk to Sansa more than once. She’d tried everything to get rid of him; from being polite to just plain telling him to fuck off, but it still took Jon and Margaery interfering for the guy to finally get a clue.

After that Jon managed to enjoy himself a bit, mostly because he got to dance a bit with Sansa.

He’d had a few beers, so he was relaxed and happy as they got a taxi to go home. Sansa, however, had drunk a bit more than he had. She was a mass of giggles and was stumbling around a bit, until they finally got to their apartment.

“I’m gonna hate that DJ forever.” She proclaimed dramatically, kicking her shoes off and dropping her jacket on the couch, before sitting down.

Ghost came out from whatever he was and jumped on the couch -which he was forbidden of doing -and dropped his front legs on Sansa’s lap.

Jon chuckled. She’d been complaining about the poor sod for the last hour. He’d dared to play some strange remix of her beloved song, and Sansa couldn’t get over his insolence.

Jon tried not to let her see his amusement, or she’d be a very Unhappy Drunken Sansa and he liked Happy Drunken Sansa. She was adorable.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Jon offered easily.

Sansa snorted. “Not that bad? Jon, ‘Shape of You’ is a masterpiece! You can’t touch a masterpiece!”

Jon considered saying it was an exaggeration to call that song a masterpiece, but he let this one go, for the sake of their friendship.

“I couldn’t even dance to that.” She was still ranting about it, pouting as she petted Ghost. “The rhythm was all wrong.”

Jon couldn’t hold back his snort at that, because she’d complained about it, but she’d danced anyway. “Couldn’t dance?”

“Not properly.” She insisted.

“You should send him a formal complaint by e-mail.” He teased.

She narrowed her eyes, like she was trying to figure out if he was making fun of her. “Maybe I will.” She told him defiantly.

“Tomorrow.” Jon suggested with a grin. “Now you should go to sleep.”

“No way!” She got up suddenly and grabbed her bag, pulling her mobile out. “I’m not sleeping until I listen the real song!”

Jon sighed. It wasn’t actually late; they’d spent the afternoon there and decided to leave as it got dark, but Sansa had been yawing -drinking sometimes made her sleepy -so he had -foolishly -assumed she’d want to go to bed.

Apparently sleep wasn’t an option when someone disgraced an Ed Sheeran’s song.

She put her mobile on the dock on their mantle, and the familiar beat was playing on the speakers seconds after.

That was Jon’s cue to leave. She was wearing the jeans shorts -the one with fraying ends -and her hair was on a braid, and… Well, Jon was just a guy pathetically in love with a girl.

He had his limits.

“Well, enjoy yourself.” He mumbled, already preparing to leave.

“No!” She grabbed his hand. “Dance with me.”

“Sansa…” Jon groaned, but he let her pull him closer -he was an idiot. “You know I don’t dance.”

“You do.” She insisted. “You danced with me today.”

He kinda had, but he’d mostly stayed by her side moving awkwardly.

This was different. She was pulling him by the shirt and they were almost chest to chest. She was singing along the lyrics, putting Jon’s hand on her waist, her forehead leaning against his.

Jon wasn’t sure if this was Hell or Heaven.

It kind of felt like one of those dreams he had, where Sansa told him she was in love with him, then when they kissed Ned and Robb would appear with shotguns.

He’d had this one a few times, actually.

However, her hands were on his shoulders, and she was moving with the music, and Jon was pretty sure this was, in reality, Heaven.

He wasn’t a dancer, by any measure, but even he could pull some moves every once in a while. He twirled Sansa around -she let out a delighted gasp -then pulled her back to him.

This time, when she came, she didn’t let any space between them. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her whole body against his. And by her whole body, Jon meant all of it; even her hips were flush against his, their legs kind of tangled as they kept moving.

Jon would probably have to move her, or she was going to feel the effect she had on him, and this would be awkward and she wouldn’t talk to him anymore and…

He felt her nose gently brushing against his, and he looked at her just to see that her eyes were already prepared to lock on his. They were basically the same height, so it was terribly easy to get lost on her blue eyes.

“Jon?” She called so softly it was almost lost to the music.

“Yes?” He asked, his throat dry, his voice husky.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” She asked, her breath fanning against his mouth.

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He’d been so damn controlled this whole time, but her words broke the dam.

So sure, maybe he should’ve reflected a bit more about the request, but the words had barely left her lips and he was kissing her, like he’d been dreaming of for the last months.

It actually felt like he’d waited an eternity for this moment.

He let one of his hands sink into her glorious hair, like he’d been longing to do for a while now. It felt like silk between his fingers and he wanted to undo her braid and muss her hair up.

However, he also wanted to keep kissing her forever. Jon felt her fingers also grasping his hair and he growled into her mouth. She apparently enjoyed the sound, because she kissed him even harder.

He felt dizzy with the way she bit his lips, and the way she smelled, and her sweet moans against his mouth.

It was a torture to stop it, but he had to.

As much as he’d love to stay there, kissing her forever, he needed to be sure. He needed to know this wasn’t just a drunk escaped, that she wouldn’t regret it in the morning.

He wanted to know if she wanted him the same way he did her.

“Sansa, wait.” He stopped her, pushing her away gently.

The look in her eyes, her red lips, almost made him regret it immediately, but he wanted them to be sure, he wanted them to be on the same page.

“What?” She asked, completely confused.

“Why…” He started, then stopped and tried again. “When… How did we…”

Sansa looked like she was trying not to laugh at his discomfort. “Do you have a question?” She teased.

“I just… Never expected that you would… Want to…”

“Kiss you?” She touched his chin gently. “Because I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”

“You have?” Jon should feel ashamed of how needy he sounded right now, but he couldn’t. Not when she was smiling like that.

“I have.” She assured him.

Jon noticed -finally -that his arms were still around her, and she was still so entwined to him. He didn’t want to put space between them, so he didn’t.

“I’ve thought about it every time you were sweet to me, every time you kissed my forehead before going to sleep, all those times you got me chocolate because I was feeling bad…” She rested her forehead against his. “I wanted to kiss you every time you smiled at me, and those times you hugged me…” She grinned at him. “And every time you were shirtless. Though… I’m pretty sure I didn’t want just to kiss you then…”

“Sansa…” Jon groaned.

“Licking was probably more what I had in…”

Jon cut her off with a kiss.

When they parted again Sansa was breathless and her face was red and Jon had never seen a more beautiful thing in his life.

“So…” Sansa took a deep breath. “We’re good?”

If they were good? Jon was fucking floating.

“We’re good.” He told her gently, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’re great.”

“So you were really looking at my arse all those times I was dancing.” She teased.

“You…”

“I’m not blind, Jon.” She rolled her eyes.

“It wasn’t just that.” He felt he needed to reassure her.

“I know.” She dropped a quick kiss to his lips. “I know it’s not.”

“So…”

“So…” She dragged the word playfully.

“Kissing?” He offered easily.

“To start.” She agreed. “Later we can talk about the licking.”

Jon groaned before kissing her again.

He should send Ed Sheeran a fruit basket or something.

Best song ever.

[redditnosleep]

Leprechauns Are NOTHING Like The Way They're Portrayed In America

by Dariuspilgrim

I own a pub in Boston, but St. Patrick's Day is honestly my least favorite day of the year. Sure, it’s great for business; but I just can’t stand all the drunken assholes draped in green, swigging Guinness, filling the jukebox with Dropkick Murphys songs, and loudly proclaiming their Irish ancestry to anyone who will listen. “Plastic Paddies” we call call em’. The kind of people who go to Ireland as tourists and get mad that it isn’t “Irish” enough, as if they expect the entire island to be a theme park of stereotypes.

I just can’t stomach it. So I have a little tradition of my own. On March 17 of every year, I leave my pub in the capable hands of my manager, go to the LEAST Irish bar I can find, and spend the day alone getting drunk and watching NCAA tournament games.

This year I choose a little sushi bar in Chinatown. There’s a few green streamers above the bar and a Celtics poster on the wall, but that’s it. The music is quiet, the TVs even quieter. The staff barely speaks English; it’s perfect.

I settle into a stool, order a bud heavy, and stare at the TV. The bar is pretty much deserted. An asian couple sits a few seats to my left, sipping heineken and scarfing sushi. To my right, minding his own business all the way at the end of the bar, is a guy in a red hoodie with a glass of wine in front of him. It’s an idyllic setting to pass the time on my most hated holiday.

But my peace doesn’t last long. About a half hour in, the door to the bar bursts open and a parade of twenty-something women stream in. They’re all decked out in matching green “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” shirts, covered in green beads and wearing those headbands that look like alien antennas with shamrocks on the end of springs.

“Oh fer fucks sake,” I hear the man in the corner groan.

“Ohmigod...sushi and shots!” one of them yells, and they all start shrieking. The room breaks into chaos as fifteen women simultaneously try to explain how to make an Irish car bomb to a bartender who barely speaks English. Then the selfies start. They strike up a round of “Shipping Off to Boston,” … but the chorus is the only part of the song they know. And they sing it over, and over, and over while each of them takes turns filming for snapchat. They’re completely oblivious to anyone else in the restaurant.

I watch the asian couple to my left pay their bill and flee, and I’m ready to do the same, except I’ve just ordered a new beer and don’t want to waste it. One of the girls slams into the back of my chair as I’m trying to chug it down and I spill all over my shirt. No one apologizes or even acknowledges me. I pick up my beer and retreat to the corner, plopping down next to man in the red hoodie.

“Quite a crowd,” I say to him.

He scoffs: “Bunch of Manufactured Micks. These tarts couldn’t find Ireland on a map if their lives depended on it.” He speaks with a slight brogue.

“Are you Irish then?”

“Aye, I suppose you might say.”

“You don’t have much of an accent.”

He takes a sip of of his wine. “Been here a long time, long enough to lose most of it anyway.”

On the other side of the bar, one of the girls, now quite drunk, yells at the bartender to turn off the music. She plays “Kiss Me, I’m Shitfaced” at full volume from her phone speakers, and they try to sing along. None of them know the words.

“Oh, that shites terrible. No Irishman would listen to that. Plain awful that is.”

“I’m with you. Came here for some peace and quiet, but it seems the green terror follows me everywhere I go.”

“Man after me own heart. Sláinte,” he says, and we clink glasses. “Thing these young wans don’t realize is in Ireland, St. Patrick’s day is a solemn religious holiday, lacking in all this debauchery. Or at least it used to be. I hear they ham it up now to keep the tourists happy. They’ve americanized and Irish holiday in Ireland. Ironic, no?”

I nod.

“Not that I go in fer any of it,” he says. “It’s all a bunch of horse shit. ‘Saint’ Patrick… pah. He wasn’t even Irish! He was a bloody Roman citizen from the province of Britannia!”

“Don’t like the Catholics then?” I ask. “Are you Protestant? Is that why you aren’t wearing green?”

He spits on the floor. “You colorblind, mate? Does my shirt look orange? No. Catholic, Protestant… they’re all a bunch of cunts. I follow the old ways.”

“Sorry, I meant no offence. Let me buy you a drink,” I say. He nods. I wave over the bartender.

“Two more please?’

“...Two?” he says.

“Yeah, two. A bud for me and a wine for my friend here.”

“...OK.”

I turn back to my new friend in the red hood and extend my hand. “The name’s Sean,” I say. He shakes it.

“I’m Ólta.”

“That must be an Irish name?”

He laughs.

“It’s a Gaellic word, aye. Watch this though.” He nods to a young woman down the bar. She hoists a giant mug of Guinness and just as the glass reaches her lips, a leak springs in the side, pouring a fountain of the black stuff straight down her blouse. She screams, slams down the cup, and starts yelling at the bartender. Ólta and I have a good laugh.

“How did you know that was going to happen?”

“Because I caused it,” he snickers. That doesn’t make much sense, since he hasn’t moved from his stool, but I let it go. “So what do you do for a living, Sean?”

“I own a bar… an Irish pub actually. So this right here…” I wave my hand at the chaotic scene around us, “is my life 364 days a year. I’ve made it a personal tradition to escape on St. Paddy's and find a quiet bar to drink and watch the basketball games.”

“No joy this year, eh?”

“It’s pretty tough to get away from it in this city.”

Suddenly there’s a gleam in his eye. “Watch this,” he says. He nods at another drunken young woman. She leans back in her stool and the whole thing comes apart. She tumbles to the ground screaming. Her friends flock around her like geese and help her from the pile of broken stool and spilled Guinness. They start yelling at the bartender again, asking him what the hell kind of place he’s running. Ólta and I are cracking up.

“Well, this is proving far more entertaining than I expected… how about another round?” I ask.

“Aye, I’ll get this one.” He pulls a small red purse from his hoodie pocket. It looks like an old antique of some sort. From it he pulls a large silver coin which he slaps down on the bar. It’s covered in writing I cannot read.

“Uhh.. I don’t think they’ll accept that,” I say.

“No?” He waves his hand over the coin, and now it’s a fifty dollar bill. He slides it over to me.

“You’re just full of tricks, aren’t ya?”

“You have no idea,” he says smiling. “Another round, and how bout some shots of Bushmills. And tell him he can keep the change.”

I order. The bartender seems confused, but his apprehension disappears when I tell him the left over cash is his.

“And here’s the kicker,” says Ólta. His hand is on the bar. He lifts it to reveal the silver coin, still there under his palm. He flips it into the air and catches it in his purse, which he slides back into his hoodie pocket.

“How the hell did you do that?”

“Easy,” he says. “I’m a Clurichaun.”

I laugh, and decide to humor him. The Irish are known for their wit. “What is that, like a Leprechaun?”

“Why, are you after me lucky charms?” he says, chuckling.

“No, I--”

“Just kidding. No, mate. We’re different. Leprechauns are like our… cousins. We don’t mend shoes or grant wishes; instead we drink.” He raises his shot glass and downs it.

“But not Guinness? Or red ale or something?”

“You bloody Americans and your Guinness… No, that’s a myth. Ale is for peasants. You leave a pitcher of ale out for me and you’ll find all sorts of things start going wrong in your pub. We drink wine; have been for thousands of years. Grapes were the one good thing the Vikings brought with them.”

“I see… so, the pots of gold at the end of rainbows?”

“Another myth, obviously. Though Leprechauns do like themselves a hoard of gold. But try and take it from em’ and you’ll be in for a big surprise. They aren’t as cute and cuddly as the cartoons make them out to be.

“Leprechauns, Clurichauns, Far Darrig… we’re all Aos Sí--‘The Good Neighbors,’ the ‘Fair Folk’--like elves or fairies I suppose you call them here. Descended from the mighty Tuatha Dé Danann. Defeated and chased into exile in the mounds by the Milesians, your ancestors, the mortal forefathers of the Irish people. We are a majestic and noble race and… wait, watch this.”

He nods at the bartender, who holds a glass under the guinness tap. When he pulls the handle, the entire tap breaks apart and guinness shoots from it like a geyser, hitting the bartender in the face and sending him careening backward into the back bar. A cascade of bottles fall, shattering everywhere. Cooks and the manager come running out from the back and everyone is screaming at each other in Chinese and trying to stop the flow of guinness as the girls laugh and lean over the bar, refilling their glass from the raging spout.

“Oh yes, so very noble,” I say to my red hood-ied friend.

He shrugs. “Hey, gotta have a little fun once in awhile.”

“So, I see the mischief making part is no myth?”

“No mate, that’s best part.”

“So you’re a fairy?” I say.

“Well, not in the way you Americans use the word, but aye.”

“Aren’t you supposed to live in the Otherworld? Only visible at twilight on halloween or something?”

“Ohh, an educated man I see,” he says. “Mostly right, but I get a pass for St. Paddy’s. Something about reparations for the thousands of years or persecution and genocide perpetrated against my people by the Catholic church. And only those of Irish descent can see me. Which is why the bartender keeps looking at you funny every time you order two drinks.”

I had noticed that. This was starting to get very strange. “OK… if you say so. But, you’re a lot bigger than I expected.”

“Oh, I can shrink if I want to.”

“Shouldn’t you be wearing green and dancing a jig.”

“Few more of these,” he raises his wine glass, “and I’ll start twerking if you want me to. As for the wearing of green: it’s another common misconception. Trooping fairies wear green. Those flamboyant poofs, trouncing around in big processions wearing fancy costumes, ya ken?. Clurichauns are solitary fairies--like Leprechauns, Brownies, and Hobgoblins. Solitary fairies wear red. We’re the ones you don’t want to mess with. You takin’ notes boyo?”

“Riiiight,” I say. I stand up and put on my coat.

“Where ya goin’, mate?”

“It’s been fun, pal. But I really can’t listen to any more of your delusional bullshit. It was entertaining for awhile, but you’re clearly insane. I’m going to go check on my bar, and then I’m going home to sleep off this buzz. You have yourself a great evening.”

“Well, great. Let’s go,” he says and stands up from his stool. He’s got to be four-foot-eleven at the very most.

“Where do you think your going?”

“I’m coming with you of course.”

“Oh no you’re not.”

“I most certainly am. You seem like a good bloke, and you’ve got a pub! Sounds like I’ve found my new home. Make sure you leave a bottle of red wine uncorked for me every night, and no cheap shite! I’m talking top shelf. And I’ll take my dinner at 8PM, sharp like. I prefer beef, but mutton will do in a pinch.”

“Whatever pal,” I say and walk out the door, letting it slam shut behind.

Ólta walks right through the door and matches my pace.

“Listen, you won’t be coming anywhere near my bar.”

“Oh yeah?” he says smiling. “Just try and stop me.”