#i also brought home a few of his records for my vinyl collection and a couple sweaters that still smell like him too

[ourlordandseivior]

Also life update for anyone wondering, my grandfather’s service was yesterday and I just got home last night.

Haven’t really done much in the way of processing emotions and all but I’ve definitely been uh, feeling things since then. Idk man it’s like the last month of my life has been a blur existing solely in a void of its own. But maybe now I can, idk, work out some stuff now that I don’t have this funeral looming over my head

[zepskies]

And So It Goes - Part 18

Pairing: Billy Butcher x OFC (Latina!OC)

Summary: As Madelyn Stillwell’s personal assistant, Helena Flores finds herself caught between protecting her job, and more importantly her life—or helping Billy Butcher bring down the supe who killed her best friend, Becca.

Word Count: 5,600

Tags/Warnings: Love triangle, tension, more of Ben’s asshole behavior, angst, hurt/comfort, implied smut

ASIG Series Masterlist

18: Being Human

Maybe I really do have a death wish, Helena thought, as she let the most wanted supe alive into her home.

Butcher and Hughie joined him, with the latter taking in her two-story house for the first time.

“Nice,” Hughie said with a nod. “This place is beautiful.”

Helena gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Though she gave Ben a pointed look. “Try not to break it, please.”

He shot her a raised brow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he watched her turn and show them one of the guest bedrooms on the first floor. Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on the curve of her ass in those jeans.

Butcher caught the supe’s lazy perusal with a sharp eye. Ben felt his stare and had the gall to shoot him a wink with his smile. Ben’s steps had a certain swagger as he followed Helena down the hall.

It succeeded in setting Butcher even more on edge.

Hughie glanced over at his friend with concern; he’d seen the exchange between the men and didn’t like the fact that Helena was caught in the middle. More and more, he was starting to question just what the hell they were doing.

“Are you sure about this?” Hughie asked.

Butcher didn’t even look at him. His ears were perked to the conversation Soldier Boy and Helena were having down the hall, about fresh bedsheets, of all things.

“There’s no turning back now,” Butcher said.

Hughie frowned. “I know, but…”

Butcher ignored him in favor of starting down the hall to follow Helena and the unstable supe he’d brought into her home.

After everyone had showered and changed and devoured a few pizzas Helena had ordered, Ben puttered through her living room, rummaging through her things. He opened drawers and surveyed her various picture frames, like he was actually interested in her life or something.

“Got any reefer?” he asked.

Helena rolled her eyes. There goes that theory.

Not that she wanted his interest.

“Fresh out,” she said wryly.

She watched him from her corner of the sofa while Hughie graciously did the dishes. Butcher was sitting at the breakfast nook with a cup of tea.

Helena knew he was monitoring the supe out of the corner of his eye, but she was now very careful in what she left on the TV. She didn’t think Dumb and Dumber should have anything triggering.

She eyed him more sharply when Ben started thumbing through her record collection.

“Hey, easy with my vinyl, please,” she said. “It’s vintage.”

He raised up one of your favorites: I Wanna Dance with Somebody.

“Sweetheart, I’m vintage. I think Whitney Houstonis safe with me,” he quipped wryly.

She rolled her eyes at him, but she had to fight a laugh. 

“I knew her, by the way,” he mentioned. 

Helena’s interest was piqued, with a tilt of her head. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Her and Bobby knew how the fuck to get down. That’s for damn sure.”

“Oh my God,” Helena giggled.

Butcher couldn’t fucking believe what was happening in front of him.

Well, technically, behind him. He was facing the kitchen, and it gave Hughie the vantage point to see Butcher’s irritation.

Helena was more amused than disgusted by the man’s ridiculous flirting. He was an old, old man in that 40s-ish, practically indestructible body. He was like a man out of time, complete with outdated sexism and hyper-machismo. His attempts were often so obvious, it was funny.

But, she also felt guilty for being able to laugh and be pleasant, when this was a man who had killed, and not just during his PTSD-fueled episodes over the past few days. This was the man who murdered M.M.’s grandfather.

The problem was, she had long ago become desensitized to asshole supes. And she couldn’t help her gut instinct…that there was more to Ben than met the eye.

Helena called it a night an hour or so later, when her eyes were starting to droop. She’d slept for a couple of hours in the car, but there was nothing like being back in her safe space, in fresh clothes, and soon to be in her own bed.

A knock at her bedroom door had her frowning in confusion. She put on a robe over her pajamas and opened the door. Her brows raised at finding Butcher there.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was deep and tired, full of gravel. He tried to slip past her inside the room, but she grabbed the doorjamb, blocking his way. She gave him a flat look.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. He gestured to the bed with raised brows.

“To sleep. I’m fucking knackered, love.”

Helena’s lips formed a thin smile.

“There’s a guest bedroom down the hall,” she said. For a moment, they just stared at one another, as one refused to leave, and the other refused to bend.

“Hel,” Butcher tried.

“You ended this,” she said, pushing him back with a hand in the center of his chest.

“Technically, that was you,” he returned. He backed up a step, but wouldn’t let her move him much farther. 

This time, her lips pursed and her expression tightened.

“You know what you said, Billy,” she said. “And you know what you did. You still don’t even have the decency to apologize.”

She stepped closer into his orbit, until her breasts barely brushed against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her skin under the thin cotton of her shirt, could see that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She leaned up on her toes and almost brushed her lips against his. She smelled minty fresh, along with the jasmine shampoo she often used.

“You…don’t get any part of this,” she said. “And you certainly don’t get to make some kind of claim on me just because you’re jealous.”

Helena pulled away. Butcher didn’t know what was more infuriating: not being able to touch her, or the deadly accuracy of her words.

“Jealous?” he said incredulously. “Of fucking what, might I ask?”

Instead of answering him, she smiled and closed her door in his face.

Butcher was left in the hall, teeth gritted and fists clenched. What the bloody hell just happened?

When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he trudged down the hall and into the second bedroom, where Hughie was already slipping into the queen-sized bed. Butcher yanked him out of bed, despite the younger man’s yelp and protest.

“Hey!”

“There’s a couch nice and comfy there for ya,” Butcher said, gesturing at the nearby sofa. It was little more than a loveseat. If Hughie was lucky, it would only be his legs hanging off the side.

He frowned. “Come on, man.”

Butcher shrugged off his jacket and boots, tossing them on a nearby accent chair.

“You can try your luck bunking with Soldier Boy downstairs, but that might be ill-advised,” he retorted.

And he got into bed, turning out the bedside lamp as he went.

Helena slept for maybe a couple of hours before her eyes opened in the dark, her heart racing. She groaned and covered her face with a hand.

She still saw flashes of manic blue eyes in her mind, a hand wrapped around her throat. She felt throbbing pain radiating from the side of her head and half her ribcage.

It forced her out of bed in search of her medication, which Butcher had somehow gotten for her without a prescription. She chose to ignore that fact, and she grabbed her pill bottle, put on her favorite robe over her pajamas, and ventured downstairs for a glass of water.

When she turned on the kitchen light, her bleary eyes made out a shape sitting at the breakfast nook.

She jumped halfway out of her skin, until she realized that it was just Ben, sitting there with two cartons of Mint Milano cookies and three empty beers from her fridge. He raised his brows at her.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said, smirking when he eyed her fuzzy purple robe. “Cute.”

“Down, boy,” she warned. She laid a quivering hand on her chest and caught her breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

She retrieved the jug of water from the fridge and asked him if he wanted some. He shook his head, leaving her to consider him as she poured herself a glass of water. She saw the familiar threads of self-medicating with the empty beer bottles.

“I can make you some tea,” she offered.

Ben frowned. “Piss water, you mean? I’ll pass.”

Helena rolled her eyes. She got out the chamomile anyway and started up the kettle. It was an electric brewer, so the water would be hot within minutes.

“It could help you sleep better,” she pointed out. She felt his hot gaze on her back as she went about her business in the kitchen. She set up two mugs and took out the bottle of honey.

“One of two things helps me sleep,” said Ben. “Good drugs or a good fuck.”

Helena paused. Her hand clenched on the honey bottle on reflex, and made a large spurt squeeze out in one of the mugs. She eyed him tartly over her shoulder.

“You’ll find neither in this house,” she said. Her tone was pointed. His sly gaze said he wasn’t too sure about that.

“What’s keeping you up?” she asked, and she put a cup of tea in front of him with honey already stirred in. He gave her a flat look.

“I don’t drink that shit,” he said. She smiled.

“But I made it especially for you,” she replied, saccharine sweet. “I thought guys like you were supposed to be chivalrous.”

Ben just stared at her, hard.

She stared at him right back and raised her brows.

“Just try it,” she cajoled. “You might like it.”

He still didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, he slowly reached out and took the handle of the mug. He brought it to his lips and took a reluctant sip.

He grimaced. It was everything he thought it would be: weak in flavor, but warm and a hint sweet.

Helena smiled in satisfaction, and he fought one of amusement, even as he considered how sweet she might be to taste.

She went to get her own mug and her bottle of pain meds. While her back was turned, Ben poured most of the tea into the sink.

“Why’re you in my kitchen, eating all my cookies?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder while holding up one of the empty boxes of Milanos. “These are my favorites.”

Ben’s gaze roamed down the length of her fuzzy robe. It hinted at curves he’d already seen and taken note of. She was the hottest young thing he’d seen in…well, a while. Still, he’d be willing to eat up Miss Chiquita Banana and leave no crumbs.

“I’ve slept long enough,” he said. She turned back around, and he tried to disguise his hunger (for now). 

Helena glanced up at him wryly. “Hmm. You’re allowed to say you can’t sleep.”

Ben didn’t answer, but he watched her struggle to open her pill bottle. She twisted and twisted the cap, applying pressure, but it refused to budge.

“Damn it. What, did they reinforce this with, titanium?” she muttered.

The pill bottle eventually broke free, raining little white pills onto the counter. A few of them rolled off to the floor.

Her shoulders deflated. “Of fucking course.”

With a sigh, she slowly bent down and gathered up the pills that fell. She grabbed onto the counter, but the sharpening pain in her ribs wouldn’t let her straighten up, let alone get back onto her feet. She looked up at Ben in annoyance. He was just sitting there, watching her in bemusement.

“Coño pero… Are you gonna help me, Mr. Chivalry?” she snarked. “Best generation, indeed.”

Ben raised a brow at her. “I might, if you ask a little fucking nicer.”

Helena gaped at him. What a dick.

But she expected nothing less, really. She let out a tense breath through her nose and through much effort, she angled a less pissed off face at him.

“Will you please give me hand off the damn floor?” she asked.

A smirk crossed his lips. He actually obliged her, sliding off his seat and coming her way around the kitchen counter. He bent down and helped her up with a hand on her lower back and her elbow. He didn’t back away from her until her feet were steady on the ground, and she nodded in thanks. He took a few pills out of her hand as payment, popping them into his mouth like Tic Tacs.

Helena sighed in annoyance. Unlike him, she actually needed those.

“Why’re you up, anyway?” Ben asked.

“Well, I could blame it on the pain,” she replied, after downing two pills with her water. “But um…I keep replaying yesterday in my head, over and over like a bad movie. It always stops at the part where I look up at Homelander’s psychotic fucking eyes, and I just…I knew.”

Helena shook her head. Ben’s lips tugged downward.

“Knew what?” he asked.

“I’m officially on his hit list now,” she said. 

She knew it was partly her own fault. She chose to follow Butcher, to keep making reckless decisions. But at least now she wouldn’t have to spend every damn second of every day looking over her shoulder. She could just turn around and accept whatever happened next.

Helena could admit it though. She was afraid.

“What’s it like, not being afraid?” she asked Ben, with a small sarcastic huff. His brow arched.

“When you’ve routinely pounded Nazis up the ass, nothing much bothers you after that,” he said, sipping at his mug of tea. Though he soon grimaced again at the taste and pushed the offending drink away.

Deep inside, however, he refused to acknowledge the darker chasms. Stolen years that were now blurred together in memory, and yet, certain moments rang painfully clear. His eyes were unseeing for a moment, before they glanced back up at Helena.

He nearly missed the way she chuckled.

“That shit isn’t fooling for a second,” she said. “I saw you lose your grip, Ben.”

His gaze sharpened. His fist clenched on the counter.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Let me ask you a question. Do you really not remember M.M.’s family? Or was that routine for you too?”

He paused, his brows crunched in irritation.

“I don’t have to fucking justify myself to you. I was doing my fucking job. Sometimes—”

“What, shit happens?” She threw her hands up mockingly. “God, you’re just like Homelander. Like almost every supe I’ve ever met.”

He rolled his eyes, dismissive, but his anger was prickling just under the surface of his stoic front.

And on the off chance that it was a mask for any spark of shame he felt deep down, Helena was at least a little satisfied. For 100-something years of machismo and supe arrogance, that spark would’ve been well-won. 

“Regret is human, Ben,” she said. “So is fear. And pain. And love.”

His face remained stoic. “I’m a lot fucking more than human.”

She huffed at that. “If you say so.”

She shook her head and delved back into her pantry. As a peace offering, she broke out her secret backup stash of cookies, that she doubted even Butcher knew about. They were raspberry and milk chocolate Milanos. She subtly shook the box at Ben with a smile.

He tilted his head. “I don’t remember that flavor.”

“Ooh. Brace yourself,” said Helena. She dug out the first two sleeves of cookies and gave him one.  

“How come there’s five in yours?” he asked with a frown. There were only four cookies in his sleeve. 

“The Lord giveth, and he taketh away,” she joked. “I get the bonus cookie.”

Ben gave her a deadpan look, but he ate in silence. He looked all surly, and she had to hold in a laugh. What a man-child.

Instead, she tossed her extra cookie at him. He raised a hand to instinctively fend off a projectile.

“Hey,” he said, with his mouth full.

Helena ended up giggling at the sight of crumbs falling from his mouth and in his beard. Again, man-child.

She wanted to hate him.

She should hate him, on principle alone.

Perhaps she had a weakness for deeply flawed men with massive egos. But fleeting as they were, she saw the glimpses of humanity in Ben—rare moments that got swallowed up by Soldier Boy.

In the morning, Butcher aimed to work on the list of safehouses where one of his most paranoid of ex-teammates, Mindstorm, could be hiding out. This next one was a few hours north. He’d be gone for the day, at least.

He was forced to leave Helena and Hughie behind, but not without a warning for the latter. Butcher had pulled Hughie aside and let him know that he wasn’t to leave her alone with Soldier Boy again, under any circumstances. Hughie didn’t have to ask “or what.”

Butcher was gone early in the morning. It allowed Helena and Ben to make their way into the kitchen slower in the morning. She was dressed for the day with her coffee mug in hand, sitting at the breakfast nook while Hughie caught up on the news from her laptop in the living room.

Ben grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat next to her.

“What do you say you get started on breakfast. Huh, baby doll?” he asked. Or more like demanded, by his actual tone.

Helena shot him a dry look. “There’s cereal in the pantry.”

“Come on, now. I could use a home cooked meal,” he said.

Her brow twitched in irritation.

“It might be nice, since I have cracked ribs at the moment, if you might make yourself something,” Helena replied.

Ben gave her a smirk as he eyed her. “Why would I do that when you look like a perfectly good cook.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “But I’m neither your servant nor your maid.”

“You’ve got two working hands, don’t you?” Ben remarked, as he sipped his coffee. “God fucking knows you’ve got a working mouth.”

Helena seethed as she got up from her chair, but not to make anyone a damn thing. She went to the sink to dump her empty coffee mug. She turned back to Ben and opened her mouth to say something she would very likely regret, but Hughie interjected, perhaps seeing that an explosion was about to happen.

“Uh, why don’t I make us something?” he said, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen with Helena. “I can whip us up some scrambled eggs. Bacon, if you’ve got it. Ooh, looks like you’ve got bread to make toast.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Knock yourself out.”

She ate her eggs on the couch in simmering silence while the news played on the TV. Hughie sat with her, casting her a look of concern every now and then. She ignored it all, including Ben’s less than discreet grumpy staring.  

Apparently, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“I swear to Christ. What the fuck is wrong with women today?” he said.

What a good start, Helena thought sarcastically.

“My mom never kept my father waiting for a meal. Even when he came home at whatever goddamn hour of the night, she had a plate waiting for him,” he said.

Helena rolled her eyes and quipped dryly, “That plate must’ve been cold as hell.”

Ben eyed her as she got up from the couch and went to bring her plate to the sink. She had her back to him as she began to rinse the dishes and put them into the sink.

“When did women get so fucking lazy? And disrespectful,” he remarked.

Helena hit the lever on the sink closed to turn off the faucet. She turned around to face the man and crossed her arms.

“You want a fuckable maid, pay extra,” she said. “But if you want a partner you can rely on. Someone you can trust not to give you to the damn Russians, then you share the load. And you respect the woman who lets you into her bed.”

She turned back to the dishes so she wouldn’t have to look at Ben’s angry, brooding face. But the way she turned her back on him, along with her pointed words, irritated enough to spark his anger. He got up from his seat.

Hughie sensed the danger before Helena did. He stood and made a cautious approach to the kitchen.

Helena reached for a hand towel, and found her wrist encased with an iron grip. She gasped as Ben turned her to face him.

“I’ve put up with a lot from you,” he said. “I think I’ve been a gentleman, considering what a disrespectful little brat you are. But I really think you wanna get bent over my knee.”

His face told her that she wouldn’t enjoy it.

“Hey,” Hughie tried to intervene. “Let’s just calm down, all right?”

Helena let out a shaky breath, but she looked up at Ben and somehow managed to hold her ground, despite the iron grip on her arms.

“If it makes you feel better, go ahead,” she said. “Slap me around until I break.”

“Soldier Boy!” Hughie said in warning.

Ben ignored him. He stared down at Helena with cold anger in his eyes. His hold on her arms tightened, and it hurt. She failed to stifle a gasp of pain.

But she stared up at him defiantly, even though there were tears forming in her eyes.

“You want me to respect you? You killed my friend’s family, and you don’t even care,” she said. “I don’t see anything here that earns my respect.”

Ben reacted to her words, mostly with anger as his brows furrowed.

Hughie grabbed the supe’s shoulder. “Hey, man, just let her go!”

Ben shoved Hughie away so hard that it made the younger man slide across the kitchen and into the far wall, until he hit a bookshelf and fell to the ground.

Helena flinched in shock, and pain at the way he was still holding her. Ben saw it play across her face…and he let her go abruptly. He stared down at her for a moment, nostrils flaring with his heavier breathing. She tried to calm her own breathing as she met his gaze, wondering what he would do. Wondering if this was the moment she’d signed her own death warrant by being her smartass self.

But Ben walked away from her.

Well, stalked away, more like. He left through the front door and it swung open on its hinges.

Helena took in deep breathes of relief. Eventually she gathered enough of her wits to go to Hughie, who was still picking himself off the floor.  

“I gotta go after him,” he said with a sigh.

“Get that man away from my house. I don’t care where you take him,” Helena said, frowning tersely. Hughie couldn’t blame her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and touched her arm gently. She pulled away from his touch and held herself with crossed arms.

“I’m fine. Just go get him,” she replied.

He nodded and took off after Soldier Boy. It gave Helena the reprieve she needed to let out a long, tremulous breath. A tear fell down her cheek as she leaned on the kitchen counter.

She just couldn’t help taking her life into her hands.

Butcher returned to Helena’s house in the evening. Her car was still in the driveway, but when he let himself in with the spare key she’d given him, he realized that the house was empty, except for her.

She was washing dishes from a dinner she’d clearly made for just herself: a Lean Cuisine.

“Where the hell are Hughie and Soldier Boy?” he asked, approaching where she stood in the kitchen, dressed down in a long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants.

“I couldn’t give a fuck,” she said. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

Her voice had little energy in it, save for anger and sarcasm, and Butcher took notice. He frowned.

“You’re the one who brought ‘em here. Weren’t my fucking idea, remember?” he snarked back.

Helena finally gave up on the dishes and turned to him with angry tears in her eyes.

“But you’re the one who made it happen, Billy. You wanted to cut a deal with that ancient, unstable fucking asshole? Well, you got your damn wish,” she said. “You are the reason we’re in this mess.”

Butcher paused at the sight of her unshed tears. His jaw worked as he tried to make sense of why she was this upset, when just yesterday she was joking and laughing with the supe like he was the guest of honor.

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Unbidden, it reminded him of the day he waited for her at her apartment. And she’d come home after work looking skittish and drained. She’d flinched away from his touch then, just like she’d done now. That had been the day Homelander nearly strangled her to death.

“What the fuck did he do, Helena?” Butcher repeated. She met his gaze. 

“You better find him,” she said, “before he blows up another damn building.”

Butcher stared hard at her, but she wouldn’t say anything more.

He fished out his cell and called Hughie, who told him that he’d brought Soldier Boy to the Legend’s penthouse apartment in the city.

“Good,” Butcher nodded. “Keep him settled there while I look for Mindstorm.”

He glanced at Helena, but she was already walking away from him to finish cleaning up her kitchen.

Butcher ended his call. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’ve gotta go,” was what he settled on.

She shrugged. Butcher nearly sighed. He went to her though, while she was wiping down the counter with a clean rag. His hand reached out to touch her back, but at the last moment, he thought better of it. His arm drifted back to his side.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Like you care,” she said. Her tone was one of both snark and exhaustion. “Just go.”

Reluctantly, he went.

Helena was angry, to say the least—at Butcher, at Soldier Boy, and even at Hughie. She was also angry at herself for not having been able to leave well enough alone when Butcher left the first time.

Which first time? She snorted.

But she was especially mad at herself when she allowed the three men to traipse back into her home, a week later.

“‘Ullo, love,” Butcher greeted at her door.

They were covered with dried sweat and dirt, like they’d been hiking. She only let them in because of how they looked—each a bit rattled by whatever they’d faced. Her house was safer than the Legend’s at this point, Butcher explained.

“Just one night,” he asked. “We’ll fuck off in the morning.”

“Fine,” she agreed, despite her better judgment. Again, it was that look in his eyes. Unsteady.

Ben gave her a predictable once-over of her pajama shorts and tank-top, but it seemed he didn’t have it in him to volley with her like usual, especially after what happened last time. He didn’t acknowledge that as he made his way to one of the guest rooms.

Helena followed Hughie and Butcher upstairs…but something made her grab Butcher and steer him away from the second guest bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what she was doing while she guided him into the bathroom in her room. There he leaned against the counter of the bathroom sink. She picked the twigs out of his hair and brushed the dried mud from his shirt.

“Did you take a dirt nap or something?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he replied.

“What the hell happened then?”

He looked down at her. “Mindstorm is dead.”

She sighed at that, but something else was there, behind his eyes. Just under the surface.

“And what else?” Helena asked.

Butcher remained quiet, hesitating. She slowly took a chance by reaching for his scarred hand. She held it with both of hers.

He couldn’t help himself. He brushed his thumb over the back of her warm, tan, smooth hand, reminding himself that she was real and alive. And he wasn’t locked in his mind.

“When I left for the SAS,” he said, “I left my little brother behind…with our raging cunt of a father.”

Helena inhaled deeply; she remembered what Butcher had told her about Lenny, about how he died young. But somehow, Butcher had left out this detail. He met her gaze with tears forming in his red-rimmed eyes.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” he confessed.

Helena was half in shock as she watched the first tear roll down his cheek. She realized then that she had never seen the true depths of this man. Not until tonight.

Her eyes burned with sympathetic emotion as she reached for him and pull him into her arms. He held her back, burying his face in her neck and grounding himself in her as his body shook. Those brutal memories, along with the grief that had been locked deep inside had loosened, and the doors were now swinging open on their hinges.

“Jesus Christ, Helena…I’m sorry,” he said. His voice wavered, and his hand clenched in her hair. “For what I keep doing to ya. Dragging you down with me with every goddamn step.” 

He pulled back enough to see her, to be faced with her tears as she bit her lip.

“And for what I said…to you, and to the kid. I’m fucking sorry,” he said.

Helena broke down just as much as he did then. She nodded in acceptance, and she held his face in her hands. Then she brought him down for a tender kiss. Butcher gave into the soft warmth of her as he held her against him, unwilling to let go this time.

And she led him back into her bed.

In the late hours of the night, Butcher returned to Helena’s bed after a shower. She was already fast asleep. He slid in behind her, gently caressing the back of his hand up her naked back and over her shoulder, down her arm…

And he saw it. A purplish, yellow band around her arm.

It looked like a bruise, formed by a large hand. A man’s hand.

Butcher was damn certain it wasn’t his own, and he’d just finished tracing all the contours of her body tonight.

Though he was reminded of what happened a few days ago…

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Soldier Boy. That old cunt.

Rage built and built inside him. That unfathomable rage that so often fostered lethal energy in Butcher’s blood.

Carefully he slipped out of bed. He got as far as the doorway before he looked back at Helena. He focused on her easy breathing, her messy dark hair splayed on her pillow.

The rage he felt began to simmer down, bit by bit, into self-loathing. Because he did this.

She’d been right before. Butcher made the deal with Soldier Boy. And Butcher brought this shitshow into her home.

So he forced himself to join her back in bed. He traced down the back of her neck, down the length of her lotus tattoo. It made her shiver in her sleep.

Butcher had failed his brother, and Becca. But he couldn’t fail this time. He’d keep Helena and Hughie safe, and alive.

Butcher’s phone was on silent, but the light from his phone on the nightstand illuminated the dark room and stole his attention. He grabbed it and frowned at the strange number on the caller ID. He took the phone into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Hello?” he answered.

“I need to talk to Hughie. Where is he?” Annie asked.

“Oh, Starlight. How delightful,” he muttered. And then he lied.“He’s just popped out for a bit.”

“Okay, well he’s not answering his phone.”

“Bit hard to keep a phone when you’re teleporting all day, innit, love? How can I help?”

“Temp V is going to kill you both,” she said.

“Well, it’s gonna have to join the queue,” he quipped.

“I was just in the lab. It causes lesions, okay? It turns your brain into fucking Swiss cheese!” she shouted. “So please be honest with me, and tell me how many doses have you taken?”

Butcher hesitated at that. His stomach began to churn.

“Just a couple,” he replied. Or a few.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Butcher, five to six doses kills you. Got that? You need to tell Hughie.”

Butcher hesitated. “Yeah…yeah, I will. I promise.”

“Okay, but I’m calling every five minutes until—”

He hung up on her. All the while, his mind was reeling.

Fuck, he thought. Fatal after five doses. He’d already had three. Hughie’d had two.

And they needed more, if they were going to face Homelander and Black Noir.

“Scorched earth” was going to come at a price. Butcher had known that going into this, but it suddenly took on new meaning as he opened the bathroom door and looked over at Helena, peacefully sleeping in bed. 

Butcher thought of Ryan, and all of his broken promises.

But come the morning, Butcher didn’t tell anyone of what he’d learned.

AN: Oooh, we're getting so close to the end here, folks!

Next Time:

“Why are you being so fucking stubborn?” Butcher asked.

Her head tilted as she gave a wry smile. “What do you mean?”

His grip on her waist tightened a little.

“Why’re you staying with me?” he pressed. “Hel, you know where this ends.”

“Billy, I don’t have a death wish,” she told him. She squeezed his arms back. “But I don’t just want you alive for me. Ryan needs you too.”

Keep Reading: Part 19

The Boys Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Tag List:

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[deathofpeaceofmiiind]

high infidelity | twenty three

How’d we end up on the floor anyway? You say, your roommates cheap ass screw top rose, that’s how. We pulled up to Noah’s house and my eyes widened at the sight of it, it was beautiful. I didn’t want to creep him out and ask him if he moved but this definitely wasn’t the house he had during his twitch days. It was a bungalow hidden between a few palm trees and various plants, it had a perfect Californian vibe to it. He led me inside and my breath was taken away again, it had floor to ceiling windows that had a perfect view of the LA skyline, and open concept where his kitchen, living room and dining room blended together. I looked outside and saw he had a small in ground pool as well with an egg chair beside it, I always wanted one of those.

“Well, what do you think?” “Noah this is…wow.” I was speechless. Noah passed me a glass of wine as I admired his home like it was the Sistine chapel. “I wouldn’t give this up for Vancouver.” “Ah, it’s just a house.” He said taking a sip of his wine, “By the way, this is Jesse’s wine, don’t say anything to him.” I nodded as I brought the glass to my lips, realizing it was a sweet rose. My eyes wondered around more, I saw his vinyl collection and I immediately went over to it. I shook my head in amazement, he really knew how to keep me guessing. He had Taylor Swift’s entire discography, along with her re-records, all organized by release date. I really adored his taste in music since he didn’t stick to one genre, there was a mixture of everything in his collection.

“Big Taylor Swift fan?” I joked as I grabbed Midnights and put it in his record player. Lavender haze filled the room as I walked over back over to him. “She’s been such a huge inspiration for me. Evermore got me through so much during the pandemic.” His voice trailed off, as if there was something that happened to him during that time. I didn’t want to dig, I knew if he wanted to say something he would. “Good choice, by the way. This is my favourite opening track for an album, ever.”

“It’s so good.” I agreed as I took another sip of my wine. My eyes followed Noah as he pulled out his iPad and started typing away on it. I watched him intently, his fingers moving so swiftly, his eyes full of concentration…he did everything with such intensity, it turned me on with no effort. “I ordered from my favourite restaurant, it should be here in half an hour. I figured since it was so late we could just spend time here and I’ll take you out tomorrow.” “That sounds great.” I replied. Noah walked around the kitchen island towards me, he offered me his hand and guided me to the couch. Everything felt so romantic, he had his lighting set to a soft glow, had candles burning and put his faux fireplace on. I was curious as to what his intentions were.

“Can I ask you something?” I said now that I had a little bit of liquid courage in my system. “Why are you so hesitant to have sex with me?”

Noah sighed and put his wine glass down. “El, it’s not like I don’t want to, trust me I do. Sex has become something I take seriously now. During the pandemic when my depression hit an all time low, I was drinking so much and I used to have these girls I’d call, they’d drop everything and come over so I could fuck them to forget my problems. I had no attachment to them whatsoever and I would kick them out the second I got what I wanted. All of it left me so empty and I stopped having sex all together for a long time. Then I met you and I knew I wanted to be with you in that way, my anxiety made me feel like my old habits would come back.” He paused and I could see tears flickering in his eyes. “I just love you so much sometimes it scares me, I want to do everything right with you.”

“I love you too Noah and I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t treat me like that. I’m sorry that you went through such a dark time. I’m also sorry that I was selfish and thought maybe it was something I did.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong at all. You’ve been so patient and kind with me, I don’t deserve you.” Noah replied with a sad tone, some days this mans emotions went deeper than I expected but if anything it made me love him more. He wasn’t ashamed to show them.

I cupped his face in my hand, catching the tear that escaped him. “I think you got it wrong, I don’t deserve you.”

He softly smiled at me as he poured me another glass of wine. The more the night went on the more bottles of wine we emptied. We ended up on the floor of his living room after dinner, listening to records, laughing about nothing and enjoying each other’s company. 

“You’re the greatest thing to ever happen to me you know that?” Noah drunkenly whispered as he crept up to me. I could taste his breath on me, it was sweet and strong. I watched him as his eyes focused on my lips, licking his own in the process. My heart was beating so fast and my eyes started to lose focus, I felt like maybe this was it. His lips crashed into me and I held onto the collar of his shirt as the kiss deepened. He pulled me onto his lap as he rested his back on the couch. He ripped my shirt off me and trailed kisses all over my shoulder, my collarbone and bit gently on the top of my breasts. I felt Noah growing harder under me as he took my bra off and let it cascade down my arms, completely exposing me. 

“So, so fucking beautiful.” He exhaled as he caressed my breasts, tracing circles around my nipples. I was in complete bliss, every single one of his touches sent fireworks off in my mind.

Noah held the back of my neck as he gently laid me down on the carpet, he disappeared for a moment but suddenly he was towering over me. My breath hitched when I felt something cold pooling on my stomach between Noah’s lips. He had an ice cube in his mouth and was trailing it all over my body, making me squirm. When it finally melted, he undid my pants and slid them down my legs, along with my underwear. Noah’s tongue hit my clit, it was frozen solid as he flicked it back and forth. I knew I was done for as my toes curled into the carpet. 

“You respond so well to my touch, you have no idea how fucking hard that makes me.” He looked up at me, grinning like a devil between my hips. He spat onto his fingers before sliding them in me, making me arch my back. His hand pressed on my lower abdomen as he hooked his fingers inside me, throwing me over the edge. “Come for me, I know you want to.”

“Noah - “ I couldn’t hold it, I screamed out in ecstasy as my body shuddered from my orgasm. He left me panting and seeing stars for a brief moment, but he didn’t give me much time to recover. He just looked at me like he was about to show me no mercy.

“I can’t wait anymore baby…I need to fuck you now.”

“I’m all yours.” I breathed out. I helped him get undressed as he closed his eyes before making a home between my thighs. He leaned over and gently kissed me, twitching as I stroked his throbbing cock. He deeply sighed with relief as soon as he was fully in me, his eyes glazed with pleasure as I wrapped around him. He started off slowly but picked up the pace rapidly, gripping into my hips to get deeper in me. Our bodies glistened with sweat, our sighs were so heavy and my body was shivering as my orgasm flooded me countless times.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you feel so good baby.” he moaned into my ear as he clasped my wrists over my head. “I don’t think I can hold on anymore.”

“Then don’t.” I whispered, his face was mere inches from mine as his hair brushed my face. He gently nodded and started to thrust into me harder, making me gasp each time. Our eyes stayed locked before he couldn’t focus anymore. Noah crashed his forehead into my shoulder as he spilled into me, letting out the most ungodly moan in my ear. My god that was worth the wait. 

[notasapleasure]

Wip ask meme - @stripedroseandsketchpads also asked about the 'Au of an au' file, where in the Lymond band AU instead of not seeing Francis for years and years after the battle of the bands (i.e. Solway), Jerott goes to stay at the Edinburgh townhouse for a few days on his way back to Glasgow.

I was determined that I would write some J/F without Jerott overthinking things and preventing it being finished, so it rushes through quite breathlessly, but my excuse is trying to capture the reckless enthusiasm of youth?

Re-reading what I have I think it stalled because I was so furiously dumbstruck that Let's Dance by Bowie wasn't released until 1983 so couldn't be the sountrack to the scene I was writing. I never recovered my momentum *shrug*

Jerott/Francis fluffy smut (broken off before it gets very smutty though):

It was the first time in many, many years that Francis Crawford could say he'd brought a friend home. Gavin was away with work, Richard had a seat free in the car, and at the last minute, Jerott Blyth had agreed that maybe his dad could manage another day or two on his own with the hospital-assigned carer.

Jerott had, in fact, found that when earnest, cornflower blue eyes entreated him and a soft but firm grip squeezed his arm, accompanied by a smile that just needed his agreement in order to bloom, he was incapable of denying the boy who had just beaten him in the battle of the bands. He'd not been to many sleepovers himself, after all - precious few of the families of his school friends would have accepted him inside their homes with his dark skin and accented voice.

Sybilla, however, took it all in stride and exchanged merry pleasantries with him in French that was as accomplished, as refined as her son's. She showed them to the shed at the bottom of the garden and brought air mattresses and sleeping bags down from the loft. "Richard used to have sleepovers here all the time while Francis was away at school," she told them. "It's chilly at this time of year and you can always come in and use Francis' room, but this is where the music collection is..."

Francis smiled patiently, blithely, as his mother performed the hostess' duties: she would offer to bring drinks and snacks once - and when he said they could manage she would not push the offer a second time. She would make it clear that they were welcome to come inside for supper - Richard was to be dispatched to collect fish and chips - but they were under no obligation to sit at a table and could bring it back to the shed if they preferred. When Jerott offered money for his portion, she touched her hand to her chest, squeezed his shoulder, and beamed at Francis. "Mon cher. Absolutely not! You are our guest. Francis will not let you want for anything."

Then she paused before leaving them, pinning Francis with one token look of maternal assertiveness: "Ellie has school tomorrow, so if you do come inside, no punk after nine, ok?"

Francis shrugged. "Ok. She can come and hang out when she gets back though, right?"

"If she wants," Sybilla surveyed them both. "No beer for your little sister on a school night either, though!" she wagged a finger.

Francis' expression merely turned angelic. "I wouldn't dream of it, ma."

They were both itching for her to leave, and once she was gone, Francis turned to the record player and lifted the lid. Jerott practically did a knee slide across the carpet to get close to the library of vinyl, and the process of comparing notes and tastes began again in earnest, now with all the accompanying evidence either of them could want, and hadn't had to hand during the weeks staying in the hostel in Carlisle.

By the time Eloise joined them after school, the shed was adorned with stacks of albums left like stepping stones across the floor, half-empty mugs of cold tea that had accumulated on Sybilla's writing desk, and strata of crumpled biscuit packets and crumbs in the one tiny bin. Francis was pacing and gesturing wildly with a wooden guiro and his new friend sat on a beanbag, gazing up at him like he was listening to a pre-eminent philosopher, a guitar in his lap, his fingers loosely, idly following along with the melody on the record. When they spoke it was almost invariably in French, expressed at a million miles an hour, and Ellie, curious as she was about this boy who seemed as enraptured by Francis as she often felt herself, couldn't find any purchase on the conversation and soon retreated to the house.

Later, Francis dashed in to collect two portions of fish and chips when Richard called him from the other end of the dark garden, but it was his mother who arrested him in the parlour before he could help himself to a pair of ales to go with it and retreat back to the shed.

"All right, ma? Did you want us to come in, instead?"

"No, son," Sybilla reassured him, but her smile had a didactic, caring quality that made Francis pause instead of just brushing past her. "Go back out to your friend. I just wanted to..." her mouth opened and shut once or twice, and a little frown scored her brows.

Francis had so rarely seen her speechless that he put the bottles down. "Mum?"

She let out a laugh he might almost have said was nervous, and then rubbed his arm with a hand. "I just wanted you to know that I've asked Ellie to give you boys space. No one will disturb you in the shed. But, Francis sweetheart, you do know how to be responsible, don't you?"

He blinked, bemused by her serious tone. "Ellie can come and hang out, it's fine, really."

Sybilla smiled at this. "Oh. I don't think she felt very welcome, dear. A bit of a third wheel."

"What?!" Francis knew he was blushing. And, oh god, because it was his mother looking at him like that, speaking with such gentle tact and understanding, it made him blush even harder.

"It's fine, love," Sybilla insisted. "It's nothing new, at least to me, and I am merely happy if you are happy. But do be careful, won't you? Your...your brother probably has some, ah..." that wordly, hippy, Gallic youth she'd had fumbled the words and faltered as it came into contact with the reality of speaking about such things to her teenage son.

Francis was now certain he had turned the colour of King Crimson's first album cover. "No, Mum, it's not. I'm. Jerott's not. We're just listening to music."

"Yes, love," Sybilla nodded, like he'd said the exact opposite. She squeezed his arm again. "But do be careful, anyway."

She handed him the beers back, and Francis left the room with a robotic, astonished walk. His mind was still ploughing ceaseless furrows in the fertile ground of musical conversation, and he made himself shake off his mother's strange, unexpected interruption to the pleasant day he'd been spending. There was no point thinking about Sybilla's wild imagination - sometimes, he mused, she forgot she was in an Edinburgh townhouse and not on some flashy yacht with pin-ups and icons of the screen. And besides - so what if Jerott's company was pleasant not just for his conversation and his musical skill, but because his mouth hung open in an amazed pout when he listened to Francis speak, his eyes wide and thirsty to hear all Francis had to say; because of the way he smiled when he played and when he sang in an unrefined but strong voice, his French and Scottish accents mingling in a way he didn't know how to hide, so they added a cadence and a rhythm to his words that made Francis' ambitions, his hunger feel insatiable. So what? It was all academic - Francis could admire him all he wanted, but he had no expectation of Jerott returning his interest. He just wanted to make the most of every moment spent together while he could.

He grabbed two wrapped portions of fish and chips from the sparsely set dining table, muttered a hasty 'thanks' in Richard's direction, and then slipped back outside again, his escape as sleek and smooth as that of an alley-cat making off with the butcher's scraps.

The shed was a glowing haven at the foot of the garden and Francis' strides lengthened to a loping run as they so often had done when he needed to flee the house and find his own peace. Frost crunched beneath his shoes and his breath misted, and the cold night had swept his blushes away by the time he shouldered his way back through the door - his cheeks were fresh with new colour, he grinned from the simple pleasure of the short run, and then he laughed in delight at the album Jerott had chosen in his absence.

They sat down on the two beanbags, knee to knee, and fell upon the fish and chips with impatience.

Jerott teased that his didn't have enough vinegar on and stabbed at the chips in Francis' wrapping with a mischievous laugh. They sampled each other's beers, the necks of the two bottles warm and salty from the food.

Francis knew he could have spent all night the way they'd spent the afternoon, and Jerott seemed eager to pick up the guitar again. They opened the little cooler of beer kept out there and, arrogant with the suspicion that they were the only two teenagers in Edinburgh who really appreciated Django Reinhardt, showed each other the ways they had found of imitating his unique style.

Francis had no idea what time it was when he was bending to turn the LP and Jerott was indulging in some wild finger-picking, but as Jerott gazed mildly at the records and newspaper cuttings adorning the walls, he asked Francis a question that made him drop the needle with a scratch on the edge of the record.

"Did you have a girlfriend in Paris?"

He preferred to avoid the topic. He'd been glad it had never come up in Carlisle. Jerott was confident speaking often and with pride of his various girlfriends, but Francis felt his own affairs would be cheapened by the discussion. He accorded them the respect of not inviting others into their details.

"Nothing serious," he said after a careful pause. The music started up again and Jerott frowned for a moment and adjusted his fingering to meet it. He was still looking at the walls in an aimless, guileless sort of way.

"Huh," he grunted in acknowledgement. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

If it seemed a strange response to Francis, who had said so little. Perhaps Jerott wasn't looking for information so much as an excuse to say something else that was already on his mind.

"I never really felt like they were friends, friends, y'know? Didn't have that much to talk about."

"Mmm," Francis responded noncommittally, his own experiences having differed somewhat.

Jerott tossed his head to throw his black hair away from his face, a gesture that never failed to make Francis feel like there was a boot pressing on his solar plexus. Then, to add insult to injury, he flashed a wicked grin and ran a few bars of wild, joyous experimentation out on the guitar.

"It's a pity," Jerott said afterwards, one brow raised.

How could you define the invitation expressed in someone's eyes, in their stance? How could you be certain of what it was that shifted in the atmosphere of a room when one person made a come-on to another? Or was it all in Francis' mind, in his own delusional longing? He sat there and stared at Jerott's laughing challenge, at his raised chin with its slight dimple, his frank, uncomplicated gaze.

There was, he supposed, only one way to find out. Francis stood and approached Jerott and the guitar. "Show me what you did there again?"

"Hmm?" Jerott feigned uncertainty, but trilled off another virtuoso piece of improvisation.

Francis watched his fingers thirstily. He looked up. Jerott was looking back at him, maybe like he wanted to laugh, or to flee, but he stood his ground and attempted another series of notes that faltered partway through, cut off by his nervous chuckle.

Slowly, Francis stepped around the neck of the guitar, standing just behind Jerott's shoulder. He lifted his left hand to the frets, nudging Jerott's aside, and murmured instructions on how he would manage the shift in position if he were playing.

Jerott let him do all this, and Francis felt him hold his breath. Gently, catching up to Francis' timing, he let his fingers run over the strings to play the notes Francis held against the neck of the instrument.

Jerott glanced at him and then let out a breath all of a sudden.

"Just girlfriends?"

Standing behind him, Francis closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the excitement in Jerott's voice. He moved a little nearer, so his chest was close to touching Jerott's shoulder. "Not...exactly. Though...I can't claim much beyond...curiosity," he admitted quietly. He turned his face slightly away from Jerott's, like he was focussing on his left hand on the neck of the guitar, like he didn't want the other man to worry he was forcing anything.

But god, he felt Jerott's eyes on him, and the feeling warmed him to his core.

Jerott said nothing, but his left hand, redundant, replaced on the neck of the guitar by Francis' hand, lifted instead to Francis' face and turned it, hesitantly, with such gentleness that Francis closed his eyes again, back towards his own.

Warm fingers trailed along his cheek, his jaw, waiting for permission of a sort. Francis' eyes fluttered open. He took in Jerott's open mouth, his heavy eyelids, the way his gaze rested on Francis' own mouth. These were universal signals, weren't they?

It wasn't clear who moved first - they had both committed. Jerott's lips were warm, softer than Francis had expected, and the first touch of them sent a trill of excitement through his body.

His hand remained gentle as their mouths met, questing, steady and still uncertain, but each of Jerott's breaths that Francis felt against his skin, each movement of Jerott's lips against his, seemed like a fist reaching into his guts and clenching tightly. He gasped and couldn't be embarrassed by the longing in it - instead he deliberately let himself make another sound, deep in his throat, not quite explicit enough to be a moan, but something encouraging.

It worked - Jerott's hand cupped his cheek more securely, and he echoed Francis' sound. The feeling of said echo in his mouth made Francis want to collapse at the knees, so he let his lost, flailing right hand reach for Jerott's back and smooth its way over the warm body beneath the thin t-shirt.

Jerott drew his face closer and deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing into Francis' mouth, confident and experienced where the rest of him stood frozen, like he was still guessing what to do. He tasted of the lager they'd been drinking and the cigarettes he usually smoked, a new combination of flavours Francis has never encountered.

As he tried to twist into the kiss, despite the guitar, Jerott's enthusiasm showed more: Francis felt it in his tongue, in his lips, in the hold on his cheek. Jerott liked to kiss and he was good at it - and he liked to show he was good at it.

Rather than let out the whimper he wanted to, Francis tightened his hold on Jerott's body, leaning his own face into the kiss, pushing back with his tongue, meeting Jerott's enthusiasm and skill with his own, just like when they played together.

With an abrupt need, Jerott released him so that he could pull the guitar strap up over his head and lay the instrument aside. He was breathing hard, his mouth red and wet from the touch of Francis' lips. There was no self-doubt in his eyes when he stepped back towards Francis, only an ambition that corresponded to the one Francis had been nurturing for weeks in Carlisle.

He couldn't wait to be back in Francis' arms, and Francis welcomed his body, his hands finding their way around Jerott's flanks to the small of his back, to the groove of his spine.

Jerott clasped his jaw, his fingers reaching round to rub the short hairs at the nape of Francis' neck.

They were around the same height and both tried to be the one to lean down into the kiss, which turned it into something of a call and response: Jerott folded Francis against him for a handful of breaths and then Francis pushed back and responded with his own pressure, coming onto the balls of his feet, letting his chest lean into Jerott's chest. Francis's skin felt raw from Jerott's stubble - it grew thicker and rougher than his yet did - but he pursued the feeling again and again.

To the soundtrack of decades old jazz their hands, wondering, sought to explore as their mouths did. Francis' fingers crept up Jerott's back, comparing the feel of him with all the glances he had stolen at the curve just above Jerott's waistband, where his form was accentuated when he played guitar, leaning his hips into the instrument the way he was leaning them against Francis now.

For his part, Jerott cradled Francis' jaw in his palms, angled him how he wanted him for his kisses, then tilted Francis' head back and laid a trail of exquisite touches with his mouth and - Francis gasped again - gentle tugs at Francis' skin with his teeth, down the line of his neck and then back up again. He nuzzled his face into the hair behind Francis' ear and kissed him there, he dragged his teeth down the outer edge of the ear and caught the lobe with his tongue before sucking it.

The sound Francis let out was not one he immediately recognised as coming from his own body. He tightened his hold on Jerott lest his composure fail him, and pressed back against Jerott's hips with his own. Whatever usually kept him firm against gravity seemed to have deserted him - his knees trembled and his legs prickled like he'd walked into the middle of a nettle patch.

At a time like this, what else could he resort to but poetry?

"…un serment fair d'un peu plus pres, une promesse plus précise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer, un point rose…"*

"Vraiment?" Jerott's breathy laugh against Francis' neck sent another thrill through him. "Poésie?"

"Naturellement," Francis groaned.

It made Jerott pause and move away to look at him. One hand held Francis' cheek, kept him turned to Jerott's expression, which was steadier than Francis felt, thoughtful and almost a little sad. "Is it though? Natural?"

Francis was silent, struggling to get a grasp on his meaning, but then he raised one hand from Jerott's back to his face and swept smooth black strands of hair away from his brow. "Doesn't it feel that way?"

Jerott wore a small frown, but he didn't try to pull away. In fact, as Francis' hand settled at his neck, he let his own touch move lower, down Francis' chest, sweeping round his ribcage, pulling him near, though Francis didn't think they could get much closer. Touch felt muffled through the layers of their jeans, but even so he knew he wasn't the only one who was getting hard after all this contact.

"Not to me, not at first," Jerott said, and though Francis' heart thumped and struggled, panicked by this admission, Jerott didn't release him. "I was never...curious before. But it's like you've...you've put a spell on me," he laughed at himself. "That sounds dumb, right? But I want it. I want this. I want to be - bewitched."

He kissed Francis again, and Francis' mind seemed to swill and swirl at all these revelations. He'd been right and he'd been wrong, and not only about Jerott's interests.

Between kisses, Francis managed a dazed grin. "And you said you didn't understand poetry and lyrics...but I've 'bewitched' you? What am I, La Belle Dame Sans Merci?"

"I don't know what you are," Jerott ignored the reference and made a sound of pleasure as he kissed Francis. Simultaneous to the touch of his mouth, he squeezed their bodies together and flexed his hips up against Francis' hips. "But you do something to me..."

Francis moaned at the way Jerott's body had pulsed against him, and he felt the tightening of his jeans, their constraint on him, more acutely. Given half the chance, there was a lot that Francis wanted to do to him, not least after a statement like that. He pressed back against Jerott's body and kissed him deep and slow, holding the back of Jerott's head with one hand.

Theorising that what people offered was often a sign of what they'd like doing to themselves, he kissed his way across Jerott's cheek to his ear and sucked toothily on the lobe. From the sound Jerott made, he'd guessed correctly.

Jerott then laughed at himself - the room was silent, the B-side had finished - and leaned his cheek against Francis'. "Fucking hell..." he gasped. He sounded astonished, but cheerful.

Nevertheless, to Francis' momentary regret, his next move was to step away, looking bashfully down at the carpet. His cheeks were flushed - so was the skin at his throat, where it disappeared below the collar of his t-shirt. He licked his lips and chuckled again, then bent to pick up an album from the floor.

He flashed a grin at Francis and dove to replace Django Reinhardt with a Bowie album. He looked up from where he knelt, his smile wild and inviting, and he mimed the guitar part as Francis stalked towards him, echoing his gestures, putting on an exaggerated show of copying Bowie's singing style.

---

*[An oath that is closer, a promise more precise, a confession that wants to be confirmed, a pink dot… - Rostand, un baiser, from Cyrano]

And the soundtrack that should have been:

If you say run, I'll run with you And if you say hide, we'll hide Because my love for you would break my heart in two If you should fall, into my arms and tremble like a flower

[twototwotoo]

Research: ALBUM and SINGLE covers and other forms of musical media

Album art is unique in the idea that it needs minor to no changes when moved into other musical mediums, unlike other forms of media like games. Vinyl album and Single sleeves and even CD and phone displays all adhere to the same sizes, the same ration all the way up and down. This means that a publisher who prints the product can make one one design and copy and paste it onto another product saving time and resources. 

Most digital covers can fit a 3000x3000px measured square, as all album art, except a few outsiders, is square in nature, but it can easily be changed to any equal variable of height and length as the product can be downsized to a smaller size later on, and by working on a larger canvas you are able to include more details even if they could become blurred when made to fit. Other measurements are 8x8, 4.7x4.7In, 10x10, 12x12 and even 4000x4000px, anything is allowed if it is to a 1:1 ratio In real life though, the standard size of a vinyl cover ranges around 12.375x12.375 inches. In my project I have worked on a 3000x3000px canvas that can be fitted into this size, but I picked this size as their art is not going to be printed due to their garageband nature.

As you may be aware, Vinyls are now a form of collectable media, they are rarely kept for the sole reason of playing music due to the decline of physical media that is being seen in nearly all forms of art as we move towards a far more technologically advanced future. Vinyl was overcome by the CD, as much smaller, one could say, compact disc, that could hold tenfold what any vinyl could keep, and to boot they were cheaper to produce, took less space and were portable ulike a record player. The writing was on the wall at that point, and this was a Huge blow to vinyl sales, and eventually the were basically put out of production around 1989 when they were no longer mass produced, being overtook by CD around 1988, only a year prior. But even now, CD’s have also suffered a similar fate to their bigger brothers as streaming music became the next big thing with their digital predecessor, the MP3 players, being released during 2001.

Welcomingly, Vinyls had made a resurgence in recent years, with people becoming sentimental with the past and trying to retrieve what they sold off. Not only are vinyls being sold again, with some stores opening specifically top sell them and other having them in stock, such as His Masters Voice and record stands down back alley streets, but new vinyls are also getting printed, and not only be larger companies but also by indie labels due to the profitability. Records are being reprinted while others are being printed for the first time, like Jamiroquai’s discography that came out after the first vinyl release of his most influential album, Travelling Without Moving, for its 25th anniversary in 2021, a personal favorite of mine. 

This uprising began all the way back in 2007 and has been steadily increasing ever since, just this year, Taylor Swift's most recent album, Midnight, had reached over one million presses on vinyl in the U.S, outpacing it’s CD brethren in sales. In the UK, it was determined that at a time ¼ albums brought where in the vinyl format, an oddly frightening scale.

It is clear to see that the vinyl has returned to a nice position of relevance, while the format is not the best way to indulge in the music it plays, its size allowing for a nice sized art piece, it slight, homely imperfections, and the bonuses that are usually found with them make them a great buy for nostalgia and to support artists work, what with streaming has become a cause of concern for smaller indie artists that could have been harmed in the transition.

[teddyeyeseddie]

A New Set of Eyes: Chapter 5

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean x reader

Warnings: Fluff, Language, Maybe some angst? 

WC: 1,800

A/N: I am so sorry this part took so long to post! I started my job at the bakery and its full-time and been kicking my butt. I’m hoping I can get some chapters of this and Wildflowers pre-written this weekend! Writing this chapter made me want to scream IT’S SO CUTE 

Also the song I imagined playing by RKS is called “Hey Pretty Momma” 

https://open.spotify.com/track/7f0XrVgWlDXkPZHoCRr2u8?si=247f6185e3304ca9

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

The week after New Years passed in a blur. Y/N had gone back to work on the 3rd. Usually she would have dreaded going in on such a cold day, but she was ready to get out of the house. Plus, the ambiance of the record shop always felt homey when it was snowy outside. 

The shop was only a block or so over from where her apartment was so she decided to walk to work. She slipped on her coat and made her way downstairs, the cold hit her quickly and sent a shiver down her spine. She quickened her pace and was now regretting her decision to walk once she reached the sidewalk. 

She stuck her earphones in her ears in hopes that the music would distract her from the cold. She finally reached the shop after the third song ended. She reached into her bag for the keys and quickly opened the door. She locked the door behind her, walking to the counter and flipping on the lights. 

She did a quick walkthrough of the shop, making sure everything was clean and in order. Once she was satisfied with everything she checked the time. 10 o’clock, time to open. She made her way back towards the entrance, unlocking it and turning to switch on the “Open” sign.

 Her shift passed rather quickly, only a few customers braving the cold and snow. Y/N had her back turned to the front door as she was looking through some records she had pulled, trying to decide which one to spin next. She finally decided on an album by RKS, finally getting sick of the classics she had been playing all day. 

As she was about to place the vinyl on the turntable, the front door opened. It caught her attention but she didn’t acknowledge wherever had just walked in until she finished the task at hand. “Welcome to Tone Deaf, is there anything I can help you find today?” She asked as she turned around, smiling when she realized who the customer was.

 “Dean! Hey, what are you doing here?” Dean raised his eyebrows, just as surprised as she was. 

“Hey Y/N. I didn’t know you worked here.. I was just looking for a record to add to my collection. I don’t know how I never knew this place existed.” Y/N smiled at him and walked to the other end of the counter to get closer to him. His hands were worn out, not quite able to scrub off the evidence of his work day.

 “Yeah it’s pretty small, easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it.” Dean chuckled and backed away from the counter. He made his way to the “Classic Rock” section as Y/N turned to place the needle down onto the record she picked out. 

“Again, all of these records, all of these zeppelin vinyls and you never brought one home?” Y/N rolled her eyes and left her place behind the counter and approached Dean.

 “If it’s such a big deal to you, why don’t you pick one out for me and I’ll add it to the collection?” She leaned up against the display next of her and watched Dean as he flipped through the records in front of him. If he was anyone else she would have scolded him for rifling through all the vinyls with such dirty hands but she couldn’t bring herself to really care.

“Aha! Here it is.” He said as he smiled and handed her a record titled “Led Zeppelin II” 

“It’s one of my favorites, and has good songs on it that I think you’d like.” The grin on his face caused his eyes to almost close. Y/N gripped the records tightly in her hands and smiled right back at him. 

“Is this the one with Stairway to Heaven on it?” Y/N asked. Dean threw his head back laughing, turning to flip through some other records that were on display. 

“No sweetheart, that would be Led Zeppelin IV. How can you work here and not know that?” Dean questioned. 

“I’m more of a Fleetwood Mac, Billy Joel kind of girl. Or, ya know music made in this time period.” Y/N quipped as she bumped hips with him before walking back to the counter. 

“Oh like whatever this crap that is playing right now?” Y/N shot him a glare from her place at the register which caused Dean to laugh again, God she could listen to that all day. 

Y/N left Dean to his browsing as she cleaned up some of the records from a collection that was just brought in. 

She was brought out of her trance when she heard Dean place his finds on the counter next to her. He saw the Zeppelin vinyl he had picked out for her next to the register and placed it with his stack. 

“Oh I was gonna buy that once I got off.” She said as Dean reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. “

“Nah, I pestered you to get it. It only makes sense I get it for you. But you have to promise me something.” He said with a small smirk on his face.

“And what would that be?” Y/N asked as she busied herself with ringing up his purchase and adding her employee discount on. 

“You have to wait to listen to it.” He handed over her card and waited for Y/N’s response. 

“Wait?” She questioned and Dean just nodded his head. “Yeah, I can bring over some drinks, maybe some takeout and I can witness you listening to the greatest album ever for the first time ever on vinyl.” Dean flashed her a hopeful smile as Y/N looked at him in shock. 

“Like a date?” Y/N asked and Dean shrugged his shoulders. 

“Yeah, like a date. Are you free tonight?”Y/N had to make sure her jaw wasn’t on the floor as she stared at the man in front of her. She just blinked at Him before she finally was able to stutter out a quiet, 

“Y-Yeah I’m free. Totally free.” Dean let out a gravely chuckle and grabbed his bag off the counter.

 “I’ll see you at 7? Just text me your address? I don’t really remember how to get to your place.” Y/N just nodded at him and flashed him a quick smile. 

“Sounds good Dean.”

“See ya then sweetheart.”

-----------------------------

“No! What do you mean you’re selling?” Y/N huffed out as she paced behind the counter. The older man across from her sighed and ran his fingers through his barely there hair. 

“Y/N, I know you love this place but I’m old, they offered me a lot of money for the building and I couldn’t say no..” Mike looked at her with pleading eyes. 

“They? Who is “they”?” She questioned, lowering her tone as she tried not to cry. “I love this place Mike, it can’t be over just like that…”

Mike sighed and cast his gaze down at the ground, “The Scottsman’s, they want to tear down this whole block and make some shopping mall out of it. I was the only one left that they needed to buy from.”Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes as she processed the news. 

“The Scottsman’s? Seriously? You hate them! You absolutely hated Troy!” Mike attempted to offer her a kind smile but it did nothing for Y/N, her anger still coursing through her veins as she processed the information. 

“Troy came down on your day off again and I just couldn’t refuse them anymore Y/N, I had to.” Y/N grabbed her coat and bag, deciding to not respond to Mike in fear that she would start crying more than she already was. 

She stormed out the front door, really regretting that she didn’t drive to work.  

As soon as Y/N got home she went straight to her bedroom, hoping to avoid Charlie before she left for work. She hopped in the shower, hoping it would somewhat relax her. 

By the time she was out of the shower and dressed again, she was completely exhausted. She made her way to the kitchen but stopped midway when her phone began to ring in the other room.

 She rushed to pick it up and her heart sped up when she saw who was calling. “Dean” was displayed on the screen, her hands began to fumble as she tried answering it. 

“Hey Dean, what’s up?” Y/N asked as she paced around her apartment, trying to settle her nerves. The line was silent for a bit before she finally heard his voice. “Hey! I was about to head out but you never texted me your address.. I just wanted to double check that we were still on? It’s okay if something came up.” Dean rambled out.

 Y/N huffed out a frustrated groan as she checked the time on her stove, it was already 6:30. 

“Dean I am so sorry I didn't even realize what time it was. I had an awful rest of my day and time just slipped away from me.” Y/N said, she felt so bad for forgetting to text Dean.

Disappointment laced Dean’s voice as he responded to her, “Oh, it’s okay. We can just reschedule or something, it's not a big deal.” Dean began to worry, he wondered if he was too forward with her. He began to pick at the leather in the seat of the impala as he waited for her to respond.

 “No! Sorry I didn’t mean that you can’t come over. I just feel bad I forgot to text you. I’ll send my address now, I still have time to get somewhat ready.” Dean held his phone between his shoulder and ear, throwing his car into reverse. 

“Don’t worry about getting ready or anything, I’m heading out now, how does pizza sound?” He asked as he pulled out of his driveway. 

“Sounds good, and maybe some wine?” Y/N asked, hoping he would say yes. She needs about 2 bottles to deal with the day she just had. 

“Yeah, I brought my whiskey with me but I can stop for you.” Dean said. 

“I am not a whiskey type of person, my body cannot handle it.” Y/N laughed as she began to quickly pick up her living room. 

“Darlin’, you just keep breaking my heart.” Dean laughed, those little crinkles undoubtedly forming around his eyes and Y/N wishes so bad she could see them right now. 

“I’ll be there in 30 sweetheart, see you soon.” 

“See you soon, Dean.”

Tag List:

@vampiregirl1797 @loki-laufeyson965​ @leigh70​

[yoonjinkooked]

Our Story | Act I - The Start (knj)

Act I - The Start (Part 3)

Pairing: Namjoon x (f) reader

Genre: Fluff, smut, angst

AU: strangers to friends to lovers and much more than that which I cannot spoil just yet.

Synopsis: The story of you and Kim Namjoon, and the change he brought into your life. It’s fun, it’s exciting, it’s hopeful, and it’s also exactly the opposite.

Warnings for this chapter: entirely way too cute to handle, not so explicit smut (it’s written pretty vaguely), soft smut, a cheesy dance scene

WC: 5 k

Series Masterlist

Act I Playlist

Special thanks to: @joyfulhopelox​​​ for this beautiful banner and holding my hand every step of the way, the two writing groups I am a part of that are always full of support and honestly, f-ing Taylor Swift, for an abundance of inspiration.

Day 34

 “That makes sense - kind of like why I like to collect old books,” he mumbles as he gently skims through your collection of records, very obviously treating them with great care, careful not to damage anything. “I imagine that the same feeling that I get when I feel old paper beneath my fingers is similar to what you feel when you hear your favorite song on the record player. I mean, Spotify is overrated anyway,” he adds, turning around briefly to throw a grin at you. God, the both of you are so painfully hipster, you’re annoying to yourself. 

“Why do you collect records?” Namjoon wonders as he observes the stacked bookshelf which takes a special place in your living room. He is having the time of his life exploring your apartment and all the little details that make it yours. And you are finding equal enjoyment in watching him do that, finding his curious nature both cute and amusing.

“For the same reason people collect other things of their choice,” you answer, shrugging from where you sit on the sofa. “I like the sound vinyl makes. I like old stuff. I find it a bit sad that they’re already considered vintage - I don’t like that word; I think people throw it around way too much. But I like having my favorite music on my favorite medium.”

“I still do use Spotify, you know,” you admit through laughter. “As much as I love vinyl, it’s not always the most convenient medium. I save it for special moments. Lazy, cozy days spent under a blanket right here in this room, a warm cup of coffee in hand, a scented candle burning in the corner… the only thing missing in that picture is a gigantic fireplace but, you know, apartment living,” you grimace at the very thought of having one of those things on your third-floor apartment. It’s a luxury you can’t afford, but you are saving the idea for a time when you will be able to build your dream home. One day. It’ll happen one day. 

 “Let me take a wild guess and imagine that your favorite season is fall?” he laughs.

 “Oh, by far,” you confirm, the enthusiasm in your voice palpable, even to you. “The feel, the smell, the colors - everything about fall makes me feel good, instantly. I’m glad that we’ve met just in time to spend this fall together,” you admit somewhat sheepishly, not wanting to rush what you have going on. But early September seems promising enough - you only have a few weeks left to survive as a couple to reach that point, and something tells you that you will. And you’d love nothing more than to have him present in the cozy scenario you described just moments ago. He’d fit in perfectly. 

“Absolutely,” he agrees with you, slowly walking to join you on the sofa - his hand reaches for your leg immediately, gently placing it on your thigh. It’s not a touch that means more to come (at least not yet) but more of a comforting action. “I know this park which I always go to, every fall, without missing it - you are okay with hiking, right?” he checks, somewhat panicked, and you can’t help but smile. 

 “It’s not a hobby of mine, but I don’t mind it,” you answer honestly, as hiking was never something you really engaged with, but also have nothing against. “Besides, how can I say no to all the fall colors, the smell of rain and fallen leaves? I’ll love it, I’m sure of it.”

 “I can’t wait to experience that with you,” he tells you as you both start moving around so that you can take your favorite position - you, glued to his side, his hands around you. Ever since you began spending more time at his place or yours, this has become your default position.

Casual cuddling? Is that what you should call it? You don’t know, nor do you particularly care - all that matters is that you both love it. Other than this and a few somewhat serious makeout sessions, things haven’t gone any further physically. You are in no way in a rush, enjoying the natural speed things have been developing at. But at the same time, a part of you knows that sex will likely be happening very soon, and you can’t wait to experience that with him, too. He is so handsome, borderline painful to look at, and you would be lying if you were to say that you’re not curious about what he hides under his shirts - the little you got a chance to feel during your make-outs felt very, very promising. 

 “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” you say, changing the topic a little bit. “I’m not sure if it’s too soon, nor what the definition of too soon is, but remember the books I got for my sister’s birthday?” you ask, and he nods immediately, smiling at what you imagine is the memory of that day. It was a lot to take in, in the best way possible. “Well, it’s happening next week, and she’s having a party - nothing huge, just a couple of friends - no parents,” you emphasize, as you know that that would be the first thing on your mind if he was asking you to go to a birthday party of a family member. “Would you like to join me? And please, feel free to refuse if you think it’s too soon. I’ve been careful in how much I let her know about you, so it wouldn’t be awkward if you didn’t show up, nor would it be a surprise if you did.”

 You shouldn’t have made a big deal out of it because now it will sound like a big deal, no matter how much you emphasized that it isn’t. Yes, you want him there, very much so, but only if he wants to be there. If in his book it’s too soon, it’s the last thing you want to do. As much as you like your speed, you need to make sure that your mutual speed fits both of you individually. Being a couple, a new one especially, takes some getting used to - habits and opinions, schedules and future plans - things need to be uncovered as you go, to either overlap or are similar enough to be functional. If he thinks it’s too soon, the last thing you want is for him to show up there, arm linked with yours. 

 “No, I’d love to join,” he tells you without pausing to think twice about it, an action which makes you feel as if a ton of bricks fell from your back, a weight that you weren’t even aware that you were carrying until now. “But one question: if you got her the books, what the heck will I get her then?” 

 You laugh at him, realizing how you harmed him and his gift buying abilities, albeit accidentally. You spend the next few minutes suggesting good ideas that you know your sister would like, and he took it so seriously he ended up taking notes as you talked, noting down anything that you mention, even as a passing suggestion. With your guidance, you knew that he would win so many brownie points with your sister - she is a simple girl who likes pretty things; if you buy her a nice present, you are in her good book. 

 Once you finally reassured him that his life, or your relationship, doesn’t depend on how good of a gift-giver he is, you easily agreed on a movie that you both wanted to watch, and in your casual cuddle position, you spend the rest of the evening, when he once again called it a night and took an Uber back to his place. But not before kissing you silly in the hallway, ignoring the driver honking, as the man could very likely see the two of you due to the glass covering the streetside wall. You laughed like a teenager that got caught, not wanting to let go of his hand and sending him flying kisses once he finally took the stairs. 

 Closing your apartment door with a shit-eating grin, you feel like both dancing and singing out of pure joy, and you likely would have done just that if you had any talent in that department. 

 Namjoon makes you so stupidly, ridiculously happy. He makes you feel safe and wanted, respected and admired simultaneously, and somehow, you think you can make him feel the exact same way. You never saw this happening to you, especially not this soon after your last relationship - but what you had with Jake was barely anything more serious than a casual hookup. The only thing serious about the two of you was that you’ve agreed on not seeing other people while you fucked each other. It was shallow, useless, only for physical pleasure and lying to yourself that it’ll actually, maybe, lead somewhere in the future. 

 A part of you was sad when he broke it off, but you’d be lying if you were to say that it caught you by surprise. And you didn’t get time to dwell on it too much (not that it needed any dwelling on, he was simply sex and foolish hopes in a pretty package) because Namjoon knocked down the door and entered in a way that stole all of your attention. 

 For the first time in a very long time, something in your life actually feels right. Now that you feel it again, you realize that for a little bit there, without even knowing it, you had forgotten what it felt like to be happy. Not regular, every day happy - but wanting to sing, dance, grin like a fool, and spend every moment with him. That kind of happiness doesn’t come knocking on doors every day, and you are more than happy to embrace it with wide-open arms. 

Day 39

“Are you sure that she liked me?” Namjoon asks the very second you close the door of the Uber and scoot over closer to him. “And what about her boyfriend? He’s challenging to read; I have no idea what’s going on in that dude’s head,” he admits, making you laugh instantly. He talks fast, a tell-tale sign of his nerves getting the best of him. 

 “Joon, not even Jungkook himself knows what’s going on in his head,” you inform him through laughter. You love the kid, but he can so easily zone out and cut out the rest of the world. It's as cute as it is fascinating and confusing. “And yes, he liked you - both of them did. I told you, my sister is a simple girl: get her a nice present, and she’ll love you.” 

 “I don’t know if you realized this yet or not, but I’m not exactly the most social person around,” he admits through a nervous chuckle, rubbing his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding yours. “I tend to stick to myself, my books, my girlfriend,” he gives you a wink, going from a confused guy to a smooth one in a matter of seconds. You’d be lying if you said that the word didn’t make you feel things, but it’s something you’ve embraced, and somewhat spoiled, getting used to. “I’m glad I didn’t make a fool of myself in front of everyone.”

 “Joon, please,” you coo at him, rubbing at his hand gently. “You wouldn’t do that. And even if you would, it’d be you. And I wouldn’t mind it one bit. I know who I picked. Well, not picked as much as smacked right into on complete accident,” you correct yourself, laughing. 

“More and more these days, I’ve been asking myself what the hell have I done to deserve to have you by my side.”

 You are frozen in place, staring at him in bewilderment, seeing nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No one had ever said something as beautiful and meaningful as that to you. Words like those put all the ‘“I love yous” to shame. It’s so simple, just one sentence, but it carries so much weight when since the day you realized that you were falling for him, you thought that you were the lucky one, not the other way around. Said in the back of an Uber, the words that Namjoon had uttered are scarily too close to bringing tears to your eyes. 

 “I’m the lucky one,” you insist, squeezing his hand for good measure. “Thank you for tonight. It was all I could ask for and more.”

 He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to - he lifts your combined hands and gently kisses the back of your hand, that one action carrying more meaning than a thousand words could. 

 Earlier in the day, you had agreed on him coming back to your place once the party was over, so there was no debate on the destination you were heading to. Something that has crossed your mind and that you have now made a decision on is that you will ask him to stay the night. If he thinks it’s too soon, you will respect it, no matter how much you want him by your side, with you, in your bed, waking up next to you. You can only hope that he has no objections because sex or no sex - you want him to stay. 

 “I’m going to run to the bedroom and change real quick,” you tell him as you take off your shoes in the hallway. “Make yourself at home, grab a beer, play some music, whatever you want.”

 You are so sure of every move you make until you are standing in front of your dresser, trying to decide what to wear. Namjoon had already seen you in your Winnie The Pooh pajamas, and that somehow seems like a wrong thing to wear right now. No cotton two pieces, but it’s also hardly a time for a sexy lace slip, is it? Especially not when he’s likely expecting you to show up in those cartoon pajamas, anyway. And you’re really not the seductress you wish you were - in an ideal world, you would pull a Kim Basinger on him and end up in a black lace negligee, one that you have bought ages ago and never really had a chance to wear. 

 But you can’t do that - it’s not you, not tonight, and it’s definitely not what he’s expecting. While pondering your choices, you use the opportunity to let your hair down and take your makeup off, still only wearing your underwear as you wash your face in the adjacent bathroom. The panic around what your choice of clothing still hasn’t subsided, and after a few long moments of pondering it further, you reach for a simple, blue cotton sleeping gown. No lace, no sexy cutouts, nothing sexy about it whatsoever - just like there is nothing sexy in your reflection either, messy hair and bare face. If he stays the night, it’s a miracle. 

 Walking into the living room, you notice that he had opened a bottle of red wine and poured you both a glass, even going as far as lighting one of your many candles. He is standing by your record player, messing around with it, and just as you are about to offer your help before he can mess something up, the music starts playing. 

 You were standing in place before, so other than your widened eyes, nothing else about you spoke of the shock that you experienced as the sound of Joe Cocker’s voice singing “You are so beautiful” fills the room. Joon turns around, smiling when he sees you already there. 

“You know I’m not much of a dancer,” he starts, a sheepish look on his face. “But can I have this dance?” he asks, offering you his hand. It takes you a moment too long to swallow the complete surprise of this entire gesture, but as soon as you have control of your body’s movements, you’re walking towards him, letting him take your hand and pull you closer. 

 You breathe him in, the signature smell of him, closing your eyes as you lay your head against his chest. You can feel his heart beating, the sound softly reaching your ear as the two of you lazily sway side to side. There are no complicated movements or actual dancing - it truly is just the two of you holding onto one another and swaying left to right. And you wouldn’t change a thing. As the song continues, you realize that you can’t see from the tears that have filled your eyes. A deep breath is what you take in order to try and calm yourself down, as you don’t want him to see that this has brought you to tears, even if they are of pure happiness. You don’t want him to know that you are not used to it, that tonight he had left you speechless not once, but twice, just by showing actual affection. 

 Being in his arms, erasing everything around you but the sound of a beautiful song, you are faced with the painful fact of how unloved you have felt. It’s not something you knew or that you paid attention to - it’s just something you weren’t aware of until it had changed completely. Here, in his arms, at this very moment, you realize that everything before him was nothing. Useless, pointless, meaningless, all of it, every man, every moment, every memory that you still carry. And that is as beautiful as it is frightening. 

 If you could never leave this moment, never stop feeling this mixture of emotions that are threatening to burst out of you, if you could freeze this moment in time and either stay here forever or return to it at will, you would. You would keep this moment in a heartbeat. And you will. Even if it ends up being bittersweet, and by god, you hope it won’t. But even if it does, you will always remember the night Kim Namjoon danced with you to the sound of your favorite song and held you tightly as you allowed yourself to, for the first time in a long time, perhaps even ever, feel loved. Loved, safe, comfortable, and taken care of. 

 You don’t know if he notices the little stain one of your rogue tears left on his shirt, but if he does, he says nothing. You continue moving so slowly that you’re barely even turning, holding onto each other so tightly it feels as if your bodies are glued together. 

 Your mouth opens, the desire to say something becoming almost overwhelming - but you don’t know what to say. Whatever comes to your mind doesn’t do this moment justice or is simply not true yet and too soon to say. You want to tell him how grateful you are that he is here and has created this memory for you, with you, but you know that your vocabulary won’t be able to express how much it means to you. Not now, not yet, not in the right way. 

 “Stay with me tonight?”

 The words leave you without control; you’re not even aware that you’ve said them for a few moments, but when it registers, when your brain finally connects the dots, you are not mad at it, not at all. You are surprised how easily you’ve said it, how little thought it had required, but you are happy that it is finally out in the open. 

 “I’d love nothing more,” he answers, and despite how low his voice is, his chest vibrates under you as he speaks. Will any sound in the world ever be able to do to you what his voice does? There is no doubt in your mind that nothing ever will - no sound, no person, nothing will ever be able to measure with this. This is entirely way too special. 

 The two of you don’t say much; he does notice that you were crying as you finally take a step back from him. He gives you a gentle, loving smile and wipes away the one remaining tear that is staining your cheek. You don’t hesitate as you take hold of his hand and slowly start to make your way to the bedroom, him holding on to you as he follows into the room he had never ventured before and that you hope he will spend so much time in from now on. 

You let him set the speed, glad that he definitely chose to go slow - he is slow in the way he kisses you, slow in the way he takes your bedgown off, slow as he moves you to the bed. You are a bit more greedy, trying to remove his clothes, trying to touch his skin, any part of it that you can reach. You melt in his embrace, engulfed in his warmth but still shivering head to toe at every kiss he gives you, especially when he begins exploring your body with his lips and hands. Every touch feels right; every move he makes feels like a touch meant to send you directly to heaven. 

 The experience is unlike anything that you felt before. Sex was always good, always decently fun and satisfactory, but this was something else entirely. He is perfect in every way possible; he asks and delivers, making sure that you feel at your utter best every moment. 

 The only downside is that it was brief. That much is to be expected - it’s your first time, you are still getting to know each other, and by both of your admissions, it’s been a while since you have felt this safe and comfortable with someone. Brief it may have been, but it was also amazing, and he was not willing to let you go until you felt as good as he did. 

 It also did not stop at one time. The entire night, the two of you were two bodies melted into one, wrinkling your sheets and whispering words, both lovely and filthy, or a mixture of both at the same time. Under that sheet with him, you focus on nothing but his bright smile and the way he is making you feel. It swells up your chest and makes you feel happy, comfortable, wanted. Perhaps even loved, one day, down the line. 

 Namjoon, in a way, brought hope into your life when you were at a period that you considered one of your lowest. He reminded you what it felt like to be happy and how to welcome that happiness with both arms wide open. And he did so without doing much of anything, really. Just being himself and accepting you for what you are, being so open and interested in a little old, boring you. You never want this feeling to end. 

Day 40

There is one thing that you weren’t ready for, one situation that you did not expect or predict. You didn’t realize how overwhelmingly happy you would be after waking up next to him. 

 Eyes still closed, he smiles, reaching for you, confirming that he is very much a cuddler. You welcome it with a giggle, cuddling up next to him, finding a place for your head against his naked chest. You press fleeting kisses, working your way up with pecks against his neck, laughing when his arms lock you against his body in a way that makes you unable to move. 

 “Good morning,” Namjoon mumbles. You have always thought that his voice was incredibly hot, but his morning voice? Good lord, you want to melt on the spot. It’s husky and deep but still low, almost a whisper - it makes your stomach drop in the best way possible. 

 “Good morning,” you respond, pressing one final kiss against his neck. “Can we never leave this bed? Like, ever?” 

 He laughs at your question. You look up, noticing that his eyes are still closed as he reaches for you and places a kiss on the top of your head. “As much as I’d love to never leave this bed, the best we have is today. Someone has to open the bookstore tomorrow morning.”

 “Fuck,” you reply, all sulky, which makes him laugh. “Why do we have to be responsible adults when staying here with you is much more fun?” 

 “Baby, don’t tempt me,” he answers, finally opening his sleepy eyes. You watch as a content smile takes over his face - it’s so warm, so genuine, you can almost feel it leaving a warm trace on your skin. Everything about him is so comfortable and natural, so easy to not question and just go along. “You’d know I’d give it all up in a heartbeat if I could.”

 “Well, at least we have today,” you point out, thanking your lucky stars that today is just another boring Sunday, with your schedule completely empty and free of any tedious obligations. “Do you want to stay inside all day, or do you want to go out and do something fun? The weather is nice; I think we may want to steal all the sunny days before they become few and far in between?” you suggest. 

 “Hmm,” he ponders over your suggestion for a moment. “How about we do both? Do you have any plans for today?” 

 “Not ones that don’t include you, no,” you tell him through laughter, not even hesitating to admit that you are more than happy to make this entire day about the two of you. 

 “Okay, listen to this,” he sits up, prompting himself against the headboard of your bed. You smile at the way he is approaching this like a battle plan - one more thing that may normally annoy you, but when it’s coming from him, it’s ridiculously endearing. “We get ready for the day, take a shower, and all of that. Then, we go outside, find a nice little bakery with some fresh pastry, get ourselves some coffee and walk to the part, have breakfast there and enjoy the day a little bit. Once we get tired of all the walking and talking, we go to either your place or mine, watch a shitty movie we won’t pay attention to, spend the night together and then struggle to detach ourselves from each other on Monday morning?” 

 Every part of it sounds like pure and utter heaven, except the part when you eventually have to leave one another and go to be functioning adults. His description sounds like the very best way one could spend a Sunday, and you don’t bother with hiding your excitement. 

 “Joon, that sounds perfect,” you agree to his suggestion excitedly. “I know the best bakery in this neighborhood, it’s just a block away, and they have the best croissants in the city. There’s only one little complaint I have about your plan.” 

 “What?” his eyes widened with surprise. “Wait, do you not want to go to the park? Or is it something else?” he sounds mildly panicked, if you’re being honest. You can’t help but laugh at it, so whipped for him that every word that comes out of his mind makes you feel happy and giddy, only more enamored than you were moments ago. 

 “Relax,” you reassure him with a giggle, lifting yourself from under the covers to plant a kiss on his lips, smiling when despite his confusion, he kisses you back. “The only complaint I have is that you didn’t imply that we would be taking that shower together,” you use your flirty voice to the best of your ability, aware that you’re likely failing miserably, given how un-sexy you sound in the morning. “You know, water conservation and all of that.”

 “Oh!” he starts laughing, finally able to catch your drift. “So you are all about water conservation now, aren’t you?” 

 “Mhm,” you confirm as you get up, letting the bed covers drop from your naked body, noticing immediately how his eyes scan you up and down, the sight of you, naked, making his throat bob. “I’ve always been mindful of that - I turn off my shower while I shampoo my hair and all that. Very responsible, if I do say so myself.” 

 “Oh, and it has nothing to do with the two of us being naked and ready for round… Wait, what round is it?” Namjoon laughs, realizing that he had lost count of how many times you had sex the night before. As did you, seeing as he didn’t need much time to recover and neither one of you got much sleep. 

 “I have no idea,” you admit, realizing that even though you are just casually standing in the middle of your bedroom, completely naked, you aren’t getting even the slightest desire to cover up. Of course, you are playing a game, trying to rile him up, but you also really are that comfortable in front of him. He may have seen it all under the dim lights the night before, but you don’t mind the sunlight emphasizing all the dips and curves, as well as marks that you would usually rush to hide. “And as for the shower… You’re naked, I’m naked, and my shower has a pretty cool handle that could come in handy.”

 “Shower sex and protecting the environment? Count me in!” he almost yells, jumping out of bed and immediately slipping on the hardwood floor. Your first reaction is to check if he’s okay, but as soon as he stabilizes himself, he starts running towards you, just as naked as you are. You start running towards the bathroom, laughing as you do, the laughter reaching the pinnacle as soon as he grabs you from behind, smothering you in kisses as you both shuffle your way into the bathroom. 

 Your face hurts from how much you’ve been smiling since he casually strolled into your life. If that isn’t a sign of good things to come, you don’t know what is. 

[tapedecking]

MIXTAPE #4 (15/08/22)

Rapture - Blondie

Album: Autoamerican

Year: 1980

Track: Single (Post-Release: 1981)

As I’ve said before, I don’t collect vinyl due to it being a costly hobby, but I do like having physical media, and so I’ve amassed a sizable collection of CDs. This is thanks, in no small part, to MusicMagpie’s 4 for £8 offer. And so whilst I was in Australia, in addition to the stack I brought home with me, I also ordered around 10 CDs that were waiting at home for me upon my arrival, one of which was Blondie’s Greatest Hits. It’s a fantastic compilation, and whilst listening through, I realised, for the first time, just how long Rapture is. Also whilst in Australia, my girlfriend and I did karaoke to this song, because she knows the entire rap off by heart. After she had shown off her rapping skills, we skipped to the next track, and I think that may be why I never realised how long this song is - all anyone ever remembers is the rap. To be fair, it is the best part.

-

They’ll Soon Discover - The Shins

Album: The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie: Music from the Movie and More...

Year: 2004

Track: Album Track

As a kid, I was never that big into Spongebob. I liked it, and I’d quite happily watch it, but only if there wasn’t anything better on Cartoon Network. But as a kid, I did really connect with the movie. And it’s a fantastic animated movie - just a couple years back I rewatched it with a couple of friends, and not only does it still hold up, but some of the gags I genuinely found hilarious. The standout for me was when Dennis the Bounty Hunter takes off his sunglasses to investigate something, only for there to be an identical pair of sunglasses under them, which he leaves on. A joke funnier in execution than description for sure, but it’s a great film, with a surprisingly great soundtrack. The soundtrack has contributions from such a range of artists, including Avril Lavigne, The Flaming Lips, Wilco and Mötorhead, as well as songs from the film performed by the characters’ original voice actors. This Shins track has got to be my favourite off the soundtrack, although I’m pretty sure it never made it into the film proper.

-

Scarlet [The War on Drugs Remix] - The Rolling Stones feat. Jimmy Page

Album: Goats Head Soup (2020 Reissue)

Year: 2020

Track: Single (Pre-Release: 2020)

I’m sure I’ve said it on here before, but I’ll say it again, I love odd, obscure songs. And my favourite odd, obscure songs are collaborations between artists that A) you wouldn’t expect, or B) just had no clue existed. This track falls into both categories, and - as a bonus - is a three-way collaboration. After recording a set with Led Zeppelin back in 1974, guitarist Jimmy Page stuck around and recorded a few tracks with the next band booked in for that day - you guessed it, The Rolling Stones. This fun, classic rock ditty went unreleased until 2020, as it was deemed “not a Rolling Stones song”, and when it finally was released, it was remixed by both The Killers and The War on Drugs. Anyone from the UK under 40 would know The Killers - no party or club night is complete without an appearance from Mr. Brightside, but The War on Drugs I had become familiar with after my girlfriend recommended Lost In the Dream to me. I think that their remix of this track is the best version released, with this version feeling the most lively and energetic.

-

Into My Arms - Nell Smith & The Flaming Lips

Album: Where the Viaduct Looms

Year: 2021

Track: Album Track

Speaking of odd collaborations, in my aforementioned Australia CD stack was The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends, an album consisting of collaborations between The Flaming Lips and an assortment of eclectic artists, including Ke$ha, Bon Iver, Tame Impala, Nick Cave and Yoko Ono. The standout on the album for me was the inappropriately titled but surprising sweet sounding “Helping the Retarded to Know God”, which featured Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes. However, I can’t put that track in this playlist, as the album isn’t on Spotify in my region, and so I’m going with a different weird Flaming Lips collab. This album by relative unknown Nell Smith is a Nick Cave tribute album that features The Flaming Lips as her backing band on every track. This song, as well as Chain Reaction by Joy Downer feat. Beck, makes me wonder how these unknown artists manage to work with such well known, established artists. They have the talent, no doubt, but what was the impetus for the collab? Same record label? Knowing a guy who knows a guy who knows Wayne Coyne? It seems odd to me, but I’m not complaining.

-

Sugar Water - Cibo Matto

Album: Viva! La Woman

Year: 1996

Track: Album Track

I’m you’re a big ol’ nerd like I am, you may be aware that the Saturday just gone was the August 2022 Pokemon Go Community Day! My girlfriend got me playing whilst we were isolating with Covid, and ever since I’ve been absolutely hooked, so much so that I’ve committed to participating in every Community Day and to completing every special event research and all that stuff. And so on Saturday, I spent 11am to 2pm roaming about a local park, catching hundreds of Galarian Zigzagoons, and whilst doing so, I listened to a few albums, including this one. I was introduced to Cibo Matto through Buffy the Vampire Slayer (the best television show of all time), when this track was performed live at The Bronze. I then encountered Cibo Matto again whilst listening to the Jet Set Radio soundtrack, which features Birthday Cake (also off of this album). Having enjoyed both tracks, I began diving into their records starting with Stereo Type A, and then moving onto this, their debut album. Both albums showcase such a range of musical styles, whilst always feeling fun and interesting, and this album in particular feels so cohesive - the theme of food is so prevalent throughout, it almost feels like a concept album.

-

Goody Two Shoes - Adam Ant

Album: Friend or Foe

Year: 1982

Track: Single (Pre-Release: 1982)

Also whilst in Australia, my girlfriend and I began watching The Umbrella Academy together. She had already seen it, and, me being an aspiring TV writer, she wanted to see what I made of it - she knew I enjoyed superhero shows, and she said that the soundtrack would be right up my alley. Having finished the first season together, I think the season is pretty awful - boring main characters (Five excluded), clichéd plots, and metric tonnes of missed opportunities - but I’ll tell you what, she was right about the soundtrack. Netflix went all out with the licenced tracks for the show, with the likes of The Kinks, They Might Be Giants, Queen and Nina Simone all being heard in just the first few episodes. Unfortunately the stacked music line-up doesn’t make up for the subpar writing, with the most egregious decision to be giving Klaus major character development off-screen, inbetween episodes! Would it have been so hard to cut some of the filler from the other episodes (perhaps the entirety of The Day That Wasn’t?) and dedicate an episode to showing Klaus’ growth and his falling in love with David in Vietnam, giving him a focused character development episode all to himself, a la Buffy’s The Zeppo?

-

I Just Threw Out the Love of my Dreams - Weezer

Album: “The Good Life” single

Year: 1996

Track: B-Side

Whilst going through a very rough breakup a few years back, there were a few albums I’d listen to on repeat, and Pinkerton was one of them. I loved the Blue Album when I first heard it, but it took me a few listens to connect with Pinkerton, but once it hit, it became one of my top ten albums of all time. I loved the sound and the uncomfortably raw and honest lyrics, and so I sought out every Weezer song from that era, before they shaved off any and all honesty for the Green Album. I listened to every Pinkerton b-side, and this track was my favourite of them - in fact, it became one of my all time favourite Weezer songs. And it was such an odd one - a relic of Pinkerton’s former identity, Songs From the Black Hole, with lead vocals not by Rivers Cuomo, but by That Dog’s Rachel Haden. I’d listen to the song, and the title lyric, and I’d wonder if the girl I was no longer with was thinking that about me. And it felt like it was my little song, all for me, in a way. Sure, I shared it with friends, but this obscure, weird little b-side was MY discovery. And then, something happened. I have no idea why or exactly when, but the song became a TikTok meme. I remember my girlfriend showing a TikTok she had found, and saying to me, “recognise the song?” The song blew up for some reason, and is now number seven in Weezer’s top tracks on Spotify, with over ten million listens - a far cry from the almost-million it was at back when I first stumbled upon it. It’s great that such a brilliant and unknown b-side is now receiving the popularity it never got back in ‘96 (not dissimilar to what happened with Harness Your Hopes by Pavement), but alas, what of my pretentious music cred?

[onewithnomightypowers]

clandestine (chapter 2)

PAIRING: Tom Holland x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Y/N is an up and coming actress, married to a once hotshot actor, Harrison (Haz). What happens when her co-star, Tom, makes her realise that she is stuck in a loveless marriage. A marriage starts crumbling and a new romance stars brewing.

chapter 2: portrait of a dinner

A/N:  the characters in no way portray how these ppl are in real life. i do not encourage cheating. i hope you guys like this chapter!! i would love to know how you guys feel about the story. feedback is always appreciated.

warnings: drinking, smoking, cursing

word count: 1.6k

important: the whole chapter is a flashback, character thoughts are in bold italics

masterlist   series masterlist   chapter 1   chapter 3

“I rent a place on Cornelia street”, Tom said casually in the car. They were sitting in the backseat of a black town car, going for their shoot. Y/N had suggested that they travel together, in an attempt to get to know each other better. She said, “It would help with the on screen chemistry”, the whole production team agreed. But that did not become a norm for them, mostly because of their different call times.

Both of them had hectic filming schedules and only saw each other when they had scenes together. Sometimes they would bump into each other at the craft service, but otherwise, they were on their own.

During the last few weeks of filming, Tom had started getting her coffee. He had noticed how she took her coffee during the shooting. Black with one sugar.

“There you go”, Tom handed her the coffee. “Thanks Tom.” He gave her a smile. She was walking towards the door, and Tom started following her behind.

“I’m going to hair and makeup, do you wanna tag along?” she asked him.

“Sure, I have a 15 minute break anyway”

“Have you seen Hot Rod? I watched it last night” she didn’t know why she asked that silly question. She found it embarrassing.

“That Andy Samberg movie, right?” Tom nodded, “Yeah I watched it a long time ago, it’s a classic”

“I totally watched it for Bill Hader” She found herself easing up to him.

“Valid reason. Loved him on SNL. Do you know Stefon? from SNL?” She reached for the door handle, a gush of cold air was felt by both of them.

“Don’t even get me started on Stefon. I used to watch Stefon compilations on YouTube all the time. It became a problem” she chuckled, remembering how Haz used to get pissed off whenever she’d talk in a ‘Stefon’ tone.

Oh, I love it when she chuckles like that. I wish I could kiss her. NO. She is fucking married, Tom.

“Yes yes yes, New York’s hottest club is…” Tom tried to imitate Bill Hader as Stefon. He looked around a bit and pointed towards the paparazzi, who were trying to take pictures of anything worth money. “New York’s hottest club is paparazzi” he continued.

“If paparazzi is the hottest club, then I’m fine staying at home” Y/N was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. She clutched Tom’s arm to avoid falling down while trying to contain her laughter. She hadn’t had a good laugh with Haz in a long time.

--

Tom found himself at Y/N’s doorsteps with cheap wine he bought from the convenience store last minute. Y/N had invited Tom and his partner for dinner during the last week of shooting.

“Oh, I’m not seeing anyone actually, but my lonely heart and I will be there”, Tom replied to Y/N’s invitation.

He rang the bell and waited for someone to open the door. Tom was met by Haz’ charming smile, as he opened the door. Tom could see right through his fake smile. Clueless to Y/N and Haz’ fight prior, he entered the two story building.

“Why did you invite him without asking me?” Haz screamed, slamming the plates on the table.

“I didn’t think you’d be home tonight, you never are” Y/N replied in the same tone as Haz

“So you were going to have dinner with him, alone?”

“Yes” she said in a crude way.

“Are you fucking him?” Just as Haz asked her, the doorbell rang.

It would be better fucking him than fucking you. At least he’ll be home.

Y/N entered the kitchen leaving Haz to open the door. “You must be Tom” said Haz, in his most likeable voice.

“Yeah and you must be Haz. I got this for you guys”, Tom handed him the wine bottle.

He’s a bloody hotshot and brought us cheap wine.

“Hey Tom, I’m so glad you could make it”, Y/N said, taking Tom in for a hug. She could feel Haz burning a hole behind her head with his gaze.

She pulled out of the hug, “do you want red or white wine?”

“Red”, Harrison and Tom said in unison. Y/N let out a little chuckle and went into the kitchen. Tom started noticing the little things in their house, like how there were film and Polaroid cameras scattered everywhere. There was a vinyl shelf right above an old golden gramophone, adjacent to their brown leather couch.

He noticed a collage of pictures and recognised some of the photos from the time they were taken on set. There was one with him and Y/N. He felt a sense of pride knowing that their picture hung on Y/N’s wall and the possibility of her looking at it every day.

“So, what do you wanna hear?” Harrison was standing next to their vinyl collection. “Since Y/N lives here, we have everything Taylor Swift, I don’t suppose you’re into that pop shit, are you?”

“Actually I do like pop but more like alt-pop”

Harrison wasn’t surprised. He seemed like a ‘Beach House’ kinda guy anyway, to him.

“So you like alt-pop?” Y/N walked towards the boys with two glasses of red wine in her hands. “Have you heard of ‘peter cat recording co.’?” she asked Tom

“Yes I have! Oh, I thought nobody knew about them. I’m glad I found you”, Tom was filled with giddy excitement.

“PCRC it is, then”, Haz said in an annoyed tone. He grabbed the vinyl of ‘portrait of a time’, their first album, and placed it on the gramophone.

“Babe, where is your glass?” Haz asked Y/N.

“Oh I, shit I left it in the kitchen”

“No worries I’ll get it”, Haz kissed her cheek and left the living room.

Even though Y/N knew it was fake niceties, she still craved it. It felt nice, behaving like a normal couple instead of fighting over every damn thing, and him storming out of the house almost every night. Sometimes she felt that Harrison was a hypocrite. He would accuse her of cheating with every guy in her life, but wouldn’t be home nine out of ten times.

They were now seated on their wooden dining table, with dried flowers in the middle. Haz and Y/N were sitting opposite to Tom. There was Chinese takeout in their fancy china.

“Sorry about the take out, neither of us are good at cooking and we didn’t want you getting sick”, Y/N tried to justify the absence of a home cooked meal.

“It’s fine as long as I’m getting fed”, Tom chuckled.

“No actually all this food is only for Y/N and me”, Haz said, trying to sound serious.

That was a bad joke, all of them thought.

There was an awkward silence. Haz cleared his throat, “So Y/N, are you seeing someone?”

“Haz, you can’t just ask someone that!”

“It’s okay Y/N. No Haz, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.” Tom said, blushing at the personal question.

“So you are single”, Haz said looking at Y/N, in an attempt to imply that she might be having an affair with him.

Trying to hide her annoyance, Y/N started serving the food. The rest of the dinner was normal. They talked about the movie and Haz did not spontaneously combust. In Y/N’s mind, it was near to a success. When Tom started to leave, Y/N offered to drop him to his apartment building, but he settled on walking him one block.

Y/N grabbed her jacket as they left the house. She pulled out a box of cigarettes from her pocket and offered Tom.

“Oh, I don’t smoke”

Y/N scuffed with a cigarette between her teeth.

“What kind of an English man are you?” she said, lighting her cigarette.

“Well you know it’s a common misconception, we don’t all smoke”

“That’s good to know”, she took a long drag.

“Also you might not like the wine I brought you. I realised pretty late that I should be getting you something because I was visiting your house for the first time, so I bought the best wine I could find in that convenience store”, he pointed towards the store a few metres away from them.

“Its fine, it’ll remind me of my youth”, they both laughed.

“I guess this is one block, you should go back home now”, Tom said while trying hail a cab by waving his right hand frantically, at the edge of the curb. He looked ridiculous.

“You clearly have never done this before” she laughed at him, turning Tom’s face red.

She stepped off the curb, to be seen clearly by the oncoming traffic, put out her arm and a cab was there in seconds.

“So I guess I’ll see you around” he said while pulling Y/N into a hug.

His touch made her hyper aware and same could be said for Tom. Y/N started to pull out but stopped half way. It felt like they were both looking inside each other’s soul through their eyes.

“Ay, lovebirds, you comin or not”, the cab driver screamed making them break away. He got in and Y/N closed the door for him. That’s when her phone pinged.

Haz: where are you, I’m going out.

[jasonndeans]

young gods - shane “dio” morrissey x reader

word count: 1,990

warnings: brief scene involving harassment and brief use of the f slur at the end.

chapter: 1/?

summary:  You weren't looking for anything when you met Dio, but you also couldn't take your eyes off of him. You were drawn to him, shrouded in black mystery and his softer side he kept well hidden under that duster. A part of you knew when you first saw him, he was destined to fly too close to the sun. At first, it wasn't really anything he said or anything he did. It was the feeling that came along with him. You'd never felt this way before, and the crazy thing is, you didn't know if you should. You knew his world moved too fast and burned too bright, but...how can the Devil be pulling you towards someone who looks so much like an angel when he smiles at you? Maybe he knew that when he met you, too.

Dio didn’t have much to bring with him on the day he took you up on your offer to live with you in your small New York City apartment; small, albeit big enough for two. He carried almost all of his earthly possessions with him in his pockets — the keys to his father’s ancient, barely running Honda, a pack of cigarettes, loose cash and change, and his trusty switch. The rest would have to be crammed into his car and hauled over, mostly consisting of clothes and shoes, thrifted or stolen. 

“I was wonderin’ when you’d rescue me from the Smack Shack,” he’d quipped, lips curling.

“The Smack Shack” is what he’d dubbed the worn-down, abandoned place he and his buddies — all of them pursuers of a list of drugs, some of them sellers like Dio — often crashed in when a softer, more secure sofa couldn’t be reserved for the night. Thus, The Smack Shack. You’d visited a handful of times despite the fact that it gave you the creeps. Dio had your trust, as did…some of his friends. The neighborhood just wasn’t the safest in Manhattan, needless to say, and there was no guessing what shady characters were looming about in these hollowed out homes. You’re just glad he’s out of there. And with you.

“Ohh, I rescued you, huh?” You’d teased back, your voice lilting in a sing-song tone. “I must be your knight in shining armor.”

He hummed in the back of his throat with a mock grimace, leaning forward to kiss you. “Don’t make me sick, birdie.” His lips were chapped and tasted of smoke, and as much as you detested the habit, it was something so purely Dio. A smirk played on his lips upon pulling back with decorated fingers idly tapping out a rhythm onto a tabletop of a squat little sandwich shop you worked at. “I seem to remember things differently.” Expectant, he cocked his head, casting a shadow of his star-shaped earring onto his neck -- one of many, many things that endeared you to the boy in black.

As if on cue, you turned sheepish with a duck of your head and a bashful smile cast downwards. He was referring to the day you two first met. Officially, that is. Along with the thrill of waitressing and constructing sandwiches, you worked behind a cash register at a record shop -- Empire Records. Music’s always been a constant comfort for you, in your ears when you needed a voice to scream your sorrows, your rampages or your little victories. You’d amassed quite the collection of records as you grew and your music taste with you for a player you’d fixed up and obtained from a seller when on the hunt for more important things like furniture and necessities to fill your then new apartment. You didn’t consider yourself to be one of those douchey vinyl connoisseurs, but you liked the place well enough. It was only a matter of time before you noticed the tall, dark, handsome boy who’d frequent the place without buying anything. He’d stick to the Industrial Rock or Post-Punk ailes and he definitely looked the type, decked head to toe in grungey black attire, adorned with silver jewelry and chains. Every so often the two of you would lock eyes, make slightly painful small talk about whatever was playing through the speakers. You even inquired once if he’d learned your shift schedule with how often he’d appear when you were working, and, leaning suavely on his elbows before you, he’d replied:

“Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t. That all depends...would you think I was a creep if I said yes?”

Perhaps a normal individual would confirm this, but you had to admit the guy was cute. Okay, he was hot with his dark eyes lined in black, brow piercing and air of confidence. So you smiled and shook your head. Dio smiled back.

You recall during one of your early morning shifts, Dio asked for your coffee order, motioning to the cup in your hands. You gave it to him and he advised against grabbing your morning coffee the next time it was scheduled on your calendar. With curiosity, you obliged and on that day and each day after, in he strolled with your cup in one hand, his in the other. So you carried on like that for a while, chatting over coffee, much to the dismay of your manager.

“Your boyfriend’s a distraction,” she’d remarked one day. “And a loiterer. I don’t care how dreamy he is, he can’t keep hanging around here if he’s not gonna buy anything.”

Admittedly, that caused your heart to sink a little. Yeah, you understood her frustration from a business perspective, but despite not even knowing this guy’s name, his gloomy presence brightened your otherwise dull work days.

When you transferred your manager’s message, Dio issued a breath of...disappointment?

“I don’t believe in money,” came his confession, almost hardly classifying as one what with how casually it was delivered. He chuckled at your raised brow. “Everyone’s a slave to these meaningless pieces of paper and metal, even you. ” A nail painted black pointed at you. “If I want something, nine times outta ten, I’ll find my own way to get it. Seems a little fucked up to work for the essentials for survival, don’t you think?”

For a moment, you sat with this new information. Yeah, it was a little fucked up to fork over hard-earned cash for things like basic needs, but how else was someone expected to live? Mulling it over, you sipped your coffee, once again brought by him. You shot Mr. No-Name-Kid a knowing look. “Am I drinking stolen coffee?” Your smirk couldn’t hide from him.

Dio only laughed.

One night as you closed up shop, you were disheartened at the absence of a certain trench coat clad “customer” in the store that day. You couldn’t place where this was coming from. After all, the two of you were only..what? Acquaintances at most? Names hadn’t even been exchanged, and yet you found yourself scanning the streets outside for any sight of him at the door; reminded of his face when bands like The Cure filled the shop.

Your sigh deflated you as you dug for your keys in your bag -- both to lock up and for your car. It was whatever. This guy had a life too and was under no obligation to visit you as you worked.  You turned the key to Empire Records, locking it shut and gave the doors a pull to be sure, Yup. All good. Nodding to yourself, you turned to locate your car in the lot next door. The night was brisk, pushing past the fabric of your cardigan as you walked an empty sidewalk. Under the glow of buzzing streetlights and neon business signs, you tugged it closer to you. The work day was dwindling, at least on this street, cars every so often rolling past. You’re about halfway to the car park when your ears catch a second pair of footsteps behind you. Your lips and spirits lift with the hope that they might belong to the heavy boots of Dio after all and you turn to greet him.

“Nice night, huh?”

This guy’s not Dio. His hoodie covers shaggy chestnut hair, hands in his front pocket as he trudges along. This dude reeks of weed and booze. You ignore him and continue on your path.

“Not a talker. Got it. Listen, honey, you don’t gotta clam up around me, I’m a swell guy. I’ll walk ya’ to your car, that’s where you’re goin’, right?”

Jaw clenched, you ball your cool hands into fists at your sides, keeping your car key poking out from between your fingers should this douche not get the hint. “I don’t need an escort, thanks.” Your reply is sharp, eyes remaining en route. Other than that, you try your damndest to ease calm through your body. Tempting as it is to dash to the safety of your vehicle, you’re not about to put any fear on display for him. You’re okay. Breathe. The lot’s less than a block away now.

Then a hand snakes its way around your waist.

“C’mon, baby, ‘m just tryn’a be a gentleman. Isn’t that what broads want?” His breath is rancid in your nose.

You jerk away, shooting daggers. “Offer declined, now leave me alone.” Now you pick up the pace with your destination in sight. You don’t make it far before you’re jerked back by fingers at your forearm that tug forcefully. The bastard opens his mouth to spew more drovel, but you don’t give him the chance to speak. Screwing up your face, you reel your arm back and jab him with your key in the ribs.

Pain sputters through his lips. No skin was broken (unfortunately), but he’s stumbled back a few paces and grabs where you’d struck him. “You bitch!” He spits, his glare glassy. “Fuck’s your problem?!”

You’re halted by a chilling mixture of fear and shock at your own actions, snapping out of it when the drunk stranger lunges forward. No time is wasted in absolutely fucking booking it now. He may be hammered, but you’re taking no chances. You pay no attention to the string of swears and slurs from behind you and finally reach your car. The vibrations in your hands make unlocking the door difficult, and glancing up you can see your pursuer drunkenly heading toward you.

“Fuck!” You cry. “Stupid fucking--!”

“If I were you I’d stop right there, you piece of shit.”

The familiar voice that hadn’t been there prior snaps your head up, scanning the darkness to catch Dio crossing the street looking more menacing than you’ve ever seen him. You could get in your car and peel out of there right now, but you’re frozen in place watching the scene unfold.

Your attacker finds his way to his feet again, looking dumbfounded at the character who’s walked onto the scene. “Who -- who the fuck’re you?!”

You catch a smirk on Dio’s lips under flickering streetlights. “That all depends on what your next move is, jagoff.” He looks pissed as all hell, though there’s a layer of calm to his words that stirs your stomach. Dio now stands in front of the other with his hands in leather pockets, like he’s provoking him. He’s always exuded this...intimidating aura, clad in all black and chains but you’ve never seen this side of him in action. Maybe now is a bad time to come to this realization, but you have to admit: it’s sexy.

“Oh that’s, ‘s cute,” Mumbles the brunette guy, snickering. “‘S this your boyfriend comin’ to the rescue? Looks like a fuckin’ faggot if I’ve ever seen--”

Dio’s boot to this guy’s crotch cuts him off in the middle of his “insult” and he crumples to the concrete with a groan; if that isn’t enough, Dio lands a second kick to his temple.

You can only stand there lamely with your jaw agape and watch him swagger over after he just knocked a dude in the nuts.

“Sorry I was late,” he says smoothly. “I was in a meeting. You alright?”

Stupidly, you blink at him in the low light. “I--um...I’m…” Real nice. You shake your head to jumpstart your brain. “Yeah, I-I’m okay. I’m good. Thanks. Really.” So he’d come to see you after all.

Dio nods, appearing grateful to hear you’re unharmed.

You two begin to speak at the same time and chuckle in unison. He falls silent, ushering you to continue. You look your rescuer in the face, unable to swallow a smile. You’d missed those eyes, seeming so warm in the cool of the night. “So, do I get to know the name of my savior?” You prod.

He laughs once, low in his throat. “Dio.”

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift’s ‘Folklore’: Album Review

It’s hard to remember any contemporary pop superstar that has indulged in a more serious, or successful, act of sonic palette cleansing than Swift has with her eighth album, a highly subdued but rich affair written and recorded in quarantine conditions.

While most of us spent the last four months putting on some variation of “the quarantine 15,” Taylor Swift has been secretly working on the “Folklore” 16. Sprung Thursday night with less than a day’s notice, her eighth album is a fully rounded collection of songs that sounds like it was years in the interactive making, not the product of a quarter-year’s worth of file-sharing from splendid isolation. Mind you, the words “pandemic hero” should probably be reserved for actual frontline workers and not topline artistes. But there’s a bit of Rosie the Riveter spirit in how Swift has become the first major pop artist to deliver a first-rank album that went from germination to being completely locked down in the midst of a national lockdown.

The themes and tone of “Folklore,” though, are a little less “We can do it!” and a little more “Can we do it?” Because this new collection is Swift’s most overtly contemplative — as opposed to covertly reflective — album since the fan favorite “Red.” Actually, that’s an understatement. “Red” seems like a Chainsmokers album compared to the wholly banger-free “Folklore,” which lives up to the first half of its title by divesting itself of any lingering traces of Max Martin-ized dance-pop and presenting Swift, afresh, as your favorite new indie-electro-folk/chamber-pop balladeer. For fans that relished these undertones of Swift’s in the past, it will come as a side of her they know and love all too well. For anyone who still has last year’s “You Need to Calm Down” primarily in mind, it will come as a jolting act of manual downshifting into actually calming down. At least this one won’t require an album-length Ryan Adams remake to convince anyone that there’s songwriting there. The best comparison might be to take “Clean,” the unrepresentative denouement of “1989,” and… imagine a whole album of that. Really, it’s hard to remember any pop star in our lifetimes that has indulged in a more serious act of sonic palette cleansing.

The tone of this release won’t come as a midnight shock to anyone who took spoilers from the announcement earlier in the day that a majority of the tracks were co-written with and produced by the National’s Aaron Dessner, or that the man replacing Panic! at the Disco’s Brendon Urie as this album’s lone duet partner is Bon Iver. No matter how much credit you may have given Swift in the past for thinking and working outside of her box, a startled laugh may have been in order for just how unexpected these names felt on the bingo card of musical dignitaries you expected to find the woman who just put out “Me!” working with next. But her creative intuition hasn’t led her into an oil-and-water collaboration yet. Dessner turns out to be an ideal partner, with as much virtuosic, multi-instrumental know-how (particularly useful in a pandemic) as the most favored writer-producer on last year’s “Lover” album, Jack Antonoff.

He, too, is present and accounted for on “Folklore,” to a slightly lesser extent, and together Antonoff and Dessner make for a surprisingly well-matched support-staff tag team. Swift’s collabs with the National’s MVP clearly set the tone for the project, with a lot of fingerpicking, real strings, mellow drum programming and Mellotrons. You can sense Antonoff, in the songs he did with Swift, working to meet the mood and style of what Dessner had done or would be doing with her, and bringing out his own lesser-known acoustic and lightly orchestrated side. As good of a mesh as the album is, though, it’s usually not too hard to figure out who worked on which song — Dessner’s contributions often feel like nearly neo-classical piano or guitar riffs that Swift toplined over, while Antonoff works a little more toward buttressing slightly more familiar sounding pop melodies of Swift’s, dressed up or down to meet the more somber-sounding occasion.

For some fans, it might take a couple of spins around the block with this very different model to become re-accustomed to how there’s still the same power under the hood here. And that’s really all Swift, whose genius for conversational melodies and knack for giving every chorus a telling new twist every time around remain unmistakable trademarks. Thematically, it’s a bit more of a hodgepodge than more clearly autobiographical albums like “Lover” and “Reputation” before it have been. Swift has always described her albums as being like diaries of a certain period of time, and a few songs here obviously fit that bill, as continuations of the newfound contentment she explored in the last album and a half. But there’s also a higher degree of fictionalization than perhaps she’s gone for in the past, including what she’s described as a trilogy of songs revolving around a high school love triangle. The fact that she refers to herself, by name, as “James” in the song “Betty” is a good indicator that not everything here is ripped from today’s headlines or diary entries.

But, hell, some of it sure is. Anyone looking for lyrical Easter eggs to confirm that Swift still draws from her own life will be particularly pleased by the song “Invisible String,” a sort of “bless the broken roads that led me to you” type song that finds fulfillment in a current partner who once wore a teal shirt while working as a young man in a yogurt shop, even as Swift was dreaming of the perfect romance hanging out in Nashville’s Centennial Park. (A quick Google search reveals that, yes, Joe Alwyn was once an essential worker in London’s fro-yo industry.) There’s also a sly bit of self-referencing as Swift follows this golden thread that fatefully linked them: “Bad was the blood of the song in the cab on your first trip to L.A.,” she sings. The “dive bar” that was first established as the scene of a meet-cute two albums ago makes a reappearance in this song, too.

As for actual bad blood? It barely features into “Folklore,” in any substantial, true-life-details way, counter to her reputation for writing lyrics that are better than revenge. But when it does, woe unto he who has crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s on a contract that Swift feels was a double-cross. At least, we can strongly suspect what or who the actual subject is of “Mad Woman,” this album’s one real moment of vituperation. “What did you think I’d say to that?” Swift sings in the opening lines. “Does a scorpion sting when fighting back? / They strike to kill / And you know I will.” Soon, she’s adding gas to the fire: “Now I breathe flames each time I talk / My cannons all firing at your yacht / They say ‘move on’ / But you know I won’t / … women like hunting witches, too.” A coup de gras is delivered: “It’s obvious that wanting me dead has really brought you two together.” It’s a message song, and the message is: Swift still really wants her masters back, in 2020. And is really still going to want them back in 2021, 2022 and 2023, too. Whether or not the neighbors of the exec or execs she is imagining really mouth the words “f— you” when these nemeses pull up in their respective driveways may be a matter of projection, but if Swift has a good time imagining it, many of her fans will too.

(A second such reference may be found in the bonus track, “The Lakes,” which will only be found on deluxe CD and vinyl editions not set to arrive for several weeks. There, she sings, “What should be over burrowed under my skin / In heart-stopping waves of hurt / I’ve come too far to watch some namedropping sleaze / Tell me what are my words worth.” The rest of “The Lakes” is a fantasy of a halcyon semi-retirement in the mountains — in which “I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet / Because I haven’t moved in years” — “and not without my muse.” She even imagines red roses growing out of a tundra, “with no one around to tweet it”; fantasies of a social media-free utopia are really pandemic-rampant.)

The other most overtly “confessional” song here is also the most third-person one, up to a telling point. In “The Last Great American Dynasty,” Swift explores the rich history of her seaside manse in Rhode Island, once famous for being home to the heir to the Standard Oil fortune and, after he died, his eccentric widow. Swift has a grand old time identifying with the women who decades before her made fellow coast-dwellers go “there goes the neighborhood”: “There goes the maddest woman this town has ever seen / She had a marvelous time ruining everything,” she sings of the long-gone widow, Rebekah. “Fifty years is a long time / Holiday House sat quietly on that beach / Free of women with madness, their men and bad habits / Then it was bought by me… the loudest woman this town has ever seen.” (A fine madness among proud women is another recurring theme.)

But, these examples aside, the album is ultimately less obviously self-referential than most of Swift’s. The single “Cardigan,” which has a bit of a Lana Del Rey feel (even though it’s produced by Dessner, not Del Rey’s partner Antonoff) is part of Swift’s fictional high school trilogy, along with “August” and “Betty.” That sweater shows up again in the latter song, in which Swift takes on the role of a 17-year boy publicly apologizing for doing a girl wrong — and which kicks into a triumphant key change at the end that’s right out of “Love Story,” in case anyone imagines Swift has completely moved on from the spirit of early triumphs.

“Exile,” the duet with Bon Iver, recalls another early Swift song, “The Last Time,” which had her trading verses with Gary Lightbody of Snow Patrol. Then, as now, she gives the guy the first word, and verse, if not the last; it has her agreeing with her partner on some aspects of their dissolution (“I couldn’t turn things around”/”You never turned things around”) and not completely on others (“Cause you never gave a warning sign,” he sings; “I gave so many signs,” she protests).

Picking two standouts — one from the contented pile, one from the tormented — leads to two choices: “Illicit Affairs” is the best cheating song since, well, “Reputation’s” hard-to-top “Getaway Car.” There’s less catharsis in this one, but just as much pungent wisdom, as Swift describes the more mundane details of maintaining an affair (“Tell your friends you’re out for a run / You’ll be flushed when you return”) with the soul-destroying ones of how “what started in beautiful rooms ends with meetings in parking lots,” as “a drug that only worked the first few hundred times” wears off in clandestine bitterness.

But does Swift have a corker of a love song to tip the scales of the album back toward sweetness. It’s not “Invisible String,” though that’s a contender. The champion romance song here is “Peace,” the title of which is slightly deceptive, as Swift promises her beau, or life partner, that that quality of tranquility is the only thing she can’t promise him. If you like your love ballads realistic, it’s a bit of candor that renders all the compensatory vows of fidelity and courage all the more credible and deeply lovely. “All these people think love’s for show / But I would die for you in secret.”

That promise of privacy to her intended is a reminder that Swift is actually quite good at keeping things close to the vest, when she’s not spilling all — qualities that she seems to value and uphold in about ironically equal measure. Perhaps it’s in deference to the sanctity of whatever she’s holding dear right now that there are more outside narratives than before in this album — including a song referring to her grandfather storming the beaches in World War II — even as she goes outside for fresh collaborators and sounds, too. But what keeps you locked in, as always, is the notion of Swift as truth-teller, barred or unbarred, in a world of pop spin. She’s celebrating the masked era by taking hers off again.

Taylor Swift “Folklore” Republic Records

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Lanterna

Photo by Theo Merritt (c) 2021

Lanterna is the ambient shoegaze project of Champaign, Illinois veteran Henry Frayne, who, in the 1980s, played with midwestern bands including The Syndicate, ¡Ack-Ack!, Area, and The Moon Seven Times. In her review of Frayne’s seventh album as Lanterna, Hidden Drives, Jennifer Kelly noted that, “It hits a sweet spot in the overlap between ambient meditation and propulsive groove.” Here are some of the songs and artists that inspire Frayne.

The Past Seven Days — “Rain Dance”

I joined a Champaign band called ¡Ack-Ack! in 1984 and in addition to learning about group composition I gained access to their mix tape library and LP collection. One song on a mixtape was “Rain Dance,” a curiously long song for a 7" from a band that only released one 7".

A song with a guitar part that is almost all harmonics is stunning. Also, the dark and unsettling drones that hover at the edge of the sonic space (with indistinct voices and the insistent beat.) I’m not sure how many other guitarists it inspired but I have to say I did eventually end up recording a song using only harmonics. After all these years I am hearing the slow fadeout for the first time and those rather discordant notes at the very end.

Tubeway Army — “Me! I Disconnect From You”

My father always returned home from his travels with an LP for me from the places he had visited. In April of 1979 he and my mom were coming back from Europe and meeting me at my grandparents’ house in Riverside, NJ. I had been listening to a newly acquired copy of The Yes Album on an old console turntable when my father pulled out a copy of Tubeway Army’s Replicas from his luggage. He’d walked into a record shop in London before flying home and asked, “What's hot this week?”

One might wonder how this influential piece of vinyl affected me. How many copies of Replicas were in the US at that time? Did I start my own dystopian synth band in the garage when arriving in Maine that summer? Did I flee to the relative comfort of my progressive rock albums (where ironically the Minimoog had been in common use for some years!)? The answer is that Tubeway Army’s Replicas still sounds as mysterious as it did in the parlor of my grandparents’ house all those years ago.

StarCastle — “True To The Light”

My brother’s high school newspaper interviewed the resident local progressive rock band StarCastle in January of 1977 (at the local Champaign Pizza Hut on the U of I campus). My brother brought home the brand new Fountains of Light and I proceeded to put on Side 2 and was met with the heavenly flanged/chorused vocals of StarCastle’s “True To The Light.”

StarCastle were mostly local lads. Three of the members had graduated from my high school a few years before. They were signed to Epic Records at the time and recorded with Roy Thomas Baker (for two albums in one year). A friend delivered papers to their band house and hung out with them when they weren’t touring which was always! It was only in recently years that I’ve realized just how much StarCastle toured. They played with practically every band that passed through the Midwest and beyond in the mid-1970s.And it being the 1970s they thought nothing of releasing two RTB produced albums in the calendar year of 1977!

The StarCastle experience taught me that music on LP records can come from people who live in small towns just down the street from where one was playing Little League baseball.

The Chameleons — “On The Beach”

A blur of sound! It is still hard for me to believe that these songs were recorded in a conventional studio and not just sounds echoing through the glens captured by a bird watcher with a tape recorder in the Peak District.

Giles, Giles & Fripp feat. Judy Dyble — “I Talk To The Wind”

From reading about The Brondesbury Tapes it is apparent that they were recorded on a Revox reel to reel machine with the sound-on-sound function which allowed one to add a new part to an existing track (a function which could be repeated a number of times). This yielded a mono master, but it is in fact composed of multiple performances.

Before acquiring a Tascam 4-track I created songs using a Revox A77. As well as being able to create my first tape echo effects on the A77 it taught me a lot about mixing instrument parts together. It is fun to imagine the folks in Brondesbury Road going through the same process as I did to make this recording of “I Talk To The Wind.”

Blitz — “For You”

Another album borrowed from a member of ¡Ack-Ack!. It was the era of lightly chorused guitar and bass. I’ve always been in awe of the glassy sounding guitars on this track, and puzzled by the haltingly uncertain guitar solo near the end. One can feel the legendary ambience of Strawberry North throughout this track.

The Vertebrats — “Left In The Dark”

Sophomore year at Champaign Central High School a classmate started playing in a group called The Vertebrats. In December of 1979 I was in the audience in the chapel at the Red Herring Coffeehouse in Urbana, Illinois to see one of their earliest shows. The chapel would always sport a very reverberant sound but with vocals, two guitars (one a Fender Mustang favoring the treble pickup), drums, and bass it was an awesome experience. For one, there was someone I knew making this ruckus, in addition to the songs and particularly “Left In The Dark” being instant classics. I’d started seeing rock shows at the local arena the year before but never up close with the band playing at floor level. I had a handheld Sony tape recorder on loan during that time but sadly didn’t take it along to this legendary show.

The Beatles — “Only A Northern Song”

In June of 1974, following afternoon showings of The Seven Samurai, and Modern Times at the University of Illinois, my father and I did our usual rounds to the local new and used record emporiums. Record shops proper, but also The Salvation Army. It was here amongst the discarded shirts, slacks, pots, and pans that I spied the distinctive artwork of the Yellow Submarine soundtrack album. I’d seen the film a few years before when it was first in the theaters, and still had the songs buzzing in my head. Being able to listen to songs from a film at home was a new concept which I was willing to dive into. The band was most certainly not quite right but that was okay with me!

The Wild Flowers — “The Promised Land”

A purchase at Champaign’s Record Swap (still around, now in Urbana at Lincoln Square!) in the Fall of 1984. As was the case with The Sound’s Heads and Hearts, The Quaker would hand me an album from behind the counter and it would go on to influence me for years to come. My favorite guitar, bass, synth, and drum sounds of all time!

Yardbirds w/ Jimmy Page & Jeff Beck — Blow Up (1966)

With a father who taught film studies at the University of Illinois, it fell to him to once in a while check incoming acquisitions to the 16mm film library there. I’m sure that I didn’t see ALL of Antonioni’s Blow Up but I'm sure I bestirred myself from doing my grade school homework when the opening howl of “Stroll On” tore through the Frayne household one summer’s eve.

At the time I had no way of knowing that the chap on stage right was the very same guitarist playing some wicked (heavenly?) acoustic and electric guitar (including a Fender Electric XII) on a certain tune that WLS would be playing every hour on the hour for the next several years.

[nearlymanaged]

10. Des Mots Magiques

The last few weeks of the term seemed to fly by at the speed of light before the world came to a screeching halt. Remus felt not only pleased with himself, but also proud of his three best friends for how they finished their first half of their sixth year at Hogwarts. James and Peter had been doing better than just alright in their Potions lessons, and Sirius managed to scrape up an E on their mock History of Magic exam. 

The four boys arrived at the Potters’ residence in the late afternoon on Christmas Eve. They spent the whole day playing two-a-side snow fight. James’ dad would occasionally join them, without leaving his study, by charming some snow balls to pelt whichever side was doing better at any given moment. They eventually got called back inside by James’ mum for some of the best dinners Remus had ever had the pleasure of eating - especially after exerting all his energy, trying to bring James and Sirius down.

He had been a guest of the Potters a few times before, and he always thoroughly enjoyed it. He would have never said a bad word about his own parents, but Mr. and Mrs. Potter seemed to love nothing more than caring for their son and his friends. Remus silently wondered if he could ever have such a home - full of love and laughter, instead of anxiety and quiet resentment.

He enjoyed chatting with James’ mum immensely; they would discuss topics ranging from Herbology to the ongoing war against Voldemort and his supporters. And James’ dad had such warmth about; Remus had never truly realised that dads didn’t have to be distant and strict and vague until he met Fleamont Potter.

Since Sirius now lived with the Potters, he had his own bedroom in their house, and he insisted that Remus take his bed that night.

“Your body gets wrecked enough as it is, we shouldn’t subject you to sleeping on that,” he pointed at the camping bed that Mr. Potter had set up in the room.

Remus had tried to argue but Sirius swiftly turned into a black dog on the spot, dragged a blanket off the foldout bed and onto the floor, and, after turning in circles a handful of times, curled up in the middle of it. “Thanks, Pads,” Remus had smiled at him and climbed into the empty bed.

On Christmas morning they all gathered in the sitting room to open presents and drink hot cocoa together (James had added a liberal splash of firewhiskey to each cup).

“Sirius, your hair is getting so long,” Mrs. Potter lightly brushed her hand over the top of his head as she walked past, collecting everyone’s now empty mugs.

“Yeah, I suppose it is…” Sirius tugged at a dark strand looking self-conscious all of a sudden, which didn’t happen all that often.

“It suits you, you look very handsome,” she beamed at him, effectively putting a proud grin on his face.

“I like it too,” Remus mumbled, more so to himself than anyone else.

“So what have you boys got planned for today?”

“We’re more than happy to help you cook!” Peter looked up at Mrs. Potter eagerly.

“So very sweet of you, but I’ll be quite alright. It’s your Christmas break, you should be having fun!”

“Well, actually,” Sirius got up from his chair and stretched. “I’ve been wanting to go to a record shop.”

“Great! Remus can come with you,” James grinned without skipping a beat.

“I suppose I can,” Moony agreed, albeit a little confused by James’ insistence. “What are you two going to do?”

“We’ve got...stuff, school stuff.”

“Oh really?” Mr. Potter peered at his son, but Remus never heard the rest of the conversation because Sirius grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the room, evidently extremely eager to get going.

“It might not even be open today,” Remus pointed out but proceeded to put his shoes and coat on nonetheless.

“I know how to pick locks, remember?” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows.

“That is very much illegal, remember?”

The walk to the Muggle town took about thirty chatter and laughter filled minutes, towards the end of which Sirius started complaining about being cold. Of course, that was to be expected since he was wearing a leather jacket and no gloves or scarf or hat. Just as Remus was pointing this out, they rounded a corner and saw the record shop on the other side of the street. They could hear music coming from it, but when they walked up the steps leading to the door, they saw a ‘closed’ sign. Just for good measure, Sirius rattled the handle, but it unsurprisingly didn’t budge.

They could clearly make out now that the music coming out through the open window on the side of the building was some kind of a french song. 

“What are you doing?” Remus asked slowly as he watched Sirius walk over to the window that was set in the wall just above his head, and, keeping his eyes on it, started walking backwards. 

“I’ll just take a quick peek. Maybe they’ll let us in.”

“Sirius, that’s a bit creepy,” Remus laughed, watching him jump up a couple of times before turning into a  massive dog. He could jump a lot higher as Padfoot and so when he leapt up again, he used his strong front legs to hang over the windowsill. “At least technically not illegal, I suppose…”

“Oh merde!” A surprised yelp came from inside the building. “Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?” 

A brown haired boy, probably around their age, poked his head out the same window; after glancing around quickly, his eyes fell upon Remus. “Is this your puppy?” He asked squarely, a noticeable accent clinging to each word - French, Remus was sure.

“Er, yeah…” He pulled his lips into a smile, wondering how Sirius liked being referred to as a puppy.

The answer to that came in a loud, angry growl when the stranger tried to pet the dog. Then, Sirius leapt down to the ground and, having no choice at this point, sat down next to Remus looking rather like an obedient pet.

“Not very friendly? But ‘e has good taste in music.”

“Apparently so. We uh, didn’t mean to bother. Didn’t realise the shop would be closed.”

“Ah you are not bothering me. Come in...” The boy disappeared and seconds later opened the front door. “Please.”

Remus glanced down at Sirius, barely able to contain an amused smile, and gave him an almost imperceptible shrug before walking over to the boy. “Is it alright if my puppy comes in?”

“Of course. I don’t think my uncle would be pleased but ‘e is not ‘ere.”

“Does your uncle own this place then?” Remus asked, brushing his fingertips against the covers of records as we walked deeper into the shop, followed by Padfoot.

“Yes. I am only ‘ere for the ‘olidays. My parents think it would be charmant to spend Christmas in the English countryside. But I think it is so boring ‘ere. I only like this shop,” the boy motioned around as he stopped in front of a record player. “Do you know this song?”

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it…” Remus mumbled.

“I must play it for you from the beginning then!” And with that, the boy lifted the needle of the player and repositioned it at the edge of the vinyl disc. “It is a well known love song in France,” he added before lowering the needle again, allowing the music to fill the air.

The song was beautiful, Remus had to admit, even though he had no idea what they were singing about. He liked the sound of a beautiful language that seemed like it possessed magic beyond anything he’d ever learnt at Hogwarts. That night when Sirius was speaking French, talking him to sleep, Remus thought his heart was going to explode. He had listened to the hypnotising crooning of his voice, dreaming up images in his head of the words he was hearing were those of professing love. Of course, he was sure, Sirius was probably talking about how boring that week’s History of Magic lesson had been or something just as mundane. But he felt like he could have curled up in his voice all the same and spent a hundred years lying there, on that sofa, so close to him.

The boy wasn’t saying anything so Remus started pacing down the rows of boxes full of records, getting lost in the memory that the song had brought back in his mind. Sirius was striding alongside him the whole time, up until the song ended.

“‘E is comparing ‘is lover with the wind and smell of roses,” the boy spoke again right behind Remus, who hadn’t noticed him come up and flinched slightly. “‘E is saying that she is a beautiful love story, that ‘e will not stop reading it.”

“That’s...very poetic,” Remus blurted, feeling a bit out of the water discussing the topic. “What is she saying?”

“She says, it’s all just words. She does not believe ‘im anymore. She thinks it is only sweet, euh...fragile words.”

“So it’s a sad song?” 

“Yes and no. Is it better to have passion that is very short and go away, or is it better to never have it at all?” Again, Remus didn’t really know how to answer such a question, and posed by a stranger no less, all while Sirius was listening to them. “You are turning red,” the boy stated to add to it all. “British boys are so shy sometimes, I have noticed this.” A strange smirk played on his lips.

“You ask complicated questions, I suppose,” Remus answered, growing a little annoyed by the boy's obvious enjoyment in making him feel uneasy.

“Red suits you. I am called Vincent,” he turned around on his heel and strode over to the record player before glancing over his shoulder. “What is your name?”

“Remus,” Moony shoved his hands in his pockets and cast a glance at the black dog who was starting to squeal and whine a little.

“Remus… I like it. Do you live here, Remus? I’ve never seen you.”

“No, I’m just visiting for the holidays as well.”

“Ah, I see. ‘Ow long will you be ‘ere?”

“For another week or so.”

“Were you looking for something specific? To buy?” Vincent casually changed the topic, again.

“Er, not really. Just wanted to browse around, I guess.”

“Then what should I play now?”

Remus looked at Sirius out of the corner of his eyes, hoping he’d indicate to him somehow which record he wanted to hear; instead, he was peering at Vincent with unyelding intensity, almost glaring, if his canine snout allowed for such expression.

“H-how about Velvet Underground? Do you know them?” Remus looked over at Vincent from across the shop.

“I do not think so.” Regardless, he strode over to the box labelled ‘V’ and pulled out a record. “You can come closer, I will not bite,” he uttered once he stood in front of the player again.

“I might,” Remus mumbled without thinking as he shuffled deeper into the shop again.

Vincent lifted his face as the first notes of Sunday Morning filled the room; there was that same peculiar smile etched in his features. “Who are you visiting for the ‘olidays? Not a girlfriend--” his breath caught, eyes gleaming, before he added, “or a boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend and his family…” Remus answered, wondering if it was the language barrier that made the whole interaction so strange. “So how long will you be staying here for?” He asked, more out of politeness than anything else.

“Two weeks. Maybe this trip will not be so boring in the end?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Remus shrugged with a small smile, not really understanding what the boy meant.

Sirius seemed to be eager to get out of there, his whining growing ever louder, but Remus didn’t want to seem rude and walk out right then, when Vincent had just put on the record for them. He shot Sirius a quick, somewhat exasperated look and turned back to the French boy. “What do you think? Bit different than your music, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is very different. Is this your favourite artist?” He looked vaguely put off.

“Not really. I like a little bit of everything.”

“Ah, I see. I like the first song more. ‘E sounds, I don’t know… ‘ow do you say? Aggressive maybe, no?”

“I suppose Lou Reed doesn’t have the most pleasant voice…” Remus laughed a little, bobbing his head.

“Your puppy doesn’t like it?” Vincent looked over at Padfoot who, for all the boy knew, was agitated by the music.

“Oh, he likes it alright.”

There was a pause that stretched while the song went on; an awkward pause, Remus felt, as his smiling eyes kept wandering from Vincent to Padfoot, to boxes of records, to the player. He started wondering if maybe the boy was growing bored, maybe he regretted letting them in, maybe it was time to leave...

“How did you get these scars?” Vincent spoke softly, yet unexpectedly, and lifted his hand, as if intending to touch a long-healed mark on the side of Remus’ face; instead, his fingers hovered inches from Moony’s’ skin before he retracted them.

“Er…I-- It’s...” Moony stumbled over his words, surprised by the bluntness.

“Forgive me, I did not want to offend,” the boy pressed both hands to his chest; now it was him who seemed to be blushing. “I think they are beautiful.”

“You...what?”

The boy let out a small giggle. “They look very unique...in a good way. I think they make you more ‘andsome.”

Remus felt his ears get hot as he stared at the boy; it was as though he only now took a good look at him since he had entered the shop. Vincent was shorter than him, probably a little shorter than Sirius. He had brown hair and eyes that were so dark, they almost appeared black. He had perfectly straight teeth and a tanned glow to his skin, even in the middle of winter.

Before Remus could respond, Sirius bounded across the length of the shop and put his giant frown paws on his shoulder, nudging Vincent out of the way as he did so. 

“‘E is very funny dog!” The boy chuckled.  

“He is…” Remus pushed the dog off himself; Padfoot wasn’t relenting, however - he snatched the sleeve of his coat and started tugging at it, slowly inching backwards, towards the door. Remus wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave now. He was overcome by a kind of curiosity - this French boy seemed to be flirting with him. “I er...I think I ought to get going,” he breathed out, trying to shake Sirius off. “Thank you for...er, thank you.”

He felt a rush of excitement as the boy gave him a rather disappointed smile. Remus had become so wrapped up in his feelings for Sirius that he was taken aback by how nice it felt to have this stranger notice him, how flattered he was by it.

Just then, Vincent took Remus’ hand in his. “Come back again before you leave, Remus?”

“I-- I’ll try,” he beamed at the boy before giving in to Sirius and getting dragged outside.

Sirius didn’t waste any time before turning back into his human self, which Remus found a bit reckless, considering the boy might have been looking out the door or one of the windows.

“Well that was a drag,” he folded his arms over his chest as they started walking back the same way they had come. “What a pretentious little git.”

“I think he was alright…”

“Zis is a song about love, eet is not aggressive but full of passion. But you wouldn’t know anything about eet, British boys are so pudibond,” Sirius did a cruel yet rather accurate impression and rolled his eyes. “Fils de pute prétentieux.”

Remus gaped at him, his whole upper body turned towards Sirius. “The fleas bothering you again, aren’t they? I’m telling you, we can get rid of them very easily,” he let out a melodious chuckle but Sirius merely pouted, hugging himself tighter.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter thirty-two: heart of gold

“i wanna live, i wanna give, i’ve been a miner for a heart of gold. it’s these expressions that i never give: that keep me searching for a heart of gold.” -”heart of gold”, neil young

Oswego was a rather tightly woven little dot upon the southeastern shore of Lake Ontario, at least according to Joey. He also explained that the nuclear power plant on the far side of town was so set apart from everything else that it seemed to come from another world altogether. He made a joke about the river waters being radioactive but it only made Sam wary of everything around there.

“Nah—they haven't had a meltdown up there,” he assured her, “that's just the whole joke about being from here is all. That we all glow in the dark like a buncha of glow sticks or sump'n.” But then he drove them back to his place down in a town known as Camillus, not too far on the outskirts of Syracuse.

“Hang on, I thought you lived closer to New York City,” Sam confessed.

“I mean, it technically is—about a half an hour less of a drive. Oh, you talking about my old place? I had to move back around here in March 'cause that drive was getting treacherous in its own rite and rent was getting to be too much. I would'a told you sooner but—you know. Things happen. I'm making a little bit more money than I was before so I was able to do it.”

“Right, right, right.” Sam flashed back and when she, Frank, and Charlie had to rescue him from the snow.

“Besides, I was startin' to miss this part of upstate, as you'll see here in a couple of minutes.”

Despite the darkness, the orange and yellow trees that lined the landscape made her think of fire or the cotton balls she would find a craft shop. The nondescript edge of town reminded her of California as well as the outskirts of Reno and Carson City. The two lane highway turned into a four lane main street and she spotted the faint line of lights over a ridge on the southern side of town: the brightest yellow light shone out from the top part of the ridge. Sam glanced about the block for anything notable to recall for the next time she visited.

“Not much here,” she remarked.

“Nah, there really isn't,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders. “'Swaygo is even worse as we'll see tomorrow. But every part of this is home to me. I was born in 'Swaygo and I grew up all around here. Even though I've moved outta 'Swaygo, I still call it home.”

They rolled up to a stoplight and Sam peered across the intersection to the long low brick building nestled next door to a fuel station. She recognized a paint palette over the front window and a line of big bold text right over it.

“Is that an art store?” she asked with a gesture out the windshield.

“It sure is!” he declared. “Given it's night time and we're a buncha hicks 'round here, they're closed for the night. But we can go in there tomorrow if you'd like.”

“Yeah, I kinda need something to make an artistic rendering of you,” she explained, “and even though I have plenty of things back home for that, it's still a four hour drive regardless.”

The light turned green and they lunged forward. They drove past the art store and a mere white light shone in the front window: she knew that tomorrow was going to be quite the eventful for them as Joey hung a right past the shop.

“Right down this way,” he explained as they drove down the dark side street to the very end. He reached the stop sign and he peered both ways about the dark neighborhood. No one coming.

He rolled forward to the low apartment complex right in front of them, such that it took her by surprise.

“Yeah, it surprised my mom when I brought my parents along when I moved in here,” he told her; even in the dim light, she could make out the sight of that lopsided grin upon his face. Even though he had just turned twenty six, he still resembled to a little boy with that smile on his face and that twinkle in his eyes even in the darkness.

They bounded into the driveway and then they posted up at the big cube of silver mailboxes.

“Gotta check it out first,” he told her as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of his car. He rounded the front end, and the headlights shone upon his slender body as he made his way over to the mailboxes. Sam watched him fetch for the mail but then she noticed the soft glow of the headlights on the back of his curls. It was right there she wanted to draw him and then to paint him out with oil paints. Not watercolor, not acrylic, but oil paints.

She hadn't worked with oil paints before, but she wanted to do it right there for him.

He returned to the driver's seat with a little pink sheet of paper in hand.

“Gotta care package from my aunt,” he told her.

“Oh, boy!” she declared.

“I can't get it right now, though—tomorrow is gonna be quite full for the both of us.”

He started up the car again and they made their way over to the building on the right. Right before their parking spot stood a little walkway that extended around the building and into the darkness. Joey led Sam around the corner to a low doorstep and a cold blue door: when he unlocked the door, he let her go inside of the dark and cool apartment first. When she was inside, he reached for the light switch on the wall. It was a small place: they stood in the living room right there, which consisted of nothing more than a small thread bare gray couch and a small side table with a black lamp and a low glass coffee table; an eggshell colored vent about the width of the door itself stood on the left side of the room. Right in front of them was the kitchen, a narrow sliver of a room rounded by a low table with three chairs. To her right was a stone stairwell which led up to the loft.

“I assume that's your room upstairs?” she asked him with a point to the stairs.

“Sure is. Bathroom's up there, too, and—I think I have a spare tooth brush in my medicine cabinet. I'll haveta check 'cause I know how sucky the aftertaste of coffee can be, especially this time of day. But in the meantime, make yourself at home here, Sam I am.”

He shut the door behind him and he darted up the stone steps. Sam peered about the small living room: right behind her was a tiny television with rabbit ears over the top; a long low barren bookshelf, barren saved for a small handful of books and a few stacks of vinyl; another lamp up top with a cream colored lampshade, and a small hockey trophy. She stooped down for a look at the bookshelf: nothing she had heard of herself, but it was in fact comforting to see that Joey did have another nuance to him. She eyed the vinyl records, at all the Journey and Led Zeppelin, Foreigner and the Beatles, Deep Purple and Rush, Kansas and Yes. She let her eyes wander over the record player itself, tucked behind the television and with the cable coiled up on top of the protective glass. She wished for her copy of Spreading the Disease to merely appear before her just so she could play it right then and there.

“Yeah, I do have a spare one,” he was saying as he descended the stairs, and he stopped right in his tracks. Sam turned her attention to his standing on the bottom step. Joey showed her another little grin.

“Ah, I see you found my music collection,” he proclaimed; he lay the head of the plain red toothbrush in one hand as if it was a club.

“Of course,” she declared with a beaming smile on her face. She lifted herself into an upright position and brushed herself off even though the floor was clean.

“I learned to sing by singing to songs from the Beatles and Journey, y'know,” he said as he neared her, “I literally would sit in my parents' living room and listen to records on their player and try to sing along to the Fab Four and Steve Perry. I'd also sing to Foreigner and Rush, and that was how my voice came to be so high and light.”

“Gotta start somewhere,” she added.

“Gotta start somewhere, right,” he echoed, and he handed her the toothbrush.

“Thank you,” she said in a soft voice as if he had just given her the best gift ever.

“I also hate to make you sleep on the couch,” he confessed with a shrug of his shoulders. “I just think back to how uncomfortable we both were in the cabin last year for my birthday.”

“No, no, no—it's okay,” she assured him, and she couldn't think of anything else to follow up to that.

“It is pretty comfy,” he continued on. “I've napped on it many times before. One time, I came home at three o'clock in the morning and I pretty much collapsed onto it face down ass up. I actually woke up face down ass up. That's how comfy that couch is—I slept for four hours in that position. Wouldn't use one of those pillows, though—it's hard on the neck.”

“Do you have a spare pillow?” she asked him.

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you have a blanket?”

“I have many. Sam, this is upstate New York and I've lived out here the twenty six years I've been alive—we gotta have a shitload of blankets and a warm place to sleep at otherwise no one can survive up here. You can use a bit of my toothpaste, too.”

“Good to know,” she confessed as she tapped the head of the toothbrush against the inside of her palm. “'Cause—I gotta get this taste of coffee out of my mouth.”

* * * * *

Sam jerked over onto her side there on the couch cushions. Joey was in fact right about the couch: it was comfortable. Almost too comfortable. She had a difficult time even so much rolling over on her side or onto her back. She had woken up twice throughout the night but she had fallen back asleep. Perhaps it was from laying in a bed different from hers that threw her off a bit.

The spare soft pillow cradled her head: she sighed through her nose and kept her eyes shut against the rich darkness before her. The only sound came from the pipes running in the wall and Joey's slow, gentle breathing upstairs.

She thought about the incident with Alex back at the coffee house and that little raise of his eyebrows. He had softened for her a little bit right there, even with Joey right behind her ready to beat him down yet again. She barely knew the young man and he looked at her like that because of her past with Cliff.

She couldn't stop seeing it over and over again inside of her mind. Not to mention that little sliver of gray hair over his brow kept reappearing in her mind.

She thought about the mysterious man and the stripe in his hair. No way that was him, even though he shared a lot of similar looks to him. The stripe was far too big and Alex had too soft of a face as well. And yet she wondered about him. One thing that baffled her about him was his referring to Joey as her boyfriend. As far as she knew, he only saw them together that one time, unless he saw more of what Joey was doing at the memorial than she did: it made no sense to her.

It was all so much to think about that she wound up falling asleep again.

No sooner had Sam fallen back to sleep when she woke up yet again, that time to the sound of a heavy rain outside of the apartment window right in front of her. Joey yawned upstairs and cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and soft bluish gray light shone through the heavy white blinds.

Joey cleared his throat again.

“Hey, Sam, you awake?” he called out to her.

She groaned and rubbed her eyes.

“Sam?”

“Yeah—I just woke up. Why? What's up?”

“Kinda hungry right now. You want some breakfast?”' “Please,” she said in a broken voice.

She heard Joey climbing out of bed up there, and then he padded down the stone steps.

After a brew of coffee and a bite of biscuits and gravy courtesy of him, they climbed back into his car and drove down the block to that art store right as it opened for the day.

There were only six aisles before her, but she knew it was all for the best with all the smallness of the town. She couldn't hardly resist that new art supply smell as she picked out a pair of paint brushes and some acrylic paints: she had considered those beautiful oil paints but she wasn't willing to bust down for a can of turpentine, nor was she willing to fill Joey's apartment with that acrid odor. A brand new medium for herself and for Joey as well.

Meanwhile, Joey himself checked out the little wooden blank mannequins on the other side of the room: he picked one of the smaller ones for a closer look. Sam watched him move the arms about for the perfect pose. He set down the mannequin and he posed in its wake, as if he was ready to pose for her when they got the chance that weekend. But she couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of him.

Once she had picked out a canvas and spent the rest of the spare change in her pocket, she and Joey made their way back out to the lake effect rains.

“I got a little something waiting for us back at my place,” he said once they ducked back into the car in unison.

“Like what?” she asked him, but he didn't reply to her. He never did reply to her as they returned to the apartment and she set her things down on the coffee table in front of the couch. Joey ducked into the kitchen for something: Sam took the plain off white canvas out into the open. She ran her hand across the heavy grain of the canvas: like a thick heavy rug right underneath her skin.

“Sam?” he called to her. She raised her gaze to the counter top, and the tall brown glass bottle right before him, right in between his hands. She spotted the label on the front side there and her heart skipped several beats at the sight of it.

“Joey,” she begged as she shook her head at that. “Joey, please don't.”

“Why?” He frowned at her.

“Because it has booze in it.”

“And?”

“Joey, please,” she pleaded as she stood to her feet and scrambled closer to him. “I want you to stay away from the booze for a time.”

He never changed his expression at the sight of her.

“Why? It's just you and me here. And it's a whole weekend, too. You've got time before you gotta mosey on back to school.”

“Joey—you don't want to go there right now.”

“What? It's just one drink, though.”

“Yes, and one drink leads to a second one and a third one. It happened at the restaurant with all of us there before—and it'll happen again.”

He nibbled on his bottom lip and she watched his hand as it rested on the bottle neck. His fingers stayed curled around the smooth glass. It was dead silent in that room: silent save for her own shuddered breath.

“What if I told you,” he began in a low voice, “that I feel better stripping down to bare skin with a drink in me?”

“Just one?” she demanded.

“Just one.”

“I'll stand here while you drink it down, though. I need you to be as clear as possible to boot.”

“Clear but also loose.”

“Exactly,” she said, reluctant. Joey pried off the cap and he tipped the bottle back into his mouth. She set her hands on the edge of the counter and watched him. He drank it down in four large gulps, and he ran his tongue around his lips like that of a snake.

He fluttered his eyelids at her and set the bottle down on the counter in between them. She scanned his face and at his brown eyes in particular. Even in a few seconds time, she could see the effects of it overcoming him. The canvas and the paints awaited her.

“Let your clothes fall to the floor,” she told him in a low voice. He stuck out his tongue at her, and then he cracked a little grin at her.

“Come on—let them fall right off of your body.

He unfastened the button on those tight jeans and he let them fall down his legs towards his feet.

“D'you take your shoes off?” she asked him.

He then stooped down and pried off his shoes.

“I have now,” he said as he kicked off his jeans and left them there on the linoleum. He then peeled off his shirt and lay it across the counter.

“Man, you do not hold your liquor well, do you?” she joked.

“I dunno 'bout that,” he admitted; he stood there in his underwear right before her with a giddy look on his face. Sam frowned at him and she set one hand on her hip.

“What's the matter?” he asked her.

“Take off your underwear.”

“Why?”

“Don't question it. Just do it.”

He sighed through his nose and then he slipped his thumbs inside of that elastic band. He let them fall onto the floor, right next to his jeans. Sam gestured for him to follow her.

“Right over here,” she encouraged him in a gentle tone; and she led him to the middle of the living room, right in front of the coffee table. “Hang on a second—”

She doubled back to the kitchen table for a chair, and she brought it back to him. A perfect fit in between the coffee table and the vent on the wall.

“Have a seat.”

Joey plunked down on the cushion and spread his legs out a little bit for her to see in between his thighs.

“Want me to pose for ya?” he cracked as he raised his arms over his head.

“No. Just sit normal. Let me see you. Let me see you in your entirety.”

Joey set those large hands on either side of his hips, right on the edge of the seat. Sam headed into the kitchen for a wash basin.

“There's an empty pickle jar right there next to the sink,” he told her; indeed, there was, so she picked it out and filled it with clean cool water from the faucet. She returned to him and picked up the paint brush. The sole light came from the kitchen and from the window on the side of the room but it proved to be enough for her. A nice moody painting for the man himself.

Even with the cool lighting in that apartment, there was a bit of a sheen to his skin, especially right around his knees and his ankles. A healthy shine of sorts upon the rich darkness about his skin, and one that she was eager to cover with her paint brush.

She didn't have her pencil in hand, but she could have a good look at his slender nude body before her. He had eaten and drank down a bit of alcohol: he was full enough for her and those soft yellow and brown tones for his skin.

She thought about Alex and the little pearl of gray hair over his forehead. She gazed at the painted head on the paper, at Joey's head of black curls. A fleeting thought crossed through her mind that told her to dip the brush into white paint and make a little pearl over his forehead. And yet she flashed back on their scuffle back at the coffee house: she need not draw attention to that, even if it was art.

Such a small, slender little body. Much like Cliff, he had a little crease in between his waist and his thighs as if he had had a belt there. Maybe it was just part of the male anatomy, to have that little crease there near their thigh region. If there was one thing she needed to polish up on in her future drawing classes, it was all of that. The taste of the fundamentals and perhaps running away with them more and more in her own artistry.

She used that one brush for his whole body and his thick black hair. A touch of blue all over and she had a portrait of Joey, done with nothing more than her and him in the safety and privacy of his own home.

“May I see it?” he asked her.

“Of course! You are the subject after all.”

She picked up the canvas and she showed it off to him, and he brought a hand to his chest.

“I don't have a pencil on hand so I just winged the whole thing,” she confessed, “so it's a bit rougher than I like and what I'm used to, too.”

“No, no, I love it! And it's not just the booze talking with that, either—that really looks like a Native American painting! I wanna share that with everyone now.”

“Well, it has to dry out first,” she told him as she placed it back down on the coffee table.

“Okay. Should I get dressed now?”

“Please,” she encouraged him with a gesture to him.

“I'll get dressed and I'll drive us up to 'Swaygo 'cause the day is still pretty young.”

“As long as you're up to par,” she pointed out. “I'm not riding in the same car with a drunk dude.”

“I ain't drunk, though—just kinda tipsy. I can talk you there, though, if you'd like.”

“Yeah, sure, I'll take that.”

Joey headed back into the kitchen for his clothes and his shoes. He then handed her the car keys and they strode on outside, where the rain had backed off a great deal into a fine drizzle. She climbed behind the wheel of his car: it felt like a million years since she last drove a car with all the rides she had gotten, from Charlie as well as the subways. But she managed to drive them up to Oswego, the city by the lake, by Joey's direction. Even with the one drink in his system, she could tell that he wasn't up to par to drive any distance, but he was lucid enough to tell her about it.

By the middle of the day, and by the time they had cleared a low rolling hill outside of Syracuse, she spotted the vast black sheet off in the distance and she knew that had to be Lake Ontario. The gray of the lake hung over that small city like a protective blanket, and she thought of the towns back in California, all the ones that lined the coastline and beckoned everyone with beaches, but there was something else to it. The gray washed over everything and left it all muted in its wake: the sole black and white light house off in the distance only added to the feeling of it all.

“So this is Oswego,” she declared. “This is where you grew up.”

“Born and raised!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “The lake looks so cold right now,” he added.

“I imagine the snow here getting crazy,” she said.

“Oh—the time you, Charlie, and Frankie had to come get me was only a little part of it. Up here, we really only got two seasons: winter and road work. If they aren't working on the roads, it's probably snowing a shitload. And we often get feet of snow down by the lake shore, too. Speaking of which, I think it might snow in a bit. It feels like snow and looks it, too.”

“Sounds like Carson,” she noted as they rolled up to the first stoplight. “Almost word for word. Except Carson and Reno are both in the desert rather than near a lake.”

“Huh. Wow.” He raised his eyebrows at that.

“Yeah, it's—kinda crazy to think about especially when I hear the same thing being said about a place that's still relatively new to me.”

He then turned his head in her direction.

“I think I like you, Sam,” he admitted in a soft voice.

“I have seen you after all,” she added.

“You've seen me in the buff. And—if I'm bein' perfectly honest, I kinda wanna see you do more of it.”

“You want me to do it again,” she stifled a chuckle.

“If ya don't mind,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I'll have a pencil next time. I'll also make sure you're genuinely comfortable, like I want to make you comfortable around me sans the alcohol.”

“You have a heart of gold, Sam,” he declared.

“Nah—you're the one with the heart of gold, Joey,” she said as the light turned green. “It's in there under all those proverbial scars. It just needs to be coaxed out.”

[secretradiobrooklyn]

Radio Decameron |1.16.21 & 1.23.21

Secret Radio | 1.16.21 & 1.23.21 | Hear it here.

1. Sylvain Sylvain - “I’m So Sorry”

I never feel right saying “RIP” or “rest in peace” about an actual human being who is no longer with us. But I will say: I hope Sylvain Sylvain died content with the music he made and the life he lived. 

2. The Honeydrippers - “Impeach the President”

And ideally, then we would never have to hear from or talk about that accursed criminal ever again. We recorded this section before the inauguration — may we never forget how ALL 50 STATE CAPITOLS plus the US Capitol itself were being guarded against attacks by American citizens on that day — and shit was tense there for many days. As of this writing, things are… unviolent. It feels like a lull to me, honestly, rather than, say, all that stuff being in the rearview. It is not. 

But meanwhile, check that beat out!  

I love how Roy Charles is trying to convince them to stop demanding, but they just keep insisting. This song is brilliant, and the playing is — c’mon now — unimpeachable.

3. Niagara - “Tchiki boum”

We heard this song in the film “Perdrix,” known as “The Bare Necessity” in the version we saw via SLIFF. They’re dancing in a club to this, and it’s just a really distractingly good song for the scene.

- C.K. Mann - “Mber Papa”

We just recently learned about Essiebons by learning that he passed just this August. He was a producer of legendary status to a lot of people. Listening around his music we came upon C.K. Mann and this righteous track, which Essiebons produced. I think this is a pretty ultra track, really. Every instrument really kicks it out. I hope Essiebons died happy.

4. Rocky Horror Picture Show - “Hot Patootie / Bless My Soul”

New president, feeling kinda upbeat and hopeful. Really just starting to feel the tips of my soul from where it’s been getting singed. It’s going to take a long time to scab over what happened to us all over the last four years. I’m so fucking glad he’s gone that it makes me really love that rock n roll!

5. Moon Unit & Frank Zappa - “Valley Girl”

Tell you what: we watched the movie “Zappa” recently as part of a film festival, and I highly recommend watching it at your earliest opportunity. It is absolutely for people who do, and for people who do not, love his music. He shows up as a really interesting character throughout his whole life. The film skips through his songs with amazing speed, which actually works really well in his case. This song is with his daughter Moon Unit, who actually slid a handwritten note under his door introducing herself by name and saying that she wanted to collaborate on a project. They did this, and while Zappa was in Europe, Moon Unit brought the acetates to KROC and the song became an instant hit for them. Meanwhile he was writing for multiple orchestras.

6. Jacques Dutronc - “Sur Une Nappe de Restaurant” 

This is totally not how I tune my drums, but I love how Dutronc’s drums sound in every song. I mean, the whole band of course, but there is a physical space both in the drum part as written and in the recorded texture of the whole that is just deep and wide.

7. Nyame Bekyere - “Medley: Broken Heart / Aunty Yaa / Omo Yaba (Nzema)”

This is another discovery via Essebiens, who released it on Essiebons Enterprises. It’s such an intense track! The cover artwork is by K. Frimpong, who plays a crazy Cuban guitar style on his own albums. 

8. Ros Serey Sothea - “Tngai Neas Kyom Yam Sra (Today I Drink Wine)”

This is a voice, and a cast of characters, I can’t stop thinking about. This is from “Cambodian Rocks Vol 1,” which is full of great recordings. Her voice could shatter glass, and it’s so skillfully wielded — I’d love to hear her in a face-off with Frankie Valli.

- There’s a moment from Paige’s phone archives of a little George and Isabelle aching to ride rides at the Millstadt homecoming.

9. Les Poppys - “Isabelle je t’aime” 

These young boys singing collectively about their — collective? 17 individual? — love(s) for Isabelle is even more innocent in video format:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o618mlIaR7E

- more C.K. Mann - “Mber Papa”

10. The Jam - “In the City”

This song makes me miss the city so much! It sounds like everything we really can’t get up to right now. I feel like this song helps me feel like I’m walking fast under streetlights.

11. Bruno Leys - “Maintenant je suis un voyou”

This 7” from Born Bad is so incredible! Bruno Leys worked on just a few songs with a band that included a guy named Emmanuel Pairault who plays parts on an instrument called the ondes Martenot, a super early, very eclectic and ungainly electronic instrument. The fact that he could actually compose music of any kind on it was considered remarkable. The fact that he was able to write such incredibly expressive parts to thoroughly filigree the choruses is what amazes me. 

This band recorded four songs, then Bruno Leys left for his military service, and when he came back it was all completely over — the catalog was sold, everyone was scattered. Four songs. 

12. Sleepy Kitty - “Nothing = You”

I’m pretty sure this song was essentially our response to our own growing fascination with French pop. To me it sounds more French than American in texture. We played this song with the Incurables once at The Pageant in STL and it was especially glorious. I think of that moment — Kevin Bachmann harmonizing flawlessly with Paige, four different guitars ringing through the chords — every time I hear this track.

13. Plastic Bertrand - “Pogo Pogo”

I don’t know why or when “Ça Plane Pour Moi” became the one French pop song that Americans are likely to know, but it’s a total banger so I have no complaints. It turns out that pretty much all of his songs sound very similar — one-note melodies in the verse, cool vocalese hooks in the chorus, and super-driving guitar parts throughout. Turns out that’s a formula we totally dig!

14. Os K-rrascos & Vanessinha Do Picatchu - “Bochecha Ardendo”

For whatever reason, a variety of Brazilian music seemed to be the very hottest stuff to be found in Chicago’s art-school party nights, and I remember losing my mind to some heavy Brazilian rhythms that just kept folding over and over on themselves while staying so impossibly funky that the whole night just turned into a deep-green-and-dark orange smear of a late-night winter warehouse dancing and sweating and then way, way later, walking home steaming along a cold sidewalk on a tree-lined street.

- Eric Dolphy - “Hat and Beard”

15. Von Südenfed - “The Rhinohead” 

I feel like no one in my zone talks enough about how awesome Von Südenfed is. I mean, we only know this one album, but it’s so fascinating — a band where Mark E. Smith is contributing but not in control, and on purpose. He shows off his pop chops and gets to be a whole different character in this one place, while the Mouse on Mars guys get to play new characters themselves. It feels like it’s related to “Extricate” in how it’s constructed, but the music doesn’t sound like something any version of the Fall has made. 

16. Fischer-Spooner - “The 15th”

A friend of Wire is a friend of ours.

p.s. Paige here, they went to SAIC (before I arrived) but they were super famous to all of us in the dorms. 

17. T.P. Orchestre - “Pourquoi Pas?”

The depths of this band just continue to amaze us. We’re waiting on some T.P.O.C. vinyl right now, featuring mostly songs we’ve never heard, and the everlovin’ post office is misdelivering it BACK to France even as I write this. It’s driving us totally nuts.

18. Nina Simone - “Mississippi Goddam”

The hardness of her voice, the hardness of her experience, the hardness of her words.

19. Fanny - “Blind Alley”

I don’t know who first put this in front of my eyes, but it was a few years ago. The video is so basic — they’re performing in front of a video-psych effect — but the performers themselves are just so absorbing. And the production is so heavy, it feels legendary. 

20. Manmadha Leela soundtrack - “Kushalamena”

I think we first saw a colorful glimpse of this song before we heard it. Paige automatically starts dancing a little dance as soon as “Kushalamena” comes on. 

This I think came from the “Now Playing” group I’m in on FB: a guy was holding out a picture of the cover of this album and said he’d bought 40 more like it and he LOVED EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. He just wanted to see if anyone knew anything more about them. I did my best to hear the album he was showing. I think this is it. I think he’s right to be super jazzed about it, we just want to hang out with him and listen to all those records.

21. Francis Bebey - “Je vous aime zaime zaime”

Paige was working on her pronunciation and when to use the ellision — the z sound for the s letter, depending on what comes next — and he said something about, “Unless you’re Francis Bebey and you’re singing ‘Je vous aime zaime zaime.” And she said, “Francis Bebey? I know Francis Bebey!” and he said, “No, you’re thinking of another Francis.” But we all know the truth. This was our introduction to the song though.

- Jack Teagarden - “I Guess I’ll Have to Change My Plan”

Paige was looking for the Fred Astaire & Jack Buchanan version from “The Bandwagon,” but found this great instrumental trombone-forward version instead.

22. Pono AM - "Good Vibes"

This is one of those things you see every once in a great while when you’re playing clubs in a music scene — a band hits a natural home run. They just have an undeniably appealing crowdpleaser of a song that they wrote, and everyone flips out when they hear it. We salute Pono AM for writing this perfect song. They enrich the STL music world. My only advice to them was to never get tired of it or take it for granted. 

Paige: We took their band photos at our space on Cherokee Street, for an RFT article. I was impressed because they arrived with matching shirts that still had the tags on them, and it was really exciting to see a new band on the scene who was really good and also putting in the effort to be graphically interesting. We believe that stuff counts. All of their shows, if you got there early, you’d see all of the band members blowing up as many balloons as they could, so there would be balloons bouncing around their set for the whole show, and it made it even better.

23. Sir Victor Uwaifo And His Titibitis - "Iranm Iran"

Analog Africa has a new album! It’s called “Edo International,” and it shows off a whole other side of Beninese music that isn’t T.P. Orchestre. I think of T.P. Orchestre as just a giant force in Beninese music, but then this comp comes out showing so many other roots of Benin City’s highlife-funk scene. Victor Uwaifo was a Nigerian guitarist who returned to his hometown in Benin City and built Joromi Studio. The sound he put together at that place, via his own bands and others’, came to be called Edo Funk.

24. Laughing Man - "Brilliant Colors"

This is a tape of one of the artists of one of the group houses that we always would stay at in DC. Benjamin Schurr runs a tape label and it was always such a treat getting the new batch of Blight. releases for the van soundsystem when we’d roll through town, or one of his bands would tour through St. Louis. They were always interesting stuff and a wide range of sounds and styles. 

We first met Brandon Moses when he was on tour with Paperhaus in St. Louis. I think it was his birthday, too. He didn’t tour a ton with them. Laughing Man was our first time hearing him front songs. We always enjoyed staying with Erik and Benjamin and Brandon and enjoyed sharing that green power juice that Brandon gave us — really powered us up for the next drive. 

- Bembeya Jazz - “Petit Sokou”

I have felt love for this song for awhile, but Josh Weinstein recently sent a video of the band actually performing this song and WOW, it is hypnotizing. The outfits, the instruments, and the expressiveness of the guitar playing are all so vivid in black and white: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpZVF_kKUJ4

25. Maxime le Forestier - “San Francisco”

Our thanks to Paige’s French instructor for showing us this song. Paige’s version is well worth hearing too, I must say: https://www.instagram.com/p/CKhJfqDDe2q/

p.s. Paige again, if you want to see the dragon birthday card that Evan made, here it is!

[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 1: Clematis

i walk a lonely road

the only one that i have ever known

Virgil stepped into the strange apartment.

It was quiet. Not a mere absence of sound, but a quiet that breathed deep and blanketed the senses like a nighttime pillow. It was a quiet that examined every scuff and rustle and soft exhalation with cool curiosity. It listened, with the hush of trees in the night.

It watched, with the perilous regard of faeries.

Virgil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; probably had been holding since leaving Ohio two days before. After multiple bus rides across multiple states and hours and hours of strangers and suitcases and stress…despite how it put his paranoid senses on edge, he was glad of the quiet, away from open spaces and curious eyes.

But the apartment was also dark, and a little cold, and its owner was painfully conspicuous by his absence.

The place belonged to a half-faery named Logan Ursae: who, according to the Youngstown Grimms, was a friend of the organization that they trusted to provide pursued changelings a place to run to and start over.

Changelings like Virgil.

Virgil, who would rather be with his Ren Faire troupe back in Ohio. The reappearance of his old faery master had brought his scarce two years of freedom to an abrupt end.

The Grimms were a loose organization of former faery thralls; humans kidnapped as children, who’d lived in Arcadia for so long that their bodies had absorbed faery magic and made them something not quite fae, but more than human. Blessed…or cursed, depending on who you asked…with strange and erratic and often dangerous powers. Those that joined the Grimms used those powers to help other humans escape and integrate, as best they could, back into the human world.

And, occasionally, they worked to protect said thralls when their former faery masters came looking for them.

Now here Virgil stood, in some ordinary human apartment, owned by an absent half-blood with a human name, in some middle-of-nowhere city in hot, muggy Florida, a thousand miles from everyone he knew.

Figures, the guy isn’t even here when I show up. He tugged his oversized black plaid hoodie tighter around himself. It’s not like I’m ever anyone’s top priority.

“Uh, hey?” he called, flipping a light switch. “Anyone home?”

Silence.

Virgil rolled his eyes.

Despite his relief at not having to answer questions or make small talk with a stranger, Logan’s absence unsettled him. What kind of person apparently regularly took in changelings on the run, but couldn’t be arsed to actually be around when they turned up on his doorstep? If Virgil’d had any other place to go, he’d have turned around and walked right back out the door on principle.

Instead he huffed out a sigh and let his ratty duffle bag slide to the floor. He’d meet this mysterious Logan eventually; assuming, of course, that his pursuer didn’t track him down in the night and finish what he’d begun years ago in Arcadia.

It would be no more than I deserve.  

Logan Ursae’s apartment was spacious and clean, making Virgil uncomfortably aware of his own travel-mussed, unwashed state. Hopefully the half-faery wouldn’t care if he used the shower…well, if he wanted to lay down rules, he should’ve been here to do it.

The foyer spilled into a modest living room, with a navy sectional couch and a low coffee table, several standing lamps, a hallway presumably leading to the bedrooms, and the dining space off in its own niche to the right. Practically every wall in the place housed a heavily-laden bookshelf or three; an inconceivable number of books to Virgil, who’d lived either on the road or on the run his whole life. He wandered to the oval dining table, trailing fingerpads across classy pale wood and a dark blue runner.

A half empty water dish with ‘Nic’ spelled out in neat cursive sat against the far wall…but there were no other signs of pets. If Logan did have a dog or something, it was as absent as its owner.

A low counter separated a small galley kitchen from the rest of the apartment, navy towels hanging evenly from the oven handle and blue, galaxy-themed pot holders hanging under the cabinets.

The guy clearly had a thing for the color blue.

Even the curious scent that hung in the air smelled blue to Virgil’s changeling-sensitive nose, tickling at his senses in an explosion of color. Dark teal skies and rich bronze bark against a background of earthy brown, a combination that made his mind hazy in a pleasant way. Subtle and masculine, but more middle-note than the patchouli oil Virgil himself liked to wear.

He inhaled slowly, unconsciously imagining that scent against a warm masculine neck, and wondered where the hell that thought came from.

Maybe you’re just gay, Virgil, he groused to himself.

In place of a television, Logan’s living room held a large, intricately carved wooden cabinet; the antique kind, waist-high, with drawers and two swinging doors. On top of this sat an old fashioned record player with a huge brass horn. The setup could have easily graced a 50s movie set; both cabinet and player were heavy and solid and gleamed with care.

Virgil idly pawed through the impressive vinyl collection on the shelf above, recognizing a few artists, and then knelt to see if there were any more inside the cabinet.

“I’ll thank ye not to touch that,” a voice said.

Virgil’s heart skittered up into his throat. He whirled.

A creature no more than two feet tall leaned against the coffee table, tiny brown arms folded over a sturdy brown chest, covered by a tunic that looked to be messily stitched from several colored hand towels. Their feet were bare and covered in brown wispy hair. Gender was impossible to determine.

Their face was framed by a mop of more wispy hair and a tall hat that, weirdly, looked like it had been made from burlap and a Starbucks cup. A pair of black sunglasses sat on a red, upturned nose, nearly obscuring a pair of black, beady, glaring eyes under expressive eyebrows.

Fae, Virgil’s mind whispered. Fae, Fae, there’s a Fae in the house they’ll tell Deceit where I am what do I do…?

No. He was overreacting. It was just a house brownie. A solitary. Generally harmless.

Virgil took a breath and relaxed his shoulders, which had tensed up at being startled.

“You always sneak up on people?” he asked, mirroring the small faery’s crossed-arm stance.

“You always go poking about in people’s houses?” the brownie countered in a high, sassy voice, the faintest hint of a baroque staining the syllables.

“I’m not poking; I have a key. S’not my fault Logan’s not here—”

“I meant what’s behind you,” the brownie nodded toward the cabinet, “ye daft changeling. I know the Bear is expecting company. Do what ye want in the rest of the apartment, but keep clear of my house.”

Oh.

Virgil shuffled away from the cabinet, trying to recall what little he knew about domestic Fae. Don’t insult them. Leave gifts; never leave them payment. Don’t watch them do chores. Don’t give them clothes.

Nothing about trying to make conversation with one; unfortunate, since Virgil sucked at making conversation in general.

“Sorry,” he grumbled. “Just…don’t like being surprised.”

The brownie peeked over their sunglasses…why would a Fae wear sunglasses?…and ran beady eyes over Virgil’s faded purple hair and messy eyeshadow, his ripped jeans and faded black hoodie, seemingly content to let him squirm under the scrutiny.

“Um, no offense,” Virgil muttered, rubbing his neck. “But your kind don’t usually show themselves to humans.”

The brownie plopped onto the coffee table.

“Well, I see no humans here,” they quipped, leaning forward. “Do you, changeling?”

Virgil instinctively ducked his head, letting his bangs obscure his eyes…eyes that, like all changelings, held a narrow ring of color around each pupil. Worse, Virgil’s changeling eyes were heterochromatic, setting him apart even from his own kind. Besides his natural dark brown, he bore a dark green ring around his left pupil, and a striking purple one around his right.

Wearing his hair long in the front helped, but they still drew attention.

He hated attention.

If there was one thing Fae were good at, it was needling at your insecurities. Brownies and hobgoblins and other solitaries, like all faeries, enjoyed their little games.

“Technically changelings are human,” Virgil grumbled. “We’re just kept in Arcadia for so long that the magic just kind of—”

“Bleeds into ye?” The brownie swung their legs, making their mop of hair sway. “Soaks into your teeth and sinew until ye can alter the Contracts same as they can?”

Virgil frowned. “If that means ‘do magic’, then yeah.”

“I live with a half-blood, lad,” the brownie pointed out, still in that sassy tone, licking their knobby teeth. “I know of your Grimms. I know you’re here for the Bear to keep safe, because your master tried to snatch ye back up. What’re you called, then, eh?”

“Um,” Virgil stalled, swallowing.

It was never a good idea to give a Fae one’s real name, but if Logan and the little Fae had a close relationship, Virgil didn’t dare insult the brownie by lying to them. He suspected if this one knew why he was here, they knew his name already.

“Virgil,” he admitted softly.

The brownie smiled, removing their sunglasses to bare their face properly.

“Mmm. Then you may call me Remy,” they said with a small nod, flourishing the glasses and parking them back on their nose. “He/him pronouns.”

Virgil nodded, guessing he’d passed some test.

Remy folded his arms again.

Neither spoke for a long, uncomfortable minute…long enough for Virgil’s skin to crawl. Logan’s brownie seemed friendly enough, but Virgil wasn’t too keen to start befriending every faery he happened across. He also despised awkward silences, and small talk, and making nice with a stranger when he was worn down and grimy from travel and ready to curl up somewhere and just sleep.

“Look, uh, Remy,” Virgil said at last, picking at his sleeves. “Did Logan know I was coming tonight?”

“You want to know why he’s not here to meet ye?” Remy shrugged. “I could explain, or,” and he gestured to a neatly folded sheet of paper on the coffee table, “you could hear it from the Bear himself.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and snatched up the note.

He could’ve have led with that, the little bastard. He ignored Remy’s knowing chuckle and unfolded the note with a little more force than necessary. Delicate, slanted script covered the paper, the lines so straight they looked like they’d been made with a ruler.

‘Salutations,’

Virgil raised an eyebrow. Really? We’re leading with that?

‘If you are reading this, Virgil, then I extend my sincerest apologies for my absence upon your arrival. An emergency has called me away. Though I advised your Grimm sponsors of this as soon as I could, you had already begun your journey, and, as you have no phone, there was no way to inform you.

Remy was right about this note being enlightening. Virgil hoped the guy didn’t actually talk like this.

‘(We must remedy this issue upon my return; due to the circumstances of your relocation, I insist upon having a reliable means to contact you.)’

Patronizing, too. Great.

‘The room on the left is yours. There are clean sheets on the bed and towels in the bathroom. I trust you have brought your own toiletries.’

Virgil frowned. Either Logan was one of those people who believed not brushing one’s teeth after every meal was barbaric, or he was afraid Virgil would steal his shampoo or something.

Whatever.

‘Also, please do not move the bowl on the counter, and if you find it empty, if you could fill it with the cream you’ll find in the fridge, I would much appreciate it. The house brownie may or may not choose to introduce himself to you; he tends to spend most of his time sleeping. If he does come out, please be polite.’

Virgil glanced up and was unsurprised to see that Remy had vanished. Brownies generally came and went as they pleased and stayed out of sight; he already knew he was fortunate Remy had shown himself at all.

‘I advise you to stay inside the apartment until my return. You will find both the fridge and the pantry stocked; please make yourself at home. I expect to return sometime the night of the 12th, and look forward to meeting you then.

Logan’

‘P.S. Do not touch the Crofters.’

Well, August 12th would be over in about an hour, so it didn’t look like he’d be meeting Logan that night. Virgil refolded and pocketed the note, sighing again. He found Remy’s bowl and refilled it as instructed, but figured he probably wouldn’t see the little brownie again until Logan returned…if then.

Meanwhile, he might as well get settled.

The room mentioned in the note held a twin bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and a small deck with a chair. Not much, but the bedspread looked new and he had his own closet. Virgil, having lived in a tent before this, was very much not complaining.

After unpacking his clothes (black, very dark gray, more black, a little purple…what, so he had a certain aesthetic), he carefully unearthed his two most valued possessions: a beat-up tackle box full of smushed, well-used acrylic paints, and a roll of brushes and palette knives. In his escape, he’d had to leave his all sketchbooks and paintings behind…but he knew he was lucky to have saved any of his art supplies at all.

Virgil sat heavily on his bed, the last seventy-two hours finally starting to catch up.

The sheer terror of seeing his former faery master strolling through that Renaissance Faire like he owned the place.

Him bolting to his tent and throwing everything he could into his duffle.

Running, with no real plan, nowhere in particular to go, just away.

He was lucky that a Grimm had stumbled upon him at that farmer’s market and taken him to a safe house, one of many, set up all over the country. He was lucky those Grimms were in contact with the Founders…the original Grimm team…and through them, Logan.

He was lucky.

He’d already escaped hell once. He wasn’t sure he’d survive under Deceit’s thumb again. Working until his fingers bled and his eyes burned with exhaustion, second guessing every word, every gesture, every silence, never knowing day to day if he’d be slapped or fed, coddled or tortured…

Virgil shuddered, wrapping arms around himself and exhaling carefully. He’d endured over twenty hours of traveling without having a panic attack. It would suck to fall into one now that he was, for the moment, safe.

At least, he hoped so.

For lack of anything else to do, Virgil showered in the guest bathroom (with his own shampoo, thank you very much, Mr. Bring-Your-Own-Toiletries), and dressed for bed. , It was barely midnight and his eyelids already felt heavy, and normally he considered 2am “early”. He read through Logan’s stilted, precise note again, frowning the odd post script before setting it on the nightstand and switching off the lamp.

What in the Arcadian hell is a ‘Crofters’?

Clematis: rest, safety