#i imagined this in the voice of some Victorian old British man

[finally-got-a-diagnosis]

Unmasking around people is such a blood curdling thought for me. Like you want me to what? Stim in front of people? You want me to leave situations when I feel uncomfortable because of too much sensory input? What next? Are you gonna tell me not to force myself to talk when I'm overstimulated? Pshaw. I think not my good sir.

[affairesasuivre]

Wamp 2 Dem/ Giggs

With top-shelf beats and assists from A-list contributors, the South London rapper’s new mixtape aims to show American listeners that there’s more to British rap than grime and cameos on Drake singles.

Giggs’ new mixtape arrives at a time when his profile has never been so high yet his reputation, at least in the U.S., has never dipped so low. A couple of guest spots on Drake’s 2017 playlist album More Life may have elevated the South London rapper to new levels of global renown, but the reaction of American audiences to his work—and in particular the Batman-referencing verse on Drake’s “KMT”—has proved tepid verging on hostile. “His flow is wack. It doesn’t go with the beats he’s on. His mixing engineer did an awful job with his vocals and he’s got some weak bars,” a 17-year-old rap fan told Noisey UK when the music website set out to investigate the biggest Anglo-American culture shock since U.S. audiences started taking Gavin Rossdale seriously.

American criticism of Giggs tends to focus on two particular aspects of his performance. Many U.S. rap fans scoffed at the idea of a British rapper talking about drugs, guns, and gangs, as Giggs does on “KMT,” responding on Twitter with the timeworn clichés of tea and the Victorian empire. Others dislike Giggs’ brutally spartan rap style, comparing him unfavorably to Skepta, an MC who operates in an entirely different style of music. They may both hang out with Drake in London but Skepta is a grime don, while Giggs is the king of road rap, a name recently coined for the heavier, trap-infused style of modern British hip-hop. Giggs has said that Wamp 2 Dem—pronounced “W’appen to dem?,” a nod to the Jamaican patois that is omnipresent in South London—is meant in part as a rejoinder to the first charge. “What I did care about was people wasn’t really respecting England, like the hoods and shit,” he told Beats 1 host Ebro Darden. “I didn’t really like the disrespect of what man’s been through.”

Wamp 2 Dem displays Giggs’ talent for painting brutally dark London scenes with a sparse lyrical touch peppered with enough British slang to keep Genius in advertising dollars for the foreseeable future. On paper, Giggs’ lyrics often don’t amount to much. But he writes perfectly for his own voice, a pitiless, bassy mutter that oozes like tar slopping out of a barrel, infusing lines like “Man ain’t really too confirming/None of these vermin” (from “Gully Niggaz”) with an ominous force. True, some of the lyrics on Wamp 2 Dem may be decidedly charm-free—“Moist Pussy” is about as artless as the name suggests—but you are left in no doubt that Giggs’ native Peckham is far from the Mary Poppins utopia that some stateside listeners clearly imagine it to be.

The beats, meanwhile, show Giggs’ knack for mining the best in transatlantic rap production, a skill that dates back to his breakthrough track “Talkin’ da Hardest,” where he owned the instrumental of Stat Quo’s “Here We Go.” Production on Wamp 2 Dem comes from Florida duo Cool & Dre, Atlanta’s London On Da Track and Zaytoven, and Londoners Donae’o and Footsie, among others, and the overarching feel is of American trap bluster soaked in icy South London rain. American audiences may not find anything especially new here—particularly compared to the spikier, more frenetic sound of grime—but the beats on Wamp 2 Dem are finely tuned for Giggs’ crawling South London menace.

Opening track “Gully Niggaz” is perhaps the best example of this simpatico voice and production fusion. The beat samples Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” an idea that sounds on paper like the kind of contrasting musical blend we should run to the hills to avoid. (In fact, it’s the second time Giggs has taken on the Tchaikovsky ballet, after the 2015 Dizzee Rascal collaboration “Nutcrackerz.”) But the classical bed sits well with Giggs’ bruising monotone; helped by a fantastically heavy, pitch-shifting drum pattern, it adds just enough musical polarity to really lift the song. “Ultimate Gangsta,” which follows, pulls off a similar feat, marrying an eerie string sample to a nervy beat made out of gunshots and hi-hats, over which Giggs and 2 Chainz exchange tales of gangster life.

This high standard barely dips over Wamp 2 Dem’s 13 tracks, which are helped by sympathetic production and guest turns that do more than just take up space in the credits. “Times Tickin’” joins the dots between Giggs’ London hustle, Jamaican dancehall, and American hip-hop, thanks to a commanding guest turn from Popcaan; “Gangstas & Dancers” sees Giggs join forces with Lil Duke and Young Thug on a chilling, detuned beat; and London MCs Footsie and D Double E lend “Outsiders” a wonderfully paranoid energy. But don’t be misled by the A-list guests: Wamp 2 Dem is very much Giggs’ album, where his voice dominates and his aesthetics rule; it is Giggs in excelsis, whether he is being hard, crude, introspective, or playful. By the time “Ruler” closes the album in an epic, almost operatic fashion, the rapper has already made his point: London life isn’t all bangers and mash, British MCs don’t just make grime, and Drake fans who dismissed his performance on “KMT” have a hell of a lot of catching up to do.

[aphspain-pure]

Back to de past, right to the future [Chap. I]

Category: Fanfic. 

Pair: EngSpa, UkSpa. 

Words: 2.611.

Genre(s): drama, historical, yaoi. 

Abstract: England feels some magical disturbance in the air that morning. How could he have imagined that it was caused by his own self, but some centuries ago. 

Pirate England suddendly appears in the Modern Era. 

________________

When he opened his eyes, England could not focus well. 

It was dark and cold, but the tremendous and familiar humidity of his cabin or any of the parts of his ship was not noticeable. Nor could he feel the typical rocking of the waves of the high seas, so he deduced that, God knows why, he was not in his boat.

He scrambled to his feet and took a quick look around him in dismay. He was in complete darkness but, thanks to the patch over his left eye, he was quickly able to get used to the lack of light. Only then he did recognize the place.

This was his magic room, where since Viking occupation times he had conjured his spells and his miracles. It was cloudy, dark and penetrating as always. There was nothing out of place except for him, who couldn't bring himself to remember how in the hell he had gotten there. He did not remember even having arrived at port, even having approached Great Britain. The last thing he remembered was being on his ship, somewhere between the Caribbean and the West Indies, and he couldn't figure out how or when he ended up there.

Grunting in disagreement, with a hangover of a thousand horrors, he decided to leave the questions unanswered for later and get up, dusting himself off, ready to go out and yell at the first servant who crossed his path. He didn't know what was going on but he didn't care, at least he wouldn't think about it until he'd had his first shot of whiskey or rum and kicked a couple of arse.

Or so he thought, unhinged, until he opened his special room’s door and took a look outside.

- What the bloody hell?

 ____________________________

In another part of London, England watched the energy in the air with a puzzled countenance, noticing slight arrhythmic disturbances in the wind while enjoying his famous breakfast tea. He was in a cozy old café from his Victorian era that still stood to this day and which England cherished with pure English love and courtesy. He had decided to have breakfast there, early, to arrive with plenty of time for the world conference that day. That was why he had left the house exceptionally early, even if he usually preferred to get up at a moderate hour and take it easy on homely mornings.

He sighed. He had once been a man of action.

Maybe America was right when he accused him of being a boring old curmudgeon.

He calmly finished his cup of tea, retrieved his coat from the courteous waiter who had stripped him of it earlier –a practice which, now almost extinct in modern times, England greatly appreciated-, thanked him and left. The day was cloudy and threateningly rainy in London, as usual.

Thus, once outside, he felt again that feeling of unease that had been attacking him for some time. A spiritual unrest, as if something bad was about to happen. Deciding not to become paranoid, he called his chauffeur to take him to the boardroom right in the center of Westminster.

 __________________________

He arrived early, and the only other nations besides himself already there were Germany, Switzerland, Netherlands, and Japan. The rest would still be in their respective hotels or even, if they had decided to fly from their countries that morning, on the plane or the airport. As far as he knew, France used to prefer the latter option when meetings were held at his place, preferring to spend as little time as possible on British soil. And England could not say that it did not understand or disapprove of it; moreover, he would resort to the same when the situation was the opposite.

He walked over, respectfully greeted the three blonde nations, and calmly placed himself next to Japan. His transoceanic friend gave him a slight bow of the head. - Ohayo gosaimasu, Igirisu-san. How has the sun risen today? –he commented, in an appropriate and neutral tone.

England appreciated the chivalricism. – It isn’t being one of my best days, but I cannot complain. Anyway, good morning to you too, Japan. –And the Japanese gave him a small and short smile.

After that all went silent, and the only thing that was heard for a few minutes was the chalk of Germany hitting the blackboard as he wrote down the important points of the day. Everyone knew that the meeting would probably end as usual, with nothing clear, with the United States laughing and claiming to be a hero every few seconds, the odd country asleep, hysterical discussions between itself and France and Russia trying to make people become one with him, but Germany still insisted on trying to create a serious atmosphere. Internally, England admired and appreciated his dedication, even if it didn't get real results in the end.

Eventually the rest of the countries began to arrive one by one. The feeling of discomfort and that something was wrong did not leave the guts of the host country, anyway.

There was something strange, even dangerous, floating in the atmosphere. His sharp, mint green eyes scanned every corner trying to find the source of the discomfort, unable to find anything. He had a pleasant conversation with Luxembourg when he arrived and later he chatted with Portugal a bit, all automatically while he went over everything. Each time the air was tighter from a supernatural point of view, as if the Disaster itself was drawing closer and closer.

It wasn't until Norway appeared in his field of vision that England paid any real attention to something. 

Usually they would do nothing but greet each other from afar with a minimal movement of the head. But if Norway had stood there, in front of him, it definitely meant something.

Getting to the point, the Nordic inquired. - What the hell is happening here? –With his frankness and usual calm voice.

England, sighing, crossed his arms and furrowed his thick eyebrows.

- It's been bothering me since this morning. I don't know what the hell it can be, but it's downright disturbing. It is… like a powerful presence but at the same time cloudy. And the strangest thing of all is that it looks strangely familiar to me.

- Yeah… -the other man agreed-. It's ... certainly familiar in some way. –Then he looked around-. And every time it seems to increase that energy. You haven't used magic again while drunk, have you? –And for a moment, England looked offended. At least before recalling the hundreds of times it had actually happened, after which he quietly apologized.

Trying to hide that he was somewhat ashamed of himself, he cleared his throat and muttered that he didn't remember conjuring anything lately. That definitely upset the Norwegian's stern gesture a bit.

- So this doesn't make sense.

A moment later the Italian brothers entered and Germany called the session off. He and Norway were forced to separate, but not before sending each other glances of beware of anything and nodding in agreement.

But in these, just as Germany was about to start with the first point of the day, the main gate that led to the huge boardroom was thrown open. 

And the most incredible thing happened.

- What the hell is going on here by gad!? –The sordid growl of the new presence broke in. They all immediately turned to look there and, simply petrified, England stood up, shocked, knocking the chair over.

In front of them stood an astonishing 17th century pirate captain, dressed in his grandiose red coat, his worn flat boots, his jeweled saber, his open ruffled shirt, the typical gold ear rings, the eye patch in the eye and the so characteristic captain's hat. His voice had been sordid and commanding and his eyes exuded the amusement and danger of a true saltwater buccaneer. Someone who, at least the European countries and some former colonies, recognized immediately. He licked his lips leisurely as he began to draw his sword.

- You're already singing if you don't want to die, you louts! What does this all mean? –And pointed the sword towards the large table full of perplexed countries.

The attention fell entirely on him, in a frozen moment of time, until someone else claimed it.

- What the bloody hell are you doing here!?

Then the newcomer pirate's eyes lifted until, surprised and interested, they rested on the emitter. He looked directly at England, dressed and mature, with an uneasy and confused smile. - I should ask you the same. What is this all supposed to be? –taking great strides and dangerously dancing his saber with that deranged look of his-. You better start spitting it all out if you don't want to taste my steel, you fucking bastard.

And England, still not fully recovered from his shock, tried to articulate something to calm the hotheaded just as the door opened a second time. This time, timidly and slowly.

- Eh… Hello? I'm sorry I'm late again, I've fallen asleep again haha… -from a newcomer Spain who nervously rubbed the back of his neck with an embarrassed gesture.

This intrusion impressively attracted the pirate’s attention. 

- You... –he blurted out, lifting the eyepatch to see perfectly with both eyes, as a wolfish grin stretched the corners of his lips and he screamed in exaltation-. On guard, you bastard!

And before Spain could even react, the subject came forward like a veritable bloodthirsty beast towards him. The ancient empire, instinctively, placed his body on guard against the imminent attack, which he would have been about to receive if it had not been for the sudden cry that devastated the room:

- SLEEP!

And the body of the said pirate man fell inert to the ground. England had conjured something to make him abruptly fall asleep. The boardroom was suddenly silent.

England and Spain looked at each other in shock.

- ...What the hell?

_____________________

 When pirate England emerged from the dark abyss of unconsciousness again, it appeared to be back at its home outside London. He blinked a few times as he growled and groaned at the post-spell pain in his tormented mind. He cursed the other England, the one from the future who had had such a naughty face, and tried to regain control of his body.

It was then that he was known prisoned. His arms were tied with a thick, scratchy rope to the back of the chair he was sitting on. He raised an eyebrow for a moment, really not very impressed, and later turned his gaze straight ahead.

The familiar face of his presumed captor managed to get an idle, amused smile from his lips.

- Scared that I might bite you, darling?

Which was quickly answered by a. – Dare to even suggest such a thing and I will hang you before you can take a step. –Which brought an even bigger smile and a greater sparkle in the other's eye.

There, sitting on the sofa, Spain was holding a rare article of paper with many hyper-realistic letters and images that he seemed to be reading carefully. But England knew better. He knew as the best what face this handsome jerk made when he was really focused, and the one he made when he tried to fake it. Catching Spain in the middle of that picaresque action seemed as charming as it was amusing, and he could not but fall into the temptation to frustrate him in his attempt.

- I do not know anything about the future, but just by seeing those whore's clothes that you bring, I think I would not mind being in your humble care a little more.

A vein was marked in Spain’s forehead who, honestly, had been years, decades…! With no real dislike for England. An insincere and tight smile showed his vain attempt at impassiveness. –This I am wearing is a simple "shirt", the type of garment that is worn today for formal meetings.

- Well, what a scandal, how immoral! With that tight-fitting blouse, I could see your nipples from nautical miles away. –To which, with a new vein marked, Spain jumped just at the time that contemporary England entered the room.

He carried with him a small silver tray with two porcelain mugs of Earl Grey and a few small butter cakes. His entrance surprised the other two. Immediately, however, Spain pointed at the captive and yelled at the newcomer. – Tell this uneducated you that neither my shirt is obscene nor am I a whore, now!

That sudden demand caught England off guard, whose first thought was to look directly at the named shirt, seeing, therefore, how the white fabric hugged and made the tanned skin transparent. He swallowed hard for a moment, which his other self took advantage of to act funny.

- From the familiar treatment that you two maintain I deduce that, very and at the same time not so much to my regret, in the future the Spanish Empire and I have that kind of intimate relationship. –Whistling at the sudden sight of a red and indignant England and an angry Spain-. In the bull’s eye, isn't it?

Making that this time, yes, Spain was so frustrated that he ended up pouncing on him.

The action awakened the green in the captive's eyes, amused to the core that he had finally made the future version of his rival lose his temper. Spain fell on him, a pair of strong hands and –although not as calloused as he himself remembered- still rough from the work in the fields surrounding his neck with accumulated resentment. 

He held back a smile.

- Ahh... I see that you are both quite rusted …

And, shocking Spain (who had still been trying to hang him), he broke free from his moorings and abruptly swapped positions.

England, from outside, watched in shock and without being able to speak as, in front of his eyes, his former self turned the tables and placed himself with the force of a beast above his current EU partner. Spain had fallen backwards and his hands had been forcibly captured on his head; he writhed like a sardine as he looked badly and –almost- growled at the one who just two seconds ago had been tied to a chair. Immobilizing his body, the pirate had mounted on him, leaving him unable to actuate any movement.

Looking indiscreet and almost with little concealed grimace, England glanced in the direction of present-day Britain. - Even a bastard child who has not seen more boobs in his life than his mother's would have loosened a knot that simple. –He growled, nodding at the untied rope lying on the ground. Making disgust, this time he directed his words to Spain under his grip-. Are you grossly underestimating me or are you so old that you have forgotten what you were capable of in the past...?

The three pairs of green eyes maintained that tense look for a few long seconds in which, little by little, the pirate began to change that tension for a deeper emotion. 

Darker and more penetrating eyes as they went down through the other's tanned build.  – Although I have to admit that this body is not that of an old man, no sir ... –taking the liberty of passing a hand from Spain’s chin to his tanned chest-. It's been a while since I saw this sinful skin so closely, I presume since 1588 …

And Spain’s eyes expanded in shock, while modern England’s nearly shook in bewilderment.

The apparition of Pirate Era England had opened something that had been buried centuries ago.

[theradioghost]

some recs for my podcast mutuals who are burnt out on horror & sad plot stuff

aka I’ve been seeing a few flavors of people exhausted by several of the most popular podcasts around here being pretty dark right now & I have attempted to put together a tasting menu of some stuff I think might help alleviate that burnout (& which also deserves some more love)

1. I'm okay with stuff that’s still on the dark or macabre side, I'd just like something that isn’t 100% characters I care about suffering horribly all the time, maybe some laughs in there

The Beef and Dairy Network: Like a seriously disturbing body horror podcast, except British satirical comedy! About cows! You kind of have to listen to it to get what’s going on tbqh it’s nearly impossible to explain but if you like horror and are just tired of being depressed about it maybe try this one. NOT for the easily nauseated.

Wooden Overcoats: black comedy sitcom about two rival funeral homes on a small island, one run by The Most Perfect Man On Earth (tm) and the other run by two misanthropic twins with a knack for disaster (and their hypercompetent assistant (and a mouse who wants to be an author)). this one is about watching the protagonist suffer horribly all the time but like, this time it’s usually a lot funnier and honestly he deserves it

Death by Dying: (so far very short) dark comedy about the resident obituary writer of idyllic Crestfall, Idaho, who sets out to tell the stories of how the town’s residents died and ends up uncovering a lot of other things, like conspiracies, and man-eating cats, and a poet’s vanishing childhood home, and what his friend the Angel of Death isn’t telling him about what’s in the dark woods. has very strong ASOUE or Pushing Daisies vibes, that sort of dark whimsy and really distinct narrative voice

Arden: “true crime” comedy-ish mystery podcast feat. two of the best bickering hosts anywhere and a whole third host called homoerotic tension, trying to solve a decade-old Hollywood mystery. secretly a shakespeare adaptation. one of the hosts is michelle agresti. an airline run by killer robots is involved, somehow. it’s a perfect storm

2. I’m good with some plot and higher stakes, but I need something more kind and hopeful right now:

Middle:Below: 10-minute episodes about a man who travels between the worlds of the living and the dead to solve the problems of restless ghosts, and the three friends he does it with -- a ghost, a cat, and a writer. their tagline is “remember: bad things will happen.” this is basically a lie, this show is extremely sweet

Alba Salix: high fantasy medical workplace comedy about hospital staff in a fairytale-ish kingdom, namely one grouchy witch, one distracted fairy, and one extremely disgruntled teenager sentenced to community service. also comes with the miniseries The Axe And Crown, which is about a gay troll bartender, his clueless landlord, and his bombastic niece, and also is one of the most heartfelt touching pieces of audio fiction I’ve ever heard?

Dark Ages: also a high fantasy workplace comedy, but in this one the dysfunctional cast work at a magical natural history museum, which thanks to recent events is now hosting the mythical Dark Lord on top of all the usual problems caused by their complete incompetency.

Solutions to Problems: a sci-fi relationship advice show feat. human host Janet and alien host Loaf. also feat. banter, illegal time travel, what to do when the AI that controls the air you breathe is your on-again-off-again girlfriend, and how to avoid your many spouses when they insist you need to come back to the homeworld and spend some time with your spawn.

Victoriocity: steampunk buddy-comedy mystery show, in which misanthropic detective Archibald Fleet (aka Tom Crowley but he’s grouchy this time) and intrepid newbie journalist Clara Entwhistle (aka an absolute ray of sunshine) uncover some Secret Plots within the government of a very different victorian london. if you like the “opposing personalities come to care deeply about one another as friends” trope this one is for you

Inn Between: not an actual play, but a show about the developing relationships of a party of RPG-esque adventurers as they rest at the inn between campaigns. you don’t see the adventures, just the crew growing closer and learning about one another in their moments of peace.

The Strange Case of Starship Iris: sci-fi adventure about a stranded biologist and a ragtag crew of smugglers who set out to resist an authoritarian government, solve a mystery, and prevent a second human-alien war. as far as I can tell their plan for accomplishing this is to be as funny, gay, and adorable as possible, and to dismantle oppressive systems via the power of found family tropes. also via the power of linguistics.

3. just give me the fluffiest, funniest, sweetest, most relaxed, lowest-stakes thing you have:

Everything is Alive: meditative, deeply touching show where Guy From Public Radio holds interviews with inanimate objects. the interviews are super genuine and beautiful and I think they’re improvised, or at least they sound very natural? for people who want to be profoundly moved by a can of generic brand cola (you may not know but you are one of those people)

Standard Docking Procedure: a self-described “hopepunk” scifi sitcom about a group of employees on a space station, dealing with the little daily misadventures of difficult tourists, traffic control disasters, nonexistent love lives, and each other. Has an explicitly stated purpose of staying happy, lighthearted, and comforting.

Love and Luck: tied for absolute most heartwarming audio drama in existence. the story of the relationship between two Australian men, told through voicemail messages, as they fall in love, start a cafe, build a supportive and loving local queer community of close-knit friends and chosen family who help one another through thick and thin, and also find out that they can do magic apparently (IMPORTANT NOTE: there are some darker events and themes tackled in the plot starting around the latter half of the first season, but the focus of the story itself is always on how people support and help one another through trauma and difficulty, and the explicitly stated core premise of the show is that every character will have a happy ending and be okay.)

Quid Pro Euro: Look Around You-esque satire of old 80s and 90s instructional tapes where Felix Trench tells you what the European Union will look like in the far-off year of 2000. I don’t know anything about the European Union but I cackle like a witch when I listen to this

The Cryptonaturalist: I know you’ve seen his tweets. well it’s that but a podcast. just a man with an extremely nice voice talking about fantastical creatures like salamanders that swim through parking lot asphalt or foxes that roam the shelves of libraries at night. in between he reads poetry and generally talks about nature in the most beautiful way you could imagine. this show feels like a peaceful walk in the woods.

The Hidden Almanac: a podcast made 90% out of gentle fantasy worldbuilding, as a somewhat grumpy man in a plague doctor mask tells you about the history of his world and distributes gardening advice. has an immense archive of four-minute long episodes. it’s best to listen in order, because there is continuity, and be aware that about the first year or so has dropped off most feeds. written and performed by much-loved fantasy writer and artist Ursula Vernon and her husband Kevin.

Startripper!!: the other forerunner for most heartwarming audio drama in existence. seriously, you cannot imagine how much joy Startripper!! will bring into your life. it’s just the travelogue of one little alien with a heart full of enthusiasm and love setting out to see the universe and making friends along the way with just about everyone he meets, including his extremely loveable spaceship AI. I really mean it. listen to this show if you listen to nothing else.

Cabin Pressure: BBC radio workplace comedy about the dysfunctional crew of the world’s smallest airline. not only utterly hilarious but will tug on your heartstrings more than you could possibly imagine (this does not look at first like a found family story but it so very much is). warning for bendytoots cucumberpatch but like, in the one and only valid role he’s ever played. you definitely cannot find this show by searching its name on the Internet Archive.

[roaringgirl]

Books read in January

I am keeping this as a little record for myself, as I already keep a list (my best new year’s resolution - begun Jan 2018) but don’t record my thoughts

General thoughts on this - I read a lot this month but it played into my worst tendencies to read very very fast and not reflect, something I’m particularly prone too with modern fiction. I just, so to speak, swallow it without thinking. First 5 or so entries apart, I did quite well in my usually miserably failed attempt to have my reading be at least half books by women.

1. John le Carré - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974): I liked this a lot! I sort of lost track of the Cold War and shall we say ethics-concerned parts of it and ended up reading a fair bit of it as an English comedy of manners - but I absolutely love all the bizarre rules about what is in bad taste (are these real? Did le Carré make them up?).

2. John le Carré - The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (1963): I liked this a lot less. It seemed at the same time wilfully opaque and entirely predictable. Have been thinking a lot about genre fiction - I love westerns and noir, so wonder if for me British genre fiction doesn’t quite scratch the same itch.

3. David Lodge - Ginger You’re Barmy (1962): This was fine. I don’t have much to say about it - I was interested in reading about National Service and a bit bogged down in a history of it so read a novel. As with most comic novels, it was perfectly readable but not very funny.

4. Dan Simmons - Song of Kali (1985): His first novel. This is quite enjoyable just for the amount of Grand Guignol gore, and also because I like to imagine it caused the Calcutta tourist board some consternation. Wildly structurally flawed, however. Best/worst quote: ‘Hearing Amrita speak was like being stroked by a firm but well-oiled palm.’ Continues in that vein.

5. Richard Vinen - National Service: A Generation in Uniform (2014): If you are interested in National Service, this is a good overview! If not, not.

6. Sarah Moss - Ghost Wall (2018): I absolutely loved this. About a camping trip trying to recreate Iron Age Britain. Just, very upsetting but so so good - a horror story where the horror is male violence and abuse within the (un)natural family unit.

7. Kate Grenville - A Room Made of Leaves (2020): Excellent idea, but not amazing execution - the style is kind of bland in that ‘ironed out in MFA workshops’ way (I have no idea if she did an MFA but that’s what it felt like). Rewriting the story of early Australian colonisation through the POV of John Macarthur’s wife Elizabeth.

8. Ruth Goodman - How to Be a Victorian (2013): I mostly read this for Terror fic reasons, if I’m honest. I skimmed a lot of it but she has a charming authorial voice and I really like that she covers the beginning of the period, not just post-1870.

9. Gary Shteyngart - Super Sad True Love Story (2010): I read this on a recommendation from Ms Poose after I asked for good fiction mostly concerned with the internet, and I thought it was excellent - it’s very exaggerated/non-realistic and that heightening of incident and affect works so well.

10. Brenda Wineapple - The Impeachers: The Trial of Andrew Johnson and the Dream of a Just Nation (2019): What a great book. I had to keep putting it down because reading about Reconstruction always makes me so sad and frustrated with what might have been - the lost dream of a better world.

11. Halle Butler - The New Me (2019): Reading this while single, starting antidepressants and stuck in an office job that bores me to death but is too stable/undemanding to complain about maybe wasn’t a great decision, for me, emotionally.

12. Halle Butler - Jillian (2015): Ditto.

13. Ottessa Moshfegh - Death in Her Hands (2020): Very disappointed by this. I don’t really like meta-fiction unless it’s really something special and this wasn’t. Also, I’m stupid and really bad at reading, like, postmodern allegorical fiction I just never get it.

14. Andrea Lawlor  - Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl (2017): This was really really hot! I will admit I don’t think the reflections on gender, homophobia, AIDS etc are very deep or as revealing as some reviews made out, but I also don’t think they’re supposed to be? It’s a lot of fun and all of the characters in it are so precisely, fondly but meanly sketched.

15. Catherine Lacey - The Answers (2017): This was fine! Readable, enjoyable, but honestly it has not stuck with me. There are only so many sad girl dystopias you can read and I think I overdid it with them this month.

16. Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall (2010, reread): Was supposed to read the first 55 pages of this for my two-person book club, but I completely lack self-restraint so reread the whole thing in four days. Like, I love it I don’t really know what else to say. I was posing for years that ‘Oh, Mantel’s earlier novels are better, they’re such an interesting development of Muriel Spark and the problem of evil and farce’ blah blah blah but nope, this is great.

17. Oisin Fagan - Hostages (2016): Book of short stories that I disliked intensely, which disappointed me because I tore through Nobber in horrified fascination (his novel set in Ireland during the Black Death - which I really cannot recommend enough. It’s so intensely horrible but, like Mantel although in a completely different style/method, he has the trick of not taking the past on modern terms). A lot of this is sci-fi dystopia short stories which just aren’t... very good or well-sustained. BUT I did appreciate it because it is absolutely the opposite of pleasant, competently-written but forgettable MFA fiction.

18. Muriel Spark - Loitering with Intent (1981): Probably my least favourite Spark so far, but still good. I think the Ealing Comedy-esque elements of her style are most evident and most dated here. It just doesn’t have the same sentence-by-sentence sting as most of her work, and again I don’t like meta-fiction.

19. Hilary Mantel - Bring up the Bodies (2012, reread): Having (re)read all of these in about 3 months, I think this is probably my favourite of the three. I just love the way a whole world, whole centuries and centuries of history and society spiral out from every paragraph. And just stylistically, how perfect - every sentence is a cracker. I’m just perpetually in awe of Mantel as a prose stylist (although I dislike that everyone seems to write in the present tense now and blame her for it).

20. Muriel Spark - The Girls of Slender Means (1963, reread): (TW weight talk etc ) As always, Hilary Mantel sets me off on a Muriel Spark spree. I’ve read this too many times to say much about it other than that the denouement always makes me go... my hips definitely wouldn’t fit through that window. Maybe I should lose weight in case I have to crawl out of a bathroom window due to a fire caused by an unexploded bomb from WW2???? Which is a wild throwback to my mentality as a 16 year old.

21. China Mieville - Perdido Street Station (2000, reread): What a lot of fun. I know we don’t do steampunk anymore BUT I do like that he got in the whole economic and justice system of the early British Industrial Revolution and not just like steam engines. God, maybe I should read more sci-fi. Maybe I should reread the rest of this trilogy but that’s like 2000 pages. Maybe I should reread the City and the City because at least that’s short and ties exactly into my Disco Elysium obsession (the mod I downloaded to unlock all dialogue keeps breaking the game though. Is there a script online???)

22. Stephen King - Carrie (1974): I have a confession to make: I was supposed to teach this to one of my tutees and then just never read it, but to be honest we’re still doing basic reading comprehension anyway. That sounds mean but she’s very sweet and I love teaching her because she gets perceptibly less intimidated/critical of herself every lesson. ANYWAY I read half of this in the bath having just finished my period, which I think was perfect. It’s fun! Stephen King is fun! I don’t have anything deeper to say.

23. Hilary Mantel - Every Day is Mother’s Day (1985): You can def tell this is a first novel because it doesn’t quite crackle with the same demonic energy as like, An Experiment in Love or Beyond Black, but all the recurring themes are there. If it were by anyone else I’d be like good novel! But it’s not as good as her other novels.

24. Dominique Fortier - On the Proper Usage of Stars (2010): This was... perfectly competent. Kind of dull? It made me think of what I appreciate about Dan Simmons which is how viscerally unpleasant he makes being in the Navy seem generally, and man-hauling with scurvy specifically. This had the same problem with some other FE fiction which is that they’re mostly not willing to go wild and invent enough so the whole thing is kind of diffuse and under-characterised. Although I hated the invented plucky Victorian orphan who’s great at magnetism and taxonomy and read all ONE THOUSAND BOOKS or whatever on the ships before they got thawed out at Beechey (and then the plotline just went nowhere because they immediately all died???) I had to skim all his bits in irritation. I liked the books more than this makes it sound I was just like Mr Tuesday I hope you fall down a crevasse sooner rather than later.

25. Muriel Spark - The Abbess of Crewe (1974): Transposing Watergate to an English convent is quite funny, although it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that’s what she was doing even though I lit read a book covering Watergate in detail in December. Muriel Spark is just so, so stylish I’m always consumed with envy. I think a lot of her books don’t quite hang together as books but sentence by sentence... they’re exquisite and incomparable.

Overall thoughts: This month was very indulgent since I basically just inhaled a lot of not challenging fiction. I need to enjoy myself less, so next month we’re finishing a biography of Napoleon, reading the Woman in White and finishing the Lesser Bohemians which currently I’m struggling with since it’s like nearly as impenetrable Joyce c. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man but, so far... well I hesitate to say bad since I think once I get into I’ll be into it but. Bad.

[marvelousmatt]

The Accidental Comedy of Matt Berry

The star of IFC’s detective-series spoof ‘Year of the Rabbit,’ famed for his booming voice and over-the-top faces, never set out to be funny

Matt Berry as Detective Inspector Rabbit in 'Year of the Rabbit.'  Ben Meadows/IFC

If you know Matt Berry from his most famous roles — such as The IT Crowd’s idiot boss Douglas Reynholm, Toast of London’s pompous struggling actor Steven Toast, or the preening and lascivious vampire Laszlo on What We Do in the Shadows — talking to him over the phone is sort of like meeting his un-evil twin. Where his characters are outrageous and inappropriate, Berry is circumspect and gentlemanly. While they pronounce every word as if they’re doing Shakespeare in the Park, with a ponderous theatricality, his signature rich baritone comes over the line from London sounding muted by comparison. It’s as though he’s playing the straight man in a sketch of his own life.

Whatever absurd and profane notions he has rattling around in his head, Berry saves them for his work. His latest offering, IFC’s Year of the Rabbit (a collaboration among Berry, producer Ben Farrell, and writers Andy Riley and Kevin Cecil), is a send-up of the period detective shows that are a staple of British television. Set in Victorian times, it centers on his titular character, Rabbit, a cranky copper who bumbles through every episode but slyly solves the whodunit in the end — a kind of gruff, English Columbo in a waistcoat. In the “why not” fashion typical of Berry’s comedy, the character is missing an eyebrow (a trait the show repeatedly explains away with the intentionally unconvincing line that it was chewed off by a dog last Christmas). He’s named Rabbit — his actual first name, with no surname — not because of any correlation with, say, the Chinese calendar, but because… well, just because.

“His father couldn’t be bothered giving any of the kids any normal names, so he just named them after animals and then left them outside a church,” Berry says matter-of-factly, as if Rabbit and his father are real. Pressed on the matter, he adds, “We have a huge history over here of these shows, Agatha Christie and stuff, and they all have these names, Inspector This and That. I just wanted to do something stupid with that — give him an animal name and not anything else. So he really is as earthy as you can get in that way. There’s nothing fancy about him at all.”

Rabbit is an inveterate boozehound with a colorful vocabulary. He beats up a schoolteacher on career day to demonstrate interrogation techniques to the children. He tells his rookie partner that the way to keep warm during a wintertime stakeout is to piss himself. He describes the London of his day as “a rat eating its own babies. Babies made of shit. And once it’s eaten its own shit babies, it shits them out again.” He is paired, reluctantly, with two bright-eyed and bushy-tailed colleagues to form a crack investigative team, a juxtaposition which only underscores his baser qualities.

“He’s basically trying to hide the fact that he’s incredibly hungover and not firing on all cylinders,” Berry says. “Whereas his younger sidekicks won’t be, because when you’re that young, you know, you get over a hangover by like 10 o’clock in the morning. I wanted him to be dull, in terms of reactions to things, but effective.”

Robert Bathurst, Matt Berry, and Harry Peacock in Toast of London. Photo Credit: Kuba Wieczorek/IFC/CH4

Ineptitude and buffoonery are much more the calling cards of Steven Toast, whose massive ego blinds him to his own failings. He is an oblivious object of mockery at the hands of his voiceover producers, a pair of douchey hipsters named Clem Fandango and Danny Bear, and his mistress, Mrs. Purchase (wife of Toast’s acting nemesis Ray “Bloody” Purchase), looks eternally bored during their trysts. His long-suffering agent has to force him to become a laxative pitchman, yet he complains that she’s not scoring him Oscar-caliber roles.

If Toast is the character closest to Berry’s heart, it’s for good reason. Despite a brand of humor that seems firmly rooted in the British tradition — the surreality and silliness of Python, the cartoonish prurience of Benny Hill — Berry, 45, maintains that he wasn’t especially interested in comedy growing up. He cites as his primary influence not comedic greats such as Peter Sellers or contemporaries like Steve Coogan, but “straight actors, people that normally weren’t trying to be funny.” The more “mannered” and “self-important” the star, Berry says, the funnier he found them. The line to Toast is clear — especially in his puffed-up diction and bizarrely exaggerated pronunciation of ordinary words (such as his praise of guest-star Jon Hamm’s “charismaaaaaaaeeeeeee”). Imagine the famous outtakes of a drunk Orson Welles filming a Paul Masson wine commercial, and you’re on the right track.

Berry’s career in comedy came as a complete surprise to him. He grew up in the hamlet of Bromham in Bedfordshire, about two hours north of London, in a wholly unartistic family who had “normal, decent jobs,” he says. “My mom was a nurse, my sister went into law — nothing like what I ended up doing.” Still, his parents were totally supportive — worried, but supportive — as he stumbled through temp gigs and patches of unemployment as a young man.

He was far more interested in painting and music — and, in fact, today is an accomplished musician who’s recorded eight studio albums (prog rock-ish, inflected with funk) as well as the scores and themes to numerous TV series, including Toast. That show’s frequent musical interludes, gonzo song parodies a la Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, speak to Berry’s true comedic beginnings. In between stints at the London Dungeon — a haunted-house experience where actors play figures from gruesome corners of the city’s past, like Jack the Ripper — he managed to book solo gigs as a singer-songwriter. But he found that spiking his performances with humor won over a crowd.

Natasia Demetriou and Berry in What We Do In the Shadows.  Byron Cohen/FX

“I was playing before comedians, and the gigs just seemed to go quicker and better if I put some comedy into the songs or the bits in between the songs,” Berry says. “I only did it so I’d fit in with what was going on after. Then I really got to like it.”

Fellow performers Richard Ayoade and Matthew Holness noticed his act, and cast Berry in a horror/sci-fi spoof they created called Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace. From there, his television career exploded, with recurring roles in several series before his breakout in 2007 with The IT Crowd. Despite a nomination for “best newcomer” at that year’s British Comedy Awards and a 2015 BAFTA for Best Male Performance in a Comedy for Toast, Berry insists he doesn’t have any particular aptitude for the form, and draws a blank when it comes to defining his style. Mostly, he chalks it up to timing (“Whether it’s music or comedy, that’s the most important thing for me”) — as well as a lack of training.

“I’m not held back by any sort of rules and regulations in terms of performance,” he says. “I’ll just do what feels natural, and because nobody’s said in the past, ‘Well you can’t really do that, because of this,’ you just do it. If it works, it works, and if it doesn’t, you just try something else.”

He does acknowledge one foolproof stylistic flourish that may be deeply ingrained: a true relish for the scatological and sophomorically sexual. See: Laszlo’s vulva topiaries, or the preposterously elastic faces Toast makes while he’s shagging Mrs. P (“Hang on — my balls are about to fizzzz!”) or pleasuring himself to old-timey images of women in military uniforms. A key moment in Rabbit involves the inspector having a pocketful of dog poop.

“I suppose that’s the British toilet humorist in me,” Berry admits. “It doesn’t matter where you go in Europe, toilet humor is enjoyed by all. Being from the U.K., it’s in you, like, from birth. You know, if you’re little and people are laughing at something all around you, it kind of sticks. If it’s something that my granddad laughs at and my dad laughs at, there’s a good chance that I’ll laugh at it, too.”

[harry-sussex]

Wow you really do applaud the bare minimum and basic stuff Kate does. What about Meghan who acturally has done shit? Like who had a careeer and did stuff for charity. This fandom loves white mediocrity. Kate hasn’t done shit. She hasn’t even done that much this year. She was gone for a whole month this year. But yeah white duchess is perfect. Bi racial duchess is BAD.

Wow, I am so fucking tired of hearing that Kate didn’t do anything before her marriage.  Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, it would have been very difficult for Ms. Catherine Middleton to get neck-deep into a career?  Think about it:

She falls in love with William Wales who just happens to be the future King when she is hardly 19 years old - still a child in a lot of ways.  They break up briefly when she is 25 - six years later.  I don’t know if you’ve ever dated someone for six years, but I have, and let me tell you - the marriage/”where is our future going” conversation comes up a lot.  Especially if marriage means one half of the couple giving up their right to privacy, their career, their home, just about everything while the other gets to keep everything he’s ever had.  In those six years, Kate probably knew that she couldn’t launch herself into a career the same way other 19-25 year olds do because she basically knew that someday it would be all for naught, that she’d have to abandon everything she worked so hard for for the sake of the man she loved and the institution into which he was born.  It’s not like she was strapped for cash.

Then, they famously, and briefly, break up.  Catherine Middleton’s entire life plan (one that she and William created together for six years) has been thrown for a loop because now she has to figure out something else to do instead of being a future Duchess of Cambridge, Princess of Wales, and Queen Consort.  So she launches herself into the Sisterhood Challenge, which was not only an extraordinary physical endeavor, but also raised money for the Babes in Arms charity - which focuses on combating birth defects in newborns - and The CHASE Ben Hollioake fund - which focuses on supporting children’s hospice care.  Do you know what two of Kate’s biggest causes are today, 12 years later?  You got it - early childhood healthcare and hospice care.

Then, they get back together, and I can imagine they had a conversation that “this time, it’s for the long haul.”  What was she supposed to do?  Start working in a museum in Florence?  Go on a mission trip?  Do you have any idea the kind of strain her presence - unprotected, as just a girlfriend, by the royal family - would have had on communities already suffering and struggling to maintain resources?  The presence of not only her, but the paparazzi that followed her endlessly, would have put immense pressure on struggling communities:

Why is it any concern to you what she did before her marriage?  She was a private citizen.  She could have lounged by the pool 365 days a year, margarita in hand, flipping through gossip magazines, and eating crepes for breakfast and that still wouldn’t, like, disqualify her or anything from being a Duchess.  Wanna know why?  Because the only qualification for somebody like Ms. Catherine Middleton to become a Duchess is to marry Prince William.  And that’s exactly what she did.  William fell in love with her and the rest is history - nearly twenty years later.  If it’s good enough for him, then it’s good enough for anyone else - including you.

Now, onto “Kate hasn’t done shit.”  Really?  In the past 18 months alone, Catherine has:

Received the Royal Family Order of Queen Elizabeth II

Been appointed as a Dame Grand Cross of the Royal Victorian Order (the highest order given by HM)

Received a 67-year-long patronage from the Queen

Tons of other things I’m getting tired of repeating

She’s developed initiatives and attached her name, face, title, and presence to some of the UK’s best causes.  She’s by all accounts brilliant, compassionate, keen to learn, inquisitive, dedicated, and interested to her causes.  

A quote from Professor Peter Fonagy, the CEO of the Anna Freud Centre, one of Kate’s patronages:

“The Duchess has a serious and professional interest in children’s mental health which has been a game changer.  She has boosted our profile exponentially and has had a huge role in raising the national awareness in the mental health of children. As far as we are concerned she’s the most important woman doing this in the world right now. To the millions of children who have been suffering in silence, she is their voice.”

Catherine has three young children and likely several years before she will be married to the heir.  What good is being a princess if she’s not afforded the simple luxury of being able to parent her children while they’re still small?  If it’s good with the Queen (it is, or else it wouldn’t be happening), then it’s good with me, and once again, it should be good with you.

This fandom loves Kate because she’s sweet, smart, strong, caring, and compassionate.  She is a wonderful wife, mother, sister, daughter, and ambassador to the Royal Family.  The world is exceptionally lucky to have her.  That’s why we love her.  Black, white, purple, doesn’t matter - that’s why we love her.

Now, onto Meghan.  First of all, fuck you for those comments.  I spend hours and hours of my life defending Meghan from the vile things people say about her online.  I have an entire tag devoted to defending both her and Kate.  Meghan is incredible in her own right.  She’s sweet, kind, dedicated, compassionate, interested, and determined.  She has a backbone of steel - in the face of prejudice worldwide, she stood loudly and proudly in front of the world’s audience and dedicated the rest of her life in love to a British prince as a biracial divorced American actress.  That takes strength unlike anything I could probably imagine.  

She has done incredible, incredible things in her life, both before becoming a royal and after.  I had high expectations for her going into her marriage to Prince Harry and she has exceeded every last one of them.  As a woman who is attacked daily for the skin and circumstances into which she was born, whose new life is nothing if not foreign to her, she is excelling, thriving, even - in the face of the millions of people rooting for her to fail.  The Duchess of Sussex is incredible.  Anyone with eyes can see that.

Catherine’s successes do not have to supercede Meghan’s and Meghan’s successes do not have to supercede Kate’s.  They are each wonderful, successful, beautiful, and brilliant in their own rights.  You call yourself an ally?  You call yourself a fan?  Then do not come here and tear down one of them to bring the other up.  You think Meghan would like how you’re speaking about the only sister she truly has?  I don’t.  Not at all.

Never, ever come back here again with this attitude.  Never.  Those are my girls - I’d go to battle for both of them.  Get the fuck out of here.  Not in my house.

[mygalfriday]

i’ll be your man if you got love to get done

{ao3}

Eden Loft is a quiet little café just off Carnaby Street in Soho, all crumbling brick and choking vines on the outside. It looks almost abandoned from the outside, its wild exterior concealing a warm, cozy interior filled with small round tables, leather sofa, and worn armchairs. Potted plants line the bookshelves, the windowsills, and the countertop. The scent of warm scones and coffee fills the air, mixing with the verdant plant life to create an atmosphere both soothing and invigorating. It’s one of Anthony Crowley’s favorite places to stop for a caffeine fix.

This afternoon, however, he lingers outside on the pavement, reluctant to venture inside. With the afternoon sunshine filtering in through the expansive windows, it would be easy to glance inside and spot his date. The only thing stopping him is knowing the sight of whichever poor sod Anathema has guilted into this blind date will make him turn on his heel and leg it back home. He doesn’t even know why he’d agreed to this. The last time his friend had set him up on a date, Crowley had ended up spending an entire evening with some pillock who never touched his food and barely looked up from his mobile.

It’s just so difficult to meet people when he spends all his time working his arse off to make sure his club isn’t a complete failure. Even though The Serpent has been open for a few years now and even though it’s a packed house nearly every night, the nightclub still requires almost all of his time and attention. So Crowley isn’t asking for the love of his life or anything. He doubts such a person even exists. But a few months of shagging someone he can actually have a conversation with would be a nice change of pace.

And that’s what he’s doing loitering outside Eden Loft on a Sunday afternoon.

Crowley groans and reaches for the door.

He steps inside and the scent of fresh pastry and the rich aroma of expensive, organic coffee wafts over him. Tucking his sunglasses into the neck of his black t-shirt, he scans the crowded space for the man Anathema had described. Blond, she’d said. A bit old-fashioned. Crowley had taken that to mean no shagging until the third date but his eyes land on a man who looks like he just returned from tea in the Victorian era and he just knows he’s found his date. Ezra Fell.

Fucking Anathema.

Gritting his teeth, Crowley braces himself for another date from hell and saunters reluctantly across the café. The table where his date sits is beside the bookshelves on the back wall and it appears he’d plucked a novel from the shelf to keep himself occupied while he waited. He seems thoroughly engrossed in whatever it is, flipping through it as Crowley approaches, and doesn’t even look up until Crowley’s shadow falls over the page.

He lifts his head, a pleasant, absent-minded smile on his face. And Crowley’s breath catches painfully in his throat. He’s beautiful. His short blond curls look astonishingly soft and his blue eyes are bright and kind. Though his hands look manicured and soft as they rest against the crisp pages of his book, his chest is broad and sturdy and Crowley imagines he’s deceptively strong beneath that prim waistcoat. Pink-cheeked and full-lipped, Ezra Fell looks like something Michaelangelo might have painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His clothes are utterly ridiculous, of course, and he isn’t at all Crowley’s usual type but nevertheless, he’s…beautiful.

“Anthony Crowley, I presume?”

Realizing he’s been standing in one spot staring at him like a simpleton for fuck knows how long, Crowley unclenches his jaw and forces himself to blink. “I - yeah. Ezra, is it?”

Ezra beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gestures to the seat across from him. “Please, sit.”

Disarmed by that wide smile - Christ alive, Crowley could swear the room grows a few shades brighter - there is no other option but to sit. He sinks gracelessly into the chair across from Ezra, long limbs sprawling. Sitting closer does nothing to make Ezra less attractive, only gives Crowley a better view of his perfection. It’s ridiculous. He looks like he just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel. Why can’t he stop staring?

“I already ordered for you,” Ezra says, oblivious to Crowley’s internal struggle to regain use of his tongue as he gestures to the cup and plate across the table. “I hope you don’t mind. It just gets so terribly crowded in here on Sundays. I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

Ezra watches him hopefully, as if expecting Crowley might be annoyed. And fucking hell, speak. “No,” Crowley manages, relieved when his voice comes out relatively normal. “S’fine. You’ve uh, you’ve been here before then?”

Surely Crowley would have noticed him at some point. He’d have looked up from his mobile one morning and saw him across the café, standing in line waiting for his tea or sitting at a table like this one reading another book. He’d have noticed a man like Ezra if they’d ever been in the same room together before. He may not have approached him but he’d have stared just as he is now - probably from behind his sunglasses and over the top of a newspaper he wasn’t actually reading - and been just as charmed by his quiet grace and sunny smile.

“Oh, quite often.” Ezra shuts his book and folds his hands primly over the cover. “But only on Sundays, I’m afraid.”

Ah, that explains how they’ve never run into each other. Sunday mornings are usually when Crowley is lounging about in bed, nursing a hangover after kicking out whoever he’d brought home with him the night before. Crowley’s usual type isn’t the sort to stay for breakfast anyway.

Ezra cuts off a bite of his pastry with a knife and fork, focusing on the task with an intensity Crowley has never seen given to food before. “The rest of the week, I usually get my tea from the museum’s café. Though it isn’t nearly as good as it is here.” He brings the bite of pastry to his mouth and sighs as he chews, his eyes fluttering a bit and a low hum in his throat. He even wiggles a bit in his seat.

Captivated, Crowley rests his chin in the palm of his hand and watches him eat. “Right,” he says, forcing at least a small portion of his brain into focusing on the conversation. “You work at the British Museum. How’s that?”

“Oh, lovely.” Ezra dabs neatly at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I oversee the archival department, preserving and maintaining all of our historical documents.”

It sounds utterly dull to Crowley but the way Ezra lights up as he talks about his job is far from boring. He smiles and gestures as he talks, regaling Crowley with a tale about a shipment of letters the museum had received earlier that week. They’d been uncovered in the attic of some ancestor of one of Hemingway’s secret lovers and apparently, they’re going to rock the literary world on its axis. Ezra talks about the contents of these letters like someone else might relay a bit of scandalous gossip and Crowley finds himself listening intently. He doesn’t even think about touching his food or his coffee, chin in hand as he gazes across the table and watches Ezra gesture as he talks and take delicate little bites of his pastry.

“And Anathema tells me you own a nightclub?” Ezra sips at his tea, watching Crowley with that same focus he'd given his food. It’s startling enough to make Crowley straighten from his slouch and wipe his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

Looking at him, Crowley doubts the man has ever set foot on the same street as a nightclub but he rather loves that he’d bothered asking about it. The Serpent may be an exhausting, soul-sucking venture but it also happens to be Crowley’s baby. He tells Ezra a bit about the club, detailing how quickly it has grown and how much work it takes to keep it at the top of everyone’s list. He talks about the type of people who frequent the place, the live music they have every night, and how much he loves being his own boss.

Ezra listens to every word, asks questions in all the right places, and never once tries to interrupt and make the conversation about himself again. “It must keep you quite busy,” he says after Crowley tells him about his upcoming open interviews to hire staff for the busy season. He eyes Crowley with concern, as though trying to decide if he eats enough or gets enough sleep. It’s such a quiet, protective glance that Crowley feels something warm and foreign bloom inside his chest.

He shrugs, glancing away with his heart in his throat. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I like keeping busy.”

“Yes, I understand. My work is very important to me. But I must admit I’ve found myself craving a bit of companionship recently.” Ezra glances down into his teacup, then looks at Crowley through his lashes. Crowley stares again, helplessly charmed. “I can’t imagine you have similar difficulties finding pleasing company.”

Fucking hell. The man out of time is flirting with him.

Crowley swallows.

“May I ask why you agreed to this setup?” Ezra presses, glancing away again. “Surely you have plenty of opportunities to meet people in your line of work. I, however, am confined to the back rooms of a museum all day.”

Meeting people, yes. Loads of them. In the past three months, Crowley has brought home a lead guitarist, one of the Serpent’s bouncers, a grad school student in leather trousers, a barrister looking for a cheap thrill, and one of his bartenders. Not one of them has managed to hold his attention the way Ezra Fell seems to so effortlessly. Crowley wants to know everything about him. Why did he choose archival work? Why does he dress like a bloody regency dandy? Why are his eyes so kind and blue? Why is he so interested in every word Crowley says? Why did he choose that particular book from the shelf? How does he take his tea? What is it about him that makes that pastry look so much more tempting when it’s sliding between his soft pink lips?

Crowley wants to bring him home and study him, take him apart under his hands until he understands what makes him tick, and then tenderly put him back together again. He wants to stroke his blond hair and nuzzle his throat and call him all sorts of endearments he’s never used before on anyone. He wants Ezra, in all the ways he never expected to want anyone after a lifetime of being alone and convincing himself he liked it better that way when all along, he was just afraid no one would want him back.

Outwardly, he only shrugs again, his eyes lingering meaningfully on Ezra as he says, “Suppose I’ve been meeting the wrong people.”

Ezra blushes. 

They linger over their tea, discussing everything from politics to what they studied at university to their childhoods. Crowley tells Ezra about being an orphan churned out of the system by the age of seventeen and Ezra confides in him about his conservative Catholic upbringing and his ongoing struggle to overcome the subsequent stain of guilt religion left behind long after he shed its chains.

When the tea has grown cold and the pastries have been eaten, Crowley insists on paying the bill. And suddenly they’re standing outside on the pavement, the afternoon sun gone soft and hazy. It slants gently across Ezra’s blond curls like a halo and Crowley stares at him longingly. Angel, he thinks, and his heart skips several beats.

“I do appreciate you meeting with me, you know. I’m aware I can’t be what you were hoping for.” Ezra wrings his hands and Crowley has the sudden wild urge to clasp them between his own. “I told Anathema you couldn’t possibly-”

“You’re perfect,” Crowley blurts, before he can stop himself.

Fuck. Very smooth.

That sort of line would get him laughed at by just about anyone else but Ezra stills, gazing up at him wonderingly. As if Crowley had just reached up and plucked a star out of the sky just for him and handed it over on a silver platter. “I-” He squares his shoulders, meeting Crowley’s gaze. “I do hope I’m not being too forward but… I would like to see you again, Anthony. If you’re amendable.”

Christ, he even talks like he belongs in an Austen novel. Crowley is utterly gone on him already.

Looming over him, Crowley peers into sweet, hopeful blue eyes and swallows roughly. “I’m amendable,” he murmurs. “Very.”

“Oh.” Ezra breathes out a relieved little noise and sways toward him, his smile breathtaking. Literally. Crowley cannot breathe. “Good.”

Reaching for him with a shaking hand, Crowley cups his pink cheek and watches Ezra’s eyes widen. “This all right?”

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. Ezra licks his lips and Crowley nearly hisses. “Quite.”

With permission, Crowley closes the gap between them and captures that enticing mouth with his own. He tastes exactly like raspberries and flaky pastry and tea. Crowley usually takes his tea without any sugar at all but Ezra tastes like five lumps of sugar and a dash of milk. His mouth opens eagerly and Crowley groans. He presses closer, leaning against Ezra’s broad chest and burying his hands in soft blond curls.

It should be impossible to taste this warm and sweet and absolutely fucking perfect but Crowley knows with sudden certainty that kissing Ezra Fell is like drinking directly from the sun itself. He loses himself in the slick, hot slide of their mouths and their grasping hands. Everything around him blurs and time loses all meaning. He isn’t aware of where they’re standing on the pavement in front of Eden Loft, he doesn’t notice the disgruntled people passing them by or the warm late afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. There is only Ezra clutching at his t-shirt and making those delightful little noises, wriggling adorably under Crowley’s wandering hands.

When they finally break apart, panting, the world feels different. As though an entire solar system has rearranged itself, orienting now around Ezra Fell. Crowley noses at his cheek, struggling to find his voice as Ezra keeps one hand curled tightly at his waist. Clearing his throat, he rasps, “Anathema told me you were old-fashioned.”

Ezra makes a soft, contrary noise and turns his head to press his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Only in dress,” he murmurs, somehow managing to sound prim despite the arousal Crowley can feel pressing into his hip. “I assure you.”

Swallowing laughter, Crowley pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. “My place then?”

As Crowley lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, Ezra smiles. “After you.”

[volturialice]

Spork Haven chapter 8: King fucking Lear

welcome to spork haven, where I spork the EL James fic you’ve never heard of

previous chapter | next chapter | contents

real quick before we do a Previously On I need to warn y’all about what’s coming in this chapter because holy shit

in the grand tradition of Stephenie Meyer, EL James makes a Shakespeare reference. but in the grand tradition of EL James, it’s completely horrifying (and hilarious)

but it isn’t so bad in hindsight because right before that we get the WORST, the very W O R S T,  title drop of all time

if you’re brave enough to read on I just hope you’re prepared for the snakes that will physically manifest in your house. you’ve been warned

previously on Spork Haven:

actor!Edward and hotel maid!Bella went on a date! Bella is a cello-playing orphaned virgin who is definitely in the Witness Protection Program! The paparazzi may have gotten a picture of Bella! Edward and Bella are gonna bang!

chapter 8 is pretty much entirely smut so it is [gag] very hard to read but very easy to summarize.

Edward is, as usual, profoundly horny, but he tells himself “not to be such a fucking Neanderthal” because since finding out that Bella is a virgin he “needs to get her aroused” because he doesn’t want to hurt her (was he going to fail to arouse her and then hurt her if she wasn’t a virgin? ok erika)

Edward begins by taking off Bella’s shoes and she reacts like it’s the sexiest goddamn thing that has ever happened to anyone.

mmm...shoes. 

then he takes off her socks...but in excruciating detail!

and this is around the point where I was like ‘jesus fuck erika how long is this going to take’ and I definitely jinxed myself

anyway. throughout the undressing process, Bella is

which. I know “bloody” is British slang and not meant literally but in this context it kind of sounds like she’s just been biting her lip so much that it’s now bleeding all over the place. charming.

just when things are heating up, Edward carries Bella into the bedroom and we get the weirdest non-sequitur imaginable:

if y’all’ve read 50 shades of grey, this weird fixation on food and feeding your lover will sound familiar! except (and I can’t believe I’m about to compliment 50 shades) at least in that story, there was a starvation backstory that made christian’s fixation on food make a shred of sense. here it’s just...bizarre and out of place. they literally just ate lunch, for fuck’s sake.

anyway the sentences in here range from disgusting to cliché to bafflingly weird. for example, bella’s bellybutton tastes “like fucking Christmas” (because who hasn’t wanted to fuck Christmas? nothin sexier than Christmas.) 

we discover that, in keeping with Pure ‘N Virginal™ EL James heroines, Bella has never so much as masturbated, and Edward thinks that’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. magnanimous soul that he is, he fingers her a bit and then mansplains masturbation until at last we reach the sentence

which I could not help but hear in Owen Wilson’s voice. you’re welcome

is it just me or does Edward’s use of “wow” here imply that his partners usually don’t come? good one erika lmao

anyway, now it’s time for some penetration! Edward continues to explain sex to Bella in the most patronizing possible way. he sounds like a middle school heath teacher and a victorian mother at the same time and it’s about as sexy as it sounds, which is to say not at all. then we get the hilarious return of Personifying Edward’s Dick. his dicksona, if you will.

ok then.

but at last, we get down to business. Edward slowly pushes in, as you do, and then. and then.

it happens.

the sentence. the worst sentence.

“a safe fucking haven... 

....for me and my dick”

a safe fucking haven for me and my dick

A SAFE FUCKING HAVEN 

FOR ME AND MY DICK

erika...oh erika...do you mean to fucking tell me...that the ‘safe haven’ of the title...was Bella’s vagina all along?

THE SAFE HAVEN WAS BELLA’S PUSSY ALL ALONG

just for reference, like just so y’all know, there have actually been a few other title drops before this. but always, when the phrase “safe haven” popped up before now, it was referencing Edward’s hotel room. this one, though? this one feels like the Thesis™ of the story. like obviously Bella was always going to be the safe haven but nope, erika just had to take it a step further

kill me.

anyway, Edward and Bella have sex, there are many gross sentences and implications but they have nothing on that title drop, Edward finally (at last!) gets to suck on Bella’s earrings, and then, when Edward is trying not to come too quickly, we get this delightful paragraph:

some quick background: I am a Shakespeare Bitch. his image is plastered all over my bedroom, my fridge, my car, and my heart. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of his life and works. I have been in King Lear.

which is why I can’t help but wonder...why exactly does Edward know King Lear’s storm monologue? did he, a 24-year-old, play oldass geriatric King Lear at some point?

yes obviously he could have been in a high school production like I was where there were no actual old man actors to cast, but tbh I am having the time of my fucking life imagining an early twenties RPattz playing Lear in old man prosthetics

don’t come crying to me about this horrifying image, it’s nothing compared to the horrifying title drop you just read.

anyway, back to the smut! when at last Edward runs out of Shakespeare monologues and Arsenal stats, we are treated to what might be the dumbest description of an orgasm ever written:

emptying...his soul. 

hey good news @ canon!Edward, you can stop worrying about your soul! turns out it was in your balls the entire time! the soul is in the testicles! what was that edward? edward? oh he hung up

and thus concludes chapter 8! may I suggest treating yourself to a nice Snake Rack for all the snakes that just manifested physically in your home?

be sure to organize your snakes by size and color according to the konmari method

a̴̧̛̩̖̰̫̲̮̙̓͊̐̄̿͝ ̵̧̦̠̪͚̫͌͐͜ş̷̳̝͔̖̲̟̀̑̆̓̋͂̓a̷͙̙̝̫͂͂͛̊́́̎́̕̕̚f̷̪͎̰́̆̊͊͌̿̄̃͛́́̂͑͆e̵̪̜̻̱̗̭̤̬͙̥͔͉̘̼̓̾̑̽̀̕͘͠ ̵̧̟̤̃̐̎͌̔͋f̵̧̡̭̭̘̰̹̹̼̬̳͎́ͅͅư̴̢̯̗̲̱̣͍̪̦̰̾̈͌̿͛̿̏̓͘͜͜c̷͙̦̳̗̀̀͐̒́̍͒̚̚k̴̡͕̩̗͇̪̘̥͊́ͅͅi̶̦̘̎̊̂̒ͅn̵̦̪͙̪͓̓͌̌͐̈́͗͂͠ͅg̶̡̳͔̳̻̻͖̩̤̹̜͖̺͆̈́͛͂̆͑̃̃̑͌̔̚͝͝͝ͅ ̷̜͉̱͉̆̎̋h̷̛̟̽̀̚̚a̷̹̠̺̤̘̲̪̤̾͂̈́͂̋̐̅̑̎̄̚͘v̵̧͓̫̯͇̼͖͎̭͎̿̒̊͑̕͜͝e̷̢̛̲̱̭̙̭͂͐̈ǹ̴̛̩̦̯̹͇̰̒ ̶̨̡͈̤̫̼͉͖̮̬͎͖͋̿̄̍̀̈́͝͝f̷̝̞̤͙̤͖͕̖͐̏̋̑̇͗́͑̈́̕ͅo̷̢̱̠̳̞̰̺̩̙̔̐̅̀̓̒̈͑̅̈́͝͝͠r̸̨̢̼̺͖̬̱̹̠̻̽̅̏͊͗͋͑̅̕̚ ̵͚̤͎̜̆̋̏̋̔̔̊́̾m̸͎̫͙̼͈̖͍̜̯̻̝̝͔̍̔̈́̉͆͛́́͝ȩ̶̺͓̪̳̫̞̳͖̝͇̪̩͎͌̓́́͊̓͆̂̑̎̾̚͝͝͠ ̶̧̬̠̳͇̠̤̦̑̍̋̊̉̋̓á̶̯͚͒̏̃̿̈́͒͌̿͝͝n̴̨̡̟͓̟̖͓̪̗̼̩̞̣̻̰̔̈́̿̑̌̅̋̈́̒̔̅͋̚͝͠ḑ̴̧̡̱̲̱̮̻͎̩̼̺́͂̅̽̈́ͅ ̵̭͙͙͍̞̝̥́m̴̨̝̠͔̲̺̺̜͙͗̒ŷ̷̛̜̳͓̹̹͔̻̥̗̔̈́͐͐̀̀̏̐̚͜͜͝͝ ̶̯̮͙̆͆̀̓̉d̷̛̗̮͂̂̇̊͊̊͊̊̚͝í̶̡̗̠̘̜͙͓̟̙̼̱̌́̈́̾̑̅͂̉̐͐͊ç̸͙̳̠̞̣̙̥͎̣͓̠̝̟̾̈́ḳ̸̮͈͇̏̑̈́͘͜

best “fucks”

over-fucking-whelming (the temptation)

a fucking go signal for my dick (a gasp)

best “shits”

happy and shit (edward)

next chapter: the fucking inquisition

[lilithnewzealand]

Outlasting the darkness: lessons of six Scottish winters

A view towards the Isle of Mull from its neighbor island, Kerrera--spring

I begin these winter musings in the final weeks of the American summer. Light is waning, and we splash one last time in the magnificent lake, pretending that the golden heat of this muggy, molten season will live on forever. In reality, the earth in its tilted run is already siphoning the minutes off the days. We can no longer reliably plan late evening BBQs around our garden’s shady oak tree, for it will already be dark by 7pm in these last weeks of August. Suddenly, we’re careening into the hectic, school-filled days of early September. One or two punctilious neighbors have already mutinously exchanged flip-flop door wreaths for pumpkins and gourds. I know that in the weeks to come, a veritable sea of hay bales and potted autumnal mums will sprout up in pleasant but unoriginal beatification of this dying season.

Chrysanthemums seem seductive envoys of death, cultivated to bloom only in hues mirroring those of a mature leaf’s swan song—pear-like yellows, burnt oranges, reds umbers, and even crackling browns. Flowers that are unwelcome and doer in the heady exuberance of spring find themselves the befitting adornment of atrophy and waning. Festive gourds, Halloween treats, and crisply weathered hayrides ease us like a conciliatory lullaby into the season that flows towards the utter darkness of the northern hemisphere’s agonizing winter solstice.

I will admit that It is not beyond me to pray, to beseech, to quietly plea for something as elementary as winter sun. Just as I pray quirky prayers that as a Western populace we’d forgo ease and profit for truly earth-honoring, nutrient rich, non-carenogenic farming, or that God would bring suffering children out from pain and fear this night, or for a friend who’s mother no longer lives, so I whisper this prayer for the mercy of winter light. I lift my voice in an entreaty that as the icy air stings our braced, pale faces, and layers panoply our bodies, that the far off winter sun with its weakened winter force would reign over our sky.

I come to these prayers with memories of winter’s capacity for mental woundedness. For six long seasons, I lived as a young adult through the insanity inducing darkness of west coast Scotland’s seemingly amaranthine, sodden winters. While before my travels I had known in theory that places such as Finland, Alaska, and Russia endured a departed sun for seasons together, I was wholly unprepared for the true, if somewhat functional insanity human beings endure when caught in the grip of a dark, far north winter. I had come to a country whose springs and summers produced some of the most stunning landscapes on earth, but whose winters’ lightlessness and wet stung the equilibrium of every cogent citizen. At ten steps beyond cozy indoor lounging, and peaceful snow-filled Saturdays, winter in the Scottish city I’d called home was, in my experience, something to survive, like an ancient, enveloping, heavy, returning foe. This is my small tale of everyday endurance.

When I left east coast America for Glasgow, Scotland in 2005 as an energetic, adventure-seeking twenty-two year old graduate student, I only vaguely considered British lore of generally omniscient rain and mist. If tea and scones accompanied that promised rain, I felt equal to its challenge. After all, I was no stranger to varieties of weather. We of the American Northeast gloried in the wonder of nature’s four faces, and cherished each one’s splendor.

Not we the soft, milk toast citizens of mild Florida, with its perpetual clemency like the slog of a meteorological purgatory, never proceeding from heaven into hell, or fleeing hell into the promise to heaven (apart from those apocalyptic moments of hurricane decimation, to be fair!). Nor were we the unfathomable folk who think it prudent to nurture community so far north as to warrant cars block heaters and homes with double heating systems. Surely a routine -30 F was nature’s indication, to western folk at least, that such landscapes as Alaska or Manitoba were not intended for human flourishing!

For all the variety of season, one reasonable constant was sunshine. From fifteen hours of committed, humid sunlight in the height of a suburban Philadelphia summer to a mere, miserable nine hours mid-December, with sunsets slipping down by 4.36pm instead of summer’s 8.32pm, the sun still at least shone weakly and cruelly in winter. How different it all was just across the pond where dramatic lochs lay and bagpipers piped.

In the beginning, my new young adult life in the art-loving, gritty, dually medieval and Victorian city of Glasgow proved mostly splendid. The beauty of nearby Hebridean islands, hill walking, and Harry Potteresque Edinburgh all soothed the longing I’d followed for vivid, three-dimensional encounter with everything I’d seen on the countless BBC murder mysteries and Jane Austen adaptions. With ceilidhs to dance, coffee shops to visit, curry to discover, and accents to unpack, the insidious impact of a profound lack of vitamin D3 upon my skin and in my body went under my radar. My mind perhaps registered the lack of sun, but only to complain or “winge” of its inconvenience, as the Scots would say. Surely, the November sky was darker than I’d ever known, but there was a jolly Burns night feast to attend, and a grotesque Haggis to address and devour.

Loch Katrine, July

Soon, alongside studies, I had found work at an inner city hotel’s vivacious restaurant. The job stretched my world from church and post-graduate university to the bustling business district of that medieval city. Working the evening shift at the flashy five-star hotel’s eatery, I saw business executives live in rooms week-to-week as their veritable second home, while lush, pleasure-seeking weekend holiday makers shifted the energy to indulgence come weekends. Often, I’d wake from a drug-like sleep the next afternoon in recovery from a previous night’s early morning finish. Weary from consecutive hours of cultivating restaurant elegance on the ground floor, while then frantically couriering steaming room service to more private, weary, or work burdened guests on upper floors, we topped long evenings with free beers and huge communal plates of greasy chips in the wee hours. Night after night, we sat like those participating in a greasy, ritualistic, pagan Scottish communion, where no one but me remembered Jesus’ body and blood.

As the sun glowed a very muted gray buzz across the daytime sky, I’d then half glimpse two hours of cloudy half-light before diving back into the murky cave of our sophisticated but windowless hotel restaurant. Here, I served Scottish rack of lamb to the lonely Welsh businessman, or waited upon the elderly far north Scot who kept the chefs in their windowless aluminum kitchen interested in life by routinely ordering the “special” of the day, chased down by an elegant but heavy triple Laphroig. We’d watch this distinguished man canter very intentionally, like a lad pulled over for his sobriety test, back across the street to the more budget hotel where he slept off this gourmet evening, ready for the following day’s to work on Scottish Educational databases.

When I’d dart out to the wide atrium bar for a diner’s wine or beer in winter, not a spot of sunlight could be seen after 3.30pm, despite the 25 foot floor-to-ceiling windows that invited every ray of lingering sun. Blackness framed the football (soccer!) fans zealously bedecked in their ribald sporting colors, marching drunkenly through the streets to and from pubs screening their games. Their glamor and serious fervor was like a shout of resolve against the depressing dimness.

As I raced along hotel corridors with my dented aluminum room service trolley and my tender, undying hopes of a small cash tip, I’d consume any glimpses of light or sky in passing windows. The mournful beauty of gulls swooping in the inky night’s electric semi-glow is my salient memory of visual grace on these long roomservice patrols along unrelieved gray corridors. Arriving at the penthouse suite on such a preternaturally shaded evening, burdened with the happy, hot, succulent roast chicken for Tony Bennett or hot chocolate and scrambled eggs for Jermaine Jackson and his shy, Caucasian girlfriend, I would sometimes pity the confusion I imagined these grand American stars must feel in our dark cityscape. Why would a civilization choose to stay and inhabit such a gritty and preternaturally dark island? On the surface of things, our commitment to this dim, soggy winter space seemed bewildering and foolishly patriotic.

Wrapped in the stalwart blanket of Scottish pride, Scots rarely discussed why they stayed at all, or how they survived. A tale of explanation that I once read was that in former generations the peoples occupying the coastal lands had found the atmospheric shoreline and islands habitable by aid of their vitamin D3 rich fish, seaweed, and cod liver oils. These they kept in a vat of fermenting sea fruits near the door of their mud-made huts. Oozing the invaluable nectar D3–liquid sunlight in food form--these earlier chiefs and clanspeople weathered the darkness abetted by foodstocks most natural to human survival in their particular climate. Did some of this impulse survive in the English and Scottish default to fish and chips on any possible occasion? In America, we grab burgers or sushi on the run. In Scotland, folk did a wee nip doon to the chippie, perhaps in an unconscious genetic compulsion back towards the fish liver oil origins enabling their earlier mental survival. 

Modern-day Scotland offered not so much a supplemental strategy, as a mission of pitiable smothering —endurance through camaraderie and pub life. In short, we drank the winter away. The prevalence of alcohol, clubbing, and more alcohol, to forget or enliven the threatening, consuming darkness was farught reality. This turn to the wine, the jack and cokes, the gin and tonics, and what became gallons of hard cider was followed, inevitably, by pursuit of deliciously repulsive fried food. A vivid memory of a winter’s evening during my university years in Glasgow was standing with friends in a grease-filled chip shop at 3 am, where a sober, level-headed, but smirking shop owner in turban and mustache served the scantily dressed, blitzed, and literally tottering western “Christian” guests a zero nutrient meal of hot chips (fries), with the chip shop’s familiar grayish green anointing curry. Indeed, a mini industry had sprung around the predictable depression of winter-bound, partying Scots—that of chippies and fish shops, open into the wee hours of the morning. By the end of six years in Glasgow, I stood well aware of the national sting of alcoholism, but certainly, and sadly, not without understanding.

I paint with broad strokes here, of course. These are memories mainly from days spent among hotel friends and university colleagues. My church friends weathered the winter rather more sedately, but not without a wee nip to get through the days, and certainly with a lion’s share of fish and chips. West Wing DVD binges, evening parties of games and “chewing the fat” (fun, leisurely chat), and mini-breaks for those who could afford to flee the gray all sustained the less alcohol prone types, as we grinned and struggled to bear the black winter away.

For myself, winterizing our let Scottish flat remained central to my mental survival. There is such a thing as cutting off your arm to spite your face. And, there is such a thing as having no good choices. When the darkness of a Scottish winter crept into Glasgow like the angel of death looking for blood on the lintels of homes, I was living with two American expatriate friends in a grand West End Glasgow flat. A magnanimous blonde stone mansion that had once outfitted an oil or railway baron of sorts in one of Glasgow’s poshest neighborhoods had now been sequestered into four elegant westend Glasgow flats. By some beneficence I still thrall to remember, we three American post-grad students had obtained “letting” rights to this splendor over a small host of other applicants. During spring, summer, and into autumn, we were the envy of all we knew. Our sprawling lounge with its twelve foot high bay window allowed in light, images of foliage, and the sound of children at play on the grounds of their expensive public (private) school across the way.

As winter crept through, however, opulent settings that had once framed our elegant spring view transmogrified to the Achilles heel of wellness and peace. My male flatmate at the time worked part-time researching medieval and modern lives of the saints, and the other seventy percent of this time drinking Jack Daniels and coke and playing an internet based video game with brothers and friends back in the US. His perch was the delicious round table within the sweep of the elegant bay window. Come November, he and I would rather awkwardly heave out the hidden, original, indoor Victorian window shudders, painted black and capable of covering literally the entire span of the floor-to-ceiling windows in a complicated inter-working of hinges and panels. Assembling this indoor screen felt like the muzzling of a bulldog or the blinding of hero, Samson-style. But we did this because there was other way to keep warm. The meager oil heaters scattered here and there like tokens to modernity held no real efficacy. They were no match for the high ceilings and now-insanely tall windows, and this shudder system in effect double glazed the space, however imperfectly. Whereas with a modern home, one stood a chance of creating somewhat stable warmth with space heaters and extra layers, these old flats stood impotent against the softly insidious sting of that millions-strong army of wet winter water cells.

In western Scotland, winter was not the season of snow, but of the far worse dual enemy of damp and darkness. This was the place of clothes that took a week to fully dry on British drying racks, and Victorian floorboards that leeched cellular moisture perpetually. Continually running dehumidifiers, we found, was positively the most effective form of heat management. Would the yesteryear drying power of real fires in the tenement fireplaces proven the key to survival against the potency of this winter water cell army? I certainly hope so for the sake of our forefathers and foremothers!

When we were done securing the blackened panels across our lounge’s windows, I turned to my own small room, likely once a servant’s quarters. There, too, hung original wooden indoor shudders for my window. Around the awkward fitting paneling, I stuffed old pajamas and the summer shorts and tank tops I’d literally never worn in Scotland. Their summer lightness now served as plugs and sealants against my greatest enemy--winter. At last, my small space lay hermetically sealed and guarded against any speck of outdoor water, and indeed, any ray of weak winter sun. I slept, lived, and worked in a cavernous darkness at least three or four months of those years in which I resided in that flat of historic luxury. Night blended almost unnoticed into day, and a cell phone flashlight directed into my eyes each morning was the best means of indicating dayspring to my searching body.

Deeper into the stretch of the city’s west end, my husband-to-be, with a professional job, traditional office hours, and a somewhat larger bank account, battled the lows of the western Scottish winter more genteelly. His best mate, a distinguished Scottish surgeon, lured him into membership at the sleek and financially exclusive David Lloyd west end gym. Here was a gorgeous, artificial, perpetual summer of sorts—the chemical paradise of an indoor pool, ensconced safely within the glass. Here, eminent surgeon sat swan alongside high stakes IT programmer, property developer alongside Oxford-trained eye surgeon. Thus it was that Alistair and Chris swam their way through the sadness of winter.

Somehow, when I think of Alistair, quietly and dramatically insisting that the David Lloyd gym and the pool were the only places keeping him from actual insanity between the pressures of complicated, risky surgeries at a large regional hospital, estrangement with his brother, tensions with a difficult mother, and the memory of a dead, beloved father, I recognized a specter of my own mental workings–a reluctance to admit or inability to see that a beloved object or passion could actually be foremost implicated in my own harm. Was the west coast Scottish darkness the true force that exacerbated all other struggles beyond the point of endurance? Yet, for this Gaelic patriot, the Scottish winter’s almost unrelenting lightlessness never came to the fore as perhaps the central instigator of mental agony. Alistair loved Scotland deeply. The main fonthead of soul-reviving relaxation outside of the gym lay in his emotional involvement with the waves and rhythms of Scotland’s contemporary celtic music. For a man so somber and focused by day, it was spellbinding to observe him unwinding with dances, fast foot-tapping and a subtly rocking body at modern celtic concerts.

As I would think of those two friends, my mind would automatically contrast them, for some reason, with the astonishing scarred man I met at the Garnethill laundromat one Scottish summer’s day. It must have been the year after my own traumatic second degree burns to my feet—boiling kettle, rushing for church, tired and stressed, slippery hands–and my subsequent skin graft surgery at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The scarred man was short, almost childlike in stature, as I found many Scottish men to be, but clearly aged. Almost up the rim of his chin, where neck and head met, danced plaited, pleated scars so complete and decorative that he almost seemed reptilian.

A thick, three-dimensional scar smiled darkly across the top of neck of where throat and chin meet, reminding me of the mark made by my great uncle, who, carrying the burden of PTSD from violence seen in WWII Pacific battles, and now in the first stages of dementia, had slit his throat with a huge metal saw. This gentle, kind, and tall music-loving man had once played the saw musically, eliciting its wobbling, otherworldly siren song with a cello bow against the flat side of the tool. The musical saw’s sound is piercing and otherworldly, finding its sound family with the glassy, wobbling chords of Benjamin Franklin’s glass harmonica. Two decades later, during my undergraduate years, that tall, German-American vet who’d lied about his age to begin serving before he actually turned 18, took that very musical blade slashed it across his neck. “Look what you made me do,” he cried to my usually strong, forceful Polish-American great aunt. He survived, but forever wore that same ring around his long, elegant neck.

Now, as I bid hello to this diminutive, thoroughly scarred man, I looked quickly away, resolved to appear oblivious to what seemed a very intimate tale of attempted suicide on his body. To my surprise, however, after polite greetings in the otherwise empty laundromat, he immediately commenced the tale of his body with strong Glaswegian inflections. Perhaps it was our isolation. Perhaps it was my conspicuous burns scars blazing through summer sandals. Whatever it was, I was so glad to know him, and moved hear his story. I’ll loosely translate from that lilting Glaswegian brogue into more comprehensible but less lyrical American style.

When he was no more than 5 years old boy, he began, his mother had spilled a full kettle of boiling water over her wee son in a horrible kitchen accident. He was taken to hospital, and almost died. These scars besmirching his flesh were the best doctors could do in skin repair forty years ago, and so he’d borne these ostracizing wounds for almost his entire life. Through no fault of his own, this scarred and anxious man stood thoroughly adorned by permanent markings of unintentional violence. He displayed on one frame forever, something of every person’s lifetime of wounds, internal and external, secrets which other bodies adeptly conceal.

He continued his story by describing a most isolated life, one that I can only attribute to the visual taboo of his grotesquely slashed and matted skin. His home was a single bedsit in the Glasgow city center, where he shared a tiny kitchen with four other single men. His trade, however, was sharpening knives and blades of all kinds. I was mildly surprised to learn that he worked, for it had become routine to me to meet men and women “on benefit” for an array of real mental and physical struggles. The delight he took in his labor delighted me.

From the small, highly regulated and much rarer hunting knives that still circulated after the successful 2005 Scottish gang crackdown and knife amnesty, to larger industrial blades for manufacturing machinery, the man whose name escapes my memory, but whose face and form I’ll never forget, could sharpen them all. Here, with talk of his trade, his eyes finally shifted from their haunted anxiety to brightness. I was blessed to hear him speak with some joy of camaraderie among the gents who worked on site with him at the mechanic’s shop. While the rest of the team fixed tires and engines, he practiced his own highly tailored, solitary trade in a small corner.

Perhaps boldly, because of the safety of my engagement ring, I asked him about girlfriends and women, only to hear confirmed a lifetime of isolation and singleness. He sticks out to me among these contemplations of winter for perhaps unmatched mental resilience against outwardly imposed suffering—a human creating what order, purpose, and joy he could amidst day to day agony. It was the story of a lifetime’s Glasgow winter.

I longed for him was to experience acceptance and community across ages and genders. And so, I, not being one to routinely do so, invited him to stop in at our church in the center of the city, a place of community at the very least. I knew men like him there, faint bodily memories of times past —beatings, disabilities, and trauma—but now slowly flourishing, incrementally renewed, and even married against all odds.

At just that moment, my posh Oxbridge roommate arrived. In the wake of the awkwardness of that invitation and her aura which recalled both my connection with another social realm and his gendered isolation, he quickly scurried off down the road, bearing the burden of his laundry like Quasimodo returning to the tower. I have thought of him often since then, praying for love, for community, and great, new hope. As I write here of winter and mental survival, of Alistair needing the bright lights and chlorinated waters of the posh David Lloyd spa and fitness club, of drunken friends, and mentally suffering colleagues, I think of him. I think of the steady, determined living of the scarred, knife-sharpening man.

One late winter’s evening sitting before the artificial blue glow of my laptop in a room enclosed by the total blackout of a Glasgow winter’s evening, I purchased tickets to the romantic heart of Southern France to visit a childhood friend. I was going on mini-break! Think Van Gogh’s cafe by night painting, and you will know Arles, France, the actual location of that iconic coffee shop, and the Dutch master’s home while at the from February 1888 to May 1889. Late February, almost March, I flew from Glasgow to Barcelona, Spain, and from Barcelona to Grenoble, France, and then by train to Arles. My dear American friend’s smile and transcendent ruby curls greeted me, and together we sauntered like those who’ve reached heaven itself through her adopted hometown, a healing intellectual and aesthetic distance from the New Jersey suburb of her youth. I posed by a Baroque fountain, while an enthusiastic male youth, adorned in an expensive Chanel “merce”, man-purse, jumped in to cradle me and photobomb the shot. We paused at a cafe on a winding, cobblestone street resounding with gentle guitar music for coffee and cocoa--all my European dreams were coming true. We continued on to Arles’ ancient Roman arena, where I heard tell of jazz and opera concerts, and finally emerged before the pinnacle, iconic Arles sight–its mirthful 1900 carousel.

Each of Katherine’s overseas guests were brought here and invited to ride the most famous of all Arlesian beasts—the black bull—El Toro of the carousel. Arlesian voices, Katherine explained, cacophonied in a dynamic, regional debate over the beauty or butchery of the bullfight. When these people of Southern France craved societal momentum, their chosen form of activism was always the formation of a society–the Society for Perpetuating Bullfights, the Society for Ethical Treatment of the Bull, the Society for Ending all Bullfights, etc. Across the road from one such society in an elegant turn of the century building, I paid my euros, and we laughed as the little carousel propelled my postgraduate student body up and down like a child’s. I balled my hands into fists and extended pointer fingers into two playful horns for my own forehead. For one puerile moment, I embodied El Toro himself.

For all the charm of that exploratory, Southern France day, the moment that stands immortalized in my mind was a quiet one. Descending the bull, and resting on the cobblestone pavements between the carousel and the boulangerie where Katherine quickly ran to purchased dinner baguettes, I felt a warmth steal across my face, neck, and decolletage. What was this glowing orange heat descending from the sky? How was this mercy of a peachy, gentle heat present on a mere late February day? Soaked in the mild ecstasy of this magnanimous anomaly, I drowsily wondered again what was this golden orb was doing filling the winter sky so warmly. I am not one to anthropomorphize flesh, but in that moment, my assemblage of cells spoke almost audibly. They begged me to pause, to stop, to soak, to drink in every lingering ray of sunlight. They would not budge.

There can be tears for the relief of battle we barely knew we had. There can be weeping with the realization that we had unknowingly survived truly destabilizing insufficiencies for so long. And at that moment, tears literally sprang to my eyes as I luxuriated in the gentle fullness of a benediction so long denied—the necessary mercy of sunlight for my pale, deprived epidermis. Here was a long forgotten grace for both body and mind. Here was a reminder of an alternative world where sun reigned not as a far off, chance promise, but as an immanent, abundant love.

In 1971, John Denver, the American folk singer with a flaxen gold bowl cut sang, “Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy…Sunshine almost always makes me high.” This racy line sat neatly memorized in my mind, snuck in among other more lighthearted folk fare from my parents’ 1970’s favorites. I vividly recall my parents discussing, with insufficiently hushed voices from the front seat of our gray airport limousine-style van on a trip west around America in the mid-1990’s, whether Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia was appropriate musical fodder for the mixed company of our family’s emerging pre-teens, teens, toddlers, and elementary students. “Makin’ love in the afternoon with Cecelia, up in my bedroom! Makin’ love!…” So little music did our parents bring, and so many long hours in the car made for a categorically memorized albums–beauty, revolution, salaciousness, and all. By the end of that month-long trek we kids had memorized much of Peter Paul and Mary’s In The Wind, John Denver’s Best Of, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Waters—all of which rotated like clockwork with an audiobook performance of Jane Eyre.

That day, standing in the long alien sun on that street in southern France, the line from John’s “Sunshine” filtered to the surface of long forgotten memories. To be clear, whether it makes me nerd or novice, I have never been “high” in the usual illegal, high school manner; yet, I have experienced the ebullience of a day out with friends and no obligations and money to spend, or the delight and honor of winning a grand, unexpected prize, whether first place in a the school wide coloring contest in kindergarten, or the university Presidential Award. This moment of sun’s mercy was like that—a shock of sheer biological joy, soaking in upon my skin, almost against my will or asking, and ushering with it, a deeply gladdened heart and endorphins. I no longer giggled and smirked at John Denver and his chillaxed, hippy musings. I sang alongside in fully realized understanding. How, oh how, could I return to dark Scotland?

Back in my little cavernous bedroom a week later, I distractedly ordered a large jar of encapsulated vitamin D3. Each small, smooth and marble-like tablet appeared so inane, harmless, even placebo. I tossed one in my mouth, In fact, I think I tossed 5 in my mouth for few days straight. I had no idea of their efficacy, but I reasoned that if in theory, I had been missing out on this necessity for five years, my body would require a small jolt of awakening to begin its journey into recovery. Chasing them down with water, I probably raced on with the movements of my busy life. And suddenly, a week or two later, as I turned up the circular staircase of our Victorian flat, I noticed that the unhinged sadness and chaos that had darkly plagued my inner world had calmed ever so subtly.

It was not the burst of what I imagine a drugged high must be, but the soothing calm of gently increasing stability, the slow, almost imperceptible release from the whirling bedlam of a blurred and muddied mind. The little blue pitch-forked demons of Disney’s 1959 Sleeping Beauty had ceased their authoritative dance and disappeared into a poof of nothing.

“Wow, I’m not insane anymore,” I muttered softly to myself. Gratitude, then annoyance flowed through me. Why, oh why, hadn’t I just tried it before? I would have liked to know that I was more than the “sweet” but distracted and zany blonde—that a measure of winter peace was possible, ever so subtly.

I’ve been a sun chaser ever since. I could not go back, could not slacken my pursuit of the gift of God’s best UV rays. My body and practices have grown more savvy, tailoring their thirst to the most vanguard research—10-20 minutes a day of obsolescence before the orbital rays on as much skin as possible in the prime window of lowest UVB rays—10am to 2pm. I respect the sensitivities of the face, neck, and shoulders.

For so long, I’d scorned the Glaswegian flight to crass, boozy Majorca, Spain, with what I deemed to be its tacky modern hotels and abundance of alcoholic loitering on the sands. Why, I mused, would a nation with such ready access to Europe’s innumerable cultural splendors and fine countrysides beeline in droves to a that tasteless resort landscape? I’d drunk the molding Kool-aid of belief in fading science—wearing sunscreen even on overcast days in cloudy Scotland, and trying to cover every inch of skin with fabric, even on warm far northern days, dreaming all the while of the crowning trophy of smooth, creamy pensioner (retiree) skin, coupled with a remarkable freedom from skin cancer. But now, after seven years of winter darkness and year-round mist, my snobbish disdain broke down with understanding for those I’d once slighted –you must fill up on sun and wellness before any culture becomes important. Pale and D3 deprived as I was, it dawned on me that there was grave logic to British comedian Michael McIntyre’s routine about the Glaswegian airport bombing attempt. Contrasting successful terrorists in London and Manchester, British born Islamic jihadists failed in their malicious bomb plots here in Glasgow, where a winter-beaten Glaswegian man tackled the physician- turned-jihadist in overweening determination to let nothing keep him from…Majorca.

When I next visited Glasgow seven years following our emigration, my friend Lindsey stood contemplating my Americanized postpartum body. She who had known me well in the Glasgow days observed, “You have some curves to you now, and some colour!” It was late October then, and so particularly gratifying to appear even remotely tanned! I reveled in my new hue, a sun-kissed peach, no longer the pallid, muted white linked to breast cancer and MS.

Now as a thirty-something year old scholar, mother, and partner, I look to photos of fellow thirty year old Scottish friends. Two Octobers ago, I sat with them in an ornate Victorian sandstone building-turned-Starbucks, drinking in the miracle of their lovely children, and seeing photos of their flourishing middle class lives. They worked as a professors, teachers, bank tellers, mothers, and volunteered with refugees, addicts, and international students. They lived day by day still in this cloud of gray, and theirs is a resilience I marvel to behold. I raise my glass of almond milk and another of kombucha to them, and salute their Scottish hardiness. My heart opens in prayer for the gift of mental wellness for them, and for those of us everywhere who find the shift to winter darkness an elephant of gloom sitting upon hearts. Let us fill our homes with green plants, keep connected in fun and kinship with friends, especially the lonely, pop our vitamin D3 with its enabling K2 buddy, and long for the lights of Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule who offer bright, needful stars of hope and celebration against a black winter sky.

As we walk in darkness, visions of summer remains my close companion hope, a specter walking by my side, the dream, like heaven reaching close to earth. And if we have eyes to see, we raise our fragile fingers to touch the veil between this present world and the next springtime. Memories and testimonies from far across the equator where antipodean New Zealand and Australian summers reign alongside our winter become the motivating promise that at the culmination of this obligatory darkness, there will be my body glistening with sun and sweat by the sonorous utterance of the lapping ocean waves.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 6 - Champagne et Chocolat

La Patisserie de la Rose by George deValier

CHAPTER SIX Champagne et Chocolat

.

Francis could not say what was worse about this waiting. The freezing cold; the tight anxiety in the pit of his stomach; the entire surreal reality of where he was and what he was doing. He'd spent the last three days organising this, had blown his entire savings doing it, and he still could not quite believe he had managed it. But at the same time, he did not regret it. After all, what better way to prove to Matthew that Francis was serious about him? To prove he loved him and understood him and wanted the gorgeous Canadian in his life? But if Matthew said no… if he walked away… oh God, if he laughed at him… Francis took a deep breath and tried to stop his self-sabotaging imagination from conjuring up even more awful possibilities. He twisted his hands together and focused on the positives – hey, if all else failed, at least this was a good business opportunity. Francis shifted on the horribly cold, uncomfortable bench, and glanced sideways through the dim light. Actually, he did know the worst part of this cold, nervous waiting. The man who was keeping him company.

"Having fun yet, darling?"

Arthur sneered over his needlework. He was rather violently knitting what looked like a bright pink tea cosy. "Don't darling me, frog. I'm only here as moral support for Matthew when he inevitably rejects you."

Francis couldn't help laughing. It was comforting how some things never changed. "How I've missed your particular brand of vicious, gut-stabbing optimism, Arthur."

Arthur shot him a derisive glare. "How I wish I could return the compliment. Oh wait - no I don't."

Francis just shrugged, tapped his feet on the ground, and glanced again around the dark, barren, damned freezing hall. His stomach twisted in knots, and this silence was driving him mad. He needed a distraction. "So, what are you up to these days, darl- Arthur? Besides shacking up with the most famous quarterback in America?" Francis gave a tiny salute. "Well done, by the way."

"I own a bookshop." Arthur returned the gesture without looking up. "And cheers."

"A bookshop?" Francis nodded thoughtfully and drummed his fingers on the bench. "Lovely. Appropriate. Do you still own that massive collection of Victorian pornography?"

Arthur's hands fumbled and his knitting needles slipped. "Those books are for historical research purposes only!"

"Research," Francis repeated doubtfully. "Nothing… personal, of course."

"Of course not!" Arthur was quickly turning a rather interesting shade of red. "And the collection isn't massive at all!"

"I seem to recall an entire bookshelf full," Francis replied innocently.

Arthur's knuckles were white as he gripped the needles. "It was never an entire bookshelf!"

Francis bit back a giggle. Oh, this was too easy… "Heavy, well-thumbed tomes jam-packed with virgins and incest and lusty, well-hung British gentlemen, conquering and deflowering and…"

A needle snapped. "RESEARCH!"

Francis smirked. "There's no need to be embarrassed, darling, we all have our kinks."

Arthur peered fiercely sideways, reaching into his bag for a new knitting needle. "Sailors, wasn't it?"

Francis' smirk fell immediately. So much for distraction. "If I hear one more word…" he muttered irritably.

More uncomfortable silence, but for the furious clacking of Arthur's knitting needles. Once again, Francis' mind started to turn. It took him five minutes to realise he was chewing on his perfectly manicured nails. "This is crazy, isn't it?" He wasn't even sure whom he was asking. "Tell me, honestly, this is mad."

Arthur paused his knitting. "Honestly?"

Francis' heart sunk. "Yes."

"This is mad."

"Merde." Francis dropped his head despondently into his hands. "What would you do, Arthur? What would you do if someone did this for you?"

"This?" Arthur looked around pointedly. "After barely knowing the bloke a week? I'd freak out, naturally, and run like hell."

Francis felt sick. "Dieu au secours..."

Arthur stayed silent for a moment more. "You're nervous," he said finally. He sounded incredulous.

Francis threw his hands up in the air. "Of course I am nervous! What if Matthew does not believe me? What if he simply turns and leaves? Why am I even asking you this, qu'est que c'est… What if he spits in my face, Arthur?"

Arthur looked much too pleased by that last scenario. "You'll get over it, old chap. Besides, look on the bright side - everyone will be much better off. Besides you, of course, but that's of little consequence."

"You are such a little shit."

"And you are an arrogant, swaggering Lothario." Arthur spat the words viciously. But then he let out a deep breath and tilted his head, his eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Well, most of the time. Which is why this nervousness is so surprising. You actually love Matthew, don't you?"

Francis simply gestured around the enormous room, at the lengths he had gone to for his radiant Canadian. "And you realise this now?"

Arthur wrinkled his forehead curiously. He almost seemed apologetic. "It is a hard thing to fathom that you could care for anything but your next shag. Perhaps I underestimated you."

This conversation was becoming far too amiable for Francis' liking. He had to break the mood. "Having regrets, Arthur? You're not still upset that…" Francis gestured between them. "That this didn't work?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and sneered angrily. "Oh, come off it, Francis."

Francis wagged his eyebrows. "Admit it, the sex was good." Arthur eyed him doubtfully, and Francis felt immediately indignant. If nothing else, he knew he was good in that department. Francis was a blasted God in that department. How dare Arthur insinuate otherwise! "What?"

Arthur rested his knitting in his lap, leant back on the bench, and fixed Francis with a penetrating stare. "Tell me. Have you ever actually slept with someone you were in love with?"

"Uh…" Francis had to think about that. He thought about it for a very long time. He was almost embarrassed to reply… "…no."

"Oh, Francis." Arthur looked far too smug as he shook his head and laughed. "Just you wait."

Sleeping with someone he loved. With Matthew... The thought of it sent Francis' blood firing downwards and he had to bite his lip. Best not to think too much on that subject right now. He changed it to something suitably horrifying. "You do realise that if Matthew takes me back, that will basically make us brothers-in-law."

Arthur's features changed from smug to horrified in an instant. "Oh, bloody hell. Can you imagine Christmas?"

Arthur drinking all the cooking brandy, Francis' beautifully baked Christmas cake splattered against the wall… "All too easily," Francis groaned.

"I suppose all we can do is hope for the best. He probably won't take you back."

Francis laughed, slapping Arthur on the back with perhaps the slightest bit too much force. "I hate you, Arthur."

Arthur grinned, though it may have been a snarl. "You too, darling."

.

Alfred had been sleeping on Matthew's couch for three days now. Not that Matthew minded, really. It was actually nice to have something help take his mind off things – even if it was coming home to find his bathroom repainted, or his kitchen walls coated in deep-fried grease, or a small collection of paparazzi photographers on his doorstep. At least Alfred's daily exploits added some sense of life to Matthew's otherwise dull, listless, heartbroken days. But even with these small diversions, Matthew still could not stop thinking of Francis. His warm, sexy smile, his teasing voice, that perfect, blissful sense of belonging Matthew felt in his presence. Nothing, no one, had ever impacted his boring life so much. He was almost at the point of finally caving in and running to the patisserie to beg for some sort of hope or closure or who even knew what.

Because, well… what if Matthew did have it wrong? What if he'd jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion? What if Francis really had liked him... had more than liked him... and everything Matthew had heard to suggest otherwise was simply a misunderstanding? But those questions were pointless. Nothing more than desperately wishful thinking. That bright, brief romance was over, and the sooner he came to terms with that the better.

It was Wednesday morning when yet another diversion barrelled into Matthew's bedroom, whistling tunelessly and flinging open the curtains and tossing a heavy snow jacket onto the bed. "Dress warmly, Matt!"

Matthew rolled over clumsily, batting the sheet from his head and blinking his way to awareness. "What? Huh? Who… Wha?"

Alfred was fully dressed in a thick jacket, snow boots, and oddly enough, a bright pink knitted beanie. He grinned down at Matthew with that daftly cheerful look of his. "We're going out. I've got something to show you."

"Show me? What are you on about?" Matthew brushed the hair from his face and squinted at his alarm clock. "It's 6 a.m. I have to get ready for work soon."

Alfred scoffed as he threw open the closet doors, grabbing random handfuls of hanging clothes. "One day off won't hurt you. Come on, you've been totally boring since I got here. It's time you cheered up a bit, dude."

Matthew groaned and threw the blankets back over his head. Maybe he wasn't so grateful to have his brother here, after all. "I don't want to cheer up. I want to go to work."

"No you don't, you never want to go to work." Matthew yelped indignantly when Alfred pulled the blankets off him. "Now get up, get dressed…" Alfred winked and threw a balled-up shirt at Matthew's chest. "And trust me."

Matthew's stomach lurched at the words. This could not be good.

.

"Alfred, I'm seriously starting to freak out a little here..."

Matthew was also seriously starting to regret letting Alfred talk him into this. The walk had seemed fairly innocent to start with, until the unexpected turn into a narrow, quiet street in the older part of town. Matthew's apprehension had only grown at Alfred's insistence they enter this large, abandoned building, only to find that it was dark, empty, deathly silent, and utterly freezing. A faintly damp, dusty smell hung in the air. Matthew was used to Alfred talking him into this sort of thing when they were kids, but they were far too old now to be traipsing around building sites. Matthew could barely see Alfred in this darkness, but his obnoxious laughter echoed through the vast silence. "Like I said, Matt - trust me!"

Matthew scoffed loudly at that. He almost tripped over a broken beam as he tried to keep up with his mad brother. "Trust you?! Where the heck are you leading me? This is really stupid, Al. I know you've been trying to take my mind off things lately, but really..."

Suddenly, a single overhead light flicked on up ahead. Matthew broke off and halted, staring in surprise at the vertical beam shining down through the gloom. The solitary spotlight illuminated a single object: an old-fashioned lamppost, wrought in wood and iron, with a small sign hanging from its side. Matthew's stomach twisted in a strange mixture of excitement and wariness. He stared for a moment more, stunned and intrigued, before curiosity overcame him and he hurried towards the startling image.

The bizarre polished sign hung at eye level. An intricate red rose was chiselled into the wood, beside four elaborately carved words: La Patinoire de la Rose. Matthew's heart leapt in his chest; his throat went dry. Those words and that symbol were too familiar, too reminiscent of something he had tried too hard to forget. Except for that one word… Patinoire…

"Ice rink?" As soon as he said the words, an entire ceiling of overhead bulbs flicked on and flooded the room with light. Matthew had to blink a few times before his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Gradually, he began to make out features of a large, open hall around him: a few rows of stadium style benches, a high, slanted ceiling, cracking white walls. His sense of wariness quickly started to overwhelm his brief excitement. If his blasted brother got him arrested again… "Alfred? Seriously, what's…" Matthew glanced around for his brother, only to find, with a sinking stomach, that he had disappeared. But right at Matthew's feet…

Matthew froze. Everything seemed to slow, and stop, and turn upside down. His skin began to tingle and his breath to quicken. No wonder it was so cold: the floor stretched out before him was covered entirely in ice. But Matthew did not wonder where it had come from, or how he had taken so long to notice, or how this pool of ice could possibly stay frozen inside this old, broken, obviously abandoned building. All he could see, with a soft gasp and a wild rush of understanding, was that the ice was covered in a light red layer. A layer of rose petals. "Oh my God…"

Matthew looked up slowly, his eyes widening and his head going light. At that very moment, a figure emerged between the dark benches opposite and skated onto the ice. Matthew's heart stuttered. He could not move, could hardly think, could barely believe that this was happening and not some dream from which he would wake at any moment now, upside down on the couch and covered in maple syrup.

"Francis." Matthew whispered it, the word falling unbidden from his lips, breathless and stunned.

Francis was almost unbearably handsome, perfectly poised, and frustratingly sexy as he skated easily towards Matthew; his jeans low-slung and his blonde hair falling on his cheeks and, of course, a single red rose held in his hand. It seemed an eternity before he finally skated to a stop at the edge of the ice. He held the rose out to Matthew, cool and warm and smiling. "Bonjour, darling."

The breathtaking sound of Francis' lilting, teasing voice sent Matthew's stuttering heart racing. It was hard to believe it was only three days since he'd seen him. It felt like a lifetime. "Francis…" he whispered again, as though to convince himself.

Francis' chest rose and fell swiftly, though his handsome face was as calm and playful as ever. "Mathieu," he said with a wink.

Matthew had to bite his lip when Francis spoke his name in that familiar, sensuous accent. His traitorous hand shook with desire to reach out and touch him. But he quickly pulled himself together; quickly broke himself from this stunned, honeyed haze. "Francis, what are you doing?"

Francis looked down and tapped a skate against the ice. "Skating, darling. It's a lovely day for it."

Matthew felt incredulous laughter rise in his chest. "Skating? How did you manage this?" He gestured in confusion at the ice. This building was obviously not intended as an ice rink.

Francis' dancing blue eyes stared at Matthew like they were devouring him. It was all so achingly familiar, as though that awful Saturday fight and the following days of grief had never happened. Matthew could almost smell the sweet, delicious scent of cakes in a patisserie, or pasta and wine by a river. Francis shrugged. "It is amazing what one can accomplish with a sporting celebrity and a friend in the destruction industry."

"Sporting celeb…" The words snapped Matthew back to attention. He again glanced around for his absent brother. "Alfred helped you with this?"

Francis nodded. He still held the red rose before him, as though waiting for Matthew to take it. "He's been amazingly helpful. Besides the constant demand for cupcakes, of course."

Matthew paused briefly. No wonder Alfred had been so distracted these last few days… he'd been helping Francis. This was huge! This meant that Alfred trusted the Frenchman, which was an enormous accomplishment on Francis' part. This also meant that Alfred had gone behind Matthew's back, and Matthew was going to kill him. "But… I don't…" Matthew's brain was firing too fast and too madly to keep up. And Francis' gorgeous smile was not helping matters. "Wait, destruction? This building is being torn down?"

"It was. Until I rescued it." Francis lifted one shoulder and shifted slightly on his skates. Matthew was rather impressed at how easily he was managing on them. "I have been thinking of expanding the patisserie, after all."

"Expanding? Wait, you own this place?" Matthew had to stop to breathe. He had spent the last few days trying to forget Francis. After all, the last time they had spoken Matthew had turned and stormed away, certain their brief flirtation was over. Now, he was not so sure. "Francis, what's going on?"

Francis took a deep breath, dropped the rose, and carefully took Matthew's hand instead. Matthew's skin burned at the touch. With Francis standing before him, Matthew could only now realise how much he had missed him. And it was stunning. He could not think of a reason to pull away. "Do you see that little room in the corner?" Matthew looked where Francis pointed, to a small glass-walled room built into a front corner of the hall. "A little café. With good French coffee and velvet cupcakes and the best éclairs in town. And this -" Francis tapped the ground with his bladed boot. "- of course it will be bigger, and properly enclosed, but..."

Matthew whispered. "Patinoire…" What he had always wanted; what he had told Francis last week by the river. A little skating rink, somewhere friendly, with hockey and dance lessons and a little café by the rink… Now Matthew was beyond stunned. He was utterly astonished. Had Francis had done all this for him? Bought an ice rink for him? Surely not… that was crazy…

"Oui. La Patinoire de la Rose. An extension of la Patisserie. A brilliant business idea, no?" Francis continued before Matthew could respond. "However, I actually know very little of business. And nothing at all of ice."

"You skate well." Matthew was too bewildered to think or say anything else.

Francis lowered his eyes and gave a tiny shrug. "Darling, you flatter me. I learnt this morning."

Matthew suddenly felt very warm despite the frozen air. "You'd make a brilliant hockey player, I'm sure."

Francis leant forward, his very warmth misting around Matthew and enveloping him. "I see myself as more of a figure skater, personally."

"Of course." Matthew smiled slightly, losing himself in that warmth and that smile and those dancing blue eyes. "With feathers and sequins and a truckload of glitter."

Francis gasped, his eyes flashing. "Fabulous, darling!"

Matthew let out a breath of laughter. Oh, this came back so easily. And how much he'd missed this, missed Francis, missed the way he made Matthew feel… but as much as Matthew wanted to fall into Francis' arms, he could not completely forget the events of that awful Saturday night. Matthew shook this bewildered, teasing fog from his head and tried to look angry, or hurt, or at least confused. "But, what has this got to do with me? Do you want business advice, or tax breaks? I thought you were done with me, Francis. I thought this was over."

At that, Francis paused. His hold on Matthew's hand was light, yet so strong... Matthew wondered why he did not pull away. Francis' smile fell and his expression turned determined. "Forget this, Matthew." Matthew's eyebrows flew upwards, but Francis continued unfazed. "Forget the ice, forget the café, forget this madness and just listen to me." Francis looked intense and hopeful, apologetic and wonderful all at once. Matthew had no choice but to listen to his simple, earnest, honest words.

"I want you, Matthew. No one else. You. From the first moment I saw you walk into my patisserie, I knew I had never wanted anyone more. Mon Dieu, Mathieu..." Francis closed his eyes, opened them, sighed like he did not know how to express this. Finally he simply repeated the words, spoke them like they were obvious. "I want you."

How did Francis make it so simple? Matthew could only half-heartedly ask an explanation. "At Gilbert's place. They said…"

"Charlotte - Antonio, Gil..." Francis turned his head sharply, his expression drawn between pain and laughter. "I will always be honest with you, Matthew. Yes, I have had a lot of sex. I won't deny that. But, in my entire life, I have never once been in love." Francis caught Matthew's eyes in an honest, head-spinning gaze. "Not until I met you."

Francis' words melted the last of the freezing cold. Instead, Matthew felt a tingling heat spread through every part of him. Was he supposed to be angry? He could not even remember why. He could only feel relief, and belonging, and Francis' hand like fire in his own. He could only believe him. "You say you want me…" Matthew let the words trail away.

Francis' lips were so close. Matthew's hands, his blood, his very bones ached for those lips to be closer. "Yes. In every way. Not as a game, or a conquest, or a joke. Not as someone to use and throw away. Not what you were no doubt thinking the other evening, after hearing those horrible things, those things that meant nothing. No, Mathieu, I want to know you. All of you." Francis reached out a hand; Matthew almost fell forward when he brushed his cheek. "I want to know what makes you laugh; what makes you cry. I want to know how you sigh, how you moan, how you taste." Francis' lips turned up slowly, softly. "I want to see how you look when you wake up in the morning. And I want to spend forever finding out."

Matthew's blood fired and sent his head spinning. All his concerns melted to nothing, dispersed like his heavy breath misting into the frozen air. He could see no lie in Francis' eyes. This might be too slow, or too fast, but it was everything he ever wanted to hear. And maybe it was stupid, and maybe he was wrong, but maybe this was the most important moment of his life, and maybe Matthew just had to believe. So Matthew gave in. He fell forward, reached for Francis' collar, and pulled him into a desperate, perfect, at-last embrace.

Francis breathed a small gasp of surprise. It took him a moment to respond, and when he did it was more intense than Matthew could have ever hoped or imagined. Francis practically devoured Matthew's lips as he kissed him, grasped his arms and his head and his waist, breathed in sharply and pulled him as close as he could possibly manage. He obviously forgot he was on skates, however, and promptly stumbled, until Matthew had to struggle to hold him up. Wild laughter met between their lips. The familiar scent of lavender and spun sugar sent a delightful, shivering wave across Matthew's skin. It felt incredible to touch Francis again, to be held in his arms, to be pressed together from chest to thigh. It felt right; it felt like home.

Francis laughed against Matthew's hair, his eyes bright and relieved and overjoyed. "Should it be this easy?"

Matthew shook his head, mad joy bubbling through every part of him and turning his head light with the perfect bliss of this perfect moment. "I don't know. I've never done this before."

Francis winked. "Are we doing it right, do you think?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Matthew did not wait for an answer. He just pulled Francis into another kiss, all the comfort and belonging and easiness of Francis' arms falling into place around him.

Francis' lips were soft and steady and smiling, his frozen hands pressed to Matthew's heated cheeks. When he broke the kiss, his breath tickled Matthew's cheek, and he attempted to look serious. "No, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you understand." Francis ran his thumb over Matthew's parted lips. "Matthew, I've never felt for anyone what I feel for you. Please give me a chance to prove that to you."

"Prove it?" With a jolt of reality, Matthew remembered just where they were standing. An ice rink, a café… His throat tightened; his chest soared. "You're asking me…"

Francis interrupted, as though in a rush to explain. "You said to me, last week by the river. That you wanted a small ice rink." Francis grasped Matthew's arms tightly, gazed into his eyes earnestly. "This is for you, Matthew. This is for us. La Patinoire de la Rose." Francis looked up at the glowing ceiling, over at the wide, peeling walls. "Give this a chance, mon cher. Give me a chance."

Matthew shook his head in amazement, his eyes wide and his heart racing. Francis certainly knew how to surprise him, but at least this remained the same – he always knew how to make Matthew feel special; important; adored. "This is the biggest, craziest, most unbelievable thing anyone has ever done for me."

Francis looked briefly uncertain. "So it's a bit much?"

"Of course it's a bit much." Matthew lowered his eyes and laughed softly. "But that's just you, isn't it, darling?" He glanced up through his lashes, breathed in Francis' presence. "Francis, I can think of nothing better than being business partners."

"I can." Francis placed his hand at the base of Matthew's back, leaving trails of fire with heavy fingers. "How about just... partners?"

Matthew reminded himself to breathe. "The term is a little impersonal, don't you think?"

"Darling, I completely agree." Francis tilted his head, so his words were almost a whisper in Matthew's ear. "I always preferred 'lovers,' myself."

Matthew fought back a moan. He realised now, he had only ever doubted Francis because Matthew doubted himself. But the truth had been there all along, from the first moment. Francis wanted him. Francis loved him; and Matthew felt the same. What more was there? This time when their lips met, it was with the promise of a future between them. Matthew's life turned and changed and started in this single moment, in a single, brilliant burst of colour. And while Matthew knew it would be different now, he also knew that it would never be dull and grey again.

.

"Champagne?"

Matthew raised a single eyebrow, and Francis started to feel a little unsure. The afternoon had passed in a colourful blur. Gliding slowly on the small pool of rose-covered ice, hands clasped and eyes locked; an easy, peaceful afternoon spent laughing and touching and planning a future together. Matthew was so graceful and strong on the ice, all his delightful shyness and brilliant sarcasm washing away the last of Francis' doubt and anxiety. Francis was simply filled with pure joy and relief that Matthew had accepted his words; had understood him. And now they were back where they started: in La Patisserie de la Rose, although this time in Francis' luxuriously decorated bedroom above the patisserie. It felt like a threshold; like all their moments spent together had led them here, and to what lay beyond this.

Francis hadn't been sure how Matthew would react to the deep red velvet and black silk of his bedroom décor. And now he wasn't quite sure where to go from here. He'd had dozens of men in this room - he knew how to do this. But he also knew it was different this time. And without an idea how to act in this new situation, Francis clung to his same-old methods. He just shrugged lightly when Matthew stared at the champagne bottle. "Apparently it is the done thing."

"Well, you'd know."

"Ouch, darling. So, no champagne?"

Matthew shook his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them they almost seemed to blaze. With his lip between his teeth he took a single deep breath, brushed the hair from his neck, and sent Francis' blood pumping downwards. The air fairly crackled with sudden tension between them, their eyes fixed by an invisible thread. Francis' palms started to sweat, his breath quicken, his muscles tense. Then Matthew walked slowly across the room towards him. "I don't want champagne. I don't want roses. I don't want fancy words and grand gestures. It's exactly as you said to me today, Francis - I only want you."

Francis did not know how to respond. It took him a second to realise that he was nervous. How utterly ridiculous - he wasn't supposed to be nervous! He was the confident one, the one with all the words and all the moves - the one who did the seducing. He wasn't supposed to feel his hands trembling and his neck burning; to feel like his fragile heart was about to pound through his skin. He was suddenly aware of just how different this really was. No one, in all his years, had ever made Francis feel like this.

Matthew reached him, and for the briefest second, Francis was uncertain as to where this was leading. But then those blazing eyes blinked, and lowered, and Matthew was his shy Canadian once again. Francis practically gasped in relief. He slammed the champagne bottle into the bedside ice-bucket, took Matthew by the waist, and kissed him deeper and more thoroughly than he'd ever kissed him before. Just like that, Francis was certain again, and there was absolutely no doubt where this was leading.

Matthew returned the kiss with equal intensity and quickly receding shyness; pressing his hips to Francis' and grasping his arms with surprising strength. By the time they fell onto the wide, silken bed, lost in the throes of each other, the champagne was forgotten. Then Francis felt everything that came before simply wash away, and this was like the first time.

Because when Francis lost himself in Matthew's heat and breath, it was more than just their bodies that connected. This was more than the fast, frantic madness Francis was used to. This was taking the time to learn Matthew's body - what made him sigh, what made him cry out. The way Matthew moved with Francis, against him and around him, like their bodies were made to fit together. This was losing himself in the breathiness of Matthew's sighs, the softness of his skin, oh God the sounds he made. This was the culmination of all those glances, all those touches; it was the destination, and it was the beginning.

This was the first time – because it was his first time with Matthew. Francis had never experienced sex like this. It was the first time there was nothing dominant, and nothing submissive about it; Francis had never felt this equality, and those words did not apply. It just stretched on forever, over and again, and it wasn't about who was where and it wasn't about control. This was about sharing themselves and being with each other and, really, it didn't matter a damn who ended up inside the other.

The night passed in a light, intense haze of touch and scent and sound, in another world where nothing existed but Matthew, and nothing mattered but him. By the time they lay tangled in the sheets, sated and breathless, the light through the windows was already turning grey. Their lips still moved lazily, laughter rising easily between them. Their fingers still traced light, grounding circles on sense-heightened skin. With one arm firmly clasped around Matthew's waist, Francis grabbed the champagne from the ice bucket and took a long sip.

"Well."

Matthew squeezed Francis' side. "Well."

So that was the difference – sleeping with someone he loved. It was more than Francis had ever dared imagine. He laughed softly. "What do you know. He was right."

"Huh? Who?"

"Oh, just something Ar..." Francis stopped himself. Not something he wanted to think about in this golden moment. "Nothing." He kissed Matthew's head, the edges of his hair damp with sweat.

Matthew just hummed lowly and pressed a kiss to Francis's skin, draped lazily across his chest. Francis doubted he even understood the words. But then he suddenly gasped, his eyes widening when he noticed the tray on the bedside table. "Oh, Francis... You've got chocolate as well?!"

Francis glanced at the small tray of specialty creations he'd placed there earlier: little heart-shaped spirals of dark chocolate, each topped with a different coloured peak. He had spent three days designing them, using only the finest ingredients and the most stringent methods. After all, he needed something to replace the éclairs. "The done thing, darling."

Matthew reached eagerly for the tray, but Francis handed him the champagne and picked up a piece first. He lifted it to Matthew's lips, smiling, a warm glow filling his chest. Matthew laughed breathily, his lips slightly swollen, his cheeks still flushed and gorgeous. "Really?

Francis winked, though his heart was practically convulsing. After hours beneath the sheets, he still only wanted more of Matthew. "Leave me some of my silly romance."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but his lips could not stop smiling. "I love your silly romance." He took the chocolate with his teeth, then his eyes fluttered closed. He gave a faint moan as he tasted it, grasping Francis' hand and rolling his tongue over Francis's fingers. Francis' already heated skin burned with a familiar stirring. Matthew's eyebrows shot up and he glanced down smugly. "Again?"

"It's your fault, my dear!" Francis felt practically giddy. This was like being a teenager again. He tapped Matthew's lips. "Now, you must tell me what you think."

"Delicious, darling." Matthew smirked and bit Francis' fingertip lightly. "But perhaps a slight rest is in order."

Francis groaned and gave an exaggerated frown. "But only slight, yes?"

Matthew pushed his shoulder and laughed. With the champagne in his hand he fell back against Francis' chest; their sweat-dampened skin starting to cool and their bare legs tangled together beneath the sheets. He sighed contentedly. "I could get used to this."

Francis could spend a lifetime getting used to this. He could not imagine anything more wonderful. He ran his hand over Matthew's bare chest and whispered against his neck. "You'd better, mon cher."

.

Six months later…

"Hahaha! I told you you couldn't keep up with me, Arthur! Arthur? Why do you keep turning in circles?"

"Because I can't stop oh bloody hell whose brilliant idea was it to put men on ice this isn't natural bugger bollocks shit shit shit…"

"Let go of the railing, Lovino… here, hold my hand. I will not let you fall!"

"I'm not going to fall, bastard! Stop holding onto me! I know what I'm do… don't let go!"

"Hey, Roddy baby, look at this! Look at me jump! Ha, wasn't that awesome?! Roddy, baby, are you watching?"

"Yes, yes, Gilbert, I'm still watching. That's very nice. Now, why don't you go off and race the loud American?"

"Ludwig! Catch me! Spin me! Lift me! Turn me! ARGH LUDWIG HELP!"

"Mein Gott, PLEASE watch where you are going, Feliciano… Entschuldigung, Lili…"

"That's okay, Ludwig, everyone's smashing into me today. I got totally slammed between Gil and Roderich earlier, and Arthur's had me over the railing twice. Eliza, where are you dragging me..."

"Come on, Lili dear, you're about to give poor Ludwig a stroke."

"What did I do?"

Matthew was floating on ice. He smiled serenely as he glided through his small group of friends, shouting and racing and taking advantage of having the rink to themselves. Although Kiku and Herakles preferred to keep Francis company in the corner café, where Bruce and Lars were currently concocting God knows what in the kitchen. La Patinoire de la Rose had just seen its first mad, hectic, jam-packed day open to the public. Matthew was pretty sure Alfred's attendance and Roderich's afternoon concert in the café had helped to attract customers, although Francis' new heart-shaped chocolates had walked out the door and Matthew's junior ice hockey lessons were already fully signed up. All in all, opening day had been a wild success.

Alfred raced up from behind and tapped Matthew's shoulder. "Race ya, Matt!" It was a familiar cry from years of winter holidays spent with his brother, racing along frozen rivers and in ice rinks colder than this one. Matthew grinned back and raced to close the head start Alfred had given himself. He passed him easily: this was one place where Matthew could always beat his brother. He raced past Antonio holding a scowling Lovino by the waist, turned around Lili and Eliza coming to Arthur's rescue, and dodged Gilbert hefting Feliciano into a lift while Ludwig and Roderich watched and rolled their eyes. Then, up ahead, Francis suddenly appeared; a bottle and glass in his hands, handsome and sexy and smiling brightly as he leant against the railing. Matthew's heart leapt and spurred him to skate even faster. He flew up to Francis, steadying himself against the railing, ignoring his brother's cries of outrage from behind. Francis leant over and gave Matthew a quick kiss, a wave of scented caramel wafting from his hair. "Congratulations, darling."

Matthew shrugged modestly in response and took the offered plastic cup of champagne. Matthew was filled with elation and pride for what he and Francis had accomplished in six months. La Patinoire de la Rose was unlike any ice rink Matthew had ever seen. The high ceiling was studded with lights encased in ornate silver designs. The once cracking walls were now replaced with a wooden finish, decorated with carefully glass-protected artworks. Bunches of roses sat in pots around the hall, specially bred for the cold. Everywhere he looked, colour burst, while the warm, delicious scent of baking pastry wafted from the nearby café.

Matthew only managed a small sip of the champagne before Gilbert skated up beside him and snatched it from his hand. "Awesome! Time to christen this baby! Give me the bottle, Francis."

Francis' expression twisted in horror when Gilbert wrenched the bottle from his hand. "If you break that, Gilbert…"

Gilbert just stuck out his tongue. He took a swig from Matthew's glass, handed it back to him, then raised the unopened bottle in the air. "OI! Attention!"

The group drew closer to the railing, coming to a slow stop on the ice. Arthur continued in circles for a few moments until Lili and Eliza helped him to a halt. Feliciano broke into applause. "Yay! Speech!"

Matthew shook his head firmly. "No, Gilbert, you really don't have to…"

Gilbert ignored him. "Now, I'll be the first to say that I never thought I would see our Francis settling down."

Francis groaned loudly. "Is he really doing this?"

Matthew rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling also. He was incredibly grateful for the amazing help he and Francis had received from everyone - including Gilbert. This small group already felt like a family. "Yeah, he's doing this."

"How can we stop him?" asked Francis.

"Got a gag?" muttered Ludwig.

Antonio giggled. "Ask Roder… OW! What? Come on, it never gets old!"

"BUT," Gilbert continued, unperturbed, "I will also be the first to say, he couldn't have settled down with a nicer guy. And, although an ice rink is sort of freaking weird…"

"And bleedin' insane, bloody hell…"

Lili giggled as she held Arthur by the shoulder. "Arthur, it's not as hard as you're making it! Just spread your knees, bend over a bit, and make your strokes longer…"

Eliza patted Arthur on the back as he was hit by a sudden coughing fit. "Lili, darling, try and think before you speak..."

Gilbert continued again, unfazed. "…the thing is, people say a lot of things are freaking weird, so whatever. This is Francis and Matt's thing. And if it's their thing, and it works for them, then that's all that matters." Gilbert winked at Roderich then glared pointedly at Antonio. "Whatever some boring, vanilla people might think."

Roderich shook his head and muttered, "The vulgarity…"

"He's right, you know," said Alfred loudly. "I've tried telling Arthur that he shouldn't care what people think about his freaky old porn books, but he still keeps the entire bookshelf hidden in the basement."

Francis snickered. "An entire bookshelf, was it?"

Arthur made a strangled sound somewhere between a furious growl and a frustrated scream. "You JUST WAIT until I get off these bloody skates, the BOTH of you!"

Feliciano clapped his hands together and cried, "I don't think the ice rink is weird, I think it's fantastic! It's almost as cool as those brownies Bruce and Lars gave me earlier!"

Silence fell for a moment. Ludwig managed to stomp away angrily on his skates, heading for the café and muttering something about Dutch stoners and their Australian accomplices.

Francis took the opportunity to cut in. "Lovely speech, thank you, Gil…"

"Oh, I'm not done…"

Roderich smiled forcefully and squeezed Gilbert's shoulder. "Oh, you're done, Gilbert."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. I suppose nothing remains then, but to say..." He grinned and raised the bottle. "Here's to Francis and Matt's awesome new business venture, to their awesome new life, and when the inevitable happens, I call Best Man. To La Patinoire de la Rose!'" Gilbert shook the bottle furiously, popped the cork, and Matthew jumped back in shock when he sprayed the golden bubbles across the assembled group.

"You GERMAN BASTARD!" Lovino shouted furiously as he received the main brunt of the drenching wine.

Antonio cried out indignantly, "So unfair, Gilbert, I want to be best man!"

"Champagne showers, ve!" Feliciano held out his arms and spun circles in the spraying champagne, while Arthur looked utterly horrified.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, you blasted Kraut, I could've drunk that!"

"Hahaha!" Alfred laughed wildly. "Look, Arthur, if I open my mouth I can catch some of it!"

Lili gave a sharp cry of surprise, shaking the champagne from her hair and running a hand down her neck. "Ohhh, now I'm soaking wet!"

Eliza stifled a groan. "Lili, sweetheart, now you're going to give me a stroke…"

Shrieks and laughter filled the air as the small group dispersed, spreading out onto the ice to escape Gilbert's frenzied yet surprisingly skilled champagne attack. Matthew turned into Francis' arms, accepting his valiant attempt to shield him over the waist-high barrier. "Well," said Francis, laughing, his warm lips against Matthew's ear. "I suppose that makes it official. Welcome home, Mathieu darling."

Matthew felt his chest swell at the words. The last six months had been bright and colourful, beautiful and marvellous, more wonderful than Matthew could have ever imagined. Every dream he had never dared to dream had burst into reality. Matthew had once thought his life was dull and boring: the same old grind, day in, day out. But Francis had changed all that. He had brought the colour into Matthew's life. This was home now, and it was incredible how a place so cold could feel so warm.

Matthew smiled into Francis' blue eyes, bright and warm and dancing, and felt that familiar delicious tingle in the base of his spine. "Why, merci, Francois. Everything's perfect…" Matthew winked and squeezed Francis' hand. "…darling."

The End.

.

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[harmonal]

Hidden Boarding school Au set in their final year. Y/n suddenly feels her life shift when she sees a familiar face walk into her Biology class. Part 1 of 2

Pairing: Jimin x Oc/Reader

Word count: 6,000 +

Genre: Fluffiest of Fluff with some Angst

Warnings: None so far!

Authors Note: This started as a dream I had the day before valentines and I just had to write it down! Thank you for reading all my dribbles.

Rowland Private School became not only a home but it became my life. 6 years I had spent walking through the Victorian style building, it’s dreary outside contrasted with it gothic designs within its walls. A 10ft hedge surrounded the perimeter, its presence essentially shielding the building from the outside world and in turn preventing us from seeing what lay beyond.

Don’t be confused, I had enjoyed my time here. It gave me the best education I could hope for but with only 1 year left, I felt a dread slowly build inside me as each day past. The eventual departure into the adult world was coming up too fast, I was not in any way prepared. I would laugh a long with friends, well class mates, as they joked about the situation. Many already had futures with their families, CEO positions, businesses to take over, some to become doctors, some heirs to thrones, some planned to take a gap year and here I sat unsure. I hadn’t seen my parents in 2 years, my mother abroad on some diplomatic business and my father in Australia running the family business. I had been sent here as a spritely 11 year old and I haven’t left since. It was the first day of the semester, Biology class with Dr Park. A middle aged woman, her dark hair cut into a stylish bob which matched her choice of outfit. She had always chosen her outfits carefully to match the status of the school. This wasn’t a place to wear a fuzzy jumper or jeans. The class struggled to settle with the excited conversations of summer adventures and plans for the rest of the year. Several boys boomed with laughter from along the back row. Their faces just out of eyesight but I could easily imagine their eyes squeezed shut with tears as they continued their conversations. Dr Park tapped the board and the class become quiet, yet not everyone was focused as she wanted. I snorted as paper aeroplane flew across the room and hit the boy next to me in the face. My hand instantly covering my lips.

“Y/n is there an issue?”

Dr Park shouted across the classroom, her hand gripped onto her pen tighter as she paused mid sentence.

“No Dr Park. I’m sorry.” I could see the floor just swallowing me up, I hated the way my cheeks burned when attention was on me.

Instinctively I covered my face more with my small hands, the cooler touch of skin on skin helped with the blush.

“Are you okay Tae.” I whispered to him. Taeyung was one of the few I would call a friend. He gave me one of his signature box smiles in response, his eyes were soft and glowed with the autumn sun that cascaded upon his features. I nodded and picked my pencil up, I tried to focus, Biology was one of my strongest classes. I originally had aspirations of becoming s doctor, maybe a vet, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Classmates head began to turn towards the door and out of curiosity I did too. What I saw was a mop of blonde hair that covered his face, a frame slight under the same uniform we wore for school. Yet his face showed so much distaste.

“Ah good, class please.”

Dr Park coughed as she ushered the boy to her side. His posture one of apprehension standing in front of everyone , his face still looked to the floor, soft eyelashes outline dark eyes as they scanned the feet of the students in the front row.

“We have a new student starting with us today who will join us for the final year here at Rowlands.”

The classroom murmured as they took in the boy who stood before us, his hands ran through his hair nervously as Dr Park nudged him forward.

“Please take the seat at the back for me.”

The only empty seat at the back sat behind myself and Tae, he casually walked towards his seat as Dr Park caught our attention again. Two large diagrams filled the board. “Now, who can tell me the difference between an Animal Cell and a Plant cell?”

.…

“Did you see the way those girls looked that new kid today?” I laughed as Taeyung hung himself upside down beside my on the bed. His legs stretched up my wall and his arms fell behind him touching the floor with his finger tips. He was an odd ball.

“Do you know his name?”

He suggested. He had obviously been lost in his thoughts, his eyes looking towards the pattern of stars on my ceiling.

“Err no. I don’t.”

“I bet Jungkook would know,” he smiled as he shifted onto his stomach and reached for his phone. The screen shone with a selfie of us, a beautiful summers day last month that we had shared. Yet again my parents had left me here instead of having me at home and Tae was kind enough to stay too. My shoulders slipped down the wall until I was laying parallel to him. “Jungkookie knows everything,” he smirked searching for the boys contact. Tae presses call and waited as the dial tone blasted through his phone.

“Tae Hyung, what’s up!” His voice blared against the rumble of voices around him.

“JungKook, I need some information. Do you know anything about this new boy in our year? He came into Dr Parks Biology class this morning. “

“You mean the blonde one who’s sat right next to me.” He laughed, my body suddenly tensed up. “It’s Jimin. Man, I haven’t seen this kid for years since I was in Busan!”

Tae turned towards you, mouthing the words Busan, his eyes searching yours for any indication of an answer.

“Ah thanks bro, I’ll speak to you later.” He sat up pressing his shoulder to mine. His phone locked in his hand and he threw it off the bed. “Well?”

“Jimin from Busan? Don’t know him.”

My voice hitched as I said that name, the words tasted like vomit as I tried to keep my nerve, how could I look Tae dead in the eye and lie to him. I did know a Jimin, I knew Park Jimin. How could you ever forget your the name of your childhood friend. The small chubby boy with glasses that would accompany you anywhere. His voice echoed in your mind, the sound of giggles and screaming as you would play in the sea. But those memories were merely on the distance and it was now the present, they weren’t relevant anymore. It couldn’t be the same boy. Not after he left you, his family left yours, the hatred your parents had for them. You were separated and was told to forget him. And he to forget you too.

...

“His name is Park Jimin.”

“Do you think he’s related to Dr Park.”

“He sure is handsome.”

“He’s adorable.”

“Apparently he’s up for the soccer team.”

“He used to play for his old school.”

“I wonder why he moved schools”

“Do you think he got in trouble ?”

“Expelled?”

“Maybe something illegal ?”

It was endless, it had been a week since he first came into that classroom. I hugged my knees closer as I say between some girls from my class. The warm sun shone above as we waited for our turn again during our physical education class. Mr Kim had decided on a British sport called Rounders, like the American Baseball but less shouting and sliding. He mixed the classes so girls and boys were together. To my dismay Jimin had been put on my team yet no one else seemed to mind. The girls all seemed to just fall to his feet and it was turning me sick.

Lisa and Rose blushed as he looked our way, he sat just behind me in the line. They had not stopped chatting about him since the start of class, I merely nodded when they expected a response. Maybe the eye rolls weren’t a big enough hint for them. I smiled sweetly as I stood for my turn to bat, I wasn’t the best at sports but I’d give it a good go when I had to. I begrudgingly pulled down the silly sports skirt I was wearing, why the school chose such ridiculing uniforms I didn’t know. I took my stance in front of Jungkook who was enjoying pitching, his powerful throws caught most off guard but I knew him well enough now .

“Cmon kookie,” I blew him a kiss, “show me your worst.”

He smirked in reply and threw the ball square at me, I quickly swapped hands and back handed it to the right. Jungkook jaw hung low in surprise as i began to speed towards the first base and then the second and the third. If only I was fast enough but smaller student named Min Yoongi had already thrown it to forth.

I hesitated behind a tall boy at third, his long arms ready for the ball. I recognised him as Taeyungs room mate, a joyful character named Jung Hoseok but they all called him J hope. I could see why, his smiled out shone anyone around him, I looked towards the base and saw Jimin take the bat I had ditched just moments ago. It was becoming later in the day now, the orange sun cast behind him and silhouetted his body. He had matured into his body, no longer chubby but a defined arms, chest and legs. I shook my head, no, it wasn’t the same guy. I had to get that silly idea out of my head. Park was a common name and there has to be more than one Park Jimin in Korea.

“Y/n run!” I heard Tae scream from the side lines, in daydream moment Jimin had hit the ball hard and it was heading straight towards me and at my head.

I swore as it collided hard against my skull and as my body hit the ground. The pain throbbed as I pressed my hand to my face. It had hit my forehead, I could already feel a bruise forming and tears building in my eyes.

“Are you okay, I’m so sorry.” The hands were soft, fingers light as one hand wrapped around my arm and the other under my chin. My eyes met his, his iris dark ,his nose scrunched when he was unsure.

“Y/n”. His voice breathy and shocked. His grip loosened as the crowd formed around us.

“Now now, everyone back away.”

Mr Kim forced his way through the students. “Are you able to stand”. He asked me as he nudged Jimin out of the way. Mr Kim reached down and grabbed my hand, his strength pulled me up and I wobbled as I stood. My head hurt beyond belief, my stomach began to do flips. I almost fell straight back down.

“Okay okay. Looks like a concussion to me. I think it’s time for you to go back to the dorms.” I nodded closing my eyes, the earth seemed to move below my feet, stars appeared and my vision became dark.

... My eyes felt groggy as I peered open into the room. The pillow felt soft against my head, woollen blanket covered my bare legs. I suddenly shot up in the bed, why were my legs bare ? What happened to my uniform. I looked down and just saw my bra and underwear. Instinctively i drew the blanket close to my body and wrapped it around myself. “At least I’m still in my room,” I quietly laughed to myself, I winced as the pain shot through my head.

The sun had already began to set, the shadows cast along my tiny room. I looked to my desk, I grabbed the small mirror and looked at my face. I didn’t look too bad, the bruising sat above my right eye, it had already started to turn purple but luckily not much swelling. I hesitated to touch it.

The closed door of my bathroom unlocked, instantly I reacted and threw the mirror in its direction . A shocked Jimin stood with his hands up defensively, eyes wide like a doe. The mirror shattered on the floor and I felt my heart sank, it was one of my oldest possessions .

“What are you doing in here?!” I demanded, holding the blanket tighter to my semi naked body.

“Whoah I come in peace little dumpling.”

I squeaked at the name, it wasn’t something I had heard for 10 years.

“I brought you back to your room.” “How do you know where I stayed?”

I felt my voice become higher, I was panicking. I wasn’t sure why.

“Taeyung and Jungkook showed me.” Traitors, the both of them. He still had his hands up in the air.

“Look, now you’re awake I guess I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” My voice felt bitter. “For your head.. and I guess that mirror .” As he smiled you could see his eyes light up, the same as they did earlier.

“So I’ll see you around“. He smiled once more walking towards the door. I stood still, one hand against my chest and another on the desk. My heart rate was sky high, my mind racing.

What had just happened. Park Jimin was in my room. He saw me in my underwear. Heat filled my cheeks once more, I had become irrational in the moment.

I grabbed my phone and two texts appeared .

Taetae [one way to entertain the class. that was crazy how you managed to throw up everywhere. Give me a text when you’re up and ready for dinner! ]

Unknown [Im sorry again]

That would explain the lack of clothes. Concussion did normally lead to nausea and memory loss. I sat back on the bed, waving my fingers over the two texts. Undecided who to reply to first.

Y/n [meet me for dinner in 10 mins?]

Taetae [sure, I’m already down in the hall with Jungkook].

Great, he was probably enjoying all of this. His childish nature brought out the worst in Tae. I sighed and slowly reached for casual wear in my bed side draws before applying as much concealer as possible to my forehead through wincing. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the talk of the school now after that mishap and sure enough, all conversations stopped as I walked in and sat behind the boys.

“Ah here she is,” Tae wrapped his arm around my shoulder as I sat next to him. “Your head looks alright,” tilting his head to have a better view, “does it hurt?”

He giggled as I pushed away from the pain of his finger pressing into my forehead.

“You little ..” I pressed my lip to stop the curse, his hand now by his side. I looked around the table. Tae sat next to Jungkook, with yoongi, j hope on the other side. They all seemed too engrossed with food to notice another person sit down. He sat next to Jungkook on the opposite side to me. The six of us on the end of the bench like tables. I couldn’t not notice the bright blonde in this light , the colour suited him, it defined his face. Soft features now formed into a straight cut jaw, sharp lines, smokey eyes which seemed to stare into your soul.

Jimin coughed suddenly , I had been staring far too long and he noticed.

“How are you feeling?” It was almost a whisper, as though he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I’m okay.” I really needed to get over myself, he made my heart jump a beat each time his eyes met mine. He made me flustered. He made weak. He made me frustrated with myself. Tae nudged me in the ribs.

“Lisa has some crazy idea that she wants to have a party now the snooty old prefects are gone! You in?”

“When is it?” I questioned, my body turning to his.

“Tomorrow night.” He smiled.

“But that’s a Tuesday night.” I spoke in hush, surprised at the day in question.

“The teachers wouldn’t expect it. Less patrol and less prefects to interfere.”

“I’m in.” I needed some fun for once. The same old routine was becoming bleak and boring.

“You wanna come Jimin? Be a good chance to meet some of the girls.” Jungkook called across the table, Jimin looked up from his plate to me and then to Kookie. His face complex. I watched as he pondered his decision, the corner of his lips turning up as a smirk appeared. His eyes met with mine.

“Sure why not.” Why was he staring at me like that. It made me shiver, if it wasn’t for the warm body of Tae almost pressed next to me on the bench then I would have assumed I was cold.

“Good. It’s a plan then. I think Lisa said she’s just gonna hold it in the common room. I know all the soccer team are already going.”

“No surprise there.” I snorted, ideally stirring the peas on my plate, avoiding the eye contact that burnt into my head.

“Well you know what she’s like.” Tae said dramatically. “Remember that one year . Her and Taemin got caught in the lower hall toilets.”

“No way!” Jimin laughed. “Did they get in trouble?”

“Well no. Her daddy paid off the school to keep quiet. She didn’t however.” I rolled my eyes.

“Are all the girls in this school sluts then?” Jimin questioned.

“What’s that supposed to mean.” I snapped.

“Well I’ve already seen one in their underwear.” His voice playful as the table started to roar; J hope laughing as Yoongi almost spat his food everywhere, Jungkook slapping the table laughing as Tae questioned Jimin.

“Who’s the girl? Duh you’ve only been here 5 mins and already a hit.” He smiled at Jimin. But Jimin still had his eyes locked on mine. Who did he think he was. Tae was right, he’s only just arrived at the school and wants to give off that impression. I guess he wanted to be known as a player then.

“Okay, games in our room?” Tae stood up from his spot almost tipping me off the edge of the bench.

“Cmon Jimin, why don’t you join us? I’m sure Jungkook needs to some fresh competition around here. Y/n, you coming?”

“Yeah guess so, I was that hungry anyways.” I placed my fork down on the half empty plate and walked after Tae towards the dorms, shamefully aware of Jimin walking behind me. I consciously continued to have the conversation in my own head, was he really the same child I knew.

... I was still attempting to convince myself otherwise several hours later as I sat on the floor with my back against Taes bed. Jungkook and J hope fully indulged in a game of Mario Kart. Some students were blessed with more lavish rooms provided by their parents, Taeyung not being an exception. His parents were art dealers and ran several galleries across Asia and Australia. His side of room hung replicas of his favourites, whilst J hope had some random K pop posters on his walls. He says it’s like nostalgia to him seeing bedrooms the way they were 10 years ago. I just enjoyed looking at the girls outfits if I was honest.

I relaxed my head against the soft mattress of Taes bed, Tae sat next to me on the floor whilst Jimin, J hope and Jungkook sat on the bed. You could feel the bed move as they over exaggerated their movements on the screen. It was funny, I couldn’t deny it. J hope always knew how to light up the room with his jokes and funny gestures. Jimin had been unsurprisingly quiet, well he was quiet compared to the rest of them. They all wouldn’t shut up. He did remind me of that child but the one I knew wasn’t shameful, boastful or generally an ego-tistic person who this Jimin was. The way he stared, the way he smirked. I internally groaned, I took my phone out to pass the time. Flicking through social media to pass the time, seeing Lisa’s latest twitter update advertising her party. My phone vibrates with the text message tone.

Unknown [you never replied to my message earlier]

Y/n [who is this? And how did you get my number?]

Humming under my breath. I knew exactly who it was, it was more the method he got my number. It was though I could feel his breath on the bass of my neck, the heat from him behind me. I knew his legs were crossed and I could feel his weight dipping the mattress.

Unknown [now now dumpling. How could you forget me?]

Y/n [how could you forget me Jimin]

I heard him laugh under his breath. That was a bold text, more of a test. I waited for a reply but none came, the boys were settling down now. It was getting close to curfew when we all had to be in our rooms. The only disadvantage about a boarding school is the rules. One of the only reasons I was looking forward to leaving, I could make my own rules .

“Okay guys, I’m gonna head to bed. Got some homework to do anyways. Thanks for the fun!”

“But Y/n you didn’t even go against me!” Jungkook pouted at me, his soft young features made him look like a child.

“Next time Kookie. I promise!” I waved at everyone before opening their door and leaving.

The hallways were quiet at this time of night, many students were already in their rooms. Many studying or doing homework. Curfew had always been strict for us, all students regardless of age or class had to be in their rooms by 8.30pm sharp. The social scene wasn’t huge at Rowland’s but we made do with the little events we had. We had a prom every summer and a winter formal, it was just some excuse for the older kids to sneak in alcohol and take advantage of the later curfew. The school might be for the higher end students but they sure didn’t act it when it came to having fun. Lisa was a prime example, Jungkook or Tae weren’t saints either. The memories of their phones being confiscated due to a group chat they created, you can only imagine what it included. A tune hummed between my lips, soft melody raising and falling, it was of my favourite piano tune. One I could never remember the name to but could hum the whole song effortlessly.

The girls dormitory was in a separate wing to the boys, you had to walk down a back hall way past the open gardens of the school and up a floor. I aimlessly scrolled through my phone as I walked, notifications of group chats, a text from Tae appeared. I stopped to open it up, too many times I’ve walked straight into dorm thing whilst engrossed with my phone.

Tae [you seemed a little off this evening. You okay?]

Y/n [i’m good, don’t worry about me 😘]

“Y/n.” I thought my heart had jumped from my own chest, the sudden voice caused myself to jump and almost drop my phone. I stumbled as grabbed it before it hit the floor, my hand reached for the wall to push myself back up.

“Jimin.” I attempted to catch my breath back again as i spun to him.

“Why’d you scare me like that!” “Sorry.” He looked to his shoes.

“You need to stop saying sorry.”

“Okay.” We both stood there, only the moonlight to illuminate the hallways through the ceiling high windows. It felt awkward, as though neither of us knew what to say.

“Look..” “Y/n..”

We both spoke at the same time, both gesturing for the other one to speak.

“I got your number from Tae.” He said first. He looked sincerely at me as to encourage me not to retaliate once more. Maybe he remembered the mirror incident earlier too well. “I asked for it last week, when I saw you sitting with him in that Biology class. I wanted to see if my mind was really playing tricks on me Y/n. My parents told me i’d never see to you again.” He stepped closer, his fingers reached for my face , brushing stray parts of my fringe from my face.

“It’s not swollen much has it?” He smiled into his chest as his fingers lingered touching my skin. It stung where he lightly pressed but I couldn’t concentrate with his close he was. His eyes were the same, how I could I not realise before but they were the same. The small sweet smile, I looked up to him as he towered over me. He may be shorter compared to the other guys but he was still taller than me.

“It really is you. Isn’t it?” My voice small and faint, not really believing what I was saying.

“Who else would I be? Little dumpling?” He shook his head and took a step back from me, hands trembling as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Why did you leave?” I knew I should have eased in with a better question but it was all I could think of.

“My father made that decision.” His back now turned away from me. “I.. we.. they didn’t want us to talk to each other any more. Our families decided.. they..”

“They what Jimin?”

“Nothing. Actually I don’t even know I thought it would be a good idea to come here, to this school.”

“Pardon?” He turned and looked at me, dead in the eyes with his lips sealed shut. “Jimin. What aren’t you saying?” I pushed further. My mind racing. My eyebrows knitted together causing my head to throb slightly.

I wasn’t the type of person to enjoy having secrets kept from me, especially from someone like this. I knew him but didn’t at the same time. A decade had passed since we properly knew one another, now he stood before stammering as though the words were stuck in his throat.

“Nothing. Let’s pretend I didn’t say anything.”

“No. You can’t do that!” I began to yell. Grabbing onto his hoody.

“You can’t just re appear in my life like that. Acting all strange around me. One moment being kind and then an asshole when the guys are around. What do you take me for? Some dumb blonde.” I could feel the rage burning inside, there was confusion, distraught and most of all frustration. “I haven’t seen you for 10 years and you’ve yet to grow up. We’re 18 not 8 anymore.” The words echoed down the empty hall. He still stood before me, watching me, that same stare he did before, it made me itch.

“Just tell me what you want to say!” I demanded once more. “Jimin.” It felt more like a please at this point. My body was pushed against the cool glass of the window, soft hands pressing my face into his. His gentle lips touching mine, all I could do was whimper at sensation. My arms had gone limp and my hand released the grip on his hoody. In my mind what felt like minutes was only seconds, my lungs had forgotten to function and I gasped for my air as he pulled away. He placed his finger against my lips.

“Shh. Someone is coming.” Panic began to set in as I saw the clock on the wall behind his head. It read 8.40pm, 20 mins past curfew. We were going to be in trouble. Not only for being up late but also Jimin not even being near his dorm at all.

Footsteps seemed to become closer in the hall. I tilted my head in the direction of my dormitories. Jimin nodded his head in response, we navigated ourselves in between the shadows til we reached the door. “Quick!” I whispered as I pushed it open. The sound of the door clicking shut was louder than expected and I heard the disgruntled voice beyond it. Shaken, I scrambled for my keys in my pocket. The small silver key that belonged to my dorm room door slammed into the lock and with a wiggle I pushed the door open.

We collapsed against his other on the floor, mirroring each other’s actions as we sat with backs against the door. Almost feeling as the action would create more security. I turned my head to face him once more, his lips were parted as he was breathing heavily. Gentle strands of blonde hair hung from his forehead. Eyes narrowed as they looked back at me. I could have easily been lost in that moment and didn’t care.

“What was that kiss about back there?” I whispered once more.

“It was the quickest way I thought to shut you up.” He weakly smiled.

“You never answered the question either.”

“I think it’s time I should go back to my room.” He began to stand to his feet.

“No. You still haven’t answered.” I stubbornly replied and I attempted to get to my feet too.

I watched as his hands pulled the door open and taking a quick glance outside.

“Good night Y/n.” I looked up to him again, he gently placed a kiss on my cheek before walking straight out of my room, and essentially disappearing again whilst my mind had so many questions. ....

My eyes were still open when the first alarm blared next to me. I didn’t need to turn my head as I swung my arm at the phone.

A million voices circled my mind as I tried to conjure up an answer for last night. Why did this happen, what did my parents try to hide, what was I meant to do now? Just go on as normal? I had tried to texted Jimin but no reply I assumed he was asleep. I rubbed my eyes rigorously in a feeble attempt of erasing the sore, dry crust that had disgustingly formed around them.

“Eww.” I muttered whilst pottering around to gather uniform for breakfast. No end of make up could hide the purple circle under my eyes, matched with a now yellow/green bruise on my forehead. I wasn’t even sure how I could have forgotten about that. About the incident, about jimin seeing me in this room. Without clothes on. The thought made me shiver.

It wasn’t as though I was shy with my sexuality or body, I wasn’t. Lisa had made sure of that over the years.

But that felt too intimate for us, I struggled to envision it. Both of us to be that close to each other, I won’t deny ever fantasising about it but I was constantly reminded about how much like brother and sister we were. So it eventually left a sick feeling in my mouth any time I thought of him any other way than my brother.

Now I felt frustrated with the memories, I remember the day it happened, we all had been around the Parks for dinner. The father had just come home and my parents said we were leaving. And that was it, i was enrolled with Rowlands the next week and sent on my way. Why didn’t I push more for it? Maybe I was too excited to finally be away and in boarding school. I missed Busan dearly.

... The usual suspects sat around our normal breakfast table, Yoongi deep into his notes as a strong beat thumped in his headphones, J hope was chatting to Jungkook who smiled as I sat next to him.

“Good morning Miss Zombie.” They both giggled. I did my best attempt of a stare which only created more giggles.

“Wow, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” Jungkook continued, he rolled his eyes before turning back to J hope in their conversation. Tae looked at me concerned, he reached over the table with his hand, a simple yet deep gesture.

“I’m okay.” I whispered to him. He wasn’t stupid, he knew something wasn’t right. I didn’t want to burden him with anything though, he already had enough on his plate with the pressure from his parents. However, his deep eyes seemed to suck my soul in and I couldn’t resist telling him things. It was though he was begging me as he kept the eye contact.

“Am I interrupting?” Jimin smirked as he sat next to Tae. He eyed me up, I felt naked as he scanned my face and hung on my eyes. There wasn’t a blanket to hide behind this time, yesterday had felt like it happened months ago. I looked back to Tae and in that moment he knew. He knew it was Jimin.

I wanted to cry, I wasn’t normally a crier but between the situation and my lack of sleep, and with the head ache that had started to pound I could feel the tears begin to fill my eyes.

“I don’t feel well. I’m gonna go to the nurse.” I stood up sluggish and walked out, my movements slow as I staggered out of the canteen and towards the nurses office by the front reception. But heavy footsteps and voice stopped me.

“Wait Y/n.” I was happy and equally disappointed as I turned and saw Tae. “Cmon lets go talk somewhere.”

I simply nodded, no words to respond even if I did my voice wouldn’t have made a single word without bawling.

He dragged me into the nearest empty classroom, as soon as the door clicked shut. He pulled me close and held me tight. The familiar smell, his aftershave smelt strong and the warmth from his skin made my face burn.

We stayed still like this was a few minutes whilst he rubbed circles into my back as I attempted to fight back the tears. I needed to stop, I needed to calm down. I was over reacting and it was making me more frustrated. The more frustrated I became, the more tears began to fall down my cheeks and Tae in turn held me tighter.

I sniffles and began to pull away. “I’m sorry.” Attempting to laugh in between the tears. I rested my arms back against a table facing Tae. He smiled at me sympathetically.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“It’s really complicated.” I wiped the corner of my eye with my right sleeve, the wool material scratching my skin.

“Try me.” He folded his arms as he mirrored your actions and leaned against the adjacent table.

“I knew Jimin before last week.” I looked at him to gage a reaction. However, he didn’t even move an inche but silence implied for me to continue. “My parents and his were close, we were close. Then suddenly we weren’t. I got shipped to this school and never saw him again til last week. I had no way to contact him or even know where he was. Then he spoke to me last night, said some things... did something and now here I am with no make up on, haven’t slept at all and crying my eyes out to my best friend cause some of guy.” Tears re-emerged as I tried to control myself.

“Sorry I’m just getting frustrated.”

“It’s okay. What did he say? If you don’t mind me asking ?”

“That his father decided we couldn’t be friends anymore basically. I asked him what that meant but he wouldn’t tell me. I just want to know Tae, I was stupid to never question it as a child but he kissed me Tae. Jimin kissed me.”

The colour slowly drained from Taes face, his expression like stone but his eyes gave him away. He didn’t like that, he really didn’t like the idea of Jimin kissing me. Tae had always assumed the big brother role, defending me and protecting me. It didn’t surprise me he was trying to do it again.

“Well did you want that?”

“I don’t know . Maybe? No? I don’t know.” I felt dramatic. I was over this conversation already. “ I think I feel better now.” I looked to him as though to plead not to continue. “Okay lets go.”

[harryandmolly]

like the back of my hand - October-December 2019 (part five)

Summary: a relationship within a collection of moments

Warnings: NSFW, language

Word count: a modest 3.8k (next one is the final, guys)

November 12th, 2019

“You’re not… I mean, it’s not that you’re scared I could hurt you, is it?”

She can’t look up at his face. Her chest hurts at just the sound of his voice so she buries her face deeper into his shoulder, clenching her jaw.

“No. The best way I can describe it is… is that it’s not that I’m afraid of you touching me, it’s that I can’t understand why you want to.”

If she were looking, she’d see he looks stricken. He just tightens his arms around her waist and blinks sleepily.

“And, I just want to clarify, it’s not like I jump out of my skin every time you touch me. It’s not like that at all. I fucking love it when you touch me. If I had it my way, you’d never stop touching me. You have no idea how badly I crave your touch.”

His smile is melancholy when she does crank her head out of the crook of his neck to face him.

“The trouble I have stems from not knowing where the touching is going and not feeling secure enough to stop you when I get nervous.”

He nods. It makes sense.

“So… how can I help you?”

“I think I just need time. Time and itty bitty baby steps.”

He hears the humor in her voice and is relieved. “Itty bitty baby steps?” he snickers.

“Yep. Like—” she interrupts herself by grabbing his hand and planting it on her left breast. His eyes fly open.

“That. That’s a baby step.”

She eyes him mischievously and grabs his other hand and does the same with her right breast so both his giant hands are resting on her chest and she’s giggling maniacally.

“There. Look at that, that’s another one. Look at the progress!”

He laughs hard and realizes his body needs it. They’ve been bogged down with their emotions, holed up in his house for days without much respite from them. He drags her on top of him, simultaneously feeling a weight lift from his body as hers replaces it. She looks happy and relaxed and he wants so much more of that, so he nods.

“I can do baby steps.”

+++++++++

December 17th, 2019

Lilly’s been spending most nights at his place and leaving for work before he gets up. He ambles around and writes while she’s away and either cooks or orders something to have ready when she gets home.

Each night, she takes him a little further along with her. He is not an inexperienced man by any means but loving her like this has brought out the enthusiastic kid in him again. He can’t remember the last time he felt his knees quake when a woman took her shirt off in his presence. He’s sure the last time his mouth went dry when his hand was guided down between the legs of his partner was the first time it ever happened. It gives him a new appreciation for all of it – for the intimacy, for the arousal, for her.

She’s being careful with herself. She doesn’t want to spook the anxious beast in her gut again, so each night they’re together, she guides him a little closer, assessing carefully as she pulls him in and they explore together.

It’s seemingly unromantic this way, she figures, from the outside. She explains it to Lauren one night when Shawn is out with friends. Though fully supportive, she just doesn’t really get it.

“It sounds like it takes a lot of planning,” Lauren notes, hesitation in her voice.

“It’s really not as carefully calculated as it sounds. It’s more like… practice. Really, really fun practice. The problem with Patrick was we were going so fast I didn’t take time to realize how I was feeling. Now, Shawn puts me in control and everything just… feels good,” Lilly explains.

It’s good enough for Lauren.

That night, Lilly and Shawn take a healthy lead off second base and when she leaves him in the morning pink-cheeked and mostly naked in his bed, she can’t fucking wait to get home and reach third.

+++++++++

December 28th, 2019

“I don’t know that I have any specific sex fantasies.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really, the only thing I want is to make passionate love in the Cinderella Suite in the castle in Disney World,” she answers earnestly, propping her chin up on his chest to watch his reaction.

Predictably, he’s delighted by her admission, sweeping her hair back so it tickles his stomach. “I definitely should’ve guessed that.”

“Yes, you should’ve,” you tease.

“So, what, you’d be in a ball gown and I’d be calling you ‘your highness’ or…?” he prompts.

“No,” she laughs, “I mean, I hadn’t really thought about that.” A flush blooms under those freckles he loves and he knows she’s thinking about it now. He makes a mental note.

“What about your pirate thing?” he reminds her, wanting to get some specific details from her. He realizes he sounds a little desperate, but getting her off is his new favorite thing and is becoming his mission in life. If he can do it in style for extra brownie points, he wants to know how.

They’ve been fooling around comfortably for a few weeks, enjoying their baby steps system more than Shawn imagined. Now that they were trading orgasms like candy, they were both more at ease talking about it.

She buries her face in his chest unexpectedly. He giggles and starts playing with her hair again encouragingly. “What is it?” he hisses.

“I should tell you something,” she begins to confess, fluttering her eyes at him and sighing in resignation.

“Ok,” he chuckles anxiously.

“I… have read a lot of romance novels.” She says it matter-of-factly, tilting her chin up and nodding a little as if daring him to mock her.

“Like… Fifty Shades of Grey? Or the old ones with Fabio on the covers?”

“I didn’t finish Fifty Shades of Grey and neither did any other serious romance enthusiast. But yes, I happen to like some of the older classic novels. I’m not entirely proud of this, you see, because they’re kind of trashy and not good quality, but worse than that, they are not representative of how women should be treated, or beacons of healthy relationships, for that matter.”

It was like she had been planning the speech to spill out at him at the right time. He shrugs.

“I’m not judging you, babe,” he reminds her.

“No, I know, and I felt like I was keeping this weird secret from you. It feels sort of shameful because you know how I am about feminism and this feels like a crack in my armor, sort of.” She sounds a little upset and he sees the crease form between her eyebrows.

“What is it you like about them?” he asks.

After a brief pause, she gestures wistfully. “They’re just so… sweepingly romantic. Like, I’m not necessarily envious of these women or their situations because usually they’re trapped without options in one way or another, but it’s this crazy passion that seems so… inviting. There’s this one book I’ve read, god, fuck, maybe over a dozen times. It was written by a married couple in the 90s. It was this cult classic that went out of print for the longest time and only a few years ago it got republished and has this whole new life now.”

“I want to read it,” he says confidently, nodding at her. Her eyes bug out.

“No! No, you can’t read it.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you’ll see what a phony I really am with my principles and my intersectionalism and my sex positiveness.”

He laughs. “I won’t read it to judge you, I just want to know you better. C’mon, you love this book, how bad can it be?”

She winces, looking at him hesitantly, he takes one of her hands and rolls her fingers between his, insistent.

“What’s it about?” he murmurs, nodding at her.

“A young American girl during the Revolutionary War named Merry lives with her British aunt as social outcasts. Anyway, the aunt takes Merry on a trip to… New York, I think and then tricks her and says they’re moving back to England where Merry can live in a real community and get married and be a proper lady. Then the night before the boat leaves, she gets kidnapped by these pirates and winds up on their ship as a hostage and things get… complicated.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Well, that sounds good.”

“It’s… very dreamy. I mean, you know about my pirate thing. But Merry is held against her will and is all soft and virginal on this pirate ship and, y’know, the whole consent thing wasn’t as big a deal in the 1700s—”

“I’m not grilling you, Lil, I just want to read the book.”

“Shawn, you don’t even like to read,” she reminds him. He shrugs.

“I know, but I’m gonna try. What’s it called?” He reaches for his phone and pulls up his notes app.

She stares at him, trying to decide if there’s anything she can say to get out of this. She knows, of course, if she really felt that uncomfortable with him reading the book, she could tell him and he’d back off. But something curious stirs up in her gut at the idea of sharing this part of her with him.

“The Windflower by Laura London.”

He types it in and saves it, gratified. “Got it.” He plants a grateful and comforting kiss on her head, hauling her up his body to have her feel a little closer. She snuggles into his neck and closes her eyes. As she begins to drift off, a thought occurs to her.

“Have you ever read erotic fiction?”

“Uh… I’ve read fanfiction?”

“Smut?”

He snorts indelicately. “Yeah.”

“Ok. Don’t read it anywhere in public. Just… trust me on that.”

He smiles against her forehead, curious about this novel’s power over his level-headed, feminist-minded, incredibly sweet girlfriend.

++++++++

December 31st, 2019

“God, I’m such a miserable west coast bitch now,” Lilly sighs, stepping out of the car and folding her arms childishly. Shawn follows her with a shaky smile, nodding at the driver before he leaves them on the side of the road. Shawn tunes out the rest of Lilly’s gobsmacked reaction of her own inability to deal with the familiar New England cold as he looks up the long driveway to a slightly dilapidated Victorian home glowing with light and throbbing with sound.

She suddenly realizes he stopped listening to her some time ago. She frowns at the house. “Shawn?”

“Sorry. Nervous.”

She looks up at him and sees, yes, he really is.

They’ve flown to Boston for a hybrid occasion: New Years, Anna and Chris’s engagement and Nate’s insistence on a “family” reunion. She wasn’t originally planning on bringing Shawn until he asked to come. She assumed he’d want to do something a little more glamorous for New Years, or at least spend some time with his family. Plus, it was a little intense, this en masse meeting of her friends from college, all of whom had not been gathered like this since… 2015?

He got dressed up for the occasion, too. He’s wearing a fucking pea coat for crying out loud, how could he possibly be nervous about this?

She takes his hand and squeezes it. “You weren’t like this when you met my parents,” she reminds him.

He nods. “Because parents like me. Always have. I’m great with parents. But your friends are… I mean, there’s no guarantee.”

She’s enchanted by how worked up he is about this. Her heart’s exploding under her violet sweater as she pulls him forward, crunching their boots on the melting ice crystals wedged in the gravel driveway.

“You already know Lauren. She’s the biggest one you had to win over, anyway. Nate will try to give you a dad-style talk about your intentions. Naomi is so chill, you won’t have a problem at all. Serena’s going to talk your ear off about music. Andy… just don’t start talking politics with Andy and you’ll be fine.”

They climb the salted steps and she walks in like she belongs there and she does, so it’s up to her to help make him feel welcome as much as it is up to her friends.

The house is banging with people and music. It’s cast in a dull yellow light from old fixtures that gives it an ‘80s teen movie feel. They ditch their coats and Lilly nods at a group playing beer pong, none of whom she knows or is close to.

“Were all your college parties like this?” he yells in her ear, placing a hand on her lower back as they climb the stairs to the second floor from where the music emanates.

She shakes her head. “No, they were hotter! We crammed this many people into an apartment instead of a whole house. I saw a girl get fingered against a fridge once sophomore year. It was nuts!”

He laughs at the manic delight in her eyes. Her best friends are close and she’s feeding off their energy, she’s in her environment. He wonders if this is how she felt watching him on stage that first time in Barcelona.

They step into a big kitchen diner filled with people that Shawn mostly towers over. They both hear it before they see it. A blur of dark hair and perfect eyebrows comes shrieking into view, launching into Lilly and knocking them both against a garbage can. Shawn steadies them, feeling a little unsteady himself as Lilly’s attention is taken away.

They scream at each other unintelligibly for a few seconds before the woman composes herself and sticks a confident hand out to Shawn.

“Hi! I’m Serena. It’s really nice to meet you.”

Shawn’s memory clicks. He turns on his easy charm. “Oh hi! You’re Serena from New York, right? You work at Lincoln Center?”

She looks surprised and flattered. “Yes! Wow, Lil, did you give him flashcards?” She throws an elbow into Lilly’s side as she’s being greeted by other casual acquaintances.

“Don’t need to, he’s just a good listener,” Lilly teases, pressing a finger into Shawn’s chin dimple as he grins. He ducks his head bashfully.

“C’mon, let’s go find the boys. Nate’s going to cry, you know that right?” Serena starts, leading them through the throngs of sweaty twenty-somethings.

“I can’t believe he got everyone here. It’s a miracle. Even Mackenzie’s coming by for a few minutes.”

“Well, you can’t blame her for wanting to get the fuck out of Manhattan on New Years.”

“True. Is Hallie here?” Lilly asks.

“Hallie’s here somewhere. I don’t know what’s going on with her and Nate; he said he’d fill me in later. Also… Patrick’s here.”

Lilly doesn’t react, though Shawn watches her carefully. She nods. “I figured he would be.”

Serena throws an arm around her shoulder. “Alright, Hollywood, let’s go see your friends!”

He loves watching this. She’s totally overwhelmed with excitement at seeing these people, people who knew her and loved her during some of the most formative years of her life. He’s on the periphery for a little while as she catches up and trying to remember names as Lilly lobs them at him.

“You need any name drops, I got you,” says a voice next to him. He looks down, all the way down, at diminutive Lauren as she sidles up next to him with something pink in a Solo cup, her cheeks flushed and eyes dancing.

“Thanks, Lo,” he chuckles, nodding at her beverage, “Whatcha got there?”

“Vodka, lemonade, cranberry juice, sprite, I have no idea what else.” She stares at it suspiciously before handing it to him for a sip.

He looks around the room, locking eyes briefly with the second tallest person here, who he figures is Patrick by the way Lilly described him. He nods and smiles, looking back down again when Lilly tugs on his sleeve to introduce him to another round of grinning strangers.

A few minutes later, Naomi’s mixing drinks and they’re at the bar watching her do it with pizzazz.

“How you doin’, sport?” Lilly whisper-yells over the music, shrugging an arm around his waist possessively. He smiles at the gesture and swings his arm around her shoulders, bringing her in to kiss her head.

“I’m doing great. Your friends are funny.” He gestures with his chin toward Anna and Lauren grinding to Ignition Remix.

“And you haven’t even met her favorite yet!” says a voice behind them.

She whirls and throws herself into a portly guy of medium height with dark hair and a thick beard. He squeezes her hard, smiling warmly at Shawn over her shoulder.

“Shawn, so nice to finally meet you. I’m Nate.”

Lilly looks prouder than she has all night when they shake hands and Nate slaps him on the back welcomingly.

“I’ve heard so much about you and your rescue missions and your epic Valentine’s Days,” Shawn jokes, hoping he doesn’t sound weird or jealous. Nate beams, going crinkly around the eyes.

“We do have some good fuckin’ stories,” he says, looking at Lilly fondly. It’s Shawn’s turn to smile at that.

“Shawn, can I grab you another drink?” Nate says, turning on a dime. Shawn nods, startled. Nate hurries away.

“He’s such a southern gentleman sometimes,” Lilly chuckles, backing into Shawn’s chest as someone squeezes past them, “Born to be the perfect host.”

Shawn holds onto her hip to keep her there. She bites down a smile, her mind flashing back to a couple weeks before. They had been in bed watching Arthur Christmas and he was playing with her hair and rambling about his plans to fly to Toronto for Christmas, talking over the movie like he didn’t care that it drove her crazy. She rolled on top of him to shut him up and they made love for the first time with British elves shrieking about saving Christmas in the background.

It was perfect because it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure exactly where she was going until she reached for the condoms in his bedside table. He didn’t ask her verbally if she was sure – they just stared at each other panting for about a minute until she got impatient. It was the first time, so it wasn’t magic, it wasn’t sparkles and angels singing, it was giggling and grunting and awkward but he made her come twice with his fingers and tongue before they did it in earnest. Their baby steps completed, she felt like she had slain a dragon. They had sex every day that week to celebrate until they parted for the holiday. Tonight she fully planned to celebrate with him again since they were getting so goddamn good at it.

The night wears on in what Lilly says is a typical fashion. Several peripheral players begin to bail after the midnight countdown, during which everyone made out recklessly for a little longer than appropriate, even on New Years. Shawn’s ears were pink for an hour after. It was down to those members of the college pep band and friends that Nate specially invited, complaining they had been astray too long. They sat in a bulbous circle and played kings and then never have I ever, during which time Serena had the fabulous idea to declare that never had she ever written a song about Lilly. The group hooted and hollered as Shawn and Patrick shared an awkward glance over their sips of booze. Lilly went beet red and tossed her head back in response.

“Never have I ever had sex with a celebrity!” Anna shrieks, pointing at Lilly and Shawn across the circle. They both drink and roll their eyes in sync. Shawn picks a Cheez-it out of the box next to his feet and chucks it at Anna. She catches it in her mouth and winks at him.

“We said no targeting, Anna!” he accuses, narrowing his eyes at her playfully.

“But you’re such an easy target, Shawn,” Serena sighs.

“It’s true,” Lilly coughs into her drink. He looks down at her, feigning betrayal.

“You too?!”

“Never have I ever had sex with a celebrity at an awards show,” she shoots back, raising her eyebrows as the group reacts with rousing laughter and pleas of “oh god, who?!” “where?!”

Shawn wrinkles his nose and gulps down the last of his drink. “I’m so wasted,” he admits over the din. She strokes a hand up his thigh and flutters her eyelashes at him.

“Good. Want to go fuck in Nate’s bathroom?”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely.”

+

They do fuck in Nate’s bathroom, so vigorously in fact that she rips the breast pocket of his button-up shirt and it’s hanging off him as they saunter back downstairs together, smirking in unison at the cheers of approval from her friends.

At some point around 2:45am, Patrick slides into a conversation Shawn is having with Naomi about the lyrical content on SM3. He stays long enough to offer a backhanded compliment to Shawn about the production strategy and tell him he thinks his boots are cool. Shawn’s glad he’s drunk enough not to feel the need to corner him and bark in his face about how he treated Lilly once upon a time.

Then around 4:15am, he finds himself outside with Nate embracing the cold air as a break from the heady, boozy steam of the overheated party house.

“You have the best girl in the whole world, you know,” Nate mumbles, shaking his head out toward the Boston skyline. Shawn smiles to himself.

“I know. I got really fucking lucky.”

“Lilly is the best friend in the world. She’d kill for anyone in that room and they’d do the same for her. She wasn’t… she was so good at friendship but the whole ‘love’ thing didn’t come as easily for her. I don’t know why, she’s amazing. I know you know that. I had a feeling life was saving up something special for her. I think that’s you, man.”

Shawn blames the moisture in his eyes on the gallon and a half of gin he’s sure he’s consumed by this point. He returns Nate’s firm handshake and clears his throat as they walk inside. On their way in, he bumps straight into Lilly who has his jacket in hand.

“Oh, I was just coming to bring this to you,” she says, wrinkling her brow at the look on his face. He takes the jacket from her hands and puts it down on the table, taking her face between his palms instead and planting the kiss to end all kisses on her as the room cheers again.

“I love you, Lil,” he promises. Taken aback and certainly off-kilter from the killer kiss, she nods in a daze.

“Same.”

Taglist: @the-claire-bitch-project @crapri @smallerinfinities @blush-and-books @abigfatmess @charliesclout @ashotofblues @kitykatnumber @herecomethefeels @stillinskislydia

[lokis-lady-death]

Return to Crimson Peak

Disclaimer: This story is written as a sequal to Crimson Peak. If you couldn’t handle the original story, please don’t read, because that would be dumb. 

Sir Thomas Sharpe x Reader

Mini Series Halloween (Special thanks to @bambamwolf87 for going back and forth on this idea!) 

My name is (y/n), and I would like to tell you a story.

A love story. Filled with hate. Filled with sin. Something real and imaginary, exciting and terrifying.

I want to tell you a ghost story.

There were all kinds of ghost stories that have floated through the world, like a dense fog, capturing the imaginations of those who hear them. Some based as far back as when nobility and class were all anyone cared about, some as notorious as Jack the Ripper, some as tragic as children getting taken by monsters. Each story holds some truths, based on some sort of factual event that forever concretes the illusion of a ghost to the world of the living. Alas, they all inevitably fade away. They become fables we tell children, destined to be nothing more than boy scout campfire tales.

Utter nonsense really.

But then, every once in a while, against all reasonable belief, there is a ghost story so rifeting, so heart wrenching -so full of lust, ambition, and murder- that at the end it leaves one questioning their sanity.

Crimson peak is one of those ghost stories.

The first time my brother Luke and I heard the story of Crimson Peak was from our grandmother. I remember visiting the family home in Buffalo, New York, listening to her spin fantisful tales of this or that while pouring me tea. Grandmother was a wonderful storyteller, a trait I was told she inherited from her own mother, Edith McMichael. Better known by her maiden name, Edith Cushings.

She told us that Edith had grown up a beautiful, well educated woman of the upper society of New York. An unwed heiress that only cared about one thing: writing stories. That is, until her own story had an unexpected character added to the plot. Thomas Sharpe.

From there, everyone knows the story, most likely even read the book.

But this story became something more to my brother. He wanted more than the book. He wanted the experience.

He wanted to see and live it for himself.

As he grew older, he researched more into the story and found the home in which everything took place: Allerdale Hall. As it turned out, the gothic mansion had been made over to be a secluded, lavish hotel for rich bureaucrats traveling the English countryside in the 50’s, however in the 80’s the attention died down. It went a long time without use until 2010 when a new owner took over and turned it into a Victorian Bed and Breakfast with a twist: while it’s 50’s counterpart tried to pretend nothing awful happened in that house, the new owner exploited it. There was even an episode of Ghost Hunter filmed where someone stayed the night in the bed and breakfast. They stayed in Lucille’s room but never saw her ghost. He did say the new owner and her husband were rather odd, though he thought they were just trying to give into the haunted theme they tried to portray.

It was disheartening to say the least that other than the story of Crimson Peak itself, it seemed like there was no actual haunting. I eventually lost interest and moved on with my life, diving into school and social life. But not Luke. He still felt drawn to the story and after working doubles for two months and convincing me to split the fees, we were set to travel to England and actually stay the night in Allerdale Hall.

Which is where my story begins.

*****

“This is it!” Luke exclaimed, heaving one bag onto his shoulder and another under his arm. “Crimson Peak!”

I cut my eyes at my brother, almost annoyed at the whole situation. His Ghosts are Real shirt, his bag of ghost summonings, our grandmother’s copy of Crimson Peak all in hand so as to crescent it with what he deems the unholy land. “I can’t believe you talked me into this…”

His blonde curls bounced as he turned to face our home for the next few days. “But… Just look at it, y/n....”

Turning up from the cab, I took in the entirety of Allerdale Hall. Grand, magnificent, dark, and foreboding, it stood against a gray canvas of fog. In front of it, the key part of the entire story, Sir Thomas Sharpe’s mining invention.

My eyes followed upward the structure, absorbing every last archway and stone of the complex before resting on a single window where I caught sight of a pale faced man.

I was snapped back to my brother when he called my name for what I had to assume by his aggravated tone was not the first time. “What?”

“I said grab your shit, I ain’t no packmule.”

I grabbed my bags and followed him through the double doors.

Inside, it was evident all the work the new owners had put into the mansion. It was extravagant but dark, framed perfectly with a massive wooden staircase that opened all the way to the other floors, victorian era artwork lining every inch of wall space, and a single grand crystal chandelier shining over the foyer.

“Welcome!” called out a british accent. A pink haired woman popped up from behind the registry desk with a gleaming, misplaced smile. “I’m the owner, I go by Rain. You must be the Cushings!”

As if the overtly brightness of her hair was too much for the gothic mansion, she countered with a steampunk style victorian dress of silk, leather metal loops and chains that dangled from her sleeves and a leather corset hugging at her waist.

“Actually, that’s not our name…” I corrected while Luke simply began signing the guest book.

“But you ARE descendants of Edith Cushing, right?” she pushed.

“I… Yes, we are. How did you...?”

“I found you on Ancestry.com! I have been a huge fan of your great, great grandmother for a long time! I saved up for years to buy this place,” the owner said as she looked around the empty lobby with a since of overbuilt romanticism. “Crimson Peak has always been a passion of mine.”

“You two should get along swell then,” I mumbled as Luke laid down the pen. “Now, about our rooms….”

“OH yes!” she exclaimed while pulling out two skeleton keys, handing you each one. “You will be in the west wing, Lucille’s old room,” the owner told Luke. “And you,” she said with a sideways grin, “You’ll be down the hall in Sir Thomas’s room.”

I took the key and stared at it, feeling my heart start to race. “I....”

“Excellent!” my brother cut me off, taking the sets of keys. “Are we allowed to explore some?”

There was some mischief behind the owner’s eyes when she answered, “Its actually encouraged.”

While Luke looked more than please, I had to stop and ask, “Won’t that be disruptive to your other customers?”

“Judging by the guest book, we’re the only ones staying here.”

“Correct! We normally slow down on visitors during the colder months. Which is a shame, because that’s when things always get fun around here.” Rain cut me a wink before finishing, “Now, enjoy!”

Luke’s hand grabbed hold of my shoulder to steer me away from the desk. “Yes, we will, thank you, Ms. Rain!” Just passed her I could make out another grand room with a marble fireplace and piano.

“That’s where Lucille used to play music for her brother,” Luke told like an extremely zealous curator at a museum. I wrinkled my nose, remembering that detail from the book. “Come on, let’s go find our rooms!”

At the base of the stairs was a framed layout of the house to help guests find their way around. A large YOU ARE HERE arrow laid out where you began. Luke’s finger followed the line up to the right and down a hall to West Wing where the two of you would be staying.

Luke held out my key before flashing me one of his overly excited grins, he spat out, “Race ya!”

Before I could argue how rude, childish, and annoying he was being, Luke was off. Never one to be outdone, I bolted up behind him, hoping I remembered the layout. By the time I got to the top of the stairwell, I saw my brother’s sneakers right before they disappeared down a hall. When I got to the opening of the hall, I turned and saw no one. Taking a few steps forward, I listened intently to try and pinpoint where my brother had gone.

But nothing.

“Fuck,” I mumbled under my breath. Giving up on the race, I let out an exasperated sigh and wandered deeper in to the house.

‘Do I turn here?’ I asked myself when I found another hall off the main one. I still didn’t see Luke, so I called out for him but I got no answer.

A round window at the other end of the stretch was all that illuminated my path, casting shadows from the intricate woodwork of the moldings and ceiling.

I was distracted when I heard a soft disruption in all the stillness of the house. I stopped and listened. Someone was moving around in one of the rooms, but which one, I wondered. Following the sound, I came to the end of the hall. A light on the other side was so bright that it boiled through the small gap where the door met the floor. Some more ruffling from the other side confirmed I was at the right room, I could even see shadows move through the light.

“Luke, is this your room?” I asked, going to turn the knob. But it was locked.

“No?” I jumped when I unexpectedly heard his voice from the other end of the hall, where I had just come from. “What are you doing down here?” he asked, “We’re this way.”

“I heard someone, I thought it was you...” I turned back, eying the floor where the light shone through. But there was none now. No light. No movement. Just stillness.

“Oh…” I swallowed but shook my head, knowing it had to be my own imagination getting the better of me.

“You’re already getting haunted?” Luke asked with a hint of jealousy.

“No, you idiot, this stupid house just has me on edge is all.” I grabbed up my bags and eyed him. “Now show me where our rooms are so I can sleep off this jet lag!”

Back down the main hall, he showed me where a set of double doors led down a private wing. The West Wing.

“Here’s your room,” Luke said, taking my key to open it. “My room is the last one on the left.”

The door creaked so horribly it felt like it echoed through the whole mansion.

It did not disappoint. The room, like everything else in the house, was massive, the walls solid wood carved and etched with such fine, minute detail it felt like a painting. The ceiling had golden loops around where two chandeliers hung on either side of the massive four poster bed that sat opposite of a fireplace.

“Holy shit…. Maybe this won’t be so bad, “ I reasoned as I pulled out my phone to text my friends back in the US.

Luke’s voice cracked as he watched, knowing what you must be doing. “Actually, I had one thing I had to tell you, and don’t freak....”

“I HAVE NO SIGNAL?” I raged as my eyes narrowed at him. His hands were up in defense, waiting for the slew of slaps he deserved, but I just let it go. “Fine. Ok. Whatever. Have you found the WiFi password?”

“Actually, about that…”

“Luke…”

“It’s good to take a break from modern advances now and then, y/n, you know it’s healthy…”

“Luke.” I stopped him, staring deep into his soul. “Are you telling me you brought me to the middle of nowhere England, to a haunted house, with no working means to contact the outside world?”

“It’s only for a few days…”

“LUKE, I WILL MuRdEr YOU! You will no longer be looking for a ghost because YOU WILL BE A GHOST!” My hands went flying and all he could do was protect his face.

“Come on, y/n. Don’t be so melodramatic,” he said before stepping out of your doorway. “Take it as an opportunity to get to know yourself. That’s why I told you to bring books.”

The realization that he had known the whole time we would be without technology was even more infuriating, so I started chunking pillows from the bed at him until he closed the door

I threw myself onto the bed and screamed into the comforter.

How was I going to stay sane without the internet for three days?

Sitting back up, I couldn't help but reassess my situation.

I'm stuck.

In a haunted house.

For three days.

A strange sensation washed over me, like the sudden chill of someone walking over your grave.

The house, I realized, was quiet. So quiet. Not another soul to be heard.

That was the first time I noticed that I had been hearing a steady movement the entire time I was alone and hadn't paid it any attention until now. When it stopped.

What had stopped moving?

I stayed still and listened for it to start again.

But it didn't.

Wondering why I had unnecessarily scared myself, I shook my head clear of the thought while opening up one of my bags.

My first bag was my safety net.

Junk food (because I’m shameless), sodas (because I’m shameless), and romance novels (because, you guessed it).

I opened the music on my phone and pulled out my thirstiest book.

Chapter One: How They Met

About twenty minutes into my story, the music was interrupted by a tap on the door. One solid knock. Of course I jumped, anyone would have. Then I heard some shuffling as an envelope flew under my door.  

I instantly sprang from my seat- curiosity always being both my best and worst quality- and tore the letter open.

~~We would like to cordially invite you to dinner in the Main Dining Hall this evening at 6pm. PS On the back of the door, you will find attire for the event.~~

Of course my first thought was what a gimmick to pull, but then I had to appreciate their creativity. The place wanted to bring out the Gothic Romance of  Allerdale Hall, and it certainly didn’t hold back. Opening the door to find a white silk dress, I saw the depth of that devotion.

I pulled the dress down when I heard Luke’s door open. “Holy shit!” he cussed. I went down the hall to find him awing at a suit hanging from his door. “Y/n!” he squealed through his teeth, “Holy shit!”

I laughed but really, I was excited.

A dressed up dinner in a haunted mansion. Through all the cliche, through all the irritants, I thought maybe this could turn out to be a fun get away.

After all...

What was the harm in playing along?

Part 2 is up!

The role of Luke will be played by Evan Peters:

Like my garbage? Read more of it! Master List

If you would like to be tagged or untagged from this series, comment or message me! 

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[elizadoolittlethings]

Mark Gatiss on The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse, The League of Gentlemen, Doctor Who and Dracula

'I’m writing Dracula for the BBC with Steven Moffat which will go into production next year.'

This week will see the opening of The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse with Mark Gatiss taking on the lead role. We catch him during rehearsals to talk theatre, Nottingham and the Netflix society…

You’re starring in The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse – what drew you to this story?

Adam Penford, the artistic director of Nottingham Playhouse directed me in The Boys in the Band two years ago and I’ve known him since he was an assistant director at the National Theatre when we did Seasons Greetings together. He asked me if I would do The Madness of George III and I said yes.I’m a huge Alan Bennett fan – he’s one of my formative influences. I love the play and I was very flattered and thrilled to do it. I also love being King!

Why should people come and watch the show?

It’s a marvellous play – obviously it’s one of Alan Bennett’s best-known and best-loved works and I think it’s an ambitious project to do for Nottingham. And it’s very relevant actually – as all the best historical drama is – you can pick out threads which are pertinent to the way that we’re living now… and the idea of a slightly dysfunctional head of state (or leader) - draw your own conclusions!

What drew you to the character of King George III? What can people expect from the show?

He’s an intriguing man - I did George III and his ministers for history ‘A’ Level so I knew, at some stage, quite a bit about Fox and Pitt and the whole set up of the Regency. The big characters of that period, I find, as Alan Bennett does, very interesting and the king himself is a very sympathetic character I think – unlike George I and George II he feels properly British as opposed to German and I think he had a kind of sensitivity – they called him ‘Farmer George’ – he was interested in actually making a success of the monarchy and making his family into an ideal unit – you could cite it as the beginning of the modern monarchy. But then obviously his illness threw everything off track and his terrible relationship with his son came into sharp focus. I think he’s a very interesting and contradictory figure.

It’s a very moving and slightly harrowing drama about mental illness but it’s also a grand, sweeping, historical epic with lots of fascinating political characters - many of whom you can find modern comparisons for.

You said in an interview that before a play you feel ‘terror’ – what makes you so nervous/ terrified/ excited about performing?

Same thing as any actor – weirdly I went to see Alan Bennett’s new play Allelujah at the Bridge Theatre the other night and I got out of the car and saw my friend Sacha Dhawan tucked around the back of the theatre, pacing up and down, nervously going over his lines and I thought I wouldn’t interrupt as I knew exactly what he was going through.

Everybody goes through the same thing – you can’t really imagine why you put yourself through something so stressful and bowel-wracking yet again, but you do – and then you get through it and then it’s ok.

The play is set to be screened as part of the National Theatre Live – what makes this so exciting for audiences and cast alike?

The NT Live scheme I think is a fabulous thing and I’ve done one from Donmar – a nerve-wracking but exciting experience. To think you’re being beamed all over the world from the theatre at that point - it’s lovely to have a record of the show but also to know that it’s reaching far beyond the narrow confines of its original base.

I remember doing Coriolanus and getting a message from a friend in Canada who said they were sitting down in a small cinema on Vancouver Island to watch it – slightly thrilling idea that it was being beamed from Covent Garden all around the world.

NT Live is an amazing opportunity for Nottingham and the East Midlands as a whole – why is it important regional theatre gets a share of the spotlight and raises its profile?

I think the reasons are obvious – this is one of the first NT Live events from outside of London which throws a spotlight on the fact that there is great theatre happening outside the metropolis. It’s fantastic to make people aware and also celebrate regional theatre and its incredible contribution to the national whole.

Do you think performing in a city like Nottingham will be different to London and if so, how?

Yes, I guess so – I’ve toured a lot and there is an interesting difference from city to city. Different places have a certain feel to them and you can get the sense of how audiences are different especially compared to London. I think what’s wonderful is that Nottingham has such a loyal audience and I know Adam’s play about the miners’ strike [Wonderland] recently had an extraordinarily different audience profile to the one you might expect and we can only try and encourage more of that and get people to the theatre who wouldn’t normally think of going.

Why did you want to work with Adam Penford?

It was blackmail, mostly. No, I’ve loved working with Adam and I think he’s immediately done a fantastic job taking over as artistic director at the Playhouse – there’s a real buzz about it which I think is so exciting.

I was very flattered to be asked to play a classic part in a great play and with Adam directing, it’s a great package.

What led you to becoming a writer, actor, producer – who or what inspired you in your life?

Well it’s all I ever wanted to do and I’ve been fortunate enough to get away with it so far. I was genuinely inspired by all kinds of actors – particularly people like Leonard Rossiter and Alistair Sim - people who combined great comic timing with proper dramatic skill – who could make you cry and make you laugh. Those were my heroes.

Alan Bennett himself was a massive influence on me – a fantastic combination of melancholy and truth and proper “Northerness” which is what he’s managed to celebrate. I remember seeing a film of his called Our Winnie with Elizabeth Spriggs taking her daughter to a crematorium on a Sunday and every single thing about it rang so true. I remember thinking: “How does he know all this?” – it was like he’d taken a peek into my own life. That’s why he remains a hero.

If you weren’t an actor and writer, what do you think you’d be doing now in terms of your career?

The only other thing I actually wanted to be was a palaeontologist, but I didn’t have the Latin (as Peter Cook used to say).

What was the first ever production you starred in - were you ever cast as a tree in a school production?!

I was never a tree – the first thing I was in was definitely Old Macdonald had a Farm in 1971. Then I was a carpet bearer to the 'Tsar of all the Russias' in ‘Baba Yaga ‘– the house with hen’s legs. My first starring role was in an adaptation of a children’s radio series called Journey Through Badlidrempt and I played Brains! I can still remember the song I had to sing in it.

In an on demand, ‘Netflix society’ what continues to make the theatre relevant for young people?

Well I think everything goes in cycles. It’s very interesting what the Netflix revolution has done for storytelling. You could argue that longform stories and the boxset mentality has returned us to a similar era when people used to read very long serials or huge Victorian novels. I think it’s all part of the same desire and hunger for stories which people have always had and will continue to have. With theatre it’s genuinely different every night and actually watching people live in front of you is an entirely different experience.

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The League Of Gentlemen at Motorpoint Arena Nottingham - first night review

What’s the most valuable piece of advice you were given that you pass on to young people working in this highly competitive industry?

My motto is “Work Hard, Be Kind” – that’s the clean version of it! I would say in terms of writing there’s no such thing as a would-be writer – just get on with it. Have a go. There’s nothing to stop you except the voice in your head telling you that you can’t do it. It may not be great, it may not be any good at all but unless you actually pick up that pencil or tap that keyboard for the first time you’ll never know. Don’t let that stop you from doing it. Generally, as Woody Allen once said: “90% of success is turning up”. There are a lot of people who don’t turn up and there’s always a thought that they might have been able to crack it had they had a go. Don’t hold yourself back – you’ll regret it.

Have you been to Nottingham before? What do you like about the city? What do you like about the theatre?

I toured there with The League of Gentlemen. I’d like to do the Robin Hood experience very much. I went to visit the theatre with Adam to have a look around all the departments. It’s a fantastic theatre – I love its history and the fact that John Neville, who’s one of my favourite actors, used to be the AD there.

I think it’s a fantastic regional beacon and I’m hoping it will once again really boost the East Midlands. It’s a brilliant stage with a brilliant history and you look at the walls of past productions and at John Neville’s past seasons and you can’t quite believe they did all these amazing plays in one season. It has a great history and a great future.

Do you have any other personal or professional links to the East Midlands?

Derbyshire – only because The League of Gentlemen was filmed there in Hadfield. I don’t really know much about the area but that’s the bit I know quite well.

What role/ character do people tend to ‘shout out’ to you the most?

It will be for Sherlock or The League of Gentlemen. Mostly people just say they like my work which is a very nice thing to hear.

What’s been your proudest career moment to date?

I’ve had a lot and I’ve been very lucky. One of my happiest experiences was making An Adventure in Space and Time – my drama about the creation of Doctor Who. That was a lot of things I love coming together at once and it was an almost entirely trouble-free shoot. A very beautiful experience. I’m always very excited about the future and the idea of playing this part is very exciting so hopefully George III will be one of them.

Do you ever get star struck?

Rarely – and I’m not being blasé about that. I always think of the story that the great Anthony Hopkins once told about his father meeting Laurence Olivier and talking to him about the football and Anthony Hopkins getting slightly sweaty that he wasn’t giving Lord Olivier the deference he deserved. His dad just looked at him and said “Well, he breathes air doesn’t he?”

However, the first time I was properly star struck was when I met Michael Palin who, again, was a huge influence on me. I got a bit tongue-tied around him.

Where in your home do you store all of your awards?

They’re on a small shelf that we’ve recently discovered damp under. That must be a metaphor for something.

After The Madness of George III, what’s next for you?

I’m writing Dracula for the BBC with Steven Moffat which will go into production next year.

The Madness of George III runs from Friday, November 2 until Saturday , November 24, including a special Gala performance on Thursday, November 22, with proceeds going towards Nottingham Playhouse’s 70th Anniversary Fund.

The Madness of George III will also be broadcast to cinemas across the globe as part of National Theatre Live on Tuesday, November 20.

For tickets visit nottinghamplayhouse.co.uk or call 0115 941 9419.

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[what-even-is-thiss]

Creative Essay on: the voice of Thomas Sanders.

This creative non fiction essay was inspired by this post by @ironwoman359 and the ask was by @peachie-keeen so maybe I’ll tag them too. Nervously. I dunno if this will do as good of a job describing anything as that post did, but I’ll sure try.

I’ve had a lot of thoughts about the voice of @thatsthat24 for over a year and a half now. So, here are some of them. And I guess I’m getting some creative non fiction practice in at the same time so that’s cool. Essay under the cut.

I should probably point out before we start that I haven’t been trained with the vocabulary to describe voices. This is just a creative interpretation with the limited knowledge that I have. It’s not too terribly long so I’m not gonna put  word count.

A voice. A noise. Has kind of a... yellow quality to it? Maybe like honey. Not the taste of honey. Like the color. A dark rich yellow. But it can change color so rapidly, right?

His voice in particular I mean. That guy from Vine and YouTube. The Floridian one. Wait. There are more than... Thomas Sanders. Thomas Sanders is what I’m talking about. Him specifically,

Well probably not everybody associates feelings with colors. I do. And the feeling, the general vibe I get from listening to his voice is the color of honey. So how Do I explain this some other way?

It’s bright, to use a different visual metaphor, but it can go dark in a second. It moves from high to low naturally even faster, but the singing bit is almost always low. Except for the falsetto. That is a rare thing to hear but when you do hear it then it reminds you of a boy’s choir with how high it is, but it’s lost that purity that disappears with puberty. But it does sound like it would be more at home in a church choir than a disco number if that makes sense. But that’s just the falsetto. And I’ve only heard that once.

What about the normal singing voice? Well that’s got a variety too. It’s low though. It’s low. Not extremely low. It’s a... baritone? Baritone. That’s the word. But sometimes it’s just a little higher? It seems to be made to be just slightly old fashioned but in the newest way. Like it’s perfectly made to sing Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra and keep up with the best of the crooners and yet also be a golden era Disney Prince but at the same time not. There’s something unmistakably modern about it. Maybe it was made for the theater. Not really for pop. It’s not very poppy. Not quite pop-ish. But it’s definitely with the times. Right at home here in this early 21st century situation we’re in right now. But elegant. Like a voice that makes even the most ridiculous things seem classy. Never pretentious. Always approachable. Usually smooth. Not a whole lot of vocal pyrotechnics to be found, but impressive just the same.

Oh, and he riffs a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

Now the speaking voice is more complicated. That can go all over the place. Can change color in an instant. Jumping from its normal honey yellow to black to green to bright yellow to bright blue and back again. Now how to explain that in normal terms...

Let’s start with the laugh. The thing that seems to come too easily for him and punctuates every few sentences. The normal one is bright and goofy. Not like the character Goofy. It’s unique to Mr. Thomas Sanders. It’s silly and genuinely full of joy. You can hear the “HA HA HA HA” as he laughs. It’s quick, but you can hear it. But other times it’s a giggle. Like he’s giddy about everything all the time. Like he’s restraining himself from bouncing up and down and covering his smile with his hands. And then his laugh is evil. Jumping down in tone, coming from the base of his throat, carrying the sound of an evil smile with it. And it is delightful and delicious and is nothing like the joyful belly laugh you’re used to, but somehow you’re not surprised that it came from Thomas.

The normal speaking voice? It’s... higher than the singing voice but not by much. It’s expressive even when it’s quiet. Like it was made for the stage. It’s a voice that’s always playing for the back row whether it wants to be or not. It’s bright enough that you feel if you look at it long enough you might get burned, but you never do. Instead of hurting you find it stays warm and approachable. Almost like a cartoon, but too real for that. Except when it’s not. It’s a voice that would be good with kids but could get genuine enough for adults. It sounds sincere and then it’s ridiculous. It’s happy but then it’s confused. Like it’s surprised to be there, but happy to be there just the same.

But then Thomas’ speaking voice morphs like the shapeshifter that it is. It goes higher with a horribly fake but endearing British accent. It’s much more juvenile when it’s like that. Innocent and strange. Then he goes from being like a cartoon character to actually being a cartoon character. He tightens his throat and speaks from the top back of his mouth to become the Family Guy character Stewie Griffin and from his tone you would believe he’s that evil British sounding baby, set on killing people and hating sprinkles. Then he’s Stitch, squeaky and hard to understand. A blue alien landed in Hawaii. And you believe it, even as it’s his human face there.

Then there’s his own characters. Some of which fall into the more villainous tone. A deeper tone. Sometimes he’s a bad boy, like when he played Jason Dean and sung about freezing his brain. There he’s comfortable and planning something. So sure that he’s right and dangerous and smooth. Or maybe he’s that anxiety character. The literal embodiment of fear. Then there’s always something on guard about him and you can just hear his voice straining to go that low. He’s sarcastic and mean but protective and careful. There’s a primal sneer hiding deep in the background behind that makeup coated facade even as the voice goes gentle. Then he’s the embodiment of deception with all the smooth talking charms of a Victorian devil. Moving smoothly and capturing that movement in his voice. So deliciously evil you can’t help but love to hate him. Or maybe the deep tone isn’t villainous or threatening at all. Maybe it’s loud and serious. A trailer voice. In a world where he would announce what is coming next.

Go a little higher and what do we find? A monotone with expression. Just the right amount of interesting for being a teacher, which is exactly what he becomes. An educator with all the verbal movement necessary to keep someone engaged for a lecture. Not so loud you tune him out, but not so monotone you lose interest. All the brightness and darkness gone, it’s just interesting. A voice that is simply interesting. Nothing more and nothing less, which is what it aims to be. Without brightness, even as it rises in frustration.

A little higher and louder and what do we find? He’s filled his chest with sound and projected it out to the world. Each word has an extra curve and embellishment, like he stepped straight out of a fairy tale and someone splashed his words with dust made of diamonds. Yes, he is a prince. Directly out of your daydreams. The words themselves sweep you off your feet and take you on a royal adventure. More cartoonish than ever. More regal than ever. Taste the pretentiousness he’s spewing into the air. It’s surprisingly beautiful as it swirls about in a flurry of white and pink and gold and you laugh at just how well he does it and hear his singing voice gain a layer of magic reserved only for royalty.

Go higher than his normal range and the brightness is back with a vengeance. It’s like how I imagine the sky on a clear day would sound. Thomas’ voice becomes so overcome with joy you imagine it will take on a life of it’s own and go bouncing away. He is supportive, but tied to the earth with a thread that could snap any minute. He sounds like he’s constantly holding back a squeal of delight as he talks from the top of his mouth. He still gives off an authority though even as the voice bounces off of the word ‘kiddo’ like a trampoline. He turns on the dad voice and sounds serious but loving even as the voice holds a juvenile quality to it. It’s the verbal equivalent of watching a set of colorful balloons tied to a playground be buffeted by a sudden wind.

I’m certain too, that there are a million other places Thomas Sanders’ voice could take us that it hasn’t yet. How do you describe it? It’s a shapeshifter and a traveler, moving from the depths of his chest up through the mouth all the way to the tip of his nose. It’s an instrument the man has mastered and it shows.