#i’d hit twenty or so pages

[twentysidednerd]

me: “man, every time i try to write out a draft of one of my original stories, i can never get them out in a cohesive manner. i wish i could write more than twelve pages before all my thoughts start to scatter”

the twenty, mostly structured pages of my most recent idea: “i’m sorry, what was that? :)))”

[writingsbychlo]

WHITE XMAS | mattheo riddle

summary; mattheo comes to spend christmas with you and your family.

word count; 15,245

notes; I have never played chess in my life, chess girlies don't come for me. pic was made by @finalgirllx!

“So, Matty, what are your Christmas plans?” You murmur, head bopping lightly to the beat of the tacky Christmas CD that was playing over the Common Room speakers. “Will Tom be coming home for Christmas?”

“Are you kidding?” Mattheo muttered, cursing as he readjusted his grip on the dwindling charcoal in his fingers once again, peeking another glance over the edge of his tatty sketchpad to you. “Why would he?”

“Because it’s nice! It’s Christmas, it’s a time for family to come together.”

“Not mine.” He blew a curl from his eyes, pausing. Tilting his head, he narrowed his eyes as his gaze flickered between the page, and a very specific spot on your shoulder. “Tom has escaped, he doesn’t have to come home for the annual Riddle-family Christmas Horror Show.”

That brought a frown to your lips, and he tutted. “Keep smiling.”

“You’re not even drawing my face right now.” You snipped back, and the edges of his lips tipped up in a smirk, focusing as he dragged the tool in his hand over the paper, back and forth. Soft scraping filled the room, along with the general chatter of the few other students dotted throughout the room, background noise with their undecipherable muttering and the music. “You don’t like Christmas?”

“Why would I? Christmas magic never existed for me. The very day I first asked about Santa, Tom pulled me aside and told me he wasn’t real. Warned me not to ask about him.” With a sigh, he dropped the notepad to sit flat in his lap, resting the charcoal on the side table, and shrugging. When he wiped his forehead, he unknowingly left a smear of grey over his skin. “I was stupid, and four. I asked my father, and he laughed at me and told me not to be pathetic. Everything I got in this world was hard-earned, and came by his generosity, and his alone.” 

“Matty…”

“Don’t pity me. Can’t love what I never had.” Despite his brave words, there was an underlying emptiness to his voice, the kind that formed over years of hurt finally losing its bite. The way scarred flesh didn’t hurt, but they never stitched up quite right. 

You whisper, standing up and making your way over to him. He looked up at you now as you stood before him, hand raising to wipe the smudge away with your thumb. “It’s that bad?”

He only hummed. “I get to parade around, playing the ‘seen but not heard’ son as my father cashes in on a big business day. It’s such a great time to ‘make connections’. Normally I’d have Tom with me, and we’d spend the days counting down until my birthday, and his. On the 30th, we’d sneak out and get two cupcakes, right between. He’ll be back for New Year's, my father is making him, but I can’t begrudge him staying away for Christmas.”

“You make me so sad sometimes.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” He murmured, leaning up to pinch at your waist lightly, a spot he knew was ticklish. You jerked away from him with a gasp of a laugh, smacking his hand as you went. “Don’t worry. I’ll be at the Malfoy Christmas Eve Ball. I’ll see you all then, I can look forward to it.”

“No.”

“No?” He echoed, a smile forming on his face, and he tugged you in closer, arms wrapping around your thighs. “The fuck do you mean no?”

“I mean, that won’t do. Your Christmas plans make me want to commit a festive crime. Hit your dad with a sleigh, or something.” That brought real laughter from him, a loud burst, his eyes closing a little as he rested his forehead on your stomach, his shoulders shaking. “I have a big family Christmas. All my aunts and uncles and cousins and their kids. There’s going to be at least twenty of us.”

“Now you’re just rubbing it in.” He muttered, shaking his head, frowning up at you falsely. 

“No, I’m inviting you, if you’d let me finish.”

His expression shifted then, from teasing and humour to vulnerability and disbelief. Pretty brown eyes shone with shock as he stared up at you. Cupping his jaw, you smoothed your thumb along his cheek. “You’re what?”

“Come with me for Christmas Day, Matty. I cannot, in good conscience, enjoy my day, knowing how you’re spending yours.”

“You really want that? Your family wouldn't mind?” Hope raised in his voice, not a hint of denial in sight, and he smiled shakily when you nodded. 

“What are friends for, huh? I promise it’ll be okay. My parents are a ‘the more, the merrier’, type.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, thoughts spinning in his gaze, before he pulled you even closer. Pressing his face against your stomach, your hands slipped to his hair instead, running through the curls. It was the same way you did whenever you stumbled across him smoking after a nightmare, or sulking after a letter from home. “We have a floo. You can step right in. I promise, you’d be welcome. Please spend Christmas with me, Mattheo.”

“Okay.” He mumbled, breath hot against your navel through your shirt as he breathed the word against you. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He finally turned his head again, resting his cheek there instead, looking away toward the fireplace, throat bobbing. With a final squeeze, he loosened his hold. “I’d really like that.”

“I’ll write down my address for you, and give you all the details.” Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to his messy hair, and he was smiling faintly as you pulled away. “It’ll be great, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt.” Finally, he let go of you fully, and took a bracing breath. Resetting himself, he schooled his features, picking up his sketchpad again and diverting his gaze to it. “Alright, go sit back down. Try and remember your pose, I want to finish this before dinner.”

Rubbing at your eyes tiredly, you were never awake this early, even the children were still snoozing, only one or two other members of your family had woken. Your father had always been an early bird, forcing your mother to be the same, and the two were tinkering in the kitchen, quietly chatting. 

One of your grandmas had woken, made her way downstairs, and promptly fallen asleep in the rocking chair next to the fireplace after lighting it with a flick of her wrist. You were sure one of your uncles— maybe a cousin, too— had been wandering upstairs, but perhaps, they’d gone back to bed.

Suppressing a yawn, you jumped when the soft pop of the fireplace sounded, flames changing momentarily from amber and orange to a truly festive shade of green. Stumbling through it was Mattheo. 

He didn’t look nearly as tired as you did. More so, he looked alert, in every sense of the word. His eyes were wide, one hand clenched into a tight fist around a bouquet of poor flowers, the other tugging nervously at his collar. He was wearing a red Christmas jumper, a set of tasteful white snowflakes sewn in a band across the chest. His usual black jeans, the best pair he had, seeing as they had no tears or frays, and white sneakers that had been polished to a shine. Possibly, never even worn outside. 

“Matty.” You mumbled, and he stepped down from the warmth of the fireplace as the flames flickered back to normal, your grandma merely offering a soft snore beside you both. Mattheo flinched again, like one of Theo’s pranks when he jumped out from behind doorways to scare you all in the dark, and you raised a brow. “You’re up early. Therefore, you naturally called me and woke me up early too.”

“Sorry. I had… restless sleep. I was anxious.” 

“Aw,” You smiled, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “You’re all excited like… oh. Well, like a kid on Christmas Day. Huh.” The joke washed over you in waves, still not quite awake enough to be aware of your own words, and he gave you a flat look. “Cute sweater.”

“I just bought it.”

“Why?” You smiled, and his lips twisted like you’d asked a stupid question. He followed you as you guided him from the lounge to the hall, shuffling behind you quickly. “Because you said you would be wearing one!”

“You didn’t have to buy a—” Your words shuttered as his lips smoothed back out, face neutral, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. Mattheo didn’t own a Christmas jumper. It made sense, he’d never had reason to, but it didn’t stop your heart from breaking a little. “Come on. Take off your shoes, and let’s go get something to drink. Maybe a really strong coffee, hm?”

He toed off his shoes, neatly stacking them onto the rack beside the various others, some left in a pile. It wasn’t like him, Mattheo left his things everywhere; the group was always picking up after him, but it was clear that he was doing the most to be on his very best behaviour.

Taking his free hand in both of your own, you squeezed it, bringing his attention to you. “Mattheo?”

He hummed, tugging at his collar as he stared beyond you to his reflection in the hallway mirror. Smoothing your hands over his shirt, you patted it down, his eyes dropping to you as you pushed his hand away. 

“Mattheo. You’re worrying. You’re supposed to be here to have fun, not be the picture-perfect son like you would at home.” His lips pressed together, like he didn’t believe you, as he sighed through his nose. “You’re perfect just as you are, okay? You don’t need to worry. Everyone knows you’re coming, and they know who you are. I’ve been writing about you all in my letters home for years. Your name isn’t a surprise, and you’re welcome here. Okay?”

“You’re sure?”

“Mattheo Riddle, have I ever lied to you?” Your teasing finally brought a smile to his face. “Have I ever given you a reason not to believe me?”

“No.” He finally conceded. 

“Then trust me, hm?”

He rolled his eyes, but his shoulders dropped. With one final glance at his reflection, he turned away, closing the page on those fears and ready to proceed with the day. After only a second of hesitation, he took your hand, squeezing for comfort as you guided him back through the house. 

His fingers flexed around your own as you approached the kitchen, your mother laughing gently at some joke your father had told. Both of them turned to face you as you stepped in, tugging Mattheo behind you. 

“Mama, Dad, my friend is here. This is Mattheo.”

Shaking his hand free from your own, he smoothed his palm over his jeans before shakily stepping forward and offering his hand. Your mother only smiled as your father shook it firmly. “Good to meet you, our daughter writes about you in her letters a lot.”

“Dad.”

“Oh, it’s true! More than almost anyone else.” Your mother cooed, your exasperated sigh doing nothing to dull their teasing as your mother only pinched his cheek instead of taking his offered hand. “Oh, you’re so tall! She never mentioned that.”

“Mama, stop teasing him!”

“I’m doing no such thing!” She scolded you, tutting as she peered over his shoulder. “It’s good to find a tall man. Like your father, they can reach the fresh stuff on the storage shelves that they don’t want you to get at when you go to the store.”

“Oh, is that all?” You muttered, crossing your arms as she went back to fussing over Mattheo. Your father rolled his eyes, sipping from his ‘World’s Best Daddy’ mug that you’d made when you were five. He saved it for every Christmas Day, like tradition. 

“These are for you, Mrs—”

“Oh!” Your mother took the bouquet, admiring them, and not even seeming to notice the slightly crumpled stems that had been his substitute stress-ball. “They’re beautiful, look at them.”

She presented them to your father, who nodded approvingly, and Mattheo turned just long enough to glance over his shoulder. He was bewildered, and red-cheeked. 

“Alright, have I sufficiently embarrassed you dear, or should I keep going? I haven’t even told you what a handsome young man he is yet—”

“Oh, I think you’ve done plenty.” Your droll tone made your parents snicker to one another, and she turned away to put the flowers in a vase. Reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of Mattheo’s jumper, you tugged him back to your side. “Is anyone else awake yet?”

“Only your grandma.”

You made a noise of agreement, grateful for the early rise if it meant being able to ease Mattheo into the crazy rush. Leaving his side for just a moment, you took two mugs from the cupboard, your early call also meaning you got the first pick, choosing the best ones and setting them out. Claimed, for the day. 

Your mother arranged her gift, showing them off proudly before disappearing to the dining room to find a spot for them on the table. Your father followed, and only a moment later, Mattheo was sidling up close to your side as you worked. 

“How’re you holding up so far?” You smirked, and he shook his head, a chuckle tumbling quietly from his lips. 

“I think if all your family react like that to me, I have nothing to worry about.”

“Why wouldn't they?” You didn’t give him a chance to disagree, stirring the hot drinks before you and tapping the spoon on the rim. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Mattheo.”

“Some people would disagree.”

“Some people also like pickles.” Your nose scrunched up, and you sought out the pot beside the biscuits, popping the lid and sprinkling some marshmallows onto the steaming surface of each one. “Clearly, their decisions can’t be trusted.”

Turning to him and pushing a mug over the counter, he scoffed. Leaning down until your noses were almost brushing, he smirked. “I like pickles.”

“You’re gross. I’ve seen you drink from a random cup the morning after a party.” Taking your mug, you turned away from him, leaving him spluttering behind you as he grabbed his own and followed. 

“First of all, that was one time. Secondly, I knew it was my drink! I’m the one who left it there!”

“Uh-huh.” He pinched at your hip in response falling back into step beside you, and allowing himself to be led into the snug. Smaller, cosier, with only one couch and two worn armchairs, it was one of your favourite rooms in the house. A wobbly bookshelf stood in the corner, and a chessboard sat out before you on the coffee table, a freshly reset game. The rest of the board games were stacked on a shelf. “Wanna’ talk about how the day will go? Put any last fears to rest.”

He glanced up, running his finger over the Queen on the board as he sat down, nodding, thankfully. “I’d like that.”

Settling onto a cushion on the floor instead, on the other side, you turned the board around. Picking up a pawn, you made your first move, and a spark went off in his eyes. “We’ll start with breakfast, when everyone wakes up. Mum loves making a big breakfast, she’s a breakfast foods kind of person. There’s a lot of stuff, a lot in the fridge. It’ll remind you of Hogwarts, but better.”

He smiled at that, picking up a pawn himself and shifting it across, playing the board as he waited to see what moves you’d make. Mattheo was surprisingly patient, and good at playing the long game. He never made a real move until there was more going on across the board. 

“Then, we’ll open gifts. The kids will be desperate by then, so we’ll all cram into the sitting room. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to pinch a proper seat.” You shrugged, fingers brushing over your pieces, before plucking one up and making your next move. “After that, we do some baking. We’ll make things for dessert, as well as treats to have throughout the day. My mum has a big flow chart of all the cooking for the meal, most stuff we prepared over the last few days, but it all gets heated up and cooked after that.”

“Lot of kitchen work.”

“Oh, yes. Traditionally, all the ladies will do the cooking, and we leave all the washing up and cleaning for the men.” You gave him a wink, watching him play the board while grinning. 

“Christmas Day chores, what a treat.”

“While food cooks, they’ll be… something. Maybe movies, I think one of my uncles put a quiz together, so maybe that. Something fun. Then we’ll eat.” You found yourself stuck already, watching as he already managed to be pinning you down across the checkerboard. You considered your play for a while, and he sipped at his hot chocolate, a pleased noise on his lips as he licked foam from his top lip. “Then…”

“Then?” He said, and finally, you decided what to do, shifting to knock down one of his pieces and snatch it up with a smirk. That smirk didn’t last long, not as you saw his expression. Like you’d fallen right into his trap. He moved quickly, striking like a viper as he swiped up without consideration, and you swore as he took a piece in return. 

“Then… I don’t know. The rest of the day is mostly lazing around, letting the food settle, eating more food…”

“Can’t wait.” He whispered, and the moment you made your next play, he was grinning over the rim of his mug. He crossed the board, knocking down your Queen, and beaming as you scowled. “Checkmate.”

“Fuck you.”

“You lasted longer this time. That was, what, twelve moves? I’m impressed.”

“Bite me.” You scoffed, and he flashed his teeth, snapping them in a bite playfully, and you stuck out your tongue. 

“Don’t be a sore loser.” Mattheo taunted.

“Didn’t you once punch MacLaggen after a Quidditch match because—”

“You be quiet or I’ll come over there and make you be quiet.” As his eyes shone with mirth, you flipped him off, gulping at your hot chocolate and letting the half-melted, gooey marshmallows sit on your tongue. “Much better.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Oh, now, don’t believe a word she says.” You jumped, turning to the doorway as your cousin poked her head through, and Mattheo stiffened instantly. “She told me she wished I fell off my broom last year, just because I won the little toy inside the last Christmas cracker.”

“Jess!” You beam, lighting up a little as she stepped into the room, her youngest following her inside. The girl who came behind her was only two, still dressed in her striped pyjamas, eyes half open and curls pressed from the side she’s slept on. “Mattheo, meet my least favourite cousin.”

“Now, now. That’s just rude.” She beamed, letting go of her daughter's hand as the youngest began to toddle over towards you on shaky little stomps, letting you scoop her up and place a big kiss on her cheek. As you fawned over her child, Jess reached out, shaking Mattheo’s hand as he sat nervously. “Nice to meet you, Mattheo. I’ve heard a lot about you. Better than the Italian one, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve met Theo?” His shock was evident. Jess scoffed while you just laughed and tickled your baby cousin’s stomach. 

“Once, at family week. He happened to bump into us at Hogsmeade. Terrible flirt, isn’t he?”

“You were knocked up at the time, too.” You snickered, and she looked fondly at her daughter. 

“Oh, that didn’t stop him.” 

“Sounds like our Notty-boy,” Mattheo whispered, turning to look at you. When the girl on your knee looked up at him curiously, he wiggled his fingers, “Hello there.”

She only giggled, turning away to hide her face in your neck. 

“You two coming out for breakfast?” Jess sighed, calling her daughter back to her side as you put her down, and she scooped the girl up onto her hip. She turned to Mattheo, mischief written onto her features, “There are some people who want to meet you.”

Standing up and brushing off dirt from the floor, he followed suit, your cousin leaving ahead of you both. Taking your mug in one hand, Mattheo ruffled his hair in the other, patting down the untamed stands. 

“What are you— stop doing that.” Grabbing his arm, you didn’t fail to notice the light tremors from his nerves. “You’re squashing all your curls.”

“I should’ve styled my hair this morning. Your family will think I’m a mess.”

“It’s Christmas Day, and you woke me up before I could even wash my face. Trust me, you’re fine.” He only frowned, reaching his hand up towards his hair again, and you pulled it down. Running your hands down his arm, you clasped his hands, reassuringly. His fingers folded around your palm in return. “Ruining your pretty hair won’t make them like you any more, but it’ll make me like you less!”

“You think my curls are pretty?” 

Heat flushed your cheeks as he stared at you, curious. He’d always been so pretty, and it never failed to astonish you how all your favourite parts of him were the parts he disliked the most. “Shut up.”

His lips twitched, but he refrained from replying, glancing at the door instead. In a bold move, he took a step toward it, evidently deciding he was ready, as he guided you both out of the room and toward the growing bustle of voices.

Only moments after you emerged, he was swept into the craziness; aunties and uncles and cousins descending on him, all asking a thousand questions a minute. They wanted to know about classes, and where his jumper was from, and if he preferred roast beef or roast turkey. He was taken from you, leaving you to hold both mugs and chuckle at the flustered look on his face. 

By the time you’d refilled them both and returned to the pandemonium, he sagged with relief upon seeing you. Kids were already mithering about opening presents, raving madly about Santa, and he was able to slip away from the hustle and back to you. 

“Before you chastise me for leaving you,” You pressed the mug into his hands the moment his jaw dropped, pre-empting his words, “I refilled your hot chocolate. I stood no chance, they’re animals, and you were the newest squeaky toy. Luckily, the young have saved you, by nagging about the presents.”

“I’ll let you out of it this time.” He shook his head, serious like he was really mad, even as he leaned in to kiss your temple. His mouth moved to your ear, “Your family are very friendly.”

“They were excited to meet you. You’re fresh meat. How are you at pub quizzes? Because they’ll be all over you.”

He chuckled, and before he could say anything else, your mother was making the call to start cooking breakfast. Just like that, the room seemed to clear of men, all of them slipping away at the word ‘cooking’, taking the kids with them. Only the grandparents were left in the living room, excused from all chores, naturally. 

“You can go with the other men if you’d like.”

“I’d rather stay and cook with you… is that okay?” He glanced towards the kitchen, and smiled when you nodded. 

“Course you can. Come on.” Leading him to the kitchen, your aunts and cousins were already bustling around, working wherever your mother assigned them to. Your mother snapped her fingers to you, pointing towards the griddle that was heating up, all the ingredients for fluffy pancakes laid out alongside. 

Guiding Mattheo over to it after washing your hands, his cheeks went red as he stood before the bowl. “I, uh, maybe didn’t think this through. I don’t know how to cook.” He whispered, embarrassment tinging his voice as everyone around you both seemed to be getting on at speeds. 

“That’s okay, why don’t you mix the batter while I add the ingredients, hm?”

That brought his sweet expression back, letting out the breath he was clinging to, and pulling the bowl towards himself. You added each ingredient, weighing them up and measuring them out as he stirred the bowl continuously, switching between arms as he tired. On and on you went, until you had enough butter to make pancakes for an army, and he was eating leftover chocolate chips from the bag while you greased the griddle pan. 

He was watching eagerly as your cousin Ki grilled bacon, stacking up a pile that had his entire attention. 

“Mattheo, dear, do you want a piece of bacon?” Your mother snapped him from his dazed watch, and his jaw dropped open, the tips of his ears going red. 

You snickered, nudging him where he stood beside you, still clutching the bowlful of batter. With a shy nod, his mother picked up a piece handing it to him with a wink, and he beamed upon receiving it. 

Tearing off a chunk with his teeth and chewing, he turned to face you, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I think your mother likes me.”

“I told you she would.” You said, a happy sound leaving him at the confirmation. Once the tray was ready, you grabbed for a ladle, and he held the bowl securely, the two of you working to set off the first batch of pancakes to cook. He shuffled every step with you, and while they cooked, you began to work on the second batter batch. “You want to try this time? I can help you.”

“Alright.” He nodded, setting the bowl back on the scale like he’d seen you start with. Scanning his hands over the ingredients, he reached for the flour first, holding it up in question. Sieving it through until you told him to stop, he smiled to himself as he watched the dust fall perfectly. A sprinkle of sugar, and a dash of vanilla essence, and then he circled in the centre with a spoon to create a well. 

“Alright, make sure you tap it lightly on the edge. You don’t want bits of shells in the food.”

He was so focused it was almost adorable, your heart skipping a beat as you watched him go, tapping the egg on the bowl so delicately your heart ached. “Like that?”

“Maybe a little harder.”

And then, he cracked it down with another force that the rim of the bowl went halfway through the egg, mangling the whites and the yolks, with splinters of shells going into the food. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay, we can just pick the shell out and try again. Don’t worry.”

Dipping your fingers into the flour to pick out the pieces of shell, you discarded the broken egg to the side, and he helped fish out all the pieces, meticulously checking there was none left. Handing him a new egg, he eyed his cautiously now. 

“C’mere, let me show you.”

Guiding your hand down his arm to cup over his, you guided his hand down with the right amount of pressure, cracking the egg enough to slip your nails in and pull it apart. Taking his other hand too, you huddled in close, your hands over his by the bowl as the pair of you pressed to one another, pulling the egg apart and letting it fall into the well. 

“Perfect, see. You’re a natural.”

He turned to look down at you, eyes scanning over your face, a silent moment you didn’t know how to read, before he was turning back to it. You helped him with the second one, and then he did the third and fourth alone, cheering with so much enthusiasm about it that several of your relatives celebrated with him. 

He whisked the batter up, flipping the ones already cooking, and stacking them up on a plate before ladling out the batter he’d made. By the time they were finished, he was so eager to try the first thing he’d ever cooked that he almost burned his fingers as he snatched one up. Blowing on it hastily, he took a large bite, huffing some further breaths to cool it down. 

“So good.” He groaned, taking another large bite. Following as you took the plate to the dining table, lots of food was already laid out, your grandparents beginning to pile up their plates, and parents dishing up for their kids. 

“Sit down, get some of your pancakes while they’re still hot and there’s still some there.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, sinking into a seat and grabbing for a plate. You sat with him, and soon, the whole family was gathered around, filling plates and chatting happily as the sleepiness wore away and the festive excitement settled in. 

Chatter went on around you both as Mattheo gave it his best go to eat his body weight in bacon and pancakes, only pausing when you reminded him that there was still plenty of food left to go over the course of the day. He was happy to sit and listen to the conversation going on around him, but when the attention turned to him, he stuttered over his words. 

He was nervous to answer any questions that came to him, your hand sliding into his under the table and pulling it onto his lap. It took him several questions to realise that they weren’t bothered by his family name. In fact, nobody asked him about his father, or his mother. He had one question about Tom, but only with respect to him being a brother, not a Riddle.

When this realisation washed over him, the way he lit up was obvious. Nervous responses became animated ramblings, talking with excitement and purpose as he responded to every attempt anyone made to get to know him. 

He admitted to your Uncle Jamie that, no, he’d never been fishing. Your father asked him about his grades at school, and your mother berated him, before asking Mattheo about his favourite classes instead. Your Auntie Sally told him all about how she had been sorted in Gryffindor while her brother Steven had been Slytherin. They had epic battles on the Quidditch pitch, no pulled punches, and wondered if that rivalry still lasted. Your Uncle Steven asked him what his hobbies were, and he shyly admitted how much he loved art, which led to your grandad waking back up from his dozing just in time to start telling the same old story about the two-month spell he’d spent as a police sketch artist in the fifties.

He seemed more than happy to talk, settling into the dynamic of the room, and you took your plate to the kitchen, tidying it away. With a kiss on his cheek, you let Mattheo know you were finally going to change.

By the time you stepped back into the room fifteen minutes later, the children were frantically tugging at their adult’s arms to go back through for gifts, the sugar rush starting to kick in. Mattheo was helping to gather dishes away, arms out as your Auntie Sally piled plates and bowls into his arms, his eyes wide as she spoke to him about something. 

You followed them through to the kitchen, not failing to miss the occasional drop of your name in the conversation, clearing your throat dramatically and stealing the spotlight. Your Aunt only grinned over her shoulder conspiratorially, unstacking the dirty dishes from Mattheo’s arms into the soapy water of the sink. Mattheo, however, sagged with relief as you appeared. The moment his arms were clear, he was sweeping back over to you, taking a handful of your Christmas jumper and tugging you to his side. 

You stumbled along after him out of the room. “The second you left the room, they were all over me. What are my intentions, what are my feelings, when will I ask you out—” His voice hit a shrill note, and you chuckled, unclenching his hand from the material of your sweater. 

“I made it very clear to them before today that we weren’t dating. You don’t need to worry about that, they’re just messing with you.”

“I wasn’t— I wasn’t worried, so much as intimidated! They’re scary people.”

“Are you trying to imply I’m not scary?” You tease, taking the edge off of his nerves as he rolled his eyes, focusing on that instead of the conversation you’d just freed him from. 

“Oh, I’ve seen you in action. You’re terrifying when you want to be.” He muttered, leaning down to rest his forehead on your own, voice dropping low. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way Draco screamed when you filled his bed with grass snakes.”

“Yes, well, perhaps that’ll teach him not to steal my skin products just because his own ran out.”

“Come on, you two. Presents time.” Sally emerged from the kitchen, clapping her hands and smirking, and you groaned. Taking Mattheo’s hand and guiding him through to the living room, you snatched up a seat on one of the sofas quickly, Mattheo squeezing in beside you. 

Children were already tearing into their presents, ribbons and bows and paper were already scattered around the room in a messy storm. Your mother pottered through with a tray of mugs, your father following, and you smiled gratefully as she passed you a mug of herbal tea. 

As the mayhem went on, Mattheo settled back into the sofa, tugging your wrist closer to himself and sniffling the contents of your mug before taking a sip. He was perfectly happy to sit back and watch gifts be opened, to gather wrapping paper from your presents onto his lap and scrunch them up into balls. 

Until one of the toddlers, Elliot, pulled out a gift from under the tree and flipped the label over. He struggled over it for a while, sounding out the sounds he could see written down. “Math..ee. Matt-ee-oo.” He mouthed around the word as Mattheo stiffened beside you. “Matthew.”

His head snapped up, looking straight to Mattheo as his mother corrected him softly, lowering her camera from filming him and pointing. Elliot carried the gift over, placing it into Mattheo’s hands, before dashing back to the tree to search for more gifts of his own. 

Mattheo smoothed his fingers over the paper and ribbon, flipping the tag over to be sure, as if he didn’t quite believe it. Your handwriting neatly scrawled his name on the paper, and his eyes flickered up to you. “You did this?”

“Mhm. Open it.”

You pulled up your legs, tucking them underneath yourself and watching excitedly as he ran he tugged at the bow. Undoing the ribbon, he curled it up carefully, setting it aside next to his leg and flipping it over. Running his fingers over the edges, on the left side, they bumped along, and a smile cracked on his face. He repeated the motion, feeling more firmly through the wrapping. “Is this was I think it is?”

“Open it and find out.” You poked him with your toes, and he pushed his fingers under the folds of the paper, opening the seals and tearing it away from what was inside. He stared at it once it was free, fingers dusting across the ornate cover, flipping it open to look through the blank pages, to admire the paper quality. 

“You got me a new sketchbook?”

“Hm. Not just any sketchbook, though. It’s an enchanted one. It’ll never run out of blank pages.” His jaw dropped, turning back to look at it. 

“I’ve never— I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Where did you get it?”

“An art store, at Diagon Alley. I was just going to get you a regular one, but then I found this.” You shrugged, and his eyes were glistening when he looked up again. 

“I love it. Thank you.” He clutched it to his chest, never looking away, not hiding his emotions this time even as his nose scrunched up a little and he sniffed. The busy noise and action went on around you both, but as he stretched on hand out to squeeze yours, it was like the two of you were all alone. Emotion clogged in your throat, your chest ached for him, such a visceral reaction to such a small gift. Tipping your head toward the tree, you laughed lightly. “There’s a couple more over there for you.”

“What?” His voice was shaky, glancing at the Christmas tree as some of the others gathered around it now, the children done and satisfied as they began to pay with all their new toys amongst the mess. 

“Go on, go and get involved.” When he hesitated, a smile breaking free on his face, you encouraged him again, and he took a seat beside your mother by the tree, one more look back at you before beginning to search for the ones with his name on in the pile. 

You opened and smiled at the gifts you were handed, grateful for them all as your family passed presents around, but you were distracted. 

Distracted, watching the joy on Mattheo’s face as he opened another present, looking up at you as he opened a new set of colourful quills and chalks, the blush on his face when he unwrapped an ornament with ‘Baby Boy’s First Christmas’ written on. He glared at you with red cheeks, but held it carefully, and searched for a spot to hang it on the tree at your mother’s insistence. Distracted as you pulled out your phone, taking covert pictures of Mattheo with one of the biggest smiles you’d ever seen him wear. 

He found another, settling it on his lap, his attention diverted as Jess’ son Aiden tugged at Mattheo’s sleeve, shoving a toy racecar into his face. Mattheo was polite, asking all kinds of questions, letting the boy run the car up and down his arm, and over his face, even as the small tyres went in his eye. When he finally grew bored of tangling the model Ferrari in Mattheo’s hair, he pointed at the gift still sitting in his lap. 

Mattheo lifted it, showing it to him as Aiden slumped down across Mattheo’s shoulders lay across his back and tugging at the ribbon. He helped to open it, and while Mattheo’s face lit up, Aiden’s scrunched up, turning to glare at you on his new friend’s behalf. 

“Ew, Auntie (Y/N), why did you get him a colouring book? Colouring books suck.”

Your laughter was hidden by Mattheo’s even as Jess scolded her son, and he stood, bringing it back over to you as his amusement died down. It was no ordinary book, it was a stress therapy colouring book, and by the way he was already flicking through the drawings inside, you could tell he liked it. 

Stacking it on top of the sketchpad with his new quills and chalks. He reached for your mug, taking it from your hands and putting it down on the table by the sofa before tugging you up. Your body flew into his with the force of it, his arms wrapping around you tightly, and his face buried in your neck. 

“Thank you.”

“Just a couple of gifts.” You smile, rubbing his back gently as he sank further into your touch, leaning his weight onto you. Your friendship group had already exchanged presents before leaving for the holidays, you’d done a Secret Santa exchange, and you’d given Blaise a new phone case and a basket full of chocolates.  

“It’s so much more than that, stop playing it casual.” He muttered, words vibrating along your skin. With one final squeeze, he pulled back, the two of you dropping down onto the sofa, and you kicked your legs out across his lap comfortably. He reached for his new sketchpad, cracking open one of the new quills, a green one, and adjusting you. He propped your legs up on his lap to lean his book on, his head falling to your shoulder as his side pressed to your torso, and that oh-so-serious look took over his face once again as he began to sketch. 

Sketching the Christmas tree.

Weaving your hand into his hair, you found yourself slipping back into that place where only you and he existed for a while, scratching lightly at his scalp and sitting still as he drew. 

He stayed like that for a long while.

Long enough for the sun to start properly rising across the sky, and the Church bells on the horizon to start ringing. The children had rushed off to start a new game, and the group had dispersed through the house to keep up with their own activities. He’d long since finished his drawing, and was now lying quietly on your shoulder, your hand still in his hair, his eyes closed as he rested, mumbling responses to the conversation the two of you were barely carrying. 

“I hate to disturb you two,” Your mother said, in a tone that suggested she very clearly did not hate to do such a thing, a grin on her face as she poked her head around the doorway, “But we’re about to start the baking. Did either of you wish to join us?”

Mattheo lifted his head, looking at you eagerly, and your hand slipped down to his shoulder as you pushed him upright again. “Go, make cookies.”

He stood, stretching out stiffened limbs. “Will you come too?”

You hadn't planned on it, much preferring to sit back and maybe take a nap. But, Mattheo was excited, and you’d long since decided that today was all about him. You could spare one Christmas to make him happy in ways he’d never forget. “Of course I will.”

He took on a happy look, and the two of you made your way to the kitchen side by side. Your mum left the doorway from where she ‘was not watching’, walking ahead. “So, what are we making?” Matt asked as the three of you joined the other few who had volunteered in the kitchen. 

“We have brownies over here, cookies on the island, and apple pie being made on the table over there. Take your pick, sweetie.”

“Uh… cookies?”

“Perfect. You’ll work with me.” She took his arm by the elbow, pulling him towards the island in the centre of the room. You took over at the brownie station, washing your hands before joining in. 

He put all of that polite, well-trained behaviour to good use as he chatted up a storm with your female relatives. They all loved him, laughing at his jokes and listening intently to his stories as he worked, barely aware of the attention that was on him as he stirred the bowl. Meanwhile, you spent the majority of the time trying to fight off all the little hands trying to reach up and snatch chunks of chocolate from the chopping boards, and stealing the bowls to lick.

You did, at least, manage to snap a picture of Mattheo with his cookie cutter before he spotted you. 

The children were clamouring for the dishes by the end. You were elbow-deep in soapy water and washing, a tray of hot brownies and out, cookies cooling, and more batches already in the oven as several pies sat out waiting for later. Mattheo was talking to one of your older Aunts, charming her with boyish tales of him and Theo and Draco, when she took the brownie batter bowl out of a sprinting Aiden’s hands from where he had grabbed it and run. 

He wailed loudly as his plot was foiled and she tutted at him. “Thieves don’t get treats, Aiden. You should’ve asked nicely. Only the nice boys get to lick the spoon.”

He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, and knowing better than to fight back. She then turned back to the conversation, and held it out to Mattheo. “Matt, dear, would you like it?”

“Me?” He was as astonished as Aiden, taking the bowl and the spoon slowly and bringing them close to himself. You’d told your family a little more than you let on to Matt. You’d told them just enough to know that he didn’t typically have a good Christmas, that one of your favourite times of the year was one of his worst, and you wanted to make that better for him today. 

He picked up the spoon, licking the batter off happily, and crouching down with the bowl in his hands, holding it to Aiden. Swiping his finger through it, your nephew was pleased once again, and soon enough, Mattheo had a swarm of children hanging from him as he made the mistake of sharing something sugary. 

When he finally emerged, notably sans bowl, he wandered over to you, dropping the spoon in the sink. His jaw dropped to speak to you, attention stolen by the tugging of a small hand on his sleeve. Mabel was peering up at him, holding his colour therapy book in her other hand, and lifting it up. 

“Can I colour in’y’book w’you?” She mumbled quietly, and your heart burst in your chest as he slipped his hand down to take hers carefully. 

“Of course.” He let himself be guided away, back to the living room with Mabel, and your head dropped, hiding the smile as you continued to wash up. 

Jess leaned on the counter beside you, a cloth in her hands from where she’d helped with the rest of the cleanup, and you turned to look up at her. 

“I like him. He’s sweet.”

“You should see the pranks he pulls at school, he’s a menace.” Your joke amused her, a low sound leaving her as she wiped at the counters around you both for excess flour. 

“Yeah, but, I still think he’s a sweetheart. And he’s into you, that much is clear.”

“Don’t start with this,” You groan, drying off your hands as the last of the monumental amount of washing up was completed. “I told you, we’re friends.”

“Yeah, just friends.” She shrugged, “But just because that's all you are right now, doesn’t mean that’s all you’ll ever be, or all you want to be. I see the way you look at him. You like him.”

“He’s pretty. Every girl looks at him like that.”

“No,” She shook her head, and you couldn't bear to look at her as she read you like a book. Instead, you began prepping a new mug of hot chocolate. “You look a him like you think his soul is pretty, not just him.”

“Shut up.” Her poetic words made you blush, and she closed in on you, ready to make the final strike. “Don’t you dare—”

“You looove him. You got a big, fat crush on him.”

“I will push you off your broom myself.” Your scowl didn’t ward her away, she was only torn from smirking at you as your mother began to unload the next set of food to start being prepared for dinner. The turkey was already in, had been for hours, but she began to unstack pigs and blankets as trays of sausage meat stuffing onto the surface. 

Swiping up the mug, you followed the rumbling of Mattheo’s deep voice through the house. Sat on the floor of the snug, Mabel was lying on her stomach by his side as she coloured as neatly as possible onto the first page of his colouring therapy books with her crayons. Aiden was under his arm, holding up the instruction manual of a new Lego set, as a half-built model sat in front of them. 

Elliot was playing with some of Aiden’s toy cars, and eight-year-old Jessop was lying on the sofa, reading a book. Knocking two knuckles on the door, five heads all snapped up to look at you. Mattheo smiled as you stepped into the room, and Aiden grumbled at his distraction, going back to the Lego even as Mattheo pulled away. 

You offered him the new cup of hot chocolate, and he smiled as he accepted it, taking a sip. 

“You know the men are all gathered in the living room watching some movie about cars. They have a lot of beer, and an empty seat, if you want to join them.” You sang the words enticingly, hands on his hips as you swayed him to the beat of your melody. 

“What will you be doing?” He stepped a little closer, free hand going to your waist, too.

“I’ll help my mum with the cooking.”

“Can’t I help you cook, instead?” His whisper brushed your cheek as he leaned into place a kiss there, and your heart stuttered in your chest, taking you a moment to recompose yourself as he pulled back with a smile. 

“Of course you can… if that’s what you want, but you don’t have to. You’re here to have fun.”

“What makes you think I’m not having fun?” He mused, peering at you over the rim of the mug as he took a sip. “I’m having a ton of fun. Best Christmas ever, all thanks to you. I just want to be wherever you are today.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll be in the kitchen,” Your words are hardly audible as you say them, swallowing back the emotion in your throat as he held eye contact. 

“I guess we will, sweetheart.”

You turn to walk away, Mattheo following behind you as you lead him back to the kitchen. 

He was more than welcome once again, immersed straight into girl talk as your relatives grumbled and complained over their husbands. Mattheo put his suspiciously good rolling habits to use, wrapping sausages tightly in strips of bacon, and almost choking when your mother complimented his skills. 

He tried to hug you with raw hands, chasing you around the kitchen until your mother scolded him playfully, calling him back and having him lift the meats from the oven to be re-basted. 

He was chopping and peeling potatoes, nudging back and forth with his hip as you worked beside him, when your already-exhausted-looking Uncle Jeremy peered into the kitchen, Elliot dangling upside down from his shoulder. 

“The film ended. We’re going to take the kids out for a walk and burn off some of this energy. Anyone want to join?” 

He looked like he was desperately waiting for them to tire out so the drinking could start, Elliot climbing all over him like a playground frame and your mother shooed you both away. “You can go, c’mon. Go for a walk, let your grandparents and I have some time.”

The kitchen cleared out, shoes and coats and scarves were put on, and then you were all trudging out into the snow as your father shut the door, hands in his pockets as he followed you down the frozen garden path. Mattheo wore an old coat he’d borrowed from your father, zipped right up as he kept his chin tucked down inside it, hands buried in his pockets. 

“Oh, don’t pout, Matty. You’ve had colder than this.”

“How did we end up out here? I was cosy inside five minutes ago.” He pressed his hands even tighter into the coat as you linked an arm through his, snuggling up to his side as you followed the others along toward the fields you’d roam across for a while.

“My mum does this every year. We always host, but she kicks everyone out so she can check on my grandparents, and take a break for herself. She’ll have a large glass of wine, sit down in front of the fire, and watch an episode of whatever her latest reality TV show is, before we all come back.” The grass crunched under your feet as you stepped out onto the frozen fields, glittering and icy as far as you could see. “It’ll help you work up an appetite for the meal, though.”

“Your mother nearly gave me a heart attack when she asked me where I learned to roll pigs in blankets like that for someone who’s ‘never cooked a day in his little life’.” He produced his hands to make air quotes around his words, and only tucked one back into his pocket. The other, he took yours with, lacing your fingers together, and rubbing his thumb over your own. 

“I know. Your face was priceless. I actually got a picture of it.”

“If anyone ever sees that picture, I’ll hex you.”

“You mean it wasn’t okay for me to send it straight to the group chat? Oops.” He stuck out his tongue, but sighed, taking in the countryside around him as you walked through it. 

“You grew up here?”

“Nice, isn’t it? You murmur, looking around and letting the nostalgia wash over you as your thumb wrestled with his absentmindedly. “There’s a river nearby. We used to go down there as kids, this big group of us who lived here. We’d have picnics, and wade in the water and play on the rope swing.”

“Sounds fun.” He sighed, and you squeezed his hand, no words to comfort him coming to mind. He’d had no such freedom in his childhood, you knew as much from the snippets he or Tom would accidentally drop before they could stop themselves. “Sometimes I would walk around the grounds of the estate, but we were only allowed out if it was dry so we wouldn't get dirty.”

Resting your chin on his shoulder, you hugged his arm, snuggling into him as much as you could while still ambling on behind your chatting family. “Oh, Matty…”

“Normally, I hate hearing that. The sad, pitying voices.” He murmured, before twisting to face you, the tips of your noses brushing. “But when it’s you, I kinda’ like it. You don’t feel condescending, you just feel caring.”

“That’s because I do care.”

“I know.” He smiled, turning to face forward once again, and you rested your cheek on his shoulder instead, making it easier to walk along, huddled into his side. 

You remained in silence for a while, letting him soak it all in, pausing occasionally to take a picture or two of him looking at things. Even when he walked away, to pick up fallen pinecones, or to look at initials carved into a tree, he still came back every time, to where you patiently waisted, his hand finding yours or tucking you back under his arm each time. 

You were in the middle of taking several photos of him petting a walker’s dog when your father stopped, hands on his hips as he stared up at the greying sky overhead. 

“It’s going to start snowing.”

Mattheo’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he let the dog go, running to catch its owner. “How can you tell?”

The excitement was clear in his voice, standing up and brushing his gloveless hands off on his jeans. You snorted, he’d really done it now. “Dad has a sixth sense about these things.”

“You see, my boy, those clouds up there are called nimbostratus clouds.” He pointed upwards, hands on his hips as Mattheo adopted a similar stance, copying him and staring up at the sky. “They’ve been settling in all day, and now the sky is full. Not to mention, it just dropped a degree or two a minute ago. Now, it’s not that perceptible when it’s already this cold, but I’m good with temperatures, you know. And it always drops a degree or two right before it precipitates.”

“And, how do you know it’s snow, not just rain? Or do those kinds of clouds only make snow?”

You laughed again, linking your arm through Mattheo’s, and he twisted his head to press a kiss to your temple. He stiffened a moment later, just as you did, and you wondered if he realised what he’d done at all until after. He didn’t take it back, though. Instead, he relaxed a second later, still listening to your dad talk about how he just knows, can feel it in his bones when the snow comes.

“So, how many different types of clouds are there?” Mattheo asked after listening to the whole explanation.

That was how you spent the entire walk back getting to hear about all the different types of cloud formations. To his credit, Mattheo seemed to be genuinely soaking up every word your father said. He had questions, and opinions, which span off into a new chat about the water cycle and glaciers.

It was only when you were ten minutes out from home that your father’s prophecy came true, and snow began to fall in heavy flakes from the sky. The children squealed excitedly, and Mattheo caught the flakes in the palms of his hands, watching each one melt against his skin with a small smile on his lips. 

Finally, as everyone stepped back into the warmth to shake off the snow, and stomp mud off of their boots, it was like a stampede to get to the fireplace and warm up. Shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers, you took your time unwinding your scarf, hanging it up with your coat and peeling off your gloves. 

His cheeks, nose and hands were pink, and he was rubbing at his arms to warm up now that he’d taken off his coat. 

“My hands are cold.”

“I can tell.” You took them in your own, rubbing his frozen skin lightly. His fingers trembled a little in your hold, chilled to the bone, and you lifted your cupped hands together to your face. Softly parting your hands, you blew warm air between them onto his skin, your cheeks flaring with warmth at the gasp he made. 

Rubbing again, you repeated the actions until the shaking of his hands stopped, and you finally chanced a look up at him. He was staring down at you, eyes practically glittering and lips parted. He seemed lost for words for a moment, toying with the thoughts in his mind before finally settling. “I like it when you fuss over me.”

He took his hands back, tucking them faster than you could stop him under the back of your jumper, cold fingers splaying across your back as he tugged you into his body. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, cold nose dragging along your skin. No matter how much you groaned and wriggled, his grip was tight, chilling you with him as he stole your body heat.

Eventually, you just gave in, sighing as you stroked his back, letting him snuggle in for warmth rather than fight for a space next to the fire. Amongst the woodsy smell of his cologne, and the gingery pine scent of the Christmas candles your mum burned every year, something else lingered in the air. 

Berries, citrus fruit, and spices. 

“I think mum made mulled wine.” Your words were right beside his ear, and at that, he raised his head, scrunching his nose sweetly a couple of times before sniffling the air. “Want some?”

“I’ve never had any. Is it good?”

“Seriously? Matt!” Grabbing behind yourself for one of his hands, you hurried him through the house. Just as you’d suspected the morning’s tanker of hot chocolate had been swapped out, and now, a steaming vat of mulled wine replaced it. 

Grabbing two glass mugs, you set them out, pouring some from the little tap, and passing it to him by the handle. The cinnamon and orange smell so much stronger in the air now, and you moaned under your breath as you breathed in the steam. 

He held the mug in his hands, not even seeming to feel the heat seeping through as he blew on the surface, several times, before taking a tentative sip. You waited for his reaction, practically on the edge of your seat, if you’d had one.

“It’s…”

“It’s..?” You burst, waiting for his reply, and he dragged it out just to tease you. 

“It’s really good.” He eventually caved, taking another sip, and another, as you cheered. “Don’t ever tell my boy Theo I said that. He’d skin me alive. He hates the idea of mulled wine and refuses to touch it. It’s an insult to his Italian heritage, he says.”

“So is cream in carbonara, breadsticks, and chicken mince lasagne.” You scoffed, and he grinned at that.

He drank some more, the two of you sipping quietly on your glasses, before hearing the opening tunes of a movie on the TV. Refilling your glasses, you headed through. The room was only half full, some sat about chatting in the dining room, others upstairs, and some likely in the snug or their bedrooms. It left you plenty of space to lie out across one of the couches, stretching happily, and your toes didn’t even reach the other end. 

The kids were all gathered around on the carpet, and Mattheo paced slowly behind you, with no attention on his movements but all his attention fixed on the animations taking place on the screen. He sat next to your legs nudging them up into the cushions before twisting and leaning back, settling himself against you with his head on your shoulder, back to your chest, as he continued to watch. 

He didn’t see your flushed cheeks or your shy surprise, not as you hid your face behind him from the watchful eyes of the few members of your family that were in here, too. Reaching for one of the rolled-up blankets along the back of the couch, you shook it out, spreading it over his body for an extra layer of warmth. He made a happy sound, shuffling back further into you, and letting the hand not holding his cup fall to clasp your calf by his hip, stroking slowly. 

Your arms crossed over his chest, giving up on what little pretence you had. This day would already be one of your favourite memories that you made, you might as well give into the full depth of what you wanted, and really make it the best it could be. Whether anything came from it or not, you’d still have this moment, cuddling with him on the sofa as he watched The Snowman for the first time. 

Your fingers ran through his hair, tugging out wind-tangled knots loosely, and playing with the curls around your fingers. You were oh-so-fond of Mattheo’s natural hair, dipping down to bury your nose in the strands, and kiss to top of his head. He squeezed your leg again, tipping his head back enough to leave a kiss brushed on your chin, before quickly looking back to the screen, and finishing off his mulled wine. 

Your cheek rested where your lips had once been, glancing around the room. Most of your relatives only gave you a small smile, while your mother winked at you, and your dad offered a thumbs up. You merely rolled your eyes, thankful for the dark of the room and that they couldn't see your blush. 

By the end of the movie, Mattheo was turning to you, abject horror evident on his face, as everyone else seemed to get on like normal. “He melted?”

“He’ll be back next year, don’t worry.” You smile, and Mattheo shook his head, brows furrowed, a deep ridge between them that showed just how bothered he was by the ending. 

“But he melted! How is that— I thought this was a child’s movie!”

“It is!”

“That’s like killing the dog in a Christmas movie.” He stuttered, trying to keep his voice low despite his growing concern. You left a kiss on his forehead in an attempt to hide your amusement from him. 

“Then you’re gonna’ hate The Snowman and The Snowdog.”

“Say sike. You say sike right now, or I’m getting in that floo and going home.” He pointed in the direction of the fireplace, and your laughter broke out, spilling into uncontrollable giggles. He was not pleased with your laughing, even if he did wrap you up into his arms, smothering your face into his bicep and grunting unhappily. “You cruel, cruel woman. Finding joy in my misery.”

That only made you laugh more.

The day was going by too quickly for your liking, it felt like all you did was blink, and you found yourself instead sitting at the dining room table, Mattheo on one side, your Uncle James, Grandma Alice and Grandpa William teamed up with you as you tried to count through the Premier League teams before the other teams.

Someone else hit the buzzer first, and you cursed in a very unladylike manner that made your Grandpa chuckle. 

Mattheo wasn’t much help with general knowledge, but he was enthusiastic. He tried as much as he could to participate in the rounds, and whenever he did happen to get something right, the look that took over his features was enough to light the night sky. He’d cheer, and kiss your cheek, and scribble the answers down on the big answers sheet you’d been assigned. 

It went on and on, only ending when the timer went off for the turkey, and raucous shouting took over from every adult as the quiz was cut short. Mattheo was laughing, loud, his arm looped around your waist as he nestled you into his side, immersed in the noise and hubbub. One of your cousins was adding up the scores, and you already knew you hadn't won, but hearing all of the scores being read, you cringed at just how badly your team had done. 

Mattheo laughed into your hair, the other arm hooking around your shoulders to pull you into him more fully. 

“That was more insane than a Common Room party.” He grinned, spoken close to your ear, and you laughed.

“Why do you think I’m so good at handling you lot when you’re drunk and rowdy, hm?” 

“I have never seen anyone corral drunk Italians like you.” He pulled back enough to peer down at you, and you smiled. 

The moment was snapped away from you both by the clearing of the quiz sheets away. The pens and markers were being gathered by Aiden, while Mabel followed him around with a basket for him to drop them into. Once the seats were clear, the settings all started to come back, and you watched as the room was transformed once again from a disaster zone and back into an elegant eating space. Cutlery went down after the plates, napkins and glasses and a cracker at each space. 

Mattheo was called away to help carry in bottles of wine, filling each glass around the table while the parents began to get the children settled in at their small table in the corner. Meals had already been prepared for them, a small chicken carved up between them all, a couple of roasties and just enough veggies that there would be no tears on Christmas Day. 

Then, the adult table was filling up, you carried bowls of food back and forth; several different kinds of vegetables, potatoes, meats and gravies, sides and stuffings up and down until the table was full from one end to the other.

When you finally sat down and tucked your napkin down to cover your lap, Mattheo settled in beside you. He was checking out every bowl, the dish of roast potatoes you’d mentioned being most excited for seemed to have conveniently found itself placed right in front of you both, and he smirked into his wine as you mentioned as much. 

Your father stood at the head of the table by the turkey, ready to carve, and the room fell quiet as all attention moved to him. Save for the ecstatic chatter of the children, that is. Your father held the meat-fork in one hand and the knife in the other, pausing just over the top of the turkey. Looking back up, he pulled back. 

“Mattheo,” The man beside you still as he placed his glass down, and all attention fell to him. “Come and carve for us.”

Mattheo’s stumbled response was adorable, and he untucked his chair when your father repeated himself. He walked slowly toward the head of the table, taking the instruments from your father’s hands. He paused, splotches of read coming back to his face, but before he could admit to being lost, your dad was guiding him on where to poke and how to slice. 

As soon as the first slice fell out and he lifted it off, clapping and cheering sounded around the room, and you made sure you were the loudest, his proud smile directed at you as he looked right at you. “First slice for you, sweetheart?”

You passed your plate along, all the way to get the meat from where he stood, before it was passed back to you. 

He kept going, slicing again and again until his wrist hurt, and he put down the knife and fork carefully. Stepping back for your father to take over, he clapped Mattheo on the shoulder. “Good job, son.”

It was spoken mindlessly, casually, as your father got back to work carving the meats, but it meant the world to Mattheo. His jaw dropped, and for a second he was frozen. You were almost worried he’d bolt, before he was speeding back over to the chair and took his seat beside you once again. He didn’t mention it, but he did let out a shaky breath, and took a heavy gulp of wine as his hands shook.

Your hand landed on his thigh, stroking lightly as he reached for the bowl of potatoes. “You okay, honey?”

“Never been better.” His tone sounded flat but you believed his words, watching as he dished up some potatoes onto your plate and his, picking out the ones that looked the best to give to you. “I carved a turkey.”

“And did a mighty fine job of it too.”

“You think?”

“Mhm. I’m very impressed.” You served up carrots and parsnips and Mattheo did mashed potatoes, dishes swapping about across the table, up and down until everyone had what they wanted. 

In a blur of good talk and food, you set into polishing off the plate before you, watching Mattheo try each and every item. 

“What’s normally on your Christmas Dinner?”

“Uh… well, father goes hunting with his business partners in the week leading up to Christmas, and normally he makes me and Tom go too. He’ll choose the best pheasant from the day, and that’s served. Along with a turkey, gammon, beef, lamb, and some kind of vegetarian wellington or roast.”

You watched him slice off a piece of his turkey, eyes rolling a little as he hummed happily, combining it with a piece of stuffing. 

“All the usual trimmings, too, to put on a show. But we weren’t allowed to eat them. Mother only let us have things that could be considered elegant.”

A snort left you, and he smirked. “What exactly is considered an elegant Christmas dinner food?”

“Things that can be eaten with a fork. Meat, roast potatoes,” He chopped smoothly down the centre of a crispy roast potato, stabbing it in one smooth move and putting it neatly into his mouth. “Stuffing and sprouts. That’s about it.”

“That’s awful! What about the pigs in blankets?”

“Roll around too much when you try to chop them.” He shrugged, and you scoffed. 

“So do sprouts?”

“Ah, but sprouts are a classic Christmas dish, and mother is nothing, if not traditionally elegant.” He made a show of chopping into a pig in a blanket now, savouring it as he ate it. “First time I ever had a Yorkshire pudding was second year, Tom took me to a pub in Hogsmeade. Changed my life.”

“Matty…”

“Don’t feel too bad for me, sweets.” Turning to you, he dipped a little closer, a smirk on his lips as his voice dropped. “If I didn’t have my sad, pathetic life to tell you all about, I wouldn't have a sob story to use to get a pretty girl to fawn over me.”

“Oh, please,” You muttered, shaking your head to hide your blush as you turned back to your meal. “Now you’re just flirting.”

“I’ve been flirting this whole time, you just never want to see it.”

Your eyes rolled at his smirk, and you twisted away, tuning back into the conversation going on around the table.

Mattheo loved his dinner. He ate everything on his plate, and at your relatives’ encouragement, he had seconds. Christmas crackers were popped, jokes were read and the little toys were exchanged around the table until everyone had a useless trinket they were happy with. 

He proudly wore a bright green paper crown on his head, and forced you to wear the orange one that popped out of your cracker too. 

By the time he was nibbling his way through a third plate, his hand was on your thigh, squeezing as he sat slumped in his seat. Jeans unbuttoned under his sweater, he patted at his stomach, content and full. You dipped another roast potato in a pool of gravy on your plate, dragging it through slowly. Lifting it, you took a bite, and he tipped his head, lips parting for the next bite. 

You offered it to him, and he pulled the bite from the fork, chewing with a hum as he listened to the storytelling of the previous Christmas’ that was now taking place. 

Before the food took you out into a food coma, your mother forced clean-up to take place. Bin bags were stuffed full, gifts were tidied away to respective cars and bedrooms, and the washing up was done, the table was cleared. When everyone put their minds to it, it didn’t take long, and you found Mattheo stacking the lad of the leftover tubs into the fridge. 

“We’re going to put some more movies on, and drink mulled wine ‘til we get tipsy. You staying for that?”

“Wild horses couldn't drag me away.” Mattheo smiled, turning to you as your arms wrapped around one of his, guiding him back to the living room before all the seats had been taken. You sat down first, and he quickly found a home leaning on your chest once again, your arms crossed over his chest, and one of his hands laced with your own. 

The other rubbed up and down your forearm slowly, getting himself comfortable as he groaned, spreading out as much as he could. “Did you eat too much?” You teased, and he pinched your arm, shaking his head. 

“I will never be defeated by food.” Despite his claims, he shifted once again, lowering into the couch cousins. Wine was handed out, the lights turned down, and Love, Actually began to play. Clearly, Grandma Judie had chosen the movie. 

That statement came to haunt him halfway through, though, when your mother arrived with a cheeseboard, handing out small plates, and pressing one into his hands. He was ever so polite, he’d never turn it down, and as she passed the box of crackers around to him, he piled three neatly onto the side of the plate. 

“Take more than that, dear. Come on.” She encouraged, and you hid your face against the top of his head to hide your laughter, as he added another three. Then came the cheese, and you swore you could feel Mattheo’s hesitation as he added slices and cubes of various cheeses to his plate, all under your parent’s watchful gaze to make sure he was taking enough. 

As he settled back, you brushed a kiss to his temple, and he tipped his face up towards you a little more. A smile was on his lips, the plate untouched and balanced in his lap. 

“You sure you’re not being defeated?”

“Me? Never.” He grinned, lifting a cracker with a slice of mature cheddar on up to you. “I made sure to get enough for us both, don’t you worry.” 

You didn’t have a chance to argue, the moment your mouth was open, he was forcing the savoury snack into your mouth, a wicked glint in his eye as you chewed slowly. Over mulled wine and cheese nibbles, the movie finished and another one began, this time chosen by one of your cousins. It was more upbeat, not a classic like the last had been, and there had almost been a row over it. 

Classic, or new. Mattheo had sat back and watched in astonished amusement as comments were thrown around the room in an argument for which was better. Eventually, a coin was flipped, and half the room had to grumble and accept it as the other half sat smugly.

The night was fully upon you by now, darkness had taken over as the evening ticked by. The curtains were drawn, candles were lit, and both your sets of grandparents had called it a day and gone up to bed already. The babies had long since fallen asleep too, setting a kind of quiet and peace over the house. 

Mattheo had gone still in your arms a long time ago, dozing between sleep and awake, finally having conceded after his second cracker and left the plate alone on the coffee table. You were sure he’d never admit it, though. 

You were comfy and happy. With the weight of him pressing down against you, and the blanket you’d thrown over your bodies covering you both and keeping you snug, you were sure that this was what you’d call perfect. 

The smell of spices and apples filled the house, your excitement renewing toward the end of the second movie as the time ticked on. Most of the children had fallen asleep, bowls of ice cream left on the kitchen counter from their own desserts, and long since tucked into bed to sleep. 

Your Aunt got up to check the oven, and moments later she called to let you all know that the treats from earlier in the day had finished cooking. “Mattheo.” You nudged, excitement racing through you, and the man in your arms stirred a little. He grunted, rolling over slightly and gripping one of your arms a little more firmly. “Matt!”

“Not right now, sweetheart. M’ sleeping.” He muttered, huffing a heavy breath out, and you chuckled. 

“You’re gonna’ miss dessert, though.”

That got his attention, one eye cracking open, quickly followed by another, and he sniffed at the air. “Smells good.”

“Mhm, so get up, and we can go and get some.”

Your family had already begun filing through to the kitchen, a new excitement surrounding the food as chatter took back up, laughter and new energy taking over. By the time you finally managed to join them, all of the various tray-bakes and puddings had been dug into, and you snatched up a plate to begin serving some to yourself. Some apple pie at one corner, some brownie at another, a scoop of ice cream in the idle, and a stack of cookies at the edge. 

Mattheo shuffled in a few moments later, sleepy and stretching, trying to hold in a yawn as he looked around. Upon finding you, he made his way over, slumping down to rest his head on your shoulder as you plucked two mismatched spoons from what was left in the cutlery drawer. 

Handing him one, he sighed, breaking off a large chunk of brownie and some ice-cream, before finally raising his head and eating the spoonful. With a groan, he told you just how good he thought it was, and went back in for more before even finishing his mouthful. 

The two of you shared the plate between quiet chatter, talking about his day, as Mattheo recounted for you almost every moment. His eyes were sparkling as he got a second helping of brownie for you both, forcing his spoon between your lips when teased him for his excitement, and wiping the edge of your mouth when you glared at him. He was so light, bursting with a kind of happiness you rarely ever saw in him. 

So much tended to weigh Mattheo down, so much of the time. He was a person who was burdened with struggles and troubles, and while he was exceptionally good at making the most of it, and finding silver linings, sometimes, it would eat away at him after too long. Darkness would crawl in at the edges, in the form of exhaustion and temper and emotional outbursts, and you’d find him staving off a panic attack with a cigarette between his lips, leg unable to keep from bouncing as he stood atop the astronomy tower. 

He didn’t look hopeless and world-weary now, though. Right now he looked happy. Full of the kind of happiness that lit a person up from the inside out. He looked like he was at peace, even as he stood huddled with you in the corner of your kitchen eating a shared piece of brownie, while your family around you began to trickle out as the night went on. 

Soon enough, even one more bite of sugar was too much, and you were slumped lazily back onto the couch. Mattheo was lying half across you as the last of your aunts and uncles quietly carried their snoozing children to the fireplace of the cars, ready to floo or drive home. Each and every one of them had bid him a goodbye, telling him how nice it was to meet him as he returned the sentiments with red cheeks and a bashful smile. 

“I suppose it’s my turn to go now.” He mumbled, your fingers running once through his hair, and your mother poked her head out of the kitchen where she’d been chatting with your aunties who were staying, over a cup of tea. At least, you thought they’d been chatting, clearly, she’d been eavesdropping. 

“Oh, Mattheo-dear, you’re not staying over? We thought you would.”

“You did?” He sat upright a little more, eyes wide, and your mother only nodded to him. “I’d like that… as long as I wouldn't be a burden to you.”

“A burden? ‘Course not, dear. You’re a treat to have, and an extra set of hands on Boxing Day is always handy.” She hummed, clearly pleased with her meddling as she disappeared. Mattheo accio’d for a notebook and a pen, sending a lazily scribbled note addressed to his housekeeper through the floo, to inform them of where he was staying for the night. 

As he stood by the fireplace, folding the note and waiting for the flames to change colour, you wrapped your arms around him. Pressing your face between his shoulders, he sagged back into you, relaxing into your touch. 

Orange flickered to green, and he tossed the note in, watching it disappear to ash in the flames in a split-second, before the warm glow was back. 

“Come on, Matty. Let’s go upstairs.” You whispered, and he slipped a hand down to take one of yours from his stomach, lacing your fingers together. Lifting your hand up, he issued the back of it, before turning, and letting you guide him away upstairs. 

You guided him through the house, the floorboards squeaking quietly under your feet in certain spots. “You can stay with me.” You murmured quietly, and he only nodded. 

Opening up the door to your bedroom, his eyes immediately started flicking from one corner to the other, taking in every detail. It was fairly sparse these days, most of your most important possessions came to Hogwarts with you, and everything else, you’d had a big clear out of. Your skincare bottles were all lined up along the dresser, your laptop on the nightstand, and a few half-burned candles littered around. 

One thing you always had, was candles. 

Gathering the bottles you’d left out, you slipped away to the bathroom to get ready for bed before exhaustion took over. 

When you returned, Mattheo was looking through the drawers of your wardrobe. “Searching for something, or just looking for all my dirty secrets?” You tease, and he jumped a little, but smiled as he turned to you. 

“Where are your spare blankets?”

“Given out to all my cousins and relatives who are staying over. Why?” You pulled out a lighter from your nightstand drawer, moving from one candle to another and beginning to light them. He scratched at the back of his neck, and you raised a brow. “Matt, you’ll sleep in the bed, not the floor. Are you insane? It’s freezing, and uncomfortable.”

“I— Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“You could never,” You murmur, flicking the flame out once they were all done. Most of your drawers were half-empty, and it didn’t take long for you to search through and find an oversized sleep shirt for him. Unfortunately, it was pink. “You want something else to sleep in? I can lend you a shirt, but I don’t have any shorts that would… suit you.”

A flush rose to your cheeks and you actively fought any kind of mental images from passing through your mind. Particularly any that involved Mattheo, and a pair of booty shorts. 

He accepted the pink tee with a grin, stripping his jumper off and over his head. Folding it neatly and leaving it on your dresser, his t-shirt followed, and he donned the hot-pink band shirt with a half-faded Taylor Swift setlist on the back. 

“Enzo would love this shirt.” He muttered, frowning at you as he admired the huge print of her across the front. Undoing his belt, you quickly diverted your gaze, turning back to the bed and tossing throw-cushions out of the way. You heard the rustle of denim, the clink of his belt as he folded it, and then the squeaky steps on the floor as he crossed the room. 

“Do you want to watch a movie before we sleep, or are you—” Arms curled your waist, his face pressed into your neck, and your words stuttered off as he tugged you back into himself firmly. “Matty?”

He shuddered against you, and you turned in his arms despite his tight hold, cupping his face and forcing his eyes up to your own. 

“Mattheo?”

“Thank you. For today, thank you so much.” He leaned in, a kiss on your cheek so soft you could barely feel it. Then another, and another, firmer as he worked, muttering his thanks between kisses all over your face, mumbling his appreciation. His voice cracked as he kissed your forehead, and he sniffled as he moved down to your other cheek. “This was one of the best days of my life, thank you.”

“Matty honey,” You pulled back, enough to see his face as his water-lined eyes shone gold in the flicker of the flames around the room. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I wanted you here. I was so happy to have you here, this was perhaps the best Christmas I’ve ever had, too. Watching you be so happy, making you this happy, it made it so. I love seeing you smile.”

He hiccuped a sob, nodding a little as your thumb swept over your cheek. He attempted to choke back tears, and you shushed him quietly. “I didn’t— I didn’t get you any presents, I’m sorry—”

“Mattheo, stop. Please, look at me. See how happy I am right now.” His eyes scanned over your face, fighting the battle against the tears wanting to spill over. He was clinging to your waist, hands bunching at the sleep shirt you wore as he tugged you in a little closer. “Please smile. That’s what I want you to get me for Christmas. I got snow, I got my family, I got to see you. Now let me see you smile.”

He sniffled through a laugh, the lines of worry etched onto his face finally smoothing out. He smiled, watery and weak, but he smiled, letting out a heavy sigh.

“There he is, my pretty boy.” You pinched his cheek, his head tipping a little further into your hold, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“I’m in love with you.” The worst bubbled from him in uh a rush they almost blurred together, but his body finally sagged, like he was losing the very tension that even kept him upright Swaying forward, his forehead fell to settle on yours, like he was collapsing. “I’m so, so fucking in love with you, and I just had to tell you that. After today, after everything, I couldn't keep it to myself anymore.”

His nose nuzzled against your own as the words he’d said settled over you. “Oh, Mattheo. After all that I just said, you don’t know how I feel about you?”

“‘Course I do. Why do you think I finally had the courage to say it?” Tipping his head up, he kissed the tip of your nose, arms sliding properly around your waist. 

“I love you, Mattheo.” You murmured, shifting up enough for your lips to brush his own, and he smiled against your lips. 

“You are the best thing in my life, sweetheart.” His confession was followed by his mouth closing over your own. A kiss that emptied every part of your mind, you could only focus on him. The slow movements of his lips, drowning in the feel of him pressed up to you, mouths making slow motions as you crossed that line between friends and more. 

He pulled back for a breath, and you chased after him. Your mouths collided once again, needy and desperate this time, his hand slipping up to tangle in your hair as the other slid low down your back. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling yourself up to a better angle as your heart pounded against your ribs, a steady drum beat to match the rhythm of your lips. 

This time, when your mouth slid from his own, he left kisses dotted along your jaw, panting onto your skin but unable to stop. Only when he had kissed down to your neck, face buried in your hair, did he pause Hugging you close, his chest rose and fell as he moulded you to his body, fingers massaging against your scalp as his hand still resided in your hair.

Eventually, the two of you shifted to the bed, tucking yourselves snugly under the covers, wrapped around one another as you balanced the laptop on your lap, pulling up a movie. 

“What are we watching?” He whispered, between lazy kisses along your jaw, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger. 

“I was thinking Arthur Christmas. I think you’d like it.”

“Huh,” He murmured, pulling back as you turned up the volume and set it between you both. “Kinda’ sounds like Father Christmas, doesn’t it?”

You laughed against your will, taking his face in your hands and pulling him in for another kiss. “Godamnit, you’re cute.”

Suffice to say, he loved that one, too.

As fate would have it, Mattheo Riddle has a soft spot for animated Christmas movies.

[gardenschedule]

Quotes about John Lennon’s sexuality

This is just a reference post for convenience, not an analysis (but I’ve added some comments here and there). This is extremely long with a lot of quotes! And where there's smoke there's fire, imo.

John's (internalized) homophobia: Starting with this topic to provide context & contrast to the rest of this post

At the party the boys’ old friend Bob Wooler, the Cavern emcee, made a crack to John about his holiday. John, who’d had plenty to drink, exploded. He leapt on Bob, and by the time he was dragged off Bob had a black eye and badly bruised ribs. I took John home as fast as I could, and Brian drove Bob to the hospital.

I was appalled that John had lashed out again. I’d thought those days were over. But John was still livid, muttering that Bob had called him a queer.

Cynthia Lennon, John

[Bob Wooler had] insinuated that me and Brian had had an affair in Spain. I was out of me mind with drink. You know, when you get down to the point where you want to drink out of all the empty glasses, that drunk. And he was saying, ‘Come on, John, tell me’ – something like that – ‘Tell me about you and Brian, we all know.’ And obviously I must have been frightened of the fag in me to get so angry. You know, when you’re twenty-one, you want to be a man, and all that. If somebody said it now, I wouldn’t give a shit.

John Lennon, John Lennon: For The Record, Peter McCabe and Robert D Schonfeld

“The Beatles’ first national coverage was me beating up Bob Wooler at Paul’s 21st party because he intimated I was homosexual. I must have had a fear that maybe I was homosexual to attack him like that and it’s very complicated reasoning. But I was very drunk and I hit him and I could have really killed somebody then. And that scared me… That was in the Daily Mirror, it was the back page…”

John Lennon, talking about a (one sided) fight he had with Cavern DJ Bob Wooler at Paul’s 21st birthday party in 1963.

Everyone in Liverpool knew that Epstein was gay, and some kid in the audience screamed, ‘John Lennon’s a fucking queer!’ And John – who never wore his glasses on stage – put his guitar down and went into the crowd, shouting, ‘Who said that?’ So this kid says, ‘I fucking did.’ John went after him and BAM, gave him the Liverpool kiss, sticking the nut on him – twice! And the kid went down in a mass of blood, snot and teeth. Then John got back on the stage. ‘Anybody else?’ he asked. Silence. ‘All right then. “Some Other Guy”.’”

Lemmy Kilmister, White Line Fever: The Biography. (2004)

“Victim in 1961 was one of the first British films to deal properly and thoughtfully with the subject. Dirk Bogarde welcomed the opportunity to play the homosexual barrister, and there were some very tense scenes between him and his wife, Sylvia Syms. In one scene, Dirk Bogarde lifts his garage door at the back of the mews to discover that someone has painted graffiti about him on the wall. The Beatles were sitting together at a Cavern lunchtime session and John Lennon, who was talking to Paul and George, was making biting remarks about Victim, which was on at the Odeon. I knew by then that Brian was what he was, and I thought, ‘Well, I am surprised at John, who is 21 and a young man of the world.’ He was making such nasty, puritanical observations, but I never said anything as they didn’t know that I was listening.”

Bob Wooler, c/o Spencer Leigh, The Best of Fellas: The Story of Bob Wooler. (2002)

If somebody is going to manage me, I want to know them inside out. He told me he was a fag.

 I like “Honky Tonk Woman” but I think Mick’s a joke, with all that fag dancing, I always did

I think its concept is revolutionary, and I hope it’s for workers and not for tarts and fags.

I don’t know about the “history”; the people who are in control and in power, and the class system and the whole bullshit bourgeoisie is exactly the same, except there is a lot of fag middle class kids with long, long hair walking around London in trendy clothes

I don’t dig that junkie fag scene he lives in; I don’t know whether he lives like that or what.

Casual homophobia in Lennon Remembers (Notable for the increase in homophobic language post-primary scream therapy, here is some interesting speculation about how these two things are related)

The violence that had been building inside John Lennon all night came bursting out the moment he left the studio. It struck so fast and unexpectedly that it stunned May Pang. She recalled that John was walking unsteadily toward the parking lot when suddenly he cast a drunken look over his shoulder at Jesse Ed Davis. Running over to him, Lennon gave Jesse Ed a passionate kiss on the mouth. Not to be outdone, Jesse Ed grabbed John and kissed him back. Lennon screamed, “F****t!” — and knocked Jesse flat on his ass.

The Lives of John Lennon by Albert Goldman (May Pang, describing an incident during the recording of Rock 'n' Roll in 1973: p.564)

It turned into a full-on fight. John was incredibly strong! He got me in some kind of a hold behind my back that I could not get out of, like a full nelson. And he started to kiss me on the mouth! He was laughin’ and kissin’ me on the mouth. I was strugglin’ to git away and I couldn’t git away. Then he stuck his tongue in my mouth. God! So I bit him. Bit him on the tongue. That pissed him off. So he grabbed the marble ashtray that we couldn’t break and banged me on the head. Knocked me cold.

The Lives of John Lennon by Albert Goldman (a direct quote from Jesse Ed Davis about a different night: p. 576-577)

Alternatively, he could be openly supportive:

Why make it sad to be gay? Doing your thing is O.K. Our bodies our own So leave us alone Go play with yourself – today.

A poem submitted for Len Richmond and Gary Noguera's Gay Liberation Handbook, on 30 May 1972

John spreading rumours: John (and Yoko) had a propensity for intentionally spreading rumours about his sexuality, with many people claiming that he found it funny. Multiple people refused to believe his own words about his experiences or willingness with men.

John told me he had had a one-night stand with Brian, on a holiday with him in Spain, when Brian had invited him out, a few days after the birth of Julian in 1963, leaving Cyn alone. I mentioned this brief holiday in the book, but not what John had alleged had taken place. Partly, I didn't really believe it, though John was daft enough to try almost anything once. John was certainly not homosexual, and this boast, or lie, would have given the wrong impression. It was also not fair on Cynthia, his then wife.

Hunter Davies, The Beatles: The Authorised Biography (updated edition, 2010)

John himself said he finally allowed Brian to make love to him “to get it out of the way.” Those who knew John well, who had known him for years, don’t believe it for a moment. John was aggressively heterosexual and had never given a hint that he was anything but.

Tony Bramwell, Magical Mystery Tours: My Life With The Beatles, 2014

John roared with laughter at the rumours that began afterwards. Typically, he encouraged the stories that he and Brian were gay lovers because he thought it was funny and John was one of the world’s great wind-up merchants. He told me afterwards in one of our frankest heart-to-hearts that Brian never seriously did proposition him. He had teased Brian about the young men he kept gazing at and the odd ones who had found their way to his room. Brian had joked to John about the women who hurled themselves at him. ‘If he’d asked me, I probably would have done anything he wanted. I was so much in awe of Brian then I’d have tried a night of vice-versa. But he never wanted me like that. Sure, I took the mickey a bit and pretended to lead him on. But we both knew we were joking.

Alistair Taylor, With The Beatles, 2003

Years later, John finally came clean about what had happened: not to anyone who’d been around at the time, but to the unshockable woman with whom he shared the last decade of his life. He said that one night during the trip, Brian had cast aside shyness and scruples and finally come on to him, but that he’d replied, “If you feel like that, go out and find a hustler.” Afterward, he had deliberately fed Pete Shotton the myth of his brief surrender, so that everyone would believe his power over Brian to be absolute.

Philip Norman, John Lennon: The Life, 2008

The next night Elliot [Mintz] took us out with a friend of his, Sal Mineo, and we all went to a gay cabaret/discotheque. John was oblivious to the gay ambience. He was curious about everyone’s sexuality and liked to gossip about who was sleeping with whom, whether they were gay or straight. John made no judgements about homosexuality but was really curious about who was and who wasn’t gay.

He knew that his appearance at a gay club might start rumors about his own sexuality, and it made him laugh. He told me that there had been rumors about him and his first manager, Brian Epstein, and that he usually didn’t deny them. He liked the fact that people could be titillated by having suspicions about his masculinity. Then I was the one who was laughing. “How could anyone believe a man who likes women as much as you do is gay?” I told him.

May Pang’s Loving John (1983).

Q. Have you ever fucked a guy?

A. Not yet, I thought I’d save it til I was 40, life begins at 40 you know, tho I never noticed it.

Q. It is trendy to be bisexual and you’re usually ‘keeping up with the Jones’, haven’t you ever… there was talk about you and PAUL…

A. Oh, I thought it was about me and Brian Epstein… anyway, I’m saving all the juice for my own version of THE REAL FAB FOUR BEATLES STORY etc.. etc..

John Lennon self interview for Andy Warhol’s Interview Magazine (November 1974).

John: Yes, all your best friends let you know what's going on. I was trying to put it 'round that I was gay, you know-- I thought that would throw them off... dancing at all the gay clubs in Los Angeles, flirting with the boys... but it never got off the ground.

Q: I think I've only heard that lately about Paul.

John: Oh, I've had him, he's no good. [Laughter]

John Lennon, interviewed by Lisa Robinson for Hit Parader: A conversation with John Lennon (December 1975).

“It’s great,” Ono laughs. “I mean, both John and I thought it was good that people think we were bisexual, or homosexual.” She laughs again.

“Uh, well, the story I was told was a very explicit story, and from that I think they didn’t have it [sex],” Ono tells me. “But they went to Spain, and when they came back, tons of reporters were asking, ‘Did you do it, did you do it?’ So he said, ‘I did it.’ Isn’t that amazing? But of course he would say that. I’m sure Brian Epstein made a move, yeah.”

And Lennon said no to Epstein?

“He just didn’t want to do it, I think.”

Yoko Ono: I Still Fear John’s Killer by Tim Teeman for the Daily Beast (13 October 2015).

Over dinner the Wenners learned the secrets of the Beatles kingdom from Ono, who would often suggest to Wenner that John Lennon was gay. “She’s always hinted that there was some gay component to John,” said Wenner, “but in a vague or generalized way, like, ‘Isn’t everybody gay?’ Or, ‘I always told John he was gay.’ ” (She also told McCartney this theory after Lennon died, which he didn’t believe.)”

Joe Hagan, Sticky Fingers: The Life and Times of Jann Wenner & Rolling Stone Magazine. (2017)

On the other hand, he supposedly hated the rumours:

Claims have been made since that Brian and John had a gay relationship. Nothing could be further from the truth. John was a hundred per cent heterosexual and, like most lads at that time, horrified by the idea of homosexuality.

It was a holiday John came to regret because it sparked off a string of rumours about his relationship with Brian. He had to put up with sly digs, winks and innuendo that he was secretly gay. It infuriated him: all he'd wanted was a break with a friend, but it was turned into so much more.

Cynthia Lennon, John, 2005

And I just went on holiday. I watched Brian picking up the boys. I like playing a bit faggy, all that. It was enjoyable, but there were big rumours in Liverpool, it was terrible. Very embarrassing. Rumors about you and Brian? Oh, fuck knows—yes, yes. I was pretty close to Brian because if somebody's going to manage me, I want to know them inside out.

John Lennon, Jann S. Wenner, Lennon Remembers, 1970

Unfortunately, certain Liverpool acquaintances (who had no way of knowing that there was a kernel of truth to their allegations) wouldn't let John hear the end of it. All in good fun, no doubt, but John was still too enamored of his macho self-image to take lightly any inference that he was anything less than 100 percent heterosexual.

The Beatles, Lennon, and me - Pete Shotton

John's comments about his sexuality:

It’s just handy to fuck your best friend. That’s what it is. And once I resolved the fact that it was a woman as well, it’s all right. We go through the trauma of life and death every day so it’s not so much of a worry about what sex we are anymore.

John Lennon, interview w/ Jonathan Cott for Rolling Stone: Yoko Ono and her sixteen-track voice. (March 18th, 1971)

I just realized that [Yoko] knew everything I knew, and more, probably, and it was coming out of a woman’s head. It just sort of bowled me over, you know? And it was like finding gold or something. To find somebody that you can go and get pissed with, and have exactly the same relationship as any mate in Liverpool you’d ever had, but also you could go to bed with him, and it could stroke your head when you felt tired, or sick, or depressed. It could also be Mother. And obviously, that’s what the male-female – you know, you could take those roles with each other.

John Lennon, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert D. Schonfeld c/o Peter McCabe and Robert D. Schonfeld, John Lennon: For The Record. (September 5th, 1971)

It’s a plus, it’s not a minus. The plus is that your best friend, also, can hold you without… I mean, I’m not a homosexual, or we could have had a homosexual relationship and maybe that would have satisfied it, with working with other male artists. [faltering] An artist – it’s more – it’s much better to be working with another artist of the same energy, and that’s why there’s always been Beatles or Marx Brothers or men, together. Because it’s alright for them to work together or whatever it is. It’s the same except that we sleep together, you know? I mean, not counting love and all the things on the side, just as a working relationship with her, it has all the benefits of working with another male artist and all the joint inspiration, and then we can hold hands too, right?

John Lennon, interview w/ Sandra Shevey. (Mid-June?, 1972)

I was on holiday with Brian Epstein in Spain, where the rumours went around that he and I were having a love affair. Well, it was almost a love affair, but not quite. It was never consummated. But it was a pretty intense relationship. It was my first experience with a homosexual that I was conscious was homosexual. He had admitted it to me. We had this holiday together because Cyn was pregnant, and I went to Spain and there were lots of funny stories. We used to sit in a cafe in Torremolinos looking at all the boys and I’d say, ‘Do you like that one, do you like this one?’ I was rather enjoying the experience, thinking like a writer all the time: I am experiencing this, you know.

John Lennon, Rolling Stone, 1980

I was thinking, if only I could get out of Liverpool, be famous and rich, that would be great. I’ve always wanted to be a famous artist, you know? Possibly I’d have to marry a very rich old lady… or man, you know… to… to look after me while I did my art. But then Rock & Roll came and I thought ‘Ah, this is the one’, so I didn’t have to marry anybody or live with them, you know?

John Lennon interview

There was even some discussion, albeit not very serious, of whether he should stick to his own gender. “John said ‘It would hurt you like crazy if I made it with a girl. With a guy, maybe you wouldn’t be hurt, because that’s not competition. But I can’t make it with a guy because I love women too much, and I’d have to fall in love with the guy and I don’t think I can.’”

John Lennon: The Life

I look at early pictures of meself, and I was torn between being Marlon Brando and being the sensitive poet – the Oscar Wilde part of me with the velvet, feminine side. I was always torn between the two, mainly opting for the macho side, because if you showed the other side, you were dead.

John Lennon, December 5th, 1980

“John believed in my work as an artist wasn’t accepted in part because I am a woman. He got angry when people said about me, “She’s not a woman, she’s a female impersonator.” John said to me, “If I had been gay and gotten together with a guy who was talented like you, after ten years that guy would have become famous as an artist in his own right. Maybe we should come out and say, ‘Actually, Yoko is a guy.’ Maybe that will do it!”

Yoko Ono, interview w/ Jon Wiener, c/o Jon Wiener, Come Together: John Lennon In His Time. (1984)

In this intense, intimate and revealing original cassette recording of a private conversation in 1969 between John Lennon and Yoko Ono, the couple speaks primarily about Yoko’s past relationships, her music and art, and their random views on sex, love, promiscuity, and homosexuality. […] [Lennon] adds that he had never met an attractive woman that had sexually aroused him to any great degree.

Description of the 45-minute audiotape auctioned in 2009 by Alexander Autographs.

Yoko's comments about his sexuality:

“Well, that’s another thing. John and I had a big talk about it, saying, basically, all of us must be bisexual. And we were sort of in a situation of thinking that we’re not [bisexual] because of society. So we are hiding the other side of ourselves, which is less acceptable. But I don’t have a strong sexual desire towards another woman.”

Did Lennon have sex with other men?

“I think he had a desire to, but I think he was too inhibited,” says Ono.

“No, not inhibited. He said, ‘I don’t mind if there’s an incredibly attractive guy.’ It’s very difficult: They would have to be not just physically attractive, but mentally very advanced too. And you can’t find people like that.”

So did Lennon ever have sex with men?

“No, I don’t think so,” says Ono. “The beginning of the year he was killed, he said to me, ‘I could have done it, but I can’t because I just never found somebody that was that attractive.’ Both John and I were into attractiveness—you know—beauty.”

Yoko Ono: I Still Fear John’s Killer by Tim Teeman for the Daily Beast (13 October 2015).

"As mild and oblique as the comment was [Paul's "You took your lucky break and broke it in two" line from "Too Many People"], it seemed to cut John to the heart. On top of the questionnaire inside theMcCartney album and the lawsuit, it was like the tipping point between a divorcing couple that turns love into savage, no-holds-barred hostility. Indeed, John's wounded anger was more that of an ex-spouse than ex-colleague, reinforcing a suspicion already in Yoko's mind that his feelings for Paul had been far more intense than the world at large ever guessed. From chance remarks he had made, she gathered there had even been a moment where - on the principle that bohemians should try everything - he had contemplated an affair with Paul, but had been deterred by Paul's immovable heterosexuality. Nor, apparently, was Yoko the only one to have picked up on this. Around Apple, in her hearing, Paul would sometimes be called John's princess. She had also once heard a rehearsal tape with John's voice calling out "Paul ... Paul ... " in a strangely subservient, pleading way. "I knew there was something going on there," she remembers. "From his point of view, not from Paul's. And he was so angry at Paul, I couldn't help wondering what it was really about.""

Philip Norman, John Lennon: The Life, 2008

I’m sure that if he had been a woman or something, he would have been a great threat, because there’s something definitely very strong with me, John, and Paul.

Yoko Ono, Revolution Tape, June 4th 1968

Friends & acquaintances comments on his sexuality:

I realised I was probably bisexual; there was nothing to be ashamed of in this – John Lennon had reputedly spoken to mutual friends of his own experiments.

Who I Am: A Memoir, Pete Townshend 2012

PAUL: There were lots of people asking cheeky questions, and they were always saying, “Well, why–have you ever tried homosexuality, John?” You know, they always used to ask all that kind of stuff. I remember John saying to them, “No, I’ve never met a fella I fancy enough.” And that was his kind of opinion. You know, “I may go–I may be gay one day, if some fella really turns me on.” He was–he was that open about it. But as far as I was concerned, I slept in a million hotel rooms–as we all did–slept in a million places with John, and there was never any hint of it.

December 24th, 1983: interview with DJ Roger Scott

“And you, Icke?” asked Paul. “Who’s your favourite author?” “Henry Miller. I think he’s very good,” I said. In that moment John suddenly looked over at me. Until then he had been watching Bettina, the bar lady, rinsing glasses and tidying up the bar, with his typical somewhat blasé expression. Our discussion hadn’t seemed to interest him much. Now he was looking directly into my eyes. Quietly and without taking his eyes off me, he walked around the whole counter over to me, planted a kiss on my mouth and went back to his spot. At first, I was quite surprised and didn’t know what to do about it, then I found it rather funny and thought little of it. A few days later, it happened again. I happened upon* him in the hallway behind the stage and again he took my hand and kissed me. At some point the thought occurred to me, “man, he thinks I’m gay, but I can’t help him with that.” What was really going on, I don’t know. Maybe he meant the kisses as overtures; he was even treated as a closet case by homosexuals.

Hans-Walther (Icke) Braun (a friend of the Beatles in Hamburg)

"What happened," John explained, "is that Eppy just kept on and on at me. Until one night I finally just pulled me trousers down and said to him: 'Oh, for Christ's sake, Brian, just stick it up me fucking arse then.' "And he said to me, 'Actually, John, I don't do that kind of thing. That's not what I like to do.' "'Well,' I said, 'what is it you want to do, then?' "And he said, 'I'd really just like to touch you, John.' "And so I let him toss me off." And that was that. End of story. "That's all, John?" I said. "Well, so what? What's the big fucking deal, then?" "Yeah, so fucking what! The poor bastard. He's having a fucking hard enough time anyway." This was in reference to the "butch" dockers who, on several recent occasions, had rewarded Brian's advances by beating him to a bloody pulp. "So what harm did it do, then, Pete, for fuck's sake?" John asked rhetorically. "No harm at all. The poor fucking bastard, he can't help the way he is." "No need to get so worked up," I said. "You know I don't give a shit. What's a fucking wank between friends anyway?"

Pete Shotton, Nicholas Schaffner, John Lennon: In My Life, 1983

I think he was trying to find himself a… what he’d call a soulmate. Someone who had as mad ideas as he had. I think he felt that she had the talent… but that’s debatable. But he needed that— he didn’t need a ‘mumsie’ partner at that point. He needed a mate. And I think he actually said, at some stage, in an interview that, you know— She’s the nearest thing to a man — a mate; man — that he’s ever had in a woman.

Cynthia Lennon, interviewed by Alex Belfield for BBC Radio (2006).

Paul wrote to me from the Star Club in Hamburg once, a great letter, it even had doodles on the front of it, but it was stolen. He said that in one of the clubs one night John Lennon ended up with a stunning, exotic-looking woman—only to discover on closer inspection that she was a he, which all the other Beatles found hilarious.

Sue Johnston (actress), The Mirror. (August 23rd, 2011)

Though raised amid the same homophobia as his companions, John seemed totally unshocked by St Pauli’s abundant drag scene; indeed, he often seemed actively to seek it out. ‘There was one particular club he used to like,’ Tony Sheridan remembers, ‘full of these big guys with hairy hands, deep voices—and breasts. But they used to make an effort to talk English. There was something about the place that seemed to make John feel at home.’

In John Lennon: The Life by Philip Norman (2008).

“We’d read all these things about leather and we didn’t have any leather but I had my oilskins and we had some polythene bags from somewhere. We all dressed up in them and wore them in bed. John stayed the night with us in the same bed. I don’t think anything very exciting happened and we all wondered what the fun was in being ‘kinky’. It was probably more my idea than John’s.”

Royston Ellis

In the same book Pauline speculates, sensationally, that John and her brother had a homosexual relationship. ‘I have known in my heart for many years that Stuart and John had a sexual relationship,’ she writes, though she fails to provide any firm evidence. Pauline wonders whether this ‘relationship’ was the real cause of the antagonism between Paul and Stu.

Fab, An Intimate Life of Paul McCartney

Journalist & author comments on his sexuality:

“No, he wasn’t sexually attracted to Paul. Paul was very very pretty, but he actually wasn’t someone who made gay men fancy him. John was much more likely to make a gay man like Brian Epstein because John seemed so straight, there was nothing sort of girly about John at all. But John wanted to be, in his mind, a real artist, that is someone who painted and did sculpture. And he thought that a real artist or he called it a bohemian, should be open to all experiences. He should perhaps have a homosexual experience. Who was around? Paul was around. They used to share beds you know, in these cheap hotels when they would go around with the Beatles. There was never any question of Paul ever reciprocating such a thing, it was merely a thought that according to Yoko had flitted across John’s mind. Now John could use sexuality, I mean he did somewhat play on the fact that Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager, was in love with him you know, but it was just a game really with John.”

Philip Norman interview

"Yet even [John's resentment over Paul announcing the breakup first] does not explain his later remark to Yoko that no one had ever hurt him the way Paul hurt him. It almost suggests that, deep beneath the schoolboy friendship and the complementary musical brilliance, lay some streak of homosexual adoration that John himself never realised. He might have longed to get away from Paul, but he could never quite get over him."

Philip Norman, Shout!, 1981

And any mention of Paul brought a wintry bleakness to her face. 'John always used to say,' [Yoko] told me at one point, 'that no one ever hurt him the way Paul hurt him.' The words suggested a far deeper emotional attachment between the two than the world had ever suspected---they were like those of a spurned lover---and I naturally included them in my account of my visit for the Sunday Times. After it appeared, I returned to my London flat one evening to be told by my then girlfriend, ‘Paul, phoned you.’ She said he wanted to know what Yoko had meant and that he’d seemed upset rather than angry.

Paul McCartney: The Life - Philip Norman.

“If you had a choice, Eppy,” John said, “if you could press a button and be hetero, would you do it?” Brian thought for a moment. “Strangely, no,” he said. A little later a peculiar game developed. John would point out some passing man to Brian, and Brian would explain to him what it was about the fellow that he found attractive or unattractive. “I was rather enjoying the experience,” John said, “thinking like a writer all the time: I am experiencing this.” And still later, back in their hotel suite, drunk and sleepy from the sweet Spanish wine, Brian and John undressed in silence. “It’s okay, Eppy,” John said, and lay down on his bed. Brian would have liked to have hugged him, but he was afraid. Instead, John lay there, tentative and still, and Brian fulfilled the fantasies he was so sure would bring him contentment, only to awake the next morning as hollow as before.

Peter Brown, The Love You Make, 1983

“[John and Janov] talked…about Brian Epstein…‘He knew Brian had adored him, and there was a lot of guilt there about the way he'd depended on Brian yet mistreated him,’ Janov recalls. They talked about John's notorious Spanish holiday with Brian in 1963 and the (to John) insignificant physical encounter that had resulted. The more Janov heard about Brian, the more he longed to have had him as a patient. ‘God, that was a tragic story. There was someone who needed therapy even more than John did.’”

Phillip Normans book, John Lennon: The Life.

Whilst the Beatles had always been marketed as a heterosexual group - in contrast with the Stones, whose image was androgynous - they were sympathetic to the homosexual population. Lennon himself was alleged to have had affairs with both men and women, and although he never openly admitted it to me, his condemnation of Britain as a land which feeds on a homosexual subsculture persuades me at this late stage that he was speaking from experience. I am sure that the break-up of the Beatles, or, more specifically, of John and Paul, must have been more traumatic than any of us suspect.

Sandra Shevey, The Other Side of Lennon

‘OK: John Reid said that when we were in Boston with Elton and John in 1974, he couldn’t resist asking John whether the rumours about him and Epstein were true. This was in response to John having said to John Reid, “You’re the most intimidating man I’ve met since Brian Epstein.” And so John Reid, never knowingly one to miss an opportunity, said, “Did you ever have sex with Brian?” And John said, “Twice. Once to see what it was like, and once to make sure I didn’t like it.” ‘All these years, by the way, I have not wanted to be the guy who declared, “John Lennon and Brian Epstein had sex.” You can appreciate how I feel about this. Do we want the historical record to be accurate, or does John have a right to privacy? And would it upset Cynthia [by now deceased], or Julian? I don’t mind about Yoko, she’d probably think it was a great idea. Bisexuality, wooh.’ ‘Simon Napier-Bell said that both Epstein and John told him they did it in Spain,’ I said. ‘Ah, I’m not the only one. Good,’ replied Paul.

...

But then there were John’s liaisons with David Bowie, which David himself told me about. According to him, it happened on several occasions. He didn’t go into detail, nor did I press him, but he was perfectly open about it. About Mick Jagger, too, I told Paul. ‘Huh. I feel sort of left out,’ said Paul.

Paul Gambaccini, Lesley-Ann Jones - The Search for John Lennon

"That Bowie worshipped Lennon was no secret…They'd met in Los Angeles, [Bowie] told me, during John's Lost Weekend…The crazy pair went out to play, according to David, when John was on yet another break from May [Pang] and far away from Yoko. They gender bendered about, John indulging again that 'inner fag' of his… They later 'hooked up': 'There was a whore in the middle, and it wasn't either of us,' David smirked. 'At some point in the proceedings, she left. I think it was a she. Not that we minded.' By the time they made it back to New York, the ambisextrous pair were 'lifelong friends!"

Lesley-Ann Jones - The Search for John Lennon

Marriage, Divorce & replacing Paul with Yoko:

"I used my resentment and withdrawing from Paul and the Beatles and the relationship with Paul to write 'How Do You Sleep?'

John (Source: Bill Harry, The John Lennon Encyclopedia, 2001)

JOHN: In a marriage, or a love affair – when the seven-year-itch or the twelve-year (note: there is no such thing as the twelve year itch but guess how long J&P were together) or whatever these things that you have to go through – there comes a point where the marriage collapses because they can’t face that reality, and they go seeking what they thought they should be having, still, somewhere else. I get a new girl, it’ll all be like that again; I get a new boy… But for all marriages, all couples, it’ll all be the same again. But what you lose is what you put into that… relationship.

September, 1980

There seem to be certain cycles that relationships go through. And the critical points are at different parts of the different cycles, different points on the – if there’s a straight line, there are different points, you know? And the bit, the new way of talking is like, “Well, why have a relationship? We can just stop and get another one.” But the karmic joke about that is, that any new relationship, presuming you’re lucky enough to find a new relationship anywhere near the relationship that you’re giving up – or exchanging, or walking away from, or have destroyed by inattention or inadvertent or selfishness or whatever it is – that you have to go through the same thing again anyway. You reach the same point.

John Lennon, interview w/ David Sheff for Playboy. (September, 1980)

"I'd like to thank Elton and the boys for having me on tonight. We tried to think of a number to finish off with so I can get out of here and be sick, and we thought we'd do a number of an old estranged fiancé of mine called Paul."

John, introducing "I Saw Her Standing There" at the Thanksgiving show at Madison Square Garden in 1974

You know, John loved Paul. No doubt about it. I remember once he said to me, “I’m the only person who’s allowed to say things like that about Paul. I don’t like it when other people do.” He didn’t like if other people said nasty things about Paul. And he always referred to Paul as his estranged fiancé and things like that, like he did on that [live] record ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ with Elton in Madison Square Garden.

1990: Former Beatles publicist Tony King

TRYNKA: When The Beatles split, did you feel relief? YOKO: No. I always thought, “John won’t be doing this thing with The Beatles and eventually I can do my work too.” That was my plan. But suddenly he’s saying, “I burned my bridge with them, so now it’s you, okay?” I thought, “My God, he was getting the thrill of working with three very strong individuals, and now I have to take all that brunt.” He did put it that way; he was “riding on the boat called Paul, and now I’m going to ride on a boat called Yoko.”

Yoko Ono, interview w/ Paul Trynka for MOJO. (May, 2003)

“. . . I mean, I think really what it was, really all that happened was that John fell in love. With Yoko. And so, with such a powerful alliance like that, it was difficult for him to still be seeing me. It was as if I was another girlfriend, almost. Our relationship was a strong relationship. And if he was to start a new relationship, he had to put this other one away. And I understood that. I mean, I couldn’t stand in the way of someone who’d fallen in love. You can’t say, “Who’s this?” You can’t really do that. If I was a girl, maybe I could go out and… But you know I mean in this case I just sort of said, right – I mean, I didn’t say anything, but I could see that was the way it was going to go, and that Yoko would be very sort of powerful for him. So um, we all had to get out the way.”

Paul McCartney, interview with German tv program Exclusiv, April 1985.

BARROW: She was a very strong influence on John, and may well have been telling him that he could do best on his own, but I still think that on the back of John’s mind would be this sort of fascination with wanting to get back with the first girlfriend, if you’d like [laughs], and it was to get back with Paul that he had so much history with.

Tony Barrow, The Beatles’ press officer

"[Paul] said it was written about Julian. He knew I was splitting with Cyn and leaving Julian then. He was driving to see Julian to say hello. He had been like an uncle. And he came up with 'Hey Jude.' But I always heard it as a song to me. Now I'm sounding like one of those fans reading things into it...Think about it: Yoko had just come into the picture. He is saying 'Hey, Jude' - 'Hey, John.' Subconsciously, he was saying, 'Go ahead, leave me.' On a conscious level, he didn't want me to go ahead. The angel in him was saying 'Bless you.' The Devil in him didn't like it at all, because he didn't want to lose his partner."

John (Source: Playboy, 1980)

SALEWICZ: Well, I always found it interesting the fact that he got – I mean, it seemed too much like coincidence to me, the fact that he got married a week or month after you. You know what I mean? PAUL: Yeah. I think we spurred each other into marriage. I mean, you know. They were very strong together, which left me out of the picture. So I got together with Linda and then we got strong with our own kind of thing. And I used to listen to a lot of what they said. I remember him saying to me, “You’ve got to work at marriage,” which is something I still remember as a bit of advice. I still remember that. Um… And then yeah, I think they were a little bit peeved that we got married first. Probably. In a little way, you know, just minor jealousies. And so they got married. I don’t know if that’s – I mean, who knows… [inaudible] making it up, anyway.

September, 1986 (MPL Communications, London): journalist Chris Salewicz

“If you look at interviews and stuff with John, from around about that time he was in Imagine [documentary] he kind of admits that he’s having problems with himself. So, well, the first thing you do when you’re having problems with yourself is you bitch about someone else. And the closest person was me…He had a real go at me. I personally think it was ‘cause he was trying to clear the decks for Yoko. He’s got a new love, he’s trying to say to her, “Look, baby, I love you. I hate those guys.”

Paul McCartney

"The line [the walrus was Paul] was put in partly because I was feeling guilty because I was with Yoko and I was leaving Paul. It's a very perverse way of saying to Paul: 'here, have this crumb, this illusion, this stroke - because I'm leaving.'" -John

Playboy, 1980

JOHN: And throwing in the line “the Walrus was Paul” just to confuse everybody a bit more. And because I felt slightly guilty because I’d got Yoko, and he’d got nothing, and I was gonna quit. [laughs; bleak] And so I thought ‘Walrus’ has now become [in] meaning, “I am the one.” It didn’t mean that in the song, originally. It just meant I’m the – it could have been I’m the – “I’m The Fox Terrier,” you know. I mean, it’s just a bit of poetry.

August, 1980: John talks to Playboy writer David Sheff about ‘Glass Onion’.

"I started thinking, 'Well, if that's the case [not getting back together], I had better get myself together. I just can't let John control the situation and dump us as if we're the jilted girlfriends.'"

The Beatles, Anthology, 1995

“After we’d done the One To One concert film,” recalled Steve Gebhardt, “I remember John saying to me that the days of everything being Johnandyoko – one word – were over. I was shocked.” Ono completed her record, Approximately Infinite Universe, which was greeted more positively than her previous releases. Lennon did his best to publicise it, writing a personal note to the Capitol Records boss asking him to throw the company’s weight behind it. But in mid-January 1973 Lennon and Ono quarrelled publicly at another party. “I wish I was back with Paul,” Lennon reportedly said.

Peter Doggett, You Never Give Me Your Money: The Battle for the Soul of The Beatles. (2009)

YOKO: I think that it’s like [John] was married to Paul, and now he was married to me… So it was a situation that he didn’t feel like he wanted to go back, really. John had a lot of respect for Paul, and of course, love. But I would think that if the truth may be told, the love was lost on both ways. There were times that Paul did say a lot of strange things about John, so that I know that it wasn’t like Paul loved John but John didn’t love Paul, or John actually loved Paul but Paul didn’t. I mean, it was like a very healthy situation where they outgrew each other’s company. And only until John became what he is now – which is after John’s death that people started to revere John – it became an issue for Paul. Because you have to understand that table was turned many times. One, when John made the Jesus Christ remark, and Paul became virtually a leader. And John turned the table on Paul by becoming a partner with me, probably. But then the thing is, the table was turned again by Paul becoming extremely successful with Wings. So he was doing alright, while John did Some Time in New York City with me, and then followed that with Mind Games or something, you know. 1990: Yoko

“They loved each other more than most couples do, and when they split it was more wrenching than most divorces”

Beatles publicist Tony Barrow on Lennon and McCartney

““I’m sure that in the case of Paul there’s that feeling that I’m the woman who took away his partner – it’s like a divorce.””

Yoko Ono (You Never Give Me Your Money, Peter Doggett)

“On March 12, Paul married Linda Eastman at Marylebone Register Office in London, amid scenes of hysterical grief from his female fans. None of the other Beatles was present. The news reached John as he and Yoko were driving down to visit Aunt Mimi in Poole. Yoko’s divorce decree had become final a few weeks earlier, and, in a resurgence of Beatle copycat, John told her they, too, must get married as soon as possible”

Philip Norman, John Lennon: The life

“Then also we were like married, so you got the bitterness. It’s not a woman scorned this time, it’s two men scorned — probably even worse. And I had to make way for Yoko. My relationship with John could not have remained as it was and Yoko feel secure.”

Paul McCartney, Interview by Duncan Fallowell in the Chicago Tribune, October 14th, 1984

Knowing John so well, I believe that the only reason he picked Yoko was [he wanted] a negative reaction. I mean, it was purely a negative reaction because he couldn’t take any more girls in the world, actually. I mean, he knew that he could have any girl. And the girls, that were nice-looking—he couldn’t stand them. I mean, from morning to night, there were girls not boys—actually, running after them. We used to go to his house and think that we are in peace. Suddenly a girl with a broken leg is jumping over John’s fence to, to get an autograph. It was a pain in the neck. John wanted to be with a woman. But he needed as well very, very much a friend. He needed a male friend. And my opinion is that Yoko, he managed somehow to combine both. He had a fear for pretty women running after him. Yoko was not very pretty, uh, at all, and he replaced a male in his life plus a female.

Magic Alex, All You Need Is Love – Peter Brown & Steven Gaines

Jealousy regarding Paul Mccartney: I wouldn't consider any of this especially convincing on it's own, however John's consistent dislike for and rudeness towards Paul's partners is notable

I was a very possessive and jealous guy, and the lyrics explain that pretty clearly. Not just jealous towards Yoko, but towards everything, male and female – incredibly possessive.

1970 (audio snippet approx 2:06)

In an entry noting McCartney’s marriage to Linda Eastman, Lennon crossed out “wedding” and wrote “funeral”, the Observer said.

Associated Press: Lennon’s resentment of McCartney reflected in book notes. (July 20th, 1986)

Q: I saw that thing in The Observer the other week, about the manuscript of the Apple Beatles biography and the vitriolic comments John made in the margins. I think that shows the sort of pain he was going through. Look, he was a great guy, great sense of humour and I’d do it all again. I’d go through it all again, and have him slagging me off again just because he was so great; those are all the down moments, there was much more pleasure than has really come out. I had a wonderful time, with one of the world’s most talented people. We had all that craziness, but if someone took one of your wedding photos and put ‘funeral’ on it, as he did on that manuscript, you’d tend to feel a bit sorry for the guy. I’ll tell you what, if I’d ever done that to him, he would’ve just hit the roof. But I just sat through it all like mild-mannered Clark Kent Q: When did you actually get a perspective on it? I still haven’t. It’s still inside me. John was lucky. He got all his hurt out. I’m a different sort of a personality. There’s still a lot inside me that’s trying to work it out. And that’s why it’s good to see that wedding-funeral bit, because I started to think, ‘Wait a minute, this is someone who’s going over the top. This is paranoia manifesting itself.’ And so my feeling is just like it was at the time, which is like, He’s my buddy, I don’t really want to do anything to hurt him, or his memory, or anything. I don’t want to hurt Yoko. But, at the same time, it doesn’t mean that I understand what went down.

Paul McCartney: An Innocent Man? (October, 1986)

Q: "But for a while you didn't get along with Linda." JOHN: "We all got along well with Linda." Q: "When did you first meet her?" JOHN: "The first time was after that Apple press conference in America. We were going back to the airport and she was in the car with us. I didn't think she was particularly attractive. A bit too tweedy, you know. But she sat in the car and took photographs and that was it. And the next minute she's married him."

John Lennon Interview: St. Regis Hotel, New York City 9/5/1971

One night John came in and some chick was in bed with Paul and he cut all her clothes up with a pair of scissors, and was stabbing the wardrobe. Everybody was lying in bed thinking, ‘Oh fuck, I hope he doesn’t kill me.’ [He was] a frothing mad person—he knew how to have ‘fun.’

George Harrison, c/o Derek Taylor, Fifty Years Adrift. (1984)

"One time Paul had a chick in bed and John came in and got a pair of scissors and cut all her clothes into pieces and then wrecked the wardrobe. He got like that occasionally, it was because of the pills and being up too long."

George Harrison (Source: The Beatles, Anthology, 1995)

"I remember I had a girlfriend called Celia. I must have been 16 or 17, about the same age as her...we went out one evening and for some reason John tagged along, I can't remember why it was. I think he'd thought I was going to see him, I thought I'd cancelled it and he showed up at my house. But he was a mate, and he came on a date with this Celia girl, and at the end of the date she said, 'Why did you bring that dreadful guy?' And of course I said, 'Well, he's all right really.' And I think, in many ways, I always found myself doing that. It was always, 'Well, I know he was rude; it was funny, though, wasn't it?'"

Paul, Barry Miles, Many Years From Now, 1997

I came for dinner, and I was the only girl there. John definitely didn't like that. He didn't like me being there at ALL. He was mean and sarcastic. As far as he was concerned, I had no business being invited to dinner with the four of them. For him this was an exclusive boys' club. He was purposely making me feel uneasy. At one point, the boys were handing around a scrapbook -- looking at pictures of that first tour. John made some snide comment like, "What is SHE doing here?" I got the idea that he thought Paul was an idiot to take a girl so seriously he'd actually invite her to dinner, when all he really needed to do was fuck her AFTER dinner.

Peggy Lipton, Breathing Out, 2005

Whether it was her cool confidence or her posh accent, something about Jane goaded John to direct his caustic eyes in her direction. “Well. Let’s all play a question-and-answer-game!” He announced a bit too cheerily. Then he turned to Jane. “So tell us, luv, how do girls play with themselves?” Silence. Jane’s eyes widened. Paul, sitting close to her on the floor, put his hand in the air, as if he could wave John’s words back into his mouth. “John! John!” he yelped. “Stop it. You can’t do that.” John just smiled, peering intently through his glasses. “No, you can tell us. Come on. We all want to know, come on.” Paul, looking aghast, shook his head vehemently. “John. For christsakes, John.”

Peter Ames Carlin, Paul McCartney: A Life

JOHN: So it was always the family thing, you see. If Jane [Asher] was to have a career, then that’s not going to be a cozy family, is it? All the other girls were just groupies mainly. And with Linda not only did he have a ready-made family, but she knows what he wants, obviously, and has given it to him. The complete family life. He’s in Scotland. He told me he doesn’t like English cities anymore. So that’s how it is. MCCABE: So you think with Linda he’s found what he wanted? JOHN: I guess so. I guess so. I just don’t understand… I never knew what he wanted in a woman because I never knew what I wanted. I knew I wanted something intelligent or something arty, whatever it was. But you don’t really know what you want until you find it. So anyway, I was very surprised with Linda. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d married Jane Asher, because it had been going on for a long time and they went through a whole ordinary love scene. But with Linda it was just like, boom! She was in and that was the end of it.

John Lennon, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld. (September, 1971)

Random cute things: flirting etc

I remember we were going down to the studio [...] and there was a great crowd pressing against the car. John was sitting in the back and he said, “Push Paul out first. He’s the prettiest.”

Victor Spinetti, in the documentary You Can’t Do That! The Making of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ (1995).

We were away. The boys had relaxed. As we walked off to do the next scene, I heard them joshing each other, like schoolboys on the way to class. 'Are those jeans tight, Paul?' That was John. 'What do you mean tight?' 'I can see your suspender belt through 'em and your stockings. You've got ladders in them.'

Up Front: His Strictly Confidential Autobiography by Victor Spinetti

“I could even hear what they were saying off-mike; ‘Oh Paul, you’re so cute tonight.’ was met with the reply ‘Sod off, Lennon.’”

Joan Baez on accompanying the Beatles to their concert in Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Denver. 26 August 1964

To Lennon, [Paul] was "cute, and didn’t he know it," a born performer who was also a "thruster" and an "operator" behind the scenes.

Christopher Sandford, Paul McCartney, 2005

In a late wee-hour-of-the-morning talk, he once told me, ‘I’m just like everybody else Harry, I fell for Paul’s looks.”

Harry Nilsson speaking about John Lennon

HARRY: Someone told me a few minutes ago they saw John walking on the street [once] wearing a sign saying – a button, rather, saying ‘I Love Paul’. And this girl who told me that said she asked him, “Why are you wearing the button that says ‘I Love Paul’?” He said, “Because I love Paul.” [laughs]

February 17th, 1984: Harry Nilsson

PAUL: It’s like, uh, “We have to get back.” “We’re on our way home.” JOHN: Yeah. PAUL: There’s a story. There’s another one – ‘Don’t Let Me Down’. “Oh darling, I’ll never let you down.” Like we’re doing— JOHN: Yeah. It’s like you and me are lovers. PAUL: [reserved] Yeah. [pause] JOHN: We’ll just have to camp it up for those two. PAUL: Yeah. Well, I’ll be wearing my skirt for the show, anyway.

Get Back sessions

PAUL: Okay, “two of us riding nowhere” that’s as if…we’re like…two, but then “we’re on our way home”  JOHN: It’s like we’re like a couple of queens. PAUL: Yeah. Well, you know. Well, I mean, that’s…  JOHN: We’re a couple of queens… PAUL: That’s just too bad. Unless you want to get Paul and Paula in. Poetic license, John. JOHN: You’re telling me, Paul.

Get Back sessions

[ladykailitha]

Sweet Home Indiana Part 5

Hey all! Heads up for those that missed my previous announcements, I'm going on vacation starting today for about a week.

No WIP Wednesday tomorrow as it's my niece's graduation, but it should be back on next week, depending on how late I get in.

We finally hit pinnacle douche Eddie and the beginning of his turn to the lovable Eddie we know and love.

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4

****

Steve walked into his house after a long day at the shop to find Eddie in the kitchen making dinner. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked behind him at the door he clearly unlocked to get in and then back at Eddie.

“How the fuck did you get into my house?” he growled, throwing his keys in the dish by the door and kicking off his shoes.

Eddie didn’t even bother looking up from his dicing of vegetables. “Robin always forgets her keys, so you have to have a spare for her to get in, and because she’s so forgetful it has to be in the same spot.”

Steve let out an annoyed huff. “Under the second flower pot with duck.”

“Right in one, darlin’,” Eddie said, looking up at him with a grin.

“So is this your new strategy to get me to sign the divorce papers?” Steve asked pulling out a beer from the fridge. “Buttering me up?”

“Well,” Eddie said going back to his cutting, “since we’re still married and all with you refusing to sign the papers, I figured I’d just move back in.”

Steve dug around his crock drawer for the bottle opener. “Like you’d give up your cushy tattoo job up in Seattle.” He popped open the lid and took a sip.

He immediately went to the sink and spat it out. “What the fuck is that?!”

“Craft beer!” Eddie said with another grin. “It’s all the rage out on the West Coast. But anyway, I was in town and stopped by the furniture shop because that couch is hideous and has to go. And of course we're going to need a bigger bed.”

Steve scoffed and shook his head. “Whatever, babe. It’s your money.”

Eddie stopped chopping and said with all the innocence he could muster and said, “But Stevie, I thought it was our money.”

Steve who had opened a bottle of his own beer and was drinking it, suddenly froze. His throat still moved, swallow after swallow but the rest of him was stock still.

“I bet the words ‘joint checking account’ are flashing through your mind right now,” Eddie sneered.

Steve emptied his bottle and threw it into the sink with a loud crash. “How much did you take?”

Eddie turned around and faced him, crossing his arms over his chest. “All twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fourteen cents.”

Steve’s jaw formed a hard set line and he clenched his fists. “You put it back, right now.”

“Why don’t you use it for something useful, Steve?” he asked, waving his hands in front of him. “You have a shop, why aren’t you putting the money toward that? Christ that is almost life changing money.”

Steve stormed out of the room and was back before he could even raise a protest. “This is what it’s for, asshole and if you don’t put it back I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?”

Eddie looked down at the papers in his hand in confusion, gingerly taking them from Steve. In big bold letters were the words NON DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

“Am I allowed to read this?” he asked with a gulp.

“It expired five years ago,” Steve bit out. “So yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be giving it to you, would I?”

Eddie nodded and began reading. The date was roughly three or four months after he left and god was it a mess. It chronicled Susan Hargrove’s addictions to drugs, alcohol, and sex. And that if Steve wanted custody of her daughter, Maxine Maxwell he had to jump through so many hoops, including signing the NDA. His hand shook as he turned page after page of what boiled down to fifteen page document.

“The money is part of the settlement from the court,” Steve said through gritted teeth. “I put it in the old account because I didn’t feel like opening another one and forgot your name was still on it. It pays for her schooling, rent, and food until it’s gone.”

Eddie’s lip quivered. “Shit, Steve, I’m sorry. But I’m still in contact with most of the kids. Even Max and no one told me about this. Not ever.”

Steve frowned and took the pages from Eddie’s trembling hands. “I thought you knew. Hell, it was more than a nine day wonder here in town when the dust finally settled.”

Eddie thought for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. The more he thought about it the more it actually made sense. And fuck if that didn’t hurt like a kick to the ribs.

One of his worst parting shots was that the kids would be fine on their own. They had parents and friends and other people who cared about them. But that fucking NDA proved him to be the biggest asshole in that regard. Because it irrefutable proof that he had been dead wrong about that.

“Fuck,” he whispered, drawing his hands over his face. “It’ll be back in there by tonight, I swear. I’m so, so sorry, Steve. I swear I am. I know you won’t believe me and that’s okay. But I would never do anything that would harm those kids. Not if my life depended on it.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered and then he pinched his nose and rubbed the end. And fuck if that didn’t break Eddie’s heart. That was Steve’s little tell that he was fighting back tears.

“You really didn’t know?” he asked, his voice cracking.

Eddie shook his head. “I didn’t know. Here...” he pulled out his phone and immediately transferred the money back. He had transferred it in several small amounts as to not trigger that that Fed law thingy and reversed every one of them. “All back.”

Steve let out a shuddering breath. “Were you really going to blackmail me with the money to divorce you?”

Eddie hung his head and let out a sigh of his own. “I can’t tell you why, but me and Chrissy are on a timetable and if we don’t get married by certain date, things can go very badly. So yeah. I was going to do whatever it took.”

Steve’s bottom lip quivered so him bit down on it to stop it shaking.

“Come on,” Eddie murmured. “Let me finish making dinner and we’ll talk. I think there are a lot of things between us left unsaid. I thought it was all on my side, but I’m starting to think there has been a lot of things that I haven’t been told about what’s being going on with you and this town.”

Steve nodded.

****

It took Steve a fair bit of breathing techniques to get his heart rate back to normal after that little stunt. And if he was honest, he couldn’t say had their situations been reversed, he wouldn’t have tried the same thing.

But there wasn’t anyone in his life right now that measured up to Eddie. Or at least that starry-eyed boy he fell in love with the first time.

Eddie had actually made his favorite meal. Manicotti. He had been cutting up the vegetables for the bolognese sauce that he poured over the top.

They sat down on the hideous neon green sofa while it went into the oven to cook.

“This sofa really is grotesque, Steve,” Eddie muttered, bringing one knee up so he could turn and face him.

Steve threw back his head and laughed. “That’s what everyone has said once they’ve seen it.”

“So why keep it?”

He ran his fingers over the worn surface thoughtfully. “Because despite how ugly it looks, it’s soft and comfortable. Great for naps and movie nights. If I spill something on it, I won’t freak out about it getting ruined.”

Eddie’s heart sank to his stomach. That was something that had made having movie nights over at Steve’s parents’ house such a nightmare. No feet on the sofa, no drinks anywhere but on the coffee table with a coaster, no dips or salsa, nothing red or orange, drinks or otherwise. It was the biggest house with the biggest screen, but it was a museum and not a home.

He actually looked around him for the first time, taking in the homey surroundings, the pictures on the wall of not just Steve and Robin, but all the kids. Birthdays, graduations, dances, you name it, if Steve was there with a camera, it was there up on his wall in some way.

The house was neat, but in a lived in sort of way instead of the strict tomb quality of his parents’ house. Christ. He had been joking about wanting to move back, but now he actually did. He could see himself slotting himself into this home as easy as breathing.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Right. So how long have you had this place?”

“About three years now,” Steve murmured. “That’s about when the shop started making a profit and not just coasting along above red.”

“I like it,” he said with a fond smile.

Steve gave his shoulder a shove. “You do not. You don’t need to pretend with me.”

Eddie grasped his hands to his chest. “Ah! I doth protest!” He paused for a moment and tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You’re right, I don’t like it.”

“See?” Steve scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I love it.”

Steve stared at him for a moment before blushing and looking away. “So how long have you and Chrissy known each other?”

“Two years,” Eddie replied. “She came in for a tattoo to cover up the name of her ex-boyfriend and we became really good friends.”

“And she’s a paralegal?” Steve asked.

“Legal assistant,” Eddie said. “Don’t ask me what the difference is, I don’t know. But she’ll always correct people when they say ‘paralegal’.”

Steve nodded.

“So, is it just you and Robin?” he asked, looking around the house for clues there was another person here. Either for Steve or for Robin.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a sad smile. “But not for much longer. She’s starting school in the fall. She just needs to pick which one she wants and let the other know she’s pulling out.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asked. “What are her choices?”

“NYU and University of Washington,” Steve said. “I don’t get wanting to go to either except to get as far away from Hawkins as possible and still be in the country.”

Eddie laughed. “Well can you blame her?”

Steve leveled him with a glare and Eddie gulped.

“Right, sorry. That was a shit thing to say,” he said ducking his head. “I ran away and kept running away and you didn’t deserve that.”

“So why did you? Run away, I mean?”

Eddie ran his fingers over his face and let out frustrated sigh. “I thought it was what I wanted. The fame, the fortune, the screaming crowds every night. And maybe it still is, but the other guys got tired of it. Of the being away from family and on the road all the time, so by the time that all fell apart, it was just too much.”

Steve cocked his head to the side and regarded Eddie fully. He took him all in and not just the cursory glance he got at the bakery.

Eddie had filled out in a good way. He would always be thin, but he was no longer that waif he was in high school. He had more tattoos, which made sense considering his job. His hair was still as wild and untamed as always. He had stubble on his jaw and on his upper lip. There was a weariness to those dark brown chocolate button eyes.

“What was too much, Eddie?”

“The amount of pain I put you through,” he said softly. “And continued to put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it, sweetheart. You deserve a white wedding with all your friends and loved ones around you. You deserve to have someone standing by your side as an equal partner. You deserve someone who isn’t going to run the moment things get rough.”

“I always thought that would be you,” Steve admitted.

Eddie nodded. “So did I, once upon a time.”

“But not anymore?” Steve asked, breathless.

“No. Not anymore.”

****

Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Tag List:

1- @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @ravenfrog @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @goodolefashionedloverboi

3- @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @vecnuthy @irregular-child

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1

5- @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95

7- @blackpanzy @amazing-spiderkeys @oldpinghai @raisedbylibrarians @kultiras

8- @swimmingbirdrunningrock @steddie-as-they-go @captain--low @micheledawn1975 @thespaceantwhowrites

9- @mac-attack19 @blondie1006

[rottin6]

hi layla my love my light. could you perhaps spare some jegulus cam sex thoughts? i fear i may waste away without them <3

i could yap about this forever, lane im kissing u for asking

it’s essentially an entire universe that spans out across different characters and ideas. the constant variable in each universe is that james is always the director. he’s always behind the camera, capturing sex for the art, whether it’s regulus (his favourite star) or some other actors. he lives in la and he spends his time writing scripts, editing the films, going over certain scenes etc.

in one scenario, there’s a time in maybe a completely different city where you’ve got lily learning how to give a blowjob purely because of james’ videos with regulus:

the first thing lily’s learnt is that the pornhub interface is surprisingly easy to navigate. she scrolls down the page, more inclined to watch the shitty iphone made videos because they look less fake. there’s one video of a couple, a man’s face behind the camera while a young and pretty boy sucks his cock deep, taking it in all the way. lily watches, studies, the way his lips part open and his tongue licks all the way up to the tip, mouth sinking down right after. she keeps herself cocooned in her blanket, chin in her palm as she traces over her own lips with her fingers. the same couple have another video with a ‘deepthroat’ tag, and lily swiftly realises that this is the superior method. and that above all, she wants to be the best so at some point, two fingers are hitting the back of her throat and she’s trying to keep them down. she gags a couple of times, both digits slick with saliva. she tries to match her pace with the boy in the video, holding on until she’s hit with the sudden realisation that barty’s much, much bigger than her two fingers.

(snippet from a bartylily drabble i have yet to upload)

it's the extent to which james loves making these films and videos, he gets off on the pure idea of them. his camera alone is enough to get him hard until he meets regulus, this star who is a star before even being shown to the world. james is enamoured and he builds most of his success with regulus (prior to this, he tried things with a bunch of different actors, but nothing stood out). he goes on to creating an empire of sorts, climbing this ladder but director james wants more and more

but i feel that the jegulus cam sex universe has so much potential to become more than just. sex, if that makes sense

there’s a really shitty 1976 film called snuff and it led to loads of people thinking the pornographic murder in the film was actually real and happened. i want this for james. i want james to crave the money and power and status so bad that’s he’s willing to go to any lengths. he desires to have a name for himself in this industry and rosekiller have the ability to do that for him. they’re his best stars (yes, reg is his favourite but favourite ≠ best) and they make him a shit load of money. they’re on board with anything that james tells them to do and james takes their ideas with a grin on his face and the camera ready

one of the writers of snuff (shackleton) was interviewed and said: “if the murder is real, i’d be a fool to admit it. if it isn't real, i’d be a fool to admit it.” — this whole ambiguity reeks of director james and rosekiller. he has barty and evan make a shitty snuff film, one of them supposedly dies, it’s horrifically gory and perverted but it gives james the name he wanted

he’s so LA fame hungry, he wants the people in twenty years time to be asking stuff like “what ever happened to that actor evan what’s-his-name?” and that’s exactly what happens

james’ entire production company is cut after a series of investigations but he’s not bothered, evan and barty put his name on the map and he’s got loads of money to leave him comfortable until he dies. he packs his bags and takes his favourite star, regulus, to marbella and they live in a house by the beach where they “occasionally” still make shitty cam sex videos but it’s totally anonymous now

i'm not sure yet if i want this to be a full fic or just upload little things here and there on tumblr...

[chimcess]

Nachash || jhs (Prologue)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Doctor!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU (that's putting it lightly) Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count:  6.6k+ Summary: After losing both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell her home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place she barely remembers despite having lived in Harlem for a decade. Her reality begins to blur as she loses track of dreams and waking life. At the center of this confusion is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her an eerie sense of déjà vu. She can't shake the feeling that Hoseok isn't who he claims to be, and she's haunted by a strange bar that keeps appearing in her nightmares. Warnings: Wet dreams, explicit sexual contact in those dreams, graphic violence, hard dom Hoseok, demon Hobi acting like the horrible creature he is, emotional manipulation, DEATH, alcohol consumption, sexual harassment (brief), dream manipulation, stalking, vampire mind control, asshole Hobi (seriously), morally grey Taehyung, morally grey vampires in general, vampire bar, use of pagers because this is the early 90s (I have pager code translations at the bottom of the page), lots of cursing, vaginal fingering, pussy slapping, multiple orgasms, sadistic Hoseok, death by sex in her dreams, did I mention how horrible of a person this Hobi is?, mans is an obsessive stalker, and this is just the prologue because Tumblr's new rules are weird and don't make sense, let me know if I missed anything... A/N: I've had to split this into two seperate parts since Tumblr does not allow posts over a certain line count anymore (boo!), so I'm giving you guys the beginning section first! This entire story will be based in the 90s and will have a lot of pretty dark elements attachted to it. I really wanted to force myself to write a character that is so out of my wheelhouse it made me uncomfortable-- and that's exactly who incubus Hoseok is in this one. Happy Halloween everyone!

Next Part to be released 10/31 || Released early on AO3: here

August 1992

My bones cracked, the sound echoing through the sterile silence, and I struggled to catch my breath. A thin layer of sweat clung to my skin, and I patted myself down to make sure I was still awake, still alive. Slowly, the panic subsided as I took in my surroundings. The bright fluorescent lights above made my eyes ache, but their harsh glow was a strange comfort. I was still in the hospital. The bed beneath me creaked as I sighed and flopped back down.

The nightmares had been haunting me for a while now. I couldn’t pinpoint when the first one came, but it had been two months since they turned sexual. The worst ones hit during my 24-hour shifts, as if my mind was playing some twisted game. There was always a man—always the same man—with golden eyes that glowed in the darkness. His skin was soft, supple, and disturbingly perfect.

Even when I closed my eyes, his perfect face flashed in the darkness behind my eyelids. It always ended the same way. I would climax, my body thrashing violently, only to look up and see his skin peeling away, ashes raining down, with fire slipping through the cracks. My own body would begin to burn, and I’d scream in horror as his once-perfect face revealed a skull with flames and black smoke oozing out. I would wake up just as his skeletal hand reached for my throat. The scenario changed, but the ending never did.

Sighing, I fumbled around for my phone. When I found it under my pillow, alongside my watch, I realized that I was due back in twenty minutes. I groaned. There was no going back to sleep now. I carefully climbed off my bunk, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Dr. Boseman was fast asleep, blissfully unaware of my nightly torment. She still had another hour before she had to return to the floor. I didn’t bother looking in the mirror. The ER was filled with messy doctors, and I would be no exception. Slipping my shoes back on and shrugging on my white coat, I quickly put on my lanyard and left the little room.

It had been a relatively slow night. We all knew better than to say the dreaded “Q” word, but that didn’t mean we weren’t aware of the unusual silence. The most excitement we had was a car accident victim, and he would survive. My attending physician, Dr. Kepler, was at the nurse’s station laughing with some of the nurses.

“Morning, Doc,” came Shannon’s voice, the night custodian.

“Hey, Shan, how are you?” I smiled at the elderly woman.

“I’m fine. About to clean some bathrooms.”

“Good luck with that,” I waved, knowing the small talk was over.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll need it.”

Dr. Kepler smiled when I was close enough to talk. He was a handsome man with broad shoulders and pearly white teeth. I knew better, though. He had a bad habit of cheating on his wife with residents. He had never shown any interest in me, most likely because I never treated him differently. Some of the girls were too friendly with him and lost their professionalism, and he took advantage of that. As much as he disgusted me, I had to admit he was one hell of a doctor.

“Dr. L/N,” he greeted.

“Evening, Dr. Kepler,” I replied. “How’s it going, Angie?”

The tech beamed at me. She had started working at the hospital around the same time I had begun my residency, and we made fast friends. On quiet days like this, the two of us would sit at the desk and shoot the shit. She gave me a little wink.

“Oh, you know, paperwork and stuff,” she replied.

“One of those days?”

“When isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes.

“I feel your pain,” Kepler forced his way into our conversation. He was dreadfully boring, so I chose to ignore him whenever this happened. Typically, he would realize no one was paying attention to him and leave. “I had to help out in L&D tonight, and let me tell you, I am glad I did not go that route. Couldn’t imagine having to deal with hysterical females all day.”

I grimaced. He was such a pig. Angie rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut. If she spoke up, he would never leave. A few nurses gave half-hearted replies, and I caught the eyes of Issic, one of the nurse practitioners who helped out in the emergency room. Normally so well-behaved and soft-spoken, the large, teddy-bear-like man glowered at the doctor. If looks could kill, I could not say Dr. Kepler would be dead, but I had to admit he would be majorly hurt. Still, no one called him out on the gross comments. We never did.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Dr. Kepler bid us goodbye, his rant about how stupid specialties other than cardiology are.

Angie twisted her nose in disgust once his back was turned. She disliked him more than I did. He made obvious advances toward her, something that made her and everyone else at the station uncomfortable, but there was not much we could do. I told her to report him for sexual harassment, but she never did. Nor did anybody else. I had never noticed how little we stood up for ourselves before.

“Glad he’s gone,” Mariah, an RN, commented.

“Creep,” another tech said.

“Anyway,” Angie did not acknowledge them. “I’m going out for drinks with some of the other nurses. You want to come?”

“Where at?” I checked my watch. I would have to begin my pre-rounds soon.

“This new bar Dauphine. Selene went a few weeks back with some friends of hers.”

“I’m not in the club scene,” I reminded her.

I knew Selene, not well, but I did know her. We met at Angie’s Christmas party last year along with a few of her other friends. I had left early but not before Selene had started to bump and grind with anyone she could get her hands on. This included Jeon Jungkook, the local wack-job-false-prophet-wannabe-fortuneteller and my cousin’s boyfriend. The two ended up having sex in the back of his Impala where said cousin found them in the middle of the act. Jungkook said it was his “destiny.” Selene simply laughed and was right back on his lap. I did not care much for her after that.

“There are only certain rooms like that. The main area is like a lounge. She said it was chill until they went dancing.”

I hummed. It had been a while since I had gone out. Maybe it would be a nice distraction, especially with the weird dreams I’d been having.

“When?” Angie smiled wide. She knew she had won me over.

“Thursday. I made sure to get a day you weren’t on call.”

And then my watch began beeping, signaling my return to work. Angie pouted her bottom lip out and batted her eyelashes. I smiled and shook my head.

“Duty calls,” I turned around and began walking away. “See you Thursday,” I called behind me.

“Fuck,” I sighed, throwing my head back.

“You’re so wet,” the man groaned, releasing my clit.

I squirmed underneath him, legs shaking, and breathing erratic. The man chuckled darkly, sticking a third finger in. I cried out once more.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he rasped before slapping my right breast.

I screamed, the pain and pleasure mixing so many times tonight that I could no longer discern the two. He slapped the other side. Tears fell from my eyes.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” his voice felt further away than it had before.

His fingers were gone, and I whined. I hardly recognized the person I had become. Never had I begged for a man’s touch or wanted rough sex. I knew he could do anything to me, and I would not complain. I knew that he knew that as well. I also knew that he loved it. A sharp, painful slap was delivered to my already aching pussy. Another scream.

“And when I’m done,” slap, “I’m going to devour you.”

And I came undone for the third time.

I adjusted my dress again, feeling its snugness a little too keenly. It had been ages since I’d gone out, and Angie’s insistence on looking “sexy” felt like a cruel joke. Most of my wardrobe consisted of scrubs and old college hoodies, so my little black dress, tucked away in the back of my closet, had to do. Back when I was nineteen, it had fit like a glove. Now, it clung to my newer curves, which weren’t so new anymore. Should I change?

Groaning, I fell back on my bed. What am I doing? If Angie were here, she’d tell me to stop acting like “such a virgin” and laugh. She always laughed hardest at her own jokes. According to her, being with less than three guys by age twenty-three was unheard of. The fact that I was pushing thirty and had only been with two was some sort of medical anomaly to her. The virgin jokes had been annoying at first, but I’d learned that was just Angie’s sense of humor. Childish, yes, but she was likable enough to forgive it.

I sat up and looked at myself in the mirror again. The dress looked good, better than I expected. So why the apprehension? Struggling to pinpoint the source of my anxiety, I finally gave up. I threw on a leather jacket and started putting on the finishing touches to my look. I was meeting everyone at the club since Angie lived on the other side of town. She had kindly offered to pay for my cab. After texting her that I was ready, I slipped on a pair of black boots and stepped outside to wait for my ride.

The night was cold, unusually so for August, even for New York. Adjusting to the climate had been tough. Originally from Jersey, my family had moved to Florida when I was a child. I’d gone to Tulane for undergrad and then moved to New York for med school. After graduating from Columbia two years ago, I started my residency at Harlem Hospital Center. I was planning to stay for my ICU fellowship.

A gust of wind ruffled my clothes, and for a moment, I swore I felt phantom hands caress my hips. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine. My mind was still on edge from the nightmares. Last night’s had been particularly vivid: horns had sprouted from his head before he ripped a chunk of my breast out with his teeth, blood dripping onto my sheets as my screams echoed off the walls.

My phone rang, its sharp tone startling me. Angela had pressured me into getting a cellphone a few months ago, and I was still getting used to the intrusion. Handy at times, sure, but mostly an annoyance. The bulky Nokia was far too cumbersome.

“You in the car yet? The driver’s name is Jimin.”

As she said it, a pair of headlights turned the corner, and the car slowed down.

“About to get in now,” I said, eager to hang up. The assumption that I was wealthy because I had a cellphone always embarrassed me.

“God, I’m so excited to see you!” Angie squealed, the sounds of the club already drowning her out. I regretted agreeing to come out. “The password is Conti. Whatever that means.”

I smiled. “It’s a street name in New Orleans.”

The car pulled up to the curb, and I quickly opened the door. 

“I’m about to get in the cab,” I said, buckling up. “I’ll see you in a bit, Ang.”

“Page me when you get here!”

The ride was quiet. The driver greeted me, asked for my name, then lapsed into silence. Soft R&B played in the background. To distract myself, I sent a quick message to my mom and listened to the driver quietly singing along. He had a nice voice. Just as we pulled up, TLC came on, and I felt a pang of disappointment that I wouldn’t get to hear him sing along. I thanked him before getting out. Jimin drove off seconds after I closed the door with a polite ‘goodnight.’

The alleyway leading to the club was less intimidating than I’d expected. Angie’s description of a long, red-lit path had conjured far worse images in my mind. The lights were bright enough to see by, and the walk was short. Voices drifted from outside the club, easing some of my tension. Maybe the rumors were just that—rumors.

Dauphine had a reputation for attracting the town’s freaks. Drugs, alcohol, sex parties that ended in blood-splattered walls, and people who went in but never came out. The rumors spiraled out of control after Namjoon Kim was found dead outside. Typical media frenzy—no one cared when ten prostitutes went missing, but a rich CEO gets shot, and it’s front-page news. I rolled my eyes. Some things never change.

A group of friends stopped talking as I approached, and apprehension churned in my gut. Bile rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. Their presence was enough to leave me shaking. One of them snickered, and I shivered. Without even glancing at them, I knew they’d be terrifying. The bouncer opened the peephole in the door.

“Conti,” I said, my voice harsh.

The door opened seconds later, and I practically ran inside, shoving past the bouncer without much care. He didn’t seem to mind my rudeness. Without their eyes on me, I could finally breathe. I paged Angie to let her know I was here.

Angela: 110 307

Angela: 209

Y/N: 08

I shoved my pager back into my bag and started navigating the maze of the bar. The nurse had been right; it was more subdued than I had imagined. Red and black dominated the color scheme, with large sofas and booths scattered about. Neon signs pointed to the restrooms, and the place was pleasantly devoid of orgies or bloodbaths. I felt a wave of relief—no strobe lights, no thrumming dance floors. 

A few minutes later, I found the bar. Only one man was seated there, engaged in a tender conversation with the bartender. She caressed his cheek, and I melted at the sight. It was heartwarming to see such affection in a place rumored to be so dangerous. I doubted many would be comfortable with their partner working in a place as infamous as this.

Respecting their privacy, I took a seat a few stools away and picked up a small drink menu. Angie was nowhere in sight. I stifled a laugh; the menu was a mix of classic cocktails and blood types listed underneath each one. For a place as notorious as this, I hadn't expected it to be a vampire-themed bar. I was already excited to see the dance floor. Themed bars in New Orleans had always been a blast during my Tulane days.

"Good evening," the bartender's voice was silky smooth.

I smiled. "Hi."

"What can I get for you?"

Suppressing a grin, I said, "I'll have a dirty martini. Shot of O negative."

The chuckle slipped out before I could stop it. The bartender smirked, her skin glistening under the red lights. The man at the other end of the bar looked at me, his eyes wide, before bursting into loud laughter. Eyes turned towards us, the sensation making my skin crawl, but I stayed composed. The bartender leaned in closer.

"Are you okay with cherry liqueur?"

I wrinkled my nose in disgust.

She laughed. "Then you don't want that shot, babe."

I nodded, glancing at my nails. Where was Angie? Rolling my eyes, I groaned. She’d probably run into some guy and forgotten about me. I straightened up, trying to see over the tall booths scattered about. No sign of her blonde head anywhere. With a sigh, I gave up. She’d show up eventually.

"Looking for someone?" The bartender slid my drink over.

"Oh," I clutched my chest, startled. "Just a friend of mine. She got here earlier but I can't find her. She said she’d come get me."

"I might’ve seen her." Her brows knitted in concern.

"She’s tall," I gestured, "really skinny. Blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s wearing a blue sequin dress."

The bartender nodded. "Yeah, I saw her and a couple of girls head to the back. She ran off with a guy not too long ago."

I groaned. Of course, she did. I must have missed her on my way in. Sinking into my chair, I threw back my martini, ripping the olive off the toothpick. My annoyance was palpable. I tried calling her, but there was no response.

Y/N: 420

Y/N: 3011

After a few more failed attempts, I paged Monica, another tech from the hospital I was close with. I used her last name; there were too many Monicas to keep track of. Her code number was written down on a piece of paper in my wallet.

Y/N: 221

"Hey," the bartender called out.

She seemed hesitant to speak. I felt a pang of guilt for making her uncomfortable. She probably thought her tip was on the line. I willed myself to calm down.

"Sorry about that."

"No worries," she replied, waving me off. "Just… be careful. We get some characters in here. I’ll keep an eye out for your friend."

I smiled at her. "Thanks."

"Anytime. If you need anything, just ask for 'Bootsy,'" she winked before taking my empty glass and returning to her boyfriend.

My pager buzzed.

Everson: 419

I rolled my eyes. I hated technology outside of medical settings. Pagers were useless for meaningful conversation. Luckily, Monica carried her cell everywhere, flaunting her family’s wealth. Her phone was much nicer than mine.

"Hey babe!" She shouted over the music.

"Angie left," I spoke louder than necessary, hoping she could hear. "The bartender saw her leave with a guy."

Monica laughed, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. We were too different to get along beyond pleasantries.

"Go Ang!" She giggled drunkenly. "We’re all in the back."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s my first time here."

"Bar, take a right, walk straight until you see a bunch of doors."

"What’s the entrance look like? Everything looks the same here."

"The door is black with a purple bead hanging off the handle," she hiccuped, then burped. "The lights around it are really red."

Annoyed, I shoved my phone into my purse and slid off my chair. The long hallway was daunting. This part of the bar was dimly lit and far more unsettling. Unlike the eyes on my back earlier, there was no one here. The jazz music faded, and I fought back a shiver. This place was creepy.

I went to the end of the hall only to find it empty. No door, no beads, nothing. Monica had given me the wrong directions. As frustrated as I was, I couldn’t be too upset with her. She had no idea what she was talking about and already had a few drinks in her system. My anger towards Angela only grew. I sent her another text, seething, and started to wander again, hunting for the elusive door.

The nurse was right; this place was a labyrinth. High ceilings and narrow passages could make even the most fearless person feel claustrophobic. I had to hold my breath when the walls seemed to close in. Aimlessly, I roamed, still finding nothing. The longer I walked, the more convinced I became that this lounge had been a catacomb at some point. From the outside, it didn't look nearly this expansive. My heels clicked loudly in the eerie silence. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I glanced around nervously.

"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?" I cursed myself, turning back the way I came. The bartender was nice enough; maybe she could help.

"It's a lounge, sha," a voice said behind me.

I screamed, flinching, and spun around, losing my footing. I grabbed the wall, but the impact scraped my arm against the rough bricks. The person offered a hand, but I ignored it, picking myself up and glaring at the stranger.

He was gorgeous—tall, slender, with broad shoulders and lean muscles under a white button-down shirt. His hands, large with long, piano fingers, slid back into his pants pockets. His doe eyes sparkled with amusement, and his grin was wide and boxy.

"My apologies," his voice was honeyed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

I kept glaring. "Startle? You nearly gave me a heart attack."

He snickered before his eyes fixed on my arm. "You're bleeding."

I looked at my shoulder, noticing the rip in my jacket and the blood seeping out. Throwing my hands up in exasperation, I yelled, feeling tears welling up. Tonight had been a disaster from the start—the dress, the people outside, Angie ditching me. Every part of it felt like a waste of time. I should just go home.

"Are you okay, sha?" he asked, gently touching my arm.

I laughed bitterly. "Does it look like it?"

"No, you look upset."

"Great detective work, Captain Obvious," I snapped, rolling my eyes and yanking my arm away. "And it’s pronounced cher, not sha."

He stepped back, his smile never faltering. He seemed amused, which I found odd, but I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t like him. He was creepy, even in his beauty, and his eyes reminded me of the group outside. Yet, my feet felt rooted to the ground, as if frozen in fear.

"No, cher, it's sha where I’m from."

I sniffled. "Louisiana, huh?"

"Born in France, but my family moved to New Orleans when I was young. I learned Kouri-Vini from a trumpet player in the French Quarter."

Embarrassed by my outburst, I nodded. Trust me to correct the grammar of a Frenchman. The night’s mood soured further, all my hopes for a good time dashed. Still, I couldn't deny a strange attraction to the stranger. His presence, unsettling yet warm, invited me to stay.

"You looked lost."

"I am. Trying to find my friends, but I have no idea where to go. They said 'the back,' like that’s helpful. I’ve been wandering for at least thirty minutes."

He placed a thoughtful finger on his chin. "You really shouldn’t walk around alone," he warned. "There are a lot of unsavory characters here."

"Are you an Anne Rice character or something?" I scratched my shoulder, wincing at the sting. "Why are you talking like that? It’s weird."

"Should I apologize?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not if you can get me back to the bar."

He laughed. "I believe that can be arranged."

"You're doing it again." This time, we laughed together.

The walk back was shorter than I’d expected. He moved silently, with perfect posture, his perfection unsettling. Too symmetrical, too beautiful, and far too polite for someone who looked younger than me. As the jazz music grew louder, I learned he played the saxophone and trumpet for years in New Orleans. He opened his first bar, Midnight Moon, a few years ago and moved to New York City to branch out.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I’m a resident."

"Doctor," he whistled. "Very impressive."

"Not as impressive as being a rich, successful CEO in your twenties."

He laughed loudly, drawing a few looks. On cue, I lowered my head, feeling strange. Normally confident, here I felt the need to stay unseen, their eyes on me unnerving.

"What’s your name?" he asked, surprising me.

"Y/N," I answered, meeting his gaze.

He smiled, dazzling and unsettling. "I'm Taehyung."

"Nice to meet you, Taehyung," I said, my heart racing.

His eyes were a strange color, almost black with flecks of red under the lights. They were beautiful, but the spell broke, and I looked away again, feeling uneasy.

“There’s someone here who wants to see you,” Taehyung said, his voice rasping, almost angry. “But I don’t want to share you yet.”

I sucked in a breath, startled by his proximity. He had moved closer until we were chest to chest. I breathed him in—freesias and honey. My mouth watered, but I stepped back with effort. Taehyung didn’t follow.

“It’s probably my friend,” I said, noticing the bartender’s boyfriend staring. “We were supposed to meet here.”

“Y/N,” Taehyung’s eyes locked onto mine. “Remember what I said about unsavory characters.”

I nodded, dazed, as he brushed my hair behind my ear.

“Don’t leave with it, sha,” he whispered, sending a shiver up my spine.

I was too stunned to respond. Whatever Taehyung had said flew over my head as I placed my hand on the cheek he kissed. The skin still tingled where he had touched. When I looked up, he was gone. I spun in a circle, but there was no sign of the man anywhere. I made eye contact with the guy at the bar again and felt uncomfortable going up to him. He was frowning at me.

Taehyung had said someone was waiting for me, and the only person I could think of was Angie. She must have decided to come back after seeing my messages. Her hookup must have been lackluster if she came all the way back here. I chuckled to myself and finally walked to the bar. It would be fun to drink and talk shit. Then we could finally meet up with Monica and the girls, and my night could start looking up.

Angela was nowhere in sight when I got to the bar. The same man was still looking at me, as was the bartender. A new figure sat in my chair. It was another man by the looks of it, judging by their shoulders and haircut. I continued my search for Angela but still came up empty-handed. She was just looking for me.

"Looking for something?" the bartender asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, the guy I was with said someone was looking for me. Have you seen her?"

She pursed her lips and glanced at the other man. "Can't say I have. Taehyung was probably confused."

My shoulders dropped in defeat. Again, I was left stranded. I should probably just go home and call it a night. A small voice told me to go and find Taehyung. He had said he didn’t want to share me. How had he known someone was waiting for me?

I couldn’t think about it for too long, as if my mind wouldn’t let me. I thought about him, his perfect face, and how beautiful he was. His eyes, eyes I could not recall the color of for the life of me, staring down at me. His voice, a gentle purr in my ear beckoning me closer. A draft startled me out of my daydream and I realized I wanted to leave.

I sighed. "I think I’m going to head out then."

I swore I saw relief wash over her face. Her lips had been tight when I came back around, but she gave me a small, genuine grin. Probably some asshole customer. Every place has them, even a luxurious one. Her shoulders stiffened when the other man raised his arm. Her boyfriend’s hands clenched. That guy must be the douche.

"Bourbon." Oh, yeah, definitely a tool.

I rolled my eyes and did not think before taking a seat at the bar. I could at least distract her. She frowned at me and continued making his drink.

"Thought you were leaving?"

"I could get another drink before I go." I smiled at her.

"Dirty martini for the lady," the mystery man said.

My heart stopped. His face... My mouth dropped open at the sight of him. My dream man. He was sitting right in front of me. Every detail, every line and curve were the same. Even the mole on his lip was there. Just like Taehyung, it was hard to look into his eyes, but I knew they would be the same. I couldn’t remember what they looked like, but I was certain they shined a gentle, soft gold in the dark.

"You do like them dirty, right?" He grinned.

I couldn’t respond for a few moments. The resemblance was uncanny. The anxiety Taehyung’s presence had given me was nothing compared to this. It felt like an elephant had sat on my chest while every nerve in my body screamed at me to run. And just like Taehyung, I found myself unable to move. I found that I did not want to. I welcomed the feeling.

"How did you know that?" I asked, still in awe.

"I overheard you earlier. Was going to buy you one then but you left before I could."

I swallowed my thickening saliva. It was hard to get down. Every part of me wanted to run. My body begged to get away from him, but it also yearned to be near him. I was alight in every way possible, and the confusion was hard to wrap my head around. Do I stay or do I go? As if he could read my mind, the man reached out and ran a finger over the top of my hand. Electricity shot through my body, and it burned where he had touched.

"Have a drink with me."

"Okay," I whispered, hypnotized by his voice.

The bartender placed my drink in front of me before going back to her side of the bar, like she was trying to stay as far away from the man as possible. I knew his name, it was on the tip of my tongue, but I was insane to think it was even possible. He was a stranger, and there was no possible way he was my dream man. The two just looked similar. In my dreams, his eyes were gold, and his skin was much paler and sickly. I glanced at his hands and relaxed even further. In my dreams, the man had scars over every inch of his body.

"I’m Hoseok, by the way." He smiled at me, and I quivered.

There was something off about his teeth. His canines were too sharp. In fact, all of his teeth were. They were so white they almost glowed in the red lights. Too perfect. Everything about him was. I scooted away from him and angled my legs toward the bartender. I wanted to leave again. I wanted to get away from him. I had been right about his name.

I took a nervous sip of my drink. Why had I sat down in the first place? At the moment, it had seemed like the right thing to do, but now I felt conflicted. Had I really wanted to stay? It surely felt that way at the time. Now, I wanted to go home, and my body language was clear. Still, I could not stand up and walk away. Still, I took another sip and curled away from him without moving.

"Are you okay? You seem tense."

I nodded too quickly and enthusiastically to ever be taken seriously. Hoseok seemed amused by this, just as he had been smirking at my squirming moments before. He was unsettling. Maybe it was his resemblance to the monster from my dreams that had me on edge. Yes, I thought, that had to be the reason.

"Bad night," I replied, my hands shaking. I quickly finished my drink and stood up. Hoseok smiled at me. "Thanks for the drink. I’ll be going now."

"See you soon, Y/N."

I was so focused on leaving the bar, I did not hear the slip of his tongue. I had never told him my name. That night, after I got home, I dreamt of Hoseok killing me again. The next day, Angela never showed up for work, never answered my messages. No one else had heard from her either.

Her body was found mutilated and tortured in a motel room a few blocks away from Dauphine the following morning. My dreams began to include her in them. She cried for me to help her, blamed me for her death, and even laughed as I got my throat ripped out. I was never able to focus anymore and was blessed that my residency program finished only four months later.

After graduation, the dreams stopped. I stayed with my parents for the summer, played in the Florida sun, and decided against going back to New York for my fellowship. Instead, I chose to stay in Tallahassee and start my career. It was safe there. He was gone. A few years later, I left for Jacksonville, and my paranoia had started to fade.

Years had gone by, and my memories of his face began to escape me. His name was nothing more than a gentle whisper in the deepest pits of my mind. Even then, saying that would be an overstatement. My return to New York was in the wake of my mother’s death. My dad had passed away a few years prior, and our vacation home in Harlem, the same place I lived in so many years ago, had become prime real estate. I got a fellowship through Columbia upon my return. Life was looking up despite my grief, and I was ready to start a new venture in my medical career.

That was the beginning of my eventual end. I had cheated death all those years ago. Angela was my replacement, though I had no idea at the time. That thing knew she was waiting for me. It knew she would not let me out of her sight, so it took care of the problem. My fear gave it power, and it indulged itself in my torture. When I came back, it knew.

This time, I would not be lucky. Nothing and no one would get in its way. Soon, all memories of that night vanished. Angela’s name escaped me first, then her face, and finally what happened to her. Dauphine and its never-ending halls were gone. The thing that sat at the bar made sure of that before making his next move.

It was mid-October when he came back into my life, all memories of his face wiped from my mind, and his game really started. My death would be his favorite. A death he rejoiced in for years to come only to be disappointed that nothing lived up to that night.

Things like Hoseok lived for the chase, and I proved to be his greatest target.

Next

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[jasntodds]

Migraines | J.T.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Request: Anon - “Hey I get pretty bad migraines, and i was going the injury prompt list and #4 and #6 kind of remind me of how my lovely s/o takes care of me when i have an episode. I’d love to see those prompts with jason todd! Prompts: (from here) #4: Trying to hide your injury from them, but failing miserably once you faint right in front of them #6: Staying the night in case they need your help, being asked to sleep on the bed instead of the couch/floor

Summary: You have a migraine and try to hide it from Jason until you manage to faint in front of him, sending him into a worrying spin over you

Warnings: Description of migraines, friends to lovers, mentions of being nauseous from the migraine, fluff, hurt/comfort (kind of)

Words: 4,595

A/n: I am both a big sucker for injury prompts and Jason Todd so here we are lol I also get migraines so anon, I’m sorry you’re dealing with them 😭 I did friends to lovers just because I thought it fit a little better with the second prompt!! If you wanna be added to my tag list, click the link below, send me an ask, or comment!! You can also follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary​​ !! If you like this, please reblog it and/or talk to me about it!!

masterlist | request info | tag list

It starts as a mild headache. It’s just an ache in the beginning of your head at first that’s a bit annoying but nothing horrible. However, with your history of migraines, you take your precautions to prevent it from turning into a migraine. The thing about the migraines is they tend to send you out of commission until they go away. You always play it out to be just a mild headache or that you’re just tired and take a nap. Jason doesn’t actually know how bad your headaches (migraines) actually are. He’s Robin! Jason could have ten broken bones and still go out swinging. You get a migraine and want to explode.

After about two hours though, the mild headache has turned into a full-blown migraine. It’s throbbing in the front of your head. Your stomach is nauseous with the pain and every bit of light in the room makes you cringe. You’re in the library of Wayne Manor with Jason, sitting with him while the two of you read and reading is making it worse. You swear you’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes, unable of focus your eyes or your attention on the book. Everything hurts, even moving your eyes is agonizing.

“You good?” Jason looks over at you, noticing you haven’t turned a page in a while.

“Oh, yeah.” Your voice is quiet as you give him a fake smile and a very subtle reassuring nod, almost wincing with the movement.

“You don’t look good.” Jason sees the grimace across your face. “Seriously,” He puts his finger in the book to hold the page while he closes it. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just tired.” You shrug it off. “I’m just gonna take a nap.” You smile sweetly but faintly.

“You’re a bad fucking liar.” Jason chuckles softly as you get off the couch. “I know something’s wrong, can’t hide it from me, babe.” There’s a cheeky grin tugging at his lips when you turn to face him, knowing he’s trying to get the real answer out of you by being cheeky.

“Jay, I’m fine.” You insist, giving him a toothy grin as if that’s enough to convince him but the window is right behind Jason and you moved too quickly.

Everything is spinning and throbbing and pounding and your vision is blurring in and out. Everything is agonizing and all you want to do is curl into a ball and melt away. Your heart is starting to race while your legs are starting to feel weak and shaky.

“Y/n?” Jason calls, the grin completely vanishing as he watches the look at your face turn distant and shallow just as your legs give out.

Jason scrambles to his feet, catching your head just before you hit the ground. Panic courses through Jason’s blood as he holds your head in his hands, unsure of what just happened. You’ve never fainted before. He knew something was wrong but something wrong enough to make you faint? He never would have guessed and he’s kicking himself for not realizing that it was something that bad. He should known better, paid closer attention maybe. Something. But, then your eyes open slowly, you barely coming to with your head still pounding like a kickdrum at a rock concert.

“Hey, holy shit, are you okay?” Jason’s words are slurred as he looks at you but you can’t make them out. Everything sounds mixed together, hazy even. “Y/n?” Jason asks and as your vision starts to steady slightly, you can make out his brown eyes laced in worry, forehead wrinkled.

The jig is up.

“Migraine.” You mutter out.

Jason lets out a sigh, wondering why you didn’t just tell him. You both make fun of each other with little stuff. It’s all fun and games though, Jason tends to take some low blows when he gets mad but it’s never anything too horrible and you know where not to cross a line. Had you just told him you had a migraine, he wouldn’t have made a joke or yelled to make it worse. He would have just let you rest. Jason knows his constant training even with an injury isn’t normal, most people know when to tap out. He doesn’t want you to end up like him, unable to take a break even from just reading a book with him.

“Come on.” Jason slides his hands out from under your head as you sit up. “Get your ass to bed.” Jason stands up, offering both of his hands to you to help you up.

You take his hands gingerly in yours, carefully and slowly getting up, trying not to move too much or too fast. “I’ll be fine.” You brush it off once you’re on your feet.

You don’t want to bother him with it. Migraines are debilitating but it’s still a headache. It just sounds so pitiful in a way. You have to nap in the middle of the day over a headache. Jason shouldn’t be bothered with it or you. You’ll take a nap and maybe you’ll feel better later. 

“Yeah, then ya fucking fainted.” Jason scoffs, not realizing he was still holding your hands.

“Mhm.” You hum, your mouth dry from the nausea of the throbbing headache.

“I’ll walk you.” He offers, realizing your hands are soft in his.

His heart swells with the idea but he lets go and opts to move to your side, resting a hand on the small of your back. He gestures for you to start walking, him walking right beside you and not moving his hand just making sure you don’t fall or faint again.

If your head wasn’t a throbbing and pulsating mess right now, you’d have some comment about how nice he’s being. Jason can be a little less than nice at times with people, but he does have these really nice moments with you ever since you followed him to Gotham. It’s….domestic in a way. At Titans Tower, there was this ruggedness to everything and this hardness that almost surrounded him, a bitterness that ate at his bones. But, when he’s here, he’s kinder. He’s still rough around the edges, that’s just Jason but he’s kinder and you’d be lying if you said you don’t like the kinder side of him that mixes with his sarcasm. And maybe if your head wasn’t causing such agonizing pain, you’d notice him looking more at you instead of where you were walking, his eyes laced with worry. It’s just a headache he tells himself, but he worries anyway because it’s you.

Jason gets you to bed, you swearing you can get into bed just fine but he doesn’t take that for an answers. You fainted in front of him and now he’s determined to not let you do anything until you’re feeling better. You’re his best friend and while it’s a migraine, he doesn’t want you to hurt yourself more or prolong the pain. So, he pulls the blankets over you and takes your phone from you before putting it on silent and putting it on your nightstand.

“Did you need anything?” He asks, trying to hide his concern from his voice.

“No,” You say softly, comfortable in your bed now and glad to be able to sleep. “Thanks.”

Jason nods, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Text me if you need something, alright? Don’t go getting up and making shit worse.” Jason offers an awkward laugh.

“Yes, sir.” You mutter, giving him a soft smile.

“I mean it.” He warns as he starts walking towards the door.

“Thanks, Jay.” Your voice is a little louder this time so you know he’ll hear you.

Jason smiles softly. “Yeah.” He nods at you before leaving your room, shutting the door slowly and quietly to allow you to sleep.

Jason leaves you alone for a few hours, casually passing by your room every fifteen minutes just in case. Of course, Jason doesn’t realize he’s passing by so often. He’ll go into one of the living areas and then conveniently remember he needed something from his room which is next to yours. Or he’ll go back to the library only to realize he needed something from the kitchen which means he has to pass by your room. He plays this little game for a few hours, getting an eyebrow raise from Bruce every time Jason passes him in a different room. After the fifth time, Bruce finally just asked what was going on. Jason tried to brush it off with “Forgot something again.” Bruce didn’t press but figured it had something to do with you. Jason isn’t the forgetful type and it made Bruce chuckle softly to himself.

But, after that few hours, Jason got a bit stir-crazy worrying about you. You’re his main form of entertainment here. You’re both either training (to Bruce’s dismay) or joking with each other or reading. You show him a lot of movies and TV shows he’s missed. You’re always together and now he’s just bored and worried. So, he makes his way to your room around 10pm with a glass of water and he knocks softly, hoping it wasn’t too loud but that you heard him. You don’t answer though and Jason feels a bit more worried, so he opens the door just slightly to look inside.

You’re asleep in the same exact position he left you in. Your room is completely dark, the currents drawn and the TV off. But, Jason shines just enough light into your room to stir you awake. Your eyes peek open, catching a blurry glimpse of him in your doorframe, able to make out his dark hair.

“Jay?” You question, barely noticing the throbbing of your head slightly better than it was a few hours ago.

“Sorry.” Jason mumbles. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t die or some shit.” He brushes the worry from his words, trying to act casual.

“I’m alive.” Your voice is weak, stinging Jason’s heart.

Jason takes a step in the room, leaving the door cracked so he can actually see you. “Feeling any better?” He asks.

“Migraine is still kicking.” The sarcasm in your voice is even weak and Jason feels so bad for you.

And he’s still worried because you don’t normally nap this long. It makes him wonder if you nap just long enough to ease some of the migraine but still keep up appearances. But now he does know, so maybe your migraines do last this long after all this time and he feels horrible.

“Well,” Jason walks over, resting the water on your nightstand which you definitely take note of. Was that the excuse he was going to use if you were awake? Bringing you a glass of water? That’s kind of sweet. He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to get my stuff then.” He holds his head up high, chest puffing out slightly. “Gotta make you sure you don’t croak in your sleep or something.” Jason nods his head, giving you this half-cocked grin. “Or,” Jason clears his throat. “Just in case you need something.”

“In case I need something?” You wanna make fun of him so bad, you love making fun of him. It’s how you two show affection but, you’re actually curious where this is going. The migraine might still be kicking, but the curiosity has now taken over.

“Yeah,” He shrugs casually. “I don’t want you to suffer longer so if you need something, you won’t have to deal with it.” He shifts his weight from his toes to heels.

“Awww.” You manage the quip with a smile.

“Shut the fuck up.” Jason chuckles softly, dodging his eyes from you for a second. “So, I’m staying in here tonight and you’re just gonna have to suck it up.”

“Fine.” You try to sound stern but there’s a smile playing at your lips and your chest bursts of warmth with having Jason stay in your room.

That’s something neither of you do. You are friends and the flirting sometimes gets a bit…too flirty. There’s a difference between two friends flirting and joking around and whatever the hell the two of you do. You always get just a little too close to Jason and Jason always comes up with a quip that’s said a little too seriously. There is this invisible line neither of you have ever crossed because it overcomplicates a fun situation. Jason doesn’t think you’re into him that way and you think if you were to ever tell Jason, he’d laugh or make it weird. But, maybe this is a good opportunity to try something a little less flirty and fun and try something a little more casual and soft.

When Jason comes back, he’s in grey joggers and a loose black t-shirt. He has a pillow with a beige pleated pillowcase under one arm and a matching blanket draped over the other arm. He said he’d go get his stuff but you were certain he was just being dramatic. Jason has always had a flare for the dramatics. And a part of you thought for sure Jason was just going to slide into bed with you with a cheeky grin because that’s just Jason. But, he doesn’t. He puts his pillow on the floor beside your side of the bed. You eye him with suspicion, not moving your head and you want to laugh but you know it’ll just hurt.

“What’re you doing?” You ask once Jason sits on the floor.

He looks at you with, what you swear seems to be innocence. “Sleeping on the floor?” He questions back, not sure why you’re asking.

You let out a huff, smiling down at him. “Can you just sleep in the bed with me, please?” You ask and at this point, you don’t even want to deny the fact having him next to you would at least bring you comfort. You always sit close to him because it’s comforting but having him sleeping next to you now with a throbbing migraine? That might be the only thing you actually want, besides the pain to stop.

Jason gains this smirk and devious look in his eyes. “Oh, want me in the bed, huh?”

“Shut up.” You groan. “I said please.” You pout a lip at him and Jason swears he thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world.

“Since you asked so nicely, babe.” He emphasizes the word and your stomach spins with butterflies.

Jason walks to the other side of the bed and gently flips the blankets up to get underneath them. He tries to play this off in the cool, calm, and collected way he tries to play everything like this, getting a little too close to you. His heart is thundering in his chest and he tells himself that you’re just being nice because he’s being nice. This is a nice, friendly thing to do to make sure you’re okay and he doesn’t wake up with back pain in the morning. This is a casual, friendly thing you’re doing.

You roll over slowly, careful not to move your head too much. The migraine is just barely starting to subside but you know if you move too much or try to stay awake, it will come back with a vengeance. So, you remain careful as you move closer to Jason. He stretches his arm behind your head almost instinctively, careful not to hit to your head with the movement. Your head lays on his chest and you have to admit, he is so warm.

Jason brings his arm around you, pulling you closer to him and this is kind of nice. He wishes your head wasn’t in pain so maybe this would be something a little more or something would come out of it. But, he’s so sure that you’re only willing to cuddle with him like this because you’re in pain and for a reason he doesn’t fully understand, you find comfort in him being here. Your head is aching but this is the most comfortable you’ve been in forever. Jason is comfortable.

“Thanks for checking on me.” You whisper to him, your eyes closed as you listen to his heart still thundering in his chest. “And the water.”

A bashful smile comes to his lips. “Yeah,” You feel him huff under you. “‘Course.”

“Why is your heart beating so fast?” You ask.

Jason pauses, his eyes widening. How is he somehow at a loss for words? He’s never at a loss for words but how’s he supposed to answer that without admitting anything? Your question and his running through about it just made his heart beat faster.

“Are you...nervous?” A gentle chuckle leaves your lips, you wincing with the throbbing.

“Fuck off, no I’m not nervous.” Jason groans.

“Okay, Jason.” A snicker comes from you. “Seriously, thank you for staying.” Your voice is quiet and coated in a honey-like sincerity.

Jason sucks in a breath and honesty isn’t exactly his thing. Not that he lies, he just doesn’t say how he feels but you’re kind of really important to him.

“Yeah, well, I’d kind of doing anything for your ass.” Jason chuckles.

“I know.” You smile to yourself. You know he would. He’s a bit rough around the edges and he has his issues that he’s kind of trying to deal with, but you know he’d do anything for you. “I’d do anything for you, too.” You admit, just sensing the deadpan expression he’s giving you. But before he can turn it into some type of flirty, taunting banter, you continue. “Goodnight, Jay.”

“Night, Y/n.” Jason lets out a sigh, rubbing your back lightly.

You fall asleep first, the migraine fully wearing you out and Jason offers the perfect amount of comfort. He’s soft and there’s a firmness of his chest that isn’t hard or too stiff. It’s just firm enough to offer support and just the right amount of soft. You think he makes a better pillow than your own (which is insane since Bruce did not skimp on the pillows). Jason, on the other hand, he stays awake a little longer.

It’s been harder for him to fall asleep ever since Deathstroke. But, tonight, that’s not where his head is focused and he has to admit, it’s a bit cathartic. He’s so careful not to move or tense up with you so peacefully asleep under him. He doesn’t want to disturb you because of your migraine and he doesn’t want to disturb you and make you move away from him. You keep him calm and turn his brain off for a little bit. He always chalked it up to you being friends. You’re one of the only people who ever really listened to him anyway and that always helped a bit but, he’s looking down at you with this gentle smile and that’s his real ‘oh shit’ moment. 

It’s not just flirting for fun or the joking banter, but a genuine liking between him and you. Deep inside, he knew why he was worried about you and why his heart was beating so fast. Deep down he knew why he didn’t risk immediately getting into bed with you, because he didn’t want to scare you off and risk you turning him away from the room altogether. But, right now with the dark room and you asleep on his chest, finding comfort in him, he knows and he knows he won’t be able to ignore the warmth in the pit of his stomach. So, he closes his eyes and settles with the thought of maybe. With the thought of maybe something happening between the two of you and the thought of maybe this becoming your thing because that’s where he finds comfort. In the thought of maybe.

The next morning comes around and you wake up first, bright and early. Your head is a bit groggy from the migraine but you’re finally away from the pain. As long as you get some food and water, it should stay away. You’re in such a state of relief the migraine has finally released you from it’s grip, you almost don’t realize your head is still on Jason’s chest. It only takes less a minute for you to realize it but it’s long enough to surprise you.

You sit up slightly, looking at him and for once, Jason Todd looks peaceful. There’s a blooming happiness that pulls at your heart as you watch him. He’s had it rough and he never really looks at peace, not fully but he does right now and you adore him so much. You don’t think he sees how happy he makes you and you wish he did. Jason Todd also deserves to live in peace and happiness with love and acceptance and that’s all you ever really want for him.

“Hey.” You whisper, poking his cheek softly. “Jaaaayyyyyy.” You hold out his name, poking his cheek again as he scrunches his face and you swear it’s the cutest thing in the world.

“What?” He mumbles, voice drenched in sleep, almost incoherent. 

“You’re kind of cute when you’re sleeping.” You keep your voice a whisper and it’s the most graceful alarm Jason has ever had. Alarm even seems like too harsh of a word to call you.

He peaks an eye open at you, managing this expression of a cross between annoyance and teasing. “Just my face, babe.” He has this tired smirk that gets your stomach in a twist.

“Eh.” You shrug at him while he opens his other eye. “‘S alright, I guess.” You tease him and the annoyance evaporates from his expression.

“How long’ve you been up?” Jason asks, enjoying the lively expression back on your face.

You look like the sun now which he thinks is a cheesy thought but it’s true. Last night, you looked like a rain cloud and not even the cool ones that are large and fluffy, consuming the whole sky in lumps of deep greys and blues. No, last night you just looked like the rain smog around Gotham, gloomy and tired.

“Just a few minutes.” You answer casually before running a hand through his hair. It’s wild this morning, curly strands standing up and scattered about the pillow.

“What’re you doing?” Jason laughs, eyes looking up at your arm and back you.

“Messing with your hair, it’s shockingly soft.”

“Shockingly?” Jason chortles. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” You laugh back, pulling your hand away and resting it on his chest. “Thought it would be stringy.”

Jason’s brows furrows, the smile still tugging at his lips. “Yeah, okay, perfect sense.” He jokes with you and there’s something about how this feels right now. It’s not the tension-filled flirting the two of you do. There’s something so domestic about it that he really likes. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” Your eyes widen dramatically.

“Alright, what do ya want?” Jason wiggles his brows at you. “I’ll cook.”

Your brows shoot up with surprise. Jason has cooked for you a handful of times, but it’s not that he really offers. He just kind of makes something and then tells you to try it. “What’re you up to, Todd?” Your eyes narrow at him playfully.

Jason shakes his head, smile turning down and then twitching back up. “Just being nice.”

“Well, I won’t turn down food.” You laugh softly before telling him one of your favorite breakfast foods.

“You got it.” Jason nods at you while you get off of him so he can get off the bed.

“Are you gonna bring it to me?” You pout up at him as he looks down at you. He thinks you look pitiful in the cutest way possible.

He shakes his head and he wants to argue it, tease you but he can’t. “Fine, but you owe me.” Jason has a one-sided grin as he points a finger at you jokingly.

“I’ll take that.” You beam a smile up at him, shocked he actually said he’d bring it to you.

Jason tosses the idea around in his head and you’re clearly feeling better, so why not? “How about a date then?” The words are much smoother than the frantic thoughts in his head. He’s a bit panicked that he just asked that, thinking maybe you’d actually say no or laugh. He’d be devastated if you did and then probably hide out in the Batcave for the rest of the day.

The smile falls from your face for a second, unsure if he’s joking or not. He doesn’t look like he’s joking. He actually looks pretty serious despite the devious grin on his face. There’s a pleading in his eyes that tells you he’s completely serious and you just can’t believe it. You thought Jason just liked flirting and maybe he does, but you thought that’s all it was. It was something you just accepted after a few months at Titans Tower. You just accepted that’s all it would ever be but now? It seems as if it’s real.

“Seriously?” You ask, your voice not giving Jason any indication on how you feel about it.

He shrugs a shoulder, trying his best to play it off. “Yeah, why not?”

The smile comes back to your face and you can feel the heat coming to your cheeks. “Yeah, okay. When do you wanna go?”

Jason’s heart is exploding into fireworks across his chest. You actually said yes. But, he didn’t think he’d get this far into the conversation so now he’s just stuck making it up on the fly. “Tomorrow?” Jason asks, figuring tomorrow would be better in case you need today to recover from the migraine.

“It’s a date.” You’re beaming up at him and the giddiness consumes your bones like a kid in a candy story for the first time.

“Awesome.” Jason smiles widely, looking to the floor and back to you, a few strands of his hair bouncing onto his forehead. “I’ll go make your breakfast and bring it to you then.”

“Thank you, Jay.” You give him a toothy smile. “You’re gonna eat with me right?”

“I guess.” Jason wrinkles his nose, his cheeks starting to ache from the smile.

“Okay, well hurry up, I wanna hear about this date you have planned.” You tease him and watch him stiffen just slightly.

“Just for that,” Jason says as he heads for the door. “I’ll take my sweet ass time.”

“Or, you could hurry up and come back to bed.” You taunt him, brushing your hand over his side of the bed and you can see his jaw clench.

“Fuck, yeah, alright.” Jason groans, knowing he’s lost and you fall into a fit of laughter, a sound Jason adores. “I’ll be right back.” Jason says before quickly leaving the room, leaving your door open just a bit.

You fall back into the pillows, ecstatic that you have a date with your best friend and he’s making you breakfast. A part of you finds it funny that this whole thing is because you fainted over a migraine.

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Tag list: @fairyofshampoo // @jasontoddsmentaldisorders // @purplerose291 // @lovelessamai  // @makaelaseresin​

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 1

oc, m, hayfever, wc: 2.8k

Part 2

CW: foul language and allusions to gay sex lol

~~

a.n. + summary: i don't think i've ever posted a snzfic on this blog, but there's a first for everything, right? featuring my lovely little ocs and their stupid dumb little band. i don't normally write them in snzcerions, but...every now and again i can’t help myself and one slips through the cracks lol. This particular one centers around my absolute shithead of an Irishman, Peter, as he deals with a hayfever flare up for the first time in like…twenty years, lol. of course, ever the lucky one, this begins to happen during the band’s first mini-tour. Cue shenanigans. I hope you all enjoy!

~~

“hH’RRSHhiue!” Peter fell into himself with a harsh sneeze, the band’s rundown van jerking sporadically with its driver’s sudden movement. “Goddamnit!”

“Bless.” Geoff offered lazily from the passenger seat as he turned a page of his book, unbothered by the vehicle’s erratic veer. “That’s like the tenth one since we’ve left Dublin.” The bassist pointed out, shooting the guitarist a pointed look from the corner of his eye. “You alright?”

“Fuckin’ hayfever,” Peter answered as he scrubbed his palm aggressively against the underside of his nose, careful not to put too much pressure against his nose rings. He followed it up with a drawn-out sniffle. “I’m fine. Christ.”

“I don’t remember ya being like this before,” Maurice quipped from the back of the van, leaning forward to join in on the conversation. “I mean hell, ya lived in Dublin fer how many years…?”

“Longer than you, Frenchie.” Peter retorted as he thrust a tattooed hand backwards to try and shove the singer away. Maurice easily dodged with a laugh, swatting at Peter’s hand as Geoff instinctively reached out to steady the van as it began to swerve again. “You can piss right off.”

“Look, I’m just sayin’, yer born and bred Irish — who knew all it took was a few months in London for yer own country to turn on ya.”

“I said piss off.”

“Who gives a shit!” Chris suddenly interjected as he pulled his headphones from his ears, a curly lock of the drummer’s dark hair falling between his eyes. “Just keep your bloody eyes on the road! I dunno ‘bout you lot, but I’d like to get there in one piece.”

Maurice backed off with a snicker, hands up in surrender as Peter quickly flipped Chris off in the rear view mirror before returning his full attention to the road.

After Peter and Maurice had both left Dublin for London a few months shy of one another, the four men began to pour almost all of their free time into their passion project, The Undergrounds. Much to their genuine surprise, people seemed to really enjoy their band’s sound and performances, so much so in fact that they’d hit a point where pubs across the UK were beginning to reach out to them, asking the group to come play for their open mic nights, with some even offering payment. With the requests getting further and further away from their homebase in London, the band finally decided to bite the bullet and buy themselves some transportation, namely their shithole of a van lovingly referred to as Van Halen. Despite its old clunkiness, it really did do the trick, and allowed the men to head across the border on their first ever ‘Let’s-Not-Call-It-A-Tour’ Tour. Realistically, with two of the four members being from (or as close to ‘from’ as one could be, in Maurice’s case) Ireland, the band had picked up quite a bit of traction across the small country with the men getting many open mic night requests which they normally had to turn down, much to Peter’s dismay.

At least until now, that is.

Peter had noticed something was off after their show in Dublin the night prior. At first he just assumed he strained his voice singing backup vocals — a product of over-excitement from getting to play in his old stomping grounds. But by morning the scratchiness in his throat lingered and was now accompanied by faint itchiness in his nose that forewarned him of worse yet to come. 

By the time the men packed up their gear and filed into the van late that afternoon, the unwelcoming prickle that had been festering in his nose demanded more attention, and his eyes began to itch in a maddening way that he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid back in Belfast. Initially he tried to ignore it, chalking it up as a residual reaction to dust from the old pub, or that it had been awhile since Van Halen had gotten a good clean. But as time slowly passed on their nearly three hour drive to Cork, and the itchiness in his sinuses progressed into full-blown sneezing, the reality of the situation began to dawn on him. He was immediately thrust back to Belfast, memories of summers spent constantly sneezing thanks to the fields near his old home, his eyes watering, his nose running, each summer spent absolutely miserable. He hadn’t had a hayfever flare-up in years, thinking it was something he had thankfully outgrown once his mum had moved them to Dublin, but yet here it was, back to rear its ugly head once more all these years later. The familiar lush scents of the countryside that used to conjure such vivid memories of home were now turning every intake of breath the guitarist took into a gamble. 

The itchiness in Peter’s nose only seemed to increase in urgency as Van Halen bumped its way through the Irish countryside. The landscape blurred past the windows, a mix of greens and greys under a sky that threatened rain.

“Nearly there.” Geoff hummed, taking a peek at the map app on his phone. “About another twenty or so.”

“Thank fuck.” Peter grumbled with a sniffle, his eyes squinting past the relentless itchiness. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and pulled his glasses up slightly before slamming his wrist into one eye and scrubbing hard.

“I think we could all do with a pint,” Maurice chimed in, trying to lighten the mood. “Especially you, Peter.” He added, gently poking the man’s shoulder.

Peter managed a weak chuckle in response, his wrist still pressed hard into the corner of his eye. 

“Just keep it steady Pete, yeah?” Chris leaned himself forward and rested his elbows onto his knees, eyes scanning the road ahead. “Not much longer and you can go ahead and drown yourself in whatever local brew you fancy.”

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but the van hit a particularly bumpy patch of road, jolting everyone inside. Instead he just swore under his breath, turning his full focus back towards the road as Cork began to appear on the horizon.

“There she is.” Geoff whistled, pointing ahead. “Welcome to Cork, lads.”

Peter managed to manoeuvre Van Halen expertly through the narrow streets of Cork despite battling his allergic reaction, the van’s tires crunching over cobblestone as he pulled them into the parking lot of their dingy motel.

“Home sweet home.” Maurice hummed as he clapped a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as the other two members filed out. “At least fer the next few days.”

Peter leaned back into the driver’s seat and let his eyes drift closed as he exhaled deeply, shutting off the engine. He only cracked an eye back open when he felt Maurice give his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You alright?” The singer asked, his voice low and expression soft.

“I’m grand, Mur.” Peter grumbled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. The real truth of the matter was that he was miserable, itchy, and absolutely dying for a cigarette — not that he cared to say any of that out loud. 

The guitarist pulled off his glasses to give his watery eyes another scrub before continuing. “Just got a fierce bad dose of this nonsense…This shite best be all said and done before our show or I’ll–hh! hH’ITSHHhiue!”

“See, but that’s what we don’t wantcha doin’, actually.” The blonde teased as he patted the guitarist’s shoulder before the other quickly slapped it away as if he were swatting a mosquito.

“You fuck right off, Murry.” Peter sniffled hard, dragging the backside of his hand beneath his nose. “Just get yer shit and get goin’.”

Maurice did as he was told and hopped out of the van with Peter not far behind as the pair hurriedly began to help the others unload. With the sky steadily darkening the four moved quickly, eager to avoid the potential rain. Luckily the unloading and reloading of Van Halen had become more and more familiar with each passing gig, and it didn’t take them long to have all the necessities laid out beside the van, ready to go.

The motel itself was a shabby vintage looking two-story building, its neon sign flickering with an almost uncertain intermittence as if it were clinging onto its last shred of life.

Maurice and Geoff took the lead, carrying the group’s heavier equipment while Chris and Peter followed suit with their four bags. They bustled their way to the reception desk where they were met with a disinterested looking clerk who simply handed them a single worn key with a faded plastic tag attached.

“Yer in room 107.” He mumbled, barely looking up from his magazine.

“Cheers, mate.” Geoff scoffed as he shot the others an exasperated look and snatched the key. He led the group down the dimly lit hallway, their feet dragging against a carpet that had clearly seen better days. When they reached their room Geoff wasted no time unlocking the door and shoving it open, revealing a tightly packed space with two queen beds, a small television, and a bathroom that looked like it hadn’t been updated in at least two decades.

“Alright, how we doin’ this?” Chris asked as he tossed the bags he had onto the closest bed.

“By drawing straws, of course.” Geoff instructed as he pulled a set of straws he had prepared earlier out of his pocket. “Shortest straw shares with the other shortest straw.”

The others agreed on this being fair enough and drew their straws, quickly comparing them.

“Well, it’s you and me, innit?” Chris said as he held up his short straw next to Peter’s. He gave the other a playful nudge and smirked. “Just don’t go tryin’ nuffin, yeah?”

Peter sniffled thickly and shoved Chris away before pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, careful to avoid the rings, and itched it aggressively. “I got enough of ya the first time.” He moved from rubbing his nose to scrubbing his eyes, trying to ignore the way Maurice bristled at the mention of their one-off fling. “Won’t be doin’ that again.” Chris flipped him off and called him a wanker, but he went ahead and ignored that too.

“Hey, Pete,” Geoff called out as he tossed his bag onto the other bed. “Why don’t you take a shower? Might help clear up a bit of that hayfever.”

Peter, who’s eyes had started to glaze over, did his best to nod in the ginger’s general direction. “That’s the best ideee-hha I’ve heard all d—hh! hhUH’DITSHhhiuew! ‘IGKSHhhiueww!” He doubled over hard into cupped hands, his entire body tensing violently with each sneeze before he groaned thickly against his palms. “—all damn day.” He finished on an exhale, voice cracking. “-snf- Jaysus…”

“Bless you.” Geoff offered, a twinge of sympathy in his voice. “You know you really ought to—”

“G’way outta that.” Peter interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand as he trudged his way to the bathroom, eyes half-lidded. “Last thing I need is yer bloody mother hennin’, Geoffrey.” He added before pulling the door closed behind him. 

Flicking the light switch, Peter had to wait a full second before the dull fluorescents sputtered to life, illuminating the unsightly bathroom as he dragged his feet towards the shower. The tiles were cracked and the floor was splotchy, but he didn’t care, he just wanted some relief. 

The pipes whined in protest as he turned on the taps before water began to sputter out from the shower head. The water pressure seemed abysmal at best, and Peter cursed to himself as he leaned his weight against the sink, waiting for the water to warm. As steam steadily started filling the small space, he could feel the tightness in his sinuses ease up slightly, making his nose run. The liquid caught on his septum ring and trailed rapidly down towards his upper lip. Blowing out an annoyed breath, the guitarist took a second to wipe his nose haphazardly against his sleeve before stripping and stepping into the tub, letting the warm water cascade over him with an appreciative sigh.

Outside of the bathroom Geoff and Maurice were seated on each side of their shared bed as they sorted through their bags.

“Think he’ll live?” Maurice asked as he pulled out his plastic toiletry bag, setting it to the side.

Geoff gave a small shrug in return, glancing towards the bathroom door. “I reckon it could go either way with that dumb git.”

Maurice snorted at this, but his knit brow betrayed his feigned air of nonchalance. “Just hope the shower helps, I s’ppose. Don’t think we can really afford to have him down fer the count.”

Chris, already sprawled out on the other bed, headphones back on, piped up. “Eh, he’ll be alright. Just needs to wash off whatever’s settin’ ‘im off. It’s no big, yeah? You French people are wound too tight.”

Maurice rolled his eyes at this but chose to ignore the drummer’s comment. “I just don’t want anythin’ to screw this up for us.” He murmured as his eyes fell onto the bathroom door. “That’s all.”

“hh-Hh! hH’dDZTShiueww!” Peter sneezed loudly and openly, his head snapping downwards as the shower’s stream continued to steadily pelt against his tattooed back. He blinked hard, eyes bleary as the need to sneeze lingered in his nose like an unwelcome houseguest. Instinctively he brought up a hand to hover over the lower half of his face as his breathing began to come out in shuddering, shallow gasps. “hah…Ha’TdSHhhiuew!” This one bent him double and he swore immediately afterwards, more than a little frustrated as he blew his nose harshly into his hand. Had his hayfever always been this maddening? He couldn’t remember. It had been a long time since he’d had a flare-up, probably pushing two decades at least. The thought that it had come back now during the band’s first tour just pissed him off further.

Sighing, Peter turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching out for one of the worn threadbare towels from the hotel rack. He dried himself off quickly before wrapping the towel dangerously loose around his waist – the only member who had yet to see his dick was Geoffrey, and the guitarist couldn’t give less of a shit if today was the day that changed.

Wiping a hand across the fogged bathroom mirror, Peter allowed himself a moment to peer at his reflection as he dragged a hand through his damp, dark hair and threw on his glasses. His green eyes were still red-rimmed and watery, his nose and cheeks were decorated with a soft dusting of pink…he looked pathetic, but at least the shower was helping him breathe a little easier.

Residual steam billowed out into the cooler room as Peter made his way out of the bathroom, catching the eye of Maurice.

“Peter,” The singer looked up from his bag and offered the dark-haired man a small smile, taking in the other’s lean frame. “How ye fairin’?” 

“Bit better, I’d say.” Peter hummed, though a small sniffle still escaped him as he wandered over to his bag, making Maurice frown.

“Reckon you’re up for a drink?” Geoff asked, not looking up from his phone. “We were thinking of checking out this pub nearby. Interested?”

Peter mulled it over for a moment, turning his back on the others before dropping his towel and pulling on a pair of boxer-briefs. “Yeah, g’wan then.” He finally affirmed, clearing his throat against a fist as he fished an old t-shirt from his bag. “Pint’ll do me some good.”

“Are ya sure?” The singer asked, chewing on his lip nervously as Peter wiggled into a pair of jeans. “If yer not feelin’ up for it–”

“Sod off, Maurice, will you?” Chris suddenly retaliated as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Actin’ like you’re his bloody mum or somefin’ just cos you’re shaggin’. Prat.”

Peter couldn’t help but snort as Maurice glared daggers at Chris, his face turning a delightful shade of crimson. The fact that he and Maurice slept together on occasion wasn’t exactly a secret – their initial one-night stand was how the two had met in the first place, after all – but it wasn’t something that was often discussed amongst the group. Peter personally didn’t care, but Maurice clearly did.

“You don’t see me actin’ like a bloody bellend even though I’ve also sucked his–”

“Ça commence à bien faire!” Maurice shot up suddenly from the bed, cutting Chris off as his native tongue spilled rapidly from his mouth. “Fer the love of God, no more, thank you!” 

The singer hurriedly made a beeline for the hotel room door, grabbing his coat as he rushed past the others, his face absolutely aghast as the others snickered. “Just…hurry up, then! Christ, I need a feckin’ drink…”

“I think we all do.” Geoff huffed as Maurice stepped into the hall. “C’mon, lads. Let’s go.”

[iamyoursonly]

My safe haven (25/12/2023)

merry christmas guyssss! i’m here to serve you a meal so enjoyyyy

Wearing my headphones, I sit down at a seat on the train back home. My heart and soul can’t wait till the moment of relaxation home comes. I was so excited to finally go home after a whole week of overtime. I really am tired, physically and somewhat mentally too.

The ride was a bit bumpy, about an hour long I’d say. I enjoyed the quiet time alone… Music playing in my ears as I read the book I have kept in my bag for a few months already. One page and another, I scanned through the lines of words, reading every single one of them.

Enjoyable times flies by, am I right? The train reaches its final stop — my stop — as I reluctantly get off. Holding the book in my hands, I jog out of the subway and head to the bus station.

The Christmas decorations in the subway were bright, children were carolling in the station and shops had sales for this festive holiday. I couldn’t help but stop and admire the decorations at the bakery in awe. I take out the scarf from my bag and wrap it around my neck, scared that I might get a cold from the weird weather right now.

My phone buzzed when first I stepped out of the subway, the cold wind blowing in my face. I breathed out a big breath, seeing my own breath in the air. Then I take out my phone, hands freezing.

S: Are you home yet?

You: Almost there

The time was about eleven at night when I finally reached home — my little haven of peace. I love how comforting the environment always is and how well it reflects my personality, the quietness of it and the calmness it brings me. I take off my shoes, and turn on the lights for the living room. A tall and lean figure was seen spreading all over the couch after the lights were turned on.

“Satoru? What are you doing here? On the couch really? You’re going to break your fucking back, dude.”

He stands up, looking a bit offended by my comment. “Hey! First up, I have the right to be here. You gave me the key, alright? Secondly, where if not the couch. Your bed? Lastly, I am not going to break my fucking back, dude. I’m just twenty eight.”

I mutter a little curse under my breath, “You little shit. At least take care of your mess! Do you think I won’t catch the chip crumbs on the couch?”

He quickly tried to swipe the crumbs onto the floor to ‘remove the evidence’ of his ‘crime’. It’s actually really funny I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

I noticed that Satoru let out a visible blush when I started laughing, it was adorable to be honest. But then he started laughing along with me.

“Would you like a coffee?” Satoru asks, “I want to apologise about the mess.”

I stop my laughing and hit his head lightly, “You dumbass it’s 11 right now, do you want me awake for the whole night?” I mutter.

He says sorry quickly though, and promised to get me coffee at a more appropriate time. Then he proposed to play nintendo games together. I kept losing to him but it doesn’t matter.

We have always had so much fun together, since forever ago, because the ‘home is my safe haven’ thing is a lie. The truth is, Satoru is my safe haven. He doesn’t know it though.

A few years ago, his mother met up with me personally after she heard from an ‘unknown source’ that I have a thing for his son. It’s not like I was in any position to deny this fact, ai just didn’t want to accept it yet. But I was definite that the person that told her was my ex that had always been angry at me for always hanging out with Satoru.

“Here take the money and stop everything you’re doing with Satoru.” That’s all I remember her saying but all I did was keep my stance and say no. Then I burst out of the room crying, and ended up in Satoru’s arms again. Telling him all about it.

He went to talk to his mother the next day and he was grounded for a week. That week I felt alone and empty and sad without him. And started to over think that I was the bad influence for him. So I asked my mother if I could transfer schools, at least somewhere away from Satoru. Because as long as Satoru is happy, I am.

I remember seeing a girl on Satoru’s instagram stories, apparently she was his girlfriend and it was just to ‘take his mind off all this drama’. Not that I’m blaming him though. I could only make myself believe that: I’m the coward that ran away and I don’t deserve him.

When I thought the ‘feelings’ were finally over after five years of ‘No Satoru’, I returned and took up a nine-to-five job as a secretary for the company Satoru’s family owned.

It was just to test out if I still had the butterflies in my stomach when I glance at Satoru’s pretty face. Well they’re still there, all that distance and time away didn’t really work.

“Hey! Satoru! The crumbs are on the floor now, oh my god! Why do you keep doing this to me every time you come to my house! Do you really want me to get into trouble with your mother again?”

He let out a slight chuckle, “It’s fine, because I’ll be there with you this time.”

I breathe out, “What?!”

He continued, “Have I ever told you why I came back to you after you left for so long?”

“To be honest with you, Satoru. I don’t really want or need to know, because you’re here now and that’s what it matters. But go ahead and talk.”

He smiled and nodded, “You know when you left, I was practically a living corpse. At least my mom said I was. I didn’t want to believe that you were gone. I thought that you were strong enough to trust me to handle this… But you were gone. And when I realized it was a little too late. I gaslighted myself that you were just going on a small vacation and you’ll be back soon. But the next time I saw you was at your job interview. And you were working for my top employee, you didn’t know how happy I was, I may have cried tears of joy in the bathroom.”

I hug him, “Sorry for leaving. And thank you for telling me all this”

He hugs me back, “Yeah. Can I tell you something?”

I nod, “Go ahead, Satoru.”

“I like you.”

Well that was the thing that I least expected he’d say. ‘I like you’? Really? Was I happy? Or was I not. But I just wanted to fling my arms over his shoulders and give him a big hug and an even bigger thank you.

But we’d be good at dating, since we’ve known each other for so long, we already fought and figured it out. We have known each other’s likes or dislikes, and he could take me out on dates filled with joy and fun. Maybe we could try it out, even if it ruins the friendship. It’s worth it if it’s ruined for you.

So I hug the taller male, smiling on my face and also deep down, “Thank you. Thank you for liking me.”

I didn’t know what to say, it was a bit shocking. Maybe it all just happened too fast, or was it because I couldn’t process too much and was just hallucinating. I pinched my cheek hard and I was everything BUT hallucinating.

“Is this real?” I asked Satoru.

He looked at me with a smile and smiled, “Unfortunately, yeah.”

I hit his chest because of his childishness, “I can’t with you.”

“But you like me too don’t you?” He shrug.

“What did you say??!” I start yelling at him, grabbing the TV controller that was on the couch. “Come here, boss. Let me hit some sense into you!”

He run away frantically, as a joke of course, he knew I was joking, that’s how well we know each other. Then I catch him, I grabbed ahold of his waist from behind, “Caught you.”

He hold his hands up like he had just been arrested, “Oh no! I have been caught.” He said with a tone of sarcasm. He turned around and held me up, I was shocked of course, I yelped when he first did. Then his face was close to mine, so close I could feel his breath on my face.

“I really like you, I’m not joking.”

Feeling brave, I grab his face. “Guess what, I like you too.”

Then I kiss him, and it was ethereal, as if all the butterflies in my stomach had exploded. And it was just like the world has left the two of us behind. Just him and I.

“Really?” He breathed out, “You mean it?”

I continue holding his face, looking him in the eye, “What do you think? Does it feel unreal?”

Satoru chuckled, and held my face too, “It does.” My face grows red from it, I don’t know if it was because of the cold or because of him anymore, but either ways I’m grateful enough to have him here already.

“Also, sweetie. You’ve made my year even more special,” He says, and I look at him. The clock chimes, signalling that it’s now 12am, “Now I can finally change my way of saying ‘Merry Christmas’ to you. I’m going to say ‘Merry Christmas, darling’ from now on.” I could just smile at this sweet gesture, “Then what should I say? ‘Merry Christmas, ‘toru’?”

“I’d like that.” Satoru says, then he leans down and kisses me again.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas, ‘Toru.”

This Christmas, and the next and the next next, until forever. I wish to be in his embrace, his warmth and pray that our love will be eternal.

BONUS:

“Look here, princess.” He says, making my eyes look at him on command, “Yes, dear?” I mimic his tone as I look at his gorgeous eyes. He laughed when I did.

“What??” I asked, pouting, “So it’s only funny when you do it?”

He jokingly commented, “Of course it is, no one has my sense of humor.” I playfully hit him and he dramatically pretended if I had hit him in the gut hard. “Oh my god that hurt so bad!”

He really has a nice sense of humor.

masterlist

[shelfthe-reader]

Greetings mutual of mine, tis I, completing my duties as a mutual to randomly send you questions :D

I dare you… to rant about a character who deserved better GO

(lets pretend this hasn’t been sitting for two weeks)

So my instinct was to start yapping about my #emotionalsupportwhiteboy Jason Grace but I doubt I can say anything new about him. Or be able to be coherent since all of his lore just flew through the window. Then I thought Will Solace or Nico di Angelo but they are too obvious (since they were literally Rick’s punching bags). But instead I give you Darrel Curtis from The Outsiders and LET ME TELL YOU WHY (SPOILERS FOR THE OUTSIDERS IF ANY OF THE MUTUALS ARE WANTING TO READ THIS INCREDIBLE PHENOMENAL BOOK)

A/N: To make this as fair as possible, I’m ONLY focusing on characterization from the book. Reason being I’ve never seen the movie so I’m not able to average out the three major lores (book, movie, musical.) It’s only fair if I do either the original or all. Not partial lore.

I’m not quite sure if this counts as “deserved better” but it’s still tragic

I first read this book tthan our protagonist Ponyboy Curtis.

At that age, I HATED Darry. I didn’t sympathize with him, I thought he was a terrible person, etc. All of my energy went into crying for Johnny, and deciding that Pony and I were the same person. I didn’t give a shit about Darry’s actions. I thought he deserved what came to him.

But then, in my senior year of highschool (this year, 2024 for those in the future if this post gets resurrected), I picked up the book again, read it three times in four months, annotated it, and watched the musical. As I’m writing this, I’m rereading my annotations from last month.

Now enough with this exposition, let’s get into my rant about Darrel Shaynne Curtis Jr.

***

Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days. (The Outsiders, pg 10)

Darry was one step away from being set for life- he was a Greaser who could get out. He was smart, he had non-Greaser friends; he had a football scholarship and was set for college.

He was either 19 or freshly 20 when BOTH of his parents get killed in an accident leaving two kids under 18. Naturally, being the soul he was, he immediately gave up his dream to keep his hooligan family together. They all knew that if he went to college it would be over for the family. There’s only so much you can do in Poor-ass, bum-fuck Nowhere, Oklahoma. And Darry does it all.

On top of working stupid hours in stupid conditions hauling stupid amounts of roofing, he has to parent a teenager who knows too much for his own good. This book is written in first person, and while Ponyboy defends his every decision, you can tell he doesn’t have the street smarts his brothers grew up with. And you can tell that stresses Darry out even more, even with the amount of times Pony insults/shit talks his brother.

Does Darry deal with this well? Hell no. I’d be surprised if he did. So much stupid in one week can drive a person crazy (believe me, I know.) Now, I don’t condone smacking children for ANY reason, but I think here, Darry was in that brother/father limbo and crossed into brother territory. Like have y’all NOT smacked your siblings? But went royally wrong here is that because he acts so much like a “father-overlord” to Ponyboy so often, Pony couldn’t even compute the fact that Darry could ACTUALLY act like a brother sometimes. In the park with Johnny, he even compares it to Johnny being hit by his father. Apparently being a brother doesn’t describe Darry anymore

The REALLY heartbreaking part is the reunion after ✨The Fire✨. When his “Alpha male, if I don’t feel anything it would be better for all of us” facade shatters and he just KNOWS that he inadvertently causes everything after page 58. That’s another burden that no man should EVER carry.

It took a murder, a fire, a rumble, a death, a suicide, a three-day fever dream, and Soda running away for Ponyboy to finally understand what Darry does to keep him safe and I think that’s the most tragic thing of all.

Am I just talking in circles? Probably. I’m never coherent when talking about my traumatized characters.

As a treat for staying the entire length of this essay/incoherent rant, here are the bones of an Outsiders playlist I’m making.

[prpfz]

🪼 — hi hello !! eighteen + they/them. looking for anyone 18+ who’s interested in marvel or the mcu !!

with the new deadpool and wolverine movie out, i’ve been getting sucked back into my mcu fixation !! i’m currently looking to write a canon x oc dynamic, where i write a male oc against deadpool !! i don’t write canon x canon. please do not ask me for that.

i prefer doubling up and encourage multiple threads and pairings !!! so if you have twenty different ocs you want to use that each have their own love interests and plots, i’m so down to do that !! i haven’t watched the recent movies/shows, nor have i read the comics. we can definitely discuss what we want to write in and what content we each are familiar with ! we also don’t have to write the recent deadpool movie to avoid spoilers, so i’m completely okay with just doing our own thing with his character !! i have a ton of other love interests and characters too, which we can throw into other plots if you’d like !!

i prefer writing mxm and fxf (as well as any gender neutral pairings), but i can be convinced to write mxf, as long as the muses have chemistry and it’s not a heteronormative dynamic. (basically just strong emotionless man x docile submissive woman.)

i’m advanced literate to novella, so minimum word count is at least six hundred. my average tends to hit more than one thousand for each side. i write on discord only, with me making us private servers.

very smut and concept friendly !! i love writing dead dove themes into plots and often work with a 50:50 smut to plot ratio !!! i have very few limits, so i’d really appreciate writing with someone who does too !! i won’t list out everything i’m open to writing since it’s a lot, but we can discuss everything in private !!

to avoid any kind of misunderstandings, i’ll be sending a google doc of my rules, preferences, and writing samples in the first few messages. this is just to make sure we’re on the same page when we’re plotting !! like this post and i’ll get back to you as soon as i can !! if you’re into talking ooc, making art, pinterest boards, aesthetics, playlists of our ocs, building an entire world with lots of ocs and characters, and being friends, please interact !! i’d love to actually talk to someone and gush about the roleplay together !!! <3

Leave a like, and anon will get back to you!

[lovelyleclercs]

Chapter Two- You Can't Hide This Forever

Arthur Leclerc x Sofia Sine

-> Sofia doesn't want to tell Arthur the truth, especially after he gets emotional over a movie scene.

word count: 1581

warnings: Mentions of cancer + I wrote this at like 3am and didn't read through it so I'm sorry if its complete chaos lol

A/N: This is a small little baby chapter that wasn't apart of the original storyline, however I wanted to write something about Charlotte finding out that Sofia is sick.

Sofia had seven days to figure out how she was going to bring up her diagnosis to her sister Charlotte. Seven whole days to figure out what the proper way to tell her would be. Seven days of bracing herself for the emotions that might overtake her the moment she says the three words she dreaded the most for the first time. Yet all she could do was hand her the paperwork from her doctor’s visit. 

Charlotte took the paperwork from Sofia’s hands and glanced through the first couple of pages before landing on the fourth page where the word cancer caught her eye. She paused for a moment, reading the sentence over and over again. After nearly five minutes of silence, she finally put the paperwork down on the counter and looked up at you. “How are you feeling about this?” 

Charlotte’s words hit Sofia like a truck. As she picked at the skin around her finger nail, she looked at the window and sighed. “Devastated, confused, scared, stressed, sick… I don’t know” she said quietly as she felt tears well in her eyes. “I’ve been sitting alone in this apartment for the past seven days trying to understand how this could happen to me. How I have done everything possible in my lifetime to be as healthy as possible and yet here I am, twenty years old getting diagnosed with cancer…”

Charlotte sighed and sat down beside Sofia, not really knowing how to respond to her comments. “Life just sucks sometimes, sissy. It’s the way it goes…”

Sofia nodded and wiped her tears away. “Dr. M wants me to start treatment immediately so my first appointment is tomorrow.”

Charlotte sighed and looked at Sofia with sorrow written all over her face. “I fly out to Italy early tomorrow morning with Charles for a sponsorship event, but maybe Arthur could go with you?” 

Sofia smiled sadly and shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. I’d rather go alone.”

Charlotte looked at Sofia and sighed, knowing all too well that the real reason she didn’t want Arthur to tag along is because she didn’t want to tell Arthur her diagnosis. “You can’t hide this from him forever, Sof. He deserves to know, he is your best friend…” 

“I understand that, Char but if I tell him he is going to want to quit racing to be by my side 24/7 and I can’t have him do that. Not when he finally got to F2, not when he promised Herve he would race in F1 someday, not when my diagnosis is so similar to Herve’s…”

Just as she was about to continue her sentence, she noticed Charles was standing behind her. She had no idea that he had somehow managed to sneak in without notice, but she knew that he had heard everything she just said. 

“You have cancer?” he asked quietly, almost in disbelief that someone he loved was going through this all over again. Charles had already lost two important people at a young age, he couldn’t bear the idea of losing a third. 

Sofia nodded slightly, unable to make eye contact with him anymore. “I found out last week” 

Charles sat down in the empty chair next to Charlotte and put his hand on her thigh, knowing that this was probably hard on her too. “When does your treatment start?”

“Tomorrow”

“Arthur can take you, he wanted to come visit you tomorrow anyways”

“No. I don’t want arthur to know i’m sick”

“Sof, you two never keep anything from each other… if he finds out that you’re hiding this from him, he’s going to be devastated…”

Sofia stared out the window. Everything that both Charles and Charlotte had said were true. Arthur was your best friend, he would in fact be devastated if he found out you were hiding this from him and yes indeed he deserved to know. The whole conversation was making your head spin. That familiar dizziness came back as your mind continued to repeat Charlotte’s words.

You can’t hide this from him forever, Sof.

He’ll be devastated if he finds out you kept this from him.

He deserves to know the truth.

He’s your best friend. 

When Sofia felt two familiar arms wrap around her, she practically burst into tears. It was Arthur, she could tell without even opening her eyes. She knew his hugs like the back of her hand. Arthur looked at both Charlotte and Charles, extremely confused as to why Sofia was sobbing in his arms. The two of them shrugged at Arthur, knowing that it wasn’t their place to tell him what was going on. “Sof? Are you ok?” 

Sofia wrapped her arms around him tightly and buried her face into the crook of his neck. She had no idea how badly she needed his comfort all week until this moment. He was the only person who could comfort her during her worst moments, and the only person who could make her laugh until she cried in her best moments. She knew that she needed to tell him- that going through this healing journey would be impossible without him- but was telling him going to be the right decision? 

Arthur’s voice very quickly snapped Sofia out of her thoughts. “Come on, Sof. Let’s get you upstairs and into bed, ok? I’ll order us a pizza and we can watch a movie and eat some pizza like we used to do back in our karting days.”

Sofia nodded, knowing that spending some time with Arthur was much needed. Arthur grabbed her hand and walked with her up the stairs, opening the door to her room, allowing her to go in first like he always did. When Sofia stepped into her room, she very quickly realized how messy it was. Tissues everywhere, clothes thrown around, and a few plates and cups from the few meals she had eaten throughout the week were scattered around her room. It was very unusual of her to have such a messy room as she was usually a neat freak, but this past week had proved to be too exhausting for her to even care. 

Without any hesitation, Arthur began picking up her room while she changed. He knew where everything went as she had watched her clean her room several times. When Sofia had finished getting changed, she came out of her bathroom and found her bedroom to be completely spotless with no signs of Arthur anywhere. Sofia couldn’t help but smile a little, relieved that she got to go to sleep in a clean room for the first time in eight days. She climbed into bed, tucking herself in under the covers while she waited for Arthur. 

Nearly thirty minutes had passed and part of her wondered if he was even coming back. However only a few more minutes had passed before Arthur walked into her bedroom with a pizza box, two plates and napkins, as well as two coca-colas. Sofia sat up a little and smiled at him. “Thank you for cleaning up in here, you really didn’t have to do that. You also didn’t have to buy pizza, so thanks for doing that too.”

Arthur smiled and sat down beside you, pulling the covers over himself before opening the pizza box. “You’ve clearly had a rough week, it was the least I could do for you. How many slices do you want?”

“Just one, please. I’m not that hungry right now” 

Arthur nodded and placed a piece onto both of your plates before setting the box on the nightstand. Sofia handed Arthur the remote, indicating to him that she wanted him to choose the movie. Sofia watched as he scrolled through several movies before finally landing on one. 

A Walk to Remember. 

Sofia leaned back, knowing very well that this movie used to be one of her absolute favorites, however right now, it was probably the one movie on their list that she didn’t want to watch. Sofia had made it through the first part of the movie just fine, eventually she had cuddled up to Arthur like she typically did during a movie. Arthur wrapped his arm around her, not taking his eyes off the screen once. 

The scene where Jamie tells Landon that she was sick had started and Sofia felt like it was a punch to the stomach. Soon enough, she was going to have to do what Jamie did and tell the one person that mattered most to her in this world that she was sick. She heard Arthur sniffle, making her look up at him. There were tears in his eyes. Arthur had never cried at this movie before, he always would make fun of Sofia for balling her eyes out, so when she noticed his tears, she grew confused. “Art? Are you ok?”

“I’m sorry it’s just… I can’t imagine if you ever… got sick like that you know?”

“Art I-”

“I know I know. The chances of you getting cancer are very slim and you’re ok, you’ll be fine. It's just.. What if? You know?” 

Without saying another word, Sofia just nodded and rested her head back onto his chest. Every part of her wanted to tell Arthur that she was sick, that she did have cancer and she was scared. Seeing Arthur’s reaction to even just the idea of her being sick absolutely broke her. There was no way she could tell him now, right? 

Chapter Three

Tag List: @hammick @Cl16msc47 @majkaftorek @04asheley16 @itsrogersstuff

[papyrus-in-practice]

Hey, y’all! I wanted to give an update on Papyrus in Practice and other related stuff.

“It’s been about a year, where’s the next page!?”

Wow, when I saw it’s actually been a year, I kind of blanched a bit. I didn’t mean for the hiatus to last that long. Next page is actually done. In fact, a couple of pages are either done or close to done. I’m trying to build up a big buffer so that, hopefully, there will be a smaller gap between updates in the future. My plan is to have eight pages completed, line art for four pages done, have the script for the next scene done, and have a couple of pages worth of sketches ready. As I’m typing this, six of the eight next pages are done with the remaining ones in various stages of completion and two of the four next pages have finished line art. I’ve been working and reworking and re-reworking the script for the final scene for the past twenty months and honestly frustrated in how to wrap up the chapter in a satisfying way that won’t make me stuck on chapter 4 for another two years because the climax and conclusion is so long. So, that’s where I’m at now.

“I wrote something in the ask blog and didn’t get a response.”

I read every comment and every ask sent to me and, most likely, have at least attempted to write a script to answer it. But, I gotta weigh my options. Do I answer it at risk of delaying Papyrus in Practice for another month or focus on the comic? Depending on how elaborate the answer is, it might take a while to make a response. There are also things I just don’t know how to answer to and, believe me, I’ve tried coming up with a good answer, but I’m also still learning about life myself and I’ve found that, sometimes, my answer to a question has changed a lot over time. Sometimes, I’m afraid of saying something that’s ultimately harmful. It’s a tricky balance. At the end of the day, I've never guaranteed a response to any ask and never will guarantee a response. There are still some asks that I'd like to get around to, maybe if chapter 4 finishes or I get burnt out while making it and need a change of pace.

“Are you actually a therapist?”

Yup. I just graduated this past May with a masters in art therapy counseling. My title right now is a qualified mental health professional or QMHP. I’m waiting to take the National Counselor’s Exam to obtain my LPC but government paperwork is a looooong process(seriously, some of my colleagues have been waiting in the queue for over a year to get their LCPC). In the meantime, I can still practice as a therapist as long as I check in with a supervisor and have been practicing and slowly building my caseload for the past couple of months.

“Can you be my therapist/give therapy to this person?”

The short answer is no. The long answer is that there are a lot of ethical concerns when it comes to providing mental healthcare and breaching ethical guidelines could impede therapy progress, bring potential harm to the client, myself, or I could get in big legal trouble. I can also only practice if the client is located in my home state and goes through the company I work for since I need supervision to practice. However, I’d be happy to provide resources like websites that help you find a therapist, even for a reduced price, or self-help sites that can help you learn skills and develop tools to use that can boost your mental well-being. I cannot, however, provide mental health services.

“Will (insert character’s name) meet with Papyrus?”

Maybe. I’ve got ideas for characters in mind, but it’s more a question of how much longer I want to be doing this for. I’ll be honest with y’all, I’m getting burnt out. I want to do different projects or even revisit older projects, but I tell myself I can’t do that until I finish Papyrus in Practice or, at the very least, finish chapter 4. I didn’t think this chapter would go on for as long as it has, but it also makes sense. We’ve already hit page 25 which is almost as long as the entirety of chapter 3 and I don’t even know if we’re halfway done with the chapter yet. The way it’s looking, chapter 4 may easily hit at least 50 pages.

“So, when will you be posting again?”

Soon! Hopefully, before the end of the year. When I start updating again, I’ll be posting one page every other week which gives at least a few months of content for y’all.

That being said, I’ll see you soon!

-Meemie

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Agitation 3.3 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

“No,” Brian intoned, “Such a bad idea.”

Awww, but isn't that a villain rite of passage?

(Yes, yes, I've read like 17 versions of the fic scenes where they point out it's a bad idea, all probably derived from this chapter)

“Come on,” Lisa wheedled, “It’s a rite of passage for dastardly criminals like us.”

Lisa. You're the Undersiders. Right now, you guys are anything but 'cool' and dastardly is reserved for 'cool' villains.

“Robbing a bank is moronic.  We’ve been over this,”  Brian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, “You know what the average haul is for hitting a bank?” Lisa paused, “Twenty thou?” “Exactly.  It’s not millions like you see people getting away with in the movies.  Banks don’t keep a lot of loose cash on hand, so we’d be pulling in less than we would for most other jobs

Okay, yes, Banks don't keep a lot of loose cash, but really? Only twenty thousand? That's a lot of armored trucks going in and out every day then or something.

“We won because we picked our battles.  We wouldn’t have that option if we were cooped up in the bank and waiting for them to come to us, letting them decide how and where the fight happened.”

Brian, you're talking to Rachel, who I believe is the physical embodiment of this tumblr post:

I’d almost forgotten I was a part of the discussion.  The last thing I wanted was to rob a bank.  Hostages could get hurt.  The fact that it would potentially put me on the front page of the paper wasn’t a high point, either, if I ever wanted to drop the supervillain ruse and become a hero in good standing.  I ventured, “I think Brian makes a good case.  It seems reckless.”

Come on Taylor! You know you wanna just cut loose! :P :rofl: (Jk)

“Figure that’s happening in the middle of the school day, and they won’t all be able to slip away to stop a robbery without drawing attention.  People know the Wards are attending Arcadia, they just don’t know who they are.  So everyone’s constantly watching for that.  Since they can’t have all six or seven of the same kids disappear from class every time the Wards go off to foil a crime without giving away the show, chances are good that we’d go up against a couple of their strongest members, or one of the strongest with a group of the ones with less amazing powers.  We can beat them.”

And if a certain overstressed healer hadn't been there to make a withdrawal, this probably would have been fine.

That, and he really wants us to do a job at that particular time.”

I believe that screams 'BAIT!' and 'YOU ARE A DISTRACTION!'

“They have ride-alongs or aerial cover from various members of the Wards and the Protectorate, so we’d be caught in a fight with another cape from minute one.  Same problems that Brian’s talking about, as far as getting caught up in a fight, difficulty accessing the money before shit goes down, yadda yadda.  Anyways, the Brockton Bay Central has cars coming in twice a week, and leaving four times a week.  We hit on a Thursday just after noon, and it should be the best day and time for the sheer size of the take.  Only way we’re getting away with less than thirty thousand is if we fuck up.  With what the boss is offering, that’s ninety thou.”

Not a bad chunk of change for a lunchbreak sized job.

Brian sighed, long and loud, “Well, you got me, I guess.  It sounds good.”

If Brian isn't physically facepalming when he says this, he has to be mentally. Just... such 'fiiiiiiiiiine! (exasperated)' energy.

Arguing against the bank robbery at this point would hurt my undercover operation more than it helped anyone.  With that in mind, I began offering suggestions that – I hoped – would minimize the possibility of disaster.  The way I saw it, if I helped things go smoothly, it would help my scheme to get info on the Undersiders and their boss.  It would minimize the chance that someone would panic or be reckless and get a civilian hurt.  I think I would feel worse if that happened than I would about going to jail.

Fair, on the civilian front. I have no idea how many civilians Taylor hurts, but it's probably low. Also, the rationalizations continue apace!

The discussion went on for a while.  At one point, Lisa got her laptop, and we debated entrance and exit strategies while she sketched out a map of the bank layout.  It was uncanny, seeing her power at work.  She copied a satellite image of the bank from a web search into a paint program, then drew over it with thick bold lines to show how the rooms were laid out.  With another search and a single picture of the bank manager standing in front of his desk, she was able to mark out where the manager’s desk was.  That wouldn’t have been too amazing, but without pausing, she then went on to mark where the tellers were, as well as the vaults, the vault doors and the enclosed room that held the safe deposit boxes.  She noted where the fuse box and air conditioning vents were, but we decided we wouldn’t mess with either of those.

It's amazing what you can find on the internet... and with a power that lets you do what Sherlock Holmes pretends to.

Of the four of us, I got the impression he had the least to contribute, at least strategically, and that he knew it.  I wasn’t sure if he just didn’t have a very tactical mindset or if he just didn’t care that much about the planning stage of things.

Despite the fact that he is (according to fanfic, not sure if this is canon) a sociopath, and at the very least, fucked up thanks to being one of Heartbreaker's Kids, Alec may be the most normal of the Undersiders.

And boy is that weird to say.

“Sure,” he said, “So let’s go down the list.  Team leader: Aegis.  You’d think he has the standard Alexandria package, flight, super strength, invincibility, but that isn’t exactly right.  He does fly, but the other two powers work differently than you’d expect.  See, he isn’t invincible… he just doesn’t have any weak points.  His entire biology is filled with so many redundancies and reinforcements that you just can’t put him down.  Throw sand in his eyes and he can still see by sensing the light on his skin.  Cut his throat and it doesn’t bleed any more than the back of his hand would.  The guy’s had an arm cut off and it was attached and working fine the next day.  Stab him through the heart and another organ takes over the necessary functions.”

*Me, shaking the powers* WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE NORMAL?!?!?!

“I don’t need to hold back?” Bitch asked, her eyebrow quirked. “For once, no.  Go nuts.  Just, you know, don’t kill him. 

Very important that you added that extra detail there, Brian :P

“The upside is that whoever he touches is also untouchable.  Can’t be hurt, can’t be moved.  Period.  He uses that defensively, and he can do stuff like throw paper or cloth in the air and freeze it in time, making an unbreakable shield.  You don’t want to run into something that’s frozen.  A car that drove into the side of a piece of paper that Clockblocker had touched would be cut in two before it budged the paper.”

Everyone, get ready for our favorite game here at @got-into-worm-by-mistake!

*Wheel of Fortune Audience Voice*

POWERS!

ARE!

BULLSHIT!

(I say this a lot. I'll say it more. Because I absolutely love how nothing about any power in Worm can be 'normal' powers. Genuinely. Favorite part of the story that isn't my poor little meow meow babygirl Amy)

“Wherever our powers come from, they also came with some limitations.  For most of us, there’s a restriction about using our powers on living things.  The reach of powers generally stops at the outside of a person or animal’s body.  There’s exceptions for the people with powers that only work on living things, like you, Alec and Rachel.  But the long and short of it is that the Manton effect is why most telekinetics can’t just reach into your chest and crush your heart.  Most people who can create forcefields can’t create one through the middle of your body and cut you in two.”

I feel like maybe Taylor would have researched this more/better?

“I said most,” Lisa said, “Why these restrictions exist is a question nearly as big as where we got our powers in the first place.  The capes that can get around the Manton effect are among the strongest of us.”

And maybe, bitch, that's why you don't help tilt the girl who is teetering on the edge of becoming an S-Class threat over said edge?

(I am entitled to be irrational about some things.)

“That just leaves Shadow Stalker.  Bloodthirsty bitch,” Brian scowled.

AYYYY! Sophia! You horrid little bitch!

(Do we find out before Taylor does that Sophia is Shadow Stalker?)

“She was a solo hero,” Tattletale said, “Vigilante of the night, until she went too far and nearly killed someone, nailing him to a wall with one of her crossbows.  The local heroes were called in, she got arrested, and made some sort of deal.  Now she’s a probationary member of the Wards, with the condition that she uses tranquilizer bolts and nonlethal ammo for her crossbow.”

Furthers the whole "heroes kinda suck, be a villain" messaging from Interlude 2, really.

“I am,” I admitted, “as well as third thoughts, fourth thoughts, and so on.  But I’m not going to let that stop me.  I’m coming with.”

Valid af though.

“So unless there’s anything else, I think we just planned a bank robbery before noon,” Lisa said with a grin.  I looked at the digital clock displayed under the TV.  Sure enough, it was half past eleven.

Either Lisa is having too much fun with this, or the other Undersiders are having too little fun with it.

[dross-the-fish]

Omg I love the anon kissing Hyde scene! Can we have a drabble about it?

Sure. Here you go, one short scene that ends in a kiss.

...

As Edward Hyde’s loud and smelly motorcar swerved down the road Anon found themselves wondering if agreeing to go with him had been a good idea. Everything was whizzing by in a blur, the lights from streetlamps and shopwindows leaving golden streaks in their peripheral vision. Edward’s head was thrown back, his grin ecstatic as the wind whipped his hair back.

“What a thrill it is to be alive!” he crowed.

For lack of anything else to hang on to Anon gripped his arm and buried their face in the fur of his coat. Finally, much to their relief, the car screeched to a halt.

“You can let go, we’ve arrived!” Edward chirped, giving Anon’s hair a ruffle and chuckling at the death grip they had on his sleeve.

Shakily they peeled themselves off of him and exited the car.

“Must you drive so fast? What if you hit someone?”

Hyde snorted, “Please, I know what I’m doing. If anyone so much as put a scratch in my car I’d disembowel them,”

Anon suspected that was neither a joke nor an exaggeration. Deciding not to press the matter further they took a look around. They had stopped in front of an elegant townhouse overlooking the river Thames.

“Been nearly twenty years since I was last here, but I couldn’t bear to see it sold off to some rich fool,” Hyde fiddled in his pocket until he pulled out a key, “Had a little trouble hanging on to it legally but forging paperwork is the least of my crimes,” key met lock with a soft clink and when Hyde turned it the metal gave a tired groan and resisted him, almost as though the house was loathe to welcome him back.

With a sharp twist of his hand the door yielded and creaked open. A hallway stretched before them, to the right a staircase leading to the second floor and to the left a spacious sitting room. Dust and cobwebs laid a grey film over elegant furniture. On the table a glass lay on its side and an old newspaper was spread out, as though someone had been reading. A faded, moth-eaten robe was draped over a chair and the fireplace had not been cleaned. It was as though the occupant had stepped out from the middle of their very life and simply vanished, leaving their home frozen in time.

Anon looked down at a pile of unopened mail stacked neatly on a side table. All addressed to a Dr. Henry Jekyll.

“Is this you?” they asked indicating the letters.

Hyde stared at them, cat-green eyes looking overly bright in the dim light, “No. He died. Probably for the best, he wasn’t strong enough to live my life. He was too soft, too used to luxury and comfort. It’s only me that could have survived in the end.”

Anon tilted their head curiously, “You knew him well?”

“We were close,” Hyde grunted shortly, it was clear that he had no desire to speak further of Henry Jekyll. With his cane he indicated a small door past the stairway, “That’s the lab down there, follow me.”

The door to at the end of the hall lead to a landing and a short stairwell that descended to a narrow, sunken and secluded courtyard. The connecting building was a stark contrast to Dr. Jekyll’s neat and luxurious home and there was something Anon found foreboding about the boarded-up door situated below the street level.

“Mmmm,” Hyde rumbled, “That’ll be trickier to get in, looks like they’ve sealed the door.”

“Maybe we could work the boards loo-“ Anon was cut off by a crash of shattering glass as Hyde swung his cane into one of the windows, knocking out ever pane and tearing down the wooden frame.

“Mind you don’t cut yourself,” Hyde said curtly as he crawled through.

Anon crawled after him, doing their best to avoid the glass. The lab was in shambles, broken vials strewn across the table, a large shattered mirror and ripped pages from a gutted journal scattered around the floor, as though someone had violently smashed everything in the room.

Edward seemed unfazed by the mess, not caring for the crunch of glass under his feet. He squatted in front of an old dresser next to a splintered work table and rummaged before producing a single vial of iridescent green liquid.

“There it is, one of the older versions of the formula, didn’t quite work as intended and it wore off in minutes but it had a rejuvenating effect and it purged a lingering illness from my body. Hopefully I can break this down and build up a new version of the serum for young Mr. Talbot,” He stopped to survey the lab, his countenance glum and sober, “I could have done something world changing here. If only I had wanted it,” he laughed bitterly, “I still don’t want it!  Not really, not out of any sense of charity. I’ll only ever want it because it would make me wealthy and respected again! I really am a monster,” with a burst of despair he swung his cane into the chaos of broken glass and wood, further splintering it. He fixed Anon with a bitter grin, “Don’t you find it disgusting?”

They remained silent, making no move to condemn him. They only looked at him softly and a little sadly, as though they could see something that moved them. Discomfited by their lack of shock Hyde’s mood shifted and an ugly look of wrath crossed his face, “Well I don’t apologize for it! I’m not sorry and I never will be! So go on and hate me for it!” he snarled.

At a loss for words Anon did the only thing they could think of in the moment, it was a foolish and irrational thing, born from some deep, unfathomable emotion that they could neither articulate nor justify.

They kissed him.

Edward froze, shocked by the display of tenderness. Bite their lips off, beat them, kill them! The staccato thrum of his heart seemed to urge, but he found when he raised his hands to Anon’s throat he did not have the desire to squeeze. He rested his hands at their neck, thumbs stroking their jaw as he returned the kiss. He had always liked kissing, even as Jekyll the sweetness of kisses had been a weakness he’d rarely resisted, even when he was too cowardly to take more from a prospective lover.

When Anon pulled their lips away he stared at them red-faced, “I ought to push you into that broken glass and knock some sense into you,” he said weakly, without conviction, “What on earth possessed you to do that?!”

Anon smiled shakily, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. You just…seem like you need a kiss every now and then,” they said, their hands remained fisted in Hyde’s coat.

Hyde drew them back down his eyes burning intensely from under the shadow of his dark hair, “Aye, and now that you’ve started I’m not going to let you stop. Not just yet…”

[abbygrabska]

The Sound of Drums

The Doctor stares at the screen showing Saxon walking down with an entourage, “Abby?” The woman at his side is indeed Abby.

“I said I knew that voice. When he spoke inside the Tardis. I’ve heard that voice hundreds of times. I’ve seen him. We all have. That was the voice of Harold Saxon.”

“That’s him. He’s Prime Minister.”

“Mr. Saxon, this way, sir. Come on, kiss for the lady, sir.”

“The Master is the Prime Minister of Great Britain.” The Doctor watches, heartbroken as Saxon kisses Abby, “The Master and his wife.”

“This country has been sick. This country needs healing. This country needs medicine. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that, what this country really needs, right now… is a doctor.” 

I walk beside Harry, my lovely husband through the hall.

Clerks hand him files as we pass. We stop outside the door to the Cabinet Room.

“I’m so proud of you, Harry.” I kiss him softly.

“Bless.”

“Uh, sir…” We both turn to face a black woman. Her face seems confused as she keeps glancing at me.

“If you don’t mind me asking… I’m sorry, but it’s all a bit new. What exactly do you want me to do?” She asks.

“Oh yes, what was it, uh…?” “Tish. Letitia Jones.” She glances at me.

“Tish. well then, Tish… You just stand there and look gorgeous.” Harry enters the cabinet room.

“What happened?” Tish asks.

“What do you mean?” I furrow my brows in confusion.

“You and Martha? I thought you were dating?” She asks.

“I’m sorry.” I let out a small laugh, “I don’t know who that is.” “My sister. You and she went to Lazarus Laboratories with your friend, the Doctor? I think. That’s where we met.”

I purse my lips, “I’ve never met you before today. I can’t say I have a clue what you’re talking about.”

I sit in a room alone, embroidering a piece of fabric, the door opens. “Mrs. Saxon, Vivien Rook, Sunday Mirror.” A woman holds up a press card, “You’ve heard of me.” “Oh, can’t I just have an hour to myself?” I ask rhetorically. “Oh, strike while the iron’s hot, that’s what I say, Abby. I can call you Abby, can’t I? Now, everyone’s talking about Harold Saxon, but I thought, ‘What about the wife?’ All I need is twenty minutes.” “Oh, I think maybe we should wait.” I glance to the connecting door. “The headline’s waiting to print: The Power Behind the Throne.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Britain’s First Lady.” “Gosh.” “Front page.” “Oh, well, I suppose…” I continue with my embroidery, “Go on then. Twenty minutes.” “Excellent! Thank you! Oh, oh, what was it? Oh, Tish. Now you can leave us alone.” Vivien hands Tish her coat. “No, but I’m supposed to sit in.” Tish tries to protest, looking to me.

“No, no. It’s… it’s only a profile piece. You know, hair and clothes and nonsense. There’s a good girl. Out you go. That’s it.” She pushes Tish out the door and closes it, “Mrs. Saxon, I have reason to believe… that you’re in very great danger. All of us, in fact. Not just the country, but the whole world.”

I look up from my work, “What are you talking about?” “Your husband is not who he says he is. I’m sorry, but it’s a lie. Everything’s a lie. All of it. The school days, his degree, and even his mother and father. It’s all invented.” She holds up a photo, “Look, Harold Saxon never went to Cambridge. There was no Harold Saxon. The thing is, it’s obvious. The forgery is screaming out and yet no one can see it. It’s as if he mesmerized the entire world. 18 months ago, he became real. This is his first, honest-to-god appearance, just after the downfall of Harriet Jones. And at the exact same, they launched the Archangel Network. Even now they say that the… the Cabinet has gone into seclusion. I mean, what does that mean, ‘seclusion’?”

“I’m not sure.” I don’t notice that my hands are still working. “And that’s why I'm asking you, Abby. I’m begging you. If you have seen anything, heard anything, even the slightest thing that would give you cause to doubt him…” I blink, looking down at my hands, the embroidery is a man’s face. I touch the fabric gently. A tear hits my hand, “Doctor…” “What?” I look up, suddenly awake, “What am I wearing?” I stand up, looking at my clothing, “Where’s the Doctor?”

“Oh, great. You woke her up.”

I freeze as his hand rests on my shoulders, “Do you have any idea how long it took to put her under the first time around?” He snaps his fingers twice, and four metal spheres appear.

“Can’t you hear it, Mrs. Rock?”

“What do you mean?” “The drumbeat. The drums coming closer and closer.”

The spheres head towards Vivien, spikes now sticking out from their lower halves. “The lady doesn’t like us.”

“Silly lady.” “Dead lady.” The Master pulls me out of the room and shuts the door, deadening the screams.

I try to get out of his grasp, “Let go of me!” He sighs, grabbing hold of my head and looking deep in my eyes, “Sleep.”

I go limp in his arms.

“But he’s got a Tardis. Maybe the Master went back in time and has been living here for decades.”

“No.” “Why not? Worked for me.” Jack asks. “When he was stealing the Tardis, the only thing I could do was fuse the coordinates. I locked them permanently. He can only travel between the year 100 trillion and the last place the Tardis landed. Which is right here, right now.” “Yeah, but a little leeway?” “Well… 18 months, tops. The most he could have been here is 18 months. So how has he managed all this? The Master was always sort of… hypnotic but this is on a massive scale.” “I was gonna vote for him.” Martha admits. “Really?” “Well, it was before I even met you. And I liked him.”

“Me too.” Jack says.

“Why do you say that? What was his policy? What did he stand for?” Martha speaks dreamily, “I dunno. He always sounded… good.” Her fingers start tapping, “Like you could trust him. Just nice. He spoke about… I can’t really remember, but it was good. Just the sound of his voice.” “What’s that?” The Doctor asks.

Martha seems startled out of the tapping, “What?” “That! That tapping, that rhythm! What are you doing?”

“I dunno. It’s nothing. It’s j… I dunno!”

The phone rings.

Martha doesn’t bother to pick up. “Hey Martha, it’s Tish. I was wondering what happened between you and Abby? I asked, ‘cause I work for her husband and she said she didn’t know a Martha. And I found this embroidery she did, it’s of your friend, the Doctor. When I asked her about it she seemed dazed, wouldn’t even look at it. Anyways, call me back!”

The Doctor looks at the wall, jaw clenched.

A tune plays from the website. ‘Saxon Broadcast All Channels’ appears onscreen.

The Doctor turns on the TV, “Our lord and master is speaking to his kingdom.” On-screen, Saxon is sitting in front of the ornate fireplace in the Cabinet Room.

“Britain, Britain, Britain. What extraordinary times we’ve had. Just a few years ago, this would was so small. And then they came, out of the unknown, falling from the skies. You’ve seen it happen… Big Ben destroyed a spaceship over London. All those ghosts and metal men. The Christmas star that came to kill. Time and time again the government told you nothing. Well, not me. Not Harold Saxon. Because my purpose here today is to tell you this… citizens of Great Britain… I have been contacted. A message, for humanity, from beyond the stars.” The Master nods to someone off-camera. A video plays of one of the spheres delivering the message, “People of Earth, we come in peace. We bring great gifts. We bring technology wisdom and protection. And all we ask in return is for your friendship.” “Ooh, sweet. And this species has identified itself. They’re called the Toclafane.” “What?”

“And tomorrow morning they will appear. Not in secret, but to all of you. Diplomatic relations with a new species will begin. Tomorrow, we take your place in the universe. Every man, woman and child. Every teacher and chemist and lorry driver and farmer. And every… oh, I don’t know… medical student?” The Doctor whips around to look at Martha before turning the TV around, finding a bomb ready to go off. The Doctor grabs the laptop as they rush out into the street just as the front window of her flat explodes.

“All right?” The Doctor asks.

“Fine, yeah, fine.” “Martha? What are you doing?”

Martha is using her phone, “He knows about me. What about my family?” “Don’t tell them anything!” “I’ll do what I like! Mum? Oh my god, you’re there.” “Course I’m here, sweetheart. You all right?” “I’m fine. I’m fine. Mum, has there been anyone asking about me?” Francine is not alone, there’s a blonde woman listening in on the conversation, “Martha, I think perhaps you should come ‘round.” “I can’t! Not now!” “No, but it’s your father. We’ve been talking and we thought we might give it another go.” “Don’t be so daft! Since when?” “Just come ‘round. Come to the house, we can celebrate.” “You said you’d never get back with him in a million years.” “Ask him yourself.” Francine hands the phone to Clive. “Martha, it’s me.” “Dad? What are you doing there?” “Like your mother said, come ‘round. We can explain everything.”

“Dad? Just say yes or no. Is there someone else there?” Clive pauses, “Yes! Just run!” He gets up and heads for the door.

“Clive!” “Listen to me! Just run!” He gets grabbed by two men, “I don’t know who they are!” “We’re trying to help her! Martha, don’t listen to him!” “Dad! What’s going on? Dad?”

“I gotta help them!” Martha runs to her car.

“That’s exactly what they want! It’s a trap!” “I don’t care!” The Doctor gets into the front passenger seat while Jack takes the back.

Martha drives recklessly down the road.

“C’mon, Tish. Pick up!” 

“Martha, I can’t talk right now. We just made first contact. Did you see…” Two men take her by the arms and carry her backward up the stairs, “What are you doing?!” Tish drops the phone, “Get off! Linda, tell them!”

“What’s happening?! Tish!” Martha glances at the Doctor, “It’s all your fault! It’s all your fault!”

“I was helping you! Get off me!” Francine shouts at the men, just as Martha comes around the corner and stops the car, “Martha, get out of here! Get out!”

“Target identified.” The police take position.

“Martha, reverse.”

“Take aim…” The police aim their weapons at the car. “Get out, now!”

Marhta reverses into a 3-point turn.

The police open fire.

“Move it!”

As they take off down the road, bullets shatter the rear window.

“The only place we can go… planet Earth.” Martha speaks sarcastically and upset, “Great.” “Careful!” “Now, Martha, listen to me. Do as I say. We’ve gotta ditch this car. Pull over. Right now!” The three exit the car and head off on foot.

“Martha, come on!”

Martha is on the phone, “Leo! Oh, thank God! Leo, you gotta listen to me. Where are you?” Leo is walking along a promenade with his girlfriend and their son, “I’m in Brighton. We came down with Bocer. Did you see that Saxon thing on the telly?” “Leo, just listen to me. Don’t go home, I’m telling you. Don’t phone Mum or Dad or Tish. You’ve gotta hide.” “Shut up.” “On my life. You’ve gotta trust me. Go to Boxer’s. Stay with him. Don’t tell anyone! Just hide!”

“Ooh, a nice little game of hide-and-seek. I love that. But I’ll find you, Martha Jones. Been a long time since we saw each other. Must be, what, one hundred trillion years?”

“Let them go, Saxon.” The Doctor turns around as Martha shouts into the phone, “Do you hear me?! Let them go!” The Doctor takes the phone from Martha, “I’m here.” “Doctor.” The Master grins, looking at Abby, who sits in the corner in a trance-like state, embroidering.

“Master.” “I like it when you use my name.” “You chose it. Psychiatrist’s field day.”

“As you chose yours. The man who makes people better. How sanctimonious is that?” “So… Prime Minister.” “I know. It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Who are those creatures? ‘Cause there’s no such thing as the Toclafane. It’s just a made-up name like the Bogeyman.” “Do you remember all those fairy tales about the Toclafane when we were kids? Back home. Where is it, Doctor?”

“Gone.”

“How can Gallifrey be gone?” “It burnt.”

“And the Time Lords?” “Dead. and the Daleks… more or less. What happened to you?” “The Time Lords only resurrected me because they knew I’d be the perfect warrior for a Time War. I was there when the Dalek Emperor took control of the Cruciform. I saw it. I ran. I ran so far. Made myself human so they would never find me because… I was so scared.”

“I know.” “All of them? But now you, which must mean…” “I was the only one who could end it. And I tried. I did. I tried everything.” “What did it feel like, though? Two almighty civilizations burning. Oh, tell me, how did it feel?” “Stop it!” “You must have been like a God.” “I’ve been alone ever since. But not anymore. Don’t you see, all we’ve got is each other.” “What about your precious pet?” 

The Doctor swallows, ignoring his taunt, “You could stop this right now. We could leave this planet. We could fight across the constellations if that’s what you want. But not on Earth.”

“Too late.” “Why do you say that?” “The drumming.” The Master drums his fingers on the table, “I thought it would stop, but it never does. Never ever stops. Inside my head, the drumming, Doctor. The constant drumming.” “I could help you. Please, let me help.” “It’s everywhere. Listen, listen, listen.” He taps the table, “Here come the drums. Here come the drums.”

A man leaning against a building begins tapping his hands against his legs.

“What have you done? Tell me how you’ve done this. What are those creatures? Tell me!”

“Ooh, look. You’re on TV.”

I look up from my embroidery, I see a man on the laptop screen my husband holds.

I glance down at my hands, the embroidery is a jumble of circles…

I stand up quietly and walk out of the cabinet room.

I move quickly into one of the offices and grab a laptop off the desk.

I tuck myself into a closet and shut the door.

I start recording, 

“Doctor, if you’re seeing this, I’m safe… sort of. The Master keeps doing something to make me compliant with his acts of violence. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me and makes me forget you again. But he hasn’t hurt me yet, not physically at least. Whatever he’s doing to my mind is working less over time. Every time I snap out of it, it’s because some part of my brain knows you still. I love you. Please stay safe. I know you’ll figure out how to beat him.”

I send the video quickly before putting a timed virus on the laptop that will wipe the hard drive.

The door opens, “There you are.” He smiles softly. I look up with a viscous glare, “Hello, Master.” His smile drops, “Again?” He grabs my arm and pulls me up roughly and out of the closet, “What were you doing in there?”

“Nothing.” He stares hard, I don’t break.

He goes into the closet and pulls out the laptop, “Trying to send a message, were you?”

He taps a few things before looking at me, “You’ve wiped the hard drive.”

“Timed virus.” I grin.

“Well, we can’t have you foiling my plans.” He throws the laptop to the ground, grabbing my head and forcing me to look into his eyes.

“You’re going to obey. I don’t care how many times I have to make you forget.”

“How was it?” Jack asks as Martha walks into the warehouse, a bag of takeaway in her hand.

“I don’t think anyone saw me. Anything new?”

“I’ve got this tuned into the government wavelength so we can follow what Saxon’s doing.” “Yeah, I meant about my family.”

“It still says the Jones family has been taken in for questioning. Tell you what, though, no mention of Leo.” The Doctor responds.

“He’s not as daft as he looks. I’m talking about my brother on the run. How did this happen?”

Jack sits down, “Nice chips.” “Actually, they’re not bad.” The Doctor pops one in his mouth.

Martha sits, she and Jack exchange looks and she nods her head in the Doctor’s direction.

“So, Doctor, who is he? How come the ancient society of Time Lords created a psychopath?” Jack starts. “And what is he to you? Like a colleague…” “A friend, at first.” “I thought you were gonna say he was your secret brother or something.” The Doctor and Jack stare at her.

“You’ve been watching too much TV.” Martha chuckles half-heartedly. “But all the legends of Gallifrey made it sound so perfect.” “Well, perfect to look at, maybe. And it was, it was beautiful.” The Doctor leans back, “They used to call it the Shining World of the Seven Systems. And on the Continent of Wild Endeavour, in the Mountains of Solace and Solitude, there stood the Citadel of the Time Lords. The oldest and most mighty race in the universe… looking down on the galaxies below… sworn never to interfere… only to watch… children of Gallifrey, taken from their families at the age of eight to enter the Academy. And some say that’s where it all began. When he was a child… that’s when the Master saw eternity. As a novice, he was taken for initiation, it’s a gap in the fabric of reality through which could be seen the whole of the vortex. You stand there, eight years old… staring a the raw power of time and space, just a child. Some would be inspired… some would run away… and some would go mad.” “What about you?” Martha asks.

The Time Lord speaks with his mouth full, “Oh, the ones that ran away. I never stopped.” Jack’s manipulator beeps, “Encrypted channel with files attached. Don’t recognize it.”

“Patch it through to the computer.”

“Um, since we’re telling stories, um, there’s something I haven’t told you.” The Torchwood logo appears onscreen.

“You work for Torchwood.” “I swear to you, it’s different. It’s changed. There’s only half a dozen of us now.”

“Everything Torchwood did and you’re part of it?!”

“The old regime was destroyed at Canary Wharf. I rebuilt it, I changed it. And when I did that, I did it for you, in your honor.”

The Doctor only glares at him before opening the first file.

It’s a video of Vivien Rook.

“If I haven’t returned to my desk by 2200 hours, this file will be emailed to Torchwood. Which means, if you’re watching this, then I’m… Anyway, the Saxon files are attached. But take a look at the Archangel document. That’s when it all started. When Harold Saxon became Minister in charge of launching the Archangel Network.” The screen changes to show a graphic of a spinning Earth with satellites. “What’s the Archangel Network?” The Doctor asks.

Martha pulls out her phone, “I’ve got Archangel. Everyone’s got it.” “It’s the mobile phone network. ‘Cause, look, it’s gone worldwide. They’ve got 15 satellites in orbit. Even the other networks, they’re all carried by Archangel.”

The Doctor uses his sonic on Martha’s phone, “It’s in the phones! Oh, I said he was a hypnotist! Wait, wait, wait. Hold on.” He taps the phone against the table and it begins to beep in the same rhythm, “There it is. That rhythm, it’s everywhere. Ticking away in the subconscious.” “What is it, mind control?” “No, no, no, no. subtler than that. Any stronger and people would question it. But contained in the rhythm, in layers of code… Vote Saxon. Believe in me. Whispering to the world. Oh, yes! That’s how he hid himself from me. ‘Cause I should have sensed there was another Time Lord on Earth. I should have known way back. The signal canceled him out.” “Any way you can stop it?” Jack asks.

“Not from down here. But now we know how he’s doing it.” “And we can fight back.”

“Oh, yes!”

The laptop beeps.

“Someone’s emailed me.” Martha sees. “Who?” “Dunno, some random person.” She looks at the subject line, “It’s addressed to you, Doctor.” “Open it.”

Martha clicks the file, a video starts playing.

The woman on screen is Abby, her face is lit only by the computer screen she is recording on, “Doctor, if you’re seeing this, I’m safe… sort of. The Master keeps doing something to make me compliant with his acts of violence. It’s only a matter of time before he finds me and makes me forget you again. But he hasn’t hurt me yet, not physically at least. Whatever he’s doing to my mind is working less over time. Every time I snap out of it, it’s because some part of my brain knows you still. I love you. Please stay safe. I know you’ll figure out how to beat him.” The video ends.

A look of sadness appears on the Doctors’ face, reflected by the final frame of the video.

The Doctor takes apart the mobile and the laptop. He then takes Martha and Jack’s Tardis keys. He uses his sonic screwdriver to weld circuitry to the keys. He then ties them to string so they can be worn around the neck.

“Three Tardis keys, three pieces of the Tardis with low-level perception properties because the Tardis is designed to blend in. well, sort of, but.. Now! The Archangel Network’s got a second low-level signal. Weld the key to the network and… Martha,” He steps back, “look at me. You can see me, yes?”

“Yep!” “What about now?” He slips the key over his neck. Martha’s vision veers off and she blinks.

Jack chuckles.

The Doctor’s voice echoes, “No, I’m here. Look at me.”

“It’s like… I know you’re there, but I don’t want to know.”

“And back again.” The Doctor takes off the key, “See? It just shifts your perception a tiny little bit. Doesn’t make us invisible, just unnoticed. Oh, I know what it’s like. It’s like… it’s like when you fancy someone and they don’t even know you exist. That’s what it’s like. Come on!” The Doctor walks off. Martha looks at Jack.

“You too, hunh?” They walk out onto the streets. “Don’t run. Don’t shout. Just keep your voice down. Draw attention to yourself and the spell is broken. Just keep to the shadows.” “Like ghosts.” “Yeah, that’s what we are. Ghosts.” They each place a key around their necks before heading into the city.

“And as the eyes of the world turn towards Great Britain, sources indicate that Air Force One has landed on British soil tonight.

Harold and I arrive with an escort to greet President Winters on the tarmac.

“Mr. President, sir!” Harold salutes. “Mr. Saxon. The British Army will stand down. From now on, UNIT has control of this operation.” Winters states. “You make it sound like an invasion.” “The first contact policy was decided by the Security Council in 1968. And you’ve just gone and ignored it.” “Well, you know what it’s like. New job, all that paperwork. I think it’s down the back of the settee. I did have a quick look. I found a pen, a sweet, a bus ticket, and uh… have you met the wife?” “Mr. Saxon, I’m not sure what your game is but there are provisions at the United Nations to have you removed from office unless you are very, very careful. Is that understood?” Harold mimes zipping his lips. “Are you taking this seriously?” He nods, “To business. We’ve accessed your files on these… Toclafane. First contact cannot take place on any sovereign soil. For that purpose, the aircraft carrier Valiant is en route. The rendezvous will take place there at 8:00 am.” Harold tries to talk through zipped lips. “You’re trying my patience, sir.” He unzips his lips, “So America is completely in charge?” “Since Britain elected an ass, yes. I’ll see you onboard the Valiant.” Winters turns to leave. “It still will be televised, though, won’t it? Because I promised, and the whole world is watching.” Winters sighs, “Since it’s too late to pull out, the world will be watching. Me.” Winters walks to a waiting car.

Harold turns to me, “The last President of America. We have a private plane ready and waiting. We should reach the Valiant within the hour.” He motions for me to go first, “My darling.”

I start to walk over to the plane.

I hear sirens, I turn.

There’s a family being pulled out of the vehicle.

A thought crosses my mind, ‘Jones.’

I close my eyes for a moment, and an image flashes through my head, “Martha?” I whisper.

I look past the police cars and the Master, I see the Doctor.

I smile before turning and walking into the plane.

We arrive at the bridge/conference room of the Valiant. There are secret service agents, various military personnel as well as camera crews preparing for the event.

“I want the whole thing branded in my sort of honest, not the United Nations. Got that?” The Master walks up to President Winters, “Anything I can do? I could make tea, or is that not American enough? I don’t know, I could make grits. What are grits, anyway?” “If you could just sit.” The Master turns and makes a face, “Misery guts. What do you think? It’s good, isn’t it?”

He pulls out a chair for me.

I sit down, “It’s beautiful.”

“Two minutes, everyone!” Winters climbs some steps, “According to the treaty, all armed personnel are requested to leave the flight deck immediately. Thank you.”

The Master is watching like it’s all entertainment, “Jelly baby?”

“Broadcasting at 7:58 with the arrival time at 08:00 precisely. And, uh, good luck to all of us.”

“And in just 30 seconds’ time, we’ll be going live for first contact. It has been announced that Harold Saxon has invited President Winters to take the address.” “It’s 3:00 in the morning on the eastern seaboard and President Winters has been chosen to lead the world into a new age.”

“My fellow Americans, patriots, people of the world… I stand before you today as an ambassador for humanity, a role I undertake with utmost solemnity. Perhaps our Toclafane cousins can offer us much, but what is important is not that we gain material benefits, but that we learn to see ourselves anew.” I look at the Master, his smile is gone.

“For as long as man has looked to the stars, he has wondered what mysteries they hold. Now we know we are not alone. And I ask you now, I ask of the human race, to join with me in welcoming our friends. I give you the Toclafane.” The spheres appear around the president, “My name is Arthur Coleman Winters, President-Elect of the United States of America and designated representative of the United Nations. I welcome you to the planet Earth and its associated moon.”

The Toclafane circle him, “You’re not the Master.”

“We like the Mr. Master.”

“We don’t like you.” “I… can be Master, if you so wish. I will accept mastery over you if that is God’s will.” “Man is stupid.”

“Master is our friend.”

“Where’s my Master, pretty please?” “Oh, all right then. It’s me.” The Master stands, “Ta-da!” He laughs, “Sorry. Sorry, I have this effect. People just get obsessed. It is the smile? Is it the aftershave? Is it the capacity to laugh at myself? I don’t know. It’s crazy!” “Saxon, what are you talkin’ about?” President Winters asks.

The Master turns to him, “I’m taking control, Uncle Sam. starting with you.” The Time Lord speaks to the Toclafane, “Kill him.” One of the Toclafane shoots Winters with a laser and he disintegrates. Chaos erupts as everyone tries to leave the room. The Master’s people pull out their weapons, “Guards!” “Nobody move! Nobody move!” The Master speaks into the camera, “Now then, people of Earth, please attend carefully.”

I see the Doctor run forward. “Stop him!” Two guards grab him and force him to kneel on the floor.

“We meet, at last, Doctor. Oh, ho! I love saying that!”

“Stop this! Stop it now!”

“As if a perception filter’s gonna work on me. Oh, and look, it’s the girlie and the freak. Although, I’m not sure which one’s which.” Jack rushes at the Master and gets shot with a laser, “Laser screwdriver, who’d have sonic. And the good thing is, he’s not dead for long. I get to kill him again!”

Martha goes to Jack.

“Master, just calm down. Just look at what you’re doing. Just stop. If you could see yourself…” The Master sighs, looking at the camera, “Oh, do excuse me, a little bit of personal business. Back in a minute.” He speaks to the guards, “Let him go.” The guards push the Doctor to the floor. “It’s that sound, the sound in your head. What if I could help?”

“Oh, how to shut him up? I know. Memory Lane!” The Master sits on the steps facing the Doctor, “Professor Lazarus. Remember him? And his genetic manipulation device? Did you think that little Tish got that job merely by coincidence? I’ve been laying traps for you all this time. And if I can concentrate all that Lazarus technology into one little screwdriver… But, ooh, if only I had the Doctor’s biological code. Oh, wait a minute, I do!” He runs to a silver case and opens it, “I’ve got his hand! And if Lazarus made himself younger, what if I reverse it? Another hundred years?” He aims the screwdriver at the Doctor, who screams as he convulses.

I cover my mouth in shock, tears flowing down my face.

I run to him, and hold his face in my hands. Martha joins me, “We’ve got you, Doctor.” “Aw, she’s a would-be-doctor. But tonight, Martha Jones, we’ve flown ‘em in all the way from prison.” The door slides open and guards escort in Francine, Clive and Tish.

“Mum.”

Francine cries, “I’m sorry.” The Doctor breathes heavily, “The Toclafane, who are they? Who are they?” “Doctor, if I told you the truth, your hearts would break.” “Is it time?”

“Is it ready?”

“Is the machine singing?” The Master checks his watch, “Two minutes past.” He mounts the steps, “So! Earthlings. Basically, um, end of the world.” He holds up his screwdriver, “Here… come… the drums…”

Rogue Trader’s Voodoo Child starts playing.

A rift opens in the sky. “Six billion.” The Master switches on an outside speaker, “Down you go, kids!” He looks to me, “Shall we decimate them? That sounds good. Nice word, decimate.” He speaks to the Toclafane, “Remove one-tenth of the population!”

I feel tears fall rapidly as the messages come in from the ground. “Valiant, this is Geneva! We’re getting slaughtered down here!”

Martha stands. “Help us, for God’s sake! Help us! They’re everywhere!” “This is London, Valiant! This is London calling! What do we do?!”

Martha looks from her family to me.

“They’re killing us! The Toclafane are killing us!”

With a last look at the Doctor, she activates something on her wrist, disappearing in a flash of light.