#north london nails

[coco-loco-nut]

die first

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max’s wife is an international superstar, who’s anxieties tend to show up in her songs

Inspired by: die first by Nessa Barret

requests open! masterlist prequel

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“What are you writing, Schatje?” Max asks, sliding onto the piano bench beside you.

“I wrote a song based on my vows,” you tell him, writing down the last couple chords, humming a rhythm to yourself.

Max, ever since I met you, I knew you were special. You’re my fire and my safety, you never try to break me, and you promise to always stay. I promise those same things to you. I don’t want to live without you, I never want to learn how to fall asleep without you, I want to be in love with you forever. You are my forever.

“Play it for me?” he asks when you finish, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You nod, gently pressing the keys, mentally noting the kinks to fix before recording tomorrow. “It’s beautiful, the fans are going to love it, I love it,” Max compliments and you grin at him.

“I’m excited to announce the album and tour, and I’m glad we follow F1 around Europe. I get to spend more of summer with you that way,” you lean on his shoulder. You dedicated the album to him, and your third record is set to be the best selling one yet.

You took the unconventional route and took his last name after marrying him this year, despite having two hit albums and international fame. You still publish under your maiden name, but the name change caused a lot of shock.

You became an international superstar with your first release and it’s only grown since. Despite your relationship with Max spanning most of your music career, the both of you are able to spend a relatively low profile life in Monaco. Everything you record in the studio down the street is sent to your Hollywood label and released from there.

The next few months see you doing press for the surprise drop that was your bestselling third album and hyping the tour. Tour rehearsals fell during training time for Max and the both of you were going nonstop.

“I have to go to bed, Schatje, love you,” Max yawns over Facetime, you wish him goodnight as you stretch for your last show in North America. Tomorrow you jet to Europe to pick up that leg of the tour.

By the time you reach London, your tour has officially lined up with F1, which means your personal box near the stage is full of drivers, who likely are being bombarded with autograph requests. You slip into your black, sparkly bodysuit and matching hells; hair, makeup, and nails perfectly done; and grab your matching microphone before heading to your mark under the stage. The roar of the crowd energized you as the intro video plays.

“Come on London, let’s have some fun,” you say into the mic before smoke fills the stage above you and the trap door opens, the platform beneath you rising you up. You launch into your opening act. Half an hour later, after prancing and dancing and singing around the stage you take a pause to introduce the next act. The crowd cheers loudly before you have a chance to speak. You look around, smiling at everyone even if you can’t see them.

“London, thank you, my name is Y/n Verstappen, that’s my show for tonight,” you tease, the crowd silences. “Nah, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that, not when you are one of the best crowds I’ve had on tour,” you tell them, giving them a second to cheer.

“Since you have been such a great host, I wanted to share something special about this next song, something not many people know, but not quite yet. Quick shoutout to the F1 drivers here tonight, including my handsome husband, y’all are cool. But not as cool as everyone else here,” you purposely leave them hanging a little, blowing a kiss in the direction of Max.

“Alright, so, this next song is not only the title of my new album, but I also took parts of my vows and wrote them into the song. I hope you like it,” you say and the crowd cheers as the first chords play behind you.

“Thank you, London! Goodnight!” After the concert, you rush backstage and into Max’s open arms.

“You were incredible, Liefje” Max kisses you. Charles jokingly gags behind you.

“Thank you, Maxie,” you whisper, hugging him tight. Your assistant hands you a towel to put around your neck and a bottle of water which you happily take.

“You had a great show,” the other drivers tell you, all complimenting the show and thanking you for the tickets. You thank them for attending and excuse yourself so you could change. Max reminds them of the post-show dinner and club plans and carries you to your dressing room. You collapse on the couch, as Max chuckles at your dramatics.

“I swear the best part of a show is laying down after,” you groan and Max gently takes off your heels causing you to moan in relief.

“Y/n! People are going to think we are doing things in here,” Max laughs, you wave him off, changing into comfy but club appropriate clothes. Max helps you take off your stage makeup, and redoes your hair as you put a little bit of normal makeup on.

“Ready, Maxie?” you ask, grabbing your purse. It is nice knowing that assistants will take everything back to the hotel for you.

“I promise I will always come back home to you, I know my driving style is agressive, but I won’t make you learn how to fall asleep without me,” Max says, his hands holding your face gently.

“I know, but I will always be scared when you are on the track. You can’t promise nothing will happen, but I know you will always try,” you tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. You stay in his embrace for a minute until rejoining half of the paddock. I can be in love forever, if I die first…

[onsomenewsht]

Helpless to the bass and faded light

About when she bribes you and you dance with her like a filled stadium isn't looking

》 Leah Williamson x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 she took my arm / I don't know how it happened / we took the floor and she said

You don’t like football.

It’s quite a boring game if you stop to think about it for a moment. Two dozen and counting people running around a ball trying to kick it into a huge net.

Not something you look forward to sit through for almost two hours.

Despite your father’s best efforts, you being his only kid and his only hope to pass down his passion, the sport never managed to interest you long enough to care.

You even found yourself in the stands of your dad’s favourite club’s home more times than you’re able to remember, going beyond yourself and cheering when the other people around you did.

The things you do to make your parents proud.

How you managed to have the English captain wrapped around your finger, regardless of your well-known dislike for her biggest passion and purpose in life, is still a mystery for your families and friends.

“Pretty please, just this one”

“Oh, shut up!”, you hit her arm and push her off you, both still naked.

You can’t believe your girlfriend is actually trying to bribe you with sex, not even waiting for you to fully recover before asking to go to the game.

“No, you ruined the mood”, you state as the blonde tries to kiss you again.

The huge grin of her beautiful face is quite dangerous, she can win you over so easily and you both know it.

Leah rises off the bed to retrieve a warm cloth from the bathroom and a clean shirt from the closet. You accept her attention, she’s always caring when it comes to you, but you’re pretty sure the extra effort has a not-so-subtle second purpose.

“You can’t buy me so easily, Williamson”

She can.

“It’s a really important game, my love”

“For who?”

“For me?”, she tries as she slots herself under your open arm, a grin hidden between your neck and the pillow.

“I barely bear you playing”

“You love watching me play”

“I love you, period”

Leah knows how much you think the sport is boring, going way out of your comfort zone just to cheer her. She feels immensely supported when she finds your big smile in the stands, wrapped in one of her jerseys.

It’s not that difficult for you to sit and admire your girlfriend in her element, focusing more on her movements and attitude than paying attention to the actual game.

What you find quite annoying is enduring Arsenal’s men’s team.

The defender’s fingers on your side are slowly soothing you in a compromising position, too relaxed and smitten to keep denying her anything. You know she doesn’t need much more to lure you into her trap and, unfortunately for you, she’s perfectly aware too.

When the blonde’s lips find the particularly sensitive spot on the base of your neck, you’re doomed.

~

You’re glad your father is already dead or you’d have killed him as you take your seat in the Emirates Stadium, surrounded by the Gunners’ colours. Your girlfriend’s name on your back could be the final nail.

The things you do to make your lover happy.

“You know I love you, right?”

“You better never forget this”, you quip back.

The English captain has been looking forward to this game for weeks now, you couldn’t have been able to turn her down in spite of it all.

She doesn’t need to know though, you didn’t accept to spend one of your date nights watching the North West London derby for free.

“Maybe you will enjoy it at the end”

Nice try, you will not.

“You know, my dad was a West Ham supporter”

“Could have been worse”, she smiles at you, reaching for your hand.

Talking about your father is getting easier as time finally moves forward and your grief keeps changing its shape. Compared to the abyssal black hole it felt like the first year and a half, its progress.

Leah didn’t meet him, crushing in your life a couple of months after his passing, but she managed to find a space in your heart that keeps growing despite all your fears.

They could have hit so well, bonding over their shared passion for the sport and their never-ending determination to make you happy.

You told her some stories about him, mostly memories to make your girlfriend understand how stubborn and passionate he was about the thing he cared about.

The one thing you all have in common.

“Yeah, he used to gift me a West Ham jersey every year on Bobby Moore’s birthday”

Leah’s laugh managed to overcome the buzzing atmosphere of the stadium, making you feel like she was the reason all the people around you were cheering. You sure think so.

“He sounds like an incredible father”

“Football obsession aside, he was good”

When you turn to look at her, the blonde’s eyes are already on you and the smile on her face is enough to warm your heart.

~

The first goal coming within five minutes has you quite engaged in what’s happening on the pitch, you even drag your girlfriend in a kiss as you both rise from your seats to celebrate.

Your commitment declined quite easily after that, more entertained by Leah’s reactions than the actual game. You nod in amusement every time she tries to talk you through one of her analyses, placing a hand on her thigh to stop her from standing up every time the ball is somehow close to the box.

The second half is more eventual, at least that’s what you can understand by the excitement the defender and the people in the stands around you seem to radiate.

You’re not clueless, you’re perfectly aware a five-nil win against Chelsea is quite the result. You care enough to think you can’t wait to go home - Leah is always in the mood for a private celebration when her team triumphs, especially over another London club.

“Can we go now?”, you ask as soon as the referee whistles three times, declaring the end of your and the Blues’ torture.

Leah’s happiness is contagious, so you’re not mad when she drags you in her arms to join her cheers and enthusiastic dance. It takes you less than a second to indulge her, letting the blonde spin you around and matching her excitement.

When she dips you and seals the move with a kiss the laugh that rises out of you is genuine and loud.

At first, neither of you notice the stadium’s camera pointed in your direction, recording your little moment of pure bliss in each other’s arms.

Looking back at it, as all your friends sent you the viral video, you know Leah saw you two on the big screen and went along with her little cocky display of affection and excitement for the victory.

You’re sure your father could be laughing at it too, despite the colors you’re wearing.

fine.

[junedenim]

2005

beneath the boardwalk, part 3 (series masterlist)

mardy bum

warnings: fluff, angst, fuzzy behavior, lil smutty, robert, etc.

word count: 15.1k

We experienced the cruelest case of January, but in sheltered boxes covered in ice, it was the greatest winter of my life. In that teenage love haze, I had fallen deeply into that frozen-over lake and never had a chance to break out of it.

On my winter break, Alex and I had kept to ourselves. There wasn't much point in going out. Permanently wearing jumpers and trapped under copious amounts of blankets, winter felt warm. We had resumed much of our behavior that had taken place before my departure. Hidden away in his room, we spent most of my winter recess there. We ate dinners with his parents and went to parties we probably left too early.

In those cavities, we found a way to occupy them easily. Sex was always there but we'd grown wary of doing it with his parents around now that they knew we were together together. Writing sometimes occurred but silence was hard between the two of us. Talking, talking, talking always.

At times, it felt like a tween-aged slumber party. Alex painted my nails once. Toes & fingers. He did a decent job with steady hands and shaky breath. I taught him how to braid my hair. You know that thing where people shake hands with someone or they kiss their cheeks and vow to never wash that part of their body again? I kept those braids in my hair for far too long. They were never particularly good looking but the way my hair, looking black against my pale skin and the white snow, fell out of those twists seemed to frame my face just right and placed this prideful beam on Alex's face that makes you giddy. I couldn't bear to withdraw his creation.

"Could you ever see yourself living in London?" I asked him one night. We were on opposite ends of his bed, each propped up to look at the other on the further end. Our intimacy lacked in touch but ran deep enough to create faults in conversation.

"Yeah." He smiled, knowing what I was hinting at. Could you ever see yourself living in London with me?

"It would be smart for the band." I tried to play off like that was my concern for him.

His eyes knew otherwise. "Yeah. For the band."

The band consistently had gigs about once a week and they had never been bigger. Jumping around at their gigs helped keep your body heat up. I dragged friends to them, never Joanie, that chapter had finally closed, and she vowed—a vow she kept for far longer than any of us imagined: forever—to never get back together with Matt. AB and Claire became good company and they remained steady through university. Unlike Alex and I, they were both at Aston together.

In Peter & Debora's living room (two people I have yet to meet, despite occupying their living room), I spent my last night up north at the Monkeys gig. It was quite funny, probably the last small venue I ever watched the band in. There must have been several dozen of us packed into this living room. I sat on the arm of Peter & Debora's couch. A drink in my hand, something fruity. Alex got it for me.

He was edgy before gigs, even ones small, especially small ones. The majority of the room was people we personally knew and I think that always heightened his nerves, feeling the need to impress them in some fashion. He was extra quiet; didn't even speak to me unless I asked him. He was touchier and stood beside me, resting his hand on my knee.

Then, he went up and played and was the cockiest son of a bitch you'd ever heard. "What tunes do you know?"

"Choo Choo."

"No, no, can't do that." I think of the immense amount of pleasure he got from this. Being some god to hold power over his subjects and not play "Choo Choo" at this gig, but also, never again.

I don't mean to bore you down with the repetition of things but our nights were often the same. A setlist with a rough version of "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" and a concluding "A Certain Romance." Most of these nights blended together with enough alcohol to flood a house.

Peter & Debora's had a somber tone to it. Most of its attendees would be going back to school and the most important one (me, obviously!) would be long away unable to facilitate as a muse. Alex and I didn't talk about those things. For many years, to our detriment, we didn't address these departures. We didn't even make promises to visit one another, which could have lent itself to an easy break-up, but somehow didn't.

I think we were comfortable with the idea of slipping away from one another. Looking into the future, it felt natural for that to be the case at our age. Alex would be off on some tour and I would be god knows where. I saw 3 paths: teacher, be my mother, or—hidden in my bunker-shielded wildest dreams—a writer. I hated the first 2 options but the second seemed likely, especially as I sipped away at another drink and had started accumulating a drug collection to put a pharmacy to shame. The extent of that collection was hidden from the Yorkshire folks, even Alex. None of it seemed coated in optimism.

I naturally slipped into hazes and that would be the only point I'd imagine a world Alex and I made it past 2005. On New Year's, we kissed, awkwardly slobbering drunk, I tugged on his shirt and slurred, "I've got you for 1 more year, at least, swear it." He reached down and lifted my hand and between our chests, he pinky sweared it.

Claire scooted next to be on the couch in between songs. We had kept in touch, more than Joanie and I. Over the winter, we had spent countless nights like the good old days, but much like Alex and me, we made no plans for the future. Summer seemed like the general assumption.

"I'm gonna miss you, baby." Claire kissed my cheek, ever affectionate, ever wasted. I thought about the lives we used to have where she'd place her arm around my waist and I'd lean into her and it felt like the ultimate comfort. She had been my haven for so long but I think by that time we both accepted that we didn't need much of each other anymore. We had faded with school, boyfriends, and apathy. It hurts my heart more now than it did then.

After their performance, Alex took Claire's seat beside me. He was sweaty and gross and probably tasted sweet. "How'd we do, Janie Lanie?" He had been doing that a lot lately, calling me something rhyming with Janie, like a version of The Name Game, typically a few drinks in. I thought he might fall backward onto the couch with how wobbly he was.

"A solid performance."

He shook his head. "Nah, uh, uh, uh. I'd like details please." His eyes were hazy and he propped his head onto my shoulder. He was so small then and I'd like the idea that he was only ever this small and soft with me. Even in the future, when he met the love of his life he would grow jaded and less willing to display this delicate quality, I would have the knowledge that I was the only girl who ever got to experience him like this. I had these thoughts often. Gazing off into the far future, I was desperate to still be on Alex's mind, though in every scenario we weren't together. I guess I didn't have that much belief that anyone would stick around with me. I had fallen deeply for him by that point but there was no need for me to fool myself into thinking it would be forever, despite how much that remaining naivety in me wished for it.

"You had quite the ego tonight," I told him.

He lifted his head, sure to be spinning. He talked with his hands, flinging them around with each word. "Well, you know, I had to please the people. Give them what they wanted."

"What about what I want?"

He leaned close, breathing the same breaths as me. "I only aim to please, Jane C."

I leaned away from him, back to the wall, getting the full look of him. "Is that so, hmm?"

"Why don't we go back home? I'll show ya." Home, collective usage. I allowed myself the fantasy that it was our home we were going back to. We'd ride in the car after Alex drank and I would allow him to fiddle with the radio and my hands. Other nights, he'd drive and I would drift in and out of sleep but my fingers would play with his hair. A house would be a home. I never grew up with the feeling mine was. It was a big thing and the only thing that felt warm to me was my room. I long to go back to that bedroom sometimes. Sure, memories with Alex, but a thing is only the sum of its parts and most of those parts were childhood afflictions of loneliness that turned into art. Those cherished stories, ones I would whisper to Alex, and write about in my diary, then write to publish, took place in those four walls. House, home. It all felt far off.

We did go back home, my parents'. I smoked a cigarette on the way, which annoyed Alex because I had rolled down the window to do so and the cold rushed in, burning a chill through him. The radio hummed in the back and he didn't bother to play with it. Through the drunk state, we both recognized the somber mood.

"Claire told me Will dropped out of uni."

Alex languidly chuckled. "Only a matter of time."

"Shocked he even bothered."

He shrugged. "You always knew him more than me."

I shook my head. "Probably not. Will came off how he appeared."

"You got any plans with Georgia when you get back?"

"Not yet. She stayed over break so I'm sure she's got something planned."

"What about Robert?"

I hummed. I was slightly confused by Alex's mention of him. I hadn't spoken to Robert over break. Maybe brought him up once in a story I told.

"Any plans with him?" Alex asked further.

I laughed. "Robert isn't someone you make plans with."

"Okay." We didn't talk the rest of the way. I hated every minute of it. I hated the fact that he got drunk and he knew I couldn't get drunk because I had to drive. Mostly, I hated the fact that we were out of sync. No longer were we occupied with talking, endless bouts of talking. Alex didn't even bother to fiddle with the radio. He just stared out the window. I blamed it on me leaving and that's what it was mostly about. Mostly.

When we had sex that night it felt forced. I hated feeling stiff with him but he was drunk and didn't have much care other than the need for release. It felt sticky.

He fell asleep quickly and I prayed he would have a headache the next day.

Instead, I woke up with a kiss on my nose. Gentle and enough sweetness to never starve again. "Why are you waking me up?" I moaned and stretched. "Why are you up?"

I felt his hand on my side, wrapped around me, keeping me to him. "I have to say this now."

"What?" Deep stretch, toes curling.

He tapped my side. "Come on, this is serious."

I was going to ridicule him. Waking me up was not a way to grab my attention. It was a way to piss me off. But his tone indicated something to me that I needed to know further. "Okay."

He didn't speak right away. Looked over my face and I felt like it was the first time I was speaking to him again. I realized he was trying to memorize me. His hand came up and cradled my cheek, soft against calloused. "I, uh, fuck, Jane."

Alex sounded raw and it worried me. It made me hate myself for all those feelings of anger I felt the night before because he didn't rub my clit. "What?"

"I'm just gonna miss you so fucking much. I know we don't do this mushy crap. You don't like that kind of thing but give me a pass."

I absolved him. "You're forgiven." My lips cracked a smile and I bordered on a giggle.

"I just love you and I wish you were here all the time but your happiness being in London weighs all that out and I just can't—I'm so proud of you. I shouldn't feel this desperate for you but I just can't help it. Oh, fuck, I sound stupid." He ducked his face into his hands. It is the cutest thing I have ever seen.

"No," I insisted. A few beats passed in waiting for him to lift his head, which he didn't. "I always found I love you to be stupid but I suppose I'm a mushy fucking idiot." He lifted his head and I hugged my arms around him. I couldn't bear to look him in the eye when I said. "I love you too." Muffled away in his shoulder. It was the most awkward we had ever been and will ever be. Any stiffness dissolved after that. Alex and I would fight again; we would even break up, but something in that morning shifted and we were never awkward gangly teenagers like that again. Steady ever since.

When we pulled away, he kissed me. "I have something to tell ya."

I giggled. "Other than that?"

"Well, I love you and you'll love this." Cheeseballs, us two. "We've got this gig on February 18th."

In November, I vowed to myself that when Alex dropped hints of gigs, he wanted me to go to them. He wouldn't inconvenience you with an invite, you just had to assume he wanted you there. "I'll go."

He let out a small laugh. "You better because it's in London."

My face went dead. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, which means we can do Valentine's Day together and make fun of it the whole fucking time but actually enjoy every minute of it." He knew me too well. It was almost annoying if it wasn't the most endearing thing that had ever happened in my life. Him getting to know me. Him knowing me.

I cracked completely in two. Wide smile, bright eyes, full view of my teeth. "I love it. I love it all." I kissed his lips, then his cheeks, then his nose, then his eye (left then right), then his ear (right then left), temple, forehead, nose again, chin, lips again.

"Quite the display, Janie, you're gonna have us get a fine."

"From who? The police in here?"

"I know your mum runs a tight ship."

"My mum is only the police of martinis around here." He stole that line from me. Plagiarist.

His hand sketched my back, got to know my shoulder blades, became acquaintances with my spine, made love to my butt cheeks. Ass man, for sure. Then, he kissed my boobs. Boobs man, for sure.

I'm a sternum woman, for sure.

*

In the first week of February, I kissed Robert. It was in the bathroom of his house at a shindig he was having (shindig is the only way to describe it). He was doing a line and I was smoking a joint. 

"Gimme some," Robert urged me. He had a habit of mixing substances. Alcohol with coke was a given, then anything else he could get his hands on.

I held the burning paper close to my chest like it was my child threatening to be taken from me. "No! Get your own."

I inhaled from it when he grabbed my face and sucked the smoke out of me. He manhandled me and I took it. I'm the one who initiated the kissing part to convince myself it was some point of passion. He grabbed my boob tight like he was trying to force something out of it. I reciprocated by squeezing his dick through those stupidly tight ripped jeans. He squealed like a pig and I laughed, easing my struggle with another spliff.

I never told Alex about it, partially because it wasn't my fault. The other part was that I was flattered by it. I feared I lacked desirability at times and I was a girl ashamed to admit that cheating on my boyfriend didn't make me feel guilty. I'm not dumb either. I know he wasn't innocent either. One night over winter break, when Matt and I were talking at a party—Alex was off in the bathroom—he enthusiastically told me a story about a night out after a gig. Halfway through he said, "Alex was otherwisedly occupied." Matt's drunkenness left me unable to investigate further but I assumed Alex snogged someone. I wasn't annoyed by it for some reason. Probably (definitely) my parents.

My head hurt after the whole thing and I focused on the bathtub's drain for too long after. "Would you finger a girl?" I asked.

He inspected himself in the mirror now, dragging his cheeks down to reveal the red pockets of his eyes. "You?" I saw his reflection smirk at me.

I shook my head. "No. I just wondered if you were the type of guy to finger a girl."

He turned his head back at me and wiggled his eyebrows. If it was anyone else I think I'd laugh at the act. Robert made things seem stale. He licked his lips like a dog would. "You should know, love, I would do anything."

I laughed at his instability as he wobbled back and forth and darted his eyes around the tiles. "Would you let me peg you?"

He pulled down his jeans, his belt clashing with the ceramic sink. He turned around, bent over, and spread his ass cheeks. "Come and get it, baby."

I laughed hard, hitting my head on the window, sputtering a peal of painful laughter out my lips. "All types of diseases live in there. I'm sure of it."

The bathroom door opened, revealing Georgia. Neither Robert nor I made a point to move because Georgia wouldn't care. "Jane, do you have a fag I can borrow?" I rifled through my purse and tossed my pack at her. She plucked one and then threw it back to me. She left without another word.

Robert stood up and turned around full-frontal nudity, but my eyes kept focused on his eyes. "Would you fuck me?"

"Me?" I pointed to myself quizzically.

"I'd fuck you right now. In that skirt." Red velvet, as tasteful as the cake. I ran my hand over the fabric. My blouse, white and ruffly, plus sheer black stockings made me look like a librarian. Guys like Robert got off on that kind of thing. "The Literary Type." I think the only thing that would have turned him on more is if I wore pigtails in my hair and called him "daddy."

"Men would fuck a cat if it let them." The weed mellowed the situation more and I knew Robert wouldn't hurt me so I felt fine teasing him.

"I only like one kind of pussy," he hit back.

I let out a hint of a chuckle. "Nice one."

"Come on, love." He gestured to his cock, which I still hadn't made eye contact with. "I would let your boyfriend fuck me in the ass if it meant I could fuck you."

I took a puff and if I closed my eyes for long enough I was outside a pub in Sheffield talking to Alex. I sometimes fingered myself to that thought. Conversation with Alex was probably why the sex was so good. I would think back on a funny thing he said and I would orgasm from it.

"Have you ever seen 2 Fast 2 Furious?" Every time I smoked since that night I felt Alex's arms wrap around me.

"Movies like that signal the downfall of society. What pointless piece of shit?" Robert was one of those people.

I scoffed, "Not everything can be A Clockwork Orange."

"Why shouldn't it be? Shall we do a little droog behavior?" He shook his dick at me and the insinuation of raping me was what finally made me move.

"I'm going to go home now."

I walked by him and he didn't protest. He pulled his underwear back on but took his jeans off. "Hey, Jane!" He shouted as I walked down the hallway to his living room. "Think of me when you do it." His fingers spread and he wagged his tongue in between them.

I gave Georgia a kiss on the cheek and went home, thinking about that conversation, replaying it. I blamed it on my high. I didn't masturbate for a month.

*

Alex came to London on the eve of Valentine's Day. He had come from a gig in Manchester the night before and his dedication wasn't unnoticed. He made a point of those things after the previous November. Silent confirmations. I had never felt like a worse person.

I buried within myself. I wore a freshly bought vintage coat when picking him up at the train station. He fiddled with the ends of the pointed fur collar and picked at the buttons of its double-breastedness. I bought it because I liked it but I wore it because I knew he would. Alex has a weird thing for clothes. More appealed by what a woman uses to cover up than reveal.

It was late when he got in but earlier than I thought he would be. He placed a hand on the small of my back and kept it there until we arrived back at my place. It was an affection we had never done for one another, publically. Everything felt weird. Publically.

We ate dinner on the floor, Chinese from Tai Won Mein, and talked like no time had passed. We talked about nothing, the entertaining nothing. Except it had turned into the lying nothing. I felt we both were keeping things from one another but I was too ashamed of the pleasure I had from flirtatious acts with Robert to ask whether Alex had slept with someone. I knew he hadn't. Because that would be "cheating." Snogging, especially drunken snogging, was excusable. I figured that anything I did high with Robert would be excusable too.

"The gang is going to come to the gig," I told him.

He raised his eyebrows and chewed away at his Kung Pao chicken. "Who's the gang?" He sounded like my father. It felt unnerving.

"Mhm," I sounded, "Georgia, mainly. You know, that whole crowd. They liked some of the music they heard from MySpace." I plucked away at my rice. Focused on the grains, not him.

He snorted. "Georgia & Co. don't seem like the type to be on MySpace."

I shrugged. 1 grain, 2 grain, 3 grain... "We're all full of surprises."

He waited. I waited. His eyes stared at me for long enough to draw them away from the rice. When I met his gaze, his eyes ducked back down to his carton. "What about Robert?" Rice, 1 grain, 2 grain, 3 grain, 4.

"Hm, yeah."

Alex chuckled at some thought in his head. Before I could ask, he told me, "I think Jamie and Robert would get along."

Robert would eat Jamie alive. Probably induced by some coke high, something would possess him to unhinge his jaw and eat Cookie. "Yeah, maybe."

*

That night, when my head was on his sternum I told him, "I want a turtle."

He snickered into his hand. I tilted my head, looking at him through his chin. "What kind of turtle?" He asked. "A snapping one? It would fit you."

My nail poked at the skin under his chin, picking away at some non-existent thing. "How pleasant you are?" I sighed and rolled onto my back, his arm pinned around but he never voiced a complaint. "Maybe a box turtle. They're the kind they have in Central Park."

"Ah, New York." Alex grinned. It seemed from genuine emotion but it was faked by how wide it was. "You'd look good in New York."

I groaned dramatically and rolled back onto his chest with a slap. It could be seen as fitful tossing and turning or some form of theatrics. I picked at the bottom of his chin again. "I'd only live in New York if you lived in New York."

He grabbed my hand away, the picking annoying him, but he held my wrist in his grip and rested the conjoinment on his chest. "I'd try New York."

I giggled and sat up on my elbows onto his chest. "We'd be Americans."

He chuckled and shook his head. "I don't think I'd ever get away with being an American with my fucking accent. You'd be fine. Could pass for British royalty."

"Does that make you my Wesley?"

"'As you wish.'"

I fell beside him again, lying on my side, and rested my head on the neighboring pillow. He placed both his hands on his chest, I hadn't trapped an arm this time. "Did you have pets growing up?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You must have had the loneliest childhood. No siblings, no pets. Did you play with rocks to pass the time?"

"Very funny. I had friends, you know."

I mocked a look of shock. "Really?"

"Hush now," he willed. "What did you have growing up? A pet alligator named Bartholomew."

"Very funny." I curled my arm under my pillow. "We only ever had a goldfish."

Alex smiled. I'm not sure at what. "Really?"

"You know how goldfish live like a week before they die?" He nodded. I excitedly drew closer to him. "Ours, Lady Penelope—"

His laugh cut through my words. "Like Thunderbirds?"

I bulged my eyes, duh! I continued, "She lived like 5 years. Tommy won her at a fair and they had her in a little plastic bag with barely any water. She didn't get a bowl until the next day but she was strong. Harper really wanted a cat but Tommy was all like 'That wouldn't be fair to Lady Penelope.'"

"Tommy sounds sweet." I hadn't realized that this was the first story I ever told Alex about Tom. My memories of him are short, affected by the wills of time. Much of his life has been reframed in my mind, infected by my grief and rose-colored views I had as a child meeting the harsh black & white light.

I was lit up by memories of him and Lady Penelope. The joyous times of my youth. "He cared for her more than most people care for their children. He wasn't usually like this. He played rugby and used to wrestle Greg in our backyard until he cried. Something about that fish. I don't know." I smiled thoughtfully at the ceiling. I felt an ache inside that I hadn't felt in years. I'm not sure if it was from Tom or some longing for that innocent time when monsters under my bed were the scariest things I could imagine.

I felt flush all of a sudden, pale in the face. "'That damn fish won't die.'"

Alex chuckled. "Your mum say that?" The Russian-American-pretending-to-be-British inflection in my voice clued him into who I was reciting from.

I repeated the phrase twice. "We went on vacation, came back and that fish was still swimming."

"Lady Penelope had a strong spirit."

I felt stuck in a loop, staring at the ceiling, mouthing the words, "'That damn fish won't die.'" My mouth kept doing it. My brain kept repeating my mother's voice. "When Tommy died...my mum, well, I don't know. We were all shells of ourselves but my mum." I felt tears in my eyes but I couldn't stop staring at my ceiling. "You know, she wasn't always like this? It's hard to believe. I can't. When we came back from Tommy's funeral she kept saying that. Repeated it for days. 'That damn fish won't die.'"

"How'd she die?" Alex asked.

I almost didn't have the heart to tell him. The devastation I had felt at 10 felt too strong for Alex at 19. "A few days after the funeral, my mum flushed her down the toilet alive. I'd like to think she's swimming in the pipes still."

Alex lacked follow-up questions after that. I turned away from him and he made no moves to change my position. He dropped a hand to my shoulder and squeezed it but we didn't talk and I cried at some point in the early morning but I think they went silent and unnoticed. I started to realize these things after moving away. I was a wishing well that was now overflowing.

*

We didn't do anything special for Valentine's Day. Alex didn't get me flowers and I didn't get him chocolates. We spent the early morning together, blanketed from the cold. I left for class around noon. Alex said he just walked through the city during that time. "Exploring."

That night, we went to dinner, but neither of us had money to do anything quite expensive. (I could've but buying Valentine's Day dinner with my parents' money felt wrong). We went to a pub around the corner from where my last class was. Alex got a beer and I drank about half of it but he didn't complain that I should've ordered my own.

"So." I smiled at him. Too brightly it made him raise his eyebrows in a questioning manner. "I probably won't go on whatever vacation my parents have planned for this summer. I finally have the uni excuse and though I hate to leave Stacey alone with them, I'm not subjecting myself to a month on a booze cruise."

He smiled over his beer. "Where are you going to go?"

I stared intently at him with a grin, biting my bottom lip. "Well, I was kind of going to ask you that."

"Oh." His face sank. His finger skimmed over the circle of his glass. "I guess I didn't give you our whole schedule for the summer. I kind of figured you'd be away for most of it. I was gonna tell you." He seemed eager to reassure me. "I told you we were planning a tour and since things have gotten bigger that's just gotten bigger so most of the summer we'll be on the road and we're recording the album and I don't know if we'll really have time to go away somewhere."

I placed my chin on top of my joined hands and smiled. "That's fine. I kind of thought, I mean, if you wouldn't mind an extra person shoved in your van."

His eyes shot open and then squinted. His brows furrowed. "You mean, like joining us on tour?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

He shook his head with a giant grin. "I'd love that. You—you could write your stories on the road. I mean, it can get loud—we can get loud and uncomfortable but with the downtime, you could write. You could be our roadie."

I sighed. "I don't know how much writing I'll be doing—"

"Stop," he urged. "I'll make you write every day. I love your writing."

I bashfully looked down at the table while my cheeks flushed. "I always thought I was more of your groupie than roadie."

"Oh, so now you're a groupie. You took offense to that name before you found out the other alternative was hard labour."

I pouted my lips at him. "I'm a petite little girl. How am I supposed to lift one of your large amps?"

"We gotta get you to a gym, Janie."

We left the pub around 10 and had sex in my little twin bed, which wasn't bad considering we were used to Alex's bed of the same size. We were too cold to even take our shirts off. We cuddled after for warmth, necessity, need, and want.

The next day, we bought discounted chocolate at Tesco.

*

Jamie and Robert didn't get along. If I remember correctly, they never spoke. After the show, we managed a few drinks before the force from my gang was leaning toward heading back to Robert's place. His flat was revered by them as if it was an infamous club that they were lucky to even stand in line for.

"Robert's place has got everything under the sun," Georgia raved. "It's like the British Empire, the sun never sets on it."

I snorted. "A more apt descriptor would be the sun never shines on it."

"Fair enough, pet." She kissed my cheek. It was a weird name but Georgia viewed the way she bestowed out nicknames as a gift to the receiver no matter the complexities of the name. Robert was Burns, after the poet. She called Alex—never to his face—"Shrub" because of his stature.

I squeezed Alex's hand, which was somehow in mine. I don't remember how that happened. I leaned over to the guys so it was just the 5 of us in some semi-circle. "It's got a lot of pubs 'round it so if you want to ditch, plenty around it."

"Fuck that, I want to see what's at Robert's," Matt cheered.

It felt like Barnsley all over again but with a new set of people. We were scattered around drinking bits of things. Everyone seemed calm compared to prior nights and compliments about the show were sputtered out by people, albeit not the sweetest.

"Honestly," Tisha slurred, "I didn't believe it when Jane had a boyfriend. I thought she was, you know, gay like the rest of us."

"At least bi like Burns." The Monkeys didn't know who Burns was.

I sipped on white wine out of a red solo cup and Alex sat next to me sipping a beer. We were both on the floor, the rest of the Monkeys on the couch. Matt hung on Georgia's words, Jamie's hand was being drawn on by Yaayaa, and Andy looked like he was a sip away from falling asleep.

"Well, it's very sweet. Aren't they sweet?" Tisha continued.

Alex was stiff.

Robert didn't help things. He walked into the living room and tossed his bottle of Adderall at me. Alex looked curiously but didn't ask what it was. I tucked it away.

"Jane!" Robert sang. "Time to reciprocate. Should start calling her Mary Jane, you know." He looked over at Alex and it made my skin burn. The idea of getting high wasn't crazy. Robert talking to Alex was something I didn't enjoy and I wanted to go home.

Georgia squinted. "Don't you have something, Burns?"

"Not yet, Georgie."

Adam generously gave out some from his collection. He'd probably ask for repayments when we were sober, except me. Adam gave me weed for free because we smoked together while watching Wife Swap.

Alex and I shared a joint between us. I thought about blowing smoke into his mouth but it felt like I would be exposing my secret. I felt icky about the whole thing.

My eyes fluttered and laid my chin on top of Alex's shoulder. His eyes peered down at me and a giddy smile ran across his face. He pushed a chunk of my hair behind my ear. It was a tender comfort that I had never felt before and knew I would never feel again. The act of him being the first person to ever comb his way through me. He was determined to take hold of me and never let go.

I couldn't bear the thought of losing Alex. That night, for the first time, I realized that all that indifference I had exhibited at the idea of Alex and I breaking up was fake. It was a shield to defend my well-being so that I wouldn't come off as a fool in love. I mocked my friends for so long when they told me at 16 that their boyfriend was The One. As I neared 19, I thought, why couldn't it be Alex? No one had cared for me that way. Listened to me, held me, asked questions, shared their secrets, shared my secrets, knew me, loved me, pushed my hair behind my ear.

"What are you thinking, Janie Wanie?" He was letting out a high-induced giggle.

I didn't say anything. I dropped my head into the crook of his neck and wrapped my arm around his middle. His arm hugged around my back with a soft tug closer into him. He kissed the top of my head. We just sat there.

I, unbelievably so, fell asleep at some point amongst the rowdiness. A light shake awoke me, barely conscious, Alex whispered, "You ready to go home?" Home. We're going back to our 3 bedroom brownstone where we have 2 cats and a goldfish that's lived for 10 years. (The insanity of kids popped into my mind but I was still high).

I nodded into him and we stood up individually before reconnecting to lay my tired head on his shoulder. His arm pulled around me. "We're gonna go," Alex announced, mainly to just Andy, Matt, and Jamie.

Robert came from behind. "Eh! No need, Janie, can just sleep here." Robert didn't usually call me Janie. I told him once that only Alex called me that. I was unsure of how I felt that Robert was trying to get under Alex's skin. Shamefully, part of myself felt pride that I was desirable enough to want to rile up my boyfriend.

"We're gonna go, Rob," I countered. Robert hated being called Rob.

"Hey, I'll let Alex stay here too. Free of charge." He said it like it was some generous offer. That the next move Alex should make would be to bow at Robert's feet and thank him for the opportunity to sleep on his pull-out.

"They just want to leave so they can go fuck," Matt joked.

The vulgarity of it startled me. Times like this, this weird confrontation, I wish that Alex and I were hidden again. I grew stiff by Matt's words, even if they were just playful. I was weird about that stuff, especially with Alex. The idea of other people assuming my sexual business, true or not, felt invasive. Matt being this way when we were back up North felt fine. Matt being this way in Robert's apartment felt uncomfortable.

Alex turned his head back at Matt and said harshly, "Hey." Matt understood the impression quickly and ducked his head down, going back to talking with Tish.

"We could always do that threesome we talked about, Janie. You know, Alex could fuck me in the ass." Robert's smile was calculated. I felt like my skin had fallen off and was going through a meat grinder.

His comment had caught the attention of everyone in the room and I could picture the way Matt's jaw probably fell open and Jamie's scowled squinting. "Robert!" Georgia scolded from across the room.

I couldn't think of anything to say. My head felt foggy and any zany comeback I could have had was lost in the smoke. Alex felt the same way, so taken aback by the comment, that a smart response had been lost in the shock. "Okay, man, we're gonna go," Alex said.

We were silent the whole walk out of Robert's building. My heart pounded and I worried about the way Alex would react. I felt lightheaded, maybe from the adrenaline, maybe from the weed. We made our way down the stairs, attached. The moment we left the building, Alex pulled away from me. He threw his head back laughing, clutching his chest.

"What?" I questioned with an infected giggle.

Alex shook his head, took a deep breath, and pulled me back into him. "Whatever that was about me fucking Robert in the ass." He broke out into laughter again and I did too. Crackled in the snow-covered pavement. I felt warm.

On the train ride back, I fell asleep again. Nestled in that nook. In bed that night, I fell asleep in that nook and we didn't have sex. I was too tired and too swayed by everyone imagining that we were—that I was—having sex.

*

In March, Georgia and I go to Paris for a weekend. We end up staying for a week. I email Alex about the whole trip.

Who do you love more? Georgia or me?

*

In April, I received a CD from Alex in the mail. It was much like the first CD, artwork done by Matt, the CD that had "Jane C." written on it and a note wedge in between.

Don't be offended. I like you a lot, mardy bum.

*

The night after our last classes, I get blackout drunk and sleep on Robert's pullout with Georgia. I was woken by a call from Alex, who will be playing at The Dublin Castle that night. Hungover, hungover, hungover.

"We've arrived!" Since when was Alex this cheery?

"'Kay."

I heard a chuckle. "Take some painkillers, Janie."

"'Kay."

I took some pills on an empty stomach and Robert made us Blood Marys citing them as "the only true cure for a hangover."

I was worried for tonight. I was prepared for a redo of their previous London concert, which went fine but I was hungover from a massive binge that involved more than just alcohol. Everyone would also be going again. Everyone. The plans afterward would likely not change much. People tended to want to go to Robert's for free will, a good bathroom for blow, and a good bed for fucking. It was disgusting but I felt like a luxury for a bunch of 18-year-olds away from their parents for the first time.

Tonight, I felt like a closing of the chapter, temporarily, but necessary for all of our health.

"I like Alex," Georgia tells me on the train back to my dorm, Defoe.

I felt hazy like I had lost a lot of blood. Georgia let me rest my head on her shoulder. "Me too."

"It'll be good for you to be with him for a while. Get away from all of us." She sounded sorry like she regretted ever introducing me to her friends. I wondered what had happened last night.

"I'll miss you."

"Yeah. Miss ya too."

*

I met Alex backstage, dressed in bell-bottom jeans with a white tee, and a black wool jumper thrown over to combat that cold, early spring weather. I had boots on that clunked the ground and echoed so loudly you could hear it across the building.

His head turned at the sound of it. I don't know if he recognized it to be me or if they were really just that loud. "As I live and breathe, Jane C."

He was dressed in a similar fashion as me: black jeans, black jumper, longer hair. "You matching me?"

I still hadn't made my way to him when he whistled and said, "Looking good, baby."

"Ew, never do that again."

He pecked my lips quickly before hugging me close. It felt like I was just greeting him after coming home from work, not after a 2-month separation. "Your hair's longer." He fiddled with the ends of it. It hadn't been cut since December.

I scruffed the top of his head. "Back at you, Cousin Itt." His hair couldn't have been longer than a handful of inches, however, if I brushed mine in front of my face I'd be the girl from The Ring.

He took a handful of my side. "You've gotten thin." 

"Thanks." He didn't mean it as complimentary. I knew it then too but many of the unhealthy ways I treated myself in uni were willfully ignored at all costs.

I felt like throwing up then. Not from the pills on an empty stomach or the Blood Marys but from the way he looked at me. At first, it looked like concern, then like he was victimizing me. But the swish in stomach came when he said, "Who are you?" He said it as a joke but I felt like clawing into him and saying, It's me, it's the same me. Don't leave. Because the truth was it was the same me. I hadn't changed much in school as everyone said I did. Physically, maybe. The way I acted was the same. I just had access to more and, other than maybe Georgia, I had no one to keep me in check, and Georgia had a hard enough time keeping herself upright.

After the show, we went to a pub and sat in a booth with too many people squeezed in. I felt like if I had another sip of alcohol I would die but if I didn't have another sip I would die. Everyone was rowdy, loud, and annoying. It banged my head up.

I'm not sure what they were talking about. My eyes rested on the tabletop. Alex was louder than usual. I dramatically laid my head on the table. Tish yelled out, "Jane needs a reboot!"

I raised my head and announced, "I'm gonna go for a smoke." I grabbed Alex's hand. I didn't care if he was in the midst of a discussion on world peace, he was coming with me.

He accepted it and as we stood, Robert said, "Hey, I'll come with ya."

I wanted to bash my head in.

Outside the pub, I stood against the wall with Alex at my side and Robert in front of us. "I really liked the show, man."

"Oh, thank you, thank you." Alex looked like he had a hard time believing the compliment.

"You're becoming big. You know, at the start of the year, I thought this is just a girl raving about her boyfriend's shitty band, but now NME is raving about ya."

"Arguably we're still shitty." Alex made us all chuckle. If you didn't know us it would seem chummy. To me, it felt like we were all putting on a play.

"Janie told me she's joining you on tour," Robert said.

"Yeah, just around the UK, but it should be fun."

"I should start a band. Have Janie be my groupie." Robert had the persona of a drugged-out rocker. His band would likely sound worse than The Shags. He was trying to get a rise out of Alex. It was shocking to me how much Robert cared what Alex thought.

"Don't call me a groupie, Rob," I called back. It was a nickname wrestling competition.

He exhaled dramatically. "Groupies run the world, Janie. You should know that. I gave you my copy of I'm With the Band. Besides, I'm sure Alex knows a thing or two about groupies."

Alex's calm persona made Robert's skin itch and it turned me on with delight. "Your implication is lost on me."

"I'm sure you get girls all the time—"

I interrupted him, "Right now you sound like a groupie."

"Shall I get on my knees then?"

I pushed his shoulder. "Fuck off and go inside." Robert chuckled, scuffed out his cigarette against the wall, and listened to my command.

I wanted Alex to laugh like last time. He just looked annoyed and turned away. His back was against the wall and his eyes were elsewhere.

"Robert's so full of shit," I commented.

Alex nodded. "Why do you hang out with him?"

Deja vu.

"He's a cool guy. He's not always like this. We discuss things."

"Things?"

"Literature, art, I don't know." Robert was interested conversationally but he was more of a parasitic drug dealer to me at that point than a friend. It's hard for people to understand my friendship with Robert, but it just made sense.

"Okay." It felt like he was questioning me. My answer wasn't good enough. He didn't believe me. I'm not sure if it was paranoia or the truth.

*

My mother thought of the idea of inviting Alex to dinner. I had been home for a month. The band would be playing a gig at The Boardwalk at the end of May and I would then join him for the remainder of the summer tour. My family would be headed to Hong Kong and Macau for a month and my mother had begun to wear Mandarin dresses and say vaguely racist things with the excuse that they were going to be vacationing there so it was okay.

The dinner was considered a last supper of sorts and my mother had acted the dramatics out for it with weak guilt-tripping tools that I was abandoning the family for my boyfriend. This continued into dinner where, in spite of it being a "last supper" and my parents' first dinner with Alex (the wedding definitely didn't count), my father's co-worker, Bill, and his wife, Stephanie, were there along with their son, Billy, who was a year older than me.

"Billy is going into his last year at Oxford, right?" My mother gushed.

Billy seemed shy about the whole thing and uncomfortable to even be here in the first place. He was dressed in a blue button-down that he spilled water on within the first minute of dinner. He was geeky cute with glasses and a habit of bad posture. "Yes, ma'am." He had a practice of short answers and I gained pleasure every time he called my mother "ma'am," something she despised more than anything.

"And Alex, you're not doing school." She didn't say it like a question. It was a statement letting everyone know, like, "Just so you know, he isn't at Oxford like Billy." I found it funny that my mother felt the need to brag about someone else's kid rather than her own. I don't even think my mother knew what I was studying at school. Also, most obviously, my mother didn't go to university.

"The band is doing pretty good, so it makes sense to continue with that." He was nervous. His leg bounced enough to shake the floor and played with his food to occupy himself. I wasn't much help in comforting him. I was having my own panic attack and wishing I had argued with my mother about having Alex over for a humiliation ritual. Maybe this was his Illuminati induction ceremony.

"Makes sense," my mother mocked. She sipped her wine and looked toward my father at the opposite end of the table.

My father sipped his whiskey. "Well, I wish my Janie was in Macau with us. She's always been my good luck charm."

"What about me?" Stacey, poor Stacey, said. Like most things, Alex and I laughed, and her comment was ignored by my parents. I wished I could take her on the tour, even if she would be annoying and get in the way. I feared the boredom she'd have on vacation, or worse, actually having to hang out with my parents.

"Has Janie told you that story, Alex?" My father asked.

Alex, having no clue what story my father was talking about, shook his head.

"When Janie was born, I went to the casino and put a grand on 5 red in roulette because she was born on the 5th." Alex nodded because he called me on my birthday and got me a present (he apologized for his lack of budget but the stack of notebooks, mostly blank, besides 5 pages of his own delicately sweet writing). My parents sent a birthday card that came a week late, which means they forgot until Stacey reminded them. "I won, not one, not two, but three times."

My father's need to highlight the fact that the day I was born he went to a casino with little care was alarming if not predictable. His failure to mention that he lost that money the same day wasn't surprising either.

My father exhaled loudly. "I suppose you'll have the good luck charm this summer, Alex. God knows you'll probably need it."

We both ignored the dig. I wanted to disappear into my soup. Alex placed his hand on my thigh and it was the first time I recognized how reassuring his touch could be. It often quickened my heartbeat. This time, it slowed it.

Billy piped up and said softly, "I really like your music." He was as darling as you can imagine.

Alex made eye contact with Billy, shocked by the praise and unsure if it was directed at him. "Thanks, Billy," Alex said.

I grinned into my spoon. My mother sipped her wine.

*

In Glasgow, in the late hours of the night, the touring bands, their associates, and I sat on the tour bus drinking, smoking, and playing video games.

Alex had grown close to Miles Kane of—during that time—Little Flames' fame. I had grown close with their lead singer, Eva. She wasn't that much older than me, but she felt like a big sister. She was the only other girl on the tour, so we bonded and made fun of all the boys. A week before, when we first met, Eva pressed her cheek to mine and told Alex, "She's coming home with me."

While the band sound-checked and did all their boring concert preparatory things, I explored the cities. We had only been to Leicester and Edinburgh prior to Glasgow but I was aiming to take advantage of every city we were in, even if Al couldn't.

When I arrived at the venues, about a half hour before the shows, I'd sit beside Alex on a couch backstage, and recount my day. In Glasgow, I told him how I went to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the city's cathedral, and the botanic gardens. "And then I went to the Necropolis."

"What's a necropolis?" Alex asked. This is a very rare moment. Alex was a dork who read through the dictionary. He was also a dork who would not admit when he was wrong. He would rather flounder in unknowingness than say he doesn't understand something. Then, May 30, 2005, in Glasgow came around and I think he understood from that point on that I was always right.

"It's like a cemetery but they're ancient and the architecture is beautiful. The word itself means 'city of the dead' because they are so large."

He nudged my shoulder. "And you thought that Latin class would never come in handy."

I had a digital camera—a baby blue Canon Powershot—and we'd scroll through the images one by one. I always felt bad that Alex couldn't experience these cities like I did, too wrapped up in work, but I realized that Alex favoured cities more through the perspective of aftershow drinks than walking miles around a city. I preferred the walking.

On that bus's couch, I sat squeezed between Alex and Eva. The bus was loud and I was 4 drinks in and hanging off Al's shoulder. "Do you have to play FIFA again?" I moaned. FIFA Football 2005 is still the bane of my existence. Sometimes at night, I dream about it. Those little avatars roaming around the field. I can hear Jamie screaming about Matt cheating and then Matt screaming that he wasn't and then Jamie insisting that he was and then Matt insisting he wasn't and then Andy saying that Matt definitely was and then Matt whining that he wasn't and then Andy saying that maybe Matt wasn't and then Jamie getting pissed that Andy had flip-flopped and then Jamie demanding a rematch and then another rematch and then another rematch and on, and on, and on. I still hear it. Blah blah blah!

"We gotta finish the tournament!" Matt insisted.

I stood up. The room was spinning but I was determined to make it to the bed. The narrow one Alex and I shared. I fell on it and sprawled out like a dead rat might do. I was still dressed in jeans and determined to not sleep in them. I moaned out like someone could hear me. Packed away in the other room and they were screaming at one another about their stupid video game. It made me vomit.

No, like, seriously, I was vomiting. It had overcome me and with Miles occupying the bathroom for the last 10 minutes, I had nowhere to go and I vomited on the floor. It was so gross that it made me vomit again. I was disgusted with myself. A pile of vomit at my feet. (I was becoming my mother).

I felt steadier with much of the alcohol out of my system now and traveled to get paper towels from the kitchenette. I walked in front of the TV, which triggered yelling from the couch potatoes. I felt if I opened my mouth again I would projectile vomit on them so I remained sealed as I walked back.

Unknowingly, Eva had followed me to the beds. Behind me, I heard, "Aw, baby girl" as she spotted my rejection on the floor. "Are you okay?"

I nodded.

"Do you want me to get Alex to clean that up for you? Because I'm definitely not."

I chuckled at the idea but shook my head. She handed me the trash can and a bottle of water before disappearing back into the main cabin.

I finished my cleaning duties and crashed. Alex came in somewhere around 3:30 AM. I didn't want to fight, even if I was mad.

The following night, Eva made a joke about the vomit and Alex's head snapped unaware. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"FIFA," I answered shortly.

*

I did write. Not as much as the idealized version Alex had in his head but I wrote on slips of paper and on the nights when we went to bed at the same time, he made an effort to read them. They weren't very long. Kind of glorified diary entries but he raved about them like I was Joan Didion or something. One evening, somewhere on the road between Bristol and Cardiff, I wrote the following entry. Alex never read it.

We are on the road once again. I don't know how I feel about all this movement. At least I don't have to drive. Alex is sleeping right now. Everyone, but Mike [the driver], is sleeping. And me, obviously. I like these early hours on the bus when it is quiet and no sign of life. There's too much noise sometimes. I want to be still for a couple of days. I think I'm mad at Alex but I can't decide. I think I had a fantasy that we would be together and it would click. It does, but every few steps we get misaligned. I think it's the lack of stillness. We're not 2 kids in his room, in Sheffield, in Wakefield, in Barnsley for months & months. I think I'm not used to this version of him. I wonder if he's not used to this version of me. We're silent too much. I think I need to get more friends or a job or something. I think my life is too wrapped around him. I wish I kidnapped Stacey so I'd have someone to argue with. I'm going to watch TV now. No FIFA.

I never quite got used to all the moving we did. I never asked Alex about it either. It was weird how much two people could talk and also have an issue with communication. For about a month straight we zapped around the country before stopping in London.

"You're gonna be on the BBC this is so cool!" I cheered while tugging on Alex's arm. 

"We've been on the BBC before," Alex downplayed.

We had just entered the hotel room we would be staying in. Solo.

I rolled my eyes. Alex sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "You've never played on the BBC before and I get to brag about you so it's a win-win."

"Yeah?" Alex looked up at me with a smug smirk. His eyes traced their way around me. His hand reached out to mine and I accepted it. He tugged me to sit beside him on the bed. "You brag about me, Janie?"

"Well, I take pride in you, you know. To see something built from the ground up. I was at your first gig, I was at gigs nobody was at, I was at gigs everybody was at." He chuckled boyishly at my excitement. "I know I haven't been there for the last year but even hearing about everything. You signing with Domino and Five Minutes with Arctic Monkeys, which I've been meaning to tell you is not 5 minutes you know that, right?"

"You're so cute when you get all worked up over clerical errors."

"It's not a clerical error. I know you have time management issues but 6 minutes is not 5 minutes."

"Well, I take long when I do things." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Now your sexual innuendos."

"Hey, I take pride in my lasting time and as my girlfriend, you should too."

"The last time I took pride in you, you switched the topic. You're too bashful to accept a compliment."

"I don't know." He shrugged and turned away from me with a shade of pink. "I'm just as proud of you."

I laughed. "Pft, what have I done?"

"All this is 'cause of you."

"You wrote the songs, you play them. I'm just the muse."

"You're a hell of a lot more than a muse, Jane."

*

That night, we walked around London and talked. Properly, no FIFA, no Monkeys. Maybe it's because I enjoyed showing him around pockets of London, but I think being just with him felt right. The closest we'd come to privacy in the past weeks had been in a bunk bed with Matt only 3 feet above us. 

It felt odd to walk around London in the warmth. Of course, it wasn't a blazing heat, nonetheless, we felt little need to wear anything heavier than a zip-up hoodie. We sat at Regent's Park and while it was no replacement for Charlton Brook, the flowers felt like something out of Wonderland. 

"I like it here," Alex whispered to me as if it was a secret he wanted me to keep.

"It's beautiful," I commented.

He nodded. His eyes slowly glanced over at me. A smile cracked across his lips. "Yeah. I like being here with you."

"Ditto," I replied. We weren't touching but it felt like gravity was pushing us closer together and soon enough we'd be in each other's arms. 

His hand brushed my back and I couldn't tell if it was intentional or not but he seemed to focus on his hand for quite some time. "I know you're not having the best time."

I shook my head. "I'm having a great time."

He moved his head slowly. I was unsure if he was nodding or trying to shake his thoughts out of himself. "Okay." He thought for some time, then said, "It's not your fabulous adventure though. I'm sorry."

I scowled. "I mean, I'm not staying at the Ritz but I never wanted that anyway." I had many doubts about ourselves, but it never occurred to me that Alex felt that in himself.

"I just want you to have fun."

I giggled. "I am having fun. It's impossible not to have fun when watching you give Miles lap dances."

He pushed on my back. "Oh, stop it. You're just jealous."

"Well, yeah, I mean, come on. I haven't had sex with you in weeks."

Alex furrowed his brows. His cheeks flushed pink and he giggled nervously saying it allowed. "Didn't I finger you in the bunk last night?" Although he was shy, he neared me with a certain predatory look that was typically reserved right before eating your prey.

I rolled my eyes. "Sex. S-E-X. Where the penis goes in the vagina."

Alex leaned back on the bench, insisting, "It has not been weeks."

"Yes, it has!" I countered.

Alex placed his arm behind me on the bench. "I fucked you in that pub bathroom in Manchester last week."

My lips parted as the drunk memory refloated in my mind. "Oh, right." It wasn't very glamorous. The pub's bathroom was as gross as you could imagine and I refused to touch any surface in the place so Alex had to manage fucking me from behind without pushing me into anything while we were both wildly drunk. Not either of our finest performances.

"Are you forgetting about sex with me, Janie?" Alex teased. He bent closer to me.

I shrugged. My perception of time had been thrown off a little. Some days were long, some days felt an hour short. "Nonetheless, it's been long enough. Why are we at a park anyway?"

"You want to fuck in one of the bushes?"

I laughed and tucked my feet up behind me on the bench. I leaned my side against the bench's backing and touched my shoulder with his. "In broad daylight?"

"We could find a big one."

I pushed him away with my shoulder but tugged him back with my hand on his other shoulder. "Let's just go back to the hotel."

I stood up and dragged him along with me. He put on a Queen's English accent and asked, "For what purpose exactly, Miss Cavendish?"

I returned with my horrible Princess Di impression, "I am dreadfully tired and must go to bed at once."

"Oh, I'll take ya to bed, Miss Cavendish."

*

At the end of August, I returned to Wakefield. The band continued touring in various English cities while I accepted spending the remainder of the summer at home, mainly for Stacey and her birthday on the 24th. The house was still as if nobody lived in it. Maybe because I had been moving around for such a long time, it felt odd to remain still.

I had left the Monkeys & Friends in Dublin. It was a concert that made me feel rather grown-up, I think solely because we had to present our passports for the journey. It was the first international show, even if it was just across the Irish Sea. Matt exclusively drank Guinness for 2 days straight and Andy kept trying to get Jamie to dress up as a leprechaun because he "fit the part."

Before the gig, Alex had Tim rent a car (you can't rent a car until you're 21 in Ireland) and we stole it and drove out to Wicklow Mountains early in the morning. It had rained the night before, the grass still smelled dewy and the birds had begun to start chirping after the storm. 

We parked and walked through Ballinastoe Woods, up crickety makeshift wooden steps. The woods looked like something written by Henry David Thoreau. Rain licked off by leaves and our steps rustled the ground beneath us.

"I'd like to live in a place like this," I told him. I think I might have said this in every city but I truthfully meant it in Wicklow.

Alex glanced over smiling at me. "You're a country girl at heart."

I shook my head and stuffed my hands in my hoodie's pockets. "I love the city. I'm definitely a city girl."

He shook his head, always knowing me better than I knew myself. "You're a country girl, Janie. You love nature. I'm shocked you haven't talked about having a farm and riding horses."

I beamed. "I'd like a horse."

He pointed a finger at me. "See."

I shook my head again, insisting, "Just because I appreciate nature doesn't mean I'm a country girl. I love the bustling of London. Never knowing what you're going to get up to in a night. I adore it."

He laughed at my word choice. "'Adore,'" he imitated. "All I'm saying is in 10 years when you're on a farm riding your pet horse, Buttercup, I'm definitely going to be telling you 'I told you so.'"

"Whatever you say, Al."

(I have a horse. Not named Buttercup).

"Are you a country boy?" I asked.

He shrugged. His hood was annoyingly over his head, hair in eyes, covering much of his face. He said he was cold. I didn't—and don't—believe him. "I like aspects of it. The quietness. The sun shining. I'm always happy when the sun's out."

I giggled at his bright face. He was smiling as the sun peeked out from the clouds. If I could, I would be the Sun. I rubbed his cheek with the back of my hand. "You're adorable."

He looked down at his feet as we walked on the dirt path. "I look a mess." He was self-deprecating and refused a compliment. Humble and insecure.

I came close to his side and bumped his hip. "You're the cutest guy I know."

"Stop it, you." He kicked a stone with his knackered Converses.

"Are you doubting my tastes?" I questioned, raising my eyebrows. A light threat on my part.

He laughed in an attempt to detract from the topic of the conversation. "I ain't no Hugh Grant."

"You better not be. Is the sequel to 'Scummy' you soliciting a prostitute while you're with Elizabeth Hurley?"

"Does this make you Elizabeth Hurley?"

I batted my lashes at him. "Well, aren't I as pretty as Elizabeth Hurley?"

"Prettier." Doubtful, Elizabeth Hurley in the Versace pin dress is the epitome of beautiful women everywhere, but I'll believe his lie for my ego and sake of argument at that moment.

"Believe me, you are way better looking than Hugh Grant. You're my little monkey, Alexander." I caressed my fingers against his chin. A weird habit I have, sure, but he has a fascinating chin.

He smiled down at me. "Thank you." It was odd. An emotional sincerity that we hadn't ever had. Usually, it was me being all insecure and feelings-obsessed. Alex buried things so deeply and I wore my heart on my sleeve, both to a fault. We were too in our heads about everything, especially during the time of the tour. We made the effort to make up for lost time but became obsessed with how that should be done rather than doing it. In short spurts of time—Regent's Park & Wicklow—it felt like we could just be. I was terrified by his changing personality that it didn't occur to me until the end of the tour that I could get to know this new him. He wasn't much different from the old him, all the qualities were the same, just new feelings and perspectives. It fascinated me to no end. It felt like getting to know him all over again and I loved that. I love cracking Alex open and discovering a new embellishment to his yolk every time. He has a new rivet in his mind, an unknown one or a new one. It's why I want to hang on to him forever. I hated myself for not realizing this sooner but I was smart enough not to punish myself for it in the moment. I focused on him.

I kissed his cheek. It felt adorably sweet like something out of I Love Lucy or something. I was flooded with so much emotion from kissing his cheek that I decided to kiss his other cheek. I stepped down from my toes and he was grinning down upon me. I kissed his nose with delight. Before I could go for his chin, he kissed my cheek and then my lips. It was a saccharine beat. 

I pulled away from him and continued to walk ahead of him on the path. Following his earlier directions of "Lead the way, madame." He was only a few steps behind me when he did something rare. He reached up and tapped my hand. I looked back but he didn't make eye contact with me. His eyes focused on my right hand. He reached up with his left hand and intertwined our hands. I didn't say anything. He didn't say anything. We held hands up the rest of the incline. No words were spoken.

On the drive back, all I remember is laughter. I asked Alex recently what we talked about on that drive back. My memory lacks that moment of what caused the uncontrollable nature of that laughter. He had no clue either. He only remembers nearly hitting a deer halfway through the drive, which led to more undiagnosable laughter.

Upon returning to Wakefield, I wrote in my diary, It is harmful to live through pictures but I long to return to Wicklow, atop that hill. Below the entry, I left a space to tape in a photo I took of Alex at the end of the trail. I never did print the photo out and the SD card is yet another thing to add to the list of lost items. (I promise that isn't the case in later years, but I was 19 and had the procrastination level to never get things done. Most of my belongings from that age were lost when my parents moved or sold in the auction before the move. "Excuses, excuses, Janie" was quipped when Alex read this passage).

At Stacey's birthday dinner, we ate at home at the dinner table per her request. Stacey still holds onto the belief that we can operate like a normal family. I think she's the only reason why we still make an effort. 

Shockingly, the dinner itself was enjoyable coated with something my family rarely had—laughter. Harper, Greg, and their spouses had both come into town, a rare thing when it came to birthdays. In a stunning act of resistance and resilience, no fights occurred between Greg and Harper.

We ate lobster for dinner. My mother abhors seafood and the smell of it, but she caved for Stacey. Maybe because she's the baby of the family or some gene—the mother gene—reactivated in Macau. Like she won it at a slot machine.

Halfway through the dinner, Harper asked me about the tour. Stacey squealed with excitement, "I want alllllllllll the details."

We laughed at her cuteness. I didn't quite know how to answer it. My instinct was to be quick and keep it vague. My parents didn't have much interest in my whereabouts or activities, especially with Alex. I don't think they had any clue how big they were getting. They pictured Arctic Monkeys playing in their neighbor's garages and not for the BBC. I think if they knew the BBC liked them, they'd condemn the BBC before they would praise the band.

I answered, "It was good. I liked seeing all these little corners of the UK and Ireland. Very beautiful."

Ian, Harper's husband, asked me, "Which city was your favourite?"

I shrugged. "Maybe Dublin, but that was only a couple of days ago. Recency bias probably."

"Harp told me they're playing Reading & Leeds," Ian said.

I nodded. "This weekend."

Stacey exclaimed, "I want to go soooooo badly. Please, please!"

My mother ruled, "No." She pointed her eyes at me. "We're barely letting you go."

Stacey whined, "Aren't I old enough now?!"

"You'll never be old enough," my father told her.

"What if we all went?" Stacey suggested.

I nearly choked on my own breath. The suggestion sent a buzz up my spine that could have the power to paralyze me. My lungs had popped like balloons and deflated completely into my stomach.

My mother began to laugh. Stacey's frown grew deep. "Never, sweetie, never."

Stacey sat disappointed but was later cheered up by my mother promising to take her shopping this weekend instead. She came back with diamond stud earrings. I think she preferred shopping.

*

At the Reading half of the weekend, Alex seemed in a completely different headspace. In every conversation, he was checked out, his mind elsewhere. I understood why.

The other boys didn't look calm either. Matt was pacing and jumping around. Jamie was on the phone with his mum. Andy was staring at the floor. Alex and I had snuck off the path from the group. Not completely out of their sight, but shielded from Andy's muttering and Matt's exclaims that he claimed to be from excitement and totally not from nervousness.

I grabbed his hand and his pulse was beating so hard it jumpstarted mine. We sat in some chairs behind the tent they were playing in. The weather was muggy and the sun was usually bright. They were set to go on in a half hour. Alex was sweating. I wasn't helping matters.

"Are you excited?" I was cheery, which definitely pissed him off.

He nodded rapidly, not a good sign. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Yeah, yeah."

"Then, you have Leeds tomorrow!"

He squeezed my hand. "Alright, Janie, let's talk about something else."

"Right, right. Well, after these shows, you'll be back in Sheffield and me in Wakefield—"

"Like the good ol' days," Alex quipped.

I rolled my eyes. "If those are the good ol' days then kill me now."

"Oh, come on. I couldn't have been that bad. I happen to think I was really cute a year ago."

"You've only gotten cuter, Al, you should know that. It's what makes all the girls scream."

He tossed his head away from my gaze in exasperation. He returned to my eyes with a grin. "Will you be screaming?"

I furrowed my brows. "No, I'm not a fool."

Alex boyishly giggled. He squeezed my hand tighter as if trying to communicate something in Morse Code.

"Shall we talk about your second year at Greenwich?" He asked it with enthusiasm. Always the proudest of me, even if I was dreading school starting up again.

I shelved my head on his shoulder. He looked down at me, eyes small. He looked sleepy. "I'll miss you."

"Good."

I sat up and punched his arm. "No love lost from you."

He clutched his upper arm. "Eh! You watch it." He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. If we were to show any more affection, we might have hugged one another. "We'll be down at the end of September."

I beamed up at him and exaggerated my words as I teasingly said, "For M. T. V." He rolled his eyes, trying to seem humble and uncaring toward the performance. "MTV is a huge deal, Al." I shook his hand that I was holding. "Come on."

He exhaled loudly. "It's going quick. The single in October and everything." We never talked about this rushing fame and the effects it had on him. We celebrated it but didn't dissect it, at least not in that first year where everything changed in the blink of an eye. The year before we were smoking a cigarette outside The Boardwalk and now we were at Reading & Leeds talking about MTV.

I tried to turn his mind away from the thoughts that were contributing to that nervous look on his face. Heavy breathing, empty eyes, and shaky hands. "Do you think you could get me on Pimp My Ride?"

He looked up at me and laughed. "For your little Beetle?" I nodded. "Why would you ever want to change a thing about that car?"

"I want to get mine done like that Ford Capri that had a thousand Swarovski crystals decorated on it," I recounted.

Alex stuck his tongue out and gagged. "Awfully tacky."

"Exactly! Then, every time we ride in the car we can complain about how horrible it looks and feels but we can do it together. Then, maybe my dad will buy me a new one or something."

Alex shook his head. "I like the Beetle. Never get rid of the Beetle."

I shrugged. "I don't use it in London. I barely used it this summer. It's just sitting in my parents' garage. My mum is probably trying to get rid of it anyway."

"Don't let her. I like that car."

I sighed. "Okay."

We soon got up and I walked with him to the side of the stage. They all looked jittery. You could hear the noise from the crowd only growing louder and louder. "Jane, we need you to look," Matt told me.

"Huh?"

"You get the first look. How bad is it? Step out and tell us," he advised me. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me from behind to look out. I peeked my eyes out of the curtain at the endless sea of people. They were flooding out of the tent. It suddenly made me nervous but then I remembered this wasn't the Year 4 spelling bee and I calmed down. 

I looked at them, nervous and waiting for my answer. "It's an amazing turn-out."

They grunted like that was the worst thing imaginable. "I didn't want people to actually turn up," Matt whined.

"You wanted to play to an empty crowd?" I questioned.

Matt beat his drumsticks on his leg. "No, no. I'm just nervous, fuck, Jane." He turned his attention to his bandmates. "There must be a million people out there if she's saying it's an amazing turn-out."

There was no time to comfort, even though I wasn't sure anything I said would reassure Matt or the group. The stagehand came by and lifted the curtain, directing them out onto the stage for thunderous cheering. Their set was great. The following one at Leeds was just as out-of-this-world. 

When we returned to home base and Alex came over to my house, Stacey asked him how it was. He told her that he couldn't remember a single thing.

*

In the fall, a little over a week before "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" was released, the Monkeys played the Astoria in London, which seated about 2,000. It was the largest venue I had ever seen them at. Except for "Riot Van," they had played the first album in full and I naturally exaggerate things but it felt like every single person was singing. I brought just Georgia with me.

The band would leave for Portsmouth the next morning but managed to hang around for the night. Alex stayed with me at Defoe, instead of the tour bus. He was sweaty and as talkative as ever when he left the stage. I had thought of wrapping myself around him in a prideful sense but he had sweated through his Little Flames red T-shirt and I decided to wait until he put his hoodie on and we were out in the cold October air.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I wrapped my arm around his waist with the thought this is what adults do. I once again imagined we were heading to our home after an evening of fun—the ones you have after a long week of work. 

A diary entry from the following night read:

Sometimes I pray to be older and settled with Alex. A push-and-pull on my heart is too hard. I'd only speak these words to myself, but I've never felt so whole. A part of me goes where he goes. He's gone for so long. I only feel whole for a day. But that day is worth everything.

As we walked from Astoria to the train station, Alex kissed me. It was a hard kiss, the kind implanted on my lips still. He whispered in my ear, "I love you." We were going home.

I kissed his cheek, soft and serene. I had fallen in love with doing that in Wicklow and have never stopped loving it. "You were fucking amazing tonight. A proper rockstar."

He shrugged and kissed me again. "I missed you."

I squeezed his side, longing to feel his skin under his chunk of clothes. "I like it when you slag off the crowd. It always makes me giggle." The thought of him stopping mid-"Still Take You Home" to yell at can-throwers in the crowd made me bite my tongue to prevent bursting into more giggles.

He pulled me closer as if in retaliation for pinching his side. He dropped his head down to look me directly in the eye with wide brown puppy-dog eyes. "Did you miss me?"

I wrinkled my nose up completely and stuck my tongue at him. "Nope." I blew a raspberry at him.

Alex stood up and clutched his chest. "You are brutal, Janie."

I looked up at him. His eyes were ahead as he acted like he couldn't even make eye contact with me. Medusa fit me well. "I missed you and I love you, as Stacey would say, soooooooooooooo much."

He nodded pleased. "Good."

When we arrived at my dorm, we had sex. It was quick and, from my memory, gross. I believe this was the occasion where Alex sneezed on me mid-coitus and I got snot in my eye. Would his cum have been better? He came after that like it was some sequential release.

"I'm going to kill you," I promised him.

He was out of breath and nearly collapsed on me until I shoved him off of me and forced him to get toilet paper for me because I had no tissues in my room. He wiped it off of me like it was chivalrous affection. 

When he went to throw the paper away I asked, "When will I see you again?"

He sighed. The topic was always one we sighed at. He crawled back into bed and said, "There's that party we're having for the single release. You know, just at a pub and things."

I placed my cold hands on his warm shoulders. "I have this exam coming up soon." I bite my bottom lip. "Would you hate me if I missed it?"

He smiled at me. It reminded me of how I looked when he got off stage. "Course not. It's not that big. I'll write you about it."

I chuckled. "You'll write me about it?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

A week later, he wrote me:

Matt hammered. I hammered. Write more later.

The following week they had the #1 hit in the country. I held silent pride. I didn't rave about it to everybody. That day, Robert made some dumb joke about it, Georgia told me to congratulate them, and Tish played the song off her iPod. Later that night, I went out with a new set of friends from my Short Story Writing class. We went clubbing. Something my Beatnik group of friends wouldn't be caught dead doing. I loved it.

I danced with strangers and felt free. It wasn't dancing at some ratty pub or someone's house. I held the freedom of barely knowing anyone there. I chased it. "Dancefloor" came on right before I was about to leave the dancefloor for another drink. I was definitely drunk but I grabbed the hand of the girl I had been dancing with and said, "This is my boyfriend's song!"

She cheered and danced with me to it. I never saw her again and I think she didn't even hear what I said but I felt desperate to tell everyone that that song we just danced to was my boyfriend's. My new friends were amused by it but also thought I was psycho until they did eventually find out that I was, in fact, not telling a drunk lie.

The following day, Alex emailed and wrote:

Assuming you heard. Mad, right? Wish you were here to celebrate but we will do some more when the album goes #1, right? I'm saying "right?" too much. Repetition can be favourable to getting your point across, right? Right? Right? Right? I'm going mad. 

Love, Al

p.s. Jools Holland on the 28th. See you then, Jane C.

*

"No fair. You get to go to Amsterdam before me," I whined in Alex's ear. 

He chuckled back. "I think you have me beat on countries visited."

It was the eve of Halloween. The following day the band was kicking off a European leg of their tour. Alex and I were held up in my dorm. 

On Friday, they played Jools Holland. I was both their band's loyal groupie and bitter spokesperson. "Yes, he is cute, but I hear his girlfriend is even cuter" that kind of thing. Of course, I was saying this to Tim so their reputations weren't damaged much. 

As much as the Monkeys shunned the press in those early days and it was a rare time for Alex and me, London is—and this might shock you—a major city with many journalists. On Saturday, Alex did some press talking to The Guardian. Later that night, he walked into my dorm as one might come home to their wife after work. I was becoming a romantic nutjob.

On Sunday—Halloween Eve—Alex and I huddled under blankets. It was somewhere around 2 in the afternoon but you could tell me otherwise and I'd believe you. He'd be in Amsterdam tomorrow, then Sint-Joost-ten-Node in Belgium (Alex butchered the pronunciation every time), they would zap around Europe before their first U.S. shows and a Tokyo show, therefore, god knows when the next time we would be in the same time zone would be. I'd see him in December. I'd also be in my childhood bedroom.

"After this tour, you'll have me beat," I told him. I tapped his chin in a rhythmic pattern. His chin was my personal kick drum.

He was proud of this knowledge knowing he'd have more experience in something than me. Then, something else tugged his smile. He cuddled me closer. "Why don't you come with?"

I furrowed my brows, unsure but also completely sure of what he was saying. "What?"

"Maybe come to America with us or something." His grin gave me hope for something. Life called, unfortunately, and fortunately. 

"I'll have finals, Al." I giggled. It would soften the blow. I'm not sure if the blow was hitting me or him. I hoped neither of us.

He chuckled and nodded. "I know." He kissed me. "Someday." My daydreams in Prose Fiction in Context would be taken away by this.

I nodded. "A little shoebox."

"I hope we'll be richer than that." He hushed his voice as if he didn't want the zero other people in the room to hear us. "We do have the #1 song in the country."

I elbowed him. "Fine, then I want a pool please!"

"A pool for Jane C. it is then."

"And maybe a hot tub too."

"I'm not made out of money, Janie Yanie."

*

a/n: do i write too much for this series? maybe, but i can't help it. it calls upon me.

[annieqattheperipheral]

sid wizened old man on the mountain with decrees of his successor? sure not like I'm not already overly emotional about davo this week😭

yohe's dramatic ao3 style is always appreciated

*taps kudos

full article:

Sidney Crosby is famous for many things, one of which is his availability and patience with the sometimes-obnoxious media.

For years and years, I’d see Crosby patiently sit at his locker and absorb questions. One flavor of these questions was more predictable and consistent than the rest. Whenever the Penguins faced a player who had been drafted No. 1, just as Crosby had been in 2005, Crosby would be asked about comparisons to and opinions of the latest hotshot to enter the league.

Patrick Kane. Steven Stamkos. John Tavares. Taylor Hall. Ryan Nugent-Hopkins. Nail Yakupov (remember him?).

Crosby was unanimously the best player in the world at the time but would still be gracious and glowing about the draft picks. He wouldn’t bristle — that wouldn’t be his way. But there was a slight sense that Crosby didn’t really like the questions. He’s one of the least egotistical superstars in the history of the sport, but to be that great, you still need an ego. He knew he was better than those players, even though he respected them greatly. He knew he wore the crown.

In the fall of 2012, Crosby knew full well who his successor would be.

That year, the NHL was embroiled in one of its periodic work stoppages, this one a lockout.

Players were allowed at practice facilities, but team officials were not. Crosby took on the role of media relations director. A day in advance, he’d tell the media what time Penguins players — usually around a dozen — would be working out. One time, in a particularly endearing moment, players canceled the next day’s workout. So, Crosby called me and asked me to tell the rest of the media not to show up. It was a very strange time for hockey and especially for Crosby, who had just lost 100 games in his prime due to a concussion. Now, he was missing more time in his prime because of a lockout.

Also because of the lockout, Crosby had plenty of time for introspection along with his hockey player and media relations duties. He had time to pay close attention to the rest of the hockey world, too, a privilege he typically isn’t afforded in October.

Two hours north of Pittsburgh, a 15-year-old sensation had arrived in Erie, Pa. — Connor McDavid was taking the Ontario Hockey League by storm. I had decided to travel to Erie with Penguins broadcaster Paul Steigerwald on Saturday, the night of McDavid’s second home game, when the Erie Otters were taking on the London Knights.

On the game’s first shift, McDavid split defensemen Olli Määttä and Scott Harrington and then scored to finish off a highlight reel goal.

Dan Bylsma, then coaching the Penguins, was there. Following the game, he chewed out Määttä and Harrington, a couple of Penguins draft picks, for allowing that goal on the game’s first shift. After seeing the interaction, I joked to Bylsma, something along the lines of, “I don’t know, that McDavid kid is kinda good.”

Bylsma looked at me and said: “He’s 15. They shouldn’t be getting split like that.”

I relayed this story to Crosby, who asked if Bylsma really said that. Then he took my side.

“Doesn’t matter how old he is. He’s different,” Crosby said.

Oh?

Crosby always politely answers questions about players, but he doesn’t typically go out of his way like that.

Then it occurred to me that Erie Otters games aren’t televised in Pittsburgh. I had assumed that Crosby had never seen McDavid play.

“Got some time on my hands these days,” Crosby said with a smile. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen highlights of him.”

The greatest player in the world is checking out YouTube highlights of a 15-year-old hockey player?

“Yep,” Crosby said.

Then he said something I’ll never forget. Sensing that he saw something in McDavid that was different, I asked him if McDavid reminded him of anyone. In a non-arrogant way, Crosby quietly said, “He reminds me of me.”

Make no mistake, he admired all of the players who were compared to him. He once told me that, if he could shoot the puck like Alex Ovechkin, he wouldn’t pass as much as he does. I once saw him shake his head when he watched Patrick Kane stickhandle around an opponent on TV.

But he never anointed other players, even if he would marvel.

With McDavid, stylistically, Crosby saw himself. And he saw talent that was out of this world.

Crosby didn’t feel threatened. He understood that someone else always comes along.

I imagine Wayne Gretzky felt the same when he traveled to Laval, Quebec, to see Mario Lemieux play a junior game in 1984. Lemieux, knowing Gretzky was in the building, scored four goals in the first period. At that very moment, months before even winning the Stanley Cup for the first time, Gretzky knew the identity of his successor.

During the 2012 lockout, McDavid couldn’t have known that Crosby was watching him from afar, but he was. There is an understanding, I think, between the all-time greats. They recognize traits that only they can recognize because only they can understand the genius required to be historically good.

We are seeing McDavid take the Stanley Cup playoffs by storm, becoming the first player in history to post consecutive four-point games in the Stanley Cup Final. It’s remarkable. It’s great for the game. A superstar is the center of attention in his very prime, which the NHL badly needs.

So much of Crosby’s prime was robbed by the concussion and the lockout. But his hockey sense and vision were spot on, even when he wasn’t on the ice that autumn.

He always knew McDavid was the successor, that he played the same way, that perhaps his physical gifts even exceeded his own.

He was right. McDavid is in a class with Gretzky, Lemieux, Crosby and Bobby Orr. And now, we wait to see if McDavid can pull off this seismic comeback and win a championship.

Crosby surely will be watching. He always has been.

[madeintheniamh]

you don't have to be sorry

waiting at the school gates, a dad you've never seen picking up his daughter appears at the time in your life that you might just need him most....

a/n: this one's quite sweet ngl. i fucking love dadrry with my whole heart.

“There you are, my gorgeous girl!” you watched him smile, as he held his arms wide open before a tiny figure ran towards him, who practically jumped on top of him. He lifted her up, holding her on the side of his hip, whilst tucking a strand of long brunette hair behind her ear. “Did you have fun at nursery?”

A little voice began to chatter on about all the activities she could possibly remember that had occurred doing the day.

“Sounds like you had a lot more fun than Daddy,” he sighed. “Can I see your drawings when we get home?”

She nodded, burrowing her head into his chest. “Oh, I missed you, Tilly Gem,” he smiled whilst trying to balance everything he was now holding between his hands. “Where’s your book bag gone?”

You were mesmerised. Even the back of him looked good, as he walked back towards the building, now in search of his daughter’s lost possessions. Shiny, flowing strands of brown hair which framed his chiselled face. He turned back to look in your direction, green eyes glistening in the autumn sun. You nearly gasped as his eyes met yours for a second, and his lips raised slightly at the edges.

You looked in front of you and quickly remembered your daughter, who was now rocking back and forwards in her buggy in front of you. Things hadn’t been quite the same after the break up with your husband a few months back. Despite the concern that you were now going to be raising her as a single mother, living in a flat you could barely afford in North London, you couldn’t help but also worry about the impact on her emotionally, no longer having a father figure. Although it had been a toxic relationship, she had always been a Daddy’s girl, but didn’t yet have the vocabulary to describe what it felt like for her father to suddenly walk out one day, with no intention of coming back. He was a businessman who worked in Canary Wharf, who was barely around during the week, but had always made time for her on his days off- at least before he decided to have an affair with the young receptionist who worked in his building and leave one night for Australia with her. Promising to pay her tuition fees at a posh private preparatory school was simply not enough. He had left his three-year old daughter fatherless, and you helpless and alone.

You exhaled slowly, before realising that the same tall figure you had seen a few minutes ago was now leaving the blue double doors, and walking straight in your direction. You knew you only had one chance, and made a split-second decision to wave in his direction. He smiled back at you, revealing bright white teeth, creases forming around his bright green eyes.

“Hi, you must be Matilda’s dad!” you explained, heart beating rapidly trying to keep your gaze focused on him. “I think my daughter is in the same class as her,”

He extended his hand towards you, revealing nails painted a glossy shade of white.

“Lovely to meet you, yes this is my Tilly,” he smiled, looking down at her in adoration, his hand now clasped around hers. “I’m Harry, by the way,”

Harry. He could have either been eighteen or thirty, it was difficult to tell. You noticed how a layer of stubble sat around his lips, and how the light reflected off the front of his perfect smile. His daughter had the exact same eyes as him, a beautiful olive colour with hazel rings around her pupils. In-fact, she was the complete spitting image of him, only much smaller with longer hair.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” you noted.

“Ah well, I’m on daddy duties today,” he smirked. “I’m a musician, so I’m away quite a lot. Feels good to be able to spend some time with my little, though,”

The little girl stood next to him nodded whilst shuffling around on the spot, clearly bored by your conversation. Your own daughter was also becoming restless in her buggy, kicking her legs around aimlessly as though all she could think about was an escape plan. You lifted her up and out of the padded seat, placing her gently on the concrete playground next to her.

“Girls, why don’t you go and play for a bit?” Harry smiled at both of them before turning back towards you.  

You soon found yourself sitting on a bench next to him, explaining your entire life story to a man you had never met.

“That sounds absolutely awful, I’m so sorry,” he sympathised. “No man deserves a woman like you. I can tell you are an amazing mum,”

“You too. I wish my daughter looked at me the way that Matilda looks at you,” you explained.

“Oh, don’t say that. I feel so guilty,” he sighed. “I have to leave her constantly, and it breaks me. I feel like such a shit dad every-time. I have to pry her off of me every-time I go out through the front door, and I fucking hate it,”

You were surprised at his honesty, and even he sounded shocked at his own words, as if this was the first time he had ever said them out loud.

“Well, at least you’ll be there when she grows up,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes. “Not like my little,”

“Hey, don’t say that,” he says whilst placing his hand on top of yours, his gentle touch making you jump slightly. “I only had my mum for a couple of years growing up, and I did okay,” he smiled. “Plus, you’re gorgeous. You can find someone better than him, for sure,”

Your eyes lit up in response. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, of course I do, and I wouldn’t lie to you, I promise,” he confirmed. “Look, maybe we could organise something sometime? Considering that our daughters will probably end up being close, being in the same class and all,”

You looked up at him, his green pools of light staring you dead in the face, nothing but kindness in his expression.

“That would be amazing, I’ll give you my number,” you chimed.

You spent a few more minutes chatting, before he passed his phone over to you. You put your number into his contacts list before he rested his hand on his shoulder.

“Tilly, it’s time to go home now,” he bellowed sweetly in her direction. “It was so lovely meeting you, hopefully we will see you both soon,” he chuckled, once again trying to balance all of his daughter’s possessions in one hand, whilst holding her hand in the other. You grinned at him in an attempt to prevent yourself from letting the tears that had formed behind your eyes from beginning to flow.

He came up beside you and whispered in your ear.

“And remember, if you ever want to go for a coffee or anything, my number is always there,” he said slowly, and you could feel his warm, sweet breath on the side of your neck. “I’d really love that,”

As he walked away, you looked down at your daughter, who was now fast asleep in her buggy.

“Lovey, I think mummy may have just found you a new step-daddy,” you giggled at her, whilst walking out of the school gates. 

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque]

"She was this moody, chubby, Jewish-looking teenager,” says Annabel Williams, her singing coach with the NYJO. “She seemed fairly quiet and uninterested. Amy first stood out to me when she was in the centre of all the musicians and started singing. I was just like, Woah, she’s amazing. She absolutely nailed it and I was so impressed.”

From here, Winehouse began performing back room pub sets, facing a crowd with just her voice and acoustic guitar. At the same time, she began guesting with a loose north London collective called The Bolsha Band, through which she met her long-term live keyboard-player Sam Beste.

“She said to me, ‘Do you like Thelonius Monk?’” Beste recalls. “People like Dinah Washington and Ray Charles and Donny Hathaway, she really connected with those musicians on a very deep, emotional, raw level. There was a strange awkwardness about Amy. Even in those early days when we were playing the small clubs, she wasn’t really engaging with an audience in the way that an entertainer would. She was a bit in her own world.”

Mark Ronson still marvels at the memory of watching Winehouse in the moments when she lost herself in songwriting. “The thunderbolt strikes the head, the pen scribbles furiously and that’s the song,” he says. “When she wrote, there was no editing. It came out, like, this is the truth and this is how it’s gonna stay. She never second-guessed that and that’s why those lyrics are from another place.”

by Tom Doyle / Mojo

Photography Phil Knott

[usedtobecooler]

long hot summer | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Pairing | Ralph Penbury x fem!reader

Warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), stripping, boob fondling, coming in pants (times two cause i'm a heathen), cunnilingus, eager ralph, rude reader, train sex

Word Count | 1.9k

A/N | listen i really should be working on prompts i know, but i needed to try out writing for our little ralphie and my heart wouldn't rest until i did it ))):

The steam train was stuffy, a warm July day making the heat onboard unbearable. You'd never witnessed muggy heat like this, so used to the cool sea breeze in Spain that the air in central London was disgustingly dense in comparison.

You're only in a chemise, cooling yourself with your fan but inevitably still warm enough that drops of sweat slide down the dip of your breast, pooling into your corset. Damn this weather, damn the Brits, damn Victoria for subjecting you to this horrid trip. You made a mental note in your head to never return after this trip.

Things weren't being made any better by the fact that Victoria's ridiculous twin brother, Ralph, had been expected to chaperone you during this entire journey north. He was always so loud, unable to shut off at any given moment, he always had something to talk about. You swear this was the quietest he'd been the entire train ride, as if the cat had gotten his tongue.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

He's disheveled looking, cream suit jacket thrown on the empty seat next to him and shirt rolled up to his elbows, top button popped to reveal a glimpse of chest hair. You stare too long, he's going to catch on soon, and your peaceful silence will be over.

"How long is left of this journey?" You snap, fanning yourself a bit harder, but all it does is wave the warm air back to you, prickly heat attacking your skin and making you feel disgusting, in need of a bathe.

Ralph shrugs, doesn't even lighten up any as you talk, smile faltering and failing to appear, "I'm not sure, an hour, maybe."

The heat truly is getting to him, you can tell. He isn't his usual bubbly, ridiculously puppy-like self, he sounds worn out. Tired. The blistering heat becoming too much.

You sigh, "This is ridiculous," you fuss, slapping down your fan on the table to make haste of unfastening the top clasps on your corset, grateful that today your chemise adorned buttons along the chest also.

"What - what are you doing, madam. You can't undress yourself here." Ralph strains, unable to take his wide eyes off of you as he watches your breasts spill from their confines, slick with sweat and flushed pink in the heat.

"We are in a private carriage, Ralph. The blind is down, nobody will come in. Do you have a problem?" You quirk an eyebrow at him, continuing to undo buttons with your eyes on his, unable to decipher how he feels right in that very moment.

He looks distressed. Hand tightening on the rim of his hat on the table, his cheeks flushing darker than before, and you don't think it's from the heat this time. You smirk a little, removing your hands from the boned material of your corset and setting them prettily on the table, fingertips dancing along the solid mahogany.

"Ralph, have you ever seen a woman's breasts outside of their undergarments before?" You're teasing him, a glint in your eye. You hit the nail on the head, clearly, because Ralph can't meet your gaze anymore and he's turning away, suddenly the ceiling becoming ever so interesting to him.

"I, um, well I - you see," Ralph stumbles over his words, cheeks burning hot, the flush beginning to spread down his neck, "not - not really, no."

"Not really?" You ask, faking wonderment so he'll keep going. You toe your heels off under the table, your stocking clad foot connecting with Ralph's calf and eliciting a gasp from his bitten lips as you run it up and down, "A pretty boy like you, never been with a woman?"

Ralph stutters, sucking in a sharp breath as he lets your foot glide over his leg through his pants, the feeling making his cock spring to attention fully, as if he hadn't been at half-mast the entire journey just by watching you fan your bosom, "They say I'm too eager, madam. They'd be right, but I don't think that's a bad thing."

Your tummy tightens at his admission - eager. How could a woman deny an eager man willing to please them? It's a crying shame, that Ralph had never laid his hands on a woman and pleasured her - even if he lacked experience, eagerness would always make up for that.

"Would you like to see mine?" You say eventually, foot rising higher and higher until you're rubbing the inside of his thigh and he's positively whimpering, hazarding a glance back at you.

You make a show of it for him, unbuttoning and unclasping your layers until your plush tits fall loose form their confinements, nipples hardening in slight temperature change in the air. You never take your eyes off of him, keep your foot running up and down his inner thigh, "What do you think, Ralphie? Is it everything you dreamed it'd be?"

"Can I -" Ralph starts, fingers gripping onto the edge of the table as if he's stopping himself from lunging over, "Can I touch them, madam?"

You suck in a sharp breath, a tiny little moan escaping you, "Of course you can, Ralph. Anything you want."

He barely allows you to finish the sentence before he's reaching a hand out to cup your left breast, thumb running over the hardened nub of your nipple curiously, eliciting a breathy whine from you, "Wow, this is brilliant!"

You roll your eyes, as usual his silly mouth ruining the illusion, so you shut him up by running your foot up higher, ghosting over the hard outline of his cock in his pants. And something unexpected happens;

"Gosh, madam, I'm going to -" Ralph cuts himself off with a groan, hunching in on himself, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard as he comes in his pants. You blink at him, almost stupidly, as you watch him moaning, feeling his cock pulsing under the sole of your foot as he unloads in his confines.

"Oh, Ralphie, I didn't realise you'd release so quickly," You pout, because what a crying shame that is, over before it had even began, "I was only just starting to have fun having my way with you."

Ralph blushes, looking up at you with watery eyes as his fingers fall deftly from the curve of your breast, "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I don't know what quite came over me."

You have to stifle back a giggle at Ralph's choice of words, inappropriate considering what just happened, "Maybe I have a way you could make it up to me?" You hazard, core still aching and cunt desperate to be touched, you just hoped Ralph truly was as eager as he said he was.

"Anything, madam. Anything you want." Ralph's pleading with you - begging, even. It's adorable, has you clenching your thighs as a blooming begins in the pit of your stomach.

"Why don't you slide under this table and take a glance up my skirts. You'd like that, right, Ralphie?" You coo, a dirty smirk spreading over your features and darkening them. You spread your legs as an invitation, getting yourself comfortable.

He doesn't have to be asked twice, sliding under the table and pushing his head under the skirt of your dress, the curls in his hair tickling at your thighs, "Gosh, madam. No panties?" He gasps, and you giggle as you lift your skirts up to watch him wide eyed, face to face with your glistening wet pussy.

"I always wondered if the day would come where my lack of underwear would come in handy," You quip, feeling proud of yourself, unable to tear your eyes away from Ralph's fascinated stare at your anatomy, "Come on then, Ralphie. Don't you want to work that mouth of yours?"

Ralph nods eagerly, gripping at your thighs and nuzzling into your cunt, flat of his tongue coming out to tentatively slide between your folds, catching your clit on the upstroke. You gasp, hand coming out to grasp at his curls, winding them between your fingers.

"Oh, Ralph," You moan, his inexperience telling in the way that he's trying to find his footing and there's no real rhythm to his movements, but his tongue feels delicious on your pussy, the occasional slip over your clit driving you mad, "Such a good boy, Ralphie."

Ralph moans into your cunt at your praise, and your eyes glisten, delighted that you'd hit a nerve with him. Of course he had a praise kink, he was as puppy like as a man came, you're almost positive if you threw a bone at him he'd chase it. Adorable, almost pitiful to some, but maybe not to you.

You find the knot in your tummy winding up unexpectedly, his large tongue deftly licking over you just enough to have you teetering on the edge all too quickly, and you're almost saddened by how fast this will all be over.

You glance down at Ralph, and he must feel his eyes on you because he looks up, a pleading look on his chocolate brown, wet loser boy eyes, almost like he's asking if he's doing a good job. His nose perches prettily on your mound, nestled in amongst your trimmed hair, and well, if it isn't the prettiest sight you've ever seen.

You open your mouth in a quiet moan when Ralph licks over your clit and stays there this time, "That's it, Ralphie. Right there, what a good little pup. So good for me," You praise, and Ralph whimpers into your skin, you feel him rutting against the air, "Oh, oh!"

You come with a sharp cry, tipping your head back until the vast expanse of your sweat slick neck is bared, thighs squeezing at Ralph's head as fireworks explode behind your eyes. You shake and shudder through your orgasm, body feeling impossibly hotter as the coil unravels in the pit of your gut.

Ralph's hands grasp onto your thighs pathetically tight, a broken, choked, wet moan escaping his mouth as he shakes against your leg, a tell-tale sign that he's coming again. Your pussy clenches as he whines into the meat of your thigh, eyes squeezing shut whilst he ruts against you.

You pet his head to help him through the last of it, and he keens into the touch. Ralph truly was like a puppy, it was so endearing.

You glance out of the window, eyes widening as you see the train station in your near sights, "Ralph, Ralph!" You hiss, shaking at him, "Get up and compose yourself, we're almost here."

Ralph waves you off like an idiot, your fingers fumbling with your clasps to tuck your bosom away before somebody saw you, a wreck over a virgin boy who touched you. Mortifying, truly.

When you both eventually step off of the train, Victoria is there to greet you, and her smile falters, a grimace taking over her features, "Good grief, you two. You look disgusting, like you've been working like dogs in the prison. Up to, you need to bathe before tonight's party."

She claps her hands, turning around without a second glance and you roll your eyes once you're sure she's not looking.

She really was not your favourite Penbury.

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and to Heal (Part 15)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 3.1k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

Could we talk? 

When your message appears on his phone, Martin doesn't believe his eyes. At first he assumes he is dreaming; a quick pinch to his forearm and the subsequent brief burst of pain confirms he is, indeed, awake. He laughs to himself then, a giddy, overjoyed sound as he reads the message from you again and again, enough times that the words are burned into his eyelids when he closes them. 

Rearranging his schedule to pick up Atla today had been worth it. Incurring Arteta's wrath for sneaking out early? Also very, very worth the reward. Even if nothing comes of it, even if you don't have the courage or wherewithal to send him a follow up response, Martin can live with that, as long as he has some closure. 

His fingers shake as he types out a casual, cool, collected response. Of course! Now? Tomorrow? When are you thinking? 

Nailed it, honestly. Not overly eager. Simple and to the point. Leaves nothing up to interpretation. Martin is still sweating bullets regardless. 

For a few minutes, Martin simply stares at his phone until his eyes water and he is forced to blink some moisture into them. He tries not to fret when you don't immediately reply. It's late; there is a good chance you're either sleeping or prepping for your classes tomorrow. Despite his racing heart, sweating palms and pacing feet, Martin somehow convinces himself that he is perfectly calm. He's definitely not freaking out. Nope. He's fine. Toooootally fine. 

Though that fragile construct comes crashing down when Martin's phone vibrates. Whenever you have an hour or so free? After school of course. I can come to you?

Absolutely. Friday? I'll be done at six. But I'll come to you though. 

Martin immediately arranges for Kieran to take Atla overnight as a precaution. Who knows what might happen? Martin doesn't want to get his hopes up, but regardless of how things go, he knows he will be a volatile bucket of emotions and he'll need some time to process. He would rather do that on his own than have his daughter around to witness it. Good or bad, Friday will be… interesting, to say the least. 

Friday at six thirty then. That works. I'll see you then 

The expectation of hearing from you again is dashed when twenty four hours pass with nothing new. Martin's phone is far from quiet thanks to the Arsenal group chat, which thankfully keeps him busy and occupied on his day off whilst Atla is at school. Martin even arranges to pick Atla up himself, though he's disappointed to find another teacher in charge of after school care instead of you. 

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow is my second chance. 

And Martin is completely, utterly, wholly determined to grab the opportunity with both hands and run with it. He refuses to squander his relationship with you a second time. He will say all the right things, fall over himself to make all the right promises, and follow through with each one of them. Because if Martin is being honest with himself, the last time he felt about someone like this… He married them. 

On his way into Colney the next morning, Martin passes by Atla’s favorite bookshop. It is a quaint, family owned place located on a busy corner in north London. He glances at their window displays when he is stopped at the light, as he often does. 

And Martin does a double take- the sign in the window promotes a new romance book, titled ‘Second Chances Only Come Once’, written by the author of the hit book ‘She’s the One’. 

The grin plastered on Martin’s face is indicative enough. If he had been waiting for a sign, that would be it. The sky over London is a bright, vibrant orange, streaked through with rich reds and subtle yellows. The sunrise is the exact shade of Maria’s favorite paint- Windsor Orange, a color she claimed felt like home. Each Christmas Martin would buy her a year’s supply to ensure she didn’t run out. 

“Thank you,” Martin murmurs to the sky. A light breeze ruffles his hair through the open car window, and the smile does not leave Martin’s face for the entire drive.

Kieran doesn't ask questions at training that morning- he's simply excited to spend some quality time with his goddaughter. Kieran does not question Martin’s good mood, not even when Martin convinces Arteta to go easy on the team and skip the half dozen extra drills he had scheduled and opt for an extra gym session instead. 

Martin pays very little attention whilst Kieran rattles off a long list of things he's planned to entertain Atla, including a trip to Harrods to spoil her rotten. Normally that sort of thing would irk Martin, but today the thought barely registers. 

“Uh huh, sounds great,” Martin murmurs noncommittally, “Perfect. Atla will love it.” 

“Mate, you've not heard a word I've said. You're fine with me taking her on a shopping spree? You normally yell at me for that! What happened to ‘she's got enough toys,’ eh?” Kieran makes air quotes there, referring to the dozens of times Martin has argued that point. That, at least, causes Martin to pause. 

“What? Oh- I mean sure if that's what you want to do with her I won't stop you, she'll enjoy it. Really she will-”

Kieran sets his weight down and rests his elbows on his knees. Everyone always says that blue eyes are unnerving, but Martin knows the truth- it's the unflinching, hard brown eyes that really do you in. Martin clears his throat, squirming under the pressure of Kieran's stare. “Tell me.” 

“Tell you what? There's nothing to tell.” Martin scarcely believes himself as unconvincing as his words are. Kieran simply blinks, which somehow is even more unnerving than the original stare. Martin sighs, knowing his friend will not let up until he uncovers the truth. “Alright fine- I'm talking to solskin tonight. It's not a big deal!” 

Kieran, knowing better than to pry, simply nods firmly. “Good. Maybe you'll quit moping around the grounds then. Honestly it's getting tiring, carrying this entire team on my shoulders. I cannae do it all on my own, you know.”

Martin cracks a grin, “I know mate. Hopefully after tomorrow I can take some of that pressure off you.” 

*********

Martin, Martin, Martin. For nearly forty eight full hours, the Norwegian midfielder fills every corner of your brain. You're barely able to make it through your lessons, as distracted as you are by the thought of seeing him again. In a private setting. Alone. At your house. 

Why did you agree to this again?

Friday evening, you frantically clean your already clean flat. You agonize over whether or not to leave the blanket slung over the sofa- is it too suggestive? Or is it just cosy? You wind up leaving it. You are fully aware that you are overthinking. That doesn’t stop you from rearranging the shoes in the entry three times until you’re positive they are just the right amount of messy. 

Deciding on an outfit is nearly as chaotic- with Jen's help you settle on comfort over chic, opting for your favorite pair of jeans and a loose, warm sweater. Your hair you leave in your usual style, not putting too much effort in. This is not a date, as you have to continually remind yourself. It is simply a chat, nothing more. 

Waiting is the hardest part. You sit on your sofa with a random show on for background noise, something about the history of the crown jewels. Should you have cooked? Six thirty is dinner time, ish- maybe he's expecting a meal? Oh god-

The doorbell interrupts your thoughts and you spring into action. You wipe your palms on your jeans before opening the front door, pasting a smile on your face that you pray appears genuine. Your eyes start at his feet- black and white Nike dunks, light wash jeans, and a black bomber style jacket- and end on his soft, angelic face. You quickly meet his eyes, lasting all of one second under the gentle scrutiny of his baby blues before heat floods your cheeks and you are forced to look away.

“Hey- hi Mr. Ødegaard, please come in.” 

Martin's hands slide into his pockets, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. “I'm not coming in until you drop the formality, solskin.” 

You swear your very soul responds to the nickname. It glides so easily off his tongue, as though no time has passed despite the cold shoulder you have given him. With one sentence, Martin crosses the chasm between the pair of you without a second thought, throwing you a lifeline to cling to whilst you try to wade through the sea of emotions that threatens to overwhelm your good sense. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “Okay. Please come in, Martin.” 

“Mar,” he corrects softly, tipping his head to meet your downcast eyes. “Please call me Mar.”

Only when you nod in agreement does he finally relent and enter. He bends to untie his shoes and hangs his jacket on the hook behind the door. There is a familiarity in his actions, like he has done this a hundred times instead of being able to count the number of occurrences on one hand. 

“Um, please have a seat,” you say around the bile creeping up your throat. You haven't been this nervous since your first day teaching. It feels as if one wrong move will leech away the confidence you've spent ages rebuilding; brick by brick you've had to remind yourself that you deserve this. One step at a time. 

“Thank you.” Martin makes himself comfortable on the sofa, one arm slung over the back. It strikes you then how well he fits in. Despite his undoubtedly expensive clothes, he does not seem out of place in a room filled with mostly second hand things. The cream of his shirt perfectly matches the blanket you worried over earlier. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume they were cut from the same cloth. 

You clear your throat and carefully perch on the opposite side. You smooth the wrinkles from your sweater, suddenly self conscious of your appearance. Shit, you forgot to offer him a drink! 

“Would you uh- would you like a drink? There's water, soda, uh… milk I think?” 

Martin's smile is like a physical caress, calming your nerves. Whether he realizes it or not is uncertain, “I'm alright for now, thank you solskin. You wanted to talk?”

How is he so calm right now? How are you not calm? You're the one that asked for this. You prepared, didn't you? Spent hours on the phone with Jess last night, coming up with bullet points of what needed to be said. How have you suddenly forgotten it all?

“Solskin,” Martin prompts softly. “Hey? I'm perfectly okay sitting in silence but if you have something to say, I want to make sure you're heard.”

“Stop- just stop being so charming for two minutes,” you mumble. You press two fingers to your temples and try to get your ducks in a row. You requested to speak with Martin, yes. You wanted to discuss the potential of moving forward. You wanted to tell him you still care about him. Okay. Okay. Basics first. 

You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. Cheating your body towards Martin's you begin, “I still care about you a lot. More than I should considering you're the parent of one of my students- don't do that,” you scold when Martin tips his head side to side. Martin grins, forcing you to fight to keep your mental train on the right track. “As I was saying, you're the parent to one of my students and I shouldn't even have asked to speak with you. I should've taken what happened as a sign from the universe, an easy way out but I just…”

“Can't let it end, yeah.” Martin finishes the thought on your behalf. You nod, grateful that he was able to voice it when you couldn't. 

“Right. But I also know that your daughter has to come first, and I don't want to suggest otherwise. Atla loves you and you're all she has, I know she looks up to her papa. I know she doesn't want to see you with anyone other than her mum, and maybe she's just too young to understand, which means this was all just a waste of time and ishouldn'thaveinvitedyouanyway-”

Your words rush out in one long heap, piling over each other and overlapping at the ends. Tears prick your eyes and suddenly you feel so incredibly stupid for thinking this could work in any capacity. Martin reaches for your hand but you pull it away, unable to bear the thought of him touching you, knowing you'll only crumble. 

“I want this to work Mar, I really do. But I can't ask you to choose between me and your family, it's not right. I don't want to sneak around either,” you add in haste when Martin opens his mouth. “I won't be the reason your daughter hates you. I won't tear apart your home. I just won't. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.”

Once he's positive you're finished, Martin cautiously scoots closer to you. He watches for any sign that you'll flee, and when you don't move a muscle he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you to his chest. This time you allow it, because you know you'll never have this luxury again. 

Martin's hand runs over your arm whilst he silently soothes you. Your nose is buried in his shoulder, his cologne imprinting itself in your memory. It baffles you how such a simple thing can bring you so much comfort. But slowly, like molasses dripping from a spile, you feel the coils of tension stored in your muscles unknot themselves. Slowly, you feel yourself winding down, your breath coming in even intervals instead of panicked gasps. Your hands, which had fisted themselves tight in the cotton of his shirt, unfurl to rest flat on his chest. 

“That speech was quite noble solskin, but I think you've forgotten something.”

You sniffle, determined not to cry despite the battle raging within yourself. “What did I forget Mar?” 

“That you're part of my home now,” Martin says into your hair. “If you're determined not to let anything ruin my home, you need to include yourself in that.” 

Martin is terrible at articulating how he feels. You've grown used to it; you may not have dated for long but it only took a handful of dates to realize that his trauma ran deep, and that he played his cards close to his chest. So that display of warmth, of what he truly feels inside, is rarer than a diamond. You want to nestle it against your heart and keep it protected behind your ribcage. It is worth more than any precious gem. 

Without thinking, you reach up and cradle Martin's jaw. You smile sadly when he presses his cheek into your hand, your thumb soothing a line under his eye. He's so beautiful- tender and raw and open. Vulnerable. A side you never expected him to share with you. 

“I don't want you to put me before Atla,” you say softly, mindful of how fragile he is beneath your fingertips. You have to be gentle; if you're not he may never trust anyone again. 

Martin covers your hand, fingers tight around yours. “And I don't want that either. I want you both on the same level. I-” Martin stops himself, his throat bobbing under the weight of words left unsaid. “I care about you so, so much. I just want you in my life. That’s all I want.”

“Then Alta needs to understand that I'm not replacing her mum. She needs to understand that before we even think about doing anything, Mar. You can't risk hurting the relationship you have with your daughter.”

“I know. I will. I'll get it all sorted and then it'll be fine- we can try again. Right?”

You nod then, your smile brighter this time. “Once she knows all that, we can try again.”

Martin's eyes flick to your mouth and you know you've both had the same thought. You want to kiss him, to climb into his lap and melt like chocolate on his tongue. You want to pull at his stupid chicken hair until he moans into your mouth, his sounds of delight so sickeningly sweet that your stomach will ache for days afterwards. 

But you can't kiss him. So you don't. At least you have that much control. Instead you let Martin trace your parted lips with a reverence that makes your skin tingle. He moves on to your jaw, your cheeks, your nose, your brow- as if he were a blind man putting a face to a woman who until now has been no more than a voice to him. 

“I have so much to say,” Martin says finally, “and there's not enough time to say any of it.” 

“One day soon, you'll have plenty of time to tell me anything you want.” You allow yourself the luxury of his embrace, your arms winding around his solid middle whilst his fit firmly around your shoulders. 

If you're lucky, this could be your reality. You could come home to Martin, or rather he could come home to you, and have his busy days be endcapped by love and devotion. You've always said you would never consider being a housewife, that you respect yourself far too much to allow yourself to be reduced to a servant to your significant other. But for Martin? You want him to eat a home cooked meal every night. You want to massage his shoulders when he makes an off-hand comment about being sore from training too hard. You want to put Atla to bed and then draw a warm bath for you and Martin to share. 

You want to give Martin the world because he deserves it. You would wait on him hand and foot because you know with absolute certainty that he would do the exact same thing whenever he was afforded the chance. And that sort of fairytale is exactly what you've always wanted in life. You aren't about to let it slip through your fingers. 

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with Jonathan Bailey and Matt Bomer from GQ Hype

Filled with cozy, Hemingwayesque signifiers of midcentury masculinity (think: taxidermy and artfully-tattered boxing gloves), the restaurant seemed perfect for a breezy, late-autumn hang in the West Village.

But there’s one problem: Matt Bomer and Jonathan Bailey have burgers on their minds. And while this place boasts a surplus of dead animals nailed to the wall, it somehow only serves snacks and salads in the afternoon. And as Bomer points out, Corner Bistro—a pub that, in his opinion, serves some of the best burgers in town—is just a six-minute walk away.

The British-born Bailey—who, in his black sweater, floppy beanie and overstuffed backpack, looks more like a backpacker who just rolled out of his hostel rather than one of the streaming era’s top heartthrobs—waxes rhapsodic about In-N-Out, the California burger institution, which he recently tried for the first time.

He asks the suave, Old Hollywood-handsome Bomer, who spends most of his time in L.A. with his husband and three teenage sons, where In-N-Out falls on his personal burger index. “Our boys are really good judges of burgers,” Bomer says, and for them, In-N-Out is up there—but so is the burger at Corner Bistro. And how can we send Bailey—the Viscount of Bridgerton himself—back to London without tasting New York’s best?

Our location, midway between Stonewall Inn and Julius, two of New York’s most historic gay bars, is apt. The project we’re here to talk about—the epic new Showtime series Fellow Travelers, in which the pair star—tips its hat to the legendary 1969 riots that happened in Stonewall, but goes even further, telling the story of gay liberation in the second half of the twentieth century.

Part epic love story, part political thriller, Fellow Travelers begins in 1950s Washington, D.C., with an illicit affair between the strapping Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller (Bomer), a State Department official savvy to the ways of power, and the earnest, energetic Timothy “Tim” Laughlin (Bailey), the kind of wide-eyed idealist who goes to D.C. wanting to change the world. When they first meet, Tim is a conservative Catholic boy; his passionate, intensely erotic affair with Hawk both liberates him and throws him off his path.

Through the decades-spanning run of their relationship, the series takes us from the Lavender Scare of the 1950s—when a McCarthy-era policy that institutionalized homophobia expelled many “sexual deviants” from government, resulting at one point in a suicide a day—to the AIDS crisis of the 1980s.

The series is based on the Thomas Mallon novel of the same name. But where Mallon’s book generally focuses on the 1950s and the explosive romance between Hawk and Tim, the series expands the Fellow Travelers universe to reach through the decades and cover the Vietnam War protests of the '60s and the White Night riots of 1979.

“It's been taught that LGBTQIA+ history begins at Stonewall,” says Jelani Alladin, the actor who plays queer Black journalist Marcus Hooks in the series. “It’s a kind of false narrative. Queer people have been around taking a stand for themselves since the beginning of time.”

It feels like a disservice to call a series so sexy and so compelling as educational. But Fellow Travelers does serve as an important history lesson for younger generations who may not fully understand the battles fought before their time. “It was a really dark period in American history that obviously we're not taught in school,” says executive producer Robbie Rogers, who prior to his work in film and TV was the soccer player who became the first openly gay man to compete in a North American professional sports league. “We're not taught LGBT history.”

When the first episode of the series came out in late October, a viral clip showcasing Bailey and Bomer in a particularly kinky sex scene had Gay Twitter shuddering with excitement. In the scene, Bailey’s Tim uses his power as a sub to persuade Bomer’s Hawk to take him to an important D.C. party. “I’m your boy, right?” he tells Hawk. “Your boy wants to go to the party.” In surely one of this year’s hottest scenes on film or TV, we see Bailey hungrily suck on Bomer’s toes and gamely attempt to put his foot in his mouth. Earlier in the series, Hawk gives Tim the name “Skippy” after thoroughly dominating him in bed, a gesture of affection as much as of ownership.

Sex is a powerful, world-shifting force in Fellow Travelers, but it’s also a Trojan horse. While the early episodes bristle with erotic energy, every exchange between Bomer and Bailey is about power as much as it is about sex. And the further you go into Travelers, the more you realize what’s really at stake when these two hit the sack.

“Even in the ‘50s, they had joy,” Travelers creator and writer Ron Nyswaner, the Oscar-nominated screenwriter of Philadelphia, says. “You might be struggling, but that doesn't mean every moment of your life you're a victim of oppression. Behind closed doors they had a life—it's just that at any moment, the police could come through those doors and ruin that life.”

That unapologetic approach to queer desire is still pretty revolutionary in a big-budget prestige series on a major network. Gone are the days when gay characters were allowed to exist onscreen as long as they adhered to respectability politics. In Fellow Travelers, the queer characters are allowed passionate, unapologetically freaky pleasures.

“There's no shame attached to that,” Bailey says. “And I do think Matt's character detonates something in Tim. It's a gift to meet someone [who does the] radical act of helping you feel less shame and understand that intimacy that can be explored in so many different ways.”

Religion is a big theme in Fellow Travelers. Hawk is bound by covenant to his wife; Tim struggles with Catholic guilt. And like many queer people, Bomer and Bailey themselves have both had to negotiate religion within their queer identities.

“It took me a long time to dismantle it and to question what I was being told,” Bailey says. “Religion is interesting because it’s the voice of the shame but also [a source of] relief. There was this person that I could speak to—and I definitely did have that full conversation with a higher power. But the contradiction is brutal. To really lean into that as a gay kid who's not born into a gay family, you see both sides of what religion can provide, which is scathing judgment—as I felt it looking back—but also a real space for catharsis and nourishment.”

Bomer says he has an individualized approach to religion: “It's something that I've found for myself over years and years of exploration. It's just highly personal that way.” Bomer is proud to have raised his kids in a truly intersectional environment. “They go to an Episcopal school, but they're in school with Muslim kids, with Jewish kids,” he says. “We gave them that experience and then let them find their own way from there.”

On the way to Corner Bistro, Bomer gives Bailey a capsule tour of gay West Village. “That’s an iconic lesbian bar,” he says, pointing out Cubbyhole on West 12th street. Later, he asks if we’ve ever been to Fire Island. “You can have any experience you want there,” Bomer tells me, when I confess my anxiety around Speedos. “It's not just one thing.”

These streets bring up certain memories for Bomer. He tells us about coming up as an actor in New York in the early 2000s, at one point living in “a renovated crackhouse in Brooklyn.” Later, he worked two jobs to afford a one-bedroom apartment he split with a fellow aspiring actor—none other than Lee Pace, the famous, and famously tall (6′ 5″, if you don’t know), actor and Internet Boyfriend who Bomer has known since high school. “I’ll tell you how long I've known Lee Pace,” he says. “I’ve known him since he was shorter than me, when he was 14 and I was 15.”

As gay men are wont to do, trust that the group veered off-topic to talk about vocally-prodigious divas. Bomer has just seen the Broadway production of David Byrne’s Here Lies Love, which tells the story of the rise and fall of Imelda Marcos, the wife of the Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos. And when he finds out that I grew up in the Philippines, he tells me how much he loves Lea Salonga, the Tony-winning Filipino Broadway star who appears in the production.

We ask Bailey if he’s familiar with her. “Do I know Lea Salonga?” he asks. “She was Fantine!” he retorts, referring to her role in Les Misérables in Concert: The 25th Anniversary.

From there, we fall into a Filipino diva rabbit hole, talking about former Pussycat Doll Nicole Scherzinger (currently appearing in a well-received West End production of Sunset Boulevard that Bomer tells Bailey they must catch together), Mutya Buena of the Sugababes (an iconic U.K. girl group that Bailey and I separately saw live recently), and Darren Criss (who Bomer directed on The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story—technically a straight male, but one who earns diva status for his formidable vocals and the dance he did in a red speedo on Versace).

As we near the pub, a thirty-something woman walking hand in hand with her man does a hilariously convincing impression of the Distracted Boyfriend meme at the sight of Neal Caffrey and Anthony Bridgerton casually strolling through West 4th Street.

“Her neck!” Bailey says, audibly concerned.

In Corner Bistro, with sandwiches and coffees in hand (Bailey decides on a classic burger and a grilled chicken sandwich), we settle down in a cozy booth and talk about the points in their careers where Fellow Travelers found the actors, the hard-won representation Hollywood’s queer community has been fighting for for decades, and the LGBTQ+ talents of color they’d like to support on their own projects.

Bomer, of course, has been famous since the early 2010s, when he became a star on the series White Collar, and along with Neil Patrick Harris, proved that openly gay actors could become leading men. Since then, he’s conquered Broadway (The Boys in the Band), won a slew of awards (Golden Globe and Critic's Choice trophies for The Normal Heart) and become a producer and director.

In the past, Bomer has discussed the way doors closed on him even as he was being celebrated for being an out gay actor. When asked about that now, he says, “I choose just to never look back in anger about anything. Ultimately, my career is a lot richer because I decided to be open with who I am.”

“It’s a wave of progress that Matt's been surfing and is at the front of,” says Bailey. “And it's been a real honor to be able to get on my boogie board next to him.”

Before he became a global star mid-pandemic playing the grumpy, furry-chested Anthony Bridgerton on the Netflix juggernaut Bridgerton, Bailey was an award-winning actor in both the West End and British television. Huge fame didn’t find Bailey until his early 30s, so when it did, he had a clear idea of what he wanted to accomplish with his platform.

“I feel the responsibility immeasurably,” Bailey says. “I get it when people are saying you create a chair and bring people [to the table].” He talks about the connection between the civil rights movement and the queer liberation. “The Black queens are the ones who really started to fight,” he says. “It's amazing to feel politically activated. And if there's any project to do that, it's going to be Fellow Travelers. It will change the way I see myself in and the world I live in.”

The intersectionality makes the story Travelers is trying to tell even richer—most of all in Alladin’s scene-stealing portrayal of the conflicted Marcus Hooks, a pioneering Black journalist who pushes against segregation as he grapples with his own sexuality. “When I look at older men today, I'm like, You guys have endured so much,” Aladdin says. “From the Second World War all the way through to the AIDS crisis, it was nonstop life crisis after life crisis. To have been able to survive through all that, there needs to be a real, solid weight on the feet of [these characters].”

Part of the pleasure of watching Fellow Travelers is picking up on the cinematic references hidden in each scene. Hawk and Tim’s first interactions evoke the forbidden affair in David Lean’s 1945 classic Brief Encounter. When Hawk’s family settles in suburbia, the show evokes the Technicolor repression of the great Douglas Sirk melodramas. When Hawk and Tim run through the beaches of Fire Island in the ‘70s, that iconic image of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr kissing on the beach in From Here to Eternity may flicker in your mind. And in some ways, the series plays like a gayer, hornier The Way We Were—an epic love story tossed on the tides of political change. (In this version, of course, the Barbra Streisand character is an eager foot-licking sub and Redford’s Hubbell Gardiner is a daddy with a pit fetish.) Fellow Travelers allows us to imagine an alternate timeline where queer love has always gotten as much screen time as cinema’s great heterosexual romances, giving other kinds of stories the chance at celluloid immortality too.

In the book, Hawk is described as being more handsome than Gregory Peck. But seeing Bomer in period-appropriate clothing, the Old Hollywood leading man I thought of was Montgomery Clift, the talented and ultimately tragic gay actor who starred in classics like Red River and A Place in the Sun. For a time in the mid 2010s, Bomer was attached to star in a Montgomery Clift biopic for HBO, to be directed by the great gay director Ira Sachs. “Ira is a genius,” Bomer says. “[But] I think that ship may have sailed.”

Still, when I press him about doing it in the future, he lights up. “You know, I’m [now] the same age Monty was when he passed away,” Bomer says. “I always thought it'd be really interesting to do a play about the last night of his life, when he's watching one of his old movies on TV. And he had this man who lived with him and took care of him for the last chapter of his life.There's an interesting play in there somewhere…. Maybe Liz Taylor swings by.”

What’s changed since the mid 2010s is that a lot of Hollywood’s current gatekeepers are queer people who were fighting from the bottom a decade ago. “It's the people, the gatekeepers who are now going, ‘We are going to make this [queer] story,’” Bailey says. “This narrative that gay people have to be closeted in order [for a project] to be commercial and in order for things to be interesting to people—it's been dismantled. But it's slow because it's not just straight people who think that—I think everyone believed that in the system of Hollywood.”

Nyswaner, who has been working in Hollywood since the early ‘80s, has seen that shift up close. “When I grew up in the ‘60s and early ‘70s, I never heard the word ‘homosexual’ spoken aloud,” he says. “There was no conversation that I ever had with anybody about homosexuality. It was not just bad, it was the unspeakable thing—that's how terrified people were of us.”

And while he agrees that, in some ways, it feels like the LGBTQ+ community is once again losing ground on some rights, Nyswaner refuses to accept that there hasn’t been change. “Sometimes I hear people say, ‘Well, we haven't gotten anywhere.’ And I'm here to say, ‘Oh, yes, we have.’ Because actually you can turn on the television and find gay characters.”

Fellow Travelers is the culmination of a dream for a number of the men involved in the series.

“When I met Ron, he was talking about how he thinks about this as his lifelong legacy project,” Bailey says. “And I just said to him, ‘Whoever ends up going on this journey with you, I think it'll be the same [for them] probably.’”

“In some ways, Fellow Travelers is a span of my life,” Ron Nyswaner says. “I was an infant in the McCarthy era. And then I came out of the closet in 1978 and just danced and did cocaine and had multiple sexual partners—we didn't know what was coming, which was the AIDS crisis.” Nyswaner was nominated for a Best Original Screenplay Oscar in 1993 for Philadelphia, the landmark drama about an AIDS patient who sues his employers for AIDS discrimination. In a way, the historical span of Fellow Travelers gives the battles fought in Philadelphia their context.

Rogers remembers being a closeted soccer player in the late 2000s, watching Tom Ford’s A Single Man and hoping one day to be able to find love and take control of his own narrative. And Bailey recalls, post-Bridgerton, realizing that he could suddenly write his own destiny and vowing to seek out “a sweeping gay love story.”

Bomer, meanwhile, says—laughing, but seemingly dead serious—that it’s his goal to play a queer character from every decade of the 20th century. “A queer Decalogue,” he says, referencing the Krzysztof Kieślowski classic.

Bomer’s next project might just help him do that. He’s currently producing a Steven Soderbergh film on Lawrence v. Texas, the case that overturned the sodomy laws in Texas in 2003 but started in the 90s.

There are many more stories to tell. And as our interview winds down, Bomer and Bailey start spitballing dream projects.

We talk about All of Us Strangers director Andrew Haigh, who’s revered for his portraits of gay intimacy. “Andrew Haigh has been a special filmmaker for years,” Bailey says. “I think [his film] Weekend informed actually how I approached the sex scenes in [Fellow Travelers].”

“I’d love to play Jessica Fletcher's queer grandson who moves back to Cabot Cove,” Bomer says, referencing Angela Lansbury’s iconic role in Murder, She Wrote. “He's inherited her house and he finds an old journal in her library, and it's a case she never saw and he takes up her mantle.”

And moments before the restaurant speakers suddenly start blaring George Michael’s “Freedom ’90,” Bailey comes in with a killer pitch: “I’m obsessed with the Sacred Band of Thebes, an army of 300 gay lovers in [ancient] Greece. They partnered in pairs, this gay army, and they overthrew a Spartan army… I want to do that as a comedy.”

“Oh hell yes!” Bomer says.

“Just get all the queer actors together,” Bailey says, laughing.

“Lee Pace, everyone,” Bomer says.

“Where would we film it?” Bailey asks.

“Mykonos?” Bomer suggests.

“Flaming Saddles, down the road,” Bailey counters with a chuckle, referring to a gay bar in midtown.

“Oil us up and let’s go!” Bomer says.

Source

[kings-highway]

haikyuu esl accent headcanons ig miyagi prefectural edition

Karasuno

- Kageyama and Hinata are both idiots and barely pass english to begin with but I like to imagine Karasuno has an english teacher that studied/came from somewhere in Canada, so they (and all of Karasuno) end up with a classic mix of American/British vocabulary

- Daichi s u c k s at english and can barely pass the class but his accent is PERFECT and when he manages to put together an actual sentence you wouldnt believe he was esl

- by contrast Suga BREEZED through english classes, absolutely nailing the written, aural and reading portions but got <10% on his spoken exam because he's absolutely incomprehensible and cannot get his accent down

- Tsukishima and Yamaguchi get the highest grades in english out of all of Karasuno, but both of them inexplicably picked up a british accent (southern more, london area) and they refuse to admit that it's because of the sheer volume of Great British Bake-Off they've watched/had on in the background while doing homework.

- Noya and Tanaka both failed english their first year but realized if they convinced Suga and Daichi, separately, to tutor them, they could get a passing grade

- somehow Suga and Daichi have never considered helping each other

- Asahi is not the best at english but he is their english teacher's favourite

Shiratorizawa

- Ushijima obviously speaks with an american accent when speaking english bc he practices most often with his father (west coast american accent, then)

-as a result the whole of Shiratorizawa kinda does the same because of subconsciously trying to mimic Ushiwaka

- with the exception of Tendou (who ends up bastardizing his english with a french accent??? he ends up damn near a polyglot but is incomprehensible in every language)

- and semi, who ends up with a more british accent (from the north, though) due to the british guitar teacher he takes lessons from. the rest of shiratorizawa absolutely tear him apart for this but he doesnt even realize he's doing it and has picked up british slang (trolley, jumper, lift) when speaking english

- Stz's english program is Very Good but their professors are all very old and mean and as a result most of the team developes a deep hatred of studying english/going to language classes in general

Aoba Johsai

- I like to imagine Aoba Johsai has a really fantasic english teacher/program, but they partnered with an abroad exchange to do so and have a disproportionate about of New Zealanders and Aussies teaching

- So the third years are all pretty fantastic with their english but the other schools hear them speak and are like "that CANNOT be right" because they all have heavy kiwi accents that the others have never heard

- inexplicably Kyotani has a much more distinct North American accent (probably somewhere eastern, great lakes area) and he Will Not explain himself until he begrudingly admits that he's actually started learning english when he was really young from an American teacher and is VERY GOOD but has been intentionally throwing tests so that nobody would ask him to tutor them

- first/second years ask him to tutor them immediately upon learning this and he refuses

- Oikawa is irritatingly good at languages, and has to force Iwaizumi to study. Iwa is usually pretty good with keeping on top of school work but he just HATES conjugations and tenses and has no memory for it.

- once Oikawa realizes the other schools are making fun of their english accents/professors, he works out the dialects of thr other english countries and just switches between then depending on who he's speaking to. the rest of seijoh hates this because when he's not using the kiwi accent they cannot understand him.

[scotianostra]

16th July 1832 was a very sad day on Shetland when tragedy struck .

On tis day 31 Shetland "sixerns", the traditional fishing craft of Shetland and a total of 105 crewmen were lost in a storm.

There were between 300 and 500 sixareens or sixerns in Shetland. The Haaf fishing proved to be a hard life for these boats and they only tended to last 5 or 6 years. When they finished their lives as a fishing vessel some ended up being used as a flit boat for moving livestock, peats and other goods between islands or from ship to shore. The sixareens may eventually have ended up as the roof of shed or outbuilding. Nothing was ever wasted in Shetland, especially if it was wooden!

The men would travel up between 20 and 40 miles offshore. As the men were dealing with a prevailing wind, they could usually only sail in one direction. They were always happier if they could row out with a relatively light boat and sail back with a heavy load of fish!

When they reached the fishing grounds, the fishermen would barely be in sight of the highest hills in Shetland. They would have sea all around them.

Haaf fishing was very dangerous due to the unpredictable nature of the weather far out at sea. However, when you look at the numbers of men that fished and the length of time that they fished for, the actual disasters are relatively few.

On 16 July 1832 31 Shetland "sixareens" and a total of 105 crewmen were lost in a storm. The event is still remembered as "The Bad Day". A London Distress Fund was set up and raised the sum of £3000. The money was raised for the dependants of the crofter-fishermen lost. The crew of one boat in 1832, did manage a lucky escape from the storm as they were picked up by a passing American sloop. However, the Captain of the American vessel refused to alter his course to Philadelphia and so, despite passing close to Orkney, the survivors had to cross the Atlantic and endure a further six months away from home before returning.

During another storm on 20th July 1881, hurricane force winds caught the fishermen by surprise. The boats that tried to come home were mostly capsized or swamped, but those that stayed at their lines for the most part survived. In all ten boats foundered and 58 Haaf fishermen lost their lives. They left behind 34 widows and 85 orphans. Six of these boats and 36 of the men were from the fishing station at Gloup in North Yell. It was a tragic loss for a small community.

On the morning of 21st December 1900, boats from Firth, Mossbank and Toft set off for the winter haddock fishing. They were some 32 kilometres (20 miles) away, between the Horse of Burravpoe and Da Snap, when they were caught in a sudden and severe gale from the north-west.Many were lost during the storm which came on in the space of five minutes. The fleet were scattered. One made it to Whalsay, Skerries and Lunning but the rest were lost.

22 men were drowned, leaving 15 widows (5 of whom were pregnant), and 51 children. Firth was hit the hardest. Many of the men were great fishermen and the disaster devastated the Delting fishing industry, which never recovered. The women continued to work the crofts. Children grew up and moved away, leading to a rapid decline in population.

The plight of the families left destitute led to a lot of publicity in local and national press. The Delting Disaster Fund was set up to help those affected and it was one of Queen Victoria’s last public acts to appeal for support

These major fishing disasters signalled the beginning of the end for Haaf fishing. The herring fishery in the 1880s and the Crofter’s Act of 1886, which put an end to the truck system, were two more nails in its coffin.

Larger safer boats were introduced and undecked sixareens were replaced by fully decked smacks. Fishermen could finally install a few home comforts. However, when the steam trawler was introduced, longlining in large sailing boats couldn’t compete economically. Haaf fishing stopped quite quickly at this point.

There are few sixareens left in Shetland, a couple of replicas and bits and pieces lying around here and there. At the Shetland Museum and Archives there’s a replica sixareen called the Vaila Mae. She sails regularly in Lerwick Harbour and you can even get a trip on her during Shetland Boat Week!

One of the only surviving sixareens from the past can be seen in the Shetland Museum. She was built as the Foula mail boat, which fished for a little while and then ended up as a flit boat for shifting peats. She didn’t spend much of her life as a fishing sixareen.

You can find memorials all over Shetland to those lost at sea not just for the tragedies I have mentioned today but all in general, the Shetland way of life having strong heritage links with the sea that surrounds it.

[lunarriviera]

on the importance of beta screaming

i would like to say a little bit here in this chili’s tonight about the vital, indispensible role of beta enthusiasm.

because yeah we all know we get tied in knots in our prose, write sex scenes with impossible numbers of hands, dangle modifiers, repeat words, commit horrifying typos like “he licks with his tounge.” i have several useless graduate degrees so yes i can fix all those things for you or offer revision suggestions. as well, i am a north american who lived in the uk and divorced a londoner, so i can also britpick or yankpick your fic. then, it’s important to have at least one beta who can check you if you’re writing about a culture other than your own. finally, i usually will only beta for fic with whose canon i am intimately familiar.

those things are helpful, even essential. but there is something else a beta reader not only can do, but has to do, and that is scream.

look it’s hard out here for a pimp okay. we are in our little offices or bedrooms or hunched on the bathroom floor with the phone just trying to write our little stories. we made a tiny gay man and we gave him problems, and now we are going to make it YOUR problem. and then we will all thrash around and yell happily together, for we love this tiny gay man.

but until someone picks that fic out of the tag and clicks on it and reads it and starts keysmashing in the comment box, you’re all alone. just you, in your head, in your room, while you’re walking around the park, while you’re shampooing your hair, while you’re cleaning the cat’s litter pan—it’s just you. (and, sure, also the imaginary friends who spout riveting or hilarious dialogue in your head. them too.)

and when you’re all alone with just your words and your little people, a terrible and completely unique kind of loneliness can sink in. were they the right words? were they funny, pretty, tragic, joyful, smart? do they truly convey the depth of your feeling? and above all else: can they compel someone else to feel what you felt? because you’ve read that fic that made you scream into a pillow at 2 am. and you wonder: can i do that for someone else? can i feel my feelings so strongly and so well that they reach out of the screen and haul someone else in along with them?

and in the hours, days, weeks of waiting for someone to reach back through the pixels for you, a beta steps in to fill that space. this, she will let you know, is good. this is REALLY good. this is so good she’s gonna dword. she has no chill. she is about to mclose it. how dare you. she thought you were friends. now you’re in a fight. elmo in flames dot gif., screaming girl dot png., spongebob burying himself dot webp.

this is not an OPTIONAL feature of a beta reader. this is not just a nice thing that it’s nice to have. this might be the ESSENTIAL function of a beta. her hand is over your head and it’s briefly sheltering you from the pouring rain. hey listen! she says, and she cups your face in her hands: SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. and you, wherever you are in the world, even if you’re 24 hours away from her on the globe, you put your palms to your cheeks to feel the warm blush of happiness and relief. someone else is out there, picking up what you’re throwing down. and you did not fuck it up. it’s actually entirely possible that you nailed it.

without her, you wouldn’t know. and in fact in a small fandom, without her, there wouldn’t BE that much of a fandom. so you and your beta get to be a part of that little group of people who keep a set of stories, a family of characters, alive. that’s fun too. (plus you get to backchannel about all the horribly Wrong Opinions everyone else has. this both saves you from making an ass of yourself on social media, and will make you guffaw during a zoom meeting if you’re not careful.)

so get you a beta reader who’s a screamer. i said what i said. don’t settle for someone who can be nitpicky about the past perfect but who never says anything positive; people will remember and come to read the fic that’s stunning and strange and new even if you forget to use “had.”

i aim for about 50/50 between praise and suggestions (the same proportions i use as a professor), but if i’m honest it winds up being more like 80/20 for fanfic. that’s okay. if i’m gonna err, i’d rather err on the side of encouragement.

we get so little of that, either as writers or just in the world. we get so little hand-holding and shoulder rubs and affectionate hollering. so when you beta, think about letting loose a little. think about, sure, exaggerating for effect. you know how sweet it feels when someone gets all exuberant all over your drafts—so maybe allcaps a little bit, as a treat. it feels pretty great. you’ll see.

(oh and ps: save a life. leave an ao3 comment.)

[astronicht]

whumptober day 7: radio silence

look does this count. i don’t know! i was not prepared to write these guys they just showed up and characterization??? is??

F1 rpf | george/alex | 1k, rated M | art theft AU with no actual art theft just the greater horrors of the industry

“Hiya, erm,” says a guy in English. Nowhere accent, something papered over with RP.

“Hiya,” Alex says, because all the docents speak English; there’s little point faking that he doesn’t. “The toilets are actually—“

“I’ve got a question about a painting, actually—“

“Out the way you came in and—“

“It’s just on my phone here.”

The guy is pulling up a Gmail app, so Alex gives up on the toilets.

The guy is pretty, his hair parted in the center to flop, boy-band-ish, nearly into his eyes. That’s not even what’s getting to Alex; it’s the way his nails are bitten down and there is a pack of tissues in the chest pocket of his coat.

“Right, just a mo,” the guy says. He’s not posh, Alex decides, it’s just that he shops at Waitrose. Easy mistake. As for his natural habitat, well, under the coat the baby blue button-down, belt, jeans, unscuffed loafers could come right off any man eating a sushi lunch in central London.

The guy is searching something in what looks like a personal email, a line of calendar notifications read and undeleted, marching down the page. Flight, Saragh’s bday, Gym (day pass). Alex looks politely away.

“Ah, here we go. Small screen I’m afraid.”

Alex uses an ancient iPhone 7 he got used from the SEX years ago.

“Right, so,” the man’s voice goes from apologetic to confident in a sudden shift. Alex blinks. “Does this resemble a Breughel? Someone from his studio, or a follower maybe? Or is it like, from 1964.”

The painting is odd: round, on beveled wood. The photographs have been taken professionally, maybe off a website. But they’ve been emailed to the man, forwarded from a g.russell@LMMA.com, original message from photography@LMMA.com. The man’s gmail doesn’t show his personal address or his name.

Alex bets it is something like George.

The painting itself is not a mystery at all, and Alex thinks this guy knows it.

“There aren’t really any Breughels recorded missing,” Alex says, lightly. The guy’s jaw tenses, not with surprise or anxiety, Alex doesn’t think. Like if he was less in control of himself he would have nodded sharply, his suspicions confirmed, thankyouverymuch, you have been so helpful.

This conversation looks like it might be ending, so Alex considers a few things. For example, that both Alex’s Leverhulme’s postdoc funding and his Visa are about to run out, and he isn’t getting the job opening at Utrecht, either, he already knows. Brexit means he’s no longer just fighting the other EU kids for the good jobs, he’s up against everyone for the scant scraps on non-EU funding if he wants to stick around.

Money is tight, and he’s staring the end of academia in the face, when they all thought he was going to be one of the ones who makes it.

“Can I buy you lunch?” Alex says.

“Aren’t you, erm, working?”

Alex’s docent job ends next Wednesday, his research work not for a month.

“C’mon,” he says. “The cafe has stroopwafels if you’re into that.”

George’s wrinkled nose says he’s not, but he tucks the phone with the Breughel in his pocket and trails Alex to the museum cafe.

***

“I didn’t steal it or anything, you know,” George says two hours later, in a half-joking tone, tangled in the sheets in Alex’s flatshare. Rain is pouring down outside, the North Sea weather familiar on either side of the channel.

Alex shrugs. He’s in his en-suite looking for chapstick. His mouth aches. His ribs ache. He’s never made a man come undone like this in his bed midday on a Tuesday. Apparently there is a first time for everything.

“I didn’t assume,” he says lightly.

George frowns, Alex’s duvet wrapped in his lap. “You assumed something,” he says. Alex feels a thrill of worry that this guy can read him as well. That this feeling could be two-way glass.

“You’re feeling guilty about something,” Alex says. He left work in the middle of his shift; he’s feeling guilty, but mostly furious. He was supposed to be one of the ones that makes it.

George’s mouth pinches. His lips are rubbed red.

“I’m admin at an auction house,” he says. Alex wonders if he’s one of the army of interns at Harrington’s, but dismisses it. He’s not fresh out of uni. “It’s actually all above-board.”

Alex laughs and George cracks a smile. “I know, I know,” George says. “It is, though.”

“That’s such a low bar, mate,” Alex laughs. “Did you hear about the place in Berlin last month—“

“Yeah, I think eight different coworkers emailed me.”

“To point and laugh, yeah, same,” says Alex. “But the Berlin guys, they took a painting and accidentally helped a thief build a false provenance for it. That paper trail stuff is worse than theft, every time.”

Alex laughs to cover the jab, but George just looks at Alex very steadily from Alex’s bed. “That’s not it either. We didn’t even sell it. The consigner brought it by, then decided not to sell and pulled it.”

“Hm,” Alex says.

George shrugs. “I asked to check it out and it was just on my desk, next to my tea. And then it disappeared again, and no one else gets to see it. Nothing illegal, just, you know, the market. You don’t work in institutional acquisitions, do you?” George asks, a swift subject change. Alex pours a glass of water from the tap and brings it to him. George takes it with long careful fingers.

“Oh no, I’m a post-doc.”

“Weird that you know so much about the trade side of things,” George says.

They keep in touch for a week, mostly not about the painting, mostly in Alex’s flatshare bed. George catches a cold and tissues are strewn like mourning doves around Alex’s bin. His duvet starts to hold the imprint of a man’s clutching hands.

And then, one week after a man showed up in a museum with a photograph of a lost painting, it is not George who disappears. It’s Alex.

[givemea-dam-break]

you and me, in every story - chapter one

a/n: a lockwood and co au in which lockwood and lucy's roles are swapped! the idea was cooked up by the wonderful @portlandrowismyhome and @wellgoslowly (i contributed too i promise), and this will be a multipart series! i hope you enjoy :)

warnings: none words: 2.3K taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @mirrorballdickinson @ettadear @gotlostinfiction @mischiefmanaged71 @oblivious-idiot (let me know if you want added to my taglist <3)

full series collection

Lockwood had lived his whole life in London, so it was safe to say that he was peeved when he couldn’t find his way to Portland Row.

Seriously? How hard could it be to find a little street north-west London? Very hard, evidently, because he’d been circling the same area for the past half hour like an idiot. Now, not only was he frustrated at getting lost – it was embarrassing for a native Londoner to get lost, in his humble opinion – but he was also tired, hungry, and his shoulders hurt from this stupid bag he had decided to carry around. Well, the bag wasn’t stupid. Just some of the contents.

Really, all he wanted was to get out of this sweaty suit, have a shower, and then have the best sleep of his life while having the security of a job. Was that so hard to ask?

Apparently so, but, even still, he persevered, map in hand as he trudged the streets of Marylebone. Curfew tiptoed closer and closer, but he was adamant. He would not finish the day without getting himself this job. He’d fight tooth-and-nail for it if he had to.

Not that this job was exactly a fantastic one. It was just something he’d plucked out of the newspaper, but he’d heard of the company a few times and figured that this would be his best shot after things went awry last time.

And, ah, there! Finally! Thirty-five Portland Row, standing tall and… well, not proud, not with its peeling paint and slightly overgrown flowers in the window boxes. But it was certainly something!

On the fence read a sign: Carlyle and Co. After dark, ring the bell and wait beyond the iron line. How inviting. If Lockwood was hired – of course he would be! – he’d petition to change the wording of that. It sounded awfully uninviting, and that just wouldn’t do. No wonder the company wasn’t popular!

Well, these opinions of his would have to wait. Heaving a deep breath, he climbed up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, waiting patiently.

Footsteps sounded on the other side, followed by the rattling of the doorhandle, and then the door swung open, revealing a boy no older than he. His dark hair fell in a mop over his forehead, resting just above a pair of black-rimmed glasses over dark eyes. Eyes that showed nothing but confusion.

“Are you Arif’s new delivery boy?” the boy asked, frowning down at Lockwood.

Lockwood dared not show his confusion. “No. I’m here about the job. Are you –“

“Mr Carlyle?” he guessed. He rolled his eyes, and Lockwood held back a frown. “No. If anyone did their research, they’d know that Lucy Carlyle is the owner. And she’s a girl.”

“Oh. Sorry... So, the interview?”

The boy shrugged, stepping aside. “I suppose. Come on in.”

There was a little flicker of unease in Lockwood’s chest, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. Instead, he glanced around the hallway, taking in every detail about it: the slightly outdated wallpaper; the square marks that indicated photo frames that used to hang there for a while; the umbrella rack holding rapiers much fancier than the one he currently carried in a case. Everything about the hall was elaborate yet, somehow, entirely out of place, like different decades trying to fit together. Who was he to judge, though? He didn’t even have a house.

“Okey-doke,” the boy said, gesturing to a door on the right. “Here we are. Luce, you were right. We’ve got another interview.”

A voice came from inside the room, distinctively not a London accent, but pleasing to the ear all the same. “No, George, I just checked. That was our last one five minutes ago.”

The boy – George – frowned, glancing at Lockwood as he came to stand in the doorway. “Then who’s this?”

Lockwood had little to no time to take in the cluttered living room before his eyes caught the girl in the centre, clearing up some paper from the coffee table.

It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs when he looked at her. Lucy Carlyle. That’s what George said her name was. And, God, did it fit. She turned to look at him with warm brown eyes, her bobbed hair swishing around her face before settling. She was no older than him, if not a little younger, and he couldn’t help but notice the unprofessional outfit she wore – a blue jumper and trousers, along with some ectoplasm-stained boots – and all of a sudden felt a little out of place in his suit, especially next to George in his orange plaid shirt and graphic tee, but the feelings melted away when Lucy Carlyle smiled at him. Not one of those Oh, I’m so happy to see you smiles, but more of a reassuring one.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have an interview, but I saw the job listing and I was in the area.”

Complete lie. He’d been halfway across London, desperate to find anywhere that would hire him. This was his last hope.

“I’m Anthony Lockwood,” he continued. “But I just go by Lockwood.”

Lucy Carlyle nodded. “Lucy. Well, I’m sure we can fit in one more interview. George, brew some tea, would you?”

George glanced back at Lockwood with a hint of distaste. “Thought I’d wait to see how well he got on before making any.”

“George.” Lucy shot him a look before returning to that reassuring smile. “Please go make some. Lockwood, why don’t you come sit? Don’t mind George. He’s sick of people, now, and he’s not had his biscuits. He gets tetchy when he’s hungry.”

Lockwood could only nod as he sat on the sofa across from Lucy, trying not to think too much about how unprofessional all of this was. If DEPRAC were to see how this company operated in front of applicants, well, they wouldn’t be happy. What with the lack of a uniform, the arguing… He loved it. And, by the looks of it, not a supervisor in sight. Even better.

“Here’s my CV,” he said, pulling the folded paper from his pocket.

Lucy reached out for it, taking it gently and opening it. Her dark eyes scanned over it for a minute, reading each meticulously chosen word, before letting it fall on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at Lockwood, sending a shiver down his spine. Something in her gaze had the ability to freeze him in place.

“So, you’ve got Sight?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s my strongest Talent,” he said. “Deathglows are what I see the best, and I need sunglasses for them sometimes. But ghost-fog, apparitions, all that stuff, I pick out quickly. My Touch and Listening are mild at best.”

Way to talk himself up.

“I’m a Listener,” Lucy said. “Strong, if other people are to be believed. George is an all-rounder, but he’s mostly our researcher. Where was your last job? I’m assuming this isn’t your first.”

“No. I worked at Fittes for a while.”

Lucy turned as George stepped through the door, carrying a tray with mugs of steaming tea and biscuits. “Thanks, George. Well, you two will get on grand. George used to work at Fittes.”

“Mmhm,” George said, sitting in one of the armchairs. Completely uninterested, he plucked a biscuit off the plate and sat back, opting to read a comic.

“Biscuit?” Lucy held out the plate to him. “George’ll only eat them all.”

Gratefully, Lockwood took one. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and he was starving. A biscuit wouldn’t do much, but it was a Digestive, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t just pass that up!

“So, Lockwood,” Lucy said, “I did have tests in place, but George pointed out earlier that they aren’t really inclusive of people with Sight, so I’m going to have to take you on your word with all of this. Do you have a reference from your previous supervisor?”

It was an effort to not choke on his biscuit. “No, I don’t. Everything happened sort of suddenly, so I’ve not had a chance.”

George sniffed. “You could take him to a haunted house, see how he does. Maybe he’ll run off.”

Lockwood teeth ground together, but he plastered on an easy smile. Whenever things were going wrong, that trusty smile of his could get him out of trouble. Surely it could help him deal with a self-righteous teen boy who couldn’t even eat a biscuit without covering his T-shirt in half of it.

But Lucy didn’t even spare him a glance. She was looking straight at Lockwood again, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she considered him.

Then the slight curve of her lips melted into a frown. “Did you say something?”

Lockwood blanched. “What? No?”

Lucy sat back; her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, you did. You just called me – I’m not even going to repeat that! And, to think, I was considering hiring you with no knowledge of your skill.”

“I didn’t –“ He looked at George desperately. “I said nothing.”

And, for a moment, he worried that he had said something and not even realised. But what would he have said? He’d been far too busy being slightly disgusted with George’s method of eating biscuits to have even said anything to her.

To his surprise, George saved the day. “Luce, he didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, he did!”

“No, I swear I didn’t. I –“

Lucy stood and stormed around the coffee table until she was right in front of Lockwood. He worried what she was going to do, but she leaned over his shoulder and yanked open the zipper of his bag. She tore out the big silverglass jar he had stashed in there, holding it in both hands.

He hadn’t really thought anything of it when he stole it. It was just a jar with a source inside – a boring old skull that sometimes came to life when it could be bothered – but he had been so mad with how things had ended that he felt the need to take something from Fittes, just like they’d taken something from him. It had seemed a worthwhile steal, seeing as ghost-jars weren’t overly common.

Currently, the ghost inside was awake, swirling in bright green ectoplasm and pulling the crude faces Lockwood had grown used to these last few days. The past few mornings in his hotel room, he had woken up to see it leering at him and making horrible gestures with made-up hands, and though it had mouthed some obscenely horrible things that Lockwood couldn’t understand, he had kept it for some odd reason.

It was more active than other ghosts, and part of Lockwood hoped that somehow he had bagged a Type Three, as controversial as their existence was. He had started to fall out of that belief. Well, until now.

Lucy glared at the ghost inside, free of that easy smile she’d had mere minutes ago. “Excuse you? You’re a ghost in a jar. You’ve no right to speak to me like that! I’ll throw you into the furnaces myself, see how you like that!”

Lockwood and George shared a look, and the latter dropped his comic book on a side table, leaning forward.

“Uh, Luce?”

“What, George?”

“You’re talking to a ghost.”

“Damn right I am! Didn’t you hear what he called me? Prick.”

“Luce?”

“What?”

“We can’t hear anything he’s saying. That’s – that’s all you.”

Lucy’s scowl softened for a moment, and she glanced between the jar, Lockwood, and George, her cheeks growing red. Angrily, she slammed the jar down on the mantle top, shaking the little pieces of clutter that were scattered across it.

“You’re serious you couldn’t hear it?” she asked.

“No,” George insisted. His gaze turned on Lockwood. “Were you aware you were carrying a Type Three on your back?”

Lockwood hesitated. “Well, I thought, maybe, um…”

George huffed a laugh. “How did you get your hands on that? Fittes keeps them locked up securely. Like, really securely. Believe me, I tried to nick a one before I left.”

A strange thing to bond over, but Lockwood would take whatever he could get. He looked back over at Lucy, who was practically steaming from the ears as she stared at the skull. The horrible thing formed a hand out of the ectoplasm and made a particularly inappropriate gesture that had Lucy beyond seething.

“Well, we can’t just let you go back out on the street with a Type Three,” she said, and though he knew the anger in her tone wasn’t directed at him anymore, he still felt his face grow warm. “And I’m guessing it won’t be as easy as buying it off you.”

She wasn’t wrong. If that really was a Type Three, he sure as hell was keeping it on hand. But… Nobody could talk to Type Threes, nobody besides Marissa Fittes and she was long since dead. And here was Lucy, arguing with one right in front of his eyes as if it were a daily occurrence for her. Only George seemed shocked by it all, staring at both wide-eyed. He needed a job, and they wanted his ghost. It seemed as though there was a deal afoot.

“No. I want a job here. Then you’re free to do what you want with it.”

He spotted the mad flare in George’s eyes and shifted uncomfortably. The kid might not be able to eat a biscuit neatly, but Lockwood had every reason to believe he was somewhat a mad scientist.

“Well, anything within reason.”

Lucy glared at the ghost for a second longer before turning back to Lockwood. “Fine. We’ve a room free upstairs if you want to take it, unless you’ve got separate accommodations? Rent would be taken from your wage.”

He couldn’t seem too excited, so he simply pasted that smile of his on again and said, “That would be great.”

“George, shift whatever crap you’ve got stored in there. Lockwood, welcome to Carlyle and Co.”

[madeintheniamh]

Heyyyyy! Can you do one where Tilly gets her first boyfriend, and Harry really wants to meet him so she brings him home for dinner? And after words Harry is all sentimental that she’s going up and stuff :))))) Love your stories btw

it's here! i put a bit of a spin on it but hope you still like it anyway xx

posh boys with rich girls

stmf one shot #15

when harry dropped tilly off at the prep school gates for the first time nearly fifteen years ago, he didn't realise that he had signed his future self up for having to deal with the notoriously stuck up private school boys.

a/n: this is exactly what i think a casual saturday in the styles house would be like. pizza and wine always. absolutely no 'posh people' food as harry would probably call it.

warnings: fluff, dadrry, teenagers, rich stuck up boys lol

Tilly had convinced herself that she could keep a secret from her Dad for once in her life, because she knew how protective he could be over her. He got scared when she fell from extension as a flyer in cheer- so imagining how dramatic he’d be when he found out about her new boyfriend made her stomach churn a bit. In his eyes, no one would ever be good enough for his girls- apart from him. This was quite a narcissistic way of putting it, he knew that, but he couldn’t help his standards being so high.

“You’re going out with Este again?” He joked. “I didn’t know she got a new car,”

“Yes, haha,” Tilly tried to chuckle, her face going red. “It’s really nice,”

“Can I come outside and see it?”

She shuffled around on the spot, trying to hide the fact that she was lying through her teeth.

“We’re busy, Daddy,” She bit her lip slightly, as he surveyed her guilty face. “We’re already late, I-”

Her face was now a shade of crimson as he pressed the button on the control to zoom in on the image on the security cameras that were on the driveway.

“Wow, didn’t know Este had her haircut, either,”

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and began to bite one of her nails. “Yeah, looks nice,”

“Matilda Gemma,” He tutted, a line forming in-between his eyebrows. “Are you lying to your Daddy?”

She scorned slightly. “No, I would never lie to you,”

He took her chin in his palm and forced her to look into his eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you lie to me, Tilly Gem,”

She shivered, feeling his cold breath on the side of her neck. “M’not lying, I swear,”

“Why don’t you want me to come out there then, hmm?”

“Okay! I’m lying! Stop looking at me like that, it’s scaring me!” She threw her hands up in defeat.

“Well, is he from school? What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him?” Harry panted, his voice beginning to become shaky. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I knew you’d be funny about it!” Tilly shouted as she began to turn back towards the front porch.

“What do you mean?” Harry protested. “I’m never funny about anything!”

“Right now, look, you’re being weird, stop!” Tilly scolded, one hand on the door handle, the other on her purse.

“You tell him he’s coming round for dinner this weekend, no excuses!” Harry shouted back at her, as she was now halfway down the drive. “I need to meet him!”

---

Henry had gotten with a few rich girls in his time, and had met many of their rich Dads as a result. But none like Tilly Styles. Most girls who went to private school in North London had Dads who worked as plastic surgeons on Harley Street, or were big bosses in corporate in those tall towers in Canary Wharf. She had promised him that her dad was perfectly normal, even if he was one of the most famous men in the music industry. But of-course he was normal to her, he thought, because he was her dad.

“I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit, I’m not scared of a man who sings about fruit,” He muttered to himself repeatedly as he sat nervously behind the wheel of his BMW. He looked up at the house in front of him, and shuddered slightly. He was rich himself- his father was a CEO at one of the big law firms in Westminster. But he hadn’t realised just how rich Harry Styles really was. He couldn’t understand how Tilly was so humble, having grown up in a house like this. He was probably half a mile away from the front door- fountains at the centre of the drive which a lush collection of cars hid behind, including Tilly’s little Audi TT, which was pretty scratched up as a result of her questionable parking every morning at Sixth Form. He jumped slightly as the hands-free system on his car began to speak.

1 new message from Tils

“we can see you hiding in the car… just come out already he’s really not that bad”

Swearing to himself, he opened the car door and made the long trek down the drive, before finally reaching the sheltered porch and ringing the button on the door. He thought that Tilly almost looked out of place as she opened it. She was wearing a white button up dress, her hair curled into tiny blonde ringlets that rested just below her collarbone.

“Hi,” He smiled awkwardly, struggling to put his hands around her back with a bottle of red wine in one hand, and a bunch of flowers in the other.

“These are so pretty, thank you,” She smiled, as he handed her the bouquet. “I love daisies, they’re my favourite,”

He caressed her back slightly, as he heard a deep laugh come from down the hallway. She took the bottle of wine from his other hand and began to laugh.

“Think Daddy’s already had too much of this,” She chuckled, as she turned and began to walk towards the kitchen. She turned around and noticed he was still stood by the front door.

“Come on, don’t be scared,” She giggled again, dimples beginning to show on her cheeks, gesturing for him to follow her. “He’s just a tall, soppy man,”

Harry still had a glass in his hand as he watched Tilly walk into the kitchen, and stood up from where he was sitting at one of the bar stools. He was wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a loose band t-shirt. It was hard to tell that he was a 42-year-old multi-millionaire just by looking at him.

“Daddy, this is Henry,”

“Hi, Mr Styles,” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Harry is fine,” Harry laughed, holding his hand out. “Although, our names are similar, so that could get confusing. You’re the posh version of me,”

Henry tried to laugh as he shook his hand, but it sounded more like a cough. He looked over at Tilly, who was clearly amused by the awkward situation. He noticed all the tattoos littering his left arm. His father had always told him that rich people never got tattoos, because it wasn’t classy. But he had to admit- it looked good on Harry, even if some of them were starting to fade.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tilly asked, trying to break the silence. “The pizza’s going to be here in a minute,”

You had been in the utility room, silently listening in on the conversation whilst waiting putting the finishing touches on the crème brulee which you planned to serve for dessert. It was almost perfect timing, as the timer went off and you strolled into the kitchen, chuckling slightly at the wide-eyed look on Tilly’s new boyfriend’s face.

“Hi, Henry,” You smiled. “I hope he hasn’t scared you,”

“Oh, no, Mrs Styles, it’s just, you have such a nice house and everything,”

Tilly jutted in. “Daddy works hard, too hard,” She giggled, as Harry passed her a handful of 20 pound notes to give to the delivery driver. Henry looked at her wide eyed. His father would never give tips to people in those sort of jobs.

“I hope pizza is okay for you, it’s what we always have on a Saturday night… a Styles family tradition, I guess,”

“No, that sounds lovely,” He smiled. “But we usually have filet mignon on Saturdays,”

You swore you heard Harry scoff, as Henry’s eyes grew even wider when he saw the three of you begin to open the boxes, not even bothering to plate up the food properly.

“So, Henry,” Harry drawled slightly, the wine beginning to go to his head, as he shovelled a slice of pizza into his mouth. “What do your parents do?”

“Well, my Father works in the legal sector, and my Mother well, she spends most of her time at the country club,”

Harry tried not to choke on his food as he held back a laugh. “Wow, clever people jobs,” He snorted slightly. “What are you going to do when you finish your A-Levels?”

“My father says he is going to get me a job, in the legal industry,” Henry replied, you cringing slightly at the received pronunciation with which he pronounced his words.

“Sounds… interesting,” Harry replied, turning at you and rolling his eyes slightly.

---

After a couple of hours of awkward conversation, he had gone home and Tilly had gone back upstairs. You and Harry were still sat at the kitchen counter, as Harry filled up his glass of wine for the 5th time that night. His voice had gotten slow- painfully slower than it usually was, as he told you literally everything he had been thinking for the past few hours.

“I knew Mum was right when she said we should have sent them both to schools up North,” he sighed, fiddling with one of the rips in his jeans.

“What do you mean, lovey?” You asked, not quite understanding what he meant. “They’ve both been fine, here,”

“Ohhhh, my Father works in the legal sector,” Harry mocked, too drunk to notice the room’s newest occupant, who had come downstairs to get herself a glass of water, and was now staring wide eyed at Harry. “Their accents are already too posh for me, I just want them to be normal, and be around normal people, not with a load of rich twats,”

“Harry,” you gestured to your daughter who was now stood still at the opposite side of the room.

“Oh hey, Tils, you okay?”

“-You don’t like him.” She scorned, her brows becoming furrowed in the way that his did whenever he was annoyed.

“Tilly, I- that’s not true-”

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought him round.” She sulked, beginning to walk away, before Harry got up from the counter and blocked her from leaving.

“Hey, look, baby-girl, it’s not that I don’t like him,”

“Then why did you just say that? I heard everything,”

“Look, come and sit down with your Daddy,” he sighed, gesturing for her to follow him to the sofa next to the patio doors. He stroked a hand through a ringlet of her hair as she lent into him.

“I don’t not like him. He seems like a nice guy, he really does. It’s just hard for me to see you growing up, sometimes, because you and your sister are my babies, and it’s really hard for me to let go of you both,” He explained, as she placed her arm around his shoulder. “I can’t really explain it, but that’s just how it is, and I just don’t want you to get hurt, because it would hurt me, too,”

She laughed slightly, almost not believing what he had said. “But Daddy, I’m nearly eighteen,” She laughed. “You’ll have to let me go when I go to uni in September,”

“I know, I know,” he exhaled slowly. “Doesn’t make it easier, though, because you’re still my little girl. I still remember when you were little and I used to take you to ballet lessons,”

Tilly giggled a bit. “I made you wear the tutu, didn’t I,”

“You did,” He laughed, peppering a kiss to her forehead. “And I loved every second of it,”

She fully relaxed into his tall frame, feeling his slow heartbeat underneath her.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,” He sighed. “Boys can be arses, I know that. And you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and it would break me,”

She took a deep breath, nuzzling her chin into his warm chest. “Okay, Daddy,”

“You promise me that no matter what, you know you can tell me anything, and I’ll be there, always. Promise.”

He looked down at her, green eyes identical to his staring back at him. “And fuck filet mignon on Saturdays- what even is that? Pizza is way better.”

---

i had to google what filet mignon actually was lol. looking at the photos it looks absolutely grim. how do people eat that. harry is right. pizza is always better.

if you enjoyed this one shot, i have linked the masterlist to my slipping through my fingers series here!

also thank you to the anon who requested this- please request more i beg you <3

[hafizmarketmaster]

 Kevin Durant Shines as USA Basketball Opens Olympic Campaign with a Big Win

Kevin Durant, the champion forward for USA B-ball, was as of late informed that Spencer Haywood was a piece annoyed — however flippantly — about Durant crushing his Olympic scoring normal record. Durant, ever the great game, got over it with a smile, saying, "Spencer will be OK. Records are intended to be broken. Someone will take mine, as well."

What's more, with the manner in which Durant acted in the U.S's. 110-84 triumph over Serbia, it seems as though his records could remain in one piece for some time. The four-time Olympian didn't get to play in any of the five warm-up games because of a calf injury, yet he was back furiously. Off the seat, Durant was basically relentless, hitting 8-of-9 field objectives and nailing each of the five of his three-point endeavors, wrapping up with a game-high 23 focuses.

"Gracious, man, [the miss] felt incredible leaving my hands. I certainly needed to complete the game great," Durant said with that mark grin of his.

Durant's Record-Breaking Profession

Kevin Durant isn't simply one more player in the group — he's the top scorer in USA Ball history with an amazing 435 focuses north of 23 Olympic games. This incorporates a stunning 156 focuses during the 2012 London Olympics, establishing a men's standard. Spencer Haywood, who recently held the record with 145 focuses from the 1968 Mexico City Games, should offer his appreciation to Durant's accomplishment.

Notwithstanding his Olympic accomplishments, Durant likewise holds the record for the most elevated focuses per game during the Olympics for USA Ball with a normal of 19.8. We should not fail to remember his presentation in the 2010 World Cup, where he scored 205 focuses in nine games for the U.S. gold-decoration group. That is a significant commitment to the game!

Durant Beats Injury to Lead Group

Regardless of certain difficulties, for example, the expulsion of forward Kawhi Leonard from the program during the instructional course in Las Vegas, Durant's mentor, Steve Kerr, never questioned his worth to the group. Durant missed the show games because of injury however was anxious to get once more into it. After a 5-on-5 scrimmage in Paris, Durant felt prepared to get back to the court.

"I would have rather not botched the valuable chance to get one more opportunity at a gold," Durant made sense of. "I knew such countless extraordinary players planned to commit, as well. Along these lines, I needed to associate with those folks too. You're out there with the best mentors and players. It's unimaginable. I simply need to be on the floor, man. Being with the folks, getting better consistently, and venturing to the far corners of the planet — that is perhaps of the best involvement with ball."

Ruling the Game Against Serbia

In their initial round of the 2024 Paris Olympics, the U.S. gone head to head against Serbia at the Pierre Mauroy Arena on July 28. Serbia, drove by 2024 NBA MVP Nikola Jokić, took a mid 10-2 lead over the Americans. Durant, who ordinarily isn't a seat player, entered the game with 2:33 left in the principal quarter, as the U.S. followed 19-14.

Durant burned through no time having an effect. His previously shot, a three-pointer, went in only 17 seconds after he checked in. By halftime, Durant had scored 21 focuses on amazing shooting. He helped push the U.S. to a 58-49 lead at the break, scoring 15 focuses in the second quarter alone.

"The subsequent gathering came in and gave us a major lift. KD was sensational. It's practically similar to he never thought twice, a training, a game or anything. That was a decent beginning for us," U.S. forward LeBron James said.

"KD was unimaginable in the primary half and gave us a major lift," U.S. watch Stephen Curry added.

Durant's Heavenly Presentation and Future Objectives

Durant didn't miss a shot until his 10th and last field objective endeavor. At the point when he left the game in the final quarter, the horde of around 27,000 at the Pierre Mauroy Arena acclaimed him. Durant later referenced that his body felt perfect and that he was excited to add to the group's prosperity.

Looking forward, the U.S. will point toward the South Sudan on Wednesday. Durant has no second thoughts about falling off the seat and is prepared to adjust to anything job the group needs him to play.

"I let Mentor know that anything he really wants me to do, I'll adjust to anything," Durant said. "It's forever been fun attempting to adjust to new jobs and everything that the game is attempting to say to me to do."

A Get-together and an Excursion

Durant's down against Serbia was additionally outstanding for his warm gathering with previous Brilliant State Fighters partner Stephen Curry. The two traded a genuine hug before the game, thinking back about their past triumphs. Curry and Durant, who brought home two NBA championships and made three NBA Finals together, additionally shared some personal time together in Las Vegas during instructional course.

"We certainly discussed a few great times we had together," Durant shared. "[Curry is] Simply a unimaginable person. I'm anticipating getting to know these folks on a more profound level as of now."

Life in Lille and Then some

The USA Ball groups are as of now playing their fundamental games in the Lille region, remaining there the prior night games. They practice in Paris and will probably play in the quarterfinals on August 6 (men's) or August 7 (ladies'). Durant, who has visited Paris previously, is encountering Lille interestingly and is amped up for the outing.

"I'm amped up for being in Paris. I've generally cherished France and its way of life. So whenever I get to visit another spot, another city, I'm down," Durant said.

Adjusting Gold Awards and NBA Titles

Durant is pursuing his record fourth Olympic award with the intensely preferred USA Ball group. At the point when gotten some information about what holds more weight — a gold decoration or a NBA title — Durant offered a smart viewpoint.

"You don't look at them. It's two unique things," Durant made sense of. "It's two unique mountains you must ascend. It's high tops in the two of them. In our reality, a NBA title is more regarded. However, in certain regions of the planet, the Olympic level is more regarded."

"Thus, I esteem both on the grounds that triumphant is significant. I love my USA B-ball family and we'll check whether we can go get another," Durant finished up.

As Durant gears up until the end of the competition and his forthcoming NBA season with the Phoenix Suns, where he'll play close by new partners and another mentor, he stays zeroed in on the two his Olympic and NBA objectives. The street ahead is loaded up with commitment and energy, and Durant is prepared to handle everything.