#prosecco case deals

[onlinewineshop]

The cases of rose wine has become quite popular among both wine connoisseurs and casual consumers, making it the best option for rosé wine. One of the top rosé wines now on the market, it is praised for its approachability, accessibility, and appealing flavour profile.

Include a couple pink moscato bottles from the Best Rose Wine cases in your list if you're thinking about doing so. Pink moscato stands out above the others when it comes to delicious and cooling wines. It is a well-liked option among wine aficionados, especially those who value a little of sweetness in their glass, due to its light, fruity, and somewhat sweet qualities. Know more about pink moscato, its history, distinctive flavours, and the reasons it has become one of the greatest Cases of Rosé Wine to sip on different occasions.

Read more here: https://online-wine-shop.blogspot.com/2023/05/the-sweet-symphony-exploring-the-cases-of-rose-wine.html

[6bottles]

Discover the Convenience of Prosecco Mini Bottles from 6bottles

If you're a fan of prosecco, then you're going to love the convenience of bottles of prosecco. These miniature bottles of bubbly are perfect for those who want to enjoy a glass of prosecco without having to commit to a full-sized bottle. At 6bottles, we offer a wide selection of Prosecco Mini Bottles in various sizes and styles. Whether you're looking for a single mini bottle or a whole case of them, we have covered all the tastes you want.

One of the best things about prosecco mini cags is their portability. These small bottles are easy to carry with you wherever you go, making them perfect for picnics, parties, and other outdoor events. And because they're smaller than a full-sized bottle, they chill faster, so you can enjoy a cold glass of prosecco in no time.

Continue Reading Here: https://online-wine-shop.blogspot.com/2023/05/discover-the-convenience-of-prosecco-mini-bottles-from-6bottles.html

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

hehe

DEVON. How has this not happened yet?

Almost at the end of a chapter with this one so we shall see if I can fit it all in lol.

90 new sentences for TWATYTK:

---

Buck is certainly right about one thing. You can only count the number of times Eddie has been silly drunk on one hand. Drunk with abandon, that is. He’s been stupid drunk and upset before. But the kind of easy, floating fun that is totally worth the hangover the next morning? Eddie isn’t well versed in that the way Buck is. 

Which is why Eddie happily accepts the gratuitous amounts of champagne offered to him. With his son safely at Pepa’s and at no risk of seeing him, Eddie lets loose and gets champagne drunk. Prosecco drunk? Eddie’s not sure it’s the real thing. Who cares? Tastes great. Makes his head feel carbonated. 

Eddie thinks Buck is taking it a bit slower than him but he doesn’t keep track. They’re both red faced, sweaty, and laughing as the dancing progresses throughout the evening. It all kind of goes by in a blur of lights and greatest hits of years past. Whitney Houston. David Bowie. Earth, Wind, and Fire. Abba. Chim has covered all his bases. 

“It’s a little dated,” Buck observes as they take a moment for fresh air and some water out on the patio. December, 1963 is currently playing, so Eddie supposes he is literally correct.

“Oh yeah?” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “And what would your wedding reception playlist be? Pitbull and Sean Paul?” 

“Hey, now,” Buck laughs. “Don’t knock my early 2000s dance mix until you try it.”

Eddie is a little too drunk and happy to even reminisce on the over-abundance of Shannon’s taste in country music present at their own wedding. 

“Okay,” Eddie says instead. “I’ll just have to try it.”

Buck’s eyes twinkle. “Well, uh, good.”

And it’s a little silly. It’s a little premature, maybe. Or maybe not, all things considered. But Eddie thinks about it. The stupid playlist Buck would make. They could find suits that aren’t exactly matching, but highly complimentary. How they could include Chris in the ceremony. What it would feel like to be someone’s husband again. How it would feel to have a husband. 

Eddie brims with giddy laughter at the thought. 

“What?” Buck asks, grinning.

“Nothing,” Eddie says, reaching forward and resting a hand over Buck’s collarbone. “I just love you.”

Buck kisses Eddie’s forehead, as sweaty as it is. 

“I just love you, too,” he says. “But if we don’t get back inside and keep dancing, Albert is going to call us old. And I simply refuse to deal with that on my sister’s wedding day.”

Eddie laughs. “We can’t have that, can we?”

“My ego simply won’t allow it.” Buck nods.

So Eddie and Buck return to the party, and if Eddie has the tiny seeds of a fantasy taking root in his head, he just hopes it’s not too terribly obvious on his face. 

🗲🗲🗲

In the interest of remembering the evening as best he can, Buck elects not to get as drunk as Eddie. This poses the risk of having less fun, but this doesn’t turn out to be the case. Instead, he gets to watch and stamp it all into memory. Eddie, letting loose in a way that is rare for him. Smiling and utterly gorgeous. Maddie and Chim, so happy in celebrating something that seems both hard won and as simple as magic. Hen and Karen, dancing together, warm and tender and familiar. Giving Buck something to seriously aspire to. 

He’s also very glad he’s functional enough to get video evidence of Ravi and Albert doing a drunken handstand competition well after midnight. Beautiful, really. He’ll have lots of embarrassing photos and videos of everyone for a group chat tomorrow. And lots of Eddie just to keep for himself. 

Somewhere close to two in the morning, Buck is fumbling with the hotel room keycard, while Eddie is slumped against his shoulder. 

“Mmm, just want to lie down,” Eddie complains, when Buck isn’t moving fast enough. Maybe if he wasn’t holding up a whole ass drunk, squirmy man, he’d be a bit quicker.

“Give it a second,” Buck promises. 

When he finally swipes them through, Eddie straightens up, strides through the door, and flops onto the bed with alarming deftness, given how he could hardly walk a second ago. 

“You are full of shit,” Buck accuses. 

Eddie laughs, mischievously. He does not deny Buck’s allegations. 

On top of the covers, head not even making it to a pillow, Eddie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Oh, no.” Buck scolds, amused. “No falling asleep yet. Take off your damn shoes.”

“You,” Eddie slurs in accusation, keeping his eyes closed but pointing a finger in the approximation of Buck’s direction. “Have put your shoes on my coffee table.”

Buck can’t help but laugh. “It’s our coffee table now, darling.” 

“True,” Eddie yawns. Eyes still shut, he lifts his lefts and awkwardly paws at his shoes. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Buck says, crossing the room to help him remove his shoes.

[sionisjaune]

5. lewis + nico!!!

5. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" From the dialogue prompts. You get the next installment of problematic sebcedes polyamory:

“I just don’t think that Yosemite will be very picturesque this time of year, what with the snow melting and all that,” Nico says, waving one hand vaguely in the air, the other cupped around a steaming mug of tea. “I would wait until later in the season, is all.” 

Lewis squints at him. Nico stares back impassively. “It’s snowing right now,” Lewis says. Outside the wall of windows behind the sofa Nico is curled up on, fluffy clumps of snow tumble down from the sky and land in a white blanket on the forest floor. The sun is setting beyond the trees, casting a rosy light inside the cozy cabin Nico booked for their anniversary. 

“It’s just,” says Nico. “You’re always camping with him, and, roughing it in the mountains. It doesn’t sound very appealing.” He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it off of his face. “There aren’t any spas in American national parks, you know.” 

“Fuck you, first of all,” says Lewis. “Second of all, I like camping. And I like roughing it sometimes.” He sets his mug down on the coffee table between his sofa and Nico’s sofa. “It’s not all—heated towels and prosecco and facials. There are other things I like.” 

“Sure,” says Nico, his mouth twisting. “But what if you run out of kombucha? Or what if you can’t have your fucking smoothie bowl because you’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, and there aren’t any fucking acai berries in Yosemite fucking National Park! Fuck!” Nico blows out a messy breath, shifting underneath his mound of blankets. Lewis doesn’t miss the way his shoulders have gone tight, the way a furrow has formed between his eyebrows. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Wow,” says Lewis, running a hand over his own brow. He leans forward, almost over the coffee table. “Are you jealous?” 

Nico frowns, deep, unhappy creases forming on either side of his nose. 

“I thought this wasn’t going to be a problem,” says Lewis. 

“Well,” says Nico, darkly. 

“I thought we were an unshakeable foundation. We’ve been together, fuck, how long?” Lewis massages his temple with two fingers, trying to remember. It’s been so long. He almost can’t remember a time before Nico. He’s like—the start of civilization, practically. 

Nico’s eyebrows tilt downwards. Lewis always thought they were so handsome—those thick, stormy eyebrows on his cherubic face. “Fourteen years,” says Nico. “Give or take, depending whether you count the start as the first time we met or the first time we actually fucked about it.” 

“Yeah,” says Lewis, blinking. “That long. It’s just, you said he wouldn’t be a problem.”

Nico leans back on his sofa, adopting an arrogant and defensive sprawl. “Well maybe he is. Maybe I’m tired of the Lewis timeshare.”

Lewis grips the arm of the sofa, orienting himself. He blinks again, trying not to look so dumb about it. Nico is the type to pick up on those small things when he’s angry and peck Lewis to death about them like a vulture. “Well, the deal is the same on your end. You can… go out, if you want.” 

“I’m done fucking other people,” says Nico. “And so is Sebastian, in case you haven’t been paying attention. He ended things with his little boyfriend months ago. That’s why he wants you all the time.” 

“I’m—” Lewis says. “I’m not a game of tug and war.” 

“And I’m not a fucking co-parent,” says Nico, coldly. Lewis watches him shove the blankets off of himself and stand up angrily, knocking cushions to the floor. “What an awful anniversary trip. I thought you would like it here.” 

“Wait,” Lewis says, slipping off the sofa and following Nico towards the bedroom. “I do. I do like it here—” 

Nico slams the door to the bedroom. 

“Nico,” says Lewis, facing the door. 

He receives no answer.

[wisteriasymphony]

claudrien breakup is legitimately so funny to me cause like.

adrien deals with it by splaying himself out on a fainting couch like he's in an Austen Novel, holding a bottle of Prosecco by the neck, and wistfully monolouging:

"Was love ever real, Plagg? Or is it merely an illusion of hearts, meant to shield us from the bitter cold of our life's solitude~? Alas! Even if such were the case, I shall let myself fall into it regardless, for all of man's existence has been to fight and succumb to our vices..."

But Claudia's like "yeah fuck mourning this breakup i'm asking my boss for more hours and getting on that GRIND."

[retrieve-the-kraken]

Am I exaggerating for getting upset about this?

This is precisely why I don’t like celebrating my birthday with people. I don’t like to be the center of attention, I don’t like to ask for things, and I don’t like people to make a fuss about me.

This year I planned to go away, but circumstances with a work project made me unsure if I’d be able to have a holiday on the week of my birthday.

We did finish, but I didn’t book anything just in case. And I was tired and I felt like I just needed to recharge.

So I stayed home this week, and I just planned to do things on my birthday. Random things that I like, all by myself.

But my family insisted that we should go out to eat to celebrate. My friends wanted to celebrate with me too, but I’m celebrating with them tomorrow, which I prefer because it’s not really my birthday anymore.

People don’t get that I don’t like celebrating my birthday: it’s not that I don’t even want to acknowledge that it’s my birthday, it’s just that I think it’s weird, honestly, to have people do things for me on this day just because I was born (something that I had absolutely no say in). My birthday is technically just for me. I’m here, I’m gonna do something special for myself, nobody else needs to be involved. I don’t know if that’s weird, bur that’s just how I think.

So I managed to convince my family that I didn’t want to go out to eat, that we could just have a low key thing in my sister’s house, with some extended family, very small. And I didn’t want any special meal, I just wanted pizza from this one place, and I decided that I wanted to drink Aperol Spritz and that I wanted blueberry pie instead of cake. I even made the pie myself, last night, I bought the Aperol and the Prosecco and oranges, and all my sister had to do was order the pizzas. I mentioned the one restaurant specifically. They make excellent pizzas.

This morning it was rainy and perfect, I slept in. Then I went to a museum and loved it. Then I had an excellent lunch at one of my new favorite places. I got home, got ready, headed to my sister’s. They made me Aperol Spritz.

Then the pizzas got there, and they were from this place that I detest, not the place I requested. I asked why they hadn’t ordered from that place, they said there didn’t seem to be any delivery available from any of the apps (our equivalents to DoorDash, UberEats, etc). I said the place has it’s own delivery service. My sister said she didn’t know that, so they ordered from this place. They didn’t even ask me for an alternative that I would like too. I really hate that pizza. I couldn’t even take one bite. It’s disgusting (to me, not necessarily to others).

I was already upset, because it was such a simple thing that I asked, and they got it wrong and didn’t even try to problem-solve it. They could have asked me if I liked that place, they could have asked me why I wanted that other place specifically, they could have asked anything. But they just ordered whatever was most convenient. They just teased me mercilessly about being too picky, that I was making too big a deal. Even my niece tore into me (my ten-year-old niece, whom I recall crying once over a salad her mum made her full of ingredients that she didn’t like, was accusing me of being too picky…). I said that I had only asked for this one specific thing, and they still made me feel really ridiculous about being upset over the pizza place choice. Then my brother-in-law ordered three more pizzas from another place that I do like, but by then I wasn’t hungry anymore, I didn’t want pizza anymore, it was later and I wasn’t hungry anymore, but he still ordered them, and then he continued to tease me about it. They all did. They all made a fuss. I don’t fucking like people making a fuss.

By the time the new pizza arrived, I was no longer fucking hungry, but I still had to eat at least a couple of slices, because they ordered them specifically for me… and I felt guilty and awful…

And of course I feel ridiculous, I know it’s such an insignificant problem to have. But… I shouldn’t have been made to feel so awful on my fucking birthday, that I didn’t even want to celebrate in the first place. I thought I was doing them a favor by making things very simple and low key, and I’m grateful that they want to celebrate me and everything…

This is the kind of thing that reinforces the idea that maybe I’m a fucking nuisance to my family, that I can meek and be ridiculed or I can be assertive and be ridiculed too, that I maybe do hyper fixate on things and that they will never understand or try to understand me or my feelings, and so why express my feelings if they’re going to either be made fun of or dismissed anyway…

Anyway, at least my pie was really good.

Next year I’m fucking off to Scandinavia and going to Sweden for Eurovision and spending my birthday in the middle of a fjord and not dealing with this kind of shit.

I love my family, and I like them; they’re not perfect obviously, but sometimes they can be really tone-deaf when it comes to me…

[zrtranscripts]

Season 10, Mission 2: Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

Wild Goose Chase

~

AMELIA SPENS: What do you mean, Red Scorpion is gone? Well, satellite images aren’t good enough! I need minions on-site telling me what’s going on. Yes, it certainly would make sense to use Mr. Boujettif, except for the very small problem that he’s on an entirely different continent, which you would know if you read the morning briefing documents. I don’t care that they’re 50 pages long, Paul. That’s the job. And while we’re at it, my breakfast Moët was lukewarm this morning. Yesterday, it was Prosecco. I didn’t become PM to drink second-rate champagne knock-offs. Right, Jody.

JODY MARSH: Nice of you to join us, Amelia. Sorry if we’re interrupting your very important call. You know, by turning up to the rendezvous with New Canton Five you arranged. Also, why did it have to be Canton Five? No offense, Five. It’s just dead weird running with a different Five when the real Five’s missing. I mean, you’re not even the original Canton Five.

AMELIA SPENS: Excuse me for thinking you might find it comforting. This Five’s nauseatingly heroic too, if that helps. Also, I do so enjoy watching you froth with anger, Jody. It’s very stimulating.

PAULA COHEN: What’s going on, Amelia? You said it’s to do with our missing people. Is there some news about Maxine?

AMELIA SPENS: Not precisely.

PAULA COHEN: Oh. I thought... I thought I’d have something to tell Sara. She’s been having nightmares. Are you even looking for them? Or have you just written them all off?

AMELIA SPENS: Of course I haven’t. If Janine and the real Five were here, I wouldn’t have to rely on idiots like Paul to run my security service. I was hoping to appoint Sam as head of AmeliaCom, and there are some very interesting experiments I want to run on Peter. Frances, I could leave or take, if I’m honest. But in point of fact, I do have news. Not about Five, who remains frustratingly elusive. But two weeks ago, the Maghreb Protectorate offered to send us a message from their “honored guests.”

PAULA COHEN: Two weeks ago? And you didn’t tell us?

AMELIA SPENS: I don’t trust the Maghreb. Not since they got it into their heads that we stole this panacea from Red Scorpion Base. I’m not convinced the Maghreb didn’t steal it themselves and blame us. I needed to be sure the offer wasn’t some sort of trap.

JODY MARSH: And?

AMELIA SPENS: We’ll see, won’t we? They’ve arranged for someone to meet us at the duck pond in Barton in... Goodness, five minutes. I have been gabbing on, haven’t I? Chop chop, Canton Five. Show them the way.

~

JODY MARSH: We’ve reached the duck pond, but there’s no one here. I mean, apart from a few mallards.

AMELIA SPENS: Well, that is disappointing. I had to reschedule my hot stone massage for this.

PAULA COHEN: No wait, what’s that floating in the center of the pond? It looks like a document case. Canton Five, can you reach? [water splashes, case clicks] Oh, it’s just a scribbled note. [paper rustles] It says, “Go to the statue of Thomas Gainsborough in Marfield Lestone. Await further instructions.” Amelia, are you playing games with us? Because if you are, it’s terribly cruel.

AMELIA SPENS: Someone’s playing games, but it’s not me. I wasn’t going to mention it, but a V-type’s been spotted near Marfield. Terrible nuisance. The whole area’s evacuated, and my anti-gray berets are tied up dealing with a minor hoard in Chiswick. I did think I had the undead situation in hand. It was the one campaign promise of mine that I actually intended to keep, but there’s been a positive profusion of outbreaks recently. [sighs] I suppose we’d better give this outing up as a bad job.

JODY MARSH: No way.

PAULA COHEN: Absolutely not.

AMELIA SPENS: I can’t guarantee your safety if you carry on. Well, I suppose I could if I really wanted to make the effort, but I don’t.

JODY MARSH: [scoffs] Stuff being safe! This is the only sniff of a clue we’ve had since all our friends went missing. I’m not giving up.

PAULA COHEN: Marfield is east of here. Come on!

~

PAULA COHEN: I can see Marfield on the brow of the next hill. Lots of little Elizabethan cottages and a half-built McShell lane.

AMELIA SPENS: Therefore useless. I’ve ordered a squadron of my anti-gray berets to head your way, but it will take them at least 15 minutes. Honestly, do you have any idea the havoc you two have wreaked on my schedule today? Now I’m Prime Minister, my day has to be timetabled to the second. I’m not enjoying it at all!

JODY MARSH: You wanted the job, Amelia. Deal with it.

AMELIA SPENS: Admit it, Jody. I’m the best PM this country has ever seen. And the rest of them didn’t have to deal with the shambling undead outside of their own cabinets.

PAULA COHEN: There’s no sign of that V-type.

JODY MARSH: No sign of anything. It’s weird to see it all so empty. Corn ripe in the fields but not a single person. I’d sort of forgotten what it was like before the cure.

AMELIA SPENS: And before I reestablished order and a semblance of normality.

JODY MARSH: Yeah, it was definitely all you, Amelia. I used to do airdrop pickups around here. The road was cracked, grass growing up through. There was a cherry tree right in the middle. Now it’s all paved over again. Back then, it felt like nature had had enough of us. Game over, next player’s turn. Time to hand it all back to the foxes. It used to feel like we were an endangered species.

PAULA COHEN: We were an endangered species! And we still would be if it weren’t for Maxine. Veronica’s research was all built on hers. Without her, there’d be no cure! I’d still be... Without her, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t want to be.

AMELIA SPENS: Please don’t cry, you’re not one of those people who can do it attractively! And what happened to that trademark Abel sunny optimism in the face of insurmountable odds?

PAULA COHEN: It disappeared with all our friends! Five’s just gone. We think the Maghreb are holding the rest prisoner. Veronica’s been hunting for traces of her other self, but all she’s found are bits of code and rumors of a brain in a suitcase. We know Maxie went to help the Maghreb with a measles outbreak. Apart from that, what do we really know? Just reports of a burn cube explosion, right back when they first went missing. Peter had a burn cube inside him. What was that?

JODY MARSH: Probably just the wind. But maybe we should pick up the pace. Not much further to Marfield.

~

JODY MARSH: We’re here. Marfield Town Square. Looks like they got evacuated right in the middle of a market day. This stinks of decaying cabbage and spoiled meat. [gags] The butcher store’s buzzing with flies.

PAULA COHEN: Here’s the statue of Thomas Gainsborough. Oh my God. Do you see that, Five? On the pedestal, it’s a tape recorder. A proper old-fashioned tape recorder with a tape in it! Jody, do you think this could... Could this really be a message from them?

JODY MARSH: It’s got to be, hasn’t it? What would be the point otherwise? Well, go on, then. Play it. The suspense is killing me.

PAULA COHEN: I know... I know. I’m sorry, I just... What if it’s not? Okay. Okay, here goes. Five, my hands are shaking. Can you figure out how to get this thing to play?

JANINE DE LUCA: Well, what exactly would you like us to say?

JODY MARSH: Oh my God.

PETER LYNNE: It doesn’t matter what you say. It’s proof of life, Janine. I mean, proof of how great our life is and how well we’re being looked after.

JANINE DE LUCA: Don’t be absurd, Mr. Lynne. Proof of life only works if it’s a live broadcast. They could record this and then kill us. Doesn’t mean anything.

PETER LYNNE: I think it might be nice for our friends to have some reassurance, Jenny.

JANINE DE LUCA: Well, yes. We really are... We’re perfectly fine. It’ll take more than this to break us.

DISTORTED VOICE: I think that’s enough for now.

AMELIA SPENS: You need to stop the tape right now.

PAULA COHEN: There could be more messages. We haven’t heard Maxine yet.

AMELIA SPENS: Quiet, for goodness sake! There’s movement on the monitor, doodahs. [sighs] It’s keeping to the shadows, but it’s very fast and it’s definitely heading in your direction. I hate to be all doom and gloom, but it’s probably our V-type. I don’t suppose you fancy acting as bait to lure it away, do you, Jody?

PAULA COHEN: We’re not risking losing anyone else.

AMELIA SPENS: [sighs] Why do I even bother asking? Then you’d better head east towards that ghastly industrial estate. And don’t dawdle!

~

JODY MARSH: Anything on your cameras, Amelia?

AMELIA SPENS: Not a sausage.

JODY MARSH: I can’t see anything. Can you, Five? It’s dead quiet. Just lots of half-demolished warehouses. But I can feel it. All the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.

AMELIA SPENS: It seems to be hiding from the cameras, which it should be far too stupid to do. [sighs] I thought Paul was being hysterical when he started blathering on about signs of increased intelligence in solitary V-types. I suppose I should apologize to him. I won’t, obviously.

PAULA COHEN: Five, play the tape.

AMELIA SPENS: I really don’t think you should -

PAULA COHEN: I’m not waiting any longer. I can’t.

SAM YAO: I really don’t see why I should help you. Oh, are you already recording? Now that’s not fair! I said I wouldn’t cooperate. No, you’re not doing it to be nice. You’re trying to freak my friends out or-or manipulate them or something, and I’m not going to help you. Guys, no one knows where Five is, but we think they -

JODY MARSH: Stupid Sam. Always worrying about other people when he should be worrying about himself.

PAULA COHEN: There’s still... There’s nothing from Maxine.

JODY MARSH: Maybe it’s further on.

PAULA COHEN: That’s it. That’s the end of the tape.

AMELIA SPENS: Emote about it while you move. I finally got a clear and frankly stomach-turning look at your pursuer. It’s missing a head and still very much ambulatory, so call me an old worrywart, but I think it’s a V-type. I was really hoping we could avoid this, but there’s a place to the north where you can evade it. Just go on, then. Run!

~

[zombie growls]

JODY MARSH: Oh God, it’s nearly on us!

AMELIA SPENS: Just as well good old Amelia’s led you to safety. On your left, the side door to Marfield Storage. Five, enter 2574 on the keypad.

PAULA COHEN: I don’t understand. Why wasn’t there a message from Maxine? She was there. We know she was there.

AUTOMATED VOICE: Voice scan required for entry.

AMELIA SPENS: Let me just... Ah.

RECORDING: Sigrid Hakkinen, access code Sigma Alpha Epsilon.

AUTOMATED VOICE: Authorization granted, Minister.

JODY MARSH: Paula, Five, get in now.

AMELIA SPENS: There’s another exit at the far side of the complex. It should take you well clear of the V-type.

PAULA COHEN: Does it mean they don’t have Maxie, or does it mean they... they had Maxie and now they don’t?

JODY MARSH: There was nothing from Five, either. This was probably just like, a teaser trailer, something to get us interested.

PAULA COHEN: Yeah, no. [laughs] Yeah, you’re right. Why would they hurt Maxie and not the others? Except for the fact that she’s a doctor, and there’s this sudden outbreak of new diseases and maybe she knows something about it they don’t want her to know!

JODY MARSH: My nan always said don’t borrow trouble, you’ll get enough for free. And we think Van Ark’s got something to do with it, right? I mean, we got a message saying he wasn’t the real Van Ark, but that could have been faked. Van Ark wouldn’t kill Maxine. He’d use her. You know that.

PAULA COHEN: Yes, I know that very well.

JODY MARSH: Amelia, what is this place? I mean, it’s one of Sigrid’s secret bases, obviously. It’s all pastel walls and surveillance cameras and posters of her on every wall. I’d forgotten how smug she always looked. But why did you have the passkey, and why were all the lights on when we came in, like someone’s been here recently?

PAULA COHEN: I can see the labs through the glass doors. Some of the equipment looks like it’s running. The sign about this one says, “Bioweapons, alpha access only.” [door knob rattles] It’s locked.

AMELIA SPENS: I would like to explain, but I’m afraid the V-type’s found a way in.

JODY MARSH: Oh, bollocks. You just don’t want us to look around.

[zombie roars]

AMELIA SPENS: I might be lying. I could have recorded that sound and saved it for a rainy day. Or maybe you’re being hunted by a virtually unkillable zombie. Up to you, of course. You could keep trying more locked doors, or you could run!

~

[door creaks open and shut]

JODY MARSH: We’re out of the base. No sign of the V-type, if it was ever there.

AMELIA SPENS: No need to worry your pretty head about it any longer, Jody. My anti-gray berets have arrived.

PAULA COHEN: I can see them rappelling out of the helicopter. Rappelling... Is that the word?

AMELIA SPENS: Yes, they certainly made good time.

JODY MARSH: You don’t sound very pleased. I thought you were a big fan of efficiency.

AMELIA SPENS: It may shock you to learn I used to carry out a heist or two?

PAULA COHEN: No, not really.

AMELIA SPENS: Before every escapade, I’d send my crew to carry out a minor break-in, making absolutely sure to trip the alarm. Can you guess why?

JODY MARSH: I don’t care.

AMELIA SPENS: It was to test police response times. Terribly clever of me, really. Create a problem, and then see how the opposition goes about solving it. It teaches you an awful lot about them.

PAULA COHEN: You think that’s what this was about? A way for the Maghreb to test our V-type defenses?

AMELIA SPENS: Or to discover the location of a place I’d rather have kept under wraps for a while. And what have we really gained today? I suppose it was nice for you to hear your friends’ voices, although personally I’ve always found Peter’s rather grating. But Maxine is missing, we’re no closer to finding Five, and our opponents, whoever they truly are, have learned a great deal about us.

~

[theunknowingproject]

I am using pointed understatement when I tell you, this was not the moment I had in mind. I mean, who ever does? When it arrives, the thing to say is something about how no one asks for these things, they just happen. It's part of the deal of living, blah blah, and moments like this come and–––eventually, go, so. . . hang in there! Except that in my case, it could be argued that I had asked for it, in a way.  After all, no one had forced me to be the first to raise my hand at that candlelit conference in the lavender-scented room where the host on high tossed a question so airy it was almost irresistible. "Who is ready" the host asked, in fluttering words like diaphanous silk, "to start cherishing every moment of your life?" "Me!" I cried out. I mean, what had I been doing, anyway? Time for a new chapter, right?! Carpe diem. I should explain to you a little about the place I am calling "room" here. It was an unusual space. The arrangement was series of level stages, and beneath each stage was a level for audience, assembled in interlocking parts like a staircase. No matter where you sat, the variant lighting remained focused on the speaker directly above, while in the shadows behind this speaker was another audience, turned up to a yet higher stage, focused on a single speaker, who was in turn at the perimeter of another audience, looking up to the next, and so on. Likewise, although I felt myself to be invisible and anonymous, I was, to those at the perimeter of this series of stages, a body on a stage. When I raised my hand, I had announced for all to see, "I am ready! Yes, yes! Every moment!" Now the conference was over, and so was the vast space, the candlelit room, fine clothing, complimentary Prosecco, and lavender scent emanating the air ducts. I was back to the version of being commonly referred to as "normal" and strenuously meaning not to waste any of the insights of the night before. It was clear I had some cleaning to do. Floors, shelves, litter box, but what was important––I made a note with my pen––was to reject the complacency of terms like "normal" as the aberrations they were, preventing commitments like the one I had just made to the wonder of every moment. That's when my moment showed up. I was not yet done with my coffee, but no matter! As the speaker had enthusiastically encouraged, you had to “be ready to take life as it comes!” and “Cherish every single one!” "Hello," I said to the moment arriving. It was a large moment, limping. It resembled one of those Jim Henson monsters, but with a less hygienic look. It was covered in a thick brown fur, some of which was matted in coarse ropes. It moved with a limp on two legs, shedding some sort of wet and silvery debris with each step, grunting. With each grunting step, the moment emitted a draft of hot air from its mouth. The smell reminded me of the steam that would rise in thick plumes from a manhole cover that I learned to strenuously avoid on my walk back to an apartment I rented as an undergrad. "Finally," the moment said, pausing. Perhaps to indicate some arrival. "Well," I said. There was plenty I did not say. I did not ask the moment what sort of moment it thought it was or berate it with snide comments. I kept to myself the thought I had about this moment really being a poor representative of its kind. There was no need to insult the moment, who could possibly not help what it was, at least at this point. Who for all I knew may have been a witness to my enthusiasm the other night and decided I would be just the right host for the cherishing of its life. Which I had to assume was as fundamentally precious as any other, even though what is fundamental, when it comes to the living, is not necessarily welcome. For example, death, decay, the emission of various sounds and substances at inopportune times––and whatever this moment was. As we stood there facing each other, I noticed that the moment could qualify for a whole ecosystem unto itself.

There were various organisms crawling through, writhing in, and flying to and from the shadows in its dense fur. From its undercarriage, it dripped a dark, viscous liquid onto the floor. I would need a mop for this moment, and perhaps some absorbent towels. The cat blinked from her perch on the windowsill, regarding the moment with apparent interest before turning to reposition herself, closing her eyes again. The moment rumbled a loud noise. Was that––a fart? I wondered, then checked myself. It was important not to jump to conclusions about this moment. Then a smell more thick and powerful than anything the cat had ever done suddenly emanated throughout the entire room. The cat startled as if a firework had gone off. She jumped from the window to the desk below her and quickly left the room. "Well, Moment," I said, when my cough subsided. "It's just us. Now that you're here, let's get you settled." I was realizing that I was much less prepared than I had wanted to be for any moment. Also, that I might have avoided this if I had passed on the third round of Prosecco, but, Oh! The candles! The soft music! When in Rome. But now was a whole different setting and my instincts fluctuated between crying, raging, and wanting to disappear after a large dose of something strong and annihilating. Really, I had never seen a moment like this. But I had met some bad characters in my time, some of which had really thrown me off, and if there was one thing I had learned it was that it was better to stick to those routines that you knew, when it came to getting through a day, rather than spin around and hope to grow some new ones to launch you out of it. I might not be very enlightened, after all, but I never let anyone sit hungry in my presence if I could help it. "Have you eaten?" I asked the moment. As the moment lumbered closer, I sensed that a faint might be imminent and tried to position my back to the bed. It took considerable effort to resist the impulse to cross my arms or hold out an elbow in defense against this moment. Now the moment was sniffing my ear, my neck, and a few other places. I tried to hold still. Then it sniffed the air and followed its nose to the cat food, then outside to the pantry shelves, and finally to the refrigerator. An hour later, the moment slept on the bed, having effectively resisted my efforts to coax it onto a makeshift pile of old towels on the floor. The moment was snoring. The cat returned, pausing to sniff the hairy, clawed foot of the moment, which was dangling off the edge of the bed. Then she resumed her spot at the window, pausing briefly to note her empty bowl with a pointed look in my direction. I made a grocery list. It was hard to tell what I was going to need or how long this moment would be staying. It was so much larger than I expected a moment to be. If I stayed there, I would have to sleep in the chair or on the towel bed. But there I went again, projecting my own concerns into the future of this moment. Right, then. Food first. I grabbed my wallet, keys, list. "Okay," I said to the cat and my new moment, "I'll be back."

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: One Very Bad Oh So Good Drunken Decision DUO {What’s Done In The Dark}{1}***

Alfie Enoch x Brother’s Best Friend Reader AU

Words: 7.7k

Warning: Cursing, Comedy, 18+ Mature Content, Excessive Alcohol Use, Weed Use, NSFW, SMUUTT, PLENTY OF WORDS, Drunken Antics, 

Summary: You, Alfie and your brother Bash grew up together. He was always known as your second brother, with your relationship mimicking that of siblings. However, after one bad good drunken decision things get done in the dark.  

Notes: Here we go again! This will be two parts. 😊 There is some Portuguese in here. Hopefully, the translation is correct, and Google didn’t do me wrong. If it is wrong, I apologize.

 Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please, LIKE, COMMENT, REBLOG!!!!  ❤️❤️

 ***NOT Edited/Proofread AT ALL***

***Slightly Interactive***

~~~~~~~~~~

“Last night was so annoying,” Ferraz huffed as she dropped down onto your bed with her drink in hand. Her long dark hair fluttered around her like a veil made from the finest silks.

 “I know.”

 You rolled your eyes as you took a sip of your own homemade watermelon and pineapple prosecco mixer.

 “Like, how did he know we were going to be there anyway?”

 Roxanna’s questioning eyes were on you. It was like she thought you had the answers. You didn’t. You didn’t know how he’d known you’d be there; he didn’t know how he even found you in that massive crowd.

 “Does he have a tracker on your phone?”

 This time all your friends’ eyes landed on you. The weight of all three pairs of eyes on you made you crack. You quickly grabbed your phone and scrolled through your apps double checking if there was a tracker that he’d—your twin brother’s best friend who both of you had grown up with doing everything under the sun with—had secretly installed one.

 From the beginning you, Bash, and Alfie had been inseparable. Not only were you neighbors but your mothers were best friends since high school who’d done everything together. The same was the case for you, Bash, and Alfie. You were thick as thieves since preschool and practically inseparable through elementary school. When middle school started Bash and Alfie’s friend circle increased in the male population while yours in the female population. Though you didn’t spend every waking moment together, you often hung out.

 The summer before sixth grade was the summer you grew boobs and with the emergence of said boobs was the beginning of your experience with the male gaze and treatment. While it was an interesting year for you where many days often ended with you having an arm full of little presents and secret admirer letters, for your brother and Alfie it resulted in weekly trips to the principal’s office and many, many poor boys in the nurse's office with bloody noses and black eyes.

 That resulted in them hanging out with you and your friends a lot more. Your friends were overjoyed because two of the hottest guys in school were always eating lunch with them, waiting outside of their classes to pick you up and walk you to your next, walking home with them and hanging out around town together. In high school, your dating life was practically nonexistent. Ninety percent of guys were too afraid of Bash, Alfie the entire football and baseball teams to dare approach you to ask you out and five percent didn’t want to deal with your two overprotective “brothers”. That left the less desirable five percent, the real bad boys and super students who would rather do homework, play videogames, or work on tech than date a girl.

 By college, you were finally able to break free. You’ve chosen the university that was the furthest from home at the last minute so neither Bash or Alfie could get wind of it and choose your college as theirs. That resulted in you going to Stanford while your brother and Bash went to MIT. While you were overjoyed, they weren’t and no matter how hard they tried to change their choice it never worked. You didn’t hide your joy, you rubbed it in every chance you got. It was a curse in disguise as a blessing.

 The culture and vibe of Stanford didn’t fit you one bit. While you easily stayed on top of your studies even adding on extra classes you could never mesh with the preppy sort of stuck-up vibe of the university and the people around you. There you had much more of a dating life, even the event of losing your virginity to a good guy, probably the only one you meshed well with; however, the rest of the guys weren’t really your style. It never worked out. So, after a year and a half you found yourself transferring to MIT. Instead of them following after you, you’d followed them.

 Throughout college you maintained your connection and they’d even found a moderate balance between overprotectiveness and sibling protective. They still hounded any guy who showed you interest but they weren’t throwing punches unless someone deserved it. Which meant every breakup resulted in them threatening or punching your ex, either it was for being stupid enough to break up with you or not being good enough to be with you. At MIT, was when you kicked it up to show them how it felt. Any girlfriend or one nighters always got your death glare and a mildly psychotic warning not to break their heart. That had never happened though, every breakup was always initiated by Alfie or Bash. You found yourself being the shoulder the girls cried on while begging you to help them get back together.

 Once out of college, and several years of hard work, the three of you were finally settled in your own respective careers. You a Jr VP venture capitalist at an all-female fund whose goal was to get more women owned businesses on the Forbes 500 list and Alife and Bash as co-owners of their own Tech and App company. The meddling in your personal life had leveled out to a slight annoyance. You’d gotten them to understand that your life was your own to live and them butting in all the time was not helping you. You also threatened to cut them out of your life if they didn’t cut the shit which is what you did for a whole month when they’d overstepped their brotherly boundaries and was what Roxanna, Ferraz and Judelka thought was the wake-up call.

 They’d gone from seeing you all the time to not at all. You’d taken it so far as to block their numbers and rearrange your entire daily and weekly schedules to avoid them. After that they shaped up and began respecting boundaries. That was why you were utterly confused by Alfie’s actions for the last month. He’d been everywhere you were—everywhere. He showed up at your gym in the morning rather than nighttime like he preferred, come to your nightly jog session, been at your supermarket, your chosen restaurants, bars and clubs whenever you were there and even been spotted at the same places you were at while you were on dates. Every time he made himself known and each time, he’d played the domineering and intimidating brother role to any potential love interest.

 “There is no app,” you said placing your phone down after scrolling through your apps three times.

 “You sure? He does have an app company, Y/N,” Judelka voiced.

 “He could be masking it,” Ferraz added.

 “No, he wouldn’t do that to me. He knows that would be a major breach of privacy and my trust,” you said shaking your head confident Alfie wouldn’t pull that on you.

 The four of you sat there wracking your brains trying to understand how he’d been everywhere. The other night was the worst. Every time you went to the bar, he was a few seats away sipping a drink. If you were on the dancefloor, he was a few feet away watching. When someone approached trying to get closer, he found a way to get in between you and them. The four guys who’d tried to give you their number he’d blocked. You were sure it was him who’d convinced the guys who had approached to claim you were their girlfriend and start a fight. It was too far and by 2am you knew there was no point in staying. When you confronted him, he always feigned innocence and claimed it was pure coincidence you ended up at the same place.

 “Maybe--,” Ferraz began only to stop when all eyes were on her.

 “Maybe?”

 “Maybe he--,” she began again.

 “For the love of god, spit it out Ferraz!”

 “Maybe he’s in love with you.”

 You choked on the sip of your cocktail and damn near spilled the entire thing in an effort to put the glass down. Roxanna lurched for you and patted your back immediately getting into doctor mode. It took a few minutes and a sip of water for you to stop coughing.

 “Oh fuck no!”

 “What!”

 “Eww, Ferraz, that’s Alfie. He’s my brother for fuck’s sake!”

 “Actually,” Judelka began stretching the word. “He’s definitely not your bother. You share no blood.”

 Your face scrunched in disgust as you felt the water you just sipped coming up.

 “You’re disgusting.”

 “What! You share no blood; your parents are not his parents. His last name is Enoch yours is Y/L/N. Completely different. Ancestery.com would not find any connection with your DNA. He’s not your brother,” she stressed.

 While Ferraz and Roxanna looked to be giving her words more thought your face scrunched more and more.

 “I mean technically she’s right, Y/N. He’s not your actual brother and you’re not his sister. He could be in love with you. I’ve heard stories of lifetimes friends realizing decades later that they’ve loved the other the whole time,” Ferraz said.

 You sprang to your feet. “No!” you shivered trying to stave off the thought. “No. He does not—he’s not—eeck! He may not be my brother by blood, but we grew up that way. Eww, guys he’s seen everything, my acne, my flat chest, then my new boobs then new ass and my period, oh god. No, just not!”

 You dropped back into your seat unsure why you’d stood in the first place.

 “Okay.”

 Silence stretched for a few minutes and in those minutes, you took plenty of gulps from your cocktail. After a few minutes, Judelka’s voice emerged again.

 “Can we all at least agree that he is finer than fine?”

 Ferraz and Roxanna both nodded.

 “Alfie has always been hot. He’s tall, sleek, sexy and those dimples---uugh.”

 Your head snapped to Ferraz. It wasn’t shock you were experiencing; they’d voiced plenty of times how hot they thought he and Bash were.

 “You have to admit it, Y/N. You’ve had plenty of women at your job ask about them and even a few have thrown themselves at them only to be turned down. The last girl I heard Alfie being into was years ago like fresh out of college,” Roxanna said.

 You went back to sipping your drink refusing to take part in the conversation. It was so interesting over the years you never felt uncomfortable listening to women voice their attraction to them. Matter of fact, it always humored you because you’d seen everything, you saw all the girlfriends and the one-night stands. You knew everything about them, every favorable and unfavorable trait they possessed. You also knew their potential if they ever met the right woman.

 “Maybe he’s still nursing a broken heart,” Judelka guessed.

 Alfie’s last steady girlfriend, Vanessa, was four years ago. Though not many knew, she’d done a number on him. Not only was she controlling and super problematic she proved to be a gold digger as well after scamming nearly two hundred thousand dollars from him throughout their relationship. It was a relationship that she didn’t have the decency to officially end before getting caught bent over a balcony by the owner of a rival tech start up who’d had beef with Alfie for years. It broke him but what broke her was when Alfie and Bash’s company made it huge raking in millions while her new “trophy” got indicted for intellectual theft & fraud. He'd been caught stealing ideas regarding apps and tech from rival companies. He was now serving twenty to twenty-five in prison which left her penniless after he stole what she’d scammed from Alfie. When she tried to come back you were the one to beat her ass, something Alfie had prevented you from doing when you’d first found out what she’d done to him.

 Was it possible he was still heartbroken over Vanessa? When you reached for your phone to send him a message, one came in.

 MSG Alfie: Wanna catch a movie?

MSG: Tonight?

MSG Alfie: Unless you got plans.

 You could use it to check on him and gauge if he was really okay.

 MSG: Okay. I’ll meet you at the theater.

MSG Alfie: I’ll pick you up.

MSG: It’s okay Alfie. I can get there on my own. You can drive me home.

MSG Alfie: Okay.

MSG: Gimme 40.

  ~~~~~~~~

When you got out of the taxi almost an hour later, you hurried inside the theater knowing you were late. Unlike your brother, Bash, Alfie never made a huge deal about your lateness to almost everything. He always shrugged it off. When you got inside you spun around trying to find him. When you did, he was sitting in a lounge chair with his phone in hand and eyes glued to it. He looked like he’d just left the office, which was probably true, the man was a workaholic. You stood in front of him and decided to wait to see how long it took for him to notice you. After two whole minutes Alfie’s head rose to meet your eyes. A slow smile spread across his lips and then the dimples took over.

 Unexpectedly, your stomach clenched making your smile falter and you take a step back. When he stood to his full height, he towered over you.

“Still always late? I don’t know how you haven’t gotten fired yet,” he joked with a shake of his head.

 “Shut up. maybe I’m late on purpose. It does take time getting this flawless.”

 Alfie snorted then bent to the seat where he picked up a bucket of popcorn and a mega large cup. A sentimental smile stretched across your face.

 “Is that razzle dazzle cherry limeade?”

 “You know it. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t get you your favorite movie drink?”

 “Some brother, you forgot my butter--.”

 “Finger bites?”

 Alfie pulled a large box of your favorite snack out of his trench coat pocket shutting you up. Pinching your lips together, you turned your back to him.

 “Uh-huh. I do love shutting you up. Let’s go. I chose the movie and it’s not some lovey-dovey rom-com,” he said walking ahead of you leading the way.

 Once you’d found the theater, then your seats and settled, you both pulled out your phones to check if you’d missed any messages or emails. With his company he was always working and with yours, someone always needed something, if you missed ten minutes you missed a lot. After following up with Anita, the co-CEO of the company you worked for, regarding one of your high-profile projects, you looked over Alfie who was still glued to his phone. He looked focused but not distressed. You had to figure out a good way to breech the topic. After a minute or two of contemplation, you cleared your throat.

 “Hey Alfie.”

 “Hmm,” he replied not taking his eyes off his screen.

 “How are you?”

 “Fine.”

 Again, he was not looking at you. you waited until he realized you were staring at him. It didn’t take long. When his eyes met yours, his brow crooked. “What?”

 “Are you?”

 “Am I what?”

 “Are you okay—really?”

 He studied you for a few moments with complete confusion on his face. “Uh—yeah. Besides some major deadlines approaching and a few launch dates that I need to make sure go off without a hitch I’m good.”

 Slowly, you nodded and turned to the movie screen.

 “Are you—okay?”

 You nodded as well then reached for some popcorn.

 “I have a question though.”

 “What?”

 “Why have you been everywhere I’ve been for the last month?”

 Alfie snapped his head forward then raised the cup to his lips.

 “We don’t live too far from each other. It’s normal to go to the same places.”

 “Bullshit. You don’t go to the gym in the morning, you prefer late at night. You don’t jog outside you prefer the treadmill. You also hate Shanti and Luxum, you said the DJs and vibe is always off. Tell me the truth.”

 Alfie sighed then took a handful of popcorn.

 “Alfie!”

 “Bash asked me to make sure you were good while he was gone. I’m trying to do that.”

 “You can do that without being under my ass. Did you pay off those guys at the club to cockblock?”

 He snorted then pinched his lips trying to stifle his laugher. Unable to, he turned his head from you and released it.

 “Asshole!”

 You slapped his arm in the process with full strength. He didn’t even flinch.

 “It’s not funny.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “No you’re not. Alfie what have I told you about interfering in my life like that? I swear I’ll drop your ass again without remorse.”

 The look he gave you was unexpected. It wasn’t a fearful one or an apologetic one, it was more daring. Was he daring you, calling your bluff?

 “You don’t think I would? I’ve done it before, and it was easy.”

 “Those guys were douches anyway. You don’t meet quality men in clubs like that. It has a reputation for attracting assholes,” Alfie explained.

 “Which is why you were there. You should have felt right at home.”

 “I’m not going to apologize for steering you from a mistake. I will apologize if you feel like I overstepped.”

 It wasn’t an apology. He didn’t feel he overstepped.

 “You do know my mistakes are mine to make, right?”

 “I do, but if I can help you make one less and avoid the things I’ve been through then I’ll do whatever it takes.”

 Your stomach clenched again. His heart was in the right place, you knew that, but you were still frustrated.

 “Alfie, I love you for trying to protect me, I really do. I’m lucky to have you and Bash as brothers, I know, but how am I supposed to date if you’re scaring everyone away?”

 He scowled at you as he clenched his jaw. You knew the move. He had plenty more to say but he was holding himself back. Sighing, he looked back to the screen and at that moment the lights dimmed, and the screen came to life with the theater’s intro. Any more conversation would have to wait. As expected, he’d picked a guns blazing, blood spilling action movie. It wasn’t bad at all. You laughed and chatted as you normally did. Even though you were frustrated with him, and he was probably frustrated with you, neither of you allowed it to show. It never impacted how you interacted. It was a comfort at this point.

 After the movie, you went to one of the best restaurants in town and talked about what was going on with each other’s work each actively listening and showing genuine interest. Every time he talked about the company you always felt proud of him. He and Bash had worked their asses off hell bent on never working for anyone and deciding to only make apps they would be interested in that would also help people. The fact that they’d achieved their goal had you feeling like you were the one whose hard work had paid off tenfold.

 By 2 am, he had you at your door, safe and sound.

 “I’m sorry.”

 You didn’t speak, instead you waited for him to continue. It took a minute, but he did.

 “I don’t mean to overstep—I never mean to do that. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m butting in.”

 You waited, expecting him to add “but I just want to protect you” however, it never came. Glancing at him, you found his eyes on the neon lights of his speedometer.

 “That’s it?”

 He nodded.

 “Wow. Um—th—thank you for the apology.”

 You reached over and put your hand on his that was resting on the stick gear. Alfie looked to your hand then at you.

 “I know you mean well, and I know you have my back no matter what, just like I had your back when I beat Vanessa’s ass until she needed new plastic surgery.”

 Alfie snorted then laughed tipping his head back. It was then you knew he wasn’t still nursing any broken heart. It may still hurt, but not because he still loved her, it was because she’d made him look like a fool. It was his pride he was nursing, not his heart.

 “I’ll back off,” he said. “And to prove it I’m taking you to the good spot tomorrow night, you and your friends.”

 “My friends? You sure you can handle a night of being objectified?”

 “Can you handle a night of watching me be objectified?”

 “God, you sure know how to bring the thirsties to the yard,” you teased.

 Alfie cocked a brow then smirked making his dimples appear deeper than ever. That was how he caught his fish. “I get it from my daddy.”

 You laughed and shook your head before slapping his shoulder and getting out the car.

 “Night.”

 He waved then watched as you made it inside.

 ~~~~~~~~

“Woooooooooo!”

 Everyone clanked their shot glasses together before knocking them back. The lemon and grapefruit flavors filled your mouth as the burn engulfed your tongue.

 “Oh my god, that was lemon grapefruit!”

 Everyone cheered as they got the signal you’d guessed right. Laughing, you jumped up and down. You’d guessed every single one right. You’d even lost track of how many shots you’d had or how long you’d been at the bar with a crowd surrounding you.

 “Looks like you have a good tongue,” a good-looking guy on your right said.

 On your left you heard a deep gruff. You knew it was Alfie without looking, but he didn’t speak or make a move. The man who’d said it averted his eyes, but he didn’t move away.

 “Next round. Who’ll challenge her?”

 “I got this,” Alfie said.

 “Ooooh. You’re in trouble. Alfie holds the record here. His taste buds are better than yours,” the bartender shouted.

 You raised your eyebrow as you looked at him. “Oh, is that right? Your tongue is better than mine?”

 “I don’t wanna brag but--.”

 You rolled your eyes then turned to him giving your full attention. “I accept the challenge.”

 His smile was wide as if he already expected your defeat. His competitiveness matched yours and anyone who knew you knew you’d never go down without a fight. The bartenders behind the bar began working on mixing up flavored shots in various shot glasses while you and Alfie evil eyed each other.

 “What do I get when I win?”

 “If you win. What do you want?”

 “You to officially take your nose out of my dating life and--,” your eyes dipped to his neck where the gold and diamond chain rested. He always wore it, smirking you continued, “That chain.”

 Alfie’s eyebrow rose. He knew just why you wanted it--because it was his. You smiled widely waiting for him to raise to the challenge.

 “You want this?”

 He raised it between his fingers, and you nodded. “I win, its mine.”

 Alfie scoffed. “What do I get?”

 “What do you want?”

 “That silver sequin dress.”

 Your eyes bugged and when they did, he smiled in the most mischievous way. He knew that was your favorite dress and he knew you loved to wear it to irk him and Bash because it brought all the boys to your yard. It was the dress you were currently wearing.

 “I get to rip it to shreds. Dare to play?”

 Narrowing your eyes, you held out your hand for his. When he placed his hand in yours, you shook it and squeezed. “I know that chain will look good with my silver sequin dress,” you added before pulling your hand back.

 The bartenders placed the first shot glass in front of you both. Alfie readied his hand at the same time you did. When you both heard the “go” you grabbed the glass and knocked it back. Ignoring the burn, you searched for the flavors.

 “Ew, grape,” you shouted first.

 When you got the indication that you’d won that round everyone cheered. Alfie nodded and clapped his hands.

 “I gave you that one. Let’s go!”

 Glass after glass was placed in front of you and you gulped every single one down trying to out shout him. The first six or so were easy but as the flavors piled on top of each other and the liquor began to take effect Alfie began to sneak up on your lead. He barely looked phased. You didn’t know how he didn’t need a liver transplant yet. He and Bash had always partied hard while keeping you sheltered. When you’d gotten to Stanford, you made up for the time lost and then at MIT you kept the same pace as they did but you doubted your tolerance was up to par with them.

 Sure enough by the time the glasses began to pile up you were seeing doubles and hearing multiple echoes, hell even the lights were beginning to blind you. The score was now tied, and your tongue was practically numb. Across from you, Alfie looked almost the way you felt.

 “Ready—to—give up little sister?”

 His words were slurred. You rolled your eyes, “You are only—threeeeeee weeeeeeks olderrrrrr.”

 You cringed hearing how your words slurred a hell of a lot more than his.

 “Come on don’t beee a sore looooseerrr,” Alfie shouted.

 Both of you began laughing together hearing how ridiculous you sounded.

 “Tie?”

 You shot up and stumbled. A pair of strong arms held you.

 Alfie shot up across from you too. He swayed but stayed upright.

 “Hands off! Get your hands off my sisssssteer!”

 The arms released you so quick you swayed as you grabbed for the bar to steady yourself. “Hell no tie,” you shouted.

 “No tie!”

 “Treeee threeee more. Winner want all,” you said.

 “Takessssss all, Y/N.”

 You snorted then giggled as you shook your head trying to get your head in the game.

 The bartender placed three shots in front of each of you. “Go.”

 You didn’t move, and neither did Alfie.

 “Go.”

 Again, neither of you moved.

 “Go, Y/N!”

 You lurched forward and grabbed one and knocked it back. You couldn’t taste anything. “Red—it red.”

 Laugher erupted around you.

 “Pink. It’s pink, bubblegum,” Alfie shouted.

 “Nope!”

 You dipped your tongue into the glass trying to get every drop. “It red—it—apple!”

 “Yes!”

 You laughed but Alfie grabbed his second glass as you did.

 “Ch—cheatoooooo!”

 You grabbed your glass and gulped it.

 “Pineapple,” you both shouted at the same time.

 “Yes!”

 You glared at each other and quickly took the last shot. This one almost made everything come back up. You fought the urge to puke and tried to focus on the taste.

 “Toothpaste. Eeck! Mint.”

 “Yes! Y/N wins!”

 Cheers erupted around you but instead of celebrating you dropped into your seat and your head dropped to the bar. “I win.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~

“Y/N? Hey!”

 You opened your eyes and looked around as everything slowly came into focus. Alfie’s face was the one in front of you. “Alfie.”

 “You’re drunk. Let’s get you home,” Roxanna said as she and Ferraz helped you up. In front of you, Alfie staggered out the door to the sidewalk. The sight made you giggle. Once outside you took a deep breath and sighed. “We go home, I won,” you said looping your arm through Alfie’s.

 “Yeah, yeah.”

 The next thing you knew you were crawling into the back of a taxi with Alfie behind you.

 “Are you sure you can manage her? You’re drunk too,” Judelka said.

 “I’m fine. She’s a terrible drunk and will cause trouble. I’ll take her,” he said as you cuddle close to him.

 “I’m not drunk!”

 You heard laughter but soon the sound of the wind drowned it out. The cool breeze beat against your face helping to clear some of the haze in your head. By the time you got to Alfie’s place you both were singing some nursery rhyme and doing hopscotch through his lobby not caring who wanted to look. The elevator buttons posed a problem and the two of you proceeded to push every button then laughing like children when the doors opened on each and every floor.

When it finally opened on the 50th floor, you both were on the ground. Rather than standing again you both crawled out then used the wall to shimmy up.

 “Why did you drink so much?”

 “You drink so much,” you countered. He had some nerve. “You sore loser!”

 “Shhhh!”

 “You shhhh!”

Both of you went back and forth trying to make the other shush all the way to his door. Once he opened it, you both staggered through. You’d been there so many times you knew your way around with your eyes closed. Once in the living room, you kicked your feet sending your heels in different directions. Both of you laughed at the sound of something breaking.

“You break you buy!”

 “Shhh!”

 You flung your bag and again the sound of something shattering followed. You staggered to the large window and stared out at the full moon. Somehow it looked larger than life.

 “Wooooow!”

 You pressed your hands to the cool glass and stared in wonderment. “Alfie look!”

 He came up beside you and stared at it too. Neither of you spoke for a several moments. It looked like the milky white of the moon was twinkling. When you looked at him, he was staring at you.

 “What?”

 “That fucking dress.”

 You snorted then giggled and walked to the couch before toppling over the back and landing on the cushions.

 “Mmm, bed.”

 “Not bed. Couch. Come.”

 Alfie came around but knocked into something as if he didn’t know it was there when it was his place. Grunting, he climbed over the back of the couch then sat beside you. He took a few breathes then stood. “Come.”

 You didn’t move.

 “No. I like this bed.”

 “Y/N come on.”

 He bent and the next thing you knew you were thrown over his shoulder. His arms held you right at your upper thighs. As he walked you slapped his back over and over.

 “Giddy up horsey! Go horsey! Woooo!”

 You giggled the entire time he walked. When you felt the softness of sheets underneath you, you moaned.

 “Mmm, soft.”

As you cuddled deeper into the sheets, you moaned inhaling his scent that was enmeshed in every fiber of the material you were cocooned in. Something rough scraped your arms making you groan. You brought your hands to your chest and began tugging. “Uuugh, rough. Off. Off!”

 “You are such a horrible drunk. You turn into a baby.”

 “I’m not a baby. I grown,” you said while still trying to free yourself from your confines.

 He snorted. “Whatever. Stay still.”

 You didn’t and fell back onto the bed. A heavy weight landed on top of you making you open your eyes. You smiled then brought your fingers to his face.

 “I’m not the baby. You are. You have dimples to prove it.”

 You dug your pointers into his dimples. They were impossibly deep. “Is this how you trap women?”

 He snorted then lifted off of you.

 “I don’t trap anyone.”

 You lifted yourself up then continued to fuss with your clothes. “They willingly fall for those dimples and deep eyes and—” your movements stilled as you looked over his face. “And those full lips, chiseled jaw.” You splayed your fingers across his face feeling each of the details you’d just listed. “You’re—you’re handsome.”

 Alfie snorted. “Shocked.”

 “I am.”

 You both stared at each other for a few moments then you smiled before dropping back to the bed. “It’s your face. I see it now.”

 Alfie snorted then stood. “Open your mouth, this will help you sleep.”

 You obeyed and opened your mouth. When you felt a pill drop inside you sat up and took the sip from the bottle Alfie held out. “Mmm.”

 The rattling continued then a gulp. “Go to sleep.”

 You watched him take a few steps from you and something had you lurching for his hand. When you held it, he stopped and looked at you.

 “What?”

 “Stay.”

 “No. You sleep bad. I don’t want a black eye.”

 You giggled and held his hand tighter. “It was one time. I promise no kick no punch.”

 He didn’t move.

 “Pwetty pwease. Pwetty, pwetty pwease with a chewee.”

 He snorted then shook his head.

 “Fine, but there will be a barrier and the second you cross it I’m kicking you out.”

 You smiled again, but your smile slipped the second you saw him unbuttoning his shirt. At the first sight of his skin, you couldn’t look away. Instead, you watched him undress down to his men’s tank. Keeping his pants on he walked around to the left side of the bed and got in. Before he lied down, he placed a few pillows between your bodies.

 “No punch, no kick,” Alfie said again.

 You nodded then imitated a stiff stick. Both of you lied there stiff and still for several long moments. You shifted onto your left side then right before going back on your back. When none of those gave you comfort, you flipped onto your stomach then screamed into the pillow.

 “What? Uncomfortable?”

 You nodded. “I need my body pillow.”

 “You still need that?”

 You sat up onto your calves and heels then pouted. You could feel the tears.

 “Oh god, come here lil’ baby.”

 You scurried across his king-sized bed and kicked the pillows away getting close enough to lay your head on his chest.

 “Better?”

 You nodded and moaned snuggling closer until your entire side was pressed against his. Even then you weren’t comfortable. Flinging your leg over both of his, you nestled yourself closer.

 “Y/N.”

 “Sorry.”

 A few moments passed but you groaned. “Wait.”

 Turning your back to him, you grabbed his arm and wrapped yourself in them while wiggling closer. When you were firmly pressed against him and his arms tight around you, you sighed.

 “Good?”

 You nodded.

 “Who knew you were little spoon,” he whispered.

 “You make a good big spoon.”

 The two of you settled and fell silent. His body felt good behind you. Somehow, he always had a way of making you feel safe and sound. It was a feeling you came to crave when you weren’t around him. Alfie adjusted himself and the new angle sent his nose right onto your neck and his hand down your arm to rest right at your waist.

 “You smell nice,” you said.

 “You too,” he moaned taking a deep whiff at your neck.

 “You feel good.”

 His hand flexed at your waist. “You too—so good,”

 The deepness of his voice had your eyes opening and the feel of his hand moving to your hip made you turn to him and snuggle closer. With your head nestled on his neck Alfie held you closer. While his hands roamed your body yours did as well taking in the broadness of his shoulder and back. Your skin was so hot and the feel of his flesh on yours only made you hotter. It was becoming unbearable.

 When you tipped your head back, you found his eyes hooded but on you. You brought your head back to his chest but soon you rose it again and his face was a lot closer, and your lips grazed his. The hottest and most thrilling electric shock zapped across your lips then through your body coming to a peak in your belly. Neither of you moved for a few moments, but when you did, he did as well. Rather than pulling away, both of you pressed your lips together more firmly, then finally intensifying the kiss.

 That first electric shock was nothing compared to what coursed through you now. It was like seeing fireworks for the first time but having them go off inside of you. A moan echoed around you, but you didn’t know who came from. Within seconds, you both were moaning and kissing as if there was a gun to your heads. A strong hand slid from your hip to your ass and cupped it pulling you closer and flush against an intimidatingly large ridge of hard muscle.

 “Mmm!”

 You bit down onto his lips then dug your fingers into his coiled and curly hair. The way he kissed you made you feel like he was sucking all the breath from your lungs and using it as his own. The harder he squeezed your ass the tighter you gripped his hair. Suddenly, he lifted you and turned himself, so you were straddling his him. Neither of you stopped, you continued kissing and exploring the sensations that were washing over you one by one. His hardness was now impatiently nestled between your legs fueling a desire you’d never experienced before.

 You brought your hands from his hair to his chest then you roamed them taking in every ab ripple. Grabbing the hem of his tank you lifted it up urging him up. When he sat up, you lifted it off of him. Your eyes dipped down and took in his torso. He was ripped and made for the female gaze.

 “Like?”

 You smirked, then kissed him more fiercely. Somewhere in your head a scream echoed telling you to stop and leave, but there must have been some sort of disconnect because your body was not receiving that message. It did the absolute opposite. You wrapped your arms around him digging your nails into his back. Alfie bit your bottom lip then sucked on it before he pulled back. You tipped your tongue out and licked his lip before your bucked against him. His groan filled the room and filled you with so much want you couldn’t believe you were still this much in control.

 The universe in its ultimate sense of humor chose that moment for that very desire to erupt.

 “Didn’t you say you’d rip this dress to shreds?”

 A spark lit Alfie’s eyes and a smirk followed on his lips. Without saying anything else, his large hands gripped the low back and pulled it apart. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room and with every inch that ripped you moaned feeling pleasure from the act. Your eyes were locked, and you could tell he was also fully enjoying this moment.

 “Rip it off me.”

 Alfie obliged and pulled the remainder of the dress apart and off of you.

 “Like that?”

 You bucked again and nodded making him moan.

 You now sat on him in only your panties. Alfie’s eyes dropped to your bare breasts, and you watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest listening to the heaviness of each breath.

“Fuck you’re gorgeous!”

 He licked his tongue along your sternum to your collar then to your neck where he sucked and nibbled until he dipped back down to pepper kisses across the swell of your breast. His hands rose, then cupped your breasts taking them fully in his large hands to massage them. When his thumbs circled your nipples, your moans turned to whimpers and when his mouth finally closed around them a high pitched sighed escaped you.

 “Fuck yes!”

 Alfie licked, sucked and nibbled your skin as he continued to massage your globes. Every move he made sent goosebumps all over your body. The more you moaned and mewled the more your hips bucked against him until Alfie grunted then flipped you onto your back.

 “Fuck you’re gonna make me cum.”

 He kissed a trail down your body stopped at the waistband of your underwear. In seconds, he peeled them off and spread your legs. However, he didn’t move after that. Instead, he sat there staring at your sex as if it was the first one of its kind he’d seen.

 “Do you taste as good as you smell?”

 You reached down between your legs and rubbed yourself shocked with how wet you were. Bringing your fingers to your lips, you licked them clean and moaned.

 “Mmm, even better.”

 It didn’t take him long to dive in. The first feel of his touch you nearly levitated off the bed, however his hands were there gripping your thighs keeping you right where you were so the only thing you could do was take everything he gave. From a few tentative licks, he’d now turned into a starving man at his last supper. When he slurped your clit into his mouth and sucked you lost control of your body. It was now him commanding, him dictating what it would do, him pulling every string, him making you see stars, and fireworks.

 “Oh fuck! Yes, yes, yes!”

 Alfie moaned but never relented. It didn’t matter what you did, push him back, bucking your hips, pressing your thighs together to trap his face. He didn’t stop and was clearly on a mission. The quick flicks to your clit that followed, sent you over the edge.

 “I’m—I’m—I’m cumming!”

 You screeched as your body shook unable to escape the onslaughts of pleasure that attacked you. biting your bottom lip, you watched Alfie emerge from between your legs. You needed him now! You grabbed him by the loop of his pants then fumbled in your attempt to undo them. The two of you worked together and, in a few seconds, he’d managed to peel them off with his boxer-briefs.

 “Fuck you’re big.”

 “Afraid?”

 “Do you know me?”

 Alfie snorted then dropped to his knees between your legs and pulled you down to him with such little effort it made your belly flutter. Fuck, he’s sexy you thought.

 “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” Alfie teased as he stroked himself once, then twice then lined his cock up with your entrance. While he looked playful, he also looked nervous.

 “Wait.”

 You used your foot to gently push him back, then turned your body so your face was right in front of his bobbing and perfectly crafted dick.

 “Mmm.”

 “Wait.”

 “You afraid?”

 You didn’t wait for him to continue; you slid your mouth onto his need taking him fully and deeply.

 “Oh fuck!”

 With him nestled at the back of your throat you swallowed. Alfie groaned long and loud as his head dropped back. A few seconds later, he was looking down at you watching everything you did. Not finding a need to be cute, you withdrew then repeated the same action again and again. On the fourth descent you slurped, in inhaling him like a vacuum and letting the excess saliva in your mouth slicken his member.

 “Oh god, Y/N!”

 You felt his hand at the back of your head holding you in place as he pushed himself further into your mouth. You moaned and took every single inch he offered.

 “Fucking hell!”

 When his hips began moving you kept his pace. Soon globs of spit dripped from your chin as your name and curse after curse fell from Alfie’s lips, even then you kept up, determined to make him cave first. When he pulled back, he brought your face to his and kissed you so fervently and thoroughly it left you speechless. Alfie slowly lowered you to the bed never taking his eyes off of yours then hovered over your body before he swiped himself across your wet and aching entrance making you want him even more.

 Words failed you but when you felt the first bit of him slide into you, your body clenched around him. Alfie gritted his teeth but continued sliding through you making you feel every single inch as his eyes greedily drank in every reaction. When he snapped his hips forward and filled you the rest of the way, you exclaimed out.

 “Shit fuck you’re so tight.”

 “Spread me out!”

 The way he looked at you made your belly flutter. It was a look you’d never seen before, a look that made you wonder what was in store for you. Alfie slowly withdrew then slowly slid in again. This time he circled his hips, and you clenched tighter around him. He pulled out then snapped his hips forward filling you completely again.

 “Yes!”

 “Mmm!”

 Every time he did it your back arched off the bed and your legs tightened around his waist. Soon he’d set a slow pace, a pace that maddening because it made you want more of him in ways you were afraid to speak because you didn’t want your desperation to shine through.

 “You feel so good, Y/N!”

 Alfie rested back on his haunches and watched himself slide in and out. Wanting to see what he saw; you inched onto your elbows and watched the show.

 “Mmm, you see that? You take this dick so fucking well. Tão bom. Você está me deixando louco. (So good. You’re driving me fucking crazy)

 Over the years you’d heard him speak Portuguese countless times. He’d even taught you quite a bit but hearing it now was so much different. It made your belly flutter; sex clench and heart skip a beat. It had a whole new effect.

 “Sim ali. Foda-me, papai. (Yes, there. Fuck me daddy/papi.)

 Alfie bit his bottom lip then sped up. The force of his thrusts sent your body jerking back and forth and breast swinging. He grasped one and held your hip steady as he lost himself in his pleasure.

 “Você é linda pra caralho Y/N. Tão bonito, Tão bonito. (You’re so fucking beautiful Y/N. So beaitiful, so beautiful.)

 The sounds of your moans and pants blended together as you both raced closer and closer to the point of no return. There was no way to stop now and to be honest you didn’t fucking want to. This felt too good. He felt too good. Everything was so heightened that it didn’t seem real. It felt like a dream, a crazy beautiful wet dream that you wanted to get lost in.

 “Alfie, yes, yes, yes!”

 “Y/N!

 You screamed at the same time he shouted and as you came you felt him fill you with every bit of the essence that could reproduce those dimples and eyes in a mini replica of him.

  “Fuck,” you both exclaimed in unison.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***Part II coming tonight when I get home. ***

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[sparxwrites]

The Boatem Pool

(an important line from the conversation with @rhydart​ that sparked this fic:  "I love the idea they just. make out at parties. this is like, a known Problem when they both get drunk. someone sees Grian doing tequila shots, and they’re like. whelp. Scar’s getting sloppy kisses in t-minus 30 minutes". this fic is the entire aftermath of that, and then some...)

cw for drinking, references to sex, and friendly brawling

[ao3]

“Hands were travelling!” hisses Pearl, in a loud, infuriated whisper, her fingers white-knuckled around the lapels of Mumbo’s suit. She’s close enough he can smell the alcohol on her breath, an odd combination of something wine-sweet and something else artificially fruity. There’s an open bottle of prosecco abandoned on the table behind her. “Grian was tasting Scars tonsils!”

“I– look, Pearl, I’m sorry, but the rules are clear! That doesn’t count!”

“I said it would happen at a party, after Grian did a round of tequila shots, if Scar took his shirt off. And now, here we are, party, tequila shots, shirtless Scar – and, also relatedly, was anyone going to tell me that he’s ripped? And I mean really ripped, it’s kind of frightening – and they’re currently eating each other’s faces off. What do you mean that doesn’t count?”

Impulse pats her shoulder sympathetically, plucks Mumbo’s empty glass from a nearby table, and wanders off to refill it as he grabs himself another beer. Drinking, he feels, is really the only way to deal with every aspect of this particular situation. It’s his duty as Mumbo’s friend to help him do so.

Several metres away, Scar – duly shirtless – has Grian pinned against the wall, and a hand up the other man’s sweater. Tonsil-tasting is most definitely continuing to happen.

“Bad luck, kiddo.” Tango, passing, pats Pearl on the shoulder on his way to the bar. The pint glass in his hand is empty. There’s a smear of something glittery-red under one nostril, poorly wiped away. He’s grinning, like a bastard cat who got the cream. “Better luck next time! Or not. They’ve been at this for years.”

Pearl detaches herself from Mumbo’s suit to give Tango the finger, which he cheerfully returns in kind. Mumbo throws him a look of deep, deep gratitude, and steps back to put a solid two metres between himself and Pearl in case she should try to grab him again.

“Look,” says Impulse, returned from the bar with booze and sounding distinctly longsuffering. “The rules of the betting pool are clear. For it to count as a win, they have to– you know. Do the deed.”

“Fuck,” says Bdubs, an alarming sort of grin on his face. He had been trailing after Tango like a lost little duckling, and had paused to watch Scar and Grian’s little wall display. Less voyeuristic, and more with the air of a trainwreck connoisseur watching one happen in slow motion. “They gotta fuck. Gotta go at it like rabbits! Probably real nasty rabbits, too.”

Impulse winces. “Yeah, sure. That.”

Pearl sighs, sticking her lower lip out in a way that’s less a pout and more sulkily thoughtful. “I mean, it was–” She glances over her shoulder, to ascertain whether Grian and Scar are still at it. “It still is basically public indecency. If this was a server with, y’know, less weirdness, they’d be getting kicked out of the party for obscene behaviour. Getting kicked out of the server, even.” She scuffs her foot against the floor, and scowls. “Surely that’s close enough to count…?”

“Ahem.” Mumbo clears his throat, and stands a little straighter, like he’s about to recite something. “Rules of the Boatem Pool: Guess how Scar and Grian are going to finally hook up! One wager per hermit. One diamond block entry fee. Guesses must be specific, and not too similar to anyone else’s. Winner takes it all. For both guesses and winning, if they’re not– ah, um, you know– then it doesn’t count. No trying to engineer things so your specific guess wins – don’t spoil everyone else’s fun watching these idiots for yet another season.”

“‘You know’?” says Pearl, incredulously.

“Look. Cleo wrote the rules, and I don’t like saying that word, so– you know! You know?”

“Mumbo,” says Impulse, with something approaching awe in his voice. “I honestly don’t know whether to be impressed that you know all of that off by heart, or worried for your health.”

“I’d prefer impressed.” Mumbo reaches out, tentatively, to pat Pearl on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pearl. It’s pretty close, but the rules are clear. ‘Tonsil tasting’,” He says it like it’s the name of a particularly nasty fungal infection, “doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t count until the hand goes down the pants!” adds Bdubs, gleefully.

“Or the mouth. The mouth can go down the pants. I’d be happy to count that as a win. I’m not fussy,” adds Tango. He’s back from the bar – which is really little more than a long table laden down with whatever each hermit thought to bring to the party, its surface groaning under the weight of everything from Doc’s offering of top-shelf absinthe to Beef’s hand-labelled bottle of Chorus Fruit Toilet Wine 40% ABV – with a glass of something ominously clear in hand. He’s still got redstone under his nose.

“Yeah, we know,” says Bdubs, with a wicked grin.

Tango bristles, as if on queue. “Oh yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

“Well, it means–”

“It means, baby boy, that we all know how much you like a mouth down your pants, hmm?” Keralis appears at Tango’s shoulder, a half-empty bottle of Baileys in his hand and a satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Baby–!” wheezes Bdubs, half-doubled over, hands on his knees and tears in his eyes from how hard he’s laughing. “He called you baby boy! Hah! Oh, Tango, what’ve you been up to, huh?”

Tango goes for Bdubs’ throat, without hesitation. Bdubs gleefully answers in kind.

Keralis makes precisely no effort to stop them, and in fact perches himself on the edge of a nearby table with the half-lidded eyes of a man who intends to enjoy the show. Mumbo, sensing disaster, backs away as fast as he can in a busy room and disappears into the crowd. Impulse watches, helplessly, and tries to decide whether he should be laughing or groaning.

On the basis she may as well get something out of the evening, Pearl decides to join in the brawl on the side of problem-making, and begins a chant of, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Keralis, cheerfully, picks it up.

After a moment where everyone else in the room very rapidly comes up to speed with what’s happening, several other voices join in too. Cleo’s is notably audible among them.

“Hey!” calls someone else, above the noise, and the crowd that had made a circle in their midst for Bdubs and Tango’s – frankly, drunken and therefore rather lacklustre – bare-knuckled brawling parts once more to give Etho a clear view of the action. His hand is on the hilt of the sword at his hip. “Tango. Back off.”

Tango does not back off.

Etho’s sword is, abruptly, no longer at his hip. There is also, abruptly, a great deal more space around him, and around the still-brawling Tango and Bdubs. From somewhere in the back of the crowd, Xisuma’s voice pipes up. “Hey, Etho, I would really prefer it if you didn’t–”

He is ignored.

Blissfully ignorant of the rapidly devolving situation behind them, Scar still has Grian pinned up against a wall. Between them, a hand does indeed go down a pair of pants. In the chaos of Etho attempting to remove Tango’s head from his shoulders, however, it passes unnoticed by everyone else.

And thus the Boatem Pool continues, un-won, for yet another Hermitcraft server party.

[onlinewineshop]

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[nycnomad]

We got upgraded to first class for our flight to Vegas last night! Finally, my nonsensical loyalty to Delta pays off!

I was upgraded to first class once before, back in 2011, when a bunch of friends and I went to Puerto Rico. The gate attendant asked if I'd be willing to abandon my friends to sit in first, and I said, "Hell yes." But I spent the whole flight sleeping and didn't really get to enjoy it.

So Monday night when I went to check in, my mobile boarding pass that's usually blue suddenly switched to red, and it showed J and me side by side in FIRST. I got up, pretended to cry a little, danced around the room, and thanked work for sending me on so many trips this year that I actually have some status.

We spent an hour in the Delta lounge eating free snacks and using the nice restroom before our flight and then made our way down to our gate a few minutes before boarding. When the gate attendant called for first class and anyone who needed extra time boarding, ALL of these people got in line ahead of us. But it was fine, neither of us carry an overhead bag, anyway. But it turns out they were a bunch of fakers! And the gate attendant made them get out of line and let us come through. 💁‍♀️

We got a drink while everyone was boarding, and oh man, I never realized how DECREPIT economy class people are. Women were kicking their roller bags down the aisle as they passed us, men were struggling with their overfilled duffel bags, their hair was matted and their leggings stretched out. Everyone was burdened by the weight of their crushing debt and normalcy while I sipped a free Coke Zero.

I had chicken meatballs for dinner with this wonderful little salad that had an abundance of dressing, just the way I like it, a ginger ale AND a glass of prosecco. They laid out a little tablecloth on my tray table. And then they brought around more dessert. And then more snacks. And the flight attendant stopped by, like, every ten minutes to see if we needed more drinks. The service was truly excellent.

BUT yesterday I learned that the first class restroom is exactly as crappy as the economy one! It did have hand lotion and a little bar attached to the door that was nice to hold onto as I attempted to levitate above the seat, but the floor was just as covered in suspicious liquids as it always is. But you can BET that I was still UP IN ARMS any time someone from economy came up to use our restroom. I know it's technically allowed, but those peasants should have some SHAME.

The other thing I didn't expect was that first class people would suck just like economy people do. The guy behind me punched the back of my seat while choosing his movie on the seatback screen, sneezed 14 times in a row while not wearing a mask, and loudly made dinner plans with his seat partner. If I had actually paid $1000 to upgrade my seat, I would have been EVEN MORE UP IN ARMS.

The thing I always wonder is: who are these people in first class? The guy next to me spent the entire time before takeoff making a business deal over the phone where I heard him say "10 billion dollars" at one point, so that one makes sense. But the guy horizontal from me watched some training videos about high school football the whole flight. The girl in front of me disappeared into economy at some point and never came back. There was a couple behind us that looked like NJ bridge and tunnel types who got lost on their way to the club. I know I'm overly value-conscious, but where do these people get their money?!

Anyway, the moral of the story is that one free upgrade to first class has made me into a morally reprehensible person (totally being tongue in cheek about all of this, in case that wasn't obvious), but it was an incredible experience that I hope to replicate on every flight for the rest of life, NBD.

[mymedicine]

Stardust

~7k of sweet fluff & painful angst w jazz singer harry

moodboard

sum - y/n reflects on her own insecurities, the nuances of her shitty job, and her past relationship with the most popular vocalist at the club while watching him perform.

warnings - alcohol, angst, swearing, self-deprecation, misogyny/workplace sexual harassment (it’s pretty light, relatively speaking, but I don’t want to undermine how wrong any and all harassment is, not matter how seemingly minor), excessive use of italics and the word “belong”

notes - this is inspired in part by the several years i spent singing in a jazz group, wherein i had to learn about 382404 jazz standards. Stardust is one of my all time favorites! anyways this is maybe a little different than a typical one shot, but i hope you like it anyways as i worked very hard on her :’)

/

“Didn’t you have a thing with him a while back?”

“What?” Taken aback, Y/N snapped her eyes open wide. Just the words brought a shiver down her spine and a nagging twist in her heart. “No…we uh…we almost…” She stammered hastily, herself not even knowing where the sentence was going. How could she even begin to explain their relationship?

“Almost..?”

“Yeah,” Y/N sighed, trying in vain to hide the longing in her voice. “Almost.”

The club was busy tonight, as it always was when its star vocalist was performing. The Fine Line had hosted hundreds of local artists in the seven years since its opening, but only one had managed to bring his show anywhere outside its four brick walls. Harry Styles had gone above and beyond, in fact. And now that he’d been picked up by a renowned pianist and the pair had and toured around the country together, his presence in the tiny club was rare delight. Never one to forget his roots, Harry was fulfilling his vow to return to the club that kickstarted his rise to stardom every year.

“Well, lots of people would be very happy to have ‘almost’…” she gave Y/N a pointed look, “…that beautiful man.”

Y/N knew Sarah meant well, but the words tightened the soreness she was feeling in her chest. Of course he was beautiful. It was blatantly obvious to everyone who laid eyes on his delicate chocolate curls, charming green eyes, and bright crinkly smile. But Y/N didn’t just see him; she knew him. And she knew he was just as beautiful on the inside.

“It was complicated.”

An understatement. Not a lie. No more lies.

Y/N moved her arm away from the bar as Sarah swiped a wet rag on the counter where she’d been leaning. It hardly mattered, Y/N reckoned. The bar would be stained with watered-down scotch and lukewarm Prosecco spilled by the hands of rich and poor alike mere minutes after the club opened for the night, and Sarah’d have to clean it all over again. Still, Y/N kind of envied the bartender. Sarah had a safe place behind the bar to stay busy in all night, away from too many hungry, unwanted gazes. Not only that, but it would be so much easier to avoid the stage (or rather, the man performing on it) if she didn’t have to deal with the rowdy patrons seated in the front row.

“Complicated?” Sarah repeated with a mischievous tone and that same pointed stare.

“Are you single?” she’d asked when a jolt of confidence suddenly hit her. Alcohol-induced confidence, of course. Her shift had been over for a half hour and John had yet to declare last call.

“Yes, well…it’s sort of complicated.” he’d replied, whiskey coursing through his own veins.

“Complicated how?”

“I just…” He trailed off and looked away from her as if searching for the right words, eyes gazing thoughtfully at the few patrons who were still lingering after his set “…consider myself married to my job…”

“In that case, I consider myself twice divorced and scorned.”

He chuckled, returning his eyes to meet hers from where he was perched on the barstool beside her. “That bad being a waitress? At least you got a show from an outstanding vocalist.”

“What vocalist is tha? I’m only here for the pianist,” she teased, nodding her head in the direction of where Mitch was chatting with a group of immaculately dressed, heavily made up women. Too made up, Y/N thought. The Fine Line was a humble hole in the wall jazz club where anyone could get cheap drinks and decent entertainment, not the goddamn opera house. She refused to consider that the reason for her hostility toward their appearances could be anything other than that. She wasn’t jealous—they were pretentious, overly obsessed rich girls who fawned over anyone with talent or wealth. Harry and Mitch, of course, had both.

Her irritation melted away as Harry laughed again, the sound somehow even sweeter to her than the dulcet singing for which he’d become famous.

“Yes, Sar.” Y/N crossed her arms, subconsciously moving her body away from the stools in front of the bar and the memories they held. How could she explain their relationship?—Well, it seems she couldn’t.

Sensing her friend’s unease, Sarah let the issue go. “Well, at least you’ll be getting nice tips tonight,” she said diplomatically. “You look extra pretty and ’s gonna be packed.”

Yes, one reason Y/N had meticulously ironed her black tea-length skirt and cream blouse (even though they’d both be covered by her apron), applied a smooth, thin line of eyeliner, and stuffed an emergency tube of glossy lipstick in her brassiere was in anticipation of the club being crowded with plenty of older men whose generosity depended upon her appearance as much as the quality of her service. An omission. Not a lie.

“Thanks.” Y/N smiled stiffly, “Hope it’s worth it.”

Complicated indeed.

Despite her mild annoyance and the growing ache in her heart, Y/N felt a surge of gratitude for Sarah. Before she took over for John a few months ago, Y/N had struggled to befriend any of the other staff at the club. The other waitresses were nice enough, but Y/N just didn’t have the energy to initiate any sort of friendship. The weight of her lost lover, her financial struggles, her personal unhappiness…it was too much to unload on a meaningless workplace friendship.

With Sarah, it was easy. Her alliance didn’t require any work or thought or feeling. She was easy to talk to and even easier to absently listen to as she talked Y/N’s ear off. Whether intended to take Y/N’s mind off her inevitable confrontation with her past or not, Sarah’s rambling was a welcome distraction. She prattled about the poor quality of the alcohol, her disbelief at the outrageous prices they charged, how “fucking freezing” it was outside, how she was excited to gush over the women’s outfits for the night, how insufferable their manager was, and how she hoped Harry’s pianist was as amiable as he was talented and handsome (and that she’d even be able to speak to him in order to find out).

Y/N eyed the clock above the bar as Sarah continued chattering and swiping a rag over each pint glass. The hands seemed to move faster than usual—far too fast for comfort. They were less than fifteen minutes shy of opening, which meant there was more than likely a line forming outside and that the man of the hour had already arrived.

He’d have come through the back door and sat himself in the makeshift dressing room back there, probably having some tea with honey and trying to stop himself from babbling to Mitch, knowing it killed his voice. Y/N wondered absently what he was wearing. She pictured him in a flashy suit with his hair tousled and messy, maybe some of his favorite clunky rings adorning his fingers. Her heart squeezed impossibly and though she knew he wouldn’t be in the dining room just yet, she shivered at the thought of his eyes on her, his hands on her, his voice in her ears.

She tried to busy herself with watching Sarah clean, but she couldn’t help her eyes from glancing at the clock. She fidgeted in her barstool, drumming her fingers on the counter as the minute hand completed yet another rotation.

At six fifty-three Y/N couldn’t take it anymore so she bid Sarah farewell and made deliberately slow work of walking to the ladies room. But of course, she couldn’t help but notice that there was a clock in there too. She fished out her lipstick, desperate for something to do. Still, her eyes flicked up to where it hung above the mirror and her unsteady fingers stained her chin with the pink gloss. She begged the clock to slow down—no where near ready for work. Would she ever be ready to return to the club knowing she’d be sharing the space with her past lover?

Six fifty-seven… She wiped her chin with the pad of her thumb…Fifty-eight…She smoothed the non-existent wrinkles on her apron…fifty-nine…

Time.

Seven o’clock. The Fine Line’s doors opened and hostesses ushered the eager guests inside. A warm din quickly filled the room as patrons flooded in, greeting the staff and chatting to each other. Y/N merely watched from the side of the bar as the happy, well-dressed people sat at bar tables, corner booths, and even couches near the stage where it was cozy and intimate. Behind the bar, Sarah was already serving the more eager customers and chatting with them effortlessly about their outfits and the weather. Y/N felt a surge of disappointment—no, anger at herself for being so useless. He wasn’t even in the room and yet, he affected her every move.

Finally at seven oh seven, Y/N plucked up the courage to pell herself away from safety and actually do her job. Encouraged by the icy glare her manager, Robert, was sending her, she plastered a fake smile on her cheeks and sauntered over to the back corner of the room to greet her tables before taking their drink orders. Prosecco, house cabernet, whiskey neat, water with lemon—all so predictable and bland.

At seven twelve, Harry took the stage.

She caught sight of him just as she was setting down the glass of iced water with lemon. The older woman who’d ordered the drink thanked her kindly, but her attention was elsewhere. Harry was anything but bland—this she of course already knew, but the sight of his handsome figure after so long nearly made her drop the glass.

Needing no introduction, he and his pianist sauntered into the spotlight seemingly from out of nowhere. Y/N watched helplessly from the back of the room as cheers erupted from the crowd almost immediately. She could only see glimpses of him through the shadowy backs of her patrons’ heads, and still, he was an absolute wonder to behold. He was shimmering head to toe in a glittery black and gold blazer with tight pants and shiny black shoes. Y/N couldn’t tell from where she was frozen whether he was wearing rings or any other jewelry, but she wouldn’t doubt it—even his hair seemed to be dancing with sparkle.

Y/N managed to escape her daze as Harry effortlessly took his place in front of the piano—center stage, right where he belonged. He stood behind the microphone, his bright smile partially concealed by the mouth of it. Even before he said a word, his confident stature and striking outfit accompanied by Mitch’s smooth fluttering of the ivory keys captivated the room. The cheers from the crowd roared louder, the sounds of clinking glasses and high-pitched whistles making his smile grow impossibly bigger.

Meanwhile, Y/N retreated back to the corner of the bar to…hide? To sulk? She wasn’t sure, but she leaned on the counter anyways and surveyed the room. Was this where she belonged?

“Good evening, my friends,” He murmured into the microphone, immediately silencing the room with his low voice and thick, alluring accent. Wide eyes and glowing smiles greeted him from every corner. He glanced around the room, taking in the dark faces and familiar cozy atmosphere of the club he’d grown up singing in—looking for something (or rather, someone).

“I’m Harry Styles…” He paused, smiling wide and shutting his eyes to let the soft piano chords wash over himself and the dining room. Mitch looked up from the keys at his friend and returned the relaxed grin. “And this is the incredibly talented Mitch Rowland…” Harry continued, “We’re gonna play some jazz tunes for you tonight. Please sit back, relax, have a drink or two. We’re all here for a good time.”

He gave Mitch a slow, confident nod, and so began their set.

Even with a narrow, partially obstructed view of him, it was exceedingly obvious to Y/N that Harry had outgrown The Fine Line. His voice cascaded off the stage, flooding the room and engulfing everyone in it. He improvised effortlessly, as if music was his native language rather than English. It was evident that he understood the difference between art and artistry. Art existed for sake of the audience, but the latter existed within the creator himself. He was a vessel through which artistry flowed and pictures were sketched without any paint, stories told without any words. It was a gift granted upon people like Harry, whose purpose on Earth was to share it.

He was smooth jazz personified, the epitome of serenity with a touch of spunk evident in his glittery outfit and playful tone. He managed to strike the perfect balance between traditional jazz and contemporary funk, booming forte and soft pianissimo, bubbly disposition and mellow temperament, relaxed and chaotic, carefree and attentive—it was precisely why the world loved him so much.

Y/N watched fondly as he reached up to hold the mouth of the microphone, and there it was—a glint of metal catching the light. His H ring was big and clunky around his finger, but still strikingly beautiful against the dim spotlight and his painted nails.

“My hands are cold.”

“Yeah? Should I warm ‘em up f’you?”

Suddenly his hand had engulfed hers. Just like that, they were holding hands. Y/N felt her heart threatening to leap out of her chest. His calloused, ring-clad fingers around hers sent waves of warmth through her palm, her forearm, her chest, the feeling so physically overwhelming that she stopped walking.

He followed her lead, turning to face her and take her other hand in his free one.

She couldn’t see much of his face in the darkness, but the stars cast a delicate glow on his prominent features. She could make out the outline of his crooked nose, his sharp cheekbones, his bunny teeth toying with his bottom lip.

“Hah,” he mused. “Knew you just wanted ta hold my hand.”

An icy wind ripped through her. She squeezed his hands a little tighter, ignoring the slight pain his rings gave her. She instantly felt warmer.

Being with Harry had been a fantasy—a lie, even. He was simply too good to be true. Just three weeks of diner dates and flower bouquets and jazzy serenades and whispered pillowtalk, and she was in love. Three weeks was all it took for Y/N to fall absolutely head over heels for him. Over a year had passed and she still wasn’t over a love that was built in three weeks.

As heavenly music pervaded the room and alcohol continued to flow, the patrons grew rowdier. Y/N was already on edge with the constant ringing of her ex lover’s voice in her ears and all the repressed love resurfacing, and each wandering hand and lingering touch pushed her a little closer to her breaking point. She was swamped with two tables both choosing to order hors d’oeuvres for the evening, which irritated her to no end (Who orders food at a jazz club? Especially this jazz club, where even the simplest drinks were barely palatable. The Fine Line would surely find away to fuck up charcuterie, and then she’d have to go and deal with their complaints about it).

“Excuse me, love. Aren’t you the waitress?” The man’s meaty hand stopped her in her journey to the back to fetch the food, snaking its way to the small of her back. Y/N shivered at the feeling of his sweaty palm through the cotton material of her apron.

Instinct told her to steal a glance at the stage. Did he notice her discomfort? Did he care? Do I care if he cares? She was no stranger to these kinds of interactions with inebriated men and he was still performing like he didn’t have a care in the world. She didn’t need him to save her from this drunkard or any of the club-goers hounding her.

Y/N put on a fake smile and looked up at his face, “Yes, sir.”

“Can you make me anotha drink?” He slurred.

“I can put it in with the bartender, just give me one moment—“

“That bitch over there?…” He make a sweeping gesture toward the general area where Sarah, too, was swamped. “Where’s the actual bartender?”

“Uhm, sir…Sarah makes all the drinks—“

“Bullshit, she’s just a girl—”

“Sir—“

An exaggerated eye roll, “—good for nothing little bitches, both of you—“

“If we’re all so worthless to you, why don’t you get the goddamn drink yourself!”

The man looked appalled, mouth wide open in a shocked silence. Y/N felt a tinge of satisfaction knowing she’d wounded him. But the tiny flame was quickly extinguished.

“Y/N!” It was Robert’s angry voice smashing through her joy like broken glass. He thundered over to her, coming out of nowhere just in the nick of time.

“Yes, sir?” She sighed, eyes trained on her feet. They were aching in her tight heels—just another affliction she’d grown accustomed too.

“That’s not how you talk to paying customers here! It’s barely eight o clock and you’re already on strike two for tonight. You’re lucky I’m feeling nice enough to giving you one more chance.”

Robert’s raised voice caught the attention of a few guests in the near vicinity. Y/N felt a wave of shame wash over her, like she was a child being reprimanded by her parents. For a moment, she absently wished that she was nine or ten years old again, with no responsibilities, no heartache, no problems. But she wasn’t a child; she was a grown woman and she needed this job to survive.

Y/N bit her tongue and uttered, “My apologies, sir,” through clenched teeth.

The scene seemed to have caught the singer’s attention from across the room. He finally caught a glimpse of her from the stage and Y/N could practically see his heart somersaulting in his chest. He paused for a beat, halting his languid swaying to focus on the glimpse he caught of her profile in the crowd. He could only see her face very faintly in the dark, crowded club, but it was more than enough. Y/N felt as if his gaze was stretching time…stretching until she felt the sting of a hand slapping her wrist at her side.

She snapped her eyes away from the stage and turned toward the source of the strike. Unlike Y/N, who couldn’t even seem do her job when he was in the same room as her, Harry recovered quickly once her gaze left his, blinking his own eyes as to escape the reverie.

Robert sent Y/N another dirty glare, seething, “Get back to work before I send you out for good.”

Y/N nodded meekly, taking a deep breath and forcing herself to carry on. She rubbed her sore wrist and bruised pride. It definitely wasn’t the first time Robert had given her a harsh censure, but that didn’t make it sting any less.

Meanwhile, Harry returned his attention to his performance. “This last song is called ‘Stardust,’” he mused into the microphone, effortlessly holding the attention of every patron in the club. “’S one of my favorites. ’S about love…and lost.” He paused, sending the crowd a charming smile. “Big thanks to Mitchy…” he gestured grandiosely toward the pianist, who played an impressive jazzy riff in response, “…and of course, each of you. You made me the man I am today, and I’m forever grateful.”

Y/N swore he looked right at her as a melodiously chanted those words. He knew where to find her now and his gaze was purposeful, intense, and unwavering. Not for the first time tonight, her heart felt like it’d stopped beating in her chest.

Harry hesitated to continue, happy green eyes lingering on hers while Y/N wondered absently if it was only his lover—only herself, that could see the longing hidden in them. She smeared on her best blank expression, no longer having the energy for even a fake smile, and focused on keeping her tray steady. She plucked four more full glasses from the bar and balanced them precariously on her tray before meandering around the dining room to the rhythm of Harry’s song. A year ago, the sound of his voice would have made her own heart sing. Today, each note twisted the knife in her heart a little more, torturing her with what she couldn’t have.

“Mitchy’s been teaching me a couple things…”

He had a beautiful baby grand in the middle of his living room. It was clear from the way the piano took up nearly the entire room that he invested in things he loved—not spaces.

“Oh yeah?” She wrapped her arms lazily across his chest, embracing him from behind while he sat at the bench.

Harry’s fingers glided across the keys and played a few random chords and licks before finally producing a soft, familiar melody. Y/N absently recognized the tune and smiled fondly, hoping he could feel her grin in his hair.

“Heaven…I’m in heaven…” he sang gently, easily falling into the swinging rhythm. Y/N felt the vibrations of his voice in her own chest, heart beating wildly.

His fingers continued floating over the piano, fumbling here and there, but nonetheless impressing her with his skill. “And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…”

“…And I seem to find the happiness I seek…” Y/N clumsily joined him in the lyrics she vaguely knew. Her voice wasn’t nearly as effortlessly harmonious as Harry’s, but was equally as joyful.

“When we're out together dancing, cheek to cheek…” They finished in unison, a final resolving chord echoing between them. Only fitting, Y/N squeezed her arms around his chest impossibly tighter and pressed her cheek to his. Warmth surged through her from where their skin met, joy following close behind.

As he sang his final piece of the night, his voice glimmered throughout the room like, well, like stardust, Y/N thought. He was a star in every sense of the word, eyes gleaming, teeth shining white, and heavenly voice brightening up the darkness of the club. His blazer glittered in the light and cast bright refractions on all the walls as he swayed to the rhythm, while the heavenly sounds of his artful scatting convinced Y/N that she was indeed in the presence of an angel.

She felt his eyes on her all the way from the stage, even in the throng of drunk patrons and busy waitresses. It was impossible not to. The weight of his gaze and the rasp of his voice surrounded her.

“Though I dream in vain...In my heart it always will remain…the stardust melody, the memory of love’s refrain.”

The memory of love’s refrain? The last chorus was overwhelming. A strident ringing overshadowed Harry’s voice in her ears. Her vision blurred, the lights and the people and the glasses blending together and fading. The stardust melody...the memory of love’s refrain...in my heart...

Suddenly, as if all her limbs had disconnected from her brain, Y/N’s hands slipped from under the tray. Prosecco spilled all over her apron in the next instant, staining the once white fabric champagne. His song, his voice, his gaze…he’d rendered her useless.

She heard Robert’s booming footsteps before she saw him. “Y/N! How many times do I have to tell you off tonight?!” His voice sounded distant in her ears. Loud and angry, but far-away...as if he were calling to her from another world.

This time, the clamor didn’t go unheard by the guests, nor by Harry. He frowned visibly and stuttered. He began to rush his goodbye speech, quickly thanking the crowd.

“That’s strike fucking three,” Robert continued shouting and flailing his hands dramatically. “Get out. I don’t want to see your face here until next week!” His harsh words drowned out Harry’s final, hasty farewell reminder to ‘treat people with kindness.’

Y/N said nothing and remained frozen in response. She stood exhausted in a puddle of alcohol and broken glass, physically unable to carry on the facade any longer. She turned on her heel, desperate to be out from under both Robert’s furious gaze and Harry’s musical spell. As she stumbled toward the exit, she felt like her legs would give out at any moment and finally crumble against the insurmountable pressure. Harry’s were just one of hundreds of pairs of eyes that lingered on her as she struggled. She paused near the door and grabbed onto the coatrack for support, blinking away tears and choking back sobs.

Harry raced over to her, swiftly maneuvering his body through the crowd confused club-goers. When he reached her, he instinctively caught her wrist in his grasp. His rings were cold and sharp against her sore skin—the contrast between the cold metal and his hot palm familiar and comforting and painful all at once.

“Are you okay?”

She replied immediately, “Yes.” Not a lie. She still had a job for now, she had a decent coat wrapped around her, she had a bed to sleep on tonight, and she was breathing. She was okay.

He was panting, voice sounding raspy and strained from overuse. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead and he flicked it away with the back of his hand. “Are you…are you sure?”

“I want you to have this.”

“It’ll never fit me, H. Your hands are even bigger than y’head.”

He reeled back, feigning offense with a furrowed brow, but he could only move a few inches away from her on his tiny bed they were sharing.

“Fine then, meanie. I won’ give yeh the pretty little chain I got for it,” he said tauntingly.

Y/N’s heart soared as she took in his impish smirk and dopey eyes dancing with a glint of happiness. She ignored his teasing tone, choosing instead to melt over his words. Of course he’d gotten her a chain, she thought—he always thought of everything.

He stretched his arm over her, shoving his bare chest in her face. Playfully, she poked her tongue out to lick his nipple, to which he exclaimed a melodramatic “Oi! Quit tha!” And laughter fell from both their lips as he reached for the drawer in his nightstand.

He pulled back but kept her tucked close to him, leaving just enough space to dangle the chain he produced from the drawer in between them. Y/N studied his pale, nimble fingers as they worked, opening the clasp and slipping his S ring onto it. As he finished, her eyes met his once again. His hair was in his face and the early morning sunlight cast a soft shadow of a single curl over his eyelid. Still, she could make out every detail of his eyes, every vision into his thoughts and shimmering fleck of emotion.

“Are you sure you want me to wear this?” She hummed pensively, not having to look away from his eyes to know that her fingers were tracing the swallows on his collar.

“Yes, but only if you apologize for bein’ mean ta me.”

She giggled again, the sound pure and lovely—like music to his ears. “I’m very sorry,” she humored him, “I love your big head.”

“Shut up, you absolute pest.” He gently pinched the skin at her hip with one hand, and with the other, slipped the chain over her head. She beamed at him, hearts in her eyes and love in her heart.

“Now I’m with you. Always.” And with that, he hauled her into the circle of his arms—right where she belonged, the sounds of her gentle laughter muffled in his chest as the sun rose to illuminate the morning.

Of course she wasn’t okay! She hated her life and she loved Harry. How could she not? He was brilliantly talented, funny, thoughtful, and charming—but in her eyes, oblivious to her internal struggle. She didn’t belong with him. She could never belong with him! A tired, talentless, immature woman destined only to wait tables and lie for the rest of her existence. Maybe she’d marry one of the Fine Line’s patrons whose hungry eyes lingered long enough, whose hands grabbed her waist tight enough. She’d bear his children and go on hating her life and craving something more. That was her truth. No more lies.

His expensive shoes thumped on the stone behind her as he ran to follow after her outside. The lights from the sign outside the club were making his jacket glimmer and shine as he moved, even in the darkness of midnight. She turned to face him, reluctantly meeting his eyes from where he stopped a few feet away from her.

Y/N waited for him to say something else. He’d run after her, after all. And yet, he was silent aside from heavy panting echoing his exhaustion and frustration. He was opening his mouth and frantically shutting it again, desperate to say the right thing but terrified of failing—again.

She felt her heart squeeze in her chest with every second passing in tense silence. Y/N had a hundred things she wanted to say to him, but all she could come up with was: “Thanks for the show, Harry. You were brilliant.”

He furrowed his brows and shook his head, “Y/N, wait…I—”

“Good night.” Her hands trembled by her side—for more reasons that just the bitter cold, as she turned to leave. He let her go, again.

It was a long walk home.

The cobblestone streets felt achingly familiar, yet entirely foreign underneath her. The gentle click, clack of her heels against the stones, the bitter chill and the whooshing sounds of harsh wind, even the glow cast by pale moonlight against the walls of alleyways was all the same. All the same, every goddamn day.

The only difference tonight was the sticky remnants of spilled Prosecco on her skin and the agonizing force of her emotions. The words of his song lingered in her brain, invading her thoughts and inevitably slowing her pace as she stumbled over her feet. She felt heavy and wearied with the cumbersome weight of her regrets and mistakes and shortcomings and insecurities returning with her former lover. It took everything out of her to leave him again. To break her own heart again.

Y/N knew she was lucky to live alone. She didn’t have to rely on a man to support her. She had a job, she had friends, she had a comparatively good life. But she’d never be good enough for him. Without the sight of him and the feeling of his skin on hers fresh in her mind, it might’ve been possible to force the thought out of her mind.

She stepped through the door and immediately noticed how her apartment somehow felt even colder than the bitter chill outside. She shut the door, ignoring the stinging draft and peeling off her heavy coat. Even with the physical weight gone from her shoulders, her muscles still felt tense, achy, and forlorn.

She hadn’t felt this kind of pain since…since she’d left the first time.

Y/N dug around her coat pockets and her medicine cabinet for aspirin or peppermint oil or something to numb the pain. Coming up empty, she retreated to her bedroom, where her eyes fixated immediately on her nightstand.

She paused as a tear strolled down her cheek as visions of what was inside the drawer invaded her mind. She’d blocked out his memory, thrown away his t-shirts, forgotten the sound of his voice and unlearned his habits. But she couldn’t throw away this tiny piece of him. To her, it was anything but tiny. Every one of her billions of neurons told her to get rid of the damn thing, but her one aching heart wouldn’t let her. It was the one thing keeping her chained to him.

Her hand hesitated at the knob of the drawer. She felt weak, jaded, and at the mercy of her agonizing memories.

The chain lay face up at the bottom of the drawer, the S as big and clunky as its counterpart, as shiny and beautiful as its owner. The sight of it sent a tidal wave of memories through her head and a fresh stream of tears down her cheeks. God, she thought, I want him so bad.

Clutching the ring and chain to her chest, she collapsed onto her cold sheets and finally let the sobs wrack her body. His raspy voice rang in her ears, the sweet melody of Stardust sounding dissonant amid her own voice, amid her worst lie of all—the lie that haunted her memory. I don’t want you.

A harsh knock knock knock interrupted the cacophony in her mind.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She leapt out of bed and furiously swiped the tears off her cheeks. She debated running to the bathroom to rinse her face, but another set of harsh knocks shooed away the thought. There’s really only one person it could be—one person who knows where she lives and knows she’d fall at his feet every single time. Her aching feet dragged her body across the cold floor to foyer. With a trembling hand, she turned the handle to her front door.

And there he was, at her doorstep in all his shining glory, as if he’d come to sweep her off her feet once again. His hair was frizzy and longer up close than it had looked onstage. The happy glint he had while in his element was absent from his eyes, now watery and pained but as big and beautiful as ever. She swore the moonlight had grown brighter as it shone on his figure, as if whatever higher power out there refused to let him exist for even a moment without a spotlight.

“Y/N, please hear me out.”

At that moment when the words fell off his lips, she’d never felt further from him—not even when he was hundreds of miles away in a city she’d never heard of singing for strangers she’d never meet. Even then, they’d be sleeping under the same stars. But with Harry right in front of her, standing at her door still clad in his glittery blazer, they were worlds apart.

“I don’t have to hear you out, H,” she whispered, the nickname slipping out before she could stop it. It tasted sweet on her tongue, but the sound of his name in her voice made her chest ache. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“I do, though. I- I…” He trailed off, looking down at his shiny black shoes as if hoping to find the words he was looking for in his reflection. “I didn’t make you feel wanted. I didn’t do enough to make you happy…to make you feel like, you belonged—belong with me.”

His speech sounded broken and clumsy. Y/N absently posited that for him, English really was a second language to music. Scatting came so easy to him. It was infinite—each note and syllable holding meaning, a line of his story, a feeling in his soul, a piece of his heart—not limited by the constraints of speech. How could he possibly find words in the English language to express how he felt about her? How he felt about himself? He sounded like he was suffocating, like he was drowning, like the stone floor was slipping out from under his feet.

Y/N could see his anguish. She recognized it. She lived it.

“You belong on the stage, Harry.” Keep your voice even, she chanted to herself, don’t let it show. That was her life. Chin up, lipstick on, hair slick, mouth shut. A constant battle between don’t lie and don’t let it show. She’d perfected the balance in the year since her relationship. But Harry, of course, managed to make all of that resolve crumble to ruins without even trying.

“I belong with you,” He told her desperately, himself not hiding any of his agony.

“No. I belong to the club. You belong to the music.”

Harry threw his head into his hands, rubbing his glossy eyes furiously. “Is it selfish of me to want both of you?!” He cried, shoving his ring-clad fingers through his curls.

Y/N’s breath hitched and she paused, not quite knowing what to say. Yes, she thought, it is selfish. You want the music, the fans, the money, the fame, and the girl. All I’ve ever wanted is you.

“Come with me,” he continued when Y/N didn’t speak. He reached both hands out as if to touch her, but seemed to think better of it and clenched his fingers into fists between them. “Come with me on tour and we can…we can—“

“I can’t.” She said evenly, desperately willing the tear in her eye to stay put, but she was exhausted.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a superstar Harry! You’re America’s shining sweetheart! And one day you’re gonna realize that I’m not like you. I’ll only hold you back. I’m not enough for you. And I never will be.” She raised at voice at him. She knew it wasn’t fair to shout at him when she was angry with society, with herself. The metal S still clutched in her palm suddenly felt colder and heavier than before. The chain tangled in between her fingers, refusing to release its hold on her. Perhaps it was actually the other way around. Maybe all she had to do was let it go… Is this what I want? To let go again? To lie again?

“Don’t you get it Y/N! The way you see me, like…like some kind of perfect sparkling star…” He abandoned the invisible barrier between them and grabbed her cheeks between his palms, forcing her to look at him, “that’s exactly how I see you.”

The feeling of hands hot against her skin and the words leaping from his mouth like memorized lyrics ignited a supernova inside her—a familiar blazing fire of joy and guilt and love. She felt paralyzed in his grasp, unable to look away from his eyes where she swore she could see specks of gold dancing around the pools of green.

He continued after a beat, “To me, you’re the brightest goddamn thing in that shitty club! Your heart, Y/N—it’s made of gold! I love the music and I love Mitchy and I love the fame but I’d give it all up in a millisecond for you and regret absolutely nothing.”

His words strummed her heartstrings, the vibrations echoing through her chest, her lungs, her shoulders, and finally, her head. She inhaled a heavy breath, putting all her strength into staying upright and squeezing the ring to her palm. No more lies.

“I know you don’t believe me. I know you. I know you hate yourself, you lie to yourself, you think you’re not…you’re not enough…” “I know everything about you and I still love you…”

Y/N reached up and gingerly placed her hands on top of his, holding his palms against her cheeks. He silenced himself as she held the backs of his hands and moved them behind her head. She tore her eyes away from his, and stepped into him. With a strained exhale, she wrapped her own arms around his waist, the sequins on his jacket rough against her clenched fists which held his ring. The blazing symphony crescendoed inside her as she felt his arms squeeze her into his chest.

There were still so many words left unsaid, so many notes still unplayed. As Y/N cautiously stepped over the line between their worlds, she knew her insecurities would catch up with her. And Harry knew their struggle was far from over. They’d both left each other with uncertainty and guilt and longing and life like neither had never known before.

Their love was the stardust of yesterday, but the sun would rise tomorrow.

happy endings are for weenies. yes i am a weenie.

thank you for reading <3

please kindly reblog & let me know if you enjoyed!

[thiswasinevitableid]

3. Sweets for OT4 because Barclay making sweet things for his polycule is the soft that I need! Sfw, with mer Duck and Joseph?

Here it is! Joseph’s design is based on a Spotted Drum, Duck’s on a Mahi-Mahi.

Most days, Barclay’s house resembles a cookbook library. Today, it looks like a cookbook library that got hit by a catastrophic earthquake.

His goal is to find three perfect recipes to bring to the beach with him tonight, but he keeps changing his mind; whenever he settles on a menu, he turns the page or turns around and finds another contender staring at him from its glossy photo.

Indrid is the simplest; he likes sweet food in all his forms, though he’ll make concessions to the rest of the tastes from time to time. It was one such concession (to sour) that first introduced them. Indrid was shooting a fashion spread in town and came into Amnesty Lodge, where Barclay was working the counter at their little coffee bar. 

“I suppose I should get a slice of the key lime pie, since we’re in the keys.”

Barclay cut him a generous slice because he liked the curve of his smile. Indrid sat at the counter, took a bite, took a second bite, and then ate so fast his fork was a silver blur. He licked his plate clean when he thought Barclay wasn’t looking. There was a dot of whipped cream on his nose that Barclay almost offered to kiss off. But he exercised restraint and gave him a napkin instead.

Indrid came back the next day, and the next, and the day after that too. When Barclay asked how long the shoot was, Indrid admitted it was done three days ago.

“I, ah, I’ve been coming down from the city just for your food.”

“That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.” Barclay leans across the counter, smiling when he spots Indrid’s eyes giving him a once over from behind his red-lensed glasses.

“May I have the chance to pay you some more? Perhaps tonight if you’re free? 

He was, and Indrid complimented him before, after, and during the night they spent together. Barclay would have been fine with a one-night stand, let the memory of Indrid’s tan, angular body under his hands carry him for the next few months. But the photographer came back at least three times a week and took Barclay out as much as possible. He learned Indrid was a big enough deal that he could pick and choose assignments and that he traveled often, but the longer they were together, the more he talked about moving his headquarters to Kepler.

Two years later, his office and studio are ten minutes from the apartment he and Barclay share. When he’s in town, he’s glued to Barclays side.When he travels, Barclay gets postcards signed with hearts or filled with sketches of what Indrid’s seen (and he always comes home laden with local delicacies for Barclay to try).

Wait, what were those hard candies he brought back and then ate all of? Yeah, that will work. Barclay checks to be sure he has heavy cream and makes a note to get pineapple from the grocery store. He’d hoped to avoid a trip out, but Indrid is worth it. Indrid is one of the best things to ever happen to him. 

He’s also the reason Barclay has to find three recipes and not just one.

A year ago Indrid was location scouting for a dramatic oceanside shoot. On a remote outcropping, waves splashing around him, a man popped up from the water to ask what the hell he was doing so far out and didn’t he know the tide overtook this rock real quick?

Indrid, a little strange himself, recovered quickly from being scolded  by a merman. And promptly asked if merman would like to pose for a portrait. If not, would he be able to show Indrid some good locations for photographing rays?

Duck, green-finned and strong, became Indrid’s guide to the reef. It didn’t take long before Barclay noticed Indrid getting dreamy-eyed when he recounted their adventures. Maybe he should have been jealous, but he was just happy his boyfriend found a hunky merman to show him the wonders of the sea.

These days, he considers Duck one of his best friends, a friend who also happens to make Indrid’s face light up like the Vegas strip whenever he smiles at him. 

Duck’s palate tends towards the savory side, and on days when he needs a pick-me-up Barclay will bring him a travel bowl of french onion soup and a hard seltzer, the two of them sitting on the sand and comparing notes on troublesome customers (or, in Duck’s case, park guests in the aquatic campground on the far edge of the reef. 

Actually, that gives Barclay an idea. He grabs the flour from the cupboard, sets it next to the jar of yeast and a bottle of wheat beer. They may be metamours and not partners but, as Barclay often jokes, he owes Duck big time. 

See, shortly after meeting Duck, Indrid guided Barclay down to a hidden patch of beach. 

“I want Duck to meet you, dearest. He also has someone he wishes to introduce to us.”

Duck barely had time to emerge before another merman pulled himself onto the beach and began asking questions. 

“See, this is why I asked him to come. Joe’s fascinated by the human world. Even swam under a glass bottom boat tryin to get a look at some tourists. Which was real dangerous.”

“You didn’t seem to mind  disciplining me for it” Joseph shoots a smile at the other mer, then continues his examination of Indrid’s camera.

With black hair, blue eyes, and a stunning white and black tail, Joseph is the most handsome man Barclay’d ever seen. Later, when he had to explain the fact he was attracted to both him and Indrid, he’d say that the difference in his boyfriends was like the difference between being fed by a classically trained French chef and Spanish chef pushing the boundaries of molecular gastronomy; radically different, but equally amazing.

Joseph, inquisitive and clever, began asking to see them whenever he could. Barclay started bringing food down for Joseph to try, played him movies on his phone, and fell harder for him whenever he laughed or smiled or made a bad pun. 

Some nights Duck, Indrid, or both joined them. Other nights it was just the two of them and water, Joseph lazily waving his tail back and forth as they talked. One evening, he dragged it across Barclay’s legs by accident and the human wasn’t quick enough in hiding his reaction.

“Should I do that again?”

“S-sure.” 

“Can I kiss you at the same time?”

“Yes! No, fuck, wait we, we need to talk to Indrid and Duck about this.”

“I suspect they won’t mind, but you’re right. We’ll take a rain check, big guy. And please pass me that cake.”

In addition to his other good qualities, Joseph has the most sophisticated palates of anyone, mer or human, Barclay knows. As in he can taste the notes of blackberry or chocolate that a wine label insists are there but Barclay can only sort of get a hint of. Barclay once bought him a sampler box of expensive wines, cooked oysters over a driftwood fire, and hand fed both to Joseph as he moaned and wiggled with delight, outlining in no uncertain terms what he’d do for Barclay as a thank you.

(He still can’t look at a bottle of white wine without blushing)

That means Barclay has to make something that's as sweet and sophisticated as the mer himself. Ripe peaches tickle his nose. He grabs his copy of Dessert for All Seasons, flipping to summer with a smile. 

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

“Okay, so” Barclay sets the bags down on the picnic blanket, “I, uh, I decided making one sweet thing wasn’t enough. I know that’s kinda silly but you three are so fucking important to me I wanted to do this right.”

“Doubt you’ll get any complaints from mr. sweet tooth.” Duck smirks. Indrid, lounging in linen shorts a moth patterned Hawaiin shirt, sticks his tongue out. The mer just blows him a kiss in response. 

“And there’s no need to apologize for being thoughtful.” Joseph drapes his tail over Ducks, “it’s one of your best traits.”

“Thanks, babe. Uh, so, Indrid, this is for you.” He lifts the pie plate from the ice chest, “it’s pineapple cream with vanilla whipped cream on top.”

“I love you.” Indrid takes the dish with wide-eyed appreciation. 

“Duck, these are for you.”

“Oh hell yeah, pretzels. Wait, is this-”

“French onion soup dip? Yep.”

“I’m gonna eat the hell outta this.”

“And, uh” he slides the cake carrier towards Joseph, “I found a recipe for a peaches and cream Prosecco cake. Hope you like it.” 

Joseph lifts the lid, licks his lips, then pushes the carrier into the center of blanket so he can roll and put his head in Barclay’s lap.

“You’re the best.”

“Indeed. Which is why we have something for you as well.” Indrid stands, stepping over Duck and then eeping when the mer gently whacks his ass with his tail. When he returns (stopping to bend down a pinch the sensitive upper back of said tail), it’s with the cake carrier Barclay looked everywhere for earlier today.

Beneath the pink plastic lid is a cake coated in milk chocolate frosting.

“‘Drid said this was the one you made yourself for your birthday.” 

“Oh fuck, the chocolate malt one?”

“The very same. We had to get a bit creative cooking it; Joseph suggested making the layers  in cast iron over a fire, which worked well. After all, we didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

The frosting message of “happy one year anniversary” gets a little blurry, and he wipes his eyes, “this is so fucking sweet, you guys.”

“You deserve it.” Joseph kisses his hand as Indrid rests his head on his shoulder, Duck scooching over to lay across Indrid’s lap. 

Barclay smiles, “We all do.”

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 41)

This was not part of the plan. It wouldn’t go like this. This was not the plan. It was a solid plan. Well, at least that’s what it sounded like and felt like. Mila repeats the phrases inside her head, like a mantra, while the raspy voice, the female voice, repeats what she just said.

“As I said, We’ve got Carol and Maggie. You wanna talk about that?”

36 hours earlier:

Wrapped in the dark, they made their way through the deserted streets of Alexandria, hand in hand. She followed him almost blindly, on her way to unknown targets. What was he up to? 

“Where are we going?” Mila chuckled faintly and squeezed Daryl’s hand. “Come on, please, tell me.” 

Her curiosity had skyrocketed since he, somewhat mysteriously, told her that he ‘knew a place’; she was still distraught after what had probably, in Daryl’s peculiar way, been a courtship. Or a direct marriage there and then, none of them seemed to have any idea about what exactly. To hell with formalities! She wore a diamond ring worth like 20 000 bucks on her ring finger, secured with the dainty, less vulgar ring she got from Jim and felt over the moon with emotions. Her heart felt too big for her chest. She woke up from her euphoric state as they stopped in front of the row of neat, almost newly built townhouses. Homes that never got to be put on the market, which was never open to speculators willing to pay thousands of dollars to live there.

“What are we doing here?” She asked. But the familiar silence repeated and she didn’t get a verbal answer. Her laconic, now fiancé took her up the stairs to the house that wasn’t inhabited by anyone and Mila followed in tow. “Daryl, come on!” Mila repeated as the front door shut behind them, leaving them standing in solid darkness.  

“Fu- just-” Despite the fact that it was almost pitch black, Mila could sense how Daryl tightened his jaw, struggling to stay calm; not because of her curiosity and questions, but because he was trying to stay calm. A forced calm concealing something completely different. Inside he was probably an emotional disaster. “Come on-” He squeezed Mila’s hand and started to walk up the almost brand new stairs with white painted railing. Not that she could see it, but she made an assumption that this house wasn’t too different from its adjacent neighbors, where she had visited before. “Don’t fall.”

They stopped on the first landing and Daryl released his firm, yet tender grip around her hand. When one mind is turned off, the others are triggered, but Mila couldn’t hear a sound. It was very quiet, except for their footsteps.

“Stay here.” He instructed her. “Close ye’re eyes.”

Mila laughed a little. “It’s pitch dark, I can barely see you.”

“Just, goddamn- shut ya’ eyes, woman.” 

“Jeeeez Louise-” Mila sighed, shut her eyes and grinned. “Watch out, Dixon, I still have the right to withdraw.” 

Her cheeky joke was answered with a light flick on the nose, followed by a kiss before she heard Daryl steps disappear into another room. What was he doing? Where was he going? Although curiosity almost rose to her throat, Mila did her best not to peek; open one eye and see what the hell Daryl was up to. Instead, she continued to close her eyes, spun the slightly oversized ring around her finger, and quickly realized that spinning would become a recurring coping mechanism for all kinds of emotional states.  

The steps got closer again and she felt the big hand close around hers. 

“Come.” Daryl said. “Don’t look.”

“Okay.”

One step turned into eleven stippling steps, in fear of falling flat on her face and getting even more bruised, before they haltered again. 

“Ya’ can look.” Daryl said and cleared his throat somewhat. “See.”

Mila did as she was told to, blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. It wasn’t a bright light, but a soft, flickering light from a dozen candles placed around the house’s master bedroom. It wasn’t fully furnished yet, as if it was left half done. There was a bed covered with a big sheet for protection from paint, some other furniture, a mirror and curtains, but the wooden folding ladder used to paint the upper cornice was left behind along with paint cans and brushes. A stack of moving boxes stood next to the decorative fireplace mantle and two armchairs were covered with sheets. 

“It ain’t much…” Daryl said doubtfully. 

Mila and Jim never came to the part of having their dream wedding, nor their dream honeymoon. Of course they’d talked about it, that was almost more important than the wedding; where would they go, just the two of them? Mila wanted to go to Rome, or Montana. Jim wanted to go somewhere where they could eat great food, drink great wine and go sightseeing. They finally settled on going to Italy and renting a car there; That way they could visit Rome, Florence and Naples. Watch football, eat pizza, drink wine, authentic cappuccino (Jim was after all a passionate coffee connoisseur) and go sightseeing in an historic environment. The candlelit bedroom in the abandoned townhouse wasn’t exactly a bridal suite at The Palazzo Manfredi with expensive wine and whatnot, but it still made her heart skip a beat. It was thoughtful, romantic in all its simplicity and probably improvised. Where had he found all those candles in a hurry? She never got the chance to ask, it wasn’t important.

“It’s amazing.” Mila managed to utter. Screw Italy!

To further convince Daryl he’d succeeded in his attempt to surprise her, Mila began to kiss him softly. Their breaths in between the soft, tender kisses soon turned heavier, more strenuous as they started to back up towards the bed.

“I want you.” Mila gasped in the matter of seconds that her lips weren’t glued to Daryl’s. “I want you so, so badly.”

Her pleading, that could almost be likened to an appeal, didn’t need to be repeated. Through the darkness she could see the tall archer’s eyes twinkle in the vague glow of the candles. So soft, maybe softer than she’d ever seen then before, at the same time dark with pure, brutish desire. But for perhaps the first time, they didn’t have to deal with lack of time, that someone could hear them or walkers that could suddenly stumble into the room in the middle of the act. For the first time, they had time on their side. And they took advantage of it 110%. Mila felt like her entire body and mind was on fire, like her nerves had reached new levels of feeling things. She had read somewhere that an increased perception of all senses was one of the effects of LSD, but right there and then, welded together with Daryl, whom she wanted even deeper and deeper inside of her to fill her up to her throat, it was clear to her that this was way better than any drug there was. Ecstasy in its rawest, purest form -the caveman stage- triggered by the slowly, sometimes far to near and yet so incredibly close increasing orgasm that built up inside of her body. She came once, then twice, might just as well have been thrice. When Mila last perceived her surroundings, right before both of them fell asleep wrapped up in the sheet, it was early dawn. 

The news about their eloping, or betrothal or whatever it was, was met with surprised delight by the others. As soon as they set foot inside the front door of the big house, where they were greeted by an ongoing breakfast, Carol narrowed her eyes and examined them closely, whereupon the sharp eyes landed on the flashy, magnetic diamond ring. An astronaut stranded on the International Space Station would probably be able to notice it sparkling. 

“Wha- you-” Carol gaped and rose from the table. “Oh my goodness!”

Carol’s reaction was followed by commotion. Everyone arose from the breakfast table and smoldered them with back pats, congratulations and hugs.

“Gratulations, Jersey.” Abraham said while embracing her. When he let go of Mila, after placing a bearded kiss on her cheek, she saw him turn to Daryl, low-key saying: “Thought ‘bout settlin’ down after all, huh?” He then gave Daryl a hearty pat on the shoulder. “About damn time!”

Someone that also was over the moon with joy was Juri; he ran around their legs and quietly participated in the celebration while tugging on his pajama pants, hugging their legs. Excited beyond measure, he gesticulated with his small soft hands that he now, finally, had a dad. 

“Consider yourself a daddy from now on.” Mila whispered to Daryl in passing. To be fair, Juri had considered Daryl as a substitute-daddy for quite some time, before Mila dreamed about doing the dirty with him. “Welcome to the family.” 

The ever so quiet, simple breakfast quickly turned into an engagement-marriage-thing party, to the extent that they managed to conjure a bottle of cheap prosecco from a cupboard. Rick distributed the bottle in the drinking glasses and together they swept their fair but frugal part of the bubbly beverage. The rest of the day was spent coordinating the attack against the Saviors’ compound with help from Andy from the Hilltop colony, at least in Rick, Michonne, Daryl, Glenn and Maggie’s case. Mila was once again struck by tiredness, fatigue almost, and withdrew to inventory the weapons stockpile in the armory with Carol and Eugene. Among other things, Mila was told that “things were over and out” between Abe and Rosita, according to Eugene. 

“Yup, they’re done. Finito.” He said and dramatically cut through the air with his hand.  

While Eugene and Mila talked about the latest romantic drama of the apocalypse, Carol sat deep in thought, sometimes muttering about Rick’s decision to let Maggie come with her.

“He should know better.” She said as she moved around cartons of ammunition. 

Mila knew that Carol was deeply concerned and she didn’t blame her. It wasn’t just Maggie’s life that was on the stake. She was, after all, pregnant; a transformative, slightly chaotic incident in itself, under the prevailing circumstances. At the same time Mila didn’t blame Maggie for wanting to participate. Had she been pregnant Mila would have done the same. The slightest pet with her and she had been pissed off. She was a grown up woman who could make her own decisions, as was Maggie. Therefore, Mila didn’t say much about the matter, focused on the inventory and her lingering, to say the least annoying fatigue that didn’t go away. Carol, the woman with the sharpest sight still alive after the outbreak, couldn’t fail to see that something was wrong.

“No wonder you’re weary all the time.” Carol said as she shook her head towards Mila. “You’re eating like a medieval peasant, all seeds, grains and blant oatmeal.”

“A big bird then.” Mila replied perky, to take her beloved breakfast oatmeal in defense. “I’ve survived so far, which is more than twenty years.” 

When every little bullet was counted and every weapon inspected, they left the weapons store. They returned to the house, where the planning of the attack was wrapping up. Some question marks hadn’t been solved during the long-spun coordination that was spread over the large dining table; they had no idea what would meet them at the compound. How many men did the Saviors have? They simply had to be prepared to encounter both two and a dozen, a preparation that outwardly seemed easier to relate to than it was in fact to relate to mentally. The uncertainty, the total uncertainty; like running straight into thick fog, not knowing what was on the other side. A cliff, a horde of angry bulls or a wall of rifle barrels? The only thing Mila could think of were the memories of all the times her grandfather took her in his arms as a child and told her about the war. How they sat there in the rocking chair and rocked back and forth. Although the very old chair stood on a pair of rugs, to protect the underlying wooden floor in the old cottage they lived in, it creaked ominously for every swing. The creaks became a part of the story, part of the fear that her grandfather described; how he as a young man, no ... as a young boy stood with a rifle in his hand with the whole country’s expectations on his shoulders in Stalingrad, without a clue what he was going to face. A fear that he, despite having both vomited and cried, was forced to push away far behind in his mind and instead wrap himself in a mental armor. An armor that Mila here and there, while facing the knowledge that they did not have the faintest idea of what they were getting into, put on as on autopilot, without blinking. As if she always had it in her back pocket, always ready. That was in a way true; her strange, traumatic upbringing had left its mark, for better or worse.

She was wrapped in that armor, combined with her constant, almost indifferent calm (possibly also a product of her upbringing), spiced with a couple of sips of vodka before they left, when they set off the next day to the Savior’s compound. 

“We did not know what we were running against.” Her grandfather had said as they rocked in the rocking chair. “It was just thick fog all around us, above and underneath. The ground was like a muddy field even though we were in the middle of the city. In fact, it was bodies we ran over that lay for a very long time, but we couldn’t see that. Eyes forward, that was all they yelled.”

Eyes forward, that was what Mila, subconsciously, thought as she sat next to Daryl in the passenger seat, as they traveled down the road in a caravan. She was still overwhelmed by the thought of her being Mrs Sergeyevna Dixon or something by now, not that they had discussed that part of the agreement; she got a ring and that was it. A silent agreement that it was the two of them now, an unbreakable union, unless they got tired of each other. But as she sat there in the car, looking at the man of few words that had asked for her hand in matrimony -in his own way- the night before, she felt nothing but affinity for him. A different kind of affiliation than the one she had with Jim, but at the same time the same kind of security. It was a solid relationship and she had ever doubted her feelings for him, not for a second.

“What’d you mean by Montana?” Daryl suddenly asked and looked at her. 

“Huh?”

“Last night.” He lowered his voice somewhat, so that their fellow passengers, Maggie, Glenn and Gabriel, would not hear them. “Ya’ said ‘better than Montana’, what’d you mean?”

Mila let out a soft laugh. Did she say that out loud?

“I always wanted to go there.” She said smiling. “For a honeymoon.”

“Why the fuck Montana?” Daryl sputtered, as if he couldn’t believe her words.

”Wha- you’ve ever seen pictures of Montana?” Mila exclaimed. ”Rocky Mountains, Crazy Mountains-”

”Crazy Mountains?”

”It’s actually short for Crazy Woman Mountains. Apparently, a woman went insane and lived in them after her family was killed in the westward settlement movement.”

”Sounds perfect for ya’.” The archer gave her a faint smirk, an amused one. 

”Fuck off!” Mila laughed and gave him a soft push.  

As they drove around a bend, Mila noticed the RV’s red brake light in front of them. The caravan, consisting of three vehicles, braked and stopped. The road they had stopped at were lined with shattered and rusting cars, around them were grassy fields and green trees. As they went out of the car, Mila could hear Rick call out: 

“We’ll peel off every quarter mile, meet back here in a couple of hours. See what we got.”

As she secured the leather strap attached to her trustworthy AK Mila could see Glenn and Heath disappear into the vegetation in one direction, looking for a walker that looked somewhat similar to Gregory. Her brain quickly adjusted and went into ‘hunt mode’; it felt almost as it did before she and Juri came to Alexandria. On some occasions she had left Juri alone to go out and scavenge on her own; she hid him away somewhere, instructed him to stay hidden and that she would be back in an hour. To be sure he felt okay with it she left her watch with him. When the hour hand had traveled all the way around she would be back. Every time she left Juri alone like that it was as if she was shedding skin; transformed from a protective, loving mother to a ruthless hunter and survivor, ready for almost anything. She had never been afraid to walk out into the unknown alone - yet another product of her strange, not-too-accurate childhood. Papa had, on a not-so-sober occasion, while they were out driving in the countryside where they had their dacha, stopped the car by the side of the dirt road and ordered her to get out of the car. Mila was 10 years old at the time.

“From here you can walk.” He said, resting his arm out through the rolled down car window. 

It was a hot day, the sun was shining and Mila looked at him with a gaping mouth.

“That’s far!”

“So?”

“I’ve never walked there.”

“So?” Papa shrugged and turned the engine. “Solve it. You’ll get there. Think a little.”

Then he left, leaving Mila standing on the dirty, dusty country road. Ten years old and left to find her way home on her own. Solve it. Another kid had probably started crying and panicking. That was weakness in its purest form, according to her father. Mila would learn to manage on her own, solve problems and above all learn to not panic in any sort of distressed situation. The reason was very simple, but not conventional. ‘Alone is always strongest’, those words she knew almost better than the evening prayer, which she nevertheless never performed. Therefore, she just kicked in the dry ground with her sandal and sighed. Then she started walking under the scorching sun, while the ground in front of her shivered from the heat. After a while she took off her shoes and ran barefoot on the hot road, before she went down and started to walk in the ditch by the road, to prevent the soles of her feet from getting completely burnt. Rather burnt legs from stinging nettles than burnt soles of her feet. She had learned that early on in life, to prioritize and consider which of two alternatives was preferable, whatever they may be. Two hours later she arrived at the cottage. Papa hadn’t said anything, just nodded towards her when she walked through the gate as he sat in the chair in the garden, bare-chested with a bottle of vodka and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries from their garden. Instead, it was mama, Mila’s beloved mama, who had to bathe her poor legs with alcohol and take care of her burning tan. But inside, Mila felt victorious. Hah!

“I’ll go this way.” She therefore said as Daryl came up by her side. 

“On ye’re own?” Daryl scoffed. “Don’t think so.”

Mila scoffed back at him.

“I think I’ll be okay.” She replied. “I can find a walker and pick a head on my own, thanks.”

In fact, she had begun to feel ill again during the drive. If she could slip away in solitude and vomit it would be fantastic, but she didn’t escape that easily. One hundred meters into the woods, she had therefore hurried in advance in front of Daryl, taken support against a tree and vomited against the trunk; a mushy mix consisting of not completely digested oatmeal, liquid and stomach acid. 

“Hey-” She could hear Daryl hurry up behind her. He came up to her side, looked at her. “Ya’ alright?”

“Now I am.” Mila spat on the ground, shaking through her whole body of the acrid taste.

“Fuck sake…” Daryl sighed and from her bent over position she could see him place his hands at his hips. “The hell ya’ are.”

The thought, that unthinkable thought that she had pushed aside so many times now, came to mind again. No, she was not allowed to think like that. 

“Got any water?” Mila asked in something between a sigh and a panting and looked up at Daryl, met his worried eyes. 

Swearing, he pulled a bottle out of his back pocket with his free hand and gave it to her. She poured the water into her mouth, washed it out and spit it out on the ground. 

“Motion sickness.” She said briefly and straightened up. “Shall we continue?” Her stubbornness won over Daryl’s. Of course, Mila knew that he would rather throw her over his shoulder and carry her back to the car and lock her in there, in the belief that she was ill, but no. Mila had other plans. They therefore went further into the woods, to find a walker that could be mistaken for Gregory. But they were unlucky, encountering only three female walkers and a man who was too young in his former, living, life. By the time they returned to the cars the problem had already been solved. Three graying heads stood lined up on the road in front of Rick, Jesus and Andy from Hilltop. 

“We’ll do it at night.” Jesus told them. “Andy delivers the package, while he’s doing that, we’ll disarm the guards and get inside.” He looked at Mila and wrinkled his nose. “You’ve vomited or something?” Mila shrugged in reply. “Again?” He asked. “That time of the month?”

Daryl was close to flying at Jesus, but Mila stopped him and shook her head. 

“Motion sickness or something.”

“Or could be-” Jesus nodded with his head. 

“Motion sickness.” Mila said sharply, clearly indicating that the matter had now been finalized. 

They remained out there until the sun started to go down, just waiting for the moment when they would get into the vehicles again and drive to Savior’s compound. While waiting, they sat on the hood of the car, leaning against the windshield. Mila had received a package of peppermint chewing gum from Sasha, which she had finished in the blink of an eye, to hide the pungent smell of vomit. It seemed to work well, combined with a bottle of water. 

“What is it?”

“Hm?” Mila turned and met Daryl’s eyes. They were searching, as if he wanted to read her mind.

“Ya’ smilin’.” He blinked, turned his head and looked straight forward. 

“Is that weird?” She asked, reaching for his hand to play with his fingers. The glimmering stone glistened in the declining sunlight. “I was thinking about chance. How I couldn’t imagine what meeting you would lead to.” She smiled. “Me, being Mrs. Dixon.”

It was effective. Daryl turned his head and met her gaze. He looked overwhelmed, almost embarrassed. He looked into her eyes, as if struggling to keep up the eye contact. That inherent insecurity in him, it was so deeply rooted, but during the months they’d known each other she’d seen him crawl out of his shell, very slowly, scared to get hurted. 

“What?”

“I guess that’s what I am.” She said and didn’t break eye contact. She felt nothing but safe looking into his eyes, respect and love. 

It was as if he pondered the words, tasted each syllable. As if it dawned on him there and then, sitting on the hood next to her on the abandoned road, while the sun set in the distance. 

“I’m afraid.”

His words puzzled her a little.

“For what?”

“Just- losing ya’.” He replied something reluctant, as if it hurt to admit maybe his inner, deepest fear. “I can’t lose ya’, Jersey.”  

“Moya lyubov.” Mila caressed his cheek. “There’s no reason to think you should. I’m not going anywhere. Least of all away from you.”

He pondered her words. 

“Mrs. Dixon.” He said it with a vague smile, which grew to a full smile. “Like the sound of that.”

“Me too.” Mila intertwined her fingers with his and chuckled happily. “Like- wow, I have a husband.”

Those words made him tune in to her chuckle. He liked what he heard. He turned his head towards her, a little askew, smiling. His hair fell forward on his forehead and Mila felt a tickling sensation throughout her whole body. He was beautiful, and he was hers.  

“Knew it from the beginning.” Daryl said. “When ya’- both of ya’ came to Alexandria. I’d never felt like that before. I- liked ya, love ya. Don’t know how ‘cause I’d just met ya’, but I knew I did.”

Mila had no time to respond.

“It’s time!” Rick had called out. 

They jumped down from the hood and got into the car. It was time. When they started approaching their goal, it was already dark. The RV stopped in the middle of the darkness and Andy got out and walked over to their car. They were instructed to park and walk the last bit, so they wouldn’t be discovered. Andy would take their car and drive to the compound with the head. 

“It’s not far.” He said. “I’ll give you a headstart.”

After walking through the vegetation for a while, accompanied by thousands of crickets playing in the dark, Mila and the others saw something through the foliage. Concrete, barely visible if you didn’t look closely. They had arrived. Silently they crept forward, taking positions so that they would not be discovered. It was an old satellite station with a huge satellite on top of the roof. Had they not been assured that the compound was guarded, Mila would have thought it was abandoned. No sound was heard and no light was lit. About five minutes later, they heard a car approaching and Andy drove up in front of the quiet building. Suddenly, bright red lights was turned on and a speaker sounded:

“Stop right there! Announce yourself, asshole!”

Silently, while the men talked to each other in loud voices, Mila made sure the rifle was loaded and clear, that her knife was close at hand and the gun was easy to reach for. She felt calm and breathed slowly as the front door of the building opened and two armed men came out to collect the head. She saw them clearly from her spot while resting her finger on the trigger, ready to raise her rifle and put the two men out. While staying silent, still ready to put a bullet in the two mens back heads, she heard them chuckle at the chopped off head, making fun of it. The guy holding the head turned and went inside, while the other one, a shorter guy in a leather jacket and a beanie, stayed behind with Andy. For some reason he started to whistle, a song Mila recognized as “Happy birthday”. At the same time, she felt Daryl’s fingertips softly brush the back of her hand. She shifted her gaze back to him, knowing that this was his que. Quietly, he moved out from their hiding spot behind the corner. As long as they had known each other, Mila had marveled at Daryl’s ability to move so smoothly, silently. Like a cat, despite his tall, muscular physique. Just as silently he lifted his strong arm, placed it around the man’s head, whereupon he quickly and smoothly bent it backwards and cut off the carotid artery. A guttural sound was all that came from the man’s mouth as he sank to the ground, where Daryl ended his suffering by pressing the knife right into his head. 

The rest of the group hurried out of their hiding spots. The now dead Savior was carried away and Andy was given a gun which he hid in the back of his pants. Quickly they hid again, right before the front door was opened once again. The Hilltop prisoner, Craig, and a Savior.

“Well, well… look who it is.”

Famous last words before he was pierced through the chest by a katana. Craig stumbled and was supported by Andy, while Michonne and Rick ended the Savior. Aaron dragged him away, into the bushes where they’d placed the other guy. Daryl covered Glenn and they went into the building, Mila followed closely after. Eyes forward, focused on the goal. 

Inside was almost as dull as the outside; concrete walls, concrete floor. The only light source came from sparsely placed lamps along the walls, which spread a yellow-green glow. 

“Check the doors, find the arsenal.” Rick said behind Mila.

“Will do.” Mila replied, glad to have been assigned a task. 

She and Daryl set off to search the arsenal. But before they got the chance to find it, a deafening siren made them both put their hands over their ears. Daryl pulled her towards him, pressed her up against a wall and himself in front of her, as a shield. 

“What’s that?!” Mila exclaimed with a pounding heart, surprised by the sudden shift. 

“An alarm.” Daryl exclaimed, looking around in the corridor. “They know we’re here.”

Heavy shooting, somewhere in the building, followed his words. They looked at each other, before they both set off in the direction of the shooting. Mila ran first, rifle raised in front of her. She braked when she saw Michonne, then Rick. 

“Come on, let’s go!” Rick called as he saw Mila and Daryl. 

Without hesitating, Mila set off around the corner; fearless, just as unaware of what would meet her as her grandfather when he ran into the fog in Stalingrad. Her mind was sharp, clear beyond measure as she lifted her rifle, saw a man she hadn’t seen before, aimed at him and pulled the trigger. She ran past him, towards the sound of more shooting, with the three others behind her. Daryl came up at her side, refused to let her take the lead and scurried past her. At the next corner, they stopped and pressed against the wall, to avoid ending up in the middle of the firing line.

“Screw this.” Mila panted, flushed with adrenaline. As soon as there was a break, probably to reload, she briskly walked out in the other corridor, only to stand face to face with not less than two men with automatic rifles in their arms. “Hello boys.” She said untouched, before raising her rifle and mowing them down like skittles on the bowling alley. 

They then continued down the corridor’s end, where Daryl started to work on the locked door with his automatic. Mila peeked through the small, square window, and managed to duck just in time before it shattered by a bullet. 

“Son of a bi-” Daryl shoutet. At the same time he hit the handle so hard that the lock broke and fell off. The door flew up and Daryl crashed through it, just in time to knock down the man who had shot through the glass window at her. With full force Daryl began to beat the man with the handle of the weapon, all while cursing at him. “That’s my goddamn wife ya’ fucking… piece… of…-”

If Mila hadn’t dragged Daryl away from him, he probably had turned that already dead bastard into minced meat. 

“I love you.” She said in passing as she got him up from the ground, high on the rush and a little excited about the fact of being defended as his ‘goddamn wife’. But it wasn’t really the right time to feel raunchy. 

They must have lasted longer than it felt like in there, taking out Savior after Savior, because when they finally got out of the building it was bright, probably early in the morning. Again, they were sweaty, bloodthirsty and high on the rush. They had survived. Everything had gone according to plan. 

Mila leaned up against Daryl, pressed her body against his and felt his arms wrap around her as she rested her head against his chest. 

“We did good.” She sighed. “We did good.”

“Sure did.” Daryl placed a long kiss on her head, pressed her closer against him. 

While they stood there, the others moved across the area, to make sure no Savior managed to escape. Mila allowed herself to close her eyes, a standing rest in Daryl’s arms. She so desperately wished they were back in Alexandria, preferably in bed in the abandoned townhouse. It had been a short but passionate honeymoon; she hoped they could get an exemption for one more night on their own when they returned. Carol hopefully wouldn’t mind taking care of Juri again and make sure he got to bed. She felt a carnal hunger like no other for her husband; wanted to enjoy him, body and soul, without a tight deadline. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a clattering sound. Shooting. The next moment she hit the ground and felt Daryl’s body on top of her. More shootings, this time from their own group. No, she was not met. Daryl seemed okay too, acting as a living shield for her.

“Ya’ alright?”

“Yeah.” She gasped.

Daryl lifted his weight from her and helped her up from the dry grass, just in time to see a door open and a man running out and fled. Without a word, Daryl began to sprint and threw himself around the waist of the fugitive. They wrestled on the ground, knuckles and fists flew through the air as the others ran towards them. They rounded up, pointing their guns at the man on the ground, now bleeding from both his mouth and nose.

“Just do it!” The man exclaimed, sputtering blood all around himself as he shouted, as Rick’s hammer clicked. “Like you did with everyone else, right!?” 

“You won’t have to ask twice.” Mila said with a wry grin. 

A crackling sound, followed by a beep, made them all jump on the spot. What the fuck was that? Mila searched around the area, let her gaze sweep over the grass, the building, the woods, without seeing anyone. That’s when her eyes dropped and landed on the walkie-talkie on the ground next to the bleeding Savior’s head. It talked.  

“Lower your gun, prick. You, with the Colt Python. All of you, lower your weapons now.”

[weshallc]

This is so exciting, can’t wait to see what happens next! (No, I honestly do forget)

Berns Night (Revisited) 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels, everyone but Paddy and Bernie at Mount Busby)

Chapter Three: OF MICE AND MEN

“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men. Gang aft agley. An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain. For promis’d joy!”  To A Mouse by Robert Burns 1785.

“Liars and Lovers Combine Tonight, We’re Gonna Make A Scene.” The Captain by Biffy Clyro 2009.

The largest reception room at Mount Busby Farm would have once been very grand, with Queen Anne furniture and Regency coffee tables. The only thing that remained unchanged was that the original fireplace still gave up warmth and light provided by nature, and the windows let in the light from the same star constellations and the same moon.

The Two Loves preferred antique furniture of a later period and in their 80s comfort was paramount. The room was stocked with love seats, chesterfields, recliners. bean bags, generous cushions, and a rather charming gold settee that suspiciously looked pre-war. Just no one was sure which war. Everyone mocked it, but everyone fought to sit on it as it was very comfy. Patsy often talked about replacing it, but Delia wouldn’t hear of it. “You don’t throw your memories out with the rubbish and there are more memories than just ours hidden within these cushions, Cariad.” That was always the end of it.

The most current occupants of that particular settee to be making memories were Tim Turner and Lucille Anderson. Phyllis looked over at the awkward teen, who was no longer as awkward as he had once been. He sat comfortably chatting to his companion, both of them laughing at intervals. Lucille often finishing Tim’s sentences or him proclaiming, yep that’s it or knew you’d get it when they appeared to reach a level of understanding.  Of course, when she asked the student nurse about her new friendship, she would just reply, brushing the older nurse off. “Oh, he is a dear boy; He makes me laugh.”

He was certainly doing that from where Matron Crane was sitting on a leather tan Whitworth dining chair, probably by Frank Hudson.  Years of heavy lifting before the introduction of patient hoists and transfer boards had taken their toll on the matron’s back. It was why she had found herself in a more managerial role much earlier than she would have planned. She looked at Student Nurse Anderson and thought maybe the NHS was in more tender capable hands than the shitstirrers would have them believe.

“I am wondering if we should start,” youth minister Tom Hereward was on his feet. “I am not sure how long baby will sleep in a strange house.”

“I have been called many things in my time, but not sure strange is one of them,” laughed Delia.

“Oh, I have Deals, it’s fine,” reassured Patsy.

Tom turned pink. Trixie leaned over to him, “They are joking,” and sat back onto the giant purple pouffe she was sharing with Valerie. “I know, I live here. I have to put up with it all the time.”

“So. Erm who is in charge, who has the most authority here.” Tom was still trying to create some sense of order.

“Well, Julia is the vicar,” chirped in Bobby, trying to offer her husband some support.

“But this is not the church,” Rev Julia responded with a warm smile.

“Another shock there then, it’s all coming out tonight, Patsy.” Delia couldn’t help herself when she had an audience and a bottle of Prosecco was being passed round.

“Matron Crane is on the council,” Lucille reminded everyone.

“No, I don’t think that matters lass, it’s not a council matter.” Phyllis shook her head.

“Well, someone needs to take the lead,” Tom said with a hint of irritation.

“I will!  On the authority that I am a young woman on her only night off of the week,” struck up Val, “but I have agreed to come here and discuss plans for Bernie’s birthday instead of having two for one sex on the beach.”

“It’s a cocktail, and its happy hour in the Fourteen Teacups on a Tuesday,” Trixie interpreted for everyone.

“That’s ambitious having a happy hour in the Teacups, isn’t it?”  said Fred, who had managed to wedge himself into a deep red Chesterfield.

“Yeah, apparently Ursula gives you the right change, that’s why they call it happy hour,” Tim smirked.

“As I am representing the Crown. I will continue,” said Val and she did, “we want to put on a Burns Night for Bernie’s birthday like in the old days. Now Tim has told us Paddy is half Scottish.”

“Why isn’t he here?” asked Bobby.

“Well, he said it would look suspicious if he left Bernie on her tod behind the bar on a Tuesday night,” Vi explained sitting on a scarlet love seat next to Fred.

“Yep, in case our two Tuesday night regulars rush the bar at once,” snorted Val.

“I think it’s more that it would look suspicious if he actually just left Bernie alone for five minutes,” Trixie corrected.

Lucille felt Tim squirm in the seat beside her. She knew he thought the world of Bernie, but didn’t like to hear her relationship with his father discussed in public. This was inevitable being a small village with one pub, one church and two of the village's most popular inhabitants linked to both. She tried to ease his tension.

“I think it’s lovely, just shows as my grandma used to say there may be snow on the roof, but there is still fire in the grate.”

As everyone surrendered to laughter, Matron shared a smile with the vicar, both of them confirming Lucille might be familiar with the saying, but maybe not its meaning.

Delia was the first to keep a straight face, “But they are only bairns, wait until they are mine and Pats age then the fire may need a little bit of stoking.”

“Yes, Deals, but remember we have never required the use of a poker.”

Val swiftly continued, “Paddy doesn’t wish to be involved.”

“Why?” Reggie asked, perched on his wooden stool.

Val motioned towards Tim, who was still recovering from the last topic of conversation.

“Because it would look ridiculous, his words not mine.” Tim continued, “and I quote, Wilf had the works, I would look like I was trying to pull a stunt to impress Bernie by looking like I was dressing in drag and taking the piss.”

Tim looked at his knees, and Lucille gave one a quick squeeze. She knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Everyone else also looked at their knees. The mood was solemn.

“We can all understand Paddy’s reasons.” There were a couple of nods and sighs in response. “But we aren’t putting up with any of that nonsense,” Val added with a grin.

This was met with a very large and unanimous cheer.

“Well, I’ve already looked up the Turner tartan,” Trixie handed an iPad over to Patsy via Val.

“That’s very smart,” approved the artist.

“Sorry I hate to throw a spanner in the works, but how are we going to afford all this?” butt in a pensive Vi.

“We’ve already thought of that,” grinned Delia, ”Mount Busby will cover the cost of the costume.”

“That’s very generous,” sniffed Evie, who had nearly dozed off in a leather recliner.

“Not really,” explained Patsy. “I have a friend that works for Kilts 4 U and they are very interested in looking into the possibility of making an alpaca lined sporran.”

This was news to Reggie who followed anything relating to his charges with great interest, “What’s a sporran?”

“It’s where he keeps his spare change,” Fred enlightened, or at least tried to.

“It’s the little purse that men wear at the front of the kilt, Reggie,” Violet elaborated. He seemed reassured by this.

“So anyway, in return for a few samples,” Patsy continued, “my friend will be happy to hire out the full regalia for the evening.”

“It’s not long now until Burns Night have you got some sort of prototype ready?” quizzed Evie.

“Lady K is working on them as we speak. She loves nothing better than fiddling with a bit of alpaca wool,” Delia replied gleefully.

“Lady K?” Phyllis queried.

“Yes, she is very creative,” reassured Trixie.

“I don’t doubt it, Trixie, but she is one of Bernie’s clients. What if the lass sees what she is up too”

“Don’t fret Phyllis,” Patsy interjected, “I find that Antonia is much less forgetful when she has an occupation to challenge her and I am certain she won’t let the cat out of its proverbial bag.”

Jack sat on the floor accidently banged his head against the fire surround he was leaning against, “Can’t imagine Berns thinking; oh look Lady K is sticking bits of alpaca wool to a man’s bag he hangs in front of his todger. That must be something to do with Paddy and my birthday”

Vi was quick to admonish Jack, but when even Tom started to laugh, she decided to let it go.

“What about the little knifey thing they keep in their sock that he stabs the Haggis with?” Fred was beginning to get excited.

“Sgian dubh,” corrected Vi.

“All part of the traditional dress,” Patsy added a tone to her voice to reassure everyone that she had thought of everything.

“So that’s the gear sorted. Me and Reggie are in charge of the beer. What else?” Fred’s eyes were wide, thinking they actually might be able to pull this off.

“Well, myself and Evie have created a menu, pretty much on the lines of what we used to do in Wilf’s day.” Violet opened a small notebook and put on her reading glasses.

Clearing her throat she read, “Cock-a-leekie soup, Scottish salmon and tattie scones or scotch egg for starters.”

“Cock a what?” shouted up Jack.

“Chicken and vegetable soup to you, young man. There will be a just vegetable option too.” Violet’s voice began to take on the air it adopted when addressing an audience. “Then we have the Haggis or vegan Haggis, neeps and tatties and a whisky sauce.”

“What about those that might not wish to partake in the Haggis?” Tom asked nervously, as he might.

Evie spoke up before Vi could respond. “There is always the Fourteen Teacups for the likes of those that don’t wish to have Haggis. It’s a Burns Night. If you don’t want Haggis, then stay at home and order in a pizza.”

“What’s for pudding?” Bobby struck up, squeezing her husband’s hand.

“Cranachan which is raspberries, cream, oats and whisky, or Clootie pudding with whisky sauce or whisky ice cream or a Scottish cheese board with oatcakes.”

Murmurs of approval were aimed in Violet’s direction.

“That’s a lot of whisky?” Lucille remarked.

Violet agreed, “Yes, we need just a house whisky for everyone for the toasts Val, I will leave that to you, but you need to pay the piper with a good quality malt.”

Silence broke out in the previously buzzing, over occupied living room.

“Piper!” Several people groaned at once.  

Fred, who was not going to let anything get in the way of this Burn’s Night declared, “Look, we will just have to bung on a recording.” Turning to Tim and Jack, he said, “You lads look up the Red Hot Chilli Pipers on your phones.”

Tim reached for his phone, swiping the picture of Lucille and him with Alpaca Colin. But Lucille touched his hand, making him hesitate.

“I don’t think that would be very suitable, Mr Buckle going to all this trouble with such a delicious menu and Mr Turner all dressed up in the finest regalia and then having some squeaky din coming out of an iPhone.”

“Your right lass, it just won’t do,” supported Phyllis.

“Well, does anyone know a piper?” Fred replied wearily.

“Surely we can find a professional one online?” contributed Julia

“A professional piper that’s free on Burn’s Night at this late notice,” chided Phyllis.

“I know a piper.”

The voice came from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the slight dark-haired woman sat on a dining chair. “Well, I think we all do.”

“Do we, Jane?” Julia asked.

“Yes, the busker that stands outside the town hall in Appleby Thornton.”

Everyone started talking at once;

“I only go into town every second Tuesday to get my hair done.”

“Same here I only go through if I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Well, it’s the cost of the parking isn’t it, it’s free at Tweaven Retail Park and more shops.”

“You can get it on t’internet delivered to your door.”

“I haven’t been since Marks and Spencers closed.”

“Debenhams is closing next week such a shame, that shops older than me, always been a department store in Appleby Thornton.”

“It was one of the first in the country to have a lift, you know.”

Jane cleared her throat. “There are a lot of good things about Appleby Thornton that are not always obvious.”

“Here, here!” chimed in Val, “there is still a Primark.”

“Oh well, let’s be grateful for small mercies,” stung back Trixie.

Much to Delia’s disappointment, Val bit her lip. The ex-nurse and market gardener loved a full house. She cherished her quiet times with Patsy too, but she was the more sociable of the pair. The farm was large enough for Patsy to have her office and art studio and not be disturbed while Delia fussed the alpacas with Reggie. Trixie moving in had been Patsy’s scheme, but Delia was the one who had benefited most from their new project, even if she would never let their new employee know she was a project.

Delia enjoyed listening to Trixie’s anecdotes and gossip. She felt reconnected with a world that was moving so fast. The Two Loves were business women and technology hadn’t passed them by.  It was the music, the celebrities, the trashy telly that Patsy despised and Delia loved that made having Trixie and her friends around delight Delia.

Delia’s carer probably wasn’t as up-to-date with pop culture as Trixie and her friend. Val was now a frequent visitor to Mount Busby, as she and their new lodger had struck up quite a friendship. Nurse Bernie always looked a bit behind the door when the other two were in full flow about some reality TV show.

But since Trixie had moved in, Nurse made Delia’s blood pressure check the last visit on her rounds and she drank tea, sitting and chatting with Trixie. Bernie didn’t need to watch Love Island. She had her own romantic paradise in Poplar-on-Tweaven and Delia couldn’t be more happy for her.

Val had bitten her lip, her new friend was still a bit of an enigma to her. She did know Trixie might talk as if she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but in the last few months she had gleaned enough to know that spoon had been tarnished sometime ago. So in spite of all her bravado, Trixie was as familiar with Poundland as she was with Prada.

It was Julia who cut through the chatter. “I believe I am familiar with the young man you are referring to. He has a small dog with him if I am right?”

“Yes, Reverend.” Jane was beginning to believe she had dreamt the piper and maybe also Appleby Thornton.

“He’s rather good, as I remember.”

Jane was beaming as she nodded.

“So problem solved,” Fred rubbed his hands together with glee, “tot of whisky, a bowl of water for the pooch, bob’s your uncle, sorted”

“No, it certainly is not.” Trixie’s tone caused everyone to alter their gaze, “this man is a professional musician surely, if he has a regular spot he has a license. I am sure Chummy is well acquainted with the gentleman and his story. We can ask her.”

Inspector Noakes had been unable to attend the meeting because of work commitments, and Peter’s Tuesday evenings were spent running a youth football team that Jack and Timothy had both enjoyed being a part of. Alas, Tim had become too rangy and prone to injury, and Jack had become too lazy and prone to chips.

Trixie continued, “He deserves an appropriate wage for his efforts.” She turned to Val. “I believe the Crown has an entertainments licence.”

Val nodded and smiled reassuringly at her friend, “Paddy does, leave it with me and I will also make sure he and the mut are fed and provided with transport both ways.”

Trixie relaxed and shared a smile with the aromatherapist sitting at the back of the room. “Do you know his name?”

“Kevin.”

Fred let out a huge sigh. “So we are all sorted then?”

“It would appear so,” replied Lucille, grimacing at Tim.

“Apart from Dad.” groaned Tim.

Followed by an echo of sighs.

“Leave your dad to me, Chick.” winked Val.