#pubs aren’t doing shit for marketing

[thegladelf]

I just saw someone call someone else a "30 books in 30 days" type (derogatory) and I'm sorry to tell you that some of the smartest and deepest readers I know on BookTube have tried the 30 in 30 challenge.

The amount of books someone reads doesn't make them a good or bad reader. Their willingness to engage with the text does.

[regrettablewritings]

Can I request a Love head canon with Geralt please? I just read the pre-relationship one you did for Jaskier and I absolutely loved it!!

I mean... I can try 😅 Though, I think it should go without saying that Geralt isn’t exactly synonymous with love and affection as we relatively human beings interpret them . . .

Who said “I love you” first?: Assuming we’re sticking strictly to the verbal expression of the phrase, I believe you already know the answer to this. After all, it’s simply not in Geralt’s nature to be the most talkative person, much less vulnerable and affectionate. And that’s referring to his nature as being Geralt of Rivia and not specifically his nature of being a Witcher. You could wait an entire run of three human lifetimes and still potentially have to wait just a bit more to hear Geralt willingly say, “I love you” in this manner. It’s nothing against you, of course, but it’s better for you to recognize this and accept it than force otherwise. Besides, it’s not as though he doesn’t appreciate it: Deep down, Geralt is beyond startled that you would willingly apply such affection and devotion to him of all people, and a Witcher at that! Though, if you’re willing to stretch the expression one uses for “I Love you”, then it’s arguable that Geralt said it first, in some way, considering that . . .

What are their primary love languages?: Geralt is a very . . . sexual being. Physically aggressive. And considering his complex relationship with Yennefer, it therefore would stand to reason that his primary expression of “love” comes in the form of physical touch. Hell, if love languages were a thing acknowledged of the period (and if Geralt ever even cared to acknowledge them), he might’ve grunted and agreed so himself, even if only to get the conversation over faster. But the longer he spends having you as his companion, the more evident it becomes to him that this may not be the case. The thing is, physical touch can be more than just sexual release -- but for him, that’s all it ever was, simply because it was easier for him to do when Yennefer was still around. But since then, he’s come to recognize that perhaps he has more to offer than he gave himself credit for: Geralt operates through acts of service. Geralt is never going to be the most openly expressive one of the bunch, even when it pertains to you. But he’s always going to show his care for those whom he has a soft spot for by assuring their safety and well-being -- in odds and ends, so to speak. He’s never going to write you sonnets or wax poetically to you; he will rarely hold your hand just for the sake of doing so, or be the best at offering words that could technically be comprehended as affectionate. But when he notices you’re tired, he won’t hesitate to place you on Roach’s back -- an absolute honor, considering his protectiveness towards the mare. He’ll make sure that you’re warm and sheltered when you break camp, even if it comes at the cost of his own comfort (not that he feels much of a difference after this point anyway). If he thinks you may be doing something or even considering doing something that might put you in harm’s way or cause you mental or emotional pain, he’s unafraid to shoot that shit down (he loves you enough to let you hate him, so to speak). It may be the bare minimum that he saves you from a death of cold or starvation or hazardous encounters, but for him, it’s a way of showing he at least respects your right to continue living. He doesn’t really expect anything back besides respect. And perhaps some . . . physical comforts. But, once again, to his surprise, he’s not solely focused on physical touch when it comes to you. At least, not as intensely as he normally would be. What Geralt specifically appreciates form you is words of affirmation. But only from you: None of that showy, obnoxious nonsense that Jaskier calls music. Geralt likes feeling recognized as a person, questionable as that sort of title might actually be. He just likes being talked to to a degree, over small things. The affirmations come where you openly appreciate him for his efforts and bravery, and even when you thank him for taking care of you. Being a Witcher is a thankless job. But hearing you appreciate him for everything, big and small, and acknowledging his more humanistic traits at the same time? It does him more good than both you and he ever thought it could.

How often do they cuddle/engage in PDA?: The closest you get is when the two of you are either in a very crowded market place or are running and you’re having trouble keeping up: He’ll hold your hand to assure you don’t get separated or left behind. There’s also, of course, the preservation of body heat when the both of you wind up breaking camp on a particularly cold night.  But other than that, I wouldn’t expect much in the ways of affection.

What are their favorite things to do together?: The lifestyle you both lead (well, that Geralt leads -- you simply adopted it by association) doesn’t exactly lend itself well to couples’ hobbies . . . But the two of you haven’t bitten each other’s throats out yet, so clearly you’re doing something right, no? You aren’t quite sure what it is, but you heavily suspect that it might be when you ask Geralt to tell you about the creatures he’s encountered. Not in the “Tell Me Stories of Your Amazing Feats” kind of way, but more so in a manner of “Please Make Me Aware of the Weird, Strange, and Horrific Beings Lurking in This World and How To Combat Them”. Which suits Geralt well enough, as he tends to skimp on the details and doesn’t care to describe battles or anything of the sort. He knows that you’ll never be a Witcher, but it surely couldn’t hurt you to have an awareness of the world around you. Besides, he’s witnessed far too often the slaughtering of perfectly harmless creatures due to ignorance -- he feels a sense of relief when you express an interest in learning how to differentiate beasts with intentions of harm and beasts that simply want to be left alone unless provoked.

Who’s better at comforting the other?: Neither of you is especially great at it, but for different reasons. Though it should at least be said that you’re better skilled at comforting than Geralt is: You by far are the more emotionally available and intelligent one between the two of you, so the efforts you put forward are at least more overt. However, given that Geralt is a rather standoffish person and not especially prone to expressing vulnerabilities of any kind, it’s hard for you to know if you’re getting through to him. He won’t make it blatantly obvious if something is bothering him unless it’s bothering him in a way that earns his aggression -- and even then, he doesn’t need comfort, he needs you to gently chide him and calm him down as one does to an agitated horse or dog. Or a wolf, in this case. Meanwhile, Geralt . . . just isn’t the best at comforting people. At least, not in the most traditional sense. When he tries to be, it comes off very awkwardly, the words not filled confidence as much as they are hesitancy. It’s only made worse by the fact that his gruff, barely-used voice just isn’t compatible with the words he tries to use. Which is why he feels the best he can really offer to do is just say nothing at all. He won’t reject you or even flinch if you were to bury yourself into his side, instead just slowly placing an arm around you and trying to give a consoling, if stiff, pat on the back. Please know that this is him trying his best, and that he’ll be far more relieved than you’ll be if you actually do find some semblance of comfort in his seemingly low-effort efforts.

Who’s more protective?: Geralt wouldn’t consider what he does protection -- it’s simply what he, well, does. He’s always fighting creatures (and people) in self-defense or for a cause of some kind. And whenever Jaskier joins the two of you, or once Ciri becomes a part of his life, the job only intensifies. Him keeping you alive is simply common decency, lover or not. But if one were to ask someone who’s more emotionally observant like, say, a certain bard who occasionally accompanies the two of you, then he would beg to differ: Geralt is fiercely protective of you, he just does so quietly. Contrary to his stony nature,he does value your well-being. And even if you’re a commendable fighter, he acknowledges that it’s not as up to snuff as his own, making him feel more obligated to assure you come out of encounters alive and well. This is more obvious in the wilderness, of course, but when it comes to civilization he tends to become a bit more lax. He trusts you enough to measure your options when, say, some men at a pub are making particularly bawdy comments about you. He also trusts you to know when to whip out that knife you always keep on you. However, you needn’t worry about him turning a blind eye, should things threaten to escalate: Whether you’re at a marketplace buying some necessities, or paying for your meal at a tavern, Geralt is never so far away that he can’t keep a close eye on you or be unable to step in, should the environment intensify.

Do they prefer verbal or physical affection?: Geralt likes verbal affirmations, yes, but don’t discount physical: At least he doesn’t have to talk or respond when at the end of a long day, you sit next to him and nuzzle your head up to the crook of his neck. Plus there’s the whole intimacy he experiences for the first time in its true form when you and he finally decide to take that step.

What are some songs that apply to their relationship, in-universe or otherwise?: Hm. It’s hard to say, especially considering that Geralt is a hard person to apply music to, much less music with a narrative or one that actually sounds like anything he might listen to, particularly in a romantic setting. I had to push past that mindset just to pick anything, and what that got me to conclude was something along the lines of “Love Like You” by Rebecca Sugar or "Resilience” by Thomas Newman. Maybe “My Blood” by Twenty-One Pilots. I can’t place exactly how or why, especially sound-wise, but these just stood out to me in particular . . .

What kind of nicknames do they call each other?: You two don’t really resort to nicknames, actually. “Geralt” isn’t exactly an easy name to harvest a nickname out of, and he doesn’t do anything that particularly warrants one in reference to an idiosyncrasy. The closest you ever got was trying out “Wolfy” in reference to his title as “The White Wolf” but the look the attempt received, coupled with your own realized distaste for it, made you drop it in an instant. And Geralt just isn’t the sort to apply nicknames in the first place.

Thank you for requesting this! I hope I did okay . . .

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

to any of my younger followers who may start dating or y’know going to pubs and night clubs (bc the government is like “let’s open everything up to make life normal again!” without realising that it’s a massive mistake every time now with covid variants)- if the hottie or not hottie that you end up talking to/dancing with or whatever tries to do the following things, please know they’re trash and try to leave the situation stat:

•insist that YOU have to pay all your attention to THEM, while they totally ignore you….. and they especially get angry when you’ve told them that you’re about to leave for the night. for example: you receive a text/message from your family member and respond to it. this person takes it upon themselves to look over your shoulder to nose into your business… and demands “why aren’t you fucking talking to me? and looking at me? who the fuck are you texting?” like bro. i’ve known you for 5 minutes. you’re not more important than my family. fuck off. when this person texts someone back, you try to do the same thing to mirror their behaviour.

instead, you get yelled at by this person who demands “why the fuck do you need to know who I’M messaging??? get your fucking nose out of my shit! do you know that’s disrespectful??? you rude, nosy bitch!” like okay, fool. so i’m meant to let you go through MY private messages (ok wasn’t really private it was a news article my sister sent but still) but as soon as i do it to YOU it’s “rude and disrespectful” and “nosing into my (your) shit”???? what the fuck. he also told me off for saying that i was leaving “soon” after i’d met him. demanding that i stay. no. i’ve been here for 4 hours and i’m sick of it and sick of you. i’m going. also finally, you’re not much of a looker, damien. fuck off.

•tell you that your interests or what you’re studying at uni etc are “useless” or “stupid” or “won’t get you anywhere” or whatever other ways to say that they want to dismiss and belittle your hobbies/interests….. while you’re supposed to fawn over their hobbies etc with your utmost support in the face of being “nice” to someone you’ve just met and to cajole them.

this guy told me that studying english and philosophy would get me nowhere; and asked in an accusing tone if i’d go into teaching or advertising/marketing etc and told me that that was predictable when i was yes to the marketing option. he then told me that i’d “get nowhere” in either of those fields bc “every idiot goes into them”. however, he expected me to tell him that he’d make it into a fashion design degree and that it was a good idea for him to go into it, when like…. he was dressed like he’d rolled out of nightclub dumpster in the mid2000s. like bro. good luck with that.

•get angry at you for having your own personal items- like your own jacket, bag (if you’re a woman) and phone and so they then feel the need to either isolate you from your property by either:

(A.) trying to make you lose your shit. for example, your drop your phone on the dancefloor and they kick it away from you. you tell them to stop because “hey that’s my fucking phone! i need my fucking phone!” or the like. they then pretend not to hear you until they’ve realised that you’re on the floor trying to reclaim your phone from the other people on the dancefloor, and this guys stupid fucking feet kicking it away from you on purpose.

they finally concede and let you pick up your phone, rolling their eyes saying in an aggressive and wounded tone “i’m sorry (obvs meaning that they’re not sorry) . i thought that was a drink 🙃🤬😤. when literally NO ONE can fucking mistake a phone for a fucking bottle or cup or glass of whatever alcohol they might be drinking or a cup of water. and also, no one in their right mind would trust a stranger they’ve known for literally only an hour to keep their shit “safe” in a nightclub, when they can just walk off with it…. which leads to my next point.

and/or

(B.) they literally try to confiscate your shit off of you as a way to monitor YOUR access to your own property…. which is really under the guise that you’ll probably forget that you’ve allowed them to take your shit and “put it in my (their) pockets to help you and keep your phone and bag safe!”….. all as if you’re a child and they’re the parent disciplining a teenager’s access to their phone when they’ve misbehaved…. so that THEY ARE the ONLY adult in this situation; even though you both may be in your 20s

•continually try to force you to smile by saying shit like “why the fuck won’t you smile for me and look like you’re having a good fucking time for me??? fucking smile, you fucking stupid bitch!” and so on, so forth.

know that these people will probably continue this behaviour behind closed doors and so aren’t worth your time. i’m saying this bc i met a guy like this way before the pandemic in 2017 (so i was in my early 20s), who i’ve flatteringly named mr bar creeper weasel mcfuck ever since, and i knew from the get go that i did not actually like him. i also give out this advice, bc i understand through all the on & off lockdowns and reopening’s and social distancing and everything pandemic related…. that everyone is feeling lonely and desperate for connection; that some people will just throw themselves at whoever walks into their hands right after lockdowns finish each time.

but please know that these people are probably also banking on that as well, so they’ll probably kvetch to you about being lonely around their friends and your friends; but bring this shitty behaviour out away from them for the most part (the first couple of points actually happened when we were sitting in a booth with my friends and a couple of his friends). but please stand your ground- and that they would’ve been doing this way before the pandemic- much like this guy had done to me in 2017. you can do so much better than these trash piles of human beings who want to monitor your every move…. solely bc it means that they then have a body in their bed for the night. don’t sacrifice your sanity for these creepy ass people.

i’ve actually made several posts about this guy over the years since this incident, and have listed his other weird behaviours and shit he said in other posts. however, these things listed on this post are probably the most important questionable behaviours that people may ignore as red flags when they’re feeling lonely…. especially during times such as the hellscape pandemic. keep your eyes out for these shitty behaviours in 2022 when all politicians seem to think, disregarding the advice of experts, that we’ll be “back to normal”; to stay clear of these overly controlling people, no matter their gender and sexuality.

[luminescencefics]

(there is) no time like the present

On his way towards the rest of their friends in the booth by the back of the pub, Niall finally spots Aisling’s auburn hair and glittery dress standing near the wooden table. He’d be lying if he didn’t think she looked quite pretty. Niall’s always known Aisling to be pretty, in a way that he knows that thunder follows lightning during a storm and that the sun always shines the brightest in the summer. It was just a universal thing.

But tonight, he finds that he’s entirely hyperaware of Aisling’s prettiness.

And he isn’t quite sure what to do about that.

A (short) story about a brown-haired boy and an auburn-haired girl trying to convince the world that they aren’t lonely, and how time really isn’t of the essence.

written for the 1dff discord server fic challenge

new year’s eve // roommates trope

niall/ofc, 8k words | banner credit

11:34

In Aisling O’Leary’s twenty-eight years of living, she has known two constants. The first being, she could never say no to people. No matter how hard she tried to, she just couldn’t bring herself to disappoint the people she cared about most in her life. She blames that on her trait of always trying to please people. The second constant is that she was a settler, in every sense of the word.

She settled with her group of friends in secondary school back home in Clifden. She settled when she chose to go to university across the country in Dublin instead of taking the leap and applying to schools in her dream city of London. She settled with her marketing position at a publishing house when her dream was to be an editor. And, she settled with her last boyfriend of two years, Cormac Hayes.

When he decided to end things with her three months ago, Aisling knows that she probably should have been more upset over it. Truth is, she stayed with Cormac for that long because it was easy. He loved her at arm’s length and she was okay with that. He gave her attention and loved her the best way he knew how, and although it wasn’t enough for Aisling in the end, she sort of just let it happen. And when she didn’t even shed a tear over losing her boyfriend of two years, she wasn’t surprised in the least.

That’s just how Aisling O’Leary worked.

She tries her hardest to ignore the constant ringing of her mobile from the inside of her purse under her work desk. It was Friday afternoon and she was practically the only soul in the office because most of her other co-workers decided to take the day off to prepare for this evening’s New Year’s Eve festivities.

Aisling didn’t really think too much about it, to be honest. What did she have to celebrate this past year? The fact that she received an end of the year bonus at her job that she hasn’t enjoyed for the past four years? The fact that she’s single, once again? The fact that she’s still living with her uni mate and putting off her goal of moving to London?

She pushes those thoughts away when an image of said uni mate flashes across the screen of her mobile.

“Niall, for the love of god, please stop ringing me,” Aisling scolds, harshly whispering into the receiver. It’s really no use considering it’s just her and the unlucky intern who couldn’t get the day off, but she does it anyways for dramatic intent.

“As lovely as ever, sweet Aisling,” Niall starts, the sound of whooshing air in the background a bit distracting. Aisling can only assume that he’s walking around outside, the sound of the chilling winter wind blowing through the phone loudly giving him away.

“Sorry, Niall. Just, uh, busy is all.” Aisling lies and Niall doesn’t even try to fall for it. She does feel a little bad for snapping at him, because it’s really not his fault that she’s in such a shit mood. And taking it out on her uni mate turned flatmate turned best mate just wasn’t really fair.

Niall Horan crashed into Aisling’s life during her first year at University College Dublin (the word crashed used very appropriately). She was sitting towards the back of her Art History lecture, a random gen-ed requirement her advisor forced her to take. She chose the back because she assumed she wouldn’t be bothered, but then eight minutes after class began, Niall ran in with flushed cheeks and his freshly bleached blonde hair standing up all over the place. And out of all the empty seats in the entire lecture hall, he chose to sit next to Aisling.

He spent the entirety of the lecture fidgeting in the plastic seat next to Aisling, looking over her shoulder at the notes she was scribbling down aggressively. He didn't even bother to bring a notebook, let alone a pen, to the lecture. Normally, Aisling would find that infuriating. But when it comes to Niall, Aisling has found that most of the things that should bother her just, well, don’t.

“I’m walking into the shops. Everyone’s been texting like mad about tonight, driving me up the fuckin’ wall. Did you put the group chat on mute again?” Niall asks and Aisling doesn’t even bother answering, because of course she did.

It’s not that she didn’t like her uni mates, because they really were the best friends Aisling has ever had. But when they decided amongst themselves that her and Niall’s flat would be the destination for pre-drinks tonight, conveniently leaving Aisling and Niall out of the conversation altogether, she couldn’t help but grow increasingly annoyed.

But in typical Aisling fashion, she just let it happen. She blames it on that first constant of hers.

“Just while I was working. Didn’t want to be distracted,” Aisling decides to say, pausing as she hears the sound of an automatic door opening and closing on Niall’s end. She knows he’s probably completely aware that she’s not that excited about tonight. But in typical Niall fashion, he tries to find the silver lining in every situation—even if he is feeling equally as shitty about this evening.

“Well, you’re probably the only person in all of Ireland working today,” Niall says, a chuckle added at the end to let Aisling know that he’s just messing with her.

“That’s not true. Sean’s here with me, having the time of his life.” Aisling watches the office intern sit at his desk with his head in his hands, clearly hungover and annoyed that he got stuck working the day of New Year’s Eve. She feels a bit bad for the lad, empathetic to his cause.

Niall agrees. “What’re we drinking tonight, Aisling? How ossified do we feel like getting, scale of one to ten?”

Aisling sighs. She knows getting drunk off her arse tonight is probably not the best move to make. But then she starts to think of her friends and how they seem a lot more bearable after a few drinks. She starts to think about the past three months of her life and how she feels like she’s just taking up space. She starts to think about the last phone call she had with her mam, and how she’s suddenly begun to worry about her oldest daughter. She starts to think about her future, and how she’s not really excited about it at all, to be fair.

The more she thinks about it, the more getting completely plastered sounds better and better in her head.

“Whiskey. Lots of it,” Aisling replies, sure and assertive.

“There’s my girl,” Niall says, and she can practically hear the glass bottles being added to the shopping trolley. “I’ll see you when you get home. Let’s just try and have fun tonight, yeah? Forget about all the bullshit.”

Aisling agrees to try her hardest to do that for Niall. But she’s got enough bullshit going on in her life to hold anybody down, and if she’s going to try and get over it, she’s going to need a lot of whiskey to do that.

And some courage—lots of it.

14:08

In Niall Horan’s twenty-eight years of living, he’s known two constants. The first being, he puts too much trust in other people, not nearly guarding his heart the way he should. He’s always fallen too quickly and too harshly, never really thinking of the repercussions. The second constant being that he was always blissfully one step behind everybody else, overlooking hidden clues and secret hints, not really understanding the longing look in another person’s eyes, or why their cheeks heat up around somebody’s presence. He wouldn’t blame that on selfishness, per se, rather, naiveté. If it wasn’t hitting Niall right in the face, chances are he completely missed it.

He’s thinking about his unguarded heart while lining up the various liquor bottles he bought at the shops a few hours ago, creating a makeshift bar on the kitchen countertop. His mind briefly falls to Sheridan, as it does most times when he’s feeling a bit lonely. He thinks about her blonde hair and turquoise eyes and warm pale skin. How she was the most important thing in his life on and off for five years. How he loved her with everything inside of him, and he figured that would be enough.

But then she gets a job offer a world away in America, and she takes it without even looking back. Without even considering how it would affect Niall. Without even including him in the conversation.

He wonders if she’s always been selfish with his heart.

Niall tries his hardest to not think about it. She left Ireland almost nine months ago, and he really has been doing better. He wants nothing more than to forget about this year. It was one filled with heartbreak and anger and pain, and the idea of drinking his sorrows away to start over again is exactly what he needed.

But there’s no denying that Niall Horan is admittedly lonely.

He thinks of Aisling, and how she seems just as lost as he is most of the time. Back in uni she was always the rational one between the pair, always taking notes and showing up to class and making sure that Niall kept his head on straight. When he meets Sheridan at the end of their first year, he remembers instantly thinking that she was the one for him. He blames it on that first constant of his.

Sheridan Walsh was beautiful and rich and, admittedly, so far out of Niall’s league the second he met her at a mutual friend’s house party. She was studying linguistics at Trinity as a hobby, a job at her parent’s enormous investment bank already secured. Her family had an expansive estate in Killiney overlooking Dalkey Island and Niall did everything he could to try and fit into her world.

When he meets her he charms her instantly, and the second he realizes that she was in a different social class than his own, Niall runs into Aisling’s dorm room and begs her to strip the bleach from his hair. He spends Years Two and Three doing everything he can to impress Sheridan, and finally one night she gives in, and he feels as if he’s floating through thin air.

To this day, Niall still isn’t sure what it was about him that made Sheridan finally agree to start dating him. She didn’t approve of his course of study, she found his hometown of Mullingar to be quaint, and she never really understood why he decided to live with Aisling in their too-small flat.

If there’s one thing Niall can appreciate most about his friendship with Aisling (and there’s a lot to be thankful for, to be fair) it’s that she tried her hardest to be nice to Sheridan, even though there would never be a world where the two of them would ever be friends. Aisling showed Niall how to properly knot a tie to prepare him for meeting Sheridan’s parents, she explained to him the difference between an oyster fork and a salad fork whenever he had to go to fancy dinner parties, and she constantly reminded him that he shouldn’t try as hard to fit into Sheridan’s world, because she loved him just the way he was.

If only it were true in the end.

In reality, Niall has a lot to be thankful for when it comes to Aisling O’Leary. He just hopes that he purchased enough whiskey to try and make her enjoy herself for the first time in three months.

17:41

Normally it takes Aisling twenty minutes to get home from her office near O’Connell Street to her and Niall’s shared flat in Ranelagh. But she’s stalling, walking along the River Liffey in the brisk evening weather instead of getting on the bus to start getting ready for tonight.

Niall knows this, as he’s grown accustomed to Aisling whipping open the front door twenty minutes after five, complaining about the crammed rush hour commute while untying her boots and throwing her scarf haphazardly over their wobbly coat hanger. He’s currently watching the clock change from the half hour mark almost nearing quarter to six, debating if he should ring her or not.

As if reading his mind, Aisling shoots Niall a text, assuring him that she’s not avoiding their mates (lie) and that she isn’t contemplating ditching this evening’s festivities (lie) and that she’s stopping at the nearest shop to grab snacks for their friends (half-lie turned truth). Niall doesn’t bother telling her that their friends already agreed to bring food over, because he knows Aisling better than she knows herself sometimes. Instead, he writes, Do what you need to do, A. I’ve got a drink waiting for you when you get home xx, and Aisling starts to feel a bit more at ease.

It’s near six when Aisling appears with a shopping bag filled with crackers and the nicest assortment of cheese she could find last minute. Niall can hear her usual foot pattern by the front door while he starts pouring the two of them whiskey neats in the nice glasses Sheridan re-gifted him two Christmases ago.

“Sorry I was late. The shops were brutal, too many people banging about. Couldn’t even find the good cheese Cara likes,” Aisling says, entering the kitchen with a smile headed in Niall’s direction. He watches as she starts putting the items into the fridge and respective cupboards, avoiding making eye contact.

“If you turned your mobile on every now and then, you’d have seen that Cara and Robbie already got food for tonight,” Niall says, sliding Aisling’s drink across the kitchen counter.

Aisling gives Niall a sheepish look. “Right. I was just—”

“—Busy.” Niall gives Aisling a look she knows all too well, and she immediately feels guilty, slumping down in the chair across from him. “Your mam rang me earlier. Was wondering why her lovely daughter wasn’t answering her calls.”

Aisling chuckles softly, bringing the glass to her lips. “Ah, of course she did. Sometimes I think she rings you because she likes you a bit too much.”

“What can I say? Mam’s love me—especially yours,” Niall says with a grin, puffing his chest out a bit.

Aisling snorts. “Did she say anything of interest this time ‘round?”

“Just went on about how your da can’t find a proper barmaid for tonight,” Niall says, the mention of Aisling’s family’s pub in Clifden bringing a nostalgic smile to her face. “She might have also mentioned that she’s worried about you.”

Aisling frowns. “Worried?”

Niall nods cautiously. “Yeah. She thinks you're lonely.”

Aisling pauses for a moment, watching the amber liquid inside her cup slosh with each swivel of the glass on the countertop. She really hates that word—lonely. To Aisling, loneliness implies the absence of something. How can she miss a feeling she’s never even truly felt in the first place? The only thing Aisling has felt for the past few years has been complacency. And that’s one she’d love to shed with the new year.

“Well, she’s nothing to worry about. ‘M not lonely,” Aisling mumbles, downing the rest of her drink with one large gulp.

Niall cocks an eyebrow in her direction. “That’s exactly what a lonely person would say.”

It’s one of those rare moments when Aisling can’t tell if Niall is taking the piss or genuinely concerned. But with one look in his blue eyes, Aisling decides to go with the latter.

“I promise you, Niall, I’m not lonely. It’s been three months. I barely even think about Cormac anymore, so quit your worrying,” Aisling counters, beginning to pour herself another glass, this time a bit shorter.

“You never even thought about him to begin with,” Niall quips, finishing his drink as well. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Aisling doesn’t really know how to answer that, because there’s no denying that Niall is absolutely correct. She just isn’t quite sure how to explain to her best mate that she never truly felt heartbreak in the same capacity that he did. Cormac ending things with Aisling did not shatter her heart the same way that Sheridan did to Niall’s.

Aisling starts to wonder if there’s something wrong with this so-called heart of hers.

“I think I saw it coming before it actually happened, ya know?” Aisling begins to explain. “I think I knew Cormac wasn’t the one for me. It made the blow less harsh, in a way.” It’s a version of the truth that both Niall and Aisling can settle on. And she can tell that he’s understanding as he nods through his final swallow of whiskey.

“Just want you to be happy, is all,” Niall says, placing his empty glass on the countertop. “It’s the beauty of New Years, my sweet Aisling. You can start fresh.”

Aisling just smiles, finishing her glass as well. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

And this time, she truly hopes he is.

19:22

Aisling is starting to think that it’s far too early for her friends to be this inebriated.

It’s barely half past seven and her friends had started to arrive nearly an hour earlier. After her unsettling conversation with Niall, Aisling resorted to locking herself in her bedroom with the excuse of getting ready. Instead, she sat in the shower for far too long until the hot water turned cold, building up the courage to just try and let loose for one fucking night.

The second she hears Cara and Robbie enter the flat, Aisling immediately fights the urge to down another whiskey neat.

There was a time when Aisling believed that Cara and Robbie would be the first pair out of their uni group to get married. They had been together ever since Aisling lived next door to Cara in the dorms during her first year at UCD. And while everybody else had seemingly tried to grow up during the past seven years, Cara and Robbie seemed content in their post-uni bubble.

Aisling was pretty sure that bubble should have been popped some time after their twenty-fifth birthdays.

“Oi! Aisy! Pass me a fresh Smithwick while you’re at it!” Conor hollers over from the small loveseat in the living room when he notices Aisling heading towards the fridge for a new drink.

She nods, biting her tongue at the ridiculous nickname that he hasn’t stopped calling her since Year Two. Aisling’s just happy he isn’t calling her feek anymore.

If Aisling had the choice, she would never have had Conor worm his way into the inner-workings of their unusual friend group. But alas, Conor came along with Niall, and if Aisling wanted to keep Niall in her life (which she very much would like to), then she had to suck it up and deal with his unruly best mate.

Aisling passes Conor the freshly opened bottle of beer, smiling politely at the pretty brown-haired girl seated to his right. According to Niall, Conor’s been bringing her along to their group pub outings for a few weeks now. Aisling promised to remember her name if she stuck around for another month. Conor had a bad habit of flying through girls, and it became harder with each new face to remember their names.

Aisling heads back into the kitchen to start preparing the cheeseboard, watching in her periphery as a long slender red-painted finger reaches out to snatch a stray cracker hanging off the side of the tray.

“Wait your turn like everybody else, Han,” Aisling scolds, ignoring the snicker her friend makes in between bites of the cracker.

“Sorry mum, you know how I get if I don’t eat something before drinking,” Hannah says, her Scouse accent already beginning to muddle together. Aisling does her best to keep her eye roll to herself.

“It’s too early for you to be slurring. Lay off the drink until we get to the pub, okay?” Aisling responds, reaching out to grab the half-finished vodka tonic in Hannah’s shaky hands. She tosses it aside, hopefully long forgotten by the time Hannah finishes eating something.

She watches Hannah nod her head agreeably, before sneaking another cracker off of the plate. This time, Aisling doesn’t scold her.

“I’m sorry you’re ringing in the New Year all by yourself,” Hannah says after Aisling has a sip of her drink. “Shite being alone, innit?”

There’s that word again. Alone. Aisling shrugs half-heartedly even though she doesn’t really agree with Hannah’s logic. Even if she tried to explain it to her, she knows she wouldn’t understand it. While Hannah’s been a great friend to Aisling over the years, she’s admittedly been quite selfish. Therefore, Aisling tries not to burden her with matters of the heart.

Niall overhears the conversation when he walks into the kitchen with Hannah’s boyfriend Rory, and immediately he starts to feel a bit guilty.

Aisling and Cormac would never have met if it weren’t for Niall. They both played together in Niall's men’s league for footie, and he thought that they would be a good match together. So when he gave Cormac his flatmate’s number one night after practice and a week later they went out to dinner, Niall really believed that he did Aisling a solid.

Now though, he feels a bit shitty.

“What’re you two gossiping about?” Rory asks, slinging an arm over Hannah’s pointy shoulders, unaware of the awkward tension left hanging in the kitchen from Hannah’s previous comment.

“Nothing, babe. Just sad that Aisling won’t have a New Year’s kiss,” Hannah says, the backhanded dig flying completely over her head. Aisling feels it though, and so does Niall, who immediately steps in.

“Keep drinkin’ like that Hannah and you might not make it to midnight for a kiss this year either.” The lightness of his tone makes it seem to Hannah and Rory that he’s just joking with them, but Aisling knows Niall, and she can hear the undercurrent of frustration laced between his words. So when she lifts her head up and looks at him and already finds that he’s staring right back at her, she smiles a bit, mouthing a quick thank you in his direction.

Sometimes, she’s really lucky to have a friend like Niall.

21:43

Niall slams down his second shot of whiskey since entering the pub nearly thirty minutes ago, and he’s finally starting to feel that type of drunkenness where everything seems a bit lighter and everybody seems a lot happier. They’ve chosen a pub in Parnell Square in favor over the crowded pubs in the Temple Bar area, and he’s happy with their choice considering the pub is filled with twenty-somethings instead of the usual younger, rowdier crowd.

After the incident in the kitchen, Niall finds himself keeping a closer watch on Aisling. While he knows the past few months have been quite hard on her, he didn’t realize how apathetic some of their mates were. He also didn’t notice how sad it made her.

He wonders if she’s always felt like this, and he’s always just been too wrapped up in his own sadness to notice her own.

Regretfully, he blames that second constant of his.

“Oi, Horan! Drink up!” Conor yells over from his left, another shot of whiskey waiting for him on the bartop. Niall tears his eyes away from Aisling, instead focusing on the overflowing shot glass in front of him. He gulps, already mentally preparing to slow down in order to keep his wits about him until midnight approaches.

Niall shoots the drink back, slamming the glass onto the sticky bartop and wiping the back of his hand over his lips. He can hear Conor cackling beside him, and he tries to ignore the elbow digging into his ribcage. He tries to find Aisling’s wavy auburn hair through the crowd, or even her sparkly long-sleeved dress, but it’s no use. She’s too far out of his view.

“Are you lookin’ to pull?” Conor asks smugly after noticing Niall’s gaze flittering over the other side of the pub.

“Nah mate. Not tonight,” Niall replies, the thought of pulling a random girl for the night sounding entirely unappealing.

Conor turns towards his friend, putting his back to his pretty date. “Niall, tonight’s the perfect night for a random lay. C’mon mate, it’s New Years! Every single bird here is looking for an easy shag. It’s been months anyways, what’re you waiting for? Sheri’s not comin’ back.”

Niall tries his hardest not to flinch at his friend’s words. He knows deep down that if he really wanted to sleep with a random girl for the night, he could. And earlier, he probably would have done just that to cure his loneliness. But now the thought of doing just that sort of makes his skin crawl a little.

Including the fact that he can’t stop trying to find his flatmate in the crowded pub. But he’s not quite sure what that means.

“Fuck off Conor. I know she’s not coming back.” Niall’s annoyed that his friend decided to bring Sheridan up. He just wishes everybody would stop fucking bringing her up.

Conor just shrugs. “Then why aren’t you lookin’ for an easy lay?”

Niall’s grip on his whiskey coke is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth before taking a long sip, before giving his stupid friend one last annoyed look. “Because sex isn’t the answer to everything.” And with that, Niall walks away.

“It sure helps though, prick!” Conor shouts from his place at the bar, and Niall just shakes his head, ignoring him.

On his way towards the rest of their friends in the booth by the back of the pub, Niall finally spots Aisling’s auburn hair and glittery dress standing near the wooden table. He’d be lying if he didn’t think she looked quite pretty. Niall’s always known Aisling to be pretty, in a way that he knows that thunder follows lightning during a storm and that the sun always shines the brightest in the summer. It was just a universal thing.

But tonight, he finds that he’s entirely hyperaware of Aisling’s prettiness.

He’s watching the way her head falls back when a loud laugh rips through her lungs, her long auburn hair falling past her shoulders, catching the dim pub lighting in a way that stops Niall dead in his tracks. The sparkles in her shift dress glitter with every bend of her knees or swivel of her hips, and Niall tries his hardest to keep his eyes off of Aisling’s lower half. Her eyes have that glow to them that only happens when she feels totally comfortable, and he’s wondering if it’s genuine or if the liquor is helping mask her unease surrounding tonight.

Before he’s caught, Niall pulls himself together and approaches the group.

“Niall!” Aisling squeals once he’s entered the small half-huddle the girls in the group have formed. She’s leaning in, a bit unsteady on her chunky heels, and Niall can feel the whiskey warmth of her breath fan over his cheeks. She’s definitely drunk, Niall thinks, securing an arm around her middle so Aisling doesn’t end up arse over tit on the dirty pub floor.

“Somebody’s havin’ fun,” Niall pushes through a grin, his arms tightening around her waist once Aisling presses two small hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She giggles and it sounds like the prettiest song he’s ever heard.

“Wasn’t it you who told me to drink away all the bullshit?” Aisling asks, finishing the rest of her drink, her head falling back on her neck dramatically as she swallows. Niall chuckles, grabbing the empty glass from her shaky fingers before it slips and cracks on the floor.

“Might’ve. But slow your roll, sweet Aisling. Still three hours left until midnight,” Niall tuts, smiling a bit when she huffs out in disappointment, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. He finds it incredibly adorable.

“Don’t leave me alone with these eejits then! They’re the ones forcing drinks down me throat!” Aisling calls out, pointing a skinny finger towards Cara and Robbie who look responsible. Her Western accent grows much stronger with each level of intoxication Aisling passes, and Niall knows that if she continues he’s going to start struggling piecing together what she’s trying to say.

So he laughs, removing his arm around her waist and throwing it around her shoulders instead, pulling her closer to his chest so that his chin rests above the crown of her head.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” Niall says, and Aisling smiles back, squeezing his hand that dangles in front of her chest tightly in thanks.

Niall squeezes back, thinking that if he had to spend the next three hours with her, he wouldn’t mind at all. He especially wouldn’t mind it if Aisling was still tucked under his arm once midnight struck.

23:38

Aisling has spent the last twenty minutes holding Cara’s curly hair back while she retches into the toilet. She stopped drinking about an hour ago once she noticed the pallor beneath Cara’s copper skin, knowing it was only a matter of time until she grew sick.

And just like clockwork, with an hour to go until midnight, Cara grabbed Aisling with shaky hands and dragged her to the toilet before vomiting into the porcelain basin below. Aisling rubs her friend’s back, wrapping her curly hair around her wrists to make sure the coiled tendrils stay vomit-free.

She wishes the night didn’t have to end like this.

But it seems to always happen whenever she’s around Cara. As much as Aisling loves her, she can’t help but wonder if this is how it’ll always be with her friend. She wonders when she’ll finally just grow up.

Once again, Aisling has to give up her night in order to make sure Cara’s isn’t ruined.

Cara moans under her and Aisling snaps out of her miserable state, asking her friend if she was okay and if she needed anything. Cara shakes her head, albeit still unsteady on her feet as she slowly hobbles over towards the sink. Aisling sighs for what feels like the hundredth time, wishing her friend would stop being so stubborn.

Before they leave the toilets, Aisling dampens some paper towels and blots it over Cara’s sticky forehead. Her friend swats at her wrists angrily, snatching the wet paper towels from Aisling’s hands and throwing it into the rubbish bin.

“‘M wearing foundation Aisling! Christ, yer gonna fuck it up!” Cara scolds, walking past her friend and fixing what’s left of her mangled curls into a topknot.

Aisling just frowns, wishing her friend would be a bit kinder to her considering she did just spend the better part of her evening holding her hair back and listening to her retch into a shitty public toilet.

“Sorry,” Aisling mumbles, because she knows she could never yell at her friend no matter how angry she makes her. Aisling would rather not rock the boat, so instead she just lets Cara take out her frustrations on her. She’s been doing it for the past seven years anyways, why stop now?

Cara says nothing. Instead, she irons out her black dress with her hands and leaves the toilets, heading towards their group of friends in the back of the pub. Aisling watches her go, taking a few seconds to herself to just breathe.

If Aisling were a different person, she probably would have told Cara off for acting like a Grade A Bitch. She would tell her to stop being so selfish, to stop making everything about her, to stop acting like such a fucking child.

But Aisling is not that person.

So instead she shakes those words from her head, focusing on regulating her breathing and making sure the redness in her cheeks goes away. She wishes she was the same level of drunkenness she happened to be a few hours ago, where everything seemed a bit more bearable and she wasn’t focusing on the shittier parts of her friendships.

When she emerges from the hallway, she spots Niall immediately. She’s found that he’s always standing a bit closer to her than normal, always making sure she’s okay and that she’s enjoying herself. She’s grateful for it, if she’s being honest, because out of everybody in this crowded pub, she’s happy that it’s Niall who’s standing by her side.

She watches as his brown hair flops over his forehead, hanging around his face in a messy boyish way. He looks handsome with his white button down shirt tucked into his navy blue houndstooth dress pants. When he turns a bit so he can laugh at whatever obscene joke Conor just made, she can see the way the shirtsleeves tighten around his flexed bicep, and the way his waist looks thinner when he swivels his hip, and the way his arse arches in his new pants.

Aisling is immediately transported back to a time when every movement Niall made would make her blush uncontrollably. When his hair was blonder and his laugh was louder and he wasn’t as muscley—when he would barge into her dorm room at all hours of the day and show up at Aisling’s library table and doodle notes and scribbles on her coursework. When she found herself crushing on her first ever real uni mate, when she tried her hardest to ignore it, until it ultimately faded as the years passed on.

But sometimes, in moments like this, the feelings would shoot straight into her chest like a lightning strike, and she finds herself struggling for air. It usually happened in fleeting moments—typically when he laughed so hard his blue eyes scrunched, or he held her really tightly whenever she had a bad day, and especially when he called her sweet Aisling.

And just like that, the moment is gone, leaving just as quickly as it came. As if noticing her absence (something that he’s been doing a lot of tonight), blue eyes meet hazel and he cocks his head in concern, the silent question of Are you okay? floating through the air until it stops right in Aisling’s path.

She nods her head and it’s entirely unconvincing. But before Niall could leave their friends and approach Aisling, she gestures towards the bar with a small smile, insinuating she was going to grab a new drink. Niall just nods, staring at her as she approaches the bartop.

As soon as she feels the heat of his gaze leave her back, Aisling orders a water. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to be here anymore, the dreaded feelings she had earlier in the day flooding her insides without warning. She doesn’t give a fuck about midnight anymore, doesn’t give a fuck about watching her mates cheers to the start of a new year.

She just wants to leave.

23:55

Niall turns away from his conversation with Conor, wondering why Aisling hasn’t returned to their spot in the back of the pub. He watched her head towards the bar almost ten minutes ago, and he’s not quite sure if there’s something wrong.

He’s reminded back to the lifeless look in her eyes when she left the toilets with Cara moments ago, and he instantly feels his stomach drop a little at the thought of something bad happening to her. Did they get into a fight? Did Cara say something to upset her? Where the fuck is she?

“Cara, where’s Aisling?” Niall asks, leaning into her ear to talk over the loud music. He cranes his neck towards the bar where he last saw her, and finds that her auburn hair is no longer in view.

Cara shrugs her shoulders, looking less than interested in this conversation. “Dunno, mate. Fucked off in the jacks ‘coupla minutes ago.” Niall scrunches his nose at the lingering smell of bile on her breath.

“What’d you do?” Niall knows that his tone is a bit accusatory, but he feels like an idiot for not realizing that Aisling was upset sooner. He’s instantly brought back to the kitchen when Hannah hurt her feelings, and Niall’s left wondering if he’s as much of a prick as their friends have been lately.

“Oh, fuck off Niall,” Cara starts, laughing even though it’s not funny. “Did nothin’! She probably just doesn’t wanna be ‘ere durin’ midnight ‘cos she’s single and all.”

Niall knows that isn’t true. He also knows that if Cara had asked Aisling herself, she would know that Aisling could give less of a shit about being single.

Niall’s suddenly left with the unwavering thought that maybe nobody has asked Aisling how she’s truly felt in a long time.

Before he can reply, he notices the countdown start to begin, and suddenly he doesn't want to be around his friends at all.

He wants to find Aisling.

23:59

Aisling can hear the ten second countdown from her spot outside the pub, leaning against the cold brick wall, cooling her down from the inside out. Her winter coat is still clenched in her right hand, the heat of her anger keeping her warm against the evening breeze.

Her eyes are closed tight and she’s trying her hardest not to cry. Aisling knows it’s stupid—crying over her friends who didn’t even spare her a second glance when she stormed out of the pub door. She doesn’t want to blame them, because even though they can be selfish and unaware of her sadness, Aisling has let it slide for far too long. She’s starting to think that her friends have grown accustomed to her knack of shrugging things off her shoulder, and she really only has herself to blame.

Aisling sighs as she hears the countdown end, the sounds of celebration reverberating through the thick brick. She’s ringing in this new year alone, as it seems, and she wonders if she’s part to blame for it.

She wonders why she’s never spoken up when her friends overlook her feelings and say hurtful things about her. Aisling knows that they aren’t intentional, and that her friends don’t truly mean to hurt her feelings, but part of her wishes they would just understand.

She wonders why she’s never been bold enough to go after the job she actually wanted. Why she stays working her shitty desk job day after day, losing interest in everything around her. Why she never acted on that job listing she received an email from in London, why she never even tried to move there in the first place.

She wonders why she’s wasted so much time trying to find love in boys who can never offer her what she truly needs. Why even though Cormac was a sound lad, she knew he wasn’t right for her, but the thought of leaving him was much more difficult than staying, so she chose the easier option.

Aisling wishes she was the type of person to speak up, to act on what she wants, to simply be better.

But she isn’t.

So she sinks down to the cool pavement below her, her neck stretched upwards as her head rests on the brick wall. Her eyes are still closed shut, and she thinks that if she keeps them closed, she can squeeze out the girl she so badly wants to get rid of.

She thinks that when she opens her eyes again, she’ll be a new person. The person she wants to be.

00:03

Niall finally finds Aisling outside, her head resting against the wall upturned towards the night sky. Her eyes are closed and Niall’s eyes are trained on her long ivory neck, and he wonders what would have happened if he came out here just as the clock struck midnight.

He shakes that thought from his head, because she looks so small. So unsure. So sad.

Aisling doesn’t look at Niall until he’s sitting near her with his warm hand resting on her bent knee. He’s looking at her as her eyes flutter open, hazel eyes glassy from the tears threatening to fall. He knows Aisling though—knows her so well that she won’t let them fall, no matter how badly she wants to.

She offers Niall a weak smile, and he’s sitting close enough that he can see her bottom lip wobble. It makes him angry.

“Ready to get out of here?” Niall asks softly, ignoring the millions of other questions he wants to ask her. He knows how fragile she is. How adamant she is about not explaining her feelings, so he takes the easy way out even though it kills him to do so.

Aisling smiles at him, a little stronger than before. “Please.”

Niall doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he stands up, grabbing her winter coat in one hand and her smaller hand in the other. Once she’s standing in front of him, close enough that he can feel her shaky breath on his neck, he holds open her coat and buttons her up.

“Let’s go.”

00:52

Niall and Aisling have been sitting around the kitchen island, a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the countertop between them. Aisling’s heels are discarded somewhere near the front door, her feet resting on the unoccupied stool to Niall’s left. He’s rubbing her shins in between pulls of liquor, his navy blazer thrown over the couch, the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt opened to show his patch of chest hair.

They haven’t really said much in the fifteen minutes they’ve been home. Niall knows when to bite, and he knows that getting Aisling reacquainted with whiskey will make the conversation a lot easier.

So they sit. And he jokes. And she smiles.

It’s only after Niall says something stupid that makes Aisling snort—something that should be completely unattractive to most but Niall finds it incredible endearing—that her words make Niall’s heart stop.

“God, now I remember why I had such a crush on you in uni,” Aisling says after a pull of whiskey.

Niall stops his laughing, eyes immediately going wide. “Wait, what?”

“Oi, quit being an eejit,” she says with a roll of her hazel eyes. “Don’t act surprised, everybody knew.”

But Niall can’t help it. He is surprised.

Why hadn’t anybody told him? More so, why hadn’t she told him?

Was he really the only person who didn’t know?

“Aisling, why didn’t you tell me?” Niall asks, his voice void of teasing. He’s honest and when she looks deep into his ocean eyes, Aisling realizes that she probably shouldn’t have mentioned the crush she had on him in uni seven years ago.

“I genuinely thought you knew. Christ Niall, everybody knew,” she whispers, placing the whiskey bottle back on the table separating them.

“I just—I,” Niall’s confused. And overwhelmed. And slightly angry with himself. “Just wish I knew, is all.”

“Why? It wouldn’t have changed anything, Niall. It was years ago. And you were with Sheri. It really isn’t a big deal, I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“—Don’t do that,” Niall says abruptly, cutting her off.

Aisling’s eyes widen, mirroring Niall’s. “Do what?”

Niall huffs in response, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “Act like your feelings don’t matter. They do. And I just—fuck, I dunno, Aisling. I just wish I fucking knew.”

“Why, what would you have done?” Aisling asks, repeating herself, half out of annoyance and half out of sheer curiosity. She truly wishes she just kept her fucking mouth shut.

“Who knows,” Niall says, grabbing the whiskey bottle for himself and pouring it down his throat. “Probably would have spared myself the heartache of dating a girl who could give less of a shit about me. But hey, the past is in the past. New year and all that. New beginnings or summat.” He holds up the bottle in a false cheers, his eyes dull and harsh.

Aisling’s replaying what he said earlier over and over in her head, watching as her best mate continues to gulp back whiskey.

Act like your feelings don’t matter.

Has she been doing that for years now? Acting like her feelings are insignificant, like everybody else’s feelings are more important than hers? Like every thought she has is just her completely overthinking everything?

She reaches out and grabs the bottle from Niall’s lips, placing it on the countertop in front of them with a gentle thud.

“It’s not that I don’t think my feelings matter,” Aisling starts, her voice a small mumble. “It’s just—nobody bothers to ask. I’m always helping everybody else with their problems, and it’s not that I don't want to, because I’d do it for anybody. I’m just different, I suppose. I keep things in, because sometimes the things I try and say are just shit, if I’m being honest. So I don’t really say anything.”

Niall sighs sadly, reaching across the countertop for Aisling’s hand instead of the whiskey bottle.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Niall starts, a sad look on his face. “I’m sorry I never bother to ask sometimes. It’s just, fuck Aisling, you’re just hard to read sometimes. And it’s so frustrating ‘cos you’re my best mate, yeah? I care about you so much.” Niall’s thumbs are brushing against Aisling’s hands and she tries her hardest not to shudder. “Hate when you keep things in. Need you to tell me, yeah?”

Aisling nods and she prays that Niall keeps his hands in hers.

“‘M sorry too, Niall. Care about you, too. Quite a bit.” Aisling is wondering if she’s imagining Niall leaning closer towards her, or if she just wants it to happen so badly that she’s conjuring it up in her own head.

Sitting across from Aisling in their tiny kitchenette, Niall wonders if he’s ever truly thought about kissing her before tonight. Sure, Aisling’s always been beautiful. And sure, she’s been one of his closest mates ever since they first moved in together. But as he sits here, watching the way her skin glows from the overhead lights, watching the way she’s slowly leaning in towards him, he’s really thinking about it.

So he leans in, too.

And he kisses her.

01:14

When they break apart, Aisling feels as if she’s on fire. Her forearms are balancing her upper body on the countertop, and Niall’s longer arms are holding her elbows tightly. Blue eyes meet hazel and their faces are so close that Aisling’s eyelashes are tickling the apples of Niall’s cheeks.

They’re breathing each other in before Aisling’s hand wraps around the back of Niall’s neck and she’s bringing his lips against hers for another searing kiss.

He reacts almost instantly, bringing one hand away from her elbow and up to her cheek, slotting his bottom lip over her top lip and holding back a groan from the back of his throat.

They break apart again, the edge of the counter digging into Aisling’s chest in an uncomfortable way. She sits back against the chair on her knees, her breathing labored and eyes blown wide. Niall’s staring at her, taking in her rosy cheeks and her messy hair, her swollen lips and huffing chest.

He thinks she’s the prettiest thing he’s seen all night. (Even though he knew that to begin with, to be fair).

So he stands up, holding an outstretched hand towards her body, giving her a boyish grin to which she returns instantly. “C’mere.”

Aisling practically jumps into his arms then, leaning her entire torso onto his with her arms wrapped securely around his neck. She can feel Niall’s forearms against the small of her back, and she’s standing on the tips of her toes in order to press her lips fully against his.

Niall squeezes against her hips and Aisling gasps, her mouth opening against his allowing him to lap his tongue against her own. It’s everything and more, and the sound exploding from the back of his throat practically causes Aisling to melt against his chest.

His hand is knotted into her hair, pulling back slightly so that she can reach his mouth. Aisling slowly starts to back Niall up against the wall adjacent to the hallway, and with that support he can run his hands down her back and against her bum, squeezing the skin through her glittery dress. When he pulls away for a breath, Aisling starts to kiss down the hollow of his throat, sucking a lovebite against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, causing Niall to rock his hips against hers.

“Christ Aisling,” Niall says through a strained breath, his head falling back against the wall when she blows over the fresh mark on his skin.

She steps away cautiously, her eyes wide in anxiousness. Was she doing too much? Niall practically whines when the warmth of her body leaves his own far too quickly, and his arms stretch out to bring her back to him.

“Is it too much? We can stop and forget that it even—”

“—What? Christ, who’s being the eejit now? Don’t leave,” Niall rushes out frantically, pulling Aisling flush against his chest to continue what they were doing before she left.

Aisling giggles into his mouth and it’s probably the sweetest sound he’s ever heard (a close second to her groaning into his mouth earlier). Before she can retreat again, he begins walking them backwards until she’s pushed up against the wall separating their bedrooms.

He breaks away and looks at her with a cocked eyebrow, a smirk growing against his strawberry swollen lips. “Mine or yours, sweet Aisling?”

Aisling laughs a bit, her arms still locked around his neck. Her hands are playing with the hair against the back of his neck, and he’s practically purring at the feeling of it. Without really thinking much (because how could she with the way he was looking at her?) she grabs the closest doorknob to her (which so happens to be hers) and opens it swiftly, dragging Niall by his forearms into the room until the backs of her knees hit her mattress and she’s falling into it with a gentle thud.

It’s all tangled limbs and pulled hair and knocking teeth, and they both could never have imagined their night ending this way. Niall practically rips the hidden zipper of Aisling’s dress off (“Sorry babe, can’t stop thinkin’ about what you look like under it”), Aisling tears through the remaining buttons on his white dress shirt, running her fingers through the hair on his chest causing him to groan against her neck (“Do you like that, Niall?”), Niall flips them over and when he’s leaning over her staring at Aisling hungrily in her cute little matching underwear set, he’s practically drooling at the mouth (“Dear god Aisling, you’re beautiful”), and when they’re both stripped down to nothing but skin and Niall’s leaning on his forearms over her, pushing into her with one swift breath, Aisling can feel herself falling apart inside (“Christ Niall, you’re everything”).

And when it’s all over and done with and they’re both lying against each other, breathing in and out, Aisling suddenly has a realization.

Truth is, maybe her and Niall were alone. But, for one night at least, they could forget about that. Why be alone by yourself when you could be alone together?

So with that thought, she cuddles deeper into Niall’s chest, feeling his hand tread through her auburn hair softly. Before she drifts off, he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, mumbling a quiet Happy New Year, sweet Aisling into her hair.

And when she mutters it back to him, sealing it with a kiss to his collarbone, she actually believes it for once.

That it was, truly, a very happy New Year (in the end).

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

taglist: @adoremp3​, @stylishmuser​, @ihearthemcallingforyou​, @verorax​, @unn--known​

[chandelier-s-notebook]

@the-only-gamer-gost‘s WritingTober Day 23: Free Day

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

The sandy haired boy did not like school at all. He found it a waste of time. The library was right there if he needed to learn anything. He has writing and reading under his belt, he’s good.

And his friends aren’t even in his class. His best friend is a couple years younger than him. At least that guy has the dancer that frequents his family’s tailor to keep him company.

He has been keeping track of the pink haired boy. They have become friends over the years. But he knows nothing about him. So he does some reconsents.

He comes to Port every week on his horse. Brick? Who names their horse Brick? He logs into the same dodgy inn. The one that the kids make dares out of sneaking into. And once in a while he has two horse and a cart full of produce with him. On those days he goes straight to the docks. He has a set list of customers. He doesn’t need to haggle like some of the others on the docks or in the market. Then he goes to find lodgment for his horses and cart. It looks like he normally goes to this place.

And this kid is smart. They once did a pub-quiz. He never missed a single question.

He was fascinated by the pink haired boy. He didn’t like school. The guy came back every week. If he counted correctly, he was due to come with a cart this weekend.

After the night at the fighting club, he followed the boy to his inn and found the cart. He lifted the tarp. He crawled in. He fell asleep there.

- - -

He wakes up to the back and forth lull of horses trotting down a dirt road. He has a minute to regret his decision before the cart slows to a stop.

The tarp lifts. “That can’t be comfortable. You up yet?”

He squints at the morning sun. “What time did you leave this morning?”

“If you weren’t sleeping in there you’d have missed it.”

“You knew I was there?” He stretches his back muscles.

“I’ve done this trip too many times to not have a good feel for the weight of an empty cart.”

He started at the pink haired boy. “Ah.”

“Ah.”

“I know nothing about you do I?”

“I’m sure you know more than most people. Now are you coming to sit upfront with me, or you good back there?”

He scrambled up quickly. “I’ll sit upfront.” He wasn’t sure if that was a question or command. He didn’t seen put off my his choice, so maybe things were okay?

“So who do you sell these for?” Small talk. He’d never seen so much open space.

“My family.”

“You weren’t joking about being living on a farm?”

“Nope. You realize that you’re stuck at my place for a week right?”

“Of course. That’s why I jumped in. No school.”

“Hah. I don’t miss school.”

“Miss? You don’t go to school?”

“Don’t sound so scandalized.”

“You’re only like... two months older than me. What do you mean ���you don’t miss school?’ I still have another year left.”

“Farm life is different then Port life Sandy. I need to help around the farm. Besides, I read books. I learn on my own.”

“No need to be defensive around it. I’d rather do that. But my parents won’t let me.”

“The twins still go to school most days.”

“Most?”

“Farm life.”

“Farm life?”

“Yup. You good at heavy lifting?”

“I. Maybe. Yeah. Why?”

“You’re getting put to work if you wanna stay.

- - -

“What is the size of your house?”

“There are five of us.”

“Five! You need that much space for five people?”

“No, we need that much space for horse stuff. That’s the stables and hay storage. Most of these buildings are storage for different things.”

“Why do you need so much storage?”

“We live on a farm.”

“As you keep reminding me.”

The pink haired boy brought the horses to a stop inside the stables. He dismounted and beckoned him over. “You good with horses?”

“Sure?”

He then hade him hold the horses as he unhooked the cart. Heaving it up and pushing it into the back corner. No wonder he had so much strength behind his blows. He knew he was strong from all the moving of sacs he’d seen him do. But geez!

He took the horses one at a time to take off their bridles, putting the lead rope into his hand once he was done. Then the pink haired boy left him with the horses for a few minutes.

He put the bridles away in the cupboards, and came to grab the horses from him. Walking them out to the paddock.

- - -

They went back to the stables. Grabbing their swords and outerwear from the cart.

“Bees over there.” He pointed to the cobblestone path leading away from the building they were coming up to. “You hungry?”

“Of course,” he scoffed.

“Come on, you can have the gremlin’s lunch.”

“Who’s?”

“My brother. The one that you didn’t meet.” He opened the door and hung his scabbard on a hook, throwing his coat over top of it.

He took note and hung up his cloak and sword as well.

“I have a stowaway!” he called into the kitchen. A woman was already there, making something to eat.

“You’re brothers have been here all weekend?”

He let out a laugh. Forcing the sandy haired boy to sit, he went about grabbing them some food. “Nah. I have a stowaway from Port.”

“From Port?” She turned. He gave a little wave. “I wasn’t aware you had made friends.”

“Sandy’s not my friend.” He dumped a plate of mashed potatoes and corn on the cob in front of him. “Meat’s for dinner.”

“I’m sure he has an actual name.”

“No he doesn’t.”

He laughed. He wasn’t going to correct him. This guy could be scary, adn he wasn’t in home-turf anymore. “Hello Ma’am. You don’t mind me staying the week do you?”

“We can put him to work.”

“Well in that case,” she laughed. “Eat up. The twins will be-”

“‘Ello mother! Hey you’re back!”

“We leave,” the older brother joked, nudging him.

“Who’s this?” “What’s he doing here?” the twins asked at the same time.

“This is my nemesis. He’s skipping school.”

“What! His parents let him skip school.”

There was a hand in front of his face, stopping him from quipping back.

“You think I’m not putting Port boy to work?”

You know what. He was perfectly okay admitting he was scared.

- - -

He fell into farm like with annoyance. It was more work then he did at home. He was always getting woken up super early. Having to work right after breakfast. He was mostly ferrying baskets around the farm. Not the most glamourous job. But he had no idea how to pick plants. He didn’t even know what they were growing.

The twins were out of the house during the day. He had no idea how the three of them were related.

- - -

He was shocked when it finally click that his friend never touch is sword. Was he so good he didn’t need to practice? The twins were out the window, tumbling around with two wooden blades. Presumable brought from by their older brother. Who was currently reading.

He was really tempted to join them, but he didn’t want the pinket to think him childish. “Aren’t you going to practice?” he settled for asking.

“Nah fam.”

“Why not?”

“Never have.”

“What?”

“Who am I going to practice with?” He put his book away. “Those two? I’d spend more time teaching than perfecting. My old man? He’s getting old. The people in the village? They’re all scared of me.”

“Wonder why?” he muttered.

“I picked up a sword to prove them right,” he said deadpan.

The two stared at each other, waiting for Sandy to find a response. “Well I’m here.”

“They’ll be happy to learn.”

He groaned and went outside. After a few lines of conversation, the three of them marched inside the house. The pinket didn’t even let them try to convince him. He gave up on the spot. Grabbing his sword on the way out.

The twins cheered.

- - -

The pinket swung at him full force.

Okay. This was a little much. This was a little rough. Their duel hadn’t been this rough. It was quick and clean, not rough, Oh. Wait. Little brothers.

The sword was knocked from his hand.

- - -

The Port born was paired with the brunet who had traded swords with his older brother.

The blond had complained about getting wooden swords. He shut up pretty quickly when he explained that “Sandy wouldn’t give either of him his sword; he wanted to spar while his brother wasn’t as interested; if he wanted to learn, he’d have to start with a training sword; and, I’ll leave.”

The blond shut up. He had been trying to get his brother to spar with him for years. Tried to see him fight for years. And now he was being taught? Fine.

- - -

The twins listened to everything their brother said. Sandy listening as well. Watching the siblings interact. He thought of his sister; who he kind of just left at home. She was probably worried for him. And his friends. Shit.

The brunet made him fumble for his sword.

- - -

Then the pinket and the blond had a proper spar. And he could see that his friend was playing with his little brother.

Once that was done, and the blond sated. The burnet went in for a fight.

And the blond got all his confidence back.

Sandy retreated into the house. Leave them to it. He had felt out of place all week. He didn’t want to intrude on family time aswell.

- - -

Their mother wished him well the next morning before they left for Port. He was given a horse called Carl for the journey.

He dragged his friend to meet his family. It was only fair.

- - -

They were pissed.

[yellowocaballero]

Bonus story that I regret already

A friend requested a HLVRAI/Freeman’s Mind/HL crossover. Specifically, them getting drinks, in a pub. 

I really hate to spill that I’ve seen all of HLVRAI and Freeman’s Mind, but I figure the cat’s out of the bag. It’s three pages. It’s crack. There will be no continuation. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but tw for ableist language, suggested animal abuse, and suggested slavery. So...that’s how you know Freeman Freeman’s Mind shows up. 

God, does anybody remember FM? Am I the only person who remembers FM? Am I having a stroke? Imagine if Freeman’s Mind came out in 2020. There’d be call-out posts. 

Enjoy...I think? Rest under the cut. 

********************************************

“When you think about it, dog breeding just doesn’t make any sense.”

Thank god. Gordon exhaled in relief. The guy sitting across from him in the dim, crowded pub had finally moved on from his extensive...very extensive...opinions on the IRS. Gordon had desperately tried redirecting the conversation to something more normal, like theoretical physics, or his opinion on multi-dimensional crossovers, but instead the guy just seemed very desperate that everybody know that taxation was theft.

“Right!” Gordon said enthusiastically, just trying to get word in edgewise. He knew he liked to talk, but this guy was ridiculous. “Pugs can’t give birth by themselves. It’s inhumane.”

“Oh, forget about that shit.” The guy waved a hand, burping slightly as he slammed back more of his beer. “What I’m saying is that it’s ridiculous not to train dogs to attack your enemies.”

“I don’t actually have that many -” 

But the guy was already ranting, completely talking over Gordon. Pleadingly, Gordon looked at the other guy they were sitting with for help, but he just sat there drinking his beer with eyes distantly fixed on the tacky retro diner signs hung on the wall. Traitor. 

“When you think about the entire thing’s stupid. The breed standards are just ridiculous, first off. Breeding dogs so they can’t bite, can’t bark, can’t hunt their own food? It’s stupid. What else is the point of a dog! Anybody around here remember why we breed dogs in the first place? It’s so they can help protect us, protect the pack. Dogs used to pull their own. And now they’re just shitty little lap dogs that rich old ladies use to wealth signal. It’s fucking stupid. Dogs are just freeloaders. And I don’t have any freeloaders in my house.”

“Wow,” Gordon muttered rebelliously, “did you read about that on Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia that anyone can edit?”

“So that’s why I’m proposing my new idea for dogs. A better dog. Dog 2, the sequel to dogs, if you will,” the guy continued, completely steamrolling him. “These dogs are huge, first of all. But not too huge, since you don’t want them to be a drain on your resources. I’d say definitely the size of a St. Bernard, maybe a little bit bigger. I don’t give a shit if it’s friendly to children or whatever. I don’t give a shit about children. If they can’t survive my dog attacking them, they were never going to make it to adulthood anyway. Survival of the fittest. Anyway, my dog’s going to be big. Short hair, because we live in a hot climate and I don’t want a dog that’s shedding everywhere. It’s not exactly going to be a polar rescue dog here, I need a dog that can survive the Arizona desert. But this dog has to be two things, and these two things are completely vital. Without these two things, it might as well be a Pomeranian.” The man held up two fingers. “One: the dog must be completely loyal to me. Intelligent, but not too intelligent that it doesn’t accept me as the alpha. I’m the alpha to the dog, as I’m also the alpha to the human race. Its loyalty must be complete. Like, I say jump, the dog says how high. That’s how intelligent it is too.” He pushed down the finger, keeping one up. “Second, the dog must be a cold blooded attack machine. I ain’t owning no pussy dog here. This dog is vicious. It can kill anything, and it will do it with pleasure. This dog feels no regret, pain, anguish, PTSD, hesitance, and it never fucking misses. Its teeth are huge and it’s an unrestrained attack machine. With this dog at my side, ain’t nobody’s fucking with me. Walking down the street with this dog next to me, nobody’s looking at me sideways. The chicks dig me. Everybody thinks I’m great. That’s why this is the ideal dog, above all other dogs.”

“Wow,” Gordon said desperately, really hoping that this was the end of the fucking dog conversation, “that’s great. My friend, uh, Tommy, he has a great Golden. Says it’s a perfect dog. That’s really possible actually, it survived like six turrets -”

“Idiot. That’s not what I fucking mean.” The guy scoffed at Gordon. “This perfect dog doesn’t exist. No dog is that immaculate. And if you try breeding for all those traits, you end up with some shitty inbred dog. No way. You gotta get more creative. Just wanting the perfect dog is for chumps who don’t understand genetics, evolution, dog breeding, dog training, warfare both physical and psychology, psychology itself, sociology, philosophy, or xenobiology. No. What I’m saying now is that in order to get the perfect dog, you have to breed aliens. I’m thinking headcrabs.”

Gordon distantly felt his jaw dropping. “Head - headcrabs?”

“Or those fucked up things with garbage disposal mouths,” the guy said thoughtfully. “Whatever they’re called. I don’t respect any of those shitty aliens enough to give them names. If you want me to remember your name, you have to earn it. My brain’s filled with much more important things, like theoretical physics and being better than you.”

“Garbage disposal - do you mean peeper puppies?!”

“Yeah, whatever. What I’m saying is that I’ve really cornered the market on xenobiology. I’m the world fuckin’ expert in dealing with aliens.” He looked thoughtful for a second as he chugged his beer again, which was a first. “Well. Dimensional expert. Point is, I can say with eighty seven percent confidence that, given enough time and unlimited access to a shock collar, I can train one of those shitty alien species crawling all over Black Mesa to obey my every command and slay my enemies. I could probably even turn it against its kinsmen. Get the aliens to wipe out the aliens, and humanity comes out on top. Then I turn my alien slaves against humanity, and Gordon Freeman is at top. So what do you think? Good idea or good idea?”

Gordon stared at him, slightly horrified, slightly incredulous, somehow amused. God, he had spent too much time around Benrey. This guy would love Benrey. He could never introduce them. “Terrible idea. I can’t believe we’re the same person.”

“You’re a loser. What about you, huh?” Freeman gestured with his cup at the third Gordon Freeman, who still seemed thoroughly checked out of the conversation. “What do you think? Want to invest some money into my plan? You’ll get a three hundred return on your investment, and dominion of the country of your choice.”

Gordon Freeman stared at Freeman blankly. He seemed really checked out. 

Freeman looked back at Gordon. “Is this guy retarded or something? That or he’s high off his ass, but I know how I get when I’m high and I’m never that out of it.”

“I’m not sure you aren’t on coke right now,” Gordon groused, sipping his own margarita. Which Freeman had called a ‘girl drink’. Asshole. “Why don’t you just -”

“Hey, Doc!”

Suddenly, with no more advanced warning than the overly friendly cry, Benrey - sorry, Barney - popped up at their table. Freeman groaned, ignoring him completely for favor of his drink, and Gordon waved weakly at him. He seemed - well, nice. Much nicer than Benrey. Not that it was hard. 

“You guys having fun or what?” Barney said, leaning against the table and winking at Freeman, who made a face. “We’re having a really good time at the Barney table, let me tell you. Maybe we can do Trivia Pursuit? That’ll be fun!”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually making friends with Benrey,” Gordon said, sighing. “Dude’s insufferable.”

“Blunt as ever, Doc,” Barney laughed. “Benrey’s not that bad! Just kind of a freak, you know?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, impossibly depressed. “I know.”

“Anyway, I actually wanted to ask the Doc if he had my keys. Hold on a hot second.” Barney turned to the aforementioned zoned out Gordon Freeman, and abruptly started waving his hands around. Wait - was that sign language? When he glanced at Freeman, he seemed interested too. 

Even more amazingly, Gordon Freeman responded, rolling his eyes and tilting his fist before digging in his pocket and pulling out his keys, pressing them into Barney’s hands. Barney winked, signed out what Gordon recognized as a thank you, and fucked off back to the Barney table. If Gordon craned his head, he could see Freeman’s Barney (whose name Freeman didn’t even seem to know) trying to drink his beer as he was thoroughly terrorized by Benrey. Gordon couldn’t fight the crush of fondness that bloomed in his chest. Benrey was fun to watch when he was terrorizing someone else - but you could say that about all of his friends, really. 

Then the implications of that exchange hit Gordon over the head. He turned to Gordon Freeman, who seemed to have gone back to checking out of the conversation. “Wait, are you freaking deaf?”

Gordon blinked at him sleepily. Gordon cursed, rummaging around on the table until he found a napkin, and Freeman passed him a pen as he wrote down in large, blocky letters ‘ARE YOU DEAF???’ and slid it to Gordon Freeman. 

Gordon Freeman stared at it. He looked up at the two of them and - oh, god, he was definitely smirking. Like the cat that caught the fucking canary. He tilted his fist in what even Gordon recognized as a yes. 

“You fucking asshole!” Gordon exploded. “You left me to suffer with this guy alone? How could you? That’s not team behavior!”

“You got pranked, bro!” Benrey called, from across the room. “Bro, you got mad pranked! El oh el, bro!”

“Shut up, asshole!”

“Hey, what do you mean?” Freeman asked, offended. “My ideas are genius. This is a unique business opportunity, here. You’ll never get another chance to make three hundred percent back on your investment again -”

“Epic fail, bro!” Benry called. 

Gordon groaned and started chugging his margarita. He would need to be a lot drunker if he was going to get through this stupid extradimensional mistake. 

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

It seems to me that people are taking all of their pandemic anxieties and taking them out on the Harry Styles team. I understand being angry that refunds are not being offered, but the anger that the tour is happening is misdirected in my opinion. Federal and state governments in the US have allowed concert venues and businesses to be open despite the fact that vaccination has stalled (some states only have about a third of people vaccinated with one dose). These states have Delta spreading and are still allowing concerts because they have right wing business oriented governments. HSHQ isn't to blame for being a business exploiting a rare market allowing them to make money right now, the governments allowing packed concerts are. H's team is to blame for not allowing refunds, as people fearing getting sick are now put in a tough position, but they aren't to blame for taking advantage of the country's overly relaxed (imo) restrictions.

Thanks for this ask anon - it allows me to talk through some of my thoughts directly - I feel like I've talked about a lot of stuff around the tour, but not the tour itself.

I agree that people are working a lot of their anxieties about the pandemic in response to the tour announcement. I don't think there's anything wrong with that - unless they're spreading misinformation about the effectiveness of the vaccine.

***************

I do think the question about who to blame is both emotional and political. I am well aware that now I'm in a position where I can be pretty confident that the government won't let Harry Styles into the country until it's safe, and that does reduce the emotion and urgency of the question for me. When I was in the UK, and was well aware that the government didn't care if I lived orThis died, and had only contempt for my needs, I felt very strongly that blaming individuals was not just wrong, but dangerous. That it let the government off the hook. I still believe that.

But Harry's tour isn't an individual, it's a business enterprise, and I realised thinking this through that my view on this is very informed by particular politics. I do hold businesses responsible for putting workers in danger and if government regulations aren't enough to fully protect people that's still on businesses that endanger workers. It's why Harry's COVID shirts filled me with absolute rage. But (as is rather clear from some of my other answers) my feelings about businesses and their customers are pretty different from my feelings about businesses and workers. I thought (and still think) that indoor dining should never have opened in the UK, but I didn't blame pubs and restaurants for opening. My world view is very much 'business is going to business you have to regulate safety it's not happening otherwise'.

And the fact that in the US, the vaccine has been widely available, and it takes less than a month to go from not vaccinated to fully vaccinated, makes it pretty difficult for me to formulate the logic where you blame businesses for operating as they are legally entitled to do.

***************

So that's the politics of it - there are a couple of other ways of looking at it. The first is what the situation is on the ground. In the UK, 17% of the population have had one dose of the vaccine, but not yet their second (there's a minimum 8 weeks between doses in the UK). There are several age groups (at least in England - I know the timing has been different in different places) that couldn't have had two doses of the vaccine, even if they'd got their first dose on the day they were eligible wouldn't have had their second dose yet. Under those circumstances, my position is quite clear over summer it's much safer to take everything outside, and wait for three months after vaccines opened for everyone until anything happens indoors.

But there are 50 states in the US, with very different vaccine rollouts and pandemic histories and regulation histories, and I genuinely don't know what people are adovcating for. What is the next step? What should people demand?

I would be very interested to hear from people in the US what they think will make a difference where they are. Although with the proviso (which is pretty well covered) that I don't think that blaming individuals is useful either politically, or as a public health approach. I also think any discussion of vaccine hesitancy has to acknowledge that marginalised people are less likely to have had the vaccine, and therefore politically I think it's important to start from the point of view that the vaccine hasn't been as accessible for them. (This is all to say I am genuinely asking for answers, but I won't publish anything that amounts to 'dumb people who haven't got the vaccine shoudl get it').

************

Just to finish up I want to return to that point about people processing COVID anxiety through the tour. Like I said I think that's really legitimate - it's terrifying. And I think it's worth emphasising how much the refusal to offer refunds, except to dates that have bene rescheduled, has made it much harder to escape that dynamic. People with tickets can't say 'oh not for me this time, I'm not ready, I'll catch him next time'. They actively have to engage with the process and asking fans to sell the tickets, when they feel unsafe requires them to be complicit in a way that is really shit.

I see a lot of certainty in response to Harry's tour - and I don't share it. I don't know what the impact of arena tours will be, or how dangerous they'll be. There's so many unknowns in there (how vaccinated are Harry fans as a demographic, what are the ventilation systems of arenas like?). And on top of that coming out of the COVID pandemic will be uncertain - because we haven't done it before.

The best way to navigate uncertainty is to respect our own and other people's responses. And again that's why 'you bought a ticket 18 months ago, and didn't cancel a year ago. Your problem', really does exacerbate all the really normal uncertainties and range of approach to risk.

[amphtaminedreams]

Paris Haute Couture Week S/S 2020 Plus a Little Jacquemus: Okay, Dior DID Suck (Part 2/2)

Hi to anyone reading,

First of all, thank you! I have never had a post do as well as the part 1 of my haute couture week review did and I am so overwhelmed with the positive feedback. This is probably funny to read for those of you getting thousands of reblogs on your posts, me acting like I won an academy award because I got a couple of hundred, but honestly I don’t expect any traction when I write on here (it’s basically just me word vomiting everything I’m thinking as if people want to hear it aka. mouthing off into what I thought was the void) so if you did read it, thank you! I do spend a long-ass time on these so it means a lot:-)

I’ll leave the self-indulgent ramble there though as it’s probably not what you came for and jump straight into part 2 of my thoughts, starting with Jacquemus. Yeah, I knew what I was doing when I tagged that in my last post. Simon Porte Jacquemus is the man of the *fashion* people right now; I’ve even found myself coming round to the Le Chiquito bag despite my original thought being “well, that’s fucking useless”. I know, I know, technically it’s not haute couture; it was part of Men’s Fashion Week, but it happened around the same time and everyone was talking about it on Twitter, so I feel like I have to include it.

In a way, it kind of reminds me of Bottega Veneta’s last RTW show, in that, especially with the women’s outfits, we seem to be sticking with simple, fitted garments and chunky, more statement jewellery. I’ve got to say I like the styling here a lot more though, and in general I’m a fan of this collection. The collared tops with cut outs underneath blazers are cool and I can’t wait until it gets warm enough for me to not feel dumb wearing my headscarfs like this; there’s a LOT of summer outfit inspiration. It’s not a mind-blowing collection or anything but it is effortlessly sexy and that’s something I wish I could say about myself. Most of us can only hope to look half as good as these models do whilst making the effort but at least Jacquemus is aspirational, lol. 

I also fucking adore this colour palette. I’m sick of neutrals literally just meaning brown and white; the navy, sand and muted khaki is a fresh edition to what is usually interpreted as the colours you’d seen worn by Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff and only Disney’s Riverboat Cruise staff. And I mean, come on-what is more neutral than typical English school carpet blue.

Next for the whole reason I had to make this haute couture week review 2 separate posts: Jean Paul Gaultier’s final show.

In the best way possible, it’s a lot. I don’t even really know where to start, except to say that I guess this is a fitting last show; a celebration of everything campy, messy, weird, performative, and punk is the perfect send off for a brand whose best known perfume of the last few years is called Scandal. More than anything, the final show represented the range of characters and cultures that have influenced JPG throughout his half-a-decade-long career, the lines that supposedly separate what is “masculine” and “feminine”, “old” and “young” and ultimately art and fashion blurred in the most exaggerated way possible. Sure, there are some looks which are individually a bit messy here but the way they were grouped into almost chapter-like segments meant that when you see them all together, they work. Nods to the patterns and structures that recurred from season to season were sprinkled throughout, from sailor stripes to corsets to the expected whirlwinds of colour. I’ll even allow the wellies in that one outfit; if I can get over bucket hats in Peter fucking Pilotto’s last RTW show, I can get over some questionable shoes here. Middle aged fishermen and boys who liked to pose with monster carp in their Tinder pictures as some weird display of masculinity everywhere rejoice.

Now onto a show that I personally found slightly disappointing: Margiela.

I think this one is a bit TOO weird for me. Like if you’re gonna go avant-garde, go all out. Chiffon gimp masks (I don’t know if that’s the intention here but that’s what I’m getting, sorry Maison) are something I’m not particularly fond of and I’ve never been a fan of the Tabi boots in the first place, let alone when they’ve seemingly been blown up to Michelin man style proportions. I didn’t find the show to be a total lost cause-I enjoyed the colour palette and I’ve always liked that contrast stitching detail, plus the bowler hats are interesting-but on the whole considering how much I liked the last RTW show, this is a bit of a let down. 

The looks I included are salvageable but (I feel mean saying this) there were genuinely a lot of pieces that did just resemble bits of fabric draped over each over with no discernible rhyme or reason, so much so that they reminded me of some of the monstrosities I saw at a Drag Race pub quiz this one time where we had 5 mins to make some garms out of loo roll and then have a team member model them for points down a makeshift runway. 

Ralph and Russo was alright. There were a few pieces that I really liked but again, I can’t help but compare this collection to the last, where it felt like the fussy details of bows and sequins and feathers and the Barbie Dreamhouse palette were utilised with a direction in mind. Here, I don’t get that. As ever, the gowns are gorgeous and I’d pay good money just to try one on for five minutes but as an overall collection I’d say there was a lack of higher vision, which is probably the snobbiest sentence I’ve ever written so forgive me.

As for Ronald Van Der Kemp, I could’ve done without including it to be honest, if it weren’t for the few pieces I’m in love with: the velvet cape, fur trimmed jacket and blue satin dress are probably my favourite pieces here.

So onto a collection I liked a lot more: Schiaparelli. 

The influence of nature from flowers in bloom to insects to the organic structure of the human skeleton is as present as ever, though this collection includes a lot more delicate symbolism than usual. Honestly, the details make it for me; the brooches, earrings and facial jewellery are other-worldly touches to outfits that could otherwise be simple fashion magazine editor on-the-go. That’s not in itself a bad thing! The suits are gorgeous. I mean, I’m talking fashion editor in New York in a power suit yelling orders down the phone while she rushes along with a coffee. A Miranda Priestley in the making type woman. THAT’S a modern take on the divine feminine that Maria Grazia should’ve been going for; our goddesses aren’t women who sit around looking pretty (though that helps too) and place curses on mere mortals anymore, they’re women who get shit done. 

With regards to Valentino, which was also a delight, let me start by saying this colour palette is EVERYTHING. It’s ugly sisters in Cinderella fantastic, and we know those 2 were the real fashion icons really. Other than that, I adore the Old Hollywood silhouettes from the gloves to the Liz Taylor-in-Cleopatra-level-dramatic earrings. Everything is opulent and expensive-looking and pretty much what we’ve all come to expect from Valentino. A strong 8/10.

For me personally, Viktor and Rolf was a standout and one of my favourite collections of haute couture week. It’s not going to be everyone’s cup of tea and I know it’s at the complete opposite end of the spectrum to what was probably my other favourite collection, Elie Saab, but this is just my style down to a T, the perfect balance of grungy and cutesy that I want to achieve. 

There’s probably going to be a lot of objections to the temporary face tattoos and I get that, but I think they’re fucking sick. I obviously wouldn’t get a permanent one lest my mother murder me in cold blood however if I did, you bet I would be pairing them with frilly-ass babydoll dresses that you could pick up in Camden Market like this. 

And last but not least (that would be Dior), there’s Zuhair Murad.

Sigh.

IDK, man. Seeing Zuhair Murad dresses on Tumblr and WeHeartIt (remember that site? It still exists!) as a 14 year old was one of the things that got me into fashion, so it sucks that almost every time a new collection comes around, I feel underwhelmed. Disappointingly, the brand hasn’t really progressed all that much since 2013. It goes without saying that the stoning and the embroidery and sequins are stunning and would make anyone feel like a princess but from a critical point of view, I’m just not seeing anything new here. Whereas I feel like Elie Saab, for example, reflected the growing fascination with East Asian fashion and recognition of the supremacy of the region’s street style in his haute couture last collection, Zuhair Murad seems to be stuck designing the same dresses he was 6 years ago. 

To pick one example, the rounded stoned necklines are so outdated that they’ve been making their way onto department store prom dresses for years. I get that it’s supposed to be a reference to Ancient Egyptian style and I respect that, I was one of those 8 year old that was obsessed with mummies and the “Curse of Tutankhamun”, but couldn’t it be done in a more interesting way? It’s Maria Grazia’s spin on Ancient Greece all over again. Now I get how how the I imagine very niche subsection of people who are into fashion and Julius Caesar (okay, so I don’t even know if they still believed in mythology and all that malarky at that point in history but just roll with my comparison here) might’ve felt going through Vogue Runway. Anyway, I hate to end on a critical note and so be clear, these are still absolutely magnificent dresses. If we ignore those ugly round necklines, that is.

So that’s it for this post! If you read part 1 and 2, I hope you enjoyed it! As always, let me know your opinions and feel free to disagree. I’m literally just about to start trawling through all the A/W 2020 RTW collections though I imagine that’s gonna take me way longer to do than this, so I wouldn’t expect that for a month or two. In the meantime, I’m trying to fit shooting a Euphoria-inspired lookbook into my days off work which is looking atm like it’s going to be the end of March, so look out for that, and also a review of the red carpet fashion from this season’s award shows. 

As ever, thank you so much for reading and again, thank you for the reception on part 1 if you were one of the people that read it. It makes staying up til 3am with the jitters seem worthwhile, lol! 

Lauren x

[unibrowzz]

Mod (finally) reviews all 67 winners of the Eurovision Song Contest Part VII (FINALE)- The 2010s

And we’re on the home stretch! Just 10 songs left now.

The 2010s stands as the only decade I watched live and the only decade I haven’t yet rewatched, mainly because I have no interest to. I’ve already seen the contest anyway, if a song didn’t stick with me then, it probably won’t now.

Also prepare for some hotter than usual takes, mostly down to the 10s contests being the most well known due to recency bias. I can say whatever the Hell I want about older contests and what songs I despise from there, but one non-positive comment about Euphoria and suddenly about five butthurt anons appear in my inbox telling me why I’m wrong.

But without further ado, let’s finish these off!

2010: Satellite

Country: Germany

Artist: Lena Meyer-Landrut

Language: English

Thoughts: I used to defend this song a lot, for some reason. I used to get super defensive when people dismissed it as a cheap lazy pop song that shouldn’t have won over (insert song here, but let’s be real here, 99% of the time it’s Turkey's equally cheap lazy emo rock song) and that it robbed so many better entries, blah blah, you know the drill. And I think it’s because it was the first winner I saw as I started properly watching in 2010, so I didn’t want to shit all over the winner that introduced me to the contest. Or maybe it’s that it makes me really nostalgic, or something to that effect. But, dear God, why did I? It’s so… not worth it. I appreciate it for being a much less instrumental-heavy winner, with its skippy, snappy beat and bouncing vocals which sound closer to plain talking than actual singing, but… How many times were the lyrics ran through GoogleTranslate before they were finalised? What’s with the janky, overexaggerated fake-English accent? Why does the singer look embarrassed to be a part of this? Why was this written?  And how the FUCK did it win? It’s so weird and awkward to listen to. It’s the song equivalent of trying to make small talk with that one classmate you never talk to because they’re shy and boring. It’s like listening to an old person laugh half-heartedly at their not-that-funny old person joke. It’s canned laughter in a mediocre sitcom. It’s just an awkward, painful to listen to song that’s made all the more painful by the fact that Germany has sent much better songs that easily could have replaced this as their one post-reunification winner.

Was this my personal winner for this year? No

If no, what was? Spain- Daniel Diges- “Algo Pequeñito”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 60th

2011: Running Scared 

Country: Azerbaijan

Artist: Ell and Niki 

Language: English

Thoughts: Look, this one isn’t as bad as people make it out to be. Doesn’t mean it’s good, or that I find it particularly good, but the worst winner of all time? Goodness no, it doesn't even come remotely close. What we have here is a mildly pleasant ballad duet song with a distinctive sad-boyband vibe. Like you can definitely hear the “X-Factor winner’s first cover song” energy just radiating off it from the first few lines. I suppose you could argue that that does make it feel a bit clinical and like it’s trying too hard to be a big hit, but come on, it’s not like this is the first winner like that. The singing is alright; better than half the singing that won in the 2000s anyway, and the male singer especially has a nice voice. The lyrics aren’t exactly poetry, sure, but again, other winners have terrible lyrics as well and don’t receive nearly as much hate as this one does. And… that’s it. Why all the hate? No idea, but I can only assume the people who declare this song to be the worst winner ever haven’t heard anything that won before 2010.

Was this my personal winner for this year? No

If no, what was? Denmark- A Friend in London- “New Tomorrow”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 42nd

2012: Euphoria

Country: Sweden

Artist: Loreen

Language: English

Thoughts: Ugh. Listen. This is not a bad song. It’s decent, middle of the table, listenable, marketable, well sung, well performed, well shot. I must stress, this is not a bad song. But the best Eurovision song of all time? Absolutely not. Euphoria is one of the few winners I would describe as “overrated”, and that isn’t a term I use lightly (since it’s overused as Hell), because frankly, I don’t see what people see in this song. Hell, I forgot it completely until the 2012 voting, and further still until mid 2013 when a friend said he liked it. This song left that little of an impression on me that I completely forgot everything about it for a solid year.  And considering how many fans regard this to be one of the best, if not the best song to ever come out of the contest... that baffles me, I just can’t wrap my head around why so many people hold this song up on a pedestal and worship it like it was dropped from the hands of God himself. And I'm not sure if it's because this just isn't a genre I care about, or if it's because this was WAY back when I was a casual fan who didn't follow any of the songs or artists so didn't know who'd be the favourite going in like I do now, and therefore didn’t know to keep an ear out for this one. Or maybe you have to be piss drunk and at a nightclub to really feel the impact of this song. This song triggers absolutely no response from me other than “Oh, a Eurovision song”. I feel no emotion towards it aside from complete indifference. I can’t deny that this song made an impact, it just… didn’t make an impact on me.

Is this my personal winner for this year? No

If no, what is? Spain- Pastora Soler- “Quedate Conmigo”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 40th

2013: Only Teardrops

Country: Denmark

Artist: Emmelie de Forest

Language: English

Thoughts: Let me ask you a question: What do you get when you sandwich an otherwise decent pop song between two of the most iconic and recognizable winners of the decade? You get this. Only Teardrops is a weird, weird winner to me. On one hand, the fandom acts like it might as well not exist, you go straight from Euphoria to Rise Like a Phoenix, who cares about that filler song which came between them. On the other hand, I know a lot of people who really like it, yet all of them are either very casual fans or not fans at all. So this makes me feel like this song’s main weakness is that it’s too mainstream, at least for Eurovision fans. What are my thoughts? It depends. For one, I enjoy this song a LOT more than Euphoria; I always have done and I’m not ashamed or afraid to admit that. I find this song has a lot more personal appeal, particularly a much bigger finale in my opinion, and being surrounded by people who like this song has admittedly kept me fond of it. BUT, I still wouldn’t necessarily call it a favourite of mine. Maybe a favourite of the 2010s, but not overall. At the end of the day, it’s a little too generic, a little too normal, a little too like every other song you’d hear on the radio. It’s not really a song I find myself coming back to again and again and loving every time, it’s the song I stick on to shut my family up when they want to listen to Eurovision music and I’m too shy to show them the songs I actually really like. It's just a decent song that's unfortunate enough to be stuck in between two more iconic winners, doomed to be little more than the answer in a pub quiz question.  And even though I do prefer this one to some of those icons, and don’t really have anything else to say about it, it’s just enjoyable yet kind of bland.

Is this my personal winner for this year? This or Iceland

If no, what is? Iceland- Eyþór Gunnlaugsson- “Ég á Líf”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 16th

2014: Rise Like a Phoenix

Country: Austria

Artist: Conchita Wurst

Language: English

Thoughts: Ah yes, the man who made the entire continent of Europe collectively forget what a drag queen is. What a shitshow that night was. But I'm not here to talk about that, I'm here to rate/say some things about the song, and honestly? This is arguably the most vocally impressive winner from the 2010s. Seriously, there’s nothing I can fault here; this guy’s got some serious pipes. Every time I go back to it I just end up blown away by how powerful and raw this song is. And obviously good vocals alone can’t carry a song forever, otherwise I would’ve had nicer things to say about the early 70s and mid 90s, but with this song the vocals go hand-in-hand with the gimmick. Without the powerful vocals this would just be a knockoff Bond theme sung by a drag queen with a beard, like it’d just be another sensationalist gimmick song to throw onto the pile with all the other gimmick songs. But with the good singing, this has the distinction that it’s a gimmick entry that still had every right to win because the singer was actually competent. Also unlike the 70s winners this one actually has strong emotions tied to it rather than it just being a bunch of pretty French words, so there’s that.

Is this my personal winner for this year? This or the Netherlands tbh

If no, what is? N/A

Personal ranking (out of 67): 17th

2015: Heroes

Country: Sweden

Artist: Måns Zelmerlöw 

Language: English 

Thoughts: Fun fact: I was so bitter this won that I stormed off before the voting was done and cried in my room over it. I hated everything about this song: I hated how Sweden won just three years after their last win, I hated how the staging was just BEGGING people to vote for it, and I ESPECIALLY hated how it beat out the televote favourite because the juries were too busy wanking off to this one to care about anything else. I just despised everything about this song, and it turned me into an obnoxious jury-hater for a solid year.  And yes, I'm extremely embarrassed of all that because honestly this song is fantastic. I would go as far to say it's my favourite Swedish winner, maybe not one of my favourite Swedish entries but definitely my favourite winner of theirs. Everything about this is just so appealing to me, from the brooding intro and vocals, to the lyrics, to the staging, my GOD the staging! It’s one of the best performances of the contest to date; It's impressive without being tacky or try-hard, he interacts with his background, and that little doodle boy character he’s created is adorable. I just love this performance, it’s so mesmerising.

Was this my personal winner for this year? Not then, is now

If no, what was? Then? Serbia- Bojana Stamenov- “Beauty Never Lies”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 11th

2016: 1944

Country: Ukraine

Artist: Jamala

Language: English, some Crimean words

Thoughts: I mean… it’s good until she starts singing. Now I am by all means not an advocate for bringing back the old language rule, but songs like this sure as Hell make me one. This should have been left entirely in Crimean. Simple as that. The English lyrics are bloody awful, no way to sugarcoat it, and absolutely annihilate the potential this song is otherwise seething with, because the instrumental to this song is fantastic and the chorus and climax give me goosebumps. The performance at the contest was chilling as well; a perfect blend of both simple yet flashy staging to set up a really uneasy atmosphere that compliments the song perfectly but, God, the lyrics are bad, man, especially for such a serious song about a personal topic.  That said, it's still the only song in the 2016 top 3 that seemed winner-worthy, unlike Australia's obvious Jurybait and Russia's obvious Telebait. So… it has that. 

Was this my personal winner for this year? No

If no, what was? France- Amir Haddad- “J’ai Cherché”

Personal ranking (out of 67): 57th

2017: Amar Pelos Dois 

Country: Portugal 

Artist: Salvador Sobral 

Language: Portuguese (Translation: “Both of us”)

Thoughts: I still question why it took Portugal until 20-fucking-17 to even reach the top five, but that's a rant for another day.  Not that this is a rant, far from it. Anybody who knows me knows that I love this song after all, and that it’s one of the few winners I remain rather defensive of, though that’s mostly down to the amount of hate this song and its singer receive.  I will defend Sal and his hot takes on pop music until I die. Now I’ll admit, this song surprised me in more ways than one. Namely by actually winning the televote; given how this song has split opinions clean down the board as to whether it’s spine-tinglingly beautiful or soul-crushingly boring, I was expecting it to come mid-table in the televote whilst some other country swiped first. Yet somehow it managed to stomp the televote just as hard as it stomped the jury vote. I guess I wasn’t the only person this struck a chord with after all. Also, I can’t be the only one who thinks this is a perfect dance song? Like it’s great for ballroom, or contemporary. It’s so dreamy and flowy, and I usually HATE dreamy flowy songs, yet this one just resonates with me for some reason and I’m not sure why.

Is this my personal winner for this year? Yes

If no, what is? N/A

Personal ranking (out of 67): 4th

2018: Toy

Country: Israel

Artist: Netta Barzilai

Language: English, some chicken noises, cringe

Thoughts: And here we have another case for bringing back the language rule, because if this song had a Hebrew version I would 100% listen to it more often. When I heard Israel was sending an, ahem, "feminist anthem" about the #MeToo trend on twitter, my first reaction was "ew". When I heard it was the favourite to win, my reaction was also "ew". And when I heard the song for the first time? "Hm, not as bad as I thought."  And also "ew". This song is just embarrassing. I’m embarrassed listening to it, I’m embarrassed watching it, and I’m embarrassed when someone mentions it when I’m trying to convince them Eurovision actually has good music. You can just tell from the first few lines that it was written by middle aged men trying to shill themselves out to gullible young women who think listening to a song by some Israeli DJ “empowers” them.  And let’s be honest here: “empowering” is just media speak for “shit”. The only thing stopping me from putting it at the VERY bottom is the instrumental and performance because without the cringy lyrics you’re left with a pretty good club song, and I swear to God Netta Barzilai could sell herself sneezing for 3 minutes. If “Toy” had been entirely in Hebrew I would’ve given it a pass, and maybe a cheeky vote or two.  But, alas, that was not to be.

Was this my personal winner for this year? No

If no, what was? Italy- Ermal Meta & Fabrizio Moro- “Non mi Avete fatto Niente”

Personal ranking (out of 67):  64th

2019: Arcade

Country: The Netherlands

Artist: Duncan Laurence

Language: English

Thoughts: You know, in my 9 or so years watching the contest, I don’t think I’ve ever felt genuinely ecstatic watching a song win. Most of the time I either feel neutral (most of them) or a more general, content kind of happy (2014 and 2017). Like I’ve never let out a shout of joy and slid on my knees across my living room floor in sheer, blind happiness. But that’s what I did with “Arcade”. I’m not really sure why that is because, I must confess, it wasn’t my personal winner of the night, and, looking back, I preferred other songs, but… God, I just can’t explain how overwhelmingly happy I was when this song won. I’m not sure if it’s because I was alone or if I was rooting for this deep down (or if it’s because it was between this song or fuckin’ Sweden again). But that’s by the by. How’s the song? Honestly? Really good. One of my favourites of this decade, if I’m honest. It’s the kind of song that’s grown on me a lot since the night of the contest; even though it wasn’t my favourite song from 2019, I’m not mad at all at it winning.

Is this my personal winner for this year? Honestly I had about 10

If no, what is? I could list them if you want

Personal ranking (out of 67):  6th

[hlupdate]

Here he comes, one of the planet’s most conspicuous young men, stepping out of the London drizzle and into a dusty suburban pub. If there was an old vinyl record player in the place it would scratch quiet. Instead, the two-dozen punters turn hushed and intent, as if a unicorn has just trotted in off the street, and nobody wants to scare it off. “That’s frickin’ Harry frickin’ Styles,” whispers a young man at the bar, “in this pub.” The pop star is asked what he wants to drink and in a voice already inclined to undertones, quietly orders a cup of tea.

A former teen star who is now 25, a happier and rockier solo artist since his boyband One Direction split a few years ago, Styles has hidden himself inside a large, swamp-green parka. He’s tall, around the 6ft mark, and carries himself with a slight stoop. If Styles could only do something about his appearance from the neck up (elfin brow, wide Joker smile, a face that’s recognisable across multiple continents) you sense he could drink in pubs like this anonymously enough. As it is, cover blown, he removes the parka. A woolly jumper beneath has a picture of the planet Saturn on it. Maybe they’ve heard of Styles there, too.

We take a seat in the corner. On nearby tables, conversations start to sputter as people try to keep their own talk ticking along on autopilot while straining to hear what Styles says. I ask him about the sheer strangeness of this and other aspects of fame. Full stadiums, swooning admirers, an excess of opportunity and cash. Why isn’t Styles an absolute ordeal of a human being by now? Keith Richards, at a comparable stage, imagined himself the pirate leader of a travelling nation-state, unbound by international law. Elton John was on vast amounts of cocaine. Meanwhile, here’s Harry, known in the music industry as a bit of a freak, medically, having maintained abnormally high levels of civility in his system. 

Styles tilts his head, flattered. There are others, he promises. “People who are successful, and still nice. It’s when you meet the people who are successful and aren’t nice, you think: What’s yer excuse? Cos I’ve met the other sort.”

Styles read Keith Richards’ autobiography a while back, and he recently finished Elton’s, too. (“Soooo much cocaine,” he marvels.) We talk for a bit about whether extreme dissolute behaviour and artistic greatness go hand in hand. Styles, who has just released his second solo album, Fine Line, the penultimate track of which is called Treat People With Kindness, has to hope not. “I just don’t think you need to be a dick to be a good artist. But, then, there are also a lot of good artists who are dicks. So. Hmm. Maybe I need to start scaring babies in supermarkets?” 

A couple of lads hustle over to offer drinks. A photo is requested; they say they’ll wait. I’m weirdly anxious about Styles’s phone, which is slung on the table in front of him. What must be the black-market value of that thing? If fans were to get hold of it, would they want to open Styles’s music app first, to listen to tracks from the new album, or rush to see his messages and calls, to find out who Styles has been flirting with late at night? The interest in his music has always run at a ratio of about 50/50 with the interest in who he is dating.

It’s a ratio Styles tries to adjust in favour of the music by being vague about his ex-partners, real and rumoured (Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, Parisian model Camille Rowe), diverting to discuss his songs about failed relationships. A year ago, when Styles was floating around near this pub in north London, where he lives, and California, where he tends to record, looking for inspiration for the new album, his close friend Tom Hull told him: “Just date amazing women, or men, or whatever, who are going to fuck you up… Let it affect you and write songs about it.” 

Styles, who writes in collaboration with Hull and producer Tyler Johnson, sounds as if he took the advice. The new album, Fine Line, is at its best when capturing late-hours moments, drunk calls, “wandering hands”, kitchen snogs. A golden-haired lover recurs. There are up tracks, down tracks, some with the trippy delirium of harpsichord-era Stones, others with the angsty Britpop swell of strings. While I listened, I couldn’t help scribbling down names, possible subjects. On the lyric “There’s a piece of you in how I dress” I wrote: maybe Kendall? In a song about a lover “way too bright for me”: surely Taylor.

Styles says he keeps to a general rule: write what comes and don’t think about it too much afterwards. The only time he worries about an individual lyric is if it risks putting an ex in a difficult position. “If a song’s about someone, is that fine? Or is that gonna get annoying for them, if people try to decipher it?” Has he ever got that judgment call wrong and taken a bollocking from an angry ex? Styles raises an eyebrow. “Maybe ask me in a month.” 

I quiz him on something I’ve often wondered about. Why are the very famous so inclined to hook up with the very famous? From the outside it looks twice the hassle, with twice the odds of ending badly. “Don’t we all do that, though?” Styles asks. “Go into things that feel relatively doomed from the start?” I ask him why he doesn’t date normals. He seems tickled: “Um. I mean, I do. I have a private life. You just don’t know about it.” 

Styles doesn’t particularly like being asked about his love life, but is amused all the same, as he is about most things. When I ask about the logistics of someone as well known as him dating someone anonymous (“Do you need to give them, like, some sort of primer?”), Styles snorts with laughter. 

“Uh-h-h. Like any conversation, I guess, it’s easier if you’re honest. But I try to let it come up when it comes up. Cos that’s a weird thing to talk about, y’know? If you’ve just started seeing someone, and you’re, like: [he adopts a throaty, mission-briefing voice] So! This is what’s gonna happen!” Styles holds out his hands: no, ta. “I don’t wanna have that conversation, man. It would be fucking weird.” 

And not very sexy, I say.

“Not sexy,” Styles says, “no.”

A quick aside about his accent, which is hard to capture in print. (“Nat sexy, no.”) After a workout in a hotel gym recently, Styles says he was taken aback (“taken abeck”) to be asked by a stranger whether he was speaking in a fake voice. He was appalled. But after so long crossing borders and time zones, living and working between England and the US, the accent has undergone a jazzy remix, and tends to get farthest from its Cheshire roots when he’s around strangers. Once Styles begins to get comfortable in the pub, the flatter, no-nonsense sounds of his youth return. Nowpe he says, for nope. Fook, for fuck.

“What the fook are they?” This was the response of his childhood pals, he remembers, back in the village of Holmes Chapel, when little Harry had the gumption to show up in the playground wearing Chelsea boots instead of the approved chunky trainers. Styles’s parents had separated when he was very young, but there is no origin-story trauma: he has always stayed close to both. His mother, Anne, would praise his singing voice in the car, and when Styles was 16 it was agreed he could audition for a singing contest on TV.

“The craziest part about the whole X Factor thing,” says Styles, who auditioned for the ITV reality show in 2010, “is that it’s so instant. The day before, you’ve never been on telly. Then suddenly…” Suddenly you’re a piece of national property. “You don’t think at the time, ‘Oh, maybe I should keep some of my personal stuff back for myself.’ Partly because, if you’re a 16-year-old who does that, you look like a jumped-up little shit. Can you imagine? ‘Sorry, actually, I’d rather not comment…’ You don’t know what to be protective of.”

By the winter of 2010, Styles was a fan favourite, a key member of One Direction, a five-piece that enjoyed enormous national exposure and gathered millions of fans before any music had been released. Cameras filmed every part of their rise. There wasn’t any time in the dark to practise, test things out, mentally brace. “We didn’t get to dip in a toe,” Styles says. “But, listen, I was a kid, all I knew was: I didn’t have to go to school any more. I thought it was fucking great.” He remembers having a lot of fun, and being well taken care of. He jokes: “Maybe it’s something I’ll have to deal with a bit later. When I wake up in my 40s and think: Arrrggh.”

In February 2012, One Direction were feted at the Brit Awards, hours before they were due to fly to the US for the first time. On TV that night they looked young, silly, chuffed – on the precipice of something huge, and with no clue at all. Their subsequent wonder-run (five platinum albums, four world tours) had its foundations in their ridiculous popularity in the States. Right away, Styles remembers, “We were fuelling a machine. Keeping the fire going.” He remembers it as a stimulating time; maybe overstimulating. “Coming out of it, when the band stopped, I realised that the thing I’d been missing, because it was all so fast paced, was human connection.”

I first met Styles in 2014, around the time the lack of human connection was starting to bite. One Direction were promoting their penultimate album and I’d been commissioned to write about themthe Guardian. Management felt the boys were so exhausted that my minutes in their presence had to be strictly counted. Inside a circle of cripplingly hot lights, while someone ran the stopwatch, we interacted as humanly as we could.

I remember how jaded the best singer in the group, Zayn Malik, seemed. (Malik was weeks away from quitting.) I also remember how flattered and bewildered the others were to be asked a few grownup questions – and not what Louis Tomlinson would later describe to me as “who’s-your-favourite-superhero… all that shit”. Styles was watchful and quiet that day. By total chance, a week later, we were in the same London cafe and he tapped my shoulder. He was having lunch with friends. “Will ya join us?” 

t struck me as a quietly classy move. I was fascinated to see him interact with mates he’d chosen for himself. Styles was dry and funny, older than his years. After lunch we said the usual things about keeping in touch, and followed each other on Twitter. I kept an eye on his updates, about leaving One Direction, releasing an impressive, self-titled debut album in 2017, playing for 36,000 people in Madison Square Garden in New York, acting in Christopher Nolan’s Oscar-nominated war movie Dunkirk. Meanwhile, I did my best to manage the mess that had been made of my own account after Styles’s Twitter follow ignited a small explosion of teenage longing in my mentions. For at least a year I received weekly, sometimes daily, pleas from people who wanted messages conveyed to “H”. Still now, every few days, fans in America, Asia and Europe follow me to “see what H sees” in their timeline. 

He has around 50 million social media followers, and with that comes the ability to ripple the internet like somebody airing a bedsheet. I’ve noticed, though, how rarely Styles directs people to support specific causes, last doing so in 2018, when he encouraged people to join a march against gun violence. Why don’t you use your influence more, I ask? “Because of dilution. Because I’d prefer, when I say something, for people to think I mean it.” He runs his fingertips across the table. “To be honest, I’m still searching for that one thing, y’know. Something I can really stand up for, and get behind, and be like: This Is My Life Fight. There’s a power to doing the one thing. You want your whole weight behind it.”

It’s one of the things that sets Styles apart, the way he puts his whole weight behind the different aspects of this strange job. If you watch footage of him as a guest host on Saturday Night Live last month, Styles plunges in, fully inhabiting the silliness of every sketch. He has good songs in his repertoire (2017’s ballad Sign Of The Times stands out), and would probably admit to some middling songs that attest to his relative inexperience as a writer. But whichever of his songs Styles performs, he goes all-in, trusting that his zest and energy will hold an audience’s attention. He approaches this interview in roughly the same spirit, not enjoying every question, fidgeting, pleading for clemency once or twice, but giving everything due consideration.

I bring up something Styles joked about earlier: the possibility of waking up in his 40s with deferred mental health problems.

“Mm,” he says

Have you thought about therapy, I ask, to get ahead of that?

“I go,” he says. “Not every week. But whenever I feel I need it. For a really long time I didn’t try therapy, because I wanted to be the guy who could say: ‘I don’t need it.’ Now I realise I was only getting in my own way.” He shrugs. “It helps.”

Lately he’s been reading a lot (Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women stood out). He’s watched a lot of Netflix (crime thrillers and music docs). He recently cried through Slave Play on Broadway. I sense in Styles, at 25, a pent-up undergraduate hunger, maybe a desire to make up for lost time. “I’ve definitely been wanting to learn stuff, try stuff,” he says. “Things I didn’t grow up around. Things I’d always been a little bit sceptical about. Like therapy, like meditation. All I need to hear is someone saying, ‘Apparently, it’s amazing’, and I’ll try it. When I was in Los Angeles once, I heard about juice cleanses. I thought, yeah, I’ll do a juice cleanse.”

How messy were the results?

“You mean…?” Styles raises an eyebrow, recalling the poos. “They were all right. I was just hungry. And bored.”

One notable feature of Styles’s solo career has been his headlong embrace of unconventional clothing. A 2017-18 tour could have been sponsored by the Dulux colour wheel: mustard tones in Sydney, shocking pink in Dallas. In a more serious sense, some of Styles’s choices have fed into an important political discussion about gendered fashion. In May, as a co-host at the Met Gala in New York, he stepped out in a sheer blouse and a pearl earring. One evening’s work challenged a lot of stubborn preconceptions about who gets to wear what.

He says: “What women wear. What men wear. For me it’s not a question of that. If I see a nice shirt and get told, ‘But it’s for ladies.’ I think: ‘Okaaaay? Doesn’t make me want to wear it less though.’ I think the moment you feel more comfortable with yourself, it all becomes a lot easier.”

What do you mean, I ask?

Styles is leaning forward, hands folded around his cup of tea. “A part of it was having, like, a big moment of self-reflection. And self-acceptance.” He has a habit, when he’s made a definitive statement, of raising his chin and nodding a little, as if to decide whether he still agrees with himself. “I think it’s a very free, and freeing, time. I think people are asking, ‘Why not?’ a lot more. Which excites me. It’s not just clothes where lines have been blurred, it’s going across so many things. I think you can relate it to music, and how genres are blurring…”

Sexuality, too, I say.

“Yep,” says Styles. “Yep.”

There’s a popular perception, I say, that you don’t define as straight. The lyrics to your songs, the clothes you choose to wear, even the sleeve of your new record – all of these things get picked apart for clues that you’re bisexual. Has anyone ever asked you though?

“Um. I guess I haaaaave been asked? But, I dunno. Why?”

You mean, why ask the question?

“Yeah, I think I do mean that. It’s not like I’m sitting on an answer, and protecting it, and holding it back. It’s not a case of: I’m not telling you cos I don’t want to tell you. It’s not: ooh this is mine and it’s not yours.”

What is it then?

“It’s: who cares? Does that make sense? It’s just: who cares?”

I suppose my only question, then, is about the stuff that looks like clue dropping. Because if you don’t want people to care, why hint? Take the album sleeve for Fine Line. With its horizontal pink and blue stripes, a splash of magenta, the design seems to gesture at the trans and bisexual pride flags. Which is great – unless the person behind it happens to be a straight dude, sprinkling LGBTQ crumbs that lead nowhere. Does that make sense?

Styles nods. “Am I sprinkling in nuggets of sexual ambiguity to try and be more interesting? No.” As for the rest, he says, “in terms of how I wanna dress, and what the album sleeve’s gonna be, I tend to make decisions in terms of collaborators I want to work with. I want things to look a certain way. Not because it makes me look gay, or it makes me look straight, or it makes me look bisexual, but because I think it looks cool. And more than that, I dunno, I just think sexuality’s something that’s fun. Honestly? I can’t say I’ve given it any more thought than that.”

In our musty corner of the pub we’ve somehow passed a couple of hours in intense discussion. We’ll lighten up, before Styles heads home, with some chat about clever films (Marriage Story), stupider viral videos (the little boy who’s just learned the word “apparently”), that favourite-superhero stuff that, after all, has its place. He talks about the curious double time scheme of a pop star’s life – those crammed 18-hour days and then the sudden empty off-time when Styles might find himself walking miles across London to buy a book, afterwards congratulating himself: “Well, that’s an hour filled.”

Before we stand up I ask if he’s minded any of my questions.

He pushes out his lips, possibly recalling them one by one, then shakes his head. “What I would say, about the whole being-asked-about-my-sexuality thing – this is a job where you might get asked. And to complain about it, to say you hate it, and still do the job, that’s just silly. You respect that someone’s gonna ask. And you hope that they respect they might not get an answer.”

I tell him I do.

“Cool.”

Styles has to find those lads who wanted a photo. He scoops his phone off the table and flicks his thumb around the screen. Lately, he says, when he messes around on his phone in an idle moment, it’s mostly to look at videos – clips that his friends have sent him, in which their kids sing along to music he’s made. “Never gets old,” Styles says, beaming.

A few years ago, when he emerged from the boyband, blinking, shattered, he set himself three tasks: prioritise friends, learn how to be an adult, achieve a proper balance between the big and the small. Full stadiums, provocative outfits – Styles genuinely loves these things. “But I guess I’ve realised, as well,” he says, “that the coolest things are not always the cool things. Do you know what I mean?” He grabs his parka and his phone and, a little stooped, heads for home.

[tran5rightsos]

My Hourglass Is In Your Hands

Summary: A day of fishing in the lagoon with Luke is cancelled when his and Ashton's skiff springs a leak. What will they do with their surprise day off?

Genre: Steampunk

Relationships: Lashton

Word count: 1881

Warnings: blood and injury

Leave Kudos?

Ashton leaned out the window to reach the small pail hanging from the awning, gritting his cigarette holder tight between his teeth to leave both hands free so that he could pour the water collected last night into his window box. The little white flowers were just opening up in the morning sunlight, like snowflakes peppering the green shrubs.

Leaning on the windowsill, he took a puff of his cigarette and gazed out at the city clinging to the cliffs around the lagoon. Generally, all was quiet since most people were still in bed, but as he listened to the approaching whir of propellers, a dinghy descended in front of him. He gave the pilot a wave, watching them sink towards the Great Eye, where other airboats buzzed to and from its surface like dragonflies. Early morning was always a busy time down there.

The timer on Ashton’s oven dinged and he put out the stub of his cigarette before heading back in. The blueberry muffins were golden on top and when he cut one open, a puff of steam rising into the cool morning air, he found that it was soft and springy inside.

The rhythmic squeak of the pulley outside the window alerted him to the bucket coming down from Luke’s house. He hurried out to grab the rope and help pull it down to his sill. The bucket felt heavier than usual and when he opened the lid he found a jar of jam with the note.

skiff sprung a leak. wont make it to the eye today, was the message Luke had sent, with a sad face and the morning weather report written out underneath. The jam had a tag labelled strawberry with a smiley face underneath tied beneath the lid.

Ashton watched another airboat rise past the window, contemplating his suddenly empty schedule. He had plenty of weed and knew a good spot for watching the clouds and losing track of time. He took down the notebook and pencil hanging next to the window.

rolling cigarettes, meet me at the market in an hour? he wrote.  

He wrapped a muffin for Luke in cloth and sent it up with the note, smiling when he felt Luke start pulling the rope with him.  

He went back to the stove, nibbling on his muffin as he wrapped the other two. They wouldn’t be seeing Michael and Calum today, but the snacks would be welcome after a few shared cigarettes. He made the usual sandwiches for him and Luke, then got the weed jar down and started rolling cigarettes, wondering if it would be worth restocking the jar while he was out.  

Luke’s reply to his suggestion was an ok with another smiley face.  

Once his lunchbox was packed, Ashton deliberated in the bathroom mirror. He’d better change into something more presentable than his fishing jumpsuit and singlet. A waistcoat and button-up, to start with. Was his nice jacket too nice for a day out in the cliffs with a friend? Even if that friend was Luke?  

He settled on his trenchcoat, to play it safe. He wouldn’t mind it getting covered in ash, he reasoned, and he wouldn’t feel overdressed if they dropped into a pub at some point. It looked good with his semi-nice trousers and boots anyway.  

As Ashton gave himself a final once-over, he heard a roll of thunder outside and frowned. Luke’s weather report hadn’t predicted anything but sun all day. He turned and spotted the underside of a massive airship outside the window in time to feel the room shudder so violently he had to grip a bedpost to stay standing. Outside, tiny pieces of debris rained down and his and Luke’s bucket fell past, followed by the wooden beam Luke’s end of the pulley was attached to and a huge hunk of burned metal. Ashton’s end ripped out with a splintering snap and above him someone screamed.  

Ashton stared at the ceiling. Luke.  

Abandoning the lunchbox, Ashton ran to the door, hands shaking as he pulled the handle and wrenched it open. A few neighbours were out in the hallway, but he ignored their questioning looks as he raced to the ladder at the end, climbing the rungs two at a time to reach Luke’s floor.  

Ashton didn’t think about how he’d get in until he reached the door, feeling both relieved that it was ajar and anxious that Luke wasn’t out in the hallway. He pushed it open and froze.  

The lagoon-facing wall was gone aside from what had been blown into the room, the view of the sinking airship outside and the smoking hole in its hull only slightly obscured by metal beams twisting downwards from the roof. The room itself was a wreck of plaster, shattered glass and splintered floorboards bashed in by burned metal chunks.    

Shaken out of his trance by a cry, Ashton searched the room for the source to find Luke on the floor next to his radio, a warped piece of thin pipe running through his thigh and blood streaming through his hair. Ashton rushed to his side, eyes fixing first on the side of his head. The tip of his ear was hanging by a sliver of skin, a long but thankfully shallow wound marking where a piece of metal had nearly taken out his eye as well.

Ashton took out his handkerchief and pressed it to the head wound.  

“Ash,” Luke gasped.  

“I’m here,” Ashton assured him, glancing around the room again. Outside, a sheet of corrugated roofing fell past. “We gotta go. Hold the handkerchief there.” They weren’t in immediate danger, but he didn’t want to take risks with whatever damage the structures above them had taken.  

He went to Luke’s bathroom, half of the bath itself probably at the bottom of the Eye by now and a piece of sky now visible above the airship, and searched the cupboard for medical supplies. There was gauze and a length of bandage, but nothing like the emergency kit they kept on the skiff. He grabbed the bandage and hurried back out to Luke.  

“Keep holding that,” he reminded him, pressing the now soaked handkerchief back to the wound, “Can you lift your leg? I need to bandage it.”  

Luke groaned, his foot shifting a little. Ashton helped him pull his knee up just enough to reach underneath. He could feel the tip of the pipe through his blood-wettened trousers, twisted and sharp.  

“I gotta cut your trousers open. Knife?”

“Knife?” Luke questioned breathlessly.

“Where are your knives?”

“Oh.” Luke took a shuddering breath and pointed to his bed. “Toolbelt.”

Ashton spotted the toolbelt hanging from a bedpost and grabbed it, first finding Luke’s large fishing knife, then a multitool with a relatively sturdy pair of scissors. He picked the multitool, not wanting to risk further injury to Luke’s leg with his shaky hands. After cutting a wide hole around the end of the pipe, Ashton carefully set loops of bandage around both ends and started winding it around his leg.

“I was about to go,” Luke told him, voice straining, “I was about to turn off the radio when I heard their distress call. The window shattered.”

“They aren’t falling too fast,” Ashton noted with a glance at the top of the airship outside, “Must’ve just been a couple of cells.”

Now that Luke had drawn his attention to it, Ashton could hear the announcer on the radio requesting aid for the airship and the areas hit by debris. He tuned it out again to focus on Luke.

“Sit up for me?”

Luke clutched Ashton’s arm tightly as he helped him up, groaning.

“Can you walk?”

Breathing deeply, Luke nodded. He tensed as Ashton secured his grip on him, breaths coming out shorter and faster as if to ready himself. Ashton lifted him slowly, but Luke still cried out as his leg shifted.

“I don’t think I can move it,” he whimpered.

“That’s okay, just lean on me.” Ashton took a small step to the door, Luke lurching with him. “That’s it, come on.”

The hardest part was getting over the doorstep. Ashton went first and Luke dragged his foot over it sideways, going pale as he bit his lip hard. Luke’s neighbours seemed to have fared better, though Ashton supposed that any injured worse than Luke would likely still be trapped in their homes.

“Medic?” Ashton asked someone hurrying between the people in the hallway, a red medical kit in hand.

They looked at the pipe. “Shit. Uh… Take him to the atrium, someone’ll be there soon, I gotta...”

Ashton nodded understandingly.

Luke’s floor opened onto a balcony stretching along the cliff wall, the bottom of the atrium a couple of floors below them. The whole area was shielded from the weather by a wall with a large, domed window, now cracked by a piece of wreckage, though that didn’t stop onlookers from staring at the airship outside.

Ashton laid Luke down on a nearby bench, feet on the floor and the pipe clear of the edge to keep it from getting jostled, and went to the railing, searching for a medic in the crowd below them but finding his gaze drawn to the airship. A few tugboats had attached lines to it, slowing its descent. The airship clearly wasn’t designed for water landings and Ashton wondered how many tugboats it would take to lift it over the cliffs to safety. Maybe they’d just rescue the people aboard and let the deep blue of the Eye take it.

“Ash.”

Ashton hurried back to Luke’s side, pressing the handkerchief to his head. “What’s wrong?”

Luke gripped his hand. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Luke nodded weakly, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Stay.”

There probably wasn’t much point to running in circles and screaming anyway. Ashton settled on the floor next to Luke, gently rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb as he kept pressure on the head wound with his other hand.

From here, Ashton couldn’t see the Eye, but he saw a fire boat whizz past, firefighters manning the water cannons on the side.

“Are you hurt?” Luke asked weakly.

Ashton looked at him and shook his head. “My house didn’t get hit.”

At least, not while Ashton had been there. He considered the debris he’d seen falling outside Luke’s and wondered what state his own home would be in when he returned.

Ashton frowned. When would he return? Emergency services might block off the hallways to the areas that had been hit with debris while they got the situation under control, which could take all night. The areas below would probably be blocked off while debris was cleared away and that could take days. The hit buildings would have to be repaired. In Luke’s case, probably completely rebuilt. Ashton hoped they’d give him a chance to grab his personal belongings first.

“We might have to stay with Cal and Mike,” Ashton suggested to Luke.

“Sleepover,” Luke mumbled in reply.

Ashton chuckled. “Yeah. A sleepover.”

“We can all sleep in the bed together.”

“All of us?” Ashton laughed, “Might be a bit of a squeeze.”

“Cozy.”

“Cozy,” Ashton repeated, giving Luke’s hand a squeeze.

[bisluthq]

On a pitchfork article back then about the kimye feud, the writer mentions kim and kanye write their own public lives, and so does taylor, but kim and kanye were too much for someone like taylor to handle. After all, she had to keep her squad, her boyfriends, her princess image, etc. Toe happened in such a good timing that i think she has or had a plan about her career and used him to achieve her goals. Probably will marry, have kids, and then divorce for the sake of her career narratives.

Well that’s an ugly thing to wish her.

And tbh citing Pitchfork is probs not something I’m gonna be into either lol. The people who work there are the absolute fucking worst. Like they’re a bunch of douchebag hipster types of course they’re gonna bash marketable celebs lol. The people at Pitchfork are actively invested in not stanning anyone mainstream - like Taylor and Kimye - and are very proud of being better than those people who do stan those vibes. They’re big “indie record that’s so much cooler than mine” energy. They’re that white litboi who explains sapphic takes of like Jane Austen to you - a real world queer woman - over a beer in the pub.

And I’m sorry I’m just... not here for “Taylor Swift is a fake ass lying liar who lies.”

If that’s what I thought I... wouldn’t stan her tbh.

I don’t get people who do lol like if you think the person you like is a BAD PERSON whose whole life is a lie and who is tricking you for commercial gain I... don’t know why you are interested in them.

@karliesbuzzcut said an interesting thing yesterday about how TTB and co think celebs are like a different animal entirely to normal people. But the thing is they’re not lol like celebs are still normal ass people who eat and breathe and shit and fuck and mess up. Things like PR stunts and showmances DO HAPPEN absolutely. But it’s not some elaborate trick to con the “general public” ya know, it’s just a marketing strategy. Like it’s not deeper than that.

Showmances are often based on some kind of reality (some are totally staged but I’d say most aren’t) and they’re designed to sell u stuff and I’ve very clearly shown you guys how. Like it’s a way for you to buy stuff and spend 💸 cash dolla. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s not a lie. Well, not any more of a lie than like an advertorial or product placement.

Taylor DOES USE JOE - and their admittedly grossly cute love story - TO SELL STUFF. But that doesn’t mean the relationship is fake. Joe DOES NOT USE TAY TO SELL STUFF because the outcome he wants for his career - to be the next Daniel Day Lewis lol - won’t be aided along by being a pop star’s sugar bébé. In fact it’s deadass a liability as we saw in Saoirse’s interview for Mary Queen of Scots.

If you want to talk about how everything celebs do is a complete lie and they all have a public private and a private private life and they’re meeting in sekrit venues and they all ~know these open secrets that you as a regular citizen don’t... then this is not the place for you man. Because that’s not true tbh.

And I’m sorry but no I don’t think Taylor would MARRY AND HAVE KIDS AND THEN DIVORCE JOE in order to trick you and sell stuff as part of her career narrative. If they break up - and as I say she will get dragged if it’s any time soon like she will be publicly HUMILIATED by EVERYONE AND THEIR MOTHER - she probs will try and come back from it by selling music. But it would also be SO INCREDIBLY PAINFUL and downright EMBARRASSING for her and if you can’t see that, if you can’t have empathy for this real world human being then miss me.

[apprendicekato]

pottery Muriel’s headcanons because my brain went full  mandela effect and i’m sure he does mention some clay at some point but really he doesn’t this is mostly because Kato has very little objects on themselves- after all imagine being a little stray cat, you can’t have a lot of belongings so yeah. Kato has an iron teapot, and a single, tiny ceramic cup, it’s very tiny, and it was probably meant for liqueurs.  Kato keeps it in his lil bag, surrounded by fabric or  herbs or anything their lil paws can find to avoid breaking the thing but one day it breaks! probably due their daydreaming habits or just during a very fast paced market-food steal run.  This cat is HEARTBROKEN at their lil cup shattered.  they will have to steal one again and that one came from a pub and it’s just more difficult to steal from closed spaces and they’re just destroyed muriel WILL find them at his hut weeping their lil heart out over the shattered pieces, trying to do some fixing magic that they don’t really know. mountain man is kinda living alone in the middle of the forest but he does need tools now and then. he ended up makin his own hand powered wheel for throwing. he really prefers functionality over designs, and some dyes just aren’t “a forest thing” he has however used some  onion skin to give certain clays a richer color he’s very steady when pottery working. in the beginning he did have some “bad pancakes” but that’s a matter of the past right now. he never gathers clay from the same place in the forest so most of his creations are very different glazed terracotta? he doesn’t have time to do that. only once to make a water bowl for the chikens in the back it’s not like it’s an hobby, but it’s more like something he does - now and then - to replace a bowl or something that broke when MC ( or kato, for what matters)  will look super happy to have something handmade he won’t really understand it because.. it’s just a bowl?  but after seeing you happy he WILL try to make things less basic and add some detail i know shit about pottery if not for a lesson i took when i was 8 and i still have a glazed pencil holder i made back then and the only thing i remember is that the glaze has to be only on the surface ( like, absolutely not on the side that’s touching the oven’s floor ) or it will explode and i’m sure that’s why he doesn’t glaze his terracotta stuff did i trace that cat crying meme for this? did i? yes

[lockdownuk]

Lockdown Diary Part 10

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online. Day 271: Work was dominated by Qfiniti again, including a meeting with Jon and staff from the States, where I found my self taking control to get the next steps in process (and then, Dave Stewart, the SCCM engineer fucked off and put an OOO message on Teams telling me he’s off until Tuesday (it’s Thursday)...and I am off on Monday!) But, I have to say this project does float my boat. Got a text message and then a call from PCH for another laser eye appt this coming Monday at 12.30pm. I mentioned to the lady that phoned that I will have to square it with work (I won’t, but she doesn’t know that) as I can’t afford to lose my job - it just seems the hospital, while under pressue with the admin and the clinic availability - I get it! - just aren’t seeing the issues for the patients. Plus, Peterborough has been declared a Tier 3 from Sunday under the new lockdown scheme, the highest tier. Great...I really want to travel to a highly infected area! managed to find an online booze shop that does Gordon’s and Famous Grouse and will deliver beforee Chrimbo, so I’ve placed the order for dad and Rita’s gift. I spoke with Dad today, he hasn’t heard about his vaccination yet which is a surprise (he’s in the first draft being over 80)

Day 272: Typing on day 273. Work was that manic shit at the end of the dya when I’ve got time off. I am only off on Moday but still had to tie up loose ends, complictaed further by Jon being off next week and Sueanne off this week and the Qfiniti project! In the evening I only mamaged three beers. I ate too much. Plus my sugars were all over the place and way too high! I ordered a torch a couple of days ago (£17), it arrived today. It takes rechargeable batteries or 3 AAAs. Apparently, to get the best performance (i.e. brightness) you need the rechargeable batteries in it, so i charged ‘em. Fucking hell, I’m glad I did - it’s brighter than the sun. It opens up my late walks in winter, for sure.

Day 273: While it was a very late (but sober) night yesterday (gone 4am before lights out) I was up before midday. Usual walking etc. plus gave the bathroom a clean (albeit with wipes, but I did mop the floor - and used the water to also mop the kitchen). Now I am about to stick a pizza in the oven, plus wedges (to have with microwaveable chip shop curry sauce) and watch This Is 40 which is coincidentally on telly tonight - the coincidence being clips of it are on TikTok a lot right now. I am on my second beer and am going to have a smoke right now as well. Lastly for this entry, I have been using my AudioPro speaker today, it pisses me off it’s not WiFi capable but, thru Bt, it does sound fucking good - revisiting James works very well to demonstrate the speaker’s prowess.

Day 274: I have another Paypal a/c. I have been getting emails to my standard gmail account from Paypal saying they are going to charge me £9 for an inactive account which I have been largely ignoring since my paypal a/c has a specific email address. Anyway, I tried to log in, after a password reset and, hey presto, I do have another one, with £35 in it, having just been fleeced of £9 for the aforementioned inactivity, fuckers. It’s registered with the old Market Place address and phone. When I try to transfer the £35 to my card, it wants to confim it’s me by calling the phone, which I can’t amend. Oh, and you can’t contact Paypal direct. Fuck knows what to do! Other than that, usual Sunday, a tad more relaxed since I have tomorrow off, but not that much now I have an eye appointment in Tier 4 Peterborough (it’s been up’d from tier 3)! Up at 1.30 pm (I watched This is 40 and The Guvners last night with lots of beer), feeling worse for wear but, stair climb and a 6 miler acheived!

Day 275: I was at the hospital for 3 hours. The laser clinic didn’t start until 1.30pm so, why my appointment was at 12.20, not even the consultant could understand. 15 minutes of lasering - horrible but I am used to it. It took so long it pretty much fucked my day off up completely. I got a Christmas card from Karen, in the actual post, so, a mail shot. It’s depressing.

Day 276: Back to work and it’s definitely in wind down mode. I’ve decided to compile a list of things I have done this year. It will be on the postive side, such as all the steps I’ve walked and getting an article published about my photography, but it will also include randon facts like getting bitten by a dig twice and not having a haircut. I’ll get it done so I can post in at new year, hopefully be a little inspiring, a little silly and a lot of showing off!

Day 277: Work, again, was quiet. It’s fucking pissing down now, as I type at 21:50, and has been all day. It’s causing havoc and there’s flooding everywhere. I could walk down St. Peter’s Road tonight ‘cos of it (had to go up New Road, Springfield Road, down Latham Road). Soaked a lunhtime and tonight! With a new variant of Coronavirus, France stopped frieght crossing the border. That’s now been resolved but tyeh back log has/is affecting certain food stocks in the shops, of which, fresh veg might affect me for Christams dinner (I plan to do a chicken breast with stuffing, pigs in blankets, yorkshire pud and shed loads of veg. I’ll nip to Co-Op tomorrow morning and see what’s vaialble. It’s a half day at work ‘cos of Christmas Eve, so I can nip out somewhere in the car if need be, as ong as the flooding has subsided. Or I could just get shitfaced and have burgers and pizza.

Day 278: Christmas Eve. Sueanne let me finish at 11.00am so, very shortly thereafter, off for a walk I went; it turned out to be a stop/start affair - flooding as the Nene had burst its banks, ended up doing more of a circuit round town. Bumped into Andy Smith (and his son) and, after that, Ash and Denise. Ended up doing just under 11.5km in 2 and a half hours.Knackered! As I type, I have a chilli on the stove, beer on the go, all the veg and chicken breast bought with no shortages, as feared, for tomorrow’s lunch and looking forward to eating. getting drunk, smoking, listening to music, watching telly....all over the next two/three days.

Day 279: I don’t even remember going to bed last night. As a direct result I got out of bed at 2.30pm. I couldn’t even be bothered with Christmas dinner, let alone anything else like exercise. I’m just about to have chilli for dinner (it’s 8.10pm). Watch some telly then try an go to sleep before midnight. No booze! I did talk to dad earlier. Day 280: Typing on day 281. A better, more productive day. Up @11.00am exercise and walk as usual, although the walk was a different route due to flooding. In the evening I could hear ‘storm Bella’ raging, so windy! I cooked a christmas dinner of sorts, chicken breast with Thyme, all the veg, roasted spuds and parsnip, stuffing (a first for me, albeit co-op stuffing mix), Yorkshie and pigs in blankets. It was smashing! A few beers and The Hitman’s Bodyguard, alays a fun watch. A better day, as I say, but I am feeling particular deflated this Christmas. Day 281: Typing on day 282. I realised, about mid afternoon, that Monday (tomorrow) is a bank holiday so no work. It was a great realisation but, also, worrying that it dawned on my like I’m an old person! Nevertheless, a nice long walk - bumped into Baz & Kate and had a nice long chat, then El & Camila, Aaron and Eva for another, shorter chat. I also saw Denise & Ash along the way. Fog video called later in the evening for a chat too (he told me how he fell asleep at the dinner table, fuck he makes me laugh - unwittingly - when I need it most!) A regular social fest! A repeat of last night’s dinner and a few beers - it was a good day albeit I am in a proper low ebb.

Day 282: Up at midday after a 4am-er. A very long walk (1.75 hours) and a hodge podge dinner (remaining chilli, roasted spuds and peppers, steamed cauliflower and runner beans, grated cheese) - it’s nearly ready, I’ll type the review tomorrow. I realise that this is the first time in 21 Christmases that I have at least talked to K. Is that connected to my mood slump? I reckon so. So, as that fact dawned on me, I then considered, should it be the case next Christmas, it will not be the first in along time and, as such, more manageable....fuck knows how I manage to accentuate any little positive but, thank goodness I do. Day 283: Work was a sedate affair today, fuck all to do really. Sueanne is now follwing me on Insta...I shall invetsigate on how to exclude posts to individuals, methinks. Tea, last night, was fucking lovely. More of the same tonight-ish - currently I am roasting spuds, peppers, garlic, chillies, tomatoes - it’ll all go with left over pigs-in-blankets (5) and a burger. I’ll have bisto beef with mustard on it. I can’t wait! Day 284: Typing on day 285. That meal was fucking lush! Checked on the car todfay and it would not start. Something is draining the battery so I will have to give it a run every day until I can get Julian to sort it. So, I WhatsApp’d Karen to borrow the portable starter. She dropped it off for me. We had the briefest of chats at the doorstep, first time we’ve spoken in weeks. She mentioned my hair! Day 285: NYE. I have just got back from walking to Cottersock and back. I would not have been able to do so without my new torch! I finished and published my double letter quiz on FB, including to the Virtual Pub group and the Oundle Chatter. It’s had some good feedback, I’m rather proud of it. I am going to make chicken casserole now (with dumplings - a first for me, I even bought some flour), have some beers and get a bit stoned. Before that, I am going to finish off my list of things I’ve done this year, including steps wlaked and hours listening on Spotify. I am quite proud of that list too.

Day 286: I fucked the dumplings up, added too much water, so that didn’t happen but the chicken casserole was good, just about to finish it for tea tonight. I also had pizza last night and went to bed at 5am. I have had a lot of good feedback on my list of 2020 achievements. I proud of it. K sent a happy new WhatsApp last night, around 00.30.

Day 287: No booze last night, so I was up before the alarm today (about 10.00am) Two walks, one on my own, another with Fog with a couple of beers. I fucking loved it! Watching datrts (World champs semi finals - been texting Dan while the first one has been on). Going to watch The Aviator later...I’ve not seen it before which surprises me. Why it surprises me I do not know, since I know I haven’t seen it. How the fuck can I be surprised by a fact I’m completely aware of? Day 288: I didn’t watch The Aviator ‘cos Logan Luck was on at 11:55pm on ITV4. Great fildm...I can’t believe that I very nearly paid for it (rent from Sky or Amazon). A late one last night and quite pissed. Thinking about it, having afew beers with Fog in the afternoon made it quite a long sesh for me! Up at just gone midday today, nice long walk (Cotterstock) which was mde long by a painful right ankle - I must have turned or twiested slightly sometime. Still, it survived. Back to work tomorrow - Chrimbo and New Year all done and dusted for the 55th time in my life!

Day 289: First day back at work of 2021. Boris announces another full lockdown in England (there’s a new strain of Covid19 which is seeing huge numbers of infections every day, over 50,000 per day).

Day 290: Something is up with my right foot, the little toe pad. It’s bloody sore. If it gets any worse it’ll affect my walking and exercise. I phoned Anne Bennison to talk about it, she just wants me to go and see her which i donlt want to do if poss, pandemic and all that.

Day 291: Wearing my sandals instead of the M&S slippers and my foot/toepad is already feeling bteer. However, I did inspect my Merrell boots, just in case, and the sole on te right is really worn down, in just three months. I have sent a WhatsApp to CotswoldOutdoors, where I got them from....let’s see what they say! It’s all kicking off i  the US - pro Trump protestors have storm the Capitol Building, where congrees was being held. Only in ‘Merica.

Day 292: Busy at work with rolling out Qfiniti - all that project work was pretty much for fuck all since the SCCM package has to hand held. It’s feckin’ freezing today, below freezing, slippy af on my walks. I have been shopping tonight, £106 in Corby Tesco. That does include 8 cans of sapporo.

Day 293: The fracas at Capitol Hill on Wednesday left 5 dead, it looks like Trump will be impeached. He’s already said he’ll not attend Biden’s inauguration. In a fucking world gone mad, it’s another level of madness. It’s really cold -3℃ tonight, more of the same tomorrow. Makes for brisk walks. I’ve just had chicken balti pie and chips for tea. It was so nice that I burnt the roof of my fucking gob. I’m on the Sapporo and about to have a smoke then watch Jack Reacher. I’ve (kinda) earnt after the first 5 day week for a while.

Day 294: Well, last night saw another late one...5am by the time I :went to sleep. Up at 2pm today with no instention of any exercise or walking or housework or fuck all, really. But, I did my exercises and a 9 mile walk. While I walked I came across Banners, quick 15 min chat and listed to Stage by David Bowie. He’s all over the radio right now as it’s his death’s anniversary tomorrow and his birthday yesterday. It’s a fucking good live album. A few beers tonight, eating trash, watching FA Cup highlights then End of Watch later.  Posh played today (first time in a while due to Covid infections) drew away to (shitty) Lincoln 1-1. Good point as Posh were down to ten men after 67 mins for a second yellow for handball in the area. Lincoln missed the pen. Fucking funny. Chorley, the non leaguers who knocked Posh out in round 2 of the FA Cup, beat Derby in round 3 today (albeit derby fielded an academy side of 11 first timers due to Covid ) - a great day for them!

Day 295: Up at 2pm swearing blind I’d not walk or exercise (again!) but, of course I did. I’ve done over 25 miles this w/e! End of Watch was brilliant last night. Well worth a rewatch, so emotional. I am making butter chicken as I type. I’ve added extra onion, garlic and, of course, chillies. It’s the spiciest butter chicken I have ever tasted! 

Day 296: One of those frustrating days at work when no problem of request I try to resolve goes without a hitch. After a 7km walk in the evening, took the car for a spin and cleaned the bathroom. Fucking knackered. It’s 11:30pm and I’m in bed typing this on the iPad! despite getting up so late, I feel knackered. 11pm bedtime for me, I reckon.

Day 297: Fucking busy at work, the States rolled out a new Okta trust policy and it caused mayhem. Meant my evening walk didn’t start ‘til gone 6pm. When I got back, clened the hall and stairs, made chilli (which I am about to have for tea (gone 10.15pm!) and showered. I’m, again, fucking knackered! Posh played Portsmouth in the EFL Trophy 3rd round at home. Won 5-1. Nice.

Day 298: Had an electrician rouind for the EICR cetrt. He was here until 2pm and it was a pain in the arse, having to work upstairs plus, with having to cut the electricity, all the smart devices lost their settings. And it was freezing up there.

Day 299: Work was impossibly infuriating. Not one pc remote session went to plan! It was pissing down a lunchtime during my walk but, I have to say, the cheap TargetDry coat copes fine in heavy rain for short periods. Everywhere is flooding again even though the rain turned to sleet. By my evening walk, it was dry but bloody cold. Then, when I got in I cleaned the kitchen and mopped the floor and the bathroom’s as well. I fucking done in! Chatted to dad today - same as ever!

Day 300: What a fucking work at week! I am so glad it’s Friday. To celebrate, I ordered new walking boots: Scarpas £121!

[constant-instigator]

In comes a rant. I will not be reading replies.

Ownvoices writing is good. Ownvoices writing is vital, indispensable. Worthy of so much support.

But JESUS CHRIST people need to settle the fuck down about others “writing outside their lane.”

Let me explain.

1) A shit ton of marginalized people- largely creators, have worked our collective asses off helping people write beyond their experience. Claiming that nobody of a particular marginalization wants anyone outside their community to write about them is a massive disservice to people doing the work to make sure that writing is good. 

2) For every marginalization, there are those at the border- at the egde. Who see these demands for ownvoices only rep and tailspin into wondering if they are ______ ENOUGH to write from their own life. I have seen these calls for ownvoices-only make people consider either giving up writing, or only writing white, straight, cis, nondisabled, allo characters which honestly we do not need a bunch more of. Creating ranking within our own communities just re-establishes harmful hierarchies within communities that have already been harmed by such hierarchies. And honestly this kind of thinking contributes to so many harmful stereotypes about what people of different marginalizations feel/think/act like. This kind of thinking stops people from finding help. From finding community. Stop hurting marginalized people with gatekeepy bullshit. No more “not trans enough” to deserve transitioning support. No more “not depressed enough” to deserve mental health help. This an incredibly harmful scarcity mindset that helps nobody.

3) NOT EVERYONE WANTS TO TRADITIONALLY PUBLISH. I bring this one up only because there’s a lot of talk about people “taking up space” by writing a particular marginalization. By all means, take publishers to task for their “we already have a black book this year” bullshit. But some people just wanna self publish and we do not need to act like every marginalized community has like 3 book slots per year and wont read more than that. The thirst for books about marginalized folks is VAST. People are hungry to be seen. The market can bear it. And those that self-pub aren’t taking anything away from anyone else.

4) Multi-POV books are a thing? Like honestly why would I write a queer cast if they’re all gonna be white? What unrealistic whitewashy bullshit is that? Why would I bother writing about disability if I’m gonna exclude queer folks, who are disproportionately affected by a number of disabilities due to medical negligence? If you write communities, if you write multiple points of view, you shouldn’t be contributing to the media mass removal of people who don’t fit hollywoods idea of real people.

5) Stop treating people who have different experiences of marginalization as different goddamn species. I’m really seeing people say queer women shouldn’t write queer men and vice versa? So who is my nonbinary ass supposed to write, huh? Just only nonbinary people? Yeah ok, I hate book sales. Lemme just do that. Or maybe we could stop acting like our differences make us incomprehensible to each other- especially when dealing with adjacent communities.

6) If your answer to #5 was “well the more marginalized can write the less marginalized” then you have just bought into the idea that marginalization can be ranked and rated and my dear that is a bullshit idea. Yes, there are some clear cut exampled. Being white is gonna protect you from racism. Granted. But who is “more marginalized” a queer woman or a queer man? An autistic person or someone with bipolar? A Muslim or a Hindu? If you just tried to answer any of these questions stop. Go get a glass of water. Take a few deep breaths, and realize that creating hierarchies is half of how we get into these situations in the first place.

7) Said hierarchies would, under ownvoices-only rule, ensure that those with the greatest barriers, on average, bear all the responsibility, with the LEAST amount of support from publishers. This isn’t a “boo-hoo where will Black people get Black books if white people don’t write them?” It’s “if queer women can only write queer women, and not queer men, then they are relegated to the less profitable section of queer publishing and the patriarchal order is maintained”. I think my community can do better than that. I refuse to invite those models into my community.

8) “Well if you listen to people who are X, they want-” Stop. Stoooop. No. We are not a monolith we are never a monolith. Go read #1 again.

In conclusion, a lot of harmful bullshit books make it out into the world. Those books can and should be called out. But we don’t need to harm marginalized people to do that. We don’t need to water down our communities. We don’t need to uphold hierarchies that the craptacular establishment approves of. We don’t need to ignore the hard work so many people have put into helping there be more good rep in the world.

Ownvoices stories are vital. We must uplift them. By all means, side-eye anyone you see writing what they’re not without uplifting those who educated them. 

But #ownvoices is a beacon, not a cudgel.

I will not be reading or responding to any comments on this post, because Tumblr purity bullshit culture may well find this post one day. And a lot of people want to use the concept of “safety” to attack anyone who makes them feel anxious by pointing out that there is no simple, cut and dry way to avoid harm, to avoid messing up, to avoid their ever-encroaching sense of anxiety-riddled guilt. Life is messy. Learn to apologize and do better, because you will never be free of making mistakes.

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 17/28 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

 Yvanne searched nearly an hour for a pub that wasn’t the Hanged Man, got horribly lost, and somehow ended up at the Hanged Man anyway.Was the damn place somehow the only pub in the city? But by that point she was sick and tired of walking, and so went ahead inside.

 It was less crowded now, but for whatever reason, still serving. Though this time, her prospects for getting some unscrupulous lecher to put her up didn’t seem nearly as good.

 She’d have to barter. How hard could it be? She’d done it before in the Denerim markets, and she’d carried Hawke’s stupid candlestick all this way.

 Five minutes deep into a screaming argument with the bartender about how much exactly the gilding on the candlestick was worth, she saw motion in the corner of her eye as someone approached.

 “What’s with all the fuss?” said the outlandish woman she’d met before—Isabela? She wasn’t jingling quite so much this time. She was barefoot and divested of most of her gold. Her mussed hair and squinty eyes suggested that she’d been sleeping.

 “You again?” Yvanne said, not lowering the candlestick. “What, do you live here or something?”

 “I’ve got a room here. And what about it?” She raised an eyebrow. “The real question is why you’re waving a candlestick around and causing all this fuss.“

 “If this ginger idiot would just take the damn candlestick there wouldn’t be any fuss.” She rounded back on the bartender. “Look, you wretched man, this is      real gold,    it’s more valuable than anything you’ve ever seen in your life.”

 “She with you, Bela?” sighed the bartender.

 “Sure she is,” said Isabela, and turned smiling to her. “Now how about you stop waving that thing around before you hurt someone?”

 “I’ll definitely  hurt someone if you don’t leave me the—”

 “Come on, now,” said Isabela. She snatched Yvanne by her candlestick-wielding elbow and all but dragged her to a secluded nook. The other woman was a good deal stronger than her; Yvanne doubted she’d be match for her, without magic.

 “Right,” said Isabela, letting her go. “Care to explain?”

 “Care to mind your own business?” Yvanne shot back, yanking her arm away.

 “Well, not if you’re going to be bludgeoning my favorite bartender.”

 “I’ll bludgeon      you.”  

 “Really? Will you? Go on, then.” Isabela took a seat on a bench and swung an ankle onto her knee, leaning back.

 “Look here,” Yvanne said, jabbing the candlestick in her direction, but decidedly not doing any bludgeoning. “I have just about      had    it with all of this. I’ve been robbed, blackmailed, menaced. I’ve gone without food or drink or sleep or comfort, nearly puked my guts out, lost about everyone I’ve ever cared about, put up with your dwarf friend’s horrible jokes, been sobbed on by a soggy nobleman, and now I’m being prevented from even buying myself a drink. I’m at my      fucking    limit and I am—sick—of—all—this—      shit!”  

 The other woman nodded. “Been there. Want a drink?”

 “No thanks,” Yvanne said exhaustedly, and collapsed into a chair. She pressed the heel of her palms into her eyes. Maker, she was tired.

 Isabela sighed. “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry about earlier. I saw that man come at you, and couldn’t help but be reminded of myself when I was younger.”

 It wasn’t surprising. Isabela looked a good deal more like Yvanne than Hawke did. “I’m not that young.”

 “Never said you were. Just thought you looked a little lost.”

 “And what about it?”

 They sat in silence for a moment.

 “Varric told me who you are and what you were doing here,” Isabela said eventually. “Sorry if you didn’t want people to know. He can’t resist a good secret.”

 “Figures,” Yvanne muttered. But she supposed it didn’t really matter. She wasn’t an apostate, or a deserter. Nobody was looking for her. Nobody cared about where she was, one way or the other.

 “So judging by the fact that you seem to be trying to barter for booze with one of Hawke’s candlesticks, I guess meeting him didn’t go over too well.”

 “How do you know this is Hawke’s?” Yvanne said defensively.

 Isabela tapped it one of the candelestick’s stems, slightly bent. “I remember the exact incident where this got dented. It involved a burglar, a coopful of chickens, and a very ornery—well, nevermind. It’s from Hawke’s place, I recognize it.”

 “Aren’t you perceptive.”

 “You have to be, in my line of work.”

 Yvanne put the pilfered candlestick on the (uncomfortably sticky) table. “Want it back?” she said, shamed. “Don’t think I’m having much luck persuading the damn bartender it’s worth anything.”

 “No, no. I encourage petty theft, as a matter of principle. Actually, if you need a fence, I know a few guys.”

 “Uh. No thanks.” She looked at her distorted reflection in the shiny gold. “I get that he’s your friend, but talking to him…I just couldn’t.”

 “Just because someone’s family doesn’t mean they’re      family.    Like I said. Been there.“

 “Well. Thanks.” Yvanne hesitated. “I heard the dwarf calling you ‘Rivaini.’ Is that where you’re from?”

 Isabela shrugged. “Why do you want to know?”

 “I might go to Rivain.”

 “What for?”

     Because there is the barest chance my mother might be there. Because I have nowhere else tolerable to go and nothing else tolerable to do, and if I don’t do something, I might just fucking kill myself.  

 “Don’t really know,” said Yvanne.

 “How are you planning on getting there, then?”

 “I’ll figure something out.”

 Isabela gave her a look that was endlessly, awfully patient.

 “Look,” she said, “judging by the fact that you’re bartering with stolen candlesticks, I’m guessing you aren’t long on funds. You can try and stow away, but that’s risky. I wouldn’t bother unless you’re really desperate. But I can do you one better—I can offer you a job.”

  “What sort of job?” Yvanne said, wary.

 “A few of us were going to go down to the Wounded Coast to deal with some slavers. Fenris is really chomping at the bit to go clear them out, but it’s hard to get a good crew together without Hawke—he’s everyone’s mutual friend. And as you saw, right now he’s a bit indisposed. Come with us, help do the job, collect the bounty, and of course there’s always looting to be done. And if that’s not enough, or you can’t find a ship, well, there’s always lots of jobs, if you’re willing to get your hands dirty.”

 “What makes you think I’d be any use against slavers?”

 “Let’s just say you seem formidable, hm? I can get you something better to bludgeon with.”

 “I don’t know…”

 She shrugged. “You’ve got til tomorrow morning. But it’s a standing offer. Like I said, always plenty of jobs.”

 Yvanne sighed. She really did need the money.

 “In the meantime,” said Isabela, “you can stay in my room for the night, if you want. Not that there’s much night left.”

 “I—ah—”

 “Meaning nothing untoward, of course,” she added, perhaps too quickly. “Not that I’m in the habit of taking in strays, but I shudder to think how the red the streets of Kirkwall would run with blood if I let you loose on them still wielding a blunt instrument.”

 Yvanne snorted. Then she looked at her, really looked. Isabela even without her myriad of knives and pounds of jewelry seemed so invincible, and here she was being kind. Whatever Yvanne playacted at being, Isabela was the real thing. And she was really very beautiful.

 She felt, absurdly,      want.  

 Not that it mattered, because Isabela meant nothing untoward. She wasn’t offering, so of course Yvanne wasn’t going to ask. Not when she actually wanted to.

 All of a sudden she was afraid. If she was capable of wanting something like that, what else was she capable of wanting?

 “Thanks,” she said, “but I think I’ll go my own way.”

 Isabela gave a slightly      well-I-tried    shrug. “Suit yourself,” she said, then added, “and good on you.”

 By this time the first rays of the morning sun were crawling across the sky. Yvanne could see the beginnings of it from the window. She left hurriedly, before she had the chance the reconsider.

 Because she could see it, quite easily. Going off on an adventure with Isabela and her friends. Getting to know them, making some money. Probably Hawke, too; that was probably inevitable, if he was everybody’s mutual friend. And once she’d made some money she’d drink it away, and it would be alright, because there’d be another job lined up, just in time. And she’d go again, replenish her purse, spend more time with those people.  It hurt her heart, the way they reminded her of the little simulacrum family she’d built and then abandoned at Vigil’s Keep, and it would never be the same. But perhaps in time it would hurt less and less, and eventually not at all. Maybe next time Isabela      would    mean something untoward, and she’d sleep with her, and that would be fine. She’d learn the inside jokes. She’d make some of her own. She would become another fixture in their shared lives. Would that be so bad?

 Here in this city of bones and poison she would dwell, among something-like-friends, among something-like-family, and it would be better than being alone. A half-shadowed life, after all, was better than a full-shadowed one. A half-shadowed life contained also light.

 But she had once dwelled      all    in light. Not for long; only a few months, all told, of uncomplicated happiness, before Rolan had arrived and spurred on the rot.

 For those few months—golden, perfect—she had known more than base contentment. She had known joy.

 How could she now stand to live half in shadows?

 —

 After most of the morning had passed, she found the docks. She stole breakfast out of a merchant’s stall with the practiced ease of a girl who’d spent her whole childhood hiding things, and her recent adulthood one small disaster away from living in the streets. At the docks, she found a barrel to sit on and eat her mango and watch the dock workers. Her half-baked scheme of stowing away on a vessel bound for Rivain was in fact hardly baked at all, and was almost sure to fail the moment she tried to implement it. She didn’t even know which of these ships were bound for Dairsmuid—if any at all.

 She carefully did not allow herself to think about what she would do when she got to Dairsmuid. Maybe nothing. Maybe she would go live in the swamps by herself and be a mad apostate. Or maybe she wouldn’t live. All she knew was that she needed to not be here, and she had nowhere else to go.

 As she mulled all this over, a hand closed around her upper arm. It caught her off guard; and she was pulled into the alleyway

 Her first thought—      ah! Here it is! I’m going to be robbed and raped, it’s about time!—    was f  ollowed almost immediately by—      no way in hell will the bastard have the satisfaction!    

 She twisted, and bit down hard on her assailant’s hand. He yelled and released her; she spun to face him, deciding which of her most horrible spells to unleash if he touched her again. Her assailant was tall, broad-shouldered, holding a fighting staff wrapped with cloth strips, and—Andraste’s left tit, did he live in the sewers? What was that      smell?    It was bad even by Kirkwall standards.

 “What in the Maker’s name are you      doing    here?” the man hissed.

 “Eating my      fucking    breakfast, you shit-stinking ratman! Let go of me before I beat you to death with your idiot stick, or—Andraste’s tits.” She blinked, as though her eyes deceived her, and all the fight went out of her. “Anders?”

 She was shocked that she recognized him. It had been a few years since she’d seen him, but not      that    many. Anders looked like he’d aged at least a decade. There was grey in his hair and lines on his forehead and around his eyes. He was dressed in what looked like the bedraggled remains of the Tevinter-style robes he’d once favored, pieces of his old Warden uniform, and an awful lot of rags.

 “Maker,” she said, “what happened to you?”

 He glared at her. “If you’re here to arrest me—”

 “Arrest you?” At first she couldn’t even process what he meant by that. “Andraste’s fucking tits, I’m not here to arrest you! Hells, I didn’t even know you were      here.    Is that why you grabbed me? Did you lose your mind along with your earring?”

 He self-consciously, and probably without realizing he was doing it, touched his ear. “I thought—when I heard a woman named Amell was here, I thought the Grey Wardens had come to arrest and charge me for deserting. But I see you’re…not in uniform.”

 "Charitably put,“ she muttered. She probably didn’t look much better off than he did, even if she smelled better. “No, I’m not here to arrest you, and   as a matter of fact my presence in this city has nothing to do with you in the first place.”

 “Alright, alright!” He snorted. “I see you haven’t changed all that much.”

 “      You     have.”

 He brushed a piece of limp greying hair behind his ear. “That’s true.”

 He didn’t      seem    like an insane, gibbering abomination. She had so many questions. Most of them feauring rude words. The rest, variants on Are you alright?

The questions hung in the air like an acrid fog. They weighed her tongue and choked her. So Anders spoke first. “So if you’re not here to arrest me for desertion, what are you doing here?”

 “Don’t.”

 “Is Loriel here—?”

 “      Don’t.”    It came out as a hiss of air.

 He drew back a little in surprise. She wondered what her face had done. After a moment she regained control over herself. “You’re a clever fellow,” she said dully. “You can connect the dots.”

 She didn’t dare look at him. If she saw pity, she would have no choice but to kill herself. “Why did      you    come here, then?”

 “You’re clever, aren’t you?” he said. “I’m sure you can connect the dots.”

 Then she did look up. There was only one good reason that she knew of for Anders to come to Kirkwall. “So did you find him?”

 “Don’t,” he said, pained. And that was all she needed to hear.

 So they stood in the darkened alley by the Kirkwall docks, two people who had known each other, once, lost in their own separate tragedies, together and alone.

 “So why’d you stay?” she said eventually. “Kirkwall’s not exactly friendly to our kind.”

 “That’s exactly why we had to stay.”

 “We?” she said sharply.

 He hesitated. “Justice and I.”

 Her eyes widened. “So it’s true. You let him—”

 “Yes. Keep your voice down, would you?”

 “Can I talk to him?”

 He glanced sharply at her. “I don’t think that would be possible.”

 “We could go somewhere hidden—”

 “No, not because someone might see. I’m a wanted man as it is,“ he said dismissively. "I mean, I don’t think it’s      possible.”  

 “What?”

 “Justice is…he’s gone.”

 Her heart thumped. “You mean he’s dead?”

 “Not exactly. He’s not the same. When we—you know—we did more than join. We became the same being. I can’t tell where he ends and where I begin. We’re something different now.”

 She boggled. “What in the Maker’s left trouser pocket are you talking about?”

 ”  I’m not the person you used to know.”

 "Good thing I knew both of you, then,“ she said irritably. “Nobody’s ever the same person. You’re not special.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “Can’t you at least try?” She tried not to let it sound like a whine. “I can help; I’ve learned so much spirit lore since you left. I wanted to help him, back at the Vigil, but then you…can’t you try?”

 He hesitated. “Alright. But make it quick. I think he finds it uncomfortable to borrow my body like this.”

 She held her breath. Anders blinked, and when he opened his eyes, they weren’t his eyes anymore.

 “Justice?” she breathed.

 “Yes.”

 “Maker.” Impulsively, she reached up, put her hands on either side of his face. She had never expected to feel this particular pattern of Fade energy again. “It’s really you.”

 The spirit smiled faintly, as though humoring her. It wasn’t anything like Anders’ smile, but a great deal like the smile she’d seen on Kristoff’s corpse.

 “What’s it      like?”  

 Justice thought about it. “It is different from possessing a corpse. Most of the time I am only a passenger. I try not to intrude.“

 "That sounds unfathomably lonely.”

 "Anders did me a great service in allowing this. Together we will accomplish much.”

 “It’s like you’re trapped, isn’t it?” Her mouth curled into a bitter line. “We would have found you another vessel.”

 “I have no objection to my current status.”

 “But are you happy?”

 “I am fulfilling my purpose.”

 “That’s not what I asked.”

 “I am fulfilling my purpose.” But the second time he said it—unless it was her imagination?—it almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

 She’d almost forgotten what it was like to actually talk to a spirit. They could be awfully single minded. But Justice hadn’t been like that. He’d become more than his purpose. He’d lived in the mortal world, known friendship and love.

 “Do you remember that sparrows’ nest I showed you?” she said dully.

 “Yes. I remember it.”

 “Good. That’s good.”

 “Yes,” he said, slowly, as though it took great effort to retrieve the memory. “It was good.” But then his brow—Anders’ brow—darkened slightly.

 “You should stay here in Kirkwall,” the spirit said. “You should help us.”

 “Help you with what?” she said, caught off guard.

 “Change. We are bringing justice to the mages of Kirkwall.”

 At first she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Then she laughed out loud. “How?”

 “Many ways,“ Justice insisted. "We are healing the wounds of the sick and the poor, to show the people that magic need not be feared. We are disseminating a manifesto. We have contacts who are able to put pressure on the Grand Cleric. We are helping apostates escape the Gallows, guiding them to freedom. Progress is slow, but extant. You could help us.”

 "Manifestos? Civil discussion with the Grand Cleric?” She shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

 "I consider this a matter of deadly seriousness.“ Here Justice’s voice took on the cadence and timbre of Anders’ voice. She wasn’t sure who she was speaking to anymore. "How can you abdicate your responsibility to your fellow mages?”

 This talk was starting to make her angry. It was one thing to hear this talk from a naive spirit, but from Anders? It was too absurd. “You can’t abdicate something you never agreed to take on in the first place. What do I have to do with other mages, besides the unfortunate fact that we all share a curse?”

 “That is exactly the attitude that we are fighting against,” said Justice, or Anders, or maybe there really wasn’t a difference anymore. “Magic isn’t a curse, and it never was.”

 "I can’t listen to this.”

 “Mages are your people. You should seek justice for them.”

 She scowled and spat. “And give up, what? Everything else?”

 “Yes.”

 A part of her wanted to keep arguing. Maybe she just enjoyed conflict a little too much. But the spirit’s face—her old friend’s face—was so pathetically earnest that all her anger drained away.

 “Maker, Justice. It’s not bloody fair, what happened to you.“ Her breath hitched. "You were becoming a person. You knew joy, you knew love. Now it’s like…” She shook her head. “I don’t even know what it’s like. But it’s not fair.”

 She was met only with steady blue fire. “Of course justice is fair. What else could it be?”

 That was about all she could take. “It was good to talk to you, Justice,” she sighed. “Please take care of yourself.”

 The spirit said nothing further; the next time he blinked, the blue light was retreated, and it was only Anders again.

 She looked balefully at him. “How could you? You as good as killed him.”

 “Probably,” Anders said, miserable. “But it’s done. I can’t undo it.”

 “Well,” she tried, suddenly guilty for aggravating what was clearly a sore wound. Could Justice hear them say these things? How much ‘access’ did he have to the outside world when he was hidden? “Maybe I could. Like I said, I’ve been learning a lot of spirit lore. It shouldn’t be impossible.”

 “No,” he said hurriedly. “I don’t think that’s wise. What we’re doing is too important. When we’re like this, there’s so much I can do…I don’t need to sleep or eat much, and my magic has never been more powerful, and…” He caught the look on her face and trailed off. “It’s better this way.”

 He caught her doubtful gaze. “It is,” he insisted.”

 “If you say so.”

 “Look,” he said, with obvious effort, “I don’t have too many friends in this city. The ones I do have…aren’t entirely sympathetic to what I’m trying to achieve. What I’m saying is I could really use someone like you in my corner.”

 “No. No, I don’t think so.” She didn’t say she was sorry. It would have been absurd to say it.

 “I see,” he muttered. “Pressing business elsewhere?”

 “Of a sort,” she said vaguely. “I’m going to Rivain.”

 “Got a ship, have you?”

“Not yet. Was working on it when you assaulted me.”

 “Uh-huh.”

 “You don’t happen to know which of these ships is headed for Dairsmuid? Perhaps one unlikely to notice a stowaway?”

 He shook his head. “Come with me. I know someone who can help.”

 —

 Anders had contacts in the Mage Underground. He took her through the Darktown sewers—that certainly explained the smell. After a long, foul journey, they arrived at the—Yvanne could only call it a den—of a man called Federico, who dealt in “herbs” and owed Anders a favor. Federico didn’t have a ship, but his cousin did.

 Anders and Federico argued for a while, and finally nodded and shook hands.

 “Alright,” Anders told Yvanne. “I got you passage. Federico’s cousin has a ship headed for Dairsmuid. He takes apostates from the Gallows sometimes, but you’ll have to work as a windmage.”

 “A windmage?”

 “A shipboard mage who summons winds in case the ship gets becalmed. It’s not too hard. You’ll be fine.”

 “Windmage? I’ve barely used magic all year. I haven’t cast a wind spell in—Maker, I don’t even know how long—and you think I can be a windmage?”

 Anders shrugged. “Weren’t you the youngest Harrowed mage in several decades of Kinloch students? You’ll be fine.”

 “Anders, I swear—”

 “You’ll be fine!” He cleared his throat. “And another thing—if you want to make it in time, you had better leave now. If you miss the ship, you miss your chance.”

 “What?! I have no idea how to get to the docks, or what this ship even looks like—”

 “Calm down.” Anders rolled his eyes. “I’ll take you.”

 And back in the sewers they went.

 Along the way something occurred to her. “Hey,” she said. “How did you know I was here, anyway? Another one of your sewer contacts?”

 “Sort of,” he said, and then paused for so long that she thought he was finished speaking. Then he said, “Hawke told me.”

 “Hawke!” Yvanne said. “Is there a single person in this wretched city that isn’t acquainted with Hawke? I’m so bloody tired of hearing about Hawke.”

 “Hawke’s a good person,” Anders said defensively. “And a great man.”

 “He’s a pathetic milksop who’s never known a day’s hardship in his life,” Yvanne spat.

 “That’s not true.”

 She snorted. “What are you defending him for?”

 “Not that it’s your business,” Anders snapped, wavering, “but he helps. Our cause, I mean. Even if he doesn’t always agree, he still helps. And he’s been kind to me.”

 Yvanne flashed back to the Amell estate, reprocessed some of Hawke’s ramblings. She put two and two together and was instantly overcome with the monstrous unfairness of it all.

 “Oh, I see,” she said coldly. “You’re shtupping him. That explains it.”

 It was hard to tell in the sewers, but she was gratified to see Anders flush. “Don’t call it that.”

 “It’s all coming together,” she said in a mean sing-song. “Came for one boyfriend, found another. Traded up, too; the new one’s rich! Gotta say, Anders, looks like you’ve really got it made. Servants and silk sheets, and you still get to feel like noble martyr in the bargain—”

 “Shut,” he said, “up.”  

 The sewer filled with blue light and the too-intense vibration of the Fade. For one terrible moment Yvanne thought she’d really gone too far. Anders had never been her match in combat magic before, but he was an abomination now. The dismembered bodies of the patrol Wardens flashed through her mind.

 Then the blue Fadelight winked out. Her heart thumped. Anders said nothing. He kept moving, so she kept following him.

 “It’s not a bloody crime to be happy, you know,” he said eventually.

 “Are  you happy?” she shot back.

 He only shrugged. “We are fulfilling our purpose.”

 They didn’t talk for the rest of the journey.

 “I guess Federico’s cousin won’t mind that I smell like shit?” she said sourly when they emerged again.

 “He’s used to it,” said Anders. “That’s him over there, in the blue coat. Get going, would you? I had to spend a favor on this. Tell the captain that ‘Feathers’ sent you.”

 She spotted the man he was pointing to. His ship was a great deal bigger than the cog that had taken her to Kirkwall.

 She turned to him. “Listen, Anders, I just wanted to say—”

 “You’ve said it all already,” he said.

 She shut her mouth, feeling like she’d already made every wrong choice. “Take care of yourself, Anders.”

 He only nodded tersely. She thought about hugging him, and then thought better of it.

 She had a ship to catch.

 She felt awkward approaching the gangplank. “Um,” she said. “Feathers sent me.”

 The man in the blue coat looked dubiously at her. “You?” he said, and shook his head. “Very well. Get on, you’re late.”

 She stepped aboard, once again feeling useless and small amidst all the shipboard activity.

 Since she had nothing to do, she went to the portside, hoping for a final glimpse of her old friend’s face. But it was too late. Anders had already disappeared in the crowd, and she had already never seen him again.