#this would have been only his third or fourth telly work

[mariocki]

A typically snarly Brian Croucher on the wrong side of the law, as armed robber Whitley in Softly Softly: Task Force: Diversion (1.3, BBC, 1969)

[chudleycanonficfest]

Wipeout

Day 23, Post #1 by @adenei

Title: Wipeout

Author: adenei

Pairing: Dean & Seamus BrOTP

Prompt: Brother from another Mother

Rating: T

TW: implied injuries from silly game show stunts, language

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

“You sure about this, mate?” Seamus is looking at the gigantic, slick obstacle course laid out in front of them.

  Cushy gears are spinning every which way in the distance, while platforms are sprayed with foam and soap, as if the challenge of getting to the other side isn’t already made harder by the random blocks that push out when you least expect it. There’s no way they will ever make it across without falling into the water… or is that the secret point to the competition?

  Seamus thinks about how he can finagle getting through the course by using discrete traces of magic, but he knows it’s implausible without carrying his wand in his hand.

  Dean laughs, and Seamus can’t tell if there’s a nervous tint in it or not. “Yeah, mate. It can’t be that bad, right?”

  Just as he says it, though, their attention is pulled back to the course, where a competitor takes a leap to the next platform, and only half her body makes it. Her head hits the platform as her torso crashes into the side, and the embedded springs send her body flying backwards as she tumbles to the water like a lifeless puppet.

  “Bloody buggering hell, is she even alive?” Seamus mutters to Dean with wide eyes.

  “Yeah, I reckon she’s fine. People wouldn’t sign up for this if they were risking death. The prize isn’t that significant. Plus, it makes for a good laugh on the telly.”

  “Excuse me, we just need you to sign these waivers before you take your turn on the course,” an attendant approaches them with a clipboard and pen. He points to the ‘x’ where they need to sign as Seamus glares at him, becoming more and more skeptical about the course they are about to encounter.

  “Waivers?”

  “Just protocol,” Dean scribbles his name and holds out the pen for Seamus. “It’s not like anyone’s actually died from this.”

  It’s not that Seamus is cautious when it comes to dangerous activities. Hell, he has a knack for pyrotechnics and blowing things up. But he was drunk when Dean suggested they apply for the popular game show. He’s pretty sure they only got the call because they’d filled out the applications in their drunken state, which probably made them better candidates for TV personalities.

  Seamus repeats the mantra of ‘you only live once’ as he grabs the pen from Dean and signs under his name. 

  Let’s do this.

  The pair pay close attention as other teams work their way through the first course. No one has made it to the end without falling in the water at least once, and as he’s hyping himself up, Seamus is confident he can do this without getting wet.

  “Okay, we’ve got this. I think it’s best if we just keep moving, that way, those stupid pieces can’t get us since it looks like there’s no rhyme or reason to when they punch out.”

  “Those giant balls are going to be the toughest, I think,” Dean observes as Seamus sniggers.

  “Finnigan and Thomas, you’re up!” a man holding up a megaphone calls.

  They’ve already given their interviews, so now it’s time to ascend to the top of the platform, where Dean will go first and Seamus will follow.

  “Remember, we just have to make the top twelve to move on,” Dean reminds him.

  “Easier than a niffler stealing gold.”

  Dean takes the starting platform first, as Seamus waits on the step for further direction. When the horn sounds, Dean disappears from sight as he slides down the human pinball course. Seamus watches on the big screen that’s filming Dean’s run, and it looks smooth until his friend’s side bashes into one of the poles. He recovers quickly and finishes his descent, scrambling to his feet to run up to the knockout platform. 

  A wall of red boxing gloves punch out at random times, and Dean starts out strong, dodging the gloves as if he were dodging bludgers during a quidditch match. One catches his foot as he leaps for the platform, and Seamus sucks in a sharp inhale, thinking Dean’s about to fall into the water. Dean manages to grasp onto the platform, saving himself from an imminent fall and consequential deduction.

  Next up are the big red bouncy balls, and Seamus bites his knuckles in anticipation. If either of them is going to fuck up, it’s right here. Dean wastes no time getting a running start before he takes a gigantic leap. His right foot hits the center of the first ball, and he springs off it to the second. The run is flawless as his left foot vaults him off the second, but when his right foot lands on the third ball, he’s off-center, causing his balance to shift, and he slips.

  Seamus grinds his teeth as he watches Dean’s body hit the ball and propels forward. Somehow, Dean manages to land on the fourth ball, and he’s grasping at the smooth surface. 

  “Use your feet, use your feet!” Seamus shouts to anyone who’s listening.

  If Dean had only kicked his legs back, he could have caught himself and saved the run, but instead, his body bounces off the fourth ball, and Seamus watches as he tumbles to the water, causing a giant splash as he lands in starfish formation on his back.

  That’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

  They take the one-minute deduction that’s applied to any competitor who falls in the water, and Seamus gets ready for his run. As soon as the horn sounds, he’s unaware of what’s happening. One second he’s standing, and the next, he’s luging down a slick mat, giant red pillars blocking his path no matter how he twists his body. His only thought is to keep his legs together, so he doesn’t get nutted by any of the obstacles. He has no sense of time as he scrambles to his feet and ascends to the punching platform, tearing across the thin beam as fast as his feet will let him. 

  Three-quarters of the way through, he manages to pump the brakes before a high glove takes out his head, but that doesn’t stop another from hitting him square in the chest with two steps to the platform. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Seamus does the only thing he can think of, his flailing arms reach out and somehow grab onto another protruding glove as the force of his body swings around. His feet hit the platform, and he lets go, collapsing onto the mat.

  Cheers are coming from the stands at his miraculous save, which spur him on. Even though he feels like he’s been run over by the Hogwarts Express, he stands and shakes his arms out, staring down the red balls that took Dean out minutes ago. He follows in his best friend’s footsteps, getting a running start. The obstacle is completed in a flash; the only thing Seamus remembers is the feeling of flying without a broom and hitting the massive balls less than a second apart. He can’t believe he made it!

  Now, it’s just the rope swing. Seamus is sure he can hear Dean screaming his head off as he grabs the rope and gains momentum with another running start. His hands slide down and burn from the rope as he’s flying in the air, but Seamus holds on for dear life, only letting go once both feet have touched down. He slams his hand down on the red buzzer before throwing his arms up, whooping in victory.

  Seamus bends over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath before he’s ushered down the steps and onto the lawn where a correspondent is waiting. He barely makes it off the stairs when Dean barrels into him, tackling him to the ground in a bear hug.

  “Wow, what a bromance we have here, folks!” Seamus can hear the correspondent say to the crowd, which cheers again.

  The excitement is short-lived, though, because less than an hour later, they find themselves having to choose who will play on the Sweeper Crusher.

  “You crushed the first round. You should do it,” Dean insists.

  “No, mate, I think it should be you. Your balance is better than mine. Plus, you're way better at spotting things out of the corner of your eye.”

  “But—”

  “You made the team in sixth year, not me. It’s gotta be you, mate.”

  It’s true. Seamus knows his balance is shit, and Dean poses the better shot of the two, and ultimately he agrees. Before he ascends the platform, they hug, and Seamus pats him on the back. 

  “You’ve got this mate, go kick some arse!”

  As Dean takes his position on the small circular platform, Seamus watches the event unfurl. Dean is methodical in his wait to jump onto the rotating beam, and he has to be because his position just so happens to be where the bars overlap with the beam, making it ten times as hard to be successful. Annoyance bubbles up in Seamus at the unfairness of his partner’s position, but there’s nothing they can do.

  In the end, Dean takes a leap, but it’s not enough to save him as the crusher bar sweeps him right off the beam and into the water. Seamus is upset, of course, but they drunkenly signed up for the game show for fun, and deep down, he never expected to win. He wouldn’t switch the experience for anything else in the world and would absolutely do it again if given the chance.

  Dean climbs out of the water, head hanging low as he approaches.

  “I’m sorry, mate.”

  “Don’t be! If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t even be here! And it was bloody brilliant!” Dean grins as Seamus holds out his hand. They clap hands and pull the other in for a bro hug and pat on the back.

  As they are ushered toward the competitor’s tent, Seamus asks the all-important question. “I could get used to being on the muggle telly. So, what game show should we sign up for next?”

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 8: Coincidence

Chapter 7

Read on AO3

A few sessions at the stables passed since Claire and Jamie’s discussion about his brother. Claire had felt uneasy that first week, seeing him after he’d shared something so private with her, but he seemed to be none the wiser to her discomfort, nor did he have any of his own. He was chipper as ever and didn’t treat her or Faith any differently. It was strange knowing something so viscerally painful about this man’s life and going on with him as usual, like it was normal for them to have shared something like that. Claire supposed she should have been uncomfortable, but as more and more weeks passed by since that day, she felt nothing but at ease in his presence.

Additionally, as time went on, Claire was becoming more comfortable in her new role at the hospital. Joe was becoming a true friend. They could often be found hiding in the same corners, drinking coffee together, or taking lunch together. He’d shown her pictures of his family and she of hers, having to confess then that Faith’s father was not in the picture. Upon revealing the whole story, Joe had looked at her calmly from across the table they were sharing and said, very simply:

“Fuck Frank.”

They kept making plans for Faith and Claire to come to his house for dinner, which, of course, kept getting thwarted by conflicting schedules. It was a running joke between the two that they were actually only pretending to like one another, and making excuses to avoid going to each other’s homes.

God, she was grateful to have him.

For that matter, she was quite grateful for Mary Hawkins as well. While Claire didn’t see her in person anymore since Faith had switched appointment times, the sweet girl was always checking in with her over Facebook Messenger, asking her how Faith was adjusting. They, too, kept making plans to get lunch that were always put on hold, aside from the one time they’d managed to meet at a Starbucks for five minutes before Faith started panicking about the noise. Mary had been beside herself with apologies over Messenger, and Claire spent several minutes calming her down as well as Faith.

It would appear that a social life was always just out of reach for Claire. Oh well. Maybe someday. She was trying, after all.

The Facebook group of other moms was comforting as well, and even though Claire was hardly active in it, the sense of camaraderie she felt reading stories and seeing events planned for their children was uplifting to say the least. She often found herself wishing that Faith was able to enjoy these events, and that she had the time in her schedule with the hospital to even attempt them.

Maybe someday.

The equine therapy did seem to be helping, and so did Faith’s time with Mrs. Lickett. Claire had confirmed with her to make sure it wasn’t hopeful-mummy-blinders making her think so, and she’d agreed. There was improvement, however small, from the time Mrs. Lickett had met Faith. She did not have meltdowns with any less frequency, but they were the slightest bit easier to be talked down from. Not all of them, of course. It would be a while, or perhaps never, until Faith was entirely capable of stopping a meltdown once it started. But Mrs. Lickett seemed pleased with her progress nonetheless.

Claire was coming home to different crafts and drawings every day, and these past few weeks, they were all Halloween themed. Colored plates with google-eyes and construction paper glued together to look like pumpkins, bats, and Frankensteins, little ghosts on string made out of cotton balls glued to white paper, and even (with Claire’s permission) lollipops covered in tissue to look like ghosts. Claire was enjoying copying the faces that Faith and Mrs. Lickett had drawn on them to make Faith laugh before unwrapping them to eat.

Claire even considered picking up some pumpkins at a grocery store on her way home from work so she could try her hand at carving them with Faith. Claire’s unconventional upbringing had not left room for such frivolities, and Frank had never been interested in the mess it would make in the house, so Claire had never actually done it before. But the thought of trying something new with her daughter in their new life was thrilling to her.

Toni had informed them yesterday at the stables that for Halloween week, the kids could wear a costume, as long as they were able to ride safely in it. Claire was thrilled; she knew she couldn't actually spend Halloween with Faith or take her trick-or-treating, so to get to see her in costume, even not on the actual holiday, would be a comfort. She and Mrs. Lickett had discussed perhaps allowing her to take Faith trick-or-treating herself before Claire got home from work, but nothing had been solidified yet. 

On Saturday morning after breakfast, Claire led Faith into her bedroom. Faith had a purple trunk in her room that she and Claire had adorned with countless princess stickers over the years, containing all of her dress-up costumes.

“Alright, Faith. Who will it be this year?” They sat down in front of the trunk together, Claire lifting the lid. “Which princess do you want to be when you ride Pippi this week?”

Faith often put the costumes on and wore them around the house, and now the apartment. This was only her fourth Halloween, so she hadn’t used them all for the holiday, but they had all certainly been used. Her first Halloween, Claire had put her in an adorable Dumbo costume. Her second, she was a precious little Minnie Mouse, and her third, she was Elsa, of course.

As she watched Faith dig through the trunk, her eyes fiery with excitement, Claire was sure she’d go for Anna this year. She was certain that if it were possible to wear two costumes at once, she would have been both Anna and Elsa last year.

So Claire was surprised when Faith pulled out a blue-green dress with Celtic trim.

“Merida?” Claire said, smiling through her furrowed brows. “That’s who you want to be this year?”

Claire certainly had no objection, but Brave had never particularly been one of Faith’s favorites.

Faith took the lid of the trunk from Claire and began repeatedly poking her finger into one of the stickers. Claire looked closer, and an enormous grin spread over her face as it dawned on her.

It was a sticker of Merida, riding her horse, bow and arrow aimed.

“Yes, darling!” Claire laughed, hugging Faith from behind and pulling her into her lap, sitting cross-legged. “You’re going to be just like Merida and Angus when you ride Pippi! Is that right?” She kissed her cheek repeatedly and tickled her. “Is that right?”

Faith giggled incessantly and squirmed to get out of her mother’s grip, but not before Claire planted one last kiss to her cheek. Dizzy with giddiness, Claire began cleaning up the mess that Faith had made of her costumes, and it wasn’t long before she heard the beginning of Brave coming from the tellie. Apparently, Faith had been getting the hang of the DVD player by herself. The Scottish burr of the protagonist caught Claire’s ear, and she paused, lingering on the Cinderella dress she’d just picked up.

Jamie is Scottish.

Her mind was suddenly treated to the image of Jamie’s face lighting up upon recognizing the Celtic patterns on the costume, and upon Claire telling him that Faith was dressed as a Scottish princess. Perhaps he would know without needing to be told. Was Brave popular in Scotland, or was that a sweeping generalization?

Either way, she couldn't shake the thought of those blue eyes, impossibly bright, his smile ridiculously wide (and crooked), his deep, chesty laugh. Yes, he would certainly get a kick out of Faith’s costume of choice. Faith certainly didn’t know that Merida and Mister Jamie shared heritage, unless she had some uncanny ability to place accents that Claire was unaware of. She’d chosen Merida this year because of her newfound love of riding horses, and it just so happened that the best rider out of the whole line-up of princesses in her chest was also the only Scottish one.

Claire shook her head, laughing as she closed up the trunk again.

Bloody funny coincidence.

——

Friday came, and Claire found herself almost as giddy as her four-year-old daughter. She was over the moon at Faith's excitement as she pulled the costume over her head. 

"Now where did my little Faith go?" Claire said absurdly. "She was here just a moment ago, but she's been replaced with a Scottish princess!"

Faith gave a shrieking giggle and bounced up and down, jiggling her hands. Claire laughed out loud.

"Do a twirl for me, Princess, let me see."

Faith began spinning, the skirts of the dress poofing out. This was somewhat of a tradition for them. Whenever Faith wore a dress, costume or not, Faith loved to twirl and see the skirt flutter as she did.

"Look at you!" Claire said, clapping her hands. "Miss Toni is going to be so excited, and Pippi, and all the kids, and Erica." Faith dashed to her bed to retrieve Horsie. "And Mister Jamie, too. Mister Jamie will be very excited." Claire felt a rush of excitement herself, thinking of his face when he laid eyes on Faith.

"Alright, Princess. Off we go." Claire stood up and took Faith's hand, leading her out of her room. "Go get your pumpkin." Faith grasped the trick-or-treat pumpkin that was sitting on the coffee table. Claire knew it wasn't going to be filled at the stables as it would be on the actual holiday, but since she couldn't be there while Faith actually trick-or-treated, she wanted to be able to see her holding it in her costume for today.

"Can Mummy get a picture, lovie? Please?" Claire stood back with her phone. "Can you smile, Princess? Please?" Faith was holding the plastic pumpkin in front of her face, shaking her head.

"For Auntie Gillian, Faith," Claire pleaded. "You know she loves to see you in your costume, and Merida is her favorite! Please, darling."

At the mention of her beloved godmother, Faith changed her tune. She moved the pumpkin away and had an excited look on her face, and Claire immediately snapped the picture. She got a few more of Faith in various stages of excitement.

"Thank you, baby. You're a very good girl." Claire kissed her head and quickly sent the photos to Gillian, typing:

We went Full-Scot this year! How proud are you??

Her heart light, Claire led Faith down the stairs and to the car. Once Claire settled into the driver's seat after Faith was all buckled, her phone buzzed and she opened it to see a slew of messages from Gillian:

Gillian [4:32]: OMG!! LOOK AT HER!!

Gillian [4:32]: What a doll!! Tell her Auntie G says she looks beautiful!!

Gillian [4:33]: SCOTLAND! SCOTLAND! SCOTLAND!

Claire chuckled to herself, shaking her head as she put her phone in her purse.

"Auntie G says you look beautiful, darling." Claire flashed a smile into the rear view mirror, and Faith hummed contentedly. Claire had deliberately left Faith’s curls untamed today in an attempt to mimic Merida's hair the best she could without the wild red color. She was damn proud of how adorable her daughter looked.

When they arrived at the stable, Claire was certain Faith could have rocketed into the sky given how high she was jumping with excitement. When they entered the welcome center, there was a wide assortment of princesses, superheroes and Star Wars characters. Claire's smile widened to see Toni wearing tiny pigtail braids and a blue checkered dress.

"Not in Kansas anymore, are you?" Claire said. Toni looked up from her computer and her face lit up.

"Oh my goodness! Look at you!" Toni squealed with delight, standing up from behind the counter and stretching her body over it. "Princess Faith lives up to her title! You look amazing Faith!"

Faith hummed and twirled back and forth, swishing the skirts.

"Hello, Faith," Erica said sweetly, donning plaid, pigtails, and a cowgirl hat with matching boots. "I love your costume. Mister Jamie is going to love it."

"Oh wait until you see him!" Toni squealed.

"What do you mean — ?"

At that moment, the back door opened, revealing a little Captain America and his mother, followed by the most astonishing thing Claire had seen all day.

Mister Jamie was wearing a kilt. And a shoulder sash that matched, and tall boots, and a brooch, and a sporran.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.

"He does this every year," Toni said, laughing. "A Highlander for Halloween, every day of the week!"

Claire couldn't stop staring long enough to respond.

"Alright Captain America, sir!" Jamie boomed, reaching behind the counter and producing a fistful of candy. "Here's yer bounty, lad. 'Twas a pleasure riding wi' America's finest." Little Nolan was beaming, and his mother was too. "Have a great Halloween, Mrs. Weiss. See ye next week."

As the two of them departed toward the front door, Toni looked like she was going to explode.

"Jamie! Jamie, look!" She was incessantly swatting at his shoulder.

He finally obliged her, looking down at Faith, and every mental image Claire had conjured over the course of the week didn't even come close to the real thing.

She didn't think his eyes had ever been bluer, or his smile more crooked, or his cheeks more pink.

"Well, what do we have here?" He crouched down in front of Faith, and the fabric of his kilt slid up to reveal his knees. "Is this a real Scottish princess right before my eyes?"

Faith gave another squealing giggle, bouncing up and down. What happened next was nothing short of astonishing. Faith, Claire's daughter that did not -- under any circumstances -- allow anyone but her mother to lay a hand on her, all of a sudden thrust her hands onto the plaid of his shoulder sash. 

Claire's stomach lurched, about to launch into a speech about boundaries and personal space, but Jamie put up a hand to stop her, his eyes never leaving Faith.

"D'ye like my tartan, Miss Merida?" He was entranced by Faith, who was equally as mesmerized. She must have recognized the clothing from the film; all the men in Brave dressed nearly identical to how Jamie looked.

Her little fingers began circling his silver brooch, and Jamie’s chest expanded with pride. “That’s the Fraser brooch, has our motto on it as well. D’ye like it?” Faith just hummed and bounced again. “I’m glad to hear that. I like yer dress verra much. Ye look bonny.”

Claire sucked in a sharp breath upon realizing that her mouth had been hanging open since Jamie had appeared, and she snapped her lips together.

“This is just too perfect,” Toni gushed, coming out from behind the camera. “I have to get a picture of this for the wall. If you don’t mind?”

“No, of course, go ahead.” Claire threw a quick glance at the wall to her right, containing hundreds of photos of children on horses, getting high-fives from therapists, group photos at holiday gatherings, and so many more. To think of her daughter stuck up there among the throng made her heart swell.

She truly does belong here.

She watched in awe as Faith cooperated without question for the photo, not even attempting to cover her face. She was smiling the most cheesy smile Claire had ever seen on her daughter’s face, and Jamie’s was almost just as wide. Claire quickly shuffled beside Toni to get a picture for her phone as well. She sent it to Gillian before putting her phone away:

You won’t believe this. Faith’s therapist is an honest-to-God Highlander, and he wore this.

Pictures taken, Toni took Faith’s candy pumpkin and put it behind the counter for safekeeping.

“Are ye ready then, Princess Merida? To ride yer noble steed?” Jamie stood up and started walking toward the back door, and Claire had to scramble to grab her hand before she was out the door and a mile ahead of them.

“And where’s yer costume, Sassenach?” Jamie smirked, walking backwards as usual.

“The memo I got said the children were to dress up, not the parents,” she said, playfully defensive. “Besides, I haven’t worn a Halloween costume since I was still a teenager.”

“Och, ye’re no fun then, are ye?” he said with an emphatic wave of his hand. “How did ye celebrate the holiday all these years?”

“I didn’t go to those wild parties in college, or med school for that matter.” She shrugged indifferently. “Just watched a movie with my roommate, if we even had time for that.”

“And after that? Ye never dressed up with yer wean?”

Something dark clouded Claire’s mind for the smallest moment.

“You can’t be serious.”

“It’s her first Halloween! I think it would be sweet if — ”

“It’s a sweet idea. But you are a grown woman, darling.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Jamie didn’t miss how her face had fallen, how clipped her response had been. His brows crinkled together in concern. If he wanted to say something, he didn’t, and they passed the rest of the way to the stable in silence, save Faith’s incessant giggling.

Erica and Jamie got Faith settled with holding the reins, and then Jamie hung back, as usual, while Erica led Faith to the riding hall.

“Is it real?” Claire said abruptly, and he looked at her with confusion. “What I mean is…is the material authentic?”

“Oh.” He grinned, nodding in understanding. “Aye, ’tis. This is real Fraser tartan, in my family fer generations.”

“It’s lovely,” Claire said. “You only ever wear it on Halloween?”

“Mostly, but not only. Wore it to my sister’s wedding a few years back, our Ma’s funeral before that.” He said it so casually, but her heart strained to hear it. How much had this man suffered…?

“Special occasions, tradition, ye ken,” he said. “I just like to show it off on the days I’m allowed to stand out a bit.”

He winked, and Claire felt her cheeks get hot.

“What is it?” she said, eyeing the brooch. “The Fraser motto?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat and removed it from the plaid, handing it over to her. She held it close and ran her fingers over the letters.

“Je suis prest,” she read. “I am ready.”

He seemed taken aback at first by her perfect pronunciation and her translation, but then he smiled widely. “Aye.”

“Ready for what?” she teased, handing him back the delicate silver.

He smirked as he put it back in its place, then peered up at her through his lashes. “Anything.”

——

Claire watched contentedly as Faith rode, once again in awe at the sheer insanity of the coincidence that her daughter and her therapist had both chosen Highlander apparel for Halloween. It was like watching a deleted scene from Brave: the princess’s father teaching little Merida to ride.

And then she shook her head clear of that thought, admonishing herself for allowing such an inappropriate thought.

“Did you plan that?” A voice filled her ears, and she jumped.

“Hm?” She turned to see a mom looking at her, someone she’d come to know as Mrs. Beardsley in the weeks that she and Faith had been coming to the stables at this time.

“Did you plan that, you and Mister Jamie?”

“No, not at all,” Claire said, laughing. “She picked it because Merida rides a horse. I had no idea he was going to wear that.”

Mrs. Beardsley chuckled. “That’s pretty funny.”

“Isn’t it?” Claire glanced over at Kezzie, Mrs. Beardsley’s son. He was dressed like Superman, and his therapist was praising him in sign language. “He looks adorable, too.”

Mrs. Beardsley thanked her, and they continued watching their children in amiable silence. Claire had snapped about a million pictures of Faith on her horse, with and without Jamie in the frame. When they were back in the stable, Pippi brushed and helmet removed, Claire requested just one more picture.

“Could I get one of her with Pippi before you put her away? Without the helmet?” she asked Jamie shyly.

“Aye, of course.” He smiled warmly.

Claire snapped as many as she could, and though Faith was staring at Pippi rather than ever looking at the camera, she didn’t mind at all.

“Alright, got it.”

Jamie grinned and went to take the reins to put Pippi away, but Faith would not move at first. She was nuzzling her face into Pippi’s snout, and Jamie apparently couldn't bring himself to move either of them just yet. Unbeknownst to either Faith or Jamie, Claire snapped a final picture:

Faith mesmerized by her horse, and Jamie mesmerized by Faith.

She would not be sending that one to Gillian.

They returned to the welcome center, and Toni put some candy in Faith’s pumpkin, causing her to squeal with excitement again. Jamie lathered his hands in hand sanitizer before plunging his hand into a bowl full of little yellow, orange, and white triangles.

“What on Earth is that?” Claire scrunched up her nose.

“Ye’ve never heard of candy corn, Sassenach?” Jamie said playfully. “It’s quite American, I suppose.”

She chuckled. “Should I try it, then? Since I’m American now?”

“Aye, suppose ye should.”

Claire cleaned her hands as well before taking one of the little triangles into her fingers and popping it into her mouth. As she bit into it, her taste buds were immediately assaulted by the most sickening sweetness she’d ever tasted. Her face screwed up in disgust, and Jamie burst into laughter.

“That bad, is it?” he said, his laughter rumbling in his chest. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him laugh so hard.

“It’s revolting,” Claire said, not even wanting to swallow it. “I practically want to spit it out.”

He laughed harder at that, tears leaking from his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sassenach. I didna think ye’d be so appalled.”

“You either love it or you hate it, at least in my experience,” Toni said. “I could’ve told you she’d hate it.”

Claire did not miss the look he gave her in response, but she didn't have time to contemplate its intention.

She reluctantly swallowed the grainy sweetness, and she shuddered in disgust. “Christ. Remind me to never try anything you give me again.”

“Will do,” he said, laughter finally subsiding. “What sort of sweets d’ye like, then, if this was too much fer ye?”

“Richer things, for sure. Chocolate.”

“Ghirardelli or Lindt?” Toni chimed in. “The Lindt truffles are my favorite.”

“Oh, I couldn’t choose, I love both,” Claire said. Jamie popped another handful of candy corn into his mouth, and Claire upturned her nose. “I can’t imagine eating handfuls of that when such a thing as Lindt truffles exist.”

“Dinna yuck someone else’s yum, Sassenach. Must I talk to ye like ye’re one of the kids?” He gave her a mocking look of warning, and she rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I love sour candy too,” Claire said. “If there are any sour patch kids in that bucket I may have to steal them.” She gestured to Faith’s little pumpkin.

“Here’s an extra one, just for mom,” Toni said, plucking a little bag of the sour candy from the bowl behind the counter and handing it to Claire.

“Thanks.” Claire smiled warmly, putting it in her purse. “Well, I guess we should be off, then.” Claire took Faith’s hand. “Say goodbye to the Scottish warrior, Faith.”

Claire gave Jamie a smirk, and he grinned back at her.

“S’long Merida,” Jamie said. “It’s been a pleasure.” He gave a ridiculously low bow, and Faith giggled. It took a moment for Claire to realize that she was giggling herself.

“Bye-bye, Princess!” Toni said, and Erica echoed.

Faith waved gleefully, yanking Claire toward the door, never one to delay her McDonald’s.

“Happy Halloween, Sassenach,” Jamie said warmly, hands resting on the belt holding his kilt up.

She flashed a final grin at him before Faith’s tugging won out, and they were out the door and walking toward the car.

Claire buckled in her squirming little girl, and she absently thought that it might be a struggle to get her to sleep tonight. Today was so wonderful, however, that she didn’t care at all.

Once Claire was settled in the driver’s seat, she reached into her purse to check her phone, having heard it go off several times while she was otherwise occupied. She chuckled softly to see five messages from Gillian, and then opened them:

Gillian [4:54]: holy hell Claire

Gillian [4:54]: ye’ve got to be JOKING

Gillian [4:54]: THAT is her therapist???

Gillian [4:54]: he is the hottest bloody man I’ve ever seen in my life

Gillian [4:54]: and he’s in a feckin KILT

Gillian [4:55]: if you don’t get on that i’m booking a flight and getting on it myself

Claire sucked in a sharp breath and threw her phone into the passenger seat, every muscle in her body stiffening.

As if the damn woman could sense from an ocean away that Claire was ignoring her texts, her phone buzzed again.

Gillian [6:12]: well? am I booking a flight? ;)

Claire [6:12]: Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, G.

[beccasbigworld]

Blog Post #1 Examining Youth Culture

I loved watching the show Euphoria the best out of all of the assigned movies and shows. It’s been something I’ve been wanting to watch for a while so I thought this was the perfect opportunity to binge the whole season. The movies and shows assigned to watch were, Euphoria, The Breakfast Club, Mean Girls, Mid-90’s and KIDS. I know... That’s so fetch, right? Throughout each film, there were tons of astounding characters, some being well known throughout society. Perhaps Regina George rings a bell to anyone? However, despite all of the fantastic characters in each work, I feel as if I identify with Rue from the show Euphoria the most. I feel the most connected to Rue because she is a young teenage girl who has to deal with mental health issues but also the fact that she has fluid sexuality. She likes men, women and just gravitates towards anyone she feels connected to. I'm part of the LGBTQ+ community so the amount of representation I felt in the show was slightly overwhelming. Especially since many older shows and films lack representation so when something arises with more LGBTQ+ representation it makes me happy. I also know how it feels to be in Rue’s shoes, especially with her relationship with Jules in the show. The whole season is a rollercoaster of Rue and Jule’s relationship and as the season progresses Rue finally takes the leap of faith and kisses Jules. **Sorry if I spoiled it for anyone** I’ve been in situations with past relationships where I liked a girl for so long but never could make the move and it was interesting to see Rue’s confidence build and I think her becoming sober helped with that aspect. An article titled The Unicorn Scale written by bi.org it discusses the different sexualities and identities of the characters in the show. It states that Rue, “Rue’s sexuality seems to be unexplored but fluid, she is clearly interested in men, women, and everyone else. Rue’s bisexuality is not shown as the cause or causing her drug addiction, it is simply another facet of who she is. Her nerves seem limited to the normal anxieties we feel for our first love” (The Unicorn Scale: Euphoria) Rue’s character also goes through many ups and downs throughout the season. She struggles with drug addiction and staying sober. She lost her Dad to cancer and had to have her younger sister find her overdosed in her room. Three common themes I’ve noticed in each of these films and shows are one, family dynamic/struggles, sex, and, coming of age moment.

The first theme, family dynamic/struggles is relatable to youth culture because growing up as a young adult or teenager can bring a lot of family issues. For example, in the movie MID90’S the main character Stevie is physically abused by his brother Ian. In one scene, Ian barges through Stevie's room in the middle of the night and punches him repeatedly. There is also no father in the picture and his mother is a single mom. So this could contribute to some of the reasons why Ian abuses Stevie. He could be taking out his anger in the only way he knows how and that’s with violence. I feel that people, especially young men struggle with dealing with their emotions and healthily expressing them. This theme also relates to me because I struggle with family issues and throughout the years it has taken a toll on my mental health. We also see in the movie KIDS the family dynamic and how it affects the main character, Telly. In one scene they show Telly’s mom taking care of the baby in their small city apartment. Telly asks for money and the mom says she doesn’t have any to give. Telly goes out and says he will be back later. The mom is so focused on the baby that she is not paying close attention to her son and what he is doing. This negatively affects Telly because he gets into the wrong group of people. This happens often without young people, it's a form of negligence that can lead people down the wrong path.

Another example is the dynamic between Nate Jacob's and his father in the show Euphoria. From a young age, Nate has been intimidated and scared by his father. In one scene, Nate’s father comes into his room and tells him how he played in the football game. Nate and his father get into a physical altercation and Nate starts to beat his head repeatedly against the floor. The second theme of sex is a big issue in most of these films and tv shows. When viewing and studying youth culture I’ve noticed how sex is a big part of a young person's life. Especially when I was in high school, sex was a majority of what people were talking about and it always mattered who was hooking up with who. I didn’t necessarily care for it and I had my experiences later in my life and at the end of the day, I don’t think it’s worth the hype and stigma around it. There are more things to do and talk about than sex. In the movie KIDS for example the main discussion of the film was sex and how the main character Telly wanted to have sex with virgins because they were seen as pure and innocent and he had the power to take that away from them. In the movie MID90s, the character Stevie has his first sexual experience and it was very real for many young people. In the scene, he starts to shake and get nervous, in an interview conducted and written by Slate Culture, asks Jonah Hill, the director of the Mid90s film, about the scene. Jonah states, “To me, showing it as harsh and as honest as it was back then was the point. You know? The point that this kid is terrified and shaking during his first sexual experience. And we get to see that as the audience. And he only gets happy and excited once he realizes it’s his currency to raise up through the group And that’s a fucked-up lesson that a lot of people now are having to unlearn from this time period And to me, I just wanted to show how that was and let the audience see that for what it is” (Bloomer) When you have your first sexual experience it can be a very nerve-wracking moment and in youth culture, the sexual experience is different for many and I believe it's split between boys and girls. As portrayed in these films for the young men, when they have sex it’s a powerful experience that boosts their confidence when they tell the group of guys they are associated with. For girls, it’s a moment that is more kept to themselves and cherished in a sense.

Being that I identify as a lesbian my experience doesn’t follow the heterosexual story so it’s interesting to me to see how the experience can be for heterosexual people. Lastly the last theme of a coming of age moment. I feel that when you are a young teen there is always this hope that you will have this coming of age moment like in the videos. I feel that Hollywood does a good job of exaggerating what a coming of age moment is for a teen. The film that is a clear example of a coming of age moment is the iconic Breakfast Club. According to the source, Movies, “The Breakfast Club (1985) is perhaps one of the best examples of a classic ‘coming of age’ plot. The film details the lives of five high schoolers stuck in a weekend detention together, only to have the misfit gang bond together despite their differences. This cast of characters are delineated by the conventional roles they fill: the Outcast, the Princess, the Jock, the Basket Case, and the Brain” (Holderbaum) The Breakfast Club shows how highschoolers defeated the stigmas and social scale of highschool. This connects to me a lot because high school was a very difficult time for me. Just like the movie we watched Mean Girls, I was at the bottom of the social ladder because I was different from a lot of people. Being a lesbian, out in highschool isn’t fun especially when you have guys who say “I can change that”. Despite the exaggeration by Hollywood with this big coming of age moment, I believe that my coming of age moment just like the Breakfast club was defeated the social ladder and being a confident, strong, lesbian at the end of my high school career.

The soundtrack of a film, TV series impacts the narrative of a story because it can uplift any emotion or feeling a character is feeling or trying to portray. The soundtrack can make or break a film/show. The soundtrack is a narrative of the story and can bring chills down your spine when watching a film. If a soundtrack is not done well the movie is not as impactive. In the movie the Breakfast club mostly everyone knows the famous song Don’t You and the iconic last scene. If it wasn’t for that song I believe the movie would not have been as famous. The playlist I made called Adolescent experience is a list of 10 songs that define me and myself growing up as a young teen trying to figure herself out. The first song on my playlist is, Electric Feel by MGMT, this song was one of the first songs that I listened to when I got my first iPod. The feeling it gave me felt like I was in an indie film when I would listen to it on long car rides. The second song on my playlist is What You Know by the Two Door Cinema Club. This song helped me with coping with my feeling of being lonely and feeling like I had no one to connect with, especially with being a young teen still stuck in the closet. The third song on my playlist is Little Secrets by Passion Pit. The band Passion Pit was one of the first bands I ever discovered and fell in love with. The fourth song I have in my playlist is 1901 by Phoenix. Anytime I listen to this song it gives me this feeling that I can accomplish anything. The fourth song is All For Us from the show Euphoria and sung by Zendaya and Labrinth. I love this song because it reminds me of the love I carry to many people in my life and how it can be tiring doing things for love all the time. The next song, Work by Rihanna is one of my favorite songs to dance to and it reminds me of a great memory of my middle school best friend Nina and me. The seventh song is Butterflies by Kacey Musgraves, this song is very meaningful to me because it's me and my girlfriend's song and it’s a reminder of the growth I have made within myself and my love life. The eighth song is Cruise by Florida Georgia Line, this was the first country band I started listening to when I was younger and the band reminds me of a very traumatic experience in my life. The ninth song is Man I Feel Like A Woman by Shania Twain. This song strikes a happy memory in my childhood because when all of my siblings were little and would be in my mom's suburban driving down the road we would sing this with her. The last song on my playlist is The Less I Know The Better by Tame Impala. This song just gives me an overall feeling of happiness and it was a song I listened to a lot when I was in a really good spot mentally.

[twohearts-hs]

‘Goddess’ - Harry Styles Imagine

Words: 3.5k

Pairing: Harry Styles & (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Warnings: Swearing, toxic marriage, indicated abuse.

|| Masterlist in bio ||

-

Unhappiness. That is what she would describe her feeling at the moment. It was just unhappiness and no motivation. Y/N’s life is routine. She has come to the conclusion that her life is being a housewife and making sure her husband goes happy. Might that be making sure his whiskey is already poured and on the counter when he got home or to go through the irritating sex that night in which to please him. She is not who she use to be and it hurts her.

“Where are you going?” Y/N asked, coming from the kitchen to see her husband. Chris looked at her with a gentle smile.

“Boys night, at the pub.” That wasn’t fair, it was his turn to put the kids down so she can meet up with a few of her girlfriends, but nevertheless, this was normal.

“It was my turn.” She tried to fight back, argue that she needs this one night this month to feel like a normal twenty-eight year old. Chris groaned.

“Y/N, babe, I just need this one night, ok?” She looked at him, trying in her best interest to ignore the anger inside her.

“Who will be there?”

“Harry, Louis, Jeff, Niall, some boys from the firm. Manchester is playing.” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“You promised Charlotte to tuck her in.” Chris grabbed the bridge of his nose and groaned, “And Poppy asked you to read her a story, Chris. Please do this not for me but for them.”

“YN…” She placed the pot down from cleaning it and huffed.

“Move boys night here. I can go upstairs, I won’t trouble you. You have enough liquor to suffice and the telly is big for the game. I won’t bother you.”

“Fine. But you can’t bother us.” She nodded, going upstairs.

-

Chatter is what she heard from upstairs. It bothered her indeed, but at least her husband followed out his fatherly duties before excusing himself to hang with the boys.

She went downstairs a little later than nine, making her way down the hallway. Harry went down the hallway looking for the washroom when he saw her. The word beauty not even enough to describe this woman in satin pyjamas and hair in a messy bun.

“Washroom?” Y/N looked up hearing a deep British accent that she hasn’t heard yet.

“Right here.” She pushed open the door next to her. Harry smiled at the goddess.

“I’m Harry,” he placed his hand out for her to shake.

“Y/N, I am Chris’ wife.” Wife. Fuck. He should’ve known.

“Nice to meet you.” Y/N smiled at the attractive stranger but made her way to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

The subtle chatter of male gossip was exchanged between them as Y/N slowly made her way through the kitchen.

Harry sat next to Louis as he turned around, catching the eye of one of his best friends, “There she is!” Y/N perked out from the local Donny.

“Hey, Lou.” She smiled, as Louis got up and made her way towards her.

Chris glared at his wife’s embrace with Louis. He wasn’t much of sharer, especially with a girl like her.

“Where have you been all night?”

“Upstairs, sending in some reports for work, yadda, yadda, yadda.” Louis chuckled at her, kissing her cheek and grabbing a beer.

“Hard worker as always, love. Join the game.” He plopped himself back on the couch as Chris made his way to her. Harry was behind her, grabbing a beer.

“I told you to stay upstairs.” He grabbed her hand and whispered yell.

“I just needed to grab a glass of water.” She replied. Chris wasn’t in the best mood and she reckoned he was on his third or fourth whiskey by now.

“You could’ve done that upstairs.”

“I had no glass.”

“Y/N?” She turned around glad that Harry broke up this argument.

“Where are the beers?” She looked towards the bar fridge and saw nothing.

“We must’ve run out, let me get some.” Harry perked up.

“I can come.” Chris was sitting in front of the telly, too drunk to even comprehend.

“Ok.”

-

At first, the drive was quiet. Harry came tonight because he had a few mates going, but he didn’t even expect to see such a beauty with such a terrible husband. He wanted to talk to her about it, but he only just met her.

“Does he always treat you like that?” Y/N looked over, eyebrows furrowed.

“Who treats me like what?” Harry looked at her, seeing the pain by just her voice.

“Your husband.” Y/N laughed a little.

“He’s a good man, Harry.”

“I am sure he is, but he doesn’t respect you.”

“He’s only drunk.” Excuse over excuse over excuse. Harry has known this woman for a short period of time, but he only wants to relieve her of this pain.

“Do you have kids?”

“I do, two girls.” He smiled, her voice instantly changed when talking about her babies.

“Ok, we’re here.”

-

That is how they met. That is how he slid his way into her life, and here she was, two years later and still just as miserable.

Chris hates the relationship between Harry and his wife. Y/N noticed this, Harry noticed it, fuck maybe even the girls. But, she was happy around Harry, something Chris could never have given to her.

But, after that night at the gas station, Harry doesn’t talk about her relationship anymore as she was quite sensitive over it. Instead, he waits until she comes to him.

Harry is sneaky. After that night, he purposely forgot his wallet at her house, then his phone, then he created an excuse of having a meeting with her husband, just to see the sad goddess. This created Y/N to feel normal for once, to feel like a human again without a routine and a constant reminder of her horrible sex life.

Chris is Harry’s lawyer, more as One Direction’s lawyer, but he is good at his job and continued to have him working for him after the band broke up. In fact, he got quite close to Chris yet he never mentioned his two daughters and a perfect smart wife. Harry was gobsmacked. If he was the one with such a beautiful wife and children, he’d tell everyone because he’d be so proud to have such a perfectly loving family.

Y/N is young. Way too young for Chris. Harry learnt all of this when Chris fucked off to LA for a weekend and Y/N was too stressed to talk, so she called him, they sat and she let her heart go.

-

“I can’t keep living like this, H.” Harry grabbed her hand squeezing it and pulling it close, trying his best to make her comfortable, yet he just wants to hold her on the sofa and say it’ll be alright.

“Ok, I am here, love.” He rubbed her hand with his thumb, watching tears flood down her face as she began feeling human again with emotions upon emotions.

“I am thirty. I should be happy and possibly engaged and doing what I want with life with doing yoga classes or collecting crystals or some hippie shit like that. But no, I am married with two girls. I love my babies, I do. Poppy is the most amazing five-year-old and Charlotte, my little Char, she is just two and she doesn’t know anything and she is just amazing. But, I am stressed trying to play happy family with a forty-year-old who still doesn’t know where the g-spot is or how to give the perfect orgasm or let alone know the difference between his nose and his asshole.” A little too much information, but he was there, holding her.

Y/N looked at Harry. She recognised the look the look of love and life. Harry looked at her as if the world has stopped around them and it is just her and him in their own bubble.

“I have a fucking med degree, Harry.” He didn’t know that. “And he told me to leave my career to have kids and I fucking listened to that asshole. He just leaves me here to put my life together to make him look perfect.” Harry shushed her, bringing her head into his chest and letting her sob.

-

Harry and Y/N are good for each other. It was coffee dates, lunch dates, concerts, pubs, etc. Harry was someone Y/N never had in her life, a friend that everyone dreams of.

Over the course of those two years when they got to one another, Harry began adapting feelings that were wrong. He dreamed of how she’d taste or her face when he gave her the orgasm she dreamed of. It wasn’t just dirty dreams, it was holding her hand when she was giving birth, how she’d look when she was walking down the aisle to him. It was his dream of a family with her. She was the one.

Harry was done by Chris. His friendship ended a long time ago when he got extremely jealous over their friendship, so Harry cut it. Harry decided that he wants to grow his friendship with the goddess in disguise and try to help her with every inner and outer demon.

One night he was done with the family. It was a simple ‘celeb’ party that Chris got invited too, Harry as well. But, he was so done with the fact that Y/N is an object to him.

-

Y/N looked at the mirror in front of her, sliding her hands down her body, getting rid of the wrinkles and as well as judging her shape. She wasn’t her twenty-year-old self now, her body was disgusting. She did have two babies and you can’t go back after that, but she tried to please Chris with trying to get it back to its original shape.

“Have you tried the keto diet?” She turned around, placing a facade over herself; smile complimenting her.

“I’ve tried everything, Chris.” He rolled his eyes, going to the bathroom to grab his watch. “Is the sitter here?” A low grumble of a ‘yes’ came from their ensuite as Y/N grabbed her heels and headed to the door.

“Charlotte is down, and Miss Poppy can go down in about half an hour. You know the routine, Jenna, we’ll be home before midnight.” She told the sitter, grabbing her clutch and jacket and walking towards her daughter and placing a gentle kiss on her head. “Love you, Pop.” Poppy replied with her cute little voice that made Y/N remember that it was all worth it.

“Called an uber, we’re gonna be late.” Chris grabbed her hand and headed towards the car.

The bar is where she goes when her husband leaves her to talk to his mates. She knew she was an accessory that he was once so proud to have; skinny, perfect body to fat ratio, smart and good looking. It was perfect for him, but now she wasn’t. She wasn’t what she was eight years ago.

“How do you know David Beckham?” She rolled her eyes at Harry who found her at the bar.

“Won’t know.” She mumbled, Harry smiled, placing a kiss on her cheek as he ordered himself a whiskey.

“What ya drinking?” She laughed.

“Rum.” She flatly replied.

“Just rum?”

“Yup, just rum. The cheapest rum on the menu cause it gets you drunk faster.” Right after that, she realised how pathetic that was. She had to get drunk in order to survive this tonight. If Chris found out, that would’ve been bad.

“Where’s the hubby?” Y/N rolled her eyes, Harry knew that look though.

“Playing poker.” He looked behind her head and saw something in which he tried to distract Y/N. Chris had his slimy hand on some blonde’s thigh in an open cut dress, it was slowly going up. What an ass.

When Harry first met Chris, he never mentioned his wife or children. He didn’t wear a ring while Y/N wore a giant diamond that she hates. She was property to him.

“I drove here, wanna get out and head to the meadow.” She laughed, shaking her head.

“You’re so fucking cliché.” -

She looked up at the stars, lying back on the grass on the hill that you could see London from. Harry wasn’t staring at the sky, he was staring at her. She was the stars in the sky to him.

“I knew about that blonde in the pub,” Harry was caught off guard, ”I am an expert at finding him do the smallest things. I knew about the blonde, I knew about the Asian girl in Australia, I knew about that American girl that worked for him. I know everything Harry and I am still the one he goes home to at night.” Harry nodded.

“And having shitty sex.” She laughed, looking at him; hand behind his head as he stared at her with those sparkly eyes.

“Yes, our shitty sex.” She moved over so that she was rolled over on her side looking at him.

“When was the last time you orgasmed?” She looked at him with shock.

“That’s quite personal, H.” Harry nodded his head.

“Yeah, sorry, don’t need to answer-”

“Our second night after the wedding,” six years ago, “you’re gonna hate me, but it wasn’t even with him. He left me to fly to America. I was still in Australia. So I hooked up with some Australian dude. I was angry and I regretted it.”

“Why did you stay with him?” Harry didn’t care about that, fuck he was glad. After all the shit he pulled over her.

“Because I was broke. I had a shitty childhood so I thought what he gave me was actually love.” Fair enough answer. “Before you ask, I stay with him for the kids.” She pulled herself up, sitting with her knees tucked in. “I want to leave him.”

Harry followed her actions, sitting and leaning towards her. His tattooed hand went to her hair, fiddling with it as he looked at her with such awe in his eyes.

“He wasn’t there for either of the girls’ birth. He left me on our honeymoon. I am in love with another man. He’s probably cheating on me. He uses me as an object. I am nothing to me. Obsessive, possessive, no respect for woman.” Y/N looked at him and smiled.

“Leave him.” She scoffed, rubbing the skin under her eyes.

“I can’t, H,” Harry shook his head, “He’d ruin my life if I leave him.” Harry kept shaking his head.

“Look at me, love,” Y/N looked at the curly haired man and just smiled. Harry moved his thumb under her eyes, rid the tears. “Kiss me.” He flatly said, she smiled, shaking her head. “Fuck Chris, kiss me, love.” She looked back at him.

He leant his head into hers, letting the two meet halfway. It was blissful. The kiss was everything she wanted and more. Harry moved his hands to her back, letting her straddle him as they made up. Y/N’s hands all in his hair as they just made out like two horny teenagers.

She pulled away at first, both catching their breath as they both looked at each other. She kissed his lips again, and it was the whole cycle again.

-

Y/N stumbled back home, Harry’s arm wrapped around her as they giggled walking towards her door. Harry was about to grab the handle when the door opened, an angry husband in front of them. Y/N’s demeanour changed instantly, fear replacing the joy.

“Where were you?” She heard the anger through his voice as he spat each word at her.

“I was out.” He raised his eyebrows. Harry’s arm around her still.

“Where? Why? You were perfectly fine at the pub. I took my eye off of you for one second and you’re gone with him.” He spat ‘him’.

Harry was about to open his mouth when she cut him, “I went out with a friend to the park to talk. I didn’t want to be around people tonight.” Chris shook his head.

“Unacceptable. I needed you. I needed you to be with me tonight, right next to me, like you are supposed to do.”

“She’s not an object, Chris.” Y/N turned towards her lover, spitting his name out.

“You’re not one to speak, Harry.” Harry was done with this.

“Says you with that blonde model all handsy tonight. Probably thankful that you couldn’t spot your wife tonight so you get a BJ in the bathroom.” Chris reached forward, grabbing Y/N’s petite body and throwing her inside.

“Fuck off, Styles, don’t ever come near my family again or else I’ll kill you myself.”

-

Harry hasn’t seen Y/N for weeks. He was worried. He tried to contact her, but her phone was unreachable. No one was home when he went over to her house. He was generally worried for her especially with that asshole of a husband with her.

Four weeks, one month, it was getting too much. He wasn't himself, he missed her. He missed her because she was his heroin, the only good thing in his life. He spent his days dreaming of her and sitting at home in his own pity.

A knock interrupted his pity party one night. He was on beer number two, watching the football game on the telly. Harry got up, slowly making his way to the door, and opening it, wanting all this to end.

He didn’t expect to see her. Not just her, but her as a mother at that moment. Y/N was standing there, a baby against her chest and a little one holding her hand. She was here and she looked ok.

“I am sorry.” Harry instantly opened the door wider, letting them come in. He grabbed Charlotte from her and held her.

“Can we crash?” Harry instantly nodded. Letting her lead her five-year-old to the guest bedroom, Harry following behind her. He watched as she got her little ones ready for bed, letting them snuggle her, give a cuddle to Harry and gently rocking them both off to sleep. She was the perfect mother any child could dream of and he loved her.

“Let’s talk.” She told him, closing the door behind herself and looking at Harry with so much love.

Harry nodded, looking at her and she couldn’t speak as she walked to his bedroom. He closed the door as she let all the tears she was holding in for weeks out. Harry instantly was one his feet walking towards her and giving her a hug and mumbling words in her ear, ‘everything will be alright’. He didn’t know where this conversation was going, he didn’t know why she was here. All he knew was the love of his life was crying and he couldn’t do anything to help it.

“I left him.” He was so relieved. So relieved that that monster was gone. He smiled, kissing her lips and hugging her so tight.

“Harry?” He pulled away, both of them sitting on his bed as she sniffled and she figured out what to say next. Y/N pulled the t-shirt she was wearing off as she let Harry look at the bruises all over her body.

“No.” She nodded, tears clouding her eyes.

“I am glad he touched me and not the kids.” Harry kept shaking his head, not able to process this information.

“When?”

“The night you dropped me off. I’ve been with my mum for the past few weeks. I am sorry that I didn’t text you back and all. I was just in shock and I didn’t know what to do.” He couldn’t believe her, he couldn’t believe all this.

“We gotta-”

“I’ve already filed everything, hun,” she patted his leg, “This was just a wakeup call.” She was always too positive. But, Harry got up and went to the ensuite, grabbing the first aid kit.

“Harry.” She tried to stop, but he wasn’t having it.

“Let me, love.”

[midnightiscoming-kasabian]

Kasabian's Serge Pizzorno: 'I think there'll be a social media rebellion'

Kasabian guitarist Serge Pizzorno talks to Sky News about new solo project The S.L.P, as well as his plans for the band.

By Gemma Peplow | Photo: Neil Bedford

Serge Pizzorno's shaggy shock of jet black hair, once instantly recognisable, is now sharp-fringed and shaved, a striking leopard print dyed into the back in a style worthy of Instagram dreams, should he be so inclined.

He's not, really. While Kasabian and his new solo project, The S.L.P, have social media accounts, documenting every detail of his personal life, online is not for Pizzorno. It has to be about art, otherwise what's the point, he says. So the hair (definitely a work of art) does feature on The S.L.P's Instagram, along with his promotional shots, but these are about as close to a selfie as he gets.

Sitting in his publicist's office in north London, the singer is softly spoken, considered, a different character to the man with the swagger you see on stage. He is discussing social media and dating apps, the idea of "presenting that perfect version of yourself" online.

"It's to my detriment, because I probably overthink it, but I think there has to be an artistic voice to it or I'm not bothered," he says. "I can't just be, I don't know... just normal photos. That's not me. When other people do it, it's fine because whatever, that's their thing. It's probably not the way you should use it if you want to get massive, but I don't care."

Basically, don't expect to see eggs on toast breakfast snaps or "Friyay" glass-clinks on Pizzorno's social media feeds any time soon.

"I just don't care for that. My privacy is very important to me; my family and my home, my world, that's sacred. Someone called it the fourth dimension, where we've opened a world where you can see into people's lives in an insane way, where you're literally letting the whole world see exactly everything you do. I don't know about that for me. I like to keep that, that's mine."

This insane way is the inspiration behind Favourites, the first single from Pizzorno's debut solo album as The S.L.P, which features Mercury Prize-nominated rapper Little Simz.

As a father to two young sons, is social media something he worries about? Pizzorno is confident we will come full circle.

"I think people will look back on this place and where we've got to, and go, 'What were you thinking? What? You did what?' I think there'll definitely be a rebellion against it and it will go back to people having their own lives and thoughts to themselves."

Pizzorno channels his own thoughts through music. When Kasabian decided to take a break after 2017's For Crying Out Loud, their fifth consecutive number one album, sixth overall, the plan was to "just be quiet for a bit". After more than 20 years together - stadiums around the world sold out, Brits, NME and Q awards in the bag, a Glastonbury headline slot ticked off - they felt they needed time off.

But Pizzorno has discovered he doesn't do relaxation very well. Certainly not your fortnight-in-the-sun-type relaxation, anyway. Anyone who has ever been in the presence of his best mate and Kasabian frontman Tom Meighan, the hyperactive stream-of-consciousness yin to Pizzorno's very chilled yang, will know he is a man who is always on the go; never able to sit still, or keep quiet, for long. But it turns out it was Pizzorno who needed something to keep his brain occupied during the break.

The Kasabian radio silence - temporary, he assures - brings us to The S.L.P. Starting out as some "spare music on a hard drive", the project has transformed into an album, released at the end of August, and a tour in September.

"We realised we've, Kasabian, not had a summer off, ever," says Pizzorno. "So we decided, let's just take a year out. Just be quiet for a bit, with the band.

"I suddenly thought, I'm gonna go mad if I don't do anything. So, I had this music in a hard drive…"

Fascinated by the idea of alter-egos and different personas, the album has a "meanwhile concept", he says, excitedly. "It's a sort of comic book thing where it's like, 'Meanwhile, in the Batcave'... and there's Batman and there's Bruce Wayne. There's me in the band and meanwhile, I've got this as well. I love that world.

"I had these three bits of 'meanwhile music', I called them, and I thought, well, they'd make a great beginning, middle and end to an album. All I have to do is fill in the gaps... with, whatever I wanted really. It's all come out of necessity, I suppose. The timing was right."

The result is The S.L.P. album, an 11-track record book-ended by the tracks Meanwhile... In Genova, and Meanwhile… In The Silent Nowhere.

Recorded and produced by Pizzorno at his studio The Sergery, set up at his home in the Leicestershire countryside, the album comes from a mix of influences, everything from hip-hop to psychedelic-funk and trance.

In parts, it is unmistakably the Kasabian writer and guitarist's work, but at other times completely different. While the Favourites opening riff would not sound out of place on the band's third album, West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum, second single Nobody Else sounds like it should be played as the sun comes up in Ibiza. Not bound by the ties that come with being one of the biggest UK bands of the 21st century, Pizzorno says he felt free "to just see what it could be".

"I love making, I just like creating... If I've not had a day, if I've not made something in the day then I feel a bit… I don't know, I just freak out a bit. I mean, it doesn't necessarily have to be a song. Just, you know, an idea, or a drawing or a video. It's at the forefront all the time and that's kind of where I feel like, 'yeah, I'm all right now'."

The S.L.P. has "opened up another part of my brain", he says. "I think that was the thing, it was the freedom of not having to consider 80,000 people in a field. It's like, 'Ah, this can be a different thing'."

Inevitably, solo work has invited discussion about the end of Kasabian. But Pizzorno says his sideline has helped him see the band from "a new, fresh perspective… [and now] I'll know exactly the kind of way we need to go with the next chapter.

"I've just gone down the rabbit hole and I've collected a few new treasures and I've bought them back, you know?"

Taking time out, being careful not to saturate, is important, he says. "I think it's healthy. And every now and again there needs to be a storm in the harbour, man... It would be nice if people are going 'what's gonna happen?' or, 'Is that it, was that the last time I'm ever going to see them play?'

"So then, the story begins again, which I think is a good place to be, to keep everyone on their toes - including the band, I mean me included, everyone."

Formed with Meighan and their mates Chris Edwards and Chris Karloff (who left the band during the recording of second album Empire) while they were still at school in Leicester in the 1990s, Kasabian rose to fame with the release of their self-titled debut album in 2004. Fifteen years later, they are one of just a handful of those early-noughties indie bands left standing, undoubtedly one of the biggest British bands of their era.

It is no mean feat, and yet it is easy for the successes to become normalised, says Pizzorno.

"Being together for so long it's amazing how the achievements are expected," he says. "Oh, sold out the O2 again - I mean that's a massive thing; two, three nights. Or headlining Glastonbury, five number one albums.

"There's these mad facts that you don't... process [at the time]. But when you think, you go, f***, that's massive... It's an incredible place to be but..."

It comes with certain pressures?

"Kind of. Yes and no. I mean... because we got where we got I think it sort of doesn't really matter now. It would have been more pressure if we'd not achieved what we wanted to.

"We just sort of... rolled with it, really. It's all about new ideas, and new things and new albums. Changing. We've been afforded the luxury of being able to experiment and people going with it. So yes, it's been quite a ride, I've got to say."

Kasabian, he reassures once again, is "safe and sound" and his band mates have all been supportive of The S.L.P. "They've been so sound about it all. I've been blessed."

With the album finished, now all he has to do is think about performing live.

On stage with Kasabian he is the guitarist and backing vocalist, taking the frontman reigns only occasionally for the odd song. The S.L.P. live show will be quite different.

"In my head I have an idea of what I want the show to be but converting it, that's going to be an interesting thing. I know for sure that I don't want it to be anything like... it's going to be a completely different show to a Kasabian show."

He pauses: "I want the outcome to be the same in terms of... euphoric connection. A place for everyone to come to lose their minds. But I want to get there in a whole different way. I'm coming at it from a different angle. It's a different sport."

The album features the collaboration with Little Simz, who was "so good; it was a real honour to work with her", and slowthai, another rapper and 2019 Mercury Prize nominee.

"These [are] young, British artists that I think are at the forefront of music and to get them on the album was amazing," he says. "Moving forward I'd like to do that more. I think those two especially because I'm just a big fan of what they do."

I ask about his life in Leicester. Or more specifically, his recent appearance alongside pal Mark Ronson on Gogglebox, and why viewers were taken to a sofa in east London rather than his Leicestershire home. (Full disclosure here: I too am from Leicester, and it's not often we get to see the city on the telly.)

"Maybe next time," he laughs. "It's a very proud city, isn't it? We are very proud of our city. It's weird, isn't it? That home thing, that Leicester thing."

I last spoke to Pizzorno back in 2016, for the city's local paper, as Kasabian were heading out to play their beloved Leicester City's stadium, the King Power, for the first time; a lifetime's dream fulfilled to celebrate the club's 5,000-1 Premier League win.

Pizzorno, Meighan and Edwards have all remained rooted in Leicestershire, never swayed by the lure of celebrity, and always do their best to champion the city and put on special gigs for their fans there.

"I think [being in Leicester] has only helped us," says Pizzorno. "It's nice to be on the fringes, on the outside, and still be outsiders. I think it's important for artists to be on the outside.

"It's a mad old place. But I love it… I just feel like I learn more being there than I would anywhere else. I think you get more of a sense of the world. It can be a bit of a bubble anywhere else. I've got a lot of my friends who I grew up with and they always make me laugh, fascinate me, and their stories are amazing. I feel more connected there than I would anywhere else."

Kasabian want to inspire children from Leicester, from other less recognised towns and cities, he says.

"I feel like we were kids from a little place outside of the centre, and we had these dreams and we had this intent to try and communicate this message with the world and bring as many people together as possible. I want to show that you can do some mad stuff… I think it's important to show the next generation of kids coming up. Especially in our home town."

I ask how Tom is. He grins. "Tom's Tom, you know. There's only one. He's an amazing man. You can only be that good at something if… well, he's just Tom.

"We don't occupy the same orbit… we're not smashing into each other. If you had two Toms…" He makes a whooshing sound. "That's why it works. And it's been like that since 1997. I mean, like any family, there's arguments and there's fights and there's shouting. But that's a very small percentage of the best time ever. You know, like any normal Christmas Day. We've all got madness in our families. But we've got mad love as well."

After more than 20 years together, a seventh album in the pipeline, now all fathers, a bit wiser, definitely more grown-up, it would seem Kasabian have overcome any hurdles that might cause a band to split. Is this it forever now?

"Yeah, I'd like to think so. You know, bar anything major. You never know what's round the corner, but we do feel like we've come too far now.

"There's not many bands that have been sort of big in two decades. You know, that's always the thing, if you can move into the next decade and still be around… if we're making relevant music and the live shows stand up and have still got that energy and bring that carnival like no one else can, we'll be around for a long time."

Serge Pizzorno's debut album, The S.L.P, is out on 30 August. The S.L.P tour starts in Glasgow on 5 September and finishes in Paris on 17 September, and includes two dates in London.

news.sky.com

[amnachil]

The College Society Chapter 1 Part 4

And... the next part ! Enjoy :)

Liam Saturday September 16

As his job at Pasta's Place only started at 3 pm, the young lad decided to go for a swim before. During the weekend, the pool was open to all the students, but thanks to the induction seminar of several fraternities and sororities, there were only a few people. Liam put his swimming trunks, his swimming cap (he hated this thing) (seriously, it was like having a jellyfish on the head) (yeah, he already had a died jellyfish on the head, long story), and went to the pool. Once ready, he dived and started a serie of lengths. He let time pass, focused on his performance. He wasn't as good as Rebecca (she was like a sport warrior, and he suspected her to be an alien hiden in this body in order to win the Olympics in two year), but eventually, he felt satisfied (and exhausted) enough to stop. However, at this exact moment, he noticed a small blonde girl reading a book in the tiers. Barbara. Liam stared at her discreetly (at least the most discreetly he can). She wasn't really different since 11th grade. Short (like 151 cm, or 4'11"), thin, wearing casual clothes, and reading. Yeah, I guess it's the same Barbara... Next to her, a brown girl was looking to her phone, seemingly bored. Shall I go talk to her ? After all, she had been his friend back in highschool, and he had been sad when she had left them. Going out of the pool, he headed towards the rows of seats, indecisive. C'mon Liam, you know her, and she'll just ask you some usual news, like what are you doing, how are you, how old are you, or not, and how are you relatives... No way, I can't answer this last question. He stopped next to the tiers, and looked at her. She was so quiet, so... unchanged. Why did she left their highschool ? Maybe she doesn't want me to know... Yeah, so I shloudn't talk to her. (Did Liam already tell how bad he was to find pretext ?)

"Dude." spoke someone to him. "Are you coveting my girlfriend or my sister ?"

Almost stunned, the young lad turned towards the boy who talked to him. In swimming trunks too, he was wet and sported a curious face, a mix between anger and entertainement. Liam blinked for at least two minutes, and then point Barbara and the other girl out.

"You're speaking about them ?"

The boy nodded slowly. He wasn't really tall, but well-built, with an hard six pack and a strong chest. Besides, his face was quite delicate, with black short hair and oceanic blue eyes.

"The blonde one is my girl, the brown one my sister." he explained with patience, like if Liam was dull-witted. "And you were looking at them."

His voice was... unctuous. Liam blushed. (Blushed a lot).

"I was not... Hum, I'm not... just... forget me."

Without waiting for an answer, he left the pool almost running. What an awkward situation... Now he'll think I'm stalker. He didn't find the courage to tell him the truth. In fact, this boy reminded him someone. Well, anyway, I have to go to work, I couldn't have lose time to talk with him. (Did Liam tell how bad he was to invent pretext ?)

"You're missing something man ! It's like heaven, less the rules about pudeur."

The young freshman smiled. Nick told him something similar earlier this day concerning their own induction seminar for the fraternity Theta Omicron. But sadly, he had to work. Not everyone could have a scolarship, and not everyone had parents wealthy enough to cover the costs.

"Anyway." began again his bestfriend trought the phone. "Regarding lessons, let me tell you journalism is as good as I expected."

"Nice. It's nice."

Nate hesitated lengthily before leaving to join the best university for his studies. Liam always encouraged him to move, despite the fact they would not see each other for several month by doing so. He have a great career waiting for him. That's part of my job to help him succeed.

"What about ya Liam ? You're not speaking much."

"Sorry... I'm preparing for work right now, and I think you already know everything."

"Seriously ? Nothing new ? What about this girl... Rebecca, is she like Shirley ?"

"Not that much... Imagine Shirley was like a lamb, well Rebbie's a wolf."

His best friend laughed, and Liam felt a warmth fill his heart. He missed this laugh.

"Did you have any news from your sis' ?" asked suddenly his friend. "How's she doing ?"

"I'm sorry mate but I have to hung up." answered quickly Liam. "Judy is waiting for me, and you know how mean she is when I'm late. See you soon buddy."

He closed his phone without listenning to the reply. What am I doing... He just lied. But he couldn't say to his bestfriend the truth. He didn't want Nate to know that he hadn't contacted his sister yet. And after all, Judy was angry when he was late. (Angry meaning she would laugh and told him to stop watching the clouds while walking). (A lot of people thought he was watching the clouds while walking, but it wasn't true). (Not totally true).

Around 11:30 pm, Liam could at last make a break from the dishes. He went to the staff room, took a plate of pasta and sat next to Judy, who was finishing her diner. I wonder... How did she managed to do this ungrateful job for several months ? The young lad was worn out. He was hot, his hands and legs were shivering, and he hated the noise in the kitchen which he called Hell Kitchen. Furthermore, he had smell the flavor of pasta the whole evening, and he started to be quite repulsed (but paradoxically, when it come to eat, his stomach really enjoyed these evil pasta).

"He's so cute, I would love to meet him in real life." stated Judy.

Surprised, Liam watched around him before realizing she was speaking about the TV. Most of the worker were men, and they liked sport. Consequently, the telly released all the sporting events. Right now, two interviewers were questionning a soccer player and... Liam opened his eyes wide. Ginger, with a strangely cold blue look, and simply handsome, the player was Raphaël. I can't believe it ! Judy stared at him, curious, and asked :

"Liam ? What's wrong ?"

"I... I know him. He was in my highschool in 11th grade." he explained. "He's my friend. I didn't expect him to become so popular."

"Are you joking ?" Judy exclaimed. "Raphaël Muller is like THE man all the girl are dreaming about. He's so cute, so clever... so... Are you really his friend ?"

"Of course I am. Why would I lie ?"

"Liam, you have to help me. I want to meet him. I know he's not interested in girl but... I really want."

She was overexcited. The young freshman didn't know what to say. She looked so happy, so excited by the idea. But could he just call Raphaël and ask him to come ? Plus, he probably hates me now... After what I did...

"Calm down Judy." he eventually said carefully. "Listen, I'll see what I can do but... he's quite famous and busy I guess, so I can't promise anything."

She nodded restlessly and Liam realized he may have done a mistake... But I'm always heading for a disaster anyway... As mom would say : My lord, what went wrong with me ?

Rebecca Monday September 18

This morning, during the tutorial in mathematic, the professor announced they will have to make a projet by group of four, graded and quite important for their ranks. Hearing that, Rebecca looked to Liam and Nick and gulped. If I'm working with them, I can consider I'm alone on this... I need to find another group quickly.

"Hey Rebbie, I guess you're working with us ?" asked suddenly Nick. "We just have to find a fourth member, that's it ?"

Damnit. (Just, she fully appreciated these two boys, but... They definitely weren't hard-worker.) (A geek and a... simple-minded, they couldn't be hard-worker). But she was too polite to decline. To be honest, I don't have any pretext to decline...

"You'll see, it will be fun." added Nick. "We just have to wake up Liam, and to find someone, and we can start."

While speaking, he nudged his friend, and looked around. Rebecca sighed, and did the same. (Yeah, she nudged Liam too). We need someone who'll help me efficiently. A girl would be perfect. Nonetheless, the only person she noticed was a hunky brown boy writing something on his book. She decided to try her luck, and came closer.

"Hi mate. I'm Rebecca, and here are Liam and Nick. We're looking for a fourth member. Are you interested ?"

The freshman raised his head towards her, and she gladly noted he was handsome. Not really her kind of guy (because he wasn't taller than her), but handsome anyway.

"My name is Colton." he whispered with a sweet tone. "And yes, it would be cool to work with you."

He hardly finished his sentence that Liam, perfectly awoken, stood up and said :

"I gotta go to eat."

"What are ya talking about dude ?" asked Nick, surprised. "This tutorial ends in half an hour."

"Yeah, cool, whatever, I'm hungry. See you this afternoon."

He left them with agitation, nearly running to go outside. What the fuck was that ? He's even weirder than I thought. (She liked Liam, but this boy was so... special).

"I hope I didn't make him flee." smiled Colton.

Nick looked at him, and shrugged.

"Don't worry. It's normal with him. Every time you think you understood how he works, he does something new. Let's start this tutorial."

As he swallowed the last bite of his third burger, Rebecca looked at him with disgust, and then pushed her plate away. Jeezus, he makes me sick. Once the tutorial finished, Colton had left them to join his girlfriend, and she ended eating alone with Nick before her training. This one stuffed his face with so much gusto that she felt disgusted. How could he gobble this amount of junkfood without feeling sick ? Noticing she pushed her food back, he asked :

"Are you gonna eat this, or can I ?"

Rebecca stared at him for a minutes, and nodded slowly. He's not kidding... He will eat my leftovers too. She already had visited the boy's appartment, and she had saw the excessive presence of beers and greasy foods, but right now, she was astounded anyway. Nick raised an eye towards her and asked between two mouthfuls :

"What's wrong ?"

Rebecca hesistated. She was no one to judge. But Bob always told her alimentation was the key to an healthy life. He would have disapprove Nick's attitude, for sure.

"Are you not scared to gain weight by eating like this ?" she eventually questionned.

Nick polished the pasta she had took, and then belched with satisfaction.

"Do I look fat to you ?"

"I don't know, you're wearing baggy pants and a sweater."

The boy inclined onto the table, and whispered :

"I'll tell you a secret Rebbie. I'm not fat."

He then stood up straight and patted his belly with enjoyment.

"Besides, I don't care gaining a bit of weight." he continued. "Everyone is putting on pounds at the university, at least some. That's not a problem, and as far as I know, you're not fat for all that."

"Well, personally, I'll not gain weight. And I think people are gaining weight because the have less time for exercising, not because they stuff themselves like you."

"Are you disturbed when I'm eating ?" he asked with an ironic tone.

"Now you're asking it, yes I am."

"Good."

With a big smile, he stood up, and she lost him in the crowd. What the fuck is he planning exactly ? Jeezus, this boy drives me mad. She waited a moment before he came back with a new plate full of greasy food. Dumbstuck, she looked at him eyes wide open.

"What the fuck is that ?"

"I was still hungry, at least a bit, well, you know." he retorted mockingly.

"Will you seriously eat this ?"

"Why not heh ?"

He took a large mouthful of burger and moaned heavily intentionally. My god, this childish boy. Why am I still here ? Furious, she stood up and left after one last dirty look,.

Pete Thursday September 21 – Friday September 22

When he finished his length, the young lad looked towards Theo, expecting a congratulation, or whatever, but the swimteam captain was busy speaking to Liam. Again. This is the fifth time they are just alone together talking about god knows what. What the fuck the freshman have to say which was so interesting ? (Pete wasn't jealous, he just wondered). He dragged himself out of the water, and headed towards them slowly. I can't interrupt just like this... I must have something to say... but what ? He glanced at the duo, thinking. Liam was so close to the captain. Like if he wanted to touch his ass. Pete felt his anger grow. He already was annoyed by the relationship between his lover and Laura, he didn't need the handsome-but-stupid Liam as a bonus. Eventually, they ended their talk, and Theo went towards the pool to give advice, while the freshman looked thoughtfully at him. Why are you coveting him like this asshole ? Suddenly getting angry, Pete rushed Liam, and looked draggers at him.

"Dude, what were you asking to Theo ? Why are you hitting on him like this ?"

Crap ! What did I just said ?! He blushed, annoyed, but waited for an answer anyway. Nevertheless, the brown lad just glanced at him with a blank stare. Did he at least understood ? Eventually, after a moment which seemed an eternity, Liam blinked.

"Did you ask me something Pete ?" he questionned, totally spaced out.

Is he just dumb ? Well, at least he didn't remember the awkward sentence. The blond boy could start again in a more diplomatic way.

"I just wanted to know if you're coming to the tournament this weekend ?"

"No, I can't." answered Liam. "Theo already insisted way too much, so... are you gonna try your luck too ?"

"Well, if our captain bothered you I'll not dare to do the same..."

Pete didn't know if he needed to felt reassured or worried. Why Theo wanted so badly Liam, although he wasn't that good at swimming ? Maybe he dislikes me... I'm maybe not fulfilling his desire anymore. But he wasn't ready to gave up. He wanted so much the captain favors. How could he arouse his interest ?

"Dude, you look preoccupied." whispered Liam. "Are you sure everything's fine ?"

"Yeah, yeah. I was just thinking."

The next day, in the afternoon, Pete was now absolutely sure Theo lost interest in him. He didn't sneaked in his appartment during the night, and even didn't came in the morning after his private law lesson. He's ignoring me... The freshman didn't really know why, but he was determined to recover his lover. (He knew all this story was bad, because Theo was Laura's boyfriend, but he became addicted to the swimteam leader, and he wanted him). That was why he decided to talk with Theo closest relative, his bestfriend Bradley Chichao, an asian musician. He found him in the campus, near to the amphiteater C, and manifestly high. Pete already met him during the induction seminar of their fraternity, and he understood he was rarely clean. For all that, he had met Theo three year ago for the beginning of their studies. They had become roommate, and right now, Bradley was clearly the person knowing the most of swimteam captain. (Well, maybe except Laura, his girlfriend for two years, but Pete couldn't ask her how to please her boyfriend without being a bit freaky). Once close to Bradley, the freshman smiled.

"Hi dude. Can I ask you something ?"

The asian guy raised slowly his head and glanced at the newcomer. Once he realized who was talking to him, he blinked and answered with an apathetic tone :

"Sure. What do you want to know ?"

Pete hesitated for a moment. How could he said that without being creepy ? Hey Bradley, I want a piece of advice about how to fuck your roommate, can you help me ? He had to be more diplomatic. Maybe he could use Theo's relation with Laura to his advantage...

"Tell me, why Theo is loving that much his girlfriend ?"

Bradley looked at him, completly wide of the mark. He was definitely high.

"Theo's loving the fat side..." he whispered absent-mindedly. "The fatter, the better."

Pete looked at him, quite surprised. Did he just tell me exactly what I needed to hear ? Theo wanted him fatter. That was why he ignored him. I'm not sexy enough. But become fatter ? He didn't know what to think about it... And he decided to wait a bit before trying anything... After all, maybe he would be able to convince Theo without any changement... I have to give it a try.

To be continued

Well, I hope you liked it ! A bunch of new character in this part, and some of them are kinda important for the story ;)

Btw, if you want to know more about Barbara, Raphaël, Shirley or even Liam and Nate, you have to read my previous story The High School Game ! Most of them are main characters in it ! :)

[supernovamuses]

Five times kissed (for Arthur)

1. The first time was just a simple kiss on the forehead. Isiah had been having a nightmare and woke up crying. 

Arthur was a light sleeper, side effect from growing up in the neighborhood he had. So he woke up when he heard Isiah’s crying. 

“Izz?” He stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes. “You alright?”

Clearly not fine, Isiah still nodded. “Y-yeah, I’m fine.” His voice quavered. 

Arthur blinked at him, slightly more awake. “I’ll make you some tea,” he finally said. Isiah’s halfhearted protests fell on deaf ears as Arthur left the room. 

He returned with a hot cup of tea with honey, setting it on the bedside table, he kissed Isiah’s forehead, pulling the blankets up a little over the swell of the ginger’s pregnant belly. 

“Night, luv.” He also made sure to rub Isiah’s stomach a little, finding the firm swell a comforting warmth. “Night cariad.”*

2. The second time was after Arthur had had a rough day at work, on the swell of Isiah’s pregnant belly. 

“I hate other people,” Arthur grumbled as he laid on the couch, head on Isiah’s thigh. “They suck.” 

“Bad day?” Isiah hesitantly petted the blonde’s hair. 

“Bedivere is being a hard ass.” Arthur closed his eyes and enjoyed the affection. He turned his head a little, pressing a kiss to Isiah’s belly. 

Isiah was grateful the blonde’s eyes were closed, so Arthur didn’t see his blush. 

3. The third time was Isiah. 

It was a calm night, both of them in the kitchen. Arthur was chopping some bell peppers, humming a Welsh song under his breath as the radio played and Isiah stirred the soup in the pot. 

He groaned, rubbing his belly as the baby kicked. 

“You should sit down,” Arthur said, setting the knife down. “I can finish this up.”

“No, I’m fine,” Isiah shook his head. “They’re just kicking is all.”

“Can I?” Arthur gestured, a hopeful expression on his face. 

Isiah took his hand and held it to his belly, over where the baby was kicking the most. After a moment of waiting, a solid kick landed. 

Arthur laughed, awed by the feeling. “That’s amazing.” He didn’t move his hand just yet. 

Isiah carefully leaned up and kissed Arthur’s cheek, a blush covering his cheeks. 

The soup almost burns. 

4. The fourth time is after the baby is born. The guest room is now a nursery, leaving Arthur and Isiah to share a bed in his room. 

A persistent crying drags Arthur out of sleep. Isiah is already stirring, about to get up. 

Arthur mindlessly kissed Isiah’s head and murmured, “I got it, enaid.”*

Isiah rolled back over, grateful to get some more sleep.

5. The fifth time is mutual. 

The baby settles best on someone’s chest. The couch is an easy place for rest, and Arthur spent a lot of time laying there reading. So more often than not it would be Isiah laying on Arthur, the baby on his chest, feeding or sleeping or just laying there, watching whatever is playing on the telly. 

Arthur shifted his head to look at Isiah during on of these moments and Isiah looked up as well. 

They only broke apart was because the baby started to cry.

*darling, dear one

[smugzayn]

Little Miss Bossy

Harry’s your new neighbour. He’s too loud, mostly shirtless, and always sleeps through his alarm. He’s insufferable until he’s not.

One.

You love your flat.

It has great lighting, and these beautiful views of downtown London, and it’s large enough that you can lay spread-eagle on the floor to stress-out about life’s most pressing difficulties. Usually something about uni classes, or the last half stone that refuses to sweat off during spin, or your mum’s insistent prying into your personal life. When it happens, when it’s all too much, you can drop everything and just lay. Dump your bag, coat, and shoes at the door and spread out on the floor. All stretched limbs, and cheek and belly flat against the cool wood, and the comfortable silence of the quiet flat. You love it.

Then, he moves in. You pass him once in the hall when he’s directing his movers, but he’s on his mobile and doesn’t bother to wave, or smile, or even look at you. You see the boxes are labeled Harry; you decide he’s a tosser.

It takes you four Saturdays to figure out why. 

It does not, in fact, take you that long to realise that he’s a terrible neighbour.  He’s loud, and always dropping things, or playing guitar at ungodly hours, or cooking something to a burnt inedible and - worst of all - sleeping through his alarm.

So, it’s Saturday, it’s 6:13 and you’re awake because of the alarm and - mind you - not your alarm.

You’ve tried to ignore it. Really, you have, but with every shrieking beep you can feel a little bit of your sanity chip away until you’re a tightly wound string ready to unravel. And it’s not like you haven’t tried because you have. The first Saturday you just groaned and amicably started your day a little earlier than usual. The second Saturday you gritted your teeth and turned on the telly to drown out the noise. The third Saturday you paced your flat angrily, imagining a heated argument you would have with this new neighbour, this Harry. Now, the fourth Saturday you’re outside his door, knocking - impatiently.

You’re going over exactly what you’re going to say in your head. You keep changing it, not sure if you should go for hostile and intimidating or democratic - you figure you will settle on something in between the two. The sound of your knuckles wrapping on the wood is enough to fill the empty corridor, but it takes nearly thirty seconds before you even hear what sounds like movement from inside. Then you can hear what sounds like him turning the alarm off and knocking it onto the floor in one clumsy swoop. He stumbles down the hall and it takes him a few fumbling seconds to unlock his door.

“Ello’?” He rubs at his eyes groggily, his fringe all messed and falling into his face. “S’everythin’ alright?”

He’s not wearing a shirt and - honestly - you’re not sure he’s wearing pants, either. He’s just got a blanket held precariously around his waist with one hand. You’re glad he’s rubbing at his bleary eyes because you do accidentally run your eyes up the long, lean line of his torso until you reach his sleepy face.

“Your alarm doesn’t seem to be working for you.” You try to keep your voice level; you let your body language speak for you - eyebrows raised, hands crossed over your chest, and lips a tight line.  “However, it’s woken me up - again.”

He finally stops rubbing at his eyes, takes a look at you, and leans up casually against his door frame. His face looks all swollen from sleep, lips puffy and cheeks all flushed-like, but he looks good, and you can’t help but acknowledge this as his eyes run over you. It makes you instantly aware that, in your irritation, you hadn’t bothered to do much more than throw on your robe and slippers. Your old, bulky glasses hadn’t been replaced by contacts, retainer had not been removed, and wild hair had not been tamed from the plait you had slept in.

You do your best to smooth down the fly-aways. 

“Little miss bossy?” he grins, reading the phrase on your pajama top. “Sounds about righ’, doesn’t it?”

You distract from the heat warming your face by tightening the belt of your robe. “I’m not bossy, but you are a terrible neighbour.” You use your fingers to tick off the list, “You’re too loud, you’re always burning food, you play your bloody guitar at the worst times - and you’re not even that good at it, and you sleep through that fuckin’ alarm all the time.” You realise by the end you’re huffing a bit, your voice getting progressively more clipped and louder.

He’s fairly unphased, he flinched a little at the guitar jab, but overall you can only tell that his eyes have darkened slightly, but the smug look lacing his features has only deepened. It’s like he’s fairly satisfied with the whole situation. 

“M’heavy sleeper,” he shrugs, carelessly, as if that solves the problem and because he looks like he does you assume it normally might. Like normally people might just walk away pacified by his boyish grin and dreamy eyes. However, you’re not so smitten. In fact, you’re getting angrier the longer you watch him casually shrug off his inconsiderate behaviour.

You huff, blowing a stray bit of hair away.

“Yeah, well I’m not. I like a lie-in on the weekend and your bloody alarm has ruined it ever since you’ve moved in.” He doesn’t do anything but look even more smug, which seems impossible. You threaten him with your last resort, “I’m tempted to file a noise nuisance.”

He snorts, his shoulders broadening slightly as he stands up fully, no longer so casual in demeanor. “I’d like to see y’try. Really, you’re too cute to be such a bossy -”

“Excuse me, you’re the one -”

“Don’t interrupt, love.”

You want to pounce. You want to tackle him and his stupid floppy head of hair to the ground. And then you want to smash that alarm clock into a billion tiny pieces. You tell yourself later that the only thing that stops you is the questionability of him wearing pants.

“I’m a recordin’ artist. I keep strange hours. Can’t really help if m’sleepin’ heavy, yeah?” You swallow a banchee-scream threatening to erupt from your throat. As if you care about his life or work. As if you don’t have coursework and classes to attend - proper git. “Maybe you can sleep with music on? Somethin’ to de-stress ya? Y’seem tense, love. Do y’want to join me for mornin’ yoga?”

The smug smirk on his face presses deep little dimples into his cheek - it’s infuriating.

“I don’t care if you’re fucking Beyonce,” you bite, glaring up at him, “Figure out your bloody alarm or next time I’m calling in a nuisance.”

You storm the few steps down the corridor and angrily whip open your door. You look back at him, feeling his eyes following you.

“M’not joking,” you warn.

“Love, I don’ care either way,” he waves carelessly and lets his door slam shut.

You hate that you’re left standing there, feeling indignant and staring at his closed door. It should have been your closed door that he was staring at - the bastard. You march into your flat, open YouTube on the telly and search for the most obnoxious club mix to blast loudly on repeat until you hear him leave.

Two.

You’ve only ran in to him twice since that morning. Once when you ignored him as he tried to chat you up in the main lobby. You had kept your nose high in the air, refusing to acknowledge his calls of “Oi! Miss bossy! Little miss bossy!”

Promptly upon entering your flat, you had carefully buried those pajamas in the bottom of your wardrobe.  

Then once more, he had shown up outside your flat, knocking incessantly until you had whipped open the door to find him cheekily delivering a sopping wet pair of panties that you had mistakenly left in the laundry. You had swiped them off the lone finger that he had them dangling on.

“Do y’always wear lace, love? Or are these fo’ a special occasion?” 

You had slammed the door after that. Unfortunately, the door wasn’t quite thick enough to block out his affronted call of, “You’re welcome.”

And, now, regrettably, marked your fourth interaction.

“Absolutely not,” you block the doorway with your body. “I don’t even like you.”

He’s standing there - shirtless, again. His hair is just barely wet, a bit of soap residue dried in it, and a lone flannel in his hand. 

“You don’ have t’like me, little miss bossy. M’jus’ wantin’ your shower, not marriage.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What? Little miss bossy? That?”

He’s trying to rile you up; you hate that it’s working. You still don’t budge.

“M’hot water went out.”

You shrug your shoulders carelessly, “Freeze.”

“Y’real fuckin’ neighbourly,” He huffs and you only plant your feet in more firmly. 

You’re about to tell him to piss off, but then his big, oaf-ish hand is on your shoulder and is pushing you out of the way so that he can get by.

“Oi!” you yell, following a step behind him, “You can’t just -”

“Gonna point me in the direction? Or…” he trails off, and you’re staring at his broad shoulders as he walks down the hall. You watch the back of his head turn as he looks around your living room. All of the sudden you're self-conscious about the goofy pictures you have framed, and your comfort plushie tucked onto the sofa, and even what you were watching on TV - bake-off - he must think you’re terribly dull. 

“Hey!” You manage to wrap your hands around his bicep and pull him back as he pokes his head into your bedroom, turning to you with a suggestive smirk. 

“Is tonigh’ a special occasion, little miss bossy?”

You can feel yourself blush slightly, remembering the lace panty set laid out on your bed. You reach around him to pull the door shut and point him down the hall.

“It’s that way, you pervert.”

It’s infuriating that he pats your bum lightly as he walks by. “Lucky lad - whoever its fo’.”

He doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him, so as you sit angrily on the sofa, you’re terribly aware that he is showering just twenty feet away. You turn bake-off back on, trying to distract yourself from your roaming thoughts. And it almost works, almost for a minute, but then he keeps trying to talk to you - from the shower. Yelling out to whinge on about shampoo smells and the texture of your body wash, and then most concerning - asking if he can use your shower pouf.

“Don’t you dare!”

“You’d not really know if I did, would ya?”

“I’d know,” you lie and make a reminder on your phone to throw the thing in the bin.

“S’that what it is then?” he yells above the pattering of water, “A date night?”

You roll your eyes, for your own benefit.

“Can’t you just focus on the shower? So you can leave?” you ask, but answer him when he doesn’t respond, “It’s not really even a date - not really. Just meeting up with a lad of my friend.”

Your friends had insisted because they are your friends and they want what is best for you. They think it’s unhealthy to spend the obsessive amount of time you do on your coursework at the neglect of your love life.  You think you will bother with a love life once your coursework has landed you a well paying job.

“A blind date, then,” Harry confirms and you listen as he seems to drop a bottle to the floor.

“No, I said not a date -”

“Are you going to eat?”

“He’s cooking for me,” you wander to stand outside the bathroom door so you don’t have to shout.

“How pretentious,” Harry scoffs, “And what’s his name, then? Probably something stiff like Poncey or Reginald, right? What’s he all about, little miss bossy?”

You shake your head, ready to tell him off, but stop yourself when you remember that you’re actually not sure.

“I don’t know… Was it Matthew? Or Jack something? He works at an investment firm in East - “

“Sounds like a right arse -”

“He might be okay,” you defend half-heartedly, “He’s meant to be tall and a great golfer - which I don’t really care about, but he’s got a proper job and…” You trail off, realising that Harry’s helping to sabotage your date before it’s even started. “What do you care, anyway? Not like you know him - or me, for that matter!”

He turns that water off and you quickly pad back to plop down on the sofa, not wanting him to find you standing outside the door. You’re grateful he was at least quick about it - in the shower. He seems the type to use up all the hot water just to be a bother. Luckily, you think he’s saved some for you.

“Gonna get me a towel, love.” You hear the shower curtain pull back as he hollers out to you. You throw your hands up exasperated because - christ - he’s really a piece of work. You un-plop from the sofa and stomp off to the linen cabinet and grab the last remaining towel.

“I’m coming in,” you warn, covering your eyes with one hand and blindly holding out the towel in the general direction of the shower. The humidity of the room hits you like a wall, you can feel the warm dampness on the tile of the floor beneath your feet.

Harry snorts. The tips of his moist fingers brushing along your wrist as he grabs the towel from you. “Scared you’d like what you’d see?”

You feel yourself blush, but brush him off, “I’m sure there’s not much to see.”

This time he laughs, genuinely and it’s the warmest sound you’ve heard escape from him. It’s not arrogant or irritated, or short - it’s real. You’re sure it’s just the heat of the room, but all the sudden you feel a warmness somewhere in your chest.

You quickly leave, pulling the door close behind you before you can think any more about it.

Predictably, of course, he comes out all towel slung low, and glistening bare chest, and droplets falling from his hair and pattering to the floor while you’re sat on the sofa. You haven’t had even one naked man in your flat before and now here stands one you hardly even know. You very pointedly keep watching bake-off. Like you’ve never been more invested in Mary’s subtle criticism of a raspberry scone. 

You can feel him watching you very purposefully not watching him. Can even see the sly smile pulling at his lips as he takes cheeky little steps to stand directly in front of the telly.

 When you can no longer ignore him you say, “Are you done invading my space? I’m trying to watch telly.” 

He snorts, staring back at you, evenly. His tongue just barely peeking out at the side of his mouth where he’s smirking. You try to be subtle as swallow the lump in your throat and force yourself to meet his eyes. 

“D’you want your towel back?” He unwraps himself slightly, forcing your attention as he reveals a sliver of upper thigh that is paler than the rest of him. You can’t help but notice just how thick and strong his legs are.

“No!” You shout, holding your hands out to stop him and just barely squinting your eyes, as a precaution. “Give it back after you wash it.”

“I just figured - because you were staring.”

“I was not staring.”

“You were -”

“I wasn’t -”

“You were -”

You stop yourself and roll your eyes at his satisfied smirk.

“Like I said,” you stand up and walk over to the door and open it for him suggestively. “After you’ve put it through the wash. Perhaps, with boiling water and bleach.”

This time, he rolls his eyes.

He strolls easily toward the door, waits until he’s standing in front of you and then stops. You notice the droplets still running down his chest as you very carefully meet his eyes - unwilling to give him the satisfaction of looking away. Somehow, it only makes him look more smug.

The hand not clenched around the towel runs through his wet hair, sending dribbles of water your way. You shield yourself with your hand, so it comes as a surprise when you feel his thumb trace down your jaw, leaving a just noticeable dampness in its trail. It takes everything you have to not look away, then - to meet is mischevious green eyes. 

Harry leans in close, his neck angling slightly so his lips are just brushing your ear. You have to remind yourself that your heartbeat isn’t actually as deafening as it sounds.

“Cancel that date,” his warm breath hits your skin and you can feel a roll of sensation reverberate through your body.

“Harry, I can’t -”

He leans in even closer, close enough that you press your hands against his warm chest to keep him at bay.

“Of course you can,” his thumb gently runs along your bottom lip, plumping it out slightly, “and stop using that lemon shampoo. It smells shit.” He looks down pointedly at your hands on his chest. 

His chuckle plays in your ear even after you shove him out into the hall.

“You’re an arse.”

“You’re fallin’ for it.” You let the door slam, but not before he calls back, “And don’t fall for him - Reginald.”

“Jack.”

“Who the fuck cares.”

As you throw out your shower pouf, just in case, and your lemon shampoo, you didn’t like it anyway, you wonder if he might be right. If you might be falling for him.

Shit.

Three.

Sometimes you wonder why you don’t drink - then Thursday happened.

Four days after Harry used your shower, you’re laying in bed, nearly asleep when you hear it. A scraping and scratching at the door of your flat. Your senses are all of the sudden fully alert, a jolt of adrenaline running through your body. You exist on a fairly extreme spectrum - irrationally anxious or an emotionless blob, this sends you spiraling to the former at an alarming pace.

You carefully shove back your comforter and tiptoe to the hall. You can feel your hands shaking with panic as you see the handle to the front door is being fumbled with, the metal twisting back and forth as someone from the outside attempts to gain entry. You grab a pot from the kitchen and unlatch and open the door in one swift motion before you have time to lose your nerve.

You scream in shock as a man tumbles to the floor at your feet. His long limbs spread out disjointedly and his long fingers easily lock around your socked ankle, sending waves of alarm through your body. You try to kick him away, but his grip pulls you to the floor and you land atop him with an oomph.

“Fuck,” the man groans, “S’heavy.”

Before you can register the voice, you twist so you’re straddled across his back, pot raised high above your head and your fist tangled roughly into the man’s hair. 

“Wh- Harry?” you groan as you get a whiff of the man, the smell of something vaguely-lemony filling your nostrils.

“Gerroff,” he grumbles, fidgeting around so you fall on your bum, none too gently.

“Harry,” you confusedly repeat as he brushes himself off and stumbles to his feet, pulling you up with him. “Harry, what are you doing? Why are you trying to get in here?”

“M’hungry and need ya t’make me food.”

His words are all mushed together; his slow speech seeping out even slower. His eyes are red and his cheeks and lips are more pink than usual. The confused look on your face fades slightly as it clicks. 

“Wait - are you drunk?”

He shakes his head and a now familiar smirk twists his lips.

“M’juss tipsy,” he stumbles as he tries to take a step and you quickly grab his arm to wrap it around your neck and fit your other one around his back. Your head tucks in easily to his shoulder and, although he’s heavy, his body feels good pressed up against yours. “Juss tipsy an’ hungry.”

“Don’t you have food at your place?” Carefully, you walk him toward your sofa, his steps are slow and clumsy.

“Got food at m’place but needja t’cook fo’ me.”

You quickly determine that his step and speech aren’t tipsy-like. Rather, he’s pissed.

“Why me?”

“Taste betta when y’do it, liddle miss bossy.”

“M’not-” You scoff indignantly but stop when his face breaks into a smug grin. You decide not to give him the pleasure of that argument. Instead, you point out, “Harry, I’ve never cooked for you.”

He waves you off as you try to set him down on the sofa. “I juss kno’ it will be betta’.”

It’s not graceful, his journey to lay down, and somehow you find yourself pulled down on top of him. Quickly realising it may have been his intention as his arms wrap around your back to hold you against him.

“Willya cook fo’ me?”

You try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. You’ve never been this close to him. Your belly pressed flat against his and his forehead and lips mere inches away. Close enough that you can smell the lemon again, and, even stronger, the smell of alcohol. You can’t help the surge of irritation that floods through you at the butterflies you’re feeling over a drunk man’s words - embarrassing, really.

“I’ll cook for you, but you have to let me go.”

He nods but keeps a firm hold on you. His hands are clasped and you can feel his wrists pressing into the small of you back. 

“Y’cook fo’ me cause y’like me? Cause y’don’ like Reginald?”

“Reginald?” You shake your head, confused. “You mean Jack? I canceled that.”

His eyes light up brightly and you can’t help yourself as you blurt, “I just didn’t think it was wise to go to his home…I mean I don’t even know him. He could’ve been a murderer or a -”

“Y’did it fo’ me.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. 

“I did not do it for you -”

“Y’did.”

“I didn’t -”

You stop yourself before you continue playing his game. You shake your head at him and try to push off his chest, but he squeezes you tighter.

“Do you want me to cook for you, then? You hungry?”

He shakes his head and manages not to knock you in the nose or chin as both his hands move to cup your face. Suddenly, the butterflies in your stomach have moved to your chest, and throat, and brain. You can feel your cheeks warm from where his hands hold you and you embarrassingly keep flickering your gaze from the pink softness of his lips to the intense stare of his eyes.

“I mean it,” he says seriously, “You’ll cook fo’me cause y’really like me?”

You lick your lips, swallow the lump in your throat and try to pull your head away, but his unrelenting grip forces an answer.

“Yes, I will cook for you because I like you. I really like you.”

Your mouth feels dry as he smiles, a real one where his eyes get all wrinkly and his dimples dig deeply into the side of his mouth. “My little miss bossy-”

It’s quick and sudden, but his lips are on yours, warm and needy. Pressed hard up against your and it feels good - like, really good. It sends an energy through your toes and up into your chest and head. It’s something that you didn’t know you needed and now you’re not sure how you could’ve gone without it. His tongue slips in smoothly and he sucks on your bottom lip gently and - christ - it’s nice. You’re sure he’s sloshed, but somehow his mouth feels so nice, and purposeful, and deliberate up against yours. Like it’s something he’s wanted, too.

He let’s go of your face, flashes you a big goofy smile, and pats your bum twice. “Really like ya too. M’shit wif it, tho’.”

He finally lets you go.

You quickly meander into the kitchen, quick to busy yourself to ignore your confession, to ignore his confession. To ignore your heart pounding in your chest and your head and your ears. To ignore the warmth of his touch on your cheeks and lips and tongue. 

You pop some bread in the toaster. It’s not technically cooking, but your shelves are empty and you’re sure Harry’s too pissed to care what gets put in front of him.  

“I bough’ me own shampoo - the lemon smell one,” he slurs slowly, his voice too loud from the sofa. “Smelled t’good, tho’. S’why I said it, y’know? Y’smelled too good. M’shower wasn’t even broke.” You can’t help the soft smile on your face as you butter the toast. “Y’know? Juss - when I firs’ saw ya - I juss thought…”

You get a glass from the cupboard.

“Y’not really bossy. Juss like t’see y’all flustered and stuff,” his voice trails off drowsily, “S’cute…”

“Harry,” You turn the corner, toast in hand, “You really don’t need to - oh.”

He’s asleep or passed out. His legs tucked up slightly and one hand shoved under his head for a pillow. You sigh because of course he’s most amicable when he’s completely wasted - go figure

You set the toast, a glass of water, and two Panadol tablets on the table before him. Gently, you work off his shoes and grab a pillow and blanket from your bed to give him. It’s a testament to just how drunk he is that he doesn’t flutter as you lift his head to place the pillow beneath it.

“Will you remember any of this tomorrow?” you question, but all he does is take an especially heavy breath.

With that, you flip the light switch off, shut the door to your own room and curl up under your covers. When you wake in the morning, the toast, the Panadol and Harry have all disappeared.

Four.

You avoid Harry after that. 

The walls are thin enough, and he’s loud enough, that you had basically memorised his schedule by this point anyway. You time your departures before his and you slip back in your door before he ever returns. You avoid the lobby, instead opting for the private, albeit less convenient, back entrance. You even take the lift at the other end of your floor, taking the greatest precaution to never be trapped inside with him.

You’re not terribly surprised when he comes knocking because he did leave a bracelet on your floor that he must have knocked off at some point in the night. You’re a little surprised when he comes knocking on three different occasions after you’ve hung it stealthily on the handle of his door. 

Nonetheless, you definitely do not answer. Instead, you hide in your kitchen, not flipping a switch, or taking a step, or breathing too hard. You listen to him talk frustratedly through the door. His irritated pleads to “Open the door. I know y’can hear me and I know y’there” doing nothing to prompt your action.

Eventually, he gives up.

And when it all comes down to it, you’re not even sure why. You try to blame him - and really he did leave that morning. You’re sure it was because of regret. He regretted what he said. Or, he didn’t even remember what he said or did. Most likely, he was completely beside himself when he woke up in your flat and was so baffled by the circumstance that he left before having to bother explaining himself to you. 

And, the further away from that night you get, the more you regret it too. You had embarrassingly confessed your feelings to him when he was drunk. And - god - you had also kissed him and blushed and butterflied about it.

Christ. 

Now, you’re spread out on your living room floor, cheek and belly pressed to the smooth wood. The warm winter sun is streaming down on your back and the only sound is the oven clicking as it heats the meal you had haphasardly thrown into it twenty minutes ago.

Right now, it’s too much. You think you might just move. Move out of your flat, move maybe into a dorm, or even back home - you’re mum would love that. It’s just, you can’t stand the idea of having to look Harry in the face again. He must think you’re pathetic or desperate or disillusioned. Mistaking someone’s drunken ramblings as the truth must be one of the more mortifying things you can do. It might be easier to just avoid it all together. Avoid Harry and avoid your feelings.

You’re an absolute git.

You close your eyes for a few seconds - or minutes - trying to clear your brain. Enjoy the silence, enjoy the warm sun on your back and the smooth wood pressed flat against your cheek. It’s relaxing enough to just fall asleep -

You startle awake to the pounding on your door and that’s when you realise you had fallen asleep. 

“Open up! Y’there? Y’alright?” You groggily open your eyes and immediately notice the smell of smoke and the grey haze of your flat.

“Shit!” you jump up and run to your kitchen, ignoring the continuous slamming on the door and the yelled threats that ‘M’gonna knock this bloody thing down!” to pull open the oven door to a cloud of black smoke. Shoving a mitt on to your hand, you blindly pull out your crisped sandwich and abandon it in the sink.

“Open up fo’ me. Now!”

You grab a flannel and wave it around to disperse the smoke with one hand and use the other to unlock the door to your flat to vent into the corridor.

“Wha’ in the hell are y’doin’?” Harry barges past you the second there is enough room and grabs the flannel from your hand as he storms into the kitchen. He turns on the tap, extinguishing the flames you hadn’t noticed were sparking from your food and turns off the gas. “Are y’tryin’ to kill yourself?”

He glares at you angrily as he flips on the oven vent and orders you to open up the windows.

“What do you care?” You snap back at him shortly, marching off to do as your told, angrily shoving open the windows and letting in the cool winter air. “It’s not like it would bother you much.”

“Of course it would’ve.”

You return to watch him shoo away the smoke, the muscles of his shoulders tensing under the cotton of his shirt enough that you can see the sharp lines of muscle from his back.

You’re not sure what makes you say it because you’ve thought nothing but avoiding the topic since last week, but it slips from your mouth in your irritation and sits between the two of you before you can stop it.

“Why’d you leave, then? If you care, then why didn’t you stay that morning.”

And he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Instead, he turns off the tap, flips off the fan on the oven, and continues waving the flannel around to push the smoke out to the corridor. You can see the tension in his jaw, the hard angles more defined than usual.

“Because I like you,” he says, finally. 

He stops pretending to be distracted and turns, his hip resting on the counter, and his arms across his chest to look at you.

“You left because you like me?” you repeat skeptically.

He nods and doesn’t offer anything else. You throw your hands up, exasperated because - what the fuck.

“That doesn’t make sense, Harry.” You try not to sound accusatory, it doesn’t work, “You don’t have to make something up just to make me feel better. I know you were drunk and I was stupid for kissing you. But just come out and say it then. Don’t give me bollocks - ”

“M’not!”

“Yes, you are. You’re lying.”

He takes a step closer to you, holding his hands out to grab your elbows which are wrapped across your chest.

“M’not lying. I like you.”

His thumbs rub comfortingly across your skin.

You huff, doing your best to ignore him. 

“Y’smell good and y’cute and m’shit at tellin’ ya. I meant wha’ I said that night.” He leans in closer, his forehead pressing flat against yours, “And I meant wha’ I did.”

You lean back, moving away from him.

“Well, I can’t now. I’ve a date tonight and I have to get -”

“Fuckin’ Reginald-”

“Jack -” you glare at him, “His names Jack.”

“Fuck him. Don’t go,” he pulls you back in, taking your face into his hands and pulling your body into his, “Cancel it. Let m’cook fo’ you. Let me be ya date.”

“Harry, I can’t just -”

His lips come down on yours - warm and needy. His tongue quickly slipping into your mouth and tangling with yours. A warmth erupts in your chest and it fogs your brain and lets whatever was holding you back go. Your hands latch on to his chest and you can feel him smile into the kiss at your touch. One of his hands moves from your cheek to tangle into the back of your hair, pulling slightly to angle you deeper into his mouth.

“Fine,” you groan when you both take a breath, “but you have to cook for me.”

He laughs, leans down to kiss you again. His mouth sucking the plumpness of your bottom lip into his.

“And it better be good.” He pecks you again, “and desert - something with chocolate.”

His hand finds the small of your back, and he pushes you in closer. Your hands easily wrapping around him as your bodies press closely together.

“My little miss bossy.”

He kisses you again before you have a chance to retort.

[h4rr3h]

Harry and Evan were as platonic as platonic could be. Living together does that. You see their unlivable quirks; like how they always leave the toilet seat up, or how they never rinse their dishes, or how they never fully close the chip bag so they end up stale. And after six years of living together, Harry and Evan knew each other’s quirks well. The pair were long gone from their college days and fully immersed in the confusing reality of adulthood. Navigating your twenties is hard, but with your best friend by your side, it makes the whole disarray just that much easier. But, Harry has a secret, one that he’s been hiding from his best friend since the day they met, and she’s about to find out. Especially now that Niall spilled about the “Ohio Incident”. A lesson on facing your fears, being too old for college parties, cronuts (are those even still a thing?) and finding things out just a bit too late.

ohio is for lovers, prologue harry styles and the runaway bride

It’s quarter past twelve and everyone is running late. 

Saturday, March 27, 2019

185 Bleecker Street, Apartment 11B, New York, NY

It’s quarter past twelve and everyone is running late.

 “Who the hell in their right mind decides to have a winter wedding outdoors in New York City?” Louis complains, buttoning the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt.

 “The ceremony is outside, it’ll be like twenty minutes and then there’s an open bar inside the reception. Relax.”

 His girlfriend Polly eyes him from the mirror where she’s layering mascara on her lashes. Louis fumbles with the knot on his tie and she groans, closing the tube of makeup and setting it back onto the bathroom vanity. She undoes the tangled knot he’s managed and adjusts it for him, “how do you think Harry’s doing?” She asks.

 “Niall and I were going to stop over before we head to the wedding. Kid needs an intervention,” Louis sighs.

 “I heard my name!” An Irish accent rings in the living room.

 Louis and Polly roll their eyes in unison. They meet with the others, and by others, they mean Niall and his bottle of Smithwick’s because god damnit, just because he’s Irish, does not mean he always has a Guinness in his hand.

 Although there is a six pack in the fridge.

 “So Polls,” Niall inquires, “do you think she’ll really go through with it? Now that she knows everything? I’m surprised we were even still invited to the wedding.”

 Polly shrugs and sits on the arm of the sofa beside him. She takes a lengthy sip of his beer before handing it back, “I think she will. She loves Jake -”

 “She also loves Harry,” Louis interrupts, followed by a swift jab to the ribs by his girlfriend.

 “She loves Jake,” Polly states again, “and yes, she does love Harry but not in the same way he loves her. Maybe if he hadn’t hidden it from her for six fucking years, things would be different but there’s not much we can do about it now, can we?”

 The two boys stay silent, now it’s Louis’ turn to take an unwarranted sip of Niall’s beer.

 Polly glares, fists resting on her hips, “oh please don’t tell me you two are going to ruin my cousin’s wedding all because your friend can’t get over the fact that someone doesn’t like him back.”

 She’s fed up, she’s late, and they must really be getting a move on.

 “We just need ten minutes with him. That’s all. Maybe if he sees her truly happy that will be enough,” Louis negotiates to an annoyed Polly.

 “- truly happy,” Niall snorts under his breath, bemused with himself.

 The other two scowl for a moment and he puts his hands up in surrender.

 “Fine, you only get ten minutes,” Polly cautions, “any longer and I’m leaving. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life, do not screw it up.”

 Thirty seconds later, the two blue eyed boys are across the hall banging furiously on their best friend’s door.

 “MAAATE!” Louis hollers while his fist slams against apartment 11A’s door.

 There’s rustling on the other side of the door, the shifting of various takeout boxes and empty cans and bottles. The chain lock slides against the plate, the deadbolt clicks in protest.

 “What?” Harry glares through the slight crack he’s made in the doorway.

 Niall and Louis can smell him before they see him. His hair is a mess, and the bulky old man cardigan he’s wearing is stained and wrinkled, his bottom half has only a pair of shorts and fuzzy slippers that look eerily like a pair of Evan’s that she can’t seem to find.

 “Harry,” Louis spoke gingerly, his heart dropping into his stomach and trying to find the right words to say, “you look-”

 “Like shit,” Niall proclaims, shoving past the two of them and pushing the door open to the apartment, “you have got to clean this place up. The neighbors are going to think you’re hiding a corpse in here.”

 Although he’d like to, Harry doesn’t have the strength to raise his middle finger.

 Louis shoots Niall a look but he’s busied kicking around the various takeaway containers scattered about.

 Harry stumbles back to the couch and the other boys follow. He’s not drunk, but acts it. He’s far too drawn into himself lately. He prefers the quiet static of the television, played just loud enough to block out the downstairs neighbors screaming at each other for the twelfth night in a row. He orders takeaway because it was Evan who used to cook and now all the pots and pans go untouched in the cupboards that are empty for the exception of some random leftover spices and a box of macaroni and cheese that even Harry doesn’t have the vitality to make. He gets home from work and eats and watches the telly until he passes out on the couch and wakes up with the morning sun to start the process all over again.

 This was the first time Harry had sat straight up on the sofa in weeks. It made his back feel funny, less tense, he supposed. Louis sits beside him, although careful not to step on the mess of clothing and boxes and whatever else had made it’s way into the living room. Harry hadn’t slept in his own bed since the thunder storm the night after she moved out. There were too many memories of humid summer nights when the fans just weren’t enough and the sticky air stuck to the walls and the sheets. The lightning would blind the night’s streets below their apartment and he’d know it was only a matter of minutes before Evan would quietly tiptoe up the hallway into his bedroom.

 In the nearly two months since she’d been gone, Harry had called out of work four times. The first, was the day after it happened. He’d drank himself half to death the night before and woke up an hour after his first lesson and blamed a family emergency. The second was when he thought he saw her in the grocery store, her honey hair pulled back in a plait in the produce aisle admiring a head of lettuce. But then he remembered she doesn’t like salad, and it was enough to send him back into a tailspin. He’d stayed up all night, staring blankly at the television and trying to think of all the ways he could’ve made her stay. His third call out, when he thought maybe things were getting better, he’d played a gig at the bar with the band and took home a girl who used the same shampoo she did. The fourth one was yesterday, there’s something about a long weekend, the kick start to her wedding weekend. 

 “We um,” Louis struggles to find the right words comfort his lifelong best friend, he’s never seen him this broken. Sure, they’ve seen each other through the melodramas of growing up, but in this moment, no matter how many pep talks and words of advice he’d given his friend in the past, the word clogged in his throat, and nothing came out.

 But that’s why we have Niall.

 “Mate this is just embarrassing,” he muses, “we came here for an intervention. You need to get over Evan. She’s getting married today. Either you go and wedding crash, or you move on. But sitting at home in your boxers feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

 “You don’t know that,” Harry grumbles childishly, folding his arms across his chest.

 “I think what Niall is trying to say,” Louis starts, always the voice of reason, “is to take action, in whatever capacity that is.”

 He looked to Niall for support, he was digging at something under his nails, “oh right, yeah. I mean, here’s how I see it. If I was in your situation, I would go after her, life’s too short to and wait for something to happen. Or you could sit here and die a miserable old bloke. Either way, there’s an open bar at this thing and I’m really fixing to get there. So if you could make up your mind that would be great.”

 Louis mouth parted at the gall of his friend’s words, Niall always had the least eloquent way of laying the truth down into you, whether you were prepared for it or not, “he’s right.”

 “I am?” Niall questions.

 Lou nods, “I say we crash a wedding.”

 The corner of Harry’s lip twitches at the thought, and then he remembers of the look in Evan’s eyes when their world came crashing down and he couldn’t bare the thought of being the cause of her destruction again.

 “Can’t do that to her,” Harry reasons, “I can’t hurt her again. It’s best if I let her be.”

 He leans back against the sofa. He’d thought it so many times, to just let go of her, of the feelings and memories of the last six years and just move on. Accepting a life without her was going to be a hell of a lot easier to handle than a half lived life of always wondering what if.

 “I was kind of hoping you’d want to crash, but alright.” Niall says, discouraged.

 It’s the first time in two months that Harry’s genuinely smiles. He doesn’t feel a lick of change, though. There’s still a sadness that sits like a rock in his chest, weighing him down every day to the point of exhaustion. It’s not a change but a reasoning, he figures, the soft rustle of turning to a new page.

 “Just promise me one thing?” Louis asks and Harry raises an eyebrow, “can you please clean your bloody apartment?”

 Harry stifles a laugh with his hands. It didn’t feel right to laugh, not yet at least. He composed himself in a half breath and Louis nudged him on the shoulder, “you going to be alright?” He whispers lowly.

 Harry nods as his front door slams open.

 “Our ten minutes must be up!” Niall exclaims, standing up from the armchair, “time to find me a wifey.”

 “We have a big problem here,” Polly says, she’s clutching her cell phone to her chest, “Evan didn’t show up at the chapel to get ready, she’s not answering anyone’s calls. No one can find her.”

 Suddenly all three are staring at Harry as if he’s got the answer, “well I sure as shit don’t know where she is!” He defends.

 “But you know her the best out of anyone,” Polly pleads, “just think! Where does she go when she doesn’t want to be found?”

 It’s not an aha moment when Harry thought of the Diner. The conclusion was just as easy as answering to his own name. He didn’t think twice about it, not for a second, “I think I know.”

 Polly sighed, “go find her, please. I need to know she’s alright.”

 “That I can’t promise.”

 Harry thinks of the last time he saw her in that Diner. It was the last time they had an actual conversation, where she made her decision to leave him and move out of the apartment. Even after she knew the whole truth, and everything he’d been hiding from her for the past six years came to light, she left. Harry doesn’t think he could go back there, and if she was there, which he was sure she was, he knows he can’t go and see her.

 “Where is she, Harry?” Polly questions again with desperate eyes.

 “The Diner.” He pips.

 “That grubby old Diner a few blocks over?” Polly bawks.

 “Don’t knock it, that place has excellent chicken kebabs,” Niall quips.

 He’s knocked over by a pillow, courtesy of Lou’s spiral throw.

 Harry buries his face in his hands. What does this mean? He thinks over and over to himself. The room is spinning and he can hear the tapping tones of Polly calling Evan, he’s memorized the touch tones of her phone number. It goes right to voicemail and the sound of her voice makes him queasy.

 “Now it’s not even ringing. She knows we’re looking for her. Sharna is trying to keep everyone calm at the chapel but she doesn’t know how long that’ll last.”

 Polly is on the verge of tears now and Louis does the best to comfort his best friend and his girlfriend.

 “Let’s calm down for a moment, Polls,” he tries to reason, “she’s not hurt or missing. She’s just taking some time to think about things. Cold feet, it happens. I’m sure she’s just fine, wherever she is.”

 Harry finally picks his head up. He pretends to not feel the three sets of eyes burning into him. His heart is racing and it’s the most alive he’s felt in the last two months.

 “So what are you going to do?” Louis asks, the silence in the air stinging everyone’s ears.

 “I’m gonna go find her.”

Ahh so here it is!!!! A day early because honestly I work tomorrow and have to pack for vacation and I just have too much to do but I’ve been so excited to share this with you guys! My plan is to post every two weeks, so I can get back into the swing of writing, and it also allows me to plan ahead and whatnot. 

Please please please let me know what you think. I’m so so rusty on fic writing these days that I’m dying to hear what everyone thinks!!! 

[mousedetective]

“you’re famous and just got asked if you were ever in love this should be good– WAIT WHAT” au. Sebolly

So it’s not quite 1K words, but I’ll tack the difference onto another donation claim. But please enjoy this one!

Retirement & Reunification -A week ago, a man she thought she had lost forever told her to watch the Oscars on the telly. She didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this...

Read @ AO3 | Buy Me A Coffee? | Commission Me? | Help My Friend?

It was a typical Oscars viewing party, except they were in England and there wasn’t so much a fancy dinner party as it was a God-early brunch with breakfast appetizers and mimosas. Mimosas that Molly had been filling up on in an effort to steel herself for the Best Actor category. Oh, she had a personal stake in that award, she did, though really, she wished she hadn’t.

She sipped her third, or possibly fourth, drink as she mused during the musical performance. Seb...her Seb...had left England four years ago to pursue a career in Hollywood. She had declined to follow him, as much as her heart had wanted to. And they’d attempted the long distance thing for a bit, but she got busy with her residency and he kept getting bigger and better roles, and soon their relationship just petered out. She’d been miserable for a time, but the sight of him in the tabloids with pretty blondes on his arm had certainly snuffed that out quickly and replaced it with a gnawing jealousy she didn’t want to admit to.

Eventually, she’d moved on. Even gotten engaged. But damn it all, Seb had her heart, and the letter she’d received from him the week before had almost convinced her she’d made a mistake.

Almost.

Meena knew that if Seb won the award tonight she was to turn it to whatever channel was hosting the backstage press conferences. He’d said he wanted to say something very important and she should watch if she was able. Why he hadn’t simply asked her to go to Los Angeles to hear it in person...well, truth be told, would she have said yes? She didn’t know. But as she set her drink down and twisted the engagement ring on her finger, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to win or not.

Soon the musical interlude was over and they said coming up would be the best actor awards. She picked her drink up and swallowed the last of it in one sitting before getting up and getting another scone and refilling her glass.

Then it was all just...too much. She couldn’t wait and she just took her drink, leaving the scone behind, and locked herself in the loo. She loved him. She didn’t love the man she had said yes to marrying, she loved bloody Sebastian MacCullough Moran and damn it all, this was not fair. He was thousands of miles away and he’d be schmoozing with the rich and famous and what did she have to offer him? Just her heart, if he’d take it.

She felt tears stream down her cheeks and she dashed them away with the back of her hand when a screech sounded from the sitting room, a screech that sounded just like a drunken Meena being excited. She lifted her head up and was just getting off the toilet to see what was happening when there was a pounding on the door. “He’s retiring!” Meena shouted.

“What?” Molly said, unlocking the door. But Meena didn’t reply, grabbing her arm as soon as the door to the loo opened and half pulling half dragging Molly back and pushing her in front of the telly. There was music going on and Seb was nowhere to be seen, but Meena had picked up the remote and was trying to find the interview. Giving up after a moment, she turned it back to the awards show and then went to look online for a clip regarding Seb and his retirement.

It took some time, but E! had an interview up soon enough. Seb was standing there in his spiffy tuxedo, holding an Oscar in his hand. “So you’re really retiring?” the interviewer asked.

Seb nodded. “I gave up something very important to come to Hollywood, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to get it back before it’s too late,” he said. “Fame means nothing when your heart isn’t in it.”

“And just where is your heart?” the man asked.

“In London, working as a doctor at Barts,” he said.

“So you’re in love?” the man asked with a chuckle.

“I have been for years but I was too blinded by fame to see it until it almost slipped away completely,” he said, the humor the interviewer was expressing not even remotely hinted at on Seb’s face. Molly’s heart jumped into her throat and she felt herself leaning forward to catch what he was saying as her mobile began to ring.

“And what’s her...his name?” Seb was asked.

“Dr. Molly Hooper,” he said.

Around Molly, her group of friends exploded into cheers, but Molly was only focused on her mobile. Either it was Tom, and she was about to have a most unpleasant conversation, or…

She looked at the incoming call and started to shush her friends as she answered it. “You still love me, even after all this time?” she asked as she answered the call.

“Always,” Seb said. “I’m taking the first flight to Heathrow. Will you meet me?”

“Yes,” she said, a wide smile forming on her face. “Of course I’ll meet your flight.”

“Good.” He paused. “I’ve missed you, Molly.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said as Meena began shrieking again. But she couldn’t fault her friend for her excitement. She was excited too, and the happiest she had been in an age. Maybe there was something to be said for Hollywood endings after all...

[shu-of-the-wind]

rebelcaptain; foster care au vi

Whoops that took forever. 

No particular warnings for this one. Rey’s backstory has been modded for a modern AU,. XD 

She didn't think it was going to work out badly, per se, but there's a certain amount of relief in her gut when Rey comes home from the third or fourth meeting of the history club beaming and babbling about a girl named Rose Tico and a museum trip 

"Next Saturday," Rey says, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Jyn, struggling with the zipper of her jacket, grunts. "Can I go?"

"Which museum?"

"African-American History." She bounces some more. Out of the corner of Jyn's eye, Finn creeps into view down the hall. He's not been entirely sure what to make of Rey joining the history club--he might like Mr. A's classes, but he's more a taekwondo enthusiast than anything. Actually, Jyn's surprised that Rey is enjoying the history club so much. Rey's the type to take apart toasters and microwaves and put them back together again as her weekend activity, not go mad over old flyers from the Second World War. But still. "Can I go?"

"Are you taking the bus?"

"We're meeting up at the school and taking the metro. Mr. A's coming with us."

"So it's a school trip?"

Rey sucks her teeth. "Sort of? A club trip. But everyone's going. Mr. A says the Smithsonian museums are free, you just have to schedule tickets for some of them a few days before. And I have a metro pass."

Right. Jyn's not much of a museum person. She wins her wrestling match with her jacket, and hangs it, dripping, from the hook next to the front door. "Huh."

"Can I go?" Rey bounces again. "It's with Mr. A. And then Rose and me were talking about going to get food after."

She's thirteen, Jyn thinks. And Rey can take care of herself. Something clutches at her throat, and eases almost in the same moment. "I have a shift at the Cantina until six, if you want to come there after. So you don't have to walk back alone from the metro station."

Rey gives her a look that's altogether too self-aware, for a middle school student, but she just says, "Yeah, okay. Can Rose come?” 

Jyn shrugs. "Free country."

"Sweet."

"Let me know how it goes," says Jyn, as Rey darts off.

In the hallway, Finn's watching her with that weird look again, like he's trying to put together a jigsaw with only half the pieces.

The Cantina's kind of a shithole, if she's being honest about it. Not as much of a shithole as other places she's worked in her life--this, for sure, has nothing on the Wobani pub up in Maine--but it's still kind of a shithole, and the people who work there are only granted human status nominally in the eyes of everything holy. Nobody ever slacks off, at least. Maz would have them out on their ass with their spleens crammed up their noses if anybody tried. It makes up for the sleazeballs at the bar who try to palm handfuls of her ass as she goes by.

One more time. She breathes deep, in and out through her nose. One more fucking time--

"Uh-oh." It's Lando, eyebrows arched. Jyn's never been able to decide whether she wants to punch Lando in the face or not. It bothers her sometimes. She ought to want to punch him in the face. "Scowl power at nuclear."

"Fuck off," she says, and in the kitchen, Chewie snorts.

"If it's table six again I can take it."

"I don't need your help," says Jyn. Maz is fluttering around somewhere in the back. Going over supplies, probably. She's not about to get fired for reaming out a customer, especially one that keeps whacking her ass, but she'd really rather not let Maz know what's going on, and Lando will rat her out the instant he thinks he can get away with it. "Go do assistant manager things."

"I'm doing assistant manager things," he says. "I'm making sure our servers aren't being harassed. That's an assistant manager thing."

Jyn rolls her eyes, and jams a plastic cup with far too much force against the soda fountain.

"Jyn, come on."

"It's fine." There's no crack in the cup. Good enough. She sets it on the tray. "I'll deal with it."

Lando puffs out his cheeks, his version of I think you're wrong but I don't want a broken nose. "If you say so. I'm just saying. Intimidation is an option if you want it."

"That I can do all by myself," she says. "Considering your track record."

"That was one time."

"A toddler," says Jyn, and walks off while Lando makes kettle noises.

"You break anything, Erso, you're paying for it!"

She flips him off behind her back.

The Cantina's a place where people pass through, and tonight isn't much different. It's not exactly the kind of place that attracts people from the Hill or any surrounding newspapers. She's pretty sure she served bad bourbon to Jason Chaffitz in disguise once, but that's just something that happens in DC: you never know who you're going to run into that you might see on the telly the next day. Tonight it's fairly quiet: a few businessmen at the back, in one of the booths, making a deal to do with their air traffic control programs or whatever it is Lando keeps blatantly eavesdropping on; a handful of families who went out to the Smithsonian circuit, judging by their new T-shirts; a few locals; the gaggle of Howard Uni students who use the corner table to practice their Spanish conversation and usually bamboozle her with slang she'd be better off not knowing the meaning of. (The last person who openly hit on her, instead of just goosing her ass, wound up with a broken nose and filed a suit against the Cantina. As pissed off as she gets sometimes, she'd rather not have to have Maz settle out of court again because of her bullshit.)

All in all, it's definitely not the worst job she's ever had. In conjunction with what she makes from Mara, repairing cars and motorbikes for men who'd rather pretend a manly man does all the greasy work on their engine instead of a bird with too many scars and a stupid tattoo on her hip of a star, she makes enough. Maybe not quite enough to let Rey and Finn do as much as they want, but enough to keep them all comfortable. It's enough for her.

What do you want to do?

She shakes it out of her head, and snaps back over to table six to glare threateningly with a long knife in her hand. Better to head the bastard off at the pass early, before he decides copping a feel is a little less interesting than trying to pin her at the end of her shift.

The three year old at table thirteen has tossed a handful of salsa at her blouse and she's trying to mop herself up while simultaneously refilling three water glasses when the bell chimes, and Rey's chatter filters in through the rain. She's in infodump mode--about Prey, from what Jyn can tell, she's talking about aliens and weapons mods and that's usually Prey mode--but the girl next to her, a small southeast Asian girl with big eyes and closely bobbed hair, is listening very hard, which is better than anything that Jyn could have imagined. "Excuse me," says Jyn to table thirteen, and then shoves her tray of water glasses into Aphra's hands without a word, beelining for the door.

"Hi," she says, and Rose Tico's eyes about bulge out of her head. Jyn is not about to imagine what she looks like. "You're wet."

Rey shakes her head like a labrador. Water spatters Jyn's service apron. "It's raining."

"I can tell." She sucks her teeth. "Who's your friend?"

Rey blinks a few times, and then it rushes back to her, the social thing. She straightens up a little. "Mom, this is Rose. Rose, this is my mom."

Jyn bares her teeth. "Rey."

"She doesn't like being called Mom," says Rey, and bares her teeth back. "So she's Jyn."

Rose looks about ready to faint, but she steels herself, and says, "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Erso."

"Fuck," says Jyn, "that's worse. Both of you go sit in the back before I vomit."

"She's fine," says Rey, happily. "Cheers, Mom."

"I'm going to dump you off a cliff," says Jyn, "and I'm not going to tell anyone where to look."

Rose's big eyes get even bigger when she takes in Jyn's stained shirt. "Oh."

"Go sit, you yokel, I'll bring you something." Jyn can't help it. She scruffs her hand through Rey's sopping hair, pushing it back out of her eyes. "And a towel. Maz will skin you if you ruin her seats."

"I can't ruin vinyl, that's the whole point of vinyl in a café. Nobody can ruin vinyl with liquid things. Unless it's acid, I suppose." Rey frowns at the salsa stain on Jyn's shirt. "You didn't have that this morning, did you?"

"You think Finn would have let me out of the house if I had?" Finn's as scrupulous about laundry as he is about cooking. One of his old families used to make him do most of the chores. Now he just says it relaxes him. She hasn't pushed the issue, yet. "Go sit."

"Mr. A should be in in a minute," says Rey, and then darts off before Jyn can do more than blink. Rose looks between Rey and Jyn, somewhat bemused, before trailing Rey into the corner. Jyn opens her mouth, and then shuts it again before Lando notices.

You're fucking kidding me.

The door opens. The bell chimes.

Fuck!

She wipes her face clean. She can do that. She knows how to do that. She's known how to do that since she was a child. Jyn breathes, in and out through her nose, and then turns to face him. His hair is wet (though not as soaked as Rey's; Rey had probably been prancing about in the thunderstorm the way she usually did, daring lightning to come after her) and the fabric of his coat is damp about the shoulders, but it's the hesitation that makes her want to spit. He's eyeing her like a cat about to scratch.

"Hi," he says, finally.

Jyn, refusing to be intimidated, says, "Hi."

Cassian awkwardly stands there for a second or two. He says, "I wanted to make sure Rey and Rose made it here all right."

Rey. Rose, too, but more Rey. Don’t make it uncomfortable for Rey. Jyn nods, and pretends that he hasn't noticed the salsa stain on her shirt. She bites the inside of her cheek hard to keep her expression from shifting. He's not supposed to be here. There's a thin, high voice in the back of her head, one that sounds remarkably like a child. He's not supposed to be here. Not without warning.

She shoves the voice into a box, and locks it.

"I don't mean to intrude," says Cassian. He's interpreted her face right, then. Kindly fuck off, Andor. "I didn’t know this was where you worked. Rey didn’t--I'll go."

He's halfway through turning on his heel when Jyn thinks better of it, and rubs at the bridge of her nose. "Rey will be disappointed," she says, and doesn't look at him when he snaps a look at her. "She's sitting at the back with Rose. I'll get you a towel."

"You don't have to," says Cassian, but it trails off in a rather pathetic sort of way as she slams through the swinging doors to the kitchen, and ducks down to get more water glasses.

"Well." Lando leans over the counter, smirking at her a little. "He's cute."

"Fuck off, Lando."

"Ouch. She bites again." Lando lifts his hands. "Don't mean to intrude, Jyn, sorry. Just never figured you for the tall, dark, and accented type."

She's definitely going to hit him. Possibly in the next three seconds. "Fuck. Off."

"Fucking off," says Lando, and swans away whistling, hands in his pockets like he's just scored big in some gambling ring. Scratch hitting him. She's going to take the baseball bat Chewie keeps under the counter, and she's going to use it on the windscreen of his car. Jyn fills three glasses with water, snags a handful of dishrags out from beneath the drink fountain, and hipchecks her way back out onto the floor again, ignoring Aphra hissing "you owe me, Erso," on her way in.

Rey is still talking. She's also stimming, hands flapping back and forth in her happy stim, the one that means I'm excited and I'm going to be talking ten thousand kilometers a minute about this for the next five years. Jyn slows, and watches, for the three seconds she can grab. Rose is still just listening, nodding very seriously as if Rey's imparting the secrets of the universe. Cassian doesn't seem to have noticed, really. He's staring at the menu, and then at the ceiling, and then at the wall, in a show of discomfort she wouldn’t have expected of him. Not after the PTC.

Still. He is in unfamiliar territory.

Something strikingly close to pity swells up her throat. Jyn strangles it with her bare hands.

"Right," she says, and puts the waters down, dumping the whole handful of towels on Rey's head. Rey stops flapping, but to laugh, not to flinch. "Report."

"The museum was good." Rey disappears under one of the towels, and Rose, after darting another shy, confused look at Jyn, filches one for herself. Jyn refuses to watch what Cassian does. "The United States is bollocks."

"You're an American citizen," says Jyn. "Same as me."

"Not originally," Rey says, muffled. "We don't know what I was originally."

"Yes, you suitcase baby. Mysterious sprog, you."

Rose's eyes get very big.

"I was found in an airport when I was six," says Rey, very matter-of-factly. Out of the corner of her eye, Jyn sees Cassian still. "I don't remember anything before then. I think my birth parents must have left me there. They said they'd come back and get me, but they never did."

Rose's hands curl up into fists on the table. With surprising force, she says, "That's horrible."

Rey blinks at her a few times. "You're mad. I'm sorry."

"I'm not mad at you." 

"Oh." She darts a look at Jyn. It's only after Jyn nods that Rey says, "Okay. Cool."

Rose clenches her fists hard enough to look painful, and then rams right up against Rey's side to peer at the menu on the table. Jyn could cry. Thank fuck. Thank fuck. Thank fuck. It's working. She's not entirely sure Rey's even realized, but it's working. She might have a friend now. Other than Finn. Someone else she can lean on. Thank fuck.

Cassian's still watching her. Jyn can't help it. She catches his eye, and nods once.

He looks at the table instead.

"Museum," says Jyn, and taps at Rey's shoulder. "Good?"

"Horrible," says Rose, not Rey. "People are horrible. But interesting."

"That was the point," says Cassian, without inflection. "History isn't pretty. But it can show us patterns."

"Yeah, you said." Rey looks up at Jyn, and then peeps at Cassian, back and forth. “Mr. A knew more about the exhibits than the museum proctor did. He kept explaining things.”

“Really,” says Jyn, and tries not to feel uncomfortable. “It’s good that he’s teaching you, then.”

“If we go to the Museum of the American Indian for a field trip, you should come.” Rey looks completely blasé, but there’s a hint of—something. Not quite the cunning Finn has, the willingness to sneak. Rey looks schemey. Christ, not both of them. Tell me Rey hasn’t noticed the oddness, too. “You could help.”

“I don’t know if I can get the day off anytime soon.” She refuses to look at Cassian. “I’m going back to the kitchen, for a minute. I’ll be back.”

“’kay.”

She has no shame left, apparently. She bolts.

Jyn’s halfway to the kitchen doors and halfway to freedom when she hears the footsteps behind her. Aphra’s peering at her through the gap in the doors, and she’s laughing, a little, the way she always does when someone else is in for a hell of a lot of shit. “Jyn,” Cassian says, “wait a second,” and she’s not so much of a coward that she can ignore that. Not when it might come down to a fight. She slows, and then stops, and wishes that her shirt weren’t ruined. She wishes that she could run. He looks tired, all of a sudden, and lost, even if it’s just in hints—the lines around his mouth, the hidden tension in his shoulders when he puts them back. Like a soldier, she thinks. Regimented to keep the fear at bay.

“What,” she says, when he stands there watching her for too long. Cassian’s shoulders hitch, just a little. His hands fall loose at his sides.

“I wasn’t planning on organizing the class museum trip for at least another six months,” he says. He’s all clipped, now. “You don’t have to worry. If we need a volunteer, one of the other parents can do it.”

She jerks her chin up, and wipes her hands absently on the apron she has to wear. She can’t remember how they wound up so damp. Words fly out of her head. “Right.”

He hesitates. She can see it in his hands, more than anything. His fingers curl, and uncurl. “I’ll make an excuse to Rey,” he says. “I won’t make you uncomfortable.”

For some reason that, more than anything, is what snags on her temper. Jyn breathes, deep, in and out through her nose, but her control’s already shattered. She snaps, “For fuck’s sake,” and the family that had been sitting at table thirteen, halfway out the door, all yip in unison. Cassian blinks once. “This is stupid.”

“What is?” he says, but his voice is too tight to quite be calm.

“This.” She glances over his shoulder, but Rey hasn’t noticed. She’s still chattering with Rose Tico. “This—stupid dancing thing. It’s stupid.”

Something flickers in his face. She thinks it might be his temper. “I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“You can’t teach my kids if you’re always going to act like I’m about to explode,” says Jyn. “This doesn’t work if we keep doing this.”

“Keep doing what?”

She gestures, pointlessly, at the air between them. “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Cassian’s mouth goes tight. He looks back at Rey, now, too, faster, more subtle. She’d barely notice if not for the fact that he turns away from her to do it. He says, “I wasn’t aware there was an issue.”

“Jesus Christ, Cassian, you’re not stupid.”

Cassian blinks again. It’s different, somehow. Like shock, instead of evaluation. She’s not sure where the difference lies. Maybe in the speed. He swallows, barely visible.

“Look,” says Jyn. She roots herself to the ground, and thinks of Saw, of Steela’s photograph on the mantle. “My kids like you. That--they trust you. They don’t trust a lot of people. I’m not going to fuck up one of the best teachers they’ve ever had because of something that happened years ago.”

There’s another flicker, then, in his mouth. Cassian puts his hands behind his back. “I see.”

“They’re not stupid. They’ll notice something’s up, if they haven’t already. If this—” she jams a fist into the empty space, again “—keeps happening. So it can’t. Anymore. Otherwise they’ll work something out, and even if they’re wrong, it’ll just keep making things worse until we can’t do a damn thing for them, no matter what we want.”

He weighs that, carefully. Cassian looks at her, unblinking.

“Truce, then,” he says, in an odd voice.

He holds out his hand.

Jyn looks at it, at his long fingers and the skin of his palm. She looks up at him, too, and sees a question there she’s not sure she can answer. Still, she reaches out, and takes it, as firm a handshake as she’s ever given in her life. Twice, up and down, and then he lets go first, shoving his hand back into his pocket and watching her like she’s a Rubik’s cube. Like she’s a puzzle to be turned and contorted until it makes sense.

She turns.

“You’re a good mother,” Cassian says. He blurts it, almost. “They love you very much.”

Jyn jerks her shoulder in an acknowledgment, and vanishes into the kitchen. She can’t find the daring to look him in the face. Not after that.

[notsissannis]

ーJust A Boy

Ronald Weasley x Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson

One-shot: complete

Second installment of My Boy

Rated: M ー Violence, Guns, Explicit, Violence sex, Violence death.

Read more here [AO3]

Read part one of the series here [AO3]

ー Please take the tags seriously. I’m not joking. This might triggered some of you. Talk to me if it does.ー

Hermione put down The Prophet to greet her husband, “Morning.” She smiled, watching him fixing his flaming red bed head, “Coffee or tea?”

Ron hugged her small frame and kissed her forehead, “Morning, love. Coffee please. I have so many things to do today.”

“New product?”

“Products,” he corrected and smiled gratefully when Hermione put his cup on the table. “George and Angeline going to celebrate their anniversary today. So… Yeah.”

She sat on the table, facing him. His free hand held her thigh as she passed him the paper. He looked at her questioningly behind his cup.

“Nothing new. Just another news of The Malfoys,” she shrugged.

He put down his cup and turned to the page of said news. There, almost covering the whole page, moving pictures of Scorpius and Pansy on their holiday. Morocco, Caribbean, Paris, and more countries that Ron didn’t know how to pronounce.

“Where are they now?” He asked casually, folding the news into half and continued stroking her thigh.

“Back at the manor. Thinking to invite them this week, you know, for Albus’ birthday,” she ran her fingertips along his jaw.

“You know I love it when you wear this stockings,” he murmured and nipped her finger.

“I know,” she leaned forward to his ear to whisper, “And I’m wearing that lacy black thong, too.”

Ron groaned, squeezing her thigh, “You’re killing me here, Hermione.”

She chuckled and kissed his nose, “Tonight.”

“Come on, love. Just the tip?” He pulled the elastic band of her thong then let go, letting it slapped her soft hip.

She moaned at the slight pain, “No, Ronald.” She jumped off the table and laughed when Ron spanked her bum on their way to the fireplace.

“Tonight!” He yelled as Hermione disappeared in the green flame.

He walked back to the kitchen ー magically cleaned his cup ー and took the folded paper with him to work.

It was late evening when he decided to send Hermione an owl, telling her he would be late tonight.

Not too late, I hope. We do have plan, if you know what I mean.

Love, Hermione

Ron read her reply with a goofy smile. Even after two kids and under the heavy pressure of being the Minister of Magic, his wife could still excite him like a teenager. He tucked her reply into his pocket and wrote another owl.

The Langham London, 08:00 p.m.

Ron W.

Once he got a reply, he grinned wickedly and closed the shop, getting ready for his night in Muggle London.

He turned off the telly when the soft sound of bell echoed the suite room. He lit the candles and kept the room dimly-lit to set the mood. Looking at his preparation one last time, he opened the door to welcome her.

“Weasley,” she said as she walked in and clearly surprised at the interior. “Someone’s quietly breeding Galleons,” she commented, smirking at him.

“Only to be spent on special occasion,” he smirked back and leaned against the closed door.

She sat on the soft bed and hummed happily, satisfied at being treated like a queen. Suspiciously, she asked, “Why the sudden invitation, Weasley?”

Ron chuckled and waved his wand, casting silencing charm and wards for extra security. Seeing her confused face, he explained, “We don’t want to get caught now, do we?”

He sat beside her, caressing her naked arm with his knuckle, “How’s Caribbean, Pansy?”

Pansy still looked wary but she didn’t stop his leisure movement. “Beachy and sandy.”

“Oh? And you don’t like it?” His body turned to her while his other hand slithered under her skirt, touching her tan thighs.

“What are you doing, Weasley?” Her voice was low and her eyes slowly closing under his touch.

“We’ve been playing this childish push and pull game for quite some times. And I got tired of waiting,” he pulled the small string of her dress down, “Or, if I’m just simply misunderstood all the signs, I can leave now.”

She shrugged her dress down, leaving it pooled around her waist. She pulled him by his collar and licked his neck, “You got it all right.”

He pushed her down into soft mattress completely, and watched her exposed chest heaving intently as he pulled her knickers down deliberately slow.

“Red? For my Gryffindor?” He asked, standing up to stand between her dangling legs at the edge of the bed.

She propped herself up with her elbows to look at him seductively, “First impression and all that.”

He summoned a small black cloth and tied it behind her head ー covering her eyes. “I heard you like games.”

She moaned when he kicked her legs wider and tied each of their ankle to the posters, “Why? Granger doesn’t?”

He answered her by filling her wet cunt.

Pansy screamed at the surprised intrusion. She moaned in pleasure as he pushed and pulled in a slow sensual rhythm, until she started to kick around panicky.

It was useless.

It was too late.

“What’s wrong Parkinson? Didn’t you say you like games?” He leered.

“Fuck you, Weasley! Stop!” She screamed and tried to get up, but Ron pushed her back down with his weight.

“You know, I have my suspicion. Hermione, too, I daresay,” his voice was icy cold yet he didn’t stop moving.

She moaned and panicked, all at once. It was comical for Ron to see her pug face contoured like that.

Comical and satisfying.

“Weasley, let me go,” she pleaded.

He ignored her plea. “I mean, who wouldn’t? You were crazy for Draco. Yet he chose Astoria. You were rejected. Discarded. Thrown away like a ragged cloth.” He watched her mouth gaping, feeling disgusted at the feeling of her breasts rubbing on his clothed chest. “So you figured, why not Scorpius?”

She wailed when he pushed deeper.

“Stop!” She sobbed.

“But just being Scorpius’ wife wasn’t enough. It was never enough for Pansy. Pansy got to have everything. Pansy got to have Galleons, Pansy got to have big manor, Pansy got to have title.” Ron choked her, happy to feel her quickened pulse under his touch. “But why Albus?”

He got up and magically tied her wrists together. She tried to push her body up when a cocking sound filled the room.

She froze and started to cry uncontrollably. “Weasley, please.”

He pushed the gun deeper into her cunt. “Why Albus, Parkinson?”

“I promise I’ll tell you everything. I swear on my magic! But please… Merlin, please. Take the Muggle killing machine out.”

Ron laughed maniacally. “So you do know how this thing works! Brilliant!“ He wiggled the gun, "And I’m going to expect answers now, Pansy. Or this will go… How do they sound like again? Oh, yeah!

“BANG.”

She bit her quivering lower lip to bleed and hastily nodded. “Yes. Yes! I told him to kill Albus!”

“Why?”

“Because he tried to stop him from meeting me! He threatened to tell Potter!”

Ron was eerily quiet, pulling the gun out of her and took the cloth off her eyes.

She looked at him in relief and kept mouthing thank you.

“Oh, witch. You got the wrong idea!” He moved to stand between her legs again. “I took it off so you can watchー” he put the gun back into her cunt “ーthe adorable red liquid splattered off your cunt.”

He pulled the trigger once.

Pansy screamed her voice hoarse. Begging and cursing him all at once. “You crazy loyal Gryffindor fool!”

He pulled the trigger second.

She tried to kicked him away with her weak legs. It only made her situation worse as she could feel the burn from the gunshots on her thighs and inside her.

He pulled the trigger third.

She fell back. Blood was trickling down from her throat, her chest, her holed stomach. Her eyes were wide open, staring at him unseeingly.

He pulled the trigger fourth.

Just to make sure.

Hermione put down The Prophet to greet her husband, “Morning.” She smiled, watching him fixing his flaming red bed head that she’d ran her fingers thoroughly in last night, “Coffee or tea?”

Ron hugged her small frame and kissed her forehead, “Morning, love. Tea please. I feel relaxed today.”

“Ravished?” She added innocently and laughed when Ron pinched her bum.

He took his seat, rubbing his face sleepily as he watched his wife moved here and there.

“Read the paper, Ron,” she told him without turning.

He obliged and scanned the paper. There, the Malfoys, as always. But this time it wasn’t because of their holidays and bikinis.

“Mrs. Malfoy was found in an extremely devastating condition at one of the luxurious Muggle Hotel last night,” he read out loud.

She sat on the table and put his tea beside her. “It was horrible. Harry owled this morning. Apparently she got shot with a gun.”

He stroked her thigh up and down soothingly, “Did they find who did it?”

She nodded. “The CCTV, that security camera that record everything, managed to capture the man when he was booking the suite. Blonde hair, short, chubby.”

“Muggle?”

Hermione kissed his head before she jumped off the table. “Yup. They identified him as one of the janitor. He hung himself though.”

Ron took a sip of his tea.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would think someone polyjuiced themselves to kill her,” she looked amused with her own idea.

Ron sipped more.

“Scorpius going to stay at Harry’s for a few days. He’d lost his parents, and now his wife.” Hermione pulled him up and the couple walked together to the fireplace.

“Go and see him if you’re free, Ron. He could use some Ronald’s magical pep talk.”

Ron grunted his agreement.

“He’s just a boy, Ron.”

“Alright alright. But, it’s because I love you.”

Hermione smiled sweetly at her husband before she left to work.

Ron walked back to the kitchen, scratching his freckled chest as he yawned. He picked up the paper and looked at the moving picture of Scorpius. He burnt the paper with a flick of his wrist as he muttered, almost sarcastically.

“Just a boy.”

[mulliganisms]

Himself Alone 1970

In the thin air of the Azteca Stadium in the 1970 World Cup Final Pele hovers majestically over his Italian prey - Himself is similarly airborne as his ten year old derriere has been launched towards a Western Irish sky by a bolting horse.

In the next few moments gravity will work on both and Himself will attempt to match the cacophony of 107,412 and will come pretty close. Life is flashing before him, At ten his life is as watchable as a reality TV spin off on a cable channel  - thin content which Himself tries to stretch out by endless previously ons recaps and in next week’s show...He had recently sat through Love Story - will he die before his own has ever tasted love? Never to skate in Central Park? Never having to say sorry - and not even the drawn out death where Ali Mcgraw looks more glamorous as the end nears but an instant hit of body on Connemara marble. At least he would die with as clean a conscience as Bobby Moore post diamond necklace scandal.

The nag that had inched forward like a non league crowd following a triumphant cup tie vs higher placed opposition who wanted to savour the relative luxury of the away ground now moves with energy and purpose as speedily and unexpectedly as the appearance of the roundel insignia on Japanese fighter planes over the Pearl Harbour skies.  Not like in the Michael Bay travesty but as in the epic war fillum he's just seen at the ABC Essex Rd: Tora Tora Tora - surprise surprise surprise - like all 70s boys he was multilingual - provided there was a war on.  feuer achtung Banzai hande hoch. And this is war: man vs horse - all about personal survival.

Fortunately Himself had bronze, silver and gold badges acquired thro many hours of perspiration starting with Mum’s dexterous use of a safety pin when she somehow retrieved the elastic swimming trunk cord - as much a wonder to Himself as the third of the working class consistently voting against their own interests or the touting  of £100k Peter Marinello as the next George Best. The swimming lessons in the Tibberton Rd Public baths - always busy as very few folk had bathrooms at home relying on the Saturday night tin bath. That would be followed by climbing into the blue and white cotton pyjamas warmed in front of the coal fire in readiness for the Andy Williams Xmas snowbound belatedly screened in April.

Finally the inflating and tying off of said blue and white cotton sleepwear and the desperate drying of them with dressing room hairdryer which had been recently installed owing to demand from men growing their hair longer. This had resulted in the wolf whistling of certain players at football grounds- obviously only visiting or especially former heroes especially Jimmy Robertson  at the Lanewhen he scored for Arsenal. The skills  these medals acknowledged were of no use on land.  If only his bolting mount had been a giant sea horse... 

Himself has never ridden before but he has seen the Grand National on the telly so The pose is pure Pat Taafe - Mum’s fave Irish jockey who won the grand national that year  resulting in her annual bet paying off with jubblies all round.The horse is no Arkle the champion horse much less Champion the Wonder Horse star of Saturday Morning Pictures - a communal cinema going experience where the largely junior crowd heckled the Government Information films watched rapt at key moments in Z for Zorro and cheered at Flash Gordon - all behaviours far more endurable than the Vue/Cineworld going adult munching supersize tacos swimming in collagenous red , loudly predicting plot outcomes and turning their phone screens up just in case they miss an update from their co-worshippers of WKD, Lynx and cuffed sweatpants who style themselves as the whatsapp group lethal banter squad

The horse is one of a team too - some of his mates bearing  Aulfella and da brudders others pulling a trap navigated by Mam with dasisters. They have names tho none as resonant as 

Tostao, Gerson, Jairzinho - Brazil 1970 the greatest team ever - and the highlight of their play wasn’t even a goal but an outrageous dummy and miss vs Uruguay by the totemic Pele. Pele’s opening goal and Carlos Alberto’s clinching fourth meant  Brazil won Jules Rimet three times and got to keep the trophy. Perhaps that’s what drives Mark Francois and Rees Mogg towards urging constant war on Germany - a hat trick of victories would give them world domination in perpetuity - the natural order of things. 

The rarity of sightings of these yellow and green shirts enhanced their allure. They were only glimpsed every four years and the white clad Germans and Orange dutch every two. Contrast that with the attention mega trawler supernet net of todays’ neverending news  - transfer deadline day is more exciting than most games. No such problem in 1970 midweek - we got Sportsnight with Coleman - which did feature football but only after you had sat through all sorts of things boxing, figure skating but the one most pertinent to the crisis - showjumping

 Following exposure on the telly kids would head to the park to attempt to copy their newfound Gods - the Willie Carr  flick, the Best robbing of Banks at wembley - scandalously ruled out for ungentlemanly conduct, The Denis Law sleeve grab (does anyone still make long sleeve shirts?). 

Rosemary Gardens cinder pitch was their Highbury, their Lords (with matting rolled out and stumps on springs) even their Wimbledon when anyone cared to play (two weeks in June) but it was never our Hickstead-  our Wembley stadium never the Empire Pool Wembley

The only pools that mattered were the centrepiece of early Saturday night ritual. The football results delivered to kitchens steaming with anticipation of life changing news and perfectly cooked potato flesh - invariably just like the clocks that year of nothing in our lives and others changed. However, one of Aulfella’s friends, Old Docherty, actually won the pools and grew beardier, scroogier and unhappier with each occasional visit -never once bringing anything with him. For Irish kids the visitors from Home - and most of them were in the same boat as us, ie a barely afloat dinghy - were always good for a few bob. It was considered good luck to give the kid some silver. Yet this man whom fortune had shone on never once shelled out to us. In fact he spent one whole day complaining that the imminent decimalisation of the currency meant penny for the guy was now  prone to hyper inflation and nothing but a profiteering shameful scam perpetrated on the unknowing  and donors should be handing over 0.471new pence. God knows what he did during bob a job week. Bob a job week was where uniformed kids washed cars, cleaned windows, ran errands - known collectively as odd jobs. They ain’t odd tho are they? Night time Czar is an odd job as is innovation sherpa at Microsoft and eBay curator - here is a Crying Boy print in cracked frame contrasted with a chipped babycham glass tight against the cracked  soda stream  bottle - and they all earn more than a few bob.

Being Catholics Himself and crowd were always a bit self conscious during bonfire night possibly cos of the burning of effigies. Anyway he had All Souls day - Halloween - then to Church all souls - Old Docherty cme  one year and the highlight was his reaction to the  collection plate: a dummy worthy of Pele followed by a Barry John pass or if the row was very empty - he demonstrated real potential in the new sport of Frisby. 

Always happier as player than spectator, Himself enjoyed the privilege of altar serving which often yielded significant coinage. The tariff was clearly signposted -  weddings, baptisms - then the biggest payers:  mourners.  We used to pray for  for a big funeral not the old miser Docherty of course - even tho he had promised Aulfella he’d get his newish telly in the will

Telly was the talk of the summer for the cinder pitch in the park was also the scene of filming the TV show Budgie. This starred Adam Faith who was an actor/ pop star and managed his own career as well as other artists. It’s not easy doing that - only Louis CK really handles himself and look where that’s got him. When the show was aired one local geezer was rechristened as Budgie because of his feathered cut - the Rachel of its time. Until the 90s such references were pretty universal but the market led fragmentation of broadcasting reflected the times of greater social inequality especially in broadcasting. Food banks remain a shock to us children of the 1970s - then we had Adam Faith, Bob Hope but no Charity - too much Charley Pride. Thanks to the proliferation of channels TV has lost its role as cultural glue. Back then Cultural glue was, well, glue - sniffed from a crisp packet. Now football is the cultural glue though it seems far more one way than in the past

Old stadiums are demolished to be replaced by what look like PFI prisons  - do you think real supporters care about their new stadia? If they did you’d hear new songs - we have a craft beer concession in our stand/ we followed carbon neutral building practices/ four figure sums our tickets cost four figure sums.

He  pines for the old Highbury, the Lane , the Den. There used to be alphabetically ordered boards on the side of the pitch with a key to the code supplied in the programme  intended for half time scores - Himself’s crowd always bet upon the initial of which of the neighbours teen sons would be turfed out. In their flared wrangler belt loop they wore their red and white wool scarf knitted by loving aunties (no doubt she’d be sued for copyright by the club now). The offender would be escorted out by a hopefully helmet free copper- if there’d been a pitch invasion - their perp walk taking them past a raucously cheering Northbank to a warholian fifteen minutes - of fame not that is not the wait for VAR. 

As football grew into the monolith it is today other sports were forced into the shadows - after all you can recreate the epic Celtic vs Leeds European Cup Semi -Final the two legged Battle of Britain - see it wasn’t just kids who were obsessed by war tho even the ten year olds knew the actual Battle did not feature Scottish pilots in Mescherschmidts.  You could even recreate speedway in the bombed out church with some soil at the corner and the bike - the Ivan Mauger skiddy turn at corner. But showjumping ?

Its rural and/ or upper class credentials meant it never really caught on in London as a participation sport - how could it? The  horses in the area were  totter or rag and bone man and the coal carthorse.  Undeterred Himself devised a game where he would jump over paving stones which hosted street furniture - lamp posts, beacons - obviously  any failure to clear the slab would deduct faults. In truth this was the  steeplechase a la Alf Tupper in the Victor whose every win would see his thought bubble read “I’ve run him” sparking huge moral panics about comics ruining kids English - 

So as his mount charges towards a Dry stone wall Himself searches for showjumping knowledge that might help - Princess Anne who went on to winning medal in 1976 - only athlete not required to undergo a sex test - typical class privilege; David Broome; Lucinda Prior Palmer - just one person - the only double barrelled name Himself knew was Ian Storey Moore-  who kept winning at  Badminton -now he’s really getting lost...Himself suddenly knew he could be  saved and weirdly his Gordon Banks turned out to be Hughie Greene.

In those days beer was delivered by horse - called dray carts  On Opportunity Knocks that year the Dray King for Thwaites Star brewery had been declared Britain's champion beer drinker. Using the technique he’d seen Tonto use Himself directs the horse towards the stream. It stops to drink and he dismounts and does the full Harvey Smith  - futile but made me feel better - gesture politics they call that now. Himself recreates the Central Park scene from Love Story there is no snow but sweet connemara rain turning the earth into mud…(falling up/ snow angels / eating snow build snowman) 

No horses were harmed in the making of this story...

[vsplusonline]

Trump's India visit will be delightful spectacle, utterly successful: Experts

New Post has been published on https://apzweb.com/trumps-india-visit-will-be-delightful-spectacle-utterly-successful-experts/

Trump's India visit will be delightful spectacle, utterly successful: Experts

President Donald Trump’s upcoming visit to India will be a “delightful spectacle” and “utterly successful” by many measures, eminent American experts on South Asia issues have said.

Trump along with the First Lady are scheduled to visit Ahmedabad and New Delhi on February 24 and 25, according to a White House announcement early this week.

This would be president’s first bilateral visit in the third decade of 21st century and also the first after his acquittal by the Senate in the impeachment trial.

“I think the Trump visit will be a delightful spectacle and utterly successful by many measures,” Ashley Tellis, who is Tata Chair for Strategic Affairs and a senior fellow at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, told PTI.

Trump is expected to get a roaring welcome by lakhs of people when he arrives in Ahmedabad, Gujarat.

He along with Prime Minister Narendra Modi are expected to deliver a historic speech in front of hundreds and thousands of people at the newly build Motera stadium, the largest cricket stadium of the world.

One of the most prominent experts on India, Tellis, however, noted that at the moment, he was unsure whether the trade disputes between the two countries will be resolved.

Senior government officials are tight lipped on this issue, except for making comments in recent past that the two countries are on the verge of a trade package or a mini trade deal.

“Although the GOI (Government of India) has claimed that both sides are close to a deal, I don’t think there has been real progress – certainly none that will satisfy USTR (US Trade Representatives). We might get some progress on defense sales, but that’s uncertain too,” Tellis noted.

“Still, both the countries have done well where defense cooperation is concerned under the Trump administration, which is more than can be said for many other US relationships with its allies. I expect this will further deepen in the years ahead,” he said in response to a question.

“Even if the visit then produces only good optics, I’ll take it all the same if it strengthens Trump’s perceptions of India as a friend. Given his mercurial personality and policies, that is not a small achievement – and I think PM Modi understands that well,” Tellis said.

Rick Rossow, Wadhwani Chair in US India Policy Studies at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, hoped that the two leaders can finalise an agreement to remove some of the recent trade irritants.

“My own view is that India keeps digging a deeper hole in triggering trade tensions–notably through steep customs hikes in its February 1 Union Budget. So, a short-term deal may simply be a reprieve in our trade fight,” Rossow told PTI.

Observing that Trump will be the fourth consecutive president to travel to India, and the second consecutive president to visit India in his first term in office, Rossow was of the view that a visit to India is no longer a significant event.

“India is a large and growing market for exports and an emerging security partner for the United States… particularly important as we consider options to further draw down our forces in Afghanistan and seek a network of burden-sharing in areas where China’s rise poses a threat. India will be important on both counts,” Rossow told PTI.

According to Anish Goel, Senior Fellow at New America and former senior White House official, Trump’s upcoming visit is consistent with long-standing policy in both countries to continue strengthening and cementing the bilateral relationship.

“The visit will be a political boon for both the President (Trump) and the Prime Minister (Modi). India is one of the few countries where the President is quite popular. So he can expect a massive turnout for his rally in Ahmedabad. Similarly, the Prime Minister will most certainly get a boost in support from hosting the President,” Goel told PTI.

At the very least, Trump will provide Modi with a welcome distraction from his recent domestic difficulties, he said.

“It is an important and positive step in bringing the two countries closer together. The timing is also significant as this is the first visit by a US President during a year in which he is facing re-election. That itself is a signal of the importance of this relationship for the United States,” he added.

“The deliverables for the visit will surely focus on defense and trade. India has already announced USD 3.5 billion in new defense purchases to be signed during the visit. And everyone is hopeful that a deal normalising the trade relationship will be announced,” he said.

The trade deal was expected last September when Modi visited New York and met Trump but the differences could not be worked out in time.

The White House would not have agreed to this visit to India unless the trade deal was nearing completion in earnest. Outside of trade and defense, the deliverables will likely be modest, Goel said.

“It is important for the President and the Prime Minister to have a comprehensive bilateral meeting in which all critical issues, including Pakistan, are discussed. The strategic partnership between India and the US depends on more than trade and defense sales so it is imperative that they address other strategic issues as well,” Goel said.

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[thebesreads]

Hello everyone

As it’s Christmas Eve Eve today, I thought I would dust off an old favourite of mine with the Christmas Top Ten. Although with it being Christmas Themed, I’ve added two making it a Christmas Top Twelve. Most of them are only short books, so you could start them tomorrow and have the list finished by Twelfth Night.

On the First Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

 How The Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr Seuss

I’ll start off with a easy one. One that everyone has read and seen the greatest Christmas movie of all time based on this book. This was always my favourite book when I was little and we would always watch it on Christmas Eve. The noses always used to make me laugh and I always wanted to be Cindy Lou Who.

With a heart two sizes too small, the Grinch is the meanest creature you’ll ever meet. He hates Christmas and the whole festive season. But when he hatches a dastardly plot to steal Christmas, he’s in for a big surprise!

On the Second Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

The 101 Dalmations by Dodie Smith

Not many people realise this was a book before it was a Disney film. Again I read this when I was young. In fact I think this may have been the first Christmas book I read on my own! I love the moment when Lucky gets stuck in the snow. I know its sad, but its just so cute! There are a number of differences between the novel and the films, but the story is essentially the same. If you think the films are good, I would definitely read the book!

Pongo and Missis had a lovely life. With their human owners, the Dearlys, to look after them, they lived in a comfortable home in London with their 15 adorable Dalmatian puppies, loved and admired by all. Especially the Dearlys’ neighbor Cruella de Vil, a fur-fancying fashion plate with designs on the Dalmatians’ spotted coats! So, when the puppies are stolen from the Dearly home, and even Scotland Yard is unable to find them, Pongo and Missis know they must take matters into their own paws!

On the Third Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

The Nutcracker by E.T.A. Hoffman

I first found this story when Barbie bought out her movie, and every Christmas I watch it. I also read it and I remember my mom and I watching the ballet on telly, I get so excited when I do both because it makes me feel like I’m seven again. I love the magic behind the story. I love Marie  and how excited she gets over the Nutcracker. It just makes me feel so Christmassy!

It is Christmas Eve and Marie has tired of her new presents, happily playing with a nutcracker instead. When the clock strikes midnight, she is stunned to see an army of mice advancing, led by a seven-headed Mouse King. Her very own nutcracker comes alive, leading the dolls and toys against the mouse army and a violent battle ensues. Soon after, her godfather comes for a visit and tells her the story of the nutcracker. As the tale unfolds, Marie learns about the ongoing feud between the mice and their enemy Princess Pirlipat. It sounds fanciful, but could it be true? This timeless tale is full of the magic of Christmas, but is a delight to read at any time of the year. Its enduring popularity is testament to its originality and charm.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Anderson

This one is very sad. I remember my teacher reading this and it made me cry. I was a sensitive child. But it was still a story that was very full of Christmas, even though its sad.

The wares of the poor little match girl illuminate her cold world, bringing some beauty to her brief, tragic life.

On the Fifth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

All I Want For Christmas Is You by Lisa Mondello

I absolutely loved this book. For content I would suggest that its more of an adult book so I would say older than 16. Its the story of a single mom trying to have a good Christmas with her daughter. The little girl is so cute, she just makes your heart melt.

Santa Claus is going to have a rough season… Lauren Alexander is raising her daughter alone. Abandoned by her family for her decision to keep her daughter Kristen, she has done a pretty good job for the last six years. Or she thought she had. That’s why she is crushed when little Kristen gives up her wish for a toy or goodie and instead asks Santa for a present for her mother. She wants Santa to bring a Daddy. Delivering Daddies isn’t Santa’s bag.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

Father Christmas and Father Christmas Goes on Holiday by Raymond Briggs

These two I’m going to class as one book because they continue on from each other and I would always read both of them at Christmas and watch the video that my Grandad bought me.

Father Christmas has awoken from a dream of summer sun to discover it is December 24th, Christmas Eve – the start of his longest night’s work of the year! Much merriment ensues as Father Christmas travels the world, with a few issues along the way, to bring joy to children everywhere. – Father Christmas

No-one needs a holiday more than Father Christmas, but where can such a well-known and easily recognized person go? Father Christmas sets off in search of his ideal holiday spot! France, Scotland and Las Vegas are his chosen destinations, but as Father Christmas discovers – there’s nowhere like home. – Father Christmas Goes on Holiday.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis

Always a favourite, and a classic. Who can resist a magical land in the back of your wardrobe where there are talking animals, evil witches, Lion Kings (literally), a war, and siblings? This is literally a book for everyone, I don’t know anyone who couldn’t enjoy this story. It even has a cameo from the big man himself!

When Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy took their first steps into the world behind the magic wardrobe, little do they realise what adventures are about to unfold. And as the story of Narnia begins to unfold, so to does a classic tale that has enchanted readers of all ages for over half a century.

On the Eighth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

Another classic! Its been retold many times by a lot of film makers, including the Muppets and Disney. I think this story is the epitome of the meaning of Christmas, charity and good will to all men.

Charles Dickens’ masterfully crafted Christmas fable tells the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, a man with wealth to match the coldness of his heart. On a mystical Christmas Eve, a visitation with spirits forces Scrooge to make a choice: change, or perish.

On the Ninth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

A Visit from St Nick by Clement C. Moore

“Twas the Night Before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse’. ooooh just those words make me excited for Christmas. Everyone knows the rhyme, maybe not all of it, but we know some.

On the Tenth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone By J.K. Rowling

I know what you’re all thinking, ‘how can this be a Christmas book’. but I just love the Christmas Scene in Harry Potter. The first proper Christmas Harry had had in his 11 years. It just makes me think of all of my family Christmases at home.

Harry Potter thinks he is an ordinary boy – until he is rescued by a beetle-eyed giant of a man, enrols at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, learns to play Quidditch and does battle in a deadly duel. The Reason: HARRY POTTER IS A WIZARD.

On the Eleventh Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

Christmas at the Beach Café and Christmas Gifts at the Beach Café by Lucy Diamond

Again these are two stories that I’ve combined into one post, they follow on from each other and are part sequels to The Beach Cafe, however they can be read on their own, as they do have a quick recap of the major parts of the story. They made me feel really Christmassy as Evie shares the excitement of the season with the readers.

After a hectic summer running her beach café in Cornwall, Evie Flynn is looking forward to her first Christmas with new boyfriend Ed – she’s determined that it’s going to be the most perfectly romantic one ever. Cosy nights in front of the fire, spicy mulled wine, mince pies . . . what’s not to love? – Christmas at the Beach Cafe.

With her Cornish Beach Café closed for the winter, Evie Flynn should be looking forward to lazy days and a happy Christmas, with nothing more pressing to think about than when to have her next mince pie.  But her sister Ruth is coming to stay, in a cloud of heartbreak and bitterness following her marriage breakdown, along with her three unhappy children, and Evie knows she’ll have her work cut out, trying to spread some festive cheer. Then her boyfriend Ed breaks the news that he’s going to spend Christmas in London, for family reasons, and her heart sinks even further. – Christmas Gifts at the Beach Cafe.

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my True Love Sent to Me…

A Winter’s Tale by Carrie Elks

This was the first Christmas book I read this year, and I really liked how festive it was! Most of the Christmas novels like this, have another story that happens to be at Christmas, where as this had the holiday at its core. Without Christmas, the story wouldn’t have happened.

Struggling film student Kitty Shakespeare is determined to make the most of her new job as nanny to major producer Everett Klein’s son, Jonas. It might not be exactly the career she’d hoped for when she moved from London to LA, but thanks to her habit of freezing up in interviews, this is her last chance to impress a key player in Hollywood – if she can get this right, then surely he’ll take a moment to look at her work. However, what Kitty hasn’t allowed for is Everett’s sexy-as-hell brother, Adam – but love at first sight this is not.

  And that was my top twelve Christmas books, and so I’ll leave you with this thought:

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

Happy Reading!

The Twelve Books of Christmas Hello everyone As it's Christmas Eve Eve today, I thought I would dust off an old favourite of mine with the Christmas Top Ten.