#was there a colour out there that Rue didn’t suit?!

[witchybitchybisexual]

Episodes where these two acted painfully gay together- Go!

[baronmpontmercy]

To Pretend (Enjolras/Combeferre, 978 words)

Happy @logic-and-philosophy week 2024

On an autumn evening, Combeferre dreams of a homecoming.

____

The leaves were turning in the Jardin du Luxembourg, the vibrant greens of summer shimmering into golds and auburns. The oppressive thick heat of July and August had lessened now in mid-September, blown away by a cooler, crisper breeze and chased by orange-streaked evening skies. Combeferre, who hailed from the Alps, had always felt he was more suited to the cooler climes of autumn, would enjoy in his boyhood the colours and smells of the changing of the seasons; the tang of woodsmoke, the crunch of freshly fallen leaves underfoot, the rush of cold air from the mountaintops. Paris did quite pale in comparison, it had unique sights and smells for sure, but they were certainly not as quaint or picturesque. 

Still, sat in a quiet corner of the Luxembourg, hidden by a canopy of yellows, reds, browns, and greens, one might pretend. The soft autumnal sunlight filtered through the trees, though as it hit Enjolras’ hair, Combeferre could only think of spring. 

“...and will you?” he was drawn from reverie at Enjolras’ question, sat beside him on this secluded little bench. His cheeks and nose had the charming beginnings of chillkissed blush on them. 

“Will I what?” Combeferre asked a little sheepishly, “Forgive me, my mind wandered.”

“Return home over Reveillon and the new year,” Enjolras prompted, 

“Ah, yes. I suppose I will, Céline wouldn’t be amused if I didn’t,” Combeferre sighed, “and you?”

Enjolras was silent in reply, his gaze trained firmly forward, though Combeferre could see a line of displeasure twist at the corner of his mouth, barely perceptible lest you knew where to look. Combeferre knew where to look. He pressed Enjolras’ hand,

“I see,”

Enjolras pressed back and lingered, fingers brushing through the supple leather of their gloves. The twist at his lips dissipated, not quite giving way to a smile, but he was grateful at Combeferre’s immediate understanding; Enjolras had little need for dour attempts at frivolity anyway, when there were more important things to be done elsewhere. 

Still, Combeferre thought as he caught the warm musty scent of smoke in the air, maybe it would do Enjolras some good to get out of Paris at some point. Maybe not over the winter, maybe…

“I would that you could come with me to Saint-Antoine,” Combeferre said softly, “one day, perhaps, on a day like today.”

Enjolras tilted his head, indulging Combeferre’s sentimentality, “Oh?”

“Yes. I can picture us there. There is a park I used to frequent with my siblings, not so unlike this one, but with the Alps framing the background. And it’s quieter, as any small mountain town would be. But the leaves turn the same, the sky at dusk has the same smoky clouds crossing it. If I close my eyes and let myself focus, it’s as if we are there already. In fact… humour me, I know this may sound frivolous and fanciful.”

Enjolras’ brow furrowed slightly as he considered this, but it passed quickly as he took in Combeferre’s expression, the embarrassed bloom of pink that was gathering on his cheekbones, “Shall I close my eyes then?”

Combeferre’s delighted smile was answer enough. Eyelids firmly shut, Combeferre pressed Enjolras’ hand again, and Enjolras squeezed in return. 

“The streets are narrow, and old, not unlike the Latin Quarter. The cobbles are bumpy underfoot, but worn. There’s a bookshop and printshop on the Rue Saint-Charles, where I got a set of tomes on biology as a young boy. There’s the abbey church, with a towering steeple that as a boy I thought was the biggest in the world, with a belfry that’s open to allow the remnant arms of the Mistral to pass through on the occasions it did.”

“I know the Mistral,” Enjolras murmured, contentedly, contemplatively, “I would hear it rush past my bedroom window, see it beat against the trees.”

“Cold and sharp. Breathtaking,” Combeferre agreed, “we could walk past the belfry, to that park. It’s just around the corner, and when the days get colder and the nights longer, it is less crowded. We’d have it to ourselves, nearly.”

“I will admit to not seeing what you see in your mind’s eye,” Enjolras said, eyes falling open, turning his head to Combeferre, “as lovely an image as it is.” “No, I know you are not in the habit of daydreaming,” Combeferre sighed, his eyelids flickering behind the lens of his spectacles yet staying shut, “forgive my maudliness.” “No,” Enjolras’ voice was soft, brushing across Combeferre’s ear like a gentle caress, “continue.”

Combeferre felt his shoulders relax, and filled his lungs with the crisp autumn air. The pictures were vivid in his memory, and sparked on the tip of his tongue as he spoke the images into the space before them, anchored all the while by the gentle, constant warmth of Enjolras’ hand. Him and Enjolras, traversing the old weathered cobbles, past the bookshop, past the church. The breeze would rattle past them, causing them to huddle close together, Enjolras’ nose would be the same charming pink it was now. The distant warm glow of a setting sun would light Enjolras’ golden hair on brilliant fire, a beacon in coming darkness. And Combeferre, in this little world he saw, would draw him closer still. 

“I love my hometown. I would love it all the more for you being in it. I love the patch of grass on which we stand, because we stand on it together.”

Combeferre opened his eyes,

“That is true for here too, François.”

“No need for pretense.”

“None at all,”

In the quiet of that secluded spot, when Combeferre leant to press his lips to Enjolras’ forehead, there were no witnesses save those trees, emblazoned with the colour of fire. No witnesses, when Enjolras bent to capture Combeferre’s lips with his own, but the pinkening sky above them.

The same as over Saint-Antoine.

[obeyfeline]

Hi, just wanted to say I have really enjoyed reading your book (got it for Christmas, finished it this afternoon). My girlfriend (now wife) and I used to visit Paris fairly regularly between 2002 - after my parents moved there - and 2008/9, when our children were born. Usually I didn’t get much further than buying every issue of Monsieur magazine I came across (I still have some standing on a bookshelf) and roaming around the Madelios department store for the odd shirt or belt. Bespoke clothing was and remains way out of my reach, but I remember walking past Arnys after a visit to the Grande Épicerie, and admiring the displays behind those large shop windows (a grey suit? some gloves? a pocket knife?) and that strange light-coloured interior. Your description of it matches what it felt like to stand there and peek inside. Of course I never did have the nerve to enter, same goes for Dimitri Gomez at C&J or Berluti and Cifonelli on rue Marbeuf. Going into Charvet to browse ties and look at dressing gowns or pyjamas alongside other tourists was much easier, I even worked up the courage once to ask if I could see that famous room with the bolts of shirting cloth. My girlfriend and I were taken up in that little old elevator, I don’t even know how long we were there and what we said to each other or to the shop assistant who accompanied us, I was so nervous. But I have a blurred snapshot in my mind of wooden tables in long rows that we walked between, with bolts of colourful cotton on and under them and all around us along the walls. That place was special and reading your book made me remember it. I walked out the shop having bought a RTW shirt a size too big, still dazed I guess, a beautiful silk tie in a woven pattern of gold, bronze and sky blue, and some of their knotted cufflinks. I still have all of those, may have tried to make that shirt work for me once or twice but now it just hangs in my closet, yes wasted and fetishised 🙂 but I know I would have regretted selling it or anything like that. All of this just to say that I’m glad you wrote your book, and to have some confirmation beside my wife’s look of understanding when we talk about that time, that yes, we did catch a glimpse of something rare and beautiful back then. So thank you.

Thank you so much! It means a lot to hear from a reader, especially one who’s expressed himself so thoughtfully. I really appreciate your sharing these memories!

[that-scouse-wizard]

Sightseeing Part One

A/N: Hello everyone, welcome to this little one-shot of mine. I love the friendship between David Willows and Judith Harris that I and @judediangelo75 have developed. So, here’s a tale of David showing Judith around Liverpool, his home city.  Originally, I’d intended to show both the muggle and wizarding side of the city but then it got longer than I thought it would and didn’t want it to be a slog. So here’s part one to briefly show the muggle side, part two should be coming soon to show off the wizarding side.

Context: This takes place in the summer between second and third year so David and Judith are about thirteen here. Also my first time writing David’s mum, Rue (should be mentioned, her face claim is Fiona O’Carroll). Some mild spoilers for my ideas but I hope you all enjoy especially you @judediangelo75!

Word count: 2867

MC friends: Judith Harris ( @judediangelo75 )

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

5th of July, 1986

Judith Harris hated the summer holidays, some people would be able to enjoy it, likely going to somewhere abroad with their family but that simply wasn’t an option for her. For Judith, leaving Hogwarts for several weeks meant being stuck with her mother. 

She tried keeping her head down but living under the same roof meant little chance of escape from being constantly subject to her mother’s judgements and cruelty. The tension at home was always so suffocating.

Recently though, she had received a letter from someone she knew, David Willows. The younger brother to Jacob Hall, a friend of her own brother, Jamal. Both of them had gone missing in their search for the Cursed Vaults, she supposed it was fitting for their younger siblings to get acquainted. 

First impressions when they had arrived at Hogwarts, David was stand-offish, sharp-tongued and short-tempered. He wasn’t afraid to go for low blows in a verbal spar or physically fight people much bigger than him. Oftentimes, they had stayed out of each other’s way. She never tried to pick a fight with him. Although, unlike most of their peers, he had never been unkind to her. 

Their friendship was a fairly recent development, only beginning at the start of their second year when they tried out for the recently vacant positions as Beaters on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Practice together meant more interaction especially as they both came under the mentorship of Erika Rath, Slytherin’s top Beater. It was during these practices that she had seen a different side to David.

Though he was aloof, they shared a remarkably high number of mutual friends, the most prominent of which were Penny Haywood and Rowan Khanna. When Judith had asked the two about their fellow Hufflepuff, both had spoken fondly of him. If they vouched for him, he surely couldn’t be that bad? 

Though he was snarky, that tended to be when he was aggravated by someone he didn’t like, he had a tendency to give his friends good-natured ribbings. Judith had happily returned the teasing, especially when it had come to her own and David’s respective crushes on Orion and Erika.

Though he could come across as aggressive with a foul temper, it took specific things to put him in such a mood. Namely... rumours about Jacob, especially so if someone dared to openly compare the two brothers. His ferocity wasn’t just to defend himself either, he had very nearly started a fight with an older Hufflepuff when they had made a derogatory comment towards Judith. A fight would have started if professor Sprout hadn’t intervened. They had barely known each other for a month at that point yet he’d still stuck up for her. Of course, she could handle herself but the sentiment was appreciated.

Other than that, Judith and David shared a love of art. Drawing together in silence, maybe occasionally asking how the other’s sketch looked, a peaceful respite from the stress they were under. They quickly gained a reputation on the Quidditch pitch as Hufflepuff’s star Beaters after their team handily defeated both Ravenclaw and Gryffindor 

Their titles as the ‘Heroes of Hogwarts’ had only served to connect the two further after conquering the Ice Vault. 

All in all, the two of them had formed a decent relationship.

Still, it was a surprise when Goliath, David’s eagle owl had arrived with a letter inviting her to come visit Liverpool for a week. An opportunity she had practically leapt at. Thankfully, the owl had found her bedroom window first. Judith shuddered to think how her mother would have reacted if she found out she was receiving letters from a boy, no matter how platonic the nature of it was.

Keeping that fact about her friend a secret from her mother was definitely the only reason she was currently making the journey. She was sure David would agree to making plans in advance if they wished to do something like this again, lest she risk her mother’s ire.

She had purchased muggle train tickets as soon as she could, sending Goliath back to his owner with the day and time she was expected to arrive. Though expensive, it was the swiftest, and most direct mode of transport between London and Liverpool.  

At least the weather had been nice with hardly a cloud in the sky. It had been relaxing, watching the landscape go by slumped back in her seat as the train had weaved its way through both city and countryside. Though it wasn’t nearly as hot as it could get in Barbados, it was still warm enough to justify her current attire, a yellow sundress with matching sandals. 

“Now approaching, Liverpool Lime Street.” The automated voice of the train echoed. Judith stood up smiling at the announcement as she retrieved her suitcase from the overhead luggage area. That was her stop, the end of the line, it would be nice seeing David again.

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

Liverpool Lime Street was a large station, two cylindrical dome roofs made up of mostly clear glass and metal provided cover for all train platforms, giving it a tunnel-like appearance. Archways made of stone and mostly filled by windows supported the upper half of the building from the front. Great, red pillars held up the right side, creating a pavement for both foot traffic and a road for vehicles into the station’s car park. 

David paced about, unable to keep himself from showing excitement. Wearing a plain grey tee shirt, denim jean shorts and black sandals for the hot weather. Occasionally looking around watchfully through the throngs of people going about their business. 

His letter to Judith had asked for her to find the car park at the station and she would be sure to run into him. From where he was, simply turning left after arriving at one of the train platforms, then continuing straight would assure it. 

It was about quarter past eleven, the time Judith said she was likely to arrive in her letter back. This would be the first time he had invited a friend around in a long while. 

Frankly, although he was excited, he couldn’t help but feel nervous about the whole thing. Though he and his mother Rue had reconciled somewhat, she had tried to persuade him into inviting someone other than Jamal Harris’s little sister. She assumed they were just Quidditch teammates who happened to share a history with the Cursed Vaults and that was it. 

It was only when David had told his mother the full story of their delve into the Ice Vault that she had relented. The curse had begun its most dramatic transformation midway through their match against Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup. Ice conjured by the vault had begun encompassing the school, threatening to overcome it entirely. 

Together, they, alongside Bill Weasley and Penny Haywood had made their way to the vault. Breaking the seal on the door had caused Penny and Bill to become trapped by the cursed ice; as well as unleash its guardian, an animated suit of armour held together by ice and frost.

In the midst of the Ice Knight trying to carve them up, Judith had used an Incendio that had briefly drawn its attention from David after he was cornered. Whether his mother liked it or not, Judith had saved his life. An invitation to his hometown was the least he could do for her.

He had initially wanted to face the vaults on his own. Though, that plan seemed doomed to fail before he had even set foot on the castle grounds after he had bumped into Rowan. Now, Judith was a part of an ever-growing circle of friends that David was slowly building up, an addition that he was glad for. 

He hadn’t thought much of her when he first arrived at Hogwarts. She had made no effort to seek him out, which was just fine for David at the time. Playing Quidditch with her though had shown him there was more to Judith Harris than first met the eye. 

Underneath her quiet exterior, she was fierce, witty and a hell of a lot stronger than she looked. The first time they sparred together, David hadn’t been expecting her to use a back kick on him. While she had at first been worried she overdid it, David had shrugged it off despite the sizeable bruise it had left on his stomach. If anything, it had just convinced him it was a good idea to spar with her further. Nothing would keep his own hand-to-hand combat skills sharp like fighting an experienced opponent.

A splash of bright yellow caught his eye, quite distinct amongst a sea of other colours. A dark-skinned girl about his age with long, brown-black locs tied back. Her gold eyes looking around at the unfamiliar surroundings before finally landing on David, getting a beaming smile from her. There was no mistaking who it was.

“Judith!” He called out enthusiastically, grinning back. 

“It’s good to see you David.” His friend answered, walking up to him and giving him a brief hug. One that he returned.

“Same here, welcome to Liverpool.” He replied, grandly gesturing to the outside of the station.

Judith rolled her eyes playfully, giving a brief scan of the view. There was a busy junction that ran alongside the station, vehicles coming from at least three different directions. A Neo-Grecian-style stone building and a white tower tipped with a room with blue windows dominated the view. Impressive in its own right but it would definitely be better to explore the city with David to really see what it had to offer.

“Thank you for the invitation, shall we?” Judith’s implication was clear to David, time to head off.

“Of course, mum is waitin’ for us in the car park. Just a heads up, she can be a bit... intense.” David warned.

‘Oh joy.’ Judith thought sarcastically, hoping David’s mum wouldn’t be an exact copy of her own...

She wouldn’t have long to wonder, moving along a pavement that ran parallel to the train platforms, towards the car park, separated from the rest of the station by a wrought-iron fence. A few cars were in it, without their owners of course. All except one.

In front of a silver Ford Escort stood a woman. Pale-skinned with shoulder length dark brown hair. She was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, a pale pink shirt under it being the only other colour. Curiously, a small, sharp and serrated tooth was hung around her neck by a black thread. She held what appeared to be a red snakeskin handbag.

Brown eyes were fixed on the pair as they approached her, though especially on Judith. Clearly David had his mother’s eyes, ones that were intent on analysing Judith for their first meeting. Watching her warily in silent judgement, a stoic expression not giving anything away.

Judith could see what David meant. She didn’t like being watched ordinarily, it made her feel like she was being judged. Under Rue Willows’ gaze though, she couldn’t help but feel a nagging sensation at the back of her head, one that commanded attention. Not cruel exactly but not friendly either, it made Judith squirm. 

“I-it’s nice to meet you, Ms Willows.” Judith greeted quietly, anxious to see if there was any change in the woman. Receiving nothing but another glance over.

“Ahem.” David coughed, trying to defuse the tension. 

It worked, Rue finally spoke up after that prompt, “A pleasure to meet you too Judith.” She replied curtly, her accent making it clear she was from Ireland. She turned her attention to her son, taking a large pouch out of her handbag that clinked as she moved it before tossing it to David. “I was thinking, David. Maybe you could show Judith around the city centre? Even show her Under Mersey. Just be back by five, if you can.”

David’s eyes widened both at the statement and the amount of bronze, silver and gold staring back at him as he looked inside the pouch. Sure, they had talked about loosening the tight restrictions that had troubled their relationship since Jacob’s disappearance but something like this so soon was unexpected.

“Thanks mum.” David answered, sounding grateful for it.

Rue’s features softened slightly as a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, “You don’t want be carrying your case everywhere you go, do you Judith? Let me take it while you and David are out.” She asked, holding out her hand, sounding just a bit friendlier with her offer. Though despite it being phrased as a question, there was clearly no room for argument.

Judith handed her case over, “Thank you, Ms Willows.”

Rue only gave a nod of acknowledgement and a quick “Have fun.” as she put Judith’s case into the boot of the car before driving off.

“I see what you mean, intense is certainly a word for it.” Judith stated, “Question though, what’s an ‘Under Mersey’?

“Well, y’know how Diagon Alley is in London?” David asked as he started walking, getting a nod from his friend, “In every major city across England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland, there’s a place for wizards to go to, Under Mersey is Liverpool’s.” Judith hummed in understanding at that, she had never been to a wizarding community outside of London.

“But, how about a brief tour of the muggle side first? There’s a couple of iconic places in walking distance from here. Any other bits of history, I can just tell you about.” David suggested.

“Whatever you want David,” Judith shrugged, “This is your city, let’s see what it’s got.” The two friends stepped out onto the streets of Liverpool catching the scent of the sea on the wind. The general style reminding Judith of the inner city of London. Buildings being tightly packed together, only allowing roads through. Little to no space for alleyways turning the city centre into a maze of roads.

David grinned at her statement, “Well then Miss Harris, on your right you will see St George’s Hall. A big concert venue, mostly for dead posh events.” He said, making a show of it as he pointed out the stone building Judith had seen previously, “However, if you fancy more modern tastes, to your left you’ll see Radio City, Liverpool’s local radio.”

Judith chuckled at her friend’s showmanship, “Are there any music venues we could go to?” She asked as the two of them crossed the junction, content to follow David’s lead.

“Closest one to us is the Cavern Club. Mostly does local bands, Jazz, Rock and Roll, R&B, that sort of music.” Judith grinned, that was the sort of music she could get into, David wasn’t done with his little tour as they began walked through the streets, “Though it’s only open on a Thursday nowadays. It’s not the original, that was the cellar of a warehouse on Matthew street that got filled with cement when they were goin’ to construct part of an underground railway but it didn’t happen in that part of the city. They tried excavating the place to reopen it but there was too much damage to the structure. So they just built a new one on the same street.”

Judith’s brow furrowed at that, it was definitely an interesting piece of the city’s history but in retrospect it seemed to have been a waste of time.

“But Liverpool itself has been around since 1207, though it didn’t gain much prominence as a port until the 17th century.” David explained before pointing off further in the distance. “Up that way is the Pier Head, used to be where a lot of the goings on at the docks were handled earlier this century. More recently though, Liverpool produced one of the most famous bands in the Muggle world just over twenty years ago. They performed in the original Cavern Club, speaking off, we’re coming up to Matthew Street, right now.”

David suddenly turned onto Matthew Street, Judith following close behind him. It was clear to see where he was heading with the street being devoid of any foot traffic.

The Cavern Club.

Judith cocked an eyebrow at this, “I thought you said this was only open on Thursdays?” She asked as they now stood in front of the black archway, the doors of the club very clearly closed and likely locked tight.

“Oh it is,” David confirmed, “But this also the only way I know of to get into Under Mersey.” He continued, stepping beneath the neon sign of the club into the archway. 

“How do you do it?” Judith asked, giving him a slightly sceptical look.

“Take my hand, brace yourself, and you’ll see.” David said, offering his hand to her. Judith took it tentatively, joining him at his side. David tapped his foot six times, the first two beats were slower than the next quick four before he then said, “Hey Jude.”

At first, Judith thought he was addressing her, though she only managed to get out a “Wh-” before she felt her stomach lurch as she and David fell through the pavement beneath them.

[karmathecat]

Firewhiskey is not the best mixer.

So I actually wrote something for the first time in years? Talking on Jily discord about the dream of Lily Luna and the gang meeting her grandparents. So I wrote the possible first bit of a time travel fic!

Lily Luna Potter stood, hands on hips, glaring across the room at her unsuspecting brother. In the centre of the dance floor, she had an interrupted view of her brother’s bent head discussing something with her cousin Fred. She swung her head from side to side, attempting to get a better view of him between the crowds of dancing people surrounding her. Her snooping was interrupted by a well wisher touching her shoulder and thanking her and her family for coming to the event, she forced a smile at the ministry official she was sure she was supposed to recognise, and by the time she turned her attention back to her brother, he was gone. Sighing in annoyance, Lily made her way towards to drinks table where she could see Teddy stood surveying the variety of chocolate cakes with an interest that was better placed combatting a difficult crossword.

“You haven’t spotted James plotting have you?” Lily glanced to her left to see Teddy smirk before consuming an eclair in one bite. He swallowed before looking at her directly.

“You know I want nothing to do with this ridiculous feud the two of you have started right? I stated that from the beginning.”

Despite his statement to the contrary, Teddy has actually been directly involved in the prank war that the Potter siblings had started since Lily had arrived home Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays four months ago. James had decided to continue the feud with increasing escalation with every passing incident that didn’t leave Lily humiliated to a level that satisfied James’ mischievous streak. This increasing escalation meant Lily was constantly on high alert, knowing her brother’s whereabouts within three feat at all times.

Realising Teddy was going to be no use, traitor, she filled her cup with punch and walked to the entrance of the Great Hall. Tonight was the annual victory ball for the Battle of Hogwarts, meaning that the Great Hall was filled to the brim with students, ministry officials, old Order of the Phoenix members and DA members. The theme this year was “unity” and attendees had been encouraged to be clad in the colours of another Hogwart’s house that was not their own.

Smoothing her knee length emerald green dress, she spotted her father, dressed in navy, surrounded by a number of stuffy looking ministry officials. Harry caught her eye and winked at his daughter, pulling a face that made Lily giggle. Her mum was nowhere to be found, but this wasn’t surprising, if anyone hated these functions more than her father it was her mother. Both Potter parents supported the cause more than anyone, having the highest stakes in the outcome for the victory the ball celebrated. However, Lily had listened to her parents complain on numerous occasions that events such as these were not to celebrate the victory over Voldemort, but to kiss her father’s arse and gain political power. Therefore, it was unsurprising that after showing her face, Ginny Potter tended to disguise herself into the sea of Weasley redheads.

At 15 years old, Lily had experienced many of these balls. They were insufferable, everyone felt like just because her surname was Potter it meant that they could know the ins and outs of her life, private and otherwise. Tonight alone she had had three elderly women ask after her betrothal status, stating that their dashing grandson was looking for a beautiful young woman such as herself to have on their arm. These suggestions had started shortly after her thirteenth birthday, the first instance had caught her so off guard she had laughed in the ministry woman’s face so hard that her dad had to apologise so profusely when the woman started shouting about her indecent behaviour. However, Harry had later learnt the nature of the conversation and had congratulated Lily on not pulling her wand instantly. The requests had continued despite her father’s general aura of disapproval whenever an older woman approached her, however Lily’s ability to tolerate these encounters had surprisingly increased. Well, Lily mused, not completely unsurprising since Rose had informed her of her method of dealing with these types of awkward encounters. Seeing another elderly woman making a direct line for her, Lily turned her back and tipped a healthy portion of her “method of dealing” also known as Firewhisky into her glass of pumpkin juice for the fourth time that evening.

Lily looked around her, and short of darting directly out the doors behind her, she had minimal escape routes, she also didn’t trust her tipsy legs in the heels she was currently wearing to hold her up reliably as she ran. So she forced a smile as the woman approached her with a look of determination. Before the woman reached her, however, Lily felt two strong sets of arms loop around each of her arms and drag her back through the Great Hall doors. In a moment of panic, she started kicking out and before she could scream a hand grabbed her around the mouth. She was dragged out the entrance doors and into the chilling summer air, coming face to face with her two grinning brothers. Damn. Focusing on the approaching woman had left her vulnerable to her brother’s antics.

James Sirius Potter stood, head to two in a set of deep midnight blue dress robes to match their father’s, grinning like an idiot for having panicked his little sister to point of losing her composure. Lily glared causing him to only grin wider. Her glare darted to her left, eyeing her other brother with betrayal. Albus had not been involved in the prank war that was raging in their household, but tonight he had clearly picked a side. The traitor looked dashing in his deep maroon muggle suit. He still had his arms locked around hers forcing her to look into James’ eyes.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Has this not gone a bit far Jamie? If dad saw me getting dragged from the hall, we know for a fact he’d go into full Auror mode before you could blink.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re about to lose this war, oh little Lilykins! Besides, I made sure dad was thoroughly distracted before I grabbed you, I’m not stupid!”

Lily snorted, “Oh yes, James not stupid, how silly of me! Come on Al, you know you’ve picked the wrong side in this, let me go and we can get a thoroughly good prank on good old Jamie here.”

“Oi! Find your own ally! Now, onto the master plan!” James produced a small vial from his pocket and shook it in Lily’s face. “Do you know what this is my darling sister? This right here is an de-ageing potion, you thought you were so funny trapping my naked on the roof last week, well, let’s see how funny it is when little toddler Lily Luna goes running into that ball crying for her mummy and daddy!”

James was cackling, and lily had to admit that it was pretty funny if the person being pranked didn’t happen to be her. She was going to have to think of something amazingly embarrassing after this, he would rue the day!

“So open up Lilykins!” Lily rolled her eyes and accepted her fate, knowing they would not release her without taking the potion. With a sigh opened her mouth and allowed her brother to pour the contents into her mouth.

No sooner did the liquid touch her, did she experience the most painful burning of her life, coughing and spluttering.

“Shit James what was in there? Grab her some water!” Al let go of her arms and spun to face her, standing next to James.

“There’s some pumpkin juice in a flask in her pocket there. Open up Lil!”

Lily thankfully accepted the juice, to only realise it was her secret stash of Firewhisky. The combination of the burning potion still in her mouth alongside the burning of the Firewhisky, Lily spit the contents of her mouth, completely covering herself and both her brothers. She would have laughed if she wasn’t convinced her whole body was being set on fire.

The last coherent thought running through her mind, was how strange her brothers looked coated in a bright blue light.

[skultrashfics]

Erskine Ravel x reader?

I figured he was a bit of a drama queen, so I hope you enjoy your Chance Encounter Anon =u= 

Pairing: Erskine Ravel x Reader Word Count: 1798 Themes: Romance, Fluff, Dancing, Chance Meeting 

Visiting the sanctuary was always a chore, there were so many people that had to make sure you weren’t a threat and then all the paperwork. It felt good to be finally leaving, especially with all the Grand Mages from the other countries butting their heads in where they didn’t belong. As you turned a corner you walked straight into Grand Mage Ravel and your eyes met with his own golden orbs. You began to stammer out an apology but he held his hand up, “It’s really fine don’t worry honest mistake. I do it all the time in fact, for example just now...”. 

You nodded softly and smiled, upon realising how close you were standing to him you stepped away softly, “I hope I haven’t caused you too much trouble”. For a moment you just stood there staring at each other in silence, until Ghastly also rounded the same corner bumping into Ravel who as a result was knocked into you again. You yelped and tried to keep your balance. Ghastly flustered about in his robes and grumbled, “I hate these stupid things! Sorry, Erskine”. He glanced over and noticed Ravel now holding you by the arms to keep you upright, “Are you alright?”, he asked. You nodded dumbfoundedly, “Y-yes…”. Realising that Grand Mage Bespoke was also staring at the two of you, you awkwardly parted. “I better be going. Um… sorry again”, you managed to mumble before running off toward the entrance of the Sanctuary. Ghastly watched Erskine as he seemed unable to remove his gaze from your figure. He glanced back and forth between you and Ravel and then proceeded to laugh, “Oh boy. I hope that’s not catching”. Ravel snapped out of his daze and turned to Ghastly, a confused expression on his face, “What is that supposed to mean?”. Ghastly smiled and patted his friend on the back, “Oh please… you couldn’t keep your eyes off that girl. Who is she?”. Ravel shook his head and smiled, “I have no idea…”. “Roarhaven feels unusually busy today”, you pondered over a glass of wine. Scapegrace tutted, “And yet there are hardly any patrons in the pub today. Honestly, I think it’s because Thrasher doesn’t know how to clean properly”. Thrasher made some sort of whining sound, “It would be nice if you helped”. To this Scapegrace scowled, “I am too important and too delicate to be mixing my hands in with those awful chemicals”. You couldn’t help but laugh at the duo, no matter what they could brighten up your day. The bell on the entrance door rang but you didn’t pay much attention to it. Scapegrace, however, was delighted and welcomed in his new customers eagerly, only to slowly lose interest, “Oh. It’s just you guys… what? Are you here to beat me up for your Skeleton friend?”. Ravel shrugged and glanced over at Saracen Rue, “What do you think? Should we?”. Saracen only chuckled in response and sat down at the bar, “Yes, but then who would serve us our drinks?”. Ravel laughed alongside him and went to sit down but stopped mid-air as he saw you glancing up toward the bar. Saracen looked over toward where Ravel was staring, “What do you know her?”. Ravel stood up again and smirked, “No”. He then made his way over to you as Saracen watched with unbelieving eyes. You smiled and stood up immediately, “Grand Ma-”. He swiftly interrupted you “-Just Erskine is fine, please. Especially when I am out of uniform”. He gestured toward the bar and you finished the last of your wine before making your way over. He sat you next to Saracen and he then sat beside you, leaving you wedged in-between the two men. “I’m sorry if this guy is creepin’ you out. He does that to all of us”, Saracen said to you trying to be friendly. You laughed through your nose and shook your head, “No I’m alright. Vaurien could you please get me three servings of my favourite please?”. Scapegrace nodded then gestured for Thrasher to do it. Ravel chuckled at you, “And what might the favourite be?”. Gently you tapped your nose, “Wait and see”. Saracen laughed but also looked greatly pleased when a bottle of Monkey Shoulder Whiskey was taken down off the shelf, “Nice choice. What is your name? Since you’re buying drinks”. Ravel cleared his throat gently, “You shouldn’t be so forward Saracen. Honestly”. Your smile grew wider, “Really it’s alright… my name is y/n. I met Gr-uh Erskine before in the Sanctuary. We sorta just bumped into each other…”. Saracen seemed to glance at Ravel with a knowing look in his eye, “Oh I see… at The Sanctuary you say~”. He seemed to be teasing Erskine who promptly changed the topic of discussion. After a couple of drinks, the two men had to leave on ‘official business’. As they made to leave Erskine smiled sweetly at you, “I hope to see you again soon y/n. Take care”, he gently grazed his thumb on your cheek before leaving with Saracen. You were left in your seat quite flustered and Scapegrace laughed, “Oh you should see the look on your face!”. Saracen turned to Erskine once they were further from the pub and punched his arm, “You didn’t tell me that she was such a looker, Erskine!” Rubbing his arm defensively Ravel sighed, “What? You think I didn’t notice?”, he glanced back toward the pub wishing he could return. The night of the big party had come, every one of notability had been invited to this grand event as part of a peaceful celebration between The Sanctuaries. As a Sanctuary worker, you had naturally been invited and given your work constraints finding someone to go with had proven impossible. As you made your way up the steps each one was becoming more and more difficult as you approached the entrance, you began to consider turning around and not going in at all. “Y/N!”, turning around sharply you were greeted by Erskine Ravel calling your name. He was dressed in an amazingly fitted tuxedo which was a dark blood red shade with accents of gold, It complemented his eyes beautifully. He approached you and smiled charmingly, taking in the gorgeously modest ballgown that you wore which gently hung off your shoulders and was coloured in the gradient of the sunset. “You look beauti- No astonishing y/n”. You graciously accepted his compliment and began to mention his suit when the other Dead Men approached him from behind, “See?! We told you she was real”, Ghastly and Saracen announced. “What do they mean-?”, immediately Ravel began walking you away from them, “Aha nothing! It’s nothing just ignore my friends they are all incredibly stupid”. From not too far behind, you heard a faint voice coming from Skulduggery, “I resent that”. 

The party was big and loud and extravagant, clearly, they had spared no expense to declare ‘peace’. Spending time talking to Ravel was nice, but he was often interrupted and pulled away by people of great importance that had to discuss urgent matters with him. You could clearly see it was irritating him. As a new song began to play you were suddenly whisked away from his side while he was distracted and pulled into a dance. You looked around at your kidnapper to find none other than Dexter Vex. As you began to dance he gave you a friendly smile, “Sorry for stealing you. But I had to see for myself, you are the girl Erskine keeps talking about, right? The one who bumped into him one day?”. You blushed deeply, “W-well I did bump into him…”, you were lucky that Dexter was so good at dancing otherwise you would have fallen over your own feet by now. He continued grinning and leading you in the dance, “I see… well, I’d say he is quite fond of you. Doesn’t stop going on about how pretty you are- although he is right” he added winking at you. “He is probably going to punch me for this. I would say it is worth it”. As the dance was coming to an end you could see Erskine looking around for you with an anxious look on his face. As he spotted you and saw Dexter you could see him mouthing, “That little shi-”, suddenly someone danced in front of you and you lost sight of him again. The song started coming to a close and you were about to thank Dexter for the dance when you were suddenly thrown off balance and fell into someone’s arms. “Oh I am so sorry-”, you began to apologise until you looked up and saw Ravel there holding you again. He laughed, “It seems I am drawn to you somehow y/n… would you care for the next dance?”. Smiling with relief you nodded noticing that Dexter had mysteriously disappeared. You felt Erskine’s hand encircle your waist as the music began, it felt like the dance floor had suddenly opened up and you began to dance together in this vast space. Gliding across the movements you noticed that the people around you had suddenly stopped dancing and were instead watching, “They are all looking at you…”, you whispered softly to Erskine and he laughed with modesty. “I don’t think that is the case here…”. China Sorrows had made her way over to Skulduggery and raised an eyebrow, “Who is that dancing with Erskine?”. Skulduggery turned his head toward her, “That is Ravel’s mystery girl… at least that is what everyone keeps saying”. She huffed smugly at those words, “I see”. Slowly you gained more confidence in your dancing and the intensity of your hold on each other grew with every movement. Ravel spun you gracefully and took care to make sure you were comfortable in the steps, as the music grew to its peak he lifted you into the air and your skirt wrapped around him as though you were both submerged in a cloud stained with the residual glow of the sunset. Slowly as he brought you back down to the ground your gazes grew closer until you finally felt gravity’s pull again. He stared into your eyes and laughed as though he couldn’t believe what was happening. Your heart fluttered faster than you had ever felt before as he pulled your chin up to face him and he lightly pressed his lips to yours. Suddenly a large bout of excited whoops could be heard from where the Dead Men stood which soon caused the ballroom to erupt into laughter and applause. You could barely contain yourself as your eyes once again opened to face Ravel and he chuckled a little embarrassed, “Sorry, was that a tad dramatic?”. 

[pantherlover]

Rosemary and Rue Re-Read: Part 3

Here’s part 3!  As always: while I may not remember all of the details, I’ve read all of the books up to Night and Silence and will be referring to them in these posts.  These are not spoiler free recaps.

Chapter 4

I spent most of the beginning of this chapter muttering ‘Fuck you, Evening’ because of how horribly guilty Toby feels (and continues to feel) over missing her calls.  

It can’t be a coincidence that both Evening and the Luidaeg a) settled down in the same city and b) settled down on the mortal side of the city.  is there something special about San Francisco?  Did one of them settle down there and the other followed?

Something that occurred to me in this chapter: how did Evening’s mortal body appear in her apartment?  I know Toby says that the night haunts replace the bodies of dead fae, but I’d assume that they only do that with fae that, you know, can’t come back to life.  I’m pretty sure that Evening actually for real dies, so there would’ve been a body, but no reason for the night haunts to come to take her body.  Did she make the fake body herself?  Does she have a deal with the night haunts to make a copy of her if she dies in the mortal world?  And how did her real body get out of the apartment?  Did she set something up with someone beforehand to take her body away for safekeeping?

“She had hair that wavered between black and purple, with highlights of pink, orange, and blue, like an aurora.”  I know that Evening is evil and heartless, but I love her hair so much.  Why does good hair happen to terrible people???

So I was wondering what was capable of permanently killing Evening, because I thought that Devin had used iron and silver, and that’s the only thing that we know for sure will kill a Firstborn, but when Toby rides Evening’s death she says they only used iron.  Does that mean that using iron and silver can still kill her?

Chapter 5

“I don’t even know anyone who’s actually seen [the night haunts].”  There are a lot of things in these earlier chapters that are very amusing when you compare them to later books.  There’s this sentence in particular, but the moment where Toby was talking about riding deaths and not being used to them was good too.

I forgot that Evening helped Sylvester fight to let Toby be knighted.  I wonder what her reasoning behind that was.  Did she want Toby to feel like she owed her?

I love the False Queen’s knowe.  It wouldn’t have suited Arden, and the redwood knowe is definitely more practical to visit, but the knowe in the bay seems so interesting.  I wish we’d seen more of it than the throne room, dungeons, and treasury.

Something I’ve wondered about for a while about the Queen’s knowe: who did it used to belong to?  Knowes don’t manifest themselves; someone actively has to create them.  Toby found the knowe, so we know that the Queen didn’t create it herself, and it must have been lost for a long time for it to be lost enough that the Cait Sidhe could use it, so who made it?  I might guess the Luidaeg, but the decor of polished marble, polished marble, and, lets’ see, more polished marble, doesn’t really sound like her style.

Here we meet the False Queen.  She probably would be strikingly beautiful to see in person, but I’ve been watching a LOT of renovation shows lately, and all-white anything just makes me want to throw something and shout ‘USE A DAMN COLOUR’ at her.  Although Toby mentions her dress and says ‘only a pureblood would accessorize with the ocean’, which sounds AWESOME and I would do it in a heartbeat if it was possible.

“I winced.  Between Tybalt and the Queen, it’s a wonder I don’t need therapy.”  Um.  There was a short story told from the Luidaeg’s pov that mentioned that Amandine’s illusions were the best, especially when she was deluding herself.  I think the skill of self-delusion might have been the only thing that Toby managed to learn from Amandine, because man she’s good.

The False Queen refusing to help Toby find Evening’s murderer is interesting, especially after we find out that Evening gave her the throne in the first place.  Is it because she’s scared of Evening, and she’s actually grateful Evening’s dead?  Does she not want Evening’s murder investigated in case someone digging into Evening’s affairs might find something connected to her?

That’s it for now!  This is probably one of the shortest recaps I’ll do; succinct is not something I’ve ever been accused of.  As always, come talk to me about stuff!

[sustraiii]

TEAM ZRCN ARC 2 - CHAPTER 6

Progress is made on the hunt for information, Cordovan and Neela get to know Leyla better, and a familiar face makes their return. 

Many thanks to @neopoliitan for proofreading for me again! It’s very appreciated!

NEELA

Ever since the team had arrived at Shizukana, any attempt at progress had been stalled by a bout of bad weather. According to Leyla, these sorts of storms were not uncommon at this time of the year, but nor were they too frequent, and she mused that they had chosen the right day to arrive at least.

Zelde had initially been determined to make some progress with their mission to find out more about the Hargraves despite the poor weather until Leyla talked her out of doing so. Although this frustrated Zelde at first, Leyla did seem to win her back over again, by offering to show them around so that she could point out the right people to ask. 

Four days after arriving on Shizukana, the storms finally cleared enough for them to finally make their enquiries. The morning had started pleasant enough, with the four of them being woken up by sunlight filtering in through the windows, and the sound of gulls crying. However, the peaceful morning was soon shattered by the sound of arguing between Helia and Leyla elsewhere in the house.

“I knew the peace wouldn’t last too long,” Xanthos said, followed by a long yawn. Unlike the rest of his teammates, he was still lying in his bedroll, propped up on his side, with the sheets covering the lower half of his body, as he was only wearing a thin bed shirt and shorts.

“At least they’re talking more,” Neela was quick to say, earning a nod of agreement from Cordovan. “That’s definitely an improvement from how it was when we arrived.”

There was a sound of fabric ruffling slightly, as Zelde shifted by the side of her, in her improbably long nightgown. It was a high-necked, frilly number, very old fashioned, and reminded Neela of something she was certain her grandmother might have owned. “I’m not sure if I’d consider arguing as talking,” She said, glancing between Cordovan and Neela. “Truth be told, I can’t say I’m surprised they’re arguing. Did none of you notice how the atmosphere changed when we started pressing them for information and we ended up bringing up that ‘Veronica’ name again? The tension in the air was palpable.”

“I wonder who she is.” Xanthos mused. There was something of a conspiratorial expression on his face as he sat up. “A jilted lover perhaps?”

Zelde scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Why do you have to come out with the most scandalous suggestions, Ravi?”

“Because it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” He responded with a wink.

“Maybe she was one of her other teammates?” Neela pondered out loud. This prompted Zelde, Xanthos, and herself to all glance towards Cordovan. 

“Sadly, no,” He responded, giving Neela a small smile. “Their other teammates were Alcyone Sternberg and Anthea Garland.”

The three of them nodded their heads to show they understood before Xanthos’ feature dropped. “Well, that’s annoying,” He grumbled, frowning slightly as he spoke. “Guess that means her identity will remain secret for even longer.”

--

After a small breakfast, Leyla finally offered to show them around, and introduce them to some of the islanders who might be better equipped to help with their enquiries. The six of them had planned to head into the main village initially, but following the earlier fight and the growing tension between the two women Zelde had preemptively opted to split up. 

When pressed for her reasoning for splitting them by Xanthos, she expressed a desire to avoid any further altercation between the two women, fearing another argument would affect their progress. With everyone on board with the idea, she charged herself and Xanthos with keeping Helia occupied, whilst Neela and Cordovan were to accompany Leyla into town and report back with any information once they returned.

If Leyla was bothered by the lack of involvement from those staying behind she didn’t show it, and when Cordovan explained their made-up reasoning, she merely shrugged.

That morning Leyla was wearing a similar outfit to what she had worn when they first arrived - dark purple-black trousers which formed seamlessly into boots, a jacket in a similar purple-black colour, and a white shirt underneath. The only difference to her outfit today was that she had the jacket tied around her waist, and wore her jet black hair in a loose ponytail, as opposed to a tight bun. It suited her better, in Neela’s opinion, helping to soften her sharp facial features. The most appealing feature she had was her eyes, lilac in colour which worked well in contrast to her dark hair and tan skin.

To Neela and Cordovan’s surprise, rather than walking the short distance to the village centre, Leyla seemed insistent on taking the beat-up jeep she owned.

“Is this really necessary?” Cordovan quizzed, as they all got inside, echoing Neela’s thoughts.

Leyla shrugged as she put the key in the ignition. “I need to pick up some supplies while I’m there,” she explained, “it's easier for me to take the car, rather than carrying an unknown quantity of bags back home.”

It took a while for the car to start, Leyla clearly having some difficulty in getting the engine to turn over. After a third attempt, it eventually roared into life, and they were able to leave. They had only just pulled away from the house when Leyla apologised for the struggles with the car.

“Sorry about that. She’s an old girl, a bit temperamental at times, especially if she hasn’t moved in a couple of days,” Leyla explained, giving an almost affectionate pat to the dashboard. “I should consider upgrading at some point, but she was my sister’s car, and I can’t stand to part with her.”

“You have a sister?” Neela asked.

“Yes,” Leyla confirmed with a nod. “Veronica Noire.”

“Oh!” Neela exclaimed loudly. “We were wondering who she was.”

Leyla glanced at the two of them in the rearview mirror. “You were?”

Neela flinched suddenly. Something about the look Leyla gave the two of them, filled her with a quiet sense of unease. “Yeah, we’ve heard you and Helia mention her name a couple of times these past few days, and we were curious who she was. We’re sorry if we offended you by asking about her.”

Leyla chuckled slightly, though her expression remained fairly neutral. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s only natural you’d be curious.”

“What was she like?” Cordovan asked politely.

“My sister was the hero of the family. She was an inspiration not only to myself but many others on the island. She was kind and brave, and strong, and a little vulnerable too. Always determined to help others, no matter the cost.” A silence filled the car. Neela and Cordovan exchanged a brief look before Neela leaned forward. “What happened to her?” Leyla’s hand gripped the wheel tightly. She turned her head to look out the window, jaw clenching and unclenching before she spoke again. “She went missing. Most likely dead.”

“You don’t think there’s a possibility she’s alive?” “No,” Leyla was quick to say. “They’ve never confirmed it officially, but I know, I can feel it in my bones.” They were ominous words, but she sounded so certain of her sister’s fate, that it was hard to argue with her. That and with neither Neela or Cordovan barely knowing anything about the Noire family, it didn’t seem right to pry further.

The car journey went by in silence after that, and with the village centre not very far from the Noire home, it did not take long at all for them to reach their destination. After parking up, Leyla walked them to the centre of the village. Being only a small settlement, the village wasn’t very big, and most of the “shops” were, in fact, various market stalls offering a wide variety of items.

Leyla was quick to point out a few vendors who were worth talking to; those who generally seemed to attract the most newcomers or saw the most customers. 

“You’ll want to speak with Mr Caswell too,” Leyla suggested, pointing to a larger building in the village. “He keeps track of all the records on the island after Leonie died. He might be able to give you better information on the Hargraves than I ever could. You could also try Lucina. And perhaps Robyn? They run the sole inn on the island.”

--

As Neela, Cordovan, and Leyla made their way through the village, they were unaware they had caught the attention of someone. 

Sat at a cafe, quietly sipping a fruity beverage, a woman had recognised their voices - two of them at least. Lifting her head, it did not take her long for her gaze to fall upon the three. Her brow creased in annoyance, and she gripped her cup harder, unable to believe what she was seeing.

Grumbling in annoyance, she would retrieve some Lien from a back pocket, before making her exit. It was an underpayment, but it would take them a long time to realise that, and by that point, she would be long gone - long gone and already plotting to get rid of these children who seemed intent on ruining their hard work. They had gotten the better of her once, but she would not let that happen again. It was time for her revenge, and this time she would not play so nicely.

Team ZRCN would rue the day they made an enemy of Candy Cornel.

[storytellingape]

summer in the city

wherein Thomas likes the following: meatloaf, a shop in France, and wearing lingerie when he’s stressed out. 3000 words.

written for viv, and jeu who said a good way to de-stress was to imagine how your favourite character would handle stress. also not sure if i should post it on ao3 bec of its length.

When Thomas is eighteen, he spends an entire summer in Paris. The trip is funded by a wealthy aunt who favors him because she has no children of her own but also due to the fact Thomas reminds her of her late husband: fussy, mildly appraising, always needing to have the last word. It lasts all of nine weeks. Most of it is glorious. The rest of it is hot and muggy, leaving him dizzy and irritable in turns. 

Thomas develops a fisherman’s tan, uses all the wrong verbs, upsets some of the locals, and buys bread and soft cheeses to take back to his hotel every day of the week. He drinks coffee by the hour long, reads The Albatross in its original French, though he only comprehends about a third of it, and feebly grows a wispy mustache which he grooms with careful swipes of his fingers. 

In Paris, it is said that one can always find romance if one knows where to look, but Thomas instead finds a dress shop on the Rue de Rivoli, and his life is never the same again after.

*

Thomas starts dating Adam after the fifth and final time he comes by Harrods to return an item he’d bought. He’d asked to see a manager, and Thomas had given him his blandest most polite customer service face, which he only uses to cow difficult customers, rowdy children, and small misbehaving animals. Adam had asked him out a total of three times before Thomas accepted his invitation for coffee. 

After that followed a series of brazen attempts to get into Thomas’ trousers. 

Adam invited Thomas to his play’s opening night, bought him an expensive cashmere scarf when the weather started to turn, but Thomas didn’t start sleeping with him until well into their fourth month of ‘dating’ after Adam showed up at his flat with half-burnt soup in a thermos when he’d complained about having come down with a cold.

Adam comes by often enough that he leaves his rubbish behind: several hole-ridden shirts hang in Thomas’ closet, Adam’s battery-operated toothbrush now permanently resides in a water-spotted glass on the sink, and he always, without fail, borrows an umbrella only to lose it on the tube. There are many things to be said about Adam, and he can be something of an acquired taste, but if there’s something Thomas likes about him it’s his uncanny ability to remain largely unflappable even when faced with the outlandish and bizarre. 

“What the actual fuck,” Adam says when he walks in on Thomas in lingerie. “What the actual fuck.”

*

Adam has not seen Thomas in lingerie before because Thomas doesn’t make it a habit to totter around his flat in garter belts and heels. It’s something he does only on occasion, when he’s had a long week and he needs a respite from being, well, himself. He hangs up the suit and with each article of clothing peels a layer of artifice off his skin. 

In Paris, years ago, Thomas learned to cut his own hair after the heat made everything unbearable. But there he also learned to luxuriate, to enjoy himself for the sake of it, though he only allows himself the reprieve in small doses lest it overrules his life. 

There’s a shop on the Rue de Rivoli with the most beautiful silk lingerie, with pieces so delicate they feel like they’ve been woven out of dreams. He’d stumbled across the shop while searching vainly for a shorter route back to the hotel and found himself drawn to the statuesque mannequins posed behind the glass window, dressed elegantly in women’s knickers. Except these weren’t just regular knickers, made of cotton, bought from a multipack, for £9.50 from Marks & Spencer. 

Thomas has cousins, he attends a coed Catholic school, he’s seen his fair share of women’s underwear, but none of them had looked this fine, this beautiful. This expensive. 

He wondered what he’d look like in them. He wondered, briefly, if he’d look fine and beautiful too.

*

Adam likes coming over without warning to raid Thomas’ pantry. Thomas regrets ever giving him a spare key but Adam’s visits are not without its merits. He vacuums when Thomas is able to wheedle him into doing it, and he knows a little bit about plumbing for him to tinker with Thomas’ sink to get it working again. He’s Thomas own handyman; all he asks for payment is a hot meal and maybe some blowjobs.

What Thomas doesn’t like is that sometimes Adam shows up in the middle of the night and creeps into his bed, which is how he finds out that Thomas sometimes likes wearing knickers to sleep. It’s nothing sexual; Thomas just finds them snug and comfortable, and extremely flattering to his physique besides. If he happens to chafe himself rubbing too vigorously on the bed covers then that’s none of Adam’s business; his interests are many and varied, some people collect porcelain dolls, Thomas collects luxury lingerie to wear on his down time. 

But he’s in a fresh pair with pretty ribbons when Adam slides under the covers and spoons him, jarring Thomas out of sleep when Adam snuffs a hot breath down his neck and squeezes his ribs firmly. Another thing about Adam: he’s not afraid to show physical affection, even in public. He’s kissed Thomas before in the middle of the street, groped him on the tube, licked his ear in an Indian restaurant while waiting for dessert, his breath reeking of curry. On their first date, he put an arm around Thomas’ waist under the guise of reaching for the door.

“Hey,” Adam mumbles, soft, kissing down Thomas’ collarbones, parting his shirt. “You really asleep? Or are you just pretending?”

Thomas used to kick him whenever he did this but several bruises to the shin later and it no longer warrants a violent reaction. But then Adam cups his hip, then his thigh, then his cock, still soft in sleep and covered in a thin layer of silk, and Thomas snaps his eyes open.

“Babe,” Adam says carefully, and in the dark, his voice echoes throughout every corner of the room. “What are you wearing?”

“I can explain,” Thomas says, but Adam is already peeling back the covers, flicking the bedside lamp on to peer at Thomas’ lap. He raises an eyebrow. Then the other one. “Huh,” he says.

“Look,” Thomas begins to say, already pointing a finger. He wants to die.

“Is this for me?” Adam interrupts, grinning. “Were you planning on seducing me and then fell asleep?” 

“Not everything I do is for your sake,” Thomas replies, but then he catches the intent way Adam is staring at his lap, and it’s either the ribbons that has him so deeply fascinated or the fact that the waistline of Thomas’ pretty knickers catches low on Thomas’ hips. Thomas hasn’t trimmed himself in recent weeks so there’s a conservative little patch of forest peeking out of relevant corners of his underwear and Thomas, he decides to run with it, better to let Adam think this is a seduction tactic than Thomas’ secret hobby and predilection: that lingerie makes him feel incredibly beautiful and so outside of himself that it’s the only way he knows how to relax aside from getting the fucking of his life. 

There are things Thomas would only talk to his therapist about, then there’s this. He’ll take this to the grave with him and murder anyone who knows. All right, maybe not murder, he’s not a psychopath. Adam is sweet when he wants to be, and he makes Thomas laugh. He knows what colour Thomas’ eyes are, has memorized all of his food allergies which is a list almost as long as his arm. Thomas will spare him. Blackmail, then. 

Thomas spreads his legs slowly, not missing the way Adam’s eyes widen considerably, his jaw unhinging as he stares and stares and stares. He knows how to use his body to his advantage, and Adam is easy to wind up.

“Would you like to touch it, Adam?” 

“Yeah,” Adam pants. “Hell yeah.”

*

The second time Adam encounters Thomas in knickers, Thomas is in the bath, with one foot hooked over the side of the tub, and a hand furiously gripping his favourite dildo which he’s pumping into himself with such focused intensity he doesn’t hear the door creak open.  

The water has all but drained, leaving Thomas in a pair of clingy translucent panties, uncomfortable if not for the fact it deeply arouses him.

It had been that kind of day: a long earful from his manager prompted some boxed wine, Puccini’s La Boheme as performed by the Berlin Philharmonic, and he’d walked around his living room for a bit, naked except for the panties, admiring himself in all reflective surfaces including the window which he leaves slightly ajar because he likes the sound of birds, before drawing himself a warm bath full of luxuriant bath oils and petals. He doesn’t take the panties off and eats expensive cuts of cheese off an inflatable tray. 

Adam could have walked in at any given moment but he chose to do so when Thomas is having a wank, which is really rather typical. Adam does what he wants, whenever he wants. This makes him very unpredictable, a trait Thomas is both wary of and attracted to; he needs that volatility in the humdrum of everyday life. His therapist says so. Thomas knows so. 

“I feel like this is one of those fever dreams,” Adam says later as he’s sliding into Thomas and then fucking him in short little jerks, running his hands down his ribs and squeezing the backs of his thighs. Thomas’ panties are clinging dearly to one ankle and then Adam tugs them off completely and starts putting his back into fucking him. Thomas forgets his last name, the year, the current Prime Minister. He comes with Adam’s cock buried almost painfully into the hilt, his own trapped between the noisy friction of their bodies. 

Adam rubs at his forearms and licks his neck until he comes to. Afterwards, he orders them takeaway and they eat lo mein with forks because they’re heathens who don’t know any better. 

Adam tells him about his day, his legs thrown over Thomas’ knees on the sofa. “So, guess what. I got a really sweet gig today. Got cast in a beer commercial, of all things. A fucking beer commercial. Like I’m not trying to complain or anything, money is money, but I’m a recovering alcoholic. It’s not very on-brand, you know?”

Thomas tells him about his day. “I got into a row with my new boss,” he says, staring morosely at the last piece of dumpling. “I don’t think he likes any of my ideas.”

Adam stops eating abruptly, slurping on a greasy string of noodle with a loud noise. He nods his head and shrugs. “You know where he lives?” he asks cautiously, because say what you want about him but he’s the type to think kicking the shit out of something is somehow the magical answer to everything. He wears his heart on his sleeve and sometimes lets that rule him.

Thomas looks at him, horrified by the implication.

“I’m joking, I’m joking! Jesus,” Adam laughs, but then he turns serious eyes on Thomas again when they lapse into a long silence. “But seriously, if you want me to intimidate him a little bit…” he nudges Thomas with a foot. 

Thomas pinches him in the big toe, but Adam, he just laughs and laughs.

*

Thomas doesn’t get the promotion. Nigel Bannerman does. 

Thomas takes the rest of the day off and puts on his best pair of lingerie and he gets a little bit tipsy on cheap red wine while listening to strings of Monteverdi issued by an ancient iPod perched on the coffee table. He’s on his second glass of wine when Adam walks in, swinging a bag onto the floor before taking off his clothes. He leaves them in an unruly pile on the floor and then he’s down to just his undershirt and boxers. 

Then he catches Thomas in the act. Or, rather, there’s nothing to catch, really, because Thomas only happens to be drinking wine and eating crackers with cheese. In lingerie. His legs are crossed primly, he’s wearing garter belts to hold up his stockings, and his bralette is sheer enough that it does a poor job of hiding his peaking nipples. He’s not doing anything outrageous but Thomas still has to tamp down the urge to throw himself out the window, the only other alternative being to throw himself in the path of a speeding train. 

“I can explain,” he says.

“I feel like this keeps happening,” Adam interrupts him. “Not that it’s a bad thing. You look great by the way. It’s just that — wow, look at the legs on you. You shave today, baby? Wow.” Adam blinks, then kneels next to him on the sofa. 

Thomas frowns at him. Adam is the only one he can frown at openly without intimidating completely. That or Adam is starting to get comfortable around him; he’s stopped showering after sex.

Adam takes in the surrounding mess of half-eaten crackers and cheese, the crumbs on the cushions, and makes a thoughtful noise in his throat. “You had a bad day at work?”

Thomas frowns even harder. His entire face twitches; it’s practically a tic. He can be easy to read sometimes, more so when he’s dressed down in expensive lingerie and trying his best to look dignified despite it.

“Is this about the promotion?” Adam hazards a guess, and when Thomas says nothing for a really long while, Adam sighs and opens his arms, wrapping them around Thomas and squeezing his shoulders awkwardly. He smells like meatloaf but not in a bad way. 

Thomas happens to like it because the thing about meatloaf is you can eat it even when it’s already cold and it’ll still be good. Meatloaf goes well with anything, bread, beans, potatoes, eggs, and maybe that’s why Thomas likes Adam so much; he can be a prick, but so can Thomas, they can drive each other crazy toe-to-toe but when things get rough Adam’ll stand his ground and still be there to hound and annoy and bugger the hell out of Thomas, in more than the metaphorical sense, immovable as a statue. 

“You only whip out the panties when you’re sad,” Adam tells him, speaking into his hair, rubbing his back. 

Thomas pulls back from his loose embrace, spluttering and smacking him on the chest. First of all: how dare he.  Secondly: how dare he. “That— that isn’t remotely true at all! Don’t be stupid! Sometimes I wear them when I feel like it! It’s not some sort of therapy, or or means to cope with stress!”

Adam looks at him dubiously. “I know, all right? And it’s okay!” he all but yells. He softens his voice when Thomas goes all stiff in his arms, and not in the sexy way they both enjoy. “You can act like it’s a big fucking secret, but I practically live here, Thomas. I do the laundry from time to time. I’ve seen all manner of kinky shit in your sock drawer. Lingerie isn’t even the worst of it. It’s not even in the fucking top three.”

Thomas almost doesn’t respond. So: Adam’s seen the ball gag. Might as well move to Cornwall and become a fisherman. “So you don’t think it’s strange,” he says, after a pause, already dreading the answer. 

“I’ve been an alcoholic for most of my life,” Adam laughs. “Until recently. I’ve done my fair share of weird shit. Not that you enjoying lingerie is weird. I just mean that life is too short to get hung up on trivial shit, you know? I once stole a tuba from my high school marching band. I’ve woken up in my own pool of vomit and piss under a bridge. I was covered in blood. There was a whole fucking lot of it. And it wasn’t mine and I was—”

“Do you want to see the rest of my collection?” Thomas interrupts. “Of lingerie.” Not ball gags, though Thomas has a few of those. 

Adam looks at him quietly. He rubs the skin under his grisly stubble, a nervous habit though that could also mean he’s being coy. “Are you going to model them for me?” he asks hopefully.

*

“I bought this one in Luxembourg,” Thomas says, holding a delicate piece aloft, the one with lace trimmings. 

Adam swallows. “So are you going to put those on or is there more you’re going to show me?”

“More,” Thomas says.

Adam thumps his head against the pillows and groans.

*

When Thomas is eighteen, he enters a dress shop on the Rue de Rivoli with some measure of trepidation. He smells like sun and traffic, and he’s sweating through his shirt from the heat, itchy under the scalp where he’d tried giving himself a haircut. It’s 2003 and he’s on his gap year. He’s never even kissed a person before. He’s only ever dated one boy and held his hand in the dark of a cinema while worrying about getting popcorn stuck in his teeth.

When he sees the assortment of clothes displayed neatly at the back of the shop, his heart starts to race, his palms sweat. They’re meant for women, these fineries, but he can see himself wearing the best pieces, can imagine the smooth glide of stockings over his mosquito-bitten legs, delicate satin cups cushioning his soft chest. 

A saleslady asks him if he’s lost or needs help. In perfect French, Thomas replies, “I was just looking,” and for years that’s all he does.

*

Thomas uses some of his inheritance money to buy two plane tickets to France. He books a respectable hotel because now he can afford it, one with an actual view of the cityscape and not a concrete wall or masonry. He and Adam take turns buying baguettes and cheeses from the cafe across the street and Thomas shows Adam all his favourite places: the museums, the restaurants, the poorly-ventilated bookshops with wallpaper peeling on the walls and a fat orange cat sunning itself outside. They take long walks by the river. 

Eventually, because Thomas can’t help himself, he drags Adam to the shop on the Rue de Rivoli. The shopfront has  had several facelifts over the years but the gilded letters stand bright and gleaming against the setting Parisian sun: Sabine.

Thomas stands outside the door for half a minute, hesitating, then he shoves the door all the way open and a bell above him tinkles in welcome.

[redemptioninterlude]

🌂 (for rue)

let's go on a date meme ( accepting ) + @sunxsin // ling 🌂 kiss in the rain

LA ALMOST NEVER RAINS... it’s the thing about the valley that seems impossible to most, where the weather seemed stuck in perpetual sunshine and glossy days, the people found beneath its rays all artificially accustomed to what it was like to never know anything but the golden warmth it brings. But Rue, oh Rue, she knows better than this, East Highland a place where it all strikes, unexpected, and she carries her bad habits from home with her, no matter what the miles put between there, and here. It’s not as if she becomes a brand new fucking person, no matter what other people say about, think about it... everyone’s just trying to get an angle and an in when it comes to the Hollywood game, and she learns early on that you need a thicker skin to make it, and fuck if that shit wasn’t hard sometimes.

She’s 20 now, and in the game, 2 years gone by and she’s done more releases than she thought to be possible. Maybe it helps that she’s young and starving for it, or that the industry’s just blooming for the prospect of girls with more than a dash of colour to claim the silver screen, but who cares? SHE’LL TAKE IT, she doesn’t blink at the idea of claiming ground where it comes, no pride to get in the way of her navigating forwards, ruthless. You have to be if you’re going to survive it, and by now she finds herself with a name people know, a face that sometimes people look twice at, those low whispers, the pinch of a brow when they were trying to place her with a name to a place and a reason for why she seemed so recognizeable. 

And it then that she’s been dating now, some producer from the hills making moody art films, and it works and yes, he’s, SO MUCH OLDER than her but that’s Hollywood, baby. Or maybe that’s what she tells herself because she’s so strung out and needed shit to finally work and he was so kind when they first met but it’s the shit that comes after that makes her question herself every time there was another photo taken and all she could see were the comments about how this was such a fucking cliche, and she felt so weirdly complicit about it, and how it all just... weird. That maybe he’s inside networking and she’s so bored to tears that she doesn’t know what to do or say as this circle of men in well-tailored summer suits talk round and round about the artistic integrity of film, so Rue just drifts apart, peeling away and finding a quiet spot to forget about everything.

How her train of thought is cut off quick, when one Ling Yao stepped outside onto the balcony with her, their eyes catching with one another, and a jagged, wicked grin spreads wider. It’s always DRUGS AND STRANGE INVITATIONS whenever the two of them get together, and, it’s dumb that seeing him makes her chest go a little tight, despite all the impossible things that sit there before it, she waves at him casual, and the carton she’s got in her hand’s shaken to product a joint. “Wanna join me?” because the invitation’s always open between the two of them, as he strolls to close the space between the two of them, a lighter ready, Rue leaning in with her fingers caught in her hair to pull it free from the butane burn, gaze flickering to his  as she pulled in that first draw, easing her shoulders back to keep a respectful distance, her grin drawn pleased.

"I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.” they meet all over, though in this industry, isn’t it expected? The young and the brilliant and pushed together to network and be seen, it’s all an act built upon artifice, and wasn’t Ling the king of that? Another quick hold of smoke within her lungs, and she surrenders over what she’s god, Rue left leaning into her heels, the clothes that feel so unlike her. “I woulda brought like TWO if I knew. Can’t be missing out on a chance to catch up with the one and only Ling fuckin’ Yao.” especially since... “I heard you just got cast for that new movie right? The remake of the Blair Witch?? I mean, don’t tell anybody, but I’m wrapping up the last parts of the contract.. I think it’s finally happening. We have a project together!”

Eyes all lit up, but when they look past him, she can see, can feel, that sudden onset ; the dripping drops of unexpected showers sweeping over them, Rue’s excitement put on pause as she reached into her bag, pulling out an extendible umbrella, perfectly packed, able to have it up and over the both of them in but a practiced flick of the wrist. A step closer, and she realizes, WHEN’S THE LAST TIME they’ve been this close, other than in bathrooms where they were drawing lines and losing themselves to a wasted night at yet another dull event, the both of them laughing at the pretentiousness of it all until - yeah. That’s it. That’s when she’s ever been this near, eyes blowing wide by degrees as she tried, and failed, to pull the conversation back to the subject at hand. How being this close had her head all filled with the wrong ideas, coughing, suddenly, to try and bring them back to a place where a silence didn’t stretch as it did, her heart not beating all too quickly within her chest.

And most of all, she tries to wind it back to the point where it feels like all she wanted to do was lean in and kiss him, thinking she had to be crazy, what was she thinking? Wasn’t her boyfriend inside, doing the HARD WORK of a director to recruit people in on his next upcoming venture? A sharp breath drawn as Rue blinked fast, trying to slide her gaze from the intensity of his own, trying to smooth out that sudden hiccup of anxiety that bubbled within her chest.”Uhh... maybe this is like, the universe telling us that we should save this for another time. Literal rain check? We should um...” maybe kiss a little while. Wait. No. Fuck. “Go back inside.”

[drawbauchery]

The autumn drizzle was already setting in on the first day of a new academic year. Pulling into the campus grounds, the bus was packed with both freshers exchanging meet-and-greets and returning students catching up with eachother on the events of the long summer, not a thought spent on the lectures that were to come.

One young woman sitting on the bus had thought, one year ago, that she had done this return for the last time. After crossing the final gauntlet of education, Perri was certain a placement in some swish new tech job was waiting for her.

Well, that was on hold for a while. In the meantime, she pleaded a few final favours from the librarian to get her an interview for a job on tech support. She still lived on beans, but after getting a job in the library on the old campus, and sharing a rent with some ballet dancer she somehow become friends with over the last few years, she at least kept the lights on.

Perri never came to Bleu Demone Campus much, the Yzma L.O Campus she went to was where she got her Computer Science degree, and was a magnificent world of glass and metal, everything felt practically new, and it was. Bleu was where the university started, focused on the arts, and was an ancient ground of mossy old stone buildings, structurally sound in the same sense that the Pyramids were. The library was an old converted church, and was black from grime. She could inhale the dust from a mile away.

Whoever was running that building, she guessed, had to be a million years old.

She was the last off the bus, noting that it probably wasn’t a good show for the first day on the job to come in at the same time as the students. She turned until she set eyes on the Front Office, deciding that it was where she had to go to get her stuff. Covering her hair from the drizzle, irritatingly becoming a light shower, she took her first steps on her first ‘real’ job.

They were nearly her last, she reflected on later, when her crossing of the road came close to turning lethal, as a blue and white blur sped past her, mere feet in front of her.

“Hey!”, she cried out, doing a full 360 as she jumped back from the blur. Steadying herself, she saw it continue down the road through the campus. Pushing her glasses back up, the blur came into focus, and confusion gave to anger as it turned into a blue motorcycle, rider in a helmet and white tanktop.

“Watch where you’re going, you-”, many words passed through her mind, only at the last moment did she catch herself. She was now staff, this was her workplace, and she had to set an example of behaviour.

“You, CLOD!”

��

The incident of the morning aside, she soon got her keys from the office and had settled into her new domain. The computer suite was an extension to the original church building, a ‘new’ addition that was still twice as old as she was. She didn’t think the felt floor was that exact colour when it was first put in, but it was mostly clean and, more importantly, quiet.

Perri waited for calls for assistance and, by midday, she was bored.

Minesweeper beckoned her on the old PC sitting on what was now her desk, but she resisted. She supposed she should at least get to know the layout of the building, and she hadn’t even met the librarian that had to be somewhere inside. She never was much of a charmer, she thought, but it was better to meet her coworkers while they were in something of a greeting mood. She might even find something to read.

The library section was a labyrinth, three stories built inside the old main hall of the church, and she saw books on countless topics, literature, history, painting, maths, politics, economics, and the bottom levels built deep underneath the building housed some books that looked one, maybe two hundred years old. The whole maze felt heavy with the knowledge nearly trapped inside the stone walls.

Perri worried about getting lost and starving to death. She didn’t even have breakfast this morning. Yes, not a good show on the first day at all.

After what may have been five minutes or an hour, at last found her place again, and arrived to a space that framed the main entrance to the library.

There, finally, she met another human being, sitting behind the desk at the side of the space. And she was a surprise.

She looked about Perri’s age, dark skinned, with dyed blue shoulder-length hair. The hair was her main and only extravagance, other than that she was the most Librarian librarian Perri had ever set eyes upon. Her light brown sweater looked several sizes too large, her blue scarf nearly covered her entire neck, and her furrowed brow hid behind a pair of large round glasses, not too different from Perri’s own. Her cheeks were rounder and fuller than Perri’s narrow face and sharp chin, and her lips were quietly muttering as she kept full attention on the book she had six inches from her eyes. She hadn’t noticed Perri at all.

“Emmm…” Perri began, moving towards the desk to get her attention. “Hello?”

“Ahh!”, gasped the librarian, finally noticing Perri, dropping her book onto the desk and whipping her neck to face her. “I’m really sorry, I…”

She seemed to have a bigger need for glasses than Perri, her pair had to be twice as thick for them to be so magnified, but even then they seemed to get larger as they stared at Perri. Both women were motionless, the librarian moving her jaw in a futile attempt to form words and Perri herself frozen and beginning to sweat at the eyes studying her face as intently as she had studied hers.

Just as Perri was beginning to worry if she had a stutter, she was beaten in being the first to speak again. “I, I, apologies, Miss, first day back is always a bother.” Her voice was soft, steady, more calm than outright posh. Perri liked it.

“Nono, it’s alright, it happens to the best of us!”, replied Perri, suddenly aware of her ‘nasally slobbish geek’ tone when compared to the librarian.

The librarian rubbed her chin, her hands disappeared up the huge sleeves of her sweater. “So, well, can I help you with anything? I imagine it’s a strange new experience coming to university!”, she offered, along with a smile of pure innocence.

Perri blushed, as much to the smile as to her long-running case of vertical disadvantagement. “Ehh, actually, I’m the new I.T. here, thought I’d stop over, meet the coworkers.”

The smile disappeared into a look of pure horror. “Oh my word, I’m so sorry! Oh, I was told we would get a fulltime computer technician, but they weren’t at their desk in the…well, never mind that, it’s good to meet you!” She jutted out her right hand, holding it straight as a board, though visibly trembling. Perri decided to put her out of her misery and accepted the handshake, “I’m the librarian here, Laplace Lassoli. Not 'La Plass’ as in the famous mathematician, but 'La Pièce’ as in the phrase, 'La pièce de résistance’, French for 'the main meal’.” she greeted, ending with a nervous chuckle. She was still shaking Perri’s hand. “On most days it is just me and Amy, our archivist, although it seems she believes the year has yet to begin. One thing you should know about her, she’s in Greek Studies, and she is a true student of Aristippus!”

Perri did not know who that was, and she decided to not challenge it. Mercifully, Laplace let go of her hand.

“Yeah, I can’t wait to meet her. I’m Perri Fifecksgee, by the way. Don’t ask me to spell that.” It only just then occurred to her that she only planned as far as giving her name. “Umm, do you…” Blank. Panic. Autopilot. “Do you want to get some coffee?”

Her cheeks burned red as she realised what she just said, and on seeing Laplace’s reaction. “E-eh-excuse me?!”, exclaimed Laplace, her own cheeks beginning to blush.

Perri’s mind raced to explain itself. “Ah! I mean, well, it’s, it’s the afternoon, and I think maybe we should get a coffee and a sandwich? Like, I bring you something if-”

Laplace couldn’t have replied any more quickly, “Nonono, I understand you, yes, that is an excellent idea, let us go-, she cut herself off, turning her face to look at something behind Perri. Perri turned to see it herself, and to her horror saw three students, two lankey twin sisters with dyed red hair, and a third shorter girl with a head of strawberry blonde so thick her eyes were hidden to the world, all looking at them.

“Are, are you girls in need of assistance?”, asked Laplace, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. The twins looked at eachother, and one of them answered, “No, Miss, we’re alright.”

“Alright.”, Laplace turned back to Perri. “Then I suppose we shall get a bite to eat.”

Perri and Laplace were in such a hurry to leave the building, they didn’t overhear the students talking, and neither had any interest to.

“Wow, Rue, who do you think Ms. Lassoli was talking to?”, spoke one of the twins.

Rue replied, “I’m not sure, Tilly, she must be a fresher, but I didn’t see her in lectures.”

The shorter one let out a loud gasp, before declaring, “Ms. Lassoli has just met someone!”

Tilly pinched her own nose. “You don’t say, Paddy?”

AAAHHHH<3<3<3 I really like the use of the names here! It makes more sense than a group of people going around named after gemstones sdlfksn

(submitted by definitelyameatbag)

[fmdxjerome]

It’s So Good || We Got Married #3

In which Jerome tries to sweep @jiafmd off her feet like the good husband he is but ends up sweeping himself off his own right there with her.

Up till this point the wedding had been eating away at Jerome with every passing second. He fidgeted, nervously playing with his pockets, his jacket, the flower in his pocket - and later on Jiyoungs dress, curling his fingers into the white fabric as he stood next to her. How stunning she looked when she first walked out though; hair in beautiful coils framing her dainty visage, skin resembling the colour of freshly poured chardonnay, which in any other occasion he’d gladly get intoxicated by, and her body like an hour glass with the white fabric draping over it like silk, flowing with every step she took on the warm sand beneath her. Jerome couldn’t even remember how many times he swallowed, once? twice? His eyes widening slightly at the sight before his gaze fell to the ground. He almost looked bashful.

But that was before the present exchanges.

The nerves he felt rush through his body fell at ease when Jiyoung gifted him the ring, letting the lettering that engraved the inside make a grin paint his warm tinted lips. There it was, that reassurance he felt deep inside of him. He didn’t have to feel nervous about this. Jia was friendly and nice. And would flip off Kim Byungchul too if given the chance. She was fun. A friend.

Now he wanted to have fun, too.

Or, be a bit more relaxed at best. 

Lips pressed into a line as he marveled the silver band decorating his ring finger. “Ah, after a beautiful gift like this, I want to preface mine with a little story. For intimacy sake.” 

“I once promised my grandfather that I’d sing a specific song on my wedding day.” The male started with that sentence his story, giving away all the information needed. He could’ve stopped there. Not speak of details and to just cut to the chase. But as he stood there speaking into his lavalier mic, he felt the need to elaborate. Tell a story. Share this. “It was in the heart of autumn and the rain was pouring heavily outside. I just came out of school and what I usually did was head to my grandfathers house to wait before my dad picked me up. This time my dad didn’t pick me up, allowing me to sleep over. Which by the way was and is the most amazing thing seeing as my grandfather is the best cook. Which in part makes me the second best cook. I learned his craft after all. Ah.” He turned to Jia for a moment, eyes glinting with something - was it pride? “You are very lucky I’m your husband, Jiyoung, I’ll make you dinner.” His tone was teasing, the words being accompanied with a raise of his eyebrow and a light curl of the corner of his lips. But it only took a moment more for him to fall back into his story, eyes on the people again, camera zooming in on his face. “But that’s beside the point. Imagine this. Yours truly, smaller, skinnier, baby faced but still deadly handsome though, curled up in a blanket, singing along to the French classics everyone adored.” That smile on his lips. Maybe it was time to fall back into nervousness again. Maybe it was time to put on his act again. Was this a good idea? This story? He spoke again. “That was that evening. Me singing. Ah, Juliette Gréco, Yves Montand, Edith Piaf, they all stopped by. And my grandfather came to sit next to me when this one particular song came on, prompting him to say.” The songwriter glanced towards the floor, almost boyish in his demeanor. What was happening? “This was my wedding song. The song I swayed your grandmother to all those years ago.” Reminiscing of the past. That what was happening, the memory settling nicely in the front of his mind. “He placed his hand on my shoulder then and with this hopefulness in his eyes he asked me; Jerome? Will you play it too? I said yes, telling him I’d even sing it.” As the sentence left his lips, he realized what he was doing. How he was doing it. Alarms went off, but just a moment, knowing his pushed back hair wouldn’t be able to hide the look in his eyes. With his adams apple bopping up lightly, he snapped out of it. 

Let’s have fun. He thought. 

He ran a hand through his dark locks. “And this is a wedding.” He stated the obvious, glancing around. There was a bit of wonder about if people were are already making scenario’s of what will happen next. Is he singing the song?  His hand dug into his pocket as he continued. “I have a beautiful wife. I see my friends sitting here. This seems to be the perfect opportunity. But-.” Halting the sentence for suspense, he was like that. Especially now. He needed to have fun. “I won’t be performing that song today.” Jerome bathed in the aws that irrupted from their combined friends and co-workers, making him laugh a bit. “I know. I know. Such a nice story and no payout? I’m sorry, but I like to keep it reserved for the real thing. Meaning most likely the secret of my wedding song will follow me to my grave.” He was grinning to show that he liked the idea. That he didn’t want to settle down. That he was Yuddy. But then his eyes froze on Julien. Beaming. Listening. Eyes settled on him. He blinked. Where was his breath? It was caught in his throat. Swallow it down. Don’t day anything stupid. He swallowed but his mouth slipped out words quicker than his mind could register. 

“Or.. who knows.”

It could’ve been worse, the words he used, but the way his eyes lingered before forcefully tearing his gaze away spoke volumes, volumes he wanted to lower exponentially. He had hoped it didn’t look like something to raise questions about. And he was lucky because would you watch this episode back, he just looked caught off guard. Just distracted. For himself however, his mind started to race to find a sentence that made the words harmless again. Harmless and far from Jerome. “I have a hunch though. Who could tie me down? Jiyoung might be the only one and she’s just gets a taste.” There was flirtatiousness lacing his words, purely to disguise that uneasy feeling that crept up on him so quickly, and he winked at his virtual wife - just to add. Fun. 

Returning to the subject at hand felt natural now, the soft summer breeze helping him come to his senses. This was about Jia. He needs to have fun. “About the song though, I promise you that it’s just as good. Favourite of my grandfather. Favourite of mine, you can’t go wrong. What I do need to do is make a request. Two.” He held up his ring and middle finger “My beautiful wife, can I please have you sitting your attractive ass- ah, attractive self on the this seat for a moment.” He said as he pointed to the chair specially placed there for her. Vulgar. At least he corrected himself in a way that almost made it sound like he planned to say it, just in jest. Just in a tease. Nothing to raise eyebrows over. “and you all.” He looked over the people as Jia sat down. “I want you all to repeat the words ‘c’est si bon’ after every line I sing. That’s c’est.” “si.” “bon. Can you do that?” They could, though struggling at first. But as he listened to the people repeat the words back to him, a smile crept on his lips. “Perfect. You can almost say-” He turned around then, the smile he wore now almost smug.

“It’s so good.”

With a finger snap the music started. And with the company of the blow instruments on the track, Jerome’s taupe suit jacket slid from his broad shoulders only to be thrown onto the similar coloured sand, forgotten. This was all part of the act, how his body swayed on the melody, fingers crawling up his dress shirt with such a sensuous tinge to it, seemingly stuck in his own world before the song build up to the strongest note and the male effortlessly rips two to three buttons worth of dress shirt open, a sultry “C’est si bon.” leaving his lips.

The singer was known to be a little bit extra from time to time, especially when his native language came to play. Today was no exception. He needed to show his best side, particularly in this situation. First he made his way over to his bride, her amused face a familiar response to the younger. As he sung his fingers brushed over her cheek, his face leaning in near her ear until the word “chansons” left his lips and he pulled away, lips being made wet by his tongue as they curled into a delighted grin. He continued his parade like this, fingers sliding over shoulders, playfully leaning in to one of the girls sitting whilst singing “Des petits riens-du-tout.” as his hand slid down her cheek.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The pads of his fingertips tickled its way down the line of seated people all turning their heads as he walked by, head swaying to the music. It wasn’t like he was walking with a purpose. Nothing what he was doing was pre planned. He went on feel - and when his fingers reached the shoulder of his closest friend, his feelings told him to be just a bit more extra. So his fingers crawled down the others chest, enveloping the male in a warm back hug. Weirdly enough, there was nothing suggestive at the touch, he just locked arms around his the other. “Les passant-” Maybe there was something different. Not suggestive but different. The language his actions spoke alien to most everyone who was watching him now, except for one. He tilted his head, eyes closed and his senses a bit hypersensitive. “dans la rue-” He could feel the tip of his nose brush against the dark locks of the other which made him lean back slightly. Too close. “nous envient.” His lips were near his ear now after the words were sung. Not close, but close enough to softly blow air into it, warm breath caressing the skin. For the camera it looked innocent; a friend teasing another friend. But for Jerome it was a little bit more than that. Maybe this was a statement, silently telling him that whatever he was doing to him, he can do right back. The difference in the situations sparked an unfair disadvantage for Jerome. He had to take action, Julien had just looked. Standing back up, he let his fingers follow the natural creases of his dress shirt upwards, not lingering now. And as another c’est si bon left his lips, his fingers slid counter clockwise along his neck, starting from his adams apple to finish at the nape - gentle and affectionate - before he moved on again, the digits leaving the heated skin reluctantly.

That might’ve been a bit much but it felt nice. It got his heart beating. And when he looked back he saw those pretty ears burn a rosy red, making a smile appear on his lips, beautifully captured by the camera filming him. He got what he wanted. It almost made him miss a note, though. Almost. But he recollected himself by tearing the gaze away from Julien, unwanted but needed. At least to finish finish the song. And to keep his heart in check. 

After his little escapades he finally returned to the woman of the hour, giving her all the attention when the instrumental part of the song started playing. How he took her hand, guiding her off the chair and into his arms. His one hand on the small of her back and his other holding onto her hand, not intertwining their fingers. Normally he would dip lower with his hand, dare to dip lower. But this was Jiyoung. And they were on tv. And- he glanced to the crowd, finding another reason there. 

They slowly spun around like this, swaying along the melody as their feet kicked away the sand under them. How romantic this looked. He could hear his manager cheering, his ceo nodding, his fans fawning over this side of him. He just heard his thoughts telling him to do something. anything. With that he noticed the music changing, the sharp notes going up and down in tone, indicating it was almost time to sing again. Jerome decides to spin her around, one eighty degrees, his hand letting go of hers to place both of his on her hips. high on her hips. more her waist. And he starts singing again, head pressed against hers. “C’est inouï, ce qu’elle a pour séduire.” séduire was dragged out, r rolling from the back of his throat. But as the next sentence left his lips, he let the hands on her hips be replaced by his arms around her waist, gripping tightly. And when the words passed his lips found her cheek, pressing a playful but friendly kiss there.

He didn’t wait for a respond, the song continuing just like him. He swayed her body a bit more to show this was just all fun, nothing more. A laugh in his voice as he sang. 

Jerome spun her around a second time when the end of the song was nearing, his mind telling him to one more extra thing to end this all. And whilst the line ‘C’est parce que c’est si bon.” was leaving his lips, he leaned in, noses almost touching, eyebrows shooting up teasingly with a grin that deserved to be slapped off his face. But that only lasted a second or two because his head fell on her shoulder and they spun around again, repeating the last few words as the song came to a close.

It took him a few seconds to let go off her, prefacing it with a warm hug before his pleased expression appeared back into view, bowing with a chuckle when he heard the claps and all ‘round laughs in response to this little show. “Merci beaucoup. I’m here all day.” 

It isn’t everyday you get to serenade like this. But it was everyday you wonder about the things you did and if they were smart to do or not. 

Had he done something stupid on this day? Maybe. Hm, he’d have to watch the episode to find out.

Word count: 2.449

Author note; Jerome’s sentimental story wasn’t planned, he spoke about it on the spot because he felt at ease in the moment. He originally just wanted to say his grandpa liked this song and so he sang it. But his nerves washed away for a moment. He’s side eyeing himself as we speak.

The song is called C’est si bon by Yves Montand, meaning “It’s so good.” in French. Hence the title. Translated and French lyrics are found here [x] if you are interested in what he’s saying. I chose this song purely based on the fact that I could see everything happening the second I heard it. I could place Jerome, and that was really nice. Though the actual writing process was difficult. I spend three hours just figuring out how he’d move around the crowd in this song, so yes. This writing also took awhile and I finally finished the draft after multiple all nighters, and now at 5pm I’ve tried to fix mistakes and write more smoothly. Please excuse my spelling mistakes if I forgot to fix a few. English is of course not my native language and I just woke up after a night of writing this but I had to release it now seeing as it’ll finally pave the way for me to start and continue things again. And yes. Jerome is a flirt even on his wedding day. I’m sorry Jia. At least he can make some fine filet mignon.

About the kiss, Jerome is raised European. So as an European bean myself, it’s pretty normal to kiss cheeks. I mean French and Dutch are pretty different but I believe we have the same etiquette when it comes to that. I don’t know if that kind of skinship would raise eyebrows in Korea (especially in this context #rumours) but Jerome has done stupider things in the last 5 years of living here. So. I’ve seen kpop idols do it but they’re always so fucking awkward about it afterwards so I give my explanation after the fact.

The original song he is supposed to sing on his real wedding is a secret, at least for now. So don’t ask. (˵¯͒〰¯͒˵) it’s very nice.

Even though this is late and it doesn’t really matter no more, I hope you all enjoyed reading it. This is the first solo para that got me all content and I really wanted to finish this due to my unfortunate absent during the event. I apologize for the length. 

[kingsramsay-blog]

↠ ᴛᴡᴏ ғᴀᴄᴇᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ɴᴜᴍʙ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ, ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʟɪᴇs.

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀs: noah ramsay, wayne ramsay, richard ramsay, fionn cullen, rue lambert.  ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: drug use, death. 

For as long as Noah could remember, the words I’m fine had had been his pen and paintbrush, used to scribble out and gloss over every emotionally charged circumstance he didn’t want to face head on. He could first recall saying it at seven years old. Small and shaking, he had tumbled off his bright red bike with the steering wheels just removed because his ten year old brother had let go of him too soon, sneering all the while as he looked up at him from the dirt and bit his quivering lip, refusing to let the tears fall. Both Wayne and his oldest brother Richard -- Dick by nickname, dick by nature -- gained gleeful amusement at how easy it was to upset Noah, their mocking countdowns the background music to how long it took him to cling onto his disinterested mother’s leg and tell her thigh what they had done this time to get him into a state.

“You going to cry again, stupid?” Wayne asked as he towered over him, lifting the bike off but that was where his assistance cut short.

“No…” Noah answered meekly, dusting off the little bits of gravel stuck in a fresh cut on his knee, the bits on his palm falling away too. “I’m fine.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“I’m fine nana, really.” Noah reassured from behind a locked door. For the entirety of his third term at Cambridge he had been wishing for Christmas break, not that he was a particular fan of the holiday itself, but it meant two weeks off. Two weeks away from assignments, deadlines, continuous assessments and meetings with his tutor who he called his tut because that was the sound she made every time she looked at his average grade thus far.

By early November of his he felt himself cracking, like something would have to give or he would just pack it all in and return home the failure he was always on track to be. The kind voice from the hallway that said okay love, I’ll put a cuppa on for you had been the only one he was still trying for. She had burdened him with a wish to see him graduate, joking that he would be the last of her grandchildren to do so. Though she by no way intended to, her words were like a noose around his neck and every time she fell ill with another bad bought of the flu it was like an unsteady bucket threatening to give out from beneath him.

He had to see it through for her. He had to graduate.

That determination had played devil’s advocate the first time his roommate Liam had produced a bag of white powder and offered him some on a one pound coin. He promised him it would keep him alert, keep him wide eyed all night and let him finish the essay on Socrates he had been dragging his heels about writing.

Noah’s crush on him had been the final push he needed, blue eyes locked on green eyes while he held his wrist with his left hand and pressed his right index finger to his right nostril with the other. The rush of it had been like nothing he ever knew, every thought he had more vivid, every sequence in his mind faster and more expansive than the last. He finished his essay that night and got a jump start on an online assignment that wasn’t due for another fortnight.

Sat then on the off colour white stool of his grandmother’s old vanity table, he divided that same white powder that had gotten him through the first half of his second year of university with the student card that bore it’s crest and his face. He rolled up the ten pound note his grandmother had given him to go for a pint round the pub with his brother’s later that evening, leaning down and snorting a line with more ease than he was willing to read into.

He dared not look at his own reflection in the mirror, sure that without the surrounding of a small dorm room and his taunting textbooks, he would only see his dilated pupils and the face of a boy who had broken his grandmother’s heart under the excuse of trying to fulfil one of her most sincere wishes.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“You’re fine, you’re fine. You’re going to wake up, and this is all going to be fine.” Noah’s voice cracked as he rocked back and forth, trying to reassure himself. Both hands gripped his messy hair, the crisp white shirt he had word under his suit the night before now stained brown with whiskey and rum and hanging half undone off his body. His tie decorated the headstand, while his pants were on the floor. Next to him lay the man he had been seeing, Fionn had liked to party as much as he did. They had met at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, both of their sobrieties flippant at best.

Noah had categorised him as fun but not someone he could see himself with long term, a thought that made him want to vomit as he reached across and checked his cold body for a pulse for the third time since he had opened his eyes. He had none.

“Oh god, oh god.. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.”

He was only drawn back to reality by a pair of hands around his wrists, the pressure a comforting squeeze, as though trying to calm him down. All he could think was it wouldn’t be long before a pair of handcuffs replaced them.

“You’re okay, I promise. This is going to be okay. You just need to listen to me, alright?” The voice wasn’t one that was familiar to him, but there was unbearable softness to it that made him want to cry, something he refused to do. He lifted his head then, his fearful blue eyes locking onto her warm brown ones.

It wouldn’t be until later that he would learn her name. Rue Lambert. She had been right in what she had said, it was going to be okay. He held onto that when he was sentenced to a three year stretch in prison, those same brown eyes watching him from the viewing gallery of the courtroom. He would atone for all the wrong he had done under the guise of guilt for a crime they both knew he hadn’t meant to commit, and when he was done he would be a free man again and a better one. One deserving of the kindness she had offered a wayward stranger, one that would rise above the shackles of fine and start anew.

[definitelyameatbag]

Perri meets the Librarian

A quick fic inspired by @drawbauchery‘s Biker/Librarian AU and the art they’ve done for it.

Word count: 1630

---The autumn drizzle was already setting in on the first day of a new academic year. Pulling into the campus grounds, the bus was packed with both freshers exchanging meet-and-greets and returning students catching up with eachother on the events of the long summer, not a thought spent on the lectures that were to come.

One young woman sitting on the bus had thought, one year ago, that she had done this return for the last time. After crossing the final gauntlet of education, Perri was certain a placement in some swish new tech job was waiting for her.

Well, that was on hold for a while. In the meantime, she pleaded a few final favours from the librarian to get her an interview for a job on tech support. She still lived on beans, but after getting a job in the library on the old campus, and sharing a rent with some ballet dancer she somehow become friends with over the last few years, she at least kept the lights on.

Perri never came to Bleu Demone Campus much, the Yzma L.O Campus she went to was where she got her Computer Science degree, and was a magnificent world of glass and metal, everything felt practically new, and it was. Bleu was where the university started, focused on the arts, and was an ancient ground of mossy old stone buildings, structurally sound in the same sense that the Pyramids were. The library was an old converted church, and was black from grime. She could inhale the dust from a mile away.

Whoever was running that building, she guessed, had to be a million years old.

She was the last off the bus, noting that it probably wasn't a good show for the first day on the job to come in at the same time as the students. She turned until she set eyes on the Front Office, deciding that it was where she had to go to get her stuff. Covering her hair from the drizzle, irritatingly becoming a light shower, she took her first steps on her first 'real' job.

They were nearly her last, she reflected on later, when her crossing of the road came close to turning lethal, as a blue and white blur sped past her, mere feet in front of her.

"Hey!", she cried out, doing a full 360 as she jumped back from the blur. Steadying herself, she saw it continue down the road through the campus. Pushing her glasses back up, the blur came into focus, and confusion gave to anger as it turned into a blue motorcycle, rider in a helmet and white tanktop.

"Watch where you're going, you-", many words passed through her mind, only at the last moment did she catch herself. She was now staff, this was her workplace, and she had to set an example of behaviour.

"You, CLOD!"

---

The incident of the morning aside, she soon got her keys from the office and had settled into her new domain. The computer suite was an extension to the original church building, a 'new' addition that was still twice as old as she was. She didn't think the felt floor was that exact colour when it was first put in, but it was mostly clean and, more importantly, quiet.

Perri waited for calls for assistance and, by midday, she was bored.

Minesweeper beckoned her on the old PC sitting on what was now her desk, but she resisted. She supposed she should at least get to know the layout of the building, and she hadn't even met the librarian that had to be somewhere inside. She never was much of a charmer, she thought, but it was better to meet her coworkers while they were in something of a greeting mood. She might even find something to read.

The library section was a labyrinth, three stories built inside the old main hall of the church, and she saw books on countless topics, literature, history, painting, maths, politics, economics, and the bottom levels built deep underneath the building housed some books that looked one, maybe two hundred years old. The whole maze felt heavy with the knowledge nearly trapped inside the stone walls.

Perri worried about getting lost and starving to death. She didn't even have breakfast this morning. Yes, not a good show on the first day at all.

After what may have been five minutes or an hour, at last found her place again, and arrived to a space that framed the main entrance to the library.

There, finally, she met another human being, sitting behind the desk at the side of the space. And she was a surprise.

She looked about Perri's age, dark skinned, with dyed blue shoulder-length hair. The hair was her main and only extravagance, other than that she was the most Librarian librarian Perri had ever set eyes upon. Her light brown sweater looked several sizes too large, her blue scarf nearly covered her entire neck, and her furrowed brow hid behind a pair of large round glasses, not too different from Perri's own. Her cheeks were rounder and fuller than Perri's narrow face and sharp chin, and her lips were quietly muttering as she kept full attention on the book she had six inches from her eyes. She hadn't noticed Perri at all.

"Emmm..." Perri began, moving towards the desk to get her attention. "Hello?"

"Ahh!", gasped the librarian, finally noticing Perri, dropping her book onto the desk and whipping her neck to face her. "I'm really sorry, I..."

She seemed to have a bigger need for glasses than Perri, her pair had to be twice as thick for them to be so magnified, but even then they seemed to get larger as they stared at Perri. Both women were motionless, the librarian moving her jaw in a futile attempt to form words and Perri herself frozen and beginning to sweat at the eyes studying her face as intently as she had studied hers.

Just as Perri was beginning to worry if she had a stutter, she was beaten in being the first to speak again. "I, I, apologies, Miss, first day back is always a bother." Her voice was soft, steady, more calm than outright posh. Perri liked it.

"Nono, it's alright, it happens to the best of us!", replied Perri, suddenly aware of her 'nasally slobbish geek' tone when compared to the librarian.

The librarian rubbed her chin, her hands disappeared up the huge sleeves of her sweater. "So, well, can I help you with anything? I imagine it's a strange new experience coming to university!", she offered, along with a smile of pure innocence.

Perri blushed, as much to the smile as to her long-running case of vertical disadvantagement. "Ehh, actually, I'm the new I.T. here, thought I'd stop over, meet the coworkers."

The smile disappeared into a look of pure horror. "Oh my word, I'm so sorry! Oh, I was told we would get a fulltime computer technician, but they weren't at their desk in the...well, never mind that, it's good to meet you!" She jutted out her right hand, holding it straight as a board, though visibly trembling. Perri decided to put her out of her misery and accepted the handshake, "I'm the librarian here, Laplace Lassoli. Not 'La Plass' as in the famous mathematician, but 'La Pièce' as in the phrase, 'La pièce de résistance', French for 'the main meal'." she greeted, ending with a nervous chuckle. She was still shaking Perri's hand. "On most days it is just me and Amy, our archivist, although it seems she believes the year has yet to begin. One thing you should know about her, she's in Greek Studies, and she is a true student of Aristippus!"

Perri did not know who that was, and she decided to not challenge it. Mercifully, Laplace let go of her hand.

"Yeah, I can't wait to meet her. I'm Perri Fifecksgee, by the way. Don't ask me to spell that." It only just then occurred to her that she only planned as far as giving her name. "Umm, do you..." Blank. Panic. Autopilot. "Do you want to get some coffee?"

Her cheeks burned red as she realised what she just said, and on seeing Laplace's reaction. "E-eh-excuse me?!", exclaimed Laplace, her own cheeks beginning to blush.

Perri's mind raced to explain itself. "Ah! I mean, well, it's, it's the afternoon, and I think maybe we should get a coffee and a sandwich? Like, I bring you something if-"

Laplace couldn't have replied any more quickly, "Nonono, I understand you, yes, that is an excellent idea, let us go-, she cut herself off, turning her face to look at something behind Perri. Perri turned to see it herself, and to her horror saw three students, two lankey twin sisters with dyed red hair, and a third shorter girl with a head of strawberry blonde so thick her eyes were hidden to the world, all looking at them.

"Are, are you girls in need of assistance?", asked Laplace, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. The twins looked at eachother, and one of them answered, "No, Miss, we're alright."

"Alright.", Laplace turned back to Perri. "Then I suppose we shall get a bite to eat."

Perri and Laplace were in such a hurry to leave the building, they didn't overhear the students talking, and neither had any interest to.

"Wow, Rue, who do you think Ms. Lassoli was talking to?", spoke one of the twins.

Rue replied, "I'm not sure, Tilly, she must be a fresher, but I didn't see her in lectures."

The shorter one let out a loud gasp, before declaring, "Ms. Lassoli has just met someone!"

Tilly pinched her own nose. "You don't say, Paddy?"

[titoslondon-blog]

New Post has been published on Titos London

#Blog New Post has been published on http://www.titoslondon.co.uk/what-goes-on-behind-the-scenes-at-chanels-atelier/

What goes on behind the scenes at Chanel’s atelier

It began more than 60 years ago, the story of the Chanel jacket, when Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel, on a quest to liberate women from the restrictive bodices and cumbersome skirts of the 1950s, set about designing an elegant yet casual suit that could be worn morning, noon and night. By removing bust darts, stripping away interfacing and shoulder pads and inserting pockets, she created a timeless design with an emphasis on line, structure and function.

“Enabling women to move with ease, to not feel like they’re in costume” was the most challenging part of her job, Chanel said, and so her main objective was to make clothes that didn’t change the wearer’s “attitude or manner”.

The house of Chanel’s raison d’etre remains largely unchanged today, as does the design of its trademark jacket. That said, since Karl Lagerfeld was appointed as artistic director in 1983, it has been reimagined in a wealth of different fabrics, including leather, faux fur and terry cloth, and styled with dresses, jeans and swimming costumes. This was the case when he presented his autumn/winter 2018 Chanel haute couture collection at the Grand Palais on Tuesday against a quintessential Parisian scene of Seine-side bouquinistes. A centrepiece of the collection was a two-piece suit cut from angora wool in a melange of brown, grey and amaranthe, embroidered with more than 225 thousand sequins. Look 39—a dazzling take on the timeless savoir faire Chanel pioneered, modernised with zip details and intended to create a statement, not only with its dense embellishments, but also leg-of-mutton sleeves and oversized classic collar—accounted for almost 1,000 hours of work.

In the weeks running up to the show, Vogue went behind the scenes at the Chanel haute couture ateliers on 31 rue Cambon to trace the story of look 39 from sketch to catwalk.

Chanel haute couture ateliers—the jewel in the crown that is 31 rue Cambon

After ascending the famous mirrored staircase where Madame Chanel would sit as she presented her collections—concealed from view but observing the responses of her clients in the spliced reflection with a hawk-like astuteness—it’s another few flights before we reach the haute couture ateliers on the upper floors of the building. Flooded with natural light, archive photos of Chanel conducting fittings peek out from behind block pattern pieces bearing the names of clients. An army of tailors, all central to continuing the maison’s legacy, are arranged around banks of desks and dressmaker mannequins, fastidiously hand-stitching the final details to suiting; their sense of focus is palpable.

There are a total of four ateliers each with up to 50 seamstresses, plus a smaller atelier “galon” for trimmings. Two ateliers are devoted to what is known as the “flou”—generating a dialogue between the garments and opulent fabrics such as tulle, organza and chiffon—and the other two specialise in suiting. A head seamstress, known as a “première”, presides over each atelier, collectively overseeing a total of up to 70 looks every season. It is to Madame Jacqueline’s atelier that Vogue comes on Monday morning.

Meet Madame Jacqueline—a Chanel haute couture première

Having worked in haute couture from the age of 15, it’s fair to say Madame Jacqueline Mercier is something of a fashion oracle—even the day before the show she is managing her titanic workload with aplomb. It takes at least ten years, she says, to “master the trade”, and it’s been 30 years since she was ordained a première, 25 of which she has spent working with Karl Lagerfeld (five years at Chloé and 20 at Chanel).

“Mon dieu! It’s been a journey,” she says. “As well as learning in an atelier, I took a baccalaureate to perfect my skills in cutting and tailoring. I’ve been lucky to meet people who have taught me a lot and allowed me to grow, and it is Karl who has allowed me to grow at Chanel.”

Working diligently at Mercier’s side are her three “seconds”—and nearby are a trio of apprentices “who are extremely important because they are ensuring the knowledge of the atelier continues”. Qualified people, she adds, “are becoming harder to find”.

It all starts with a sketch

“Karl handed me the sketch for look 39 around the 10th of June, and we began realising the design immediately,” Mercier says. Have there been many changes in the process of creating the jacket now draped on a stand before us? “No! I’m very good at my job,” she quips. “I’ve known Karl a fair while now—I know where he is going, I know what he wants. His sketches are very clear, very explicit. That helps us a lot.”

Bringing the sketch to life

From the sketch, Mercier and her team create a prototype from calico cotton known as a “toile”. When a look is assigned to a première “main”, that person is completely responsible for that piece, and they usually realise it from beginning to end. “We experiment with the volume and proportions until the prototype accurately reflects the original sketch,” she says. “Then we present it to Karl on a real-life model so he can tell us any further adaptations he’d like made.” Comparing the toile to the finished jacket, you see how the design has been developed and the garment constructed—the leg-of-mutton sleeve has been cropped from the purlicue to the forearm and its volume maintained by an underlay of stiffer fabric.

From calico cotton to elegant embroidery

The final fabric is decided upon when the toile is presented to Lagerfeld and Chanel’s fashion studio director Virginie Viard. The ateliers work closely with the Métiers d’Art (Chanel’s artisanal partners) and for look 39 a brown, grey and amaranth wool angora wool embellished with over 225 thousand sequins by the house of Lesage is chosen. The embroidery specialist (previously Michonet) dates back 160 years and supplied the father of haute couture Charles Frederick Worth; collaborations with Chanel began when Lagerfeld took the helm in 1983.

Making the cut

The toile is converted into a flat paper pattern so the design can be cut in the final fabric. It is carefully sewn together piece-by-piece—delicate embroideries stitched over every seam to conceal them, with Lagerfeld reviewing progress on several occasions, honing in on the finer details such as the colour of the lining and zips.

Monday night sees skirts, jackets, dresses, hats, gloves, shoes and bags amalgamated into full looks. Everything still needs a final polish—adding those last buttons and embellishments—so Mercier assembles a second team to work the night shift.

Show time!

At 10am on Tuesday, the 67-look Chanel autumn/winter 2018 haute couture collection makes its way down the catwalk; 986 hours of work has gone into creating look 39 alone. “A seamstress generally realises a design from beginning to end—it’s their baby,” Mercier explains. “For that reason, when the show happens we are sometimes so overwhelmed we cry.” The following day it’s back to business as show clients arrive by appointment in the couture salons at 31 rue Cambon, with fittings orchestrated by the première.

A piece of haute couture can cost hundreds of thousands of Euros, and clients can buy global exclusivity on a garment. If more than one of each design is made for different customers however, the Chanel sales team makes sure they don’t belong to the same social circles or live on the same continent so as to minimise the risk of two dresses winding up at the same party. Yes, the curtain may have closed on couture week for this season, but the show at 31 rue Cambon still goes on.

1/16 Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Inside the Chanel atelier

Image: Luc Braquet

Chanel couture autumn/winter 2018

Image: Jamie Stoker

Chanel couture autumn/winter 2018

Image: Jamie Stoker

Chanel couture autumn/winter 2018

Image: Jamie Stoker

The post What goes on behind the scenes at Chanel’s atelier appeared first on VOGUE India.

[martinlawless]

King’s Lynn Road Race

Sunday 15 October 2017, Grimston, Norfolk

This was always going to be a tough race to achieve my goal of a top 10 place in a Cat 3-4 ERRL Regional B race. The course is basically flat and fast. It’s narrow and the weather was great, to suit the strong and able. The startsheet showed that local teams would be there in force and more than capable of working together to manufacture a killer break. All the same, I was prepared to give it my best shot - and hopeful that when [not if] the break would come - I could make the leap.

Today must have been some kind of record-breaker for October. Warm and sunny to start off. I arrived and met up with Dave and Steve in good time, having had a nice drive across the fens to get to Grimston, near King’s Lynn.

King’s Lynn CC were out in force and put on a brilliant event. This race included digital transponders for instant and accurate timing and positions. I recced the course. Essentially, a 14.5 miles rectangle, not unlike the CCA Club 10m TT course; twisting west-side, fast tail wind flat south-side, tight laned east-side through beautiful Great Massingham, and then a fast north-side that seemed to drop slightly all the way. Some of that bit is familiar to those who’ve done the Ashwell-Wells ride. We would complete 4 laps for the statutory 58 miles. Actually: just less as the course was rerouted as someone had had too many to drink the night before and left their car outside the Dabbling Duck pub and in the way of our course.

This course did not suit me, but I hoped I’d just get lucky. Off we went on the neutralised start, or as I like to call it; the start. No hanging around. Get behind that Lead Car. I wriggled to the front 7-8 and resolved to stay there and suss out the good guys. Some, I recognised from the previous Maldon race and I kept the speedy ones in sight.

It became apparent straightaway that plans had been made, maybe between teams beforehand, and there were several coordinated attempts to create a break from the off. On the furthest corner, there is a dog-leg turn, and here was the only off of the race, where a Stowmarket CC rider simply overcooked his turn and was sent head first to the road. Luckily, everyone else avoided him and it turns out he only needed a bit of TLC and a plaster back at HQ. That took the sting out of the rest of Lap 1.

Lap 2 saw repeated attempts at a break. I felt helpless. I was often the only one shouting to the peloton to mark and chase the riders down. All made harder as you didn’t know who was in on the act, or not. Eventually, a third of the way into lap 2, there was a third decisive, massive effort and several riders broke clear. I saw one of my marked riders jump to it and knew this was the break that would stick. But I hesitated, thinking; jump to it and if I fail, risk being shot out of the back of the bunch. I wimped out. Instead, I tried to hustle the riders around me to break this break once again. I could instantly feel though that I was surrounded by sandbaggers at the front of the group and I felt pretty lonely. I saw a gap of a few bike lengths become 8 seconds by the time we turned a the half way point of lap 2. The break had good riders who are frankly just visiting Cat 3 on their way to bigger things. I regret not having the guts to bury myself and make the break. At the same time, I fear they’d have shuffled me off at some point had I done so, once they realised I was an easy kill. Indeed, looking at the results, this is kind of what happened; the break whittled down to five riders sharing the glory. So, on reflection, I did the best I could. I didn’t feel that at the time though.

Towards the end of lap 2, we seemed to be chasing the break down, but then it started to lengthen from lap 3. And soon enough, they were out of sight. They would finish a good minute over the peloton.

Back in the bunch, a kind of acceptance fades in as the sandbaggers make constructive effort futile. You get the feeling of resignation - good and bad. You rue your chances of a result now being harder. But, the stress is removed from the peloton too, and riding gets more comfortable and fun. 

I was surprised at how many riders were working to limit our speed and stop further breakaways. I watched their little coded hand gestures and how they’d rotate the duties. Looking at the results, it wasn’t just by team mates of those in the break. It was by the sprinters. They couldn’t afford further breaks and were focused on destroying moves to make it a bunch sprint at the end where they fancied their chances.

The chaingang-like rhythm means Lap 3 is quite forgettable, and the bell for the final lap wakes us up a bit. I have a brief chat with Steve and Dave who are doing just fine. With nothing left to lose, in the final half of the lap, Steve takes his chances TTing off the front with another rider. For a brief moment, I get to play sandbagger on the front and try to kill the bunch pace while watching him escape. However, this brave move folds as I’m quickly sussed, and Steve’s co-rider fades. One down-side of having a distinctive club jersey is there’s no hiding team mates.

On to the final few miles ahead of the 120 degree turn and then 200 metre dash to the line. The pace whips up and we three CCA riders link together for protection and efficiency. I enjoy this mini-blue train and hope it can get us a result. As we close in, I see in front of me that Dave’s pedal stroke is beginning to look laboured. I urge him on with the end not far, as we really pick up pace in a swarm that’s all across the wide road. There were 54 starters, but only 39 would finish as others pull up for different reasons.

I became blocked in as the group rotated in front of me. Frustrated, I took a chance and dropped right to the back of the bunch and went all the way over to the other side of the road. A strange feeling, with a high speed wall creating a brilliant vacuum. Miraculously, there’s a clear channel to the furthest right, and it’s sheltered from the wind. With less than 1km to go, I manage to cut through the peloton and get to the very front of the group.

Approaching the sharp turn, the sprinters show their colours; the guys with killer 10 seconds efforts. I’m in the perfect position for the turn, but flanked by faster and to be honest, braver, riders as we approach the bend.

There are loads of spectators gathered here, I expect in part as this is where spills and drama occur. Strava says that despite a turn at very slow speed, this section will be over 28mph. Fortunately, everyone is sensible and we all stay upright. I see the finish line, and a good few riders already well away towards it. I’m pleased with how I sprint, and take out a few who have lesser legs, or worse lines than mine. The Monday night roller disco is working wonders. One poor rider’s chain comes off: game over. I lunge to beat the rider alongside me - and beat him by 0.007 seconds: proof it pays to stick your transponder as far ahead on your bike as possible. I’m 19th.

We all slow down and weave through the cars that have been blocked for some time. The drivers seem to be fine with it and curious to what they’re seeing. I catch up with Dave who was in the bunch and we pat ourselves on the back for a decent effort. We don’t see Steve though, and for a minute are a bit concerned. Soon enough, he pops up though. It turns out in the final few metres, Steve cramped and he had to coast the finish. He suspects it’s a bike fit thing. Something to work on over winter.

We’re back at the HQ, quick look at the results on the computer and bit of cake from the ridiculously good selection. You sense King’s Lynn CC are in good shape with many smiling and helpful people.

Steve says the average bunch effort worked out at 199w. Remarkably sedate - relatively. A punchy club run effort. But, obvs, it’s the intervals that really matter if you want to avoid getting dropped, or breakaway, or sprint for a place. 57 miles @ 25.1mph average.

That’s about it for 2017 racewise. Zero points total in the ERRL this year. But always in the top 20 in the four I did; 15th, 16th, 12th, 19th. Something to focus on.

Hopefully, I’ll have a dig at a winter crit that I enjoy in a sadistic way, before having a go a the ERRL again in 2018.

Strava: https://www.strava.com/activities/1231328365