#and then they just printed this wee confirmation for me!

[avillainousmagician]

YEEEEESSSSSSS!!!!!

#personal #i am so relieved #jury duty has been one of my worst nightmare scenarios since I was wee #like I had been waiting and dreading the day of a jury duty letter appearing for me since I was about 7 #and then it finally happened last week #and HOO BOY was I upset #my disabilities reeeeeally get in the way of me doing jury service #and so dylan handed in my exemption request form and my supporting evidence #and they just glanced over it #asked him if it was for permanent exemption to which he obvs said yes #and then they just printed this wee confirmation for me! #SUCH a weight off my shoulders #i can finally relax part of me that has been tense for 24 years

[awkwarddystopianwarlord]

Elongate My Underwear

Some months ago, me and my mates did an undie haul. It was this Canadian company which was convenient and it sold a ton of different undergarment styles. Most coveted by myself were the boxer briefs for lady shaped people. They had countless adorable patterns which got me so incredibly hyped. I didn’t even feel bad about going slightly overboard because I’d been in the market for underwear of that exact style for so long. 

We did this order in a somewhat complicated way. One friend used her account that she already had with the company. I used my credit card as I was the one who had it, un-maxed out, in a convenient location. Another friend used her home address for the shipping since neither of us had a mailbox that was secure or large enough. So, yes, the confirmation email probably looked like a wee bit of a mess with all the information coming from three directions. All the information was still legitimate though.

A couple weeks, I think, passed and the entire time I was so enthused about my coming underwear with the nice longer leg length and cute prints, as well as some extra goodies I got like a pair of boxer shorts and some bralettes. And then the friend who put through the order told us that the company flagged our purchase. It was considered fraud for some reason and she had messaged them multiple times explaining why our info was goofy looking and that we were real people. They wanted pictures of her ID which was weird and they didn’t take “no” for an answer. So that glorious three hundred ish dollar haul was refunded. All the undergarments I was desperately anxious for were no longer coming for me. And I was pissed. 

Not so much because that company was weird with verifying our realness, it was frustrating, but shit happens. But because that particular style of underwear is basically impossible to find, even more so affordably. The site we used had prices that made my wallet sing. All other brands and shops don’t even come close. We searched many a place to no avail and all I could think about was “why the shit is this so hard?” 

Menfolk have multiple lengths of underwear that fits all of their life’s needs. Why don’t womenfolk? Why is it that underwear made for lady shaped people only comes in short and super in your butt? When they advertise “boyshort” or  “boxer brief” it usually means that either your butt will still be exposed or covered just enough. Nothing is made much longer than a four inch inseam which is basically booty shorts. And that’s fine sometimes, depending on the mood. However, I got thick thighs and that short length rolls up constantly which is incredibly irritating. I want to cover said thighs so they stop chafing as they are want to do, especially when I get toasty. I don’t like them sticking together. Yet I cannot for the life of me find underwear that is long enough. For the most part. I do have a few pairs, but they aren’t exciting. Why can’t they be exciting? Why is it always the cheeky bikini thongs that are patterned? And why are they only really patterned with hyper feminine prints? 

Is it truly too much to ask for goofy, colorful, playful, fun patterns on women flavored underwear? And it is too much to ask for some of that underwear to be longer? We have bike shorts. Just do that with a lighter fabric and boom, done. I just don’t see why the fellas have all this flexibility with their underthings whilst the other half of the population predominantly gets some level of sultry. It absolutely makes no sense. There are people who don’t have the ability to pee standing up but want to cover their undercarriage with similar garments. I can’t just get men’s boxer briefs because I need a gusset and not a pocket. I can’t use my reinforcements for when the gates open and the monthly red tide is released with men’s undies. I also don’t really want a random amount of fabric loosely bunching around the front of my netherregion, that just sounds uncomfy. 

I know there are brands out there that cater mainly to us weird-gendered folk. They are pricier though. And I really think that this should be a more normalized thing in general. It won’t have to be as expensive then if it has a larger market. At least, that’s how the optimistic side of me thinks. I know too that I’m not alone in this, but I don’t have the brain, funds, expertise, or anything else that it would take to just make my own line and call it a year. So uhh, can someone else who has all that please do it in my stead? In fact, can a bunch of people do it so it gets popularized and then fades to be commonplace? Thanks.

#writing #blog #friday post #thoughts #biweeklyblog #rants #struggles

[childrenoflight-darkness-nothing]

🏚 building collapse

tw warning for. earthquakes. and obviously building collapse. and... a wee bit of panic?

-----

Jace was typing out a text to Nyar when eir phone started ringing, his picture coming up on the screen. Ey answered it immediately, tucking it under eir ear as ey watched the dust settle in the air around them. The tv in the living room tuned to a news program that was already active with updates from the apparent, city wide earth quake.

"Are you alright?" It was the first thing he said, Jace smiling a little at the concern in his voice that mirrored eir own as ey'd learned that the quake had rattled the entire city.

"I'm fine," Jace answered. Ey pressed a button on eir tv remote, muting the broadcast for the moment. "Everything's fine here, no damage as far as I can tell. You?"

"You're not just saying that, are you?"

Jace grinned wider, holding back a laugh. "I promise, not even a scratch on me. You're welcome to come and check."

"It's pretty much the same here, a couple broken dishes. Rest is cowering on my shoulder, but. We're fine."

"Awww." Jace frowned, wiping a streak in the dust that had settled on eir coffee table. "Give them a kiss for me?"

"Do I get one too?"

"Maybe. If you come and get it."

"I would," Nyar started, and ey could hear fabric rustling on the other end of the line. "If the roads weren't an absolute mess right now. Too much traffic, I'd never get out of the parking deck."

Jace rose from eir seat, looking out eir own window and confirming what Nyar had said. The roads were mad. People rushing to check on loved ones. Panicked and leaving work in a hurry. "I'll have to come to you then."

"As much as I'd love that—"

Nyar's words cut out as another earth shattering shake erupted. A thousand times worse than it'd been minutes before.

Jace heard screams erupting from various places in the building as ey ducked away from the window, aiming for the couch and the thick blanket ey had there hoping it would shield em at least a little as the world fell apart. No time to make it to anywhere else.

Plaster fell from the ceiling, and the building cracked around em. Glass shattering. Car alarms barely perceivable above the roar of everything else.

-----

"Jace? Jace!" Nyar shouted into his phone as the world around him stilled, most everything still in tact. Aside from his shoulder, a panicked Rest having dug their claws in to keep hold of him in the chaos.

His phone beeped twice, signaling the line had disconnected and his grip tightened around the device as he tried to console the kitten on his shoulder.

"Archie," he called, after a minute of trying to call em again with no success. "Do you have any connection with Jace, at all? Scrubs?"

"No, sir," Archie answered after a moment, his voice echoing through the apartment. "It appears ey are offline, Captain. Scrubs has connection to every other member of the Elysium. Reports that they are all accounted for and with little to no injury."

"News reports for eir area?"

"Emergency services are no longer accepting calls, flooded with calls for aid specifically in eir area. And the streets surrounding, Captain."

Nyar's television flickered to life, the station tuned to a local news station with the latest updates from the most recent quake. He turned to it, squinting at the print scrawling across the screen until it turned to a on-scene reporter.

"We're live here in front of the wreckage of—"

Nyar heard nothing else as his heart stopped, blood rushing to his ears. There behind the reporter—he could make out a street sign. Could recognize Jace's building, a pile of rubble mirroing the building and the streets surrounding.

Emergency personal already swarming the scene. Lights flashing.

Jace lived closer to the ground floor than ey did the top. The entire building having come down on top of em.

[beautifulletdownfics]

The Nearness of You - A Harry Styles One Shot

A friends to lovers one shot feat. birthdays, pining and stolen purses.

Hello, please enjoy this fever dream fic that came to me a week ago and is now somehow 13.5k and gracing your eyeballs. I’ve never written a one-shot of this nature before and it was quite a refreshing distraction from my usual, long-form fics. Thank you to Anne @oh-honey-styles​ for the encouragement (bullying) and for posting the pic that inspired it all. To everyone else, read on x katey *Because this is quite lengthy, I’d recommend opening in a browser because the Tumblr app can be glitchy*

My masterlist Chat to me here

“When you're in my arms And I feel you so close to me All my wildest dreams came true” The Nearness of You, Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong

++

You love the cold.

London in February isn't everybody's cup of tea, but you feel positively giddy walking down the icy Soho street in your new & Other Stories snow boots. The hard, black leather is already making your toes ache, and they're rubbing against the heel of your left foot, but they'll stretch to size, and you can tell these are going to be Your Signature Boots. The wind whips against your cheeks, red flushing them as you cross the laneway and push open the door to the chic little restaurant you've followed on Instagram for years but never had an excuse to try. Figures Harry chose it for tonight. Sometimes you wondered if the coincidences were a little too … Coincidental.

"Hi," you smile brightly to the maître d', "I'm uh … I'm here for the birthday? For Harry?"

Do I need to say his surname? You think to yourself.

"Can I have your name, please?" The suited man pulls a piece of paper out of the reservations book and waits for you to identify yourself. Your chest is rattling from the cold and the flurry of nerves you're all too familiar with ignoring.

"Y/N," you say your full name, taking in the dark floor of the restaurant, the flickering candles on the tables and lining the bar that takes up the entire left side of the room. The whole place is beautiful, just like you've double-tapped online; all deep reds and burgundies, vintage posters, and mismatched, dark wooden furniture. A jazz record plays just loudly enough to fuse the conversations at all the tables into one comfortable sound. It would make for a sexy place for a date, you decide, stolen touches under the table would feel thrilling and seductive.

The maître d' nods, you're on the list, "Back in the private dining room," he says, "Follow me this way."

You push your evening bag further up your shoulder and walk half the length of the bar, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. You catch the bartender watching you as you go, he's cute, and you give him an awkward little wave before calling out ahead of you.

"Sorry, excuse me," you get the attention of the man leading you through, "Can you point me to where I need to go? I'm going to get a drink to take in first if that's okay?"

"Just there," he points to the doorway at the back, next to the kitchen pass, "The curtain on the right."

Thanking him, you watch as he walks back to his station by the front door. You turn to the bar and rest your hands on the cool wood. They've stuck the pages together of old Little Golden Books for the drink menus, but you'll be ordering what you always get on birthdays, so don't take in the beverage options as you flip through The Tawny Scrawny Lion. You remember it from when you were a kid.

The bartender moves to stand in front of you, a gleam in his eyes and flirtatious smirk on his face, "Pretty good read, that one. You have to order a drink though, this isn't a library."

You laugh, he's laying it on a bit thick but probably just after the tip, "I was more a The Poky Little Puppy sort of girl."

He gives you a grin of approval, flipping a napkin up onto the bar in front of you, "What can I make for you?"

"I'll have two Old Fashioneds, please," you lean forward onto your elbows to give your feet a rest as he pulls up a second napkin and then two crystal, lowball glasses. "They're pretty," you comment without thinking.

"It's all about the glass," he confirms quickly, dropping brown sugar cubes into each one and then shaking bitters on top. Your eyes focus on the way the squares dissolve and fall in on themselves as he speaks again, "I'm Jack."

"Y/N," you give your name for the second time, throwing a brief smile his way, "I've never actually watched someone make these before."

Jack pauses and gives you a teasing look, "Do you want me to stop so you can get something to write this all down?"

You laugh and roll your eyes at him as he goes back to making the drinks. You're stalling. You know when you go through the curtain in the back there'll be a dozen people who're all dressed nicer than you, with more impressive jobs than you, who have funnier, more outrageous stories about the birthday boy than you. You'll need to stand awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments too long before Harry notices you, and then your greeting will be watched by all his cool, London friends.

You know better than to let any of that dull your shine—you really do—but you've had a rough few months, and if you're honest, you'd like your first time seeing Harry since the summer to be a little more low-key than this. So that's why you're wearing the new boots that hurt and might not suit the dress code because they're new and you feel good wearing them with this outfit. It feels a little special to be out celebrating Harry's (belated) birthday in a semi-new ensemble. You managed to fluke getting your hair and makeup just right, and yes, your legs do look pretty fantastic in these tights with the short, roll neck, knit dress, thank you very much.

"Here you go," Jack brings your attention back to him, you can smell the citrus twist in front of you, and the crystal glass deflects the light from the candles, "Can I put this on a tab for you? You're with the birthday?"

"I'll pay," you tell him, already digging for your card and holding it out to him.

"Oi!" You hear a very familiar voice call out from the far end of the bar, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you shiver, "What're you payin' for? What's she—don't take her money!"

You keep your arm out steadily to Jack and raise your eyebrows at him, "Take it," you urge him quickly, feeling him pluck it from your fingers just as you turn towards the voice you know so well.

That familiar Tom Ford cologne hits your nose just as Harry hurries up and deposits himself heavily against the bar, right up in your personal space. His broad frame blocks out the room to you, and he's lit softly in the dim light and looking radiant from within, as per usual. He's got his crazy eyes out—accusing you—and his eyebrows are pinched together slightly, but he looks good. Happy. Rested. Pleased to see you.

Harry's always pleased to see everyone, you tell yourself, Hold it together.

He pulls you into his chest for a hug. Your cheek presses just below his pecs, and you feel the way he's grown more defined since you last saw him. The material of his t-shirt is soft and smells clean. It's a tight squeeze he gives you, one that you resist reading into. Was it healthy for there to be so much comfort in a simple hug? Was your whole body allowed to tingle and fizz from the embrace of a friend? Was it pathetic to have been carrying around in your ribcage the same crush from when you were thirteen?

Affirmative. Without a doubt. Yes.

You haven't seen Harry since mid-September, the last time he was in London. Well, the last time he was in London and had time to see you. You're sure there were probably business trips, Christmas definitely. And going off Instagram, you think he might've flown into Manchester and spent a long weekend with Anne back in October, but if it was any of your business, it would've been your business. You needed to be grateful simply for what you got; intermittent texts about books he'd read or maybe a happy drunk voicemail if he thought of you at the right time. He sent an email at Christmas with a charitable contribution in your name instead of a gift.

"It's so good to see you," Harry says as he pulls away, all crinkled eyes and broad smiles. You don't know your grin has launched his heart into space and that despite having just gone to the bathroom, Harry feels due for a nervous wee. He thinks you look fucking gorgeous tonight. Knowing you've done your hair, and eyeliner, and picked that dress to come out and celebrate his birthday … It sends a jolt of desire straight to his groin—beauty blooms in front of his eyes in you.

Tell her, you idiot. Twenty-seven could be the year.

"Hi," you chirp at him happily and pick up one of the glasses in front of you, "I got you a drink."

Harry watches you fondly and then dramatically looks off to the side, lets out a little huff, "Typical Y/N, buying her own drink … You really think I wouldn't have one here for you?"

Nevertheless, he says a quiet thank you, takes the glass from you and deliberately sniffs it as if he's not sure what's inside or if he'll like it. You smack his arm lightly at the show and pick up your own glass, chinking it to the side of his and watching him over the rim as you both take your first sips. The familiar taste and view fill your tummy with gurgling happiness that sits high in your chest. He's dressed almost exactly how you expected him to be—smart, high-waisted dress pants and a printed t-shirt. You're glad you didn't go too formal, the restaurant is nice, but it's not Hatted or anything, not like the place he took you in LA that time, where you felt like the biggest idiot in the world for not realising beforehand, was properly fancy.

"Fuckin' delicious," he rumbles slowly, bringing you back to the cocktail, "A classic."

"Happy birthday," you tell Harry sweetly, thankful for what's likely to be your only quiet moment with him all night, "Sorry I couldn't make it to the LA party."

"Ah," Harry waves you off, "Your job's much too important here."

He means it. Harry's beyond proud of you. He's always telling people you work for the NHS, saving lives and keeping the country going. The party in LA was thrown together by some people at the last minute, and even though most of the friends he left in the backroom when he went to find the bathrooms a few moments ago were able to fly across for it, Harry's not the least bit put out by you not being able to. Would've been a big trip for you to do on your own and he knew there's no way you'd miss his London celebration. And you sent over a gift, which shouldn't have surprised him. His actual birthday was spent in LA, and that morning a parcel arrived from you—two new notebooks and a novel Harry read the back of and instantly knew he would love. It's what he read on the flight home to the UK.

Trust you to want him to have the gift on his birthday—go to all that trouble of packaging it and sending it over—when you were going to see him in London ten days later anyway. Harry could do worse than a friend like you.

"I just need a bit more notice than four da—

—Please," Harry's shaking his head at you, hating watching you apologise for something he really doesn't care about. "I'm glad you're here tonight," he tells you genuinely, fingers reaching out to brush your bangs away from your eyebrow briefly and—did the room just spin around you?—get a glimpse of the bronze sheen over your eyelids, "I haven't seen your new hair in person, looks lovely."

Lovely? he scolds himself, Lovely is a nice jam scone, lovely is a hug from mum …

"Oh," you coo, automatically sending your own fingers up to where Harry's had just been to reposition your newish bangs, "Thanks, still getting used to it, wanted to do it forever but wasn't brave enough to I guess."

"I like your natural hair colour, too," he continues slowly, eyes running over your whole head, "I mean, I loved how it used to be … But I like this a lot."

Shit, Harry's already failing to adhere to the strict series of pep talks he's given himself over the last couple of days. He's babbling, and he's probably just made you think he's not liked how you've had your hair for the previous twelve years. Is he buzzed from the cocktail or from the way your cheeks have gone a little pink since he touched you? His compliment made you squirm, and Harry wants to do it again and again until what he's feeling makes sense.

"Just, you know, feels like a throwback to the old days," he mumbles through another sip of the cocktail you both love, a glint appears in his eyes as he continues, "When you had Barbie overalls and would spend half a day plaiting your whole head in those tiny little rat tails."

Your mouth opens into a horrified O, and you let out a single laugh, "Rat tails? They were cool. And I was eleven when we met, I'd definitely already outgrown the Barbie overalls."

"Whatever you say," Harry smirks at you, signature dimples appearing on his cheeks, "I just remember those little beads from the ends of them ending up all over the bottom of the pool."

You smile at the memory. You remember duck diving with Gemma to collect all the beads so they could be put back into your hair the next day. Nearly drowning from laughing so hard at Harry and the other boys trying to stand on your backs in the water. Summers with Harry were always spent laughing. The local pool and skate park saw all your adventures. When Harry's dad moved in next door to your family after his parent's divorce, you and your brother hung off the fence, peering into the backyard to see if any toys or a trampoline might appear signally new kids next door. They didn't, and it wasn't until the summer when Harry and Gemma arrived for their holidays that you jumped the fence with ice lollies and offered yourself up as a new friend.

"Simpler times," you muse to yourself, looking up and catching the perplexed look Harry was giving you, "Spaced out a bit, sorry."

"I've missed my little weirdo," he grins at you affectionately, angling a little closer and levelling his head down to yours as he bit his lip and frowned, "Are you doing alright though?"

You let out a little sigh and avert your eyes to where Jack, the bartender, is busy making trays of drinks for different tables. Harry observes you carefully, a twinge of guilt forms for causing the sad look that's come over your face, but also for not having asked the question weeks ago. Gemma told him at Christmas, an off-handed comment about you being newly single. When he heard the evil gremlin in him was fucking relieved, just like he always was.

"I'm fine," you try a smile out and pull your lips up higher when you don't think Harry buys it, "Better. Had my crisis haircut and drank myself to tears with my work friends. Just a normal break up, really. M'getting used to them at this point."

A small, white lie.

Each breakup bruises you deeply. Talking about it afterwards fills you with a shame that makes you feel naked, like everyone else can see what's wrong with you but you. As though it's obvious why nobody's picked you yet. You don't ever want to talk about it afterwards, (especially not with Harry) don't want to draw attention to it. Prefer to let the disappointment and loneliness pool in your tummy and sit there heavily, weighing you down, waiting for the One Day someone spectacular might come along and be buoyant enough to float away with you.

You're looking for your forever. You want the cheesy romance, and the love, and marriage, and kids, and the whole stupid thing. You want to be wanted and loved and cherished. That's what you're ready for. You just can't find anyone who's ready for that with you. So, you date, have mediocre boyfriends who rarely make it to the first anniversary, then pick up the pieces and try again.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

"Well," Harry swallows, reaches out for your arm to make sure you look at him, "You look beautiful tonight. And it's his loss, he's clearly a monumental idiot."

You give Harry a noncommittal hum in response. Just as you're about to say something you shouldn't—get into details you bet Harry really isn't that interested in knowing—you catch the movement of someone appearing from the doorway behind Harry and then approaching you both.

"Harry, mate," you don't know the guy who's recognised Harry's back and is calling out for his attention now, "Thought you might've fallen in."

Harry snaps around quickly to the voice, blocking your view. You take another sip of your drink and pull in a deep breath. Not fitting into any of Harry' groups socially has its downfalls. If his sister wasn't around, you tended to have to make friends at anything Harry invites you to. You're not part of his Holmes Chapel crew or his LA friends, and you definitely don't fit into the London group. Over the years there have been faces you've come to find familiar, but you're still the singular, hanger-on friend from Harry's second childhood home.

Peering around Harry's shoulder, you catch the end of a look between the two guys you think alludes to this new friend gauging whether Harry needs rescuing from you. You briefly wish the ground would open and swallow you whole. You know that look well.

"Aiden, this is Y/N," Harry raises his arm and angles to pull you around in front of him.

You hold up your drink, awkwardly, "Hi."

Aiden gives you a hesitant smile, "Hello," then he raises his eyebrows at Harry, "Harry, you coming back in, mate?"

Harry bites his lip and chuckles, reading the look on his friend's face, "You're a prick, I don't need saving. Known Y/N since I was twelve, we were just catching up."

You feel yourself go bright red, and you're thankful for the forgiving lighting. This isn't the first time this exact scenario has happened to you. You've been on the receiving end of that uneasy look before—his friends checking if the girl who isn't there with anyone else is supposed to be there at all. Backstage at the O2, a member of Harry's security once hauled you to the tour manager's office to check your VIP credentials were legitimate. You'll take that story with you to the grave.

Aiden deflates slightly and waves a hand your way, "Shit, sorry, thought he'd been cornered by a fan again … I mean, a pretty fan to say the least but …" he coughs into his hand when Harry gives him a glare you don't see, "Great to meet you."

"No worries," you wave it off like it's nothing. The truth is your brain has short-circuited at Harry's palm resting on the small of your back, he's not moved it from when he first brought you forward. Friendly touches weren't strange between you, but this lingering, comforting hand is burning a hole in you tonight. You haven't been out and had anyone touch you since your breakup, and Harry is setting off all you nerve endings. You tilt your weight onto your other foot to pull back from him slightly, but Harry's hand travels with you. "We should go back, I might use the loo first though, is it that way?"

Harry watches you point in the direction of the bathroom, you're flustered and he really wishes he could tell Aiden to buzz off so he could just take another few minutes with you. Brief you on who was in the room you were about to go into. You wouldn't know any of them, and Harry always appreciated that you came to things on your own, particularly when you wouldn't know anyone aside from him once you got there. He should have invited his sister so you'd have a buddy. Or told you to bring a friend. Not a boyfriend, though.

He watches you take the final drag from your drink and put the glass down on top of the bar, "Thanks Jack, t' was dee-lish," you catch the attention of the bartender, throwing him a beaming grin. And Harry watches the way the guy's features light up at being called on by you. Envy rumbles in Harry's gut, he recognises the dumb smile and dopey nod of Barman Jack's head. Has felt it a hundred times himself when he's been on the receiving end of your quirky humour.

You walk away, and Harry feels Aiden watching him, "She's fit," he comments, trying to get a rise out of Harry, reading the room perfectly.

"Fuck you," Harry grunts at him.

++

Harry sits opposite you at the long table in the private dining room.

You nurse a glass of rosé and eat the food slowly, savouring it. You deliberated over the menu for a long time before settling on what to order, you've seen photos of most of the dishes online, but there were several new ones too. Harry goes off your recommendations but spends a lot of the dinner talking to the people sitting beside him. He knows if he tried talking to you right now, he'd just get lost in you, which is both rude for a birthday party and bound to be too conspicuous.

You insert yourself into a conversation with the girls sitting next to you and pretend you're good at making friends. They spend most of the meal talking about something that was on the telly the night before. You were on shift so missed it, but pretend to be interested or like you might've seen it—anything to not stick out like a sore thumb.

Harry watches you out the corner of his eye the whole time. You've shrugged off your jacket, and he recognises the gold necklace you've got around the collar of your dress, sitting over the black fabric on your chest. He's pretty sure it was a gift from Gemma a few years ago, you wear it all the time. Harry makes a note to get you something that compliments it for your birthday coming up. You're chatting to one of his mate's girlfriends and Lisa who's been on his publicity team for years. Those would've been the two he'd have introduced you to first as well. He can't stop watching the way your lips turn up every time something funny is said, or one of the girls makes eye contact with you. Watching you try with his other friends always makes Harry feel warm and giddy for some reason.

Fuck, he's missed you. And he berates himself for the fact he never seems to remember that until he sees you again. (It's strategic usually, his heart doesn't take your company well when he knows you're going home to someone else) You're so engaging and kind and unintentionally charming, and you always have time for him. Harry knows he's not an easy human to be friends with; he constantly ducks in and out and is never around for the big things, let alone being available to call on a random day to just hang out with. The friendship is always on his terms, and he knows it makes him a selfish prick. You definitely could've done with a call a couple of months back when you had your heart broken. Like always, he missed it, and by the time he was sending you a message about an episode of Midsomer Murders, he felt as though the moment to console you had passed, and Harry didn't want to draw attention to the fact he wasn't around for it.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" His head snaps back around to the person next to him, thoughts still on you across the table. He agrees with whatever was said and does his best to catch up.

Harry's got to stop thinking about how you're single at the moment. He really does.

++

A few hours later, it's the girl sitting to your left, Lisa, who first mentions the idea of kicking on.

It's after dessert—after everyone sang happy birthday to Harry over a round of espresso martinis—and you're starting to think that if you leave now, you'll be home before midnight, which means the tube won't be too deserted to feel safe. You're also at a comfortable place to wake up without a hangover in the morning. Two cocktails and a glass of wine over dinner, because any more and you're scared you could say something stupid to the wrong (right) person.

Harry's face lights up, and he looks around the room, eager at the idea of going to a bar or two for more drinks. He's not been out in London for the longest time, and he's happily buzzed enough to not be too worried about running into people. Feels like this group of friends have gelled well together. How often does he get to have a night like this in London? Hardly ever.

"Yeah, let me sort out the tab and then we're good to go," Harry says, pushing his seat back from the table and standing up, his hands hunting his pockets for his wallet and phone, "I'll be right back."

When he goes, you decide now's as good a time as any to split. You pull your coat on and say goodbye to the friends you made over the meal. Lisa gives you her business cards as if speaking to you had been part of her job, you slip it straight into your coat pocket and can already picture it at the bottom of the garbage in your kitchen. You revisit the bathrooms, and when you come back out into the main restaurant area, Harry's still leaning against the front desk, chatting to the maître d' from earlier.

He feels your small hand land on his back and jolts upright at the contact, your gentle voice calling his name softly, "Harry, I'm going to head home."

He spins around, and you catch the fall of his face, "What? No … No. You're the one I want to hang out with the most," his bottom lip juts out and his brows furrow. "Y/N."

"Thanks a fuckin' lot, mate," you hear a male voice laugh at your back, they slip behind you and out into the chilly air, and Harry flips them the bird. You were pushed closer into his chest as they jostled past and he steadied you with his arms latched onto your forearms. Still watching outside, you see a cigarette lighter flare-up on the footpath and the end of an orange butt glow spectacularly in the night. When you glance back at Harry, he's not looking happy.

"Don't pout," you tell him lightly, you reach up and press the skin taut between his eyes smooth again, "Can't wrinkle that rockstar face of yours."

His face lights up, and his skin heats where you made contact, "You can't go yet."

"Harry," your features tangle into something like a grimace, "You'll have a better time without me. Everyone seems to be pretty tight—"

—Y/N," he gives you a final, pleading look, "Please come."

You make out like you're stomping your foot in defiance, "Fine."

"Score!" Harry cheers under his breath, shrugging his jacket up over his shoulders and saying a final round of thank yous to the staff. When you're out on the street at Harry's side somebody mentions the name of the next place and points the direction of it, Harry places a hand on your shoulder as you start to walk and leans down to your ear, "I just have one condition for you coming."

You pull back and look at him, "I don't think you get conditions when you've begged me to be here."

"A birthday condition then," he edits, pressing his lips together and smiling at you with his eyes, "You have to promise to do what I say before I ask it."

You narrow your eyes at him, "I suppose you only turn twenty-seven once. You can have a single wish from me."

Harry laughs and slips his fingers under the strap of your evening bag, "Give me this."

You think briefly he means to carry it for you, which is a strange thing for Harry to request. But then he unzips it in front of you and starts rifling around inside it, slipping your phone under his arm so he can move around the lipstick and tissues and emergency Galaxy bar to eventually pull out your small purse.

"Harry! What are you—

—Ah, ah!" He holds it all away from you and reminds you of the promise. "This is mine for the night," he says, slipping your purse into his coat pocket. "Otherwise you'll end up buying too many rounds."

You try to sneak your hand into the pocket after your wallet, "Don't be stupid. It's your birthday, I'll buy every round if I need to."

"Exactly my point," he steps away from you down the street, and you skip to be back at his side. He's stolen your money and your chocolate bar.

"Harry, give it back."

"Nope," he pops the 'p' and hands you back the bag, the Galaxy bar hanging from between his teeth, still in the packet, "You promised. Now hurry up and walk, and I might give you a bite of this. 'm freezing my balls off, we are not in LA anymore."

So that's how you end up in the next bar, your handbag a little lighter, squished into Harry's side with a pleasantly sour cocktail he paid for between your fingers. The booth is so far into the back wall you're not even really sure which direction the front door is anymore. Somehow, you've managed to sit ten people around a booth probably designed for six, but nobody seems to be bothered.

Your whole right side is on fire, though.

You can feel Harry from the top of your shoulder all the way to your ankle. His hip sits neatly next to yours, Harry's left elbow rests just above your right thigh, and your knees press together every time he gets excited when he speaks and unintentionally opens his legs up. If Harry's bothered by it there's no way you'd know, he's hardly looked at you since you all sat down, much less uttered a word of discomfort about the seating arrangements. Makes no sense really, when he seemed so desperate for you to stay out with them.

(Next to you Harry's felt like he was high most of the time, he's flashing in and out of the conversations around him. Because he can smell your perfume—Stella by Stella McCartney, he'd know that fragrance anywhere, you've been wearing it since you were seventeen—and you're warm and snug beside him. He feels completely insane. But he also feels inflated with a heart-crushing joy at having you so close. He's trying his best not to draw attention to it or to you because what he's always liked most about your friendship is that you're just his. God, he needs to do better at seeing you more often, talking more, being more. Each breath as he's touching you is like a crack of electricity through his chest that aches beautifully. Nobody else feels like this. Even when he's dated, what he's felt with them can't hold a candle to his boyhood crush on you.)

You sip your drink and laugh at the embarrassing story that's being told about Harry, oblivious to his torment. Oblivious to how Harry feels your forearm brush his leg and has the overwhelming desire to deposit his palm on your thigh and keep it there, probably forever.

It strikes you that the last time you saw Harry was before the current anecdote about him in Italy happened, and at the table, it's being spoken about as though it was ancient history. You wonder what historic classification your memory of thirteen-year-old Harry would get, that time he attempted to bleach his hair with lemon juice. He ended up with second-degree burns on his forehead from the acid reacting with the sun.

Or the time Gemma stayed in Holmes Chapel for the summer because she had her first boyfriend, and so you spent six weeks learning that maybe you'd been wrong about who your favourite Styles child was. Maybe the boy who, when you were eleven, didn't impress you much, suddenly at thirteen, demanded all your attention. Made that summer become the first where you considered your outfits and whether your mum sending you next door with homemade snacks made you look lame.

"… And of course, Harry can't walk away from a dance floor when he's on the tequila …" everyone around the table laughs. Harry peeks at you to make sure you are too, but he's not very good at it because you notice, a smile flares on your lips.

You're used to long periods of not seeing each other, it's how it's always been. Harry and Gemma spent the summers with their dad and then returned to Holmes Chapel for real life. Sometimes that's what it still felt like, as though each time you saw either of them you were acutely aware there was a foreign Real Life they would go back to without you.

Harry in particular. You were used to not seeing him for months on end, usually the whole school year. Just a few messages over MySpace and birthday cards, and then, when you were out of school, invites to parties Harry couldn't come to anymore—'I'm in Australia, how insane is that? Sorry, I'll miss your 18th …' or 'I can only stay until the 8th, could you maybe graduate a week earlier? ;)'—and emails every other month with a new mobile number for you to overwrite his contact in your phone with. You're not saying you feel hard done by in your friendship, you don't. It's just always very take-what-you-can-get with Harry.

"You've got your thinky eyes on," he's pivoted his whole body towards you, hips twisted in an entirely uncomfortable looking position. Harry's got his resting elbow on the table right next to where your hand holds your drink, and he's looking down at you with careful eyes, "Where are you?"

"The pool a dozen summers ago," you answer easily, pursing your lips together and running a knuckle along your hairline, "Thinking about your ah, burn incident."

Harry's face explodes in a grin, and his eyes roll up to the ceiling and then capture yours again, "For fuck's sake, you're never going to stop bringing that up, are you?"

"You were a horrible blonde," you remark quickly, "If you ever so much as blink in the direction of a packet of bleach you have to call me, okay? I'll have no issue telling you, categorically, you should never dye your hair."

"Categorically," Harry mimics you childishly, "Alright, I get it, you went to uni. No need to use words with fifty syllables to make me feel stupid."

You bring your glass up to your lips, "Come off it, Harry, you're ten times smarter than me."

His forehead raises, "You're the cleverest person I know. Don't make me call Gem to confirm it."

"Don't bring your sister into this, Harry," you deadpan.

He goes to reply but holds back, something unnamable travelling across his eyes as he watches you lick your lips after taking another sip of your drink. Harry's leaning a little closer than he might usually, and despite the fact he's a few drinks in he still smells only of Tom Ford and clean clothes. He's just about to ask you what you're doing the next day when he gets hit in the side of the head with a coaster.

"Hey," he cries out, pulling back from you and frowning around at the group trying to figure out who the culprit is," 'M the fucking birthday boy, watch it."

Lisa is the girl directly across from Harry and yourself, and she's is the one who threw it. She's giving Harry a coy smile and holds up her empty glass to him, a not so subtle request makes the drink in your hand feel like a concrete brick. Something dirty you don't like having. She's got captivating blue eyes and straight blonde hair—exactly Harry's usual type. Your heart sinks as he slides out of the booth next to you, laughing at her flirtatious request and taking a tally of who else wants a new drink.

"Y/N?" Your name is delicate on his lips, and it makes you want to cry. Why is it so easy for you to make things feel like they mean more with him?

You direct your smile his way, "I'm good, thanks."

His head tilts to one side, "You sure?"

"Positive," you nod, feeling your cheeks burn as everyone watches the exchange.

"Okay," Harry taps the table with the corner of his phone, "I'll be right back."

After a few moments, you sneak off to the bathroom, happy to see Harry's beaten you back from the bar when you return. He's sitting in your spot, deep in conversation with the person beside him who you recognise from the radio. Tentatively, you slip in next to him, careful not to touch him this time. Harry's got his hand casually resting on the table, turning your glass forty-five degrees one way and then back the other way as he speaks. You think about reaching over and pulling it out of his hand gently (you're losing your buzz, and Little Miss Bombshell across the table has made you feel silly and juvenile) but it looks to be an almost serious conversation, so you don't. With a smile plastered on your face, you look around the table, resisting the urge to pull out your phone to check if either of your flatmates has text you to meet up with them somewhere.

It's a delicious whiff of your perfume behind him that turns Harry's head. You're back from the bathroom, although nobody was able to confirm that's where you went when he got back from the bar and asked after you. Harry pushes your drink over and gives you a smile, taking note of the fresh layer of lipstick and messy oomph to your hair that perfectly shows off the new style and bangs.

Golden, he thinks, As always,

"Your new hair really does look beautiful," Harry tells you, the bar stilling around you as his face becomes all the world is for you at that moment, "Next time, don't wait for a dickhead to break your heart before doing something to make yourself feel good."

You swallow down the thickness in your throat, "Thanks, Harry."

++

Walking to the next bar, Harry can't stop himself from asking.

"What happened?"

You kick your foot out as you wait at a set of traffic lights, half the group ran to cross, but you, Harry and a couple of others were too slow, "What happened with what?"

Harry watches his breath fan out in front of his face, "With your ex, with …"

"Tim."

"Tim, yeah," he turns to look down at you, hands tucked into his coat pockets, "What happened with Tim?"

"Nothing really," you start strong, then shrug one shoulder as you think about it. It's safe to cross so you wait until you're stepping up over the gutter and onto the opposite footpath before you continue, "Probably a lot of little things but … Always felt like he thought I was asking for a bit too much. I guess in the end he just didn't like me all that much."

The way your voice drops kills Harry, he's not detecting self-deprecation but something far worse. He's detecting acceptance or acknowledgement or like you're confessing some truth that should have been obvious.

"Y/N," he stops walking and halts you as well, lets Adrian and Lisa walk around and out in front of you, "If he didn't like you very much then he's got some kind of chemical imbalance. I mean it, this guy's not worth a second of your heartache."

It's not like Harry's a dickhead about it, not like he thinks you should date people with more money or status or who are more impressive. A person isn't their job or what car they drive, he knows that. Harry's not about judging anyone, but you really do seem to date guys not worthy of you. He hasn't met many of them, but Harry knows this to be true because if they were worthy, you simply wouldn't be single right now. If you dated someone half-decent, there wouldn't be a chance in hell they'd let you go. You're beautiful and thoughtful and intelligent and funny—so funny—which means Harry knows without a doubt that this Tim guy was an absolute fuckwit.

"It's not necessarily about the guy," you start and Harry can hear the thick emotion in your voice, "Is it? It's about the idea. The disappointment is more about not getting the fairytale, not finding my person. Not getting the whole package everyone else seems to have found. I know Tim wasn't right—truth be told I didn't end up liking him very much either—doesn't stop me from being sad that I still haven't found it."

"'It'… That's what you're looking for?" Harry asks, eyes out front where the rest of the group are all stopped waiting at another set of traffic lights.

They're laughing and chatting loudly to other people on nights out, and hanging off street poles to get funny pictures. He doesn't want to catch up to them, not when the two of you are in the middle of this conversation that's making his heart race and his hands sweat. He starts taking smaller steps.

"Yeah," you breathe out, almost sounding ashamed of yourself, "Don't seem to be looking in the right places."

Look over here, Harry thinks.

"But I mean, each breakup I end up getting something out of it," you've flicked your positivity switch, "This time I got these boots and bangs," you kick out your foot and watch Harry take note of your footwear, "Last break up I got four houseplants and a new watch … It's not all bad. What about you?" you turn it back on Harry, "Are you seeing anyone at the moment?"

It's hard to tell with Harry. You either find out from his sister or sometimes, social media. Although that's all usually trash. Generally, when Harry's seeing someone, you'll hear it confirmed from Gemma, and the next time you see Harry, it'll be something you're assumed to know. You haven't seen Gemma since Christmas time though, for your annual festive get together, and she didn't mention anything. Tim had ended things with you a few days before, so that was the main topic of conversation.

"No," Harry confirms what you'd already deduced—and hoped—in your head, "Not for a while now."

"Got your eye on anyone?" You quiz faux cheekily, your smile a little too wide.

Yes, you, he says to himself as he looks at the side of your face.

You hope he's not got some girl in LA he's into. Just like you'd hoped his answer to the previous question. But the hope was silly, something that bloomed in your chest each time you saw him and died again before you were home in your bed, alone.

"I'll let you know," he says aloud.

You think you see something else there in his expression, but you know you can't have. Your mind is swirling, and you're feeling a tingling sensation all over that you know you shouldn't. It'll only leave you disappointed when you part ways tonight and don't see him for another few months. The tiny bits of maybe mores and perhaps are dangerous to things to cling on to now, they'll all turn into Nothings very quickly.

Someone steals his attention away from you when you get to the next street corner. Most of the group are gathered there, and you're not sure whether to believe it when Lisa says they missed the green man to cross the road because they were talking. She sides up to Harry and starts waving her hands around in an animated story about something or other. Harry crosses the street with her, and you give him up for the night.

But he's acutely aware of what's happened. Harry's not stupid—he's emotionally intelligent, and spent enough time with Lisa on nights out before—and he can see that she's deliberately pulled him aside. He likes her, quite a bit, but she doesn't make his insides flip, or his toes curl. She's firmly Just A Friend. Harry hasn't spent countless hours over the years thinking about her, lying to himself about how he's completely fine when she starts dating someone new. He's never thought about an alternative life, one where he stayed at school and went to uni and got a regular job and maybe (definitely) ended up with her.

He's imagined that life with you—more than once. More than a dozen times, if he's honest. For years now, Harry's bitten his tongue and smiled through the pain of not being able to have you. And sure, most of the time it's a dull ache, deep in the recess of his mind, that needs to be called on or conjured to really be felt, but it's always been there. He's always had an (Astronomical) Soft Spot For You. Ever since that summer you broke your arm falling off the back of the ramp at the skate park, and he first saw you cry. At fifteen he didn't know what the hollow but sharp pain through his heart was as he rushed to your side, but now he knows that was the first sign he didn't see you as just a mate. Would never again see you as just a mate.

And now, hearing you use the word 'it'. You say you're out there dating idiots trying to find it and Harry's just unwaveringly sure he that could be him. He wants to be it for you.

You've pulled out your phone and fallen behind, face pulled down as you type away furiously. Harry watches you out of the corner of his eye, half just to watch you and half to make sure you don't get separated entirely from the safety of the group.

"Y/N," he calls out, unable to keep up with Lisa's story and unwilling to try to tune back into it. She stops short, and annoyance flits across her face, but Harry still turns to you, still crosses his arms over his chest and gives you his best scolding look, "It's the oldest trick in the book," he goads you. Lisa sighs behind him, and he ignores it.

Your head slowly comes up and takes in Harry (and Lisa sulking behind him), "What is?"

"Fallin' behind so you can peek at my bum."

You point at the long coat Harry's wearing that goes to his knees, "Can't see half of you under that thing."

"Ah, ha!" He calls out, his pointer finger floating in the air right in front of your face, "So you've tried."

You shove his shoulder and step around him, trying like anything to act neutrally. You're aware Lisa is still watching on, and you're not used to your friendship with Harry being quite so carefully observed. You know your face has gone red and you're really not going to involve yourself in a pissing contest with her. It's not classy and certainly not your vibe.

As you walk away, boots clip up behind you, and Harry heavily drapes his arm right across your shoulders, pulls you into his side, "Was just teasin', love."

"I know," you respond quietly, not upset, not really.

"Though I might've made you sad," Harry continues solemnly, "Know you get embarrassed in front of people."

Your face cracks into a smile, "Opposite of you, hey, you're practically an exhibitionist."

He should flirt because you've led him to a pretty easy window into a dirty joke, but something has Harry hanging onto his regret, "I mean it, shouldn't tease you …Should be old enough to use my words, tell you what I think."

You've got no idea what he's on about, "Harry, the teasing was fine. Where's this bloody bar though?"

Up ahead, everyone's standing on the footpath in a clump. Harry can feel the next words on his lips but has to hold them in when his mates turn and see he's finally caught up. They're waiting a few minutes for a table, someone explains, then they'll be able to go in. Harry thinks how little he feels like another drink at another bar. A few people walk away from the group to share cigarettes. You're standing a little bit away, under the sign for the butcher next-door and kick your foot back against the wall like the slight movement might warm you up.

As he steps up to you, Harry watches you get distracted by the group of people spilling out of the bar you're all about to go into. He doesn't want to take advantage of knowing you're newly single also doesn't want to let this opportunity pass. You're always dating someone, or he is, or there's some other reason not to. There's always a reason to hold back from you and Harry refuses to believe it's the drinks he's had nudging him into this. Neither of you is drunk, he wouldn't even say he's tipsy anymore. Just warm and contemplative and less inhibited than usual.

"C' mere," he calls softly, the tips of his boots landing right in front of yours, your bodies a hands' width apart. He wants you closer.

"Harry—

He opens up his coat to you and when you don't move—your brain is busy short-circuiting—he acts for you and winds his arm around your shoulder to encase you in the warmth, "Get in," Harry says, "You're shivering."

You're shocked by the contact, at him being so close and inviting you in and then just taking you in his jacket. He's wrapped the lapels around both your bodies and forced you against his chest. He hums against you, but you're feeling incredibly awkward with your arms hitched up against your chest and pressed rigidly into his shoulders. You've not been in a hold like this before and certainly not with Harry.

He pulls back and digs around for your wrists, "You've gotta put them around me," he stretches his arms behind his back, taking yours with them and instructing you to really settle against him. "There, that's better," he wraps the jacket back around you, and the two of you stand like that—hearts pressed together, scents converging and your whole frame shaking against his—for what seems like far too long for it mean nothing. Right? Your thoughts ricocheted around inside his jacket and go nowhere, solve nothing in your mind.

Over your shoulder, he sees the rest of the group have gone into the bar. He's not surprised none of them called out, Harry's angled you both away from the door and with his head ducked down against yours they probably (hopefully) missed you both there.

It's Harry's twenty-seventh birthday, and maybe that's made him sullen or introspective. Made him think about the passage of time and how another year has passed him by, yet here he stands in the same place as ever—wanting you. Wishing for more, or waiting for a moment that feels right, or hoping something will happen. With growing older comes a sense of regret and an acceptance that twenty-six has happened and anything he wanted to achieve by that age but didn't he never will. There's only the future. Only the things he can do. And the mix of all that with the cocktails has Harry feeling as though he has to act on this. Every birthday he thinks maybe by the next one the Somethings or the Maybes might have happened, and you won't be standing in front of him as just his friend.

"Always had a thing for you," Harry says, his chin resting against the crown of your head while his arms link around low on your back, holding you against him, "I've always liked you more than I should."

Oh god, you think, your chest freezing in place, I'm hallucinating.

"What?" Now your heart is really racing. Or maybe it's completely stopped, seized up and fallen out of your chest onto the salt-covered footpath.

His voice comes out evenly as he repeats himself, "Feels bigger than a crush, but I guess that's what it is … Since we were kids."

(Oh, how those words have been his best-kept secret for all these years but now, in less than two seconds, he's let go of them more easily than almost anything else he's ever done)

"Y/N?"

Harry thought he'd be scared. Thought this would be a moment of panic. Every time he's imagined this he's thought 'and I'd be absolutely shitting myself because what if she doesn't feel the same way?' but now that he's said it he's almost completely calm. The only reason he's worried is that he can feel how hard your heart is beating—even through the layers of clothing—and surely that quickly can't be good for your health.

You're speechless, and he leans back so he can see your face and, oh your eyes. Why on earth didn't he say it to your face, so he could be looking in your eyes? Watch his words project across your expression and settle into your mind.

You look worried, and Harry's transported back to that time he had you on FaceTime when he was somewhere on tour with One Direction. He was telling you about how management was going to let them fly friends out on tour, bring a little bit of home along and give the boys some needed space from each other. You were nodding along and so excited for him but sure Harry was talking about someone else, that this was just news and he'd called up to tell you how he was inviting the boys he went to school with in Cheshire or people he met through X-Factor. Of course I'm bringing out you and Gem, you idiot, he'd told you when you were surprised to get an invite, Who else did you think I was talking about?

He kind of loves watching the look on your face right now, the cogs turning in your head and wheels spinning, furiously trying to figure out what Harry means.

Why isn't he terrified of what you're about to say?

"Why … but you've… and I've…"

Your hands have moved to his hips so you can see him properly, and Harry's encouraged by the fact you haven't pulled away or pushed him off you. You're watching him with a puzzled look on your face and a burning heat across your cheeks.

He brings his forearms up to rest on your shoulders and smiles at you, "I wasn't brave enough to act on it … Guess I didn't want to fuck it up. Didn't want it to not work out. Couldn't stand you becoming an ex."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Right." You don't seem capable of more than one word at a time.

"You feel bad for yelling at me about the chocolate bar now, don't you?" Harry's narrowed his eyes playfully.

That does it.

Your eyes snap back up to his face from being fixated on staring at his neck, "Chocolate bar … No, what the fuck, Harry."

He laughs. A real laugh that comes from the base of his tummy and squeezes his eyes shut and crinkles his nose. His head falls back, and it's a deep, uninhibited laugh, "Don't stomp your new boots at me," he eventually says, crooking his head down to be almost pressing his forehead against yours. "You've been my favourite girl for years, I've always been a pansy idiot who didn't want to wreck the friendship."

"Oh, and now you don't mind wrecking it?" You bark back sarcastically, unsure why you're angry at him but you are.

"No," Harry says softly, moving through your emotional responses seamlessly, "I don't think it's going to wreck it, do you? Think twenty-seven has finally given me the balls to pursue it. To tell you how I feel. How I've always felt."

Your eyes instantly ball with hot tears you weren't prepared for, "You're an idiot."

"I am," he agrees readily, fingers playing with the ends of your hair.

"Why have you told me this now," your voice is small, unsure.

Harry frowns, now he's starting to panic, "Do you … Do you not feel the same? Or do you not think maybe you could?"

Oh, if only he could have been in your head every time you saw him these last few years. Heard you talk yourself down and away from anything more than platonic, from any thoughts that might elevate you in his eyes. You've spent all this time trying to convince yourself to believe you were nothing more than a friend to him, and now this.

"Harry, are you sure you—

—I'm sure," he insists quickly.

"I just—

—I'm sure."

You're suddenly very embarrassed by the conversation the two of you had earlier about your ex. The conversation where you basically told Harry you're incredibly desperate to settle down and find The One. He's so achingly cool, and you feel like a little tinned tomato, thin-skinned and persistently flustered.

Tinned tomato? Really? You berate yourself, Case in bloody point.

"Y/N"

You scratch roughly at your forehead and grimace at whatever thoughts are going through your mind, "I'm just …"

Harry brings one hand up to fix your bangs, carefully sweeping the hair back across your forehead evenly, letting the pads of his fingers dust over your skin, "I think if you didn't feel the same you'd have said No by now."

His words steal the air from your lungs, "Harry, you've just always …"

"I've always?"

"I never thought …"

The smile comes up over his face gently, "It's me, Y/N, please finish a sentence. I'd really like to kiss you, but you haven't yet said anything to imply you'd be open to that …"

You pull your lips together like a reflex you can't help, you've rarely let yourself fall that deep into imaging things with Harry, but your body reacts to his words in an instant, "Promise you're not kidding …"

"I promise I'm not kidding," Harry said sincerely. "I'd never kid around about this, Y/N."

You believe him, and ten seconds of bravery comes over you, "I was thirteen."

His eyes narrow slightly, trying to figure out what you mean, "Thirteen?"

"My thing for you," you continue quietly, heart racing as adrenaline swamps your legs, "Started the summer I turned thirteen."

Harry hears the slight shaking to your voice and almost misses what you've said. Then it hits him.

"Oh yeah?" He squints at you and pulls up his nose with a smile, a secret little smile that will never belong to anyone but the two of you. The Smile that happened just before Harry leant down and kissed you for the first time, pressed his warm lips against your cold ones and really breathed you in.

He holds it like that for a moment, your lips touching but not moving. Then his hands come up to cup your face, and Harry moves his mouth to one side, just a touch. You open up to him, and he has the brief thought that this is probably the Most Important Kiss Of His Life. His insides curl in on themselves as he gets completely lost in you. Completely lost in how perfect this moment feels and how much finally kissing you feels like a relief.

You can't believe this is happening. You're still tucked into Harry's coat—warm and safe—but now you're joined at the mouth, and Harry's a really really good kisser. He's got his thumbs pressed into your cheeks and his fingers laced through the hair around your ears. When his tongue first licks your bottom lip and then goes searching for yours, you don't think you've felt yourself flicker On so quickly. A soft moan escapes your lips, and Harry's kiss somehow becomes harder, his nose bumping yours where he'd been good at keeping things smooth until then. As quickly as it intensifies, Harry takes a slight step back and drags his mouth away from yours.

"Y/N," he breaths out your name, sealing your lips with one of his thumbs as he pulls back. Harry's taking stock of your face (hopefully) getting used to being this close to you. Noting the way your eyelashes kink out at an odd angle right at the corner of your eye, and the freckle that's so close to the edge of your mouth he's never noticed it before. Harry's can feel your heart has slowed down, and the expression on your face right now is content, but curious. He's also sure he can see fear under it all.

"Well," your voice shakes, because Harry's looking at you like you've only dreamed and now that you're here you're not really sure what happens next. You kissed Harry.

He clears his throat lightly and his hands both fall to hold either side of your neck, "There's no way I'm going back to not being able to do that whenever I want."

Then, he kisses you again. You feel yourself melt against him as Harry's chest presses back against yours. You link your arms around his waist, clutching the back of his shirt between your fingers as Harry leads the kiss with a hand on your neck and the other holding your chin carefully. You've picked up right where the last one let off, hungry and exploring and a little bit desperate (perhaps a lot desperate) to have more of each other.

But then his phone rings in his trousers pocket, right against your hip, and you jump away in surprise.

"Shit," Harry mutters, pulling the stupid machine out, cursing the universe, "Sorry … It's Aiden," he tells you with an eye-roll.

And then you're back to reality. Your drinks have all worn off, your feet ache, your ears are freezing, and you've just made out with one of your oldest, best friends. Shit.

"Oh," you take a hearty step back, hands slipping out from Harry's coat and your body bracing the full brunt of the cold night, "Yeah … That's—

—Aiden," Harry barks the name of his mate down the phone while at the same time hooking his free arm around the back of your neck and pulling you close again. He's not giving up touching you that easily, and he doesn't care, quite frankly, about giving you any room to start internalising or retreating from him, "No, we've gone to get some food … I'll see you during the week sometime. Tell everyone thanks for—Yes, I'm serious … I don't care, saw all you lot last week … I'm hanging up now. Bye."

You listened in on the conversation because it was really all you could do. Aiden was obviously inside the bar, and they were all wondering where Harry got to. We've gone to get some food, Harry told him, so they'd know he was with you. (You supposed he was hardly going to say, 'oh yeah we've been out the front making out') Bits and pieces of the other end of the conversation, you were able to pick up on, but not enough to truly know what was said. By the end of the call, Harry was smiling though, you could hear it in his voice.

His nose found the shell of your ear and Harry leant into you, "Come back to mine, or we can go to yours … Watch a movie, play Scrabble, anything … Just wanna be with you."

"It's two o'clock in the morning, Harry," you murmur, your mind struggling to make sense of what's just happened. You're outside a club in Soho held against Harry's chest with lips that know what he tastes like and a body that's on fire.

"I'm not tired," he shoots back, "Are you?"

"Well, no but—

—Great," Harry turns towards the road, takes a few steps to the curb (you trot along with him under his arm), as he flags down a black cab. "Mine or yours?"

His question is simple, he prompts you to answer by calling your name as he opens the door for you and gestures for you to hurry up and get in.

"Yours," you say.

Harry doesn't speak much in the cab, you figure it's about privacy. You hope it's about privacy. The thirty-minute drive out of the city and to his place feels much longer. Halfway through he reaches over for your hand and gives you a reassuring smile across the back seat. You thought the journey might make you sleepy, the sitting down in a warm car would bring the haze over your eyes and bring the long day to a close in your mind. But you could never feel sleepy with Harry's fingers playing with yours, or when he leans over and kisses your cheek for no reason at all.

At his house, Harry tells you to make yourself at home while he turns on the kettle for a cuppa. You kick your boots off in the hallway, and your feet start throbbing in relief as you follow his retreating form. It's certainly not the lusty, hurried entry you imagined you might have. Which only plants doubts in your mind about what's actually going on between the two of you.

"I'm just going to use the bathroom," you call out ahead of you, turning back to the stairs and taking yourself up to Harry's second storey.

Upstairs you don't take long. You're looking a little worse for wear—who wouldn't at 3am—but you're not really in the mood to try to fix yourself. Even if you did Harry would notice, and that felt like something you wanted to avoid. As you walk back to the landing, you wriggle your toes in your socks and happen to look back down the upstairs hallway. You've been in this house dozens of times before but this time feels different. It feels quiet and intimate somehow. Just as you're about to go down the first step, you see Harry's bedroom door is open on the opposite side of the stairs to the bathroom, and you notice something that makes you stop.

The book you got him for Christmas is sitting on his bedside table.

You're standing over it before you realise that your legs have started moving, looking at a picture of Anne, Gemma and Harry, a bottle of water and the book. You pick it up, the cover a little bent and the spine cracked to where he's read. Harry's using the birthday card you send along with the gift as a bookmark. The top of the familiar design sticking out the top of the pages, you can't even really remember what you wrote inside. Something generic probably. Platonic.

Happy birthday, old man! Have a wonderful day, sorry I can't be there in person. Love, Y/N.

The floorboard at the top of the stairs creaks and you turn around to Harry looking surprised to see you standing over his bed. He's got two cups of tea and a family-sized Dairy Milk bar under his arm. Something churns inside you, this was Harry as you'd always known him. Except now you looked at his lips and wondered why the hell you weren't kissing him.

"Oh, yeah, I've been reading that," Harry sees the book in your hands and walks towards you, "It's excellent, unsurprisingly."

A smile starts on your face, "You doubted my selection ability?"

"Never," he returns quickly and then raises his eyebrows at you, "Looking for anything else?"

You feel your cheeks heat and you drop the book back into its place, "No, sorry, I was coming down the stairs and saw … I'm sorry."

Harry passes you a tea, "It was really kind of you to send something over. Was fun having something to unwrap on the day."

"I'm glad," you smile and take a sip of the tea. It's sweet, and you screw up your face, "This is yours."

Harry watches you with a strange expression on his face as the two of you swap mugs. He's worrying his bottom lip, obviously weighing something up in his mind. You see it when he decides what he' going to do about it.

"I've got something I want to show you," he tells you finally, tilting his head back to the door. "Wanna come see?"

"What is it?" You ask automatically, but Harry's already walking out the door, and you have to hurry to catch up.

He leads you into his study, and you hover in the doorway as Harry sets his tea and the chocolate down on the desk. He pulls Bananagrams out of the draw and places it next to the mug.

"We're actually going to play Bananagrams?" You ask.

He looks back at you, "You'd prefer actual Scrabble?"

"I didn't know what you meant by—I guess I …"

Realisation dawns on his face, and he widens his eyes, "Oh, you thought it was a euphemism."

"No!" You snap back quickly, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks (for the record, yes, you thought 'a movie or Scrabble' was a thinly veiled way of Harry suggesting … something else), "No, I just … I just don't think I'll be able to spell words right now."

"I didn't think you were still tipsy" Harry states, shit-stirring.

"I'm not!" You squawk at him. "I'm… I' m—You kissed me!"

He grins, loving the fact he's driven you a little crazy, "Yeah. Want me to do it again?"

Harry's playing with you. He's teasing. And you know it but what you don't know is how he's so confidently jumped to it. Not when you feel like you've been left on the street outside the bar trying to figure out what the hell this means, and what's going to happen tomorrow when he stops looking at you like that. You don't like to think this whole night could've been him playing with you, you don't know Harry to be that cruel. But there's a tripwire in your mind you keep getting snared on.

It's Harry.

"C' mere," he reaches his hand down across the room between you both, "C' mere and kiss me again. You don't seem to be getting it."

"Getting it?" You're cut off by Harry taking two big steps toward you and then planting his lips on yours again.

His palms find your hips, and you hold him in the same spot. It takes a moment for the two of you to find a rhythm, and even then, you're too in your head. You're struggling to remember what little Harry's said about this whole thing. You know he said he had a crush on you and you've gotten the distinct impression he wasn't too fond of your ex. But for all you know Harry's been kissing his mates like this for years but just never gotten around to kissing you. You might've been next on the list. He's a friendly guy. Maybe a crush isn't what it used to be. Or maybe—

He pulls back from your lips with a huffy expression on his face, "Y/N," he says quietly, "I'm a man with an incredibly fragile ego, whatever you're worrying about is really getting in the way of kissing you."

"I'm just—

—Let me show you what I brought you in here for," he interrupts you, takes your hand and tugs you towards the window. Then, he puts a hand on each of your shoulders and directs your attention to the wall.

It's lined with record sale plaques for singles and albums over the years—double Platinums and Gold-Somethings. Harry watches you eyes run over them all, a proud but unsure look in your eye. You're not sure why he's showing them to you, he knows that. He hopes you're not intimidated by them, he's certainly not showing you to try to score any points. There's a sweeter gesture behind it. He points to one leaning against the wall, not hanging. He's got it resting on the bubble wrap it was sent over in.

Stepping up closer behind you, Harry rests his chin on your shoulder, "That one's for you."

"What?"

"I want you to have it, been saving it for you … If I ever got brave enough."

The question falls from your lips before you really think about it, "Why would you want me to have it …"

Harry waits to see if you'll let on you've figured it out, he thought it was pretty obvious really, but you've never been one to elevate yourself or assume, and Harry knows that about you. So, when you don't keep talking, he confirms it for you, "That song is about you."

You just blink, eyes on the framed plaque taking in the name of the song and hearing it in your head.

It's about me? You think you want to hear it, you need to Google the lyrics and make sure you have them right in your head. Harry wrote a song about you. Harry wrote that song about you.

"When … When did you write it?"

"You mean why?" Harry raises his head and steps to stand next to you, he observes your face carefully.

"No, I mean when." You're starring at it like the plaque might answer the question, "When did you write it?"

Harry runs a hand over his head as he thinks, "A few years back, after that time you came out to LA … Didn't record it until this year though …"

Harry watches your face expand in surprise and then crumple back down to confusion. You really don't get it. He's not sure how to make you in one night. He supposes he can't. So he trails his hand up the back of your arm and then around your back, tilting his head down and waiting to see if you'll pull away. When you don't, he kisses the corner of your mouth and then opens his wider to take you lips in his properly.

It's different to the kisses outside the bar, now that you're both out of your outer layers Harry can feel your body against his in ways he's only dreamed, and it's sending everything straight between his legs. Harry's hands explore your back and the curve of your hips, thumbs almost reaching the underside of your breasts but not quite. It's a little awkward when he senses you've felt him hardening between you. Usually, lust clouds that moment, and Harry doesn't mind intimate partners being acutely aware of how they're affecting him. But with you he's a little hesitant, he senses the awkwardness on your side. Friends don't feel those body parts on each other, friends don't… He almost groans when your mouth leaves his without warning.

You think he'll probably change his mind about all this.

"Have you changed your mind?" You ask, not able to stop it.

Confusion colours his features, and his lips smack together, like he's savouring tasting you, "Wha—

"About wanting to be kissing me," you clarify.

"What? No." Harry's eyebrows have shot up, and he's shaking his head, "I barely even started! Didn't I just say I wrote that song about you—why the hell would I—want to do more than just kiss you—You think I'm gonna change my mind?"

You shrug, "Maybe. I don't know."

"Well," he stands up straighter and pins you with his stare, "I'm not. I promise I'm not going to change my mind. And I promise I'll never make you feel like you're asking for too much. Ever."

"Now you're trying to make me cry," you say, hearing him repeat back to you the insecurity leftover from your conversation about your ex. You're half kidding with your words but also not. You believe him. You trust him.

Harry grimaces, sways your bodies together gently, "I really hate seeing you cry, could you not? I had other plans."

You sniff through a laugh as Harry wraps his arms around your middle tighter," What plans are those?"

"Well, I literally thought Scrabble," he tells you through a smile, trying his best to make you laugh, "But I'm open to whatever dirty things you were thinking as well."

"You'll win Scrabble."

So, Harry instructs you to bring your tea and your sore feet back into his bedroom. He gets you a fluffy pair of hiking socks and tells you to take yours off, and your tights, and get comfortable on the bed with him and the block of chocolate. You've polished off a family size together before, the sugar going straight to your heads and always leading to a giggly night of reminiscing and Almosts.

This time though, you only get halfway through the tea and Harry pushes the chocolate off the bed onto the floor in favour of you straddling his hips. It started with a stolen kiss against your temple, and then another on your cheek, and one close to your lips, and then you captured his face in your hands and really kissed him. Within a few moments, Harry was dragging you over to him. His hands settle on the swell of your backside as it sits against his thighs and your lips trace the line of his jaw. This was really happening. You'd really let him peel off your dress and flick off your bra. His shirt was somewhere with the forgotten snacks, and you seemed extremely eager to keep feeling his hardness pressed between your legs.

"I swear to god, I never dreamed this would happen," he murmurs, hissing when your hips pressed into his at a different angle, "Was sure I'd be going to your wedding one day, completely miserable and probably end up drunk and causing a scene. Embarrass you so badly you'd never want to see me again, and you'd just run away with your stupid husband."

You pull back and watch Harry ramble, your bare chest rising and falling against his, "You're a real glass half full kinda guy, aren't you?" you smile at him.

"I just," his eyes drop to your chest, nipples puckered for him, and he scrunches them shut then drops his forehead onto your sternum with a big sigh, "This is fucking unreal, and my brain is just struggling to comprehend—you're breathtaking, and I feel like my chest is gonna explode."

"It's also 4am, so there's always the potential your brain is just plain tired," your index finger is drawing circles on the back of his shoulder as Harry leans against you, you pause and run your hand over the back of his head, "Maybe we should sleep for a little … I'll be here when you wake up," you say in response to Harry squeezing his arms around your waist tightly as if you were going to disappear. Or worse, leave.

His indescribable green eyes find yours in the light from the bedroom lamps, "Will you let me hold you while you sleep?"

"Yeah," you nod, although somehow that question seems more intimate than the lack of clothes between you at the moment. You're distinctly less dressed than Harry, who's still got his trousers on, you're only covered by your underwear.

"We don't have to rush this, right? Got all the time in the world now," still, as he speaks his palms trail up your back and then down again, skimming the sides of your breasts, "Just don't wanna miss anything is all."

"I promise I'm incredibly boring in my sleep, won't miss anything," you tease, "Might be the only time you get any peace."

Harry tightens his forearms around your back and finds the soft skin below your ear with his lips—once, twice, three little kisses—"I feel pretty at peace right now, just having you here. Feels like I'm living a dream."

You don't reply for a moment, but you let your body rest against Harry's in a comfortable hug, your voice is quiet, "You really wrote me a song?"

"I did."

"I've always loved that song."

“Well, it's been yours all along."

"Nobody's ever written a song about me."

"I should hope not."

"Are you going to write another one?"

"Without a doubt."

++

Chat to me here

#OOOO SHIT what have i done #well #1dff #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles X reader #harry styles stories #harry styles imagines #harry fic

[imagineclaireandjamie]

The High Road and the Low Road – Part Four

After learning the truth from Claire, a furious Brianna runs to Craig na Dun to prove her mother’s crazy only to fall through the stones herself. 

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

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

Roger watched, speechless as the man scrambled down from his horse and awkwardly stumbled toward Claire, who rushed to meet him in a warm embrace.

“Wha– How? Claire, where have ye been these years? We despaired of ye and thought ye dead long ago,” Ian said as he pulled back from her, wiping a hand over his face. 

Roger finally noticed the man’s leg and the pieces slipped into place.

“The brother-in-law,” he said quietly.

Not quietly enough.

“Yes, Roger, this is Ian Murray. Jamie was his brother-in-law, married to his sister, Jenny. But how is Jenny?” Claire pressed on, ignoring Ian’s larger, more daunting questions. “Are she and the children well?”

Still too shocked by Claire’s appearing on the road, Ian blinked and fell into the habit of politeness. “Aye, Jenny’s well enough – and the bairns. We’ve a sight more’n when we last saw ye – grandbairns too. Claire… why? Why did ye no even write to tell us ye yet lived? Jamie never said… He must think ye dead.”

Roger saw Claire begin to sway where she stood and stepped forward, a steadying hand at her back. She leaned into him and nearly caused him to stumble.

“What do ye mean, Jamie thinks she’s dead?” Roger asked, Claire’s weight growing heavier and her breathing coming drawn and shaky.

“Who are you?” Ian asked rather than answer. “Claire, who is this lad?”

“Jamie’s alive?” Claire managed to ask, the reluctance and need to hope in each quiet word.

Ian’s face softened and the tears returned to his eyes. “Aye. Had a mind to die when he arrived, wounded in a wagon. But Jenny wouldna allow it. We thought… with the news of the battle and the army… and what they did after as they set upon the Highlands… We thought ye must be dead and Jamie… He didna say much but what little he did say was that ye were gone – lost.”

“He sent me away,” Claire murmured. She wasn’t leaning into Roger quite as heavily but he could feel her trembling with the shock. “He made me leave. He wanted to be sure we’d be safe.”

Ian looked to Roger with wide eyes but Roger shook his head and held out a hand. 

“Roger Wakefield. I’m a family friend.”

“Ian Murray, though ye kent that.”

“Claire’s mentioned ye, aye,” Roger confirmed. 

“Jamie’s alive,” Claire murmured again, this time with more conviction. “Where is he? Is he at Lallybroch? Do… do you think he would want to see me?”

“Oh, he’d want to see ye alright, though the shock of it might well stop him dead. He’s no at Lallybroch. Has a print shop in Edinburgh. I’m on my way there now, as it happens. My youngest lad – Ian – has up and left, scarin’ Jenny and me, though we ken that’s no his intent. I’d be more worrit did he no go to Jamie every time like a pup after its playmate. But Claire… If ye thought Jamie dead and ye didna write or come to us in the past twenty years… Why are ye here now? Did ye finally have a mind to tell us ye were safe?”

Claire blinked at Ian, awareness of the present returning to her slowly. She glanced at Roger and snapped the rest of the way back to herself.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” she admitted and, when she saw surprise and hope in Ian’s face, Claire confirmed, “She’s Jamie’s. He knew I carried a child and could see how hopeless it was by the time we reached Culloden. His name was on Prince Charles’ declaration – whatever happened he would be… So he decided it would be in battle, that he would go down fighting. But he made me go, knew I wouldn’t be safe at Lallybroch because I would be his widow. I got out and survived a journey to the colonies. I married a man there and he agreed to raise Brianna as his own–”

“Brianna?” Ian interrupted.

“I promised Jamie… It was the last thing he asked of me. All this time I thought he was…” Claire broke down and both men stepped forward to offer her comfort, inspiring a frustrated laugh instead. “The bloody man meant to die. If I’d thought…”

“Aye, Claire. I ken ye wouldna have gone and ye wouldna have kept yer distance,” Ian said. “But where’s the lass now? Now ye’re here and ken the truth, Jamie’ll want to see ye both.”

“I hadn’t told her growing up – the truth about her father. But my husband died and… He was the one who didn’t want her to know and once he was gone…”

“She didna take it well,” Roger added. “She ran off and we’ve come searchin’ for her.”

“Did ye tell her of Lallybroch? Would she be makin’ her way there?” Ian asked glancing back over his shoulder at the way he’d come.

“If you’d encountered her, you would have known her,” Clair assured him with a proud smile. “She looks too much like him.”

Ian chuckled and shook his head. “Well, I might as well help ye search for her. Young Ian will be safe enough wi’ Jamie in Edinburgh and I’d like to see Jamie’s face when I turn up wi’ his lost child for a change.”

Roger looked to Claire who had indeed somehow managed to turn paler.

“Ye’re sure she came this way?”

“We think she must be headed in tha’ direction,” Roger explained, distracting Ian from Claire till she could better collect herself. “More certain now ye’ve confirmed ye havana seen her already.”

Ian glanced back over his shoulder again, his brow furrowed.

“How long ago do ye expect she’d ha’ come through this way?” Ian asked.

“It would only have been sometime last night. We expected her to come back by morning on her own,” Roger said before catching himself – at least he hadn’t mentioned where they’d been when she went missing, Inverness being too far away for any of them to have gotten so far so fast.

But Ian led his horse over to the side of the road where the terrain began to dip again and a small, rundown cabin hid from view.

“My lad has a habit of restin’ there on his way through this stretch,” he told them. “Caught him up here once and tanned his hide by that tree. I’d guess he’d ha’ been here either last night or the day before if he’d managed to ride along wi’ someone passing through. There’s a chance… If yer lass truly has as much of Jamie’s looks as ye say…”

Claire started and Roger frowned.

“Ye cannae think… Brianna would never…” he objected. 

“I’m not so sure,” Claire said. “She is a Fraser, after all.”

Ian laughed. “Aye. They dinna always do what makes sense, especially if their hearts are muddled o’er something. And my lad’s a fair bit of the Mackenzie about him or he’d no have managed to sneak away and make it to Jamie in Edinburgh so many times. Actually, if he’s a companion, it just might slow him down enough to catch him up.” Ian turned to swing himself back up onto his horse. “I’ll ride ahead a ways and try to find ye horses, then swing back to meet ye as best I can.”

“Thank you, Ian,” Claire called.

“When we’ve more time I expect to hear more of yer travels and life in the colonies,” he told her. “And Jenny will have a fair few questions of her own.”

Claire watched him ride ahead, neither her nor Roger able to take a single step from their spont in the middle of the road.

“Jamie’s alive,” Roger said at last, his astonishment written across his face. 

Disbelief, hope and fear warred across Claire’s.

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

Edinburgh was incredible. Brianna hadn’t been for more than a shopping trip with her mother early in their visit but that had only been a few weeks ago… for her. What would she make of Inverness? She’d spent more of the visit there and the surrounding area.

Ian had to take her hand and pull her along on several occasions so they wouldn’t be separated.

“Come along, cousin,” he said, causing her to frown. “Ye ken our uncle’s shop is this way.”

“When are you gonna stop doing that?” she hissed. It had been one thing when they were on the road and needed to project some sort of family relationship for their safety.

“Just a wee bit longer at least,” Ian teased. “There’s the sign.”

“A. Malcolm? What’s the ‘A’ for?”

“Alexander, but that’s no really his name – Malcolm either. They’re part of his given name but he couldna easily use his real name as he’s a bit notorious, ken?” Ian rambled excitedly, ushering Brianna forward through the shop door, a bell announcing their entrance.

“Geordie?” a voice called from the back room.

Brianna tried to move off to the side out of the way but Ian’s hand found its way to her back, gently guiding her closer to the counter.

“No, Uncle Jamie,” Ian answered. “It’s only me and I’ve someone I want ye to meet.”

Brianna had frozen at the name. Jamie. But there was no way… She hadn’t told Ian the name of the man her mother had claimed was her father and anyway, Jamie Fraser was dead. James must be as common a name as any and Jamie as well – look at all the Willies and Rabbies there were about.

But there was something in the way Ian was standing behind her, the energy of him, the teasing…

How could he possibly have guessed? How could Jamie Fraser be alive?

Footsteps approached and Brianna could hear the man speaking – scolding – as he made his way to the front of the store.

As soon as she saw him, she knew how Ian had known his uncle was her father. 

Her mother hadn’t lied when she said Brianna looked just like Jamie Fraser

#a note: because this is going to be a shorter multi-parter the Jamie/Laoghaire marriage storyline from canon has been disregarded entirely #;mod lenny #the high road and the low road au #featuring: ian #featuring: roger #featuring: young ian #featuring: brianna

[marksinn]

Passion Project: Inspiration

I don’t think I’m starting at the beginning with this post. Keep your eyes peeled for later posts that explain what I’m doing and why.

After a month of thinking about, sketching and painting designs, I have finally done something. Essentially, recently watching two films has pushed me into action, and a part of me is ashamed to admit it. There isn’t a word count or any typesetting to curtail my thoughts here, so strap in.

When I created this brief I figured I’d draw a million wee skateboards, colour a few of them in, then fling my favourites into Adobe illustrator and make them look good. From there I would take the 5 best up to the skatepark and ask some of the patrons there which designs stood out to them. Next, I would adapt the three front-runners and create sweet PhotoShop mockups that would show what my designs would look like as skateboards. If I had the time, inclination or money by the end of the project, I would have the design laid onto a real skateboard (I’ve been looking to buy a new one for some time) and then be proud of myself.

So I’ve drawn some wee skateboards. Then I started upscaling the designs onto the floorboards of my loft:

This was an exercise to let me see how small things need to be adapted to be blown up. Skateboards can have any level of detail that you like on them, I hadn’t considered this until I was trying to draw a semi-perfect triangle for the traffic cone, or until I was using chalk to recreate four cubes. It’s also been fun to work with different media on chipboard - I have learned that most kinds of pencil, paint, chalk and charcoal do not like being used on chipboard. Decorating paint, however, has no such issues. Thanks, Dulux!

And so, with a few of these under my belt, I decided to try some digital designs. So I jumped into Illustrator and totally ignored my sketchbook, coming up with three designs that were all inspired by the day I had just had. The top design, I’ll focus on last, for reasons that will become apparent (unless you follow me on Instagram, where you’ll already know that it’s an absolute hit, with over 19 likes already!). I was told by a guy at the skatepark that he likes decks with very basic designs, just a colour or two, nothing overly detailed. Another skater told me that he often likes the basic wood background with one small emblem or sticker just beside the wheels.

The duo-tone design felt nice, I’m usually one for over-complicating things. I definitely have an attitude of “If there’s more in it, there’s a greater chance someone will find something they like”. The first colour choice put my girlfriend in the mind of a hand-bag she had seen photographed in the arms of Carrie Fisher - it was designed to look like a Prozac pill. So I changed the colours up, and added the separating black lines and textures to give it some subtle character. I then went full meta with the Minimal design. And, if I’m being honest, I’m incredibly happy with how it looks like a wee character. Expect to see that making a comeback in the very near future. But the top design is what really got me going. 

I’ve recently been watching...

...Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, and have been loving Miles Morales’ multiple hobbies of graffiti, mixing beats and saving his neighbourhood from a variety of dangers. 

I then went to the cinema to see In The Heights, telling the tale of the Latin community during a blackout in North Manhattan. I found myself wrapped up in the romance, tribulations and music of the cast, and was felt oddly proud of Lin Manuel Miranda - who wrote this as a stage-musical while he was in college, had a modicum of success with it, then went on to create Hamilton, one of the most important musicals of our time. With the success of that particular show taking the entire world by storm, he was given the opportunity to make his old, relatively only semi-popular play into a blockbuster film. You can’t help but be inspired by someone like that.

I often find towards the end of a film I’m inspired by the characters’ journeys: be that from zero to hero, from lonely to loved or from rags to riches. Then I walk out and carry on with my normal life doing normal things. And as the hero of the story’s dreams all came true in the closing minutes (sorry for the spoiler, but it’s a musical, they rarely end in despair), a thought floated across my mind:

I’m utterly sick of being inspired

Now, to my credit, I did figure out in the car home that ‘tired’ would be a far more fitting and rhythmic word to use in this sentence, but this was a mentality that I found resonated really strongly with me. I’m very good at being inspired, I think most people are. We hear stories of people starting their own business, achieving some sporting brilliance or overcoming a personal hurdle and we say “Wow, isn’t that inspiring?” or

“It really inspires you to go out and make a difference!” or

“They are such an inspirational speaker!”

Then we go off about our day, not acting on the inspiration, and, for the most part, remaining uninspired. So I decided to act. 

I did some very quick research (/acquiring of images of graffiti) in order to get the right shapes and textures to create a spray paint effect in Illustrator. I did some very quick research (/confirming the colours) of South American flags, taking the blue and red used in flags of the home nations of Miles Morales from Spider-Man and Usnavi from In The Heights. And I created the top design.

YES! I had been inspired and I had drawn a wee picture to show that - I had acted on my inspirations!

Then I looked to my left and spotted three, blank skate decks that I had bought on a whim from Re:Ply (a wonderful wee company who do a great deal of charity work supplying boards to people who need them, selling boards to people who can afford them, and for a very reasonable fee, providing unusable decks to people who want to use them for artistic purposes). I realised I hadn’t acted on my inspiration, I had just drawn a few pictures of skateboards with the eventual aim of PhotoShopping them onto other pictures of skateboards.

So I took myself...

... into the city centre with a shoddily prepared speech: “I’m looking for some cheap, small cans of spray paint. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, or if I’ll be good at it, so don’t want to invest too much into this.” Hiding behind this self-deprecating shield I barged into multiple art-, pound- and model-shops and pleaded with the staff to help a young idiot out. Amazingly, a very kind shop assistant pointed me in the direction of Fat Buddha, a clothes shop I’d always ignored as it seemed a bit to “...” for me. I don’t know what it seemed, but I knew it wasn't my kind of shop. Happy to prove me wrong, the guys in there were super helpful and they helped me buy my first cans of spray paint. 

Now I’d spent money...

... and as a skinflint, that meant I had to get use out of my purchases. I had tricked myself into being inspired. Inspiration led me to the drawing, inspiration had led me to buy decks and the paint, now inspiration had to make me spray paint.

I’ll stop yammering on now. Essentially, I had planned on creating some analogue designs then digitising them (I’m guessing I should do a post on my brief, yeah? Might just upload the PDF to save me talking more), but then I found that I was doing the complete opposite. Genuinely accidentally. I had played with a few typefaces from various websites to get fonts that represented the ideas I wanted. The top one was semi-stolen (I can’t use the word ‘inspired’ any more in this post) from the end credits of In The Heights. The larger font is something of a nod to inspirational quotes you see on Facebook or on glittery frames in B&M.

I printed those out and cut them into stencils (very impressed that my digital boards have been drawn to a workable scale, thanks Maths). And after putting down a tack-layer (GRAFFITI JARGON (I think)) I sprayed the whole lot in blue.

Next, I tried to get a little fancy. Using cardboard blockers to create straight lines I added stars* (borrowed from the Puerto Rican flag) and made the bottom stripes vaguely reminiscent of America’s Old Glory.

I peeled the lettering off, and I’d done it. I may have to explain the overtly-negative inspirational quote to people, but to me it’s a clear sign that there’s no point in just being inspired, and that’s all I wanted.

A weight I didn’t know I was carrying was lifted from my shoulders. The plan was to possibly end up with a self-designed skateboard. And now I have one.

*Yes, I know they’re crosses.

#pp_hncgd1 #allhandsondecks #skateboard

[goingcheep]

Friday 20th August: Why would you…? Why…?

Roman Atkinson, in an early sketch where he played the father of the bride has the following bit:

I would like to take this opportunity, pissed as I may be, to say a word or two about Martin. As far as I'm concerned, my daughter could not have chosen a more delightful, charming, witty, responsible, wealthy, let's not deny it, well-placed, good-looking and fertile young man than Martin as her husband.

And I therefore ask the question "Why the hell did she marry Gerald instead?"

In the same vein… since I quit smoking, I’ve used two places to get my vape liquids. The first, sadly, shut a while back, but the people they recommended I use - Totally Wicked - have been brilliant. I like the people there, I like the liquids they sell, and I especially like how they make it incredibly easy to order online, and you always get the stuff you buy delivered quickly and perfectly. They’re great.

And I therefore ask the question “Why the hell did Totally Wicked send my recent purchase via Hermes?”

The most incompetent, unreliable courier I have had the displeasure of dealing with, and one that cannot or will not follow instructions, and is utterly useless.

I received an email this morning, telling me I had to be in to receive the package - I’m entirely unsure why, it’s neither expensive kit nor something that is dangerous to leave outside my flat. I already had to be out this afternoon so left a printed note outside the door of the block of flats saying if you wee delivering to me, to my flat, I’m happy for it to be left outside my flat or in the ground floor reception. And I attached my phone number if they needed to confirm that.

Instead, I’ve just checked online - no notification, you note - and discovered that they couldn’t deliver because I wasn’t home and they’ll try again on another occasion.

Nicely done, Totally Wicked; how to destroy a long standing customer’s goodwill in one short day.

Bah.

#brain dump #unhappy #totally wicked

[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

California

Pairing: Agent Whiskey/Jack Daniels x OC

Warnings: Torture

A/N:  This story is consuming me.  I’m currently just starting Chapter 14, so that means if I keep my schedule the way I am, y’all gonna have this for the next month.  Also, I have been having a lot of fun with the Agent/Non-Agent/Admin Staff code name stuff.  Maybe a little TOO much fun.

Reminder: I haven’t seen Kingsman: The Golden Circle, so I’m just using the Wikia, IMDB.com, some gifs, and my own weird ass brain to make up this whole ass story.

Tag List:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @tarrevizslas , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest [please message me to be added or subtracted]

[PART 1]  [PART 2]  [PART 3]

 Part 4 

Gone

In the wee hours of the morning, Ginger ran through the halls of HQ and jumped into the elevator, willing the damn thing to hurry up.  When it finally dropped her off on the eighth floor, she rushed down the hall to Jack’s apartment, using her master key to open the door.  When she ran into his room, she started calling his name.

“Whiskey!  You have got to get up!  GET UP NOW!” She was practically screaming in her panic and she shoved at his shoulder.  The sudden noise startled Jack and he shot straight up in bed as if he had been launched by some unseen force.  When he turned to Ginger, confusion mixed with a little irritation sprang up on his face.

“What in the hell, Ging?  It’s what? 3:00 a.m.?  What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“No, it’s 5:00 a.m., but that doesn’t matter, you have got to come with me!” She was pulling his arm and he was forced to throw his legs over the edge of the bed, thanking the lord he was wearing pants for once. He stood up and Ginger grabbed his hands and kept pulling.  But he wasn’t taking another step until he got an answer.

“GINGER!” He shouted and she stopped when he put his hands on her upper arms.  “What in the damnation is going on?!”

“Its Sirah!  She’s gone! She’s gone!  Oh god, Whiskey, she’s gone!”  Her tears started up again and a small part of her was ashamed at her behavior. But her best friend was missing, possibly dead, and the hole in her heart ached terribly.  She wanted her back.

Jack yanked his hands from her arms and stumbled back.  Ginger’s words stole his breath and he wasn’t sure if his heart was even beating anymore.  He had been punched in the gut thousands of times, but not even one felt as terrible as this did.  Without a second thought, he ran from his apartment and he could hear Ginger running after him.

He made a left in the hall and headed for the stairs – the elevator was going to be too slow – and taking steps two and three at a time, he ran down to the fifth floor.  A few times he stumbled but caught himself with Ginger’s loud gasp ringing in his ears.

When they made it down, he slammed open the door and headed right for the board room, passing agents and staff who stopped and stared.  The normally put together Agent Whiskey looked a damn mess. When he ran into the room, he noticed that Tequila and Champ were already there, flanked by two other agents. Normally one for manners, Jack ignore them in his haste.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE?!”  He bit back the rest of his comment when he realized he was yelling. He took a deep breath and then a second when he felt Ginger’s hand on his forearm.  He had to get himself together if he was going to save her.  He had to listen.

“Whiskey, well over four days ago the safe house West Coast was using on the California case was blown up.  The tracking devices confirmed that Malbec and Sirah were the only agents in the house at the time and since the explosion, Sirah’s device has been silent. West Coast dispatched agents immediately and they found Malbec dead from a single gunshot wound to the head. Sirah was nowhere to be found.” Champ struggled to speak as he gripped the back of his chair until his knuckles were white.  She had been gone almost five days and West Coast just notified HQ on the situation.  He wasn’t sure what was driving him more now, his grief or his anger.

Like Whiskey, he took several deep breaths to remain professional and to get through this, but it was damned hard.  All three men had grown fond of Sirah in their own way – Tequila felt brotherly affection, Champ saw her as a daughter, and Jack. . . .  Well, Jack loved the hell out of her.  

“We found Agent Sherry dead, also from a gunshot wound.  Same gun was used in both shootings.”  Tequila added.  “Everything at the house and in Sherry’s car was destroyed, by fire for the former and by a person for the latter.  Evidence shows that both women left the house with files and paperwork, but nothing was found on the scene when agents arrived.”

Both HQ and West Coast believed that the suspect in the California case was behind all of this because reports from the three agents indicated they were narrowing their list and were close to identifying them.  But without all the new information from this phase of the case, any chance they had of finding Sirah in time was slim.  The room grew heavy with negative thoughts until Ginger gasped.  They turned to look at her.

“No, not nothing. . .“ She turned on her heel and started towards the door. “Sirah uploaded reports and some additional stuff to a database every other day like clockwork.  It’s not everything since they couldn’t completely secure the safe house, the rest of it she kept on a microdrive.  

“She’s always been so regular about it, I’ll admit I stopped checking her reports about a week ago, just having Kefir process them directly.  But I bet everyone one of you that he has everything organized and we can start from there!”

She ran from the room and the rest of the agents followed her.  Tech specialist Chai jumped a mile in her chair at the sudden explosion of noise and people in the office.  Without a word, Ginger sat at her computer and let her fingers fly across the keyboard.  Multiple file windows opened and her eyes darted left to right as she read the dates on the screen.  Tequila was right behind her doing the same thing when he spotted the most recent date.

“There!”  He pointed, “wait, it says she last uploaded information last night!”  Ginger clicked on the file and opened the report. It was sparse and contain no attachments like her others had.  Together, Ginger and Tequila skimmed the writings before he stood backwards with his mouth agape.  Jack and Champ looked at him curiously.

“I don’t think Sirah wrote this and I don’t think she uploaded it.  There is something about this that don’t sound like her at all.”  Tequila leaned back down and read the entry again and he looked at Ginger, who nodded in confirmation.  “Yep, someone’s fucked with this.  I don’t know if they did anything to the rest of her reports, but someone’s trying to throw us off her scent.”

Chai spoke up suddenly, “All her old notes through five days ago were printed out for physical records by Kefir.  He would process them weekly, so we have her originals.”  She pointed at the box sitting on the specialist’s desk.  Tequila walked over and grabbed it.

“Chai, call Saki, Toddy, and Pisco.  I don’t care if you wake their asses up, I want them down here immediately.” The even tone Tequila normally sported was replaced with a hard glint and he looked at Champ and Jack with a single question in his eyes.

Champ squared his shoulders; his agent was out there, and he was going to find out who took her and kick their ever-loving ass from the Sierras to the Blue Ridge.  He looked at Tequila and Jack and both nodded back to him.  They were heading to California.

---***---

Sirah woke up groggy, barely able to see anything through her swollen eyes. The shackles binding her wrists dug deeply into her skin as she moved, and she struggled to open her mouth it was so dry.  Suddenly she was drenched in water and she gasped loudly before crying out from the pain jolting through her body as she jerked forward.  It was almost too much to handle.

“Where is it, agent?”  The voice was back.  She wasn’t sure how long she had been where she was, but she knew in between her bouts of unconsciousness that his voice was always there.  She struggled to stay awake, to listen, but the fight was so hard. If she could just sleep a little longer. . .

A fist suddenly slammed into her face and she could feel the back of her skull crack against the wall.

“WAKE UP!”  The voice screamed.  Her head lolled forward in response and he grabbed her chin, yanking her head upwards. “Fucking tell me where the microdrive is at and I’ll let you go.”

Even through the fogginess of her brain, she knew he was lying.  She shook her head and croaked, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you do, you stupid bitch.  You’re going to tell me where the hell that goddamn drive is at and then I’m going to kill you like I did that bitch Malbec.”  When she didn’t respond, her captor drew his leg back and kicked her in the ribs.  Her breath and the voice both left her.  Before she could even recover from the most recent abuse, hands began to take the shackles off her wrists.  She felt herself being picked up and dragged away to another location.

They entered a room with a blinding single light and a long table. They threw her down on the hard surface and handcuffed her legs and arms to the edge.  She couldn’t help the whimper that escape her mouth as searing pain shot down her leg and throughout her back.  She didn’t want to show weakness, but whatever grasp she had on her actions was weakening.

“Now, Sirah, tell me where the microdrive is at.  I’m done playing around with you.”  The small part of Sirah that hadn’t given into the circumstances suddenly rose to the surface.

“Oh, we were having fun?  I hadn’t noticed.”  Her voice held a smirk even if her face didn’t.  If she was going to die, then so be it.  At this point, death would be a welcomed end to this ordeal.  The voice didn’t respond but she heard the snap of fingers.  Suddenly, her face was covered in cloth and before she could react, water was being poured on her head.  She was so weak she could bare fight back.  When her captor realized this, he demanded the procedure to stop.

“Take her back, I’ll find another way to get it out of her. Besides, it’s no fun if they just sit there and take it.  Torture should be fun.”  He laughed and she could hear the cruelty in his voice.  The cloth was removed and so were the handcuffs.  She felt herself being dragged back to wherever they were holding her and suddenly, one of the captors stumbled as they entered her jail cell. They nearly dropped her, and the jarring movement brought fresh waves of pain.  She was once again shackled to the wall.  She smiled wryly over that.  She can’t even move, what was the point?

#agent whiskey #jack daniels #pedro pascal #kingsman: the golden circle #fanfic #agent whiskey x oc #agent whiskey x reader #pedro pascal x reader

[hippriestess]

Part 4 - I’ve Been Duped...

It was to be expected that some of those who brought us some of the less essential Fall releases would also respond to Smith's death. One of worst was the first to arrive and it came from perennial recyclers Secret Records; a repackaging of 10 live tracks from the 2002 “A Touch Sensitive” DVD – already reconfigured multiple times – on an LP titled, and this absolutely beggars belief, “Best Of” and credited to “The Fall & Mark E Smith”, a credit never once used on a release in Smith's lifetime (a few gig posters, yes but never a record). Released just 3 months after Smith's death for about £18-20, this received the derision it deserved and, judging from the number of copies for sale on Discogs and their current asking prices, it appears to have sold just a little more than fuck all.

But even this was overshadowed come March 2019 when Ozit/Dandelion released what has to be The Worst Fall Release Ever. Pressed into horrid orange vinyl, the contents of “Mark's Personal Holiday Tony Tapes” were staggeringly poor. Proudly labelled as “Non-Record-Store-Day Release” (was it turned down?) the record boasted just 8 tracks. The album tried to elide its rotten contents by calling all the tracks “Mark's Personal Holiday Tony Tapes”. Track 1 was a 6 minute version of “Last Nacht” from “I Am Kurious Oranj”. The released track doesn't actually feature within the 6 minutes so this is probably an outtake and therefore probably not owned by Beggars Banquet. There is a drop out lasting several seconds that has gone uncorrected and it's about 4 minutes longer than it needs to be, confirming the brevity of the version used in 1988 to be bob on. Tracks 2, 4, 6 and 8 are live tracks from 1981, all of which had already been released on the otherwise unimpressive “Northern Cream” DVD. What is barely credible is that tracks 3, 5 and 7 are also “Last Nacht” but not further alternates, rather being Track 1 cut into 2 minute pieces and simply repeated! Did they think we wouldn't notice?! Utterly awful, thoroughly exploitative and an absolute disgrace. They also stumped up a 30 minute DVD of MES being interviewed. This bore the thoroughly unappealing title “30 Minutes On A Manchester Slag Heap”. I only ever saw this for sale on eBay but a couple of clicks confirmed that it was Ozit/Dandelion product being sold by them through that channel. The cover was of a slag heap rather than of MES. Enough said.

OK, let's tidy up, what's next?

The immediate future sees 2 vinyl releases in the August “drop” of the now-staggered, socially-distanced RSD2020; a double LP of “[Austurbæjarbíó] - Reykjavík Live 1983” on the now inevitable splatter vinyl and a single LP of  “Cerebral Caustic” on multi-coloured “bonkers” (their word, absofuckinglutely not mine) splatter vinyl because of course it is. That's all for RSD this year, a move which represents far better judgement by the organisers. A studio album out of print on vinyl for 25 years and a properly sought after live release on the format for the first time? Yeah, that fits well with what RSD was meant to be back when we all queued up for a “Bury Pts 2 + 4” 7” in 2010.

Now, a fun wee question mark was raised over “CC” when the RSD website credited the release to Demon rather than Cherry Red. It appears Demon have the Permanent Records catalogue and have also announced clear vinyl reissues of “The Infotainment Scan”, “Middle Class Revolt”, “The Twenty-Seven Points” and, perhaps most interestingly, “The Post Nearly Man”, all on clear vinyl with expanded artwork from Pascal LeGras. It looks as though these are coming in under the £20 mark (£25 for T27P) and I reckon they'll be popular – I fancy nabbing MCR and TPNM myself. A bit of a downer that all of these, except, oddly, “The Post Nearly Man” were recently rescheduled from September 2020 to January 2021 but hey ho – probably Covid-related, much like everything else.

As for Cherry Red, whilst one report had it that “Are You Are Missing Winner” was next, they are finally releasing a 3CD/2LP edition of “Imperial Wax Solvent” in October. This includes the much-discussed original mix by Grant Showbiz and a previously unavailable live set from shortly after the album's original release. This is, basically, exactly what we wanted. Hurrah! Can't wait.

Thanks to the speculation re: AYAMW, there was a little disappointment in come quarters and I can certainly see a healthy audience for a straight single LP pressing of that as it was only ever available on a picture disc vinyl before. Here's hoping they won't go for a double splatter vinyl with unnecessary extras (“Where's The Fuckin' Taxi? Cunt” on vinyl? Come on, SPARE US).  

To yr present authors surprise, an expanded edition of “The Frenz Experiment” was announced for release by Beggars Banquet/Arkive in October. I had reckoned a new vinyl edition was likely as it was the only studio album on BB not yet afforded a new pressing and the addition of a second LP with various singles tracks was no surprise either, given that there are similar packages available for “TWAFW”, “TNSG” and “Bend Sinister”. A very pleasant surprise however is the inclusion of the group's Janice Long session from 1987, their only unreleased Radio 1 session. Also, “A Day In The Life” has been licenced for the this also (it was the only studio recording from the era missing from “5 Albums”). The Long session and “...Life” are only on the CD version. As such, this release very much follows the pattern of the “Bend Sinister” reissue from 2018 and is likely inspired by the near ecstatic reception and healthy sales that release enjoyed. Nice that the CD edition is £12 this time, having been more like £22 for “Bend Sinister”.

Let Them Eat Vinyl are responsible for the illustration...they are planning an almost ludicrous onslaught of Fall vinyl. Their website currently lists an almost unbelievable THIRTY ONE Fall LP releases for the three months running September to November. Thirty-one. Now – this includes “Interim” which is already on the shelves but it also includes the “Live From The Vaults” releases. It was assumed from the inclusion of two of these on Cherry Red's “Dragnet” 3CD box that these were part of the Fall Sound Archive deal that MES cut with CR in the years before his death which makes this a bit interesting. Also, LTEV are also claiming they will release “The Post-Nearly Man” on vinyl in October, which clashes with Demon's schedule – they originally had Smith and The Fall's albums for Permanent Records releases slated for reissue in September but all except TPNM have been moved. Meanwhile, “Cog Sinister” are about to release TPNM on CD! After being unavailable and highly prized for 2 decades, we're now set for 3 separate reissues within 2 months!  Anyway, the vast majority of the remaining LTEV are discs from the 2 “sets of ten (really eleven)” although also included are the excellent “I Am Pure As Oranj” and the first vinyl edition of “The Light User Syndrome” since its original release in 1996. Caveat Emptor, as the saying goes.

Narnack are also hinting that a 3LP “Fall Heads Roll” isn't too far off. Having teased this for a couple of years, Early in 2020, it was announced that the label was folding. This announcement was deleted and Narnack immediately moved on to asking fans to suggest what additional material could be added to this new version. Never one of their best, there would have to be some impressive outtakes to persuade yr persent scribe to cough up.  

Elsewhere, Phonogram have yet to succumb to new vinyl pressings of their albums, despite the prices fetched on the collectors market for these, especially “Code-Selfish”. This may be partly due to what seems to have been a relatively low take-up for their 6CD box set from 2017. Titled “The Fontana Years”, this was just the 2CD editions of the three albums from 2007 in a box. It therefore looked weak next to the “Singles 1978-2016” box set as well as providing nothing attractive to the faithful who already had them. It hit the shelves at £35-40 a time and, unsurprisingly, remained there and can now be scored for around £20.

The much requested expansion of “The Real New Fall LP” with the original, very different mix of the album has yet to appear. At last count, contractual wrangles between the UK and US were said to be in the way but who knows? If “Levitate” can reappear, surely this can too.

Of course, we never know what else the less-salubrious end of the market will have for us but we shall approach with due caution.

The cold reality: what we get now is all there is. Mark E Smith now exists for Fall fans on paper, on magnetic tape, on vinyl and in combinations of 0 and 1. A sad fact. But it is clear that the appetite for The Fall is, if anything, increasing. Hindsight is presenting The Fall in a particularly clear light. In such a stylised, filtered and carefully marketed world, full of covert strategies and manipulative messaging, The Fall are reassuringly flawed, human, real. Their jagged edges, their constant state of flux, their DIY presentation and their disinterest in convention draws in the curious. The quantity of music suits an insatiable, want-it-all-and-now culture and, having made their albums for the vinyl format as well as bringing us so many magnificent 3-4 minute singles, their music is almost perfectly suited to today's market place where vinyl albums mix with song-by-song streams. People who love to write about music always loved The Fall and it seems that this is every bit as true today as it was in the days when we never had to wait any more than a few months for a missive of some sort, be it an album, a single, a Peel session or even just an entertaining interview.

Given that The Beatles – the most lauded rock/pop act of all time - have finally reached a generation to whom their blithe optimism means absolutely nothing, it is impossible to say how anything in music will be regarded 20 years from now. But for now, at least, The Fall endure. Their vibrations remain intense and powerful. And we, the people, dance to the waves.

Nine out of ten? Nah. Ten out of ten. Top marks. 

#mark e smith #the fall #long live the fall

[peachfyzzy]

mingling with the baddest pt 1 (leone abbacchio x reader +18)

Hey loves! I figured I’d do something special! I’m planning to make this a short multi-chapter fic! I hope you all enjoy, and as always…

nsfw under the cut

You patiently and diligently dried the spotless glass cups that were laid out in front of you. Part of you wanted to tear off your smock, hair net, and gloves and run as far as you could from the trashy little diner, but you had other priorities. Were you happy that you had to pick up another job to support yourself and family?

     Absolutely not. 

     But would you bear it for the sake of them and yourself?

     Absolutely so. 

     So, there you sat, drying and shelving dishes, until… “Y/N.” Your boss’s voice echoed in the bustling restaurant kitchen. You turned to attention, putting on your best ‘I don’t wanna strangle someone’ smile. 

     “Yes, sir?” 

     “Put down the dishes. We need help out serving.” Without so much as another glance, he walked away into the busyness of the staff room. With a sigh, you took off your gloves and headed outside to take orders. You hated working as a waitress. Not only was washing dishes gross, but the customers were rude and demanding. Still, you took it in stride with your chin held high. After a few points from the greeter, you found yourself serving a small table. You almost let out a gasp when you saw them. This diner was notorious for mafia activity and outbursts of anger. Yet, sitting and smiling in front of you, was a gaggle of cops. It was shocking to you- almost jarring. Amongst the shouting, rowdy, and rough mafia members occupying the space tonight…was a group of pristine, beaming cops. You didn’t realize you were staring until one spoke up. 

     “Uh, Miss?” He was handsome- almost impossibly so. Strands of pale hair stuck out from where he tucked it in. You jumped a bit, snapping out of your peaceful daydream. You once again, put on your customer service smile. 

     “What’ll it be, boys?” 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

     You took in the comforting silence of your closed workplace. It was almost midnight, and the last few patrons had just left and sprung out into the beautifully painted night. With a certain kind of tired reverie, you tore off your work clothes and prepared for the car ride home. As you took one look into the dark abyss of the closed establishment, your heart began to race. You learned that the man’s name was Leone. He was fresh out of high school,  as were you, and he was taking a break from patrolling that night with his buddies. No matter where you were in the restaurant, you felt his eyes skim over you, almost unashamed. You didn’t mind the attention of course and made sure to swing your hips a bit more as you walked past. Pucker your lips a little more as you spoke. Add more of a lithe to your voice when saying his name. It was all casual fun, and seeing as cops were such a rare sight, you enjoyed the attention. Nothing too serious, right? 

     You’d be surprised. 

     You drove home, letting the cool Naples’ breeze pick up your stress and strain it through your flowing hair. It was bliss. You had always loved car rides. Specifically, fast car rides. Without noticing, you began to increase the speed that you were going. In your mundane life of eating, sleeping, working, repeat…something as small as a thrilling car ride brought immense joy to you. You lulled your head back a bit, taking in the sounds and sensations of Naples’ nightlife, until… 

Wee Woo Wee Woo

Aw, shit. 

     You looked into your head mirror and sighed. Your suspicions had been confirmed. You were being pulled over. With a grunt, you slowly veered to the side, gently slowing your vehicle. When you both came to a stop, you took the moments before he came to your door to fix your hair and try to at least act like you weren’t annoyed. Finally, he came to your window, rapping three times. You gasped. To your surprise, it was Leone. He hadn’t looked up from his notepad- you assumed he was writing a ticket- and only looked up at you once your meek voice reached out to him. 

     “Miss, you were doing 50 in a- Y/N?” 

     “Oh..uh…yeah. Hi, Officer Leone.” He looked at you from his comfortable height and tried not to stare down your shirt. 

     “Small town, huh?” The atmosphere around you two immediately lightened as he realized who you were. Soon though, you knew you would be driving home with a ticket that you couldn’t afford to pay off. 

     “Yeah, sure is. Uh…About the speeding-”

     “Look. You seem like a nice girl. If you promise not to do it again, I’m fine with letting you off with a warning.” You had to do a double-take. Relief washed over you, and you nodded. 

     “Y-Yes, of course! Oh, God…Thank you. You don’t know what it means to me. Really…I..” He tipped his hat at you, and you giggled. You found him astoundingly charming. 

     “It’s just what I do, Y/N.” You both shared a moment of comfortable silence before he began scribbling something down. You tilted your head curiously. He ripped the paper from its pad and handed it to you. Scratched across the pre-printed outline for a speeding ticket was his number. You blushed, knowing what he meant. “I’d like to get to know you more.” 

     “Same here, Officer Leone.” You spoke with a bit more confidence. As he began walking away, something pulled you internally. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the burst of confidence you got from a gorgeous man like Abbacchio taking interest in you, but you felt as if you couldn’t let him walk away. In one swift motion, you popped open your car door and grabbed his wrist. “Wait.” He looked down at you with his steely eyes, a more stern expression now crossing his face. “Who says you have to wait to get to know me?” 

     Before you knew it, you were sprawled onto your backseat with feverish kisses being pressed against your warm skin. Abbacchio had long since lost his utility belt, shoes, and hat. You, on the other hand never got the chance as the pale headed man kisses you up and down like you were a prized possession. Finally, you slid out of your work stockings and coat. As you did so, Abbacchio struggled to take off his full uniform in the back of your small car. You bit your lip, anxious to see what such a dignified officer was hiding under his clothes. Soon, his toned and lean body was on display for you, and you couldn’t help but beg and drool. He began to tease, and you didn’t hold back reciprocating. 

    “You like something you see, bella?” 

    “What gives you that idea?” 

    “You’re almost starring as much as you were in the restaurant.” That shut you up, and also earned a bitter laugh from Abbacchio. Not being one to give up so easily, you ghosted your hips down your body, stopping at your panties. You slid them down your leg, aware of Leone’s intense gaze. You both played your game of cat and mouse, teasing and toying with each other’s bodies. Something about him felt safe, and you were sure it wasn’t the uniform. After a torturous hour of praying no driver’s stopped and rolled down their windows, he finally aligned himself with you. In the haze of the moment, you felt your heart beginning to thump. He was staring down at your body, admiring all of your dimples, folds, and humps. “You’re beautiful, bella.” You had no time to return the sentiment as he thrusted in you, leaving you clinging to his shoulders. He gave you a minute to adjust to his length, somehow not letting his stoic exterior slip from him. You huffed out a ‘Move’ and he did so. Instantly, the car began to rock and creak, which only riled you up more. A myriad of sounds escaped your own lips and his as his pace quickened. You thought you might pass out as you reached your personal Nirvana. You had been with men- many in fact. But nothing felt like this. Stars danced in the corners of your eyes as you fell down from heaven. Leone finally pulled out, leaving you feeling empty as ever. After a few hard strokes, he came around your navel. Time stopped as you both looked at each other, and then gears started turning. 

This was the beginning of something new and unfound.

#leone abbacchio #xreader #n/s/f/w #jjba #fanfiction #mywriting #bruno bucciarati #vento aureo #abbacchio x reader #abbacchio

[otheroutlandertales]

Anonymous said: How about one of the stories from Grandfather Tales -- the book Jamie printed when he and Claire went back to Scotland?

Author’s Note: This one is loosely based on the fairy tale Tikki Tikki Tembo.

Other Grandfather Tales

by @abbydebeaupreposts

“Da, Da, Da!” Ian Murray glanced down to see his son tugging on his sleeve. It was getting toward nightfall, but the children had been indefatigable. Not even sitting them all down for dinner had quieted them. Still, it was a special kind of joy to see Og with his cousins. As if that thought had conjured her up, he caught a flash of Bree’s red hair mid-swing as she was tagged by Jem. “Yer it!” he shouted with glee and escaped the long reach of her arm. It was so good to have them back on the Ridge. His eyes swept across the campfire taking in the sight of his mother and his uncle leaning against each other in companionable silence, like him, both content to watch all the children running and playing in the meadow just beyond.

His auntie Claire was helping Rachel put things away for the evening and Roger still wasn’t back from the springhouse with the jugs of ale.

He felt another sharp tug and stared into the sun kissed face of his son, “What is it, a bhalaich?” 

“What’s thee names?”

“What? My names?” Ian wondered what he meant. Og still had a tendency to mix his prepositions. 

“No Da, thee,” he said pointing to his own chest, “All them.” Og bounced up and down on his heels and made a wide sweeping gesture to encompass just about everybody in his field of view.

“He wants to know his middle names,” this explanation coming from Mandy who had intercepted her father and was now carrying a jug that looked heavy in her arms. Ian quickly plucked it from her, pouring himself a generous glass. When he didn’t immediately respond, Mandy went on, “I’m Amanda Claire Hope MacKenzie and Jemmy is Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser MacKenzie, Da is Roger Jeremiah Wakefield MacKenzie and Mam is Brianna Ellen Randall Fraser MacKenzie and Grandda is—.”

“Ah, like the way I am Ian James Fitzgibbons Fraser Murray,” Ian noted. 

“And Okwaho'kenha,” Rachel said using his Mohawk name. She scooped Og up and held Ian’s gaze. He could read her like a book, and knew he was going to be fielding this one. 

“Well Og, the plain truth of it is, yer name is just plain Og Murray. We thought we’d pick out a  name for you in the Mohawk fashion when you got a bit older.” The real story was only slightly more complicated than that, but he could tell from the look on his son’s face neither of these explanations were going to satisfy him. What else could he say? It simply did not match with his mother’s Quaker upbringing nor his Mohawk traditions to give children ostentatiousness names at birth.  

Og, unfortunately, had been going through a why, why, why stage -- morning, noon and night -- of late. Now, he could tell his son was gearing up for a lengthy discourse on the subject and had no way to head him off at the pass. 

Salvation came in the form of a gravelly voice from across the fire pit, “You should tell him the real story.” Upon hearing his grandfather’s voice, Og squirmed until Rachel put him back down and he raced across the edge of the fire to strong arms that helped him climb onto his lap, Og pulling himself up by latching onto the man’s thick, white beard.

“Story? Thee tell, Moopa!” Og demanded. 

“Thee wants to hear it, then?” Murtagh gently teased, for prepositions were hard enough for a bairn to figure out, let alone one with a Quaker mother.

It had been Og who’d christened him Moopa and, of course, the name had stuck with all the rest of the bairns as well. He was pleased to have his own special family name. Murtagh accepted a glass of ale from Claire, who had returned and settled down beside him for what promised to be a good tale, if the smiles on Jamie and Jenny’s faces were any indication.

“This is a story about your other grandfathers,” he began and slowly all the other children came to settle around and listen as well, “Yer Grandda Jamie and your Grandpa Ian, ye ken the one in Scotland?” Murtagh look down at Og. 

“Oh, Lallybroch,” he breathed. Og had been told enough stories for the Highlands to occupy a place of almost mystical wonder in his imagination.

“Aye, just so, my lad. Wayback when your grandfathers were around Jem’s age, they had been given charge of the stables, the watering and feeding of the horses.” 

At this Og uttered the Cherokee word for horses and, hearing it, Ian shared a private smile with Rachel. “Well, it was getting to harvest season and yer great grandfather, the one they called Black Brian,” this time it was Jem’s turn to exclaim, “Dubh!” Ian watched as Jamie shot his grandson a look of startled appreciation, it had been a long time since he’d heard anyone call his father by that name. 

“Aye, that’s what they called him,” Jenny agreed. 

“Believe it or no, Granny Jenny’s hair used to be black as night, just like our father’s,” Jamie said, patting his sister’s knee.  

“Ye may be younger than me, my lad, but do ye ken ye have almost as much silver on yer heid as me?” Her eyes danced. 

“The boys, puffed wi’ self-importance at being given such responsibility, began well enough, mucking the stables and getting the hay. But they soon tired of lugging heavy buckets of water between the well and the stables. Yer Grandda got it into his head to have some fun with poor Grandpa Ian and next thing he knew, a bucket had been dumped right o’er his head. That made your Grandpa so angry that he turned quick as lightning and went after Jamie.”

“Aye, charged me just like that daft bull up in the north pasture,” Jamie confirmed.

“It’s hard to picture Ian going on the attack,” Bree laughed, remembering her gentle uncle as more of a peacemaker than a fighter. 

“No… not after the leg, that’s true enough,” Murtagh agreed.

“In his prime, though,” Jenny said, “He was a canty wee fighter. But he got the best of Jamie wi’out landing a single blow.”

“What happened?” Germain demanded. At that, Murtagh snorted and gave all the children a look full of mirth. 

“Jamie was so surprised, he backed all the way up to the edge of the well and the next thing he knew, he went arse over teakettle, straight into the well!” At this the children let out delighted shrieks of laughter, and the adults all smiled at the abashed look on Jamie’s face. “Well, now, luckily he didna hit his head on his way down; but he was trapped, and good. Stuck there at the bottom of the well. He couldna climb out, for the stone was slippery and Ian wasna strong enough to lift him all by himself using the rope. Try as they might, he and Ian couldna figure out how to get him out of there.”

“Aye, the worst part was the chores werena done. I thought if Da came back and saw me trapped, he’d likely throw Ian in after me. So, I told Ian to run quick as he may and get help.” Jamie told them. 

“I was out back, plucking a chicken,” Jenny added, “Feathers all over my hair. I was sweet on him, even then, and thought I must look a fright but even so I kent he looked worse. All red in the face, wheezing and a look of terror about him. Lord, I thought something terrible had happened to Jamie.” 

“Something terrible did happen to Jamie…” Jamie put in and Claire laughed. 

“I meant,” Jenny said with the exaggerated patience of someone who has had this argument many times before, “Something really terrible, and the longer it took him to spit it out the more worried I became.” 

“What did Ian finally say?” Claire asked. 

“He said,” Murtagh cut in, rolling his eyes at Jamie and Jenny for interrupting his flow, “‘James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser has fallen into the well!’ That’s why it took him so long to get it out. Ye ken there were several Jamie Frasers living around those parts back then and so he needed to tell the whole name. And yer Granny Jenny said, ‘Oh my lord, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser has fallen into the well! Ye must go find Murtagh!’ And so poor Ian didna even have time to catch his breath and he had to set off again, all over Lallybroch desperate to get my help before Jamie’s Da came back. And at every croft he has to say the same thing, ‘James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser has fallen into the well, is Murtagh here?’ It took forever for him to get that great long name out over and over again. By the time word reached me, it was too late. Brian had returned. Between the three of us, we managed to get Jamie out of the well. By that time the poor lad was an ice cube. I’m surprised wee pieces of his backside didna crack off with each lash his Da laid down. I dinna think either lad sat down for two days after.”

“God, ‘twas true, there I was shiverin’ and shaking so hard I swear I could hear my balls rattling in-” Jamie abruptly closed his mouth, turning red as he suddenly remembered the women and children. Murtagh gave him a look and he saw more than one of the boys absently touching their own laps in sympathy. 

“The next day, I overheard Jamie and Ian talking, and Jamie says, ‘God man, what took you so long?’ And Ian, still smarting from the strapping he got from Brian and then the ten extra his own Da added, turned around, all red in the face and steaming and he said ‘I’d like to see ye do better! Running around the countryside yelling out a name like James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. If I had been the one who fell, it wouldna have taken ye all of two seconds to say Ian Murray and I’ll tell ye now, if I never ever have to say that long name again it will be too soon!’” 

“Oh Christ, poor Ian,” Jamie said wiping tears of laughter, “I’d forgotten that part.” Jamie nudged his sister’s leg. “Come to think of it, I dinna think he ever did say my full name out loud again. When I became a mercenary in France, he shortened my name altogether, introduced me as Jamie MacTavish.”

“And so, wee Og Murray, not long before yer parents got marrit, Ian went back to see Grandpa in Scotland and yer Grandpa told yer Da that story. Then, made his son promise that he’d take better care and no’ burden his grandson with a muckle-sized name. The shorter the better, that’s the moral of that tale!”

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod abby #ch: murtagh #ch: oggy #ch: young ian #ch: jamie #ch: jenny #ch: ian #canon divergence #book: bees #category: general #oot #*

[eabhaalynn]

Your Local A-Level Survival Guide

If you’re reading this, I’m sorry.

It probably means you’re doing a-levels. That is… unfortunate.

Everyone has a different experience of their a-level years. For me, they were the most enjoyable two years of my school career. I found some of the best friends in the world and honestly learned so much, both in and out of school. However even I have to say that the exams were the WORST. There were too many tears, tantrums and existential crisis’ to count.

And yet, I survived them. And I have so many friends who survived them too. And if I can get through them in one piece, anyone can.

So; here’s a little advice on how to survive the stresses of sixth form, both in school and out, and maybe even get a few a-levels along the way. I’ve split them into revision tips, school life and social life because this post is a fairly hefty read. (sorry again!)

STU(DYING) 

1.    Make notes as you go along.

You will LOVE yourself for this in June. A-Level content isn’t anything close to GCSE content, and you simply will not have time to start writing notes and learn them all around exam time.

Try to keep within a day of your class with your own notes and if you fall behind during the week, try to get caught up that weekend.

Find a note-taking style that fits how you learn. I personally realised in my upper sixth year – just a tiny bit late - that I loved making and learning off of summary posters. Trying out different ways of note taking will do no harm.

2.    Ask if you need help

Your teachers and friends are all on your side. You are not a burden for asking them to explain an idea to you again, or to reword something. Your teachers are literally being paid to help you, and your mates are in exactly the same position you are. Ask them for help if you need it, because a-levels really are very hard – and they only get harder if you try to go it alone.

3.    Find somewhere you can bare to study in

In school, if you have a choice of study rooms, spend your free time in ones you like – okay, maybe tolerate – being in. At GCSE we only had one study and I hated it, but at A-Level I had the choice of two, with a definite favourite, and it really makes the difference.

Make friends with your study supervisors, they have the power to make or break your a-level years.

At home, study where you’re comfortable. But not too comfortable. Your leavers hoodie will become your wearable hug over study leave and I also highly recommend investing in comfy tracksuit bottoms. You get used to looking like a tent most of the time

My favourite places to study were the public library and various coffee shops around the town I studied in. They were less strict than school, but still required more discipline than trying to study in my bedroom. Just try not to develop a caffeine dependency over the next two years because I certainly did.

4.  Don’t compare yourself to others.

You are not your friends. You are different people, you probably have different ways of making your tea, and you almost certainly will have different ways of studying.

 I remember around repeat season seeing my friend sit and do a booklet of twelve past papers all day. To her credit, she did them all. I, on the other hand, did a total of one past paper over three repeat exams. We put the same hours in. We got the same grades in the end.

Other peoples work doesn't invalidate your own. Everyone is working with their own skills and capabilities.

5.  Repeat everything you need to.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with repeating modules in upper sixth. There’s also absolutely nothing wrong with repeating upper or lower sixth.

The extended exam period (seven (!!) weeks) is awful; it is genuinely very difficult to avoid burnout, but your understanding of modules is so much better second time around and repeats almost always pay off.

You will meet a whole new group of friends through repeating modules, purely because it is so difficult that you have no choice but to cling on to the people that are going through it with you

6.    Don’t do an unnecessary hard one

All A-Levels are hard. Some a-levels (chemistry and biology for me, also twitter tells me further maths) are very hard. Unless your Uni course requires those traditional, exceptionally hard subjects, don’t do them.

Pick your subjects around your interests, because your whole life is going to revolve around them for two years. Two years of interesting impossible exams beat two years of boring impossible exams any day.

No matter how much you love that fourth subject, don’t take it – and don’t keep it on – unless you absolutely have to. Your grades may suffer, your already limited free time will suffer, and there are very few cases where you will ever need it. I loved AS History with every fibre of my being, but for my course I didn’t need four subjects past AS and so it would have been unsustainable and unnecessary to keep on yet another academically challenging subject

7.  Make use of the resources available to you.

Ask your older friends for their notes, borrow and buy textbooks, read relevant articles online.

 My school was especially good for this, if you like making notes on a certain kind of paper (like A3 or squared for example) ask your teachers to get you some.

Use the free printing credits your school gives you! The internet is full of additional notes and papers and worksheets that are free and quite literally a click away.

SKOOL LIFE

1.    You are the most important

No a-level is more important than you and your wellbeing. Take care of your mental and physical health throughout your studies. Nothing in this world is more important than that.

If you are suffering, tell someone! A-Levels can feel so lonely and sixth form can be a very high-pressure environment, but every adult in your school has a duty of care over you, and there is always someone to help you through it all; be it a friend, family member, teacher or youth worker.

2.    Be nice!

-      Schools are inherently toxic environments. Everyone is loaded with hormones and there are few things in this world scarier than a building full of stressed teenagers.Be nice to everyone you come across, no one loves a levels and most will really struggle through them. You only ever know a tiny bit of what is going on in someones life, so do try not to make anyone’s life any harder.

3.    Take every opportunity that comes to you

-      Take part in any extra curricular you can. You probably will learn more from them than you do in class, and you get the chance to make friends with people you’d never come across otherwise. I did debate, public speaking and the rotary award during my sixth form, and they all helped me so much to develop the soft skills and time management that eventually got me into my degree.

4.    Set aside time for careers/admin

-      It might not be a-level important, but you’ll find yourself with a lot of sorting out of your life to do throughout sixth form – especially if you’re applying to medicine or similar courses that require multi-step application processes.

5.    There’s no right or wrong way to do sixth form

-      A-Levels aren’t a one-way street. You may have to change subjects, you may have to take time out, you may end up sitting your courses at two different schools, over one or two or three years, and that is all okay. No matter what way you do it, you’re doing alright.

6.    UCAS will ruin your life.

-      UCAS is the sixth form version of the wee guy on the bus who would pick on you incessantly, and even though he was never that important, he’d always be there and never do anything worthwhile for your life.

-      It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it is another thing to worry about, when you really don’t need it to be.

-      Try to keep on top of it and get your application over with early. The emails from track will keep giving you the fear forever, even after you’ve had 3 straight up rejections, missed an offer, declined two different offers and confirmed your place.

SOCIAL LIFE (trust me it does exist)

1.    Balance is everything

It is not normal to have your life be so centred around one place as much as it is during a-levels. As well as this, being 16 – 18 is literally the best time to be alive and make memories in your whole life. Spend lots of time on schoolwork, but not all of it.

2. You’re not going out too much

You work so unbelievably hard all week. You do deserve to go out sometimes.

My upper sixth was framed by panicking and feeling wracked with guilt every time I left my house or went on any night out. This is no way to feel There is more to life than a-levels and upper sixth is the last time in your life where all your school mates will be all together all the time. Make the most of it! (Just, also make notes)

3.    Take a day off

Like literally, take a day off a week

I took Sundays off schoolwork in upper sixth, when I usually worked in the afternoon, had the morning to myself and the evening as a time to rest. This will keep you sane.

4.    Make time for the friends you don’t see everyday

You won’t have a lot of free time, but if you make a conscious effort to see your far away friends every couple of weeks it always gives you something to look forward to.

5.    Don’t give in to peer pressure

I promise it is so much fun to go out and not drink excessively. Don’t do hard drugs, don’t drink more than you can handle, especially not over term time. It’s just not worth it. Showing up to school hungover is not a good look, or any fun at all – no matter what your mates say. A-Levels are a stressful enough two years without losing all this extra time to hangovers and come downs.

6.    Make good habits

 If you have a spare evening during the week, go for a walk. Take the bus and walk one day a week instead of driving. Maybe even join a gym. As well as a distraction, exercise and a generally healthy lifestyle will get your endorphins flowing and you will notice a huge difference to your stress levels within a few weeks.

You’re going to need comfort food – trust me on that one. But if you’re going to substitute a healthy lunch for a chicken box and squashies, at least have a banana for breakfast. And never skip breakfast, it will make you a hangry, hanxious, horrible person.

Congratulations! You made it to the end. I really hope you’ve found at least some of this advice helpful, and that you get through sixth form with all of your sanity intact. 

(I’d like to thank Julia Anusiak, Alexandra Rosbotham, Aoife Donaghy, Maeve Denver, Gabrielle Carland, Caitriona Fitzpatrick, Grace Craig and Jack Worrall for their contributions to this blog post)

#study #a level chemistry #a level #a level exams #study tips

[penny4yourthot]

Broken Stranger-Part 8

utSummary: Torri (O/C) needs to escape her life in Seattle because of her abusive husband. When she ends up in Charming things don’t go as planned.

part-1/ part-2 / part-3/ part-4 /part-5/ part-6 / part-7

I woke to the sound of the alarm buzzing loudly on Chib’s nightstand. He smacked the button and pulled me in closer placing a soft kiss to the top of my hair.

“G’morning, Lass.” I felt a shiver run down my spine from his warm breath tickling my head.

“‘Morning,” I said as I lifted my head up and placed a kiss on his cheek. The moment was cut short when a wave of nausea hit me.

“Dammit!” I yelled and ran to the bathroom, flipping the toilet lid and throwing up what little I had in my stomach. Chibs ran behind me, held my hair with one hand and placed his other around my stomach.

“Stop making yer mum sick, wee one.”  His words caused a smile to form on my lips.

“Shit.” I grabbed my lower abdomen.

“Ye okay?” Chibs asked turning my body around so I was facing him.

“Just a couple bad cramps, ill be fine,” I replied as I felt another shock wave of pain run through my abdomen.

“Ye sure?” he questioned. I could see the worry in his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll go make breakfas’.” He placed a kiss on my cheek before heading out of the bathroom.

I got up and pulled my pajama bottoms and underwear down to use the bathroom, worry running through my mind as I saw blood on my panties. Shit.

“Chibs!” I yelled, my body begginning to shake in worry. Maybe something was wrong with my baby. I was only ten weeks. I remember learning about complications of pregnancies in nursing school and most things that could go wrong happen within the first twelve weeks.

“Wha’s wrong Lass?” I heard his footsteps running towards the bathroom in a hurry. He stopped directly next to me as he saw the blood.

“I don’t know if this is normal, with the cramps, something must be wrong. Right?” I questioned him, hoping he would have an answer for me.

“Get yer clothes on, let's go see Tara,” he said as he pulled his phone out, leaving the room.

I walked into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie and grabbed my purse. Chibs was already outside waiting.

It was an odd sight to see Chibs in a car and not on his bike, but with me being pregnant I was sure we would be taking the car that Gemma gave me more often than not.

I sat in the front seat of the car and Chibs hand instantly went to my thigh gently rubbing in an attempt to comfort me. The contact was all I needed to break down and cry. Worried that I may lose this baby, It was such a shock to find out I was pregnant but the idea of having a baby grew on me greatly in the last few weeks.

“What if I lose the baby?” I sobbed. The dam that was holding my tears back broken.

“I'm here fer ye, Torri, No matter wha’ happens,” he said as he backed out of the driveway and headed towards the hospital.

“I'm sure the little lad or lass is going to be jus’ fine,” He added. I knew I needed to calm down, working myself up this way wasn't going to help anything.

It only took a few minutes to get to the hospital but it felt like a hell of a lot longer. Chibs quickly parked the car and opened my door for me, he grabbed my hand and walked with me into the front doors. We made the familiar walk to Tara’s office and explained what happened. She stood up from her desk and had us follow her to one of the exam rooms.

Chibs gave me a hand as I climbed onto the exam table, pulling my shirt up and preparing for the ultrasound I knew she was going to do.

The thoughts running through my head were quickly interrupted by the cool gel that Tara had put on my abdomen.

“So how long has he bleeding been going on?” Tara questioned keeping eye contact until she put the prob on my stomach.

“I just noticed it this morning right after I felt some pretty intense cramping.” I searched her face as she looked at the ultrasound screen moving the probe slightly to get a better look.

Chibs held my hand as he stood next to me, he must have noticed the doctors face; a look neither of us could read.

“Something wrong with the wee one, Doc?” Chibs questioned, trying to figure out Tara’s face.

“No, well, I mean nothing is wrong with the baby, but there are two of them.” She turned the screen towards me as she spoke.

“T-two baby’s?” My voice shaking from shock

“Yeah, sometimes 8 weeks is too early to see twins so I didn’t catch it on the last ultrasound. The cramping is from your uterus stretching and growing more due to having two fetuses in there,” she started looking back at the scene and capturing a few pictures. “Now the bleeding could be a couple of things, one of the babies placentas could be covering your cervix, but I don’t see that here,” she continued looking back at the screen confirming what she was telling me. “Your cervix could just be irritated. Have you had sexual intercourse recently?” She looked back over at me and then to Chibs and then to our hands that were connected over the top portion of my abdomen.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as I looked over at Chibs.

“Yea last nigh’, why?” Chibs asked. I’m glad that he isn’t afraid of telling the truth.

“Sex can irritate the cervix and sometimes cause a small amount of blood. I’m going to recommend being on bed rest for a week then coming back for another check up to re-evaluate.”

“And you're sure there are two babies in there?” I asked one more time, still shocked.

“Yes, here is Baby A’s heartbeat,” She said just before turning the volume on, “and here is baby B’s heart rate. Both completely normal.” A smile formed on her face as she looked over at me and Chibs.

“So I see you two have gotten close.” She chuckled a bit, “Jax told me you guys were staying together but he wasn’t sure what exactly was going on”

“Aye, I would say we have gotten rather close,” Chibs replied with a smirk to which I jokingly slapped his arm lightly.

“Any questions?” She asked as she took the probe away, wiping the cool gel off my stomach and biting the print button sending the pictures to the attached printer at the bottom of the cart.

“Nope.” I pulled my shirt down and sat up.

“Okay, if you need anything, feel free to call. Make sure to rest, I’ll let Gemma know you won’t be able to work this week.” She grabbed the pictures and handed them to Chibs as I fixed my shirt.

“Thanks for all this Tara,” I heard Chibs say.

“No problem,” she replied as she walked to the door and closed it behind her as she left.

“Twins. I’m having twins,” I quietly said, more so to myself then to Chibs.

“Aye, two wee ones in there.” He smiled as he placed his hand over my stomach.

“Listen, I know this changes things, double the money needed double the time if you want me out I’ll...”

“The only thing this changes is that we have two babies to love instead of one,” he reassured me with a genuine smile on his face. “Like I said before, I want you with me. I don’t want you taking care of these babies by yourself,” he continued, still smiling at me. “And I love having you around,” he added, helping me off the table then wrapping his arms around me pulling me close.

“Thanks so much, I honestly would be so lost without you,” I whispered, nuzzling my head into his neck.

He pulled away and placed a soft kiss on my lips. “I’ll always be here fer ye, Torri,” he softly whispered against my lips before pulling me in for another kiss.

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you guys think! if you would like to be tagged in the next part let me know =)

Tag list: @gemini0410 @genius2050 @utterlyhopeful

#chibs x oc #soa #Sons of anarchy #chibs #chibstelford #Soa imagine

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Cry Me A River.

anonymous  asked:

Prompt: Cry me a river, I cried a river over you.

Part TWO:

In the days following their first meeting, Claire did as Jamie had suggested and began reading her uncle’s memoirs the moment he emailed them to her.

One box of tissues hadn’t been enough.

Neither had two.

The bin beside her bed had been emptied a few times by the maid who supposedly was only employed to clean once a week but seemed to be there every day. She would (unobtrusively) appear in Claire’s room. Remove the overflowing bin and return it empty - a task she was certainly capable of herself but had no energy to point out.

As predicted, the draft was funny, sad, motivating and humbling all at the same time. She could pick out Lamb's voice in an instant and it made her sob harder to think that she’d missed these precious moments. There were embarrassing stories written about her, but she found that she didn’t mind them. This was for Lamb, by Lamb and she knew everything he’d passed on to Jamie was something interesting and vibrant, something suitable to be shared. Her past was suddenly coming back to life before her eyes, an easier time (though she hadn’t realised it). Free of the restraints of her family name and the ridiculous entitlement that had gone with it. The words seemed to lift off the page and in an instant she was back in a dusty tent, the taste of her first cigarette still coating her tongue as she coughed and laughed with some of the younger members of the group.

It had been a flurry of thought, her mind alive with images she’d forgotten long ago, an emotional rollercoaster that excited her and punched her in the gut all at the same time. When she reached the end, Claire had returned to the beginning and started again. She read deeper into each and every word, hooked on the sentences as they took her from his early life - a life before her own had even started - through to nearly the very end, until Jamie’s voice became larger than Lamb's as he took the reins of the story.

As the day of the funeral dawned, Claire had yet to even leave the confines of her appointed room. Cleverly, food had been left on a tray outside her door at mealtimes and she had not been disturbed by anyone in the house for anything. There were calls, of course, from the family solicitor and the funeral director to arrange the final details but he had sorted the newspaper announcements in a number of different ways to ensure that colleagues far and wide knew of poor Quentin’s departure.

She had even written the eulogy - but, without thinking, she had incorporated and rewritten some of her favourite adventures from the book. It seemed fitting to use his own words, to add a little of Lamb into his own funeral.

Though without Jamie’s support, she knew she couldn’t use it.

Terror gripped her at the mere thought of asking for permission. Having been absent -her own choice- when she should have been a more conscientious niece, Claire felt unworthy of using the words Jamie had so very carefully hashed out with Lamb during their long days together. Part of her thought *maybe* he should be reading the speech that sent him off to his final resting place. After all, it was him that had seen him the last important years of his life.

She could tell, though, that there was no way he would accept that. Something about his demeanor the day he’d picked her up, unannounced, at the train station told her much of his character. He was selfless, that she could guess. Willing to go above and beyond for the people he cared for - and she suspected he held Lamb in such high acclaim that he’d personally seen to it that she was provided for in every way from the second she arrived as her uncle would have wanted (despite her previous lack of attention).  

Staring at her unpacked suitcase, the remnants of her search for a decent funeral outfit still splayed half across the floor of the small room, she sighed and turned to face her closed laptop once more. The temptation to open it up and re-read the manuscript again was growing by the minute though she knew she didn’t have the time.

“Claire?” A knock on the door brought her out of her longing and she threw the half crumpled summer dress (why she’d packed that, she’d never know) onto the bed with a pile of other rejected outfits.

“Yes? Is the car here?” She questioned, looking at her watch to confirm that it was indeed still too early and that she still had time.

“Nay, not yet. I just wanted to make sure ye were alright. Mary said ye didna eat the breakfast she prepared for ye this morning and I was a wee bit worrit.”

Pulling the ties of her dressing gown closer around her chest, she pulled the door open wide enough for him to see that she wasn’t half starved and languishing on the floor. For the first time in a while an honest smile graced her lips and Jamie’s forehead evened out and the weight of worry fell from his shoulders. “I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful...it’s just that I'm not really that hungry this morning, sorry.”

“Did ye read it?” He asked, changing tac as he pointed to her computer where it sat, positioned haphazardly on the bedside table. He seemed intrigued and the rise of his question gave her the perfect opening.

“I did. It’s...magnificent. So powerful, and funny too. I forgot how much he used to make me laugh.” Her face lit up as she spoke, the deep lines on her brow easing as she sat on the bed causing Jamie to have to cross the invisible line into her room for the first time since she’d arrived. “Honestly, I can’t imagine it not being snapped up - at least by his former colleagues and friends - the moment it hits the press.”

The smile that made Jamie’s face beam from ear to ear made Claire’s heart swell. Genuinely worried about her response, he was obviously pleased that she’d found it acceptable.

“I have a question to ask, if it’s alright with you?” She continued, his relaxed demeanour bolstering her.

“Aye, ask away.”

“I’ve written my speech, the eulogy. Reading through his biography gave me a myriad of ideas, it reminded me of how much light and energy he brought to the world...but I used it to help me in writing my account of him. I’ve tried to put my own memories into my own words, though I’d like to use some of his own -some direct quotes from the manuscript…”

“Can you hold on for a moment, please?” He asked, holding his hand up and then rushing from the room.

Holding her hands together in her lap, she waited, her heart beating double time as she tried to quell the rising panic. If he said no, she’d understand but she would have some quick thinking to do.

She had nothing to worry about as Jamie returned in a flash, a piece of paper clutched carefully between his fingers. “Here,” he said, passing it over, “read this. I think it would be perfect to add to what you’ve already written. It was something we spoke about in passing the last few days and I wrote it down, just on the off chance that it would fit somewhere. No’ knowing, of course, that it might be the last thing we spoke about in reference to the book.”

Happiness fled from his eyes for a second as the sobering reality of what they were about to do set in before he shook the sombre feeling from his bones and placed his hands back carefully in his freshly steamed trousers.

“Oh, Jamie,” she sobbed, the new tears blurring the words as she held the paper away so that they didn’t ruin the script, “it’s perfect...but I think you should read this. You heard his voice, you’ve written what he told you so beautifully that I think he would want it to be you who voiced this in church.”

Grinning as he shook his head in disbelief, he took the proffered notepad back from Claire and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Are ye sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Ye should wear this,” he returned, changing the conversation once more as he plucked a clean lined black dress from the unsullied pile on the case. “Ye’ve still got the blazer he had made for you, the one wi’ the tools embroidered on the pockets and down the collar?” He asked, reminding her of a later section of the book, one where he had detailed Claire’s Masters graduation gift in detail including the story of the seamstress who’d adorned the pesky fabric and pinned herself that many times she’d scored the prints off her fingers by the end.

“Yes,” replying through the rapidly falling tears, she pointed to the door where the aforementioned article was hanging neatly on the back. “I still have it.”

“Aye. The dress wi’ that. You’ll look stunning, Claire.”

--

The service went out without a hitch; the church was packed, people having travelled halfway across the globe to share this arduous time with both Claire and Jamie. She’d spoken at length, far surpassing the one sided sheet of paper she had originally intended to stick to, the words falling from her freely. She felt stronger than she had on entering, her eyes glazed and large as she took in the sheer size of the audience, but once she had started, she found it difficult to stop.

Jamie did his part spectacularly, having almost the entire visiting congregation in hysterics. Just as Claire had predicted.

It made the wake a more relaxed affair and she stayed in amongst a group of Lambs oldest friends for the most part, laughing and reminiscing with them about everything she’d been taught by them and Lamb.

Seeing the light hearted nature of the conversation, Jamie watched from afar, talking to people here and there about the anecdotes he had shared during the funeral. She’d been quiet, of course, barely making a sound in the house since her arrival and he’d been cautiously optimistic about her opening up to him sometime soon. The aura of sadness she carried with her had distanced itself, the invisible black cloud dissipating with every breath she took of Scottish air and although she was still a mostly closed book, a small part of him wanted to entice her to stay and heal in Glasgow, on neutral ground, rather than return to Oxford straight away.

“I think that’s the last, Jamie.” Breaking the silence, he looked up to see the empty living room, a few plates strewn around with various elements of discarded food in the absence of life which had once preceded it but no more mourners.

“We should…”

“How about we leave it, just until tomorrow,” she interjected, sliding the last of the food waste into an open black bag, “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

“Aye,” succumbing to the extreme fatigue that covered him from head to toe, he grabbed a tumblr and held it aloft, “agreed. How about a wee dram and a private toast?”

“Perfect.”

“To Quentin.” The commencement began with him passing Claire a double whack of whisky before clinking his glass with her own. “A man of honour…”

“...and grace…”

“...with passion and love in his heart.”

“Long may he rest in peace.” Claire finished, slugging back the spirit and closing her dry eyes. She’d finally cried herself out, and though she felt the familiar tinge of sadness building in her chest, she managed to feel somewhat at peace herself at long last.

#;Mod MBD #Cry Me A River #Jamie X Claire #Outlander Ficlet

[l0chn3ss]

Morpho Menelaus

Written for @mastar-week MaStar Week 2018 Day 2: Training

She was born with ash blonde hair and eyes that matched neither of her parents’. The wee tuff of grayish yellow was to be expected: her grandpa had always said that blond ran through the veins of the family. But the eyes? They were a dark earth, a swirl of brown that wasn’t present in either of her family lines.

“So she has a soulmate in this lifetime,” the doctor chuckled. She passed over the newborn daughter to the father. “Be wary for people with sunshine eyes and milk chocolate hair,” she teased.

Spirit sniffed indignantly. “My little Maka is too good for them, who ever they are.” He went on a tangent while simultaneously coddling her all at once.

They, the entire population of humans weren’t always so certain of the presence of a soulmate. Some were born without a trace of a bond, while others’ were so carefully hidden in plain sight that it was often times never realized. But a strong history of genetics and a well kept record often suggested the fact when the child’s eyes opened for the first time. And then when it changed colors? Indisputable.

Maka’s hair grew different with time, getting more bright and yellow as she grew older rather than in the opposite direction. Save for the strange green tint that she would get every summer from swimming classes, her locks became consistently lighter with age. With her mother’s blonde-turned-brown and her father’s tomato red, Maka hardly looked connected to any of her parents. She didn’t mind all too much after a while, because color was only just one thing. The shape of her face and outline of her features were the proof that settled her doubts.

Forgetting about the soulmate bond, Maka was rudely reminded in one college morning. Just a quarter past nine she shocked herself awake. There was a tingling sensation in her skin, and a presence that shadowed over her eyes. She leapt towards her bathroom mirror, seeing her irises already midway changed. There was a drop of wispy liquid like food coloring dispersing in water, but rather than clear, it was her brown that was fading away.  Replacing it was a shock of electric blue, closer to neon and brighter than the morning sun trying to flood her bathroom.

Maka couldn’t look away for a long time, until the transformation was completed and not an ounce of chocolate brown was left in the mirror. Then she screamed loudly in her dorm, waking her roommate and adjourning neighbors. “Are you fucking kidding me? I have team portraits at one!”

Her friends all cooed at the change, calling the color beautiful, but only after they were done scolding her noisiness. It was unlike anything that any of them had ever naturally seen-- hard to miss.

“Well, it will be easier to find them now right? Your soulmate.”

She groaned, “A soulmate is troublesome. They could be halfway around the world and I may never find them. What if I don’t even like them once I do. Why wait?”

“Or maybe they’re close, you know?”

“I guess that’s just the problem. I really don’t know.”

She pettily wore her sunglasses for the rest of the day, even indoors, refusing to acknowledge the bright blue.

A few weeks later, her volleyball coach announced a joint practice session with a school close by. They would be coming here for the next few months as their school’s facilities were in construction, so tomorrow would be a test run.

“I expect you all to be on your best behavior,” the coach glared at Maka’s group, playfully. “That includes you girls.”

A cascade of giggles followed.

She came to practice the next day armed with extra tape and water, for courtesy. But before she could step into the room, her friends swept her away in hushed tones.

“Everyone’s talking about it, Maka. You won’t believe it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Are all the boys hot or something?”

Tsubaki and Liz met eyes, but Patty was the one who answered her. “Not that, my dude.” She reached over to gently lift Maka’s sunglasses off of her nose. “One of them... their hair is blue.”

As Maka ran off, she heard behind her, “None of us can catch his eyes though! It might not be him!”

Her heart raced and her hands were shaking. The group of girls crowding at the door saw Maka and parted like a curtain. Such a motion attracted the eyes of the newcomers, but the one person that she wanted to see was already staring back at her. Blue hair, and liquid gold eyes.

She couldn’t hold back her first thoughts, letting them slip out and into the silent gym.

“Ew.”

“Ew.”

Those were the first words that he heard from his soulmate’s mouth.

She was out of breath as if she’d just sprinted a marathon, hair tossed and her clothes askew. And her eyes, her wild and bright blue eyes, were wide.

As if she was slapped, she winced, realizing what she’d just said to a stranger. The girl doubled back and started stammering, bumbling over her words and looking down to her feet instead of at him. The silence that had formed in the gym caused her words to bounce back loudly, echoing. In the meantime, Black Star’s eyes darted from her face to her hair, and from her hair to her to her ears, and from her ears to her nose, and from her nose to her still rambling mouth.

She was an adorable specimen. While small, her build was noticeably lithe, yet athletic. She stood with her feet apart, hands unable to keep still, and shoulders confidently squared even as she was doubting herself. The other teammates around them watched her, entertained-- lovely so.

Black Star, after taking her in, slowly revealed a big, shit-eating-grin. He also couldn’t hold back his thoughts, showing them in the form of a drawled, “Awwww shi-et.”

His cackling stopped the girl in her tracks.

So maybe in hindsight, it wasn’t the correct reaction to the situation, but Star had been waiting for her-- his soulmate-- for so long. He dyed his hair weeks ago because he was tired of the people who pretended they were  his match, revealed otherwise in more ways than one. A life partner should not try to fit themselves into a mold, and on that note, they shouldn’t not force him to either.

Still, he was impatient to find the person destined to be his. The blue that he chose was a desperate move, not as desperate as what he’s seen on the internet. There were people who dyed their hair to show numbers and addresses, even going as far as to print obscene words or icons out of spite. He decided that the color was harmless enough, but wild and unignorable, unique and matched the blond that his soulmate had. If anything, Black Star was the one who was taking the brunt of his decision. He wanted to find them though, at least meet them once in their lifetime.

Luckily, the host school’s coach stumbled onto the scene then.

She took one glance at Star’s hair, and in an act of mercy, she called out, “Albarn and, uh.”

“Braxton,” he supplied.

The coach nodded. “You two, out of my gym. Don’t come back until you’ve had a proper chat.” With that, she met eyes with the girl, Albarn, and tilted her chin towards the door. “Out.”

Reluctantly, Albarn followed Star out where they settled beside the wall. He didn’t plan what to say next after they’d left, much less expect to have a chance alone so suddenly, but he couldn’t erase the smile off of his face for the life of him. She sat an arm’s length from him, and he scooched closer to make up the difference.

“So,” he offered. “You’re a volleyball player, too, huh, Albarn?”

“Maka,” she said quickly.

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Maka. Albarn is my last name.”

“Oh,” he replied, but undeterred. “That’s a nice name, too!”

She thanked him, uncertainty laced in her tone. The feeling that she was being too guarded weighed on Black Star. He wondered why it was so, or why it bothered him so much. Maka showed she was impatient in the form of her body language, but not in the way that he was to get to know her. She continued to glance into the gym where their friends and team were warming up, stretching and slapping on their gear. Did he really spark that little interest?

“So, you got a partner?”

Maka sighed, finally looking at him since they’d left the building. He could tell that she was finally studying him. “Not right now, no.”

“Great! Let’s—”

She cut him off, voice already tired. “Come on, Braxton. Are you serious? We’ve only just met.”

“I know,” he tried. “My friends call me Black Star, not Brax. And why wait? I already know that I’m into you.” He saw her withdraw. “I’m serious, I am.”

Was he earnest enough? Did he sound firm?

She hesitated for too long for him to be certain.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life,” he said softly. “We don’t have to jump into it. Just be my friend. Just try for a little.”

Maka uncrossed her arms, letting out a breath that she was holding for too long.

“Alright. I- I’m sorry. I’m not usually this… wound up.”

He wanted to touch her hand, badly.

She continued, “This is just a really big surprise. And uh, your hair. No offense, but what is that color?”

Black Star ran a hand through the top, chuckling. “You noticed it though, right? Was that why you said what you did?” Her nod confirmed it. “It worked the way it was supposed to, then! Well, it definitely looks better as your eye color, doesn't it? I dunno. Fuck it, man, I was desperate. I wanted to find you that bad.”

A faint blush splashed her cheeks. “But, why?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Find out with me.”

Maka mused it in her head. “Alright, fine. But just to make sure, on three, we say the date that the blue appeared. You remember it, right?”

He nodded.

“Ok good. Ready? On three. One, two—”

“Wait, like on three or on go?”

Maka squinted while Star gave a sheepish grin.

“Three. One, two, three.”

“February seventh,” they said simultaneously, unsurprised.

“I don’t know why I even bothered,” Maka sighed. “It was pretty obvious what this is.”

“So, we can keep seeing each other?”

Smiling, she answered, “Why not. You’re not terrible.”

“And we’re soooulmaaates?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Come on, say it.”

“Fine, we’re soulmates.”

“Awwww shi-et,” Black Star said, breaking into another wide grin.

#fic #soul eater #soul eater not #mastar week 2018 #makaxblackstar week 2018 #mastar #mastar week #makaxstar #makaxblackstar #maka x blackstar #blackstar x maka #blackstarxmaka #starxmaka #maka albarn #blackstar #black star #nessie spills

[verdant-gardens]

Alibis, Get Your Fresh Hot Alibis | Trik | Trial Start | Re: Joben, Sora ATTN: Everyone

In typical Trik fashion, he arrives on wheels. However this time it isn't his heelys - instead, Trik is sitting on Karl's lap, and Karl in turn is sitting in a wheelchair being pushed by Yasu. It had seemed like a sensible arrangement, given Karl's silly decision to walk around barefoot on broken glass roughly a week ago it was much better he not spend the entire trial standing up, especially when he'd spent so much of the investigation walking around.

Once they're off the elevator and in the trial room, Trik reluctantly slides off to stand on his own feet - not before stealing a last kiss from Karl - and trots over to his own podium. He's wearing track shoes, the purple tiger-print jogging shorts he exercises in, and a cheap collared button-up shirt much too big for him and slightly paint-spattered. He has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which he rests on his podium, leaning on it heavily despite there being no signs of any injury to him aside from the expected bandage over where his left eye used to be. For someone on as many painkillers as he must be, he seems reasonably alert and chipper.

"Right, right, the weapon~!" Trik slides a hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out his cell phone, "I got a picture of it here if anyone wants to come see. It's a garrote! Killer-chan made it outta the cello string an' two sticks. Me an' Karl an' Yasu found it in the Prop Room behind the Theatre." He opens the picture on the photo app and sets his phone face-up on his podium if anyone wants to look. It's just as he described, the thin string, two sticks as handles.

"Pretty safe bet they got the sticks from the Garden, one o' the bushes in there looked like it had a few broken off." He adds helpfully, "Alsoooo~! Ryuu's hands had some wee cuts on the fingers, which is t'be expected, he was probably tryin' to claw the string off his neck. But no other defensive wounds that we found. Seems like the killer caught him from behind in the shower - which, probably worth notin', the girls couldn't get into the Men's Locker Room prior to the investigation, so that clears Sora an' Nata right out the gate. Oh, an' UL has to be innocent, too. Ya gotta have two hands to garrote somebody, after all." Trik holds up both his hands and does a little jazz hands gesture, as if in example.

"Found some other stuff, too, I'm sure one o' the others can share it with ya. Oh - an' as long as I'm doin' process of elimination - we talked to the nursebot in the First Aid Office, an' it confirmed that Jack an' Teru were in there the whole time - they didn't leave until 6:35pm, accordin' to its logs. So those two got an alibi. I can also alibi Karl an' Yasu, for what it's worth - I was with them both right up until I decided to go do some light exercisin' to relieve some restlessness, y'know? Which was only shortly before I discovered the body, so definitely covers time o' death."

#vg ch4 #vg trial 4 #trik #submission