#and i might have spent one of my frees nibbling on a pen cap

[fleckcmscott]

Fun and Only

Summary: During a night out, Y/N and Arthur bump into someone from Arthur’s past. Y/N tries to decipher him.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,088

A/N: This was a request from the sweet, kind @imdeaddear2! I hope you like it! Thank you for making the request, because I never would have written this scenario without it. 😀 Special thanks to @arthurflecc for the beautiful intro pic! Also, thanks to @hhandley80​ for reviewing the exchange in the middle section!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

"Y/N, it's little league season. Know what that means?"

Needing to finish the paragraph she was reading, Y/N raised a finger. The dense case on her desk was a tough assignment; she'd been toiling at it most of the morning. She liked her new position. Truly. But the pace at which she prepared files was slower than she would have preferred. The particulars of labor laws were, well...laborious. Reviewing evidence types she wasn't familiar with took time. It made her impatient. Anxious to soak up all the information she could get her hands on.

But, she supposed, no longer being plagued by guilt for indirectly supporting the Waynes was worth the learning curve.

Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her ankles, swinging her foot back and forth as she regarded Terry. While he was incredibly friendly, chatting with everyone and anyone, they remained acquaintances. Periodically, she conferred with him over a motion or sought to get his opinion about the upcoming mayoral election. ("I've seen Wayne's legal bullshit. He's not getting my vote.") Those discussions didn't go far. Usually, he tried to bond over parental matters - she and Arthur didn't even have a plant.

She could tell this was going to be another attempt. "You're doing a fundraiser and I should buy chocolate bars?" she asked.

"Even better." Digging into his too-tight pants pocket, he retrieved a checkbook-sized pamphlet. "The Gotham Squires are selling these to charter a bus for the All-Stars tournament. They're the number two team in the state!" He shoved a photo of his kid at her.

She murmured a polite, "He's all grown-up." He spoke of the team's new uniforms and his nine-year-old's batting average. Half-listening, she flipped through the booklet. It was a coupon collection, mostly two-for-one sales at various restaurants and vouchers for discounted movie tickets, good on weekdays only. They were quite pricey at fifteen dollars apiece. But she was inclined to buy one. The savings might help Arthur practice letting go of his wallet. Allow him to stop worrying about money and indulge a little, the way he deserved.

What made the cash fly from her purse to Terry's palm was the certificate in the back: a half-off deal for Amusement Mile. Satisfaction was written all over her face as she studied the yellow cardstock's terms and conditions, the outline of a circus tent, the faded ink encouraging her to "Enjoy the Ride!" Coming from a rural area, she'd never gone to an amusement park. One had been four or so hours east, but her father had preferred to stay close to home, fearing he might be needed in an emergency.

The annual county fair had been a must. Everyone had worn his or her Sunday Best, the occasional breeze kicking up dirt as they toured the fairground. The rides had been creaky, unsound, and should have been reported to the local safety commission. She'd gone on the Tilt-A-Whirl and the giant slide, waving at her parents and hanging onto her burlap sack. One year, Mabel had screamed and cried until Y/N grabbed her hand and led them out of the house of mirrors.

Swinging the mallet as hard as he could, her father had impressed her mother with the strongman game. The puck wouldn't hit the bell. Doily and needlework competitions had been her mother's purview, crafts Y/N had practiced but quickly tired of. She'd preferred the pie contest. Her mouth had watered, hankering for a taste of the first-place winner. The agricultural exhibits had been the largest section, with its prized horses, pigs, and chickens. She'd broken the rules and stuck her fingers in the rabbit cages to feel their soft fur; she'd been bitten once.

Wistfulness wasn't the only reason the theme park appealed to her. There was Arthur's history with it. He kept a postcard of the Ferris wheel pinned to the divider in his writing nook. And he'd described some of the odd jobs he'd done. Carrying boxes of merchandise, filling in for other clowns, picking up litter (and keeping the returnables). It hadn't been steady, merely hours offered to him if he'd inquired. But it'd given him pocket change. Enough to buy cigarettes and keep the utilities on for another month.

The week had been warm up till now, and the good weather was expected to continue. He loved taking her to new corners of the city, had ever since their first date. Introducing her to his old stomping ground wouldn't take a lot of convincing.

When she got home, he was perched on the sofa, clad in a thermal shirt and a pair of her too-short pajama bottoms. (A funny combination that meant their laundry was in the machine.) Elbows on his knees, journal on the coffee table, and pen at the ready, his concentration was plain to see. The discipline he had to pursue his dreams, the way he studied comedy specials on TV was admirable. She got a glass of water and smiled at his ill-timed laughter. That he didn't understand the host's humor was logical. Roasts were usually unkind. While Arthur's jokes weren't always funny, they weren't mean-spirited.

She crouched next to him, peppered kisses along his shoulder. His damp curls brushed her cheek, and she breathed in the zesty musk of his shampoo. "I wouldn't waste too much effort on this guy," she said. Her caress followed the freckles on his bare forearm, feeling the muscle flutter under her fingertips. "He's kind of an asshole."

"The audience helps me figure out the timing." He muted the television, lips quirking. "You like some of his songs."

"He makes a better singer than comedian," she rebutted with a peck.

They went over their respective days, how his earlier appointment went, the paperwork she'd done. Tuna casserole was their choice for dinner, and Arthur put on an LP while they cooked. Once the dish was in the oven, she hugged him close. "I have an idea for Thursday night." She went over the Amusement Mile discount, enthused about his expertise, reveled in how her praise softened his features and brightened his eyes. "I'd love it if you took me around. Taught me all the magic behind the scenes. And I'm dying to see where you do your street performances." She massaged the nape of his neck. "Maybe I'll stop by and give you a tip."

Crooked tooth peeking out, he nodded. Then he grasped the counter on either side of her hips and pressed his forehead to hers. "That sounds great."

~~~~~

A small memorial flowerbed, filled with alternating swirls of white gardenias, purple pansies, and yellow daffodils, was situated just beyond the park's main entrance. The marble fountain bubbling in the center reminded Y/N of a bird bath. It was modest, from a bygone era in which the wealthy hadn't dared to flaunt their fortunes for fear of strikes. The bronze plaque declared the city's thanks to Benjamin Wayne for funding Amusement Mile's construction during the height of Gotham's industrial boom. Before most of the factories had fled. Before times had become tough for the majority Gothamites. It was annoying, how the Waynes had their fingers in everything. She hoped not one nickel of what they spent tonight went into their bank accounts.

Arthur paid it no mind. His head was tipped back a degree or two, his clear green eyes darting from attraction to attraction. Smoking was one of his habits she disapproved of. But she couldn't dispute how attractive he was, puffing the cigarette dangling from his puckered lips. The chestnut tones of his brown hair were brought to the fore by the grounds' multi-color lighting, and a lock or two fell over his temples. The loose curls at his neck bounced with each step, a boyish buoyancy to his gait.

Her stomach growled as soon as the aroma of fair food hit her. They picked a booth that claimed it sold Gotham's original franks. He asked to order for her. She let him, watching as his grin widened and he stated, "Four hot dogs for my girlfriend and me, please. With relish and mustard." Then they shared a candy apple, taking turns nibbling at the fruit's hard, sugary shell. Its juice dribbled onto her pale pink top, staining the embroidered neckline. Her groan of disapproval became giggling as he stole chaste kisses, wiping her off as she chewed.

His palm at the small of her back, guiding her as they walked down the midway, fanned a glow in her heart. He'd made headway when it came to displaying his affection in public, though he still tended towards timidity. Early on, she'd concluded his reticence had nothing to do with her - he never pulled away if she grabbed at him. He was simply a gentleman.

Most examples he followed were from an older era, one lost to the bluntness of the eighties. Those moments he'd let himself go, when he'd make it clear they were a couple, lifted her spirit. Not only due to the pride she felt at being on his arm, but also because it meant he was finding his own way. Arthur wasn't a shy suitor or a contemporary romantic hero. Rather, he was somewhere in the middle. Old fashioned, through and through, with threads of modernity woven into his fibers.

As they strolled, they stumbled onto a black and white photo booth. She sat on its cracked wooden stool and tried to tug him inside. But he wanted a picture of her, he said. To put in his wallet. To look at if he was having a bad day and wasn't at home. Her response was to snag his collar and yank him to her lips. Snorting, he shut the nylon curtain. At the clink of quarters in the coin slot, she straightened her puffed, cap sleeves and fixed her hair in the scratched featherweight mirror. The camera's flashes blinded her, but she thought she'd managed to smile naturally enough.

Before she had a chance to stand, he whipped open the drape and showed her the strip of portraits. "I knew I was dating the prettiest woman in the city. Maybe even the sweetest."

She cupped his cheeks as she stepped out. Rubbed the tip of her nose to his. He was unfailingly generous. Too generous. While she was fine with her appearance, she wouldn't win a beauty pageant. Hell, she wouldn't even be a runner-up. Or a contestant. And sweet was one of the last words she'd use to describe herself. But she wasn't going to correct him. "And I found the handsomest, funniest man." His stare was wide-eyed. After releasing a stuttering breath, he pulled her along.

Upon entering the gaming area, he slung his arm around her waist. Mischief laced his whisper as he spilled secrets. The darts for the balloon pop were dull, the balloons underinflated. He advised her to stay clear of the baseball and milk bottle stand, saying, "The bottom bottles have lead in them. You'll never knock them over."

Then he warned her off the ring toss, saying the rings were too small to win the best prizes. She decided to take her chances, regardless, and paid the attendant. Arthur tutted gently as she gave him the last ring, having already wasted four.  A step to the side, then he paused to line up his throw. A short clap announced his victory. The prize options included a dinky toy car and a rubber snake. She picked a plastic, red keychain, embossed with "I was Amused in 1982" and the silhouette of a coaster. It was an improvement over her old car dealership tag. "I'll think of tonight whenever I see it."

Gaze fixed on her mouth, he sighed happily. He began to reach towards her, his arm raised ever so slightly-

"Art!" a rich baritone called. "Hey, Art!"

Arthur flinched. She moved to peer behind him. The approaching man was tall, his balding head half a foot higher than Arthur's. A blue and red flannel shirt with gray trousers covered his portly physique. Confidence oozed from him with every stride, a pleasantly surprised smirk on his round face.

Y/N's interest was piqued. Unless it was someone who remembered Arthur from Live! with Murray Franklin, no one ever approached him on the street. And she hadn't heard him be referred to by anything other than his proper name (besides Penny's terrible "Happy.").

But his reactions concerned her. Arthur's back tensed as the man closed in, stopping a yard away. "Hi, Randall."

"How's my boy been?" Randall asked jovially, hands at his sides. "Gary told us about your mom. Could you use a little cheering up?"

Arthur blinked faster than usual. "No. She's okay. And I feel a lot better now."

"Oh. Well, good for you," Randall said.

Going back and forth between them, she tried to puzzle out their dynamic. Their familiarity was obvious. Randall seemed caring enough, although she found it odd he'd referred to her thirty-five-year-old partner as "boy." Arthur had mentioned Gary was a former colleague. It would make sense Randall was, too.

He threw her a glance. "Hey, you have family visiting. Is this your cousin?"

She brushed off the assumption and extended her hand. "I'm Y/N L/N. His girlfriend."

"Oh, yeah. The paralegal." He shook it firmly before addressing Arthur again. "Gary said you finally got a date."

The pat to Arthur's bicep was a little too hard, jolting his stiff frame. The set of his jaw and flaring of his nostrils betrayed a turmoil she hadn't initially picked up on. She touched his hand but he shoved it in his pocket.

All right. She had to get to the bottom of this. It was hard to ascertain if his current reaction was due to his social challenges (which could cause discomfort) or Randall's words. She didn't want to jump to conclusions. After all, she and Patricia teased each other whenever they met for lunch or chatted on the phone. A good ribbing was needed every once in a while.

Starting a cross-examination in front of Arthur would contribute to his unease. After a moment's deliberation, she nudged him. It took a couple of tries to get his attention. "Would you please get us a large lemonade?" His brows rose, anxiety in the wrinkles of his forehead. She stretched to kiss his temple. His eyes narrowed but he got the hint, scuffing his shoe and glowering at Randall as he walked off.

When Arthur rounded a corner by the water pistol race, she lounged on one of the booth's metal poles. "Have you known Arthur long?"

Randall nodded in the direction Arthur had gone. "We worked at HaHa's. I'm a clown, too. We did parties, the children's hospital, store openings."

"Arthur loved that job." She crossed her arms over her chest. "It's too bad the slow season hit. But he's doing pretty well on his own."

Confusion crossed the big man's visage. "Uh, yeah. The slow season." He chuckled, then. "Anyway, you and Art, huh?"

Smiling broadly, she folded her arms over her chest. "Yes, me and Art."

"Pretty serious, huh?"

If he wanted gossip to bring back to the workplace, she'd gladly give him some. Especially if it reflected well on Arthur. "We live together. It's been great."

"No kidding." With a sardonic grin, he shook his head. "A woman like you. I didn't know he had it in him. It was always just him and his mom. Talked about stand-up sometimes. Mostly kept to himself, though. Never really talked much." Randall shrugged lightly. "But we liked him. He did all the shitty jobs no one wanted and never complained."

Arching a brow, Y/N felt her suspicions grow. While Arthur was learning to disagree and contradict her without hesitation, he nevertheless had the inclination to go along. It was plausible he hadn't argued about gigs. Had they taken his preferences into account?

Then Randall confirmed her skepticism, saying in a jokey tone, "That laugh really got everyone going, too. And his laminated cards. We had a pool on whether it was part of his act. I mean, him being in Arkham and all, who knows what the fuck he could have come up with?"

Deciphering what kind of man stood in front of her was suddenly uncomplicated. She'd run into his type all too often. They lurked in garages and offices. Diners and restaurants. Courtrooms on both sides of the bench. People with no real power who walked on others. Persons who threw their weight around to feel in charge. Bullies who hid behind a veneer of kindness.

She understood why he'd called Arthur "boy."

What she said had to be chosen carefully. Randall and Arthur worked in the same field, likely competed for clients. If her big mouth came back on Arthur, she wouldn't forgive herself. She straightened, squared her shoulders, and forced her voice to stay professional. "If you liked him, wouldn't you have split the less desirable jobs with him? I'm sure he didn't like being taken advantage of."

His looked at her in disbelief. "Hey, he was paid fair and square, like all of us."

"And he understands how to speak to a 'woman like me' more than you ever will." A sharp exhale as her cheeks burned. "From what Arthur has said, you could learn a lot from Gary. Please tell him hello from us and have a good evening." With that, she headed off to find Arthur, ignoring Randall's lame attempts to call her back.

Arthur was in line when she spotted him. He stepped forward and pointed to the menu. As she approached, she noticed how he fidgeted with his cigarette, tapping it repeatedly though there was no ash. The subtle tremble in his knee. If he continued to carry himself so tightly, his muscles would cramp.

Clearing her throat, she slipped behind him and hugged his back. "Did you have to deal with that insufferable know-it-all every day?"

He grabbed the proffered cup from the clerk and headed to a nearby table. Plunked himself down and took a drag off his smoke. Stress poured off him, clear in every flex of his fingers. His palm went to his stomach as he practiced controlling his breathing. "What- What did he tell you? That everyone thought I was a freak? How much I fucked up?" His voice lowered then, barely above a whisper. She could tell he was talking to himself. "The hospital?"

"Enough to know he was a jerk. I'm glad you're not there anymore." She put her chin on his shoulder. Watched him take a sip of lemonade. "Nothing he said matters, but I told him how important you are to me." She tucked a hair behind his ear, and he leaned into her touch. Their gazes met, his shining in the dim light. The evening had been fantastic so far. She wasn't going to let some asshole ruin it. "Come on," she urged, jutting her hip towards him. "We still have half the park to explore."

~~~~~

About a third of the way through their ride on the Mad Hatter, Amusement Mile's famous coaster, Y/N realized eating had been a mistake. A big one. Thrown to a fro in the sharp curves, she could nearly taste the bile in the throat. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, willing her nausea to pass. For his part, Arthur appeared exhilarated, laughing with every peak and valley. Seeing that happiness was a gift, one that gratified and partially distracted from her queasiness.

Fortunately, the enclosed cabins on the Ferris wheel were a respite. They waited an extra turn to board the outer wheel, which rotated at a leisurely pace and allowed her stomach to settle. The view from the top was beautiful, Gotham Cathedral's lit spires and the Westward Bridge prominent against the night sky. Wayne Tower was also visible, but she did her best to ignore the high-rise and its gaudy "W." He pointed in the direction of Burnley and said, "There's our home." She was unexpectedly moved. Then he kissed her soundly, which quickly advanced to mild necking when the wheel paused.

The carousel was antique, according to the sign. The only original attraction left in the park. A massive wooden structure with a mirrored center, it had three rows of horses, broken up by the occasional bench. He stepped onto the gray platform and picked one, painted red and yellow, roses etched along its back. But she climbed a nearby leaping horse instead, its black mane and tan body faded by years of sunlight.

He quirked a dark brow until she beckoned him with a nod. Cheeks pink, countenance tender in the lingering blinks of the incandescent bulbs, he followed suit. "Hang onto me," she instructed. As the calliope's whistles began their jaunty tune, he cupped her hips and pressed into her. A flutter tickled her stomach. She reclined against him, let her eyes fall shut as his warmth surrounded her. Round and round they went, chuckling airily. Not at any jokes or amusements, but at the joy of one another.

Arthur picked the last ride, an old mill called Romantic River Caves. She had to stop herself from snickering at the idea of a middle-aged woman and her nearly-middle-aged boyfriend cruising along in something built for teenagers. But he delighted in cliches and corniness, a preference she attributed to his inexperience and kind nature. Though such gestures hadn't thrilled her since she was a girl, she appreciated them with him.

The boats were short and narrow, just wide enough for the two of them to sit side-by-side. Curved backrests encouraged cuddling. Off-key versions of old standards played through tinny speakers. Myriad displays were inside, a mix of plaster dioramas and paintings. Two swans swimming, their beaks touching. A couple on a picnic under a tree. Bouquets and hearts galore. There were five or so seconds of darkness between each one. He took advantage of those breaks, kissing her again and again until she was breathless.

She scanned the starry painting above them, the comets' trails stretched across the tunnel's ceiling. "It's been a long time since I've done anything like this. Twenty-five? Thirty years?"

"Me, too. I snuck in when I was a kid. To see the circus and the merry-go-round." He smoothed his hair back, pressed his legs tighter together. "When I moonlighted here, I could've gone on the rides and to the shows. I- I didn't want to alone."

He paused and she put her palm on his thigh. Gave him an encouraging squeeze. "That postcard I have?" he said. "By my desk? It was in my locker at HaHa's." His fingers covered hers, tips tracing her knuckles. "It's good to have a person to have fun with. To have you."

She beamed at that sentiment, for she felt it, too. Yes, she'd been complete on her own. No, she hadn't been lonely. But he added to her existence. Introduced her to activities and experiences she hadn't previously considered or realized she'd needed. Going to a comedy club. Dancing despite her lack of skill. Or enjoying vulnerability during quiet conversations in their bedroom rather than fearing it. He'd broadened her life in ways she was still discovering. And he regularly told her she'd bettered his. "You're my favorite ride," she said.

A sharp snort left him, followed by a bashful chuckle. He shook his head. "You're crazy."

"I didn't mean that." She batted his chest playfully. Tried to cross her legs under the safety bar. "This relationship we've started." Light appeared at the end of the tunnel, the shallow pool's grimy floor coming into view as the water level fell. Soon they'd be amongst the crowd. "Remember when I said we'd never be perfect? I like our imperfections. They fit. Like..." She contemplated. "A pen and paper. They're good on their own but they're best together." Cringing, she covered her face. "God, that didn't even make sense. A pen needs paper."

"Didn't you say you needed me?" he teased, pulling her hand from her brow to place it on his sternum. "I don't mind being your paper." Blushing, Y/N turned to him when he cupped her jaw. Ran his thumbs over her cheeks. She joined him in ignoring the attendant's instruction to disembark. Arthur kissed her, a delicate graze to her mouth before he drew her bottom lip between his. "You're the best ride, too."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @64-crayon​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[taylorroger-s]

good company [1] // billy/four x tattooartist!reader

a/n so this came as an invasive thought one random night. might be caused by my recent addiction to tattoo videos. also i wanted to read something like this but sadly, i had to write it. and i think it turned out pretty good! plus i wanted to draw this out since i got hit by a wave of nine million ideas and it’s pointless to smush everything together when I can write it all out. and thus, this mini series was born. hope y’all enjoy!!! (me writing this: god i wish that were me) 

summary: you are brand new to the tattooing world; young, scrappy, and eager to prove yourself, you took the first opportunity offered to you. your first client? a young man named billy, who’s character puzzles you to no end.

masterlist here!

warnings: uhhh tattoos (duh), cursing, ~tension~ and the like. clocks in at about 6.3k words

enjoy :)

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it was the seediest shop in town, and the only one to give you a chance. young, scrappy, and determined to make your passion for tattooing a reality, you took the first real offer you got. after a few months doing an apprenticeship with a veteran of your new tattoo parlor, they gave you a table and chair in the corner and told you to get to it. he was your very first client.

the day started off with tidying up the counter and turning on the open sign. your first few hours as an official tattoo artist were spent at the meager “reception” desk, furiously doodling any design that struck your fancy. occasionally you would give out forms and verify ages, but the shop was more into efficiency and artistry than sticking to professional protocol. they did hire you, after all.

several hours and one brief argument with a coworker later, you plopped down on the chair at your tattoo station for lunch. while nibbling at your cheese sandwich, you took a moment to examine the room further. five other tattoo artists were hunched over their own work, chugging along while their clients cringed and bit their lips in pain. framed photographs of tattoos and artwork lined the walls, broken up by miscellaneous wall hangings and the occasional pipe. chatter filled the room, just barely overpowering the music streaming from a clunky radio set up by the waiting area. 

then he walked in, all ropey muscles and bright eyes, no more than a year or two older than you. he wore a grey jacket with the hood pulled up, letting just a few stands of honey blond hair peek through. his eyes swept back and forth across the stations, each one occupied except for your small set up in the far corner. you glanced up from the tree you had been drawing, almost falling off your chair once you saw how strikingly attractive the boy was. 

you couldn’t help but watch as a heavily tattooed woman - stacy, one of the most experienced at the shop - walked up to the desk and greeted the boy. you unconsciously leaned towards the two, attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation. the pen wedged between your fingers fell to the floor, but you hardly noticed. 

“i’d… like a tattoo please.” he spoke confidently, almost brash in his tone, but the way his shoulders tensed with each loud laugh and how his eyes darted back and forth from stacy’s face to the floor betrayed his anxiety. his hands were shoved in his pockets, fingers visibly squirming behind the gray fabric. he was nervous, despite being a good few inches taller than stacy and twice as broad. 

“what’s the name, love?” she asked, tucking a strand of dark blue hair behind her ear. half of her head was buzzed, the rest of her hair peppered with gray strands. tattoos snaked down from behind her ear to the column of her throat, the rest disappearing beneath a “sex pistols” shirt. she wore her age proudly on her face, smile lines creasing the skin around her bright red lips. stacy was almost like the mother of the shop, and had been there longer than anybody.

“billy.” his voice was borderline too deep for such a young face, hood slipping down a little further to expose more of his wavy blond hair. you were well aware at that point that you were staring at him, mind whirling with a million possibilities as to where such a person could come from and why he wanted a tattoo. there were upwards of three different designs you mentally listed that you thought would enhance his good looks. maybe something on his arms? or neck? you stood by the belief that tattoos could make anyone more attractive, though your parents would beg to differ. 

“alright then, what are you wanting to get?” stacy pulled out a clipboard, writing down his information with a pen adorned by cracked beads and colorful string hanging from the cap. 

“some numbers and letters on my knuckles, on uh… my right hand? four of them.” you gripped your sketchbook tighter, barely resisting the urge to grab your pencil and start doodling fonts. however, it was a long shot that you were going to end up with him as a client, your first client, which marginally deflated your enthusiasm. you took a large bite from your sandwich instead of drawing, turning your attention back to him and stacy. 

“splendid, let’s see who’s open… oh um, please give me a moment.” stacy glanced around the room, searching for an empty chair. she grimaced inwardly as she realized there were none, save for the one right in front of you that was occupied by your propped up feet and a brown lunch bag. you couldn’t read further into her expression before she turned away from both him and you, walking over to the middle aged owner of the tattoo parlor. tom was a sour character, but could tattoo better than most of the more respectable artists in the city. you attempted to focus once more on the sandwich in your hand and not the boy while stacy tugged on tom’s baggy tank top. 

“tom, there’s this kid here for a tattoo and no one is free.” tom looked up for no more than three seconds, tattoo machine clutched between his surprisingly thin fingers. he must have been in his early fifties, and weighed more than you and stacy combined. he was in the process of inking a bold skull on the back of a young man, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. 

“what about our little birdie over there? she’s free, yeah?” tom huffed, clearly annoyed at being disturbed. birdie was the nickname you got after bringing mostly bird-related art to your interview, and it showed no signs of going away. stacy flicked him on the forehead, nearly making him slip and mess up a line. he glowered at her, but still turned to listen. 

“no shit, but knuckles for a first tattoo? do you really think she’s up to it?” stacy had taken you under her wing from the get go, even offering a patch of skin on her arm for you to do your first tattoo. her protection was a comfort, but also a little stifling. she knew you were a good artist, maybe even great, but there were certain tricks to tattooing hands you hadn’t quite learned. she didn’t want you to mess up on your first tattoo and leave the boy with a messy bundle of lines instead of letters. 

“why not? he doesn’t look that picky. now fuck off and leave me alone.” he spoke gruffly, the cigarette between tom’s lips moved precariously back and forth. he turned back to his client, but not before flipping stacy the bird, to which she replied with an obscene gesture of her own. 

“bastard…” she grumbled, tugging mindlessly at a strand of hair just barely covering her eye. taking a deep breath, she walked over to you, plastering a wide smile on her lips. stacy was genuinely excited for you to begin tattooing, but it was difficult for her to step back and let you do your own thing. 

“alright babe, your time to shine. ready to do some knuckle lettering?” your jaw would have fallen open if it hadn’t been for the cheese sandwich filling your mouth. your eyes grew wide and you quickly swallowed the food down, doing you very best to process what exactly stacy meant. 

“what? me? but-” you shook your head, appetite suddenly lost. did she mean it was your time to actually tattoo? a paying human being? they must be mental, you thought to yourself, moving to put the rest of your lunch away. as soon as your sandwich was placed in the brown paper bag, stacy seized you by the arm and began dragging you over to where he was waiting. 

“sorry for the delay, this is y/n. she’ll be your artist today,” you suppressed a laugh, looking at stacy with your eyebrows raised. she just smiled and let go of your arm, giving you a push towards him. you barely saved yourself from stumbling, quickly straightening your spine and lifting your chin to look him in the eyes. his bright, beautiful, green eyes. dammit. 

“oh- that’s me, i’m y/n. and it looks like i’m gonna be your tattooist,” you gave him a little wave, doing your very best to smile professionally instead of grimace. he nodded in response, bringing his hands out of his pockets. he seemed to consider shaking your hand, but instead moved to rub the back of his neck. you fiddled with your fingers, not knowing what to do next. he was your first client, after all. 

“i’m billy. um, how much will this cost?” he stuttered a little, shrinking back into his gray hoodie. until that moment, you had almost entirely forgotten that you were doing this for a job, to get paid. 

“uhhh,” you were blindsided by a very common question, and looked to stacy for help. she stared at billy for a moment, tapping her index finger on the counter. he squirmed a little under her sharp gaze. his eyes flicked to you, locking onto yours. he was looking for an out, but you just shrugged, apologetic look on your face. 

“mm, about forty pounds.” she finally said after a solid couple seconds. he let out a small breath, shoulders falling. his lips fell as well, tweaking down at the corners. he reached into the pocket of his joggers, bringing out a five pound note, two 2 pound coins, and five 20 pence coins. ten pounds in all. 

“bollocks… i only have ten on me.”  you felt bad for billy, really. you remembered how you spent weeks saving up before you could get your first real tattoo; a small raven right above your hip. hurt like hell, but from that moment on, you were addicted. the ones you got before that were terribly done, with homemade equipment, and usually done by you. 

“i don’t know what to tell you then-” stacy started to apologize, but an idea began forming in your brain. bigger tattoo pieces could take upwards of twelve hours, so they were often done in multiple sessions. a knuckle tattoo wouldn’t take nearly as long, nor was it necessary to spread out appointments. but before you could stop yourself, the words fell out. 

“i can just do one. today, i mean. you can come in whenever you have the rest of the money.” you could hear stacy’s sigh, and couldn’t help but cringe as well. billy’s eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth to talk, but he couldn’t seem to decide on words and shut it again. a moment passed in painfully awkward silence, you looking anywhere but at billy. stacy sighed again, laying a hand on your shoulder. 

“okay birdie, i have an appointment in seven minutes and you seem to have this under control, yeah?” you turned your head so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. being alone and in close quarters with billy after only a few minutes after meeting him freaked you out more than it should. you were theoretically a tattoo artist, and that was an unavoidable point of the job. it was basically painting on someone’s skin with a needle for multiple hours at a time. 

“i guess so…” she gave you a soft smile, rubbing your shoulder with the ink-free skin of her palm. you smiled back. you could tell she was a little worried, but so were you. 

“you’ll do great sweetheart, just don’t- maggie! so good to see you, love…” she was about to give you sage advice, but her next client came a few minutes early and in an instant, you were alone. well, except for billy of course. you psyched yourself up for a moment before turning to him with your best professional smile. 

“well then, let’s head over to my chair.” you told him, walking almost halfway there before you turned around to see he hadn’t moved a step. odd. billy was still looking around the room, eyeing the beams on the ceiling and highly decorated walls. his shoulders were tensed and he had taken his hands from his pockets, fingers twitching as his eyes scanned the shop. he looked ready to run at the slightest movement. the hell? you exhaled heavily through your nose, walking back over to him and waving a hand in front of his face.

“you in there?” you asked, taking a step back when his gaze snapped to you, “ah, it seems like you are. ready to get tattooed?” what a peculiar person, you thought to yourself. he shifted back onto his heels with impeccable balance, taking off his hood in one fluid motion. his honey blond hair was styled into a short undercut. you shook off the dazed look in your eyes, and in a surprisingly bold move, held out a hand for him to take. 

“hell yeah.” he finally said, a sharp smile creeping onto his lips. you smiled back, letting the first-day jitters roll off your shoulders. maybe spending time with him wouldn’t be as tense as you expected. he took your hand, and you started to lead him back to your little station in the corner. his palms were surprisingly calloused compared to your never-seen-a-day-of-manual-labor hands. 

“perfect,” you said after stopping at your station. you dropped his hand, gesturing for him to sit on the chair meant for clients. you snatched your sketchbook from the small square table, digging out a pen from a years old pencil pouch you had yet to part with. 

“now, you have any fonts in mind? actually, a better question would be what do you actually want on your knuckles?” you already started to doodle, sketching out a curly, cursive alphabet starting with “a”. lettering wasn’t your favorite thing to draw, but there was always flexibility when it came to art. and you loved art. 

“2-2-E-S on my right hand. just black letters would be fine.” you deflated slightly, tearing your eyes away from the whimsical “b” you were drawing. he sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers knitted together. until then, you didn’t realize how close you were. you lifted your eyes to meet his, faces no more than eight inches apart. the tension between you two drew taut, yanking the breath from your lungs. he was mesmerizing. you laughed to break the moment and leaned back in your chair, letting it roll away from his focused gaze. he shifted as well, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“no design at all? shame on you sir.” you teased, almost immediately cursing yourself for acting so casual out of nowhere. while you were scolding yourself for being unprofessional, billy watched the minute changes in your expression as you mindlessly tapped your pen against the spiral binding of your sketchbook. he noticed that you had your right pinky extended as you drew, perfectly straight as your pen swept across the page. your eyes flicked up for a moment to meet his, then immediately dropped again before you could end up blushing. 

“i’m not really the creative type anyway.” his voice felt so familiar and alien at the same time. like every single boy you had ever known - cocky, fast talking, scrambling for a laugh. yet there was something more behind his deep voice and quick movements. you shook your head, dragging yourself back into the real world. 

“somehow i don’t buy that,” you couldn’t see him smile, focused instead on making the last line of the “e” straight as possible. you held the drawing away from your face once completed, tilting it back and forth. your innate need for perfectionism only grew after you decided tattooing would be your career, and every piece of art you did since then had to be flawless in case you would have the chance to put it on someone’s body. after a moment, you nodded, turning the page around so he could see it. 

“four plain black numbers and letters, as requested. looks good?” you were quite proud of the nearly perfect lines and proportions. it cooled the nerves simmering under your skin as the tattoo machine lay waiting in a shallow drawer. 

“yeah, yeah. good.” he nodded, moving to roll up the sleeves of his jacket and put his right hand on his knee, right within your reach. you took a moment to tear off the page, making sure your letters were still nice and neat. 

“excellent, give me a moment to get this stencil-” you started to stand up, paper pinched between your index finger and thumb. you were about to go to the printer by the back wall, but billy piped up before you could take a step. 

“you don’t have to do that,” you froze, turning on your heel to watch him. he had leaned back onto the palms of his hands, still seated in your client’s chair. 

“what?” you asked, voice coming out almost as a squeak. you immediately cleared your voice and he smiled a little.

“i mean, you don’t have to use a stencil. just freehand it, i don’t mind.” he just shrugged it off like having someone draw with a goddamn needle on his skin was just another day at work. 

“you do realize i could very easily fuck up and leave you with permanent lines on your hand, right?” you were starting to wonder if he actually didn’t know tattoos were permanent, especially since getting them on a visible place like your hands would scare away most employers in a heartbeat. actually, what job did he have? the money he showed was a slim window into his life; ten pounds in various, loose forms. now that brought you back to university in a flash. 

“in fact, i do.” you raised your hands to the sky in a “why me?” gesture before dropping them back down to your sides, integrity of your sketch forgotten. he snickered at your - overly - dramatic reaction, to which you responded with a quick glare. why did i have to get such a memorable first client? 

“must be in a rush.” you shrugged, accepting that this was how the next thirty minutes of your life would play out. you were about to throw the page of your sketchbook in the trash, but changed your mind at the last minute and stuck it in one of the drawers of your small table. you then grabbed your pencil bag again, rooting around until you came up with two pens: one light green, the other black.

billy was silent as he watched you shuffle around the space, taking out your hand-me-down tattoo machine from the top drawer of your table. you gently placed it on the table top, laying out a small cap and filling it with a brand new bottle of jet black ink. you put the pens on the seat next to him, opening a second drawer that contained a disposable razor and replacement parts, sealed wipes, towels, and other things for sterilization. 

one of the most important things to remember is cleanliness, you heard the voice of stacy echo in your ear. you cast a look over your shoulder to where she was, watching for a moment as she carefully laid a stencil on her client’s leg. you watched her for a moment until she stood back up from where she was crouching and looked back at you, giving you an encouraging thumbs up. you returned the gesture with your best play on a confident smile. 

“you all alright?” billy asked, pulling you immediately back into the task before you. 

“mhm,” you responded, lips pressed close together. you pulled on a pair of latex gloves and plucked a razor and wipe from the drawer. 

“give me your hand,” you told him, taking a seat on your rolling chair. he held out his right hand and you gently took it in your left, shifting his fingers so the knuckle of his pinky finger was between your own. you scooted forward until you were almost between his knees, doing your best to wholly focus on the razor in your hand and definitely not how warm he was and how his hand felt in yours. nope, not going to think of that at all.

slowly, carefully, you cleaned his knuckle, making sure that there was no way possible for an infection to set in. you could hear billy humming to himself quietly and tuned in to listen. it was hard to make out the song, but something about it tugged at your memory. you shook it off and tossed the sanitizing supplies into a nearby rubbish bin. you turned back to billy, surprised to see him holding out the pens for you with a small smirk on his lips. slowly, you took them, tensing as your fingers brushed his. 

“just a 2 for today then,” you muttered, almost to yourself, not waiting for an answer and diving right in to recreate the perfect number “2” you had drawn just minutes earlier, on his knuckle. you were so silent that it was nearly possible to hear his heartbeat as the light green sharpie swept over his skin. it was a relatively awkward place to tattoo- right on the joint between his pinky finger and hand. since it was so close to his bone, it would be more painful than he might expect. even drawing it was tedious as you tried to make the lines connect smoothly over the joint. billy watching you draw very carefully didn’t help the anxiety that started to simmer under your skin.  

once you were satisfied with how it looked, you grabbed the black pen and repeated the drawing, tensing every muscle in your body to keep your hand from shaking. the nerves were already coming and you hadn’t even started up the tattoo machine. you leaned back into the light, holding up his hand to inspect your penmanship. billy stared at you as you held his finger up to the light, carefully scrutinizing your work without noticing his gaze. he watched the small crease between your eyebrows form as your thumb swiped at the ink. you glanced up momentarily and met his eyes, and in that moment you could have sworn he blushed. hell, you might have too.

you looked at him for a beat then dropped his hand like it was a hot rock. it was hard to ignore the tingle shooting down your spine as his lingering warmth faded from your hand. it’s just the nerves, dumbass, you said to yourself, now hush up and do your job. you cleared your throat, immediately turning around in your chair and sliding over to finish setting up your tattoo machine. you soon froze when there was nothing left for you to waste time doing. you had to get started. 

it’s fine, you’re fine, this is just a man, a boy even. a nice, attractive, fit… goddammit. you were mentally cursing yourself as you slowly turned to face him again. billy just smiled, holding out his right hand to you. you took a deep breath in and pulled on a new pair of latex gloves. 

“alright, ready freddie?” you said to him, taking his hand in yours, repeatedly chanting ‘don’t fuck up’ to yourself. 

“ready.” he responded, letting his hand relax into yours. you moved his fingers so his pinky finger was front and center, the perfect “2” you had drawn clear against his skin. with your right hand, you picked up the tattoo machine, dipping the tip of it in ink. 

“here we go.” the tattoo machine started with a buzz as you pressed on the pedal. you took a deep breath and touched the needles to his skin, right at the top of the “2”. billy’s fingers quickly tensed, holding tighter onto your hand. you tried not to smile while you slowly pulled the needle across his skin. he took a sharp breath in, holding it for a moment before slowly releasing it. his hand stayed clasped around yours as the tattoo machine hummed between your fingers. 

minutes passed with no conversation. the buzz of the tattoo machine helped you tune out the various sensations trying to distract you. hard rock from a nearby speaker, an occasional bout of laughter or pained shriek from across the room, steady humming from billy that you still vaguely recognized. eventually, about a third of the way through the tattoo, you started to get antsy from the lack of talking and had to break the silence. 

“hmm… what’s billy short for?” you asked, wiping off some excess ink from his finger. you looked up at him, slightly surprised to see him focused entirely on your face. he cleared his throat, using his free hand to comb through his short blond hair. 

“william.” you couldn’t help the small smile that flickered across your lips, dipping the needle into the ink once more. a name like william didn’t fit with his scrappy, self-assured attitude and appearance. neither did billy, for that matter. 

“was billy always your go-to nickname? ever gone by will? or liam?” you went back in with the needle, billy hissing through his teeth as it punctured his skin again and again. 

“my primary school teacher always insisted on william, which made me hate it. she was a major arsehole, mind you.” you chuckled, wiping off more excess ink. 

“now that i understand. i knew a william once, but he went by… will, i think. he also gained the unfortunate nickname of ‘willy’ somewhere around secondary school.” billy laughed loudly, drawing the attention of a few others in the room. and he moved. you drew the tattoo machine back just in time, narrowly avoiding a potential accident. you glared at him, but he couldn’t take the frown on your face seriously and continued his chuckling. 

“you done?” you asked when he finally calmed down. he nodded, still smiling like a school boy.

“sorry, i have the humor of a twelve year old.” you rolled your eyes, biting hard on your bottom lip to ward off a smile. but it didn’t work. it felt terribly natural to be around him and you were not having it. 

“i’ve noticed.” you muttered, glancing back up to billy. you raised an eyebrow at him in a silent question and he nodded, letting you return to your work. dipping the needle in ink, you once again put it to his skin, and once again, his hand tightened around your own. 

“so, how long have you been tattooing?” billy asked, after a minute or two of silence had passed. you lifted the needle for a moment, thinking about your answer. 

“like, professionally?” you had certainly tattooed under less than proper circumstances. on drunk people and often drunk yourself. your roommate in university had a horrendous bird silhouette between her shoulder blades, and your very first love had your name inked on their ankle. you had done it yourself two days after discovering they cheated on you. but you didn’t really want to divulge those… questionable stories to a client. 

“uh, i guess.” he said, voice suddenly tinged with concern. you spotted a chance to mess with him and immediately went for it.

“about,” you glanced up to the clock fixed to the wall, “twenty minutes.” you bit back another smile at the fearful look in his eyes. it didn’t stop you from snorting with laughter, though. 

“your warnings make sense now.” he was speaking slower than before, which only made the moment funnier. to you, at least. 

“i’m thrilled. you scared yet?” you teased, smirk growing by the second. he laughed nervously, rolling his eyes at you. your shoulders relaxed, and you didn’t even realize how tense you had been until that moment. the playful banter back and forth with billy swept your earlier nerves right away. 

“not even close, birdie.” you groaned, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips. it felt a little weird to have someone other than your fellow tattooists call you birdie, but you could listen to billy say it for hours with that smooth, deep voice of h- OH MY GOD, you screamed internally. stop. fantasizing. about. your. CLIENT. 

“ah, you’ve heard my nickname. what can i say? i like birds.” you laughed again, a little too high pitched to be normal. he raised his eyebrows in confusion, but went back to his tense state as you started to tattoo again. 

“i like it, much better than billy.” you bit back yet another smile. he was really starting to worm his way under your skin, and in such a short amount of time. but you had to agree with him. he looked more like a… well, you couldn’t think of any other names that fit him but billy was certainly not anywhere near a fitting name for such an interesting - to say the least - person. 

“now that i have to agree with.” you said, still chipping away at your work in progress tattoo. he chuckled, shifting in his seat. 

“you are coldhearted, woman.” he declared, and you couldn’t help but let out a short laugh. 

“oh, i aspire.”

too soon, yet also not soon enough, you finished. you wiped away the last of the ink and blood - don’t worry, it’s normal - from his finger, lifting it up to the light. the tattoo turned out rather nice. the “2” was plain black, thick, and relatively free of wobbles. it warped a little as billy flexed his fingers, but that was to be expected. he started to stand up once you let go, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest. you could feel his heartbeat under your palm, and slowly drew your hand back. a moment passed in perfect silence where the only thing you could hear was his breathing, and the only thing you could feel was the residual warmth radiating from him. 

“slow down there, i still need to bandage it.” you said after clearing your throat. he sat back down, thankfully making sure to not use his freshly tattooed hand. you took a step back. then another. and then almost ran into your table. flashing billy a quick, slightly embarrassed smile, you turned your back to him and focused on getting out the clingfilm, bandage, and ointment that was standard procedure for tattoo aftercare. 

“okay, so,” you started, turning back around with an armful of health care products. billy was still seated on your chair, right hand resting on his knee.

“what you should do is try not to use your hands for a couple days, plus, your knuckles might swell up and it’ll hurt like hell to use them. gotta keep the area nice and clean with this ointment,” you held it up for him to see, then put it down by his side, “a good thing to do is wear is some nitrile gloves to keep a barrier between your hand and the horrors of the outdoors,” you took a small container of gloves from your pile, placing it right next to the ointment.

“here’s a little pamphlet thing if you want it,” you took it from in between your arm and side, adding it to the small pile on billy’s left. he was nodding along with your instructions, but his eyes were wandering from your face to examine the rest of the tattoo shop once again. you ignored him ignoring you, and got to work bandaging his finger.

“okay billy boy, you’re all set.” you said once you made sure his bandage was airtight and clean. you rolled yourself over to the trash can, disposing of your latex gloves and other used-up items. when you came back to your station, billy was back on his feet, almost unconsciously flexing his fingers to see if his right pinky still worked. spoiler alert, it did, and he was just paranoid. probably.

he seemed a little unfocused until you spoke, then immediately turned his attention back to you. he stuck his non-tattooed hand out for you to shake. still a strange guy, you said to yourself. 

“thanks, uh…” you felt a grin growing, and this time, you didn’t try to stop it. plus, he seemed to have forgotten your name, which was objectionably hilarious. is that why he called me birdie? and how does he remember ‘birdie’ and not my name? 

“y/n,” you confirmed, shaking his hand. billy smiled at you, showing a hint of bright white teeth. 

“y/n. here,” you almost shivered hearing him say your name.  you almost didn’t notice he was holding out the money until he cocked his head to the side, giving you a confused look. it looked almost like he was pouting. you let out a nervous giggle, cringing internally the second it passed. billy didn’t seem to mind, laughing along with you. it soon devolved into a laughing fit as you finally accepted the awkwardness of the situation. many of the other people in the shop shot the two of you quizzical glances, but that didn’t stop you from nearly falling over with laughter. what were you laughing at? nothing, really. it just felt good to be so wildly happy for a brief moment. 

billy started to walk away waving goodbye. you raised your hand to do the same, but froze halfway. there was something you wanted to know before he left for an undetermined amount of time. 

“wait! i never got to ask you what it meant. the tattoo.” he was halfway to the door but turned at the last moment, in the process of pulling the hood back over his golden hair.  

“i’ll be back soon, i hope. i’ll tell you then.” you brightened at that, giving him a playful salute. billy returned the gesture, even adding a silly wink for good measure. 

“i’d like that. until next time, billy.” he gave you one last wave as he strolled out the door, and you watched as he walked past the windows and eventually disappeared from sight. for a moment, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from that spot. a high pitched laugh broke your focus, and you whirled around to see stacy giggling at you.

“what?” you asked, doing your best attempt at a glare. stacy just smiled, batting her eyelashes as innocently as possible. crossing your arms over your chest, you started to say something, but got interrupted. 

“nothing. say, tom, do you think this is how most people behave after doing a tattoo?" she called out in a sing-song voice. tom was in the middle of cleaning up after his client left, but for some reason decided this was the time to cash in one of his few conversation checks. 

"no." tom responded gruffly, and blissfully brief. stacy grinned again, turning on her heel to face you. you opened your mouth to retort, but your mind went blank and you ended up just standing there with nothing to say. what could you say? you were stressed because your first tattoo was a knuckle tattoo? that it was stuffy and looking out the window made it less so? that you had developed an immediate crush on your first client? fresh out of ideas, you blurted out the next thing that came to mind. 

"i smelled bad… uh… yeah. i-i smelled bad, and i was embarrassed. i was watching him through the window to see if he had any reaction from being away from my… smell." you wished for a second that time travel existed just so you could go back to that exact moment, after you figured out a good response, to stop yourself from looking like a fool. because oh what a fool you sounded like. stacy could tell. tom could tell. and you bet that billy would be able to tell as well. stacy shook her head, visibly trying to stop herself from laughing. even tom seemed to have a smile tugging at his lips. 

"you keep telling yourself that, love. now buck up, don’t know when the next customer is gonna come in. gotta be ready, you know, if you happen to be the only one free…” you immediately perked up, billy momentarily scrubbed from the forefront of your mind. the chance to do more tattoos, more of what you loved, had you interested in a split second. your eyes drifted to your discarded sketchbook on the other end of the room. 

“you serious?” you asked, nervous edge clinging to your word. more freedom came with more chances to fuck up, but now that you got over an initial nervous edge thanks to billy, you were rearing to go. stacy looked equally excited for you, and equally worried. but she came over and patted you on the shoulder. 

“deadly. now go, there is art to be inked.” you were bouncing on your toes, but took a moment to lean right into her, even giving her a quick side hug. 

“yes ma’am.” you mock saluted her, then almost skipped back to your chair. you sat back in your swivel chair, letting it roll you to your small side table. you started to pick up the discarded papers, but found your mind drifting back to him. to billy. 

the thought that he would be back eventually brought a small smile to your lips. it could be a few days, a week, a month, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t flake out. it was just a matter of time. plus, he was good company. 

⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱

so,,, what’s the vibe with this lads? please lmk if y’all wanna see more!

#yayayysydausdfasd I love this idea #tattoo artist reader #good company #billy/four #billy x you #four!ben hardy #billy x reader #billy/four x reader #billy/four x you #billy!ben hardy #6 underground #6 underground fanfiction #6 underground movie #6 underground fanfic #6 underground universe #6u #tattooartist!reader #billy/four x tattooartist!reader #a mouthful aint it? #fanfic #fanfiction #six underground #six underground fanfiction #six underground fanfic #four x reader #four x you #four x y/n #billy x y/n #billy/four x y/n #ben hardy

[firethatgrewsolow]

Swiss Time - Chapter Seven

**Sorry for the delay!  And thank you @ladygrange for everything you do for me!  Hope you guys like it. <3**

Robert peered through the hotel window, the snow-capped mountains that had seemed so foreign to him when they arrived now a familiar comfort.  Their week was almost up, culminating in the show in a couple of days.  The time had flown by, and he realized that he was reluctant to leave.  A little, anyway.  He’d not seen Natalie since their castle adventure and subsequent dinner two nights before, and he found himself growing restless, even missing her a bit.  His gaze shifted to the streets below, dotted with shoppers and late lunch goers scurrying about.  A swirl of dark hair captured his attention, and he sat up, narrowing his eyes, only to fall back into the armchair as the woman turned around.  Definitely not Nat.  She was due to move over the weekend and would probably miss the gig, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit.  He wanted to sing for her, see her light up as he knew she would.  He smiled, his mind returning to the impromptu performance on the way back from Chillon.  Christ, how stoned had he been?  But it didn’t matter.  Her laugh was all he’d wanted to hear.  Bloody hell, what are you doing?  The click of the door behind him dispensed with the reverie, and he glanced toward it as Jimmy shuffled in.

“So, did you and Natalie enjoy Chillon?  You didn’t mention going.”

Robert took in the guitarist’s mildly perturbed demeanor.  “I haven’t seen you since.  Where were you yesterday?”

Ignoring the question, Jimmy plowed on.  “Did you tour the torture chamber?  It’s supposed to be quite remarkable.”

“Nah, we, uh, didn’t make it there.”

“What a shame.  I’d heard it was not to be missed.”  Jimmy tapped his finger gently against his chin.  “Hmm, I wonder if she’d consider going again.”

“Not likely.”  Robert chuckled, kicking his feet up onto the ottoman.  “I think once might have been enough.  She knows a lot about it, though.  Said she was going to write an article for a magazine.”

“So, our little Natalie Grace is a writer, then?  I had no idea.  She is full of surprises.”

“Well, she’s shy about it, but she must be pretty good.  It’s for a children’s magazine, but a popular one.”  Robert cleared his throat, patting down his jacket for cigarettes.  “You know, um, she’s probably not coming to the gig.”

“Why is that?”

“School stuff.”  Spying Bonzo’s pack on the coffee table, he snatched it up.  “I’ve been trying to think up ways to convince her to stay.  When we were at dinner . . .”

“Dinner, too?” Jimmy asked, cocking his head.  “My, my, aren’t we getting chummy.”

“Well, seeing as how she was free for the evening since you didn’t have a date with her after all . . .” Robert trailed off, pointedly raising a brow.

Jimmy stared back in silence, finally breaking out into a grin.  “Couldn’t resist.”  He reclined onto the sofa. “ So, you have a thing for our girl, eh?”

“I could say the same for you.  Jesus Christ, Jim, she’s a kid.”

“Of course, I’m only joking.  You were talking about convincing her to stay?”  

“Yeah.”  Robert nibbled his lip, treading carefully.  “I was thinking that she could, well, maybe she could write about us.  Like an interview and a piece about the gig.”

“You mean a review of the show?” Jimmy scoffed with a terse laugh.  “That’s absurd.”

Robert shrugged his shoulders.  “Why?  What could it hurt?”

“What would she bloody know about any of it?”  

“She’s pretty smart.”  The singer pulled out a cigarette, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.  “And it might be nice to have her around.”  

Jimmy glanced to the window as a patter of rain hit the glass.  “She is nice to have around, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, the thread of something blooming in his mind.

“I’m sure she’d be complimentary,” Robert added, subtly emphasizing the word.  

Complimentary.  Jimmy pursed his lips, wheels in motion.  It wasn’t an entirely unpromising scenario.  In fact, it was somewhat intriguing.  A young, likely very malleable writer with a strong connection to a major music promoter.  Nobody would have to know that she was barely fifteen, nobody that mattered, anyway, and it would be a welcome change from the stodgy old fucks they always sent out to the gigs.  A friendly word in the local paper certainly wouldn’t do them any harm, and who knew where it could lead.  She wouldn’t be fifteen forever.  But that was down the road.  For now, at the very least, he would have a bit of fun with it.  “You know, I think you’re right.  That’s not a bad idea.  It’s actually a rather good one.”

Robert blinked, surprised by his friend’s acquiescence.  “So, should I ask her to do it?”

“Not directly,” Jimmy replied, shaking his head.  “Let me take care of it.”

“They want me to do what?”  Nat set down her teacup with a clatter, pushing her breakfast away.  “I’ve never done an interview.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Oh, it can’t be too hard,” Susan chided, waving her hand dismissively.  “Besides it’s the local paper.  You don’t have to be Hemingway.”

“Whose idea was this?”  Nat cut her eyes at her conspicuously quiet aunt.  “Well?  Whose?”

Susan hesitated, drumming her fingers on the dining room table.  “The paper’s editor, from what I understand.”

“Really?  So, I’m a fifteen year old nobody that’s hardly written anything, and somehow, mysteriously, I’m interviewing one of the biggest bands in the world?”

“Well, Christian is friends with . . .”

“Oh, no.”  Natalie grimaced, running a hand through her hair.  “You pulled some weird strings, didn’t you?  Susan, I don’t want to be that girl in school.  Half the kids will probably be going, and if they see this dumb interview, they’ll know that . . .”

“You’re a wonderful writer?” Sue finished, dropping a sugar cube into her tea.  “That’s what they’ll know.  As long as you don’t ask tough questions and give them a good review, you’re golden.”

“Review?  Of what?  I haven’t even listened to their full albums.”

Susan smiled coyly, stirring her steaming concoction.  “The show, darling.  Although, you should probably brush up on the records, too.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped.  “You want me to review the show?”

“Not me . . . them,” Sue purred, taking a sip of her tea.

“Them?  Oh, my God.  The editor had nothing to do with this.  I knew there was something funny about all of it.”  Nat skimmed her thumb along the rim of her cup.  “Who is them?  Robert?”  Her aunt looked artfully away.  “Wait, it’s Jimmy, isn’t it?”

Susan abandoned her tea, making her way to the bar.  “At the end of the day, does it matter, Natalie?  Good lord, you’re impossible to please.  Maybe they just want to do something nice for you to help you out.  A burgeoning writer and all that business.  And what if it was Robert?  I assumed you had a nice time with him.  You have no idea how hard it was to sneak away without you seeing me at lunch the other day.”

“Sneak away?  What are you . . .” Nat’s jaw dropped again as it dawned on her.  “You saw him come up to me.  There was no meeting with the architect.”  She frowned at her aunt’s giddy grin.  “What are you, some kind of twisted matchmaker?  I’m only fourteen . . .”

“Fifteen, you just said so yourself,” Susan chimed, wagging a finger in the air.  “Jesus, Nattie, I’m not trying to get you two together in that way.  At least, not yet.”  She smirked, exchanging her teacup for a thin, crystal flute.  “Listen, it’s a fantastic opportunity.  They’re notoriously crafty with the press.  They rarely grant interviews, and they wanted you specifically.”  She held up her glass with a glimmer in her eye.  “And when the kids from school see you’ve interviewed the band, you’ll be an absolute queen on the campus.”

Queen on the campus?  Jesus Christ.  “But what about moving into the dorm?”

“We’ll figure something out.”  Hands on hips, Sue expelled a weary breath.  “You cannot possibly be trying to worm out of this.”

Nat sensed there was more to it than just a random act of kindness.  Altruism didn’t suit the band.  Surely an ulterior motive was involved, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it would be.  She slunk back into her chair, resigned to her fate.  Sue’s right.  What does it matter?  There were definitely worse things than spending time with four handsome, talented musicians.  And funny and sweet and silly . . .  She clenched her fists, crushing the thought.

“So, that’s a yes, I presume?” Susan beamed triumphantly.  “Perfect!  Their albums are in your room, along with a brand new record player.  Courtesy of Christian, of course.  I also pulled some clippings from my personal collection.  I like to keep an archive on the bands that I . . . particularly admire.”  Sue popped open a bottle of Champagne, pouring a long, fizzy stream.  “And don’t worry, love,” she cooed, peeking at her wristwatch.  “You’re not meeting with them for another five hours.  You’ve got all the time in the world.”

* * *

Natalie tapped her pen on the pages in front of her, exasperated beyond belief.  The interview was an unmitigated disaster.  Bonzo and Jonesy hadn’t even shown up, and getting answers out of Jimmy was like pulling teeth.  She’d spent every spare minute preparing, even gotten a tiny bit excited, and apparently, it was all for naught.  He didn’t want to talk about anything personal, and she’d been shunned when she asked about life on the road.  Everything seemed off limits.  What was the point, she mused dejectedly.  Hadn’t they been the ones who wanted to do it to begin with?  And in hostile territory, no less.  Her gaze roved over the guitarist’s candle laden suite, landing on a trio of half-melted pillars situated on the coffee table.  A small book lay beside them, tattered and torn, and she squinted in an effort to read the title.  His clipped cough brought her gaze back to his.  A reprimand for being curious, she determined as she scanned his blank visage.  Prickly didn’t seem to do him justice.  Maybe leave off the ly.  Hell, he’s probably enjoying this.  How in the world was she going to put any of it together?  She ran through the options one more time.  Influences, go back to influences.  “So, um, what inspires you?  Are all of you into the same kind of music?”

Sighing dramatically, Jimmy rolled his eyes.  “Oh, God, not that again.”

Nat cracked, finished with the cat and mouse game.  “Dammit, this was your idea!”  She threw down her pen.  “What do you want me to ask you, then?  I’ve heard a couple of things about a shark.”

“Natalie, dear, you do cut to the chase,” Jimmy hummed, amused at the rise he’d finally elicited.

“Let’s just say that I’ve done my homework.”  She crossed her arms, her gaze flickering back to the book on the table.  “Would you rather tell me about your interest in, uh, more spiritual matters?”

“Ooh, I see you have done your homework,” Jimmy replied smoothly.  “In that case, why don’t you tell me?”

Recognizing Natalie’s stormy scowl, Robert hurriedly intervened.  “Come on, Jim, just answer the questions.  We asked for this, remember?”  

“Ah, fair enough,” Jimmy conceded reluctantly.  “Pity it has to be so one sided.”  With another heavy sigh, he resettled into the sofa.  “Well, I’d say we all have different influences, to some degree.  There’s a melding here and there, but I think that’s what makes us able keep it fresh and interesting.”

Encouraged, Natalie leaned forward.  “There’s quite a lot of blues in your records so far.”

“Oh, yes, that’s the root of it, I suppose.”  Jimmy glanced to his bandmate, who was clearly champing at the bit to have a word.  “What say you, Robert?”

“What we’ve tried to do is to sort of reinterpret some of the stuff from America . . . Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf.  It’s endless, really.  All those sounds, we kind of spin it round and round until we take it somewhere else.”

“Right, the expansion of it.  That’s important.”  Jimmy crossed his legs.  “I want to create, well, we want to create something that’s dynamic and keep pushing boundaries.”  He paused for a moment, searching for the right words.  “Something heavy that strikes you, and just when you’ve reached the edge, it softens.  Or vise versa.”

“Light and shade,” Natalie offered, grateful that he'd begun to open up.

Jimmy exchanged a look with Robert.  “Exactly.”  He turned back to her with a devilish smile.  “Sort of like making love.”

Natalie swiftly dropped her head, praying that the lighting was dim enough to hide the blush she felt racing onto her cheeks.  Her saving grace was Peter, who lumbered into the room.

“Let’s go, lads, interview’s over.  Ahmet just got back, and they’re ready.”

More than a little relieved, Nat closed her notebook and capped her pen.  “Thanks for taking the time.”  Even though it was mostly a waste of it.  She shoved them both into her satchel as Robert bounded up to her.

“Would you like to come and watch?  We’re just gonna run through some stuff, sort of a sound check.  It won’t last long.”  He held out his arm, his dimple deepening.  “I’ll take a request, if you like.”

Her lips curved at the prospect.  What did she have to lose?  “Sure.  Lead the way.”

Arm in arm, they plodded out of the room and into the hall.  As they reached the elevator, Robert peered behind him for the others, but they were still in the suite.  He punched the button, secretly hoping it would make haste so he could have her to himself for a few minutes.  His wish granted, the car arrived almost immediately, and he hustled on, selecting his destination as quickly as he could.  He caught a glimpse of Peter and Jimmy in the distance as the doors slid blessedly shut.  Mission accomplished, they were alone.  “You, uh, seem to know a lot more about us than I thought.  Very impressive.”

“I did some research,” Nat replied, basking in the warmth of his sideways smile.  “Aunt Sue is a pretty good resource.  Keeps tabs on certain groups that she finds . . . stimulating.”

“I bet she’s got quite a file.”  They shared a muted laugh.  “I take it you’ve listened to the albums?”

“Um, yeah, that would be part of my research.”

“Right.  Of course.”  Robert quietly cleared his throat.  “So, ah, what’s your favorite song?”  

Natalie pursed her lips as their eyes met.  “Moby Dick, I think.”

“The one about the whale, huh?” Robert teased, the corner of his mouth curling up.

“The one with no vocals,” she shot back with a smirk.

“Ouch, that hurt.”  Robert clamped his hand over his heart, and they shared another laugh.  “You know, you did a good job back there with Jimmy.”

Natalie snorted, shaking her head.  “You must be kidding.  I hardly got anything out of him.”

“You got more than most, believe it or not.”  A ping in the car signaled that they’d reached the first floor.  “Pagey likes you.  I can tell.”

“Good God, what does he do to the people he doesn’t like?”

Robert snickered as the elevator doors surged open.  “Nothing.  That’s what.”  

They navigated through the lobby and into the casino, winding around the masses and entering a cavernous room toward the back of it.  Natalie slowly canvassed the drafty space, examining the ancient looking wooden planks that made up the ceiling.  They were cracked and peeling, in need of a facelift.  Hell, a full renovation, really.  “It’s like a matchbox in here.”  She meandered to the wide glass windows overlooking the pool, which was empty, save for a fully clothed woman reading a book.  “Are you guys all set up?”

The floor squeaked underneath Robert’s feet as he padded to the front of the stage, inspecting the equipment.  “Yeah, looks like everything’s here.”  He gave her a wide grin.  “So, what would you like to hear?”

“I don’t know.”  Natalie surveyed the scene, nodding at Jonesy and Bonzo as they passed by.  “This is kind of a lot.”

“If you’re going to be a music journalist, you might want to get used to it.”

Natalie jumped at Jimmy’s words right behind her.  Shit!  Where had he come from?  Probably just thin air.  She spun around, her brow wrinkling.  “A music journalist?  Who said that?  I write articles about castles and history, not . . .”

“This is history, history in the making, darling, and you’re in the center of it all.  It’s fate.  Can’t you see that?  You’d be a fool not to take advantage of your position.”

Nat studied the guitarist warily, at that point quite sure that there was more to the situation than met the eye.  As she pondered her response, he turned on his heel, making his way to the stage.  A group of men in suits were taking their seats beside the platform as pops of bass and the rattle of drums shook the rafters.  Grabbing the microphone, Robert sidled up next to Jimmy, and the four musicians engaged in a few seconds of hushed deliberation.

“As it appears that our little Natalie can’t make up her mind what to request, I think, ah, I think we’ve got something to dedicate to her, yeah?”

The opening strains of Chuck Berry’s “Nadine” filled the room, and Natalie giggled as Robert substituted her name instead.  It was a rowdy, lighthearted rendition, and she was reminded of his silly serenade two nights before.  How anyone could classify him a some Rock God or sex symbol was beyond her.  He was simply too goofy for the label.  At the end of the song, they launched right into a poppy Elvis tune, and then another that she remembered as a child.  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught shifting shadows at the door to the theater.  She watched Robert nod to the large man that was serving as a guard of sorts, and people began to file in.  She pored over their faces, some giddy, some disbelieving, all transfixed as the Elvis number morphed into Buffalo Springfield, which somehow seamlessly transformed into a rollicking “Good Golly Miss Molly.”  It was evident that the boys were completely attuned to each other.  It was tight, but still lively and fun.  They were obviously a great band, but as she followed Robert’s bouncing figure across the stage, she couldn’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about.

Robert beamed, flushed from the applause and cheers of the burgeoning audience.  He glided his eyes over the crowd, delighting in their delight at the unexpected show.  “We’d like to do one more.  It’s from the first LP, and it’s something I hope you’ll like.”  His gaze landed on Natalie at the foot of the stage.  “Particularly one of you.”

Nat could feel the stares of those around her, and she grinned as he winked at her, his gravelly voice cutting through the din.

“I can’t . . . quit you, baby . . .”

In an instant, her grin vanished.  This was different than the other songs.  Very.  Her body shook from the ear shattering boom of Bonzo’s drums and the thunderous bass and guitar that accompanied it.  

“Woman, I think I’m gonna put you down . . . for a little while . . .”

Robert’s wail made her mouth fall open as a wall of sound like she’d never heard before roared around her.  Bluesy and seductive, it enveloped her, heart and soul, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.  He was nothing like the silly serenader on the trail.  This side of him was new, completely alien to her.  She swallowed as a wave of heat rippled through her, a current of electricity the likes of which she didn’t know existed.  As her wide eyes locked on his knowing ones, she finally remembered to breathe.  Jimmy was right.  History was in the making.  And she fully intended to take a piece of it for herself.

#Robert Plant fanfic #Robert Plant fan fiction #Led Zeppelin fanfic #Led Zeppelin fan fiction #Jimmy Page fanfic #Jimmy Page fan fiction

[mothershipresidencies]

Brendan Jackson

By the time I came to the Mothership, I changed my plan...

I had intended to make a series of photographs using a battered old mahogany and brass Gandolphi camera with a zeiss lens, dating from the 1920’s. I expected the images to be somewhat experimental. The last time I used this was nearly 30 years ago and then the images were pin sharp in the centre but a little fuzzy wound the edges, so who knows how they might turn out now. I had the camera and tripod and a black sheet to cover myself with; I had sourced some 5 x 4 Ilford black and white HP5 film; I dug out old darkroom equipment but I couldn’t find the double dark slides I thought were in the loft, so I found some online. They turned up two days before I was due to travel, only I had been sent 10 x 8 slides in error. I tried the local college, who still keep a chemical darkroom, but the technicians were away (half term). So the plan changed.

I know Dorset from my childhood vacations with my favourite auntie who lived in Dorchester. I had spent a lot of teenage holidays here and had my first real job at the (old) Dorset County Hospital, working in the kitchens. I undertook my first photographic project and exhibition here ‘A Brief Guide to Piddletrenthide in the Valley of the River Piddle’, entirely inspired by local people, their stories and connection to the place they lived and worked. It’s what has interested me ever since.

So I decided to undertake a series of walks, following in the footsteps of others here (though not Richard Long on his 1975 Cerne Abbas walk). I would walk by day, as the weather was mostly fine – though one rain swept day I spent in the Dorset Heritage Centre digging through archives – then at night I lit the stove and read old local guidebooks and literature, as well as a few Ray Bradbury stories (one highlight of my childhood holidays was reading Bradbury paperbacks and comics bought from a shop on the esplanade in Weymouth).

My Aunt first came to Dorset in the Spring of 1946. She came from Birr in Ireland where she worked in a leather factory and corresponded with a certain Mr Clark of Street in Somerset (who offered her a job, which brought her to England and provided her with a fine reference). She came to Dorset County Hospital to train as a nurse. She was 26 years old. Her cousins in Wimbledon took their holidays in Dorset and told Monica she was less likely to feel homesick in a town like Dorchester, as it had a similar character to Birr. Indeed it did and Monica lived the rest of her life there.

Here are some of my reflections during this time...

 A single walk in straight line

The sea is calm enough, a little bit of breeze but not the kind of blaster to blow the cod inshore. He’s been here since 6.30am and now it’s early afternoon. I’ve had a few nibbles, nothing much, he says, but I really don’t mind, I just love being out here. He carefully skewers lugworm onto a hook. He also has some squid as bait for the cod, but he might save that for another day. In the warmer months, this beach is a popular site for mackerel, when they can come inshore in large numbers. Some old second world war sea concrete defences, known as the Dragon’s Teeth, tumble down into the sea, and it’s here they say is the best mark for the fishing. The fish can be caught at close range as the beach shelves steeply. What can you catch here? In the summer, Bass and Gurnard, Bream, Dogfish, Scad, Trigger Fish and Flatties. Mackerel of course. Now, in winter, Cod and Codling, Whiting, Plaice and Rockling. I don’t know half these names they tell me, so I nod and smile. Well, good luck, I say and carry on my way. In the distance it’s clear and sharp enough to make out the lighthouse at the end of the Isle of Portland.

A Circular Walk around Eggardun Hill

At the end of the old roman road from Dorchester, the ‘Highway of the West’, at the spur of a curving ridge rises the Iron Age hill fort of Eggardun. It may be lesser known or appreciated than triple ramparted Mai Dun, but the views from here are far superior, of countryside that has barely changed in my lifetime, or perhaps even in the last three hundred years. The sweep of the coast towards Golden Cap and Devon beyond, the dazzle of the sea, a glimpse of Pilsdon Pen, in between the soft hills and downs, woods and valleys, scattered farm buildings, strip lynchets revealed by the angle of the sun. Now only inhabited by rabbits and sheep, these slopes and ditches were constructed of huge mounds of chalk, no doubt a gleaming white beacon when first raised up by the metal users. The bareness of the grass now testifies to ‘a long friendship with rough winds’, as one walker described these heights in the 1930’s, striding past with her puppy dogs, Bill and Mr Bundy, heading for Burton Bradstock and the Chesil Bank. Some years later, one farmer-writer from these parts gazed at a fossil in his hand (he called them books of stone), thrown up from ploughed chalk on the downland. He looked out over the landscape, at ‘nature’s vast, relentless roll’, reflecting on the rise and fall of empires, the clash of nations, massacres and crimes, past glories of philosophy and art. He told himself, ‘Here, order does not break.’ Today the wind relentless as ever, I ponder the wonders of the modern age; the flushing toilet, running water, a mirror, a cooking fire.

 A semi-circular walk from Overcombe to Nothe Fort

I am not staying in the old seaport and pleasure resort, which was once called ‘The English Naples’. I never have, though I know several folk who booked a bed and breakfast or caravan over the years, enjoying the extended frontage – the bay is nearly five miles across. Such visitors were was once noteworthy, articles in the Dorset Daily Echo reporting the arrival of 500 families from the Black Country by train in just one weekend, determined to enjoy their holiday here in Weymouth, surely cementing its reputation as a premier destination with ‘wonderful sands, a good water supply and a splendid climate’. Had they a Black Country flag back then, they would have been as popular a purchase as those paper ones of the Union Jack, of Saint Andrew and the Welsh Dragon, along with miscellaneous emblems of France, Italy and Spain that adorned a thousand sandcastles. (I don’t remember there being an Irish flag available).

Though locals disdainfully called these holidaymakers ‘grockles’, a visitor in 1804 was far less charitable of the locale itself. He intended to visit his brother who was with the Royal Squadron in the bay. On arrival, he paid the modern equivalent of £58 to a local boatman who dropped him at the first royal barge in the bay they came across, which is then stranded in an impenetrable sea mist and while waiting for dawn runs foul of a cable. Finally he is rescued by the crew of a cutter at anchor who finally take him back to shore. Then he spends his first night’s lodging being tormented by all manner of vermin. He does eventually meet up with his brother, but during his stay he is not impressed by the countryside hereabouts, complaining that he can find no shade from the scorching sun. He thought it a bare and barren place, and the cost of staying here horrendous, prices inflated due to the King’s visit. When he left Weymouth after a week, he was forced to travel slowly as his horse ‘seemed literally starved, his ribs starting through his skin’, although he had paid an outrageous sum of one guinea for his keep.

Boating in Weymouth is recommended, as one guide from the 1930’s puts it: ‘the bay being free of dangerous currents and promiscuous rocks’. No mention of mist. I took my first cross-channel from here, for 48 hours in France, in storm tossed seas on the return. I have a strong unpleasant memory of sliding across the deck. There is a small memorial here now to the U.S. Forces who left from here to land at Omaha Beach, with a photograph of some of those soldiers marching down the Esplanade. Over half a million of them passed this way (those called 'The Greatest Generation', probably correctly so if we look to current models). The wind whips up the sand of the beach and a few people run with their dogs by the shoreline (please note, dogs banned from the beach between April and October). Here on a Saturday night in Spring 1946 a young woman was carried off these sands on the shoulders of a British soldier. She was hopelessly drunk. An American sailor was also helping carry her. They were stopped by P.C. Otter. The soldier said she was ill and he was going to take her to a room for the night. Neither soldier nor sailor were able to tell P.C. Otter her name or anything about her, so he took her into custody. She was later charged with being drunk and incapable. She was 19 years old, Polish, of no fixed abode; she said her name was Frances Kolosvonksi and that she had only arrived that day from Aldershot to meet her boyfriend who had been posted here. ‘It was the first time in my life that I had a drink and it will be the last time,’ she said. ‘I had an argument with my fiancé.’ The Chairman of the Magistrates Court concluded, ‘I shall think you are very ashamed of yourself, aren’t you?’ If this was a post-modern musical she might burst into song and say ‘You took the words right out of my mouth’. She meekly agreed, ‘Yes, very ashamed’. She was fined 10 shillings, which would barely cover a single room with breakfast at the Crown Hotel opposite the railway station.

A square walk around the walls with a loop south and east

 Loosely follow the perimeter of the old Roman town, marked today by Walks originally planted in the 18th century with lime, sycamore and more recently chestnut – these enclose three sides of the town. By more recently we mean over a century ago. A river walk demarcates the fourth side, where one arm of the Frome runs in an artificially constructed channel used for the water meadows that have kept the town from spreading to the north and north east. The river curves here round old sluice gates and the rise upon which is built the prison (itself on the site of a Norman castle) and beyond that the County Council offices. The excavations in this north west corner to build these offices in the 30’s revealed three roman town houses which were then preserved. One fragment of the original wall still remains, near the statue of Thomas Hardy. Crossing the Frome on the eastern side of the town, it is a short walk of two or three miles to the churchyard in Stinsford where his heart is buried beside his first wife.

On the south side, beyond the line of the walks, lay the site of the town market once busy every Wednesday with fat calves, sheep, lamb and pigs. Here there were markets for farm equipment and implements too; sales displays of new combined side delivery rakes and swath turners, a Watson and Harry 30ft elevator, a Bristol caterpillar tractor, mowing machines, plough and cultivator attachments. Now it’s a car park, charges vigorously enforced.

Across the road, next to the Victorian police station, is Maumbury Rings, the Roman amphitheatre. When the railways came, the engineer Mr Brunel wanted to cut right through here, as well as the ancient earthwork at Poundbury on the north west side of the town, thus raising the ire of many an archeologist and historian, who decried this proposal as the work of ‘barbarian perpetrators’ no less. Mr Brunel was reminded that it was the great Sir Christopher Wren who first marveled at the Rings and made them known to the worlds’ antiquarians when, en route to scry Portland stone, he asked for his coach to be stopped, in order to give them a thorough investigation. Brunel twisted his rails so as to avoid the ancient amphitheatre and built a tunnel under Poundbury, ‘as he may frequently have the opportunity of doing mischief, he would always be found most anxious to avoid it.’

A walk from West Chaldon, looking for the ghosts of poets

It is getting cold, they say there is snow in the North. Just before tea it was raining. She fills the fire grate with twigs she has collected, strips of hazel, then adds the shavings of logs and crumpled brown paper that the bread came wrapped in. She lit the fire and contributed some vitriolic love letters she had never sent, as well as scraps of her verse that had no satisfactory conclusion. Finally she tossed in a few logs of ash and yew. Their cottage was somewhat dilapidated but homely enough for the two of them and the room is quick to warm.

Her lover pulls a face and complains that, after one too many doses of veramon, she is prone to roaming about the place looking white and grim. Her mood lifts though when they walk the downs and follow the shady hidden paths. She is cheered at the sight of the local names: Scratchy Bottom, White Nose, Daggers Gate, Five Marys. They sit holding hands on the highest of the ancient barrows, the sea air invigorating their spirits. Then she truly feels as light as a feather. Later, she will listen to the gramophone and manage to scratch out few lines, something secular. She writes, perhaps for herself only:

 Is the hawk as tender

To the belly of its prey –

White belly wet with dew –

As I am to you,

In the same way,

My slender?

The President Decides

Captain Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. ‘Why do we do it, Martin? This space travel, I mean? Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight. Never any rest.’

‘Maybe we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,’ said Martin.

‘No, there’s not is there? Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. ‘Not since Darwin, eh? Not since everything went by the board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so you think that’s why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a good one?’

These sentences are from a short story by Ray Bradbury first published in 1949, an author who revelled in the power and imagination of childhood, of magic, rocketry and science. As a teenager I devoured his collections ‘S is for Space’ and ‘R is for Rocket’ on my holidays in Dorset, sitting in the shade of the beach chalet, admiring the bikinis or watching the naval ships anchor in Portland Roads. Little did I know that near this very spot, back in 1946, Mr Hooper of Overcombe, Weymouth, looked out over much the same view and reflected on the power of the Atomic Bomb now in the hands of the Yanks. He had met enough of them over the last few years, 517,816 of their troops and 144,093 vehicles embarking for Normandy from this port alone, most of them decent enough sorts, but the recent public behaviour of their Joint Chiefs of Staff left a lot to be desired. (You will fid a small monument to those troops on the esplanade.)

He was particularly concerned about the effects of uranium. Thirty years of chemistry had led him to believe that May 15th, the date set for the atom bomb experiments in the Pacific Ocean, may be the end of us all. One was to be an airdrop, one underwater. His reasoning was that seawater contains traces of uranium, therefore any atomic explosion over the ocean will ‘almost certainly start off an ever increasing dissolution.’ In addition, he believed it was impossible to test the seabed for uranium; the testing area may therefore be over a large deposit and a catastrophe was surely waiting in the wings. To conduct the tests, 167 inhabitants were moved from Bikini Atoll to Rongerik Atoll, which had no inhabitants due to an inadequate water and food supply and also because of a belief that the island was haunted by the Demon Girls of Ujae. Regardless, the Americans moved 95 warships of all shapes and sizes to the test area, planning to assess their durability to nuclear attack.

As holidaymakers flocked to the coast again to enjoy the sun (though in reality the weather was mixed that summer), Mr Hooper sent letters to the Sunday papers, hoping for some reaction. He wrote: ‘Those of us interested in nuclear physics know of experiments which certainly seemed safe enough in theory, but which nevertheless ended fatally. Let us pray that this much vaster one does not end in disintegration.’ As they say in the local Dorset dialect, it’s a caddle – a puzzling plight, such a confusing situation that a man does not know what to do first. Some might say Mr Hooper was joppetty joppetty – anxious and agitated over the whole cantankerous affair. The world demonstrably did not end on May 15th, nor at the end of June when the first of three tests was actually conducted, no doubt he waited impatiently and wondered whatever would come next.

As the Americans were coming to understand the effects of fallout, in Paris the designer Louis Réard introduced a new two-piece swimsuit, which he called the bikini because ‘like the bomb, the bikini is small and devastating’. While the inevitable appearance of bikinis on the beach front at Overcombe might have led to an increase in his blood pressure, Mr Hooper would I think have been apoplectic had he been aware the US Army Air Force had put forward a plan to the Pentagon the previous September to destroy 66 Soviet cities and were demanding production of 204 atomic bombs to do so. As it was, production of 39 were approved to eliminate 15 first priority targets. Among them, it was estimated 6 each would be required for Moscow, Leningrad and Kiev, five for Lviv, four for Chelyabinsk, three for Tbilisi, two each for Baku and Grozny. While the majority of his cabinet and nuclear scientists supported the idea of international collaboration to control nuclear power and the abandonment of ‘the policy of secrecy’, the President sided with the military establishment and thus the arms race began.

I would like to thank the Mothership and Anna for the opportunity to ‘switch off’ from the normal daily clutter of life in the city (I had no mobile single or internet here, except when I went to the Dorset Heritage Centre, there catching up with all the Trump news); this was an opportunity to reflect on the stars above, the damp ground beneath my feet, without any other distractions to simply focus on what work I would like to do in the near future and what might be the content and purpose.

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