#anyway a light version of midnight would absolutely suit her

[xeulousluv]

Almost

AN: Hello everyone, I am fairly new to posting on this app, so therefore I am still learning how to use it. Hehe :) Anyways, I hope you are having a great day!

Warning: Nothing really, maybe a little bit of angst? 

Zayn and Y/n broke up and all he’s left with are the videos she took during their senior year of high school.

September 1st, 2010: 

The camera was set up in her hand as she was slightly fixing her hair, a huge smile plastered on her makeup covered face. He always thought she looked better without makeup, but sometimes you couldn’t beat the insecurities. 

“Here we are, the first day of senior year! How are we feeling, Zayn?” 

Next to her stood himself, a much younger version of himself. Two years to be exact. He was almost unrecognizabel, with his usual high school attire adoring his body. A white tee-shirt, black skinny jeans, and not to mention his varsity football jacket hanging off of his shoulders. She looked lovingly at her boyfriend, her eyelashes beating against the softness of her rounded cheeks. 

“I’m ready to get out of here, the last three years were the upmost worst years of my life.” Zayn spoke truthfully, he hadn’t expected to make it past the ninth grade, but with the help of Y/n, he managed to make it all the way to his graduating year. Y/n gave him an offended look before responding, “Hey! If it weren’t for these last three years, you would’ve never met me, let alone had the courage to talk to me. Am I really that bad?” 

She laughed out while speaking, all so he knows that she is joking and would never accuse him of thinking such things. Though, he was already two steps ahead of her and was laughing along at her sad attempt of looking offended. “Of course not, baby. You are what kept me going.” With that, Zayn kissed her temple and she let out a small giggle before stopping the camera. 

September 5th, 2010:

Random small talk was heard on the computer sitting in front of Zayn, before her face showed with a bright glow. She was so beautiful it almost hurt. She was laughing at something her friend Emery said, though it was completely inaudible, he just let the smile take over his face hearing her laugh again. 

“I don’t exactly know why I turned this on, but hello! We successfully made it through the first week of school, and let me just say, it was not fun. The teachers still hate me.” Again, Y/n laughed towards the camera. 

“I remember this one time last year when Mr. Lambert threw me out of class because I wouldn’t stop laughing. In my defence, he was talking about the safety of condoms and Zayn kept mocking him. That was a detention worth going to.” Zayn remembered that day clearly. He sat to the left of Y/n, Mr. Lambert’s first mistake, and would whisper in her ear how he would show her the proper way to wear a condom when they got to her house that night. To say he did end up showing her was an understatement. 

The camera then turned to her friend before she continued on with what she was saying, “Anyways, Emery here, has informed me about this back to school party for seniors at Anthony Stilettos house. So, we are heading to the mall so we can get a nice looking outfit for tonight. I’ll see you guys later!”  And with that the camera switched off.

He thought that was the end of the video, but when she popped back on his screen, he was pleasantly surprised. She wore a black dress that just reached her knees, the end of it rippled and flew each time she took a step. Her hair and makeup was done, and her shoes matched her dress, she really was the most beautiful person he has ever met. 

Without saying anything, Y/n moved the camera to where the view was now on Emery. She wore a simple tight red dress that fit her like a glove, she was placing bobby pins in her hair before realising a camera was watching her every move. Emery turned away from the mirror Y/n had in her room, and started making random poses into the camera. The video finally ended with Y/n facing the camera back to herself while laughing at it. 

October 7th, 2010: 

It was homecoming. Their final homecoming, and of course, Zayn asked her to be his date. He didn’t go all out like the previous years, this particular year was asked right after they finished giving each other their all. They were bunched up together, all sweaty and breathless, and that is when Zayn asked her to go to homecoming with him. He thought it was gross because of their previous activities, but Y/n thought it was sweet, endearing even. It was personal and intimate, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. Plus, she was tired of all the attention that comes with getting asked to homecoming. 

Her dress was a beautiful shade of baby yellow, Zayn wore his usual black suit but with a yellow tie and a yellow rose pinned to his coat pocket. The night couldn’t have been anymore magical. 

“Z, are you ready to go? Emmy and Dallas are waiting in the car.” Her soft voice echoed through the speakers, she was worried about being late. But more so, excited about what the night had planned for the couple. Zayn was fixing his hair, like he does any other day, however today, he wanted to look his absolute best. “Just one more second, love. Gotta look perfect before leaving these four secured walls.” 

Y/n rolled her eyes into the camera before another smile took over her face. It only got wider as he finally announced that he was ready. 

“Baby, you look handsome! You don’t need all that hair gel, make one wrong move and we’re calling you Uncle Jesse.” Zayn scoffed, his hands finding their place on her hips, him being pressed up against her back. His chin resting on her shoulder, they looked so in love. They were so in love. 

October 31st, 2010: 

Fall was Y/n’s favorite season, meaning Halloween was by far her favorite holiday. She squealed into the camera when Zayn walked out in his Peter Pan costume. “Baby, you look so fucking adorable!” She cooed, though Zayn was having none of it. “Do we have to go to this party? Can’t we just stay in and watch scary movies, I promise I will protect you if you get too scared!”

He knew it was no use, Y/n had been going on and on about Anthony’s costume party for the past week, so when she started laughing, Zayn internally groaned. “Brave of you to assume I will get scared during a horror movie. How about we go for just an hour, then you and I can come back here and watch whatever movie you want?” 

At that, his ears perked, he could go for an hour. That gives him all the more time alone with his love. “Hocus Pocus? That’s my favorite.” 

“Yes baby, we can watch Hocus Pocus, do this for me, and I’m all yours for the rest of the night.” A grin was stretched across his face as she leaned up and gave a peck to his lips. Adoration shining brightly in her eyes as she looked up at him. “You are so lucky I love you, Y/n.” 

“I love you, Zayn. More than you will ever know.” 

December 31st, 2010:

“Hola, my favorite people! Happy New Years Eve, I hope you guys are having a good day. My family is having a little party to bring in the new year, even though you won’t be watching this until later when I decide to post it, I hope you guys have an amazing holiday. Be safe now. Bye!”

Christmas and New Year’s was hard for Y/n. She had major separation anxiety for everyone she grows close to, so not being able to see the people she loves for a whole two weeks was taking a toll on her. Not to mention, Zayn went back to Bradford for the holidays, so he wasn’t there to keep her calm. All she had was the emails and messages he would send her.  

However, that night was different. She didn’t know what it was, but the air felt more intoxicating. There was something she was missing and the young girl couldn’t put her finger on it. 

Emery got ahold of Y/n’s camera without her noticing, pressing the ‘record’ button and smiling.

“Hi, as many of you may know, my name is Emery White. Before questions start racing through your head about where Y/n is, she is currently in the kitchen talking to one of her neighbors, and she knows nothing about this so, shhh!” Emery held her index finger up to her mouth, even though she is talking to a camera. 

“So, the time is now 11:58, meaning it is almost New Year’s and I got a message from a good friend of mine to get her camera and start recording. Oh wait, she’s coming over! Act normal!” 

“Emmy? Why do you have my camera, wait no, when did you get my camera?” Emery turned her neck to look at Y/n, and smiled while looking at her friends confused face. “It’s almost midnight, I figured we could record the big moment for your journal thing.” 

Y/n looked at her watch and sure enough, it was 12:59, and the people around her were counting down. By the time Y/n looked back at her friend, Emery had switched her position to behind the camera, her smile now stretching to her eyes. She gave a confused smile towards the camera before shaking her head. 

10..

9..

8..

A tap was felt on Y/n’s shoulder making her turn around, not believing her eyes, she had to do a double take. There he was in all of his glory. Zayn stood in front of her with a bouquet of random flowers, her eyes widening in complete shock. 

3..

2..

1!

Before she could fully process his presence, Zayn had planted his lips against hers in what he would call, one of their best kisses. His arms went around her waist while hers were around his neck, keeping him as close as humanly possible. She was the first to pull away from the kiss, tears forming at the bottom of her eyes but never fell. Zayn pulled her back, this time her face went into his neck as he whispered out a small, “Happy New Years, baby.” 

May 22nd, 2011: 

Senior prom, a day Y/n has waited her entire life for. Getting all dolled up for one night of perfection sounded glorious. Unlike most people, her dress doesn’t reach the floor but goes a little ways past her knees. It was a light shade of green, she wasn’t usually one for the cliche pink and blue, and her stomach was laced over showing her belly button peircing. She felt on top of the world, the most gorgeous she has ever felt in her entire life. 

Zayn was in a nude tuxedo, a lightish green tie tucked into the blazer. “It’s prom day, baby, how do you feel?” The now well-known camera placed in front of his face, though he paid no attention to it, but really the girl behind it. “Like I have the most beautiful girlfriend in the world. How did I get so lucky, hm?” 

The blush was evident on her face, he could see it perfectly now even with the camera facing him and not herself. He could still see the light in her eyes. Looking back on it, he couldn’t imagine living his life without her, how could he let her go? 

It wasn’t like they got in a fight or anything, Zayn and Y/n were going to different colleges and he didn’t want to do the whole long distance thing. He felt she deserved better than that. So even though the breakup was absolutely not a mutual agreement, Y/n somewhat understood and let him walk away. 

“You’re such the charmer, Zayn. Always got me blushing for no good reason.” 

“I would be a bad boyfriend if I didn’t.” 

Now turning the camera to face both of them, Zayn placed a kiss on her lips before turning off the camera and letting their night go on as best as it could, for it would be one of the last good memories they have. Except at the time, neither of them knew the last time would actually be the last time. 

June 4th, 2011: 

“Hey everyone, I just want to start off by saying congratulations, we made it. Graduating today was the most amazing feelings, and I’m sure you all can agree with me. The past four years have really taught me a lot, I know I sound like the Mallory Barnes, our valedictorian that gave the speech today, but I’m serious, you all have been amazing. Teachers included.” 

Y/n wasn’t in her usual attire. She was in a comfortable baggy hoodie, and that’s all you could see as her camera was propped on the desk in the corner of the room. Her hair was in a messy bun, no makeup, and her glasses were sat perfectly on her nose. What no one could notice was the slight puffiness to her eyes, the way they were red and tired. But Zayn noticed, however. When Y/n first uploaded this to her instagram, Zayn couldn’t bare to watch it, so seeing it now definitely brought back a feeling he tried too hard to push away. 

“In the past four years I have learned about friendships, I learned about love, and I learned about heartbreak. I have got to say, high school brought me some really great friendships that I will cherish forever. I am finding it very difficult to say goodbye, but we are bound to go off and do bigger and better things. The future awaits for us.” 

“I just want to thank you guys for the amazing memories, and I hope you guys make your dreams come true.” Y/n sighed into the camera, she was really bad at saying goodbye, though you would think it would be easier considering no one likes high school. However, Y/n loved every single second of it, maybe not the learning but the memories made.

“Now, I am going to get really sappy for a minute and say a massive thank you to the man who has loved me for the past four years. Zayn, I know we haven’t talked in a few weeks, and you’re probably not even watching this, but just know that I am so proud of you.  I don’t know how I could not be. I really hope you make something wonderful of yourself. You were by far my favorite part of this journey. Thank you for sticking with me and for loving me. And even though we aren’t together anymore, I love you.”

“We almost had it all, didn’t we?” 

AN: Yeah, I don't think I like this babahahah. Love the concept but someone out there could definitely write it better. 

#zayn mailk #zayn x reader #zayn malik fanfic #zayn malik angst #angst fanfic

[fkingsteverogers]

Haven’t Seen You In Awhile (I Still Love You)

Lowtown, Madripoor

You’re onto your third glass of champagne when you see her. Natasha’s always been beautiful, no one can deny that, but she’s extra beautiful tonight. She’s wearing a midnight blue gown with silver beading running up the sides. A deep slit exposes a large swath of her thigh. You ache to touch it, to feel her quiver under you, to take apart the woman and break the highly tuned weapon.

You’re walking across the party before you even realize you’re thinking of approaching her. 

“Audrey! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Her head snaps up at your teasing voice. It makes her earrings bob against her jawbones, the jawbone you’d been kissing almost exactly a month earlier; half a world away from this party and these men and their expensive suits. She smiles--not her real smile, the smile she uses when she’s working--and politely excuses herself from her discussion. You let yourself be led to a quiet alcove, Natasha’s fingers on your elbow leave a trail of fire across your skin. You’d gladly jump into the inferno. 

“I told you…” Her words are drowned out as you watch her mouth forming the shapes of her tirade. It’s a pretty mouth, one you’ve kissed and traced the shape of more times than you can count. “You’re not listening.” Somehow, this phrase manages to swim to the top of your consciousness. You shake your head, a smile threatening to surface and ripple across your face. 

“I was admiring your beauty. You’re rather distracting, Natalie.” The words are mumbled into her knuckles as you press a kiss there. Natasha’s too well trained to blush but you imagine one spreading across her cheeks anyway. “What are you doing here?” The subject change is abrupt, a dance away from the dangerous territory of pet names and compliments. You shrug, brushing your styled hair over your shoulder. (It’s a nervous tick you’ve never managed to get rid of and you know she’ll notice. Why had you let her get so close?) 

Answering her question truthfully would be too dangerous. Business parties like this tend to be full of too many ears for any honesty. Instead, you tell her you’re simply there to enjoy the champagne and conversation. You tell her about your kind benefactor, a wealthy gentleman with business interests in paradise. Natasha nods, understanding all you’re not saying. “Of course, I’ll need to return home to Daddy on Monday. He expects a full report of this quarter’s earnings on Tuesday and I didn’t start it before I ran off with Charles.” You pout, the perfect picture of a spoiled rich girl with an internship at Daddy’s firm without a care in the world.

You’re anything but. 

The real you, the version you pull out of the box deep in your mind late at night to shrug on like an ill fitting coat, is old and troubled. The real you (or, at least, the most consistent version of you there is) has toppled regimes, destabilized countless countries, murdered world leaders in their beds before they even have time to tell you how good you were with your lips wrapped around their cocks. The real you is older than Steve Rogers by two months. The real you is the United State’s strongest weapon and darkest secret. 

The real you loves Natasha more than you’ve ever loved anyone. 

“Charlie!” You sway a little on your heels, hiccupping and slurring for effect. “Charlie! You remember me telling you about my good friend, Audrey. I was shocked to see her here!” Charles nods, barely glancing at Natasha. He’s a heavy set man with a graying bread and a disgusting set of wandering hands. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, making him look like a caricature of an American. “Ma’am.” he nods and pulls you off to talk to some associate or other.  

The next time you see her, you’re balancing on the edge of an impossibly uncomfortable chair in a high end club in London. You’re arm candy for a woman who shares too much, too loudly. It’s a boring mission, too easy for someone as highly trained as you. You start with a little game with yourself, how much can you get out of her? Just how much can you get her to buy you? It’s boring work, but it justifies your exorbitantly high salary. You’re downing your third cocktail (thank God for the Super Soldier serum and the tolerance it gives you) when you spot a certain redhead. She’s wearing a form fitting suit and a scowl, clear evidence of just how happy she is to be here. Barton is probably somewhere around, wearing a matching scowl and giving off an air of general menace. 

You want to approach her, invite her to dance, take her to the bathroom and make her scream. You’re contemplating leaving your mark when the wall to your left explodes. The explosion leaves a ringing in your ears and a feeling of absolute terror in the pit of your stomach. Your brain slips out of the office, disappears into the void of primitivity and you want to run, to scream, to make sure you and Natasha get out alive. 

You turn towards the explosion instead. 

After, bathed in dust, grime, and the flash of emergency lights, you find Natasha. She’s just as dirty as you, with a cut above her eyebrow trickling blood and a ripped dress. You grab her, cup her face in your hands, and kiss it. The kiss says everything you can’t. How much you love her, how you’d bring her the sun, moon, and stars if she asked, she just has to ask. (You’re begging her to ask). She leans into you and desperately returns the kiss. She mumbled something in Russian. Your brain, still out of the office, struggles to translate. You want to tell her you love her in her native language but before you can come up with the words she’s disappearing into the settling dust.

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow imagine #black widow x reader #marvel imagine #marvel x reader

[mxpseudonym]

Too Many Questions

Pairing: Tommy x OC 

Reader Gender Expression: Male Reader (if you don’t mind straight up characterization)

Length: 4406 words (allegedly)

Warnings: None

A/N: Very self indulgent, it’s just an idea that came to mind. I’m writing a part two because this was getting too long for a tumblr post. Part II is sappy and possibly spicy, we’ll see. 

Edit: It was irking my soul that I split this piece into two parts so I combined them and now Part II doesn’t exist. 

Tommy’s Betrayal 

--

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Tommy's eyes snapped away from their leisurely journey tracing the lines on the man's face to his cool, unyielding brown eyes.  

"Do you keep thinking about her because she was your last chance at salvation?"

The question was sharp and unavoidable. It was inappropriate. It was not a question at all, but a statement disguised in the most palatable way possible. Most importantly, it was telling. Who knew Tommy Shelby better than Jack Brewer? Only Polly Shelby, probably.

If he were honest, Tommy didn't even know how it happened. Jack was young, only just approaching his late twenties, yet he was the puppet master of London Town. His utterly charming but never quite polite disposition only helped unnerve gangsters and politicians alike when he monitored them like chess pieces. Rumors overtook facts, leaving the miraculous path Jack took from being a banker's apprentice to untamed royalty a mystery of folklore proportions. To add to it, Jack's boyish, handsome features made him unassuming.

"Don't mind the priss. He's just bein' a nuisance in the corner," Alfie Solomons grumbled as he led Tommy into the office. The rum runner nodded his head towards the back of his office, revealing a clean-shaven 22-year-old in an expensive suit.

"You're grumpy today, Alfie. You still skipping breakfast?" Jack asked, an airy arrogance to his tone. He didn't look up from the folder he was reading from while Alfie barked a sassy rebuttal, but when Jack did, his eyes locked with Tommy's. Suddenly he was standing and approaching the businessmen with an outstretched hand. His manner was as relaxed as his firm yet comfortable handshake. "Thomas Shelby, how are you? I'm Jack Brewer."

"I'd say nice to meet you, but I don't know yet." Tommy watched Jack's eyes sparkle.

"This has already made my day."

"Do you mind? We have a meeting?" Tommy motioned to Alfie, not bothering with many pleasantries. Jack looked to Alfie, a playful smile on his face.

"Alfie?"

"The kid's my partner anyway. He's a puppeteer and a walking omen if you can believe it," Alfie, in his own way, vouched for the boy.

"Anyone could have predicted the war between the Jews and the Italians. You just have to think," Jack said with a shrug.

"What kind of partners are you?" Tommy asked as he unbuttoned his suit jacket. Jack's eyes flickered down to take in his figure for a moment, not minding for a second that Tommy caught the motion. He even looked him in the eye after.

"Alfie provides security for me, and I help him out with projects here and there. He can let you know which ones."

"Ah, there's a lot of trust between you then." Tommy nodded.

"Not really. We just understand each other. If I were to betray Alfie, I'd lose business, reputation, and all the dark rum I can swallow. If Alfie were to betray me, it would be in vain, and I'd make sure he wouldn't be able to leave more than a glimmer of false hope to his kin when he passes. Right, Alfie?" Jack looked back to Alfie, his smile still reposed and bright.

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard you. Now quit your yapping and get over here, Tommy." Alfie motioned to the chair in front of him. Before he could, a hand reached out and placed itself on Tommy's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. It would have been warm if Jack wasn't seemingly wicked at heart.

"Don't worry, Tommy, I won't interfere. I've got work to do back here."

That was a good four years ago, and now Tommy sat shirtless on a chair in Jack's posh, surprisingly well-used kitchen. Just a moment ago, Tommy was musing about how he felt robbed. It took showing up at half past midnight with a knife wound to see Jack with mused hair, wiry glasses, and a long-sleeved thermal pushed up to his elbows. Now, Tommy was looking at that same boy as if he'd lost his mind.

"You've got a lot of balls, Jack, and you're toeing a fine line. Why would you say that?" Though it was a threat, Tommy in no way thought Jack would be intimidated. Just as he suspected, the young man remained unfazed by his tone as he clumsily splashed iodine on a cotton square.

"You've always wanted more than any man could have. You loved and married an aristocrat who betrayed you because she wanted the clean version of you, and you wanted to be that clean version. I believe we'd call that a pacemaker of sorts, someone to keep you going in a certain direction. Doesn't really work that way when you're the type to risk anything to meet your goal. But it was a good try. Be brave now," Jack said, mumbling the last part as he leaned in and focused on Tommy's arm. It was only a flesh wound, a narrowly missed shanking from a rival gang's guerilla attack turned into a jagged slash on his left bicep.

"You're an insufferable bastard," Tommy said finally.

"And you suffer plenty. Is that why you like me?" Jack's eyes shifted to meet the icy blue ones for a moment, and gave Tommy a cheeky smirk.

"When did I say I liked you?"

Jack thought to the many times they'd spent together in offices, various properties they owned, hotel rooms, and the occasional Bently. He nodded and gave a knowing smile.

"You're right. I'm presumptuous."

Jack could have just about anything he wanted- a spontaneous parade that would block traffic or a shady election alike. But despite their murky history, it was no secret that his favorite carrot on a stick was Tommy Shelby.

Jack would be dead if the tables were turned, and Jack had done what Tommy did to him. An attempt at betrayal that was now years old but still fresh in Tommy's mind by the power of something akin to regret. But Jack was a different breed of man, one that Tommy yet didn't have a grasp on.

"If you hadn't tried to betray me, you wouldn't be the opportunist I thought you were. And that would have been disappointing," said Jack after revealing what he knew back then, which was everything.

He didn't ask Tommy for so much as an apology. Instead, he was here handling Tommy like he was made of glass. Tapping the iodine against thickened skin was almost too gentle. It was unnecessary. Still, Tommy sat quietly and took it because it was past 1 AM now, and he was tired, and he liked it. In the glow of the kitchen lights, Tommy let his shoulders relax and his mind wander.

He always figured he'd end up at Jack's actual apartment. Not a safe house or his third most frequented London flat, but his real home. Thinking back to when Jack first opened the door, Tommy wondered if he'd gotten one over on the man. Jack looked surprised for a moment before rolling his eyes, holding the back door open, and telling Tommy the entry cost was getting his wound dressed. It wasn't every day he could outsmart Jack. Tommy spent a considerable amount of time pinpointing the address he'd been quietly holding onto for the better part of a year. Using it now gave away some leverage, but it was worth it to see this side of Jack, calm with the haze of sleepiness inside an equally quiet house.

Were they opposites? He often felt a pang of dreadful isolation, even when his family was bickering around Arrow house's large dining table. But Jack seemed so content in his home alone, not a soul around. He'd even sent his small staff of three away on holiday for the week to avoid being asked if he wanted tea throughout the day because it drove him up a wall.

Would he like to be in a place like this, Tommy thought? Padding through the house barefoot, a warming drink in hand. The bigness that signified luxury traded in for the gift of holding a conversation with someone in the next room and smell what's cooking from his bed. And with Jack. That would be something.

"That's why you let your guard down, isn't it?" Jack brought Tommy's mind back to the present as he finally secured the bandage. He always did that. "You're not usually this careless. Were you thinking about absolution? Did you see her again?"

"You talk too much. And thinking you're always right's going to get you killed."

"No, it's not. Aren't I right anyway?"

"No."

Jack hummed, looking Tommy over for a moment. He leaned down, one hand grasping Tommy's wrist, letting his fingertips graze over the delicate skin. The other found its place on Tommy's thigh, only the smallest indention made from his fingertips.

Jack leaned into him, centimeters away from allowing their lips to brush. Instead, he inhaled softly. His nose grazed against Tommy's cheek, then his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone then up again. Tommy could feel his heart rate speed up. How could this youngin possibly get a rise out of him like this?

"You don't smell like opium anymore, Tommy. I'm proud of you," Jack spoke softly in his ear and let his thumb stroke the inside of Tommy's wrist. Those for words made Tommy's chest leap. "That means you aren't hallucinating her because you're high. And it seems like a little more than just residual love."

"You shouldn't talk about her that way. You of all people don't have the right."

A warning.

Jack pulled away far enough to see the glossy eyes of the man he let in. It was a strange feeling to be looked at with undeserved tenderness, Tommy thought. Moreso, it was unusual to be cared for.

Are you sure you vetted your new house staff properly?

Did you take precautions at your new factory?

That ciggy's not your lunch, is it?

Whether in meetings, in passing, or on purpose, there were always questions for Tommy. And when Jack felt Tommy exceeded his usual recklessness, he let him know.

And now, Jack was asking more questions. Prying. He tilted his head slightly. A warning from Tommy Shelby wasn't to be taken lightly, no matter who you were. Jack just happened to take the weight in stride.

"I shouldn't talk about Grace like what?" Jack asked.

"Like you know how she was in this world, and how she stays with me now. You don't know anything about it."

"Tommy, you know I'm thankful to her for taking care of you. I was at the wedding, wasn't I? No ill will. This isn't about her anyway; it's about you. Who else do you talk to about her? You just keep it in, don't you?"

"Gonna refer me to another head doctor? Don't waste your breath," Tommy scoffed.

"I'm going to refer you to the best psychiatrists I know as long as we both shall live. I'll make you sick of me."

"Too late."

"Well, I have nothing to lose then."

Jack straightened, reminding Tommy that he was being held only because he missed the feeling as Jack went to the liquor cabinet. He muttered something under his breath as he grabbed two glasses. That's right.

Jack was condescending, smug, even mean at times when it came to business. But when it came to Tommy, the one who sat shirtless in his kitchen with his shoulders relaxed and eyes carefully observing him, Jack had never spoken words too sharp at him. It was unnecessary, Tommy thought, because he could take it. But perhaps it was more of Jack not wanting to treat him in a way that Tommy had to brace himself to take.

"That'll help you sleep," Jack said, placing the drink in his hand. Tommy stood, gulping the small amount of brandy with ease.

"Where am I sleeping?"

"So, you want to stay?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "I can call you a cab."

"Come off it, it's unbecoming to not host a guest in a house like this," Tommy motioned around him. The phrasing made Jack's cheeks warm. Unbecoming, like some sort of debutante being scolded.

"Is the most becoming thing to do offering you my bed?" Jack leaned in close once again, giving Tommy his big eyes full of faux innocence. When he wasn't in his high-end suits or talking quite frankly, Jack had to capacity to look adorable.

"Aren't you being presumptuous?" Tommy asked. Of all the things he could have said, Tommy didn't expect that to be the one that made Jack reel back like he'd been hit. The young man moved to lean against the wall and pointed to the stairs.

"I have several guest rooms. I don't know if the beds are turned down or what that even means, but they're there."  

It was late, Tommy remembered, and Jack wasn't energized enough to keep the banter going on. Not like this. Jack took a sip of his drink and waited for Tommy. He was always waiting for Tommy.

"Is your bed turned down?" Tommy asked.

"I just told you I don't know what that means," Jack said, setting down his glass then stretching. He let his arms rest above his head. The motion revealed a toned stomach and just how low on the hips Jack's cotton bottoms actually hung.

"So you'll have to come to check for yourself, old man."

At nearly 2 AM, the only thing either of them had the energy to do was sleep. Any other revelations about Jack would have to wait until morning, and Tommy wasn't disappointed.

As he moved Jack's head from his chest and arm from around his waist, Tommy found that Jack was dead to the world when asleep. He was also prepared no matter what, evident by the new toothbrush and folded note sitting in an empty glass on the bathroom counter. The message read, 'Tommy, suit in closet, red hanger.' Did Jack know he'd wake up before him? Tommy scoffed but dressed anyway.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" Jack said through a yawn as he stumbled into the dining room at noon, where Tommy was sitting with a book and a coffee cup.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"It's fine. Taking all that smoke in your lungs is probably going to kill you," Jack said, motioning to the cigarette that was still smoking in the small ashtray on the table while he passed through to the kitchen.

"Taking its time, isn't it?"

"Don't say that. You're the only one making this fun."

"What?"

"This whole race to the top we've got going on in this city. Or the world, I guess."

"You don't have a legacy you want to leave behind when you grow old," Tommy asked. A moment later, Jack was standing in front of him with two water glasses and no willingness to accept no as an answer when he encouraged Tommy to drink.

"I'm not growing old. Someone'll get wise and kill me off before that."

Jack was as confident about this as everything else he said. He was more cynical than Tommy thought. He thought back to the one time he asked the man about the war and if he fought. Jack's answer always intrigued Tommy. Jack averted his gaze, and before quickly changing the subject, he said, "Just a bit." Whatever happened, Tommy figured it changed him.

Jack sat and made no mention of how the table's head was always his place, but Tommy could have it for now. He pulled a pastry from a dish sitting in the middle of the table and placed it in his mouth to free his hands. One picked up the paper that had clearly been read through, and one shamelessly commandeered Tommy's coffee cup. A bite of the buttery crust washed down by the coffee that made him grimace gave Jack the energy to try and read the paper. Tommy watched as the young man shuffled the pages, becoming more disgruntled by the minute.

"Why did you do this?" He asked Tommy, exasperated as he tried to find which loose insert continued the front-page story. Once he gathered it, he folded it together correctly and took a large bite of his pastry, only to be interrupted. Tommy tried to smother his growing smile and laugh to no avail. "What?"

"You're a brat."

Jack's eyes widened. He blinked for a moment, both because he never expected Tommy of all people to call him that and because he'd never seen the gangster laugh so heartily before. His mouth still full, Jack asked to clarify,

"A brat?"

"Through and through. Fussy from the moment you woke up," Tommy chuckled again. Heat crept up Jack's neck and face, but he let himself huff in amusement.

"I'm just particular."

It was a surprisingly eventful news week- horse races fixed to perfection and hollow speeches from political figures made to the public. And yet Jack found himself more interested in the unchanging man before him. He rested his chin in his palm and took Tommy in.

It was true that he hadn't expected Tommy to show up on his doorstep. But, if Tommy hadn't found his address by now, he would have been disappointed. Showing up like he did, however... Well, Jack had wanted to invite him on his own accord.

The whole thing with the Changrettas and ultimately Solomons was finally over, and Tommy could come back to him in London. They'd planned to meet on Tuesday, something about golf. Yet here, Tommy was instead, being somewhat of a nuisance. He hadn't asked if he could smoke in the house and didn't ask where the coffee was before he made. Not to mention, he handled his grouchiness with a bite of his own. A smile reached Jack's eyes and radiated through his body- this was an excellent second choice. It was like Tommy belonged there.

Almost.

"Try not to look so enamored; it's off-putting," Tommy spoke, not looking up from his book on... political influence? Something happened...

Jack reached out and placed a hand on Tommy's neck. His fingers moved up to feel the texture of his ridiculous hair cut, finally earning a glance. Jack could only imagine what Tommy would look like if he actually grew it out. The newspaper was an afterthought as Jack leaned over from his chair and pressed his lips against Tommy's. Soft, chapped, and chaste, but just what he needed all the same.

"Do I put you off?"

"All the time."

"Why are you wearing this?" Jack's hand moved to the collar of Tommy's shirt. Well, the shirt he got Tommy. The suit itself was expensive; a Belgian tailor with magic hands met Jack's requirements from the light gray color to the silver cufflinks.

"Didn't you tell me to?"

"Mm, I did. But if you're staying, then I'm just going to get you out of it."

"So straightforward."

"Says the man whose means of seduction involve alcohol, white lies about petrol, and some variation of 'let's fuck.'"

"Didn't say it was a bad thing."

"I'm making more coffee."

Jack had only placed his (formerly Tommy's) mug on the counter when the well-dressed man caged him in from behind.

"Are you not going to keep your promise?"

By nature, Jack was fearless in a way that surprised Tommy. If one believes death to be an inevitable luxury, there isn't a situation that could faze them much. In Jack's mind, either the consequence was easy, i.e., death, or it was difficult but something he'd get over at some point. Either outcome led the young man to do precisely what he wanted always.

The first time they kissed, they stood in Jack's office. Tommy was leaned against his desk, and Jack wasn't shy about leaning into him. Now in Jack's kitchen, he held that same energy. Turning in Tommy's arms, Jack wasted no time pressing their lips together again, with the older man meeting him halfway.

Tommy wasn't exactly sure how Jack managed. His kisses were dangerous- straightforward yet teasing, intense yet languid. It was helped only by the fact that they fit well together. Hands cupped a young man's face as a bold pajama-clad thigh moved between legs to press against the front of trousers. Thoughts of money were pushed aside as an expensive waistcoat was clenched between eager fingers, now a simple tool with a single-use: making them closer.

Even when he was dangerously close to light-headed, Jack considered this a worthy moment to push himself. The short breaths passed between kisses would have to suffice for now. For all Tommy called Jack bold, the young man couldn't help but let out a chuckle at how expertly dominant Tommy could be. A hand pressed to the small of his back, moving Jack and his eager thigh that brushed against Tommy's trousers closer while kissing down his neck.

"Enough," Jack breathed. Tommy looked up, unsure what he meant until Jack pushed their lips against each other again and let his hands rest on Tommy's belt. "Do you want a bed or a couch? Because I could have you right now, and I will if we go further."

The couch was closer.

Tommy's ability to concentrate was dwindling with each undone button. Open-mouthed kisses landed on every inch of available skin, making it a battle of moving fast enough to continue and not getting overwhelmed by so much contact after being touch starved. Maybe that was Jack's strategy. Sharp pain sinking into his shoulder made Tommy wince. It was a reminder that he'd been gone for a while. It was illogical and unnecessary to aim for exclusivity in whatever they called their relationship. Surprisingly, that's what made it all the more desperate.

"If I have a craving for Tommy Shelby, it doesn't matter who's around."

Jack ran a tongue over the indents of his canines and dragged it up his neck to stop and bite Tommy's earlobe.

"Hurry up," he breathed his command.

xx

"Did something happen?"

"When?"

"I don't know." Jack shrugged and tapped his cheek. Irritatingly patient, he was. They were in front of the fireplace in the den now, a fur blanket draped over them both as they laid in their underwear.  Early afternoon sun poured through the windows, illuminating the swirling smoke that left Tommy's lips.

"Then why ask?"

"Because I could know, but I always like to give you a chance to tell me voluntarily. It makes me feel less like you'd be lying to me every day if you could," Jack said, always casual, before stealing Tommy's cigarette. "Go ahead."

It wasn't that Tommy was interested in lying to the man all the time. In this instance, it was more that this was a problem Tommy got himself into and had to get himself out of. A problem that Jack had no doubt predicted like he predicted everything. Tommy thought back to his business with the Russians. Jack's first time in the Shelby Company Ltd. offices and Tommy's first time seeing the young man's face drop happened concurrently.

"Tommy," Jack almost sang his name, which only added to the tension. Tommy was a child about to be scolded for doing something he shouldn't have. "Am I too boring for you, Tommy? You had to go to the Russians?"

"A pest, always. Not boring though," Tommy said as he cleared his throat. He went to light his cigarette, giving it more concentration than required. Looking up, Tommy almost paused at the expression in Jack's eyes. There was no smile, genuine or otherwise, only the man he'd heard the haunting rumors about. What was the look he was getting? Annoyance? Disbelief? Frustration?

Instead of speaking on whatever it was, Jack placed a hand over his mouth and looked away. He swore under his breath and mumbled a few words before looking back. Maybe Jack should have told Tommy he was stupid and that the plan wasn't worth it. Doing something like this would be the nail in the coffin for any hopes of an utterly above-board business. But Jack, for once, chose his battle.

"That Tatiana Petrovna knows everything about you. The details of you being a widow, your brand of tobacco, the way you like to sin," Jack said instead. "And don't leave any weapons around. She's crazy."

Jack was good at being one step ahead or quickly recognizing when he wasn't and course correcting. But, though Tommy knew Jack wasn't a stranger to killing a man point-blank, there was still a grit that he was missing. Too eloquent and methodical to handle the Italians from New York. So he told Jack everything and how he was victorious using his Romani prowess. Jack wasn't the only strong one.

"Ah, so you're here because Polly threatened to lock you out of the safes again if you didn't take a holiday," Jack mused. That was his real question from earlier. Why the hell are you still here?

"Something like that." Tommy nodded.

"What are you going to do when you start shaking again? And hearing things?" Jack asked, offering the cigarette to its original owner.

"I'll deal with it if it happens, and it might. Nothing gin can't fix," Tommy said. He reached for the cigarette, only for it to be snatched away and tossed into the flames.

"That was a test. You failed." Jack rolled to his side, propping himself up on his forearm.

"I'm not sick, hm? I've shut the door on the war. I'm not Arthur. I can manage." Tommy could feel himself warming with anger, no, defensiveness at the idea that everything he did was to be questioned.

"I'm not letting you run around here like a dog catching rabies."

"You don't have a say in as much as you think you do," Tommy reminded him. Jack smiled in response, his eyes lightening up. He shifted his fingers then brought them to Tommy's temple in the shape of a gun.

"Go to a doctor, or I'll kill you myself. Bang."

He made a shooting motion then pulled his hand away, blowing imaginary smoke from his fingers. Tommy wondered if Jack ever made jokes. No matter his tone of voice, he always said what he meant and meant what he said. There was no getting out of this.

"What, are you my father now?

"Would you like that?"

"Christ,"

"Not quite him, either."

--

Tommy Tag: @soleil-dor;  @amysteryspot​; @captivatedbycillianmurphy

Peaky Blinders Tag List: @lilymurphy03

#Idk what this is but it felt nice to write #Peaky Blinders Fanfiction #Tommy Shelby Fanfiction #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x OC #Tommy Shelby x male!reader #Tommy Shelby x Male!OC #Tommy Shelby imagine #Peaky Blinders imagine

[clumsyclifford]

popularity, or pink flowers

well the good news is i have absolutely no excuse for this. a month ago my dear friend spidey anon send this ask about wicked!5sos and then tonight it was revived when @calumsclifford starting discussing it and now it’s 4am and muke!gelphie exists. SO.

not to pretend this is a Real Fic because it’s literally just the Popular scene but with muke as gelphie, but anyway you can read this as pre-slash or as just homies, i don’t really care. also if anyone cares, kara lindsay is my favorite glinda and this is the video i watched to get the dialogue and gist of this scene down. even if you know absolutely nothing about wicked i recommend you watch it because kara lindsay is fucking hilarious.

anyway, obvious shoutout to maggie, who’s tagged above, for being the bearer of all the great musical!sos aus. this is my humble offering to you. also to spidey anon.

(side note i changed the ending a little bit because you know me. a sucker for a hopeful ending. fuck angst 2k20 baby)

[ao3]

-

Luke is buzzing when they get back to their dormitory, just a few minutes shy of midnight, and Michael sits at the edge of his bed and pretends not to notice the way Luke is literally bouncing on his own mattress.

Finally Luke snaps. “Your very first party ever!” he cheers, as if that’s something to be celebrating, that Michael is college-age and still has never been to a party.

“Do funerals count?” he asks, because if so he’s been to quite a few.

Luke frowns for a moment and then carries on, undeterred. “Your very first party,” he says, emphasis clear, and grins. “Yay!”

Michael doesn’t think the party was as much of a smash hit as Luke seems to believe it was, but Luke’s already leaping off his bed and scurrying over towards Michael’s. It’s possible Luke has had too much to drink; Michael wishes he’d known there would be alcohol. He would have taken advantage.

That, or Luke is just naturally this bubbly, which is an even more exhausting thought.

“I know!” says Luke, clambering onto Michael’s bed, pushing right up against his side. Michael shies away, hugging tighter to the pillow across his lap, but Luke doesn’t get the message and reaches to straighten out Michael’s fringe. “Let’s tell each other secrets. Something you’ve never told anyone before.” Grinning conspiratorially at Michael, he says, “I’ll go first.” Then, in a low whisper: “Ashton and I are going to be married!”

Michael blinks. Luke and Ashton are well-suited, he reckons; both a little bit flippant, a little bit ditzy, and very popular.  “He’s asked you already?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know yet,” Luke says cheerfully. “Now you tell me a secret.”

Michael can’t think of a single secret he wants to share with any version of Luke, but especially not this version of Luke, who’s so ridiculously upbeat it makes Michael want to crawl under his bed and hermit until he becomes one with the dust bunnies.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Like,” Luke says, and then before Michael can react he’s off the bed and reaching under Michael’s other pillow, “why do you sleep with this green bottle under your bed?”

Michael jumps to his feet, cheeks hot. “Give it back!”

“Come on, what is it?” Luke screeches, holding it high up, almost out of reach. Michael grabs hold of it and they play tug of war for a moment, Luke demanding to know what it is and Michael growling for him to return it, before Michael finally wins the battle and the bottle is safely in his hands.

“It was my mum’s!” he snaps. “That’s all. Fuck.”

Luke looks deeply upset. “That’s not fair,” he accuses. “I told you a really good one.”

Michael thinks he’s going to do something violent in a few moments unless Luke does something really redeemable. And then Luke turns back to his own bed and flops face-first into his pillow, unmoving. Like he’s really, truly hurt by this betrayal of Michael’s, daring not to match Luke’s oh-so-secret secret with one of his own.

It occurs to Michael that Luke is trying to bond with him. Or at least be friendly. And to be perfectly honest, that’s not something Michael’s come by too easily at Shiz. Friends, friendly people, anyone willing to make polite conversation...they’ve all been effectively nonexistent for Michael. For Luke, who had been such an asshole to him in the beginning (though Michael had returned the favor), to try and build a bridge despite their past failings, is actually pretty admirable. And Michael’s being cagey.

He caves.

“My dad hates me,” he admits. Luke immediately springs up. “That’s not the secret.” Once again Luke flops into his pillows, disappointed. Michael sighs. “The secret is that he has a good reason to. It’s my fault.”

This time Luke stands up and turns to look at him, and Michael recognizes the faintest trace of concern in his features. Sympathy. Not something Michael expected to see on Luke.

“What?” Luke asks, brows drawn together. “What is?”

This time, when he approaches Michael’s bed, it’s tentative, and maybe that’s what makes Michael shift over so that Luke can sit himself down. Still hugging the pillow close, Michael says, “That my sister is — the way she is.” Crippled, he doesn’t say, because she hates it when people call her that, even if it’s true. Nessarose is crippled for life. 

Luke watches him, careful, and doesn’t say anything, so Michael clears his throat and starts from the beginning. “See, when our mum was carrying Nessa, our father started worrying that the new baby might come out, you know.” 

“Green,” Luke supplements, although there’s nothing mocking in his voice, surprisingly.

“Green,” Michael agrees, looking down at his hands for a moment. When he looks back, Luke’s eyes are still on him. “He was so worried that he made mum chew milk flowers all the time. Only…it made Nessa come too soon, and her legs were all tangled. And mum never woke up.” He swallows, shakes his head. “None of which would’ve happened if not for me.”

Luke is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “But that was the milk flowers’ fault. Not yours.” He grabs at Michael’s hands and Michael is too startled to pull away. “That may be your secret, Michael, but that doesn’t make it true. You’re blaming yourself for something you didn’t even do. For someone you just are.” And then, just as Michael is thinking that maybe Luke is cleverer than he lets on, Luke cuddles into his side, stroking his hair and whispering, “Shh.”

“Uh, Luke,” Michael whispers back, because this is pretty weird.

Luke ignores him. Then he catches sight of the clock on the wall and leaps away from Michael to his feet, clapping in excitement. “Hey, look, it’s tomorrow!” Turning to Michael, he adds, “Mikey — is it alright if I call you Mikey?”

Michael grimaces. “Well, it’s a little childish.”

Luke ignores him again, happy grin fixed into place. Whatever Luke was sincerely reassuring Michael that Nessa’s deformity hadn’t been his fault is gone, and this bubblegum version of him is in his place. Michael’s not sure which one is the real Luke, or if there is a real Luke. Maybe Luke is just a bunch of personalities that slot in and out of place like gobo lenses on stage lights.

“And you can call me…” Luke spreads his arms. “Luke!” Like Michael wasn’t already doing that. “See, Mikey, now that we’re friends, I’ve decided to make you my new project.”

Michael stares. “You really, really don’t have to do that.” Please don’t do that, is what he means to say. Michael can only imagine what that means, and it’s not pretty.

But Luke, once again, is steadfast. “I know! That’s what makes me so nice.”

Michael doesn’t know if nice is the word. “I don’t need to be a project,” he tries, but Luke is already talking over him.

“You see, Mikey, I’m a very fortunate person,” he chirps. “And so when I see someone less fortunate than I am — which, let’s face it, is most people —  my heart aches for them. And when someone needs a makeover — well, I’m amazing at makeovers.” He tosses a grin at Michael. “Clearly. And I know —” Michael opens his mouth to protest and Luke puts a finger over it, “I know exactly what they need. Oh!” He stalls Michael on his return from putting the green bottle back underneath his pillow and reaches for his glasses. Michael winces as Luke pulls them away from his face, examines him for a moment, and then puts them back. Awesome. Michael’s always thought he looked dorky with glasses, but somehow Luke thinks he looks worse without them, which is just great.

“Luke —” he tries again, and is once more cut off.

“No, no, no! Mikey, listen. This is going to be tough. I’m not going to lie. You’re a real fixer-upper, but don’t worry. I have a perfect track record with makeovers. When I’m done with you, I swear, you will be popular.”

Michael frowns at Luke’s winning smile. “Popular?”

“Popular!” Luke agrees brightly. “I’m an expert on being popular, Mikey. I can teach you everything you need to know.” He gasps excitedly. “I can teach you to talk to boys!”

“I’m not really planning on —”

“And we can fix your hair!” Luke continues, growing more excited by the minute. At Michael’s face, he hurriedly says, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Except that it’s um, bad.”

“Oh,” Michael says faintly. “Well, if that’s all.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s not!” Luke says. Michael is tempted to try sarcasm again but it obviously sails right over Luke’s head, so he keeps his mouth shut as Luke fluffs a hand through Michael’s hair. Evidently he’s trying and failing to get it to do something — maybe stick up in a quiff like Luke’s does, which Michael could have told him would be a lost cause — and eventually he rocks back on his heels and huffs. “Well. We can work on that later. You look offended.”

“Well —”

“Lighten up,” Luke insists. “Think of it as…personality dialysis!” Which is a big word that stuns Michael into silence. He hadn’t really known Luke knew any big words, much less how to use them correctly. “Don’t be worried, Mikey. I told you, I’m a pro. And now that we’re friends and I can give you advice you have nothing to worry about.”

Michael is worried, although not for the reasons Luke thinks. He can’t picture a scenario where he walks out of this engagement unscathed.

“Luke, this is nice and all, but I don’t really feel like I need…to be popular.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Luke says. “Nobody needs to be popular. Well. Except me. But I am popular, so it works out pretty well!” He giggles. Michael wonders if the alcohol has worn off yet. Part of him hopes it hasn’t; if this is how Luke normally is with his friends, Michael has reason to be concerned. “Just let me help you. Let me try. You can be someone new! Instead of your old self! Well, your current self. Well — you get it.”

Michael sighs. “Okay,” he says, because the path of least resistance also seems like the fastest way to wear Luke out. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, and when Michael gives in he immediately springs into action.

“Amazing! First of all, let me take these —” Luke lifts Michael’s glasses off his nose and folds them up, then grabs Michael’s wrists and tugs him over to Luke’s bed. Michael doesn’t really see why this pseudo-makeover can’t happen from the safety of his own twin, but whatever. “See, Mikey, you just have to think logically. I mean, think about the big-shots you know about. Heads of state, diplomats.” Still chattering away, Luke reaches for something between his pillows, and Michael barely has time to register that it’s glitter — glitter, what the fuck, why would he keep that between his pillows — before it’s being dusted over his face. “Do you think they got those positions because they were smart? Of course not! They were popular. It’s all to do with being popular, Mikey. I know you’re smart, but that’s not enough anymore! It doesn’t matter how smart you are. It matters how many friends you’ve got.”

There’s a lot going on right now, what with Luke babbling about aptitude while he applies fucking glitter to Michael’s cheekbones, so Michael almost misses the part where Luke compliments him. Almost, but not quite. It’s right there; I know you’re smart, but…Michael feels his cheeks flush with pride.

“You really think being — popular is going to help me with my studies?” Michael asks hesitantly.

Luke beams, leaning away from Michael to survey his handiwork, and claps. Glitter clouds around his hands and flutters to the carpet.

“I don’t just think so,” he says giddily. “I know so. Okay. First of all, you need to learn to flirt.” Michael doesn’t really have time to wonder how flirting is going to help him get ahead in class, because Luke’s powering forward, and Michael has no choice but to listen in helpless captivity. “This is a simple two-step move. Step one: hair.”

“Hair,” Michael repeats.

“Yes, try and keep up,” Luke says impatiently. “Step one, you run your hand through your hair. Like so.” He demonstrates, and his hair takes on a charmingly mussed-up look. “Now you try!”

Certain that his hair will either stay the same or get worse, Michael concedes, dragging his hand half-heartedly through his hair. Luke looks unmoved.

“You’ve got to do it like you mean it, Mikey. Here, pretend I’m some hot guy you’re trying to impress. Well, you won’t need to pretend I’m a hot guy, but you get it.” He giggles.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you tell me the second step I can put them together?”

“Oh! Right. Step two: bite your lip. Like so.” With a halfway smirk, Luke drags his bottom lip between his teeth, then grins at Michael. “Okay. Put it all together. Come on come on come on! You can do it!”

There’s no denying that Luke looks pretty sexy with his infallible two-step move, but equally no denying that Michael will crash and burn. Luke looks too excited not to at least give it a shot, though, so Michael bites the bullet.

He tries for a smile, which definitely looks more like a grimace, and then pulls a hand through his hair, biting his lower lip as he does. Confused by both things at once, he bites down too hard, and then winces. “Ow, fuck!”

Luke looks so overjoyed at his attempt that he wraps him up in a too-tight hug. When he pulls away he looks optimistic. “Well,” he says hopefully, “you can practice.” Michael snorts. Luke’s eyes light up like he’s struck with an idea, and he pulls Michael to his feet. “Ooh, oh! And now, I shall turn your ratty clothes into a bespoke suit!”

Ratty clothes? “I like these clothes,” Michael says defensively, as Luke grabs for his wand. Skinny jeans and t-shirts are most of his wardrobe, most if not all black. It’s part of his whole look. The emo, brooding loner look.

Luke ignores him, which is becoming a theme for the night. Morning. Whichever. Brandishing his wand in Michael’s general direction, he declares, “Suit!”

Nothing happens.

Luke frowns, taps the end of his wand, and emphatically repeats, “Suit!”

Again nothing.

“Is this thing even on?” Luke grumbles, and starts hitting the wand against his bed. 

Michael doesn’t want to be wearing a suit, but he also doesn’t want Luke to break his wand over this. “Do you want me to try?” he offers.

“No!” Luke says hotly, and throws the wand behind him, where it clatters against the wall and then to the floor. Calmly, he adds, “Just keep the, um, statement clothes. They’re cute.”

His expression says otherwise, but Michael decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“And now for the finishing touch,” Luke says, leading Michael to sit again at the foot of Luke’s bed. Michael goes willingly; hopefully this means an end to this nonsense, and Michael can get to bed, and in the morning they can be, like, awkward acquaintances at best. Michael isn’t expecting a lasting friendship out of this. It will be nice not to be constantly hostile towards his roommate, sure, but Luke’s…well, Luke is Luke, cheerful and bubblegum pink and popular, and Michael is Michael, that is, none of those things. In no universe could he and Luke remain friends, whatever Michael might want.

Patiently, Michael sits and watches as Luke reaches for the flower clipped in his hair, pulling it neatly back from his face, and slides the clip into Michael’s hair instead. It probably looks ridiculous — Michael’s all dark colors and green and grumpy, and pink shouldn’t be within a five-foot radius of his outfit, much less in the form of a hair clip flower — but as soon as it’s in, Luke gives a short gasp, and a smile spreads slowly over his face.

“Pink goes good with green,” he says happily. Michael can’t help but smile himself at the sincerity in Luke’s expression. “Michael. Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

In all his years of life, Michael has never once been called beautiful, and he jerks at the word now, sure that Luke must be having him on, that this must all be an elaborate prank. But Luke tugs him to his feet and leads him to the mirror, and the Michael in the mirror is — huh.

Pretty, actually.

Everything fades around Michael until Luke is just a blur off to the side, and Michael stares at himself until his eyes start unfocusing. He’s never been pretty before, never been anything other than an embarrassment to everyone who’d known him. But now his cheeks glimmer when they catch the light, and somehow fussing with his hair has actually made it look soft and inviting, and the flower, somehow, inexplicably, does look good.

Warmth is blossoming in Michael’s chest, and with it, panic. This isn’t — this isn’t him. This isn’t Michael Clifford. This is some bootleg version of him, some bastardized combination of himself and Luke, and Luke isn’t who he wants to be, or even who he should be. He should be Michael fucking Clifford, and that should be enough. His intelligence should be good enough to carry him through his studies; he shouldn’t need popularity, or pink flowers.

“I,” he chokes out, as the world rushes back to him. “I have to go.” Anywhere else, anywhere other than in front of this mirror. He heads for the door but Luke grabs his arm.

“Hey,” he says, pouting. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Michael says, strangled. “I mean, thanks but no thanks. This isn’t me.”

“It looks like you,” Luke points out, still holding his wrist. “Just a prettier version of you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to be prettier,” Michael snarls, wrenching his hand free.

“Who wouldn’t want to be prettier?”

Michael groans. It had been too good to be true all along; Luke really is that stupid, that shallow, that daft. “I don’t! I don’t care if I’m pretty, or if I know how to flirt, or if I’m wearing a fucking suit! I want to be enough as I am. This might be hard for you to believe, but some people want to have worth outside of their looks!”

Luke stares at him as Michael cuts himself off, chest heaving from the outburst. “You think all I am is a pretty face?”

“No, Luke,” Michael says tiredly. “You think all you are is a pretty face. But I don’t want to be that. I’d rather be clever than handsome.”

“You can be both clever and handsome,” Luke argues. “You’re not stupider if you put glitter on your face, Mikey.”

“Michael.”

“Mikey. I don’t think you’re being very fair right now.”

“How am I not being fair?”

“I’m trying to help you, and you’re just — yelling and running away!” Luke says, throwing his hands up. “Maybe instead of blaming me, you should acknowledge why you’re really upset right now, huh? Admit it — you’ve never felt beautiful in your life, and now you’re upset because you didn’t realize you could have been pretty all along, and it was stupid, bubbly Luke Hemmings who taught you how to do it! You’re embarrassed that I knew something that you didn’t!”

Michael opens his mouth to retort, closes it, opens it again as the pink rises predictably in Luke’s cheeks — he’s probably not prone to violent outbursts the way Michael is, or confrontation at all, and now he looks like he might start crying — and says quietly, “Okay. Fine. You’re right.”

Luke’s eyes go wide. “I’m…right?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, though it pains him to admit it. “You’re right. I — I’m sorry, Luke. I shouldn’t have tried to run out. You were just trying to help.”

“I did help,” Luke argues weakly, bottom lip quivering. “I did.”

“You did,” Michael allows. “Thank you.”

“You look really nice, you know,” Luke whispers. “Even if pink isn’t usually your color. It suits you.”

“Yeah, well,” Michael says, casting around for something to say. “Maybe you should start wearing green.”

Luke quirks his lips in a smile. “Maybe I should.”

He won’t, and they both know it — Luke’s color is going to be pink until the end of time — but it’s an olive branch for the both of them, and as one they both grab hold of it. Michael gets the feeling that something is going to be different. Maybe Luke isn’t just going to be an awkward acquaintance. Maybe they’ll be friends.

It’s far-fetched, but stranger things have happened. After all, Michael’s wearing glitter.

#i cant believe myself. i literally cant i cant believe THIS is how i break my ao3 silence i am not even a real person #luke hemmings #michael clifford #muke #muke fic #5sos #5sos fic #fic #my fic #wicked au #muke!gelphie #i dont know what these tags are for i just #like. you know when uget possessed by thte writing bug #it hasnt happened to me in a long time #and of course tonight of all night it happens and THIS is what i write????? #i am not a real person i refuse to believe i am #anyway maggie and spidey anon this is literally ONLY for you #stuff #okay........................yeah it's half 4am and i should go to sleep so #enjoy this! see you guys in the morning #posting it at half 4am because that way i can pretend it didnt happen #disowning this fic as soon as it's posted #muke gelphie? cute idea . someone should write it ! #:)))))))

[drmedicsgamesurgery]

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 Part 3 (Summary)

Short chapter so short summary today! Thanks for reading!

Thanks to @enoshima-pyon @shockersalvage​ @jinjojess​ @hopeymchope​ for helping out!

CHAPTER 12- Regarding the Metaphorical Replacement for Proximity

1.

“All in all, it’s really whimsical,” said the heir to the Ketouin Conglomerate, Hiroyuki Ketouin, “It’s amazing really, a great record. The world record holder of holding your breath, 22 minutes and 30 seconds, is Goran Colak. [1] I can’t compare to this kind of guy. First of all, I’d need to be in the car under the water..."

I didn’t listen to Hiroyuki’s jokes. I leaned on the back seat of the car and stared out the window, putting the flowing scenery into my vision: the unchanging landscape, only the forest on the horizon. But the railroad tracks have disappeared. Although I really want to know where I am, I’m too tired to use Borges.

"Miss, you look listless."

"Because Byakuya-sama is gone..."

"Cheers for Goran Korak!" Hiroyuki took a Pilsner beer out of the dashboard's storage box. "So has the young master contacted you?"

"No."

"He should have managed to escape."

"If that’s the case, why didn’t he contact me?"

"Maybe he was worried about leaking his location to an outsider like me."

"You are not serious, are you?"

"You don't have to think about what my real identity is."

"The Imposter said something similar. It’s ridiculous, only the right one is the most important."

Since I arrived in the Czech Republic, I have encountered many copies and imposters, over and over. Those people shouted that they were the real deal, but the glittering coats they wore were stripped by others, or they were uncovered, one by one exposing their identity as counterfeit, or they just simply died. Or disappeared. Or killed. I am me, I am a Togami, I have a clear and accurate understanding of this, but on the contrary, everything else seems suspicious. What if this place is actually not the Czech Republic, but a virtual space. I am actually sleeping in bed with VR glasses. Even if it was such a disappointing ending, I would probably not be surprised. Having said that, I don't want to write any lies in the biography of Byakuya-sama... "Journey Under The Midnight Sun", so even if this reality I see is all false, I can't erase this adventure. I want to write down the original reality, and neither hope nor despair can interfere. This description is like warehousing management. Some people may feel uninterested. However, this is the essence of biography. If you add fuel to your story, it is no different from fiction. It is already in a state of completion, and there is no need to add, delete or modify anything.

Hiroyuki takes a sip of beer before saying that Shinobu looks as if she is out of the mud, but just because she is the SHSL Secretary doesn’t mean she is perfect.

"I don't think anyone else can accurately distinguish between true and false like me, though."

"What was your first favorite book?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't worry so much, just answer. What was your first favorite book?"

“Small Pig.”

Shinobu thinks about the Author, Arnold Lobel, and how the version she had was a translated version of the original english story into japanese. It was something of a bedtime story for her.

Hiroyuki and Shinobu then start to discuss how translations in novels can end up being quite different to what the original work was intending, and that texts should always be read in the language they were produced in for the full effect. [2]

“Of course, there will be some subtle differences in meaning, but the degree of meaning would be very slight, right?”

"Well take for example a voice actor gets changed, someone will quarrel and say: 'It’s totally wrong! This is a fake!' If that happens, then you must read the original book when reading, don’t run from it, don’t be afraid either, you must be brave when facing the original text."

Shinobu wonders about how meaning behind text can be viewed differently by different observers, and how that would affect the outcome of how a work is observed. In this case, a translation of a text could change the meaning of a work to something completely different, and possibly much less profound in nature, without the intricacies of the original text. [2]

Borges then brings up a few quotes (#23232300), from people who are regretting getting into the translation business.

Hiroyuki brings up the story of a man who didn’t want to translate a prolific buddhist work into japanese, because the meaning wouldn’t be the same. Because you don’t know what the original story is, you would have no idea what changes would have been made by the translator to suit the language. Or alternately what parts of the story have been altered or fabricated.

He talks about how people who write in Sanskrit or Czech would never know the true story of “The Tale Of Genji” [3] because in truth, the versions translated into those languages was merely an abridged version of the story. A summary, if you will. This “light novel” version is inferior to the original product by its very nature in not being the original work itself.

Comparing modern language translation with light novel adaptation, I can’t help but admire this arrogant opinion. Indeed, this isn’t just as simple as moving a tray of food from plate to plate, but because of the different personalities and intentions of the writers and translators... or making bold explanations or making large-scale changes... There will be considerable changes in the content, which is quite different from what I have pursued in my biography. The biography I want to write is a true transcript. I only transfer the real things to the transcripts on paper. Even the consciousness of myself, the author, should be excluded. This is a perfect copy, which is what I wish to pursue. Due to the existence of the author, modern language translation and light novel adaptation will change the content. The shamelessness of this behavior is comparable to the dumping of organic garbage at a crime scene. In this sense, perhaps no book can serve as a model for “Journey Under The Midnight Sun”. It seems that what I want to do may really fall into the category of quantum mechanics. That's just what I think, at least-

"By the way… Where are we going?"

"There is a nearby town, the name is written on the navigation system. Hey, but how should this be read? Czech is really difficult to understand... Karlovy...Vary?"

"Ah, I know this place. It is a famous hot spring resort."

"A Spa," Hiroyuki turned his head despite being driving "You said hot spring, right!? The next volume of this book must be the pink bookmark route!! I can't help but get excited!"

"Oh no, it’s a drinking cure spring."

"Oh?"

“It’s not a hot spring, but a drinking cure spring to make your body healthier. The Czech Republic has this custom.”

"...I haven't been so disappointed for a long time.”

Hiroyuki exclaims that he hasn’t been so disappointed since learning secrets about various other topics, and hopes that Europeans will one day be able to understand the beauty of japanese style hot springs. Shinobu thinks about how every countries hot springs are different because their values are different. People who say things like "Only the Japanese can understand this kind of beauty" when visiting buddhist temples are self-righteous. She thinks about how big the world is and how even with common and uncommon sense, the world will never change. She is unlucky to have met so many fakes, imposters and counterfeits in the Czech Republic, and even though Hiroyuki is alive, Byakuya is still missing.

"It really is a whimsical world."

Hiroyuki commented this way, but it seems to me that "unreal world" is more accurate. Impossible things, unimaginable things, incredible things are appearing before me, but no matter how much I complain, the problems at hand will not be resolved by myself. Escape from this ridiculous world, or be swallowed up by this ridiculous world. To all of this insanity, I can only say one thing.

"I’m hungry."

2.

Shinobu and Hiroyuki drop off by a KFC. Even though it’s not Christmas time just yet, they still decided to eat there anyway. [4] They stuffed themselves, and Shinobu continued to eat in the car, and Hiroyuki cracks a joke that falls flat on its head and is so not funny I'm not translating it.

The Mercedes is now driving to largest resort in the Czech Republic. The Karlovy Vary Spa began in the 14th century, when Carl IV discovered the source of the hot springs here; however, the style of the spa area seems to be internationally shared, and it is reminiscent of the streetscape of the Noboribetsu Onsen and Ikaho Onsen. [5] [6]

"It seems that it’s still open," Hiroyuki looked out through the window. "That said, I can't take you sightseeing."

"How can they still be open in this situation?"

"Well KFC is still open."

“By the way, the spa in the Czech Republic is one person at a time according to the instructions. So please don’t have any strange expectations.”

“Oh yeah, why are you so familiar with this place anyway?"

"I... I did some investigation beforehand because I wanted to come to the hot springs with Byakuya-sama!"

"........."

"I have been looking forward to this trip."

Moving on from the subject, Hiroyuki thinks that Byakuya might have used the Kudan, though Shinobu points that no matter what happens Byakuya wouldn’t do it. Even when faced with absolute despair. Granted, she doesn’t know why he would seal it away either. To that, Hiroyuki believes that perhaps the re-assurance of it being sealed was better than than using the Kudan.

When they arrive at the hotel next to the drinking spring, Shinobu does a quick search with Borges. Apparently it’s a very luxurious hotel which accommodated many important historical figures such as Goethe and Beethoven. [7][8] But something seemed off. Even though the Czech government declared a state of emergency, many people who looked like tourists were in the hotel lobby. Hiroyuki comes back to Shinobu and says that he has booked a room on the top floor of the hotel.

She covers her face to avoid any assassin’s on the lookout, and they then head to the room. As soon as they open the door, Shinobu lays on the bed and falls asleep saying that she hasn’t slept properly since they came to Prague.

"It's good to get a good night's rest, helps you wake up more clear minded," Hiroyuki's voice entered my mind. "The most important thing about an article is not its writing, but the study beforehand."

3.

She wakes up all sweaty and with messy hair, so she decides to take a bath. While she is doing that, she thinks about where could Byakuya be and she remembers what he said.

“Wait for me.”

She still doesn’t understand what he meant, but she decides to have faith in Byakuya and just wait as he said. She didn’t want to put back on her old sweaty clothes, but she didn’t want to wear the bathrobe either. When she comes out of the bathroom, she finds Hiroyuki eating a Czech meal.

"Oh, Hello, Miss Beautiful."

Hiroyuki still made me feel more uncomfortable.

He asks her to sit down and eat, and even though she is not hungry (thanks to eating KFC) she still agrees. They start with some small talk, about different cultural cuisines, such as Roman, Slovakian and Czech, but they decide to get on with it.

It seems that if I want to continue the topic, I’d have to sit down with him. With a sigh, I sat down opposite of Mr. Hiroyuki Ketouin. There are many foods on the table that look like Czech food, although I don't know if it is. Roasted chicken with fat, and sour pickles next to it, mushroom soup, stir-fried pork with horseradish and spicy sauce, wrapped in a thin layer of fried squid, with aroma of charcoal. Lamb chops, oiled cheese, oyster steak, sour cream yak meat, mineral water, and his beer is still Pilsner beer. These meaty dishes are those of this country on lockdown. Surprisingly, looking at them, my stomach is hungry again. This made me realize that I am still alive.

Hiroyuki poured beer into a huge wide-mouth cup and called out: "Cheers!" raising the cup. I poured the mineral water into a classic glass and took a bite of cheese. In the suite where the sunlight shone through the large window at the rear, I enjoyed the food. If the person sitting across from me was Byakuya-sama, this would be a wonderful scene.

Translations notes:

[1] Goran Colak is a Croation freediver who currently holds the world record for holding breath underwater. His record is now at 23:01.

[2] Bruh, I am trying ok.

[3] The Tale Of Genji is a classic work of Japanese literature written by the noblewoman and lady-in-waiting Murasaki Shikibu in the early years of the 11th century. The original manuscript no longer exists. It was made in "concertina" or orihon style: several sheets of paper pasted together and folded alternately in one direction then the other, around the peak of the Heian period. The work is a unique depiction of the lifestyles of high courtiers during the Heian period, written in archaic language and a poetic and confusing style that makes it unreadable to the average Japanese without dedicated study. It was not until the early 20th century that Genji was translated into modern Japanese, by the poet Akiko Yosano. The first English translation was attempted in 1882, but was of poor quality and incomplete. 

[4] From December 1974, KFC Japan began to promote fried chicken as a Christmas meal, with its long running "Kentucky for Christmas"  or "Kentucky Christmas" advertising campaign. Eating KFC food as a Christmas meal has since become a widely practised custom in Japan. As of 2019, in Japan, Christmas sales of KFC made around Christmas Eve account for nearly five per cent of annual revenue.

[5] Noboribetsu Onsen is Hokkaido's most famous hot spring resort, offering as many as eleven different kinds of thermal waters, that are considered among Japan's best and most effective. The resort town consists of numerous (mostly large sized) ryokan and hotels with hot spring baths. Several of them open their baths during daytime to non-staying guests for typically 700 to 2000 yen. In addition, there is one public bath house located in the center of town.

[6] Ikaho Onsen is a hot spring town located on the eastern slopes of Mount Haruna. Known for its reddish brown, iron-laden thermal waters, Ikaho Onsen joins Kusatsu, Minakami and Shima Onsen as the four most famous hot spring resorts of Gunma Prefecture. The atmospheric old town area of Ikaho centers around the 300 meter long stone stairs which lead up through the middle of town and are lined by ryokan, old fashioned game arcades and shops. A few kilometers outside of Ikaho stands Mizusawa Kannon, a popular temple, well known for the udon noodles sold at restaurants along its approach. Mount Haruna with its beautiful caldera lake can also be easily combined with a visit to Ikaho.

[7] Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was a German writer and statesman. His works include: four novels; epic and lyric poetry; prose and verse dramas; memoirs; an autobiography; literary and aesthetic criticism; and treatises on botany, anatomy, and colour. In addition, numerous literary and scientific fragments, more than 10,000 letters, and nearly 3,000 drawings by him have survived.

[8] Ludwig van Beethoven was a German composer and pianist. A crucial figure in the transition between the classical and romantic eras in classical music, he is considered to be one of the greatest composers of all time. Beethoven was born in Bonn, the capital of the Electorate of Cologne, and part of the Holy Roman Empire. He displayed his musical talents at an early age and was vigorously taught by his father Johann van Beethoven, and was later taught by composer and conductor Christian Gottlob Neefe. At age 21, he moved to Vienna and studied composition with Joseph Haydn. Beethoven then gained a reputation as a virtuoso pianist, and was soon courted by Karl Alois, Prince Lichnowsky for compositions, which resulted in Opus 1 in 1795. The piece was a great critical and commercial success, and was followed by Symphony No. 1 in 1800. This composition was distinguished for its frequent use of sforzandi, as well as sudden shifts in tonal centers that were uncommon for traditional symphonic form, and the prominent, more independent use of wind instruments. In 1801, he also gained notoriety for his six String Quartets and for the ballet The Creatures of Prometheus. During this period, his hearing began to deteriorate, but he continued to conduct, premiering his third and fifth symphonies in 1804 and 1808, respectively. His condition worsened to almost complete deafness by 1811, and he then gave up performing and appearing in public.

To Be Continued.

https://drmedicsgamesurgery.tumblr.com/GameSurgeryDRTranslations

#Danganronpa #Danganronpa:Togami #Danganronpa Togami #DRT3 Summary #Danganronpa: Togami #Part 3

[elysiumwaits]

Hey! For the two words prompt, can I request some ‘moonlight dancing’, please? I’ve had a craving for some slow dancing fic for a while now and I’d love to see what you do with it. As for the pairing, some Sterek, Stucky, Merthur or even some Thor/Bruce, if any of those inspire you. Thank you. 😊

Well, the good news is that I’ve got 1800 words of sappy wedding reception Stucky for you. The bad news is that I completely dropped the ball on the “moonlight” part of the “moonlight dancing” prompt. So if you could just picture a giant moon as the backdrop for this fic, I’d appreciate it.

My timeline for this fic puts this in the February of 2019, because timelines are hard in the MCU anyway. So this would put this fic before Doris Day passed away in May. Also, I believe the MCU puts Bucky Barnes somewhere around the age of 95? So I played with that a bit.

Here, you’ll need these, make yourself a playlist and set them up for the duration of the fic:

Doris Day version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7j8wa9sWOE

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8

Kate Smith: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dh8hW0irwpo

I refuse to link to Michael Buble because I can't stand listening to him sing thanks to many years of having to listen to one album of his on repeat at a book and toy store I worked at (and then, for two months out of the year, his Christmas album).

Nothing to tag for, no spoilers here.

I Linger On, Dear on AO3

The garden was lit by strings of fairy lights that zig-zagged overhead, and every-so-often by the big burning lanterns along the walkway that burned primarily to provide warmth to the party-goers. The moonlight did a lot for them as well, big and full above, not drowned out by the light pollution of the city. The party itself was dying down, guests having gone inside to the mansion to warm up and start saying their goodbyes, or perhaps be enticed into one more drink by their charming host and hostess. 

Most of the people they knew as friends but not family would dissipate, unable to be swayed by even Tony Stark’s extensive liquor collection and insistence that they have “one more, just one more, I’m paying for all the safe transportation home, after all.” If Tony didn’t manage to convince them, Pepper just might try to ply them with the wine she can’t actually have at six and a half months pregnant. 

Their family, though, won’t leave - there are rooms throughout the mansion, plenty of them, but most of them won’t be even approached until close to dawn, and it’s only a quarter until midnight now. The big celebration is over, but the smaller, more important one is just beginning, and will no doubt carry on through the night with drunken, half-sleepy conversations with people who recognize that these truly blissful moments are few and far between. 

The band has packed up and gone home. Their set ended at eleven, even though Clint had to be lured away from the drummer’s kit by Natasha promising him some complicated, fancy-sounding drink that was probably just going to be vodka, V8, and Sprite. Even after he’d gotten out of the band’s hair enough that they could pack up and be tipped generously by Tony, the drummer had loudly wondered where he’d put his drumsticks, none the wiser to Clint (accidentally) taking a souvenir. 

As a result, the dance floor is empty, but there’s a Bluetooth speaker built into the pavilion that Steve is taking full advantage of, albeit very quietly. His suit isn’t as neat as it was earlier, and the drink in his hand does absolutely nothing to get him anywhere even close to drunk, but he’s probably the happiest he’s ever been. He’s enjoying the peace and quiet of the garden, the distant sounds of revelry filtering through the open doors of the mansion, and the pavilion is heated so he’s not even cold. 

“I want you to know that I still think an outdoor reception in the middle of February is a little ridiculous,” a warm voice says from behind him.

Steve grins and waits without turning on the bench for Bucky to get closer. He expects for Bucky to sit down next to him, but instead he gets arms wrapped around him from behind, looping across his shoulders while Bucky’s chin rests gently on the top of his head. 

“That can’t be comfortable,” Steve says, grin widening. “Stealth big-spooning doesn’t count.”

“Well, if you would give me a shot at it one of these nights.” Bucky sounds amused though, and pulls away to come around the bench and stand in front of Steve.

He looks good, jacket lost and sleeves of his white button-up rolled halfway up his forearms. The tie he’d worn is undone and just hanging out of the collar of his shirt, while his hair falls halfway out of the neat ponytail he’d been wearing all day. He’s, in short, a bit of a rumpled mess, which is just how Steve likes him.

“What, you haven’t heard enough of this song?” Bucky teases when he finally hears the soft music playing through the speakers. “The Doris Day version, isn’t it? Turn it up.”

Steve obliges by reaching for his phone and turning the volume up a couple of notches, just in time to hear Doris Day sing about sweet dreams and leaving all worries behind you. They listen for the last little bit of the song before it fades away, and jazz trumpets begin. Bucky smiles then, as Ella Fitzgerald begins to sing about stars shining bright.

“Mr. Barnes,” Bucky says, and holds out his hand, “may I have this dance?”

“You may, Mr. Rogers,” Steve replies, taking his hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, even as Bucky huffs out a laugh.

“I realize it’s your maiden name, but these days when I hear it I think of sweaters and the neighborhood.” Bucky falls into the lead role of the slow, swaying dance they do, metal hand placed on Steve’s waist while his other fingers curl around Steve’s. It’s a throwback to when Steve was smaller, when it made more sense for Steve to follow when Bucky was attempting to teach him to dance. Now they’re the same height, but here, Steve holds Bucky’s hand and rests his other on Bucky’s shoulder.

A faux-put-upon sigh escapes Steve. “I know, that’s why we went with Barnes. Trust me, I’ve been hearing it for years now, I don’t need it from you too.” He lets Bucky slowly move them around the empty dance floor as the soft music plays and Louis Armstrong comes in to sing with Ella. 

“I don’t think the band did a bad job with it,” Bucky says after a long moment of swaying and listening. “It’s just too bad Doris Day wasn’t available, or that we didn’t get married early enough for Kate Smith or Ella Fitzgerald.”

“Doris Day is ninety-seven, Bucky,” Steve chides. “She didn’t need Tony Stark bribing her to sing our wedding song.”

“I’m ninety-seven.” Bucky chooses that moment to guide Steve into a slow spin, letting go of Steve’s waist and lifting a hand to let Steve turn, before tugging him back even closer than before. “But you probably don’t want me trying to croon into a microphone, if how you react to my karaoke is any indication.”

“Little hard to dance with you if you perform your own wedding song, Buck.” 

Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong fade away, leading into soft guitar, and Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Skip this one,” he says, pausing their dance.

Steve fishes the phone out from his suit pocket, rolls his eyes and bites a smile back as he does as he’s asked. “I think Michael Buble is nice.”

Kate Smith starts to sing, piano playing to accompany. It’s not the version they heard back in the day, instead the one from the 1950s show, but Bucky starts to move them across the dance floor once more. 

“He screwed up the tempo,” Bucky says. “It’s too fast. The one that came out in the 60s did too, I don’t remember what they were called.”

“The Mamas and the Papas.” Steve can’t fight the smile anymore. He’s just so ridiculously happy, and there’s a gold band glinting off the fairy lights around them on the ring finger of his left hand. “And then there’s that guy with Lily Allen. I liked that one too.”

He knows there’s a matching gold ring on a chain underneath Bucky’s white shirt. He hadn’t wanted to wear it on the Winter Soldier arm, still a sore subject more than anything, and he’d considered briefly wearing it on his right hand before finally settling on the chain he swears to Steve he’ll never take off except to shower or if he’s undercover. Steve has a chain as well - the ring isn’t terribly comfortable under the gloves of his suit, after all. 

“What have you got to smile about?” Bucky pesters, like he’s not grinning too. “You’re stuck with me for good now, punk. No refunds or exchanges. You don’t even have the receipt, so HYDRA definitely won’t take me back now.”

“I think technically I stole you, so I wouldn’t have a receipt anyway.” Steve flexes his hand in Bucky’s, squeezing tight, but is careful not to do the same with the hand on Bucky’s left shoulder. 

Bucky drags Steve even closer, until his hand isn’t on his waist but instead on Steve’s lower back. “You’re telling me I married a thief? I want a divorce.” At Steve’s laugh, he adds, gentler, “What are you smiling about, Stevie?”

“Sam’s best man speech,” Steve teases, even though they both know that’s not exactly what’s got him so happy. “He spent the whole time insulting you, and you still cried. You can’t fool me, Buck, I saw you wipe a tear away when you thought nobody was looking.”

“Only because he was my best man, and he spent the whole time insulting me.” Bucky’s grumbling, but he can’t hide the twinkle in his eye. “Seriously, ‘you stay on a man’s left for years and his elderly ex-boyfriend shows up to sweep him off his feet, so now you gotta move even farther to the left,’ and people laughed! Clint asked if I got a senior discount on my suit.”

Steve laughs. “You were the one that asked about a senior discount on the suit when we went to get them fitted!” 

The playlist loops around, and Doris Day starts again. 

Bucky leans forward, pressing his cheek to Steve’s. “What are you smiling about, Steve? What’s got you so happy?” he asks one more time, softly, like he doesn’t already know, while Doris Day softly sings that night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you.’

“You said it yourself,” Steve murmurs, couldn’t stop grinning even if he wanted to. “I’m stuck with you for good now. No refunds or exchanges, don’t even have the receipt.” He pauses, loops his arm more firmly around Bucky’s neck. “‘Til the end of the line.”

“Sap,” Bucky says, and his voice is a little rough, just like it had been during Sam’s best man speech. “You’re gonna whip out that line every time you get the chance, huh? Just because you know it gets to me.”

“Well, it is actually a vow now. The ‘’til death do us part’ vow obviously didn’t apply to either of us, so I had to get creative.” They’ve stopped actually moving their feet, just standing and holding each other while swaying. “Now you know how much I mean it.”

“I always knew you meant it,” Bucky says. “Now stop trying to make me cry at my own wedding reception for the second time in one night.”

“Third.”

“One of those was at the altar, not the reception, it doesn’t count.” Bucky starts to pull away, but Steve holds fast. “I was supposed to come and bring you inside. They’re probably taking blackmail photos from the windows.”

“You called the official photos that we paid for blackmail too.” Steve tugs Bucky back into him, pressing himself close. “One more dance.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, relaxes and starts to guide them around the floor once more. “One more. But in your dreams, whatever they be…”

Above them, the lights twinkle, and around them drifts the soft lyrics of their song, as they slowly sway together. Steve smiles, and listens to Bucky’s off-key singing, gentle in his ear.

“Dream a little dream of me.”

#stucky #fic prompt #fanfiction #writing #dream a little dream of me

[unicornsandphoenix]

Beat that, Cinderella

Another drarry Cinderella story based off of this post! This time with a modern twist to it!

Written once more (this time actually fitting the prompt) for the absolutely stunningly incredible @drarrymylove (I hope you enjoy!) and once again I would like to send my love to my AMAZING beta, @staganddragon

Read on Ao3 here

Draco stared at the small but bright spirit bobbing in front of him. He opened his mouth, promptly closed it, and squinted.

“So you’re…”

“A fairy godmother. Yes.”

“And you…”

The fairy, Jeni, Draco remembered, rolled her eyes. “Make the wishes of truly innocent repenters come true.”

“And I am one of these?” He said narrowing his eyes.

“Yes.”

“And because of that you want to send me to the annual Ministry Ball? Because that is my wish. To go to a ball. Tonight. Filled with people who hate me.” Before Jeni could cut in, he added, “An ex-Death Eater. In a room full of Aurors.”

Jeni crossed her little arms in a huff, her curls bouncing against her shoulders.  “Draco. Darling. We have been over this. This is literally the third time we have had this conversation over again. Can you just roll with it? Please. Just give it tonight. Until 12 o'clock.” She reminded Draco ever so slightly of Pansy. Well. A lot, really. Had they met? This would not work out in her favor, Draco decided.

“Right,” Draco snorted. “And then what, at 12 I just leave? The fancy disguise you give me eviscerates? Someone pledges their undying love for me?” Draco chuckle stopped short when he had a brief image of Potter flash through his head. He scowled. And then glared for good measure. Stupid tosser would probably just ignore him as he had been doing ever since a few weeks before Draco quit Auror training last Monday. They must have moved him up to special classes, as Draco never saw him around the ministry, and Potter had certainly not made an effort to reach out to him. Not that he should have, a cheery voice reminded him. Several conversations and flirtatious smiles doesn’t actually mean anything. Draco shook himself out of his stupor.

“Actually…” Jeni started, wincing, and Draco leveled her with a flat look. “Well. We’ll apparate you out of there. No matter what is happening. Just as the clock strikes midnight. We’ve had some… issues in the past. Mice and pumpkins, you understand.”

“Great,” Draco mumbled crossing his arms. “Even fairy godmothers aren’t perfect.” Jeni tisked at him. “How did you even get in here?” Darco wondered. “The manor is guarded against magical creatures now.” Draco paled as he sat down on his bed heavily, remembering the last magical creature that had come to his house. “Are the charms failing? What if-”

Jeni landed on his shoulder and started to pet his hair. “No, Sweetie. I’m sorry I scared you. Godmothers aren’t like ordinary magical creatures. Our magic doesn’t register the same.” Draco took a breath and shook the dark thoughts from his head.

Draco chanced a glace out to his desk. Atop sat a horrifically boring book his mother had been pleading with him to read. He took a slow turn of the room, begging for something to stick out to him, but if he was being honest with himself, he supposed he had nothing better to do. Not that his time wasn’t important. And he had plenty of people to talk to of course. It was just that. Well. His parents were in Paris, and who knows where Blaise and Pansy had fucked off to. Draco had his money on Spain for Blaise and Italy for Pansy. Plus maybe this way he could find a way to talk to Potter again, without him ignoring Draco. It was a masked ball afterall. He pursed his lips, a wrinkle forming between his eyes. Ugh. Potter would probably dress up as a lion, that gryffindor. With his stupid hair and his stupid smile and his stupid penchant for talking to all the hot quidditch stars while he was in the middle of training  and right in front of him- He cleared his throat. “You aren’t going to leave until I agree, are you?” He said, defeated.

Jeni snorted softly on his shoulder and tugged on his hair. “Now you’re getting it. Let’s get you ready!”

Draco’s eyes widened. “What, now? The ball is four hours away! It’s still light outside, for Merlin's sake!” Draco said, flinging his arm to gesture at the window, upending the small fairy forcing her to flutter away.

“You may be right, but this is a long process!” Jeni was insistent, flying up in front of his face and backing him into an armchair. “Plus,” she added, snapping her fingers in a manner that would have made any rich pureblood impressed. A piece of rolled parchment appeared and conveniently floated over to Draco. “You have liability waivers to sign.” The moment Draco took the parchment, it unrolled and spilled across the floor.

“Salazar’s balls!” Draco moaned, already feeling sorry for himself. He grumpily added on, “This better be worth it.” Jeni just smiled and conjured a quill.

~~~~

Draco pulled nervously at his stiff collar outside the ballroom doors. He was nervous. Jeni had poked and prodded him nonstop for what felt like ages, the four hours flying by and an extra half hour used just for glamours, which Draco had insisted upon as to not be recognized. Jeni had rolled her eyes again, smacked him on the head, and then begrudgingly cast some hair coloring charms and the slightest glamour to his face. It was good enough, Draco supposed. No one was going to expect him to come to the ball anyways, and without his hair Draco thought he looked unrecognizable. But he had to give her props. He looked good. His hair was now rich colors of auburn, that brought out some color in his cheeks. His face looked good, not as good as his normal face, but still, Draco supposed, good. And the clothes.

Oh Merlin, Draco hoped somewhere in that contract (which was all hippogriff’s shit from what draco could tell- “contractee will not light the fairy on fire”, “contractee will not perform the macarena while drunk and naked on a balcony”, “contractee will not publicly declare their love for any orange muggle politician”, “contractee will not buy a plane ticket for a midnight flight and then jump out of the plane with no safety gear a minute until midnight”- I mean really, Draco thought, has anyone actually done any of this? Did they have no self respect?) it stated that he would get to keep these clothes. They were absolutely magnificent. Stiff and white on the top, they flowed out to the floor in silvery terraces. The collar was high, and yet dipped in in the front to show off Draco’s chest bones and a hint of his chest itself. Silver detailing, with hints of Draco’s favorite shade of green, crossed the expanse of the fabric, small dragons Draco had been pleased to take note of moved constantly to form ever changing and ever beautiful patterns. It was form fitting, and yet, not constricting. The best feature, Draco thought, was that it made his ass look like two plump apples, ripe for eating. The entire ensemble was finished off with a mask of a dragon that seemed to be made of pure silver with brilliant green emeralds embedded into it. It was entirely fitting of a Malfoy, and Draco was in love.

Suddenly, the doors in front of him opened, and a laughing couple fell out, almost on top of him. He sidestepped them with a sneer and made his way into the ballroom.

Lights were strung up from wall to wall, covering the ceilings. A live band played on the stage to the back of the room, and all around Draco could see people talking with on another. Smiles on their faces. No one stared at him when he walked through. Well, apart from a few glanceovers and appreciative  winks. Draco smirked back at them, but he was saving his wink for someone else.

“Hullo,” a rich voice said from behind him. Draco turned, and almost kept turning right around. The face might have been glamoured, Draco thought, but he would recognize that unruly mop of hair anywhere. If not for that, the eyes would have been a dead give away. Even the absence of the scar could not take away Potter’s earnest and casually commanding presence.

Potter was dressed to the nines, and Draco had to give him props. Or at least props to Granger. There was no chance Potter could have dressed himself for this occasion. He was not a lion, but instead a stag. The outfit looked to be a version of muggle clothing, a sharp black suit, though there was moving golden details on the collar and wrists that glinted everytime the light hit them. His glamoured face was hidden behind a black and gold mask, sleek and elegant, antlers coming out from either side in a majestic sweep. His hair, Draco supposed he could do nothing about, though it did look softer, smoother. Draco could see himself running his fingers through it, gripping on to it, tugging...  Draco was staring.

“Hullo,” he replied. Draco didn’t like the smirk that appeared on Potter’s face. What was he thinking?

Potter held out his hand, and Draco, trying not to see the moment as momentous as it felt, grasped it, but Potter didn’t let him go. “I’m Roonil, but you can just call me Roo. What’s your name?” Potter asked, his eyes never leaving Draco for a second. Draco’s eyes narrowed. What kind of name was Potter playing at?

“Drac- Drake. My name is Drake,” Draco was struggling. He had wanted to confront Potter, but why was his heart beating so damn loud? Also, something was suspicious in the way he was acting.

“Thats funny,” Potter said his eyes sparkling in amusement it sounds a lot like Dr-”

“Do you want to dance?” Draco blurted, afraid at what was about to come out of Potter’s mouth next.

Potter smiled, a real smile where the corners of his eyes grew wrinkles, and tugged on Draco’s hand, leading him onto the dance floor. How long had his hand been clutching Harry’s? Had Harry noticed how strange he was acting?

Harry yanked him towards himself and settled one hand on his back, pulling him in close. Merlin, since when had Draco started to call him Harry in his head? And why was he so out of breath?

Potter lowered his lips to Draco’s ear. “Full disclosure,” he whispered, making Draco shiver involuntarily. “I don’t actually know how to dance.”

Draco covered a snort with a faux huff of disappointment as his confidence rose back up. “Well, then. In that case, I suppose I will just have to lead you,” and he swirled a laughing Harry away.

~~~

Hours later had Draco panting for breaths as Harry lowered his head to Draco’s shoulder.

“I cannot believe you said that to them!” He cried laughing.

“I did! I was fed up! Why should I have had to obliviate the poor man if I could just convince him about the aliens!” Harry said, leaning back from Draco and gesturing wildly before, sinking down into the bench they were sitting on outside the ballroom.

“But Harry,” Draco said, clutching his stomach in laughter. “This poor man quit his job to hunt spaceships!”

Draco was so caught up in his joy, he failed to notice Harry had stopped laughing, and had started staring at him quite curiously.

“You said my name,” Harry stated, perhaps with a hint of wryness. “You know who I am.”

“I, uh, you-” Draco had nothing. Dammit. And the night was going so well! He had had Harry in his clutches- To do what with him, Draco? He thought suddenly. To laugh with him? To get him to smile at you like he has been doing? Is this not what you wanted all along? And now you have him. He doesn’t hate you for what you did. He doesn’t even know who you are. You are free. “Yes,” Draco sighed and pulled back a little. “I do know who you are.” Harry frowned slightly in consideration. “A massive prat! Who would have thought that the poster boy for the Ministry Auror Program commits crimes and convinces Muggles of nonsense in his spare time!”

Harry chuckled, seemingly relieved. “Didn’t you hear? I quit about a month ago-”

“You QUIT?” Draco interrupted. His mind was racing. Maybe Harry hadn’t meant to ignore him, maybe it was all a misun-

“Why, Drake, you seemed scandalized!” Draco quickly collected his thoughts and shoved them away for another time.

“No,” he sniffed. “Not at all. You merely caught me off guard.”

Harry smirked. “I’m sure. Anyways, Drac- Drake. I- Well. I wanted to know if maybe you would like to get dinner with me sometime this week?” Harry looked up at him through his lashes. “It’s been a while since I had this much fun with anyone.”

Draco’s heart thumped. Salazar, this is it! He thought. “I would love that, Harry, I really would. But I’m afraid that I have two conditions that must be seen to first.”

Harry was beaming at him. Well, really he was rolling his eyes, but the smile was important, Draco was sure. “Let’s see what I can do,” Harry said.

Draco nodded, scooting closer on the bench, reaching across Harry to cage him in, and leaning in close. “Well first,” He said, breathing softly and closing the distance inch by inch to Harry’s mouth with his. “I need to check the merchandise, of course.” He was so close, he could see the freckles in Harry’s green eyes. They rather matched his outfit, Draco thought distractedly, watching Harry taking his own eyes with what seemed to be wonder.

“But only of course,” Harry whispered inching impossibly closer and bringing his arms up to hold Draco close to him. They closed their eyes as noses nudged noses.

“Harry,” Draco whimpered. He felt a pulling sensation in his gut and then he was flying.

Harry’s lips touched his and- wait. Were lips supposed to feel this rough? Was Harry squeaking? Surely Draco wasn’t that bad of a kisser. His eyes flew open and he spit out hair. “What the fuck!” He cried out, turning wildly around his bedroom. A wet ball of light flew in front of him, crossing her arms.

“I won’t expect an apology from you-” Draco started to reply, but held his tongue in shock when the fairy turned away from him and just held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.” Jeni shivered and quickly muttered a quick charm to dry and clean her hair, which returned to the bouncing curls. She looked down to examine her nails. “I hope you had a good time-”

“Would have been more fun if I hadn’t been pulled away,” Draco muttered darkly. But the fairy godmother just continued to speak as if he wasn’t even there, flexing her fingers out in front of her.

“And I hope that you don’t mind that we need to take away your clothes-” Draco let out a squawk as his clothes disappeared, replaced by a bathrobe (which, Draco would have liked to point out, was entirely too short, only barely covering what it needed to). “And please be aware that the glamour will stay in place until you decide to end it manually with a wand.” A loud bang made Draco jump, but the fairy only looked up from her nails. “Oh! I bet that’s him!”

“Who’s-” Draco started, but the fairy just popped out of existence. This was just going too fast for Draco. He heard muffled yelling from the front of the manor, where the door was creaking under the ferocious pounding. An impressive feat, as the door was larger than twice Hagrid’s height. “Alright! I’m coming!” He called out running down the hallway frazzled, confused, and still dazed after his almost kiss with Harry. “Merlin, will you stop!” He said, unlocking and throwing open the door. “Harry!” He said, shocked. Harry’s glamour was gone and he was holding his mask tightly in his fist, his hair looking as if he had run his fingers through it more than usual. How it could have gotten so messy in the span of only a few minutes, Draco could not say. He supposed Harry couldn’t say either. “What are you- how did you-” Harry knocked past him into the hallway before he rounded on him, but not without first glancing down at Draco’s bathrobe, or more specifically, his long, lean legs. It took a few seconds before Harry shook his head.

“What the fuck, Malfoy! You don’t just apparate away in the middle of-”

“I was forcefully apparated away, actually,” Draco interjected.

Harry just continued. “Were you just toying with me? What this all a large joke-”

Draco started. “Fuck no, Potter! I was literally dragged away- against my will- at midnight- wait hold on. Did you just say my name? Do you know who I am?”

Harry snorted, and moved down the hall, peaking into archways and doorways until he found one with sofas. He twitched his wand in the direction of the fireplace, which instantaneously lit up with a roaring fire. In turn, Draco, who had frantically moved to follow him after pushing the front door shut, felt his other wand twitch in response to the display of powerful wordless magic. At least the bathrobe was roomy.

“Well?” Draco demanded, crossing his arms and tapping his foot at Harry, who had sprawled on one end of the sofas in a huff. Harry scoffed.

“Really, Draco,” Harry said with a snort. Draco’s breath caught at the use of his name. But then he supposed, coming to the Manner had been a pretty sure give away. “Did you think you could get away with just casting a half-arsed glamour on your face and changing your hair color? Did you think I wouldn’t recognize that haughty sneer of yours or the way you held yourself? You even recognized me through my glamour!”

“Well,” Draco sniffed, sitting carefully on the edge of the sofa. “Your glamour was crap.” He shifted, hunching in on himself.  Softly, he continued. “And I was going to tell you. That was going to be part of the second condition. That we would accept the other without the glamours, or no deal.”

Harry chuckled fondly, but exasperatedly. “I’m still mad at you, you know,” he said with a small smile. Draco frowned, shifting a little closer and angling his body towards Harry’s. “Why did you leave?” Harry’s eyes found his, and Draco could see how vulnerable he was in this moment. “Jesus, Draco, I was really worried there for a minute,” Harry said, hands coming up hesitantly to hold Draco’s face, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs. Draco breathed in. Draco breathed out. And then told him the whole story from the very beginning, which seemed to have started days ago and not just earlier that day.

“What,” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. “And it just so happened to strike midnight what was supposed to be the best kiss I’ve had in awhile-”

He froze, and Draco grew a smirk. “Oh, well then, in that case, Potter, I suppose I will have to make it up to you. Draco moved forward only to stop with a whine as Harry held up a hand to stop him. “What now?” He said against Harry’s fingers.

“If this is going to happen, I want it to be as Harry and Draco, with no glamours in the way. You have conditions to be met.” Draco’s breath caught, and his heart melted. “How else will I know you haven’t grown a mustache or gone hideous?” Draco scowled and Harry preformed another wordless spell to remove first the glamours on his hair, and then the one on his face, before he casually dropped his wand into the sofa to be able to continue to hold Draco’s face. Harry seemed enthralled. Draco was not amused.

“Shut it, Potter,” he said, even as he ran his hands through Harry’s soft hair.

“Harry,” Harry replied grinning, returning the motion in kind.

Draco smiled. “Harry. Shut it, Harry.” And finally, their lips touched.

Jeni watched them move into each other from her place on the windowsill, tickled with happiness. As apprehensive as she had been for combining the two assignments, both feeling guilty and both deserving forgiveness, she could not have asked for a better turnout. “Beat that, Cinderella,” she said, and promptly popped away.

#not a plot twist but harry prefers Draco's platinum hair the best #and draco just likes harry the best #the end #and they lived happily ever after #all my followers are amazing and i CANNOT believe that people like my writing still #but i am ridiculously grateful for it #and ridiculously happy #anyways #I hope you like it Jeni! #you deserve all the good writing #drarry #cinderella style #drarry fic #fanfiction #drabble #phia writes #phia rambles #drarry squad #fic #fanfic

[bolachasgratis]

The TakeRoot 2019 review

Garrett T. Capps. Photo by Knelis / TakeRoot 

It’s midnight in Groningen. It’s the end of an abnormally warm November saturday and it should also have been the end of an eight hour marathon of roots and americana across six rooms in the De Oosterpoort complex. But Garrett T. Capps and his NASA Country have different ideas. Suddenly, a “curfew” seems like a malleable concept as fellow Texans Robert Ellis and James Steinle join the band on stage for a sprawling and ecstatic “Born in San Antone” and a version of the classic “She’s About a Mover”, penned by San Antonio’s very own Doug Sahm. Capps seems comfortable as the frontman to a 21st century version of the mighty Texas Tornados, powered by a strong rhythm section and an unusual synth that takes his brand of Americana to another dimension. I’ve been calling it krautcountry after seeing them in Paradiso’s small room in the same evening as Faust and Camera, and you should too.

The legs of young and old seem to have forgotten they spent the last eight hours standing and rushing to the next stage with little or no time to rest and nobody can stand still. Believe me when I say “young and old” – the audience here is clearly older than your average “indie” festival, embarrassing not only boomers across the continent who think they’re too old to leave the house after dinner time, but also Gen X-ers and millennials who gave up on live music and the having of fun as soon as they got kids to feed. Anyway. Find me someone who was in the room and didn’t leave the festival with a smile on their face and I’ll try to cheer them up in 2020. Maybe they missed on the amazing frietjes topped with stoofvlees we had earlier that evening?

Orville Peck. Photo by Knelis / TakeRoot

Just before that closing show, AA Bondy played the most exquisite show of the evening in the small, scorching hot basement of De Oosterpoort. There were zero guitars on stage. It was just a man, his sunglasses, his synth, colorful stage lights, video projections and some of the best songs of 2019. I had watched his show in Amsterdam the night before, so I knew Bondy’s beautiful updated version of his own “Oh the Vampyre”, close to the end of the set, would be one of the highlights of his set, so I had to be there for that. A few hours earlier, outside that very same stage, people were queuing for what seemed like half an hour in order to not miss a second of Orville Peck’s show. In 45 minutes that sounded like 25, the masked Pink Cowboy (my personal favorite Halloween costume of 2019, from what I’ve seen on Instagram) and his cowboy-hat wearing five piece band went through most of Peck’s debut and only album so far, Pony, with a single break for a cover of the Parsons/Harris duet Ooh Las Vegas alongside FRIGS’ Bria Salmena, who’s part of Peck’s touring band. 

Erin Rae. Photo by Knelis / TakeRoot

Earlier at the Binnenzaal, both Erin Rae and Caroline Spence debuted some new songs. The high points of Rae’s set, though, were the beautiful “Minolta” from 2015′s Soon Enough and the brilliant “Wild Blue Wind” off last year’s breakthrough Putting On Airs. Likewise, Spence’s infectious “Who’s Gonna Make My Mistakes” off the brand new Mint Condition was the first big highlight of a festival that, for one more year, was able to put up the “sold out” sign – and I learned it the hard way as I tried to get in the already packed room. This is no ordinary festival, and the artists know it, too. It was common for them to give a shout out to some of their friends who were also playing, and most seemed excited with the idea of playing a festival where artists would rather be amongst the public seeing other shows than to get wasted backstage. Rae was having the time of her life seeing Drive-By Truckers, and, just like any other festival goer, had to manage her time to be able to catch a bit of AA Bondy’s show. After all, we’re all the same, we just happen to not be as gifted with words as they are.

The Delines’ Amy Boone. Photo by Knelis / TakeRoot

On the bigger room of the complex, the only disappointing moment of the festival, as Josh Ritter took the stage without a backing band. Sure, it was great to hear acoustic versions of classics like “Wolves” or “Henrietta, Indiana”, but make sure you bring a full band next time, pal. Meanwhile, in an absurdly packed and sweaty basement, Tyler Ramsey and his band were playing a few selections from his past albums, but focusing on his latest For the Morning; in an also packed, half-seated Kleine Zaal, The Delines, were presenting The Imperial alongside a few new songs whose names sound like they’re out of a concept album about going up on a hotel elevator (“Eight Floors Up”, “A Room in the Tenth Floor”). They’re self-described as a “retro country band”, and that’s exactly what you get from their live show. “Retro” as in “you’re transported to a smokeless smoky room in some other time”, not as some sort of nostalgic pastiche of influences that makes you cringe. If you’re familiar with Vlautin’s songwriting with Richmond Fontaine you’ll notice the same lyrical themes of beaten-up common folk trying to make it in a world that wasn’t exactly made for them. Boone’s voice projects those stories into a half-empty room of a provincial bar somewhere in the western United States, and you’re sitting there wishing there was a friendly person on the other side of the bar pouring you another whiskey. (Shout out to the kind and very knowledgeable barkeeper at Café de Koffer, where yours truly went to get a nightcap after the mandatory midnight döner, and ended up sitting at the bar sharing some beautiful Cantillon until 4am.)

Robert Ellis. Photo by Knelis / TakeRoot

But no matter how good a festival is, if this guy is playing, the highlight is bound to be the same every single time, even though plenty of his best songs were left out of the set. Robert Ellis. One of our favorite songwriters of the past decade keeps reinventing himself. This time around he presents himself as the Texas Piano Man, the title of his stellar latest record. He guides us through the piano-driven album (“Fucking Crazy”, “When You’re Away”, “Passive Aggressive”, the sad-as-fuck “Father”, or the closer “Nobody Smokes Anymore”) with a few stops to pick up a guitar, playing two absolute classics: “Happy Birthday” (yes, that one) and “What a Wonderful World” (also, yes, that one) and his own “Elephant”. But the most surprising number from the covers department had to be either the George Strait classic “Amarillo by Morning” (originally written by Terry Stafford and Paul Fraser), or Ellis’ assumption that people in the audience wouldn’t know who Strait is. It’s the Netherlands, dude. The best place in Europe for open minded music enthusiasts who don’t think country music is for people who marry their cousins. And, year after year, TakeRoot is still the closest to a Disneyland for people who wish they owned a nudie suit we can get on this side of the ocean.

TakeRoot will be back next Saturday, 7 November 2020 at SPOT/De Oosterpoort, Groningen, The Netherlands.

#takeroot #live #takeroot 2019 #takeroot 19 #review #robert ellis #garrett t. capps #the delines #tyler ramsey #josh ritter #aa bondy #caroline spence #erin rae #orville peck

[gaiatheorist]

Humbug.

(3am on Sunday morning, I’ve skimmed the headlines, social mobility department walk-out, concerns about the long-term functionality of multi-academy trusts, and mental health support ‘available in all schools by 2020.’ I have opinions, but they’re too close to the bone.)

Merry Christmas Theresa-Ebeneezer.

The Facebook friend who always posts that she finishes her Christmas shopping and wrapping by the end of November has put up her usual “BOOM! Done!” status, other people are posting putting up trees. My inconsiderate, bin-stealing neighbours put up their blue-flashing outdoor lights last weekend, it’s a month-long migraine. Another former colleague Facebook-posted her shock at seeing a shoplifter ‘tackled’ by security, and then expressed her concern that the woman was stealing Christmas presents, socks and toiletry gift-sets. I’m not shoplifting, because I don’t ‘do’ Christmas.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” is enough to close-down most of the superficial “What are you doing for...?” and “Would you like to come...?”, when the initial “Nothing.” and “No, thank you.” responses aren’t accepted. Tell people you don’t celebrate Christmas, and they tend to assume you’re a Jehovah’s Witness, they bugger off before you start trying to ‘convert’ them. There was a tongue-in-cheek Guardian article a couple of days ago, about turning down invitations, and how to sneak away from parties you didn’t want to go to in the first place.

I’ve never liked Christmas. Aside from my ranting that it’s a sterilised bastardisation of a pagan festival, claimed by Christianity, to suit their calendar, the commercialisation and the compulsion are what really irk me. (Side-rage about a former colleague, who had a Christmas spreadsheet shared with her husband. “I’ve put this ring on, but I don’t really want it, what if he buys me that? Is £300 too much for a ring, do you think?” That’s how they choose to live their lives, it’s none of my business, it only irritated me so much because she kept squawking on about it when I was trying to work.) Most people are more materialistic than I am, nobody’s ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. The ‘expectation’ among some children and adults infuriates me, whether that’s adults ‘hinting’ to partners on Facebook, or the inevitable slew of sulky children posting “Worst Christmas ever, my life is ruined!” when they open the ‘wrong’ iPhone. 

For the better part of 2 decades, I told the in-laws not to buy me anything for Christmas. 17 or 18 years later, they were still giving me a jumper two sizes too big, and two pairs of tights. I don’t wear tights, and I loathe jumpers that touch my throat. “The bill’s in the bag, if you want to swap it!” One year, I swapped the jumper for a slow-cooker. It genuinely would have been easier for all concerned if they paid any attention at all to me saying I didn’t want anything, because I REALLY didn’t want tights and a jumper. I wonder if, now my son is 19, they’ve stopped pestering him, from September, to tell them what he wants for Christmas? He’s cut from the same cloth as me, he doesn’t ‘want’ much, and when he decides he really needs something, he buys it himself. Thank the Gods for Steam vouchers.

The ex was quite materialistic, and hideously susceptible to advertising. The bastard ‘Furby’ ended up in the shed after a while, the batteries ran down, and it started making random spooky noises. The ex played with the ‘Robosapien’ more than the kid did, after I’d been scouring the internet for weeks to find one. I shudder to think what assorted tat he’ll present the boy with this year, last year he bought him a £100 coat, a scarf, and I think the camping-filtration water bottle. “Thanks, Dad, now I can have clean drinking water wherever I am!” (The water bottle might actually have been the previous Christmas, either way, it’s at the back of one of my cupboards, because it’s of no real practical use, and the kid sees no point in buying replacement filters for it.)

I was absorbed into that family, with the “You’ve GOT TO, it’s Christmas!” mentality. I don’t have to do anything, I especially don’t-have-to sit at a table where people chew with their mouths open, eat food from each other’s plates, and that one unfortunate nephew tries to eat all of the mashed potato. Seriously, I’ve seen hungry dogs eat more slowly, and with fewer sound-effects. “Have a bit more!”, no thank you, it’s quite uncomfortable enough just being here, without entering into an eating competition, I don’t need to stuff myself until I’m distended, and I know which serving dishes you’ve touched with your eating utensils. 

I don’t have to go there this year, but I’ve probably complicated my own life by appearing in public, at my brother’s wedding party, I was productively invisible until I did that. I’ve had more contact with my family in the last month than I did over the last 20 years. I’ll be politely declining well-meaning invitations soon enough, because of the ingrained assumption that nobody should be alone at Christmas. I do see the point for people who don’t want to be alone, and it’s heartwarming to see initiatives popping up for people who want to share food and company, I’m just not one of those people. 

I imagine my sister-in-law will be the most forceful, and I will have to play the brain damage card with her, because she simply won’t understand the don’t-want-to explanation. The sensory overload with my brain injuries is a constant background-battle, lights, sounds, smells, ‘normal’ environments are exceptionally stressful and painful for me now. My maternal half-sister might be difficult, but I think she’ll eventually accept my reasoning. I’m not expecting either of my parents to push the point too far, they both know why I cut contact with them. The paternal half-sister probably doesn’t know the back-story, again, I’ll use the medical angle when she suggests a pub-lunch over the holiday period, which I suspect she will. I’m not sure whether Porsche-man will have another go at ‘involving’ me with his version of Christmas, I think I was direct enough with him that doing ‘nothing’ for Christmas didn’t mean there was a gap he was obligated to fill. 

The boy will most probably go to his Dad’s for Christmas Eve, and to the in-laws for Christmas day lunch. I’ve already ‘spoiled’ his Yule-box, by telling him he’s essentially getting a food-parcel, and a recent text message, asking me if I liked Bombay Sapphire gin will probably have been his Dad, or Grandparents, ‘stuck’ on what to buy me. (Absolute CRINGE at the year the ex sent me into every shop in the village to look for ‘proper’ Bailey’s, saying it was for his Grandma, and then presented the Bailey’s, wrapped in a carrier-bag and Gaffa-tape to me. I don’t like Bailey’s, and could have bought multiple bottles of wine with the £16 that came out of my bank account anyway.) I’ll chuck a bit more rubbish in amongst the noodles and canned goods, slightly smirking at the year he asked “Mother, did you just ram-raid the pound shop for all of this?”, and the year he was disproportionately excited about a pound-shop version of the ‘JML bobble-off.’ Rubbish is ‘our’ tradition, and I’ll probably put that tin of Moose soup in again, I think he’s had that about four years in a row, now, oh, and that football I found in the garden, that’s still mostly wrapped from last year, he peeled back a bit of the paper, and said something quite rude to me. 

The kid and I aren’t Christian, so there’ll be no midnight mass, or church-related activity of any kind. We’re not particularly consumerist, he’ll see the practicality of the food-parcel, because he cocked up his student finance application, so has less disposable income this year. What we’re both going to have to deal with in our own way is the compulsion, with other people telling us what we have to do, “because it’s Christmas.” He likes his grandparents, even though they’re both a bit deaf, and both refuse to wear their hearing aids, they’re both a bit dim-racist, and very old-fashioned in their perspectives on a lot of other things, too. I’ll support him in whatever he wants to do, even if that means he stays here with me, coating the furniture in popcorn, and slurping his tea. (Yes, he does, and I do want to cause him physical harm when he does it.) 

No tinsel, no fairy-lights, no plastic tree. With both of my parents now knowing where I live, there’s a chance they might send Christmas cards, I hope they’re not glittery ones, I hate glitter. The kid finishes his university term on the 15th of this month, so he’ll probably be back with me some time between then and the 17th, until his next term starts on January 15th. ‘Probably’ because he’s dependent on the ex for transport with his multiple bags of stuff, and the ex does what he wants, when he wants to, regardless of any plans other people might have. I’ll sacrifice the relative order of the house for a month, and probably do a fair bit of leaving-the-room when the kid slurps tea, or puts that tedious Dungeons and Dragons role-play thing on TV. (Seriously, some of the broadcasts are five hours long, he’ll sit, for five hours, watching other people play Dungeons and Dragons.) I’ve been stock-piling food for months, we won’t starve, but we might end up eating a lot of potatoes. I’ll schedule a ‘big shop’ just before he’s due back, and have the ‘difficult conversation’ with him that I have very limited funds available for top-up shopping, so, if we do re-watch any of our box-sets, we can’t really play the drinking games any more. (It did get a bit dangerous at one point, when we were watching GoT, and decided that ‘horse’, and ‘legs’ were rules, as well as ‘naked’, ‘death’, and ‘full title.’)  

I don’t ‘have to’ put decorations up, I don’t ‘have to’ attend any gatherings or events, as much as some family members might want to take pity on the poor spinster aunt. I know they’ll only make the invitations because they care, and because they worry, but that’s their world, not mine. I’ll goof about with the boy in my world, we’ll try not to get on each other’s nerves too much, with me falling asleep in the evenings, and him not going to bed until the early hours of the morning. We’re both very bad at eating, and both have a tendency to ‘save’ the best of the food for the other, I’ll have to steer on that, there’s a lobster in the freezer, and I might put a frozen chicken in the next grocery order, if I can condense-down the un-labelled containers of ‘brown stuff’ to make enough room. It’s not the biggest goose in the butcher’s window, and “You, boy, what day is this?” has no meaning any more. I don’t need to play Bob Cratchitt, and ask Mr Scrooge for another lump of coal, because I’m wearing four jumpers, the kid doesn’t feel the cold as much as I do, but, if I catch him wearing his dressing-gown over his clothes, I’ll turn the electric heaters on.

My family can take the roles of ‘Christmas Past’, and stay there, the kid is my ‘Christmas Present’, I don’t know what ‘Christmas Future’ will play out to be, I wouldn’t want to, as much as I hate not-knowing, there are some things I’d rather not know.     

[83unsungheroes]

Hi,

If we were having a coffee this week I might force you to have a Southport version of the Unicorn Frappuccino instead.

I had no idea that unicorns tasted so fruity.  I was expecting something meaty, maybe along to lines of Bovril.  No such thing.

As I write, I’m absolutely shattered so maybe we should have caffeine! Yesterday was a really fun day, but a long and tiring one.  I went down to Wembley to watch the Anthony Joshua v Wladimir Klitschko boxing match.  I’m not going to write too much  about the fight here now cause I’m going to do a dedicated post in the next few days.  You don’t have to be a boxing fan to read it either, so please come back to check it out.

(Those promotional sentences still feel a bit wrong!)

This is the story of the day anyway and some thoughts.

I got the bus down from Manchester at 8.30am which meant it was an early start.  I’m not a fan of long journeys where I’m not in control of when and where we stop, so I got to the city early to get supplies and have as many last minute toilet visits I could squeeze in!

The bus set off on time and it was a pretty easy journey.  There were only two annoyances.

The first was the sun shining brightly through red plastic.  That wasn’t as annoying as the guy behind having to put his hands over the seat next to mine.  I bet he’s one of those people who, when he sits in the back of a car, is one of those who has to lean forward to talk to the people in the front so the only thing you can see in the rear view mirror is his face.

I also contemplated the use of the word “f*ck”.  I think I’ll right a parental advisory explicit content post on this one too.

The bus arrived at Wembley stadium just before 1pm with gates opening at 17.30 and the boxing starting at 18.30.  For anyone who has never, there are two important things to know about Wembley – there isn’t much to do other than eat and drink (that’s not too bad, obviously!) and it’s always cold.

I saw this guy taking a classic no look selfie.

I took a normal selfie to prove I was there / could you use Photoshop (the latter for those of you who are more cynical and think I actually stayed at home in my PJs).

It was a bad hair day but if I was having to get up early on a Saturday to go to an event like this I wasn’t going  to make too much effort.

I also planned my next Wembley visit.  Who wouldn’t want to see Steps live? It would be a “tragedy” not to.

While sitting in front of the Arena I was interested by “fashion” (says someone distinctly unfashionable).  Women can wear fashionable clothes or pretty much anything and look amazing, but things seen as fashionable for men look daft to me.  I know people like skinny jeans and things that fit well look good, but skinny jeans that enable you to see outlines of all sorts are just wrong.

When these skinny jeans are rolled half way up calves and accompanied by silly shoes they look worse.  Even worse still is when they’re worn by gym bros for whom size is everything because you have to be genetically blessed to be able to balance torso and leg size.

The gates opened on time and I went in straight away to find my seat and food.  The food was a hotdog and 6 Krispy Kreme doughnuts, two of which were saved for breakfast this morning.  I also bought a programme and was disappointed to find a typo in something that cost me £10.

The boxing started with a fairly long undercard, although two of the fights didn’t happen for some reason.

I’m a little conflicted about boxing.  Every sport, when you boil it down, is a simple and rather boring sounding affair.  Football is people trying to kick a ball in to a net.  Motorsport is people driving fast machines, often in circles.  Boxing is two people trying to hit each other in the face and, when viewed as such, probably shouldn’t even be seen as a sport.  If it was animals fighting, we’d have banned it and I’m not sure consent to being punched in the face is suitable justification.

Two men in the crowd decided to stage their own match and got arrested.

And yet the fighters come out in sparkling shorts and fancy gowns to music and flashing lights.  Punters get dressed up in suits and arse skimming dresses (in one case last night it was skimming the top of her arse rather than the bottom of it, too).  The whole thing is incongruous because it’s brutal, boring on the surface but fundamentally, deep down, entertainment for participants and spectators alike.

Anyway, I did find myself really getting in to it, especially the main event.  I found myself biting my nails and rubbing my chin – things I always do when I’m pensive.  When Joshua won, I was really pleased for him.

The atmosphere inside Wembley was electric.  I’ve been there before when capacity is 80,000 and usually split between two opposing teams.  This was 90,000 people of whom at least 89,000 were supporting the home town boy.  When the referee ended the contest, the roof came off.  It was an amazing experience.

The bus was back on the road by midnight.  Aware that I had to be behind the wheel myself in four hours or so, I tried to get some sleep which I largely managed.  However, I had a window seat and bus windows make very cold pillows.  My nose and the left side of my face were far too chilly to sleep properly.

Also this week I found an absolute bargain table cloth.

What a find.

If you read my post last Sunday you might remember I was feeling a little low.  This week has been a little better, but still up and down.  The person in question and I used to talk about dreams, trying to translate the ones we had.  We seemed to dream prolifically on opposing moon phases!  Dreams should always be translated as what they mean to the dreamer, but whenever I looked at hers they always had a theme of being affected by something in the past that she couldn’t quite shake and that that interfered with what she really wanted.

I had a dream including her for the first time in ages last week.  There were a group of us there, wherever it was.  We walked past a cafe and two of the cast of Neighbours were sat at an outside table.  They were drinking tea with beans in and I pointed it out cause she liked tea and, while I’m not a massive fan of beans, there is a connection there.

Nothing has changed at work, for anyone interested.  I’m getting annoyed by a lack of paperwork and a lack of anyone showing an interest.

I forgot to post two new Pokémon last week, partly because they’re not exactly new.  But, for those interested which I anticipate is fewer than those who care about my work situation, here is a party hat male Raichu and a female Raichu.

Hope you had a great week.  Now drink up – I need to go back to bed.

Here at night In a lost and lonely part of town Held in time In a wad of tears I slowly drown Going home I just can’t make it all alone I really should be holding you holding you , loving you Loving you

Tragedy… When the feelings gone And you can’t go on it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And you don’t know why , it’s Hard to bear With no-one to love you Your going nowhere Tragedy…

When you lose control And you got no soul , it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And you don’t know why , it’s Hard to bear With no-one beside you Your goin’ nowhere

Night and day There’s a burnin’ down inside of me Burnin’ love With a yearning that won’t Let me be Down I go And I just can’t take it all alone I really should be holding you Holding you , loving you Loving you

Tragedy… When the feelings gone And you can’t go on it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And you don’t know why , it’s Hard to bear With no-one to love you Your going nowhere

Tragedy… When you lose control And you got no soul , it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And you don’t know why , it’s Hard to bear With no-one beside you Your goin’ nowhere

Tragedy… When the feelings gone And you can’t go on it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And you don’t know why , it’s Hard to bear With no-one to love you Your going nowhere

Tragedy… When you lose control And you got no soul , it’s Tragedy… When the morning cries And your heart just dies Hard to bear With no-one beside you Your goin’ nowhere

Tragedy by Steps (in this instance)

  The Boxing Unicorn Not-Coffee Hi, If we were having a coffee this week I might force you to have a Southport version of the Unicorn Frappuccino instead.

#weekendcoffeeshare