#best record shops in London
Text
SFX Magazine Issue 368, August 2023
THEY’RE BACK – AND THIS TIME THEY’RE IN ALL-NEW TERRITORY. NEIL GAIMAN TALKS RETURNING FOR SEASON TWO OF GOOD OMENS
THE RASCALLY DEMON Crowley (David Tennant) and the neurotic angel Aziraphale (Michael Sheen) put aside their differences to pull off one doozy of a Hail Mary and prevent an impending Apocalypse in Good Omens’ first season. The task cemented the pair’s unconventional friendship. So what are divine beings, who have fallen out of grace with both Heaven and Hell, to do for an encore?
The answer lies with archangel Gabriel (Jon Hamm), who shows up unannounced on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s London bookshop. Suddenly, Aziraphale and Crowley are caught up in a caper of biblical proportions – but also a more intimate tale.
“It’s a mystery,” showrunner Neil Gaiman tells SFX. “It kicks off a story that doesn’t have giant consequences for the universe, even if it does have consequences for Aziraphale and Crowley. We have a lot of the marvellous Jon Hamm, who is the angel Gabriel and turns up at the beginning stark naked, carrying a cardboard box with no memory of who he is. In the same way, it is about Aziraphale and Crowley having to get involved with humanity in a way that they haven’t before.
“They get dragged in slightly against their will to try to sort out the love life of Aziraphale’s tenant,” he continues. “Her name is Maggie [Maggie Service] and she runs the record shop next to the bookshop. You’ll see the coffee shop over the road, which is Nina’s [Nina Sosanya]. The relationship between Maggie and Nina is one that Crowley and Aziraphale try to fix, and mess up, because they are not good at human relationships, even if they can do miracles.”
Truth be told, Gaiman never originally intended this arc to serve as Good Omens’ second instalment. The TV series was based on Gaiman and Terry Pratchett’s 1990 novel. The two collaborators had partially hashed out the details for a sequel to the fantasy comedy, late one night in a hotel room. This, however, is not it. Gaiman instead plotted a new narrative that could provide the connective tissue between the first season and a theoretical season three, if it happens.
“Because the hypothetical season three exists, there is a story that is there, and I didn’t feel that we could drive straight from season one into that,” Gaiman explains. “I knew what the stakes were. I knew what the parameters were. I also knew that I had David and Michael. I had the angels from plot number one.
I had demons from plot number one. And with anybody that I wanted to bring back, but didn’t have room for right now, I did not have to bring them back as themselves. “I had absolutely nothing for Madame Tracy to do in this plot, but I would be damned if Miranda Richardson wasn’t going to be in this. She is one of my favourite people in the world. She is hilarious and is so good. And I knew I was going to have a new demon replacing Crowley as Hell’s representative in London/ the UK. Miranda’s demon Shax is the best demon you could want.”
It’s late February 2022 and SFX is in Edinburgh for a set visit. A soundstage in Pyramids Studios has been transformed into a street in Soho. The visible local stores include the aforementioned book, coffee and record shops, as well as a magic establishment. In the middle of them all stand Aziraphale and Crowley, the latter in close proximity to his classic Bentley. It’s close to the end of the six-episode season, so exactly what the duo is discussing constitutes a spoiler. We can say, however, that Aziraphale has picked up the pace. Time is of the essence as Shax marshals her forces to descend on Aziraphale’s store and retrieve Gabriel.
“This is really Shax’s first time out on Earth,” Gaiman explains. “She is working very diligently and very hard in Hell for a long time. Now she is on Earth, trying to figure it all out. She’s just discovering what Crowley has known for 6,000 years, which is that if you’re a demon and come up with a brilliant plan to screw up the lives of humanity, people will get there first and do worse than anything you could have imagined! She’s coming to terms with that.
“She is having to deal with the first crisis on her watch, as well, which is the disappearance of the archangel Gabriel from Heaven. It would be fair to say that by the end of the story, she is leading as much as she can get from Hell’s requisition department – a legion of Hell – in an attack on a Soho bookshop.”
When audiences catch up with Aziraphale again, he’s enjoying his time among humans. He owns most of the block in a Soho neighbourhood, and he’s meddling in Nina’s love life. Meanwhile, Crowley has been living in his car, with his plants sitting on the back seat. He’s grumpy about his current status quo, but frequently hangs out at Aziraphale’s. The duo began as antagonists, but their history and blossoming relationship will be fleshed out in flashbacks.
“One of the enormously fun things I came up with is the idea of minisodes,” Gaiman explains. “They are 25-minute-long episodes within the episode. We have three of them over our six episodes. Each of them is like one of those chunks of episode three [in season one]. Whereas the longest one of those was four or five minutes, if that, these are full stories.
“You get to have the story of [put-upon Biblical figure] Job, and you learn Aziraphale and Crowley’s part in the story. Then writer Cat Clarke takes us to Edinburgh in the 1820s for a tale of body-snatching and attempted murder that the boys get involved in,” he adds.
“Finally, Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman reunite the League Of Gentlemen in a Nazi-period story that takes place very shortly after the episode in the church. That one was the only one I said had to be there, because I fell in love with our Nazi spies in the church. I kept thinking, ‘What would happen if they essentially came back as zombies, with a mission from Hell to try and investigate whether or not Crowley and Aziraphale were actually fraternising?’”
Gaiman admits that one of the greatest challenges has been filming Good Omens simultaneously with his upcoming show Anansi Boys. The two shoot within throwing distance of each other, but are both timeconsuming endeavours.
“If I could go back in time, I would go back to 16 September 2020, when Douglas Mackinnon [co-producer] and I got the phone call from the Amazon bigwigs to say, ‘We have good news for you and interesting news for you,’” Gaiman recalls. “‘The good news is we are greenlighting both Good Omens and Anansi Boys. The interesting news is you are going to have to do them both at the same time.’
“I would go back to then and I would throw myself on the call and say, ‘Neil, don’t! This is unwise.’ That we are doing them both together is great. The amount of sleep I am not getting is monumental and monstrous.
“It’s a little bit like childbirth, in that I managed to forget all the things that drove me nuts about the first one. Having said that, I managed to fix all the things that really drove me nuts making season one, which is great. We just have a whole new set of problems making season two…”
The Odd Couple - David Tennant and Michael Sheen talk character and sets for season two
Crowley and Aziraphale come off as the best of frenemies at times. Where do they stand with one other now?
DT: They are indeed. What’s different in season two is because of what happened at the end of season one, they no longer have head offices that they have to report to. They are in a very different position. Whereas before they were trying to get away with things, now they are kind of free agents.
MS: Although sort of fugitives as well. They are sort of in-between. But this amazing life they have created over a millennia, they are now able to enjoy in a slightly different way. They are not having to put on a front for their respective teams. There is a different kind of freedom.
DT: While at the same time being cut off, so they are also strangers in a strange land.
MS: That kind of connects them in a slightly different way. They have always been the only two beings who could understand each other’s position. Now they are pushed even closer together.
Now that they have the run of the place with no obligations, does that bring its own set of problems, being cut off?
DT: They have this sort of uneasy relationship. They are not entirely cut off from their head offices. Indeed, their head offices are quite keen to exploit that sort of adjacent connection, as we will see as the story unfolds. They exist in this grey area, neither the supernatural nor of the Earth.
MS: By the time we pick up their story in this series, they have appeared in time where they were kind of let alone a bit more. When we pick the story up, they are being bothered again.
The depth and the richness and the detail of what we are seeing on set here in Edinburgh is mind-blowing. How is it for you having it all in one place now, rather than having filming scattered around the UK?
MS: It’s completely changed the experience of doing it. Just being indoors… The Soho set on the first season was freezing cold.
DT: I was in a car park. Even inside the bookshop I was exposed to the elements! There’s a greater percentage of the show set here. There was a practical imperative to making it a manageable environment. If we had been in a car park, the elements might have impinged our ability to film.
Hellraiser - David Tennant is Crowley
You and Michael know these characters inside out. Do you have a shorthand?
It’s a hard thing to be objective about. Although I didn’t know Michael that well before we shot season one, it was always easy and exciting working together. It’s well-oiled now, for sure. It’s certainly fun to come to work. We enjoy bouncing off each other.
How comfortable are they about becoming involved with Gabriel?
I suppose Aziraphale is a much more enthusiastic detective. We are very much voting for the spin-off called The Azirafiles, which will follow this! As with most things, Crowley is reluctant to get involved or to exhibit any kind of energy or enthusiasm about very much. He is dragged kicking and screaming into this. Necessity forces him to get involved, whereas Aziraphale rather likes it.
Where does Crowley hang out these days?
He spends a lot of time in the book shop. He only has one friend. He can only have one friend. That is the great liberation, and also the great prison, that they find themselves in. They have no one else. They have come to rely on each other more than they ever did. And more than they care to admit.
Crowley is a rock star, in a way. Were there any particular musicians that inspired you?
Not consciously, no. The look was assembled accidentally during the first costume sessions. The Crowley of the book is of the mode when the book was written. He is more kind of Wall Street, the way he is described. We just decided that Crowley should always be of the moment he’s in. We were just trying to find a look that we felt fitted.
Divine Being - Michael Sheen is Aziraphale
How has knowing your characters better informed this series?
The first series was the first time we really properly worked together. It feels like we haven’t stopped working together since. Everything that has happened in-between plays into coming back to these characters. I am sure it is all feeding into it. It’s very difficult for us to know how that is informing the characters and their relationships.
With the flashbacks to various points in Earth’s history, is there a period of time Aziraphale enjoys the most?
One of the most enjoyable things for the audience and us is moving through different historical periods. It’s a great source of joy, and people thoroughly enjoyed that episode in the first series, so that has been expanded on in season two. But in terms of which Aziraphale enjoys the most, I think it’s not actually a period of time that we’ve seen him in on this series.
He would have been happiest at the end of the 19th century, in the Victorian era, which is considered the golden age of magic. He would have loved being with the greats like Harry Houdini. He loved the Victorian period. It was a great period of time for philanthropy and doing good works in a municipal way.
How has it been going from something dark like The Prodigal Son to a more whimsical show?
That’s the nature of an actor’s job. You go from one thing to another. In some ways, it’s even more useful to have big differences between the characters. What tends to happen, and I think most actors feel this way, is if you are playing one character for a long time, part of you yearns to play the bits the character doesn’t have. There’s a naivety and an innocence about Aziraphale. But at the same time, underneath that, there is eons of knowledge and experience.
#good omens#gos2#season 2#photos#bts#bts photos#interview#sfx magazine#magazines#hq photos#neil gaiman#terry pratchett#michael sheen#david tennant#david interview#neil interview#michael interview#soho#aziraphale's bookshop#fun fact#sfx 368 magazine#promo photos#show promo photos#shax#s2 interview#transcripts
643 notes
·
View notes
Text
f1 drivers as tracks from the tortured poets department: a very abridged and very biased list.
DISCLAIMER: this is all for fun and should be taken very lightheartedly. Not all drivers were included, but I am open to suggestions as well as constructive criticism.
Without further ado:
CHARLES LECLERC - I Can Do It With A Broken Heart
Absolutely suicidal lyrics that should be mildly concerning but all in all very upbeat and makes you want to run around doing side quests. Such as write an album, or open an ice cream shop. I'm thinking this is specifically 2022 Charles when he trusted no one at Ferrari, or mid-2023 when everyone was calling him washed and calling for his teammate to be n1 driver, and then he proceeded to put it on pole in a tractor multiple times and still hasn't finished outside the top 5 since. Either way, I am looking forward how this song will hit when Charles gets his eventual championship.
MAX VERSTAPPEN - Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?
This one is for Mad Max, who was thrust onto the world stage as an untested young prodigy at seventeen, who was called too young and immature and proceeded to win a GP upon debut in a top team, who was called Crashtappen from 2015-2019 and labelled as overly aggressive to his detriment, who was painted as a villain by every media outlet and documentary and DTS episode, who said "fuck the haters" and won championships anyway, who broke records, and made his own national anthem the expected song for every podium. A driver who is fast approaching greatest of all time status, for his win streaks alone. A driver that most others now just shrug about, because there's no shame in not choosing to fight the inevitable.
LEWIS HAMILTON - So Long, London
Ah, the heart-wrenching track of letting go of your long-term British relationship that doesn't serve you anymore. So many lyrics from here I could apply to the rumoured break down of amicable relations between Lewis and Mercedes, the team he won six championships with. From "My spine split from carrying us up the hill" to "I didn't opt in to be your odd man out. I founded the club she's heard great things about" to "you say I abandoned the ship But I was going down with it. My white-knuckle dying grip. Holding tight to your quiet resentment". Honestly, I could copy and paste all the lyrics here and they would apply to Lewis' Merc swan song. Taylor wrote "you swore that you loved me but where were the clues, I died on the altar waiting for the proof." about Abu Dhabi 2021.
CARLOS SAINZ - The Prophecy
Carlos has been delivering some of the best drives of his career this season, but it doesn't matter because he's not the chosen one, he's not il predestinato, he's not the son of Maranello. No matter what he does, he would never have kept that Ferrari seat over the mythos of Charles Leclerc. "Let it once be me. Who do I have to speak to, to redo the prophecy?"
LANDO NORRIS - Guilty as Sin?
Specifically given for half-flirting with Red Bull for most of last season, only to shake himself out of it and re-sign with McLaren, but I have one eye on him, not entirely sure he's given up on the Red Bull daydream, and Red Bull have been open about wanting to get him, if they can. It's all on Lando to stay faithful.
OSCAR PIASTRI - Fresh Out the Slammer
Piastrigate continues to inspire and compel an entire generation of F1 fans, and as such should form the basis of Oscar's song selection. What was the promises that Alpine made him, if not "Gray and blue and fights and tunnels Handcuffed to the spell I was under For just one hour of sunshine"
FERNANDO ALONSO - Florida!!!
Florida!!! is a big and powerful song about being a Shakespearean villain with a History and questionable morals and motives. Who is that if not Fernando Alonso? "Tell me I'm despicable, say it's unforgivable." "Is that a bad thing to say in a song?"
LANCE STROLL - But Daddy I Love Him
Yeah this one is self-indulgent and too good to resist. He's singing it about Fernando btw. Next.
DANIEL RICCIARDO - Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus
Someone is getting that Red Bull seat next year, and every name is on the list except Daniel Ricciardo. "As the decade played us for fools, you saw my bones out with somebody new." Who knows what would have happened if Daniel hadn't left Red Bull, all those years ago? "Just say you loved me the way you were" Oof. We could spend years living in the What Ifs of it all.
#taylor swift#formula 1#charles leclerc#max verstappen#lewis hamilton#the tortured poets department#carlos sainz#lando norris#oscar piastri#fernando alonso#lance stroll#strollonso#daniel ricciardo
169 notes
·
View notes
Text
Source
Transcript of main article under the cut:
THE RASCALLY DEMON Crowley (David Tennant) and the neurotic angel Aziraphale (Michael Sheen) put aside their differences to pull off one doozy of a Hail Mary and prevent an impending Apocalypse in Good Omens' first season. The task cemented the pair's unconventional friendship. So what are divine beings who have fallen out of grace with both Heaven and Hell to do for an encore?
The answer lies with archangel Gabriel (Jon Hamm), who shows up unannounced on the doorstep of Aziraphale's London bookshop. Suddenly, Aziraphale and Crowley are caught up in a caper of biblical proportions- but also a more intimate tale.
"It's a mystery" showrunner Neil Gaiman tells SFX. "It kicks off a story that doesn't have giant consequences for the universe, even if it does have consequences for Aziraphale and Crowley. We have a lot of the marvellous Jon Hamm, who is the angel Gabriel and turns up at the beginning stark naked, carrying a cardboard box with no memory of who he is. In the same way, it is about Aziraphale and Crowley having to get involved with humanity in a way that they haven't before.
"They get dragged in slightly against their will to try to sort out the love life of Aziraphale's tenant," he continues. "Her name is Maggie (Maggie Service) and she runs the
record shop next to the bookshop. You'll see the coffee shop over the road, which is Nina's (Nina Sosanya). The relationship between Maggie and Nina is one that Crowley and Aziraphale try to fix, and mess up, because they are not good at human relationships, even if they can do miracles."
Truth be told, Gaiman never originally intended this arc to serve as Good Omens' second instalment. The TV series was based on Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's 1990 novel. The two collaborators had partially hashed out the details for a sequel to the fantasy comedy, late one night in a hotel room. This, however, is not it. Gaiman instead plotted a new narrative that could provide the connective tissue between the first season and a theoretical season three, if it happens.
"Because the hypothetical season three exists, there is a story that is there, and I didn't feel that we could drive straight from season one into that," Gaiman explains. "I knew what the stakes were. I knew what the parameters were. I also know that I had David and Michael. I had the angels from plot number one. I had demons from plot number one. And with anybody that I wanted to bring back, but didn't have room for right now, I did not have to bring them back as themselves.
"I had absolutely nothing for Madame Tracy to do in this plot, but I would be damned if Miranda Richardson wasn't going to be in this. She is one of my favourite people in the world. She is hilarious and is so good. And I knew I was going to have a new demon replacing Crowley as Hell's representative in London/the UK. Miranda's demon Shax is the best demon you could want."
It's late February 2012 and SFX is in Edinburgh for a set visit. A soundstage in Pyramids Studies has been transformed into a street in Soho. The visible local stores include the aforementioned book, coffee and record shops, as well as a magic establishment. In the middle of them all stand Aziraphale and Crowley, the latter in close proximity to his classic Bentley. It's close to the end of the six-episode season, so exactly what the duo is discussing constitutes a spoiler. We can say, however, that Aziraphale has picked up the pace. Time is of the essence as Shax marshals her forces to descend on Aziraphale's store and retrieve Gabriel.
"This is really Shax's first time out on Earth," Gaiman explains. "She is working very diligently and very hard in Hell for a long time. Now she is on Earth, trying to figure it all out. She's just discovering what Crowley has known for 6,000 years, which is that if you're a demon and come up with a brilliant plan to screw up the lives of humanity, people will get there first and do worse than anything you could have imagined! She's coming to terms with that.
"She is having to deal with the first crisis on her watch, as well, which is the disappearance of the archangel Gabriel from Heaven. It would be fair to say that by the end of the story, she is leading as much as she can get from Hell's requisition department - a legion of Hell - in an attack on a Soho bookshop."
When audiences catch up with Aziraphale again, he's enjoying his time among humans. He owns most of the block in a Soho neighbourhood, and he's meddling in Nina's love life. Meanwhile, Crowley has been living in his car, with his plants sitting on the back seat. He's grumpy about his current status quo, but frequently hangs out at Aziraphale's. The duo began as antagonists, but their history and blooming relationship will be fleshed out in flashbacks.
"One of the enormously fun things I came up with in the idea of minisodes," Gaiman explains. They are 25-minute-long episodes within the episode. We have three of them over our six episodes. Each of them is like one of those chunks of episode three (in season one). Whereas the longest one of those was four or five minutes, if that, these are full stories.
"You get to have the story of (put-upon Biblical figure) Job and you learn Aziraphale and Crowley's part in the story. Then writer Cat Clarke takes us to Edinburgh in the 1820s for a tale of body-snatching and attempted murder that the boys get involved in," he adds.
"Finally, Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman reunite the League of Gentlemen in a Nazi-period story that takes place very shortly after the episode in the church. That one was the only one I said had to be there, because I fell in love with our Nazi spies in the church I kept thinking, "What would happen if they essentially came back as zombies with a mission from Hell to try and investigate whether or not Crowley and Aziraphale were actually fraternising?"
Gaiman admits that one of the greatest challenges has been filming Good Omens simultaneously with his upcoming show Anansi Bays. The two shoot within throwing distance of each other, but are both time-consuming endeavours.
"If I could go back in time, I would go back to 16 September 2020, when Douglas Mackinnon (co-producer) and I got the phone call from the Amazon bigwigs to say, "We have
good news for you and interesting news for you," Gaiman recalls. "'The good news is we are greenlighting both Good Omens and Anansi Boys. The interesting news is you are going to have to do them both at the same time.'
"I would go back to then and I would throw myself on the call and say, 'Neil, don't! This is unwise.' That we are doing them both together is great. The amount of sleep I am not getting is monumental and monstrous.
"It's a little bit like childbirth, in that I managed to forget all the things that drove me nuts about the first one. Having said that, I managed to fix all the things that really drove me nuts making season one which is great. We just have a whole new set of problems making season two."
#good omens#good omens season 2#crowley#aziraphale#good omens season two#not a shitpost but its good omens babyyyy#SIGH does this mean i need to edit my 40s meta AGAIN? im tiRED OF THIS GRANDPA#edit: missing page
832 notes
·
View notes
Text
My AO3 Wrapped: 16 Drarry Recs
This year I’ve embraced a change of pace and read way less than I intended to. This made me feel a bit disconnected from fandom but also allowed me to put this list together in record time so let’s not complain too much 😂 this is shorter and lacking my usual commentary but I didn’t want to break the tradition of sharing my fave reads of the year! Be it for their creativity or peak romance, these 16 amazing fics made my heart beat faster and got me even more in love with Drarry. I’ve read most of them in the first half of the year and it was interesting to see so many fics over 40k, as my usual sweet spot is 10k - 20k. I love the mix of tropes featured here and am very excited to rec authors I’m reading for the first time. ps: I haven’t included any Erised fics since the fest is still ongoing.
Thank you dear creators for sharing so many brilliant works with us this year! 2023 wasn’t my best year fandom-wise, but life has been so generous in other areas that I can’t help but feel humbled today. I wish everyone a lovely start to the new year! As always, please mind the tags and take some time to shower these authors with the appreciation they deserve. Oh, and stay tuned for a rare pair list sometime soon ;)
🍆 Snug by @moonflower-rose (E, 6k)
8th year | touch-starved Harry | soft cock kink
Potter can't keep his hands off himself. Draco can't look away.
🧩 Muscle Memory by @corvuscrowned (E, 8k)
curse breaking | partners to lovers | memory magic
There's something just beneath the surface, just at the periphery of Harry's mind. They've been here before — they've done this before. If only he could remember it.
👹 draco malfoy's substitute murder service by @oknowkiss (E, 10k)
odd jobs | D/s undertones | open ending
When Harry joins the Curse Breakers shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, he’s surprised to find himself assigned to the Department of Creatures, Cryptids, and Associated Calamities.
🏰 the earth from a distance by spqr (E, 15k)
time travel | Wizarding history | only one bed
“Well,” Harry said gamely, once they’d managed to find the Leaky Cauldron – still under construction but mercifully open for business – and he’d turned up a few knuts from his pockets, enough to get them a room for the night, “it could be worse.”
🎚️ O Come, All Ye Faithful by toomuchplor (E, 20k)
vicar Draco | established relationship | Church of England
Aunt Petunia died, that was what began everything. Or rather, Aunt Petunia was dying. In the act of dying. In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.
🎄 Waking Up Slow by @sweet-s0rr0w and @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (E, 22k)
shop owner Draco | summer romance | light angst
'Twas the night before Christmas, although it’s July / Draco’s a shopkeeper, no-one knows why / There’s hiking and witch caves, freak snowfalls and more / Bad Christmas jumpers, nosy neighbours galore / Narcissa’s here too, but… something’s amiss / And what’s in those chocolates that’s making them kiss?
🚬 Sun Thief by @floydig and BlackRose532 (E, 28k)
slice of life | fast sexual burn | dark humour
It’s 2005, and Draco Malfoy says, “Fuck the Ministry,” Harry works as a handyman in muggle London, and Draco should really stop pissing off the Squib gangs.
🍷 Winner Takes It All by @skeptiquewrites (E, 41k)
break up make up | down & out Draco | hurt/comfort
As with all his friends’ wagers, it starts small. Fifty Galleons for one kiss from Harry Potter is easily done.
🏖️ LA, Who Am I To Love You? by @epitomereally (E, 42k)
Draco in the Muggle World | pining Harry | recreational drug use
Harry’s summer in LA is not going as expected. Pansy Parkinson keeps inviting him to parties in the Hollywood Hills and harassing him to finally go to the physical therapist, Blaise Zabini keeps slipping new strains of his company’s magical weed into Harry’s pockets in hopes of an endorsement, and Draco Malfoy keeps having sex with everyone but Harry.
🫃Shine On, You Crazy Diamond by @lagerloutfic (E, 42k)
fwb to lovers | gay awakening (Harry) | mpreg (Draco)
Harry has probably always wanted Draco, it just took him a few years to figure that out. A story about the joy of discovering exactly who you are and how easy it can be once you do.
🚣♀️ Our Objective Remains Unchanged by @citrusses (E, 46k)
rowing AU | enemies to lovers | university setting
Harry Potter, returning member of the Oxford University Boat Club, has two goals for the spring of 2005: beat Cambridge, and beat Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not in that order.
🧶 Polar Night/Midnight Sun by toomuchplor (E, 54k)
cabin fic | wintery vibes | only one bed
Harry travels to arctic Norway on the trail of dragon egg poachers, only to find he's been assigned to work alongside the only NorMagPol Auror north of sixty: one Draco Malfoy.
🎩 Nights With You by @the-sinking-ship (E, 58k)
holiday fic | fake relationship | mutual pining
Draco is mortified when moments prior to departing for the most anticipated destination wedding of the year, he is cruelly dumped. But when he learns that Harry Potter has, at long last, split with his horrible boyfriend, Draco is certain his luck has changed.
👮🏻♂️Rookie Moves by peu_a_peu (E, 75k)
auror partners | slow burn | humour
Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case.
🖼️ where all the veins meet by @saxamophone (E, 146k)
sad bois | Grimmauld Place | found family | 8th year
It's the summer of 1998. The battle is over, and Voldemort is dead, but Harry still has more questions than answers. Who is he without a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head? What is he supposed to do now?
📼 Always Already by @aibidil (E, 170k)
time travel | forced proximity | mutual pining
Harry and Draco are perfectly fine, separately minding their business in 2004, when the Unspeakables conscript them into service... in the First War against Voldemort.
189 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hobie Brown loves black women (duh) but also (head canons)
because daddy is my latest obsession 🤭
Damn, I leave these tumblr streets for a year and yall out here wildin. It’s come to my attention that yall have the unmitigated gall, the glittering nerve to argue with black women about whether or not Hobie Brown likes black girls. Excuse me???? Does the black punk radical revolutionary from the SEVENTIES!!!! (Cuz yall keep forgetting he lives in 1970s London) like black women?!?!?!
Honey not only does he LOOOVE black women. He loves BLACK women. What do I mean when I say that?
Hobie loves soul sistas with sky high Afros, TWAs, shaved heads, close cut fades
The girls that can quote Marcus Garvey, Malcolm X, bell hooks, and WEB Du Bois with equal conviction and knowledge
I’m talking fist to the sky, power to the people, say it loud I’m black and I’m proud, type tease
I’m talking they wearing all black, leather jackets with their black panther pins stuck to the lapel (and if you think I’m talking about the hero you ain’t black enough for this conversation)
I’m talking the black ladies with the barets that call all black men “my brotha” and all black women “my sistah”
The black women that keep that thang on em and ain’t ever gotta get ready
Hobie loves the loc’ed black girls and the turban wearing sisters
The girls who keep Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, or Langston Hughes on deck usually tucked into their woven knapsacks/leather messenger bags
The sage and incense burning girlies who cleanse their space and say a little prayer of protection on your journey
The orisha worshipping black girlies with alters in their windows and tarot cards on their bookshelf
The girlies that can guess your star sign based on your jaw line.
The girls that smell like cocoa butter with paint on their skirts
Hobie likes his fellow black fem punks with their spiked jewelry and shaved heads
The girlies pushing, shoving, and rioting during the mosh pits
The black girlies with the braid/Mohawk combos.
The girls stomping through the club in demonias with their piercings and black leather accessories
The girls with the drawn on angry eyebrows yet the kindest, gentlest smiles
The girls who prowl the record stores and flip off the shop owner that keeps following them.
The black girlies in the band who are front row and center wailing like Betty Davis and dancing like Tina Turner, a mic in hand or a guitar over her shoulder
Hobie loves the disco divas
The girlies in their sparkly bell bottoms killing it in the discos on Saturday nights
The girlies who think disco will never die
The funky divas and dance floor queens
The girls that audition for soul train every season and win.
The girls with the best record collection especially when it comes to party hits and speaking of parties
He loves the girls who are the first on the dance floor and the last to leave. The lives of the party and the queens of the kick backs
Hobie loves his pothead black girls that always have the good gas
His Mary Jane muses who are always a chill vibe and a good time
The black girls who always have snacks and gum on em cuz they’re always hungry and high.
With their red eyes and quick smiles.
He loves the black girls with a little dime bag and something “a little bit stronger if you need it”
And he loves his black girls black mixed with nothing but black. Two black parents, four black grandparents, the darker the berry the sweeter the juice. Yes he loves dark chocolate girls BUT he loves his black girls of all hues
Albino
Butter scotch
Mahogany
Blue-black
Hobie loves BLACK women
Yall please stop forgetting this man lived during the 70s and there is a very particular type of black woman that was around during the 70s
#hobie brown#atsv hobie#hobie x black!reader#hobart brown#Hobie brown#across the spiderverse#atsv#headcanons
106 notes
·
View notes
Text
“Unknown”
8
———————
The rope finally snapped.
Aziraphale watched as Crowley felt his heart fall out of his chest and straight down to hell. He bared his teeth, and snapped his head towards the Angel, balling his hands into fists as he stood.
“What do you want, Aziraphale?! Spit it out! If you’ve come here to tell me I made a mistake, you don’t get to decide that for me!” He yelled, pointing a finger at Aziraphale, who threw up his hands in defence. No, no he’d lost him. He could see the hurt and anger in every aspect of Crowley’s being.
The Angel shook his head violently, and stood up, watching as Crowley took a step backward- running away. He was running away again and Aziraphale didn’t know if he could stop him this time.
“No! Wait - Crowley, please that is the farthest thing from what I’m trying to say! I- oh good Lord!” Aziraphale tried, watching the demon shake his head.
“No. No, Aziraphale. You don’t get to do this. Not again! Do you know what you did to me?! I have been ruined for months over you! I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to forget you! How the hell to get all of this-” Crowley gestured at him, the book shop and himself, “Out of my head and away from me- but I can’t, Aziraphale. You are ingrained in me and I fucking hate it! I can’t escape you!” He seethed, and the silence that followed was eerily quiet.
Aziraphale felt this throat tighten. Felt that fear creep back up. Forget him? Crowley wanted to get rid of him? He said he hated how tied together they were...
Aziraphale tasted the salt on his tongue as he opened his mouth to pull in a shaky breath before he realized he was crying. He watched Crowley’s heated gaze cool ever so slightly before he turned his face away to wipe the tears.
He looked out the window. It had started to rain in London, as it always did. But somehow he felt that Crowley had something to do with the quiet thunder that rolled in with the blanket of grey clouds that now hid the sun from view.
The clock ticked behind Crowley. They had been here before, yelling at each other in this very spot. Aziraphale stifled the sob that rose from his chest, but it came anyway. He took a shaky breath and nodded.
“I did.” The Angel whispered weakly, “I did see what I caused. I heard you- cursing God. Screaming at Her. I saw you in the bars and here- I saw how I hurt you, how I caused you so much pain-“ he shook his head, voice becoming strained.
He never looked for long. He didn’t want to intrude on Crowley’s privacy, but he wanted to see him when the old recordings weren’t enough. When he’d heard Crowley curse God, Aziraphale knew it was really him Crowley was so angry with. He heard the demon sigh and shift, trying to calm himself down, but thunder rolled heavy outside, and shook the window panes of the bookshop.
“I don’t forgive you, Crowley.” Aziraphale said again, turning to face him again, wiping the tears, even when they kept falling, “Because there was nothing ever to forgive.” He whispered, and watched the furrow in Crowley’s brow smooth from anger to guilt, and he had to look away again.
How dare he make Crowley feel so many negative emotions. How dare he hurt him, and then beg for mercy. He hiccuped a soft sob and looked away again, hands wiping away the tears sloppily, but they only fell faster.
“You have every right to want to forget me- you may be right. Maybe... Maybe it would be best, even. I’ve hurt you, Crowley. I know that. And I can’t explain how sorry I am. How much I missed you.”
Aziraphale didn’t try to stifle the sobs, he spoke through them, “How much I just wanted... You. Wanted to be around you, to talk with you. I sat and thought up every scenario until there were none left.” He cried, wiping the tears from his stupid beard that he’d grown to look more authoritative. Supreme ArchAngel his buttocks.
“But that- that feeling. The emptiness? The ache in my chest and stomach... Feeling like I couldn’t take a breath correctly, it never went away...” he weeped, hugging himself, he shook his head.
This was wrong. He was wrong. He was just hurting Crowley more. That’s all he ever did- was hurt him.
“I just wanted you to do it again- to kiss me again. To sit around with me, or call me on the phone- I just wanted us again and I was stupid for thinking I could keep you safe by giving that up!” Aziraphale said as he turned to look at Crowley, and saw the same hot tears now on the demons face.
And he looked... Devastated. It made Aziraphale hug himself tighter, a gasping breath pulled into his lungs. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I never, never wanted to hurt you. Especially you, out of anyone. Not my only friend, and the person I...” he paused. The clock ticked in the silence - neither one of them were really breathing.
“The person I love most.” He said quietly, and watched Crowley’s face twist in pain.
———————
I left you on a cliffhanger and for that, I apologize, but I had to say goodbye to a family member at the beginning of January, and had a hard time focusing on anything, really. But I think I’m back, and have finished up the last few chapters, and after GOAD smut war, ending on the 14th (I think?) I’ll post this on Ao3 and edit it a bit more. For now, enjoy ❤️
< Previous
#aziraphale#crowley#crowley x aziraphale#good omens#good omens2#aziracrow#good omens fanfiction#azicrow#good omens 3#good omens theory#unknown
73 notes
·
View notes
Text
bewitched: s.h. x f!r
summary: on his graduation trip in london, steve is apart from robin for the day when he runs into you at a coffee shop. after one conversation, you agree to spend your last day in london together, and you both become bewitched.
based on bewitched by laufey
an: hi everyone! i reposted this from earlier, but this fic was so fun for me and i hope you enjoy! please let me know your thoughts and give that magnificent song a listen :) (not proof read)
The clinking of dishes filled the London coffee bar as businessmen on their breaks stopped for small sandwiches wrapped in wax paper squares, a red logo printed across them.
Emotional bribery came as two roundtrip tickets across the pond for Steve’s graduation present, taking Robin with him as they took the two weeks off from work. The silver credit card with his name on it covered most expenses, but the steaming tea was paid for with crumpled dollars from the tip jar of Family Video.
Taking a glance up from the book in his hands, he spotted you turning around from the cashier, looking around at an empty spot. The only spare seat was the one before him, a black metal one that wasn’t the most comfortable, but it seemed this place wasn’t for long-term moments.
“Hey.” Steve cleared his throat, earning your attention, gesturing in front of him.
With a smile you approached with your warm cup and coordinating plate, letting it touch the glass table, taking the opposing spot. The sleeves to his yellow jumper were pushed to his elbows, resting them as the paperback balanced one of them.
“Thank you,” You greeted, pulling the back of your brown sweater down, straightening up, “I’m Y/N.”
“I’m Steve,” He introduced, the tips of his nails trailing against the rim of the small plate, “what brings you here?”
Black tea in your mouth, you swallowed it despite the burn, grabbing a small packet of sugar. Flicking it back and forth, you ripped the white paper, dumping the containments inside.
“A friend of mine has family here, had an extra ticket,” You explained, stirring your drink into a swirl, “you?”
“Graduation gift.” He quipped, internally wincing at how pretentious that could sound, but you only nodded, “I brought a friend too.”
Knitted blue yarn made up your sweater paired with a white skirt and black tights paired with black flats that began to peel near the sole. Ripples crafted in the spoon you blew on, tasting the now sweeter drink.
“Looks like we’re two halves of a similar story,” You mused, the silverware touching your plate in an unpleasant noise, quickly moving it to the napkin beside it, “what long are you staying?”
An awkward slurp came from his mouth as he finished his cup, cheeks growing pink as he set it down, anxiously wiping his clean mouth with the back of his hand. His right white Reebok bounced beneath the table, running his spare hand against his jean-clad thigh.
Foreign jitters rattled inside his chest, tightening as you smiled at him once more. Dates had slowed down since high school, fumbling with the ladies more often than not, but the feeling of pleasant uneasiness was one he hadn’t felt in a long time.
It felt foolish as you had been before him for only a minute, tucking your ankle behind your other and taking in your surroundings. He had been doing the same until you approached, he didn’t think to look at anything else.
“We’ve been here for four days, we leave in three. My best friend, Robin, had been with me every day, but had something today.” He waved off, “You?”
Black lashes fluttered before reaching his gaze, “I’m ending my week, today is my last day, but my friend also had something today.”
Irony dripping from your words, Steve grinned, “If it’s at Covent Garden too, I might lose it.”
Mouth covered in amusement, he gaped, “No way, is your friend there too? Some record store event?”
You confirmed, head bobbing as Steve sunk back in his chair in shock. It felt like filling a glass up to the brim, it would’ve been fine lower, but it’s always a pleasant experience to get the extra taste.
“What’s your friend's name?” Steve questioned, resting his chin on his hand.
Tables had cleared beside you as the lunch break period concluded, but you remained in front of him. Processing that they were clean, it didn’t dawn on you that you could readily rest beside the window as you hoped. The boy with hazel eyes had taken your attention with an iron grip, melting into the hold.
“Rodney,” You began as Steve felt his heart hit his gut, too sure that it had to be a boyfriend, “I’m not his type, don’t worry.”
The obscure bashfulness flooded him again, yet your look was not full of taunting, but rather warmth. Air turned colder outside, scarves joining the getup of many, however, Steve realized that if he stood close enough to you, he might not even need his.
“I doubt that.” Steve hummed, shuffling through his stack of dusty King Steve remarks, ones he hated to recall, but was desperate to continue the conversation.
“Oh no,” Taking the turn to be flustered, he watched you pick the corner of the square napkin, “Believe me, not his type at all.”
Initial disbelief dissipated as he picked the context clues he often gave when describing his own best friend.
“Robin, my best friend,” Steve began, watching the faintest bit of complex emotions on your face, “I’m not her type either.”
A grin crawled onto your face slowly as Steve held eye contact, both of you erupting into giggles at the pure absurdity of the scenario at hand.
Panic that had become all too familiar punched him in the gut, knowing this had been too perfect to be true. That suddenly a man twice his size and twice as attractive would come out, carrying you off into the busy streets of London while he watched your blue sweater become a speck.
A similar slurp sounded from your mouth as your tea ran dry, moving the cup to the edge of the table. Steve prepared for the departure, hand on the small book as he braced himself for rejection.
Taking a glance out the door, he watched an older man gift a woman yellow tulips, pleased as she smelled them and held the bouquet close to her chest. Mundane as it may be, he took it as a kick, that maybe it’s worth trying to keep it going if rejection lurks anyways.
“Forgive me if I’m being too forward,” He joked with sincerity, “I don’t have anything going on today, would you want to hang out? Walk around for a bit?”
Teeth pulled in the inner skin of your bottom lip, repressing the overdramatic response you urged to give, “I’d love to, Steve.”
Holding open the black door, you both left the coffee shop to rejoin humanity, met with the smell of cigarettes and the smoke of construction. He expected a sour look, yet you only beamed brighter amongst the chaos, like a flower growing between cracks in a sidewalk.
“Have you been to any museums?” You asked, walking with a hand on the top of your purse that hung around your shoulder.
Shaking his head with a straight mouth, you gawked with a smack to the arm, electrifying his restricted chest. It bounced to his stomach and then to his throat, coughing away the slight itch.
“We could go to the National Gallery, they have some iconic pieces,” You explained, though your excitement backpedaled when glancing over, “Or we could, um, do something else too! I’m flexible.”
The confirmation that you were nervous too aided his cause, shaking his head, “I’d love to, let’s go.”
Footsteps trekked down the sidewalks of Soho, yours walking in tandem to the boy beside you, who took the spot closest to the road. Brown curls fell in front of his eyes, his fingers running through the thick locks.
Steve’s feet fumbled as a woman stormed past, a grimace on her face as she forced his body against yours.
Before the apology could form, you scoffed, making a quip about how she must be in a rush. He agreed, rolling his eyes as he heard a man shout at the woman, both of you turning to see her knocking over a man’s newspaper.
Proceeding forward, Steve mocked the face of the guy who seemed too up in arms about fallen paper while you attempted to sympathize with them both.
“She was probably having a bad day and he wasn’t expecting it!” You rationalized, amusement evident as you both turned the sharp corner.
“She probably was, but I’m sure a man who sounds like Mr. Bean yelling isn’t helping!” He jested, a rupture of laughter aiding his blooming confidence.
The large white pillars at the top of the stairs came into eyesight, a large red banner listing a current exhibit in white font. Seemingly unconsciously, he watched as you sped up, picking up his pace to watch as you got your ticket.
Service must have been high quality as he was hoping to pay for your ticket, but the woman had already given you a small white ticket.
Signaling him over, Steve walked over to you confused as you handed him a pass, walking towards the first room.
“Hey, let me pay you back!” He insisted, examining to see if there was a price, but you shrugged.
“It’s free, bud.” You smirked as you both walked between two security guards in black sunglasses.
“Oh, I knew that.” He confirmed falsely, making you look at him skeptically.
The first portion was filled with classical paintings, mostly with natural elements like water and grass. Ranges of ages stood behind the small black wire a few inches from the floor to observe.
Museums hadn’t been Steve’s thing, finding most in Indiana fairly boring and the ones his parents dragged him to were even more insufferable.
Though, between the large walls in the new city, he noticed the strokes of a paintbrush older than most buildings. The smudges of oil paint that blended into other colors on top of canvas secured in extravagant frames.
“I like this one,” Steve began as you joined his side, the strangers beside him having wandered off, “reminds me of my sweater.”
“A Van Gogh fan?” You inquired, following as he began to read the information card in the corner.
“Vase with Fifteen Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh,” He concluded, eyebrows lifting at the discovery that it had been around 100 years since the paint dried, “Guess I am a fan.”
“It’s incredible,” Glancing at his yellow jumper that matched the work before you, you scolded your heart for wondering what you could stare at longer, knowing it probably was the one made in this century.
“I really liked seeing his one over here,” You guided, the boy on your trail, “it’s simple, but it just does something for me.”
The face of a woman was designed in dim colors, her face covered in hesitance, titled The Peasant Woman.
A few steps back, Steve looked at the shades of brown above the woman’s head, appreciating the intricacies of such a simple work. Yet, he found himself much more intrigued by the curve of your nose and plush of your cheeks.
The self-guided tour continued, most in silence as you took turns reading the occasional description. The stroll was brisk as he struggled to keep up with you, not because he couldn’t be quick on his feet, but because he liked to look at you and could get away with it if he was farther back.
“If you want to slow down, let me know,” You announced when standing in front of Monet’s The Water-Lily Pond, “I just don’t read all the cards, I like to think what it could possibly be then only check if I really want to know.”
“I’m okay,” He assured, flexing his hand after the urge to touch your arm came, “I do think this is a pond though.”
Joke landing, you chuckled, continuing on to the next floor. His eyes caught an abstract painting of shades of blue, making out a boat on the water with no firm lines. A sunset burned in the back, searing into the open sky in contrast to the calm water.
“He’s so cute.”
Steve felt his gut jump, fixating on the emotionally ambiguous artwork instead of the reality at hand. Fearing your new discovery, it dawned on him how art could affect him.
Boats on the water never moved him, but he saw a reflection of his mood in it now.
Finally turning, he noticed you affectionately looking at the gentleman on the bench with a sketch pad in hand. Likely in his 70s, he formed the portrait of Venus and Mars ahead of him, hands shaking as he balanced the spiraled book on his knee.
Soothing his dreary headspace, his lip twitched at the sight, marveling that someone with such talent sat without recognition. It seemed cruel that no one had his pictures on the walls, gawking at the straight lines done by hand or the blending of charcoal.
Yet, as Steve saw your face, he realized that if anyone looked at him that way, he would sit on wooden benches without a known name for years.
“He is.” Steve agreed, scratching the back of his neck, the other man pushing his glasses up his nose to get a better look.
The beauty of the gallery captivated you both, but half of your brains focused on the other, watching as the other absorbed another masterpiece.
Between the 18th century section, Steve’s hand brushed against yours, initially coy until you trailed yours against his. Taking a leap of faith, he held your hand in his, his heartbeat plunging through his wrist against yours.
Walking down the staircases, fingers interlaced as you whispered about the passing artwork.
You learned he was from Hawkins, Indiana. An only child who graduated last year, but postponed the trip after his old job burned down, where he also met his best friend, Robin. He has a few friends, some of who are freshmen that he befriended after dating one of their older sisters. (You could see his visible panic at the mention, so you brought up a past boyfriend of yours whose sister you kept up with.)
Sounds of children leaving school filled the tight roads as you walked hand in hand with no end in mind. The back of Steve’s socks began to slip, but he barely noticed until a blister began, popping into a convenience store.
Sat on the grass in a park, Steve unlaced his shoes to put the band-aid on, the only bandages left being purple and pink ones. Struggling to turn his lifted foot in his denim, he huffed, a stray piece of hair whipping up.
“Here.” You chuckled, grabbing the small plastic wrapper and opening it. Crumbles of wax paper sat on top of your purse, focused on putting the sticker right over his reddened skin.
Far from pure, Steve still felt his ears warm at the benevolent touch as you pressed down to secure it in place. Thanks were whispered under his breath, pulling his socks up and tying the laces.
“I used to work at this camp and kids got hurt all the time,” You laid back, resting on the clean grass, “It was never anything too bad, but I bought the character ones with Mickey Mouse or He-Man on them. I carried them on me forever, but I gave my last one away a few days ago when I saw a mom and her screaming toddler.”
Back resting beside you, the fabric covering your shoulders touched, Steve looked at the gloomy London sky.
Such weather used to agitate him, wishing it were sunny enough to wear a shirt or shorts, but the past few days made him enjoy the lack of sweat when walking and relaxing outside.
“What character was it?” He asked, looking over at you who met his eyes.
“It was Jeannie from the I Dream of Jeannie cartoon, they were on sale.” You muttered, preparing for the groan that came from boys when discussing the supposed girl’s cartoon.
What you didn’t expect was his mouth to hang open, scoffing, “And I didn’t get one? That sucks!”
Noting your pleasantly surprised expression, he added, “So, I didn’t have siblings growing up, but I had cousins. The one closest to my age is Riley, she’s two years older than me, and when we were young, she loved that show. So much, that she made me watch it constantly.”
A hollow feeling resonated in his chest at the memory coming into view, his face directed toward the sky, “She understood when my parents would argue and shit, so she’d put it on really loud so I wouldn’t hear… Sorry that was a bit much, it’s a cool cartoon!”
“Don’t apologize, Steve, not for being open with people.” You smiled, not moving your stare at his face. With little space between the two of you, you noticed the array of freckles on his nose and cheeks, some lighter than others.
The tips of his lashes touched them when he closed his eyes, scrunching together when his nose twitched which was rosy from the biting cool air.
Peering over at you, he shifted to his side, not caring if any dirt ended up on his white shoes. Mimicking his stance, you propped up beside him, stunned at just how many things had to happen for you to end up here.
“I almost went to the coffee shop up the street.” You revealed, plucking the longer strands poking from the ground, twisting them.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” He disclosed, “I don’t want to sound crazy, but I really like you.”
Blood rushing to your cheeks, you initially tried fighting back your joy, weighing your burden of a plane tomorrow before it. Nevertheless, his bronze iris’ made you feel dizzy, hoping the sun would never set.
“I like you too, Steve, but I leave tomorrow.”
Already handed this information, it still sunk in his gut that you had to get on that plane tomorrow, that it wouldn’t magically be rescheduled to the day he left or you’d show up in Hawkins.
Life passed Steve by for as long as he had experienced it, focusing on getting through or ignoring the things too big to be processed with ease, something he couldn’t do anymore.
“I know, but please, give me tonight.” He pleaded, “We can call out friends and say we’ll be back whenever and just spend the rest of the time roaming. I just don’t-”
Your answer was shown with your lips on his, tasting the free mints given to you at the cafe and chapstick. Hand cupping your cheek, he deepened the affection, withholding the urge to explore at the recollection you were in public.
Parting ways, you looked at him shyly before standing up, reaching out a hand to help him up. Grabbing your bags and each other's hand, you ventured onward. Steve moved to your left side to be closer to the traffic once you reached the main sidewalk.
“Want something to eat? We could stop by the shopping area down this way.” You suggested, feeling the curling of your tummy after a few hours of walking. Or the nerves you succumbed to around Steve. You weren’t sure.
Thoughts coinciding, you headed down the brick lane, the wind tickling your ears. You wondered if the passing strangers assumed you were in a relationship, a piece of you aching at how nice it would be to begin again.
Steve held an analogous notion, considering what his life would be like if he lived in a city where no one knew him or his parents. How they wouldn’t know King Steve and his plethora of mistakes that lived within the walls of his high school.
Maybe he belonged somewhere he wouldn’t have even fathomed, smelling the perfumes crafted in petite bottles exclusively in the town or pastries those in Hawkins would never know.
Past hours led him into imagining you in his life, and that if you ran the other way, he wouldn’t forget a second. Each holiday or celebration, he would wonder what the girl in the coffee shop was doing as he stared out his family's window, reality over his shoulder in the crowded living room.
Warm air surrounded you both as you entered the small deli, an elderly woman preparing paninis that smelled too delicious. Humming in delight, you both examined the menu, picking out which ones you preferred.
“Ham and cheese for you and the gentleman with two bottles of water.”
You both got the same thing.
Steve made sure to grab his wallet before you could, hands occupied with sandwiches to reach in your purse. He ignored your protest, handing the woman a few pounds, and putting the rest in the small tip jar accented with ribbon.
“Steve!” You whined as the door shut, the faint ring of the front bell behind you, “You didn’t have to.”
He grinned cheekily, grabbing his sandwich from your hand in order to hold it in his left and your hand in his right. “I know.”
Thankfully, the area was close to a field, choosing to sit against the damp grass, watching children play in front of you with traffic existing to your rear.
The first bite made you both look at each other, knowing that this was heavenly and a great decision. The bread was fluffy while the cheese was stringy, complemented by the flavorful pork inside. Due to hunger, you sat in silence for a few minutes, watching two little boys attempt to climb a tree.
“I really hope they don’t fall.” Steve mentioned as the boy’s shoes slipped down the bark, close enough to the ground not to hurt.
Nodding, you watched as the one on the branch yelled to the one on the ground, seemingly frustrated with his inabilities.
“I couldn’t climb trees,” You recalled, “could you?”
“Yeah, I was pretty athletic, and did a lot of sports to get out of the house.” He thought, knowing he realized that much later, “I still work out sometimes, but nothing like I used to.”
“I used to go outside with chalk all the time. I can’t draw for shit, but it was fun.” You disclosed, memories of pink powder covering your elbows and jeans, usually getting a scolding from your parents for a mess that would come out in the wash. “My parents could afford for me to do a sport a year, but by the time it came to do it, I overheard my parents stressing about swim camp. The next morning, I told them I completely lost interest, asking for sketchbooks instead to keep me busy in summer.”
Aware of his privilege, there were still small things Steve never thought about. That the small sum of a camp was a large amount for others. It sounds ignorant in his head, but he recalls Robin mentioning how she and her mom would split sandwiches when going out when growing up.
Sensing the discomfort he tried to hide, you nudged him, “I can draw a mean stick figure though and I eventually learned how to swim.”
He laughed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. He felt word vomit bubbling up, seeing your kind expression chopping away at his guarded exterior.
He wished he had a diary that he could let you read, and find every aspect of himself he loved, hated, and felt neutral about. Just so he could ask if you still like him. The thought terrified him, the answer, but also that he even contemplated it.
Bird noises came from the kids in the park, screeching as the one jumped from the branch and onto the brown and green leaves beneath him. The crunch matched your bites, filling your ears as you savored the moment.
“Do you like kids?” You asked, watching as the boys ran to see a girl sitting with dolls, her growling at their attempt to touch their sparkly dresses with their dirty fingers.
Scoffing, “Yeah, they seemingly are pulled to me. I have a few munchkins I watch after back at home.”
“I like kids too, I used to babysit,” You trailed off, a thought creeping in, “I don’t know if I want kids of my own though because I’d really want to be a good mom. I wouldn’t want them to ever have any doubts that I was there for them, you know?”
A shatter blasted through Steve’s chest, “Yeah, I have this dream that I have, like, six kids. But sometimes, I think about if I’d really be a good dad or not. I like to think I couldn’t be worse than my own, he mainly threw money my way and went off to work. But then I think about having a kid that's my own blood, it’s happy and sad.”
The words spewing from his loose lips had never been uttered to another, yet you agreed, letting your leg brush his as they outstretched on the ground. He looked to see your meek smile, an empathetic one, yet your eyes read a rawness he didn’t see often.
“My parents paid for this trip, but I’ve tried using my own money for everything I’ve done since I got here. They gave me this credit card, but didn’t come to my graduation.” He sighed, “But that sounds ridiculous because money is important! I have a nice house and clothes-”
“It doesn’t buy parenthood or happiness though, Steve.” You concluded for him, watching him try to explain his sentiment, but you knew.
When you saw Steve, you didn’t see a spoiled rich boy. Truly you weren’t sure exactly what you saw. You knew he had hazel eyes and chestnut hair, gentle hands with a ring on his index finger, soft lips, and a pink bandaid on the back of his ankle.
His lips greeted yours soon after, a gentle peck that felt intimate, like two lovers who knew each other's bodies like the back of their hand and their souls like it was embedded on their own. It made your cheeks hot.
“Yeah, I want my kids to know I love them and how to make a mean stick figure.” He joked, making you chuckle, taking the final bite of your panini.
Standing to throw away your trash, Steve joined you, taking your hand and swinging it. The nearby bus stop had a few people beside it as the red vehicle approached and stopped.
Reaching to his bag, he grabbed his wallet where two bus passes were placed in a folder. Neither of you cared to check where it was exactly going, walking up to the second level and sitting as the engine kicked into gear.
Trees and street lights blurred as you drove along the route, the sun beginning to set into a beautiful orange and blue mesh. Steve’s arm was slung across your frame, resting your head on his shoulder.
“We should just stay here forever.” Steve teased, but too foolish to immediately agree if you had said yes. That he would run the credit card dry and work every moment to make sure you were taken care of.
“We should,” You sighed, seeing the faint outline of your breath in the chill air, “but I would miss my cat.”
Laughing, he rubbed your bicep, looking around at the scenery. Big Ben was in sight, pointing at the building in awe as the clock's black hands ticked on.
Days and nights in the London air made your heart swell, eyes burning in unshed tears as you were reminded of the ticking clock.
A jolting stop signaled you both off, walking into the busy alleys as strangers conversated after a long day of work.
“What do you want to do? Work wise.” You asked, looking at the men in business casual clothes, drinking a Guinness with their sleeves rolled to their elbows.
Shrugging, he bit the inside of his lip briefly, “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.”
“How exciting.” You responded, his face dropping at his initial thought that you were ridiculing him, but he saw your warm smile. “Not knowing can be exciting, I mean it, you have so many options that you haven’t even heard of.”
Ears turning pink, he ran his fingers through his hair, “I guess so, thanks. What about you?”
“Figuring it out.” You quipped, fingers skimming over his knuckle, “Oh, we should probably call our friends. Do you know the number to your hotel?”
The red phone booth could only fit one person as you went first, spinning the dial as you held the scribbled-down numbers. Steve fished out the hotel's business card with Robin’s handwriting on the back, the room number, and the phone number.
He heard your boisterous laugh through the thick glass, catching your glance when you turned towards him with a smile, soon placing the phone back up.
Steve took his turn, holding the plastic phone to his ear as the dial tone rang. The receiver picked up, immediately speaking.
“Hello?”
“Rob, it’s Steve.”
“Oh, shit Harrington! Where are you? Did you get lost-” She began listing off, mind going to the worst as she untied her shoes in their room.
Groaning, “What, no! I’m fine- I’m great. I’m not going to be back till early morning though-”
A whine filled the speaker as Robin’s foot hit the ground, loud enough to be picked up, “You’re getting laid and I’m not? I thought Europe was progressive or some shit-”
“I’m not getting laid!” Steve gritted, making sure you weren’t overhearing the conversation. He caught you speaking to the florist on the street, smelling the lilies and roses they had picked.
“So you’re just hanging out outside?” Robin squinted, though alone with no one to witness, but Steve knew her well enough to read her expression through tone.
“No! No, I met someone-”
“Always meeting someone, never meeting a job-”
“Robin!”
“I’m just messing with you! Sheesh, anyways, who is it?”
“I met her in a coffee shop this morning and we just hit it off. She leaves tomorrow morning and we’re going to walk around through the night… I really like her Robin, I haven’t felt this way since Nance.”
“Oh, wow,” Robin sighed, knowing the emotional rollercoaster her friend experienced, “I’m happy for you, just be safe, call me if anything happens.”
The duo joked around more often than not, but she knew he didn’t open up to everyone. So if he felt strongly and even admitted it, it was a big deal.
“Will do. Love you, dude. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Stepping out from the stuffy box, he wrinkled his nose at the cold air, approaching you as you paid for two flowers. Practically skipping towards him, you put one behind his ear, a white daisy, with an identical one behind yours.
“You’re so beautiful, Steve Harrington.” You muttered, looking at him so lovingly that he wanted to curl in a ball.
“And you’re ethereal.” He smiled, cupping your cheeks in his hands, kissing your forehead as you laughed, “What?”
“You so got that from the word of the day thing in the newspaper.” You accused, knowing the local paper had that in large print, making Steve huff playfully.
“It must have known I was meeting you.” He saved himself, smirking as he watched you become bashful.
Pushing his chest, you looked down, “Sap.”
Wandering brought you to the riverside, a gathering happening of people dancing to jazz music the performers played. The sound of the saxophone made your feet tingle, heading toward the strangers.
It had been the weekly performance for the band, a jar with pounds inside that you both added to.
Neither of you were classically trained dancer, but the upbeat rhythm of Beyond The Sea was infectious, making him spin you around. Steve sang in a theatrical manner, recalling the days his grandfather would turn on a Bobby Darin record when he taught him cards.
A few songs zoomed by, one of you knowing a tune the other didn’t, joyfully ignoring the ache in your shoes as the moon came into full view.
A chilling D cord signaled from the group for a song, finally, you both knew. The other pairs grew closer as they swayed back and forth, but you and Steve stayed frozen as We’ll Meet Again began.
It felt too cinematic, as the lyrics of a crooning voice simmered into your consciousness, the kind eyes you knew only briefly left you hypnotized.
Nearly stumbling, you rested your cheek on Steve’s chest, hands around his neck as his went around your waist. He leaned his head against your hair, indulging in the scent of your perfume.
Words could be spoken in vain, stories of how you both could meet up and live together forever somewhere. The future was unwritten, however, no promises could be made to soothe your aching hearts.
The band thanked the crowd before cleaning up, both of you continuing on to the journey ahead. The song had left you both speechless, not an easy feat for him, and the stars assisted the illumination of your skin.
“What time is your flight?” Steve inquired, his watch showing it was already past 3 in the morning.
“It’s at 7:30, I’ll need to get there by 5:30.” You respond glumly, “My friend is bringing my bags though, so we can head straight there- If you wanted to go all the way there with me?”
An L shape going to his chin, he stroked his imaginary beard as he hummed, bumping into your arm. You scoffed, pushing his body away, laughter bubbling between the two of you.
A stone-covered bridge came before you, wandering over and stopping to watch the fish below. Steve looked at your profile in the moonlight and wished he had a photograph, giving him an idea for later.
“Are you scared of planes?” He queried, his own memory of Robin hyperventilating for the first hour of the flight replaying in his mind.
“I’m neutral, I’ve flown a few times before, but I’m not super comfortable.” You revealed, “What about you?”
“Same here. I used to hate them because it meant my dad was on a business trip that I’d be dragged along to, but now I can do it for funner reasons.”
Nodding, a smirk formed on your face, “I don’t think funner is a word, gorgeous.”
Ignoring the pet name that made him flustered, he pouted, pushing away from the edge to walk forward.
“It is to me!” He argued as you caught up with him, though he grabbed your hand within seconds.
The area was now familiar as he and Robin had wandered these streets on their first day, excited to be in a new place for the first time.
A few strangers wandered the roads, a cigarette lit between their lips as they trotted. Though, Steve had his sights set on the building at the corner of the two roads, a photo booth there.
Before you could question his motive, he dragged you in, squeezing onto the plastic seat, the bright light overhead. Popping a euro in, he paid for two film strips.
“Okay, what are we doing?” He asked, looking at you hopefully, the first photo accidentally going off, “Shit!”
Through giggles, you pulled him closer to look at the camera with wide grins, then a silly one. For the last one, he didn’t ask or follow your lead, he grabbed your warm cheeks and kissed you.
The final click was ignored as he continued to move his lips against yours, your nose slightly cold against the frigid air. Breathless, he pulled away, forehead against yours for a beat.
Returning outside the curtain, you each got your film strips, smiling at them in your grasp. The film shined under the streetlights, a glossy finish on the paper, placing it carefully in your purse.
With his hand in yours, you continued on, the wind whistling through tree branches and against thin window panes. The roads twisted and turned, passing by restaurants whose lights had been out for hours.
“I really enjoy spending time with you.” You mumbled, resting your head against his arm, “I wish I didn’t have to leave-”
“Hey, c’mon, don’t think about that right now. We have a few hours left.” He consoled, though sadness dripped from his words as he felt the same dread.
“I’m going to write you a letter, but you can’t open it until I leave tomorrow.” You announced, shuffling through your purse, ripping two pages from your small notebook, and grabbing a pen.
“I want to do one too.” Steve added, taking a sheet and your spare pen.
Taking a seat at a nearby bar, you sat at different tables outside, covering your words with your forearm despite the distance. Occasional playful sneers were thrown each other's way before smiling.
Both of you resisted the urge to tear it open, seeing what the other truly thought. Part of him doubted you fell for him, convincing him he’d hear the painful words that it was bullshit. Part of you doubted he fell for you, another boy taking your feelings and crushing them.
Folding them neatly, you exchanged your messages, leaving a lip gloss-covered kiss on yours. Your eyes locked as you stood still, letters in each pocket, it seemed like a trance. It was broken by the speeding of a yellow cab, swinging the turn like the cops were after him.
“We should probably call a cab,” Steve suggested, looking at his time as it taunted both of you, approaching the side of the building near a payphone, “I have some coins if you need-”
Glossy lips touched his slightly chapped ones, molding against one another in bliss as you ignored his words, back bumping against the brick wall.
Not the most abrupt, the quiet of the night made you bolder, knowing that even if someone was around, they were likely wandering or going straight home. They didn’t know you and they didn’t know Steve, you were just two strangers kissing under the dark sky.
His hands went around your waist, pulling you closer with a grunt, hand covering a portion of your bottom. His gorgeous locks were soon woven in between your fingers, feeling how soft they were. His teeth caught your plush lips in a whimper, gasping when he pulled away.
“Fiesty.” He teased, making you whine, dropping your head onto his shoulder. Remembering his hands were on your ass, he pulled away, reaching for the red door to call the taxi.
The operator sent him forward, looking back at the street name and the building you were in front of. The man’s gruff voice was hard to understand, practically smelling the cigarette smoke through the speaker.
“Trying to get rid of me.” You sighed as he walked out, arms opening and engulfing you despite your quick wit.
Arms around one another, you stood in the sounds of your accompanying breath, hearing his heartbeat through his sweater.
“Are you cold?” He worried, rubbing your arms lovingly as the stillness of your bodies made the temperature settle.
“I’m okay, don’t let go.” You mumbled against his chest, feeling vibrations of his stifled laugh.
A taxi whipped around the tight corner, bright lights shining in your faces. He relinquished his hold to open the door, hand meeting the small of your back to guide you inside to sit.
The London lights blurred together as you rested your head on his shoulder, secretly inhaling his scent and hoping you’ll be able to remember it.
Shapes in various sizes were drawn against the skin on your knee with his fingers, cheek pressed against your hair.
“God, I hope he remembered everything.” You sighed with humor, but also worried your friend would forget any essentials. Thankfully, you planned on spending most of the day out so your bag was pretty much packed.
“I hope he doesn’t, make you stuck here longer.” He smirked, squeezing your thigh.
The sound of the wet pavement froze as you entered the drop of section, people bustling towards the front doors of the airport filled with exhaustion and stress.
Steve unbuckled and opened the door for you, paying the driver before you could.
Mouth open to complain, he yanked you forward to kiss your lips, hands around your waist as yours went behind his neck.
Over dramatic and much more public than either of you typically preferred, there was nothing that could remove your lips from one another. Except Rodney.
“Dude!” A high pitched male voice let out as another taxi driver tossed the luggage onto the ground, a skinny man standing on the sidewalk with messed up hair.
Your frame left Steve’s grasp as you went to the baby blue suitcase on the ground, sitting it upright.
“About time, bitch!” The boy snapped, but there was familiarity behind it, “Ugh, girl, that was the worst car I’ve ever been in, smelled like piss- Wait who’s the cutie?” His voice dropped lower to avoid lingering ears at the last comment.
Scratching the back of his neck at the compliment, Steve let you introduce him, “Rodney, this is Steve, Steve this is my best friend, Rodney.”
“Hi.” He chuckled, “Sorry I stole her for the last night of your trip.”
“No, no, I see why she stayed.” Rodney smiled, nudging you who was more bashful than Steve had seen, “It’s nice to meet you, Steve. I’ll go ahead and get in line so you guys can say bye.”
Rodney walked off with all the baggage, a pep in his step despite the sun having yet to make an appearance.
Steve finally ripped his attention from the boy walking inside to you who looked to the road, tears already coating your eyes, “Hey, don’t cry, it’s okay.”
With a laugh, you subconsciously rubbed your nose, “I don’t know why I’m-“
“Oh no, trust me, I probably will cry too.” He eased your distress, embracing you in a final hug.
Each grip was tighter than the last for your hugs, this one nearly mending each body together. A peck left on the warmth of his neck, you lifted your head for a last kiss, his eagerness at an all-time high.
When your lips stopped moving, it took a moment to pull away as neither of you wanted to. A burning sensation reached your throat and behind your eyes, toes curling within your knitted socks.
“As cheesy as this may sound, I’ll never forget you, Steve. I’ll see you again- Unless you don’t want me to-“
“Don’t even finish that sentence because I am one bad decision away from hopping on that plane with you.” He quipped, leaning back enough to see your face.
“I’ll see you?” You murmured, not caring how stereotypical it sounded.
In romance movies, you’d groan at the common tear-jerking goodbyes, but as you stood in the midst of an airport goodbye, you understood. You got why they’d run back to the lover’s arms and never leave. You knew if you ran into Steve’s arms again, you’d never leave.
“Not if I see you first.” He mustered, kissing your forehead before revoking his arms from you, already burning with desire to reattach.
As the cotton fabric left your touch, you smiled at him through tears, turning on your heels and into the clear doors.
In the flurry of people, you turned around, waving at the boy who was right where you left him, and if you squint hard enough, you think you could still see your heart in his hands.
Steve waited until you joined Rodney, watching as the boy gave you a hug with a soothing hand on your back. Swallowing the influx of emotions, he walked away with lead-filled shoes, utilizing every ounce of self-control to keep going.
The tube station nearby ran to Piccadilly Circus, close enough to walk to his hotel from there. Securing a white stub, he found a seat on the nearly empty cart, a crunch sounding from his pocket.
Quickly taking the note covered in lip gloss out, he traced his thumb over the way you wrote his name. As the engine began, he unfolded the thin paper, taking a soothing breath.
Dear Steve,
Right now, you’re sitting at a metal table at a closed bar and I don’t think anyone’s looked more beautiful. My gut is dropping to my toes in fear that you don’t feel as strongly, but I think you do, that hasn’t happened to me before.
I’m not the best with words, but I love your hair and eyes and sweater and shoes and pink bandaid on your ankle. You’re incredibly kind and smart and memorable. You’ve given me more joy in these few hours than I’ve had in months.
I hope to see you again soon, gorgeous, I need to teach you how to draw one badass stick figure. My phone number and address are on the back of the paper, but don’t stalk me. Or do, I think you’d make your presence known anyways.
Love, Y/N.
The sounds around him went mute as he felt the unfamiliar sting of tears, something he never let himself embrace. But the words made his heart soar high enough to punch his nose, setting his emotions ablaze.
Meanwhile, you sat in the window seat on a full plane, Rodney already dozing off beside you as reached steady enough air to relinquish mandatory seat belts.
Your hand finally reached your bag, holding the paper from your own notebook that was covered in writing belonging to the boy at the cafe.
Dear Y/N,
I didn’t have any idea how this trip would go, but I’m glad you showed up at that coffee shop instead of the one down the road.
To start, you’re fucking beautiful. A kind of beautiful where even if you didn’t speak a word to me this morning, I would’ve talked Robin’s ear off about you all day anyways.
You’re so nice, like so nice it gives me cavities. (Just kidding, perfectly healthy teeth- That was very stupid, sorry) And you are so gentle and caring, I want to spend more and more time seeing it because even when you weren’t looking at me, I felt my cheeks getting red.
I hope I don’t sound too dumb when I say this, but you made me feel very happy. I hadn’t felt a need to spend so much time with one person in a very long time, to open up to someone like I did today. But it felt natural, like anything else would’ve been a crime.
My grandpa loved this Frank Sinatra song called Bewitched, I don’t remember the words, but I know the feelings when I thought of someone caring for me that way and I heard it as we danced a few hours ago. You’ve bewitched me.
My address and phone number are on the back, I just really hope you can read my terrible handwriting.
You mean a lot to me.
<3,
Steve.
“Honey, you okay?” Rodney whispered, watching your wet cheeks be wiped away with a napkin.
Nodding, you folded the note and put it in your purse, “I’m okay, Rod,” You sniffled, staring at your shoes that had reminisced of dirt from the grasses and sidewalks you strolled.
“I think I could be a witch.” You declared with an elbow to his bicep, his snort was subtle as he grabbed your hand and squeezed it. You longed for Steve’s.
“Hey,” You alerted the boy to your right, “Want to go to Indiana?”
tagging: @ali-r3n @honey-eyed-munson @bakugouswh0r3 @jj-ever-lovely-jewel @spicysix @andvys @berryfairy444 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @bimbobaggins69 @lilacletter
#elora writes#steve harrington#steve harrington x fem#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington thoughts#steve harrington x you#steve harrington stranger things#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington moodboard#steve harrington drabble#steve harrington hurt/comfort#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington x reader#stranger things#steve stranger things
187 notes
·
View notes
Text
this was supposed to be a little Price thought but it got away from me and it's 1112 words
warnings: fem!reader who's decided kids aren't the best idea for her, mentions of sex and breeding kink, brief mentions of a disordered relationship w/food
“Are you still planning on children?”
It takes John a minute, in the post coital haze, to understand the question his wife whispers from the bathroom doorway, naked in the easy way of years together.
She stands there, skin reddened in the places he was just holding onto like a lifeline, and she looks at the towel in her hands instead of him. It’s steps, between them, but they turn to ice for John, a little Siberia in the middle of South East London.
“Loaded question, isn’t it, love?”
“You brought it up,” she breaks the frost, moving to settle on the edge of the bed, right next to him. Her towel is warm, he realizes, as she works it over where he’s drying itchy with sweat and cum. Barely wet and gentle on his skin.
And John knows what she means, can still feel the words on his tongue: I’ll fill you, love, fill you ‘till it takes. He doesn’t regret them, doesn’t want to regret them because it gets him there in record time, does the job so well for him that just thinking about them has his cock hardening again to the warmth and the wetness and the subtle pressure of her hands.
But that’s all it is, a fantasy that ends here, when he cums. He doesn’t spend his days imagining his wife pregnant in his daily life. In fact, now that he thinks about it, the thought’s strange, leadens his stomach with an irrational sort of anxiety. He spends too much time away, too far removed from this unstoppable woman, to think of her vulnerable and not feel a certain kind of madness tugging at the threads of his self control.
“Do you want children?”
He counters, buys time, though he knows it’s unfair to twist the question on her. They talked about it, once, before the marriage, when they felt younger and the future seemed so terribly malleable. John said it might be good to have a couple. But he didn’t want to be a Christmas dad, seeing his offspring every four to six months and have them cry in his arms because they don’t recognize a man who’s more thought than father to them.
He’d planned to retire, cut back at least, before he’d consider any children. And now he can’t, not with so much to do. He couldn’t sit by a desk and watch other people forced into the kinda shit only he —and Kyle and Soap and Simon— will voluntarily sign up for. So it’s looking more and more like it might not happen for him, and he’s comfortable with that.
But they’d agreed, back then, on an indefinite but small amount of kids. And now his wife, the one with an actual life and a home where she welcomes him, is not looking at him as he refuses to answer. Not until he hooks his fingers in the crook of her knee and smooths his thumb over her thigh. She sighs at the touch, leaves the towel in favor of drawing nonsense patterns over his stomach.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to have children, John”
He frowns, but waits in silence. There’s something sad hiding behind the fleeting smile she gives him, something guilty that makes him brace himself for movement. The impulse he’s felt since the moment he fell in love with her, to fight for her, against the world. Like he’s an attack dog, built for violent resistance in her name.
“My body feels off, some days, like I don’t belong in it. I skip breakfast sometimes, I leave the metro a station back, for the walk.”
Her voice is soft, but her eyes are unrelenting, now that she’s started. And she rushes through the admission, makes it a simple stating of facts, like making the shopping list.
“I don’t think I can survive having someone else in this body without hating them, and a baby doesn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
John’s heart balloons in the quiet of the moment. He can’t help the lopsided smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth, which he realizes isn’t a reasonable reaction. But it’s this, the clarity and the unflinching honesty, why he adores her so completely.
Whatever ache is in the confirmation of closing this particular door, outweighed by the pride of knowing she trusts him with the naked, uncomfortable truths of her. And that, John supposes, is what burns at him and he doesn’t know how to put into words when he talks about filling her up, when he thinks about breeding, in the most primal, basic sense of the kink. He just wants to make himself a part of her, wants to know her to the last little cell and live in the spaces between them.
“So if you want to have children, I think we would have to consider other options.”
That comment brings John’s focus snapping back to her hands, to the way she spins her wedding band, tugs on it until it hits the speed bump of the knuckle, a gesture he isn’t sure is conscious but that telegraphs exactly where her head is at.
“You’re all I want, love. No hypotheticals.”
“John—“
“No,” he catches her hand, pulls it back to his chest. He uses it to anchor himself, sitting up to kiss away whatever objection she’s cooking up. “I don’t say what I don’t believe in, right?”
“Right,” her stance slackens and her body tilts forward so her torso slots against his, a perfect fit.
“Won’t bring it up again, love.”
“I like it,” it’s a mumble against his neck, his jaw, that turns into kisses that follow the line of his beard. “Just wanted to let you know, in case—“
John simply hums, keeps the groan in his throat, the one she likes best; because however tempting her sweet weight is on him, he’s weighing his options for breaching the other touchy subject this impromptu conversation raised, on a cold morning in the middle of his first week home in a while.
“About the eating—“
“I have it handled,” she says, stretching and twisting until her legs end up on each side of him again, "I'm trying."
"Ok. But you'll let me know if you need something from me, right?"
She nods, pulls back form him just to grin like she's misbehaving, or just about to.
"Could I have another round for now?"
And John laughs against her until she's squirming at the feeling of his whiskers on her skin, 'cause how could he ever deny his favorite girl.
#m: cod#r: fluff#captain john price x reader#personal#i'm actually sort of nervous about posting this#cause i feel like the fandom at large has decided Price is a dad™ and the thought of him not having biological children#and by choice no less is an unpopular opinion
74 notes
·
View notes
Text
London: Holiday Prelude || JTK
18+MDNI
Paring: Jakexreader(f)
LONDON SERIES MATERPOST
A/N: Howdy! Here to interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with twist on the London menu: A TIME JUMP! This is how I envision the first meeting between Jake and the reader unraveled. This one is very fluff (which is a bit off brand for this series) and is my gift to all readers who have remained loyal amongst the endless angst. I'm aware, holiday editions are normally posted before the holidays, but I have chronically delayed holiday spirit that doesn’t spark until about a week before Christmas which is when I started this. My holidays got a bit more hectic than I expected so I didn’t finish till just now, but I figured I’d pos. Also, know that my particular style of writing is shaped by an editing process of which requires time I did not have, so baby this is ROUGH. Anyways, I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think.
Summary || Before the storm, there was a calm. Your first interaction with Jake is less than ideal, but you give him a redeeming chance only to spark something more.
Content Warnings || holiday [stress], workload stress, slight verbal aggression, holiday party setting, depictions of affectionate displays
Word Count || 6.6k
– December 24th, London, UK –
Your arduous typing is disrupted by the groan of your office door as it’s hesitantly eased open. You rigorously resume your work, not even averting your eyes to make note of who has disturbed you. You already know it's your colleague. You know they have trouble for you. And you know it's a problem you don’t currently have the attention span nor time for.
Eyes still pinned to the numbers on your computer screen, you address the damsel in distress dawdling in the doorway behind you, “Is it urgent? I’m on a deadline.”
“Um- There’s a customer out here who I have tried my best to help with the knowledge I have,” she remorsefully squeaks.
You mellow your tone as you can hear desperation shrouding her every word, “Tell them I’m unavailable.”
“I did- He insisted he speak to some form of management,” she huffs exasperatedly.
You come to a stopping point in your numbers game and begrudgingly pry your hands from your keyboard. You spring from your chair and propel yourself through the doorway, already eager to crawl back to the stillness of your office. Your footsteps echo against the hallway of dark offices and storage rooms in a unison stride to your coworker a pace behind you; two valiant knights on their quest to the front of the store.
Preparing yourself for battle, you dig for your finest customer service armor as it's buried beneath all the enervating adversities and blows of running the shop; a duty you normally carry so effortlessly and gracefully, but this year you had been the only manager who volunteered to work the holiday week. Your workload alone is enough to spook the average person, but the extra weight you foolishly decided to take on this year is a different beast. You have half a heart to gift yourself hair dye this Christmas as you’re already convinced the New Year would find you prematurely gray.
“Alright, let’s see the prick who is harassing my-,” your finishing thought never arrives as you swing the door open to reveal the store.
Any and all resentment is momentarily tamed by the endless sight of musical paraphernalia. Every last inch of the walls are shrine to the greats; posters, pins, buttons, stickers, clothing, books, CDs, tapes, cassettes, and of course aisles and aisles of record vinyl LPs; all seem to celebrate your great escape from the confinement of your office.
Your eyes adjust to the warm lighting that coats everything and everyone bustling about isles, faces beaming with joy as they discover new treasures to call their own; treasures you ordered and stocked the shelves with yourself.
You take a deep inhale of the healing sight in front of you. You never tire of walking through this door after a long day; a portal to your favorite realm. Your spirit beams as you recognize the classic rock sonic of The Dire Straits pouring through the speakers at way too loud a volume. You find it almost impossible to be upset within these walls. Almost.
Though you want nothing more than to idly wander around the store, you redirect your focus to the task at hand; eyes scouring the floor for the customer that so desperately needs your attention. Within an instant, you undoubtedly deem a man within your gaze responsible for your unnecessary ordeals; no guidance from your coworker is required to know exactly who summoned you from your hideaway.
He is an ornate scene; one that confiscates and pleases your attention all at once. He stands, bare chest proud and puffed, fingers fidgeting with the facial hair that roofs his protruding pout as he devoutly scans through titles of the nearby books. His narrow shoulders are cloaked by long chestnut waves that frame delicate facial features and a prominent nose. He’s rather small in stature, yet strong in physique.
The pretty man is bewitching in the way he seems to have just hopped out of some antecedent reality; a walking, talking antique. Doused in all black, he wears a blazer and waistcoat with nothing underneath to properly clothe his tan skin except chunky chains weighed down by a ridiculous amount of pendants; all silver to match his oversized hoop earrings, reflectively gleaming as he saunters through trespassing sunlight. His torso is paired with black pleated trousers and seasoned black boots. This man looks as if he woke up and couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a pirate or a rockstar.
“You know, Halloween was almost two months ago,” you heedlessly blurt as soon as his golden brown eyes collect yours.
“Real original,” the customer retorts with a smirk and a slight shake of his head, “definitely never heard that one before.”
His American accent nearly startles you; his features certainly tell an origin story of Central Europe, yet his phrasing is not harsh enough to miss the hint of something not quite American in his raspy tone.
You quickly steer away from your cheeky dig and towards a more professional rapport.
“What can I help you with today Mr.?”
“Jacob Kiszka,” he extends his hand to shake yours, “but you can call me Jake.”
The Jake Kiszka. You have definitely heard his name before. A guitarist whose discography is infamously compared to and even deemed gross appropriation of classic rock legends; and whose romantic track record has an even worse stench.
You prematurely take the sincere offer of his hand before weakly falling back to your satirical ways, “Wow, lucky me- I’ve only heard stories of The Illustrious Jake Kiszka.”
He is not oblivious to your sarcasm but decides to take the cocky route anyway, “Oh- A fan, huh? Glad to know my reputation precedes me.”
“I never said they were good stories,” your hand repels from the guitarist’s calloused grasp and attaches to your hip, “but what brings you to my store?”
“This is the only place in town not playing Christmas music,” his eyes flit around the store trying to commit every last detail to memory as if his knowledge might be tested later and questions you with an intimacy he hasn’t yet earned, “So this is your kingdom, huh?”
“I don’t own it, just run it, but yes- this place is my baby and I’m its sales manager,” you briefly answer out of the scarce supply of decorum you currently possess and efficiently reroute to the reason for his visit, “but I doubt you came all this way just to escape the holiday spirit.”
“Well, I am currently in town and in dire need of a last-minute Christmas gift, and you came highly recommended as far as rare LP sets go,” his features stretch into a ponderous tightlipped smile.
The musician either isn’t receiving your assertion of pace or blatantly holds no regard for it as he digresses once again.
You aren’t certain whether his narrative is spoken to you, himself, or some unseen force, “But this really is some marvelous little store you run here. I have to admit I'm a bit envious. Somedays, I swear I would trade it all in for a simple quiet life like this.”
Simple? Quiet? Who the hell does this man think he is to come in the day before Christmas and casually spend your time and patience, only to then reduce your entire world to simple and quiet?!
Your fists discreetly curl behind the secrecy of your back as you scrupulously monitor your highly explosive tone, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Kiszka, but maybe we can hurry this along. I have lots of work in my simple quiet life to return to.”
Instantly, his entire physique cowers to a posture of mortification and regret. If your composure hadn’t already been so far spent, you might have even felt a strand of empathy or reprieve for him.
His face takes on a shameful shade of pink as fragments of an apology trip over one another, “No- No- That’s definitely not what I meant- Of course, the work you do here is very important. The responsibility of granting access-”
You wave him off, bestowing him clemency in hopes of ending this interaction as fast as possible, “It’s fine, but I really do have lots of work to return to, so just follow me.”
You hastily string him to the glass cases in the back of the store, a stream of clicking and clacking trails behind you with every heavy-footed step of his boots. His footsteps gradually sound less and less, his pace a relaxed rhythm compared to yours. You impatiently arrive at your destination of high-valued items and turn to see he is only leisurely tracing your path, still gazing about the store as if he is in an art gallery.
You inhale. You’ve dealt with worse. Today would not be the day you lose your patience with a customer.
Once he finally rejoins you at the display case, you begin the tour of each LP, explaining its contents, history, value, rarity, and your favorite details about it. Showmanly, you set a scene of necessity for each set as to speed his decision process along by targeting his obvious lack of impulse control.
You’re about done appraising almost five sets when a lack of opinions, theories, and questions registers from his silence. You transfer your vision to learn your audience had not at all been concentrating on your dissertation, those amber eyes studying you right back; eyes reflecting not a strand of cognizance for your vain words, pronouncing your breath wasted.
Your abrupt eye contact seems to burst his trance, clearly not expecting you to break from your sale.
“Are you hearing a word I’m saying or-,” you fuss, condemning any remaining attempts at professionalism.
His features reveal comprehension, your confrontation certainly registers but his ample lips only vacillate in a dumbfounded silence.
You flatly attempt to jumpstart his verbal reflexes, “Mr. Kiszka?”
Pressure-buildup from every imprisoned word rattling around his head with no escape, erupts all at once, “I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I heard you- It's just- When I asked for help today- I didn’t expect someone so-”
A brittle tone emerges before you can even take the time to contemplate what he is trying to articulate, “Young? A woman? A different stigma that probably has nothing to do with my knowledge of music or ability to manage a business?”
“No it's not that- It's just- you-,” he hesitates to catch the breath he forgot to take and decidedly abandons his current thought to expedite his next, as if they might trample over each other if he doesn’t, “This is very inappropriate but I seem to keep putting my foot in my mouth and I would appreciate it if you let me make it up to you over drinks tonight. Also, please call me Jake.”
His unanticipated proposition hitches your breath and widens your eyes, “You’re right, that is very inappropriate.”
He quickly shrinks yet doesn’t withdraw his offer, “My brothers will be there too if that makes you feel a bit better, but your expertise so far fascinates me, and I would love to discuss more with you.”
Asking you out. After insults. After disrespect. After no regard for your time-poor schedule. He is asking you out.
You take it back. You have not dealt with worse. This is definitely the worst.
Panic and indignation concoct a bitter climb in pitch, “Unfortunately, Mr. Kiszka, there’s still so much that requires my attention before the year’s end. I’m as busy as someone with a simple and quiet life can possibly be. That leaves no time for idle pints with random guys in pubs. So will you be purchasing anything today?”
“No- of course- you’re right- I’m terribly sorry- I do need to get something,” his attention finally converts to the vinyl with an oncoming frown, “but nothing here stands out to me. I know you certainly don’t owe me any favors but is there any way you can show me anything else? You know- the good stuff?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you blatantly feed him a white lie, “Excuse me? I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
You know exactly what he’s referring to. However, the thought of sharing another second with this infuriating stranger threatens to ignite fire to your dwindling composure. So, you tuck away all opportunities that would admit him to take any step that isn’t towards the door.
He drives his agenda one last time, “You know? The treasures that never see the shelf? Surely, you have a secret stash. Every great store has one.”
“I guess we’re just not that great of a store then,” the shit-eating grin that smears across your face wards off any other inquiries he might probe for, “I can assure you this is the best we have. Maybe next time, do all your Christmas shopping before Christmas Eve.”
You are immediately pricked by a pang of guilt. Even you can admit you are being impudently cruel; for which you expect at least a return of assailment. Yet it never arrives.
Instead, his eyebrows turned upwards just above a sheepish smirk and a diffident man takes the place of the obnoxiously charismatic rockstar once before you. He just might genuinely grieve the score of your transaction. As if he knows something you don’t. As if he knows in some other time or place this narrative was supposed to take a different course and he is now mourning a great failure.
“Okay- well, I can take a hint,” he meekly forfeits, “I apologize for wasting your time. Thank you so much for your help.”
You can’t seem to wrap your fingers around any response, lost somewhere amongst the spate of regret that you might have misjudged him based on presumptions. Your mouth runs dry and you’re only able to blankly stare back at him.
In your silence, he impulsively shoves his hand into his coat pocket and shimmies out some small notebook. He flips through pages and pages of scattered notes and highlights and even some light sketches before he finds the first blank sheet. He materializes a pen from the same pocket that had been sheltering the notebook and quickly scribbles before tearing out the page, folding it in quarters, and gifting it to you.
You’re not sure why, but you find your hand an open landing for the paper. Unconvincingly, you reassure yourself it's because you know little resistance will only usher him out of your store sooner.
As soon as he successfully rids himself of the note, you witness a bashful movement emerge upon his face in what you swear is the biggest and prettiest smile you’ve ever seen. You aren’t allotted time to admire or commit it to memory as its life spans less than a second, quickly shrinking till it's gone.
He bids you a rushed, “Take care, Merry Christmas,” before he turns on his heels and rapidly weaves his way through the isles till he disappears past the glass doors without so much as another word or last glance.
Your eyes gravitate back towards the paper in your hand. You inspect the folded thing before you decide reading its contents would hold no worthwhile benefit and absentmindedly place it in your own pocket.
— December 26th —
You mentally file through your checklist: The doors are locked, the drawer counted, and the lights turned off. Your colleague took care of the floor prep portion of closing duties before she left; you stayed way too late to finish your end-of-year reports. But you can’t seem to shake the feeling that you are forgetting something.
Your phone! You realize as you pat down your pockets you don’t have your phone.
You race to your office through the dark void store to see your abandoned device sitting on top of your desk. As you grab your phone, the little forsaken folded paper you forgot you had placed on the work area earns your attention. Whether you set it aside for two days in a veto or for safekeeping is beyond you.
Now having endured your irrationally aggravated haze that always shrouds end-of-year stress, the only thing that remains is a flare of burning curiosity.
You resist your own inquisitive demands and desert the mysterious note once more to hesitate towards the door, each step becoming more burdensome the further you trudge from your office.
Did you misconstrue him, seduced by mere whispers floating in the wind? Did you indignantly vilify him deceived by your own occupational duress? Despite being verbally clumsy, he was endearingly unconventional, and he clearly carried some remorse for your interaction.
You’re even baffled by the rumination this small piece of paper has conjured. Customers come and go, but you can’t seem to justify why he has become an unwelcome stowaway in your mind.
For the past two days, you’ve been choking on the bitter taste of rueful pining that you can’t seem to wash down. Suffocating under abrasive waves of what might have been if you’d only had patience to spare, till you can no longer deny your craving.
You find your limbs and retrace the progress you’ve just made. You restively unfold the note to read confirmation of the exact information you imagined was inked into the little white sheet.
Please, please, call me Jake.
And pretty please reconsider those drinks.
(248)434.5508
You are alarmed by the giggle that sounds past your giddy smile, penetrating the silence of an otherwise lifeless building. Your chest is ambushed by an aching weight as your sight darts across the hall to the storage housing the “secret stash” as he put it.
You suddenly have no idea why you’d been so hard on him; just that you’re now certain of your looming resentment. You’re not sure if it’s this reasoning, or the way he looked stunned by you, or even the shape of his giant childish smile you can’t seem to recall, that drives your thumb as you dubiously dial the phone number on the paper.
Each ring of another number entered descends you further on your fall from professionalism and floods your head with panic. As soon as the dial tone begins to ring against your ear you’re immersed into a fit of denial, convincing yourself his answer is an unlikely outcome; despite this being his phone number and you are, in fact, calling it.
“Hello,” his vaguely familiar rasp becomes one of undeniable recognition.
Neglecting to even consider what you might say if he did answer, you awkwardly blurt, “Hey, Mr.- Jake-,” it occurs to you that you never properly introduced yourself, “It’s the girl with a simple quiet life.”
You possess no control over your hand as it impulsively smacks against your forehead amid your poor choice of words.
You’re mortified he might have heard your reflex as he giggles through the line, “Hey, pretty girl. I was hoping you might call.”
— December 31st —
You aimlessly pace about the bathroom, your platform loafers suctioning with every sticky step on the tile. You survey the sting of your angry nail plates, red and visible from an anxious nail-biting fit.
A jiggle of the doorknob and a harsh knock on the door interrupts your examination.
“Just a minute,” your voice shakes trying to overpower the blaring music.
You possess no concept of how long you’ve been hiding out from the party just beyond the bathroom door. You had been wading through a sea of strangers for almost an hour looking for Jake before you finally became overwhelmed, retreating to a random bedroom and locking yourself inside its bathroom. You’re beginning to question Jake’s attendance at the very party he invited you to.
Another bang at the door.
You squeak in panic, “One second!”
You run your hands against your dress to wipe the sweat from them as you shuffle over to the mirror to perform a last-second evaluation. You straighten the collar of your little black button-down dress and readjust your pantyhose so the hem isn’t visible from your dress’s high-thigh split. You quickly retrieve your wine-red lipstick to featherly dap it over your lips in reapplication and sloppily attempt to recoil any broken curls before you're startled by another thud on the door.
You growl as you stomp over to the entryway, “Who the fuck?! I said hold-”
You swing the door open to gather those wide honey eyes framed by pretty chestnut waves.
The weight lifted from your chest is quickly chased by the embarrassment of your reaction, “Jake?!”
The both of you, relieved to see the other, spill your words out in unison, “Where have you been? I was looking for you!”
You aren’t sure whether the uncontrollable giggle you let out is induced by amusement or nerves. Jake only gives you a peculiar smirk while scanning you up and down.
He slightly tilts his head and tries to interrogate you through a chuckle, “How long have you been hiding in here?”
You’re only able to bat your eyes at him, clueless as to how to save yourself. The way he reads the situation with such accuracy makes you question whether you have the words “socially celibate” written on your forehead; which isn’t true about you at all. You are usually a social butterfly but something about Jake makes you want to gasp for air.
“I’m not hiding,” you blurt the lie straight through your teeth.
“It's blatantly obvious you're hiding,” he playfully rolls his eyes and leans against the doorway, listing the factors that clue him in, “this is not the most accessible bathroom. There’s a bit of wandering you have to do in order to end up here.”
You attempt to redirect his heat back on him, “Well, what are you doing in here?”
His brows draw together in confusion, “You mean…in my bedroom?”
If your face wasn’t beaming pink before it certainly is now.
That night on the phone he had apologized profusely. After you reciprocated the remorse, he insisted on making up for the misunderstanding in person and invited you to a New Year’s Eve party. You spent the hours of that night learning bits and pieces about each other over the phone, yet not once did he make you aware it was his party.
“I mean you invited me, but you failed to mention you own the place,” you shake your head and light-heartedly chide.
There’s a lot of attention that comes with being the host; attention you couldn’t compete with being that you have known Jake for all of five minutes. You have half a mind to make up some excuse to escape now and be done with this.
Jake’s words soothe your storming thoughts, “I’m just glad you’re here and I found you. It's almost midnight and I was starting to think you flaked.”
From where your abrupt banter appears you’re not certain, just that you’re pleased with its arrival, “Wow, all these guests and those pretty eyes were searching for little old me? I’m flattered.”
“I was only concerned you might be hiding in a bathroom somewhere,” he teases back.
You roll your eyes and exit the bathroom. Only now do your inhibitions hush, admitting you to espy Jake dressed essentially in the same ensemble as your first meeting, the sore difference being the color palette. However, this single change is not one of subtlety, as you discover navy blue is certainly Jake’s color.
Jake instructs you to reenter the party and he’ll come find you in a few before disappearing into his own bathroom.
You almost scoff out loud. There is no way you are subjecting yourself back to that lion's den alone. You instead idle about his room.
You presume this bedroom is the master due to its excessive space and height. Two walls of a deep timber green meet one of exposed cobblestone, where the head of the bed is positioned, and another wall that is made completely of bookshelves. Mounted on these walls are frames of various historic maps and sketches and what you assume to be sailing routes. The decor is accented by espresso wooden floors and leather furniture; everything within your line of sight could certainly tell stories of a life dating well before your own.
You wonder how it hadn’t occurred to you before, this room might belong to him; Jake is almost the room personified in its rustic aesthetic.
You saunter over to the wall of books, extending your reach to them. The pads of your fingers ridge against the embroidered spines of various vintage books as you skim through their titles; from which you determine the wall displays are most likely of a piratical lore.
As you scale the bookshelf you run into a bar cart. Surely, he won’t miss a sip of liquor as much as you’re in need of one. You grab a cocktail glass from its rack and start with an easy pour of sparkling water. You aren’t sure which liquor to choose as they are all top shelf but land on tequila, mixing in an extra shot to take off the edge. You dress your drink with the squeeze of a lime and drop it in with a plop of ice, the residual juice left on your fingers begins to sting at your bitten fingernails. You take a moment to admire the symphony of each bubble fizzing its way to the top while ice chimes against your glass; the mere song of a tequila soda already easing your nerves.
As you sip on your elixir and further snoop, you notice there are not many pictures in the room. The few you do find tell the story of four siblings. Although, you struggle to pick Jake out amongst the bunch, having it narrowed down between two in every photo.
A whisper from somewhere just beyond your shoulder shatters your sleuthing trance, “Nosy little thing, aren’t you?”
Your drink nearly escapes your glass from the jolt his ambush sends through you.
He further teases you, “Ah, now you’re going to spill stolen liquor on my floors too?”
“It’s not stolen if you owe me a drink, sir,” you quip, referring to his offer of your first encounter.
He playfully reclaims your drink from you while declaring, “Let’s see how good of a cocktail you can mix-,” he takes a swig and speaks through a stifled cough, “whoa, bit stiff there! I suppose you may just be able to keep up with me.”
You are on the verge of investigating the family pictures when his phone rings. He frowns, yet still retrieves the device from his pocket to read the notification. However, his eyes break from their summon within a second, elated to receive yours once again.
Jake almost pounces on you, giddy to usher you back to the party, “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people!”
You tail him down the hall to the main part of the house until you reach the outskirts of crowd congestion. He shifts his lead to your side, his arm still extended to precede you, parting the way through traffic.
Parading through the guests, almost everyone attempts to greet their beloved host, stepping in front of or trying to walk between you.
You feel Jake’s broad hand lightly rest against the small of your back in an attempt to stay tethered, your skin waking to the sudden warmth and weight of his touch.
As you travel deeper into the heart of the crowd, it only multiplies in its density. Jake's fingers delicately travel from your back, over your hip, and wrap into your waist. He tugs you into his side, practically walking hip to hip; a measure taken to make certain you remain by his side.
Ordinarily, touch from any stranger is an unbearable concept you desperately flee from, but Jake’s hands are ones you’ve never known. He grabs you like he is certain your skin is his to touch. Simultaneously, it's assertive and amenable and affectionate. It grants status in a house full of strangers. You know you’ll only grieve its absence. Yet, you fear how you already crave more.
Your buffer’s escort sees you into the kitchen and immediately draws towards a group of three men: two of a tall lean stature and the other petite like Jake. He walks before you and seizes their attention from whatever concentration previously held it.
You shadow Jake, shifting behind him so there is as little space as possible without physically touching him; weary of your new appetite.
Even inches away from the men’s huddle, you can barely hear over the roar of the overcrowded house and the blaring music; your only indication of Jake speaking is the wave of his hands and the three boys’ responding laughter.
You lean as an attempt to hear their conversation when someone stumbles past you, knocking you straight into Jake’s backside and sending him into a light stumble.
Like some bashful toddler hiding from scary stranger danger, you stand straight and peek over Jake’s shoulder to see three wide-eyed men gaping at you. Jake loops his hand around your arm and casts you dead front and center as if you are a surprise gift he’d been concealing behind his back this whole time.
He lightly rests his hands on your shoulders and leans towards your ear, you gauge he’s close not by sight, but by the warm sensation of his words tickling your skin, “These are my brothers,” then reverts his attention to the other men, “guys, this is who I was telling you about.”
You formally introduce yourself and one by one they do the same: Sam, whom you recognize from the pictures and assume is related to Jake, Danny, whom you’ve never seen before but seems to possess the same familial chemistry, and finally Josh, who you now identify as the other face you couldn’t differentiate from Jake’s in the photos; you know they must be brothers.
You turn to confirm your suspicions with Jake and find he is no longer behind you. Eyes apprehensively detailing the scene, you scour till you recover him at the bar topping off your drink. You know he means well but the last thing you want is to be stranded.
As if he can access your thought flow, the man who earlier introduced himself as Josh is standing next to you now and gingerly places his fingers on your bicep to reassure you, “Don’t worry, you're in good hands.”
As your insecurity is driven away, curiosity remains, “So, what has Jake told you exactly?”
“Well- really, only that he came into your store and bugged the shit out of you-,” across from you, a slightly tipsy and loose-lipped Sam is silenced by Josh nudging him, “ow?!”
“He told us that you hold an interesting perspective and a vast knowledge in the world of music,” Josh earns the title of damage control, “in addition to your immunity to his charms.”
When Josh laughs, it is a grand thing, his whole body participating in his colossal giddy smile. You can’t help but receive the glee he is emitting.
Only now does it occur to you, that pretty smile has graced you once before. It's the same one Jake wore for a mere second, of which the imageless memory has been bugging you for a week. Their wide smile seems to exist in exactly the same shape yet live in different lights: Josh’s a bit more generous and Jake’s a bit more significant.
It isn’t until now that you’re able to delineate all the same features about their face, noting now that they aren’t similarities at all but replicas. Only now can you see they’re twins.
“Stop scaring her,” Jake’s voice rasps from behind you as a fresh drink is placed in your hand.
“If you haven’t done that already, I’m not sure what will,” Josh collects Jake’s warning with a banter of his own.
Suddenly, the boys’ are uprooted by a slow bluesy ballad sounding throughout the house; not a conventional party tune but after all it’s not your party. One after another, each brother’s face lights with recognition of a happening and disappears from the kitchen to the heart of the house, dragging along a someone as their chosen company. You witness every bystander in the kitchen mimic the strange migration. You never imagined a change of song could so dramatically alter the behavior of a room.
Immediately, consciousness of an unknown tenses in your muscles. Your eyes storm Jake for clarification, yet the coy grin that he produces does nothing to soothe your skies.
“So it's kind of a Kiszka New Year’s Eve party tradition,” his hand finds the back of his neck as if he is trying to thread together bad news, “to have a last dance just before midnight.”
“Oh,” your chest drops at a much less severe diagnosis than you anticipated.
Jake distances himself a step from you to offer his hand and bashfully beams, “Care to be my final dance in these last fleeting moments of a year’s dying life?”
“I- um- actually,” you panic grasping for any declination, only to find a confession in reach, “I can’t dance. Well, not slowly anyway.”
He feigns shock, “A beautiful girl of your musical knowledge and you don’t know how to dance?!”
Despite the urge to run far and fast the moment Jake calls you beautiful, you charge to your own rescue, “No one ever taught me!”
He raises an interrogative eyebrow, “You promise that’s the only reason?”
You give Jake a confused nod while also averting your eyes in shame, so you aren’t aware when he lunges to snatch your hand from its comfort zone by your side.
“It’s never too late to learn,” Jake chimes while tugging you from the kitchen.
The unforeseen tow renders you almost tripping over your own feet, docking your sweating glass courage on the nearest counter.
You’re dragged into a tempest of strangers waltzing about until Jake decides your destination in the eye, a center spectacle accessible for anyone to gawk at.
Jake plants you in position by steading your shoulders. You pay him no mind as your consciousness is currently employed by the surrounding cloud of people. He lifts your arms by the wrists, resting them around his shoulders before drawing in close to place his hands on your waist. You’re once again consumed by the warm weight of his heavy hands that spell you starving for more.
“Jake-,” you begin to fret, suddenly feeling like you might burst into tears.
“Shh- It’s okay- Look- Look, it’s simple,” he consoles you like an eager child.
Jak motions your sight to follow his to the floor as he steps out with his left foot. Paralyzed by your own nerves, Jake doesn’t give up when you completely miss his cue to mimic his movement. You barely process the light chuckle that leaves him as he retraces his step back to starting stance.
Nimbly, his palm delineates your pelvis as his grip runs from your waist to your hip. Jake then replicates his previous action, this time firmly swatting your right side to follow; the slight impact sends an unsolicited shudder down your spine that you pray goes unnoticed.
Hesitantly, you pursue his step. Then again with your left. Retrace. Repeat. Again. Then again. And again. Until you are swaying along with the rhythm.
Jake's eyes have since left the floor, amused at the sight of concentration you are. He allows you a moment of beginner’s peace before disturbing your count.
“I think you’ve pretty much got it,” his finger lands under your chin to lift your hanging head back to eye level again, rejoining his honey-brown gaze, “you can look at me now.”
You recognize something perennial in his tired eyes and all at once you’re aware the road to unwind is undoubtedly a long one, but whether it routes through pleasure or pain is beyond your discernment; the only thing of which you're certain, is at this moment he became ineradicably and irrevocably undeniable.
After a few confident strides, you courageously let your head fall to Jake’s shoulder, only tripping over your instructor’s feet a few times but he doesn’t appear to mind. If you were rhythmically inclined you suppose you might even enjoy slow dancing, swaying about solely to remain blissfully close to your pretty dance partner as the rest of the reality seems to wane from existence.
You swear hours pass before the melody finally fades out, yet Jake and you take your time to rejoin the rest of the world, lingering in your bubble; a countdown to midnight being the hammer that eventually breaks your glass.
TEN! NINE!
You hastily revert back to your own, excusing yourself from any rejection or inquiry by joining the chant.
EIGHT! SEVEN!
Rather than dwell, your abrupt modesty strikes Jake endeared. He simply restructures himself, respecting your space, with a regaling smirk as he now jumps into the sequence.
SIX! FIVE!
Achingly aware that you’re the one who broke it, you’re assailed by a twinge of loss, fighting the appetite to feel him pressed against you once more.
FOUR!
That is until you feel Jake’s slight caress against your wrist. At first, you assume it’s an accident. The remaining life of the current year dwindling provokes the roaring crowd to compact, dancing and hugging, in hopes for a better year.
THREE!
Yet, Jake’s touch doesn’t retract. His fingers dawdle about your skin, dancing down till he climbs into your palm.
TWO!
His vast hand is extensively more than you’re able to hold, so his calluses tickle as he swiftly rakes them against your skin to interlock his fingers in yours; the bond devoted and interminable.
ONE!
You expect a confession from Jake as he cranes his head to fall in close to yours, but instead, feel a pink blaze rise to your cheeks as he delicately places his pretty plump pout just before the corner of your mouth; the sensation of his facial hair, prickly against your skin, being one you’d like to know further.
As he pulls back to revel in your bemusement, you’re finally caught in that beautiful beaming smile for the second time. Your ache to witness the entrancing sight again hadn’t registered until it surfaced long for you to savor this time; your hope for the year to come instantly blossoms from Jake’s smile.
“Happy New Year,” his blessing is barely audible over the cheers of a new era.
Some unseen and unfamiliar force greater than lust, commandeers your limbs diminishing all conscious control as you impulsively cling onto his lapel and yank him back into your orbit. Recklessly, you devour those pompous pink lips into your own. Jake doesn’t hesitate to consume the small of your back and dip of your waist within the swallowing grip of his palms. His mouth emulates your hunger, letting your kiss flourish and thrive against your lips. You give into your need for an air supply only when you feel the shape of that giant ass smile break the seal of your embrace. Nimbly, you press a small pucker to Jake’s dimples while they exist.
You remain within the gravity of your shared breaths, giggling your wish against his smile, “Happy New Year, Mr. Kiszka!”
pretty please let me know what you think🫶🏼
taglist❤️🩹❤️🩹- @ageofbajabule @alwaysonthemend @anythingforjtk @becinabubblegvf @dancingcarbon @dannys-dream @dayumclarizzel @do-it-jakey-baby @dont-go-home-without-me @edgingthedarkness @fomopheobe @gretasfallingsky @gretavangirlie @gretavanglimmers @gretavangroupie @gvf23 @gvfmarge @hannahrk @heckingfrick @hsfallingsky @imleavingyoufornewyork @kiszkazz @klarxtr @itsafullmoon @jakesguitarsolo @jakesmustache @jakeysbuttsheeks @lipstickitty @livkiszka @lyndz2names @mindastreamofcolours @mountain-in-springtime @mrbrownstne @nina-23-45 @notjordie-gvf @sacredjake @smoking-jakelane @sparrowofthedawnsworld @styles-canvas @takenbythemadness @dancingcarbon @thewritingbeforesunrise @tommie-gvf @tripthelightfatality @vanfleeter @violet-hayes @wetkleenex-gvf @zoe-tally06
#london jtk series#london gvf fic#jake kiszka#jake gvf#jtk#jake kiszka x reader#jake kiszka fanfic#jake kiszka fic#jake kiszka smut#jake kiszka x you#jake kiszka series#jake kiszka fluff#jake kiszka gvf#jake kiszka angst#greta van fleet#greta van fleet fan fiction#greta van fleet fanfiction#greta van fleet fic#greta van fleet fluff#greta van fleet x reader#greta van fleet series#greta van fleet smut#greta van fleet angst#greta van fic#greta van smut#greta van fluff#greta van angst#jake gvf smut#jtk x reader#jtk smut
69 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Good Omens Article From the TotalFilm Magazine, Issue August 2023 :)
POST APOCALYPSE GOOD OMENS The heavenly and hellish creations of Gaiman and Pratchett ride again…
Having averted Armageddon, angel Aziraphale (Michael Sheen) and demon Crowley (David Tennant) have settled down to the quiet life in London – but the arrival of a familiar face shakes things up for everyone.
Season 1 covered events in the novel you wrote with Terry Pratchett – what was the inspiration this time?
Neil Gaiman (showrunner): Terry and I were sharing a room at Seattle’s World Fantasy Con in 1989 and, by the end of one night chatting, we had a huge, apocalyptic sequel to Good Omens. Season 2 is all the stuff we had to put in place before we could get to that sequel, and it starts with the archangel Gabriel [Jon Hamm] wandering through Soho, with no memory – a mystery that doesn’t have giant consequences for the universe, even if it does for Aziraphale and Crowley.
What has changed between Crowley and Aziraphale?
David Tennant (Crowley): Aziraphale is a much more enthusiastic detective in this mystery and, as with most things, Crowley is reluctant to get involved or to exhibit any kind of energy or enthusiasm, so he’s dragged into it. They no longer have to report to head offices, so they’re in this slightly grey area – neither supernatural, nor of the Earth.
Michael Sheen (Aziraphale): They’ve always been the only two beings who could understand each other’s position, but now they’re slightly freer agents so they’re pushed even closer together. It’s an interesting dynamic.
Maggie and Nina, you’re back too – although not as satanic nuns this time…
Nina Sosanya (Nina): No – we’re two human women! Nina is slightly cynical, churlish and owns a coffee shop, Maggie runs the record shop and she’s rather sweet and hopeful. It’s an ‘opposites attract’ thing and Neil kindly gave the characters our names so we couldn’t say no.
Maggie Service (Maggie): Aziraphale is still running his bookshop, but he’s also Maggie’s landlord. She thinks he’s the best because he lets her stay on and doesn’t really mind if she doesn’t make too much money. Maggie and Nina act as catalysts in a way, when Crowley and Aziraphale get involved in their relationship.
Neil, you’ve had some writing help this year…
NG: That’s right. We have three 25-minute ‘minisodes’ within episodes. You learn Aziraphale and Crowley’s part in the story of Job, written by John Finnemore. Cat Clarke takes us to 1820s Edinburgh for a tale of bodysnatching. Finally, Jeremy Dyson and Andy Nyman reunite the League of Gentlemen, because I fell in love with Season 1’s Nazi spies and kept wondering what would happen if they came back as zombies on a mission from hell to investigate whether Crowley and Aziraphale were fraternising. That story involves the Windmill Theatre, black market whisky, and a bullet catch…
#good omens#totalfilm#totalfilm 2023#interview#neil gaiman#neil interview#david tennant#david interview#magazines#michael sheen#michael interview#nina sosanya#nina interview#maggie service#maggie ineterview#s2 interview#transcripts
277 notes
·
View notes
Text
ghost of a smile.
sirius said, “you fall in love with anything with a pulse.” so naturally james proves him wrong.
tags: james potter x reader,, they/them pronouns,, you’re a ghost,, sirius is vv protective of james,, wolfstar (it wasn’t supposed to be but then when i kept writing it just felt right),, crack,, age gap(???),, magical inter-racial relationships(???)
“prongs, it’s a fuckin’ ghost.”
“i love them.”
“it’s a ghost!” sirius punctuated the sentence by grabbing james by the shoulders and literally shaking him to sanity. but proved to be futile as the messy haired man clicks his tongue and shrugs off sirius’ hand as if it offended him.
“i know that, and my feelings won’t change. they make me feel alive.”
sirius groans, oh the irony, eyes wild in disbelief and turning to the rest, hopefully as exasperated and bewildered as he is. the look on his face as if saying, can you believe this guy?!
peter still looks disturbed and mooney looks like he’s trying to understand what james’ thought process was.
but that’s the thing. there is no thought. that’s why they’re in this situation in the first place. sirius likes to think there is no sane person to fancy an incorporeal being. much less, ugh, love them.
but leave it to james to prove him wrong. sirius almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.
“i know you like to go above and beyond expectations. but when i said you can fall in love with anything with a pulse, i didn’t mean for it to be a challenge.”
you cleared your throat, “i’m guessing this isn’t the best time.” you interjected sheepishly. hovering just a little above the floor. sirius thinks you almost look like a normal student. if normal students were translucent and dead.
when nobody said anything, but gave sheepish (remus and peter), worried (james) and judging (sirius) looks.
“i should just go and let you gentlemen talk things through. i’ll see you later james.”
“no don’t go,” he pouted. actually pouted! the love sick fool. “i’ll come with you.”
you shook your head, translucent hair swaying with the movement. “no it’s alright, you can stay and talk with your friends.” you smiled.
you gave him an encouraging nudge, or so to speak, since he can’t really feel you. because, again—dead.
james just nodded, and like a puppy, stayed.
once you were gone, remus was the first to speak,
“james, i think what sirius is trying to say here is how did this even happen?” remus asks softly, scratching his cheek, like he does when the puzzle he’s solving isn’t as easy as he thought it would be.
james sighs, he actually sighs like a besotted maiden, “i was— just a lost soul,” sirius blanched. “—wandering on this earth and then i met them, my beautiful love.”
“that isn’t the only lost soul that day, i bet.” sirius scoffs.
completely ignoring sirius now, james continues, “and then it just feels like everything clicked into place. they were always there when i needed someone to talk to. they were always so warm and kind. they always listened to me, they don’t make fun of my feelings. they don’t disregard them. they’re so beautiful and so smart. they’re crazy smart, knows a lot of things about history and all. you two would get along well, mooney.”
“they should know about history considering they died in it.” sirius hiss out but ultimately ignored.
“but james…” remus starts, and sirius almost sighs in relief at least somebody was also using their brain.
but then james interrupts, “i know they’re a ghost, and there’s not much else i can do about that. but remus, i can feel them. when we talk, i know they understand me and i don’t think i’ve ever felt this way about someone before.”
sirius rolls his eyes, having heard a similar speech when james said he fell in love with the store clerk in a muggle record shop in london.
sirius wanted so badly to scream out louder, in hopes to wake his friend from his delusion.
james clearly isn’t sound of mind right now. and it’s his duty as his best mate to help him. with the help of remus, they can do it. so he took the first step.
“james—“
“i think that’s beautiful james.” remus cut in.
sirius have never felt so betrayed in his life. and by remus of all people. and his face made sure to show this betrayal. lips curling into a horrified gape, eyes in a frenzy of rage.
remus clicks his tongue at him and covers his face with his large warm hand.
“thank you remus.” his crazy friend gave his crazier friend a lopsided smile.
hells, he was even blushing.
“are you fucking serious right now remus? they’re dead!” he shouted, muffled by remus’ hand.
remus ignored him turning to a now frowning james, “why don’t you go ahead and catch up with them while i talk to sirius quickly.”
james gave sirius a brief look and nodded. walking back, searching for the poltergeist in the castle.
“what’s wrong with you?!” remus hissed once james was out of sight.
sirius removing the hand on his mouth, growling as he says, “me?! i’m not the one getting it on with a soul, remus. what you’re okay with this?”
“yes,” remus gave a noncommittal shrug, “i’d be okay with it even if you were the one totally enamoured by a ghost.”
sirius gave him a dead look, “you’d be okay with your boyfriend in love with a ghost.”
remus rolls his eyes, a light dust of pink glowing on his cheeks and ears, “not like that, i just mean if the situation was different, you’d want somebody to support you. besides, it’s james, i’m sure this is all harmless.”
“harmless?! am i really the only thinking this is down right strange? i mean it’s a spirit for merlin’s sake! i know my family isn’t exactly picky with their romantic counterparts, fucking cousins and all, so i might not be the best person to defend my case. but this is a dead thing! a ghost. haunting hogwarts. that has to cross some boundary, right?”
remus softly groaning in frustration, “do you think i don’t know that? of course i think this is crazy! but what else could we do? when has james ever listened to us? especially with his penchant for following skirts.”
“and the occasional pants.” peter added with a shrug.
“it’s even crazier that you agree with me but is still willing to let this go on?!”
“if it’s anything like his previous escapades then i’m sure this won’t last as long.” remus sighs, rubbing his neck and stretching his neck.
“ultimately, let him make a fool of himself then. great idea.”
“i think we should trust james more,” peter shrugged, “i mean i’ve seen more weird pairings than a wizard and a ghost. my neighbour’s first boyfriend was a goblin, you know.”
remus lifts his hand to peter, as if to say, see? peter gets it!
“et tu peter?” sirius deadpanned. “traitors. both of you.” turning away as he swiftly walks away from the group.
“what did i do?” peter calls out to him.
“you, especially were no help!” sirius shouted back. his huffs and angry steps echoing in the stone castle.
if they weren’t going to stop james from being barmy then it’s up to him to stop this from going further.
it was a week later and james was still dating the damn ghost. he was even off celebrating some obscure couple holiday. maybe it was your death anniversary, who knows. sweet circe, james is down bad.
sirius slammed a thick dusty old book in the quiet corner of the library.
madam pince already looking over to them aggressively hushing the group.
remus immediately called out a flustered apology before turning to sirius to whisper.
“what is that?”
with smug grin and a hand on his narrow hips, “this, my sweet mooney, is the answer to our haunting problem.”
an ancient, dusty, dirty book that was practically falling apart titled, polly’s practical practices to the paranormal and poltergeists.
“i told you to leave it.” remus clicking his tongue and glaring at the overly smug man.
peter gingerly grabbed the book and started to comb through the pages. “how is this going to help?”
“go to page 189, it talks about exorcisms.” leaning over peter’s shoulders.
“you’re going to exorcist james’ lover?” the tone remus used was full of judgment and condensation. and sirius does not welcome that energy into his space. so, he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms— ready to shut down the negative energy.
“it also says on page 7 that ghosts are simply souls that are unable to cross through the spiritual realm. so if anything, i’m doing them a favour.”
peter chewing his lip in contemplation. “shouldn’t we tell james about this first?”
“james is biased, therefore his opinion is invalid.”
remus leaning back into his seat in a slump, “james is a grown man. he can decide for himself what he wants to do in his free time, even if that includes hanging around with a ghost all day.”
sirius feels a twitch in his eye coming. remus for every ounce of his prettiness, equates that to his stubbornness. so you can just imagine how stubborn this man is when he wants to be.
“babe,” sirius groans out, “i don’t understand how you can just let james make a fool of himself like this!—“ there’s a distinct shushing sound, and sirius looks over to sheepishly nod in apology, continuing in a much lower but just as aggressive tone, “he’s dating a fucking ghost, and i’m going to stop it, okay?”
remus levelled him with a glare. “have you even tried getting to know them?”
“the ghost?”
remus levels him with a stare, “they have a name.”
“whatever.” sirius scoffs before straightening up and looking at two of his friends betrayal dawning on his face, “don’t tell m—“
“i’ve gotten to know them very well actually, peter has too. hung out multiple times now.”
“you have? since when? how? why didn’t you tell me?”
peter, closing the book softly, “since james told us, they’re actually pretty cool. not as mental as the other ghosts for one.”
sirius gawks, the familiar sting of disappointment and betrayal brewing in his navel. “and you didn’t think to inform me of this development?!”
“mr. black, please leave the premises if you can’t keep the decorum expected in the library!”
“—sorry!” sirius calls back, before turning back to them, whispering harshly, “some friends you are.” swiftly grabbing the book back.
“someone has to be since you’ve refused to talk to james.”
“because he’s gone crazy, i don’t talk to crazy people— already had enough of that from my mother.”
remus now reaching for the book and reading the table of contents, “how do you even know if this book is accurate?”
sirius rolls his eyes, “it’s the only book left about ghosts,”
remus raised an eyebrow at that, “the only book left? or you just don’t know where to look?”
peter snickered. “considering this is the longest time he’s been in the library for the last six years, i’m guessing he doesn’t even have a library card.”
sirius let out a quiet gasp, petulant as he defends, “this is not the longest time, i know where the sections are.”
“right. well good luck on whatever it is you’re planning. if i wasn’t clear enough— i want no part of this whatsoever, assuming it all blows up in your face.” remus raising a scarred hand in the air and sauntering away.
sirius clicks his tongue, annoyed, “peter, hand me some parchment. i need to make notes about cleansing haunted areas.”
sirius already has a solid plan. he had thought of everything! he’s already practiced the ceremony in the dorms, with peter acting like the ghost. he even practiced drawing the runes and the enunciation of the incantations. he just needs to know where you usually reside in the castle, so he can draw the runes.
the only problem is, he doesn’t know where you are and what better way to know than from romeo, himself.
“james,” sirius calls out.
“here we go.” he hears peter wince, but resolutely ignoring him.
taking a deep breath, “i want to apologize for the way i acted, you deserve to be happy. and if they make you as happy as you say they do, then okay. as your best mate, i’m going to be more supportive of you.”
james, like a big softie that he is, immediately beamed a smile, grabbing sirius by the shoulders and crushing him into a hug.
“i knew you’d come around!” he gushed in his ear. sounding so utterly elated that he almost feels guilty for lying. but he has to do this. for james. “sirius you’re my brother! of course, i forgive you! i don’t think i can even go on for longer not speaking to you. bugged me like mad.”
remus all but looked at sirius in complete suspicion, which he ignores in favour of looking as earnest as he possibly could. peter looking down right nervous as his gaze filters through all three of them.
“to prove my support. i want to meet y/n and be their friend. get to know them a little bit better.”
and if it was even possible, james shone even brighter, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling in excitement. he hadn’t seen that look on his face for quite some time now. looking equivocally happy.
“let’s go right now!”
“now?!”
“yeah, they should be on the third floor.” james grinned. walking a brisk pace and everyone jogging to keep up.
“what are you doing?” remus whispered as he power walked beside him.
sirius feigned innocence, “i’m supporting my best mate.”
remus frowned, not buying it, “and this is after you exorcise them or? or do you plan on damning their soul now?”
sirius clicked his tongue, “you told me to support james and when i do, you doubt me. it’s like you don’t love me.”
“you better be supporting james or i swear to god—“
“so james!” looking ahead, resolutely ignoring the stare burning to the side of his face. “anything i should know before meeting this special apparition of yours?”sirius says, lips stretching into an easy smile.
james slowed his pace, perfectly chirpy to divulge any information about his lover. glowing pink on his cheeks as he starts, “well, they’ve been a ghost in hogwarts since 1902, they were sorted in—“
“do you know how they died?” sirius cut off. resulting in a rude elbow jab from remus and a small frown from peter.
“what?” he said indignantly. isn’t that a vital question to ask? asking how a ghost died?
“they said there was an incident, an ogre got into the castle and, um, killed them,”
yikes.
the book said ghosts may not know how they died. associating their willingness to pass because they haven’t had the closure to move on. though if you knew how you died, it seems counter-productive to tell you about your death in order for you to pass on. so that’s crossed out.
“so are they secretly disembowelled or something? like almost-headless nick?”
james looked back and pursed his lips, gaze turning a little bit sharper, “no, they look perfectly okay. beautiful even.”
oh sure, he thought.
“they do,” remus piped up giving him a stern look. as if he heard him, “very pretty.”
sirius rolls his eyes, “oh of course, puts veela’s to shame, i’m sure.” waving his hand, opting for nonchalance as he continues, “so, what do you usually talk about with them then? surely common interests with an old ghost is hard to find.”
“they’re actually quite young compared to the other ghosts. that’s why they mostly keep to themselves on this floor.”
sirius grimace, fighting a shiver down his spine. “yes being over sixty. very young.”
james glared at him, and he raised his arms in surrender, “just joking.”
“—we talk about a lot of things, quidditch is one.”
“quidditch.” he repeated. do ghosts even follow the leagues?
remus placing an arm around james, “they used to play quidditch, a chaser.”
“quite good too, found their name on past rosters in the library.” peter grinned.
james beamed, encouraged by the others to prattle on. louder and faster like he can’t help but talk about you. like he was just waiting for a reason to. “and they liked potions, helps me study sometimes—“
“study.” he repeated. “with your ghost lover.”
“—oh, we’re here! my love?” james calling out into the alcoves and the barren hall. “i bought my friends, are you here?”
and then like a chill going up his spine, you showed up. floating a hair just above the ground, making it look like as if you’re walking.
you were a pale translucent thing. he had hardly looked at you the first time he’s seen you. confidently thinking he didn’t have to until james inevitably moves on from you. frankly, he didn’t know what to expect once he saw you, again. maybe look a bit alive, since his very much alive friend is very much in love with you.
you looked pretty, sure. but it was nothing to write home about. certainly not the kind that he would be willing to overlook the state of your mortality. but yeah, sure, pretty.
he almost wants to rolls his eyes.
“james, i was going to look for you.” you breathed. looking equally enamoured.
“what for my love?” he asks.
then you noticed the other approaching individuals, “oh hello, remus, peter, and—?“
“this is sirius, remember? i told you about him, didn’t i?” james but all grinned, going up to you and raising his hand as if to touch you. if he even can.
you looked like thin sheets blowing in the wind. if thin sheets can talk and haunt.
“that you did.” you laughed, and then your hand started to look fuckin’ solid. like a solid, human hand grabbing james’ and even squeezing back.
“nice to see you again, y/n, how have you been?” peter smiled.
you shrugged, smiling a little strained. “still very much dead, and here. thanks.”
sirius looked at your joined hands. tight and secure.
remus nudges him out of stupor and he flashes a strained smile.
so you can materialize. at least that answers some questions. though it opens a new array of questions for him now. questions he has no problem vocalizing.
“you can materialize?”
you turn to him, looking beyond nonchalant and relaxed with the whole situation. you obviously also hold no objections to the peculiar relationship. looking all too willing to be james’ dead lover.
“if i try hard enough, yes.”
“how long can you materialize?”
“if it’s just my hands, i can probably hold for a good hour or so.”
the book didn’t mention this.
sirius looks at you, up and down, apprehensive and suspicious. “can every ghost do this then?”
“i think so, though i haven’t seen them attempt it. i’m guessing they never really had any reason to.” you turn to james and grin at him. like some secret was just shared.
james looked at you twice as bright and giddy. hopelessly, happy and pink.
sirius thinks he’s going to hurl.
“so, do you just go materializing your hand, touching school boys every decade or so?”
“pardon?”
“sirius!” remus hissed.
sirius smiles the fakest smile he has, “just a joke.”
you raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t comment. he can feel the heat of james glare and hear the insistent shuffling of peter to his side.
“why did you decide to date james? are you planning on possessing him for his living body?”
“sirius black!” remus grits out, pinching his side.
james stepped forward to shield you, a frown deep in his face, but you just tug at his arm, and he softens.
you laugh, “no, i don’t plan on possessing my boyfriend. as for why i’m dating him,” you turn to look at james again, sharing a secret smile again, “well, i quite like him.”
sirius clicks his tongue.
the night continued on. he asked questions, and you answered them.
he would be, admittedly, very difficult. maybe even down-right rude but you seem to assimilate to his attitude soon enough.
every jab and attack he would aim at you. you would receive with grace and an amused ghost smile.
eventually james wanted some alone time and sirius was just glad for a reason to finally leave.
“you know you could have been a bit nicer or at least decent to y/n.” remus hissed once james and casper went away.
“oh trust me, that was me being nice.” he scoffs.
“asking insensitive questions is not nice, last i checked.” peter said.
shaking his head, “i could have said it was fucking creepy that james is fucking dating a ghost. or maybe tell james he needs to make an appointment with a mind healer soon —that his impulsivity with the concept of “falling in love” is all twisted and, let’s face it, short-lived— pun-intended. i could write to fleamont that his son is fracking with a soul trapped in hogwarts! but i didn’t. trust me that was being nice.” he all but shouted, panting as his face blotched red.
“finally dropping your supporting your best mate agenda then, are you?”
sirius turns to remus, huffing and beyond betrayed, “have you not been listening?!”
remus clicks his tongue, “i understand, but it’s just as you said. all of this is short-lived that will eventually die out. so why bother stressing about it? y/n is a pretty cool spirit if you get to know them.”
“it’s a spirit from the 1900, what else is there to know?”
“you are a real piece of work.” remus giving him a hard glare, pulling at his fringe hard.
peter all quiet and mousy said, “i don’t even know why you’re so worked up about all this.”
sirius groans, “the reason why i’m so worked up about all this is, because it is james, we all know how he is. this is going to be another repeat of him falling for somebody, getting his hopes up and fall face down on the ground. and i’ve seen him fall way too many times to let it happen again. it’s a fucking ghost. there is no future with them. james doesn’t see reason, so it’s up to us to help him.”
remus blinked, and then sagged.
“i get it, okay? i get where you’re coming from. but i think out of everyone here, james is the one that understands this the most. just trust him on this. he’s not daft, he knows what he’s doing.”
“but what if he gets hurt again?”
“then we’ll be there for him.”
you can still somewhat hear them argue in the empty halls. you were sure james can too, if his frown was anything to go by.
“sirius is… lovely.” you hummed.
james groans, pulling you to to sit with him on one of the benches. “i’m so sorry about that, he’s just—“
you raise hand to stop his blabber, “i completely understand, he’s protective of you. i feel the same way.” you whispered.
james looks at you abashed and pink, before he looks away. still, rubbing his thumb to your knuckles even as it slowly becomes faint and pale, once again.
“he’ll warm up to you soon,” he nodded.
you smiled, “should i be worried if he doesn’t?”
he turns to you again, looking at you completely besotted, “you shouldn’t, he’ll like you.”
“you sound sure.”
“because i know him, and i know you. you are, after all, the most charming ghost in the castle.” he grins.
“what a title,” you softly sighed.
“just give him time,”
suddenly you’ve been reminded why you wanted to meet with him. you felt the phantom rhythm of your dead heart thrum through your veins. nervous after so many decades, funny.
“i’ve been reading, lately.”
“oh? about what?” he grins at you, cheeks a healthy glow of life and eyes bright like the light in the morning.
you almost falter, but thank merlin you don’t.
you were sure you wouldn’t be able to tell him if you postponed any more.
“about… leaving.”
“leaving?” he straightened. “what do you mean?”
you flowed to the other side of the room, higher than you would usually go, whenever you were with him. wanting to keep the illusion of normalcy of walking with him. like you were still alive. like a normal student with their boyfriend.
“i’ve been researching about this for a while, even before you came here—hogwarts, i mean, and i think i’ve found some sort of break through. this is what i wanted to talk to you about before— before meeting sirius and all that.”
“what like leaving the castle grounds? or—“ he gulps, looking absolutely terrified. “or leaving?”
you know he was smart enough to answer his own questions. but you also considered he would be in denial, unabashedly hopeful, so you clarified. “about passing on. leaving, for good. i’ve already talked to some other spirits in the castle, who wants to go too and some have already agreed.”
“but don’t you—“ james licked his lips, shifting one foot to the other, “don’t you want to stay with me?”
your chest is hollow, nay, non-existent. but the way he looks at you, his voice, and his warm hand reaching out to you, made you think your chest might be aching with pain.
for all your years in purgatory, haunting and never moving on. all these years of weaving through the halls, seeing different faces every year, it all seemed so short.
and the stretch of your time comprising of moments of when james potter was seeking you out. talking to you. making a companion out of you. and being with you. making you feel alive again.
he was young, bright, and callous, and rough. but he is also sweet, soft, and kind.
you knew from the start, this would never last.
you knew, like everyone else, that he’ll eventually leave too.
there was no life with you. that ended decades ago.
but he still has time.
“james,” you softly called out, floating over to him. thinking long and hard to be corporeal. even if it’s just your hands, so you could touch him.
“don’t.“ he looks down, biting down on his lips, refusing to look at you now. but he did nothing to move away from your hold, he never did, instead lifting his own to touch yours, soft yet firm. “don’t tell me some bull about living my life.”
you sigh, lifting his head to see his ever beautiful eyes, “but you have to.”
he softly shook his head in your hands, his grip tightening afraid to let go. “and i want to spend every moment i can with you,”
“and then what?” you ask.
he stops, his gaze moving all around your face, as if memorizing it to the fullest extent.
“i’m to stay now, and then you leave, and then i stay here? forever?”
he shook his head, pouting like kid, and you always endeared.
“i could get a job here and live here all year long, you can stay in my quarters where we can talk and be toge—“
you laugh letting him go, your hands turning translucent like before, like always. “there is no life with me, james. we’ve talked about this.” you look at him. you see his lip harshly bit down, gnawing, as he pulled to release the blood.
“you know this.“
james turns away from you. scratching his neck, his eyebrows furrowed. like the first time you saw him in the halls. after another failed attempt at wooing birds.
“i know.” he conceded. “i’ve been reading too. i’ve checked out books on how you can pass on. i think i’ve checked out every damn book about ghosts in the library.” he laughs bitterly.
you didn’t know this. he didn’t tell you. somehow that made the pain in your chest clench more. you always thought he would be against you leaving. something on your face must’ve shown this because he clarifies, before looking down again.
“i thought that if— i was the one to find the solution, find the way for you to move on, it wouldn’t feel— it wouldn’t hurt. i thought if it was on my own terms, i would be able to accept it easily. but i’m wrong, of course. it wouldn’t be that simple. especially not with you. with us.”
“you were looking for a way for me to pass on?” you ask gently, stopping low to catch his gaze.
he looked as earnest like the day you met him, nodding as he said, “because i know how miserable you felt. i know you—you don’t have enough reason to stay here any longer than you have. i know us, being together, isn’t reason enough for you to be stuck here for all eternity. i know this, but i was still hoping—”
“oh james,” you sighed.
“some irrational part of my brain wants you stay. i even thought of being with you here too. be with you after—“
“james potter.” you sharply cut in, gaze hardening in anger. but his gaze of despair made you soft and sigh again.
“i will not let you.”
you think of all the ghost trapped in the castle. you see them through the years, losing all sense of themselves more and more. becoming irate and miserable. seeing the same grounds, the same routines, the same days, mashing together in an endless cycle. never moving forward.
and then you see his eyes so full of love, and life, and bravery, and sweetness and roughness. even just thinking he might succumb to the cycle—
“i will not let you.” you repeated.
james reached out again, “i love you,”
you smiled at him, the faux fuzziness spreading down to your phantom toes. “you’ll find someone else to love james. someone who can spend more years of life with you, with so much love to give, i have no doubt about it.”
you think back to the boy crying with a broken rose in the halls, another heartache. the bright eyed look you see him give the person he’s chosen to love that day. another love. always so earnest, always with so much love that he has to give it to someone else.
you brush over his soft cheeks, committed to feeling him for the last time.
“do you—“ he breathed, leaning into your touch and bashfully looking down, “do you think i could see you on the other side?”
you gave a loop-sided smile, seriously how utterly charming, you thought. “i would like to think so. i can even greet you myself once you arrive if you’d like.”
he looks up at you, giving you a pretty smile, “yeah, okay.”
you didn’t leave immediately. you waited for another week.
james drew the runes for you, with sirius eagerly helping. you spent your last days, exploring the hidden parts of the castle with james, showing him all the secret passages you’ve come across. you spent your last day with james talking. taking in a full-body corporeal form and hugging him for the first time. and kissing him.
you left quietly, in the night when he was asleep.
he looked for you in the halls, the next morning, hoping you’d change your mind.
when you didn’t show after an hour, he left—blinking the embarrassing tears collecting in his eyes.
eventually though, james will move on. he doesn’t quite understand true love all that well yet. he’ll still mistake other feelings for love. maybe fall quickly. maybe love more than one person at the same time. eventually, he’ll fall in love, for real this time, find someone else to give his seemingly endless amount of love to and it’ll be returned ten-fold.
or at least it’s what sirius says to remus and peter. after remus reprimanded him for being too happy that you were gone.
extra:
later, when james opens the door on that halloween night. the living room glowing bright with green and the echoes of his son’s cries and his wife’s fast stomps upstairs. he would close his eyes in a swift end. thinking how peaceful it is, how quick— his face graced with a ghost of a smile, he would think of you, and hope you’re waiting on the other side.
#perpetuallydaydreaming#james potter#sirius black#remus lupin#peter pettigrew#marauders era#james potter imagine#james potter fluff#james potter x you#james potter x y/n#james potter x reader#wolfstar#james potter crack#crack fic#ghost#hogwarts ghosts#james potter fanfiction#james potter fanfic#james potter x they/them!reader#james potter x gn!reader#the marauders#harry potter#marauders imagine#protective!sirius#marauders fluff#marauders#james potter angst#wolfstar imagine#remus lupin imagine#sirius black imagine
271 notes
·
View notes
Text
[ENG translation] Joker Out at Eurosonic 2024: an interview with Kris for Val 202 radio station
Today, 22.01.2024, Slovenian radio station Val 202 broadcasted an episode of their 'Glasbena zgodba' ('Musical Story') podcast about the Eurosonic 2024 festival that happened last week. Eurosonic is an annual showcase festival and music conference in Groningen, The Netherlands, where emerging European acts perform for industry professionals and festival scouts. Joker Out performed there this year, so today's podcast featured a short interview with Kris Guštin. You can find the original post here or listen to the original audio in Slovenian in the embed above. Here is the translation of the interview, translated by a member of Joker Out Subs and proof read by @flowerlotus8.
Host: The first group we mentioned, Joker Out, performed twice during the festival. First on Wednesday on the MAAS main stage, and the next day, on Thursday, in the Platosonic record shop, where The Strokes also performed in the past. I invited Kris Guštin, who talked to the fans there in Dutch, in front of the microphone.
Kris: Well, my great-grandma and my grandpa's entire side of the family, who are from Indonesia, live in a place called Assen, which is 30 minutes out of Groningen. It's actually the closest big city for them.
Host: Joker Out haven't performed at many showcase festivals, Kris counts Eurovision and the PIN festival in Skopje among them.
Kris: Showcase festivals are maybe not that important or necessary for us anymore, but we still liked doing one or two, to experience it. It is, however… For performers who are really still looking for an international audience, and especially those who would like to present themselves to industry people from abroad, it's a pretty great chance. It's the same with MENT¹, for Slovenia, of course.
Host: Were you thinking about, or were you under any pressure, considering that there were many music professionals in the audience?
Kris: Not really. It's… We were aware that it would be harder to make a good show, because people wouldn't be that oriented towards us and our music, which is totally understandable. I have to say, however, that I was honestly surprised and happy that we had the first three rows or so of our fans, who really made the atmosphere more lively, otherwise it would've been pretty hard. I did, however, also see... The best kind of validation is to see these people who, at the beginning, are standing in the back and not participating in the concert, who are then bobbing their heads by the end. That's always a good sign of a good concert.
Host: The members of Joker Out, who will release a new single in February and go on another European tour soon after that, are currently living in London, where they are getting used to life there and, as Kris says, creating new music outside of their comfort zone.
Kris: But just as a fun fact, well, I will say that now that we are in London, we've made a song that is the most Balkan song we've ever made, so it's… it might have a completely opposite effect. We don't really have any idea yet where it will take us.
Host: In Slovenia, you made a living with music. Now that you've gone abroad and have all these concerts, is it as profitable as laypeople imagine?
Kris: I'll say it like this: if we stayed only in Slovenia, we would be making more money right now than we actually do. But we have, I don't know, some kind of a chronic flaw where we never know how to stop investing in ourselves, well, how to say it. Which is actually a great thing, but such... touring abroad is definitely not a profitable thing for a band at our level, but I will say that it is less of a financial burden than I thought it would be. We are lucky to have so many listeners that in the previous season, the previous tour, we sold out almost everything, which means that it did bring us some money, but with all the... plane tickets, accommodation, transport, it amounts to so much that in the end, we just managed to nicely finance all of it, plus maybe get some money for the album this year. Otherwise, it's not like we're making big money. If we had stayed in Slovenia, we would've just pocketed all that.
¹MENT Ljubljana is one of the leading showcase festivals and music conferences in Central and Eastern Europe and the largest event of its kind in the region.
55 notes
·
View notes
Note
Dan Wootton tweeted that the Sun paid £200k for that picture of Catherine walking with William at a farm shop in Windsor town. Now there's news that a staffer at the London hospital where Catherine was treated for her abdominal surgery tried to access her medical records. I feel so bad for Catherine. I wish she would take the rest of 2024 off as payback to those who bullied her. The good thing is the public keeps telling the media to leave Catherine alone in the comments section.
HI Nonny,
Well, whoever sold that video of Princess Catherine, they has best br prepared to have their privacy invaded in the future. Same for the person who tried to access her medical records. You reap what you sow, always.
If it is true about a worker trying to access her medical records then I expect that worker to be fired. You can't have untrustworthy staff around, and that is a breach of the law on medical privacy.
It is lovely that the public is on Princess Catherine's side. I would support her 100% if she took the rest of the year off. She has been treated abominably and has every right to protect herself.
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
happy birthday, aqua-myosotis <3
For @aqua-myosotis on your birthday. I hope you have the best day!
---
In the days leading up to the full moon, Remus can generously be called cranky. Privately, James thinks that Moony the wolf is less volatile than Remus in human form right before the moon.
In the days after, though, Remus is a delight. He spends at least twenty-four hours moon drunk. The comedown from the moon is like a high for him, and taking care of him is always an adventure.
Today, though, Sirius gets called into work the afternoon after the full, so Remus duty falls to James alone. Remus convinces him that they must grab dinner in Muggle London, and then they’ll do some shopping while they wait for Sirius to get home. James is only too happy to agree. He loves spending money on Remus. It’s one of his favorite things.
The owner of Remus’s favorite record store doesn’t bat an eye at Remus’s behavior, probably because Remus has actually been high in his shop on multiple occasions over the years. It doesn’t go over as well at Remus’s favorite bookshop, because he keeps dramatically reading passages from various erotica novels out loud until James, quaking with silent laughter, has to usher him out of the shop.
James had been hoping that most of Remus’s moon drunk state would pass by dinnertime, but it shows no sign of abating. They’re on their way to the restaurant when Remus suddenly disappears from James’s side, and by the time James realizes what’s happening, Remus is already halfway across the street.
“Rem!” James calls, running after him and casting a few discreet spells to make some cars stop in their tracks. “Hey, you can’t just do that.”
“But James, look.” Remus has his nose pressed to the glass of a shop window. “It’s Padfoot.”
James chokes on a laugh when he spots the black puppy sleeping in a pile with its siblings. “Er, he’s a little small to be Padfoot, love.”
“Oh!” Remus says, ignoring him. “There’s another one. Hi, Paddy! Hi! Jamie, we have to go say hi to Padfoot.”
In all, there are four all-black puppies in the pet shop. Remus grabs James’s hand and drags him around the store to visit each one, and then he turns pleading eyes on James.
“Oh, no,” James mutters.
---
It probably would have been fine if it had stopped there, James reasons. What are four puppies, anyway? They already live with one Padfoot, who’s at least eight times bigger than one of the puppies. Four puppies is nothing!
But then Remus drags James across town to visit another pet shop, and then to a third one, and then they stop by a shelter on their way back home.
It’s at that point that James admits that maybe he should have put his foot down.
But how is he supposed to resist those pleading eyes? Merlin, Remus is going to be the death of him.
“Hi, Padfoot, you’re so handsome,” Remus coos. He’s laying on their kitchen floor, and all of the puppies are climbing on him, all clamoring for attention. All fourteen of them. “Oh, yes, you are too. And you! Such pretty boys, yes you are. So many pretty Padfoots.”
---
Sirius is too tired to dig for his key, so he unlocks their front door wandlessly and steps into the house with a sigh of relief. Merlin, what a day.
He’s only just shrugged out of his jacket when there’s a commotion from the kitchen, and the sound of many nails scampering across hardwood flooring. He turns around, and is instantly besieged by a dozen puppies.
Puppies?
Twelve--no, fourteen--black puppies are yipping at his feet, putting their little paws on his legs and wiggling their adorable little butts.
“Hey, Pads.” James comes out of the kitchen looking sheepish. Remus is hanging on his arm, a dopey smile on his face. “Welcome home.”
“Padfoot!” Remus exclaims. “Look! I got you Padfoots!”
“You got me…me,” Sirius says.
Remus comes up to him and kisses his cheek. “‘Cause I love you a lot.”
“I love you, too, babe.” Sirius wraps him in a hug, glaring at James over Remus’s shoulder. “But we’re never leaving you alone with Prongs again.”
James pouts. “It’s not my fault! He did the thing with his eyes.”
Sirius kisses the side of Remus’s head. “You’ve got Jamie wrapped around your finger, don’t you?”
“Yep,” Remus says, popping the p. Sirius feels his forehead. The post-moon fever has finally broken, thank goodness. A good night’s sleep, and Remus will be back to normal in the morning.
“Come on, you.” Sirius wraps an arm around his waist and steers him toward the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed.”
The puppies pile into the bed, too. There’s no room leftover for James or Sirius.
“Er,” James says, “there’s Harry’s bed? He’s not going to need it until the summer.”
But Harry’s bed barely fits James, let alone the two of them, and Sirius ends up having to drape himself basically on top of his husband to stay on the bed.
“From now on,” he whispers, “I’m on Remus duty.”
#imp is writing#wolfstarbucks#sirius black#remus lupin#james potter#this is probably the dumbest thing i have ever written and i'm so sorry#i love you a lot!!!!#i promise this fic sounded better in my head lmao#cw drug mention#but he's not actually on drugs
307 notes
·
View notes
Text
Show Me Yours | Matty Healy [21]
chapter twenty-one, act three: so far (it's alright)
masterlist
June 3rd 2014
Tommie smiles when she hears the knock on the door, she tosses the last pillow onto the bed and walks over, grin dropping slowly.
“Oh, hey.”
“Happy birthday.”
She smiles, stepping aside to let Matty in, Button lifts her head from the bed and rolls over for Matty to pat her belly.
Tommie steps out into the corridor for a minute, glancing up and down for any sign of her boyfriend who is yet to arrive, even though he said he’d be here at 11 she’s been on edge since she woke up at seven.
It’s only nine.
“Sorry we have to do a show on your birthday.”
She shrugs, “Not much we could do about it, not your fault.”
She moves back over to the bed and settles on the end, moving her hand on the duvet for Button to chase after.
The bag that Matty had brought in with him is passed over to her and she raises a brow. It’s on old fraying tote bag he’d gotten from a record store in London when he was younger.
It’s heavy and when she pulls out what's inside she pauses, there's a collection of different poetry books tied together but the one that stands out most to her is the Jack Kerouac one.
“You got me a new one?”
“Open it.”
She does as she says and pauses, eyes flickering up to him quickly, “You got it back?”
“Bumped into Gemma few weeks ago, asked her about it, said she gave it to a guy she hooked up with gave me his number-”
“Wow, really?”
“I said it was for you, she really liked you.”
She smiles at that, she really liked Gemma too, they got along great and Tommie felt like they could’ve been friends. Had it not been for the crush she held on her boyfriend.
“That guy gave it to a roommate to read, that roommate got bored and gave it to a charity shop up in Liverpool-”
“Jesus, Roddy, what’ve you gone through to get this?”
“A lot.” He says seriously, “But it was worth it.”
“Worth it?”
He nods, tugging on a strand of her curly hair, “Got to see that smile again.”
She sighs and purses her lips as she turns away, “Haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Matt, please-”
“Please what?”
She glances away and he clears his throat, dropping the strand of her hair, “I know I haven’t been the best friend lately, it’s just…”
He trails off and she raises a brow, “Just what, Matty?”
He lifts his head to look at her, “Cause I t-”
There's another knock on her hotel room door but she doesn't move, she raises her brow for him to continue on as a second knock sounds through the room.
“You should answer that.”
She opens the door and smiles at her boyfriend on the other side, bouquet of pink roses and a little gift bag in hand.
“Happy birthday, babe.”
He leans forward to kiss her, walking her backwards into the room slowly, hand moving up and down her sides until he hears the throat being cleared.
He stands up straight, pulling her into his chest when he notices Matty, “Hey, man, you good?”
“Not as good as you it seems.” Matty says awkwardly, Button still sat in his lap, chewing on the strings of his black hoodie.
“Here,” Caleb says, lifting the bag, “Got you a present.”
She grins and pulls the bag from his hands, “You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs, “Well, I know you didn't really get birthdays when you were younger, so, here you go.”
She takes the records out the bag and smiles, Amnesiac by Radiohead, London Calling by the Clash and then finally, Unplugged by Eric Clapton.
She purses her lips slowly and lifts the records to show Matty who can’t hold back his grin as he takes it from her.
Claeb looks between them both slowly, “What?”
“Nothing,” She turns to place her hands on his cheeks, “Thank you, it’s very kind of you.”
She leans up on her tiptoes and Matty sighs as he makes a loud show of getting to his feet, “I’m going before this becomes too intimate for the new emotionless persona I’m going for.”
He picks up Button cradling her in his arms, she’s gotten big now so he struggles to hold her but manages to balance her on one hip.
“I’m taking the dog so she’s not traumatised.”
“Matty, do not kidnap my dog.”
“Taking her.” He says as he pulls the door open.
“Matthew!”
“I’m taking the dog, dumbass.” He says in his best Jennifier Coolidge impression making her roll her eyes.
She’s soon occupied with Caleb pushing her backwards, lips moving up the side of her neck as he goes, “Let me show you how much you mean to me.” He whispers.
“Let me show you how much I love you, Tommie.”
He climbs on top of her, shirt shed over his head as his hands push their way under her hoodie, she closes her eyes and leans back.
⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ
“You’re leaving?”
She sits up in the bed, grabbing the sheets pooled at the bottom of her bed and bringing them up to cover herself as he turns back around.
He brings the shirt back over his head and moves to sit beside her, a chaste kiss being placed on her cheek, “I’m sorry, babe, I did try, really.”
“It’s,” She pauses, hand moving to play with a loose thread on the collar of his shirt, “It’s fine, Caleb, you’re busy, I get that.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s always fine.”
He hangs his head low, hand moving to take hers away, “Before you go, can I just cut that?”
He shrugs, “It’s fine, doesn’t bother me.”
“It bothers me.” She says with a cheeky smile.
She wraps her finger around it, preparing to pull it loose but he catches her wrist, “Just leave it there, Tommie.”
“Please?” She asks, tilting her head forward to look at him through her lashes, although she can’t take her eyes off the string, she scratches her neck, as if she can feel it there on her own skin, “It’ll bother me all day and I won’t stop thinking about it.”
“I’ll be taking it off as soon as I get home anyway.”
“Yeah, but you’re going straight to the studio.”
He doesn’t answer that, he tugs his shoes on and leans over to give her another kiss.
He smiles into the kiss when he feels her hand snake up his back towards the piece of her annoyance on his neck.
He catches her hand, pulling it down to his mouth to place a kiss upon her knuckles, his lips curled as he laughs at her, “I’ll see you saturday.”
⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ
“Stop it.”
She looks up at Matty with a questioning raise of her brows and he reaches out to gently grasp her hand, “Stop doing that.”
He tugs her hand away from where she’s been scratching at her neck, the skin now red and full of scrapes.
Moving himself he stands right beside her, his chest brushing her shoulder as he moves her hair out of the way to inspect the red marks. “Tommie…”
She huffs tugging the bobble of her wrist and pulling her hair up out of the way, “It’s really warm, hairs sticking to me-”
“Please don’t lie to me. What’s wrong?”
Her hand goes to scratch again as she remembers the piece of string on Caleb’s shirt but she stops, dropping it down beside her and fiddling with the pocket in her shorts, tucking and untucking it until it feels just right.
She shrugs, but then he mutters her name again and when she looks up at him she questions just how any one can resist those eyes.
“Caleb had a loose string on his top this morning, I tried to pull it off but he wouldn’t let me. Can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Then try,” He asks softly, “You’re getting yourself worked up about it. Gonna give yourself a sensory overload again.”
“I’m fine, all under control.” He watches as she picks at the skin on her thumbs and sighs again a little louder.
Instead of reprimanding her and her unhealthy ways of dealing with things out of her control he clasps one hand around each ear, blocking out the overlapping noise of the busy backstage around them.
He tugs her until she’s standing just in front of him, her forehead resting on his chest. Her hands fall to catch hold of his waistband before moving around until they settle flat on his back.
With his chin on her head she allows herself to relax into him, focusing only on him as he people watches from the corner of the room.
“I’ve got you, baby.”
taglist
@thereisaplaceintheheart
@indierockgirrl
@sofaritsalrightt
@julezs-bl0g
@eaglestar31
@sophinthealpss
@noacfemcel
@if-my-heart-bleeds
@befrwime
@fallingforel
@sexorchocolateorpillowsorclouds
@3terna15unshin3
-let me know if you want to be added :)
67 notes
·
View notes
Text
The magazine this article came from is unknown, but it was written in Feb. 1964 by Nora Ephron.
Transcript:
The Youngest Beatle
"The other day at a Beatles press conference for fan magazines, a young lady raised her hand and said, 'Mr. Starr is known for his rings, Mr. McCartney obviously for his looks, and Mr. Lennon for his wife, and then there's Mr. Harrison. What about you, Mr. Harrison?'
George Harrison looked up from his chicken sandwich, batted what have come to be known as his 'adorable eyelashes,' and said, 'As long as I get an equal share of the money, I'm willing to stay anonymous.'
Beatle George has little to worry about. If he didn't have those adorable eyelashes, and a long unbroken unibrow curving across his upper face, it would be almost impossible to distinguish him from the other three mopheads. Beatle fans have no difficulty however; a random sampling of them at the Ed Sullivan Show the other night indicated that more Beatle fans were madly in love with George than with any other Beatle. 'He's just, well, he's, well, I can't explain it,' said one young admirer of George.
Those who know the group find it easy to describe the young man. 'George likes people to be very blunt,' says disc jockey Murray the K. 'He likes them to tell it like it is. No shilly-shallying. He's very definite.'
Harrison's sister, Mrs. Louise Caldwell, agreed. 'He's very direct,' she said. 'He's very much like our mother. Be it bad for her or good for her, she's always direct.
George's bluntness is refreshingly implicit in the few things he says in public. At one press conference, the group was asked why their records had succeeded in the past few months in the U.S., when they had flopped so miserably a year earlier. 'The thing is,' George said, 'Capitol promoted the record.'
At 20, George is the youngest Beatle, and the youngest of four children. His father works for the transport company in Liverpool; his brothers are now tradesmen.
He attended a private school -- 'the best in Liverpool' -- the Liverpool Institute, where his record was spotty. 'George had a "devil-may-care" attitude towards school,' said one friend. 'He was bright, so he didn't apply himself.'
When he was 14, his mother gave him a $5 guitar for Christmas and that more or less finished any thought he might have had to become a scholar. He and Paul McCartney, who also attended the Institute, spent their free time improvising on the guitar and singing together. Occasionally, they would set off on long camping trips, hitchhiking over the countryside with knapsacks on their backs and guitars on their arms.
Midway through school, George dropped out to become an apprentice electrician. 'I had to stop trying to be an electrician because I kept blowing everything up.' he said once. In fact, he had to stop being an electrician when he became deeply involved with being a Beatle. He and Paul had met John Lennon, who attended school nearby, at a local coffee shop. The three began to play guitars together, and The Beatles began.
Why have The Beatles succeeded? 'We're different,' says George, 'and we came along when everyone was ready for a change.'
'In this business, I think you've got to broaden yourself, adapt yourself,' Harrison told the London Evening Standard's Maureen Cleave. 'If you're surrounded by a band of screaming girls, you adapt yourself to that. You don't think they're all lusting after you.'
'If we fizzle out -- well, we fizzle out. But it will all have been a lot of fun.'"
#george harrison#john lennon#paul mccartney#the beatles#nora ephron#louise harrison#lou harrison#maureen cleave#i'm delighted this was written by nora ephron#scans#paul and george#1964
118 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
reverie-starlight
{forever is the sweetest con}
onionfairy99
The Onion Fairy Exhibition
odinartsblog
odin
nurselana96
Untitled