#NOT EVEN FROM MY NOTES APP. JUST. COMPLETELY OFF THE CUFF

[moe-broey]

I ❤️ HITTING TAG LIMIT. BUT. ALSO. I feel like there's a whole other avenue to explore, when you have an aromantic chara who Isn't Strictly Ace. Like mind how I said Mani is "functionally ace". Regardless of if its internal sense of whatever would line up perfectly w Moe's, who's demisexual -- that doesn't matter. Like I fully don't have a strict answer on that. What I DO have for a strict answer, though, is that Mani has such an unhealthy, trauma-fueled, and just deeply UNCOMFORTABLE relationship to sexuality that it straight up Does Not Matter. Treat it as though it is fully aroace, who would be abstaining on both accounts. Somewhere in here there is a Plumeria comparison -- it's important to acknowledge each goes about navigating the discomfort a bit differently. But. The sheer amount of intense discomfort is There. Enough to where forcing either into such a situation "nice style" (as in, idealizing the scenario and not using it as an avenue for horror) would be antithetical to Who They Are, as characters.

Cut back to Moe, and the opening statement. This is not something I'm gonna be able to capture perfectly, esp off the cuff. HOWEVER. For many reasons, Moe imprints on Alfonse. It is not a simple or straightforward process. But it does happen. The deep emotional bond is made. The Trust is established. Moe has been shockingly meticulous and methodical about it. Shocking, because of how rapidly it happened AND -- it's... A bit easy. To misjudge Moe. As someone who's far too flippant, casual to the point of carelessness, and naive. That isn't to say it lacks these qualities completely. But it is to say Moe contains multitudes, in a most contradictory fashion.

Okay. So give a mouse a cookie, and now we've got a sexual situationship going on in the budding friendship, friendship specifically slowed only by each having their own sets of Issues. Alfonse being Alfonse about it, you know the guy who's all "I find it best, not to get too attached these days... especially to Heroes." and "Promise you'll never leave us. Without warning me, first." and "I advise you not to get close to the Heroes. It will just make it harder... should you ever be parted." and AGGRESSIVELY GESTURES. AT THE ENTIRE 40 CONVO. AND THE ALEAR FBS. OKAY? SAME PAGE? OKAY. And now we got Moe being Moe about it. Guy who SWEARS up and down that you can like someone very much, genuinely, and not get attached to them. Guy who is relieved to leave everything behind and start anew. Guy who has an INFINITE AMOUNT of trust issues and is endlessly stubborn about it. Moe voice "you're not allowed to like me" and "I can Leave Any Time." Moe mentality "but i can like you just fine. You Deserve a Little Pussy, as A Treat. for your troubles. I'm Helping." And, of course, the Loadbearing "this guy is fuckin' awesome. he's not gonna get attached to me at all, i mean he said so himself."

There is. Of course. SO much set up and context. So many trust tests. So much of Moe just Evaluating Him. And so much of Alfonse becoming a neurotic guard dog about it. Extremely calculated. Moe worries for his well-being, makes itself available as a person to confide in. Alfonse has taken note of Moe's Struggles, like that thang is going to DIE if left on its own. Wounds fresh from Catastrophic Bruno Incident. Takes this opportunity to accept Moe's offer, Only if you confide in me, as well. Moe thinks it's got his ass. Alfonse knows he got Moe's ass. Peace and love on planet convoluted Trust Pact where neither party is remotely normal about it.

Okay. Looping all the way back to the opening statement, again. Aromantic character, who experiences some level of sexual attraction and desire for sex. All our ducks in a row, all the planets perfectly aligned...

This has. Fascinating effects. On the Moefonse dynamic. Moe likes Alfonse a lot. Is extremely fond of him. Moe would describe him as, "being very likeable". There isn't any romantic intent behind those words -- in fact, Moe makes it very clear, it resents the notion. Moe and Alfonse's relationship can only exist as it does at this point in time, because neither are "ready" to "be in a relationship". What Moe doesn't exactly realize yet, however, is that "ready" never comes to be. Alfonse is capable of romantic attraction, just has an odd way of going about it. He, on paper, could feasibly be "ready" one day. Moe never will. But this isn't exactly doomed -- it's not a story of starcrossed lovers. It's a story of being in love with your best friend, and loving your best friend dearly. Alfonse's goal will eventually become, learning to love Moe exactly where it's at. Hell, this can even go for Mani, too! Only the "Where it (Mani) is at" is very different, than where Moe is. That's focal. It defines the entire relationship (neutral phrase/title, here). Maybe, for Mani, the story is loving at a distance, and learning to be loved in a way that doesn't hurt, that isn't scary (OW! OUCH! OOOWWWW!!!!!!!!!).

I keep getting bogged down in the details, though. Sex, for Moe, is... An offering. It has determined, after much careful consideration, that Alfonse can be Trusted with its body. That he's worthy of it. That he deserves it. These words, feel like obligation, but trust -- Moe wouldn't be doing this if it weren't extremely fond of the guy. It has A LOT. Of odd, intense feelings about him it can't quite place, on top of that -- which surely will not come back to bite it in the ass come Book 3 and 4. Surely.

Meanwhile. What gets REALLY fucking fascinating, actually. Is how, Alfonse does allow all this to happen. He is giving that mouse a cookie. Ofc has his hot and cold moments about it. But something that GOT ME. THINKING ABOUT THIS. DEVELOPING THIS. Is how Alfonse is using this offering, and sex itself, as A Tool. Don't get me wrong, he genuinely likes Moe a lot too (just don't tell it that. Yet.), he wouldn't be allowing this to occur in the first place, if he didn't. He's very fond of Moe, and treads VERY carefully. Especially after he learns how calculated Moe has been, too. Complete perspective shift, needs a new approach, and... Yeah remember how Moe is stubborn? Endlessly? And how even WITH the Trust Pact, Alfonse is often fighting for his life to wrangle Moe into accepting ANY fucking help????? When it is DIRELY NEEDED?????

LIKE if I were to make a canon comparison. He handles Moe Exactly how he would come to handle Ratatoskr. VASTLY different circumstances, dynamics, and flavor of what bond would be developed, here. The opening of Book 8 and the insane Alfonse and Ratatoskr conspiring under the Order's nose and almost getting himself killed for it moment. Normal Alfonse Things. But the way he takes in all of the information Girl Assigned To Assassinate Him (And Is A Bit Hesitant To) gives him, through what she says directly, and what she reveals through her emotional state (sobbing wet creature), AND what she doesn't even INTEND to fully tell him, the context just slips through. In BOTH scenarios, after diffusing the threat (bc make no mistake! And he didn't either! Behind those tears, IS someone with the knowledge and skills to kill him.) by winning her over, getting her on HIS side. And the Normal Alfonse Moments Incident. In Both Cases, he is using Ratatoskr to achieve his own ends, here. And Ratatoskr, stuck between a rock and a hard place, but given exactly what she fucking Needed and was denied by her previous situation, The Choice. Him, respecting her agency and autonomy and just trusting the rest. She willingly offers herself, to help.

Like. Back to Moe. Back to Alfonse, with Moe. Like with Ratatoskr, there is a level of diffusing a looming threat. Except instead of his own life, it's Moe's safety. And after his previous homoerotic bestfriendship ended w his bestie trying to goad Alfonse into Killing Him, like, suicide at the hands of your bestie, and the implications that Bruno has made SEVERAL attempts before turning to the false identity suicide plot. That's, ah....... maybe a sensitive subject. For Alfonse. The idea, that Moe could be a danger to itself.

And beyond that! It's a matter of slowly but surely winning Moe over. Getting Moe to actually... be vulnerable, with him. It likes him a lot, that much is clear. He already has one foot in the door. But Moe is Moe about it. Will take some time.

So, fellas. What's the solution, here? Well. Clearly. Gay sex. Sex as an offering, and sex as a tool. Both UNBELIEVABLY calculated about it, believe it or not with all braincells just being thrown out the window, also. Because, that's the key, too. Despite how hard each of them fights it -- they both do, really, really like each other. They just enjoy each other's company. SO much. Devastatingly fond of each other. They're... Friends 🥺🥲💕

(... What does this make Mani? Whole other Beast. What does this make Lif? Epic Divorce Man. Easy.)

[hallowed-be-thy-username]

Clothing Is Custom, No Labels

“No matches on prints, DNA, dental. Clothing is custom, no labels. Nothing in his pockets but knives and lint. No name, no other alias.”

Summary: You’re one of the last bespoke tailors in town, making suits and custom clothing for Gotham’s elite. Business men and women, well known lawyers, the Wayne family, and... the Joker?

Genre: Self-insert

Pairing: Ledger!Joker x fem reader

Warnings: angst? mentions of J killing reader, descriptions of cutting, blood, just a titch of knife play (not nsfw just yet though)

Word count: 2,577

Author’s Note: I’m excited about this one, guys!! Things are getting intense! Also RIP my laptop, I’m posting this on the mobile app so the formatting is kinda crazy and I can’t inset a keep reading 😭 so scroll with caution and heed the warnings!

Musical Inspiration: Venus In Furs by The Velvet Underground

- Part Four - A suit. It was a suit that put you in this position, standing next to him. He seemed even broader, taller, his presence more imposing. His smile said everything. It sent a shiver down to your toes, goosebumps prickling your back.

You tried to move but you were stuck, staring at him. He had a look in his eyes, different than before. He knew the effect, his allure, the pull, that his just standing there was having on you.

He basked in your reflexive attention, wide eyes taking in the way he looked in the suit. He looked… incredible. Striking. It turned out better than you’d ever hoped. Something fervent and inauspicious was displayed in front of you, stirring an unfamiliar feeling in your guts. You really weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, looking at him. Seconds? Minutes? You opened your mouth but no sound came out, only a huff of breath.

“I, um, I’m sorry,” you finally managed to squeak past your vocal cords.

Joker chuckled through his nose and asked, “Sorry for wha-t?”

Your face flushed, heat rising into your cheeks. “U-um, I um, for staring,” you answered quickly.

He chuckled louder this time, sending butterflies quivering in your stomach with a queasy jolt. Looking back at the mirror, he said, “Uh, aren’t you supposed to?”

You took a moment to process what he meant before swiftly jerking yourself in motion to grab your tailoring chalk and set of pins from the table, keeping your eyes down as you suddenly felt uncomfortable meeting his gaze again. Something about him wearing your suit set your nerves even more on edge, heightened with anxious energy buzzing through you. But you had to calm yourself. Focus, breathe. You decided to start with the back of the coat so that you could avoid his hypnotic eyes a bit longer.

Blowing a breath through your lips, you looped your measuring tape over your neck and approached him from behind.

“I, I’m gonna check the fit of the coat,” you said.

His green-haired head nodded silently and you slowly reached out to touch the coat. In spite of your best efforts, your hands shook frustratingly, lingering out in front of you until you pushed past that pervasive hesitance and placed your palms on his back, between his shoulders.

The wool warmed by his heat met your skin, tingles shooting down your back in reply. Your anxieties were beginning to irritate you. Every little sensation, movement, or sound from him made you feel like you were on fire and it wouldn’t stop. Just keep going, he’s watching you, he’s waiting. Your own thoughts didn’t help either.

You let the resulting electricity run through you as you moved your hands, smoothing the purple fabric until you reached the edges where you tugged at it, checking how it fit his broad shoulders. They curved beneath the heavy layer, the fit leaving just enough room to move them. Your heart pumped a bit faster, anxiety beginning to twist into some sort of exhilaration at the feeling of his form beneath your hands.

It followed you as you checked the sleeve pitch, your fingers straightening the sleeve where it met the body of the coat, falling in line all the way to the cuff. They buzzed with nervous anticipation as you fluttered them over more of the fabric. It almost felt good.

Routine took over while you continued to muse over the garment, now scrutinizing the details more carefully with pins between your teeth to pluck and slide into place over any areas where you felt the fit needed improvement. So focused on your ardent task, you hadn’t really noticed that you’d stepped in front of him, eyes glued to the lapels resting on his chest that steadily rose and fell, his body otherwise completely still. Like a living mannequin that wore your creation so perfectly. You marked where the lapels laid against the front of the coat with lines of chalk and stepped back to check the symmetry. Suddenly you stiffened and your pulse thrummed faster as you felt his eyes on you.

You swallowed and slowly lifted your gaze, you breath quickening. He was staring at you. His expression was blank, unreadable, all you could do was stare back.

His tongue flicked out over the forked scar on his lip, drawing your eyes to it, then to the rest of the damage to his face. There was no ignoring their presence. If people were always staring at them, then how much did he think about them? Do they still hurt? Would the phantom of the sensation that came with their creation spark with pain at random? Perhaps the damaged nerve endings conducted tangled signals, the haphazardly healed tissue trying desperately to function as it once did. Varying between feelings of numbness, stinging, prickling, overwhelming sensitivity, or any combination of these crawling across his permanent smile. Maybe sensations were elicited from no stimulus at all, as if recalling its own former trauma.

His gravelly voice pulled you out of your thoughts when he asked, “How does it look, hm?”

“It, it looks incredible,” you words tumbled out before you could think, prompting the heat of embarrassment to rise up to your ears.

He grinned at you and replied, “Is that so?”

No knowing what else to do except play along, you nod slowly, your eyes still locked on each other’s.

“Ahh the creator speaks well of her creation, hm?” he said.

“Uh, no! Well, I mean, yes? It, you, uh, I think it came together nicely,” you sputtered in response.

Joker chuckled and responded in a husky voice, “Gooood.”

Your heart flipped in your chest and your lips parted to take in a deep breath. You didn’t know what to think about what was happening. You were afraid. But fear was now joined by another feeling. Some faint excitement reaching up from deep down inside, drawn out by the way he looked at you. They swirled together in your stomach, telling you to run away but keeping you there in front of him, filling you with some want for him to speak to you again.

“Um, do you like the fit?” you finally asked.

He shifted his gaze back to the mirror and gripped the collar of the coat to shift it slightly.

“You’re the ex-pert, doll,” he said, not taking his eyes away from the mirror.

“Oh, o-ok,” you said quietly, almost under your breath, as your feet carried you toward him again.

You walked around him in a circle, checking your marked alterations once more. It was perfect. But you could stand there all night, inspecting how it hung off his body. Why? You didn’t really know.

Trying not to linger too long, you said softly, “It, um, it, looks good to me. So, uh, let’s have a look at the, um, the jacket.”

He slid the coat off of his shoulders to hand it to you, the fabric still warm in your hands as you draped it over the stand. You turned back to him to check the suit jacket, knowing his eyes were on you made your skin tingle. Hesitation flashed in your mind but was promptly snuffed out by the inexplicable fascination that continued to take you over.

You reached out and took both sides of the jacket front in your hands, lining up the buttons with their corresponding holes and gliding them through. You walked around him, trying to focus on your task and not the quivering of your stomach. After checking the sleeves and making some adjustments, you reached for the buttons once more. You could tell him to take the jacket off, or you could do it yourself. Like you had no control over them, your fingers unfastened each button before moving to slide the jacket from his shoulders as he silently complied.

Your hands trembled less the longer you touched him. It felt dangerous, getting used to that feeling of riskiness, imminent consequence not setting off the response it should be. Your feet should carry you away from danger, not draw you toward it. But oh, was it tempting. You stood closer to face him. The tension of your muscles and tingling of your skin had become strangely addictive, your nerves encouraged you to chase the feeling, despite what would be better judgement.

Your systematic undressing left him standing in the pinstripe pants with the hem reaching just to the tops of his brown shoes, hexagon patterned shirt, and green vest that hugged his sides to outline his broad chest down to his lean waist. You stepped closer. He smelled like greasepaint and cigarettes.

When you straightened the collar of the shirt, your fingers grazed over his neck in what was almost a seductive manner, raising goosebumps up your arms and suddenly the silence in the room became all too obvious. You sucked in a breath, pulled your hands back and froze with your eyes on his chest in front of you. It expanded with his breath that now warmed your face and you found yourself unable to move once again, stuck in the pull he had on you.

There it was. The familiar feeling of arousal fluttered in your core and your face flushed. You cursed your body’s reaction. This can’t be happening. Not with him.

“Look at me,” he said plainly.

Your breath trembled slightly as you shifted your eyes up to meet his. His gaze sent your heart racing, overwhelming and entrancing. He looked as though he could swallow you whole. Fear is a fickle thing. It could save your life, keep you out of danger. Don’t go down that dark alley, someone might be lurking. Don’t touch that snake, it might bite you. But it can betray you, too. It can mingle with desire, giving you that toxic gift of adrenaline, flowing through your veins like a drug. It saturates your mind, drowning out the instincts you thought were instilled so steadfast. You reached for that snake to let it sink its fangs into your flesh.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice thick like honey.

Your eyes burned, locked with his dark pupils as you nodded slowly, your body acting on raw impulse.

The click of a switchblade met your ears and you stiffened as he brought it up to your cheek, holding the back of your neck with his other hand. Your body shuttered and twitched uncontrollably, your head beginning to feel light.

He stared deeper into your eyes and growled, “No you’re not.”

His words spun around in your mind. You were afraid, you wanted to be afraid. But something wouldn’t let it come to the surface. It shouted for you to run, scream, anything show him it was there. But it’s voice was muffled by the sick thrill that his knife at your cheek sent coursing through you. Would he cut you? Would he kill you? The threat of blood dripping to the floor weighed heavy over both of you.

“Careful doll,” he rumbled, lowering the knife from your face. “Tha-t is a danger-ous game.”

Game? It didn’t feel like a game. Your chest squeezed uncomfortably when you thought about his knife dragging across your skin, the sting that would follow it as the surface split open.

“A… a game?” you asked with your voice quivering.

He hummed and nodded his head, his gaze never breaking away from yours.

“Play with fire and you get burned,” he rumbled, bringing his face even closer.

Your heart pounded up into your throat and your blood ran hot. He saw something in your eyes. He knew. He knew the thought of being with him excited you and you had no control over it. You ached with need. A need that was new and sharp, pricking at your insides. You needed to know what it would be like. Had you lost your sensibilities?

Suddenly he stepped forward and you backed up reflexively, each step steering you backwards until you were halted by the wall, nowhere to go. He put his hand on the wall beside you and leaned against it. He lifted the knife he still held in his other hand and placed the point at the top of your chest, right in the middle. Then he leaned in, bringing his lips to your ear.

A powerful shiver ran down your back as he spoke in a low voice, “How about now?”

This was the game. A contest of wills. Would you cry? Try to get away? Or would you bleed for him?

Your skin was set ablaze beneath the blade and your jaw clenched as you sucked air in through your teeth. A trickle of sticky red ran onto your shirt as he moved away with the knife, watching you through heavy lids. The tiny cut on your chest stung, the pain mixing with your heightened senses. It was confusing, this feeling of fulfillment. He still held the knife, he could still kill you. But this felt different. Your heart began to slow its unforgiving racing and you breathed deeply.

His red lips twitched into a smile, impious and entrancing.

“Ahhh look what we have here. There it iiis,” he purred. “Don’t forget, doll, the fire’s hot. Wouldn’t want ya to, uh, get burned too bad, hm?”

Your jaw dropped open slightly as you stared at him, speechless. What just happened? What does he mean?

Before any words could form from your mouth, be stepped back. He clicked the knife into its handle and casually strolled back over to the mirror.

“You, uh, really have outdone yourself, doll,” he said, starting to unknot the tie around is neck. “You have ta-lent.”

You remained silent and wide eyed, stuck in place against the wall as he stripped down to his boxer shorts in front of you, rendering you even more stunned. Then he pulled on his tattered shirt and pants with the frayed jacket he arrived in.

He straightened his collar and turned back toward you. His eyes made your stomach quiver once more before he purred, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Looking forward to it, doll.”

You blinked and the door closed. He was gone.

Reality came rushing over you in a cold sweat. You slid down the wall to sit on the floor, suddenly gasping for air and panting as your hands trembled.

You forced yourself to take deep breaths and closed your eyes, wiping the sweat from your brow as you leaned your head back against the wall. Then your eyes snapped open and you lifted your hand to gently touch your finger to your chest. You looked to see your blood glistening on your fingertip.

He cut you. Shallow and small, but skin was broken. You should have been afraid but you didn’t fear the act itself. No, you feared the feeling it left behind. The thrill was intense, filling you up with a strange euphoria. An arousal. You should be dead, drained of life by the point of a knife. But you only grazed the blade. You wanted to chase that feeling, follow it for more. Tangle with danger and let it touch you all over.

You danced with the devil and he left you wanting more.

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

Taglist: @amethystmoonprincess @call-me-harley-quinn @liz-rdwitch @germansarechill @thesadvampire @tsukiakarinobara @heavymetalnarwhal @neverputsaltinyoureyes @apocalypticwafflekitten @astheworlddturns @komatheterrible @jokersqueenofchaos @killingjokee

[tenroseforeverandever]

Optimal Distance

Characters: Tentoo; Rose Tyler; Tentoo x Rose

Tags: lemons; lemons on video chat; mutual self-applied lemons; basically loads of lemons!; and the usual fluff, hurt/comfort, humour stuff

Summary: Rose has been feeling sad, lonely, and a little bit envious, left to endure the dreary London winter, while the Doctor has been posted on assignment in Rio, setting up a new Torchwood branch. But a comment the Doctor makes about a strangely bare desk in his otherwise cluttered study inspires Rose to find a way to bring them closer together, even though they are half a world apart.

Notes: This fic is one of many that had been lingering, stagnating in my collection of unfinished fics, just waiting for inspiration to strike.

Many thanks as always to my wonderful betas, @rose--nebula and mrsbertucci. You are absolutely brilliant, and I have no idea what I would do without you. And thanks to @aintfraidanoghosts who is always a voice of inspiration and encouragement (especially if she hears lemons on the menu!) I love you all!

I made quite a few tweaks and edits since they saw it, so as always, any mistakes are mine.I hope you like it!

Also read on AO3 and Teaspoon

OPTIMAL DISTANCE

“Done! You should be getting it any second now!” Rose crowed into her mobile with a rather disproportionate sense of triumph. All she had accomplished was to send the Doctor an email, albeit one with a very important file attached; a file she’d had to navigate his shambolic cataloguing system to find, and that only after she’d excavated his laptop from beneath heaps of books, papers, and crumpled sticky notes on the floor beside his desk.

“Got it!” he cheered. “You are brilliant, you are! A real lifesaver, Rose Tyler! See? My lucky pants, near or far. It’s a good thing you couldn’t come with me, after all. Where would I be now, eh? Without you holding down the fort?”

“Yeah, right,” Rose muttered with a sulky huff, her victorious mood evaporating as she plopped down in the desk chair. She fought against the prickle of tears. She refused to cry about it anymore. It was her own fault she was restricted to paper-pushing for another six weeks. To be specific, she was tasked with reviewing and classifying field reports, a chore that only served to rub in the fact that she wasn’t out in the field, herself, defending the Earth from both alien and earth-born threats. Instead she had to read about it second-hand.

She knew she deserved every bit of punishment she’d received, from her brutal dressing-down from Pete and her subsequent demotion, to her month-long stint inventorying the Small Parts Department (literally the “nuts and bolts” of Torchwood, and ten times as dull as it sounded.) She had been careless and impulsive on a mission, showing off for the sake of a dare, and had nearly gotten herself killed.

The worst part had been the look on the Doctor’s face as he’d rushed into the Torchwood infirmary, not knowing what her condition was, thinking he might have lost her. The guilt she’d felt over worrying him would have been enough (a kazillion times over) to curb any future reckless, thoughtless acts. After everything they had been through, with only a single, human lifetime each, pledged to be spent together, she had nearly thrown it all away in one rash moment.

As it was, she had been lucky to have come away with only deep laser burns to her left shoulder.

She and the Doctor had clung to each other all that night, desperately making love until they were too exhausted to move.

That had been weeks ago now, and Rose was chafing at her restrictions, especially since Pete seemed to be intentionally sending the Doctor to conferences in the most wonderful, exotic locations around the world, places Rose was dying to explore with him. But Pete resolutely refused to allow her to join him.

On this current trip, the Doctor was helping establish a new Torchwood base in Rio de Janeiro, addressing the fledgling team on the importance of employing diplomacy and mediation in First Contact situations. Rio, for God’s sake! And here she was, stuck in the middle of the damp, chilly London winter. She huffed again over the phone.

“Would it help if I said I wasn’t having fun?” the Doctor asked over the upbeat sounds of Samba and boisterous voices in the background. She could just picture the scantily clad, feather-adorned (female) dancers.

“Yes…” Rose picked at the worn piping on the leather arm of the desk chair.

“Oh…”

“Sure doesn’t sound like anyone’s ready to listen to your First Contact presentation. Don’t know what the rush was…”

“Weeell, lunch is almost over, and we’ll be heading right back in. Then, I’ll be cracking the whip! But, blimey, the Brazilians know how to party!  As you can probably hear, they’d arranged for some entertainment over lunch: live band, dancers, the lot! Didn’t want to seem churlish.”

She’d been right about the dancers, then… “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’m just feelin’ sorry for myself. I should be gettin’ to bed, yeah. Loads of field reports to review, tomorrow. You have fun.”

“Right… weeell…” Rose could picture him scrubbing the back of his head with his right hand. “Thanks again. And for the record, I do wish you were here, love. It’s just not the same without you.”

“It’s a bit lonely here too.” She looked around his study, filled with reminders of his presence: it was cluttered with books and papers; an assortment of swivel-chairs, beanbags, and exercise balls; and seemingly arbitrary writing surfaces at various heights and orientations. The traditional desk, where she was currently sat, was essentially an afterthought, a horizontal surface suitable for a computer or a place to deposit bits and bobs, books, and papers. Except it was completely clear of clutter and serving no purpose. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, but she couldn’t imagine the Doctor ever using a desk like that.

“We should redecorate your study when you get home, Doctor,” she mused.

“What? Why?”

“Well, for one, this desk is taking up a lot of valuable space. We really should get rid of it. It’s nice. I bet we could sell–”

“No!” he cut her off. “I love that desk!” There was an overtone of panic in his voice.

“But you don’t use it for… well… for anything.”

“I’d rather hoped to use it someday… erm…” His voice trailed off, but quickly returned with his classic exuberance. “It’s nice and sturdy, Rose, and just the right height.”

“What the hell for? The right height for what?” Honestly, she was afraid to ask, but it was just lovely to talk to him and listen to him prattle on about nonsensical things. She missed this when he was abroad.

“Weeeell…” he stage-whispered into the phone, enthusiastic, but clearly not wanting anyone else to hear, “the height is exactly the optimal distance to take advantage of the length of your legs…”

“Wha? My legs…?”

“Blimey, Rose! This is not a good time. I’m not able to control this stupid body the way I… erm… weeell…” His tone became clipped, irritable. “I need to be focussed for this presentation.”

“Oh, never mind.” Though Rose’s curiosity had been piqued by his cryptic comments and the urgency in his voice, she knew he was on a tight schedule. “You better go give that presentation. Go on, then. Love you. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Love you, too.”

It was only once she was in her bed, half asleep, with her thoughts restless and drifting, that she realized exactly what the Doctor wanted that desk for… She was suddenly wide awake, the whispers of a plan forming in her mind.

 --ooOoo--

Rose had spent the better part of the night ordering the things she needed to set her plan in motion. The online shop guaranteed next-day delivery and she hoped everything would be there when she arrived home from work. If she managed to slip away for the afternoon (without Pete finding out) as she’d planned, she would be able to message the Doctor just before his lunch… perfect!

She was relieved to have been able to escape the confines of her office with no one noticing, except Donna, the administrative assistant who, being every bit as brilliant as her Prime Universe counterpart, noticed everything. But she had just winked at Rose and signalled with a swipe of her thumb and pointer finger that her lips were sealed.

Rose’s excitement grew when she arrived home to find several large packages waiting for her in the hallway by the door of her flat, kindly left there by the landlady. Rose beamed, her heart pounding as she bustled into the flat, hurrying to get everything set in motion before she chickened out. She had never done anything quite as bold as this before – at least in terms of trying to seduce someone – and she rather hoped the Doctor would be… receptive. Considering he had seemingly procured the desk for a very specific (erotic) purpose, she figured he would be.

An hour later, she was turning up the heating against the chill of the wintery air. Her new outfit was not exactly intended to keep her warm. To be honest, she didn’t think she’d ever worn anything so barely-there (and glittery) before. She flushed, looking at herself in the mirror. It was a bit generous calling it an outfit at all. It was really just strategically placed jewelry.

It was a Samba ensemble, made of thin strips of pink, yellow, and clear crystals. The bra was a halter design, with clusters of gems dripping in simple floral patterns from her throat to just above her breasts. A single, large sparkling clear crystal shone between her breasts, supporting a band of smaller clear crystals that curved below them. Her nipples were (only just) covered with bright pink and yellow crystal flowers. She turned around to look at herself from the back. Her bum was essentially bare, the lower part of her outfit, a thong, impossibly skimpier than the bra and crafted of more of the glittery crystals. Matching wrist and shin cuffs adorned her limbs. Not for the first time that afternoon, she thanked the stars for her Torchwood training and active lifestyle for keeping her fit and trim.

After applying her most alluring make-up, she was ready for the final piece of the puzzle. With shaking hands, she positioned the headdress over her hair. It was heavy, heavier than she’d expected, encrusted with crystals over her forehead and in a band around her head. A pink and yellow fountain of ridiculous, great, feathery plumes erupted from the top.

Rose laughed at her image in the mirror. Ridiculous didn’t begin to cover it: it was completely daft. But the Doctor would love it… or so she hoped.

She made her way to his study where she had set up cameras to take photos of herself using a remote control. Her first pose had her facing the camera, one stilettoed foot hitched up on the desk, and her opposite hand touching her sex through the thin fabric of her bejewelled knickers. She made a point of allowing her tongue to poke out at the corner of her smile. That always drove the Doctor mental.

For her next pose she leaned over the desk, her bare bum inviting the Doctor to take her from behind, as she looked suggestively over her shoulder at the camera. She elected to forgo the third pose she had planned. She’d had to stop her headdress from toppling off several times during the second pose and was feeling rather hot and bothered… and not in a sexy way.

Regardless of the headdress mishaps, she was able to select an image she liked from both sets of photos and upload them to her mobile.

So, you like Samba, do ya? she texted the Doctor, along with the two photos. Meet me for lunch… video chat. I’ll show you my moves.  

If she’d worked out the timing right, he should be receiving the messages about ten minutes before he usually stopped for lunch. She intended to make sure there would only ever be one Samba dancer in his future. Her.

She giggled nervously. She really hoped he would take the bait.

She didn’t have to wait long. Her phone vibrated on the desk. She laughed at the Doctor’s message: Blimey! Don’t move! I’ll be there in five minutes. Meeting adjourned!

He’d taken the bait all right – hook, line, and sinker!

Now for the really challenging part: video phone sex. She’d never done anything like that before. She hoped she could pull it off.

 Rose scrambled to set up her mobile on the apparatus she’d purchased, just for this purpose, at the same time as she’d bought her Samba costume. She took a few quick test shots of herself, perched on the edge of the desk with her leg hitched up the way it had been for the first of the photos she had sent the Doctor a few minutes earlier. It took a few rushed and panicked adjustments, but she eventually got the angles just right to ensure the Doctor would get an eyeful!

She was just situating herself on the desk with her leg up again when her phone pinged with the Doctor’s incoming call on video chat. Her tummy was in knots with equal parts anticipation and mortification. Her fingers shaking, she depressed the button on the remote control she’d programmed to her phone and accepted his call.

The Doctor’s eager, bewildered face filled the entire screen, his eyebrows rising into his hairline at the image before him. “Fuuuuuuck…”

He was swearing, a sure sign she’d gotten his attention in the best possible way. There was only one time he ever swore (well, mostly) and that was during sex. Rose smirked as he reflexively licked his lips, boosting her confidence even more. Her voice still trembled, though. “Like what you see, Doctor?”

His hand ruffled his hair. (Rose was jealous of that hand.) “Weeell, I mean… yes! Of course, I do! Blimey! What’s not to love?” Two hands ran through his hair this time.

“B-better… better than the Samba dancers from lunchtime yesterday?” Rose pressed her lips together, and dropped her leg from it’s provocative pose, and she slid off the desk, suddenly uncertain again and feeling vulnerable, both craving and dreading his response.

The dazed shock on his face softened, full of sincerity and love. “The only person I’ll ever want to dance with, Rose Tyler, is you.”

“I feel so… stupid… doing this.”

“NO! No, no, no, no! This is perfect. Brilliant!”

“I don’t know what I’m doin’…”

For several anxious moments, they watched each other in silence. Then, suddenly, the Doctor spoke, his voice husky and low: “Oh, Rose, I wish I could touch you. I wish I could lean you over that desk, take you from behind, and fuck you senseless.”

Rose released a tense breath. He seemed to be taking the lead, putting that unstoppable gob of his to good use.

“But first, first I’d love to have you like this, facing me. I’d spread your legs and–”

“Like this?” Now that she was relaxing, Rose found herself quite eager to play her part. Holding her headdress in place, she hopped up on the edge of the desk again, leaning back on her hands, her legs splayed.

“Yes, just like that! Beautiful! You’re fucking gorgeous!”

Rose bit her lip, her breath hitching as a flood of warmth pooled low in her abdomen. Blimey, she loved when he talked dirty.

“I’d kneel down before you, goddess that you are, and pull aside those skimpy knickers and bury my face between your thighs.”

“Like this?” she repeated, drawing the soaking strip of fabric to one side, exposing her dripping core to the Doctor.

“Oh, you’re so wet, Rose. I just want to taste you.”

“Guuuuuuuhhh… yeah! Love your mouth on me.”  

“Oh, yes! I’d dip my tongue inside you, savour the taste of you (you taste so good, Rose!), and lick you all the way up to your clit. Fuck, you’re perfect,” he blurted as Rose used her finger to simulate the actions he described.

She sighed at the sensation, closing her eyes, wishing it was his tongue lapping along her aching slit, twirling around her clit.

“Oh Rose, my Rose… I’d stroke that lovely clit of yours with my tongue, up and around, up and around…”

Rose groaned out her pleasure, her fingers dancing over her damp sex. “God, Doctor, I love it when you fuck me with your tongue. Please,” she begged, looking him in the eyes, “I want to see you. I want to touch you too. I want my hands on your gorgeous, thick cock.”

“Fuuuuck, Rose! Wait! Just give me a moment.” His face disappeared from the phone. “Keep going!” his voice called from the background. “I’m still here, licking you, sucking you.” There was a loud clattering noise, and the image on the screen spun around. And then Doctor appeared again, from further away wearing only an oxford. His cock, long and hard, bobbed up against the fabric, leaving a wet stain on the front of the shirt. “There. I’ve propped my mobile up. Can you see me, love?”

“Yeah. ‘S good. So good!”

“Are you still touching yourself?”

“Yeah.” Rose’s eyes rolled back as she pressed down on her clit.

“So I see,” he moaned. “Oh, love…”

“I want you inside me, Doctor. I want to feel you fill me.”

Rose watched with a hooded gaze as he wrapped his hand around his cock. “Oh, I want that too. I want to feel you so hot and tight around me. Nothing feels better than that.” His hand stroked down, then up, with a twist at the top. “You’re so soft and wet…” down again, “and so fucking…” up and twist, “tight!”

At the same time, Rose plunged two fingers inside herself, finding that oh-so sensitive sweet spot, as she continued to work her clit with her thumb. She moved her fingers in and out, matching the rhythm of his stroking hand, the jewels around her breasts chafing her nipples with delicious friction as she moved. She added a third finger, stretching herself wide. “Oh, you’re so thick and hard… I love how you fill me. You feel so good!”

“Fuck, Rose… so do you. You look so fucking sexy.” His hand began to stroke faster. Rose watched, mesmerized, as the dark, throbbing tip of his cock disappeared and reappeared from the circle of his fist. “Are you getting close?” His voice was tight, strained.

Rose continued to work herself, thighs trembling, slick, wet sounds accompanying her lusty groans. “So close…” she whimpered, feeling the familiar heat burning in her core, the pressure building. Her head lolled back… and suddenly she yelped as her headdress tumbled to the floor behind the desk. “Oh no! No!” Her hand stopped moving as despair welled up inside her.

“Rose! Don’t stop. Keep going.”

She wailed, “It’s no use.”

“You’re so beautiful, my precious girl. Oh, let me touch you more. Let me feel how warm and wet you are… I want to fuck you forever and never stop.”

Rose watched him on the small screen of her phone looking so wonderfully earnest, his cock in his hand, still hard, glistening with pre-come. He was bloody hot, and he was hers. The shock of losing her headdress was forgotten in a fresh rush of desire, and another flood of arousal, warm and slick, coated her fingers. “Touch me, Doctor,” she breathed, her thumb renewing its caresses over her clit.

“Oh, yes love… I want to run my fingers over your body; run my hands up your thighs and deep inside you. I love the sounds you make when I stroke you…”

“Please,” she whimpered, arching into the pressure of her thumb on her responsive skin.

“Let me fill you again…”

“Yes!” She watched, in awe, as his hand slowly resumed its motions – up, down, twist – over his long, hard member, and her fingers began their pumping motions again, curling and rubbing against her sweet spot rebuilding her sense of urgency with every stroke.

They were soon lost in their passion, both keening and groaning in a haze of lust and need. The fire within Rose burned hot again, deep in her sex, as she rolled her body over her fingers. The Doctor’s hand increased its speed once more. He was getting close, she could tell, he looked so wonderful and dishevelled, and his cock pulsed with every stroke of his hand. “Doctor!” she cried out. “I’m… I’m… gonna…”

“Hnnnngghhh…” he groaned. “Come for me. Let me see you come!”

Rose’s body vibrated with the need for release, her hand frantically pumping, her thumb pressing down, circling her clit, the heat and pressure building within her… and then, the Doctor shouted. Mesmerized, she watched as his seed spurted in ribbons from him, coating the front of his shirt, drizzling over his hand. The look of ecstasy on his face was enough to bring her over too. Her sex throbbed, grasping around her pumping fingers as she arched off the desk, the burning pressure in her core suddenly exploding outward, engulfing her.

 --ooOoo--

“Well, I need to get out of this ridiculous get-up,” Rose chuckled, pushing herself up to a sitting position. She had made her way back to the bedroom and lain down on the bed, while the Doctor lay on the bed in his hotel room. They had stayed that way for many wonderful minutes, gazing into each other’s eyes and talking quietly as they came down from the high of their orgasms.

The Doctor pouted. “And I suppose I need to get back to my meeting. They’ll all have finished their lunches.”

“Oh my God! You didn’t get to eat! Sorry. I guess I should have timed this better…”

“What? NO! This was perfect! A brilliant surprise. I feel perfectly satisfied.” He winked and flashed her an impudent grin. “I just can’t wait to take you over that desk in person, and peel that ‘ridiculous get-up’ off you, myself!”

“How much longer do you think you’re going to be there?” Rose bit her lip, clutching her mobile and regarding the Doctor’s image with imploring eyes. Training new teams of Torchwood personnel and operatives could be a time-consuming business and was an open-ended job. She and the Doctor could potentially be separated for several more weeks or…

“Just a few more days.”

“Really? You’re not jus’ sayin’ that?”

“Rose, (mostly) Time Lord here! If there’s one thing I know about, it’s time. Have you ever known me to misjudge…?”

Rose gave him a pointed look.

“Nah, don’t answer that. But honestly, love, we’ve only just started getting this lot familiarized with all the tech, today, but they seem to be a quick study, and a few of their key people will be returning to London with us for a tour and more in-depth, hands-on experience. Then Pete’s going to be relocating some of our more capable people to Rio for a few months to get things up and running properly. So, at most, another week.”

“A week?”

“At most… I promise. Now, as much as I would prefer to spend the day here with you, I have to act the responsible adult (complete rubbish, that!) and get back to my meeting. I’ll see you later, love.”

“Not if I see you first.” She blew him a kiss and offered him a little wave of her fingers before disconnecting their call.

 --ooOoo--

Five days later, she stood, poised sexily (she hoped) in the doorway of the Doctor’s study, wearing the Samba outfit, minus the ridiculous headdress (it would just get in the way), and watching as the Doctor pushed his way through the door of their flat. Her heart thrummed at the sight of him.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called out cheekily, making her laugh out loud.

“Right here… erm… Sugarbear,” she droned, her voice as sultry as she could make it through her giggles.

“Sugarbear? Really, Rose,” the Doctor closed the door behind him, “of all the names you could…” As he turned and took a step into the flat, his gaze locked onto her, eyes darkening as they roved over her bejewelled body. “Blimey… now this, this is a proper welcome home!” He dropped his bags and coat, leaving them behind, forgotten, as he strode toward her across the room, loosening his belt along the way.

Rose shuddered at the sight. Bloody hell, he was fucking gorgeous. And he was here. Home. With her. Her Doctor.

“You. Inside. Now,” he commanded, his hands settling over the bare skin of her waist, guiding her backwards into his study with firm pressure. Rose’s core ached in anticipation, a yearning heat coursing through her. His lips crashed against hers as they staggered further into the room, the kiss equal parts demanding and desperate, and Rose was sure she had never felt so desired, so loved.

When her bum hit the desk, she gasped, and suddenly, all the emotion she had been suppressing over the last few months surged to the surface: guilt and remorse, loneliness and jealousy, all whirling together in a maelstrom of unfettered passion, love, and vulnerability brought on by the Doctor’s assertive touch. The tears she had been holding back gushed over her cheeks.

“Rose? Love?” The Doctor broke the kiss, looking down at her with concerned eyes. “What’s wrong? Is this not all right? Was I too… weeell, enthusiastic?”

“No, oh my God, no,” she wept. “It’s… it’s perfect… Better than. I jus’… I jus’… I missed you… I didn’t realize jus’ how much…”.

In one swift movement, he swept his hands behind her legs and lifted her to perch on the edge of the desk. Then, spreading her thighs, he stepped between them and tipped her chin up for another marvelous snog, still passionate, but this time it was a sweet and tender, unhurried sort of passion. Rose melted into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, drawing him against her body and breathing in the comfort of his scent. They eventually drew away from the kiss with gentle pecks and nibbles.

They pressed their foreheads together, and panting softly, Rose spoke into the space between them, “Sorry, I’ve gone and ruined all this,” she gestured to the desk.

“Nah, don’t be silly.” He dabbed the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Besides, I have a bit of news too. Might as well get it over with.” He sighed dramatically and pulled slightly away from her to fish in his jacket pocket. He pulled out an official-looking Torchwood envelope that he tossed down on the desk beside her.

“W’at’s this?”

“My new marching orders, I’m afraid. I leave in two days.”

“Two days,” she sobbed. “But you jus’ got home and–”.

Taking a deep steadying breath, she dragged a hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face. “God, I sound so needy and selfish… but I just missed you.”

“And I suppose, the fact that I was in Rio,” he smirked at her, his left eyebrow arched, “had nothing to do with it?”

“Oh, that just made me miss you even more, but I admit, I was a bit… envious.” She chuckled, leaning back to look him in the eye. “But you know that stuff doesn’t really matter, yeah, all the travelling? Never did. Just that we’re together. That’s what’s important.”

“Oh, I know,” he reassured her with a kiss on the forehead. “And you know I feel the same... don’t you?”

She nodded, placing her palm over his single, human heart. “Yeah, ‘course I do.” 

“And that’s why, Rose Tyler,” his deadpan expression transformed into a brilliant smile, “I’m happy to announce that your assignment is in that envelope too. This time, you’re coming with me.” He beamed at her, waggling his eyebrows and looking very pleased with himself.

She gawped. “But… wait. What?”

“That is, if you think you can be ready to go on such short notice.”

“You wanker!” She swatted his shoulder. “Of course, I’ll be ready!”

He giggled. “But, really, I mean… if it’s too much trouble, I could always just go back to Rio on my own, I suppose.”

There was a long silence as Rose processed what he had said. When she finally found her voice, the words tumbled from her mouth: “Shut up! No way! Rio? RIO?”

“Yu-p!” He grinned. “We’re the experts Pete’s going to send over for a couple of months to make sure everything’s up and running properly. He said he only wants to send the best, and weeeell… I mean look at us. The choice is obvious.”

“I don’t believe it. There must be a catch.”

“No-pe!” He popped his “p” again. “He wants to make sure the Brazilians get everything exactly right. And the best part is, we’ll be there for Carnival. It’s just a few weeks off.”

“What? Carnival? Really?”

“Yes-siree, Rose Tyler! You can even wear this outfit again, in an official capacity this time, of course, complete with headdress. And ooooh, we’ll bring the baby TARDIS along, too. She’ll love a change of scenery!”

“I still don’t believe Pete would just… Nah, you must ‘ave said somethin’ to ‘im, yeah? Not that I’m complainin’. It’s just he’s been so… lecture-y lately.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s been a right misery. And now this sudden change of heart…?”

“Weeell, I admit,” he pulled on his right ear, “I was all ready to go in today, guns-a-blazing, to try to convince him that enough was enough, but believe it or not, he had already made up his mind. He gave me the news during my debriefing this afternoon. By the way, you’re to meet with him tomorrow–”

“Urrrghh, that’ll be fun…”

“–to go over… erm some… stipulations, but essentially, it’s all set. Said he thought your diplomatic skills would be hugely beneficial over there. Personally,” he flashed her a cheeky grin, “I think he was just getting sick of your constant moaning.”

“Oi, Mister!” She feigned offence. “Is that so? Watch out! I’ll give you constant moaning!” She grabbed his tie and dragged him toward her for another impassioned kiss, then reached between them to fondle him through the fabric of his trousers. As she sucked and nibbled along his jawline, tracing her fingers up and down his growing length, a strangled sound tore from his throat.

She smirked. “Now, there’s the moaning…”

“Stop!” He grabbed her hand, his eyes blazing into hers, and she quivered in response, the hot rush of renewed arousal pooling between her legs. “No more teasing. Brilliant as the video-chat sex was, I’ve had enough of foreplay and imagining over the last few days to last me a lifetime. I am going to take you right here, right now, against this desk, and fuck you so hard you see stars.” He scrabbled at his trousers and boxers, pushing them down over his slim hips. Looking utterly debauched, with his suit jacket, oxford, and tie dishevelled but still in place, he took his thick, throbbing member in hand and gave it a few hard pumps. “You ready?”

“Am I ready? Fuck! I’ve been ready for days. Could hardly think of anything else.” She licked her lips as she took in the sight of his impressive length. “My fingers are no substitute for that.”

With an impatient growl, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her off the desk. Then he spun her around and pressed in behind her, rutting against her bum. “This all right?”

“God, yes!” she sputtered, the ache of desire burgeoning inside her as he encouraged her to lean forward over the desk, applying a steady pressure to her back, until her breasts pressed against the surface, making the jewels of her outfit rasp over her taught nipples.

With a nudge from his foot, he prompted her to spread her legs, opening her to him. “Oh, yes,” he groaned, “the optimal distance, indeed!” Rose shuddered as his slender finger stroked over the sodden strip of fabric covering her sex and she arched into the contact with wanton abandon.

No further invitation required, he yanked the fabric aside and plunged into her welcoming depths.

She saw not only the stars he’d promised: entire constellations burst before her eyes.

[a-copper-butterfly]

Title Suggestions Needed!

OK so i posted this before but i have edited it a bit and added a new intro. im still not sure if i should continue this but what the hay, have a look and give us some feed back. :)

here is my re-write of good omens where the ineffable husbands raise Adam.

Monday, five days before the end of the world.

It was sunny, well, as sunny as it every was in the centre of London.

For those you don’t know, London is a vaguely potato shaped blob about ten miles across, with its own weather system which is almost entirely different to that of the rest of the UK.

Warlock was moping along his nose glued to his phone (not literally, thought Crowley sometimes wished he could get close enough with some glue without the little nuisance noticing.) Warlock had perfected the art of nearly completely ignoring the world around him, but remining just aware enough that he could complain at anyone who might distract him. His mother was walking along admiring the sculptures, pausing now and then to read an information sign. She did this much in the same manner as most people the world over when they want to look more intelligent than they are. They don’t actually read what is written on the information board, just frown and nod like you agree with what ever had been said then point to it and repeat a few lines when a friend or family member joins you. Thus, the whole cycle repeats itself.

A little way from the stroppy pre-teen, representatives of both heaven and hell discussed the fate of the world.

“I mean, he could just disappear,” suggested the Demon. He was slouched on the wooden bench. This was a master level slouch of someone who had trained for years to hold his body in such a position. A normal person if attempting this would pull a muscle if not worse.

The Angel that sat prim and proper next to him frowned,

“I don’t see how hiding him would help?” he said, which earned a glare form his companion. The thick sunglasses that covered the Demons yellow eyes obscure the fond irritation directed at the angel.

“I mean kill him Angel,” he clarified.

The Angel shuffles in his seat uncomfortable about this conversation. He tried to change the subject, but not too much avail.

“Are you going to get him a dog?” Azriaphale looks over at Crowley, know full well that he had been asked to provide the hound and that this was purely a diversion.

“I thought you were going to sort that out.” Crowley responded, rolling his concealed eyes.

“Why are we getting him a dog anyway.”

Crowley gave a side glances at his companion, silently noting the use of “we”.

Azriaphale wasn’t done with his grumbling, “Do remember the hamster?” he continued.

“Sir hamserlot? Yeah.” Crowley cringed at the memory of the tan and white little rodent. The poor thing when through so meant names it was a wonder it didn't have identity issues.

“How meant times did we have to pull that poor creature back from the jaws of death?” Aziraphale says shaking his head. The poor thing had eventual snuffed it permanently when the boy had gotten it into his head that hamsters could swim. They can, much like rats, but being put in a crudely made ship and pushed out on a duck pond in the middle of winter would be terminal for most rodents or any other small mammal.

A dog is a bit bigger. This was the only argument Crowley could come up with at the time.

“Well” Azriaphale relented “he is a bit older now.”

Crowley shuffled further into his slouch.

“It's the end if the world Angel.” He muttered gloomily, “Just give the kid what he wants. And he wants a dog.”

Aziraphale flinched at this painful truth.

“Well you have a point dear. Fine, he can have a dog.”

There was a pause as they watched Warlock ignore the world around him and play on his phone. The cartoonish sounds of games annoying the people around him. Crowley smirked; apps had been one of his ideas. Well, according to hell they were. Humans were always doing his job for him; he just took the credit when the higher ups asked about it. He sighs and slips back into the conversation about the end of the world.

“We’d better be there when the dog arrives” Crowley said darkly.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I think he can look after himself and a dog for a few hours. He is old enough now, don’t you think?” Aziraphale smiles nodding in agreement with himself.

Crowley shot the angel a withering look.

“I meant the hellhound and Warlock, not some overly excited puppy with a bladder size of a spoon. This is going to a monster. The biggest they have got, according to downstairs.”

Aziraphale lip touched in a pout. “Oh” was all he said.

“I'm going as waiting staff don't want people recognizing me.” Crowley continued. “Can you bring him?”

“He said he doesn’t want to go. Said warlock isn't fun to hang out with anymore.” Aziraphale said, fumbling with a button on his sleeve cuff.

“Too bad. He is going to seeing a lot more of him whether he likes it or not. That is if there is anything after.” Crowley responded darkly. He still hadn’t figure how they were going to make it through the next few days.

A sudden though shot through Aziraphale mind.

“I could be the entertainment! I’ll brush up on my magic!” he said excitedly, beaming at the idea.

“Oh no, angel, please don’t. Really, it’s humiliating.” Crowley protested, “You can do miracles, why bother doing sleight of hand when you’re not good at it?” Aziraphale bounced in his seat. This was going to be fun.

  One late august night just outside the small village of Tadfield,

 When a snake regurgitates its food, its normally because it had been grabbed or handle soon after eating or is otherwise subjected to stress.

As Crowley knelt in damp grass on the bank beside the road, he wiped his mouth. The light from the Bentley’s open door revealing the grey sludge that was even now burning the grass. The small part of Crowley’s mind that wasn’t screaming in panic wondered when the last time he had eaten was. Without the help of the rest of his brain, he guessed around six years ago.

Pushing himself up onto wobbly legs, Crowley slid back into the driving seat, switched on the radio as he did so. As he pulled the car back onto the road, Crowley checked the rear-view mirror. The carry cot was still there. This was real.

“Shit, shit, shit, why me, why me?” he muttered to himself. The radio crackle,

“BECAUSE YOU EARNED IT CROWLEY” came the voice of Freddy Mercury.

“Fuck…” though Crowley.

 Sister Annabelle Houghton was totally normal, much to the annoyances of her parents. They were traditional occultists who gave her supposedly cursed china dolls and pretty, frilly dresses in attempts to get her possessed. They had even moved at an old house which the nice estate agent had made very clear was the site of quite a few murders and ghost stories. It even had its own graveyard in the garden. Her swing was hung in an old knarred oak tree which legend had it was used as a hangman’s gibbet, but she never used it. When Annabelle eventually grew up, her parents had lamented and had sent her off to the Sisterhood of Chattering Nuns of St Beryl. Not too worried about this, Annabelle went along as she thought it might be interesting.

Now she sat looking out of one of the convent’s window keeping watch for the arrive of Master Crowley and the baby boy he carried with him. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. She was very excited; this was a big day and she, Sister Annabelle, would be part of it. A cup of tea sat on the windowsill beside her. It had gone cold hours ago, No matter.

A car came screaming through the gates of the convert an excitement jolting up her spine. Sister Annabelle leapt from her seat and began to quickly click her way down the hall towards the foyer. She turned the corner expecting to see one of her sisters talking to Master Crowley but broke into a run when she saw which sister it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Sister Mary Loquacious, she was a lovely person when you were sat having a chat, it was just that things, important things, tended to go wrong when she was involved.

“Mother Superior! Mater Crowley is here!” she half-yelled, her fists full of her skirt as she leaped down the three little steps leading up to the corridor. Crowley quickly ducked behind a column in responses to the shouting. Shouting mostly lead to pitchforks, torches and a bad time for him.

“Greeting Master Crowley” she said, tried to smile and make her voice sound cheerful but her eyes were screaming at Sister Mary Loquacious. If she wasn’t holding The Anti-Christ, she may have shoved her out of harm’s way (harm’s way meaning any damage Sister Loquacious could cause to others, not the other way around). Sister Annabelle stopped next to her sister, peering at the bundle in her arms. The baby gurgled quietly. She quickly curtsied to Master Crowley who was still looking between the nuns wondering if he could slip out before anyone noticed.

The double doors leading to the hospital rooms flew open and a furious old nun stormed through. This was not part of the plan. She ran her icy gaze over the two nuns, who both know the consequences of that stare. Her eyes found Crowley who was trying not to look like a rabbit in the headlights, he was a demon after all. There was no escape now.

Long hair, sunglasses, modern suit, snakeskin shoes? Not what she though one of hell’s best demons would look like. She raised an eyebrow and forced a smile.

“Master Crowley, you’re just in time.” she walked slowly with an air of control. Crowley drew himself up to his full height. The Mother Superior had the eyes of a school master and they are well known for making even the naughtiest individuals squirm.

“Sister Annabelle, please go and retrieve the child of the ambassador and inform the other sisters that the switch will be taking places presently.” she smiled at the terrified nun who swallowed and nodded, turning to hurrying down the hall. Crowley tried to sidle towards the door. He stopped dead when the older nun eyes dropped on him. He tried to give her a confident smile.

“Master Crowley, if you would just pop over to the desk, we have a few papers for you to sign just to keep everything in order.” she turned and glided over to the foyer desk and began to draw papers out of a file. Crowley reluctantly followed her, dumping the now empty carry cot on the desk before propping himself up on it.

Sister Mary Loquacious frowned. She rocked the Anti-Christ in her arms. He was chewing on his hand. She had checked, it didn’t have claws. She looked up at Master Crowley and frowned again. She walked over to the desk,

“Umm Master Crowley?” she asked and terrifying yellow eyes looked at her over dark sunglasses. Something in the very pit of her soul screamed and told her to run. It was the same part that makes skulls scary, even though they are always smiling. She took a step back,

“Yeah?” he grunted. Mother Superiors levelled her glare at the Sister. She didn’t notice, now over the shock of yellow eyes she felt bolder,

“What is going to happen to the spare baby?” she asked. Crowley rolled his eyes to the Mother superior who was trying to set the younger nun on fire via sheer force of will. Without taking her eyes of her pray the Mother Superior said,

“Yes, that was something I was going to ask you as well Master Crowley. We are willing to go through with the switch, but we want nothing to do with disposing of the baby,” her eyes now turned on Crowley “We may be satanic Nuns, but we are not monsters.” Crowley paused at this juxtaposition. He huffed and turned back to the paperwork, one of hells better inventions,

“Put it in the carry cot, I will deal with it,” Crowley replied absentmindedly. “Sure, why not?” Crowley thought “Not like it will matter in a few years anyway”. Sister Mary Loquacious ginned the kind of grin that would suggest she didn’t quite understand what was going on.

“Sister Mary, please take The Young Lord down to Sister Annabelle.” Mother Superior said as she started pulling out more official looking papers. Crowley slouched at the prospect of more paperwork. Sister Mary Loquacious nodded happily and pushed through the double doors leading to the hospital rooms. Now that The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness was out of eyesight, Crowley felt a weight off his back. He no longer wanted to vomit.

Sister Mary Loquacious had found a potable cot for the anti-Christ, in which he now rested. his red blanket tucked around him. She pushed him down the hall spotting sister Annabelle pushing a similar cot out of room 4. Sister Mary paused outside room 3 ready to make the swap. A putrid smell began to waft up the hall. Both sisters gaged. A similar smell began to rise form the baby in the cot in front of Sister Mary and the babies began to cry in unison. Sister Annabelle reached Sister Mary, her face pushed into her shoulder and her eyes watering.  

“I think our lord has made us an offering,” she gaged as she spoke, “and this little man has also given us a gift too”. She pushed open the door to delivery room 3 and hurriedly pushed the cot in. Sister Mary followed with her own charge.

 “You change the babies and I will fetch the carry cot from Master Crowley.”. It was clearly just a excuse to getting out of having to be in same room as the stench for any longer but Sister Mary didn’t want to argue. The smell was truly awful.

In the bed, Mrs Young turned over a frown wrinkling her brow, some internal mothering instinct told her that a baby needed changing but something else told her it wasn’t hers so sleep on.

Sister Mary hesitated as she plucked the Anti-Christ from his cot and laid him on the changing table beside the door. She unwrapped the blanket and dropped it back in the cot. The baby whimpered as she removed the dirty nappy and cleaned him. She cooed at him. “Imagine little me changing the Destroyer of worlds’ nappy and powdering his little tush.” Sister Mary thought to herself. The baby in the other cot began to cry.

The mother in the bed yawned but stayed asleep. In an attempted sooth the baby, Sister Mary picked the ambassadors baby up. He was a chunky baby and quite heavy. Sister Mary had to shift him about a bit before they were both comfortable. The white blanket was lost in this juggling. As she bounced the baby the door to the room opened. Expecting sister Annabelle, Sister Mary turned to face the door where a man peering around the door.

“Err Hello. I’m the father, the husband, whatever.” He stammered, walking over to stand by his wife. Looking up he wondered over to the babies looking down at the baby on the changing table.

“Is this him?” he asked in awe. The baby looked up at him and immediately began to cry. Terrified about what he had done he scooped up the baby and began to pat his back.

“Umm no, these two not yours. Your baby is with your wife over there.” She nodded towards Mrs Young and the cot next to her.

Sister Mary was beginning to gag over the smell coming from the baby in her arms, she laid him on the changing table and began to clean him up.

After soothing the baby in his arms, Mr Young laid the baby down in the empty crib. He picked up the white blanket and tucked it around the baby. He walked over to the cot next to his wife and looked down at the baby. A small part of him was hopeful that he would look upon the face of his child and instantly recognized it as his own. But when he looked down at the sleeping baby, he looked identical to the two with the nun. This one was a little smaller but there wasn’t a moment of recognition. Of course, he didn’t say that. He smiled and looked back at the nun who was disposing of the nappy in a small bin next to the table.

“You know he looks like me.” He said proudly. The Nun smiled at him, rewrapping the baby,

“Have you thought of a name?” she asked. There was a nervous air about her. That probably came with having to look after two babies at once. He had new respect for people with twins and triplets.

 They had discussed names but not come to any solid concoctions, they had a name if it had been a girl and after twitching the blanket back it couldn’t be used anymore. The baby snuffled in its sleep; Mr. Young jumped back afraid that he would make it cry like he had the other child.

“We haven though of any names for a boy,” he explained as the nun had finished changing the baby in front of her. Then, looking down at the second with a frown, she looked at the baby in her arms. After a moment hesitant, she seemed to come to a conclusion and plopped it in the second cot wrapping it in the red blanket.

 “Well, what about the classic like Luke, John, Adam. Bible names and the like?” She rocked the babies in the cots. Mr. Young though about this for a second as he looked back at his son. He didn’t really look like any of those names, but they were good honest names. Suddenly a nun scuttled into the room. She looked a little out of breath. She looked at Mr. Young the way one would look at a velociraptor. She managed to school her features and smile at him.

Sister Annabelle had returned to the front desk and immediate run into Mr. Young who had asked what room his wife was in. Directing the man to the room without a though until she had picked up the carry cot. She had just sent an imposter into the same room as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. Picking up her heels again, she took off down the hall and was now stood with Sister Mary, two babies and the carry cot. She turned her slightly manic smile on Sister Mary. She winked. Sister Mary Winked back. They smiled at each other.

 “Baby removal services,” she laughed pushing the baby with the red blanket out of the room. She pointed at the carry cot next to the remaining baby and nodded down the hall. Sister Mary nodded back. She placed the carry cot on the changing surfaces and placed the remaining baby in the white blanket in it. Scooping up baby and carry cot she moved to leave the room,

“Umm,” said Mr. Young using the tone of someone who doesn’t want to be a bother but is no doubts going to be a problem.

“Is there any paperwork I need to fill in,” he asked nervously. Always ready to be helpful, Sister Mary nodded and beckoned for him to follow her. It wasn’t until they entered the hall that she realized this might have been a bad decision. She could see Master Crowley’s back to her when Mr. Young held the door open. Trying to think fast she walked up to him putting the now full carry cot next to him on the desk.

 “Here is you son Master Crowley,” she said as way of explanation. The yellow eyes turned on her and the primal urge to run shot up her spine. Mr. Young was too distracted to notice, walking up next to her and leaned against the desk.

“Umm, does the birth certificate need signing?” he asked looking over the desk at all the papers. The Mother Superior who had been overseeing Crowley filling out all the correct papers in the right places. It wouldn’t do to have buggered up the paperwork on such a big job. She pulled a file over the papers and put on her best plastic smile. She flicked through the relevant files and produced a birth certificate for Mr. Young. She also pulled one out and handed it to Crowley. Conscious of the presents of Mr. Young, Crowley took the offered page. Mr. Young peeked into cot at the baby.

“He’s a cute one,” he says trying to rope Crowley into a conversation so he can talk about his own kid. Crowley doesn’t acknowledge him. Not deterred, Mr. Young filled in the birth certificate leaving the name till last. He still needed to talk to his wife about it.

“Though of a name yet?” he asked. Again, this was met by silenced. Mr. Young looked over at Crowley, he was well dressed and very out of places here. He didn’t have the look of expectant father. He looked worried.

“We were thinking about Adam,” he continued. This conversation was going to happen even if he had to do it himself. However, this got a reaction out of the other man. He laughed. He snorted then laughed out loud.

“Something wrong with Adam?” Mr. Young questioned, getting slightly defensive over a possible name for his son. The man pushed his long hair back away from his face. He was handsome, even Mr. Young had to admit that.

“No, it’s a fine name. But I knew an Adam once, he was a complete bastard,”.

Sister Mary giggled under her breath. But then frowned at the thought of how a demon knew the original Adam. She puzzled over this for the rest of the conversation.

Mr. Young let his shoulders drop,

“What would you suggest then?” he asked sheepishly. Crowley turned on him and Mr. Young had to squash a sudden urge to back away and make himself small. Crowley looks him up and down before speaking. His emotionless sunglasses making it feel like he wasn’t blinking. He wasn’t but behind the glasses no one could tell.

“Something royal may be. Henry, James, William?” he suggested. Mr. Young felt better about these names.

 Crowley looked back at the almost complete page in front of him.

“It doesn’t matter, it will all be over in eleven years anyway.” Crowley mumbled glumly as he looked at the last section of the certificate

FIRST NAME:

It was blank. He stared at it. Did he have to name it?

“Oh,” Mr. Young said confused. In an effort to change the typic he looked into the cot again, “You know, he looks like an Adam.” he added.

Crowley huffed but he couldn’t think of anything better. Plus, it made sense in an ironic way. Crowley scribbled the name down on the final dotted line on the page pushing it towards the nun. He snatched the carry cot of the desk and strode out the lobby. Mr. Young tried to wave goodbye, but Crowley was long gone.

 Sister Annabelle handed the baby to the ambassador’s wife who looked down at him with the love of a first-time mother,

“Sorry that took so long Your Ladyship, he is such a scrumptious little man. Every nun in the convent had to coo at him,” Sister Annabelle sighed as she stood back, her job was done. She really needs a cup of tea now.

Mother Superior quietly pushed open the door and came in.

“Oh what a little lord,” she said causing all nuns in the room to smile. “Have you thought of a name?”

 The convent burnt down that night. However, the only paperwork that was destroyed was form that night. Apart from the birth certificate of one James Henry Young

 Crowley pulled the Bentley into a short dead-end road that was the entrances to a farmer’s field. He cut the engine and the lights of the snarling beast of a car disappeared, leaving only the dark hedgerow in front of him.

The silence enveloped the car, seeming to seep in through all the gaps in the doors and poured out of the vents. Soon Crowley was engulfed in it. He paused, appreciating the moment. The sound of the engine cooling was the only noise that could be heard inside the car. The carry cot next to him cooed. He looked over at his new acquisition and pulled it closer to him. He carefully pulled the small and oh so delicate baby out and laid him across his knees looking up at him. The baby yawned but seemed very much awake. The white blanket that was bundled around him stopping his arms from moving.

Crowley huffed and rubbed his faces pushing his glasses off slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to mutter at the baby,

“Okay first test,”

He pulled his glasses off completely and crouched over the baby sticking his tough out. Letting the glamor over it drop so the tips flicked over the babies scrunched up little nose. His eyes almost glowed yellow in the darkness he didn’t show his true, true form just these small parts. The Baby screeched and Crowley jerked back worried, but unsurprised, that he had terrified the poor thing. When the screech turned into a gurgling laugh, he looked back at the baby who had wiggled free an arm and was grabbing at Crowley with a gummy grin. Slight confused Crowley rewrapped the baby in his white blanket and shifted it to be cradled in his arms,

“Okay so you passed the first test. Now we need to go other some ground rules if this arrangement is going to work out.”.

The baby babbled at him trying to wiggle free of his confines. He seemed fine with the whole yellow eyes and snake toung though. Probably knew no different, Crowley wondered leaning back in the driver’s seat.

“So I will house you, feed you and take care of you until you have worked out how to use a toilet after that we can look into the walking, talking, reading, writing business but there are some conditions that you have to uphold,”.

The baby sneezed, looked shocked at this strange turn of events, blinked a few times before looking back up at the demon. Now that he had the baby’s attention again Crowley continued,

“Firstly, the family you came from, the one that has the antichrist.” The baby watched him with uncanny eyes that seemed to understand what he was saying. That or more worryingly for Crowley he was ranting at a newborn infant that had no idea what was going on and was just watching him make noises in the dark car.

“Warlock, they called him Warlock.”

The baby gave him a half smile, hoping that the smile was from recognizing the name.

“You’re gonna have to be friends with that brat. secondly you will not get in my way or interfere with my work.”

The baby yawned at him. It seemed that all the excitement was getting the better of him its eyes began to slip closed. Crowley rocked him slightly trying not to enjoy holding the child, a small part of him that was thought to be long dead, started to thaw. He placed the baby back in the carry cot in the passenger’s seat. The baby whimpered at the movement but settled back in the crib snuggling into the blanket.

Crowley backed out and onto the road, where was the nearest mother care?

 Azriaphale had just got back to the book shop when the phone rang. He paused hanging his coat up on its peg, before picking it up, he suspected who it might be but wasn’t sure. He plucked the phone from the handle and held it daintily to his ear,

“I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m afraid we are closed at the...,” his polite but discouraging scripted was cut by a very familiar voice,

“It’s me Angel.”

It sounded although Crowley was making this call from a phone box. Oh dear, what trouble had he gotten himself into now.

“Crowley? Is that you?” he asked anyway knowing the answer,

“Yes. We need to talk.” He said matter of factly.

“Yes, I rather think we do.” Azriaphale thought of the conversation he had had with Gabriel earlier that day.

Crowley looked through the window of the Bentley at the sleeping baby inside. He hung up the phone and got back into the car. He looked over at the child. He was so small. Crowley stroked his cheek with a black nailed finger.

“You have no idea what is going on. I envy you Adam,” the baby sighed in his sleep.

[enter-fandom]

Deeper Breaths 2

Fandom: The Almighty Johnsons

Pairing: Anders x Reader

Rating: Lemon

Warnings: Mild BDSM, angst, referenced panic attack, aftermath of panic attack, abusive language

Theme: N/A

Request: N/A

Words: 1915

Status: ???

Notes: A continuation of Deeper Breaths - AU where the Reader becomes Idun, not Gaia

Olaf’s words still echoed in Ty’s head in the weeks following Anders introducing you into the fold. Mike still wasn’t overly pleased - after what happened to Helen, he was certain something was going to happen to you, and Ty could correct him, but with the history, how things always ended badly for Idun, how could he? You seemed to be doing fine, however, settling into life in Auckland fairly easily, and into life as a Goddess fairly quickly as well. Anders was almost always all smiles when he talked about you, and to be honest, things seemed to be looking up. 

He was having lunch with Anders and Dawn when the text came, startling Anders from his story of staying over at your flat the other night and having to deal with your cats, and the frown that creased his brother’s face worried him, “Everything alright, Anders?”

Dawn had her own worried frown, despite not being able to see the message, and it only increased when Anders stood, “Hold down the fort for me, will you Dawn? I won’t be a moment.” He grabbed his jacket from over his desk chair, pulling it on as he headed out the door, texting as he went. The other two occupants of the office shared a look, but continued on with lunch, waiting until Anders was out of the office to speculate just what had come up. He might have Bragi’d his way into the back room when he got to the store you worked at, ignoring the questioning looks he got from several other employees as he moved with purpose behind the manager who led him to where you sat, curled on the break room couch with your feet tucked under you, still trembling, but at least the tears had stopped. Your phone sat in your hand, the semi-reliable heart rate monitor app open, keeping tabs on just how elevated you were as you came down. 

Kneeling before you, he smiled up, “Hey, sunshine.” You looked at him and tried to smile, but inside, you just felt hollow. Even Idun was quiet, despite the presence of Bragi that was nearly overwhelming coming off of him. He reached out and took your free hand, squeezing gently, “I know you don’t like talking about it immediately, so we’ll talk later, yeah? Let’s just get you out of here.” You could only nod, and he helped you stand, draping his jacket over you for comfort as he led you back out to his car. 

Once inside, he hesitated, glancing at you, “I’d like to take you back to the office, if that’s okay. That way I’m near if you need me, but is there anything you need from home?”

You laughed softly at the question, “One of the cats?”

You didn’t expect him to take you seriously, so it was a shock when he said, “Jade. She’s calmer and won’t break anything.” He pulled out of the parking lot, handing you his phone with a soft smile, allowing you to put on music that would help with the fallout. When he pulled up to your apartment, he kissed your cheek and took your keys, coming back out a few moments later with a bundle of orange and white floof attached to a red leash. Settling the cat into your lap, he set off for the office again, chattering idly beside you, voice soft and soothing as the creature you held headbutted against you, purring a mile a minute. 

When you reached the office, he went first, ushering you in behind him and quickly wrapping his arm around you, Ty and Dawn, still seated at the conference table, stood, talking over one another when they saw you.

“Anders, is she alright? What happened?”

“Is that a cat?”

“Yes, it’s a cat, and she will be. She had an issue at work, is all,” he replied, giving Ty a pointed look, and the younger God stepped back some, nodding. He remembered what Anders had told him, and was smart enough to put two and two together. Reaching back to the table, he snagged one of the cupcakes from the platter, holding it out with a questioning glance. 

You carefully let Jade down, taking the cupcake with a small smile, before going to settle on the couch near Anders’ desk, “Thanks, Ty.”

“No problem. I uh, I gotta get back to work, but Anders, we’ll catch up later, yeah?”

Anders nodded, giving his brother a small smile before he turned back to his work, humming to himself. The rest of the day dragged on, you trying to relax, rabbit holing down videos on your phone and occasionally sharing the best ones with Anders and Dawn. At a quarter past five, Dawn poked her head into the back, knocking on the wall, “I’m going to head out, Anders. Don’t forget to lock up.” 

He smiled at her, as always, and you wondered, briefly, if it hadn’t been for you, and Ty, if they would have worked, but then he laughed and your heart felt like it clicked into place, “Ta, Dawn. Have a good evening.” Once she was gone, he moved over to you, smoothing your hair back from your forehead and pressing a kiss there, “Let’s get going, yeah? We can pick up dinner on the way.” 

With a nod, you stood, lifting Jade from where she slept on the couch beside you, and headed out to the car, settling in with a much lighter mind than hours earlier, though you were still feeling a little off. You hated how things lingered so much, but hadn’t really found a cure yet, short of just sleeping it off.

He picked up the take away and then parked in front of your apartment, glancing over with a small smile, “If you’d like to come back to my place…”

You could feel the itch of Idun returning just under your skin, and you nodded, “I’ll just take her inside, and change.” Heading inside, you freed the Queen of Floof from the leash and hung it at the door, checking food and water dishes before changing and heading back out to Anders, giving the pair of felines a pointed look and a quick,  “Be good,” before locking up.  

Once settled,  you reached out,  taking Anders's hand,  squeezing softly,  “The guy asked where something was,  and when I told him I wasn't sure,  that I was still learning the layout he got aggressive.” You squeezed tighter at the memory,  and he squeezed back,  prompting you to continue, “He started yelling.  Calling me a liar,  a bitch and a whore.”

When his grip tightened this time,  it was out of anger just as much as comfort,  and you were silently glad he hadn't been present.  Anders was gifted with gab, not physical prowess.  He was clever,  more espionage than thrown fists,  but he would have tried.  You knew he would.  

He parked and led you into his apartment,  both of you feeling the draw of your divinity under your skin,  Anders the man holding back only because of the trauma that had been brought to the forefront of your mind earlier in the day.  You pressed a hand to his chest,  leaning up to kiss him softly, “It's okay.”

Sometimes,  he wasn't sure where his interests ended and Bragi's began.  “I don't want to be gentle,” he admitted,  the backs of his fingers moving over your cheek.  

“So, don't be.”

He groaned,  before becoming a flurry of motion, tugging at your clothes and his own,  kissing you with soul deep hunger and guiding you into the bedroom.  You met him with quiet surrender,  losing yourself in your goddess,  and the man who had cared for you despite her.  He pushed you to the bed with a glint in his eyes,  tugging the cuffs from the box under the bed and raising a brow.  You nodded, and he shook his head,  “Tell me.”

“Please, it's okay.”

He was on you again in seconds,  endlessly careful despite practically manhandling you how he wanted,  lips sliding over your jaw,  “Mine.”

Your breath came as a soft sigh,  nodding,  “Yours.” You tested the cuffs, the way they were anchored keeping your wrists together over your head, and you shuddered, completely at his mercy. And that was exactly what he wanted, what Anders wanted. Still uncertain where God ended and Man began, you watched as he sat back on his heels, straddling you, taking you in. His hands soothed down over your skin, and you arched into the touch, shuddering. 

He took his time with you, sliding his hands over every inch of you like worship, his lips, teeth, and tongue following their path, skirting the places you truly yearned for his touch, intent on making you lose yourself to his ministrations. When he finally drew your legs apart, he hesitated, looking up at you, voice low, “I know you’ve expressed not being overly fond of it, but I’m going to taste you now.”

You blushed, nodding at him slowly. It wasn’t that the act reminded you of the past, but that you simply got very little from it. You didn’t necessarily mind your partners doing so, if they truly wanted, but you were more than drenched, and a mouth on you was just more wet, and usually not much sensation - not the way a firm press of fingers could be. He lowered himself, hooking your legs over his shoulders, shifting to get comfortable before settling into his task, contenting himself with the taste of you, before seeking to give you what pleasure he could. 

He teased at your clit with his tongue, before sucking sharply, earning a low groan that was followed by a chuckle, before his hand slipped to join his questing tongue, two fingers slipping easily inside you, teasing and tormenting. You wondered how far he’d take you tonight, before he pulled up and away, sliding over you with an almost predatory look in his eyes. Shifting positions again, he flipped you to your stomach, tugging you up onto your knees. 

You keened when he finally entered you, losing yourself more completely to the brutal pace he set, his hands still moving over your skin, lips murmuring praises against your shoulder, almost drowned out by your own cries and guiding you to your fall. Your back arched as you clenched around him, surrendering to him and he didn’t stop, driving you to greater heights. 

You fell twice more before he reached his own completion, holding you still and tight as he pumped into you, before resting his head to your shoulder, panting. Easing away, he undid the cuffs, pulling you tight to his chest as you shivered. “Easy, Y/N. I’ve got you.” You nuzzled into his chest, soothed now by the gentle caress over your arm, eyes heavy. “I know you want to sleep, but we need to eat,” he prompted, and you sighed, nodding, starting to get up before he pushed you back down into the bed, “I’ll be back.” 

Despite his urging, you pulled on a pair of sweats you’d left at his apartment, and one of his shirts, trailing behind him and curling up on the couch. He gave a mildly exasperated sigh, but his smile was fond as he joined you. “Fair enough.” You already had the remote, flipping channels before finding something mindless to watch, curling against him and taking your plate. 

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”

[contrabassconversations]

752: James Newcomb and Jason talk podcasting and business

This is an off-the-cuff and laid-back conversation with my friend and fellow podcaster James Newcomb all about what goes on behind the scenes of a podcast.  We get into the business of podcasting, nuts and bolts of approaching content, mindset, and much more.

Enjoy, and be sure to check out James’ podcast Musicpreneur!

Listen to Contrabass Conversations with our free app for iOS, Android, and Kindle!

Check out my Beginner's Classical Bass course, available exclusively from Discover Double Bass!

  Thank you to our sponsors!

  Dorico - Dorico helps you to write music notation, automatically producing printed results of exceptional quality — and plays it back with breathtaking realism. It is easy enough for anyone to learn, yet has hundreds of advanced notations, features, options and sounds to satisfy even the most demanding professionals.  With its streamlined, natural user interface, students and those with less experience in scoring can compose and arrange straight into Dorico, making learning the language of music notation much faster and more intuitive. Editing and making changes — such as instrument, time signature or key — are straightforward, with the notation instantly and correctly adapting to include them, reinforcing the learning outcome.

  Ear Trumpet Labs - They make hand-built mics out of Portland, OR and they have an excellent mic for upright bass called Nadine. The Nadine is a condenser mic with a clear natural sound and incredible feedback rejection. This mic is a completely new design -- the head mounts in between the strings above the tailpiece with a rubber grommet, and the body securely straps to the tailpiece with velcro elastic. A 14-inch Mogami cable connects the two parts making it easy to place on any bass. It’s durable and holds up to the demanding needs of the instrument while offering excellent sound quality. Ear Trumpet Labs is offering a free t-shirt just for Contrabass listeners with the purchase of a mic, just visit EarTrumpetLabs.com/contrabass to claim yours and check out the Nadine!

  Practizma - The Practizma practice journal is packed with research based strategies to turn your ho-hum practice into extraordinary practice.  Develop your curiosity, discipline, creativity, daring, tenacity and zen.  Take a journey with four elements each week: goal setting, reflection prompt, action challenge, and journal pages to track your practice.  Curious? Download the introductory chapter of the journal for free - this gives you an idea of what it's all about.

  Modacity - Are you a practice-savvy musician? Get Modacity – the music practice app that organizes, focuses, and tracks your progress.  Recorder… metronome… tone generator… timer… note taking… Do away with the random assortment of music practice apps in your arsenal. Modacity™ combines all the tools you need into one easy to use, music practice tool.  Organize, focus, and reflect on your practice – motivating you to increase retention in less time.  Modacity has a special offer for Contrabass Conversations listeners that includes lifetime access to the app.

  Contrabass Conversations production team:

Jason Heath, host

Michael Cooper and Steve Hinchey, audio editing

Mitch Moehring, audio engineer

Trevor Jones, publication and promotion

Krista Kopper, archival and cataloging

theme music by Eric Hochberg

Check out this episode!

[itsfinancethings]

New story in Business from Time: Why We Buy In to the Big Business of Sleep

In a small room without windows, I am instructed to breathe in sync with a colorful bar on a screen in front of me. Six counts in. Six counts out. Electrodes tie me to a machine whirring on the table. My hands and feet are bare, wiped clean and placed atop silver boards. My finger is pinched by an oximeter, my left arm squeezed by a blood-pressure cuff. Across from me, a woman with a high ponytail, scrublike attire and soft eyes smiles encouragingly. She is not a doctor, and this is not a lab. The air smells like lavender and another fruity scent I later learn is cassis. My chair is made of woven reeds, topped with a thick cushion and a pillow for lumbar support. The windowless room feels more cozy than claustrophobic; this is not torture but a luxury. I am, in fact, in a five-star resort with a 2,000-sq-m spa and an indoor heated pool. This process, I have been promised, will help me sleep better.

For years, I had been waking up exhausted. My primary care doctor ran my blood work three separate times to try to suss out an underlying problem, and each time it came back fine. I had no problem falling asleep, or even really staying asleep. The problem was that no matter how many hours of sleep I got, I had to haul myself out of bed in the morning, grumpy and lethargic.

So, in December, before COVID-19 ravaged the world and made travel unsafe, I journeyed to a beautiful valley in Portugal’s Port wine region to take part in the €220-per-night Six Senses Sleep Retreat to try to learn to sleep better. Six Senses has long made wellness and sustainability two of its main pillars of business. They have yoga retreats and infrared spas. They’re aiming to be plastic-free by 2022—all plastic, not just single-use. But for the past two years, the luxury resort brand has bet big on sleep. In 2017, they launched a sleep program with a sleep coach, sleep monitoring, a wellness screening, bedtime tea service and a goody bag of sleep-health supplies. The idea was that, with three nights of analysis and behavioral adjustments, I might finally train my body to get a good night’s sleep. It’s a vacation with a purpose, and it’s one with big appeal: Six Senses offers the program at 10 of its resorts and is requiring all new resorts (including New York City in 2021) to include the program.

Luxury hotels have been pushing health as a selling point for travel since well before events made the two oxymoronic. The global wellness-tourism market was valued at $683.3 billion in 2018 by Grand View Research, and according to the Global Wellness Institute’s 2018 report, 830 million wellness trips were taken by travelers in 2017. That was up nearly 17% from 2015. In 2018, American Airlines partnered with the meditation app Calm to help their passengers sleep. Headspace has partnerships with seven different airlines to do the same thing, all over the past few years. A survey from the National Institutes of Health shows that the number of U.S. adults who reported meditating while traveling tripled from 2012 through 2017. And all this travel wellness has one common goal: to get people to sleep better, because we know that—generally—people aren’t sleeping well.

In 2016, the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) published findings claiming that one-third of adults are not getting enough sleep and that sleep deprivation is costing the country some $400 billion each year in productivity. It is also important to note that many studies have found a large disparity in sleep quality based on race, ethnicity and socio-economic status. In comparisons of white and Black populations, studies have found that white women have the best sleep duration and Black men the worst. Those disparities do not go away when studies adjust for socio-economic level. The Sleep Foundation writes that a factor may be higher levels of stress because of discrimination in daily life.

Although consumers have opened their wallets in pursuit of better sleep since the debut of memory foam in 1966, the past five years have been a boom for the sleep-wellness industry. The global sleeping-products market brought in $69.5 billion in revenue in 2017, and, according to the most recent report published in May 2018 by P&S Market Research, the industry is on track to hit $101.9 billion in 2023. The consulting group McKinsey put out a seven-page guide to investing in sleep health in 2017. And anyone who has tried to buy a mattress online recently has noticed just how many new mattress brands there are: Casper, Tuft & Needle, Purple, Leesa, Allswell, SleepChoices, Bear. The U.S. mattress industry has doubled in value since 2015, from $8 billion to $16 billion.

In my desperate quest for good sleep, I’ve bought into all of this. When I sat down to calculate it all, I was stunned to find that over the past three years, I have spent more than $1,000 on sleep. I bought a Fitbit, a Sonos speaker with a built-in alarm, a new pillow, a new mattress, a fluffier comforter, a weighted blanket, cold eye masks, a humidifier, pajamas made of bamboo, pajamas made of 100% cotton, pajamas made of satin and an alarm clock that mimics a sunrise. The sleep retreat, I hoped, would do something all the other purchases had not.

I don’t sleep well on the plane. After four hours of fitful slumber interrupted by turbulence, dinner service and my seat neighbor bumping into me on the red-eye from New York City to Lisbon, I groggily deplane and replane for the short flight to Porto, down another espresso and drive the one and a half hours to the Douro Valley. By the time I arrive at the hotel, the sun is beginning to set and my bed looks very inviting. It is only 5 p.m.

I’m led to my room by a woman named Vera who introduces my supplies: an eye mask, bamboo pajamas, earplugs, lavender spray for my bed and a worry journal where I can write down anything bothering me before I sleep. I flop down on the €2,500 mattress and hope that whatever I learn here will be easily transferable to the $200 mattress I bought off Amazon and my sad cotton-blend sheets. By the bed is a small box made by ResMed, which will track my movements while I sleep and present me with colorful graphs of data each morning.

I follow the given instructions: eat dinner leisurely, have only one glass of wine, take a bath in the deep tub, drink chamomile tea, put on the new pajamas, write in the journal and go to bed around 10 p.m. When I wake up, the ResMed app shows a series of colorful bars—my “sleep architecture” progression through deep, REM and light sleep—and a score of 97. “I had nothing to say about that sleep,” shrugs Javier Suarez, the director of the spa and wellness programs at Douro Valley, at my first consultation. He studied physiotherapy at the University of California, San Francisco (UCSF), and he knows this is abnormally good. “What we [often] see here is the first night, [guests] sleep bad because they come jet-lagged or they’re anxious,” he says. I’d slept a hard, uninterrupted eight hours. I feel proud of the prep I did before I came, adjusting my bedtime to try to prevent jet lag.

There are many scientific reasons to desire good sleep. Poor sleep quality is associated with a whole host of unhealthy side effects. Getting bad sleep puts people at a higher risk for diabetes, cardiovascular disease, Alzheimer’s, impaired memory, problem-solving issues, fatigue, anxiety, mood disturbances and poor performance at work. There’s a market, then, to help people sleep better, not just because it makes money, but also because it is generally good for people. “There’s no wellness without good sleep. Forget about it,” Suarez tells me. “If you don’t make sleep your priority, then you will not be healthy.”

The Global Wellness Institute attributes the growing wellness industry to four things: an aging population, increased global rates of chronic disease and stress, the negative health impacts of environmental degradation and the frequent failures of modern Western medicine. In the case of insomniacs, the ever popular sleep drugs Ambien, Lunesta, Sonata and others received black-box warnings from the FDA—the agency’s most serious caution—in May 2019. Those turned off by the foreboding -packaging may turn to more holistic sleep-wellness methods. Sleep scientists have also been working to better publicize their research on the benefits of sleep hygiene. In 2013, the CDC and the American Academy of Sleep Medicine launched the National Healthy Sleep Awareness Project, which aimed to raise public knowledge of sleep disorders and the ways sleep affects health.

Obsession is the inevitable peak of any trend. While I’m at the resort, Suarez recommends several other ways I can optimize my health, including Wellness FX, a company that will run a full blood panel, and Viome, a company you can mail your poop to in order to learn about your gut -micro-biome. We have the ability now to analyze absolutely -everything about ourselves sans doctor oversight: our blood pressure, our pH, our urine, our poop, our genes. Sleep is just part of the cultural movement toward health obsession. A 2017 study done by Rebecca Robbins at New York University found that a full 28.2% of people in the U.S. track their sleep—with an app, a wearable sleep tracker, or both—and Robbins, now a postdoctoral fellow at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Harvard Medical School, says she thinks that number has likely increased since the study.

All this data is what runs the sleep-wellness industry. Every major sleep-wellness company tracking sleep is collecting data—cumulative data. Eight Sleep, for example, says it has 40 million hours of sleep traffic logged. Alexandra Zatarain, a co-founder and vice president of brand and marketing for the company, says the medical establishment has “never had access to people’s actual sleep [outside of] clinical settings.” Six Senses, on the other hand, has complete data about how people sleep when they’re on vacation, thanks to their sleep programs. Companies theoretically use all this data to make their products better for the consumer, but they also use it for targeted marketing (perhaps to sell you a new pillow or blanket) or sell it outright. Some sleep-wellness companies more benevolently share their data with academic institutions to learn more about what it could mean. Eight Sleep is working on studies with Mount Sinai, UCSF and Stanford. Matt Mundt, who founded a company called Hatch Sleep, which makes a blanket cocoon sleep pod for adults, says he plans to announce a partnership with a major medical system to bring the product into clinical trials.

The sleep-wellness industry is made up of three categories of products: treatments (prescription sleep aids, homeopathic remedies, and doctor interventions like surgeries or sleep-apnea-treatment devices), routine disrupters (sleep trackers, meditation apps, dietary changes and sleep programs) and nesting (mattresses, pillows, curtains, humidifiers). Treatments are mainly performed and monetized by the medical industry and the hospitality industry (like this sleep retreat). Most of the buzzy sleep-wellness companies like Eight Sleep, Oura, Casper and OMI are creating products that fit into the routine disrupter and nesting categories. Eight Sleep, for example, sells a mattress that regulates its own temperature (nesting) and tracks your sleep to provide personalized coaching (treatment). The brand has raised $70 million over the past three years, with $40 million of that raised in November. Zatarain says the company plays to the public desire to self-analyze and self-optimize. “We want people to be asking themselves, ‘Am I sleep-fit, or not?’” she says.

Courtesy Six Senses Douro ValleyAn outdoor resting spot at the Six Senses Douro Valley in Portugal

After my first night of delicious, wonderful 97-score sleep, I’m feeling a little cocky. I—I’ve convinced myself already—am sleep-fit. Suarez is not so sure. “I bet you tonight you’re going to do worse,” he says on day two. “You’ll get an 87 or something.” The data, he says, does not care about my confidence.

I spend much of my second day at the retreat thinking about my sleep score. The keys to good sleep, I’m told, are simple: exercise; eating well; not drinking too much; a dark, quiet space; creating a wind-down routine; no screens two hours before bed; and a comfortable bed. The greatest enemy of sleep is stress. The main value of the sleep score—and sleep tracking in general—is not to affect your sleep, but to tell you when you need to change your waking habits.

“The biggest win [of sleep tracking] is in the behavior change,” says Els van der Helm, the co-founder and CEO of Shleep, which designs customized sleep programs. Through her company, van der Helm works to convince companies that employees’ sleep should be prioritized not only because it is good for them, but also because it will make the company more profitable. (Shleep itself raised $1.4 million in venture capital in August 2019.) At her presentations, van der Helm sees the same behavior again and again. As she describes easy things employees can do to improve their sleep, she suggests a wake-up light alarm. Immediately, everyone grabs their phones and orders one online. “That’s great, but can they be as passionate about exercise, or creating a wind-down routine?” she says. “The issue is that people love throwing money at the problem and just buy something and think they’re good. ”

The problems with our sleep—for those who are otherwise healthy—are often problems we can fix ourselves. “You don’t need any of that stuff,” Suarez tells me when I run through the list of products I’ve tried. “People say, ‘How can I sleep better?’ And my answer is, ‘How can you have a better life?’”

Making sleep improvement all about what we can purchase to help us also creates an untrue narrative around what that data means. In her study on sleep-tracking habits, Robbins also found a disparity in who tracks their sleep: the higher a person’s income, the more likely they were to track their sleep. “A very concerning aspect of the conversation around sleep is the message that sleep is a luxury,” Robbins says. “We need to remove the notion that sleep is a luxury and replace it with the truth, which is that sleep is something we all deserve and that unifies us.”

So on my second day at the sleep retreat—yes, a massive luxury—I do everything right. I think about my sleep score and forgo a second glass of wine, even though I’m on vacation. I think about my sleep score and go to yoga. My body and I deserve it.

That night, I feel terrible getting into bed. I’m stressed about the amount of work I have to do, and I keep thinking about how that stress will disrupt my sleep. Suarez is either a sleep witch who intentionally cursed me, or someone who knows what he’s talking about. My money is on the latter. I close my eyes and open them again only a few hours later, thinking about my sleep score. Eventually, I get back to sleep and wake in the morning to a markedly worse 85.

Suarez had warned me that some Type A people slept worse on their second night simply because they knew they were being tracked, but when Vera reviews my Night 2 results, she says she can tell what the problem was. The ResMed shows two scores for each night’s sleep, both calculated based on your movement in bed: one for your mental sleep and one for your physical. On the second night, my mental sleep was fine. It was my body sleep that was a disaster. I needed, Suarez says, to wear myself out.

On the third day, I sign up for a cardio class in the gym after a nice long walk. By the time I begin my wind-down routine in the evening, I’m already sore. In the morning, I wake up feeling refreshed. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way first thing in the morning. I roll over and check my score: 94. Success. The charts show that I had not only slept well, but I also got plenty of deep sleep. “I’m not giving you a perfect solution for sleep,” Suarez says before I leave the resort, “I’m just showing you what happens when you do things right.”

When I return from the sleep program, I feel better physically than I have in a long time. I find myself making decisions based not on my health, but on how they will affect my sleep quality. I don’t have coffee late even though it’s a struggle to stay awake back on the East Coast. I do my wind-down routine and spray my lavender spray and sleep hard through the night. The biggest change, though, is how often I think about my sleep, which is constantly. I join a gym, something I had been meaning to do for a year, simply because I know it will help me sleep. And it does work—for a while.

My perfect sleep routine begins to devolve even before the pandemic hits. At home, I fall asleep with the TV on watching Monday Night Football. I don’t have time to exercise every day. Unsurprisingly, I’m much, much more stressed than I had been at the luxury hotel with every amenity in the world and no job to do. I need motivation—inspiration—so I turn to Instagram, and I find @followthenap.

Alex Shannon is a “sleep influencer” who spends most of his time running the account, crafting cozy-looking images of heavenly sleepscapes. He started the account a year and a half ago and says he has noticed a substantial growth in the focus on sleep health in the time since. The boom in products has been good for him too. Every new supplement or sunrise alarm clock or mattress is another potential sponsorship. He’s one of only a few influencers focused solely on sleep, but plenty of general wellness influencers also dabble in sleep, and the content is there. More than 26.8 million posts on Instagram have been tagged #sleep and almost 4 million have been tagged #nap. Even now, when he’s not traveling because of COVID-19 concerns—he was often sent to expensive sleep retreats gratis, in exchange for posts—Shannon has pivoted his sleep content to his own home. And he says he’s had a lot of interest from foreign travel boards making plans for when the travel restrictions are lifted. “I feel like as recently as a few years ago, making rest and relaxation a priority was seen as selfish somehow,” Shannon says, “but with the rise of ‘self-care,’ it’s become much more acceptable to slow down and take care of ourselves.”

Part of that impulse to slow down has been engineered by sleep companies themselves. If wellness can look good on Instagram, it can make money. Just take the boom in Casper sales. Casper was hardly the first mattress startup to market, and it wasn’t even the first to roll its mattresses. But in 2014, the company encouraged customers to post videos unboxing their Casper mattresses and watching them unfurl. The influx of mesmerizing videos, all featuring Casper’s logo, helped the company become the leading brand in mattress startups. James Newell, a vice president at an investment firm that backed Casper, said in an interview with Freakonomics that Casper “would tell you they’re not a mattress company, they’re a digital-first brand around sleep.” It helps that Casper is estimated to have an $80 million marketing budget.

“Our brand ambassadors”—a common synonym for influencers paid to promote a product—“are providing their honest feedback and review of our products, providing potential customers with another perspective outside of our own,” says Julianne Kiider, the affiliate and influencer manager for Tuft & Needle. “The way we sleep is such a personal thing, so these diverse perspectives help guide followers to the right product for their own sleeping habits.” Several major mattress brands declined to share data about how much of their advertiser budgets are spent on influencers, if mattresses are given to influencers for free, and how well influencer marketing really works. But a scroll through major wellness-influencer accounts shows plenty of cozy bed photos with discount codes in the captions. Shannon says in this scenario, the influencer’s payment is often a kickback of the percentage of mattresses sold with their discount code. For him, it’s paying off.

“We all dream of being a little more relaxed, a little less stressed and not feeling guilty about indulging ourselves,” he says. That dream—of sleeping through the night and being more relaxed and waking up refreshed and ready for the day—is exactly what has made sleep wellness such a lucrative industry.

In March, four months after my visit to the sleep retreat, COVID-19 began to spread in the U.S., and the dream felt further away than ever. Several of my friends got sick, and I stopped sleeping. Then the Black Lives Matter protests began, and I continued to sleep fitfully, worried for my friends and fellow citizens. This time, though, I knew what mistakes I was making. I knew that stress was keeping me awake, bolstered by scrolling through my phone for news updates until 11 p.m. and not exercising and having another glass of wine. I knew all that, but I was too stressed to stop. One night, in a sleepless haze, I swiped away from the news and found myself browsing my old online shopping haunts. I added a new lavender spray and a set of pajamas to my cart, and clicked Buy Now.

McKinney is a features writer and co-owner at Defector Media

from Blogger https://ift.tt/3fw9yh7 via IFTTT

[femslashy]

the skies above us

written for @alittledizzy as part of @fandomtrumpshate

length: 14.8k

genre(s): fluff+angst

triggers/warnings: implied panic attack/anxiety, canonical character death mentions

Baz and Simon meet in a community center art class and become fast enemies; much to the chagrin of their matchmaking therapist. Over the next few months tensions escalate, paint is thrown, coffee is had, and the two of them learn that there's more to life than just doing what's expected of you

playlist | ao3

a/n: bless @cherryonsimon for being the most patient beta and best friend and for staying up until 5am reading this over!! and a huge thank you to all of my friends who listened to me talk about this fic for ages and who offered their support throughout the entire process 💜 (this fic will crash the mobile app so if you’re on your phone i recommend reading on ao3 ^__^)

Simon

“How’ve you been, Simon?”

I shrug, and Ebb writes something down in her notebook. I crane my neck to see what it is, and she pulls it back. Frowning, I lean back on the couch and cross my arms. It’s not like she’s said something bad, it’s just a habit I’d picked up over the years. Being in and out of therapy since you were a child tends to make you curious about what they’re saying about you, especially if their evaluation could determine whether you get shuffled around yet again.

Not like that would actually happen with Ebb, especially since I aged out of the system a while ago, but it’s still a knee-jerk reaction to seeing someone taking down notes about me. Never mind that I’ve been seeing the same therapist for six months; some habits are hard to break.

Ebb is the best person I know, which is probably a weird thing to say about someone you pay to listen to your problems; but when you don’t have a lot of people in your corner, you learn to appreciate the ones who are.

Her office looks nothing like the small cramped rooms of the therapists I’d been sent to when I was a kid. It’s large and airy, with a red couch covered in pillows and crocheted afghans. The walls are completely covered in pictures of people, of places, of things. The first time I’d visited, I’d asked Ebb about her walls, and she’d just laughed and told me it reminded her of her life.

“What about it?” I’d asked.

“That I’ve lived it,” she’d replied and laughed again.

I love Ebb’s laugh. She laughs like everything matters, and it’s nice to hear. Encouraging. It’s one of the many reasons I keep coming back.

She’s still waiting for my answer, but I don’t feel pressured. That’s another thing I like about Ebb: she gets it. She knows that sometimes words are hard for me and that sometimes you just get sad for no real reason.

Ebb lost her brother when she was young. I know this because she accidentally let it slip during a session one day. I felt like a jerk for not comforting her, only watching as she’d wiped her eyes on the cuff of her jumper, but I know she understood.

Other people’s emotions are hard for me to handle, but I’m getting better at it, I think. I should probably ask Penny, considering she’s basically the only person I talk to regularly, now that Agatha’s broken up with me and moved away to the States. To California. To “find herself”, whatever the hell that means.

“I’ve been...okay,” I finally say, and Ebb nods.

“Just okay?”

“Well--,” I pause, “I did have an incident at work…”

Ebb nods, and I take it as encouragement to continue.

“I got fired again.”

“Uh oh,” she says, but not in a way that makes me feel bad.

“I messed up a customer's drink and got so anxious as I was trying to fix it that I broke the machine.”

She tuts and writes something in her notebook again. My curiosity is too much this time. “What are you writing?”

“Just a reminder,” she replies, “I’ll tell you at the end of the session.”

That doesn’t completely satisfy my curiosity, but I drop the subject anyway.

We spend the rest of the hour discussing my week--what I’ve done, what I haven’t done, what I should be doing,--until the timer on Ebb’s side table beeps and she uncrosses her legs. Her head is bent, and I want to ask what she was going to say before, but she beats me to it.

“Have you thought about taking up a hobby?” she asks, pen still scratching across the paper as she looks up at me.

That’s not what I was expecting. “I mean…” I trail off, trying to remember the last time I’d done anything that could be considered a “hobby”. I play football with friends sometimes, except...except it’s been years since I’ve actually done anything like that. Christ, has it been that long? “It hasn’t exactly been a priority to me.” I say, avoiding Ebb’s inquiring gaze.

“Well, maybe it should be,” she says in a way that makes me think I don’t have a choice in the matter. Maybe that’s a good thing, because I know if I were on my own I’d never push myself to find something.

“Like what?”

“I was thinking something therapeutic. Like... relaxing. Have you ever taken a painting class before?”

“You mean outside school?”

She nods.

“No.”

“Would you be interested in trying one?”

I shrug. Again.

She sets her pen down and tears a page out of her notebook, folds it, and hands it to me. “Here’s the information about the class. You don’t have to attend, but I think It’d be good for you.”

I take the paper, and look at the class name. “Why painting and drawing?”

“Well, Simon, I could list all of the reasons it’s beneficial to your mental health, but that’s boring and you don’t want to hear it. Long story short: it might make you happy and that’s a damn good reason, in my opinion.”

I nod, because I feel like I’m supposed to agree.

We make my next appointment, and as I’m leaving she says, “I really do think this will be good for you, Simon.” It’s like she can tell that I’m considering tossing the number, and I make a firm decision not to.

I wave goodbye and duck out the door, shoving the paper roughly into my jacket pocket. It feels heavier than it should, and I know it’s because I’m overthinking this. (As usual.) I’ll probably feel better once I have more information, but the thought of me enjoying an art class makes me want to laugh. I’m not artistic in any way, and I really don’t have any interest in spending time looking at stupid bowls of fruit, or drawing naked people, or whatever people do in classes like this.

But I’ll do it. For Ebb. (And because maybe she’s right about this. Maybe it will make me happy.)

(Something has to.)

* * *

I didn’t tell Ebb I had a job interview after our appointment. Didn’t want to jinx it, I suppose. Not that it’ll make any difference, I’ll still manage to fuck it up somehow. I always do.

Penny warned me that I should dress up, so I’ve exchanged my usual tracksuit and trainers for a button-down shirt with slacks and shoes that pinch my feet. I think I look pretty good, like I’m actually someone important going somewhere...well, important.

That thought makes me stand up a bit straighter as I press the button at the corner. I stop smiling to myself when I notice an old woman looking at me funny as we both wait to cross the street. I smile at her. It must not be a very convincing one though, because she scowls at me and inches away. I have that kind of effect on people usually. No one likes to get close to me.

It’s been that way ever since I was a kid: sullen and thuggish, and always bouncing my favorite red ball. Countless people tried to take it away from me over the years, but eventually everyone learned to leave me alone. (No one likes a biter.)

The light changes, and I leave the old woman and her scowl behind.

* * *

The interview did not go well. Or rather, it had been going well until they asked about my previous work experience, and I’d had to explain about getting fired all those times. I’d been tempted to lie, but I knew they’d just end up phoning my references and finding out just what a huge fuck-up I am.

The tube ride home is stressful as hell; the car is packed full of commuters and schoolchildren. It’s basically my worst nightmare come to life. I’m shoved into a corner, and I can barely get to the door in time once we get to my stop.

I’m practically crawling by the time I get to our flat, and when I enter I see Penelope sitting on the couch with her feet on the coffee table,--something she calls me out for often. When she sees me she drops her feet and moves her laptop onto the table.

I flop down on the couch next to her and exhale harshly. I want to go take a shower, wash this day off my skin, but I’m too fucking exhausted to get up again.

“How was it?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

“They didn’t even bother lying about calling me later.” I say, and her face falls.

“Oh, Simon.”

She leans into me, and I let her. We sit like that until the sun goes down and the evening news comes on.

“Alright?” She asks, and I shrug.

She rubs my arms and leaves the room. I should get up and do the same, but the couch is comfortable, and seems as good of a place as any to process my day. I open her laptop and google the place on the paper. The class is located at a community centre not too far from the flat and it takes place every Thursday afternoon for 10 weeks.

I wince when I look at the price, but if Ebb thinks it’s a good idea…

Then, it’s worth it.

5 minutes later, I’m all signed up, and groaning as I look over the supply list.

Maybe I’ll ask Penelope for help.

Maybe this class might actually help.

Maybe I can actually fucking turn my life around for once.

I finally shut the computer and force myself to get off the couch and finally take that shower I’ve been craving. The hot water feels good and I rub the flannel into my skin harsher than necessary, but it helps me feel cleaner.

After I finish scrubbing my body, I wash my hair--noting that I really need to get another haircut soon. Then, I have to resist the urge to sit down, knowing that I’ll just stay there for an hour and our water bill with get hiked up, and I won’t do that to Penny. (Not again, at least.)

The class starts on Thursday, the day before my next session with Ebb, meaning I’ll need to talk myself into going all on my own. I wonder if that was Ebb’s plan--she’s sneaky like that.

I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow, and that night I dream of goats and paintbrushes and--for some reason--shiny black hair.

* * *

Baz

The first time I’d stepped foot in Ebb’s office, I’d almost walked right out. It looks nothing like the posh offices of the expensive doctors my father had sent me to in my youth and I suspect that’s part of what made me decide to stay.

The sofa is faded red and covered in way too many itchy blankets and pillows, and the walls are cluttered with pictures of people, places, and things. I’d meant to ask Ebb about them, but by the time I’d come up with a way to do it without sounding snobbish, too many sessions had passed for it to be a natural question. I resigned myself to just admiring them every time I waited for her.

Ebb wasn’t the most organized therapist. She was always running a bit behind and she’d need a moment to collect herself before our hour began, but she never cut me off early and she always made me feel like I was being listened to. I overlooked her flaws and continued to return.

Today she’s wearing a long skirt and an old jumper. She looks like a bag lady, but I don’t mention it. She must have just gotten a haircut, because her blunt, blonde bob looks even more blunt than usual. I don’t mention that either. Instead, I just lean back on the couch and cross my arms. (Ebb says that isn’t healthy body language.) (I’d told her where she could stick her healthy body language, and she’d just laughed.)

“How are you today, young master Basil?” Ebb asks. (She’d started calling me that as a joke, and it’s a testament to how much I like her that I allow it.)

“Fine,” I say, and she snorts.

“Are you really?”

“No.”

“Why not?” The tip of her pen is hovering about her notebook, and I find myself wondering what exactly she writes about in there; but then I decide I’d probably be happier not knowing, and inhale.

“I got into a fight with my father again. He’s still pressuring me about joining his firm.”

“And you still want to continue teaching?”

I nod. My mother had been a teacher, and sometimes I wonder if she’d take my side against my father about this. If she were alive that is. The way my father acts, her word had been law. He thought she hung the moon and I’ve always been convinced that the moon was hung for her pleasure.

I don’t think my father hates my job, but I suspect he thinks that by keeping me close by he can control my life better. Like if I’m still under his thumb I’ll turn into the son he really wants me to be, instead of a constant disappointment. Like I am now.

Ebb doesn’t like it when I think like that. She says I get tapes in my head that keep playing the same things over and over: that I’m worthless; that I’m unlovable; that I’ll never be the son my mother wanted, and definitely not the one my father would prefer.

The first time I’d admitted some of those thoughts out loud, Ebb had nearly torn her notebook in two.

“Who’s told you those things?” she’d asked.

“Me,” I’d replied.

And then she really did rip the book. (I showed up at the next appointment with a new one, covered in goats like the one before it.) (Ebb loves goats.)

I cross and uncross my arms, wrinkling my nose when one of the garish wool afghans itches against my leg as I move. I’d come by on my way to the club and my tennis shorts were riding up my arse, making it hard to concentrate on what Ebb was saying. I missed the first part of her sentence as I subtly adjusted myself until I wasn’t being driven crazy. (More than I already am that is.)

“--painting class?”

I must not have heard her correctly. “Excuse me?”

“I said have you thought about trying a painting class? At our last session you’d mentioned you’d like to pick up some new hobbies, meet some new people. There’s a class that I recommend to a lot of my patients that seems to help.”

“So, I’d be in class full of your crazies?”

Ebb makes a face. She hates when I use that word.

“Art can be very therapeutic,” she says, not bothering to respond to what I’d said.

I scowl, “I don’t need therapy.”

She laughs, “Then, why are you in my office?”

She’s got me there.

* * *

Fiona is waiting outside the building when I exit, arms crossed and scowling.

I roll my eyes. “What are you mad about now?”

She scoffs. “What makes you think I’m mad about something?”

“Your face.”

“Shut up, Basil,” she says, with no real venom in her words.

We have a standing lunch date after my therapy appointments. It’s good. They’re a nice excuse not to go back to my flat afterwards and wallow in self-pity. Plus, Fiona doesn’t press me to talk if I don’t feel like it, and is fine if I don’t listen to her prattle on while I work through whatever I’d discussed with Ebb that day. This session wasn’t too bad; Ebb hadn’t pressed too hard about my issues with my father, or anything else that might upset me too much.

“What’s that?” Fiona asks, and I realize I’m clutching the paper with the art class information on it.

“Nothing,” I say, but it’s no use. Fiona’s already snatched it from my hands and is reading it over.

“Art class?” She sounds surprised, but not disappointed. (I don’t know why I thought she would be. I guess I’m so used to disappointing people that it’s a shock when I don’t.) “Are you going to tell Malcolm?”

“Why would I need to ask my father’s permission to attend a fucking art class?”

“You know why. If he thinks you have enough free time for this…”

“Then, I have too much free time,” I finish for her. My father is under the impression that if I have any time that it should be spent with him, helping out at his firm. Which is why I pretend like my job keeps me too busy to spend too much time there. I suspect he only “allows” my tennis games because he considers it an appropriate leisure pastime. But an art class? And at a community centre, no less? It’s not for the son of Malcolm Grimm.

I’m 25 years old, dammit. Too old to still be under my father’s thumb, as Ebb gently reminds me often, but that’s what happens when you’re still mostly financially dependent on the bastard. (One downfall of being a teacher. It doesn’t pay well.) (It pays rather abysmally, actually.)

“What do you feel like eating?” Fiona asks, ripping me from my pity spiral.

“Sushi?” I suggest hopefully, and she wrinkles her nose. Fiona hates sushi.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I try to hide my surprise.

“Okay, we can get sushi.” She sounds resigned.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I say suspiciously.

“Can’t I be nice to my favorite nephew without being subjected to an inquisition?”

“I’m your only nephew. And of course not.

“You just look a bit shit that’s all. Like you need some good news. And that good news is that we’re getting sushi.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, but I suspect she’s right. I haven’t been sleeping well, or taking much care of myself at all. What’s the point? It’s not like I have anyone to keep it together for. Christ, that’s a depressing thought.

“Is that any way to speak to your favorite aunt?”

“You’re my only aunt,” I say and feel my pockets to make sure I didn’t leave my mobile on Ebb’s couch. (It’s happened before. I swear that couch eats things.)

I jump when Fiona lays on the horn.

“Shut up and get in the car, Basil.” She says, and I do.

* * *

When I get home later, I’m so full of fish and still tipsy from the sake Fiona’d insisted we order. I’m torn between taking a nap and finishing up some work I’ve been putting off, but instead I decide to look up the class Ebb told me about. I don’t know why, but my curiosity gets the best of me and it feels like I need to sign up for it now.

I type in the web address in my mobile and squint at the screen. It looks standard enough, once a week at a nearby community centre. I’ve never taken a class at one of those places before. Everything my parents ever signed me up for was at private studios, or done at the manor with tutors, but I can’t see Ebb recommending either of those things to any of her craz--other patients.

The class is fairly inexpensive, but I still use my father’s card. (It’s not like he’ll ever see it. He never bothers to check my bills, not unless I make an excessively expensive purchase. Like a flat.) (It took him a while to get over that one.)

I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders as I sit down on the couch and fight back a yawn. Today has been long and it’s not over yet if the papers I need to grade have anything to say about it. I’ve also got to go through my basket of bills to make sure that I don’t fall behind. In fact, I’ve got a rather long list of tasks I need to accomplish before the day is through, but none of them sound as nice as curling up on the couch and falling asleep.

So, that’s what I do.

* * *

I’m sitting alone in the teacher’s lounge like I usually do. I’ve barely touched my sandwich, I’m too busy checking and rechecking these assignments. I swear every year my classes keep growing, my free time keeps decreasing, and my job becomes less and less desirable.

I don’t have afternoon classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I really don’t have any excuse not to show up at the community centre tomorrow.

It’s a bloody beginners art class, how bad could it be?

* * *

Simon

“I had another job interview,” I tell Ebb halfway through the session. (It’s not that I forgot, I just didn’t want to bring it up at first.)

“That’s great!” she exclaims.

I look down at my trainers. “Well, I had two job interviews.”

“That’s still great,” she points out.

“I only got one of the jobs, though.”

“Which is still great.”

“I guess.”

“Why isn’t that great, Simon?” Ebb presses, and I shrug. It’s not like my new job is hard or particularly terrible, it’s just that I seem to go through them so quickly that I can almost predict what I’ll do to get myself fired at each new one.

Talk about the world's worst superpower.

* * *

Baz

I don’t know why I decided to go to this bloody class. I don’t do art, it was one of my worst classes in school, but somehow Ebb had managed to convince me. For all her faults, she really does know what she’s talking about.

When I walk in the door, I see that everyone has gotten there much earlier than me, and there’s only one open chair. I sit down on it and look at my desk mate: he’s in a ratty tracksuit and dirty trainers; he looks like a walking cliche. His hair is cropped close to his head on the sides and curly on top and I suppose he’s quite fit. If you’re into chavs, that is.

Simon

The guy that sits down next to me looks like a tosser. He’s in jeans and a white paint-splattered button down that stands out sharply against his reddish-gold skin. His hair’s long, dark, and wavy. It looks silky to the touch, like it would slip through my fingers if I tangled them in it. I bet all the girls find him bloody gorgeous. What an arse.

I’m barely listening to the instructor as she goes over what we’re supposed to be doing today, so I don’t catch anything beyond the fact that we’re supposed to be drawing and then painting the bowl of fruit at the front of the room.

I watch as the other students stand to go get their paint and I go to follow them. Not paying full attention, i accidentally trip over the foot of my tablemate.

“Oi,” I snap, “watch it!”

He fixes me with a cool glance. “You’re the one who tripped over me. Are you really thick enough not to realize that?”

I flush. He’s right. (Not about me being thick. That he didn’t do anything.)

“Just--watch it.” I say, glowering at him. He looks unruffled, and I hate him for it. Why won’t he get upset?

Why do I feel the need to upset him?

Baz

I refuse to let this idiot bother me.

Okay, he is bothering me, but I refuse to let him see that. Why does he infuriate me so much? The class has barely begun, and I already feel as if I’ve managed to make an enemy on the very first day, An enemy I’m forced to share a desk with. I decide I’m just going to sit somewhere else next class.

The instructor--who introduced herself as Miss Possibelf--clears her throat from her spot at the front of the classroom and says, “I hope you’ve made yourselves comfortable as these are the seats you’ll be sitting in for the next 10 weeks.” I groan internally. No one else looks bothered by the news, but no one else has to sit next to a bloody idiot for 2 hours every week.

I hope Ebb is ready to hear about this.

Once I start painting, I find it’s much easier than I expected. It’s even sort of fun. And relaxing. Maybe Ebb was right. Maybe I did need this. I lose myself in the process, relaxing into the smooth routine of brushstrokes on canvas when I notice someone glaring at me. Of-fucking-course.

Simon

My eyes flicker over to his painting and then back to mine. Fuck, I thought this was supposed to be a beginner’s class! Who does this arsehole think he is, coming in here like he doesn’t know shit, and then making us all look bad? I don’t realize I’m glaring until I notice his brush has stopped moving.

“What are you looking at?” he snaps, and I feel myself bristle.

“Nothing,” I snap back, and he sneers at me. Christ, I could strangle him. I’m about to say something more when the instructor--Miss Possibelf--turns up behind us.

“Excellent work, Baz,” she praises, and her face changes when she looks at my painting. “Mr. Snow…” she starts “that looks--you need--it--Baz, do you mind helping him?” the arsehole nods, and she walks off, but not before taking one last look at my easel and grimacing.

“We’re supposed to be drawing the stuff in the bowl,” Baz says, snidely, after she’s out of earshot. I want to march up to the front, grab that fucking bowl, and toss every single piece of fruit at his head.

Ten points for hitting him in the widow’s peak.

I smile to myself as I imagine his expression if I actually did that, and he kicks me in the ankle.

“What are you smiling like an idiot for?”

“Nothing,” I say and my daydream ends. Baz turns away, and I glare at him out of the corner of my eye.

After less than five minutes of conversation, I’ve decided that I hate him. He’s infuriating. And rude. And he insulted my painting. (He’s right though. It does look like shit.) (That doesn’t change the fact that he’s still a tosser.)

We don’t talk for the rest of the class.

* * *

I lay in bed and think about Baz.

I’m tempted not to go back, if I’m honest. I might not, except it means that I let Baz win and I refuse to do that.

But if I do go, he’s just going to be there, with his stupid smug expression and his stupid perfect fingers. And I’ll have to keep sitting next to him. And he’ll just keep being a bloody tosser, and we’re going to end up fighting each other one day, so I really should just stop going to the class and save us both the trouble.

Except...except Ebb had seemed really excited for me to go. I know she expected it to be good for me, to help me somehow.

I decide I won’t let Ebb down, even if that means putting up with Baz.

* * *

Baz

I can’t keep going back to that class. Not if Snow is going to be there. Not if I’m going to have to keep sitting next to him. Why did he have to fucking sit next to me on the first day? Why did Miss Possibelf tell us that our current seats would be our seats for the next ten weeks? Just my fucking luck. Of all the people to sit in that damn seat, it had to be him.

My students can blame Snow for the fact that I’m grading their assignments harsher than I normally would. I should wait until I’ve calmed down to read these, but I already put it off long enough that the class has actually started complaining about not getting them back.

I’m halfway through an essay that makes me want to tear my hair out, when my mobile buzzes. It’s my father. I frown. I really can’t deal with him right now.

“Basilton,” he says, like it’s a greeting, “I’m outside your door.”

I curse quietly and go to open it. “Hello, Father.”

He nods and steps inside.

It’s strange to see my father in my flat. In his expensive suit and slicked back hair, he looks like a lord; not the kind of person you’d expect to be standing in a lounge full of Ikea furniture and cheap art prints. (I like art, I just don’t like making it myself.)

I’m about to offer him a seat, but, as usual, he doesn’t wait to get to the point of his visit, “Now, you know I don’t have a problem with you being in therapy. In fact, I was thrilled when you finally took your mother’s suggestion and started going, you know I was. But--” he pauses like he doesn’t know what he wants to say next, which is bullshit, “I don’t think this class is necessary. Your time could be better spent on other things.”

“Like working for you.” I say flatly. He doesn’t even look ruffled as he nods in agreement. “I’ve told you before: I’m not interested. If you’ll excuse me, I have papers to grade. For my job. My job that I’m satisfied with.” I say, as calmly as I can, to his retreating back. He waves dismissively back at me, and I slam the door harshly, making a picture on the wall rattle.

“Oh, piss off,” I snarl at it.

Damn my father. It’s just a class! It doesn’t even affect him in any way. Even if I wasn’t taking it, I still wouldn’t take his fucking offer. Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck Snow.

I groan and glare at the painting, “I have to go back now, don’t I?”

Maybe I’ll get lucky and Snow will choke to death on his body spray.

One can dream.

* * *

Simon

I can’t believe Baz is back. I don’t know why I’d expected him to stop coming--maybe I thought I’d scare him off or something,--but here he is.

Baz sits down and pulls out his fancy pencil case. My eyes flick to my sad ziploc full of supplies. I’m not jealous, I just wish I had a better way to carry my things. That’s all. I don’t care that Baz has shiny new things; I could have shiny new things if I wanted to. I’m just not a show-off the way he is.

He’s still pulling out his supplies, extra slow--like he’s trying to rub them in my face. I refuse to give him the satisfaction and I resolve to ignore him for the rest of class. Hopefully for the next eight weeks, as well.

Baz

Of course Snow is back. As if my life could ever be simple. He’s wearing another tracksuit, and I’m rapidly becoming convinced that he owns nothing else. He catches me staring and pulls a face. I look away quickly, and focus back on the paper in front of me.

Today we’re learning how to shade, and I almost feel a stab of pity when I see Snow’s three crappy pencils. I consider loaning him one of mine, but change my mind at the last minute; I’d probably just end up offending him somehow.

I go to the front to get a piece of paper and, when I get back to my table, one of my pencils is missing. I glance to my left and of-fucking-course Snow has it clenched in his grubby little paw.

“That’s mine.” I snap, and he looks up in surprise. The tip of the pencil snaps off as he abruptly stops mauling the paper with it, and I clench my jaw.

“I don’t have the right one,” he says, like that excuses his theft.

“That doesn’t mean you can just take mine! Christ, were you raised by wolves?”

His face screws up in anger, and I watch as he snaps the pencil in half, dropping the pieces on the table in front of me.

I don’t know how to react to that, and I refuse to sink to his level of childish behavior. Snatching the broken pencil pieces up and stuffing them in my bag, I turn my back to Snow. I can feel his eyes on me and it burns, but I refuse to look at him.

We don’t talk for the remainder of the class.

* * * Baz

At the beginning of our third class, Miss Possibelf tells us we’re going to be painting again. I make a show of making sure my supplies are as far away from Snow as possible, and he glowers at me.

We work in silence, barely acknowledging each other, and I begin to think that maybe this will get easier.

And that’s when my elbow hits the cup of dirty paint-filled water.

Simon

I see it before it hits me--the tipping cup, the spreading water--but I don’t react in time. I get drenched from the knees of my trackies to my trainers, and fucking Baz is pretending to look sorry, but he’s hiding an obvious smirk. I want to punch him. I might actually punch him if he keeps looking at me like that.

The only thing on my mind right now is how to get him back. I can feel myself getting angry. It feels like flames against my skin, and I want him to pay for trying to embarrass me in front of the whole class.

Baz stands up quickly and runs to get paper towels, but I know he’s only trying to make himself look better in front of everyone else. If I wasn’t so wet I’d refuse his help, but I have no choice but to suck it up. I make sure to glower at him as I take the towels; so he knows I know what he did.

“I’m sorry,” he says and he sounds so sincere that, for a second, I believe him. But then I remember this is Baz, and Baz hates me and would never apologize to me, especially not after he just got me soaked.

This must be payback for when I broke his pencil last night. Fine. Two can play at this game. If he wants a prank war, he can have a prank war.

I wait until everything settled back down to make my move. I almost don’t do it; it’s too much, too juvenile, but then I adjust myself in my seat and feel how my trackies are clinging to me. Not only are they wet, but the paint that was floating in the cup has stained the grey fabric; that alone makes it easier to do what I do next.

Baz is carefully painting what looks like a rose, completely oblivious to that fact that I’ve flipped my own brush upside down. I’ve made sure to scoop up a large amount of paint, and set my jaw as I pull my brush back and let it fly.

It sails towards Baz’s side of the table and splatters across the sky of his painting. He whips his head to the side and fixes me with a murderous stare.

“What the fuck, Snow,” he spits out through gritted teeth.

“You can’t do stuff like that!” I spit back, meaning the crap he pulled with the water cup. Except the expression on his face makes it seem like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

It occurs to me that maybe I should have reacted in a different way, but that thought is abandoned when a glob of cold paint hits my cheek.

“What the hell!” I dip my brush in the paint again and sling it in his direction a second time. Baz retaliates once more, and we’re engaged in a full-scale paint war when Miss Possibelf appears in front of us, looking angrier than i’ve ever seen before.

“Gentlemen,” she yells, her face beginning to go red, “what is going on here?”

We both freeze. I’m still holding up my brush, and the three of us watch as some paint starts to slowly drip towards the floor. It seems to take forever to separate from the bristles, and I swear the noise it makes when it hits the floor reverberates through the room.

“This is not a class for children,” she says like she’s speaking to...well...children. I guess we were behaving a bit childish, and I don’t try to argue with her as I gather up my bag and exit the classroom, not even bothering to clean up or put my painting back on the drying rack.

I’m aware that makes me seem like a dick, but I need to get out of here. Now. I can already feel my breathing getting faster and I’m starting to get dizzy. I hope I have enough time to get back to the flat before this escalates. I don’t want Baz to see my like this; he’d never let me live it down.

I decide the tube is too much right now, and decide to walk home. It takes longer this way, but maybe it’ll help me calm down. I stop next to the building and do the deep breathing exercises Ebb’d shown me. Once I managed to lower my heart rate slightly, I shrug my bag back onto my shoulder and start walking.

Ebb had brought up Baz at our session yesterday. She thinks I should try and “extend an olive branch”, “be the bigger person”, and we should “stop constantly being at each other’s throats”. I know she has good intentions, but there’s no way we can be friends. We can’t even stand to sit at the same table together once a week.

The wind starts to pick up, and I shiver. That’s still not enough to make me consider the tube, so I wrap my hoodie tighter and make my way back to the flat. I want to stretch out in front of the telly and forget about Baz, forget about this whole damn feud.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that Ebb is wrong for once. She doesn’t even know Baz; she has no idea what an arsehole he can be.

No, only I get to experience that.

Lucky me.

Baz

I should have fucking done it on purpose; he deserves it.

Snow is a bully, and he’s making this class excruciating, but if I quit I have no excuse not to help my father.

I’m glad my next session with Ebb is before class; I don’t think I could face Snow otherwise.

When I step outside of the building, I see him walking north--the direction I need to go. I turn around and stalk off the opposite way, even though it will take me twice as long to get back to my flat. I’ve been meaning to exercise more anyway.

* * *

Simon

I want to pretend it’s a coincidence that I scheduled this week's therapy session right before art class, and that I didn’t plan it that way so that it would be easier to deal with Baz. Ebb saw right through me, of course, but was nice enough not to mention it. (Especially after I told her everything that went down between us last class.) (I still haven’t gotten the paint out of my trackies.)

I let myself into the flat, calling out “Penny?” and getting no response. Figuring she must still be at her lecture, I head to the kitchen to raid the fridge. Something about therapy always seems to spike my appetite. I grab the rest of my leftover curry--and Penny’s too--from the other night, and go to the couch to make myself comfortable while I wait for her to come home.

The only thing on tv at this time of day is Doctor Who reruns and children’s programmes, so I opt for the first choice. Settling into the couch, I pop the lid on the curry and tuck in. The first bite reminds me that I probably should have heated it in the microwave, but it’s still pretty good cold, so I keep eating it.

That’s where Penelope finds me an hour later, sprawled out half-asleep on the couch, surrounded by empty styrofoam takeaway containers, while The Doctor battles aliens on the telly.

“Simon,” she says, and then louder, “Simon!”

I start, causing the box resting on my stomach to fall, scattering basmati on the carpet. Penny frowns.

“Have you been doing that all day?” she asks.

“No,” I say, feeling defensive all of a sudden, “I had therapy this morning. And I have art class at…” I glance at my phone, “Shit! It’s in 20 minutes!” I groan. The community centre is 10 minutes away by tube, and it’ll surely be crowded this time of day. I scramble off the sofa while Penny watches. She’s making that face she does when she’s trying not to be amused and she’s failing as usual.

I’d met Penny on the first day of secondary school. No one had wanted to sit with me during lunch, until she’d sad down, with her red hair and ridiculous glasses, and immediately launched into a rant about our teachers and the other kids in our classes while I just stared.

I wasn’t much of a talker then,--I’m still not--but Penny has always talked enough for the both of us, and I think that’s why we get on so well.

After we’d graduated, we moved into a little flat in London. It was almost like an unspoken thing, that we’d live together. Not like that: Penny’d had the same American boyfriend since we were 13, but I couldn’t see myself living anywhere without Penny, and she knew that as well.

We’ve lived here for 7 years, and it’s the second longest time I’ve spent in the same house. I’m constantly terrified that one day Micah is going to take her back to the states with him, and I’ll never see her again. Ebb reminds me that America isn’t amnesia, but that doesn’t help.

I worry I’m too dependent on her. I’ve brought it up before, but she just brushes me off and says that she’s not doing anything she doesn’t want to. And I believe her.

Penny never does anything she doesn’t want to--she’s stubborn that way. I admire that about her. I’ve always just done what I’ve been told, trying my best to stay invisible as I was shuffled through the system.

I’d been lucky to stay in my last foster house for so long. Long enough to finish school and graduate and finally age out and be on my own, where I could walk to tesco without a letter from the bloody Queen.

Sometimes I don’t know what to do with all that freedom, if I’m honest. Ebb says that probably one of the reasons I get so anxious all the time: I’ve never been able to make my own decisions, and now I’m 25 and I have no idea what I’m doing. I can’t even take the bloody tube on my own without risking a very public panic attack. It’s so fucking embarrassing.

That’s part of the reason I’d started seeing Ebb. I want to learn to function on my own; to be ready for the day when Penny finally leaves, and I have to scan my own credit card, and get my own mail, and make my own phone calls. Ebb says I’ve made a lot of progress, and I guess I believe her; but there are still days when I need my hand held (literally.)

It’s getting closer to class time, and I try to stay calm. If I had the money, I’d call an uber. The tube is my least favorite place to be especially on days like this, when my anxiety is already so high that the thought of being packed into a car with the that many people makes me want to vomit.

Penny must see it on my face, because she picks up her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor and holds out her hand. I take it, gratefully, and let her lead me out the door.

* * *

Baz is late to class. Baz is never late to class. Not that I care. In fact, I’d be happy if he didn’t even show up today, because then I’d actually get to paint in peace for once, without him looking over at my easel and making his fucking snide comments. And helping me.

No, I hate when he helps me. He’s so condescending when he explains color schemes and proper brush strokes and his voice gets all excited as he starts to ramble, because he actually really enjoys this class, and he’s so passionate about fucking still lifes, and--

And it’s annoying. He’s annoying. And now he’s 15 minutes late.

“Simon?” Miss Possibelf asks in that lilting voice of hers, “do you know where Baz is?”

I shake my head, because why the hell would I know? Why can’t she ask one of his friends? Then it hits me that I’ve never seen him talking to anyone in class except for me. Does this make us friends?

No, of course not. We can’t be friends if we argue all the time. I don’t like Baz. I hate Baz. And the only reason I want to know why he isn’t in class is because I need to make sure he’s not thinking up a way to mess with me.

Miss Possibelf nods and addresses the rest of the class. “Today we’re going to start our final project! I’ve got a collection of postcards on the front table, and you’re each going to pick one and try to paint something inspired by the picture on the front!”

She claps her hands together to signal that we’re supposed to get up. I haven’t even taken two steps towards the table when the classroom door flies open, and Baz stumbles in.

I stand up quickly, and the whole class turns to look at us. I can feel them waiting for one of us to say something. I want to, I really do. I want to be the one who gets the first word in, but when I see the look on Baz’s face my words leave me. (Not that they’re there that often.) (Except when Baz is around.)

“Sit down, Snow,” he says tiredly, “I’m not the queen.”

I frown, but do what he says. He joins me at the table, looking like he’d rather be in bed than here with me. I want to know what’s wrong. Wait, do I? No. I don’t care. I don’t care about Baz; I just want to get this project done. I don’t have time to worry about Baz.

Except...except Baz doesn’t know what we’re doing today.

“We’re supposed to paint postcards,” I say, and he looks up at me. “Do you want me to get you one?” I don’t know why I’m being nice to him, but he nods and I go to pick ours out.

There are only two postcards left, and they’re both from the Grand Canyon. I pick them up, selecting the one with the simpler illustration for myself.

As I walk back to our table, I stare at Baz and notice just how terrible he looks. Not unattractive, Baz could never be unattractive, but he looks completely exhausted, slumped over on his stool like there’s a heavy weight on his shoulders. I want to shake him until he tells me where he was and why he looks like that. I want him to talk to me, to at least look at me.

I get my wish when I hand him the postcard and our fingers brush. His gaze meets mine, and he’s blushing. Only Baz could look handsome when he’s blushing. I scowl, and he looks confused.

“Here,” I say, “It’s all that was left.”

Baz looks shocked for a moment, and then his blank look returns. “Thank you,” he murmurs and turns his attention to the assignment.

I find myself actually wanting to talk to him, but he looks like he’s concentrating really hard,--if the way he’s staring intently at the postcard is anything it go by,--and I don’t want to interrupt him.

I take one last look at the beginning of his painting, and then begin my own.

Baz

I’m packing up to leave class, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and Snow is standing there, looking expectant.

“Do you want to go out for coffee?” he asks, and I’m certain I’ve misheard him.

“Sorry?”

“Do you want to go out for coffee? With me? Now?”

What the fuck is going on? “Why?” I ask, suspicious.

He shrugs. (He’s always fucking shrugging.)

I consider his offer and decide that I have nothing better to do. “Sure, Snow,” I say. “Let’s go out for coffee.”

* * *

The walk to the Starbucks around the corner is silent, but not unpleasant. The line isn’t too long either; we’ve chosen a good time to come here.

“A pumpkin mocha breve,” I tell the girl at the counter, and Snow makes a face. “What?” I snap at him, and he just wrinkles his nose.

“I didn’t figure you as the type of person who ordered drinks like that.”

“And what kind of drink should I be ordering then?”

He cocks his head. “I don’t know, I’ve always sort of imagined you sitting around drinking those tiny cups of expresso.”

“Espresso,” I correct, and he looks confused.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said, EX-presso, but it’s pronounced ES-presso.”

Snow frowns, and I start to regret saying anything, so I change the subject. “Spend a lot of time thinking about my sitting around drinking coffee?”

“N--No, of course not!” he stammers, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears. Interesting.

Simon

It pisses me off a bit when Baz called me out for the expresso/espresso thing. I know he meant well, and it probably didn’t seem like a big deal to him, but he’s the only person--except for Penny--that I feel comfortable talking in front of. I don’t want him to ruin it by correcting everything I say.

I’ve managed to keep my stuttering under control, but I’m worried he’ll lose his patience and get annoyed when my words get stuck.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“How do you know I’m thinking about something?”

“You get this look on your face when you’ve got something on your mind. It makes you look a bit constipated.”

I’m too surprised to be upset by his comment, and laugh. He joins in and we’re both snickering in the corner of the shop. People are starting to stare at us now, but I can’t be bothered to care. Baz has that effect on me. He always seems so confident and in control, and I’m dead jealous of that. I wish I could command the attention of a room the way he can, but at the same time I’m not sure if I’d actually want to attention of a room full of people.

Maybe I just enjoy the way being around him makes me feel. Like I could be confident like that; like I could remain unruffled in stressful situations.

Maybe I just enjoy being around him.

I think I might even like it more than fighting with him.

Baz

We find seats, and Snow makes himself comfortable. I curl my lip as I watch him scoop the entire pat of butter out of the little plastic container and plop it on his scone. It melts only slightly before he replaces the stop and takes a huge bite, moaning indecently as he chews. I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes, and he stops mid-chew.

“Whu?” he says around a mouthful of scone, crumbs flying from his mouth and onto the table. I wrinkle my nose at them, and he quickly finishes his bite and tries again. “What?”

“You have truly terrible table manners, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Nope,” he grins, taking another huge mouthful, making exaggerated chewing noises that I really shouldn’t find adorable, but I do and it’s maddening.

He’s maddening. And I’m mad about him. Oh, fuck. Fucking fuck.

I’m falling for Simon Snow, and I can’t do anything to stop it.

* * * Simon

Baz is hanging around the front of the building when I arrive, and I swear he almost smiles as I fall into step next to him. We enter the classroom together, and everyone’s head pivots toward us.

If I’m honest, I’d almost forgot there were other students. All of my attention is usually focused on Baz, and it occurred to me that we’ve had an audience for our fights. An audience who seems surprised to see us walking calmly together to our table, and sitting down without a single insult exchanged.

I wonder if this is our new normal and I find that I wouldn’t mind that at all.

Turns out Ebb does know Baz; all I had to do was be nice to him, and he went from vampire to bunny rabbit almost instantly. I quite like the change, even if it has stirred up some confusing feelings in the pit of my stomach. I managed to shove them away--as I do with any sort of complicated thought--and focus on today’s task.

I glance over at Baz’s paper, and see him painting a bloody brilliant sunset. Red, gold, and pink streak the sky over the canyon, and my breath catches.

“Shit, Baz,” I whisper, “it’s like you’ve really seen it.”

“I have,” he says simply, “when I was young. My family went on holiday to the States often. Well, we did, until--” he cuts himself off and busies himself with his painting once more.

I shouldn’t press, but we’re friends now. Isn’t that what friends do?

“Until what?”

He glares at me, and I’m worried for a moment until it starts to soften. Then he just looks like he’s in pain.

“We stopped going after my mother died. The last happy memory I have of her is watching the sunset over the canyon. She was holding my hand--I still remember how her hands felt. They were always rough, but that was comforting to me. We watched the sun set on our last day of that holiday.”

“What happened next?” I ask, half-afraid of the answer.

He bites his lip, and I reach out to touch his arm; he lets me. “Less than a week after we returned home, she was hit and killed by a drunk driver. I was in the backseat. I was only five.”

I inhale sharply, and grip his arm harder. He doesn’t flinch away and almost leans into the touch.

We sit like that for a few minutes, and then go back to our respective paintings. Neither of us speak for the rest of the class, but this feels nothing like those other times.

Everything is different now.

* * *

Baz

The next four weeks are a blur of therapy sessions, art classes, and coffee dates; Snow waits by the door after every class, waiting to walk with me to Starbucks.

It’s an easy routine, and I find myself enjoying it far more than I probably should. When Snow asks me to the cinema one day after class, I almost feel excited before I realize he means as friends. I should turn him down, but I’m a masochist apparently.

After the time at the cinema, we start going more places together, and at times the lines of our friendship seem like they’re beginning to blur, but I’m too afraid of losing Snow to try and test them. I’m certain he’ll never return my feelings, and I would rather have him as my friend than go back to being enemies.

Ebb isn’t as easy to convince, and she spends nearly the entire hour needling me about how I should “take risks for the sake of my own happiness.” I just sneer at her, even though deep down her suggestion is every fantasy of mine coming true.

If I’m honest, I’m also unsure about the future of our current level of friendship. Our next class is the last one, and neither of us have brought up what will happen after it ends.

* * *

Simon

The days until our final class seem to go by too fast, and I know it’s because I don’t want it to be over. Without this class, what reason will Baz and I have to see each other?

Okay, so maybe we’ve hung out on other days once or twice, but there’s no way that means anything.

Baz

The final class is over too fast, and Simon is walking towards the door. I watch his retreating figure, and then decide I’m not ready to say goodbye to Simon.

“Snow,” I call out. He turns around, looking quizzical.

“Come back to mine?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. He nods, and I feel myself smile.

Maybe Ebb was right. Maybe my own happiness does matter.

Our hands bump casually, as we walk side by side to my flat, and I feel the tell-tale sign of butterflies in my stomach. I feel like a damn teenager right now, inviting their crush over for the first time.

I suppose I am. 

* * *

We’re standing in the kitchen with our drinks. I keep telling myself to invite him into the lounge, but that feels far too personal. (Which is insane; but, then again, Snow makes me a bit insane.) (Even when he’s not being an idiot.)

Our finished paintings are leaning against my kitchen cabinets and, even though they’re completely different, they somehow manage to match.

I realize I’ve been staring at the paintings for too long, so I take a sip of my drink to try and dispel how awkward I must seem. Snow is looking at me with a curious expression, and it’s making me feel warm all over. Or maybe that’s just the vodka. Either way, something feels different, like tonight we might actually cross the line from friends to…

To something more.

I shake my head to clear those thoughts. I’ve only recently stopped Simon from hating me, I can’t run him off by both admitting I’m queer, and that I’m quite possibly in love with him. (I especially can’t tell him that I wanked to the thought of him the other night.) (That guilt is going to eat me alive.)

Simon

Baz looks miserable and I hate it. I’m not even the direct cause of it (at least, I don’t think), yet I still feel as horrible as if I was.

I reach out and touch his cheek, and he lifts his head to look at me, “Simon--,” he whispers, “Simon, I--”

And that’s when I kiss him.

* * *

I kissed Baz last night.

Christ, I kissed Baz.

Baz, who I’m holding while he sleeps.

Baz, who I’m holding while he sleeps when I’m naked except for a sheet.

Baz, who I’m still holding.

Baz, who I don’t want to stop holding.

Baz, who shifts in my arms, cracking one eye open and smiling softly. At least he was, until he seems to register it’s me looking down at him and his face slips into a scowl. “Why did you kiss me last night?” he asks. in a way that demands an immediate answer.

My face falls and I bite back a groan of frustration. “Fuck, Baz. Because I wanted to!”

He looks at me suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”

“I did!” I insist, but he still doesn’t look convinced.

“We didn’t--we didn’t do anything else, did we?”

I shake my head, and I swear he looks relieved.

“What does this mean for us?” I ask.

He looks away, pointedly ignoring my question, “Are you hungry?”

“Don’t try and change the subject,” I growl, but my stomach chooses that moment to betray me, rumbling loudly and reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he says, like he continuing to avoid the subject.

I don’t want to let it go, but my stomach rumbles again and the need for food wins out over my curiosity for now. We pull on our pants, and I follow him down the loft steps and into his tiny kitchen.

He opens the fridge and sticks his head inside. “I only have eggs.”

“Eggs sound good,” I assure him, and he cracks a tiny smile as he takes the carton out.

I lean against the counter and watch Baz prepare our meal. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and I want to reach out and smooth it down with my thumb. His hair is tousled, and I like that look on him. I feel warm thinking about the fact that he’s letting me seem him like this, and it gets harder to resist the urge to touch him. So I don’t.

I gently move him away from the hob, turning him until he’s facing me, and then leaning in for a kiss. He turns his head, and I frown.

“What’s wrong?”

“Why are you still here?”

“Because you offered me breakfast.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, why didn’t you leave last night? After you...after you kissed me?”

“Why would I have left?”

“Because you regretted it.”

“What makes you think I regretted it?”

“Because!” he cries, “you’re you! You don’t want to be with someone like me, you’re never going to wake me up in the morning and call me ‘darling’! You don’t want this.”

The eggs start to smell like they’re burning, and Baz moves quickly to turn of the gas and move the pan.

I wait until he’s finished. “But I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” I say, seriously, “I do. I want this. I want all of this, if you’ll let me. I want to be with you Baz, really, I do. So, tell me how I can prove it to you.”

He shrugs, and I let out an exasperated sigh. “Christ, Baz! I didn’t have some sort of ulterior motive. We don’t even hate each other anymore! It’s been ages since we even fought.”

“It’s been less than four weeks,” he reminds me.

“Is that not enough?”

Baz picks up a spatula and pokes at the overcooked eggs.

“One kiss and you think the world’s gone upside down.”

“Two kisses,” I say. And I take him by the back of the neck.

* * *

The next two weeks fly by. Baz turns out to be more romantic than I’d expected. He’s always taking me new places and buying me presents that I pretend to be embarrassed about, but secretly love.

Everything is going perfectly, and I finally feel like I know what it means to be happy. Until one Tuesday afternoon, when Penny takes my hand and tells me that Micah asked her to marry him, and that she’s moving out at the end of the month.

And then my world starts to crumble.

* * *

Baz

I’m slumped over my kitchen table, clutching a glass miserably. My job has become increasingly shit as of late, and I’m upset because I’m actually considering leaving it and giving in to my father’s wishes.

My mobile vibrates, and I jump. The display says it’s my father, and I wonder if I jinxed myself by thinking about him. I take a deep breath and hit answer.

“Hello, Father.”

“Basilton,” he says, “how are you?”

He wants something. He never bothers with pleasantries unless he wants something. “Fine,” I say as politely as I can, “and you?”

“Good,” he replies, “good, business has been good. We just closed that deal we’ve been working on for months, and I’m taking your mother and siblings out for dinner to celebrate. I was wondering if you’d like to join us.”

I close my eyes and rake a hand down my face. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Daphne and my siblings, and an evening out with them sounds lovely. But I know my father; there’s a catch.

“What do I have to do?” I ask.

“Nothing at all, son,” he says, and I want to believe him. I want to believe that my father actually wants to spend time with me. I want to believe so badly that I say yes.

“Good, good, excellent,” he clears his throat, “we’ll see you this Friday evening.”

“I’ll be there,” I say and hang up.

As soon as I do, my stomach drops. I’d completely forgot about my date with Simon. I can’t call back and cancel, not without explaining to my father why I couldn’t go. I really do want to see my family; I miss them. It gets lonely living on my own, even with Snow over as often as he is.

I find myself looking forward to this dinner.

* * *

Simon

My day couldn’t be worse. I knew that I would eventually lose this job too; I don’t know why I’m even surprised.

Fuck, I want to see Baz. I want to see him and not have to think about my problems, but then I remember he’s got that family dinner today.

I know that Penelope’s home; her shoes are in a pile by the door, and I kick mine off in the same direction before fully entering the flat.

There’s a strange man in the lounge with Penelope, and I get nervous. Strange people randomly showing up in my home is something that still sets me on edge years later. Even though I know this person isn’t here to take me away to a new home, I can’t stop the anxiety that bubbles up at seeing him.

“Hello,” I say, as politely as possible, as I set my bag next to the door.

The man nods his own greeting, and Penelope widens her eyes, as if asking “who is this?” I try to shrug as discreetly as possible, and he clears his throat.

“Right, yes, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Oliver Jones, and I’m here on behalf of your grandmother.”

“I don’t have a grandmother,” I say, without hesitation. “You have the wrong person.”

“Is your name Simon Salisbury?”

I shake my head. “Simon Snow.”

“Simon Snow Salisbury?” he asks, and it looks like he’s reading it off a paper.

“You have the wrong person,” I say again, but he doesn’t budge. Penelope intervenes just in time, and I don’t break his glasses.

Fuck, what am I going to do without her here?

* * *

It turns out that Oliver Jones was legitimate, and I really am Simon Salisbury. It’d taken a lot of persuading and official documents to convince both Penelope and I that this guy was serious.  Now I’m just here trying to work out the fact that I had a grandmother out there, and that said grandmother decided to leave me a decent amount of money. (Okay, a lot. It’s a lot of money.) (And that’s overwhelming.)

I sit down and start to read the letter he passed on to me:

Dearest Simon,

You don’t know me, and I’m so sorry for that. I tried to find you, searched for you ever since you were born, but I could never track you down.

If you’re reading this letter, it means my lawyers have managed to finally track you down. If you’re reading this letter, it also means I’ve passed on. I’m so sorry I’ve never got to meet you when I was alive. I’m so sorry for a lot of things.

I’m sorry about what happened to your mother. Lucy. Lucy, my rosebud girl. The light of my life.

I’ll never know what she saw in your father, only that whatever he got her involved in led to her downfall.

Lucy went traveling after university, which is where she met Davy--your father. I didn’t hear from her for years after that, until I got a call from a hospital that I needed to identify a body.

You don’t want to hear any more details about that, and I don’t want to share any.

She’d arranged for you to be taken into care while she was still pregnant, and by the time I’d received any information, I’d already lost you in the system.

I’m so sorry you never got to meet her, but maybe I can pass on her memory through this letter.

Enclosed are pictures of her, and I’ve arranged to have more of my things sent to you. You don’t have to accept anything, of course, but there are quite a few photo albums and memory books that you might find interesting. Yours always, Evelyn Salisbury

I turn the envelope upside-down, and three photographs fall out. I pick them up. The first one is a picture of Lucy at what looks like 15 or 16, standing in front of the Grand Canyon.

It looks exactly like it did on the postcard: vast, and imposing, and mysterious. Like it’s hiding secrets.

Or memories.

Looking at Lucy in the photo is like looking at myself, only with longer hair. We have the same nose, same smattering of freckles across our faces. Her shoulders are broad and her smile is sure, and it hits me that I’ll never know her.

It’s been ages since I’ve cried for my mother, and somehow it’s worse now that she has a name and a face.I don’t know how long I lay there; only that the sky’s gone dark, and I’ve managed to curl into a ball facing my wall.

I want…

I don’t know what I want.

I just know it’s not here.

* * *

Baz

When I enter the dining area of the restaurant, I don’t see Daphne, or Mordelia, or my other siblings. Instead, my father is joined by a man I recognize as one of his business partners, and a pretty dark haired girl, who is smiling in my direction.

“Basilton, this is Keris,” he says, and it hits me that I’ve been tricked. He didn’t really want to make amends, this was all a scheme of his to finally marry me off to some daughter of one of his business partners and bury the queer thing under the rug as some sort of youthful folly.

“I can’t--” is all I manage to choke out, fingers gripping the back of the chair I refuse to sit down on. I’m too mad to continue, and he just keeps fucking sitting there, like he didn’t lie to get me here, like this isn’t a huge bloody betrayal; like he’s actually being a decent human being.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” he asks, and I can’t believe him.

“No, father, I’m afraid not,” I say harshly, and Keris frowns. I feel a pang of regret, because she’s probably a lovely girl. I don’t mean to hurt her, but I can’t do this. My father has gone too far this time.

I can’t make out my father’s response over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I turn and storm out of the restaurant, vowing never to fall for his tricks again.

* * *

I’m shaking by the time I arrive at my flat, and I practically run inside and into my room, shoving essentials into a carry on: my laptop, a few changes of clothes, and whatever else you’re supposed to take with you on a spur of the moment trip across the Atlantic.

I hear the honk of the uber I’d made wait outside, and I grab my bags, rushing out the door. At the last minute I pause, and almost leave my father’s card behind, but then decide it’ll come in handy for this.

Mind made up and jaw set, I exit my flat without looking back. (Except to lock the door. I’m not an idiot.)

I don’t even know what “this” is, exactly. I just know I need to get to the last place I felt a connection to my mother, because I need to talk to her. I need to know if she’d really want me to be the person my father expects me to become.

I need to know. I need answers. I need answers now, and the only way to get them is to see the sun setting on the canyon.

She’ll be there, I know it. I���ll feel her there and then everything will fall into place, and I’ll know what I’m supposed to do. I just need to...I need to...I don’t know what I need to do.

I’ll figure everything else out once I get to the canyon; to my mother.

I just need to get there first.

And I need to take Snow with me.

* * *

I’m still breathing heavily when the uber pulls up to Snow’s flat. I throw a few notes to the driver as I launch myself out of the car and up the front steps. I’m so fucking nervous I could vomit. I need to see him.

I jab at the buzzer and listen for the familiar sound of his footsteps thundering down the stairs.

Snow opens the door and looks surprised. “Baz? I thought you were at dinner.”

“I left early.” I say, trying my best not to sound as winded as I feel.

“What? Why?”

“Because we’re going to the States.”

“What? Why?” Snow repeats, stupidly.

“Because that’s where the Grand Canyon is. Keep up, Snow!”

“Why are we going there?”

Christ, he’s slow tonight. “Because I have to talk to my mother.”

Bunce chooses that moment to walk through the door, and Simon chooses that moment to blurt out our entire plan to her.

She stares me down, “You’re an idiot.”

“Fuck off, Bunce.”

“No, you really are! How do you suppose you’re going to get in? Have you filled out any of the paperwork? Simon doesn’t even have a passport!”

Shit. I don’t want to admit that she’s right, that I completely forgot all of this.

So much for spontaneity.

* * *

It takes us nearly a week to prep for our trip; eventually Snow receives his passport, the proper paperwork is filed, and we’re completely packed and ready for our not so spur-of-the-moment journey.

I’d thought waiting would lessen my urge, but it only made it stronger, the task more necessary.

My stomach starts to flutter as we load our bags into the back of the uber, and Snow grabs my hand. He does a good job of calming me down, something he’s had to do quite a bit these past few days.

Snow seems less anxious these days. I don’t bring it up for fear that being self-aware will reverse his progress, but it’s nice to see.

I let him sit in the front so he doesn’t get carsick, and the driver smoothly pulls away from the curb to take us to the airport.

And my mother.

* * *

After dealing with the long security line--and making sure Snow has plenty of snacks for the flight--we’re on the aeroplane.

The flight is long and, unlike Snow, I’m not able to sleep. (Truthfully, he’s so doped up on motion sickness meds that I’m a bit worried I might not be able to get him off the plane.)

Eventually, we start to descend, and the pilot comes over the loudspeaker and urges us to look out our windows to catch our first glimpse of the Grand Canyon.

I squeeze my eyes shut; I refuse to let my moment of clarity be spoiled.

The plane hits some turbulence, and the jolt wakes Snow up.

“It’s about time,” I pretend to growl, and he just blinks sleepily at me before closing his eyes once more.

(I do end up having to nearly drag him up and off the plan.)

By the time we deal with customs and baggage claim, and catching our charter plane to the airport closest to the canyon, it’s the middle of the night, and we’re both fucking exhausted.

Checking into the motel proved to be awkward. The receptionist asked if twin beds were okay, and fucking Snow opened his mouth to correct her. I kicked his ankle just in time, and he slammed his jaw shut.

I’m making it up to him now, though. We’ve pushed the two beds together, and I’m holding him by the shoulders, walking him backwards to the edge of the bed. When his shins bump the frame, I kiss him.

He doesn’t move his lips at first, but then he grabs the front of my jumper, pulling me into him until we’re crashing together, and the force of my body colliding with his knocks him backwards. His head thunks on the hard mattress, but I don’t think he’s noticed because he hasn’t stopped kissing me, his tongue licking at the inside of my mouth and his hands still gripping the fabric of my jumper.

We don’t get much sleep that night.

* * *

Baz

The walk from the bus to the spot I remember takes longer than I expected, and we’re both slightly out of breath when we arrive.

I close my eyes and allow Simon to guide me as close to the edge as we’re allowed.

“You can open your eyes now,” Simon whispers and my stomach swoops. I’ve been waiting for this moment for what seems like ages, and the anticipation feels like butterflies. I’m almost scared to look, but then I do and…

It’s a canyon.

It’s a very pretty canyon, but it’s just a canyon. All at once, the avalanche of disappointment threatens to bury me alive. I don’t realize I’m falling until I feel Simon’s arms encircling me. He gently sets me down on the rocks and comes to sit beside me.

Anyone else would press me to talk about it, but anyone else isn’t Simon. Instead, he takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently. I rest my head on his shoulder and allow the tears to flow freely.

The sleeve of his t-shirt is soaked with tears and snot, but he doesn’t seem to notice (or care) and he pulls me up and wraps me in a hug. He still hasn’t said anything, and I’m glad about it. I’m not ready to talk about it; not yet. Maybe not ever.

This trip was supposed to give me answers. It was supposed to make everything make sense. It was supposed to fix--

It was supposed to fix everything that was broken.

But it’s just a fucking canyon.

Simon

I don’t know how long I hold Baz; I’ve got one hand under his knees and one hand stroking the back of his neck, playing with the hairs at his nape. His breathing has long since evened out, and I’d think he was asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes were wide open. He’s staring at nothing, and it’s a little disconcerting, but I know better than to say anything. So I just keep on holding him.

I’m thinking about my mother, about her dreams. The way my grandmother put it, she didn’t seem to think Lucy ever got to travel like she’d always dreamed. She’d only ever gone as far as the Grand Canyon, the same place I am in right now.

I make a decision.

“What if we don’t go back?”

“Excuse you?”

Of course he’s going to pretend like he didn’t hear me, “I said, what if we don’t go back?”

“To the motel?”

“To London.”

He makes a strangled noise then, and I wonder if maybe I should have waited to bring this up. But it’s out there, and I can’t take it back, so I push on.

“What’s keeping us in London, Baz? I mean really?”

Baz

I open my mouth to tell him, but then I realize…

He’s right.

Nothing. We have no reason to go back. We don’t have to go back.

Christ, we don’t have to go back.

This thought makes me giddy, and I shiver.

Simon’s forehead wrinkles, “are you cold?”

I shake my head, and then I’m laughing. I’m laughing, and I can’t stop. Snow looks at me funny before he joins in; and then we’re both laughing--great big juvenile snorty laughs--while lying on the dusty ground.

We must look strange two grown men tangled together on the ground, faces red and puffy, laughing our arses off. I’m too far gone to be embarrassed by anything right now,

I’m ready. I don’t know for what, exactly. I just know I want it, and I can’t find it back in London. London isn’t my home anymore, I decide, and then find that I’m more than okay with that.

I bury my face in Snow’s neck, and breath deeply. He always smells good, like something sweet and brown. It’s comforting, and I’m tempted to try and convince him to stay the rest of the night here. Screw the lumpy motel beds; I’m more than comfortable here.

I’m about to voice my idea when Snow jostles my shoulder.

“You ready to head back?”

I’m nodding before I realize what I’m doing. Of course I’m ready. I’m ready for anything Snow suggests.

He stands and the last remnants of daylight catch his bronze curls. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. This canyon is beautiful, and I’m so fucking happy in this moment.

Simon

Baz lets me haul him up until he’s standing, and he sags against me a bit. I let him. It’s a long walk back to the bus station, but I don’t mind. Baz is a reassuring weight against my side, and the two of us slowly make our way down the path.

We don’t look back.

* * *

Baz

“I’m glad I listened to Ebb when she told me to go to that class,” Simon muses randomly once the building is in view. “I never would have come here on my own.”

I plant my feet, and he lets go of me. “Your therapist’s name is Ebb?”

He looks defensive. “Yes, what’s wrong with that? It’s a nice name!”

I stand fully and snort, because this is too hilarious. “Oh my god. Snow! I think we see the same therapist!”

He drops his water bottle, and it rolls away into the bush. “No way!”

I nod and walk over to the retrieve his water bottle, cursing as my hand nearly brushes a cacti. Bloody America, I swear everything is out to hurt people, even the plants.

“Does your therapist have that couch in her office? The ugly red one?”

Snow gasps, “You’re the one who keeps threatening to set her afghans on fire!” And then, almost instantly, his face falls. “I thought you were a sign from the universe,” he says quietly, sounding resigned.

I scoff, “Oh, grow up. You seriously believe in destiny?”

He looks sheepish, and I’m torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to ridicule him.

So I do both.

Snow inhales sharply as I grab him by the collar and haul his mouth up to mine, crashing our lips together. It’s not a good kiss; our teeth clack together and Snow is almost slobbering, but I don’t let go, and he doesn’t stop.

He looks dazed when I finally pull away and start in on him.

“Fine, then,” I say, letting go of his shirt and crossing my arms, “we were destined to see the same therapist, who decided to send us both to the same class where we somehow managed to become enemies--which was completely ridiculous, by the way,--and now we’re across the fucking Atlantic, because you were daft enough to go along with my fucked up plan to talk to my dead mother through a canyon.”

I swear he cracks a smile at that, and I have to bite back a giggle. “If you want to believe this is destiny,” I continue, “then go right ahead.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he confirms, “I still want to believe this is destiny.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

“Because the other option is that Ebb was playing matchmaker and it’s too weird to think about,” he answers, with a little shudder.

This time I really do giggle as I pull him in for another kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck, and revelling in the feeling of our lips sliding together.

Simon pulls his head back and smirks, making me reach for him. I do. And then I do it again.

I’d cross every line for him. I’m in love with him.

And he likes this better than fighting.

* * * We were too busy kissing by the canyon to catch our bus, so we’d had to wait over an hour for the next one.

I’d looked up used car dealerships while he was using the bathroom, figuring it was cheaper and more practical than renting.

I’m planning to surprise him with the news when we get back to the motel. And I hope he’ll say yes. (He’d better, considering this was his bloody idea.)

Snow leans his head on my arm, whispering, “I’m glad we came here,” almost too quietly to hear, like he doesn’t really want me to. I pretend I don’t, but when I reach for his hand he takes it and kisses my knuckles one at time.

I start to pull it back, but he holds fast and I relent. He presses one last kiss to the back of my hand and places our intertwined fingers on the middle of the seat.

We stay like that for the remainder of the ride.

* * *

Simon

Ebb’s office still looks the same, despite being a grainy picture on my laptop screen, and it hits me that it’s the only thing that is. It will be nice to have something familiar when we’re on the road, though. We’re lucky Ebb agreed to keep seeing us over Skype, both separately and together.

We’re just finishing up a conversation when Baz elbows me in the ribs and moves away too quickly for me to retaliate.

“Do you want a slice of pie for the road?” he asks, and I suspect he might be joking, but I nod anyway. Baz rolls his eyes, but still stands up and makes his way to the front.

“Lemon this time, please!” I call, and he shoots me two fingers. I laugh, and Ebb must’ve seen too, because she joins in.

“How’ve you been, Simon?” Ebb asks, once we’re calm again.

I’m about to answer her, when I glance at Baz at the counter. I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment when I see him fishing around in his wallet; once the waitress has her back turned, Baz slips a $20 bill in the nearly empty tip jar. He looks around furtively and then does it again. He’s left $40 dollars, and I feel my heart swell a bit.

He nervously shift from foot to foot, and when the waitress hands him the container of pie and his change, he drops it straight into the jar. I watch as she notices the two bills in there and her eyes widen a bit. Baz may have his back to me, but I know he’s blushing.

He hates when he gets caught being decent.

The girl is asking him a question now. He waves his hand, but she still brings out another slice of pie, which I hope Baz won’t turn away. (He doesn’t.)

I look away quickly when he turns around and let him kiss me on the cheek when he sits back down. (I think he does it out of habit now.)

“She gave me two slices of pie for some reason,” he grumbles, and I want to laugh. I want to reach out and snog him until neither of us can breathe. I want to take him back to the canyon, show him the place where I realized I was in love.

I want to tell him; tell him what he means to me.

Instead, I turn back to face the screen, where Ebb is waiting patiently for my answer.

“I’m good,” I say, and Baz takes my hand under the table. I let him intertwine our fingers, and he does that thing with his thumb that I like. I squeeze his hand and everything feels like it’s supposed to. It’s all starting to make sense.

“I’m really, really good.”

[kalooeh]

Just me kind of talking a bit about how weird it is to be getting to a more normal level for my blood pressure after being at a low level for so long. Because now “normal” feels like it’s too high? Even though I know it’s not, but my brain is just ??? But long so cut.

My vitals have been screwed for such a long time that it’s so weird now whenever I get my blood pressure taken and I’m told the Systolic is over 100. I know it’s supposed to be over 100, but I’m so used to it being under that I tend to think “Oh it’s kind of high today”, and if I say that out loud I get a weird look because that’s still considered low. I’ll still be told it’s low and if a nurse hasn’t seen my LPB history yet I’m usually asked if that’s normal. LBP runs in my family too, but for me and issues with my heart that’s been becoming more and more frequent it’s been becoming an issue so I’ve had to get on meds and work on a diet to try to up my BP.

Like 110/60 is “low”, but to me it’s high. And I’ve been taking medication (Midodrine) to raise my BP because the damn thing has been too low, like to the point it can be 80/40 (or sometimes lower. I have recorded bp’s where it’s been 84/42, 80/50, 82/48, 88/54, 98/63, 98/58, etc). Then my pulse has always been goddamn weird. Because it can be maybe around 50-70ish, but it can easily enough drop down into the 40′s or even 30′s at times, or shoot off into the 130′s just from standing up and walking around (not even necessarily being all that active, but with the way my heart was acting you’d think I was off sprinting around the block.), or just getting a drink of water or going to the bathroom.

Sometimes even I could be sitting, and my heart rate was relatively stable between 60-80′s, and suddenly it either drops out into the 40-50′s and stays there awhile (and damn am I tired), or other times it will jump into the 90′s-100′s without even me getting up too.

Other times while in the ER I’ve often had issues with my heart rate just being extremely low, even during times they’ve dismissed problems as just anxiety attacks (and I’ve had anxiety attacks before. I know the difference between those and other problems. I’ve had them during stays and started freaking out about being in the ER and wanted to leave) and I’ve even pointed out that for a supposed anxiety attack my heart rate was pretty low for one and I’ve been annoyed for problems being ignored (so was my cardiologist after finding out one trip where when my heart kept dropping into the 30′s that the nurse’s station got tired of my monitor going off so much so they just adjusted it so it wouldn’t when it dropped that low. Let me tell you, I am not athletic in the slightest and I came in for chest pains, tingling, trouble breathing, fatigue, etc. Eventually I got frustrated with being there with nothing  and it was dismissed as just a panic attack because I have a history of anxiety, as if I can’t tell the difference like I was someone who’s never had an anxiety/panic attack before. Biggest problem is that anxiety and heart problems can overlap in that anxiety can cause heart problems, and heart problems can trigger anxiety. Anxiety can mimic heart problems too yeah, but I’ve had enough years to go “oh fuck I’m having a breakdown I’m going to need time and I’m crying and having these problems but afterwards I’ll probably be fine even if everything really sucks” and then have a difference with “My heart is beating erratically and sometimes stopping, and I’m having a lot of pain and trouble breathing along with these other problems, this is different from the usual problems and something is very wrong and I should see someone”.)

I started keeping track of things mostly during doctor visits, but since my mom is a medical assistant she has one of those finger pulse things so I try to keep an eye on things more.Especially when I get dizzy at random times, or to check the differences between me standing, sitting, after walking/being active, laying in bed, etc.

I have an implanted heart monitor that I just got recently as well so I probably don’t need it as much, but since I can’t access the recordings (which I think is BS) I still keep track of things for my own records with it and a Carezone app. Mom says she should have a blood pressure cuff somewhere but I havn’t been able to find it.

I’m frustrated though because I had an electrophysiology procedure done and they didn’t find much during the thing and it’s confusing because the stress test showed things, and we had to stop at one point because I ended up in a lot of pain and my heart completely freaked out. I had a holter monitor on about two-yearsish ago and that showed some things but not enough to know for sure (why I have the ICM now so I don’t have to deal with it now, and I can have it for longer). My cardiologist has it in his notes it could be POTS. I had considered it too and was going to ask him about it so it was interesting finding out he had it in his notes. I’m also wondering if it’s a Baroreflex failure? But point of things is before I got distracted is that I’m so used to low numbers and my heart just being weird is that now that things are starting to get normal I’m always “??? Wow that’s high” for my blood pressure even when it’s at like... 118/60 or 104/68 and that’s not even high but my dumbass is so out of touch for things anything over 100 and I go ??? before I catch myself

[mandykalman885-blog]

Youth Memories Of Continuing Reading The Ranch.

Do you have a great memory? The feature works well (particularly with Live Photo's), and where it fails (photo of invoice or other unrelated images) you could easily get rid of or include photos. Twitter and facebook existing you with a stream of things happening now, or in the really current past; live-streaming apps like Meerkat and Periscope attempt to close just what lag continues to be, bringing the internet right into full real-time presence. • Take household memories with you anywhere you go-- the application works even without Internet accessibility. The Memories update is rolling out now, though it will spend some time before it is offered to every one of the application's customers. This month, Apple announced its version called Memories concerning iOS 10 Photos, Google Photos already has its Movies Assistant and today Facebook is turning out Slideshow to all iphone customers around the globe. Facebook does not intend to be a system for you and your friends; it wishes to be your close friend. There is no scientific means to confirm that every memory is stored undamaged for a lifetime. It's a good disagreement, and also one that's specifically appropriate to my individual scenario, since my very own moms and dads are Facebook holdouts. Birthdays, vacations, special occasions or special memories that you desire could be the styles that you sort by. Put them in an image box with dividers recognizing the theme or the occasion so they do not obtain blended. It's important to note that although you have access to your cam roll or gallery within Memories, these videos and also photos are not being supported on Snapchat's web servers. For couples that have several kids, family motivation is especially vital. However the relevance of giffing (as it is evidently called, visitor, by individuals extra boodle than you or I) is not, of course, the capability making a pithy, dithered, quickly shared documents. Once checked out that all experiences reside in the mind for life though they might never resurface except if set off in some way, I. Whether it is a wedding event, birthday, brand-new baby, graduation or other crucial occasion in your life, a darkness box enables you to create your own special keepsake. If you adored this write-up and you would like to obtain additional information pertaining to visit the following webpage kindly go to our own web-page. Previously, Facebook allowed the automated back-up of pictures tackled a phone right into a different cd on an individual's Facebook account, with photos being instantly published as a means to ensure that nothing vital was ever lost. Greater than five years after the initial moonwalk, the book "Memories of the Moon-Age" traces a visual social history of lunar exploration in pictures from the past, present, and future. Keep in mind that some memories will certainly last your lifetime. Having each family created an image excursion of their lives is a wonderful way for you all to really feel more connected. Images immediately creates Memories-- yet you're the very best curator of your images and also the stories behind them. While we commonly think about memories as those facts as well as occasions from the past that embed the mind, Sacktor's research study suggests that memory is really a lot larger as well as complete stranger than that. Prior to the video game is release you will certainly obtain a special electronic art publication of Anima Gateway of Memories. Certainly, individuals aren't walking doctoring incorrect images of your childhood years or your current past, however you have actually probably seen thousands of doctored photos in your life time without you recognizing it. From advertisements to political projects, modified as well as forged pictures surround us on a daily basis. Nonconscious implied memory automatically shops experience as well as principles as well as plays a role subconsciously in impacting perception as well as habits These memories are the basis for forming an individual's view of society as well as his or her place in it. It's also more difficult to locate old things in Facebook's labyrinth compared to in the shoeboxes in your attic, and also its attempts to arrange memories for us right into automated slide shows have actually been unimpressive. As soon as in lifetime eruption, being an amateur Rock hound I really feel lucky to have experienced this. In fact, Adler says that Facebook's current launch of the Timeline will really make points much easier for them (it'll make 1000memories much easier to clarify). Guide is also devoted to all the remarkable people that have made this desire come to life with their unconditional love and assistance, from photographers to vendors, participants of her family and friends. Mazurenko was primarily uncaring to social media-- his Facebook page was barren, he seldom tweeted, as well as he removed the majority of his images on Instagram. Individuals only publish the highlights of their life on Instagram, so today the application adds its very own version of Stories" to poach goofy, off-the-cuff, everyday content from Snapchat. Choosing any type of variety of pictures from your computer, using them to a number of design template styles that are totally customisable, after that having the selection to include message captions stimulates a personalized approach to keeping in mind previous memories.

[scottadcox]

TL;DR Version…

Years and years of training have paid off. I’m happy I still no how to run mentally even when the physical part isn’t there.

My cardio is really good, but my legs weren’t too happy about being asked to go that far without much run-specific training.

Official time: 2:02:14

I probably won’t run this race again. And that makes me a little sad.

Long Version

Pre-race

As always, packet pickup at the Running Zone was a piece of cake. I stopped in the Monday before the race, showed my ID, and was out of there in just a couple of minutes. Race packet included a nice long-sleeved shirt and a Moon Pie. Again, I really wish we could opt for some socks instead of another shirt. And I’d DEFINITELY rather have a pair of socks instead of a medal.

More on medals later.

I had a difficult time sleeping the night before the race. I’m not used to having to deal with this. Usually, I’ve put in my time training and trust in it, so I sleep like a baby the night before a race. This time, the longest run I’d done in training was 8 miles (5 weeks ago), and I had not run more than 10 miles since March 2014 (3.5 years). In the month leading up to the race I logged 15 miles total, with only one run longer than 3.2 miles. I knew I could cover 13.1 and run the whole thing, but wouldn’t know what to expect for a race time until I was actually out there.

I figured anything under 2:10:00 would be a great day.

I didn’t have any trouble getting up at 4:15 and heading to my SIL’s house to get a ride to the race. Luckily we were being dropped off and didn’t have to deal with parking. On the way there I realized I’d forgotten to bring my watch. Ugh…didn’t want to carry my phone, but missing the splits sounded like a worse option (nerd). I decided I’d just carry my phone in my hand and record the race with the Strava app. Not optimal, but whatever. I didn’t have huge expectations anyway.

I also realized I hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast. Hooray for planning.

This was my first time running the half at this event, which starts 30 minutes before the full. In my two times running the full, I really appreciated the fact that the course wasn’t crowded at all.

Not so with the half. Or maybe it was my fault.

The Race

I jumped in right after the 10:00/mile pace. I was pretty sure I could do that for the whole race since it was pretty cool outside. I could definitely do 10:00 miles for 7 or 8 miles. Unfortunately, a bunch people who had zero intentions of running anything close to that pace jumped in at the same point. The first mile was a whole lot of running up on to people walking and not having any space to get around them safely because of the crowds. Lots of people running were going at 12:00 plus pace.

This isn’t safe. It’s like getting on the freeway and driving 35 mph.

I hope this doesn’t come off as too whiney. I think it’s awesome that people get up early and go cover this distance, no matter how fast they do it and no matter if they walk or run. And I’m not a snob about running either–I’m well aware that my best day ever running would be an embarrassingly slow day for a whole lot of people.

But please, people, go out with the group that’s running the pace you intend to run.

Corrals with qualifying times for entry would be nice for this race.

So the first mile was much slower than I’d intended. I wasn’t sure what pace it was because I’d decided not to look at pace/time on my phone at all. The biggest reason was that I wasn’t even sure I had enough battery left on my phone to capture the whole thing and turning on the screen would be a battery drain. LOL.

I was eventually able to get to a stable pace. I wasn’t sure exactly how fast I was going, but I was pretty sure I could carry it for 13.1 though (thanks Experience). I started coming up with an off-the-cuff plan. I figured I’d run this pace for the first 8, then increase it a little bit there if I still felt good. If I was still feeling good at 10 mile mark I’d run the last 5k as hard as I could.

First 8 splits: 10:27, 9:55, 9:45, 9:30, 9:33, 9:37, 9:20

Looking back, I’m extremely happy with those splits. I felt really good at the 6 mile mark and had to hold myself back a little bit. I took a very quick cup of water and a cup of Gatorade around mile 7ish and thought I’d be pretty good on liquid for the rest of the race. But it reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, so I decided I’d get a Gu and sip it for the rest of the race too. Even after speeding up a little for miles 9 and 10 (8:59, 8:42) I still was holding back a bit. I was passing a lot of people, and I knew I’d have a decent 5k left in me at the 10 mile mark.

Course note here: I passed a lot of people who were staying to the extreme right of the courses, even when it curved to the left. Run the apex of curves.

The last 5k felt like a regular ol’ 5 k (8:11, 8:07, 8:00). I didn’t have much in the legs, but mental energy can get you through a 5k. Again, I’m really glad I had some experience to fall back on. “Yeah, this sucks and your legs are going to hurt tomorrow, but you’ve felt this many times before, and it’s JUST 5k.”

Official Finish Time: 2:02:14

Like I said, I was passing a lot of people during those last 5 miles. Because I’m a nerd I was able to glean from the results that I passed 457 from the 10k point. No one passed me. So I was probably a little too conservative at the start, but that’s the side I’d prefer to err on.

Post Race

I’m very happy with this result considering how under-trained I was. I’m very disappointed with this result because I know I could have easily PR’d on this day if I’d trained.

Flat course and perfect conditions.

Finish line was awesome again this year–cold wet towels to help cool off, a beach towel with the race logo on it, a nice finisher’s medal, plenty of food and drink without long lines, and a relatively easy time getting to and from the finish line for spectators. Also, the finish line is where you pick up your bonus medal for doing 3 and/or 5 of the last 5 races.

And here’s where we get into the medal discussion/controversy/complaining…whatever you want to call it.

The Running Zone made a very smart marketing move a few years ago when they came up with the idea of giving “super-special” medals for completing the next 5 (or 3 of the 5) races. There’s a segment of people out there who love medals, and the Space Coast Marathon medals are really nice if that’s what you’re into. The result at the end of the five years is that it’s tough to get into the 13.1 distance for this race. I’m not sure if the full sold out.

So now they’ve decided to do ANOTHER special medal program over the next four years with even BIGGER and fancier medals, and they’ll be adding a SECOND half marathon course that is run over the first half of the full marathon course. So now there will be TWO different half marathons and they can take twice as many runners.

If you are into medals, get in on this. They had the new ones on display at the finish area, and the things are HUGE.

The downside for me is that there will be close to twice as many people running.

I get it. This makes economic sense. It’s twice as many people paying entry fees.

But for me, the product they are now selling and the product I want to buy are two different things.

They are selling big fancy medals for completing the distance. What I’ve always been buying is an incredible race experience on a fast course with smaller crowds and manageable race day logistics. I’d pay a higher entry fee to continue enjoying this race that way.

Honestly, I think the fee has always been an incredible bargain.

I’m not really sure what that finishing area is going to look like next year with 3,000 more runners and their families.

I think my best option is to just come out the day before the race and run the course by myself. Or the week before.

Or whenever I want. I’m old enough an ornery enough now that I figure I don’t need someone else to validate for me that the “race” counts.

I’ve already heard people saying, “I don’t want to run the North section of the course.” So I’m sure a bunch of folks will just try run the South course even though they are North registrants, making it more crowded. And adding people to the North section alone means people running the full marathon may have to navigate around these crowds–the South section has usually thinned out by the time the full participants get there.

In short, what I always enjoyed as a small local race is starting to morph into a big race. Nothing wrong with that if that’s what you want to be, just not what I’m looking for.

I think this may be a microcosm where running is headed in general. I think it’s a little bit of a shame when I perceive people running for medals. Let’s face it–these are adult participation trophies for all but a few people [Spoiler–I’m never going to win this or any other race]. And it seems like more and more people are out there with nice gear that lets you know they are “running for wine” or “running for beer” or whatever.

I’d like to see more people out there after suffering through months of training and going out on race day trying to get PRs or complete the distance for the first time. Again, I’m not being a running snob or anything here. It’s not about how fast someone can run, it’s about going through the process and suffering to find out how fast YOU can run.

I know first-hand that really dedicating yourself to running and a difficult training program can have a tremendously positive impact on peoples’ lives.

If you cross the finish line and feel like the only thing you got from the process was a piece of mass-produced metal, you’re missing out on the best of what running has to offer you. That’s my opinion anyway.

Maybe it seems ironic that I’m writing this after running a race without training and missing a golden opportunity to PR.

I get that too.

[gamelyplanet-blog]

Cuphead, “casual” modes and hypocrites

I don’t want to spend too much time on this, so I’ll just rant a bit about the recent nontroversy around the indie title “Cuphead”. This is off-the-cuff, blog post stuff, with minimal editing. You’ve been warned.

So, Cuphead, the charming 2D shooter that impressed everyone with its retro-cartoon presentation during E3 2017, has somehow become the center of discussion regarding difficulty in games and the value of design vs accessibility.

Or so games media claim, because make no mistake, before I write down anything else; the only reason the usual suspects opened their mouths to shit out the usual pseudo-intellectual, arrogant drivel is because this entire thing started when the Internet got wind of one journalist, Dean Takahashi of GamesBeat, having trouble with the tutorial of Cuphead during the last Tokyo Game Show.

Let’s also get this out of the way: Dean, dude, I don’t know you. I dislike what passes for games journalism these days, but I’ve never read your stuff or heard of you before. The mockery towards you for that Cuphead footage was, as far as I’m concerned, unwarranted. I don’t have the context to support or condemn you for it; it was during a con, it was an earlier build of the game, the footage looked a little pathetic, but I really don’t know. So, I didn’t say anything against you, but I’m sorry for the shit flung at you.

The problem is that the primary reason this shit even became an issue is that the representatives of games media and their indie hipster buddies started this years ago; and in the last few days, they seem hell-bent on widening the gap between media and gamers in the worst way possible. Blame GamerGate or whatever, but we all know the mocking of journalists’ gaming skills became popular when Polygon posted that pathetic footage of their playing 2016′s DOOM and failing spectacularly at what’s a very basic shooter.

It wasn’t on a whim, either; we’re talking about an entire part of the industry that for years pretended to be an authority on video games; they talked *over* their audience, they talked *down* to their audience, they mocked, they demeaned, they insulted their audience; because they thought they “knew better”. Nobody would’ve really paid any attention to Polygon’s DOOM footage and all that it represented, if Polygon wasn’t a publication that gave “Tropico 5″ a 6.5 by first prefacing the score with the claim a city-builder game should’ve included commentary on dictators and banana republics and authoritative regimes. Nobody would’ve care about Polygon’s DOOM footage (nobody would’ve even seen it, really), if a few years back Arthur Gies hadn’t literally body-shamed 2.5 points off of “Bayonetta 2″, fucking Platinum Games out of their bonus. Polygon are representative of the state of games media right now and they’re not the only ones.

No better proof of all this than how suddenly there are “editorials” on Rock Paper Shotgun and Polygon and Twitter threads by indie game devs that spend most of their time pretending they’re the bastions of intellectuality in game design, whenever they don’t spew shit at their annual circle-jerk that we refer to as the “Game Developers Conference”. John Walker of RPS, when commenting on “Assassins Creed: Origins” new “no-combat” mode, was quick to point out that gamers are hell-bent on maintaining the challenge of harder games, because they are exclusionary. Then, RPS published another article about Cuphead’s “Simple” mode (which prohibits the player from getting the true ending); oh, they were quick to note that it was “satire” toward sites like Kotaku, but any knowledge of RPS or Walker, a senior editor, raises questions to the validity of that claim. Then, Walker himself decided to challenge the term “gameplay” on Twitter because it’s a vague term, apparently never occurring to him that his criticism is pretty fucking vague in itself. Typical overcompensating with which games journalism is rife at the moment.

Rami Ismail, an indie developer who has yet to say a single thing that could be deemed correct or valuable to anyone outside his industry bubble, was quick to link that piece of shit editorial and argue for providing players with the freedom to play a game how they want. I must’ve missed that memo when the market was being flooded with third-rate crappy-looking pixel-art platformers and walking simulators. Suddenly “freedom” and “choice” matter.

Unless it’s the “Mass Effect 3″ ending; if you want choice to matter then, you’re just “entitled”.

Here’s the rub; there’s no discussion to be had. This isn’t an interesting topic or a new discovery for games development. This is as old as gaming itself. Player freedom exists within the developer’s freedom. Player agency is a component of game design, not a handicap. When someone makes a game, they don’t feed data into a generator and then the machine farts out a complete project. Every weapon, tool, and slope or bottomless pit in a level have been designed to complement each other. Difficulty options aren’t bad; quite the contrary. But they’re limited and they can harm the game’s artistic vision irreparably. Do you have any idea how many games I played and found boring on easy mode years ago, only to return and really appreciate them now that I’ve improved? That’s why Walker got shat on for his challenging the term gameplay; his criticism was off-base. The art in games is in the mechanics. Gut the mechanics and the art is degraded to popcorn shit.

Difficulty isn’t just challenge and it’s not just a means to frustrate the player; it’s a tool and it’s a component a lot of the time. The better developers know how to use it to the game’s benefit. It’s also something that’s an umbrella term; what’s difficult for one person and what’s acceptable in terms of challenge differs for someone else. Yes, I’m kind of bumped out I cannot play the Souls series; it seems like it has very interesting combat mechanics, but sparse checkpoints are a no-no for me. I’ll take any challenge you throw at me, but don’t make me retry the same thirty minutes of game all the time. Should I send an angry letter at FromSoftware for not neutering their game for my benefit? I wager those checkpoints are integral to the Souls experience; so, they can stay and I can fuck off to Twitch to watch a stream about it.

Accessibility, for that is the right word and not “inclusion”, is a moot point in this day and age. There are many games to choose from, in different genres, from different developers. There are countless people talking about them and about as many streaming them. The consumer is instantly and easily informed about the specifics and they can make an informed purchase. The notion of being “owed” game progression because you bought the game is ridiculous. Am I owed my money back for not liking that new cocktail I decided to order? Am I owed to see my team win the Champions League (google it Yanks), because I paid for a season pass?

Going back to Walker, after the butthurt for being challenged on his idiotic remarks regarding gameplay, he tweeted that he’s only trying to make gaming accessible. The problem is that gaming, as a whole, is extremely accessible; more now than ever before. All you need to do is download a free game on your phone and lo and behold; access. If you want something more serious, have a look at the simplified, free-to-play MMOs, some even published by AAA companies. The point is, there is not even an admission price to gaming anymore. One niche game for one niche audience isn’t going to turn people away from gaming. What the fuck are you even talking about, John? Nobody in the history of gaming has suggested all games should be Cuphead or Dark Souls. All they suggest is that we make whatever we want and choose what suits us best. You keep raving like a lunatic about “gaming culture” and “toxicity” and “gate keeping” and you’re the only assholes out there to consistently shout, pull rank and cause problems. You are professional trouble-makers, John!

What is fitting is that Ubisoft did indeed announce they intend to add a “skip combat” option in the upcoming “Assassins Creed: Origins”. Is that a good option? I honestly can’t tell, because I’m not familiar with the AC games. I’ve never played one, so I lack the context. If the Assassins Creed games provide a semblance of engaging gameplay by skipping combat, i.e. if exploration is as integral to the AssCreed experience as combat is, then it’s an acceptable compromise. After all, even Minecraft has a casual mode, because hiding from Creepers isn’t the point of that game; mining resources and building shit is.

When the indie portion of the industry started making its mark, we were all delighted; more choice, more games, more space for original ideas and variety, away from the boundaries of AAA publishers. But now, no; now we have a social issue in our hands, now we’re talking about how making the game you want is a matter of “culture” and it’s a discussion that we surprisingly never had before, not even when shitty Twine text apps somehow made it to Steam. Curious that.

“Inclusion” has been the industry standard since at least the days of the original Playstation, when gaming went truly mainstream and turned into a ridiculously profitable industry. The alternative is bad business. There is a reason we now have context-sensitive UIs for everything and why there are more tutorial messages than there are lines of dialogue in so many AAA titles; they want their games sold to and played by as wide an audience as possible. The indies can do something different.

What’s really getting on my nerves in all of this is the hypocrisy; Souls? Fine. Super Meatboy? Fine. Megaman 9? Fine. Bloodborne? Fine. So many hard games, but no, now it’s a “discussion” because a bunch of self-involved writers decided to shit-talk gamers and developers alike for clicks. Again. Fuck, even these very outlets reviewed Cuphead well; but then they found the chance to latch on to a bunch of innocuous tweet and demean their audience again, because presumably their traffic went down. Again. Alas, playing video games isn’t a social issue. The bullshit presentations at GDC that tell you you have a social responsibility when designing video games are lying to you. If you’re a journalist, nobody owes you shit. Do your market research before you buy and let people create and enjoy whatever the hell they want.

Walker’s “Skip Button” word vomit on AssCreed

RPS’ “satire” article on Cuphead

Ben Kuchera’s desperate effort to publish something without saying anything, but only citing what others said, on Polygon

[samsteve4eva-blog]

PSN Code Generator 2017

Free Psn Codes 2017

Free psn codes is a code use to unlock premium services from Sony PlayStation It unlocks PlayStation Plus, digital vouchers and many more. Any items that are currently free to anyone at the time of your posting (DJ Hero 2 Tiesto pack, for example) are not allowed. At first i thought this is one of the scams on the internet, but after i downloaded and try it, this website is legit and rocks, thanks for this 20$ free code i just redeemed and bought nba 2k15!!!

You should try FREE PSN Card Generator without Survey by following the link given here. Attempting to an off-the-cuff or heavy video gamer, cross and check an psn code generator. Irregularity may be not your lack of knowledge if you don't know roughly such website that are giving away set drifting codes for iTunes.

Do not use proxies to access our website because you might win a card code which you cannot use on your PlayStation Network. PlayStation Network (PSN) is an internet gaming and media content conveyance administration. If you want to get your free PSN code through an Android phone, then Whaff Rewards is for you.

Important Note: Don't forget that in order to access your PSN account from your PS3, it needs to be connected to the internet either wirelessly or via an Ethernet connection. Prime members enjoy FREE Two-Day Shipping and exclusive access to music, movies, TV shows, original audio series, and Kindle books.

These psn codes and cards allow user to buy products and games from online world of psn. Two totally free online games per PlayStation program per month (with PlayStation As well as). psn account search Once you have successfully signed into your account through the XMB Playstation Network section, enter 'Account Management' (shown below) to begin the process of redeeming your code.

Welcome to a huge world of entertainment for your PlayStation 3, PlayStation 4, PlayStation Vita and PSP, all delivered direct from PlayStation Store. Finally we have a working PSN Code Generator or french people it is known as generateur de psn code that works perfectly, we have a success rate of 99% , We guarantee this generator because it is made by us and is one hundred percent work!

They will send you emails reminding you to update your paying method since your card was declined, they will annoy you for months and after a while they would just forget about you, I have done this and never got into any trouble. According to the website's information, these cards have a secret code which users can enter in their account and trade in funds for PSN account.

We provide free high Quality Android Cheats, iOS App Cheats, Free Prepaid Card and Gift Code Generators as well as Premium Accounts for a lot of games and services. Additionally, connecting with friends who have a psn account also helps with creating even bigger buildings and towns.

We always have ALL available codes posted here so that you get the most rewards!! Everyone wants PSN Codes to access various PlayStation contents but as most of the gamers are teenagers and not into any job so they find it difficult to get PSN gift card again and again.

If you've ever found yourself trying to try a product online which required a credit card, even when you just want to take a look, you know why we made this. There are lots of them available online that you're able to download and employ for free. Free PSN Codes Generator (com.nspps.patdev) is the property and trademark from the developer Mr.Peter Parker and its apk file is only for home or personal use.

We have improved our system and stabilized it to accommodate ten's of thousand user's at a time who are looking to generate psn codes. There are many players of the games featured on the playstation network who look for free psn codes on websites that would not force them to complete surveys or download anything.

The reality is that 5 minutes is time that will pass quickly to prepare for an impactful event as getting a free PSN code So dedicate yourself and the time investment and you will be getting a free PSN code within a short time! It do not require and software or download in order to avail these codes, its simple and can be done in just few steps as mentioned on the website.

We have already made a ton of money by generating and selling these free PSN codes, and we think that PlayStation will soon realize their mistake and probably do something about our generator. Didn't think about purchasing from Amazon but I'll be using it every time, from now on. It also meant i could remove my card details from my PSN account.

I, too, just recently received my $20 code and I actually had my Vita for a whole year (literally I bought it February of 2012, when it launched); so that is to say the contest definitely works. The codes we provide are all prepaid by our sponsors, the codes are uniquely created by our generator and you will be the user of this gift card.

It will also work for desktop pc as we also have version for that available for download. Some of those advantages include online multiplayer, online game save option (1 GB of cloud storage), exclusive discounts (up to 75%), free games every month, automatic updates, etc.

The easiest method to find a psn generator through using use the world wide web. Why not save 70$ per game by using these sure and tested methods to get free games from Playstation Store. We will always work closely with you to get the codes you want and there will be no restriction or issues.

It is worth mentioning here that if you can afford to buy psn codes then you may want to leave what is available for free to those who cannot afford to pay for me. First of all, PSN is a place full of fantastic video games, movies, applications, TV shows, and music.

Sony offers a 14-day trial period for all users who are not sure; to try and see which benefits the PlayStation Plus card brings. That one is unbelievably hard drive your actual playstation plus codes and earn accessibility to that no cost ps plus -/onlinehack make inexhaustible playstation network psn codes for nothing without an survey or downloads fantastic.