#He’s a shambolic mess and I love him

[talleryn]

Lucy: what’s the worst decision you’ve made while drunk

Lockwood: not to brag or anything but I don’t need to be drunk to make bad decisions

[moutainrusing]

aphrodite’s anger

“You have angered Aphrodite,” the Goddess Athena stated, lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the subject of her patronage, Remus, who was scribbling away ardently on a piece of parchment at the rickety wooden desk by the slit-sized window.

He looked up with a furrowed brow, then squinted slightly as the sunlight shining through the slit hit his eyes. “How?”

Athena shot him a withering look. “I don’t know how to make this more overt. You are Remus Lupin. You are brilliantly sharp-witted and daring. You should therefore be living life to its fullest, taking courageous risks, making wild discoveries… and yet, you insist on cooping yourself up inside this shambolic shack, doing absolutely nothing. I only remain your patron in the hope that you somehow unlock your potential.”

Remus blinked. “Um. Sorry. Thank you, Goddess. But… how does this affect the Goddess Aphrodite?”

If possible, Athena looked even more annoyed. “Aphrodite does not understand why I stick with you. She has seen you rejecting adventure, never utilising your power, and, worst of all, seen you turn down love. She’s furious.”

“Oh.” Remus paused. “When did I ever turn down love?”

Athena looked like she was combusting out of frustration. She gritted her teeth. “I have helped you all I can. It is not my fault you are oblivious.” With that, she disappeared, leaving Remus to his old, derelict hut.

He wasn’t alone for long though, because only a few seconds later, the fisherman from the other side of the island swung the door open, calling, “Come out for a stroll, my love!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “For the last time, Sirius, I am not your love.”

Sirius mock-pouted. “Fine. But it’s not healthy to just stay in here all day! Come down to the coast, Remus.”

“I’ll pass.”

Sirius frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing? Don’t I always turn you down?”

Sirius shrugged. “Yes. But usually you only look slightly pathetic, still convinced that you’re happy to live vicariously through your imaginary stories,” he explained, gesturing to the scrolls strewn across Remus’s shack. Remus frowned, but before he could defend himself, Sirius cut him off, “Now, you look like you’ve completely given up, even on your stories.”

Remus realised the truth to this observation, and he squinted at Sirius, not because of the sunlight, but because Sirius was confusing and strange and… different. A good different. A different which made Remus want to explore it, except Remus wasn’t an explorer, no matter how much Athena insisted he was. Really, he didn’t know why the Goddess still stuck with him. Or why Sirius did, still barging into his hut every evening without fail.

Finally, he admitted, “No point in writing anymore.” He shrugged in the most careless manner he could muster. “The Goddess Aphrodite is angry with me.”

He glanced up at Sirius, whose face had immediately fallen. In fact, Sirius had completely deflated, no longer looking animated and cheerful, just lost, like he’d been punched in the gut.

Quickly, Remus added, “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s all fine. I’m fine.”

Then Sirius broke out of his frozen state, and threw himself at Remus, gripping him by the shoulders, shaking him, hugging him, vociferating, “No, this is not fine! She could kill you! Turn you into a monster! Drive you to insanity! Remus!” Remus listlessly nodded, and Sirius sighed, slumping into Remus. “I’d still love you, though. Even if you were dead, a monster, or insane. You’re already insane.”

Remus laughed at this, gently pushing Sirius off. It was a thoughtful joke. No one could really love someone like him. He was already dead: he was barely living his life. He was already a monster: every full moon since childhood, he turned into a wolf, not that Sirius knew that. And he was already insane, yes. His mind was a mess, churning with incongruous thoughts, forever spiralling and multiplying.

He looked thoughtfully at Sirius, out of his window, at his scrolls. He decided, fuck it, I’m going to die anyway, “Could I borrow a boat from you?”

Sirius raised his eyebrows, before his face split into a beautiful beam. “Come with me, my love.”

Again, Remus rolled his eyes, but this time, he actually followed the skipping Sirius out of the hut, as he frolicked like a dog through the woods, along his well-trodden path between the coast and Remus’s shack.

Remus meandered after him much more slowly, taking in the smell of the scenery. Pine, smoke, fresh grass, soil… he hadn’t been outside in so, so long, and it really showed. He had simply locked himself up in his small wooden lodge, and stayed there, even through the full moon. Ashamedly, the only food he ever ate was the fish Sirius sometimes brought up to share, when he sacrificed his time to sit cross-legged with Remus on the stained floorboards and talk about meaningless musings. Maybe even more ashamedly, those times were Remus’s most treasured.

He made it down to the coast, where Sirius was waiting, with a huge, handsome masterpiece of a boat behind him. Its prow was a tall, regal wolf, which simultaneously terrified Remus because that couldn’t be a coincidence or maybe it could, but also made him gape in awe, because it was undeniably majestic. Who ever saw a wolf in that way? Sirius just grinned at him. “She’s been waiting for you so long, dude.”

Remus blinked. Sirius looked down at his feet and bashfully hesitated, “I— I built her while I was thinking of you, just a few months ago. I didn’t think you’d ever sail her— but, now, maybe, you… could? If you wanted. There are other boats—”

Remus pressed a finger to Sirius’s lips. To silence him, but also because he just wanted to get closer. “Sirius. I love it. Thank you. I wish I could give you something this amazing too.”

If possible, Sirius grinned at him even more than before. He burst out, “Let me come with you.”

Remus frowned. “What?”

“I want to go with you. On your journey. It can be your gift to me.”

“No, coming with me won’t be a gift. I— I’m going because… either way, I’m going to die. I might as well live a little first. But if you come with me, you’ll surely die too.”

Sirius shrugged. “What if I want to live a little with you?”

“I don’t want you to die.”

“I don’t want you to die. But everyone’s going to die at some point. So let me live with you for as long as you have left.”

“I— I want to live with you too,” Remus confessed softly, to both himself and Sirius. “But it doesn’t matter. I won’t let you come.”

Sirius’s eyes flashed. “I won’t let you go without me.”

“And how will you manage that?”

“I built the boat. I know her better than you do. Don’t think I won’t be able to sneak on.”

“I’ll kick you off.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because,” and Sirius sighed, shaking his head slightly, looking up at Remus with a soft gaze, his previous temper melting. “Be safe, Remus.”

With that, he walked away, and Remus felt his chest ache, longing to reach out and pull Sirius back. But it was okay. He could now set off on his travels in solitude, like the lone wolf that he literally was. He clambered onto the boat, and realised he had no clue how to actually sail.

However, Athena was his patron for a reason, and he quickly got the hang of things. He figured out that he could untie the fabric neatly twisted around the central pole through the middle of the boat, and that it unravelled into perfectly square sheets which billowed in the direction of the wind. The boat was then propelled by the invisible force, and when the force changed direction, he could also rotate the mast so that the sails changed in the same direction.

When there was no wind, he realised how useful the oars were, and expeditiously learnt that this way meant he would go forward, this way meant he would turn left, this way meant right. He ended up in the middle of the still, open ocean, feeling incredibly accomplished. Aphrodite, he thought, I wouldn’t mind if you killed me now.

Remus stood in the middle of the deck for quite some time, arms outstretched on either side of his body as the wind blew through him, ruffling his hair and filling his nose with a pinch of salty air. He closed his eyes, relaxed, letting himself feel, without the constant pressure of thoughts.

It didn’t last long though. Because at the noise of a door banging open, his eyes immediately flew open too. Right in front of him, from a small hatch in the floorboards, three fishermen stepped out, and Remus stepped back.

“Sirius,” he stated dumbly.

Sirius grinned. “Nice to see you too, Remus. This here’s James.” He pointed to the fisherman beside him, who shared his dark hair and height, but was wildly different from him in all other aspects. While Sirius’s eyes were a metallic grey, sparkling near-white in the light, James’s were a dark brown, so dark that Remus couldn’t see what was within them. James’s hair was a bird’s nest, and Sirius’s hair was a waterfall. Sirius’s skin was pale, James’s skin was brown.

But then James smiled, “Hi,” and Remus saw it match Sirius’s mischief almost identically. This was going to be trouble. Ignoring the trouble, he turned to the other boy, raising an eyebrow.

The short, plump fisherman just hesitantly smiled at him, and Remus deemed that he was probably more sensible than the other two, but equally clueless.

“That’s Peter,” Sirius pointed. He added, “Are you going to say anything?”

Remus simultaneously wanted to remain in unresponsive silence forever, and yell his head off at Sirius. Compromising, he turned around, and said, “Get off.”

“No,” Sirius sang. “You’re stuck with us.” He paused, adding more solemnly, “We’re just here to help.”

Remus’s shoulders slumped, and he turned around in a way that he was still pointedly not looking at Sirius, but at the other two. “And you both are here because…?”

James smirked, eyeing Sirius, before saying, “We’ve heard so much about you, it’s like we know you personally. Basically, we’re already friends.”

Remus considered this, quickly realising, “You’re the two best friends Sirius is always on about!”

James muttered, “Not in the same way he’s always on about you,” while Peter smiled, asking, “So… we’re already your friends too?”

Choosing to ignore James’s nonsensical comment, he addressed Peter, shaking his head and deciding, “Yes.” Yes, they were indeed his friends.

Sirius clapped his hands together. “That was heart-warming,” he declared, juxtaposing his statement by glaring at James, for presumably more nonsensical reasons. “Anyway, we are on a mission. Onwards! I think the next island is in a couple twenty miles.”

Remus threw his head back in frustration, before turning to face Sirius, who was already glaring at him with daggers that dared, “Fight me and you’ll lose.”

“Fine,” Remus spat. “Stay and die.”

“Thank you,” Sirius spat back.

Giving up, Remus walked to the trapdoor and disappeared below deck.

“He means well,” Remus heard a voice say, maybe twenty minutes later.

He turned from one of the mattresses to see James, nearing him with an amiable smile.

Remus snorted. “To who? Himself? No, he’s going to get himself killed. To you and Peter? No, he’s put you both in danger too.”

James shrugged. “He’d never let any of us die. And he means well to you.” James then looked at Remus very intensely, and Remus’s gaze skittered across the cabin, unable to handle it. Finally, James spoke, “He loves you.”

Remus just turned around on his mattress and tried to sleep. He couldn’t. But soon, sleep didn’t matter, as the boat began to rock violently, and Remus’s mattress full-on slid to the other side of the cabin. He shot up, and hurried to the top deck, where… there was nothing. In fact, the boat was still, empty, completely silent. But before he could question everyone’s disappearance, he saw it.

The most beautiful… creature he had ever seen. He was immediately enamoured with its long, scaly body, rising up over his head as it opened its lovely jaws, which were really so mesmerising. Its roar was mellifluous. Its eyes were so yellow and shiny. The creature made him feel so calm, peaceful, and he stepped closer and closer—

“NO!” The ferocious cry cut through Remus’s thoughts. His head jerked to the side abruptly, trying to locate its source as he deliriously concluded that actually the thing that made that cry had the most mellifluous voice in the world… so magical…

The beast roared again. No, that was the prettiest—

“LEAVE HIM!” No, that was the prettiest—

Roar! No, that was the prettiest—

“YOU VILE, REPUGNANT MONSTER!” A series of grunts, accompanied by the slashing of a sword. Remus shook his head, eyes landing on Sirius as he lunged at a giant serpent, which hissing at him, poised to kill him…

Remus didn’t know what to do. Well, there was one thing. He’d never done it before. It required a very strong emotion. And Remus didn’t do strong emotions. Only, he did, he just bottled them up and pretended they didn’t exist. But, looking at Sirius, he felt it churning within him, bursting from the seams of his skin as it exploded, erupted, surged out from the depths of his heart. Love.

Yes, okay, kill him for it — he was irrevocably in love with Sirius. Happy? The wolf within him was happy, at least. He let it grip onto the powerful emotion, let it overcome him, let himself transform, forcefully, willingly, in the light of a crescent moon. Before he was fully transformed, still with a grasp on his consciousness, he leapt onto the serpent, to ensure that it was the thing he would attack.

And attack it he did. They tore at each other, roaring, howling, ripping off chunks of flesh — no worse than what Remus did to himself, really, locked up in a tiny shack. Soon the wolf realised the serpent’s weakness: every time a claw swiped near one of its eyes, it would flinch, blink rapidly, reel backward. And so, the wolf quickly pierced its two bulbous eyes with a flash of claws, and suddenly, the serpent collapsed, and both of them tumbled into the sea.

Remus transformed back as he broke the surface, broken, defeated, with viscous yellow pus coating his hands, and blood dribbling from the cuts all over his chest, swirling in the dark blue water. He didn’t have the energy to swim back up. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to, anyway. Sirius had seen him as a wolf. As soon as he emerged, he’d be slaughtered. And he wouldn’t let the man he loved get any blood on his sweet, innocent hands.

But apparently, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Because arms were wrapping around him, pulling him up to the surface, and as soon as they reached air, he heard two desperate inhales. One was his own. The other was… Sirius.

Sirius stared at him, breathing heavily into his face, and Remus knew he was doing the exact same. Their arms were wrapped around each other, and they were impossibly close, and Sirius looked relieved, not disgusted.

“So,” Remus caught his breath. “I— I’m a werewolf.”

Sirius released a breathy laugh, gesturing to the prow piece. “I know.”

“What? And you still… did all this?”

Sirius nodded, eyes sparkling, a small, shy smile on his face.

Remus blinked, squeezing Sirius to make sure he was real, which caused Sirius’s smile to grow less shy, more wide. “But— but you called that monster,” and Remus pointed below, “vile, and—”

“Shh,” Sirius whispered, breathing into his mouth, and Remus immediately shut up. “You’re not a monster. I distinctly remember being concerned that Aphrodite would turn you into a monster. Why would I be worried about that if I thought you were one already?”

“Oh.” Remus paused. “Well, your concerns were erroneous. I think Aphrodite’s punishment was to enchant me with a monster.”

Sirius grimaced. “Don’t tell me you were in love with that thing.”

Remus shook his head. “I broke the enchantment.”

“Uh… how?”

Remus sucked in a breath. “Well, real love usually has the power to overcome fake infatuations.”

“Oh? So, who are you really in love with, then? Hmm,” Sirius teasingly pondered.

Remus tightened his hold on Sirius. “You know who.”

“I’d like to hear you say it.”

“Fine.” Remus stuck his chin up defiantly. “I’m in love with you. Happy?”

“Very,” Sirius responded, immediately crushing his lips into Remus’s.

Although Remus broke away when he felt a presence looming over them. Sirius looked dazed for a moment, before his eyes also landed on the Goddess hovering over them.

“Aphrodite,” Remus acknowledged wearily.

She simply grinned devilishly. “Finally.” And then, she grumbled, “And I suppose Athena was right about you. Daring, smart, worthy of her patronage. I thought you might let the beast kill you all. But no, Athena was right. Damn you, now I’ve lost a bet. Although I believe I’m winning the bet on Marlene and Dorcas…” With that, she disappeared.

Remus blinked, before bursting into laughter.

From above, on the deck of the boat, James and Peter looked down at them. “Should we haul them up yet?” Peter asked.

“First I have to check something,” James responded. He dramatically cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled, “HAVE YOU TWO SNOGGED YET?!”

Remus smirked. “Not yet.” And then he captured Sirius’s mouth in his own, and they snogged senselessly.

- - -

Back on the deck of the ship, Remus sighed and said, “Well, I suppose I should return to my writing.”

All three heads whipped around to face him incredulously.

“Excuse me?” Peter burst out, while the others seemed too speechless.

Remus frowned. “What?”

“You must keep adventuring!” James eventually cried.

“Remus.” Sirius stated gravely. “You don’t need to write stories anymore. You’re living the stories. With us.”

[volucrine]

BG3 Act 3 snafu

Endgame spoilers and grumping, you have been warned

So, Tumblr, I have been putting off finishing the game for a long, long time to the point of now running out of things I can do in Act 3.

The reason for stalling, however, isn't because I'm not ready to say goodbye to characters (I know I'll just start a new game immediately). But that I know that my endgame logic and options are, without a shadow of doubt, absolutely fucked.

Like, I've opened the portal to the House of Hope, but interacting with it does absolutely nothing (I want my money back, Mammon!)

Ever since I finished Gale's Act 3 quest, I've had Elminster hanging out in my camp with an exclamation mark only to fob me off when I try to speak to him. Gale himself doesn't seem to be either aware or excited that I have all three stones now.

Duke Ravengard thinks Wyll sold his soul to free him while Mizora doesn't. Wyll himself seems to be changing his mind about what's happened depending on the dialogue line. (For the record, he threw his father under the bus and then we saved him anyway)

The gnomes are, for the lack of the better word, also fucked. Both the Windmill Gnome and his evil blue friend think that they are the leader of the Ironhand gnomes and both have entries in my journal promising allies.

Dame Aylin never returned to Isobel from the successful completion of the wizard tower quest, so Isobel has been just chilling at my campsite like a Selunite hobo.

Lae'Zel has forgotten that Voss exists (which is for the better considering we've been scammed about the portal).

Everything is so phenomenally broken that I'm kind of afraid of proceeding to the ending because I'm not sure what other options I've been locked out of by bugs. Wouldn't surprise me if we get to the brain and Astarion turns into the vampire lord mid-dialogue, after which Gale spontaneously explodes, the end.

I do love this game, but it's clear that my Act 3 on this character is fucked in every possible way and will need to be replayed once the endgame is patched to be less of a shambolic bug mess.

[jamminvroomvroom]

safe from heartbreak

pg x fem!reader 

read part 1 here!! 

yeah so here is part 2. it started off as fluff and then, by some kind of divine intervention, it became... the opposite. lol. bon appetite. any and all feedback is always welcome, thank you so much for all the love on part 1!!

this is based loosely on the song “safe from heartbreak” by wolf alice. it’s a bop just saying. warnings: 18+!! smut, angst :), a glimmer of hope, language, more questionable french (i’m so sorry i tried so hard lmao)  3.4k words

-

it had been months. 

months without his touch, without seeing his face on the pillow next to yours when you woke up, without feeling the pleasure only he could give you. you’d struggled quietly through the winter break, doing your best to forget about him, despite shamelessly watching his instagram story. then, the car launches came along and by some miracle, you’d managed to avoid alpha tauri at all costs. the barcelona shakedown was another breeze, hiding out in your office at the track for most of it. you couldn’t face him, and luckily your job didn’t depend on it.

your luck ran out in bahrain. testing had been a disaster for many of the teams, and your job became incredibly stressful incredibly quickly. you had been in the midst of trying to solve a lot of behind the scenes problems when you saw him for the first time. you were a disheveled, overworked mess and he was angry at the piece of metal that alpha tauri expected him to somehow compete in. these used to be the perfect conditions for you to fall into his bed; you both needed some kind of relief. instead, you just stared at each other from opposite ends of the pit lane, looking through one another until a mechanic called for his attention and a whinging team principal called for yours. 

the weekend went on just like that. somehow, you were always in his eye line and he was in yours. you never went within twenty feet of each other, no, that would have been far too difficult for your heart, but you were close enough. close enough to see the way his eyebrows furrowed, as if he was trying to work you out, to see how exhausted he looked as he followed you with his eyes. from the way he was looking at you, a cautious longing, you knew that he was still stuck in that hotel room you’d left him in. 

you were still there too. 

-

the season progressed. 

bahrain, to jeddah, to melbourne, to imola. you were grateful to be distracted from those blue eyes, thrown into your work. there was never a dull moment in formula 1. you were busy, constantly on the move, and that didn’t leave you with any time to think about a certain driver. you had almost no time to wonder where all of his one night stands were. you hadn’t seen him with a single woman all season. maybe they just waited in his hotel room now. maybe he was focusing on the start of the season. maybe he wanted you. maybe he didn’t. all you knew was that he was always alone in the paddock these days, looking solemn, draped in the latest neutrals from the alpha tauri collection. 

you watched the rain fall from the dark italian sky, safe from the cold in the confinement of your office. thoughts of him were banished in this room. you were supposed to be finishing off your paperwork, but all you could think about was the shambolic qualifying that had taken place earlier that afternoon. your eyes were focused on the track, even in the darkness you could see the little puddles of water forming, making things uncertain, complicating things. that’s a problem for tomorrow, you decided. brushing your problems under the rug to deal with another day had become your specialty. however, it seemed that your luck had run out again. there was a problem quite literally knocking on your door that you wouldn’t be able to ignore. 

you were frozen in place, watching him watch you through the glass panel in your office door. pierre. months of nothing had led to this, but you didn’t know what this was. why was he here? what did he want? what could he possibly have to say to you? there was only one way to find out. your feet carried you the short distance across the floor to the door. you twisted the handle, slowly, eyes locked on his as you did. you stepped back. he stepped forwards. he was in your office now, sharing the suffocating space with you. the door shut, slowly returning to its hinges. you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you had no idea what to do, or say, or feel. so, you just stared at him, lips parted, waiting for him. 

always waiting for him.

he opened his mouth to speak. and then he closed it. he opened it again, only to close it once more. it seemed you were both in the same boat, at a loss for words. you noticed his hair was wet, as was his jacket. the rain in imola was unforgiving at the best of times, but especially so for sending him to you absolutely drenched. 

he looked good. 

no, no, no, shut the fuck up. 

“what are you doing here? it’s getting late.” you broke the unsettling silence, finally. 

“i could ask you the same thing, chér-“ he cut himself off, face falling flat as he caught himself. you exhaled shakily. 

chérie. you’d missed that, almost as much as you’d missed him. 

“you shouldn’t be here, pierre.” you mumbled, stomach dropping as your mouth formed his name for the first time in months. you sounded as pained as you felt. 

“you shouldn’t have left that bed.” 

silence. you scoffed. 

“oh, i’m sorry. was i supposed to let you leave it first?” your words were drenched in disbelief. 

“it was never my intention to leave you.” 

“that’s funny, pierre. really fucking funny.”

he took a step towards you. you were too angry to move, feet stuck to the floor. 

“nothing about this is funny.” 

you glared at him. as if you didn’t know that.

“does it look like i’m laughing? god, why did you even come here?” 

“do you know how many times i’ve had to stop myself from coming to you? every time i see you in the paddock, fuck, i have to force myself away from you.” his accent was thickening, his frustration increasingly evident. 

“maybe you should try harder.” cheap shot. 

“is that what you want?”

no!

“i don’t know what i want anymore.”

“well, what did you want?” 

it was a good question. you furrowed your eyebrows. you didn’t know how to respond to him. you didn’t have an answer for him, even if he’d asked you back when you were falling into his bed every weekend you wouldn’t have known. you’d spent so long repressing your feelings that you didn’t even know what they were anymore.  he took another step towards you, making you dizzy. you wanted to touch him and you wanted him to touch you and you wanted him to press you against the wall and remind you that you were still his. 

were you ever his?

he was standing over you now. he raised his hand, grazing your arm softly and leaving goosebumps in his wake. you felt his hand grasp yours, pulling you further into him. you made no move to pull away from him, relaxing into him. you couldn’t keep up with his hands, one now resting on your waist and the other cupping your cheek, to gently tilt your head back. 

his lips brushed over yours. once, twice, three times. it was tentative, soft, the both of you testing the waters, before you gave yourself over to him completely, and he did the same to you. the last kiss you shared in your office last year had absolutely nothing on this one. it was slow, getting deeper and deeper as your body moulded with his.

his hand that was on your waist gently worked over the fabric of your shirt, leaving your stomach in knots. his fingers travelled under the material until they rested against your bare skin. his hands were cold from the miserable weather but you didn’t care; he could touch you anywhere he wanted with them. he made no move to take it further, just pulling you closer. one of your hands was in his hair, threading through the strands as you got lost. 

you stayed like that for a while. he kissed you and you kissed him, moving together in the middle of your office. eventually you had to part ways. his hand remained gently placed on your face, stroking your jaw. your eyes stayed shut, too scared to face him. you’d denied yourself of him, purely to shield yourself from any more heartache, and yet here you were, once again. it didn’t matter how much time had passed, you’d ended up back in his arms, just like the first time you’d tried to pretend you could go without him. you weren’t prepared to face reality just yet, almost wishing that you’d open your eyes and wake up from a dream. 

except it wasn’t a dream. shades of the ocean swirled in his eyes as they met yours and you never wanted to see another pair again. no, you’d be content, grateful even, to just stare aimlessly into his forever and ever. it was time to face facts. you were well and truly fucked. you couldn’t be. 

“i,” you were breathless, “i wanted you.” you whispered, almost ashamed of yourself for wanting someone that you’d shared with countless others. 

“chérie,” pierre mumbled, pressing another kiss to your lips, “il n'y a que toi.”

you must have looked confused, desperately trying to remember any french  you’d learnt at school. he laughed softly, watching your face contort as you’d tried to work out what he’d said. 

“mon amour, there is only you.”

you kissed him again, suddenly desperate for more. more that you weren’t even sure he could give you outside of this moment, no matter what his sweet words told you. so you decided to take what you knew you could get. your kisses travelled to his neck, trying not to mark him by leaving delicate presses to his skin that made his eyes flutter shut. he wasn’t yours to claim. his hands dipped down your body until they were grabbing at the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up. your arms were thrown around his neck as he placed you onto your desk. you reached back, blindly swiping papers and pens onto the floor, hearing the clutter hit the carpet. 

“is this okay?” he pulled away from your lips, thumb grazing your cheek as he asked for your consent. you nodded rapidly, guiding his face back to yours. you knew you had to take all of him in, trying to memorise the feel of his lips, as his fingers rapidly worked the buttons of your shirt. he worked down your neck, and across your collarbone, nipping your soft skin with his teeth. 

he wanted you to wake up tomorrow with him on your mind. almost as if he knew too that this had to be that last ti- 

you were broken out of your thoughts by his hand trailing under your skirt, grazing your thigh. two fingers ran over your clothed slit, rubbing at your clit through your panties. you moaned, bucking your hips into his hand, his tongue working across your collarbone making you shiver. he pulled his hand off of you, grabbing at the waistband of your skirt. you lifted your hips so that pierre could pull it off of you, taking your panties with it. you pushed your shirt off of your shoulders, loving the way his eyes widened as he took you in. 

white lace. a matching set. his favourite. 

it was almost as if you knew what would happen. 

your eyes almost rolled back in your head when he dropped to his knees in front of your desk. he slotted himself between your legs, spreading you open for him. you leaned back on your arms so that you could watch him, and he leaned in, closer and closer to where you were dripping for him. 

“eyes on me, chérie.” he winked, diving in. 

he lapped at your pussy, eating you out like a man starved. he showed no apprehension, swirling his tongue just the way he knew you liked it. his eyes never left yours, driving you absolutely wild and you resisted the dire need to clamp your eyes shut and throw your head back. if you did that, you wouldn’t be looking at him. 

you had to take him in this time, so that you could remember every little detail when it was over. 

pierre didn’t let up. not once. he sucked your clit into his mouth, running his tongue up and down your slit like the sun wouldn’t rise again. he kept you pinned to your desk, fingertips digging into your soft flesh to stop the wild bucking of your hips. you couldn’t help it, he was always so good to you. 

and then your reached your high and you were flushed, body glistening under the dull lighting of your office, hands threading unforgivingly through his hair, tugging at the strands relentlessly. you chanted his name over and over, praying that the building was definitely empty at this late hour. 

when you thought he was done, he only kept going, fingers added to the mix this time. he slipped one inside of you, thrusting it lazily a few times, mouth still wrapped around your clit. you thought you would pass out. he added a second finger, curling it deliciously, stroking that spot inside of you perfectly. the angle of his fingers brushing against your walls finally had you crying out his name as your eyes screwed shut. you were about ready to collapse against the desk as he grazed his teeth against your overstimulated bud. you could feel his smirk against your pussy, branding you as his, just as your vision went white and you shook in euphoria for the second time that evening. 

your body went limp against the the wood of the desk, eyes fluttering shut as your caught your breath. a low hum from in front of you caught your attention and you half opened your eyes to catch him licking his fingers clean. you shuddered. he walked around the desk, seating himself in your big, padded chair. he’d ridded himself of his clothes on the way around, sitting there in nothing but his underwear and that necklace that always stole the show. 

“come here, mon ange.” he patted his thigh teasingly and you had flashbacks to the last time he’d wanted you perched on his lap. 

somehow you peeled yourself off of the desk, swinging a knee on either side of his hips. the only thing you had left covering you was your bra, pierre’s hands trailing up your waist to the band of the lingerie. he snapped the clasp between his fingers, impressively undoing it and throwing away. too impressively. too practiced. you shoved those intruding thoughts away. you needed to enjoy this, no matter how selfish it made you. 

you reached down to move his boxers out of the way, freeing his cock. he was already hard, leaking, ready for you, so you moved to line yourself up with him. just as your were about to sink down on him, he grabbed at your hips, holding you in place above him. just out of reach.

“tell me how much you want me, mon chérie.”

“pierre, please.” you whined. 

“please, what?” he teased, trying to coax an answer from you. he moved one of his hands to run his tip through your folds, keeping you waiting. you were practically panting. 

“fuck me, please, just fuck me. need you so bad.” you gasped out, trying to roll your hips in search of any friction. 

“just like that.” he groaned as he guided you down on him until he bottomed out. he held you in place for a second, letting you adjust to him. you threw your arms around his neck and he brought his lips to yours, kissing you as you began to roll your hips. 

“fuck, pierre, more.” you moaned, rocking your hips against his, burying him deep inside of you. he began to thrust his hips to meet your movements, hitting that spot inside of you that made you tug on the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck. you knew you wouldn’t last long, you were far too sensitive after your first two orgasms, but you wanted to prolong this. you wanted to see him like this, feel him against your for as long as you possibly could. but you knew that he wouldn’t last either. this would never last. 

you kissed him one last time, muffling your cries of his name and the whisperings of french sweet nothings that you simply couldn’t handle. it hit you both at the same time, helping each other down from your highs, bodies moulding together in a sweaty, languid heap. 

the moment was over. it was over. 

you stood from where you’d been straddling him, thighs burning as you collected your clothes from the floor. you tried not to think too hard about the way his eyes scanned your body as you redressed it with his favourite white lace. he stood up too, redressing himself in what he thought was a comfortable silence. you were anything but comfortable. 

as you were buttoning the last few buttons of your blouse, he took a step closer to you. this time, you weren’t frozen in your place. you scurried backwards, keeping space between you. empty space that was somehow full of so many unsaid words. you averted eye contact, clearing your throat, desperately trying to swallow the lump in your throat that was jamming the words you needed to say. 

“this has to be it.” you whispered. 

“no.” his face crumbled. 

“it has to be.” 

“chérie-“ 

“no, pierre. don’t. you will always want more, need more. i can’t give you that.”

“you can. you do.” he sounded as desperate as he looked, forehead creased, hands reaching out for you in that big, empty space. 

“i wasn’t enough for you before. why would this time be any different?” you would not cry. you would try not to cry.

“everything about this is different.” his voice grew louder, stressed by the brick wall you’d suddenly put up. how could he even blame you for doing that? 

“it’s easy to say that now.” you spoke calmly, evenly, trying to banish your shaky breath. you had to face facts, you were still hurting.

“no. no. i’m in love with you.” you were pretty sure you heard your own heart shatter at his words. his beautiful, complicated words. 

“don’t do this to me, pierre. don’t do this to yourself. please.” 

“tell me you don’t love me. tell me and i’ll leave and i won’t come back. just tell me.” 

“i need you to go.” it left your lips as a whisper. 

“please.” you weren’t used to pierre being the one to beg. 

tell him you love him!

“go.” 

and he did go. the door slammed behind him. you watched him leave through that pane of glass in your door, storming off down the corridor and into the stairwell.

he always left. one way, or another. 

maybe you’d forced his hand, but you’d saved yourself the pain of him making the decision of his own accord. you wouldn’t have been able to handle that, when it eventually came around. maybe it would have worked this time, for a week or two, maybe a month. but then what? what would have happened when he’d decided that this new arrangement didn’t work for him? when he realised he was trapped and couldn’t spread someone else out across his bed? 

you’d decided your fate, not to be cruel to him, but to be kind to yourself. you hoped that he would be able to see that. 

one day, maybe.

you couldn’t help but wonder why your kindness hurt so much. your heart was in agony, an excruciating ache settling throughout your entire body. what had you just done? 

you turned around, wiping away a pesky tear that had dared to fall, staring once more at the dark, soaked track, riddled with puddles, like the ones you’d probably spend the next god knows how long forming with your tears. he was gone and he wasn’t coming back. 

you’d made sure of that. there was no one else to blame. 

not sure what i believe in

but i'll be safe from heartbreak 

if i never 

fall in love

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppetangelika @wmaximoffz @starlightoctavia @japanesekel @stardustinggold @vinvantae @chaoticallypan @ashleyo1611 @ggaslyp1 @poofy-baby-unicorns @dr3lover @smiithys @turningxstrange @lees0015 @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @1missglum1 @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @shinydragondelusion @alexk2002 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @f-1-fan

(my taglist got fucked up so… here it is lmao :D if you wanna be added or removed, lemme know <3)

[tea-and-chocolate-disaster]

If you haven’t read the time police yet please go and read them right now

I love them so much

the characters are so great Matthew is ICONIC and it’s SO FUNNY

I would pay good money to see this made into a comedy tv series it would be AMAZING

Reasons to read the time police:

Matthew is great and I love him

Luke Parrish is fantastic! He’s horrible and posh and arrogant (and reminds me of monty from the gentleman’s guide t vice and virtue which you probably haven’t read but on the off chance) and I adore him I don’t know why but although I frequently find myself wanting to hit him over the head with a heavy object I do love him

Jane! I love Jane! She’s my favourite! I relate to her and I wish I was that iconic and cool even though she isn’t “cool” she’s cool in my eyes and she deserves love

Matthew Ellis SO COOL absolutely fantastic guy

St marys do feature! Seeing max through everyone else’s eyes is hilarious

Every time the time police are like “bloody st marys shambolic organisation bouncing off the time like messing everything up and getting in our way” I just laugh because honestly are they wrong?

The storyline is incredible and interesting and I couldn’t stop reading it. There are some things that I will not mention because spoilers but I am either just begging for them to happen or wanting to bash the characters heads together for not realising them

Team weird and their shenanigans

Please read them! Please message me to talk about them if you have read them! My ask box is now open I didn’t realise it wasn’t oops. You can message me on the regular messaging feature if you feel comfortable doing that!

[sympathyfortheblinderdevil]

All Is Fair: Ch. 17 Buying Forgiveness

Tommy has been a shithead, so he tries to buy Lia's forgiveness. Little does he know, she would have totally forgiven him anyway. In the time leading up to Christmas, Lia forms a bond with Charlie and encourages Tommy to do the same.

Tommy was a half-drunk, half-delirious mess. His shambolic footsteps dragged on the stairway, pitching him forward as Lia struggled to keep him from falling. For the previous hour, he’d been whispering what she could only categorize as confession into her hair; at least, that’s what she thought it was, for she could understand very little of it. She had finally convinced him to go back to bed, which led to her current predicament. She wedged her shoulder underneath his arm and coaxed him, “I’ve got you, Tommy, but you have to help me,” and they haltingly made their way to her bedroom.

When they reached their destination, she paused at the door to switch on the light, and in a moment of lucidity, he suddenly rasped, “Don’t... No lights.” He was raw enough to feel shame and to want to hide his face from her.

Once he was on the bed, she helped him out of his jacket, her arm grazing the cold steel of his pistol as she did so. She flinched, then turned her back to drape the heavy garment over the chair. Did Tommy shoot back, or did he just run for cover? she wondered. She stood there trying to collect herself, breathing in and out, pushing those thoughts down. For a fleeting moment, she thought to walk away… just go out into the warm brightness of the hallway and down the stairs to her parlor... leave him to deal with undressing himself, and let him sleep it off. But, just behind her, she heard his shaky breaths and his fumbling hands struggling with leather straps. A rush of almost maternal warmth enveloped her, compelled her to stay, and reminded her that for all his faults she was hopelessly in love with him. When she turned to face him, his glassy eyes apologetically searched for hers as she undid his gun holster. Once freed, his arms went around her. He pressed his face into her belly and he mumbled, “Stay with me, Lia. Don’t leave me.”

Moonlight shone through the window in a muted sliver of luminescence and played off of the silver strands that hid in Tommy’s hair. She brushed it away from his forehead and promised, “I won’t leave you, baby. I won’t ever leave you.”

He was high. The vulnerability he showed her tonight would vanish in the morning, but Lia couldn’t help hoping that Tommy would reveal some small bit of his pain to her once in a while. She couldn’t pretend to understand the brutality and the coldness that overcame him, and the precision with which he could compartmentalize that part of his life. How could he put all of the horrors to one side and just get on with things? But if he could show her that on some level it bothered him, that he had still had a soul to save, she could try to be what he needed.

When she had him stripped down to his undershirt and drawers, she shrugged out of her dress, climbed in beside him, and sank into a deep dreamless sleep.

***

In the days that followed the shooting Tommy and Lia didn’t discuss what had happened. It had been kept out of the papers, so no one outside of Tommy’s immediate circle even knew about the killings or Tommy’s injury. For her part, she was apprehensive about reliving the shock of what had happened to Rodney and the realization that Tommy was much more flawed than she had previously let herself believe. Jenny had tried to tell her about the violence and criminality that were as much a part of him as his pale blue eyes, but until she was faced with the aftermath of the attack and the subsequent murder of the attackers, she hadn’t wanted to believe her.

The Tommy that she fell for was a devilishly charming, handsome man. He told her that he did bad things, but he had an art collection and country estate for God’s sake! She had naively believed him when he said that people didn’t come after him anymore even though it contradicted all evidence. She had never known anyone who needed to carry a gun everywhere, but she had never known a member of Parliament. Maybe all MPs carried guns, she had reasoned. Every warning and every red-flag sailed right past her because she was mesmerized by the warm smell of his skin, the velvet at the nape of his neck, the soft words he breathed into her ear when they were alone.

The little trip to Watery Lane with Polly reminded her that he came from hard beginnings, but it took watching Charlie Strong stitch up a gash from an enemy’s bullet to drive the point home: Once a gangster, always a gangster. Maybe that was what Polly was trying to make her see all along. When she thought back to the way he reacted when she confronted him about Rodney she felt dread. He changed into someone else before her eyes. Polly’s words echoed in her memory, He did have a big heart. Did. Past tense. But then, he was so tender with her afterward. She made herself believe that there was hope for him after all, that Tommy was the paradoxical hard man with a heart. He was ruthless on his climb to the top and would always have a target on his back, so yes, he had to be hard. It was so much an ingrained part of Tommy’s life that he simply accepted it and moved on. She wanted to be like Tommy, and accept it, too.

Consequently, they fell into a comfortable pattern of denial. Nearly every day after it happened, she received a delivery of one kind or another—Flowers one day, a basket of exotic fruits the next, a box of wine and cheese from Harrods, a box of chocolates imported from Switzerland, it went on and on. On the nights he came to stay with her he brought antique volumes of poetry (obviously Ada’s idea) and a diamond bracelet to match the necklace he had already given her. She wanted so much to tell him that he didn’t need to buy her forgiveness, but pointing that out would only draw attention to the subject they were trying to avoid. Instead, she shared her fruits and chocolates with the girls at the library and drew jealous gasps from them as she told about the first edition Shelley that Tommy had given her.

As the holiday season drew closer, Lia finished working out her notice at the Birmingham branch of the library in preparation for her transfer to London. Naturally, she began to spend more time at Arrow House. Charlie was finished with lessons, so he and Lia fell into a pattern of riding, playing games, and baking cookies. At first Tommy had reservations about the growing boy hanging around the kitchen, but then Arthur reminded him of all the winter afternoons that John spent at Polly’s elbow making the Christmas treats. Ultimately, Tommy felt that while he was at work it was nice that someone besides a maid was with Charlie.

He especially enjoyed the greeting he received at the end of a long day. It was often dark when he finally pulled around the fountain and came through the door. Charlie and Lia could hear his car’s approach down the long driveway and had displaced Frances as the ones to meet him at the door. Lia would kiss his cheek and take his coat and hat while Charlie plied him with samples of their latest confections. Dinner at Arrow House was different, as well. Except for the nights that Tommy would be egregiously late, Charlie joined the grownups for dinner. Etiquette and decorum in great houses dictated that children were fed separate from the adults, and Tommy had been too busy to even question it. Lia, however, thought it was strange. She had grown up with family around the dinner table together, and she reckoned that Tommy had as well. Tommy was distant from Charlie in many ways, and she sought to remedy that where she could; having nightly dinner together was a step in the right direction.

One night after dinner, the three of them went into the sitting room for Charlie to play a while before bed. He had spent half of the afternoon setting up a racetrack, complete with pebbles marking the outline of the oval, toy horses on their marks, and toy soldiers crowded around as spectators. Tommy had one arm draped loosely around Lia’s shoulder as he chuckled lowly at the voices Charlie did for the announcers and the people in the crowd. They sipped their whiskeys and whispered their bets to each other.

“I think the black one will win by at least a length,” said Lia.

Tommy leaned closer until his nose grazed her ear. “I think it’ll be the bay. What would you like to wager, Miss?”

She looked up at the ceiling and pretended to think before replying, “How about three kisses?”

Charlie stopped galloping his horses and crowed, “Yuck, I can hear you two, you know.”

“You won’t always think it’s yucky, my boy. Now, run the race so we can see if Lia or your old dad has won.”

When Charlie was once again engrossed in the intricacies of the Derby, Tommy crossed the room to refill his whiskey. He motioned to Lia with the decanter and she joined him for a refill. They were just out of Charlie’s immediate line of sight, so he slipped his arms around her. She relaxed into his embrace and sighed, “This is lovely, but we’ll miss the end of the race.”

“I know what you are doing,” he said. His voice had taken on a more serious tone.

She put her hands on his chest and looked up. “What do you mean?”

“The dinners, the cookies at the door every afternoon, all of it,” he took a final drag from his cigarette and held her gaze as he placed the end in a nearby ashtray. “You are trying to have me spend more time with Charlie.”

“Charlie is a precious boy, and he loves you more than anything, Tommy. No matter what you may think, you deserve his love.”

Tommy stared at her in silence, stunned that she had read him so easily. She was innocent, guileless, and had no ulterior motive for what she said. She only wanted him to have a relationship with his son. The revelation both warmed him and filled him with uneasiness. He had let his mask slip in front of her, and she had seen the guilt and self-loathing that he hid from the world.

He silently blinked at her. When at a loss for how to react, his default was always to stall with a blank expression, a cigarette, and a glass of whiskey. He had stepped back from her and begun rummaging through his pockets for another smoke when Charlie’s high pitched voice called, “They’re in the final stretch!”

She turned to face the boy and his track, and as she did she caught sight of Grace’s photograph. He was far too young to remember the loss of his mother, but he knew the sting of growing up with a father who was absent due to an overwhelming sense of guilt and fear. Lia often reflected that Charlie seemed remarkably well adjusted for a child who had been through so much. She put it down to Ada and the staff, who honestly spent much more time with him than Tommy did. Then and there, she resolved to convince Tommy to have the boy stay in London with them. She couldn’t imagine being separated from him if they could help it.

***

“One of my boys should take you to your parents. I don’t like you taking the train on your own,” Tommy grumbled as his eyes shifted around and noted every shadow of the train station.

Both statements alluded to the very topic they’d been avoiding for a month—one of Tommy’s drivers being shot, and his lingering nervousness about the possibility that danger was still lurking about. Tommy hadn’t minded the train journey before, because Jenny was taking the trip with Lia. At the last minute, though, Jenny decided to stay in town an extra day with her new boyfriend, a Birmingham police detective.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just a couple of hours. Besides, I need a chance to explain to my parents about us. I can’t just swan into the village in the backseat of a chauffeured Bugatti. It’ll give my poor dad a heart attack,” she laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

Tommy cut his eyes at her. “I thought you said you had told them about me already.”

“They know I’m seeing you, but they don’t know how serious we have become. They definitely don’t know about London. I need time to ease them into the idea of me moving to the city with you.” She didn’t say without a ring on my finger, but it hung in the air, nonetheless.

She didn’t want their last moments before the holiday to be anything less than perfect. She wanted the Hollywood movie sendoff, complete with passionate kisses on the train platform, but she would settle for a respectable kiss and less of his moodiness. She cocked an eyebrow and turned her face up to his. He licked his lips and leaned in to oblige her. She blushed up to the roots of her hair when she thought about everywhere his lips had been just a few hours before.

They had spent the night before “saying goodbye” until well after midnight. Tommy (or his secretary) had really outdone himself. They started with an extra-long supper with Charlie. He had become quite attached to Lia and wanted a chance to say goodbye before her trip home. After Charlie went up to bed, Tommy took Lia upstairs where all her things for her trip were packed into Louis Vuitton cases.

Lia gasped, “Oh, Tommy! It’s too much!” She ran her fingertips over the leather and along the brass closures and groaned with pleasure, “Its only a three-day trip.”

He approached her from behind and nuzzled her ear, “Consider it an early Christmas gift. The rest of it is at your house.”

“The rest of it!” She shouted through bubbly laughter, spinning around and grasping Tommy’s face. He was smiling broadly and loudly kissed her.

“You’ll need it when we go to London. So you see, my girl, it’s actually a very practical gift.”

“Wool stockings are a practical gift. This cost more than the house where I was raised.”

He caressed her shoulders and his face took on a more serious expression. “Get used to it, love.”

Lia leaned into him as his hands slid from her arms to her back. He traced down and back up her spine, stopping at the top button of her dress. With achingly slow hands he undid each button while Lia pressed herself closer to his body. Maybe it was the after-dinner whiskey that had made her so giddy before, but now her head was dizzy with want and she found it hard to catch her breath.

After he slid her dress off of her shoulders he grasped her chin between his index finger and thumb and pulled her face up to his. He took in her drowsy expression, and with his eyes wide he gruffly whispered, “Lia, eh? Look at me.”

She fluttered her lashes and complied.

Tommy ground into her until she could feel the blood pulsing through his veins. “I want you to get used to having the best of everything, Lia. You are with me now, and London is on a whole other level than Birmingham. You’re a smart girl, but in London, I’ll need you to be sharp. Can you do that?”

He still had her chin in his hand, but she nodded as best as she could. She had barely breathed out, “Yes, Tommy,” before he had taken her mouth with his own. He spent the rest of the night taking everything else she could give him.

He was thinking of the same thing when he reached into his pocket for his watch. It was time. “Call me when you arrive,” he insisted as he looked her up and down. Even though she would only be gone for a few days, he wanted to remember every detail: the soft waves of her hair, the freckles on her nose, the sad smile on her deep red lips. Standing on that platform watching her go, he began to realize that he wanted her to stay. In the sober light of day, he wanted her to stay, and that worried him.

Hell yeah, I have a Masterlist!

[justgeorgeharrisonfic]

ALL THOSE YEARS AGO

ALL THOSE YEARS AGO.

 Henley on Thames, 10th December 1980 (1)

The fire was dying down now, but it was still good to watch the red/gold glow of the small branches and embers in the depth of the wide grate. George Harrison was sitting on the sofa facing the fire, one leg curled underneath him and the other with the knee raised up so that his chin could rest comfortably on it. He was nursing a half full glass of red wine, and his wife thought that he had forgotten it and was even thinking of crossing the room and moving it from between his fingers and setting it down on the table next to him, but then he took another sip. So Olivia continued to hover. She heard from the hall behind her that the last of their guests had finished packing his things and was ready to leave, so she quietly left the room and joined him in the hall. “Thanks… for…” but their friend, Ray Cooper, waved her words aside.

“Will he be ok?” On the face of it a ridiculous thing to ask. For one thing, how could she or anyone know? For another, no, of course he wouldn’t. Who would be? Yet, in fact;

Olivia nodded. “He will be. In a while.” She gave Ray a small tight smile, and he reached out towards her with his free hand and drew her to himself for a quick embrace.

“Look after him.”

“Of course I will.” She opened the massive front door and Ray slipped outside into the December night. “I’ll see you to your car.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Stay with him.” And he disappeared into the dark, leaving Olivia to move back into the hall, close the door and lock it firmly behind her. To her surprise and annoyance, she felt the prickling of tears behind her eyes but she suppressed them firmly as she made her way back to the sitting room. Stupid. She hadn’t even known him. But then, neither had the thousands of grief stricken people gathered outside the Dakota during the day and they were crying. It wouldn’t help George if she descended into that sort of sentimentality. She took a deep breath, and then stepped back into the sitting room.

George hadn’t moved. The fire had got lower still. She crossed the room and sat next to him on the sofa. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

George looked at her, and shook his head. “I’m ok.” Another improbable statement, but she let it go. “What’s the time?”

Olivia twisted round so that she could see the large ornamental clock on a sideboard across the room. “3.15.” He nodded, but made no attempt to move from his niche on the sofa. “George, I think I’m going to bed. But…”

“I’m fine. You go.” He looked into her eyes, and she studied his expression. He was tired – not surprising, it was nearly twenty four hours since they’d had the news – but calm. Perhaps a little deadened. Sad. But, as he’d said, ok. “I’ll just sit, for a while.”

She nodded, and leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “I’ll check on Dhani. I’ll see you.” A squeeze of his shoulder, and she left the room again.

It was quiet. The fire was crackling slightly if you concentrated on it. There had been people there all day, playing music, working out tracks for his album, peering at him surreptitiously when they thought he wasn’t looking, eating, drinking, but for the first time since he’d got out of bed there was silence. George stared into the fire. He was trying to work out how he felt but he couldn’t. It was strange. When he looked inside his mind, all he could see was grey fog, nothingness. Maybe it was shock. Shocked and stunned. He thought that actually might have been what he’d said, when they’d demanded a statement from him earlier that day. Well, the day before of course, it was tomorrow now. His mind was going round and round. Would he really have taken the piss like that? Well maybe. Why not. It was all daft, wasn’t it.

He took another sip of his wine and looked at the diminishing fire. All those years, gone in one crazy moment.

All those years.

He couldn’t stop the memories. Corny, that. But they came…

 After the dentist. Esher, Spring 1965

George was sitting on the diving board when John came out to join him. He sat down on the grass, and then shuffled closer to where George was sitting staring at the water. He looked carefully at his friend’s face. George’s eyes were open, still, staring, staring. He didn’t move or acknowledge John’s arrival at all; John didn’t really know what to do. So he sat and looked at George, and then at the pool. The surface of the water was still. It was half past four in the morning and the birds were waking up. John listened to them and wondered what they were saying to him.

He had to know. “George. What are the birds saying?”

George blinked slowly, and the long eyelashes stroked his cheek. He turned to look at his friend, and a smile began to light his features. He paused a while, as though to consider his answer, and then looked up at the sky. He was looking for the birds. He didn’t see any. He looked back at John. His smile grew wider, his teeth white in the dawn light. “They’re saying they love you.” His smile rested on John’s face. Even in the height, or depth, of his LSD excursion he could reflect that John looked a complete mess; unshaven, his smart clothes from last night’s dinner party at the dentist’s town house crumpled shambolically, and his face drawn with as yet unrecognised exhaustion. George wondered if he looked as bad. Probably. Fucking dentist. Dosing their coffee; but…

But…

A whole new heaven, all around him.

The two young men sat together in the growing light and looked at each other. George looked at John; the abrasive, defensive leader of the gang was no longer there. And John looked at George, and the immature sulky guitar fanatic had likewise gone. In the places of those two real and unreal personas were instead two old and dear friends who were now joined together by a golden thread of new understanding, and deepest love.

They saw no need to speak or move, and just sat by George’s swimming pool in his Esher garden, each relishing their new existences. The moment extended for untold time – until a quiet meow behind them brought them out of their new world and back into the old one. George turned around and saw his Siamese cat sitting neatly on the grass, regarding him sardonically with blue slanting eyes. John turned to look in the direction of George’s gaze.

“What does it want?” he asked

“Breakfast.”

“Is it breakfast time?”

George looked up. The sun, he saw, was high in the sky. He wondered how long they’d been sitting there. “It might be,” he said.

John thought about this, and reached a conclusion. “I could do with something.”

George nodded. “Okay. We’ll go in.” He pushed himself up, but only got as far as kneeling up before turning to John again. “None of it’s the same any more.”

John looked at him again and paused a while to think. As he took in what George had said, he found himself filled with a feeling of complete joy. He smiled, he grinned, he shook his head. “It isn’t,” he proclaimed. “It fucking isn’t.” He clambered to his feet and looked up at the sky, he arms opening wide as though to encompass the whole different world he’d just glimpsed. “It’s all different! We’re all different!” Another pause, and then the greatest thought of all. “We’re not just Beatles now!!”

George too clambered to his feet and he too beamed broadly at this most astonishing concept. He laughed out loud in sheer joy, and the two turned and set off, in step, towards the long brightly painted house. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “They’ll be thinking this! They’ll be feeling this!”

“Who?”

George laughed again. “Pattie! And Cyn.” He grabbed John’s arm and quickened his pace. “C’mon! We’ll find them. It’s morning! It’s a new day!”

The two new soulmates pushed open the back door and stepped inside, to explore their new life – and feed the cat.

  It didn’t start that way. There was no love at the start. It was hard to know if John had any love in him, at the start.

 Kids. Sometime in 1958

 Paul didn’t pause in his tinkering on his guitar when he heard the back door slam open, nor when John Lennon strode into the sitting room. “Okay?” said Paul, without looking up from his fretboard.

John strode over to the armchair in the corner and plonked himself down. He fixed Paul’s friend with a steady and challenging stare. The friend ignored both him and the stare, and continued to pick out the chords that he and Paul had been working on. John waited a while, and when no reaction came he spoke up. “Didn’t know this was a baby sitting service.”

Paul looked across at him, the frown of concentration still on his face. “Eh?”

John nodded his head in the direction of George. “What’s he doing here?”

Paul shook his head. “We said. You said. He’s in. You remember.” Paul smiled at him; John responded with a scowl.

“Not really.”

“Yeah, you did.” Paul extended his smile to George, who was still picking at the guitar strings. “Plays better than you, any road.”

At this point, George looked up from the strings across at John. “Alright?” he said, with a curiously lopsided smile. John glared.

“What the fuck.” No answer seemed to be required to this so none was attempted. George went back to his careful fingering of the chords so, leaving his tormenting for the time being, John lifted his own guitar into his lap and he too began to strum the strings. Paul and George looked over at him and, to the surprise of both John and Paul, George started to laugh. “Wassup with you?” John demanded.

George continued to chuckle.

“He’s remembering one of his Noddy and Big Ears stories, that’ll be it,” John said harshly.

“You can look at your own Noddy books,” George suggested confidently, “while I string your guitar properly. What d’ya think you’re doing?”

“Eh?” John peered down at the strings of his guitar, while Paul paused in his own strumming and looked on in interest.

“You’re only got four strings!”

“Yeah, well…” John’s belligerence increased in measure with his discomfort.

“It should be six.” “George shook his head. “You did know that, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course…” Aggressive confidence.

“Paul, you got any more strings?”

“Ah… I might. Hang on. Mike’s got a guitar…” Paul put his own guitar down next to his chair and jumped to his feet and trotted out of the sitting room. He left behind him a silence laden with antagonism, a silence only broken when he returned with his younger brother’s guitar, filched from their shared bedroom. “Here y’are.” He held up the guitar, but wasn’t at all sure who to give it to; lamely he passed it to John.

“Give us it here,” said George, and then, to John’s astonishment, he pushed himself out of his armchair and crossed the room to where John sat, uncomfortably aware that he was in danger of being made a fool of. George held out his hand. When John made no move, George reached towards the guitar, which John found he was clutching tightly. “It’ll only take a minute.”

John handed his guitar over, dumbly. George took it and returned to his chair. Quickly divesting Mike’s guitar of two perfectly good strings, he laid John’s instrument over his lap and began to restring it. He ignored John completely.

Paul filled in the otherwise uneasy silence by strumming and singing along. “What’s ‘at?” asked John, sharply.

“Thought of it this morning. Me and George were working on it before you came.”

Paul had probably not intended to irritate John even further with this remark, but nevertheless that was what happened. “Funny – it didn’t sound like a nursery rhyme.” Paul offered a dutiful grunt of amusement. George continued to ignore John as he worked on the guitar, finishing the stringing and starting to twang the new strings into tune.

“Paul, give us an E.” Paul played his E string and George tightened the new string. “Again.” George was satisfied with the first one and went on to the next, again using Paul as a tuning fork, and then crossed the room and handed the guitar back to John, who grasped it expressionlessly. “You’ll need to check the tuning when you get ‘ome,” he said sunnily, as though the expression on John’s face didn’t suggest that he was breathing sulphur. “It was…”

“Yeah, ok,” John snapped as he laid the guitar on his lap and began to strum. Again, George ignored the black atmosphere as though unaware of it, and returned to his seat across the room; but he was back on his feet moments later when the sitting room door opened and Paul’s father stepped inside.

“Hello lads,” he greeted them. “Alright?”

“Hello Uncle Jim,” beamed George, and Jim McCartney smiled warmly at him.

John wasn’t going to let this go. “”Hello Uncle Jim,” he lisped in a high falsetto in an inaccurate but deliberate imitation of George. “Ith it teatime, Uncle Jim?”

“I’ve got some of yesterday’s shepherds pie left over if you’re hungry. Mine won’t touch it the day after – I don’t want it wasted.”

There followed a fierce struggle within the Lennon heart. He had never been offered leftovers at Paul’s, though it was clear that George was accustomed to this service. He had only made the silly remark about teatime because he’d wanted to make George sound childish. The temptation of a helping of homecooked shepherds pie now battled with his perceived need to maintain his aloof disdain, particularly after his ill-judged scorn at George’s greeting and its complete failure to humiliate the younger boy. His expression went blank as he grappled with the conundrum.

George was watching from across the room. His eyes were cool and appraising. Jim waited for a reply, completely unaware of the drama being enacted in his small and now crowded sitting room.

John reached a decision. “Yeah,” he mumbled, gracelessly. “Thanks.”

“Fab, thanks!” said George enthusiastically, and started to follow Jim out of the room. He and John reached the door at the same time. George paused, and met John’s gaze head on. He nodded at the door, as if to say, “After you,” and John, aware, on a level he wasn’t prepared to examine too closely, that he had been truly bested, slouched through towards the kitchen.

The memory had not faded by the time the three friends were due to meet up again to practise, but it felt even more irritating to John when Paul announced at the last minute as John arrived at his door that they couldn’t stay at his house. “Me dad’s got me auntie round.” It was therefore a glowering and resentful Lennon who stood behind Paul as the latter knocked sharply on the door of 25 Upton Green.

“Fuck’s sake,” John was heard to mutter.

”Get over it,” Paul was heard to retort with a grin.

The door was opened immediately by a smiling, blond, plump, beaming lady who held out her arms towards Paul and drew him in for a hug. “Paul love,” she said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Louise,” answered Paul and started to move through the door. He turned around and gestured with his head towards his companion. “This is John.”

Louise Harrison’s broad and welcoming smile encompassed the newcomer. “Hello John. Come in!” and she moved aside. John confidently stepped forward to enter, but his grand entrance was spoiled when he managed to catch his foot on the threshold. He lurched forward and bounced into his hostess, his weight pushing her back against the wall of their hall. His guitar clanged, he said “Ooof”, and she shrieked with laughter. “Eh, watch it! We’ve only just met you know!”

“I’m sorry…” John began, but she waved his words aside, still laughing so much she had to wipe a tear from her eye. She flapped a hand in the direction of a door opening off the hall.

“In you go,” she said, as the door opened and George appeared.

“You met me mum then,” he said to John with an amused grin and then turned and went back into the sitting room. The others followed.

“Very much so,” John managed, as Paul too gave a peel of laughter and settled himself on the sofa. George took the seat nearby and the two settled into an easy familiarity. John chose a chair nearby and he too sat. He looked up as Louise poked her head through the door.

“Would you like a beer?” she asked the assembled company. Paul looked up at her with a smile.

“Ooh yeah, please,” he said, before returning his attention to his guitar. It was clear to John from Paul’s casual response that it had not been an unusual offer. He also realised that his mouth was hanging open. Involuntarily, he glanced over at George.

Was that a smirk on the thin face?

The next second, George’s expression was as guileless as before as he said, “Thanks mum.” He looked over at John and smiled at him. “And one for John, yeah?”

John met his gaze. “Yeah,” he said to the waiting Louise, who disappeared to get the drinks. John broke the gaze and focussed down on his guitar.

Game and set to George… for now.

   Henley on Thames, 10th December  1980 (2)

The fire crackled and a log fell into the embers. The sound brought George back to the present; the early morning hours of a bleak December day and a nearly empty wine glass in his hand. He looked blankly at the glass for a moment and, after a pause and an apparent decision, he reached over to the low table in front of him, picked up the bottle and emptied it into his glass. He left the bottle on the carpet by his feet and leaned back with the glass and took a sip. A tiny smile tugged the corner of his mouth as he recalled all the teenage power struggles and tussles and squaring up which had punctuated those early days; they’d been so all engrossing and important then, but had soon passed. In a way. He wasn’t in fact sure whether John ever had stopped posturing and locking horns - with the others, with himself, with anyone who may have threatened to see past his guard. Which was actually everyone. But the strutting and bullying when he’d first got to know George had dwindled and more or less stopped once they’d served their purpose – John had to be the leader, and for years George was happy to let him be there.  Not for nothing had George grown up as the youngest in a big lively family, and he had learned from the earliest age that if you didn’t mark out your territory and stand your ground you lost. It was just the way it was. John pushed, George pushed back, and in the end John sort of gave up. By the time they got as far as Hamburg, George had grown up sufficiently to be able to hold his own and it meant he had passed John’s test. He was worthy.

It also meant he was trusted. And that was all important.

 Adelaide, 12th June 1964

George opened his door and looked back at the blonde who was pulling her dress down over her head. She was, George reflected, taking too long to get dressed. They often did that. It was sometimes annoying. Right now he felt relaxed and uninclined to be annoyed, but that might not last too long. “Alright luv?” he said, by way of a suggestion that, for her, the evening was over. “Yer ready?”

She obviously wasn’t ready, as her tight dress was only halfway down her curvaceous hips, but there was no harm in hurrying it along a bit. She looked across at him, and gave a little wriggle which may have been meant to be appealing, or may have been her way of saying that the dress was hard to get back on, but whatever it was George was having none of it. He stood, his hand on the handle of the open door, and his dark eyes fixed on her. “Okay then?” he said, implacably.

The nameless blonde finally took the hint. She yanked the dress down, looked for, found and slipped her feet into her shoes and grabbed her bag. She gazed at him, eyes limpid.

In answer, George opened the door a little wider and put his head on one side.

She gave a small sigh, and walked towards him and he stepped aside to allow her to move past him, the movement emphasising that she should do just that, and that this was definitely goodbye. “Thanks luv,” he said cheerily and then, looking over her shoulder, “Mal!”

Mal Evans appeared from the hall at the other side of the large main room of the suite, and beckoned her to come with him. She crossed the large room, looking back at George before she left but George wasn’t even looking in her direction any more. He was heading toward the drinks table, where he poured a large rum and coke and took it to one of the large arm chairs and plonked himself down opposite John Lennon, who was slumped in the chair opposite, his legs dangling over the arm of the chair. “Could have got me one,” said John.

“You should’ve asked.” George took a slug of his drink and settled back comfortably into the cushions.

“Hmmmf,” John grunted, but it was only the effort of getting out of the chair. He sloshed a random amount of rum into his own glass in a manner which suggested that he had had several of them already, added a cursory splash of coke and made his unsteady way back to the chair. “How was she then?” he asked once he’d landed back into the seat.

George raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. Then he moved his head to back and forth in the signal that meant something like ‘nothing special’. “Ok.” He paused for a moment and thought. “Interesting,” he added.

John perked up. “Was it?”

“Sort of.” George smiled. “She had some interesting ideas.”

“Oh well.” John relaxed back into his chair again. “’Interesting’. Not too ‘interesting’, I hope.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“She didn’t chew your cock off or anything.”

“Not that I noticed.”

“S’alright then.”

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence; comfortable with each other, that is. Yet they had been together for around four years, closer together than most spouses, and their impenetrable shared guard against intrusions and invasions from outside their inner sanctum had rendered them all highly tuned in to the others’ feelings and moods. So that now, in the quiet after the frenetic scramble to the Hall, the insane hysteria of the show, the virtual debauchery of the party back at the hotel, and the physical release offered by whichever girl was first in the queue, each of the young men sitting slumped in their hotel suite was aware on some level or another that all was not well with the other.

George fetched another drink.

John broke the silence first. “Wassup?” he said. George looked up from his drink to see that John’s eyes were trained on him. He met his gaze, and gave one of his slight, crooked smiles. He shrugged.

“It’s too far.”

“Yer what?”

“Too far from home.” He paused to take a sip of his rum. “It’s the other side of the fucking world, for fuck’s sake.”

“Not for the Australians. It’s the right side for them.”

George chuckled. “True.” He smiled again. “Weirdos. Shows how much they know.”

“It must be all those boomerangs”, John commented.

“And digeridoos.”

“And wallabies.”

“And cricketers.” John burst out laughing at that last one, and George smiled comfortably at him. “Yeah,” he said, for no reason in particular.

John waved his glass at him to emphasise the fact that he was speaking. “Pattie?” he asked.

George looked at him, and smiled ruefully and nodded. “Yeah, he said again, very softly.

“It’s shit,” said John. It was a succinct summary of the situation and George appreciated its brevity and accuracy. He nodded. “D’ya trust her?”

George looked up sharply. He knew there was no mischief intended in the question; it was simply a straightforward enquiry, and he needed only a second or two to reflect on it and then to answer. “Yeah,” he said. “Oh yeah. I do.”

“Why?”

George smiled again. “I know her.”

“Already?”

George nodded again.

John finished his drink and lurched across the room for another. George laughed. “How many have you had?”

“Fuck knows.” John sat down heavily again and made himself comfortable. Each was very aware that the other showed no signs of wanting to break up the evening and clear off to bed. John wrapped his legs over the arm of the chair again. George stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. Silence fell once more.

“Where are the others?”

John shook his head. “Dunno.” He gestured with his head towards the other bedroom doors. “In there somewhere. In it for the duration I guess.”

George nodded, and watched his drink as he sloshed it gently to and fro. Then he looked up again. “And what about you?”

“What d’ya mean?”

George stared at him. “Wassup?” he asked, deliberated echoing John’s previous question to him.

John stared at him. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. George waited for him. He knew this John. He’d seen him many times before. He’d seen him standing, bereft, in Stuart’s studio in Hamburg, he’d seen him staring at a blank wall and swallowing with nerves before their first recording session for Love Me do, he’d seen him waiting to say the first line of their first film, swallowing compulsively again. George knew this John. There was a chance he’d just get the usual throwaway witticism, the casual insult; but George didn’t think so. He waited him out. He finished his drink.

“I’m lost,” said John Lennon.

George shifted to one side in his chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He withdrew one, held it up and then tossed it across the small but important space between the two chairs. John caught it, picked up a lighter from the table next to him and lit the cigarette, held up the lighter and threw it over to his friend. George lit his own cigarette, took a long drag, and then stared.

“I am,” said John. Was he waiting for a denial? He didn’t get one. George got up and crossed the room to refill his glass and this time he brought one back for John. John looked thoughtfully at the glass for a moment, and then back up at George, who was settling down opposite again. “George,” he said. “When did you grow up?”

George gave a small smile, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “About ten years ago,” he retorted. “You were too up yourself to notice.”

John found the grace to laugh briefly. The two young men sat, smoked, drank, rested. A brief high pitched squeal sounded from one of the bedrooms, soon cut off, and both John and George laughed. They didn’t know who was with the excitable female, didn’t care either. “I envy you,” John declared.

George frowned. “Why?”

“What you’ve got.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“I saw you on that boat in Tahiti.”

George raised his eyebrows. “Pervert,” he commented mildly.

“You saw me too.”

“Couldn’t really miss you, could I.” He took a pull at his cigarette. “That was a good holiday.”

“Yeah.” John sounded mournful. George sighed very softly, because he knew John very well and he could see where this was going.

“You and Cyn were good,” he offered.

“Yeah.” John took another slug of rum. George waited him out. “On holiday. We can’t be on a paradise holiday all the time.”

“No. Most people aren’t.”

John glared. “You know what I mean,” and for the first time in the conversation his voice began to turn harsh. “Shit George. I don’t know what any of it’s about. Marriage. The Beatles. Any of it.”

George’s left ankle was propped on his right knee, his elbow on the arm of the chair and with the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette he was running the edge of his forefinger to and fro across this lips. He looked across at John, silently. John glared back; and then broke into a chuckle. “You look like a fucking interviewer!”

George smiled, warmth in his dark eyes.

“Am I being stupid, Geo?”

George nodded, still smiling with his eyes.

“Well? I’m allowed to be, aren’t I!”

“Definitely,” agreed his baby friend whom John had just noticed had grown up.

One of the bedroom doors burst open. Mal must have been waiting, as he materialised as if on cue and guided the latest lady to the door. Paul wandered over towards his two Beatle buddies. “What’s happening? Anything to eat?”

George waved an arm in the direction of the table on the other side of the room. “Might be something left there.” He shifted position again, curled both legs under him, and looked across at John, his head slightly on one side. John looked back; he gave the briefest of nods.

It was all the acknowledgement George would have expected.

 And then, it all went wrong, and the tears started.

 EMI Studios, October 1968

George placed his guitar carefully in its case. He wanted to slam it in, like he wanted to slam everything and everything around him, but he couldn’t harm his guitar, however lousy he felt at that moment. But, once the instrument was safely ensconced in its velvet casing, he knew without further reflection that it was safe to slam down the lid and snap the clasps shut viciously and everyone looked round.

“George?” Paul McCartney was turned towards him, puppy-dog eyes wide. “George, listen…”

George didn’t bother to look up, which was reasonable as Paul didn’t continue so George wouldn’t have known what he was supposed to listen to.

“Ooo, wassup den?” John’s voice cut across the studio.

George straightened, and turned to look at John and John’s face clearly reflected every drop of the scorn and derision in the voice. His grin held no humour, it was a leer, tight-lipped, eyes closed to slits. George stood and faced him.

It was a John he had seen many times in the past. He’d seen it in the Liverpool Art College when George had followed his good mate Paul in to play rock; John was surrounded by his arty acolytes and he was playing the game to the hilt. He’d seen it in their earlier music practises, before John had forgotten to sneer. He’d seen that look in Hamburg when John was too far gone on prellies and drink to even know who he was looking at. And he’d seen it many times directed at others, those unfortunate hangers-on who forgot their place when in the presence of a Beatle and stepped that bit too close. But, George had not seen it directed at himself for a long time. And here it was now. George straightened unconsciously, and faced his old friend.

The sneer broadened. “Wassup?” said John again. “Oh I know! Georgie wants his little song on the album but, oh dear, there just isn’t room.” John took a drag of his cigarette. “Maybe next time, eh?”

“George!” There had been two voices chorusing his name. Paul, and Ringo, and Ringo was stepping towards him from behind his drum screen, hand outstretched. Paul’s eyes were no longer puppy-dog. And George realised that he himself had halved the distance between himself and John and he realised that his fists were clenched.

“My little song?” His voice was a hiss.

John laughed.

“George!” Just Paul that time. He too was reaching out. George Martin had appeared from his control hidey-hole; George could see him out of the corner of his eye.

“Isn’t it a pity it’s bollocks,” said John. ”Good name for it really.” And the next minute John Lennon was flat on his back on the floor next to the piano. The sneer had gone, replaced by a look of sheer surprise. The woman next to him leapt to her feet; John waved her back with one hand. Ringo stood in front of George, trying to form a barrier between the two men, and grasped George’s arms.

“Geo! Come on!! George!”

George tried to focus on Ringo’s face, tried to breathe. He’d have moved forward, he’d have finished the job but Ringo was there and that reminded him that he shouldn’t do that. He felt an arm around his shoulders, and his head turned and looked at Paul. “Geo! Hey. No!”

The words were meaningless but it didn’t matter. George knew what they were saying. Fair enough. You shouldn’t beat up your bandmates. But…

He took a deep breath trying to free his voice to speak. Another deep breath.

“You bastard,” he said through uncomfortably gritted teeth. “You fucking bastard. That song is good. You fucking know it’s good.”

John was sitting up now but was still on the floor. Having to look up at his adversary lost him quite a bit of advantage. He opened his mouth to speak. “It’s…”

“It’s a good tune and you know it. You don’t want my stuff on there, you don’t want…” George took another deep breath and almost reeled from the onslaught of his own thoughts. “You don’t care about this any more, you don’t care about anything any more except her, and that shit gear you take. You know this song is better than your stuff right now, you can’t even…”

“Better than mine?” John’ interjection was almost a howl. “You have to be fucking kidding! You! You…”

“Yeah, me. And you’re so wrapped up in your own shit you wouldn’t even recognise a good song any more if it came and smashed you in the face.”

John clambered to his feet. He too turned to face his old friend. “Like you just did,” he said, quietly.

George licked his lips, mouth so dry he could barely speak or swallow. There was too much, too much he wanted to say, too much grief and fury and frustration to even start to express it. He could only shake his head. He closed his eyes briefly, and then turned away and stalked back to his guitar. He grasped the handle of the case, and then turned, half facing John, half facing away. “Fuck you, Lennon.” It was all he could manage.

He spun away and marched out of the studio away from the Beatles.

 Henley on Thames, 10th December 1980 (3)

George brushed tears away with the heel of his hand. Stupid fucking git Lennon, why did he act like that when he wasn’t like that.

Except that he was like that. But he wasn’t. But he was, all of it, all at the same time.

George looked up at the high ceiling of his grand room, tears drying on his face. His right hand groped on the sofa next to him and found the packet of cigarettes. He drew one out, found the lighter, lit the cigarette, breathed smoke in and continued to stare at his ceiling. Stupid, he declared in his mind. Stupid, to cry. The old bastard’s only in the next room, he knew that. It was just the shock. And the fucking stupid way he went. Of all the things…

Tears pricked at his eyes. Again. Stupid. It was just late. Too much wine. Some mad shit just took his friend away…

Fuck’s sake. Why cry at a memory of when he was a bastard. Why not cry at the good times. There were tons of them. He didn’t want to sit and wallow in them. That’s not what this was about, that’s not what he’s about, he knows John hasn’t gone anywhere. And even if he had, it was years since he’d been a real part of his life so what’s the difference.

George took another drag of his cigarette. It was like watching pictures in his mind, no order, and each picture carrying the essence and image of the man. There were huge loud noisy times, there were the small quiet private times, there were the angry and frustrated times. There was John’s face, on stage at Carnegie Hall, it was an experience none of them could ever have imagined happening to anyone, and it was happening to them. The centre of that huge arena and fans all around them and such energy that was like the old days in Hamburg and Liverpool. And George looked over at John, and John at that moment was looking back across the stage at him, and George saw the triumph and the joy in his face – we’ve done it, we’ve done it. The toppermost of the poppermost. And the joy sang between them.

Even bigger than Carnegie Hall; could they have ever thought there could be anything bigger but there was Shea Stadium and John lost it, completely lost it while Paul let rip on I’m Down. The whole thing was so crazy, George could see that John simply leapt into the chance to be just as crazy himself, and George joined him in the spirit of that moment and laughed so much he couldn’t even sing. And then Paul saw what was happening from the other side of the stage and he too spun around laughing at the madness and in the madness.

Paul didn’t like it when John went into his cripple act on stage, but there was nothing you could do about it, he was going to do it. Paul had talked to him about it once but never bothered to try again. And Brian tried once too but he didn’t get even a sentence out, and instead withered in the face of John’s derision. John could be the very spirit of cruelty.

And another scene imposed itself into the kaleidoscope, on a coach, on a tour, in England, and lots of other acts in the coach travelling with them because The Beatles were right down low on the bill and Helen Shapiro was right at the top. But Helen had just read an article in a music paper that said she was finished, washed up, her day was gone and the Beatles were heading the new wave. And she was crying. And John had his arm around her and John was telling her not to pay any attention to the crap they printed in papers, that she was the business and she had nothing to worry about. Her tears stopped and she ended up laughing along with John; kind and caring John.

Hamburg John, crazy John, Prellies and booze John, John who was far from home and free to finally let loose and he did. And there were a hundred scenes on stage and around the streets of madness and daring and near-atrocities – but there were also the times when they sat around the bar tables in the small hours of the mornings, drinking and talking and laughing together as a unit –

George took a deep breath, and another sip of wine. He was thinking about that unit, that impenetrable and near psychic unity which existed between the four of them and which was so palpable that outsiders could see it, like a force field around them that no-one could get through and that was the way they wanted it and needed it. Not even Neil and Mal, not even the wives and girlfriends, no-one. It had eroded, in time, it couldn’t last, but while it was there it was a gift from God and it had without any doubt saved them from insanity. The four who were one. Within the force field yes, they were four people with four separate spirits and they sometimes clashed but they still blended. The cruel and harsh and frightened and loving John was a part of the unit and helped make it what it was.

George drained his wine and as he put the glass back on the table another memory sneaked in and wrapped tightly around his heart. A postcard arriving on his doormat with just one line: “Sorry about your ma.” From the other side of the world and the other side of all the viciousness and despair, John had reached out to him to sympathise with something he understood only too well, the death of a much loved mother.

George took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. He swallowed. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he spoke to his old friend. Then he got to his feet, checked that the fire was low enough to be safe, and he slowly and tiredly made his way to the door, and up the stairs, to bed, to bring an end to that endless and terrible day.

[talkingismylifewrites]

Please I was told by a wise and learned being to come here and ask about Crystal’s retirement vineyard do his wines have comedy names or does he become obsessed with terroir and mis en bouteille à la propriété and does Roger write Heaven for Everyone sitting in a deckchair among the grapes barefoot guitar in hand and a glass of Beaujolais nouveau at his side?

our story begins in the 90s

crystal refuses to be roger’s roadie after the mess that was the 80s

hes like babe, we’ve both nearly died like 100 times i’m retiring and i want a vineyard

more for like the ~aesthetic~ not to like actual work??

like the appeal of it is that he can just have hundreds of acres and no fucking neighbors and they can definitely skinny dip without anyone taking pictures

so they buy a shambolic shitty vineyard

its BARELY even a vineyard like maybe??? once??? a hundred years ago???? it could pass

but not now

anyways

crystal is like okay time to start my retirement sleeping in and doing Absolutely Nothing

but roger is like NO

WE MUST TILL THE SOIL

AND CHECK THE PH

WHAT IS THE WEATHER PREDICTION WE DON’T WANT TO RUIN THE HARVEST

and crystal’s like....my dude...we have like three vines

roger: AND I WANT THREE VINES WORTH OF PRODUCTION

crystal literally??? just wanted??? to chill out in the south of france??? on a veranda????

retire in sTyLe

maybe get a reputation for having like a haunted vineyard with the local kids 

but noooooooooo

roger doesn’t want a dead vineyard

roger wants a fucking fully productive vineyard

with farm hands

and a cellar for their vintages cuz he’s THAT BITCH 

he took a perfectly good retirement vineyard and turned it into a job

he ruined retirement

its like that movie with diane sawyer where she gets a baby and makes applesauce

only roger

anyways

crystal bitches about it to EVERYONE

(but like, when roger’s off swanning around the world being a rockstar while crystals out in the fields at 3am putting a tarp up because an unexpected summer storm is coming)

crystal is FURIOUS

like he was done working!!! DONE!! and then fucking roger had to go and make a fucking vineyard and now they have a meeting with a distributor tomorrow at 9am

also crystal definitely makes SO MANY cutting remarks about roger being an "aging rockstar" in full hearing of the press

like he doesn’t say SHIT about freddie or john

(just sort of looks disdainfully at brian a lot)

but roger? oh

he'll loudly talk about how embarrassing it is for someone AT THE AGE OF 48 to be TOUTING AROUND like he's still TWENTY FIVE

roger: you want me to quit

crystal: god no. then you'd be at home all the time. can't be doing with all that.

roger on day one of coming home after a tour walking around critiquing the work (or lack there of) crystal did on the vineyard while he was touring

crystal: leave

(he has a tour countdown. it’s specially made)

(its an advent calendar but for tour. everymorning he gets a little piece of chocolate for putting up with roger)

(on sundays it’s a shot of alcohol cuz lord knows he needs a drink)

Roger keeps bothering crystal about the design for the label so crystal has to call up Freddie and be like pick up your boyfriend he’s annoying me

it is a mystery to any and every one how the fuck they work

They end up being hella successful but if you ask roger they’re constantly on the edge of the whole thing collapsing into ruin

roger somehow manages to get john to manage the finacial side

no one quite knows how he did it?? not even crystal???

but if you ask john he just looks pissed off and tells you not to mention it

roger just looks smug

(roger has NO IDEA how it work all he knows is one day john showed up with a brief case and was like SHOW ME YOUR FINANCIALS!!!)

Crystal is that cheap bastard who gives people bottles of wine for Christmas or their birthday

And it’s very clear that he just grabbed one and slapped a bow on it

Crystal, handing a bottle of merlot off to 12 year old Robbie: happy birthday 

Robbie, confused: I don’t know what to do with this

Crystal: Jesus you are not your fathers son. Go get me the corkscrew and then come back I’ll show you want to do with it

Veronica: do not give my 12 year old wine Christopher we’ve discussed this

BUT YEAH

their biggest fight EVER stems from roger catching crystal in the vineyard eating the grapes

like

roger leaves

like he LEAVES

it almost breaks up the vineyard over The Incident and crystal’s lack of appreciation for The Wine

and crystal is like fucking morose

like eating his way through his advent calendar

john rocks up with ratty and is like..... jesus christ, man

crystal's just laying in the kitchen covered in chocolate and whiskey in his boxers 

(BECAUSE HE CAN’T DRINK THEIR WINE WITHOUT ROGER OKAY HE CAN’T ITS THEIR WINE)

with a little timer set for when it's reticulation time for the grapes

(because roger might be gone but crystal sure as shit ain’t gonna kill the grapes)

roger’s hanging out with veronica and dominique bitching about how crystal doesn’t appreciate him

wearing a face mask drinking rose

roger: and then I caught him eATING THE BORDEAUX GRAPES!!

Ronnie: NO!! 

Dominique: oh my god roger I’m so sorry

roger: the vineyard is a METAPHOR for our RELATIONSHIP and he was EATING IT

john, squinting across the table at a very drunk and morose crystal: do...you ate...some grapes?

crystal: ya

john:....did they taste good?

crystal, sobbing: NO

johns like just go to the store and buy more grapes!!

crystal: its a METAPHOR john

john: ......... for what?

crystal: I DONT KNOW

crystal is like he’s always loved the grapes more than me!! Always!!

john on the phone to veronica like "yeah idk he says its a metaphor but idk what???"

veronica like "you're a fucking heathen, john. dont call here again."

crystal totally wins roger back with a bottle of wine

turns out he’s kept their first bottle??

had it tucked away and was gonna save it for something special

slash as a reminder like we did this we made this??

and he sends it to roger and roger is so fucking touched

roger comes back to the vineyard totally expecting the whole place to be ruined and the grapes to be dead (OR EATEN)

instead its running perfectly?? like it used to??? 

and crystal is there looking like dennis quaid in the parent trap

(its totally raining outside)

and he takes a deep breath and looks into roger’s eyes and is like:

the grapes are a metaphor for our love because we have to tend to them in order to make something great

(roger is like you fucking poet nugget you sappy shit that’s not it at all but you’re TRYING) 

and then they fuck in the vineyard

the end

(ps when they open the first bottle to drink it tastes like SHIT like they had no idea what they were doing its straight up fucking vinegar but crystal chokes down a glass because he wants to prove to roger that he VALUES him and their work)

(roger watches him drink it and doesn’t say a word because like, crystal ate the fucking grapes!! he ate them!!! repent for your sins!!!!!!!!!!)

[thesinglesjukebox]

UTADA HIKARU & SKRILLEX - FACE MY FEARS

[4.73]

And here they are...

Katie Gill: How "Face My Fears" is a perfect metaphor for the Kingdom Hearts franchise, a review in multiple parts. Super emotional: Utada Hikaru's voice and singing, the ending of 358/2 Days. Slightly incongruous parts: that drop, the Gummi Ship parts in Kingdom Hearts 1 that were a pain in the ass. And finally, choices that make you wonder "hmm, why did they do it that way?" For "Face My Fears," this is the way the lyrics are translated and arranged, so you get awkward phrases such as "breath/should I take a deep?" For the Kingdom Hearts franchise, this is the entire goddamn plot. [5]

Iain Mew: On a scale of The Kooks in FIFA 09 to Faye Wong's "Eyes on Me" in Final Fantasy VIII this is... OK, I can't use this scale fairly because I'm not going to play Kingdom Hearts III for another five years. Perhaps in its context I would be swept along much better. As it is, I get a reasonable triangulation between JRPG theme, Disney ballad and "Where Are Ü Now" shuffle-chopping, so it's not all bad. [6]

Iris Xie: When Utada's vocals come in, they're so fragile and thin, like the notion of connection and love is melting and scattering into pixelated decay. Combined with the delicate piano work that sounds like a slightly novel take on both the guitar melody in "Hikari" and "Dearly Beloved," it has the potential to be another deep dive into another legendary theme song...until this song gives away to a horrific noise. That EDM scritch-scratch takes all that build-up, grabs it, and then destroys all the affect left behind by her voice, like a raccoon-driven accordion that won't stop skipping or whining. Complete with anonymous ad libs that couldn't be decoded through a reversed version, and is also a very weak throwback to "Passion," this is disappointing. Utada's strength is in completely immersing herself with her vulnerability and becoming incandescent, allowing a listener to melt with her narratives, but here, Skrillex keeps interrupting her instead of letting her flourish. Overall, we only hear glimpses of this potential here, and it emerges again briefly in the haunting outro and slight minor chords, but by then, the song has progressed too far and it's too late. All the magic has melted completely, leaving nothing but an upsetting, vague, dissatisfaction. I wish we had this song instead to end the Kingdom Hearts trilogy. [3]

Stephen Eisermann: Maybe it's my love for the video game that this song serves as a soundtrack single for, but I'm on board. Sure, the lyrical phrasing is, being generous, rough, but I'll chalk that up more to rough translations than anything else. The vague cliches work well against the incredible beat drop and perfectly summarize the lovely mess that is the Kingdom Hearts storyline. It may not make a lot of sense, but damn does it sound good, doesn't it. [7]

Will Rivitz: Trashing Skrillex is typically not just passé but inaccurate: the man consistently creates some of the most exciting, well-produced, and interdisciplinary sounds in an EDM market that makes its living rehashing its seven or eight in-vogue sonic templates ad infinitum. His remix of Pendulum's "The Island" represents a rare opportunity to scorn him accurately. A shambolic interlacing of dub samples, future bass cliché, and snares so overprocessed they sound like Kraft cheese; the remix is his first genuine misstep in a few years. It's appropriate that "Face My Fears" is the sonic face of Kingdom Hearts 3, as it's effectively a Disneyfied edit of the aforementioned remix, unwieldy interlude sections replaced by Utada Hikaru sounding for all the world like every other female vocalist Proximity has ever featured. At least the dub was interesting. [4]

Jonathan Bradley: It's not that Skrillex overshadows Utada; rather, he finds a natural complement for his ostentatious disintegrations in her searching balladry. Much as he did with "Dirty Vibe," he shows better understanding of East Asian pop sensibilities than might be expected. If anything, these electronic shards seem to underplay its lead's careful poise; it isn't clear whether they're decoration or centrepiece. [6]

Will Adams: We were never going to get another "Simple and Clean," nor would we ever get a remix that employed that sci-fi trance sound that was left in the early '00s. It's 2019, so we have future bass. That's fine; Utada's voice is still as moving. Except Skrillex created a drop that sounds like aggressive squeegeeing. [5]

Ian Mathers: Ay, there's the wub. [6]

Alfred Soto: There are scarier things than facing your fears with Skrillex at your side. [3]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: The Japanese version is better, but only slightly. That the title line is sung in English gives the song a welcome contrast in language. At the very least, it distracts from the instrumentation's tiresome "motivational ballad-cum-stadium EDM" formula (that the English isn't as clunky as the verses helps). I like the small dubstep wobbles in the second verse, but the chorus's attention-grabbing drop doesn't build on the hopeful yearning of Utada Hikaru's vocals. Like those sitting through the opening sequence of Kingdom Hearts III, I listened to the entirety of "Face My Fears" on principle. Like those sitting through the opening sequence of Kingdom Hearts III a second time, I'll want to skip this whenever it comes on again. [3]

Thomas Inskeep: I played this in the background while doing other things, and it played like background. [4]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[sunflowerstrays]

you make me laugh // mark tuan

anon requested this: Can I request a scenario where YN is got7s mark gf, and the member tease her because she is from England and has a British accent. If possible can you make YN like famous too, maybe like the lead singer of a British band, idk but yeah

mark tuan x reader.

words: 2k.

genre: fluff, crack.

---

Mark and you had been dating for two years now, but had known each other for the majority of your lives

And two say you two were inseparable was an odd phrase because you definitely spent most of your time apart from each other

but when you were together you were joined at the hip, refusing to spend time apart

and because of this you spent a lot of time with the other got7 members

who all loved you to death because you definitely brought the best out of Mark

but your adorable British accent also humoured them to their death beds

the worst case that has ever happened with your voice was when you had all gone out for a meal to celebrate the success of got7′s new album

and you had tried to reply to a savage comment from Yugyeom about your new music style

but your voice had cracked as you had turned slightly shrill and this meant that the British accent messed up all the Korean pronunciations

and you’d never seen seven boys laugh quite so much in your life

to the point that even Jaebum, who could often keep a stone facade and remain stoic in these situations couldn’t control himself and was red in the face

you had just hidden your face in Mark’s arm as he patted your thigh and laughed hard with his friends

that incident aside

the boys mostly loved your accent

they thought it was absolutely adorable and wouldn’t change it for the world

even if it meant that when they arrived in England they would do their best to butcher the accent

just like they were doing now as the met you at the airport

because you were the lead singer of the British band, The Sun

and were kicking off of a week of stadium performances tomorrow night

and somehow this lined up perfect with some of the boys holiday time, so they had decided to come and visit you on some of your tour nights

and experience “British culture, the very best of it” ~ Youngjae, 2018

little did they know that British culture mostly consisted of rain, awkward smiles with strangers on the subway and an unhealthy amount of tea

yet as you stood at the arrival entrance for international flights you were beginning to think this whole plan was shambolic

because Jackson was pointing out a million things to Yugyeom and Youngjae, speaking the English name for it, but doing so in the worst accent possible

and you could here the old couple beside you muttering about how annoying today’s youth were

“y/n!”

Mark practically leapt from the other side of the room to your side, embracing you in the biggest hug and swallowing you in the smells of air-planes

you were too happy to see him to care that he was messing up your hair you had made such an effort on today

and hugged him back so tightly, wishing that in another universe, the two of you would have all the time in the world to spend together

because it had been almost two months since the two of you had last seen each other in person and you weren’t sure how long the next length of time would be

but for now you were just happy to see him back

following Mark was Jinyoung and Bambam, both of them screaming hello at you from the place were Mark had taken off

running at you at the speed of light before barrelling into you with the biggest hug

the couple beside you just anxiously shuffled backwards as they saw how big the group were, giving you the dirtiest looks

“British culture,” you introduced to the boys in Korean, making the three of them laugh hysterically

Youngjae and Jaebum appeared next, testing their English skills by making as much conversation in their adorably broken English as possible

which involved something along the lines of “Mark very excited to see you” and “how is this accent?”

you couldn’t help but tear at up how adorable Youngjae’s accent was, it was clear he was trying his best

then the three evil kids showed up, hugging you tightly and literally carrying you through the airport until Mark sulked that he wanted to hold your hand, and they dropped you before staring around at them

“so much British!” Youngjae had squealed as you walked past an over priced souvenir store that was drowning in cheesy British souvenirs

Mark had just rolled his eyes as the boys all wandered inside, asking you how to say a multitude of different things

ranging from bus to telephone box to Big Ben

and everytime you said something they would start giggling because of the accent, before trying to say it themselves

and you best believe Jackson and Bambam were having the time of their lives

eventually Mark and you manoeuvred the boys out of the store and towards the mini-bus you had had to order because the seven boys were a large number as it was, and with them came countless amounts of luggage

you sat in the aisle seat with Mark at the window as you drove through London to the hotel the eight of you were staying at with the rest of your group

who were all fairly excited to meet the boys

despite none of them knowing a word of Korean

the boys were trying to read as many signs as possible as you drove past, giggling to themselves like the children they were

but Mark and you were lost in your own little world

catching up on two months of not seeing each other by somehow cuddling in the cramped mini-bus and sharing inside jokes

or blushing deeply when ever one of the boys would call you two out for sharing a kiss

eventually the bus arrived at the hotel and this meant that the boys were all super hyped for a day touring London

the seven of them, as usual, were dressed to impress

meaning that amongst the young in their track suits and the professionals in their suits, they stuck out like a sore thumb with their heavily influenced fashion sense

but you didn’t really mind because hanging out with got7 was destined to make you stand out anyway

the underground was quite the interesting experience

with you holding both Mark and Youngjae’s hand at the same time, whilst Mark kept his eyes on Bambam and Yugyeom who were sat at the window waving at the strangers on the platform

and you almost left Jackson on a train into the heart of the city

but you showed them the classic tourist spots

and took them to your favourite small restaurant in the city where you had taken Mark the first time he came home with you

the whole time you were attached to Mark

and no matter how much Youngjae would tug you to look at the big bridges dotted along the Thames, Mark refused to let go

not that you were complaining because time spent with Mark was the most important thing in the world to you

eventually the day came to a close and you were heading back to the hotel

the six younger boys were deciding to find somewhere to eat after you giving them a long list of recommendations all day

but Mark and you opted for your hotel room and room service instead

once the two of you got there it involved changing into lazy clothes and cuddling on the bed

looking out of the open hotel window and just watching the world go by

and chatting about nothing

with the occasional make out sessions here and there

and honestly it was the best thing

because it made the endless months apart worth waiting out

because then these stolen moments in time were even more special to you

the second day of the trip was spent travelling around the city still, but you had to leave the boys early to go and practise for your show tonight

you were so terrified for performing not only because it was a stadium tour

but it was the first time you were performing in front of Mark live and the thought of disappointing him was what urged you to push harder

the girl group you were in weren’t the initially thought pop group that had been assumed of you when you had started

but rather you wrote all of your songs yourselves, and produced them, chose the music video design and created the dances

and had a much more chill and laid back vibe to your music

which is why Mark had loved your group even more because it was totally his style of music

and your voice sent shivers down his spine every time he heard it

tonight the boys were sitting VIP for you, but in a separate sections to save the risk of any fans spotting them

you could just see the seven of them chatting from the side of the stage before you were going to perform

and this made you even more terrified than you thought possible

but here you were and there was no sending them back to Korea now

the tour kicked off amazingly well

and somehow you managed to get through the first half of the show without messing up any lyrics or choreography, and none of your members had started their usual rants which was a huge bonus

during the half time break fans were given a chance to grab drinks and such whilst you changed backstage

but before you could run back on stage Mark had tackled you in a huge hug and was kissing your cheeks with watery eyes

“I love my talented queen of a girlfriend”

“Mark stop you’ll make me cry on stage”

eventually the security guards had to lead Mark back to where he was supposed to be sitting because you had like thirty seconds to run back on stage

the second half of the concert as well was incredible

and the group finished on a high note with fans cheering for you incessantly

and to say that the concert went well would be an understatement

Mark and the boys somehow snuck backstage to meet you and were wrestling verbally with the security guards to let them stay

and you just rolled your eyes and asked if they could stay

so they were all cramped into your dressing room whilst you had your makeup removed, chatting excitedly about the performance

and whilst you had to go next door to change they were still heard through thick walls

and when you were finally released into the night Mark refused to leave your side all night

even more so than usual

keeping you on his lap in the hotel room and kissing your head softly as you were falling asleep, knowing that you’d now have a whole week of this tiredness

not that you minded because you would do anything for Mark

and his wild band members

even if they were nuisances most of the time and dedicated all their spare moments to mocking you for your accent and girl group performances

---

oof idk if this is what you really wanted butttt it felt better to write it as a bullet list bc i could write a lot more if you know what i mean. however i hope you enjoy and i realise that i write so much for mark that it looks like he’s my actual bias rather than my biggest bias wrecker :)))))

requests are open <3

[snacc-noir]

Kim Week, Day 2: Hero/Villain

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

(This is a continuation to my random-as story ‘Oblivious’ on Ao3, where basically Alix has a tantrum to Max and Kim about Marinette and Adrien not dating, so Kim suggests they try to set them up being quote: ‘shipping superheroes’. I had no idea what else to do for this prompt so here)

Three pints of ginger beer from the Kubdel’s pantry, a shambolically filled-up notebook of ideas and two exhausted teens lying on a pile of skater gear later and Alix and Kim were finished their game plan.

Unlike Alya and Marinette’s complicated ‘Operation: Secret Garden’-type schemes to make ‘Adrinette’ happen, the pair opted for creating a plan most defiantly quick and easy—that they were sure was going to work by the end of the day—as both had had enough viewing of slow-burn to last them a lifetime.

“Our class is going to love us,” Kim during his sleepy drowse murmured to the wearied pile before him. After discussing few ideas at Max���s the previous day, their scheming expanded into a sleepover (with zero sleeping) at Alix’s. “I told you this ‘shipping-superheroes’ idea was a good one.”

Her half-lidded eyes blinked up at him behind pink tuffs. “I still think the ‘superhero’ thing is a weird a title.”

The hoarseness whirring in her voice was so clear Kim would’ve mocked her about it if not his own voice were identical. “It’s the biggest ‘heroic’ thing we’ll ever do for our class, so let me have this.”

Alix closed her eyes and hummed in response.

…

The pair were so beat the following Monday morning that the commotion of the latest akuma attack was a mere buzz in their ears.

Kim only caught something about, ‘Gabriel akumatized again’, ‘Carapace, Queen Bee and Rena Rouge joining’, ‘LB and Chat leaving halfway to come back blushing messes’, and that the battle was ‘really long’.

At least whatever happened during the disastrous battle wasn’t going to affect their success in setting up Marinette and Adrien.

“You’re on phase one, remember?”

Alix couldn’t care less about yesterday’s kerfuffle if it distracted her from her task at hand. She’d waited enough months taking part in pointless operations that she wasn’t going to allow one bigger-than-normal akuma delay her plan, especially when her eyes fell like falling out from exhaust and arteries to burst from ginger beer over-consumption.

“Um, yeah.” Kim peered around the classroom to see Adrien slumped in his desk and without his usual bright smile. Only Alya was seated behind him. “I don’t think Marinette’s arrived yet, though.”

Alix planted her fists in the curves of her waist and glared at the class president’s vacant desk. “I’m astonished.”

“Do you think I should wait a bit, too? Adrien looks sorta out of it.”

She shot him a look that said her answer enough for him. “I’m not waiting any longer for the oblivious punks to make-out. Phase one happens as soon as Marinette walks through that door.”

Kim turned to scrutinise the entryway. Ivan and Mylène were sauntering in wearing smiles as they exchanged pleasantries with animated hand gestures.

“And if she doesn’t come until during homeroom?”

“Then do it as we’re walking to our next class.”

He nodded and moved off the stairs to take his place, as she did the same. Max was already performing calculations at his desk and didn’t address the pair in his usual form. Instead, he sighed as the two instantaneously began confirming details about their scheme again the moment they sat down.

“Are you two still doing the Marinette and Adrien plan? Or was the probability of success too low for you to proceed?”

Alix leant her weight on the wall behind to stare hopelessly at the door Marinette had yet to stumble through during her mad flap. “We’re still doing it. And we’re sure it’s gonna work.”

Kim drew out his tablet and slid it on his desk. “We figured out the phases and stuff last night. We’re going straight for the homerun instead of gradually easing them to get together, since there’s been enough time for that. By the end of today, our mission as shipping superheroes will be complete!”

Alix pulled a face. “Superhero thing’s still weird.”

“Certain, huh?” Max pushed his glasses up with a forefinger, smirking sideways at Kim. “You’re sure your need of force will have the appropriate impact you want it to have on their relationship?”

“Well, yeah—”

Kim cut himself off when hearing a, “Gah!” holler from nearby. He searched for the noise and was delighted to see the notorious sight of Marinette tripping headfirst through the doorway, only to catch herself in an odd position at the last minute.

He didn’t need Alix to tell him what to do next.

Whilst Kim ambled down the classroom’s staircase—attempting to do so as nonchalant as ever—he failed to see the way Marinette took one glance in Adrien’s direction and turned into a blue-headed fire hydrant, nor did he see how the model quickly resembled the same after his sight caught her.

When he headed to initiate phase one, he didn’t expect to see two furiously blushing teens in front of him.

Though the surprise wasn’t great enough to cloud Alix’s whispers of, “Go.”

“Whoops!” Kim blurted as he frantically stumbled away from Marinette—the same Marinette who he had just shoved bumped on his way down the stairs, leaving her ‘unfortunately’ in the lap of a wide-eyed and pink as a pig Adrien Agreste.

“I’m so sorry, Marinette.” He pressed a hand on his heart and looked at her earnestly for good measure. Alix’s wide grin behind him was almost palpable to sense. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Her awkward smile stretched beyond her crimson cheeks and her pupils were still frazzled. “Uh—um, it’s—it’s okay, Kim. I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

Then, as if she’d just realised her position, Marinette gasped and flipping leapt off of paralysed Adrien and faced him with one of the most mortified expressions he’d ever seen.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry Cha—Adrien! Adrien. The model. Yeah. That’s you!” She took a deep breath but it didn’t calm her. “I’m, uh—” It was only right to say she squeaked halfway through her sentence and bolted past him to her seat, while all Adrien could do was turn himself to stare stupidly at the front of the classroom.

Kim and Alix shared a victorious thumbs up across the room.

…

Phase two, in their opinion, went even better.

After a mad race of downing their food before even reaching their lunch table and finding their assigned idiot to corner, the pair had gained information only the class’s girls could dream of having.

When Kim discovered Adrien tossing a popper in the trash during a mission to ask him about Marinette and his love life, he did not expect a bottle of emotions to be flooded out to him during an extemporaneous therapy session.

“I love her—I really do love her,” Adrien had blabbered on, raking a hand through his blond tresses as they sat in the corner of the cafeteria, “but I know she doesn’t love me.”

Kim could’ve sworn he heard Adrien mutter, “anymore…” under his breath a second later.

Alix’s situation went likewise, and she reported that Marinette almost said the exact same thing during their private talk under the stairs, confirming their un-doubtful suspicions that good-old mutual pinning was involved in their set-up plan.

During excited bubbles of laughter after the story exchange, they declared ‘phase three’ to commence.

…

Phase three was the last and furthermost challenging aspect of their scheme. The risks of getting detention or even loss of friends, they decided, were totally worth it for the high chance of progression in Marinette and Adrien’s intimacy levels.

The girls in the class had spent hours constructing plans to set the two up on dates that always ended up in failure. Kim and Alix studied the approaches and realised its failure was because of A: spontaneous akumas. B: the time it would’ve taken Adrien to figure out it wasn’t a ‘friend date’. And C: how both teens had the sovereignty to flee the set-up scene whenever they wanted.

Hence why forcing Adrien and Marinette to be together without a chance to escape was to be the most successful idea.

In other words, locking them in empty room was the mission’s clincher.

…

“I cannot believe you just did that.”

Kim wiped his hands on his sweatpants to remove the imaginary lint, only glimpsing up to give Alix a smirk. “You better believe it. It was your idea anyway.”

“My one-hundred-percent joking idea.” She shot a nervous look to the boiler room’s door, barricaded with excessive amounts of stolen desks and chairs.

She could only hope her and Kim’s crouched place in the corner of the vacant hall was enough of a hiding spot for Adrien and Marinette not to hear their conversing. “How long are we giving them? The guilt’s eating me already.”

Kim rolled his eyes and shuffled up next to her. “There’s plenty of space in the boiler for them to sit twenty meters apart. It’s not like we went for the closet idea.”

Alix wondered if the closet idea would’ve even been easier. Luring Marinette to the boiler (‘Oh, I accidently left my spray cans there. Can you please get them while I help Kim with this thing?’) to leave her wandering on a wild goose-chase for invisible paint cans was difficult enough, but getting Adrien to stay there—Alix was surprised he even bought Kim’s, ‘You wanna meet up in the boiler to talk more about your Marinette situation and stuff? Just a warning; the door sticks. But I’ll come anyway if that happens.’

When they heard gasps of names inside the boiler after Adrien had stumbled in, Kim moved the desks to obstruct the door.

Alix hugged her knees. “That’s ‘cause our school doesn’t have a closet.”

“Whatever.” He tipped his head back to lean against the dim-lit wall. “Either they’re emotionally confessing to each other, trying to find a way to break the door, or making-out.” He slipped her a sidelong grin. “See? Nothing to feel guilty over.”

Her features pressed into a frown as she salvaged her phone from her shorts pocket. “You’re lucky Max prohibited me to punch you.” The illumination of her screen was a contrast to the dusky hall-light they’d been enduring for three minutes. She noticed she’d received two messages. “Nate’s in the art room for our free period. Everyone’s wondering where the art desks are.”

They simultaneously looked at the blockage items securing the boiler door’s lock.

“Um…” Kim trailed. “Say you and I are going for a hunt for them.”

“On it.”

…

Ten or so minutes past before Kim and Alix returned the desk and chairs to their original places, claiming they found them in the woodwork room (everyone bought it). The former revisited the boiler alone and burst out apologies to Adrien (‘Alix was helping me with this thing so I couldn’t come in time—by the way Marinette, she found her cans.’) to which Adrien responded positively; beaming at Kim with a ‘no worries’ and tightening his grip on Marinette’s hand as she discreetly wiped away—were those tears?

At Kim’s offer to continue talking about the Marinette problem, he was more than elated to hear the response: “We’ve worked it all out”.

Alix was more than elated too.

…

“So they’re totally together? Like together, together?” Alix practically squealed in question, trying to no avail to stifle her excitement as she bounced up and down on the school’s entry steps.

Kim stood with arms akimbo, smiling down at her. “Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “Operation: Shipping superheroes was a success.”

She halted her bouncing to shoot him a look. “You know, for someone who as an akumatized villain had the aim of destroying love, I find it quite ironic you claim to be a ‘set-up superhero’ for Marinette and Adrien.”

He frowned. “I couldn’t help it; Hawkmoth’s fault. Besides, I was a villain tearing apart Ladybug and Chat Noir. Now, I’m a hero setting up Marinette and Adrien—different position, completely different people.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

He grinned and leant downward (goodness how she hated that) to be closer to her eyelevel. “Can you believe we actually did it, Kubdel? Like, us. We were the ones who set up Marinette and Adrien. It was all our influence and doing.”

Alix chuckled and pushed his face away. “Gaining ten pounds from sugar in ginger beer and waking up with your quiff in my mouth was worth it.” She released a sigh of contentment. “The two idiots are actually dati—”

She paused. Her eyes sparkled.

Kim gave her a questioning look. “What?”

“Does this mean we can do phase 4?”

His face dropped.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“If you dare—”

“Dare? Kim’s daring me to do something? Okay.”

He stepped forward. “Alix Kubdel you know that is not what I meant—”

“La la la, I can’t hear you!” she sing-songed in an unnaturally high pitch, bouncing around him with hands pressed on her ears and smiling giddily. “My senses don’t register rubbish!”

He huffed and glared at her twirling figure. “You were totally joking with phase four. We are not doing it.”

“Oh? Is that so?” she asked dubiously. “I thought I was totally joking with phase three, but we did that anyway. Guess we’re doing this too.”

Kim inhaled with frustration and tipped his head back, casting a defeated look to the sky. The girl was a nightmare.

“They’re gonna hate us forever.”

She retracted her hands from the sides of her head. “I’ll just mention what our plan did for them then. You could even speak at their wedding.”

Kim began to mutter something along the longs of, “Oh, so you heard that?”, but Alix’s jovial yelp cut his grumbling to a close.

“There they are!”

He glanced in the direction of her outstretched finger, smirking instantly at the love-sickening sight he’d usually cringe at.

Adrien was ambling out of the school’s bulky entry doors, a smiling Marinette attached on the side by the wrap of his arm, both seeming to be submerged in a world of pure bliss.

The perfect couple, it looked like.

So of course Alix just had to initiate phase four.

“Oi Agreste!” She cuffed her hands around her lips, and Kim was pretty sure his heart tripped out of existence at her bellow. “Hurry up and shove that tongue of yours in her mouth!”

To her astonishment and Kim’s—well to be fair his was more gaping horror—Adrien smirked at the incongruous demand as Marinette let out an incredulous squawk. Then, not only that, but it was another stilling moment of silence before the girl was swooped in a bow with famous Agreste lips planted on hers.

...

Kim and Alix walked out of school feeling like heroes.

[torentialtribute]

Redknapp says Solskjaer could be fighting for his United job if he doesn’t spark upturn in form

& # 39; Solskjaer will eat under enormous pressure if she doesn't start well next season & # 39 ;: Jamie Redknapp suggests that Ole Gunnar Solskjaer could fight for his job at Manchester United

] By | Jamie Redknapp believes

Jamie Redknapp believes Manchester United will tolerate more misery next season and that the task of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer could become uncertain

United was reminded by Huddersfield on Saturday, eliminating their hope of qualifying for the Champions League

And the early optimism of Solskjaer's tenure is almost disappearing, but Redknapp predicted that the United States boss would be under enormous control if he didn't make a strong start next season.

<img id = "i-6e6822a09dd9c9e7" src = "https://dailym.ai/2Jd4XUu image-a-151_1557071075801.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt ="

<img id = "i-6e6822a09dd9c9e7" src = "https: //i.dailymail. co.uk/1s/2019/05/05/16/13118358-0-image-a-151_1557071075801.jpg "height =" 423 "width =" 634 "alt =" Ole Gunnar Solskjaer & Manchester United was held to draw 1-1 through Huddersfield "

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer & Manchester United were held on a 1-1 draw from Huddersfield

Redknapp said: & Sometimes it was shambolic to really look at them (against Huddersfield) In the last six, seven, eight matches under Ole Gunnar Solskjaer there are many question marks.

& # 39; We all looked at Jose Mourinho and thought he was the problem, I had no doubt they had to get rid of him [Jose Mourinho]. and that he damaged the club to a certain extent. Maybe they should buy some players well if we can gather more players in the summer that are the way forward.

& As soon as Sir Alex Ferguson left, they spent £ 744 million. What they did, they tried to buy the Harlem Globetrotters of football. They buy players without building a team structure.

& If you look at what Manchester City and Liverpool did during that time, they bought players without ego. It's good to say that you could sell Paul Pogba, that could be the answer. It won't be the answer. There is so much more wrong with that club.

& # 39; We all love Solskjaer, but he manages Molde, he manages Cardiff. You want someone to know the market to get the best out of it. You fight against Guardiola, Pochettino, Klopp. It will be a big season for him.

& # 39; My fear of United is that if they don't start next season, they will come under enormous pressure. Then you may have to fire him. That is what will happen to me next season.

& # 39; I think they've put themselves in such a mess. When he took over, everyone thought he was a major emergency solution, but since then it has been demonstrated that there are many problems with the players. I feel that they have a big problem with buying players. I only see more problems for them next season.

& # 39; You must go with the times. They are so far behind time. They tried Jose, Moyes, Van Gaal and it didn't really work. I think they should take a good look at themselves.

<img id = "i-5a475a71ad898384" src = "https://dailym.ai/2J1IWsw. jpg "height =" 444 "width =" 634 "alt =" <img id = "i-5a475a71ad898384" src = "https://dailym.ai/2Jd4YI2 -6994933-image-m-167_1557071450584.jpg "height =" 444 "width =" 634 "alt =" [Verenigde Staten van Amerika] <img id = "i-5a475a71ad898384" src = "https://dailym.ai/2uS4u1n /1s/2019/05/05/16/13118454-6994933-image-m-167_1557071450584.jpg "height =" 444 "width =" 634 "alt =" United & # 39; s draw against Huddersfield means that they do not qualify for the Champions League Huddersfield means that they do not qualify for the Champions League "

United & # 39; s draw against Huddersfield means they do not qualify for the Champions League

& # 39; There will be a lot of pain for United. It has taken Liverpool 29 years, this is the closest one. It feels exactly what happened in Liverpool. It wasn't that they didn't try. The confidence was so low.

& I watch the United players and fear them. They are in a bit of a mess.

United & # 39; s season ends next week at Old Trafford when they play against Cardiff.

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[theconservativebrief]

Is President Donald Trump a perversion of the American conservative movement — or simply an honest reflection of what it’s been for decades?

Ever since Trump’s victory in the Republican primary, this has been one of the big questions hanging over American politics. If Trump’s anti-intellectual and race-baiting brand of politics is a parasite on the American right, then it’s possible the Republican Party can be cleaned up after him. That’s the premise of the so-called Never Trump movement, a small group of Republican elites and conservative intellectuals who have denounced the president and his allies in no uncertain terms.

But it’s possible the Never Trumpers are wrong. It could be that they’re the ones who have been deluding themselves into thinking that the conservative movement is a higher intellectual calling, when in fact it’s been a cover for a shallow and vicious brand of white identity politics for decades. If that’s true, then there’s no coming back from Trumpism. The conservative movement and its core institutions need to be radically reformed, if not outright abolished and rebuilt.

One of the most prominent Never Trumpers, former George W. Bush speechwriter David Frum, posed precisely this question at the end of an Atlantic essay on conservative polemicist and convicted felon Dinesh D’Souza. “Did they really change so much?” Frum muses about his Trump supporting allies, “Or did I?” Seth Cotlar, a professor of American history at Willamette University, set out to answer Frum’s question in a lengthy and extremely worthwhile Twitter thread — and suggested an answer the Never Trumper won’t like.

Cotlar, who grew up in a Republican household and teaches a course on the history of American conservatism, suggests that Frum is, in fact, the one who changed. He claims that for at least two decades, back when Frum was a mainstream conservative in good standing, the Republican Party and the conservative movement were already in the grips of a kind of proto-Trumpism. Here’s Cotlar’s argument, which I encourage you to read in full:

1. I would love to read a sympathetic (yet critical) essay that assessed a central claim made by Never Trumpers like @davidfrum–that conservatism today is an embarrassing bastardization of what conservatism once was. https://t.co/PpTn36jfT9

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

2. Let me start by saying that I take Frum and other Never Trumpers to be acting in good faith. I appreciate and respect the principled stand they have taken against Trumpist conservatism. But I have questions.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

3. First, the declensionist narrative. “Once conservatism was an intellectually robust political phenomenon, but now it is anti-intellectual pap.” I’m willing to be convinced of this…but it’s going to take some work. pic.twitter.com/uuZM8BVjB0

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

4. For example, let’s rewind to the early 1990s, a time when today’s Never Trumpers were unapologetic conservatives, and a time when a brash young Congressman from Georgia, Newt Gingrich (PhD in History), carried the mantle of “the conservative politician with the big ideas.”

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

5. In 1995 Newt taught a course called “Renewing American Civilization,” a mix of history, sociology, and politics designed to chart a course forward for the @gop and the nation. It was a shambolic mess, to put it politely. https://t.co/uwydnftXQ9

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

6. In 1995 I was a graduate student in American history and was curious what one of our major political leaders thought about the subject, so I opened up Netscape and downloaded the full text of Newt’s lectures via 56K modem. They’re still accessible at https://t.co/Uv3C7fLmHv

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

7. They read like the transcript of a Trump campaign rally, only with a 12th grade vocabulary instead of a 5th grade vocab. It’s stream of consciousness gobbledygook. Like this gem. No one w/ a rudimentary knowledge of American History or social science could take Newt seriously. pic.twitter.com/FDF07qWjgc

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

8. Looking back at Newt’s 1995 lectures from the vantage point of 2018, it’s easy to see many of the building blocks of Trumpism–the disdain for elites, the faux populism, the culture war BS, etc. “2018 Trumpist Newt” doesn’t seem like a departure from “1995 galaxy brain Newt.”

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

9. In the 1990s I was no “raving leftist.” I had two Republican voting grandparents and was educated in public schools in a conservative small town where my parents were small business owners.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

10. Sure, I went to Brown for college, but my primary US history prof was Gordon Wood, a man known to dine with Antonin Scalia. Despite that background, in 1995, at the age of 27, it only took me about 20 minutes to figure out Newt was full of sh*t. Because I had read some books.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

11. Newt is full of the same anti-intellectual sh*t today as he was in 1995, when he was the conservative “man of the hour.” So I ask (& I really do mean this as an open question despite my snarky tone)…what did Frum et. al. see in Newt ca. 1995 that is unlike Trump ca. 2018?

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

12. The other great conservative “intellectual” of the early 1990s was Dinesh D’Souza. The Never Trumper declensionist narrative rests upon the distinction between the once respectable Dinesh and the now clownish Dinesh. pic.twitter.com/LBiiETnrVi

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

13. I will grant that D’Souza’s 1991 book “Illiberal Education” is a less ludicrously clownish book than his most recent productions. But that would be akin to saying that the comedy stylings of Chevy Chase were more intellectually robust than those of Adam Sandler. True, but…

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

14. Illiberal Education benefited from a few generous reviews written by credentialed but curmodgeonly white male academics like C. Vann Woodward. Woodward’s peers took him to task at the time. https://t.co/1P8vAKWcTb

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

15. The scholarly work that D’Souza (and Woodward) pilloried in the early 90’s has stood the test of time. The 1990s work of D’Souza’s reactionary defenders like Eugene Genovese and Woodward, however, has fared less well.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

16. Like Gingrich’s lectures, D’Souza’s Illiberal Education was a laughing stock amongst those who actually knew the universities and scholarly fields he claimed to expose. His stock and trade then was reactionary oversimplification. Same goes for today.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

17. Can we also just recall some of the greatest hits of Reaganite conservatism? Like the Laffer curve? Or EPA director James Watt, who thought we needn’t protect the environment because the rapture was imminent? Or super-patriot Ollie North?

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

18. Voodoo economics is alive and well in Trumpist conservatism, Scott Pruitt was like James Watt redux, climate change denial is the 2018 version of the @gop’s anti-science foot dragging on tobacco regulation, and Ollie North is back as the head of the GOP’s favorite gun club.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

19. We might also remember that Dick Cheney and other “serious conservatives” defended our support of apartheid South Africa, and Reagan was pretty tolerant of dictators like Pinochet. More than a few echoes of Trumpian foreign policy here. https://t.co/VQTx18W1bh

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

20. When Never Trumpers express shock and dismay at what Trump has made of the Republican Party, it’s hard for me not to wonder “how can this come as a surprise to you?”

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

21. As this excellent thread shows, the progressives of the mid-90s called much of this. They saw the embryo of Trumpism lurking within 90s conservatism. Yet at the time, conservative “intellectuals” supercilliously dismissed such critiques as hysterical. https://t.co/s4KLVUQRsc

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

22. Apologies if this has come off as “I told you so-ism.” That’s not how I mean it. I guess I just want to read a few articles that are less “I’m shocked, shocked that the @gop has become authoritarian & racist” and more “here’s how I regretfully helped build this.”

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

23. The Never Trumpers are important voices in our national conversation. They can grant us an insiders’ perspective on how Trump was so easily able to co-opt the conservative movement. If there is truly daylight between Trumpism and conservatism, they can help us see it.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

24. Progressives will just say “see, Trumpism is what conservatism was all along. It’s just now shown its true face.” I suspect most Never Trumpers would disagree with that. So please, show us the receipts!

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

25. Speaking as someone who teaches a course on the history of conservatism that tries to treat that history on its own terms and with respect, I’d love to see a Never Trumper memoir or essay that started from the presumption that Trump is not a black swan, not an alien invasion.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

26. Wow, this thread has blown up far more than I expected it would. Upon reading some of the responses, I have just a few more take aways.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

27. First, if people wonder why there are so few conservatives in the academy, just read Gingrich’s lectures and then compare them with some of Robert Reich’s writings. Reich was arguably the Democrats’ intellectual answer to Gingrich in the 90s.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

28. It’s not that Reich was correct on everything. But he was a genuine intellectual, someone who cared about evidence & argumentation. It was pretty inconceivable in the 90s that a rigorous intellectual could stomach Gingrich. That’s Gingrich’s fault, not the academy’s.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

29. So why are there so few conservative professors and intellectuals? In part because conservatism became so associated with jingoistic anti-intellectualism that it became nearly impossible for an educated person to defend it.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

30. This points to another thread in the history of conservatism that dates all the way back to Bill Buckley…conservatism has often defined itself largely AGAINST a phantom “left” that doesn’t really exist as they think it does.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

31. Not only do conservatives tend to see that “left” as monolithic, they also see it as posing an existential threat to “western civilization” or “our way of life.”

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

32. Without the slippery slope argument, conservatism loses much of its rhetorical punch. Want Medicare? You’re secretly a commie. Support gay right? You hate the nuclear family! Support the rights of transgender people? There’s no biological truth anymore!

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

33. This is not just a rhetorical device conservative politicians deployed to gin up votes. It’s also been an essential piece of conservative intellectual thought as well. “Standing athwart history yelling stop,” and such.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

34. We see both of these tendencies in Trumpism–from Michael Anton’s “Flight 93 election” essay to TPUSA’s dire warnings about the communist brainwashing that happens on college campuses. Without a scary, phantom “left” to bash, conservatives wouldn’t have much to talk about.

— Seth Cotlar (@SethCotlar) August 12, 2018

Perhaps Frum and his fellow travelers in the Never Trump movement have compelling answers to Cotlar’s critique. But it’s one they need to grapple with if they hope to pull the Republican Party back from the abyss.

Original Source -> A historian explains how mainstream conservatives made Trump

via The Conservative Brief

[idornaseminary]

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Beatrice/Calix

And in the end, dear Cedwyn, although I’ve cherished every moment with you, your sweet kiss and tender touch, the simple fact remains that you deserve somebody who longs to be with you. You deserve somebody whose heart aches having to stay even a single night away from you, instead of me who can spend most of a year anywhere else and only think of you once in a blue moon. I have found somebody who fills my soul with sunshine, and makes each day feel like a new adventure. Please don’t wait for me to begin your life anymore, go and search for the woman who will never let your bed grow cold and will give wings to your heart.

Your friend and former lover,

Bea

Beatrice let out a small sigh and stuck her quill back in the ink well, allowing the wet liquid a precious few moments to dry. She bent down and pressed a kiss to the parchment so the imprint of her scarlet lipstick was left behind, carrying the last sentiments of a love once borne to the man she once held dear. Folding the piece of paper up and sealing it with hot purple wax she imprinted with her family crest, she made sure to grab the letter addressed to her mother, tossing the two dispatches into her purse. She wriggled her nose side to side as a mental checklist ran through her mind, making sure she had everything she might need that night in the enchanted taupe leather crossbody bag. 

Comfortable trainers? Check. Old t-shirt? Check. Skinny jeans? First aid kit? Check, check. Letters for dad? Check.

A knock sounded on the hard mahogany door, drawing the witch’s attention away from her preparation for the mission that night. She nervously glanced over at Halina’s side of the room, quickly casting a dusting charm that lifted the fine film of grime from the desk, bed, and armoire like a blanket. Turning her attention to the floor length mirror set beside the fireplace, she ran her shaking fingers over the fine black velvet that covered her lean body like a sheath on a sword. She caught her cheek between her teeth as she studied the sparkly stilettos that accentuated the large slit in her skirt rising from her toes and ending just above her left knee, offering a hint of the tribal sleeve wrapped around her thigh. Raising a finger to summon the matching suede jacket that went with her purse, Beatrice swept her long, inky black curls aside as it flew from its place in her closet into her hand.

Another knock rapt against the door, and she quickly tugged the coat on over her sleeveless gown, grabbing her purse and wand before heading out, her heels clicking against the cold hardwood floors. She wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and took in a deep breath, knowing that her night would only get more complicated from here on out. Closing her cat-lined eyes, she quickly opened the door and pasted on a bright smile for the august, flinty man standing patiently waiting on the other side: Garreth Selwyn.

“Hello, Beatrice,” he said placidly, the corners of his white mustache turned up in what she knew was a smile, his hands held open low at his sides for a hug. Typically a straight-laced and imperious man, Garreth acted out of logic and reason, which led him to come across as cold and clinical in his administration of the hospital, and occasionally in his parenting at home.

His daughter beamed up at him and took a step forward, turned her head so her makeup didn’t smudge the pristine white linen of his shirt as he wrapped his strong arms around her. It was genuinely nice to see her father, as she did love him as many daughters love their fathers, but she also knew the was a clock on how much time with her he could handle before he started talking about the hospital again, and that was the last thing she wanted to hear about. “Shall we?” he asked, pulling back and offering her his suit coat clad arm.

She smoothed down the front of her dress and nodded, casting one more quick glance around the room before pulling the mahogany panel shut behind her, casting a silent locking charm on it before her father pulled her too far away.

“Have you heard from mom lately?” Beatrice asked in a small voice as they descended the grand staircase, the train of her dress elegantly trailing down the red-carpeted stairs behind her.

“Not since the funeral,” Garreth said simply, giving the salt and peppered hair of his beard a pensive stroke before resting his free hand on his heart, something his daughter recognized as an attempt not to let his emotions get the best of him.

“You went?” “I owed it to your grandmother.” Beatrice chewed on her bottom lip and nodded, focusing on taking the stairs slowly so she didn’t fall down the remaining four flights. “Would you like to eat here or go into Old Aroon and join the celebration?” she asked, trying her best not to let his solemn exterior put her off. “We could get Tricko’s,” she added in a sing-song tone, instantly perking up at the sight of Calix down below by the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Come here.”

“Piss off, dude!”

“Sam, it’s a mess, come here,” Calix laughed heartily, reaching out his hands to fix his roommate’s shambolically twisted tie, meticulously perfecting the knot before stepping back with a playful wink. “That’s better, buddy. Have some pride in yourself.”

Sam shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, his cheeky smile lighting up his face. “Hey, I don’t really care if it’s a mess. Once the party gets going in Roderick’s, I will not be wearing it for long.”

“Just try and keep your shirt on this year, okay?”

“I was Superman!”

“I don’t care,” Calix said, “I couldn’t give two tuttany-fucks if you were the King of Sheba, keep your god-damn shirt on.”

“Fine, I will,” Sam said, rolling his eyes dramatically like a scolded child. “Your costume looks really cool too, dude. It looks super realistic.”

Calix thanked him, glancing at one of the long mirrors framed in gold and silver that lined the Great Hall, proud of the illusionary charm that made his facial bones seem to jut out through the thin skin ever so gently, strong, dark lines tracing the shape of his jaw and cheekbones, his eyes sunk maliciously into his skull and the colour fading for the preference of pallor; it didn’t flatter his appearance, but it suited the occasion.

Sam looked over Calix’s shoulder, towards the grand staircase with wide eyes as his roommate checked his handiwork, “Shit, dude. Your girl has just arrived - I’m telling you, you are one lucky, lucky man.”

Calix spun excitedly on his heels, his heart soaring with delight to hear that Beatrice was ready for the evening. Calix hadn’t seen her all day, not since the morning before, and he was beginning to miss her precious company. But, as he glanced towards the red-carpet flowing down the magnificent staircase, a lump formed in his throat behind the courteous grin as he recognised the gentleman descending beside his beautiful Beatrice.

Garreth Selwyn.

Calix’s boss at St. Mungo’s.

Oh, Christ...

Her heart skipped a beat as they got closer to Calix and his roommate, Sam, and as much as Beatrice wanted nothing more than to run over to her boyfriend, wrap her arms around his neck, and leap into his arms, she knew that the sight of such a spectacle would not be tolerated by her father. She tried to control her smile from growing into a full-blown grin, causing her cheeks to cramp up, which made it somewhat easier to feign indifference. Garreth, oblivious to the warring tide of emotions rolling around in his daughter’s mind, followed her gaze to the pair of young men standing in their Halloween costumes at the bottom of the staircase, presumably waiting for their dates for the evening. Apart from fyrsta tunglið, Halloween was the best night on Isle Velum to let loose and party, and there was no doubt in his mind that the two gentleman patiently standing guard would have a wonderful time. The closer they got, the more he realized he knew one of the two youths, deciding to approach them with his daughter. “Pardon me, but is that…” he paused, eyes crinkling at the corners as a loud, jolly laugh escaped his lips. “Calix Galen, as I live and breathe. It’s wonderful to see you, young man,” he exclaimed, momentarily dropping Beatrice’s arm to extend a handshake to the former intern.

“Dr. Selwyn,” Calix said sophisticatedly, forcing the words past the crippling tightness in his dry throat, praying that when the sound hit the air his voice didn’t dissolve into nothingness. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. It had absolutely no idea you frequented Idorna at Halloween.”

He stole one single glance at Beatrice, his eyes conveying the surprise and stupefaction he was experiencing momentarily before his gentlemanly grace returned as rapidly as the confusion had broken through.

“Dr. Selwyn, this is my roommate, Samuel Jones,” Calix said, stepping aside to introduce his friend, who unfortunately was less proficient at hiding his swirling emotions beneath a colorful facade. “He was just leaving, he has quite a lot to do this evening, I fear.”

Sam, relieved at the opportunity Calix was providing him, nodded his head violently: “I do, I do. I best leave you both. I’ll see you later Calix.”

“I usually don’t attend, but I had to make a special allowance this year for my daughter,” Garreth said, gesturing to Beatrice beside him though his gaze stayed transfixed on the talented young mediwizard.

The petite Samoan witch couldn’t help but smile, gleefully surprised that for a split second her father’s attention wasn’t on her. However, the revelation that the two most important men in her life knew each other was startling to say the very least. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the onslaught of laughs that threatened to burst from her dark red lips and expose them both. Clearing her throat she shook her head and took in a deep breath, nearly shaking as she tried to remain composed. “We were just heading down to Old Aroon to join in the celebration,” she said politely, hoping to offer him an opportunity to leave as she tried to tug the old man away from the two handsome wizards.

Garreth grinned and nodded, once more offering his arm to his daughter, who easily took it though she would much rather have been by her boyfriend’s side. “You should join us, Calix. It’s a lovely night out and I’d love to catch up with both of you. Join us, please.”

Sam clapped Calix’s shoulder roughly as he promptly ran away, his cowering tail between his legs, conveying a wishful whisper of good luck and prosperity. Meeting Beatrice’s gorgeous eyes, a small part of Calix wanted to follow his friend, to avoid the seething awkwardness and tension and discomfort that could potentially threaten to destroy the foundation of his new relationship in the company of his girlfriend’s father. But, he couldn’t walk away now - he wanted to spend his time with her. He wanted to treat her right, though his ideas of a romantic evening were slowly disappearing with every passing second.

“It would be my pleasure,” Calix said gallantly, knowing his future with Beatrice - and his future as a mediwizard at St. Mungo’s - lay in the hands of the gentleman whose gaze was transfixed with pride. “Provided I am not disturbing either of you and you don’t mind my current state of appearance, and I insist I pay my own way. Honestly, I’m quite glad I wore something formal this evening.”

Beatrice blushed as she looked down at her elegant gown, wondering if her father hadn’t shown up, where it might have ended up later. She couldn’t help but smile at the chivalrous young man who had knowingly signed up for one of the most awkward evenings Rodrick’s would likely ever see. It warmed her heart to no end that he chose to spend the evening with her, even though it meant her father tagging along for the ride, making her even more certain about the letter to Cedwyn sitting in her purse.

“Nonsense, my boy,” Garreth said, clapping a hand on the young man’s shoulder, his strong, weathered fingers briefly digging into his arm like a hawk’s talons. “It’s my treat. I’m disrupting your plans, the very least I can do is offer you a delicious meal and pleasant company. I insist,” he said, leading the unlikely trio out of the castle, down towards the carriages waiting at the gates below.

“Pleasant company indeed,” Calix mused, throwing his stormy eyes, deep-set in his skull, towards Beatrice as Garreth Selwyn released his powerful grip, a bruise-inducing gesture that left Calix’s skin brightly coloured after his first internship at St. Mungo’s, when he had been under the watchful eye of Dr. Selwyn every day.

As they walked to the Threstal-drawn carriages, Calix exchanged polite and polished small talk with his girlfriend and her father, often on medical matters which Calix disappointingly knew alienated Beatrice. He tried to carefully steer the conversation in more suitable, inclusive directions, but Garreth was a stubborn man and he always found a way to question Calix’s opinion on the efficacy of one spell or another or the stupidities expressed in some of the prescribed textbooks at Idorna, valuing the young mediwizard’s idiosyncratic approach to healing and nurture.

Calix found himself gripping the soft skin of his mouth tight between his teeth while they travelled to Old Aroon, leaving pitted marks on the inside of his cheek, before he accidentally let a loving nickname slip past his pale lips, tinged with black and purple as the illusion altered the structure of his face in the moonlight. He was finding it incredibly difficult not to sit next to Beatrice, not to hold her small hand in his, not to kiss her rosy cheek and whisper softly in her ear about his intentions for the evening before Enzo’s contentious plan brought the joyous celebration to an abrupt and dangerous conclusion.

Arriving in the hectic and strenuous village, alive with the new and old of Idorna, Garreth exited the carriage first, stepping onto the cobble streets. When he wasn’t looking, Calix quickly leaned across and placed a soft kiss on Beatrice’s lips, pulling back before Garreth turned around again to assist his daughter out of the carriage.

That should be my job!

Beatrice couldn’t help but find the whole situation highly amusing, and if she was being completely honest, entirely frustrating. Her father and mother had their specific allotted times throughout the year to be with her, and this was definitely not part of the agreement. Idorna, much like Hogwarts, was her safe haven, even if her father had also attended both schools, they never had to be there at the same time. This was a breach of confidence in Beatrice’s eyes, and having to step back into the shoes of an aristocratic young lady with the world at her feet, ready for her taking was not in her plan for the next several months. Though, it was a facade she wore particularly well. 

As her father escorted the pair of them back into the ancient town teeming with students- both old and new -from Idorna, Beatrice smiled over at Calix and blew him a small kiss. The trio stepped inside Rodrick’s pub to find it packed, not that any of them were surprised by this fact, Garreth least of all. He cleared his throat and turned his back to the crowd he towered over, smiling down at his daughter and his protege.

“I’ll go find us a booth if you would like to get the first round of drinks,” he said, handing a little leather pouch teeming with Galleons to Beatrice before heading off in pursuit of a place the three of them could sit. Not more than a moment after he was gone, she turned to Calix and leaned up, cupping his gaunt cheek in her hand, setting a soft, eager kiss to his pale lips. “I’m so so so sorry, lo’u alofa,” she gushed, lacing their fingers together as the crowd around them protected the young couple from the sight of her father. “This was not how I wanted to spend my night with you at all.”

Calix welcomed the loving kiss wholehearted, wrapping his strong arms around his girlfriend’s petite waist as the peanut-crunching crowd, goggle-eyed and staring at the young couple in their affections, shielded their hidden intimacies. “Stop apologising, sweetheart, I still get to spend my night with you. That’s all I want. But, did you really have to wear a dress like that, a stór?” He planted little kisses and laughter along the curvature of her neck, pecking at the delicate skin, careful not to leave any dishonest marks that would be immediately identified by a talented and successful healer. “You go get the drinks, yeah? I’ll go find your father and keep him company. Get me just a water, okay - it’s gonna be a long night.”

Hugging Beatrice tight to his chest, his skeleton-gaunt lips nipping at her ear, he reluctantly let her slip away from his warm embrace as he meandered awkwardly through the rhapsodic crowd to the cosy booth, in a darker corner of Roderick’s where the roaring music was not so loud and obnoxious as to drive all sane thoughts from Calix’s mind, and where Garreth Selwyn was sitting patiently.

A happy sigh slipped between her lips, tugging a little moan of longing out with it as Beatrice watched her boyfriend wander back towards her father and the beginning of what was already expected to be a terribly long evening. She turned towards the bar and ordered a butterbeer, a double shot of firewhiskey straight up, and a glass of water, patiently waiting amongst the crowd of inebriated students and alumni.

I really hope you tell my dad about us, Cal. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending you’re just like everybody else.

Garreth let out a loud sigh and grinned at Calix, having unbuttoned his suit coat, his long, languid arm stretched out along the back of the booth where he sat patiently waiting opposite the youthful mediwizard. “So,” he started off, glancing over his shoulder before casting a silent bubble around their table, prohibiting passersby from listening into their conversation, his bright blue eyes darkening. “Tell me about the four patients in the Infirmary.”

Letting a small sigh pass his thin lips, his body aching to be pressed against the warmth of his love, Calix waved his hands in a wide arch, crossing them in front of his face. The eerie illusion evanesced into dissolution, fullness and strength blossoming and returning to his features. He leaned forward, arms folded on the cold table, as the last of the magic vanished into the ether. His grey eyes, heavy with emotion and longing, travelled across the bar to where he could recognised the flow of Beatrice’s black gown, before returning to the gentleman sitting across from him. His mind began to whirr and spin, memories of the fallen cascading over him like heavy rainfall.

“So, you’ve heard,” Calix said, not in the least bit surprised, “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it before. They’ve been unresponsive for weeks now, since the Quidditch match. Completely and utterly unresponsive to all stimulation, nothing has worked. And clinically, they’re perfectly fine. Perfectly fine, but they just won’t wake up. I know it’s not a disease, I know it’s a not a bug or a magical creature, it’s magic, pure, unaltered magic. It’s a spell or a charm or a curse or a hex, something old, rooted in dead magic, long forgotten or replaced by modern simplicities. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The older wizard hummed softly and stroked his beard, jaw clenched tightly as he pondered the medical conundrum. Finally speaking as he saw his daughter start to make her way over to the booth, levitating a tray of drinks above her head, he leaned in slightly. “Perhaps, if it’s an old curse, logic follows that there must be an old remedy to release them,” he said, combing his fingers through his head full of grey hair, sitting back as Beatrice arrived. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, picking up the glass filled with firewhiskey, taking a minute sip. “Calix and I were just having a friendly chat.” She grinned and let out a relieved sigh, inhaling the calming familiar scent of sugary cherry blossoms washing over her as she slid into the red leather clad booth beside her boyfriend. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. Before she allowed her father a chance to further explain, she leaned over and claimed a quick kiss from Calix, her delicate hand sliding up the inside of his leg from his knee under the table.

Calix nodded his head, the dark memories of the fallen students replaced by the radiant and splendid allure and loveliness of Beatrice as she sat beside him, his fickle and disloyal skin beginning to colour a scandalous pink as she drew close, without the protective illusion covering his face. Calix bit his lip gently at the sight of her, the soft curve of her neck and the sallow colouration of her skin, bathed in honied cinnamon, captivated and enamoured him, like a moth to a majestic flame. As he watched her, with love and devotion, he didn’t recognise her movements until it was too late.

He felt her soft lips against his, her warm breath on his skin as his thundering heart filled his body with sensual blood lamenting her previous departure. To fight against the tide of his emotions, his yearning and her ministrations, was nugatory, a fruitless, profitless and pointless endeavour. So, Calix simply let the kiss take. When the warmth of her hand pressed against his inner thigh however, he slowly pulled away, his stormy eyes betraying his worry and embarrassment when the thought of Beatrice’s father, his boss and mentor, who was fully unaware of their entanglement, was now a unwilling and unintentional witness to their displays of passion.

What the fuck… What did she just do… Does he already know? What the fuck…

She pulled back a few inches and batted her long, thick eyelashes innocently at the paralyzed expression frozen on the face of her boyfriend, unsure why she felt his body go rigid like a corpse beneath her fingers. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, setting a hand lightly on his chest as if to calm his heart, beginning to beat out of time in a blind panic that struggled to keep a rhythm.

Garreth sat up straight, his thick, white bushy eyebrows furrowing in confusion, shoulders squaring as a soldier preparing for a battle would. He opened his mouth and closed it again, looking down at the glass in front of him, quickly downing the rest of the burning liquid contents before sending it flying back to the bar for a refill. “Darling,” he started off in a growl, looking over at his daughter who sat curled up beside his apprentice, her arms draped seductively across his shoulders. “Calix and I were talking about the four students in the Infirmary, but I think what you wanted to talk about is a far more pressing matter entirely,” he stated through clenched teeth.

Calix’s eyes fluttered and quivered back and forth between Beatrice, batting her eyelashes like an innocent without any idea as to serious consequences of her rambunctious actions, and Garreth, who was glaring viciously at the mediwizard he held in high regard with roaring anger and a double shot of firewhiskey in his blood. The proximity of his girlfriend’s body to his, and the responses he couldn’t control when she was flush to his skin, left Calix dumbfounded for the first time, losing all command of language and his mastery of words. The kiss was a crippling indictment of their love and Beatrice’s sudden affections, her hands roaming Calix’s body freely and unrestrainedly in ways that she previously confined only to their most private moments, sealed the unforeseen confession of their relationship.

“I hadn’t said anything to your father about us, Bea,” Calix whispered, glancing across the table when the mental gears provided him with the ability to speak once more, desperate to diffuse the situation before it escalated any further, “We were talking medicine.”

“Oh.” Beatrice nodded slowly and picked up her chilled crystal mug of butterbeer, downing half of the sweet boozy fluid before turning to her father with a sweet smile playing on her lips. “So, umm…” she paused and ran her fingers through her wild indigo curls, allowing the alcohol time to enter her bloodstream and provide her with the courage she needed to get through the exchange without bursting into tears, or worse, yelling at her father.

“As you know, Dad, since graduating Hogwarts, Cedwyn and I have been on again, off again for quite some time now. And, quite frankly, I’m done with it. He never wanted a bigger commitment from me, and even if he did, I don’t know that I would be willing to accept. If you could make sure he receives this, I’d greatly appreciate it,” she explained as she pulled the letter addressed to him from her purse, setting it on the table in front of her father.

She turned towards the handsome, compassionate, albeit enervated man to her right and took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. “Calix has been my friend for quite some time now. He even saved my life a few weeks ago, and he makes me happier than I ever thought possible. I wake up in the morning, excited to start the day because I know he’s there, waiting patiently to hear about it. He inspires me and makes me push myself to be a better person because I know he deserves it,” she explained, staring into the terrified stormy grey eyes of her boyfriend, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb as she spoke. “We’ve only been dating for a few weeks, and I know that you of all people frown on such strong emotions so early in a relationship, so I’ll spare you the words themselves, but Calix makes me happy, and I hope you can at the very least respect that.”

Calix, waiting for the emotional and tempestuous rollercoaster to begin, listened eagerly and intently to Beatrice’s amorous and torrid outpouring of sentiment, the rigor and rigidity of his paralysed muscles loosening as her loving words, packed with kindness and open honesty about the joy and happiness of their newly founded relationship, filled him with pride and admiration, and a sheer, unsurmountable delight at being the one man who could call Beatrice Selwyn ‘his.’ He even ignored the mention of someone called Cedwyn.

As she knitted their fingers together, Calix wrapped his strong arm reassuringly around Beatrice’s waist, pulling her forcefully to the side and down onto his shoulder, cradling her head in his arms. He placed a long kiss on the crown of her head, his fingers running through her feral curls, whispering soft words to her at her diatribal outburst of passion.

“Garreth,” Calix said, his voice stronger, more refined and passional, inspired by the words of his girlfriend and his desire to keep making her happy. “I’m very sorry that you had to find out this way. It was never my intention to spring something of this magnitude on you, in a bar, surrounded by people. I would hope you know me well enough to understand that I would never want that, but, now that you know, I need you to understand without any shred of doubt or hesitation, that I love your daughter. I love her. I do. I probably don’t say it enough, maybe it’s too early to start saying it, but…”

Calix looked down into Beatrice’s eyes, half-clouded over: “I love you, Beatrice Selwyn.”

She couldn’t help but smile up at her boyfriend, her eyes brimming with tears, bottom lip trembling as she leaned up and stole another kiss, this one sweeter and more meaningful than the few pecks they had managed to squeeze in earlier in the night. “I love you too, Calix Galen,” she purred softly, giving his warm hand a soft squeeze, tenderly setting her forehead against his.

She let out a soft laugh and cupped his cheek in her hand, committing the way his rough five-o’clock shadow felt under her plump fingertips; the way his long brown hair caught the dim light in the dark corner of the bar; the way her leg curled over his beneath the table and the toe of her shoe sat pressed against his ankle; even the disapproving way Garreth cleared his throat and studied the contents of his glass.

Garreth downed his glass a second time and quickly tucked the letter into the breast pocket of his fine suit coat, clasping his hands together as he turned to the enamored couple in front of him, mulling over what he wanted to say. “Calix?” he asked, struggling to keep the protective malice out of his voice as he studied the way his beautiful daughter held him close.

Calix savoured the sweet kiss, holding her cheek in the roughness of his palm and moving his lips delicately with hers. In that moment, all he desired was Beatrice and her happiness - everything in the world was either a joyous agent to enhance her jubilation, and Calix wanted to give her nothing but jouissance, or catalysts that accelerated the appearance of disconsolateness and disconsolation that Calix wanted to eliminate from her life.

Holding her tight to his chest, he turned his head towards Garreth, noting the malice and hostility seething in his voice, in the tightness of his muscles and the changing of his chemistry. Calix could sense his protective instincts, his paternal need to keep his daughter safe, burning the air around in the wooden booth, the rancid smell of ozone and worry hanging around like spectres.

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to date my daughter, I hope you well know that I expect you to call me ‘Garreth’ from here on out, unless we happen to be at the hospital, in which case, I know you’ll be the model of professionalism,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat as the spell for a stinging hex swirled around his mind, ready for firing if the young wizard stepped a toe out of line. He stood up and held out a hand for Calix to shake, noticing a colleague of his, Dr. Evans, sitting alone at the bar sipping lightly at a glass of wine.

Calix, releasing a lungful of air he hadn’t realised he was holding since Garreth had called his name, protective charms flooding his mind as his mentor’s chemistry swung rapidly towards aggressive assault before mellowing slowly. Still holding Beatrice close to him, he reached across and firmly shook Garreth’s rough hand, a gentleman’s understanding between them, a special comprehension that only they would share, a blessing for continuation that needed no words - they knew exactly what the other was thinking, sensing every emotion in the biochemistry.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Calix sighed softly, looking down at Beatrice with a genuine grin of delight. “Thank you, Garreth. I mean it, thank you.” The older Welsh wizard gave a curt nod and offered his daughter a small smile, holding his arms out for another hug, which she happily accepted, burying her face in her father’s chest, the smell of burning ozone and antiseptic calming her for once. “Thank you, Dad,” she said, trying to hold back the tears until he was gone. “Come see me off tomorrow morning, please,” he whispered, pressing a whiskery kiss to her forehead. “I’ll leave you two up to your mischief now. Just, please, try not to get into any serious trouble,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Calix for a split second before a more congenial mask slid into place. “Goodnight you two,” Garreth called over his shoulder as he turned and left, going to sit beside his old friend and former protege.

Beatrice let out a small, relieved laugh as she turned around to face her boyfriend, feeling as though a huge weight was lifted off her chest. “What now, my love?” she asked, setting her slender hands in his.

“This,” he smiled, wrapping his arms around her in a vice-like grip and pulling her down onto his chest, falling backward onto the plush, leather seat in hysterics. The protective bubble reappeared, pink mist swirling to replaced Garreth’s magic, blocking out the sound of his laughter to the outside world as he kissed his girlfriend sweetly on the lips, cuddling her close to him like his favourite stuffed teddy.

“I think that went well? Here’s hoping the rest of the night goes as smoothly.”

Beatrice giggled and ran her fingers through his hair, her silver painted nails gently tracing the shell of his ears, her warm chocolate eyes settled on his. “I hope so too,” she murmured, butterbeer laced breath warming the air between them as her lips found his again in a joyfully passionate kiss.

[how2to18]

I liked the idea of a story in episodes that would go on for a long time.

— David Lynch (1997)

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DAVID LYNCH AGES GRACEFULLY. Proof is in footage from the making of Eraserhead, confirming that Lynch was not born with his silver, pomaded hairstyle, and that the lines of maturity make him look less goofy than he did in his post-college years. Almost unfaltering critical success and international fame have made the concept of Lynch plausible: his once curious, shambolic persona has been a brand since the 1990s. In “Part 14” of the much-awaited — and one-year overdue — return of Twin Peaks, FBI Deputy Director Gordon Cole (David Lynch) retells a fresh “Monica Bellucci dream,” in which Cole and Bellucci (as herself) have a terrace coffee in a Paris street. Asking who is “the dreamer [who dreams and then lives inside the dream],” Bellucci makes a sign for Cole to look over his shoulder. The dream cuts to a shot from Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992), showing Cole at his FBI headquarters desk, 25-odd years previous, brown-haired, full-cheeked, with an air of concern on his face. Present-day Cole recounts: “I saw myself. I saw myself from … long ago. In the old Philadelphia offices.” Philadelphia holds significance in Lynch’s personal mythology. It is the city where Lynch, as an art student, first started experimenting with animation and, soon after, film. The dreamer who Bellucci referenced a moment before, he who lives within his own dream, might very well be David Lynch looking back on himself as a cultural subject — one for whom thinking creatively accounts for such a great part in biography and idiosyncrasy.

From the moment he was given a platform to talk about his journey into cinema and television, Lynch has talked about life in Philadelphia — where he attended art school, got married, became a father — as a source of dread and inspiration in and of itself. The influence of his college education on his artistic development seems to pale in comparison to that of the city itself, and it has been suggested, whether in good faith or not, that Lynch’s primary sources are rooted in his perception of the physical and social environment rather than in aesthetic and theoretical teachings he received. Candidly, in a BBC documentary on the history of the Surrealists in film that he was asked to host in 1987, Lynch talked about Philadelphia as “one of the sickest, most corrupt, decadent, fear-ridden cities that exists.” The dramatic quote has followed him everywhere, but he has not, to my knowledge, nuanced it since. The memories from Philadelphia are so strong partly because they are always interpreted in contrast with an earlier, idyllic past in Lynch’s Midwestern childhood. Against this comparatively happy, easy, wholesome time and place, urban societies have always seemed — if only at first sight — toxic. (This is with the exception perhaps of Los Angeles, a city where the sun shines and where, Lynch claims, there is “something in the air.”) However, as his manifest attachment to past selves and identities suggests (see the persistence of his birthplace, Missoula, Montana, and of his Eagle Scout ranking on his Twitter bio), a preserved naïveté is an integral part of his mature artistic persona.

In the opening sequence of last year’s documentary David Lynch: The Art Life, a montage of Super 8 family film footage gives a glimpse of this “simple” and elated postwar American childhood. The film director’s voice retells fragments from a happy early life among a loving mother, father, brother, and sister, and each memory sounds sensorily close and relevant. On a hot summer day in Idaho, Lynch remembers having been placed in a man-made pool of muddied water in the garden of his parents’ house in the company of Dickie Smith, another toddler from the neighborhood who was his friend. The two boys had been sent there together for protection against the scorching heat, and Lynch remembers how this simple arrangement enabled him to enjoy the garden, the pleasantness of the mud forming under his fingers, and the proximity of a friend who was sharing in his excitement. The memory of this scene, today, is so palpable that it becomes a bit overwhelming: “Forget it,” Lynch concludes with a smile.

Much of Lynch’s artistic coming of age, as he retells it in the documentary, involves the thematic elements of this happy anecdote: the immediate excitement of creative experimentation and the joy of sharing this work, this lifestyle — the “art life.” Through the rest of the film, the director is pictured handling rust-colored paint, which he smears onto the flat surface of a canvas in his current Los Angeles studio. Though his hands are clad in surgical gloves, the idea of the mud of the opening memory is not distant. Viewers may feel far removed from the clean and remote technicality of film, the medium with which Lynch’s work is predominantly associated. Yet the documentary closely examines this other, enduring side of Lynch’s artistic process, one that relies on primary, unmediated experimentation with matter and texture. Lula, Lynch’s two-year-old daughter, is walking around the studio, grasping the look and feel of various objects from her own perspective. There is a shot of a furry gray moth fluttering against a window pane. Later, Lynch comments on the amazing textures hidden within the body of the smallest organic creatures: insects, fish, small animals.

The life and death of organic matter can be as curious and spectacular in Lynch’s aesthetic as the workings of technology. Such curiosity brings his work to tread a fine line between the sheer beauty of changing organic forms and the abject horror that bodies conventionally represent when they are subject to death and decay. Lynch recounts that as an art student in Philadelphia he kept a special room in his building’s basement for artistic “experimentations,” which consisted in gathering organic matter, animal or vegetal, and leaving it to rot while recording all the successive physical changes of these transformations. This experimental preoccupation anticipates the dead cat in Eraserhead, the ear in Blue Velvet, or even the fantastic “Children’s Fish Kit” Lynch assembled in a 1979 photo-based art piece, giving instructions to assemble a (dead) mackerel he had chopped up into three pieces, like the parts of a mechanic toy. The bloody mess around the pieces of this gory puzzle testified to either the idiocy or malevolence of the maker of the “kit.” As Lynch remembered it, his father’s reaction when he showed him the experimental basement room was, unsurprisingly perhaps, one of palpable sadness and concern. This impression was confirmed to him when his father advised him a moment later, à propos de rien, never to have any children.

There is, and always has been, a sustained critical interest in discovering, as David Foster Wallace once put it, “what David Lynch is really like.” A question that arises, for example, is whether the concept of Lynch as a sui generis figure in cinema is fair, or even plausible. Film critic Peter Bradshaw, in his review of The Art Life, notes that the documentary gives little to no indication that Lynch is aware of an experimental film tradition happening before him, and concomitantly with him, as he describes the way he came to the realization that there could be such a thing as a “moving painting.” This realization, which led him to apply for and obtain a grant from the American Film Institute, is presented by Lynch, like many of his artistic decisions, as a purely intuitive move. “What is so extraordinary about this film,” Bradshaw writes, “is that it doesn’t show Lynch as the cinephile or the movie brat or even someone with any great interest in art history […] It is as if Lynch was in a state of innocent primitivism, without ever knowing about anyone else doing the same thing.” In Chris Rodley’s book of interviews, Lynch on Lynch, the names of Fellini, Kubrick, or Wilder occasionally come up, but the comments that they inspire are always succinct and superficial. “Sunset Boulevard is in my top five movies for sure,” says Lynch, before claiming he is not sure it has anything to do with Eraserhead beyond perhaps the “experience of a certain mood.” Watching or reading any interview with Lynch since the release of Eraserhead leaves open the question of whether the director performs his innocent remoteness to such a film tradition, or whether this lack of awareness, which amounts to a form of phenomenal self-involvement, is genuine.

Wallace, among others, believes it is. The concept of a “primitive” or “infantile” approach to filmmaking has marked much of Lynch Studies since its ignition in the 1990s. Both Surrealism and the Freudian Uncanny, important intertexts for Lynch’s interpreters, identify regression into infantile or primitive states as a condition of their existence. The primitive self, or the child-like self, is the only aspect of human life that André Breton sees as artistically promising and liberating, and his 1924 Surrealist Manifesto promoted Surrealism as no less than a “second chance” to experience the freedom of childhood — free from the constraints of rational language and self-presentation. Though he readily admitted the limitations of his own tentative, preliminary theories on the subject, Freud, meanwhile, insisted on this notion of infantile primitivism as the return of animistic beliefs that should have been bypassed in psycho-sexual development, but which nonetheless return to create the specific experience of the uncanny. My favorite moment in the Art Life involves Lynch’s retelling of a hazy, ominous memory, of saying goodbye to a male neighbor named Mr. Smith (Dickie’s father?) before his family set off to leave Boise, Idaho. It is unclear whether the man, almost a stranger to the young boy, represents the loss of a happy past or, on the contrary, some kind of threat. Lynch pauses; his voice wavers; and the story is never completed. Trying to define that special brand of creepiness that would come to define the term “Lynchian,” Wallace suggested that Lynch seemed to be “one of these people with unusual access to their own unconscious,” suggesting that if these unconscious fixations are often too much for words, Lynch’s lack of emotional distance from them allows for their comparatively unfiltered expressions in his visual art and film.

Despite his unrelenting aesthetic interest in making the unconscious visible, Lynch claims to be ignorant of psychoanalytic theory, and Peter Bradshaw is not the first critic to have drawn a parallel between his quasi-contempt for theoretical knowledge and his seemingly innocent, unadulterated creative persona. His own contributions to interpretations of his work rarely take us further than autobiographical sources. For example, while hosting the history of Surrealism in film, he only admitted to feeling an affinity with “people who are interested in cinema as a means of experimentation,” whomever these people might be after the Surrealists. Jeff Johnson even identifies “an undercurrent of anti-intellectualism” in Lynch’s films, evident from the early shorts The Alphabet (1968) and The Grandmother (1970), where the movement from the intuitive to the symbolic, from pre-verbal freedom to the constraints of language, is represented as a trauma. Johnson thus interprets the streak of happy naïveté in Lynch’s work as the expression of intrinsically American values, pointing that the rationalist approach always fails in Twin Peaks, and that Voltaire, in Lynch’s work generally speaking, “always loses to Rousseau.” Agent Cooper, the iconic hero of the TV series, is one of the clearest and most sophisticated expressions of Lynch’s postlapsarian American ideal. Wholesome, empathetic, spontaneous, trusting in his own intuitions and honest appetites, nevertheless hard-working and ever-respectful of social hierarchy, Cooper is the alter ego of the “naïve genius” Pauline Kael saw in Lynch upon the release of Blue Velvet: a childish, solipsistic, albeit clairvoyant, man.

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The return of Twin Peaks has given new life to Lynch’s “naïve genius” persona, which has lived through a number of variations in Lynch’s work, from awkward Henry in Eraserhead to Mulholland Drive’s ingénue heroine, Betty. In Season Three of Twin Peaks, Agent Cooper, already known as a naïve prodigy, is subjected to an interminably stretched-out “return” via catatonic Dougie Jones, a somewhat radical new incarnation in this genealogy of naïveté. Fifteen episodes into the much awaited Return of the 1990s cult TV show, Cooper, the hermeneutic force and spirit of Twin Peaks, had yet to recover the capacity to form sentences, or make willing decisions, a state that had led TV reviewers worldwide to compare the new Coop, or “Dougie,” with a robot, a simulacrum of himself, or even the eponymous Sims of the once-widely popular life-simulation video game (see, for example, Dougie’s helpless reaction when he needs to go to the toilet in “Part 5,” clasping his crotch with both hands, unable to relieve himself unless told to do so). Cooper’s 25-year sojourn in the remote time of the Black Lodge — a place where language is spoken backward but where even deceased people, like Laura Palmer, go on living and aging — comes to an end no sooner than three episodes into the new series. Even after this phenomenally delayed return, the transmission fails to restore Cooper to his terrestrial self. Perhaps as a result of his extended absence in between worlds, or as a consequence of the trauma for changing from one substance to another in his passage back from nowhere to Earth, Agent Cooper has then to go through a long and directionless process of restoration to the character he once was. I call it a process, but it is one that shows hardly encouraging, almost imperceptible, progress — an impossibly elongated delivery that will have resigned many viewers to accepting that perhaps this catatonic state was what the character Cooper was supposed to be for the whole series, that there would be no further “return” than this innocent, familiar body in a suit.

In line with Coop in the original series, the Cooper who has infiltrated the life of Dougie Jones in The Return is responsive to the simple, almost invariably sweet, food that his wife, Janey-E (Naomi Watts), feeds him as she would a child. The new, temporary Coop doesn’t dream, but he is guided by a good intuition (a.k.a. the Black Lodge) that helps him dodge the traps that his now almost nonexistent rational logic would fail to discern. Finally, Coop is still pure at heart to the point of taking an embarrassingly innocent approach to heterosexual relationships, which leads him to engage in a disturbing sex scene with Janey-E without previously having shown signs of consent. This is, up to this point, the only sex scene the show will put Cooper through, as if the character had to be stripped of agency to support — and perhaps accidentally enjoy — this less-than-pure experience of adult physicality. Coop, however, renews along with his old sensory memories. Through the comical, aphasic demands for coffee of Coop-as-Dougie-Jones, the longtime viewer can satisfy their knowledge that, doppelgängers and mind-bending dimension-crossing aside, this is the “real” Coop, in essence. In fact, Cooper’s initial rediscovery of coffee in “Part 4,” and of cherry pie in “Part 11,” tease the audience’s longing to see Cooper restored to his true self while failing to produce a suitable “trigger” for his return. So Coop, for the most part of The Return is reduced to a sort of Faulknerian man-child, but with added magic: he may be slowed down, incapacitated, limited to the feel of simple emotions and easily satiated hungers, but he is never angered by this condition, or shown to have become selfish in this disposition. He is fully dependent on the care of others but also flourishes under this care, seemingly blind to danger but actually blessed by protective intuition, good reflexes (as when attacked by Ike the Spike, the hitman sent to kill him), and the unfaltering guidance of mysterious protective forces.

And yet in the episode aired a week before the two-part finale, the show got Cooper back. Indulging in this subversive timeline, Lynch forces his audience to experience the world of Twin Peaks — which now comprises many more locations than the town of Twin Peaks itself and many new characters that draw, more or less closely, on the original series — beyond or before its movement toward narrative resolution. The “spirit” of this irresponsible timeline occasionally crystalizes through the wide, innocent, experimental eyes of Cooper-as-Dougie-Jones.

Twin Peaks has always affected a great innocence over the way it managed time and the release of information, a process that always privileged environmental components such as food, nature, technology, weather, and time. As Michel Chion noted in the mid-1990s, Twin Peaks was the first television series where the characters were seen interrupting the action altogether to enjoy simple physical gratifications such as fresh air, the taste of a good cup of coffee with a slice of pie, a “notion of ease” that was so completely new to the time-tight world of television series. Lynch was famously forced by ABC to reveal the identity of Laura Palmer’s killer early on in Season Two out of concern for the general longing for narrative resolution, a move that went against Lynch and Mark Frost’s initial plan to let the murder plot recede to the background, while savoring all the minor sub-narratives of the various characters and the atmosphere, in a word, of the show. This decision, he realized immediately, would “kill” the show, and it did, at least for a time.

The decision to make Fire Walk With Me in 1992 was, for Lynch, an opportunity to reexperience the world of the show, a universe that he had become obsessed with. Yet one of the reasons why the film was initially so badly received was that, due to new time constraints, the more light-hearted tone of the TV series had to be stripped away from the prequel narrative, leaving us with only the bleakest elements of the plot. It seems clear now that the show has taken complete liberty over the deliverance — and delivery — of Cooper, and therefore of time. It made the return of the hero not the beginning but almost the end of the Return’s plot and through this device, restored the show’s initial pace of suspended action, fruitful confusion, and slow, all-too-frequently pausing, dialogue. A bit like Gordon Cole’s deafness or Andy and Lucy’s heightened emotional sincerity, this is also a device to submit character interactions to a certain kind of experimental pace.

The extreme delay in restoring Cooper has enabled some of the greatest comedy the show has delivered yet, such as the gloriously incongruous casino scenes, the insurance company scenes in which Dougie behaves in a less-than-office-appropriate manner and gets away with it, and the desert rendezvous scene in which Dougie evades the Mitchum brothers’ plan to kill him by delivering them a $30 million check from his boss with a complementary cherry pie in a cardboard box. All of these scenes offer comically providential outcomes to seemingly desperate situations, deploying money and professional resources with a simplicity that only a child at play could come up with. Paradoxically then, the delayed recovery of Coop has enabled the return of the Twin Peaks spirit: a goofiness restored, rebooted. In Rodley’s book of interviews, to this day the most substantial collection of published words from the filmmaker, Lynch points out that he generally looks back to an era when filmmaking could take its time.

Things go so fast when you’re making a movie now that you’re not able to give the world enough — what it deserves. It wants to be lived in a little bit, it’s got so much to offer, and you’re going just a little too fast. It’s just sad.

In pure Lynch fashion, this statement fails to say whether it is referring to an actual era in film history or to Lynch’s own early experience of feature-filmmaking, a period when, for lack of funds, he stretched the making of Eraserhead over more than five years, a time that allowed him to create a vision and feel time within it — to explore it and believe in its reality. “Everything should be looked at,” is Lynch’s overall message. “There could be clues in it.” This is what the format of the television series certainly allowed him to do, which he found attractive from the beginning, in spite of the initial losses that TV would imply in terms of sound and image quality back in the 1990s.

A paradox remains in this scenario. For all its impossible delay, The Return is incredibly contemporary in its handling of media and sensitive to their evolution in time — from the ubiquitous radio in the enigmatic 1940s flashbacks of “Part 8,” to the new present day’s use of Skype, video blogging channels, smart phones, and geolocation. Many of these illustrations of hyper-connectivity are topped with representations of metaphorical and actual screens, at times futuristic or retro or both, as in the case of the mysterious glass box seen in “Part 1.” Only Sarah Palmer’s viewing of nature television programs and a boxing match seem resolutely from another time, the latter actually stuck in a terrifying time loop: a nod to the death of television as we once knew it. This, and a Roadhouse music listing that feels up-to-date, save for a few fan-serving callbacks (James Hurley, Audrey Horne’s ever-haunting dead-to-the-world dance, and to an extent, Rebekah Del Rio’s timely return), makes you think David Lynch is very much in tune with a contemporary cultural moment, which he consciously haunts. Meanwhile, the rarely interrupted continuum of an authorial vision is a place of indiscriminate duration, an elongated present moment prone to uncanny returns: mud, heat, hit songs, nuclear explosions, places where personal recollections eventually form the substance of the collective past.

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Elsa Court’s monograph Émigré Representations of the American Roadside 1955-85: Explorations in Literature, Film, and Photography is forthcoming with Palgrave Macmillan. Court researches expat cultures for the Financial Times and reads fiction for Granta magazine.

The post Return of the Naïve Genius: “David Lynch: The Art Life” and “Twin Peaks: The Return” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[sunflowerstrays]

day6: meet the males in your family

anon requested this:  Day6 scenario of them meeting the male figures of their girlfriend's family for the first time as her first boyfriend ever and they're being extra intimidating bc they're overprotective and jjust to mess with them?

enjoy <3

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Park Sungjin

definitely wears his tightest shirt and pumps his chest out to show whos boss

but despite his act of confidence he keeps hidden behind you the whole time

and tries to befriend the males in your family

because he really just wants to be accepted

but still wraps his arms around you or flirts with you in front of your male cousins to mess with you

despite his constant nervousness about not being accepted the whole family love him

like how could you not

even though at the next family gathering all of the males your age wear their tightest shirts to mock poor sungjin back (lmao i could so see this happening)

Park Jae Hyung // Jae

definitely wants to show whos boss

and by boss he means who is your favourite male alive

so keeps his arms around you the whole night

and tries to joke to get along with the other males at the family gathering but they don’t really understand his sense of humour

so he just kind of laughs along

and then mentions to your dad how he would hurt anyone who ever dare thought of hurting you

which only made your dad laugh at him but also love him more than he already did

but needless to say the overprotectiveness wasn’t necessary because he was already loved by everyone in your family

Kang Young-Hyun // Brian // Young K

would definitely try and impress the male figures

especially your older brother, father etc.

like he wanted get on so well with your older brother because he had always respected him

so would admit his feelings for you so openly, hoping that they’d all realise how honest he was with them

your family would mess with him as well to wind him up

meaning that you’d have to re-convince him that you loved him and him only

but after they’d finished messing around with him they easily accepted him into the family

because he brought armfuls of laughter and love and happiness and it was impossible not to love him

Kim Wonpil

this bean would try so hard to get along with everyone, but especially the guys in your family

but he’d do it in a way that would really mess with you

aka always saying how much he’d protect you only when you were in ear shot

and always defending you and saying how much he loved you to show his overprotective side but face it his overprotective side is so cute asdfasdg

and would definitely be up for learning embarrassing things about you

he’d also try to joke along but would end up messing up the joke and laughing at himself

and wouldn’t understand half of the sports talk that goes in your family but would attempt to maintain a conversation

and because of this your family just love him even more <33

Yoon Dowoon

oh this cutie would try so hard

but he wouldn’t have any idea where to start to introduce himself to them

and would end up saying something like “hey my name is nice to meet you, Dowoon”

and it would be pretty shambolic because he was just a soppy mess when he wanted to impress people

so would spend the rest of the time following you around and teasing you because he thought the rest of the family hated him

but eventually your baby cousins would run up to him, and your brother in law would sit with him and the babies and like that he was adopted into the family

because Dowoon with kids was so cute as well the entire family immediately loved him

and he wouldn’t have to worry about impressing anyone because honestly how could you not love him

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oof idk if this was what you really wanted but i didn’t know how else to write it so it didn’t sound so forced,,, idk. sorry <3

requests are still open <3