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kingexpl0sionmurder · 4 years

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Missed Connection - Shinsou Hitoshi

Author: @kingexpl0sionmurder Rating: NSFW 18+ Warnings: Unprotected sex, blowjobs, dirty talk, poking fun at fakes who shop at UO and wear band t-shirts for bands they don’t listen to, terrible poetry, Kaminari is a weirdo. Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi/F!Reader Words: 4,554 AN: This is for the bnharem server collab, the theme is pen pals! We were able to write basically anything as long as there was some kind of communication/writing/texting etc! This is the first time I’ve written for Shinsou and I head cannon him as a fucking closet goth so don’t at me. Collab Masterlist (Please go check out everyone else’s contributions!) My Masterlist Buy me a Ko-fi -- When his phone started ringing, Shinsou was tempted to throw it halfway across the room. Whoever thought it was okay to call him at - he turned to squint at the clock on his bedside table - 10 in the morning on his day off, better have a good excuse. He frowned at the screen once he’d found his phone, and sighed.

“The world better be on fire, Kaminari.” His palm rubbed over his face as he pressed the phone to his ear, his eyes closing again.

The blonde chuckled, full of energy as usual. “Aw, come on ‘Toshi! It’s not that early.”

A million ways he could kill his friend and make it look like an accident flashed through his mind. “You know I like to sleep late on my days off.” He left it at that, no further explanation needed. Kaminari knew he stayed up impossibly late on his off days, crawling under the covers only when the sun started to rise.

“You want to hear this, I promise. I wouldn’t call this early unless it was important.” Shinsou listened to the sound of a keyboard clicking through the phone, waiting impatiently for his friend to continue.

“So, you know how I sometimes like to fuck around on the internet?” This was a rhetorical question. Of course he did. “Well, occasionally I like to browse through Craigslist, and this morning I was in the missed connections section, and I found something interesting.”

“Why do you look through missed connections?” He didn’t really care, he just thought it was kind of...weird. But, then again, this was Denki, so he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Kaminari huffed. “Dude, sometimes it’s so sad to read how they saw someone and thought there was a connection. It makes me wonder if they ever find each other.” He was quiet for a moment like he was deep in thought. “But then sometimes, it’s like ‘You farted in the produce section and I’d still date you, let’s go out’ and it kind of loses the romantic appeal.”

“You’re a sap. Also, gross.” He found himself drifting off, bored with the conversation already. “Do you have a point?”

“God, you’re impatient! Listen, I was scrolling through the ads and I found this one, I think you should hear it.” Clearing his throat, he began to read.

“You were the sleepy purple-haired man in the cat cafe on Main, I was hiding behind an orange tabby by the window. I was staring, but I wasn’t trying to be creepy. You just looked kind of lost, and the black and white short hair on your lap seemed to have all your attention. Oh, I think his name is Socks. Isn’t that unoriginal? Anyway, I’ve seen you there a few times and I want to know more about you. If you see this, please respond.”

Shinsou sat up in his bed, ignoring the sharp pain of his muscles protesting at the sudden movement. “What the fuck?”

“This is about you, isn’t it?” Denki’s excitement was clear. “You’re the only sleepy guy with purple hair I know who frequents that cat cafe on Main Street.”

“How long ago was that posted?” Hitoshi felt strange, restless energy flowing through him. Someone had noticed him and decided that he was interesting enough to want to get to know? He wasn’t anything special, and he kept to himself mostly. What did this even mean?

“Last night! When did you go to the cafe?” He didn’t even wait for a response. “I’m forwarding this post to you, and you better send them an email! It’s been too long since you’ve dated someone, ‘Toshi, and I’m concerned.”

Unfortunately feeling more awake than he wanted to be, Shinsou shifted until his feet were on the floor. “Yesterday afternoon. And it hasn’t been that long.”

“It’s been like a year, dude.” Kaminari sighed. “Okay, I sent it. Please write back to them. Let me live vicariously through you in this weird turn of events.”

Shinsou sighed and said goodbye, ending the call and staring off into space for a minute. He needed coffee before he could even think about reading it for himself and then maybe responding.

Uh, hello.

I can’t help but feel like this was about me? I’m not even really sure what to say. This feels weird. You could have come over and said hi, maybe. I don’t bite. I might have stared at you and made things awkward but I feel like it would have been a surefire way to talk to me instead of posting this on craigslist of all places and expecting me to see it.

You’re lucky I have a friend who likes to scour the dark recesses of the internet for entertainment purposes and happened upon this post.

-Shinsou

How do I know this is really the person I’m talking about? What were you wearing when you went to the cafe? That’s like the only way I can be sure you are who you say you are.

The only reason I didn’t come over and talk to you was that I had Oliver on my lap and he is a grump and didn’t want me to get up until he was good and ready. (That’s the orange tabby’s name, by the way.) By the time I was able to coax his fat ass off of me you had gone.

Honestly, I’d let those cats climb all over me like their own personal cat tree all day long and not complain about it, but I digress.

I didn’t expect you to find this or reply, it was kind of my way of convincing myself that I’d given it a shot, even though I really hadn’t done much.

-Y/N

I was wearing the following:

A Joy Division t-shirt depicting the cover of Unknown Pleasures, which is arguably the most cliche t-shirt I own. It’s become one of those shirts that people wear who have no idea who Joy Division is, they just like it for the aesthetic. (I’ll have you know I happen to know who they are and like their music very much.) This shirt was more than likely covered in cat hair.

Black jeans, which were probably covered in cat hair as well.

Black boots, a staple of mine.

I am a closet goth. I don’t know what else to say. I won’t deny it. I’ve learned to embrace who I am. I happen to know that Oliver is a grumpy shit, so I am not surprised he kept you pinned down for so long. That cat has been known to knock people over and purr loudly while “making biscuits” on their chests for hours at a time. I’m glad to know that you survived his assault.

So what are you going to tell me about yourself now? I have confessed to you about my goth status, so I demand something in return.

-Shinsou

Yeah, it was you.

I was hoping that you actually liked Joy Division and you weren’t one of those Urban Outfitters aesthetic people. I can now rest easy. I like them too, but I really like New Order more? I hope this isn’t the end of our budding friendship.

I will not say that I am a goth, though I have goth-like tendencies? Or I just appreciate the music. Whatever. I don’t have, like, a pet bat or anything. I own a pair of Doc’s, though.

I have been on the receiving end of one of Oliver’s attacks before, so you don’t have to tell me about them. I have experienced his pushy demeanor on more than one occasion.

So, something about me? I don’t know. I spend a lot of time in that cafe because I love cats, but that’s kind of a given, isn’t it? I usually bring my laptop and make an attempt to work on my homework, but it’s usually futile. I’d rather pet the cats.

Oh, I guess that counts as something right? I go to college. I’m an English major and taking a fuck ton of creative writing courses. What about you?

-Y/N

An English major? That sounds like fun. I think if I had a need to go to college I’d have liked to take something like that. I have a friend who writes ultra depressing Gothic poetry, that would be right up his ally as well.

I’m a pro hero, hence why I didn’t need college. Saving people is something I’ve always wanted to do, especially since I was always bullied about my quirk as a kid. It kind of made me more determined, I always wanted to prove those assholes wrong, you know? So, here I am.

I’m glad to know we can wear matching Doc’s together, and that you don’t keep a bat as a pet. As cute as their faces are, they’re not very easily domesticated.

New Order is fine. The real question is, The Smiths or The Cure? Your answer to this question will be what determines the longevity of our friendship.

-Shinsou

This is the worst question you could ever ask me. How could you do this? I could never choose between them. Both? The answer is both.

I hope your next email will not be your last.

Bats are cute but they always seem to dive bomb my head when they’re around. Not that I go places with bats often, but I used to go camping as a kid and they always did that. It was not a good time.

I think it’s amazing that you’re a pro hero! You’re really out here, fighting the bad guys and saving people and then coming into the cat cafe and petting kittens and drinking coffee like a normal person. I think it’s admirable how hard you worked to achieve your dream. I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m proud of you. Why were you bullied for your quirk? You don’t have to answer that if it makes you uncomfortable.

I wish I could write ultra depressy Gothic poetry. Here let me try:

The night is black like my soul Clove cigarettes burn slowly My life is Meaningless

How was that? Do I get a gold star? Or a black skull? Which is appropriate?

-Y/N

I’m printing that and sending it to Tokoyami. Thank you for making my entire existence with that poem. I’m breaking out the red wax candles and putting on “How Soon Is Now?” right now.

You get a star, but it’s a pentagram. We have to keep with the theme.

My quirk has to do with mind control, so I was always told I was meant to be a villain. You can imagine what that could do to a kid’s psyche, being told by peers and adults alike that you weren’t hero material, when that’s all you wanted. It’s okay though, I did what I wanted and they can eat my ass.

Sorry if that was too raunchy, but it’s how I feel.

If my earlier comment wasn’t proof enough, I prefer The Smiths, but I cannot deny the impact of Disintegration. Lullaby is a really great song.

That being said, this will not be my last email, so you can breathe easy.

On a semi serious note, I really enjoy talking with you. We have a similar sense of humor, and you like cats which makes you automatically better than most people. Would you like to get coffee sometime? I know a nice place that’s quiet and filled with fluffy kittens...

-Shinsou

—

I’m glad I haven’t lost your friendship due to my opinion. I know how important that feud can be to some people. People get very passionate about it. Kind of like with Blur versus Oasis, or Brand New versus Taking Back Sunday. I hate that these are the only examples I can think of.

It wasn’t too raunchy. Those people can most definitely eat your ass. I’m glad you have decided to use your powers for good. You’ll have to explain to me how your quirk works sometime.

I shall treasure my shiny pentagram sticker with my entire heart.

Isn’t Tokoyami the Jet Black Hero: Tsukuyomi? He looks like the type to write Gothic poetry. I am not even mildly surprised.

Even though the way we met was unconventional, I’d like to think I’d have gotten up the courage to speak to you the next time I saw you in the cafe. Somehow this is better, though. It makes for an interesting story, you know?

I’d love to get coffee. I think I know the place you’re talking about. Let me know when.

-Y/N

—

Shinsou was nervous. It was stupid really. He’d been exchanging emails back and forth with you for a few days, and even though you’d barely revealed much about each other, the easy banter through your messages was comforting. He felt like the two of you would be compatible. He just hoped that he was able to keep the conversation going in real life.

When he entered the cafe, he ordered his usual and picked his normal table towards the back. Socks, his favorite black and white companion, was at his side almost immediately. He let his hand drift down to scratch behind her ears, his gaze fixed on the door as he waited for you to arrive.

Out of habit he was a little early, but he figured it would be easier this way. He had no idea what you looked like, but you knew him, so he knew you’d come over when you got there, and it would make things less awkward.

A few minutes later he saw the door open, and he immediately knew it was you. Black Doc’s and thigh high stockings, a black skirt and an oversized deep red sweater adorned your body, a leather jacket over your shoulders and your hair tucked under a black beanie, cheeks pink from the chill of the autumn weather outside. You were pretty, and he felt his nerves increase tenfold when your eyes met his, a smile gracing your face.

He watched as you ordered a drink at the counter, the paper cup clutched in your hands as you made your way to his table. He stood up when you approached, letting himself appreciate you up close. “Y/N?”

“Hi, Shinsou.” You were so much shorter than he was, and he found himself having to gaze down at you when he was standing at his full height.

“It’s nice to put a face to all those emails.” The way you blushed under his attention made his heart flip. “Please, sit.”

You nodded, sliding into the seat across from him. He sat back down, his hands moving to grip his coffee cup.

“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” You looked down when Oliver made his way over, rubbing himself against your boot. “I almost feel like I don’t know what to say.”

“I know what you mean. We could just sit here and email each other, if that would make you feel better.” Your laugh was like music to his ears. “I’d rather hear your voice though.”

Your face was red when you looked back up at him. “I have to agree.” You leaned your elbow on the table, your cheek cradled in your palm. “Tell me more about yourself, Shinsou.”

“It’s Hitoshi. You can call me Hitoshi.”

—

If anyone would have told him that the night would end this way, he’d have said they were insane, and should probably get themselves checked into the nearest institution.

But here he was, his face pressed into the spot where your neck and shoulder met, lips ghosting over soft skin, his calloused palms sliding underneath your sweater. You were purring, your head thrown back and your fists clenched in his t-shirt, your back pressed against the wall in the hallway that led to his bedroom.

“Fuck, ‘Toshi.” You mumbled, pressing yourself closer to him. “Bed?”

You didn’t have to ask twice, his hands sliding down to lift you up by the backs of your thighs, his cock hard and straining in his jeans as you rutted against him. He turned himself and began walking toward his room blindly, his eyes still shut as he sucked a mark into your neck.

He pulled back so he could peer over your shoulder and maneuver your bodies through the doorway without bumping into anything, laying you back on the bed.

The events of the night were a blur, your coffee date turned into him taking you out for ramen at the restaurant down the street, and then he asked you back to his apartment to show you his record collection.

It was mostly a ruse though. You’d been flirting back and forth, the both of you getting bolder as the night went on. He was only half surprised when you’d entered his apartment, barely removing shoes and coats and hats before you spun around on him, pressing him against the door and kissing him like your life depended on it.

He rested on his forearms, poised above you, looking over your flushed face and kiss bruised lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled his hips closer, making him groan. “Impatient?”

Your hands moved to cup his face, pulling him down toward you. “Very.”

He wasn’t expecting your strength, caught off guard when your lips crashed into his, your body pushing him over until he was on his back and you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. You ground down against him, moaning when his hips snapped up reflexively. He was happy to give you control for a while, especially when you sat up and grabbed the bottom of your sweater and pulled it over your head. The view was spectacular.

He let his hands wander, tracing along the lines of your thigh highs from under your skirt, and up to the lace at your hips. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, the devilish glint in your eye was not lost on his as you shifted down his body, fingers swiftly working to unclasp his belt and undo the button on his jeans.

You slid off of him, and he lifted his hips to aid you in pulling his pants down his legs, his boxers following. His cock was achingly hard, the tip angry and red as it sprung free from it’s confines, nearly slapping his stomach. You eyed it greedily, and he was lost for words when you surged forward, delicate fingers wrapping around his length and stroking him, your tongue peeking out to taste him.

Amethyst eyes rolled back when you took the tip in your mouth, tongue swirling around the head, a low moan sounding from the back of your throat. The warmth and wetness that surrounded his cock when you closed your eyes and bobbed forward had him breathless, his hand threading through your hair, and his palm resting on the back of your head. He kept himself steady, fighting back the urge to buck his hips and push you down further on his length.

Shinsou bit down on his lower lip, his stomach muscles tensing as he tried to keep it together. Kaminari had been right, it had been a while since he’d been with someone, and he wanted this night to last as long as possible. The sweet and innocent look in your eyes as you looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth enveloping him all the way to base, was nearly too much for him to handle, his hand tugging at your hair gently to pull you off of him. “I’m not going to last if you keep that up, kitten.”

You visibly shivered at the pet name and he grinned, loving the feeling of being able to invoke that reaction from you. He scooted forward when you sat back on your knees between his spread legs, his arms circling your torso as he worked at the clasp on your bra, pulling the straps down your arms when he unclipped it. Strong hands gripped your waist and moved you to the side as he stood up, reaching under your skirt to tug your panties down your legs.

He took a moment to consider what he’d do next. He wanted to taste you, it was only right for him to return the favor, and he was almost certain you would taste as sweet as you looked. Another part of him wanted to hike up your legs around his waist and slam inside of you, desperate to hear you moan his name as he pounded you into the mattress. As he contemplated what to do, reached back and pulled his shirt over his head, and then let his hands wander up to the apex of your thighs, digits sliding through your folds. You gasped, falling back onto your elbows, back arching as he toyed with your clit, letting his long fingers slip inside your heat. “So wet. Just for me?” Eyebrows raised, he teased you.

“Fuck, Hitoshi, please.” Breathless and panting, you gazed up at him, biting your lip.

“Please what? Tell me what you want.” You would make the decision for him. “Would you like my mouth or my cock? I’ll let you choose.”

Huffing, your hips rutted against his hand impatiently. He kneeled on the bed between your legs, adjusting his arm and adding a second finger in with the first, his thumb finding your bundle of nerves again. He listened to your breath hitch, and your quiet mewls, pride filling his chest that he was the one coaxing those noises out of you. Finally, you breathed deep and answered him. “Fuck me, Hitoshi.”

Ignoring the protesting whine that left your lips when he removed his fingers, he brought them up to his mouth, maintaining eye contact with you as he sucked on them, tasting you. “You’re delicious, kitten. I’ll have to make sure to taste you properly later.”

Wasting no time, he lifted your legs up to rest your legs over his shoulders, one hand on his cock. He lined himself up with your entrance, grabbing at your hips and pushing himself inside you. If he thought your mouth was hot and wet and basically everything he thought was heaven, he was mistaken. This was it. This was everything. He wasn’t even inside you all the way and he was fighting back the need to cum again, cursing himself and breathing deeply. He leaned forward, forearms on either side of your head as his mouth crashed against yours, all lips and tongues and teeth, his need for you growing tenfold as you wiggled your hips in an attempt to feel more of him.

Groaning, he bucked forward, filling you up, the both of you sighing in relief at the feeling. He gave you a moment to adjust, lips moving down your jaw and tongue laving at the mark he’d left on your neck earlier. “You feel so good, kitten.”

“Toshi, you can move…” Your hands were gripping his biceps, nails leaving crescent shapes in his pale skin, breathing ragged as you clenched around him.

Hissing, he followed your instructions, hips pulling back until he was almost completely out, before sliding back in. Your arousal made the glide easy, your back arching underneath him. He started a steady rhythm, grunting quietly and letting the feeling of you pulsing around him keep him grounded. He let one of his hands wander, shifting his weight so he could ghost his palm over your side, fingers pinching your nipple and rolling the hardened bud between them. You keened, chanting his name like a prayer, the sound of blood pounding in his ears almost masking the sound.

It spurred him to move faster, his chest tight, sweat pooling at his temples and between his shoulder blades, purple locks sticking to his forehead. His gaze was locked on you, and it stole his breath. Your chest and neck were flushed, the most beautiful sounds spilling from your lips as he fucked into you. It became clear to him that he wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither were you.

“Hey, kitten. You gonna cum for me?” He shifted back to his knees and trailed the fingers on his left hand down your stomach, coming to rest between your parted legs. “I want to hear how pretty you sound when you come apart.” He kept a firm grip on your hip to keep you from sliding away, rolling his hips and rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“Fuck, Hitoshi!” The effect was almost immediate, your body and lungs seizing, eyes rolling back as you fell over the edge, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

Falling back over you, his thrusts became sloppy as he chased his own release, barely able to move with how tight your pussy was gripping him, your orgasm still rolling through you. He felt your hands on his face, guiding him to kiss you again, fingers carding through his hair and down his back, your nails raking red trails down his back. He felt like he could barely breathe, lost in you. “Y/N…”

He felt his muscles tense, and moved to bury his face in your neck, his hips stilling as he came hard, filling you up with his release. You squeezed around him again, and he sighed into your skin, eyes closed as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Rolling over to the side, he hissed when he pulled out. You chuckled, and he turned to look at you, a lazy smile on his face. “What?”

“Is that what you call showing me your record collection?”

Snorting, he propped his head up on his palm, leaning on his elbow, his free hand reaching out to push a piece of hair away from your face. “You attacked me, remember?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Protesting, you blushed. “I wanted to kiss you from the moment I walked into the cafe.”

It was his turn to blush. “Yeah?”

Shrugging, you turned on your side to face him. “Mm. Can you do me a favor?”

His body was still buzzing, muscles loose and pliant as he shuffled closer to you. “Anything.”

“Can you thank your friend for being a weird internet troll and finding my post?”

Shinsou coughed a laugh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Please, I can’t do that. It’s all he’d ever talk about for the rest of our lives if I did.”

You leaned up and kissed him, your fingers pushing back his hair.

He hummed against your lips, feeling content, shifting himself on the bed and wrapping his arms around your waist, tugging you into him. “Maybe I’ll send him a text later. For now, I have other plans.”

Kaminari’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, and he picked it up, eyes widening at the message that appeared on the screen.

Toshi: I owe you a crate full of Pokemon cards and my eternal gratitude for being a weirdo meme king who trolls the internet.

Denki: Oh, you’re in a good mood. Did you get laid?

Toshi: Fuck all the way off.

Denki: That’s a yes. You’re welcome.

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ahtohallan-calling · 5 years

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chapter 3 of promises to keep is here!

[kristanna / 5 part 18th c scotland au / love and angst and kiltstoff in equal measure / rated t / 3.3k words this chapter / big cw for violence and death this chapter]

masterpost

“Are you still angry with me?”

“Terribly.”

“What’ll I have to do to earn my place in your good graces again?”

She leaned back and raised her hands to cup his jaw, running her thumbs gently over the stubble there. “Come home to me safe and whole, and then swear to never leave my side again.”

chapter 3: a plea for forgiveness

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep out here.

Well, really, she hadn’t meant to be out here long enough to. In her mind, by now they would be halfway to Glenfinnan, maybe further if he’d managed to get hold of a horse, and then they’d keep going until they were out of Scotland entirely, and then maybe they could built a little cottage or find a port city and cross to Ireland or further even to the colonies, and there’d be no war nor uncle nor anything else to keep them apart.

But he hadn’t come, and now the sun had already risen, and fear swallowed the anger in her heart when she looked down from the top of the hill into the village and saw the crowd that had already gathered in the square.

Anna ran as fast as she could, the breath tearing from her lungs as she raced over the moor. The toe of her boot caught on her skirt, and she fell with a cry, skidding halfway down the hill and making a bloody, dirty mess of her shins. The second she came to a halt she was on her feet again, panting for air and praying let me make it, Jesus and Mary and God and anyone else who’s listening, let me get there in time.

She skidded to a halt next to the tailor’s shop, scanning wildly for him.It seemed the whole village was there crowding the streets, mothers straightening their son’s collars for the last time and wives clinging to their husband’s necks and little siblings enviously eyeing their brothers’ gleaming weapons. At last she laid eyes upon him where he hung back from the rest of them, his eyes cast downward as he fiddled with something in his hand, as if he wasn’t expecting a single soul to come and bid him farewell.

“Kristoff!” she gasped, already reaching for him as she started to run once more, and immediately he looked up, eyes filling with hope as he closed the gap between them.

He caught her around the waist, lifting her slightly off her feet as she flung her arms around him. “I didn’t think you were going to come,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“Of course I came. I love you,” she choked out, her fingers knotting in the back of his shirt.

“It’s alright, my Anna,” he said softly, cradling the back of her head as she wept against his shoulder. “Don’t cry.”

“I thought– I thought you would come last night. I waited for you.”

He pressed a kiss into her tangled hair. “I knew you would. And I knew that if I came that I’d go with you and spend the rest of my life feeling guilty for it.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes, memorizing the warmth of his skin and the feel of his arms around her. “I know. But I…I was still hopeful, anyway.”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“Terribly.”

“What’ll I have to do to earn my place in your good graces again?”

She leaned back and raised her hands to cup his jaw, running her thumbs gently over the stubble there. “Come home to me safe and whole, and then swear to never leave my side again.”

“I will, I promise,” he said, and let go of her for a moment to fumble in his pocket. “And I– here, I wanted you to have this, so you can look at it, and…well.” His cheeks reddened. “I’m not good with words, but I guess you know why I want you to have it.”

He opened his palm to show her an iron ring. “Not gold yet, like I promised,” he said sheepishly, “but I made it myself, if that makes up for it.”

Anna set her fingers lightly on his palm. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, and he smiled and slid it carefully onto the ring finger of her left hand. “How did you get it just the right size?”

“I learned how your hand fit against mine long ago, and so I…well. Wasn’t hard, really,” he said, sounding almost shy, and she couldn’t help but kiss him then, twining her arms around his neck as she rose up onto the tips of her toes.

From somewhere at the other end of the square, the pipes started playing, a marching song, and panic began to rise in her chest. She pulled back to meet his eyes and found them sadder than she had seen them since the first day they had met, when he had been a lost little boy and she was his only anchor, and she realized that somewhere along the way they had changed places.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded, feeling like a child. “Please, don’t leave me.”

“I have to, my love,” he said, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. “But I’ll come home to you, I swear it. You won’t even have time to miss me.”

“I already do,” she whispered, and he kissed her one last time and pulled regretfully away, catching her hand and giving it a squeeze before letting go.

She fell back into the crowd, tears streaming down her face, as he joined the rest of the men. They were a ragged bunch, farmers and bakers and smiths, not a soldier among them, but she knew they’d be meeting up with the rest of the MacLeod clansmen as soon as they got to Lochailort, and somehow from there they’d find the rest of the army and march south to face the English head-on.

How many are there like me, she wondered, watching them go and wondering which of them will come home again?

Her uncle glanced back then, his eyes meeting hers. She lifted her chin defiantly, expecting a scowl, but instead, he bowed his head, sorrow flooding his face, and it occurred to her for the first time that perhaps he, too, had never wanted it to come to this. Beside him, Callum looked just as grim, though he had eyes only for his wife, cradling his son. I’ll look after them for you, Anna thought, wishing she’d thought to tell him as much aloud. You take care of what’s mine, and I’ll take care of yours.

He glanced at her then, and she gave him a firm nod. A grin broke across his face, and he saluted her before turning away again to face the road that led them all away from her.

—

Every day there was a new kind of ache in him. He was used to hard work, to be sure, perhaps more used to it than many of the other men he marched with. But the endless miles of walking, the hours of drilling, the way he caught himself tensing his jaw near-constantly, all of it meant that at night he laid awake aching for hours on his bedroll, trying not to think of how he could have been home in a bed with a wife next to him if only he’d given less of a damn about honor.

He wasn’t the only one. Many of the men had joined the army for glory and pride and love of country, while others– the ones who seemed never to stop smiling– joined for the satisfaction of sinking a blade into its target and the pleasure of warm blood running through their fingers.

But the rest of them– most of them, actually, he was coming to realize– had come because their lairds demanded it of them, or because they had mouths to feed back home, or some combination of the two, all of them burdened a sense of duty that outweighed anything else, no matter how dear it was to their hearts. At night they would sit somehow alone and together all at once, and he would see Callum running his fingers over a little portrait of his wife, and there would be Thomas who’d come all the way from Peterhead reading a faded letter for the thousandth time, and gray-haired Duncan who never stopped fiddling with his wedding band, and Kristoff would wish desperately that he’d thought to take something, anything, that he could hold onto and think of Anna, some little piece of her that reminded him why he was sitting here in the drizzling rain with a rifle beside him that still felt strange in his hands.

They had, by sheer geographic coincidence, joined up straightaway with the Bonnie Prince himself and his army. Sometimes he caught sight of him talking with the officers or joking around with his private guard or making the rounds to meet the men who were ready to die to give him back a crown. Kristoff always avoided him when he came his way; all he could think when he saw the man’s bright smile was what is it, then, that you’ve had to leave behind?

—

The forge was empty now; smith and apprentice alike had marched off together. And the miller’s wife did the best she could to keep them all fed, and the carpenter’s boy used all of his fourteen year old fury at being left behind to give him stamina though he lacked much skill, and there was no one to replace the butcher so they made do with what was left in the larder and what they could manage to pull from the river.

Aunt Nellie shut herself up the same day the men left, and Elsa was better suited to helping keep books and sorting out the mind-numbing tasks of governance, and so it fell upon Anna to go from house to house each day, doing whatever little she could to raise their occupants’ spirits.

News came so rarely that most days they just rehashed the same conversations over and over, I remember when he was knee high to a lamb and I hope his blanket’s holding up and have I ever told you how we met? And she would say yes, and now he’s the size of a bear! and I’m sure it is, yours are always of the strongest weave and no, but I’d love to hear, and it was enough, at least, to fill the silence. She felt sometimes like a rag shoved into the cracks around a door, doing whatever she could to fill the gap and stop the cold from getting too far in.

And the softer hearts among them would ask after Kristoff, too; they had all seen her say goodbye to him, and before that had seen the years they spent side by side, and she would show them the ring he’d made and tell how he’d known just how to make it without even taking the measure of her hand, and they would smile and sigh and say you hold on to that one when he comes home.

I will, she would promise, and then before long she would have to take her leave and go out somewhere that none of them could see her and catch her breath before she went on to the next house and did it all again.

And then one day real news did come, that they’d taken Edinburgh and a town next to it, and she practically ran from door to door bringing word of it. “Maybe they really will be home by Christmas,” she said breathlessly to Callum’s wife, and then suddenly they were both laughing and weeping and holding on tightly to one another for dear life.

—

It had been six hours, and his hands were still shaking.

“You’re alright, lad,” Anna’s uncle was saying, grasping his shoulder to try and ground him, but it wasn’t enough; all he could hear was the man’s gasp when the musket ball had hit him and the solid thwack of the body hitting the earth and the cry that had escaped his own lips when he’d realized what he had done.

“You saved my son’s life,” the older man said then, his voice becoming strained, “and I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“He was someone’s son, too,” Kristoff said, feeling faraway from it all somehow, like he was still on the battlefield, watching as tiny drifting snowflakes fell and melted when they landed on a slack face that was still warm.

“Aye, he was,” Lachlan said softly, “and that’s why we’ve got to keep fighting as best we can, so this madness can end before there’s none of us left to go home.”

Kristoff closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I told Anna I’d be home before the first snow fell.”

“It can’t be helped now, lad. But I’ll do all that’s in my power to get you back to her as soon as I can.”

He nodded, grateful, knowing it was as close to a blessing as he was likely to get. He half expected the other man to get up and leave, go back to his officer’s tent, but instead he stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands, staring up in silence at the vast expanse of sky, and still he was there when at last the trembling stopped and, overcome with exhaustion, Kristoff fell into an uneasy sleep and dreams of Anna clinging to him with tears streaming down her cheeks and whispering it’s alright, all of it, so long as you come home.

—

The winter was long and dark, devoid of any news except word that a battle had been half-won in January, that a siege had been attempted but both sides had instead retreated partway through. “Why?” Anna asked the man who brought the message, but the only answer was a shrug as the man mounted his horse and turned towards the next village.

There was no news of who yet lived or died, and with the animals kept indoors and no crops to harvest and the moors too frigid to wander, there was little to do but sit at home and wait.

The days were bad enough, sitting by firesides and rehashing the same memories and thoughts and questions over and over for the thousandth time, but the nights were what hollowed her, left her staring up at the ceiling drowning in a tide of dread. This was supposed to have been a fast war, an easy victory for the mighty highlanders and the rightful king against the bastardly interlopers, harking back to the days of Bannockburn and wicked King Edward and the heroes of the Scotsmen charging into battle just as ferociously as they still did today.

She couldn’t help but wonder now what it had been like for the ones left behind back then, if they, too, had paced from room to room and trembled for fear and joy alike over every scrap of news, if they traded the same stories a thousand times over and told each other “this will be it, they’ll be home before you know it and the English will let us alone at last”.

One evening in February as she made her way home after spending an hour smiling and clapping at Callum’s little boy as he made his first hesitant steps across the floor, she found herself walking by the blacksmith’s shop and peering through the window out of habit, as if by some miracle she might catch a glimpse of Kristoff there, the light of the forge gilding him around the edges as he swung his hammer high, all warmth and strength and life.

She blinked and realized she had somehow drawn close enough to flatten her palm against the window, her nose pressing against the glass as she peered in through the gloom at the dust-ensconced anvil and bare table, and suddenly a wild thing overtook her, a desperate need to see some kind of light in the hearth, and before she knew it she was through the backdoor that had been left mercifully unlocked and kneeling before the fireplace.

It took a few tries, but she had seen Kristoff do it enough times that before long she had a fire going, and she sat back on her heels willing the warmth of it to melt the slick, icy dread in her heart that was turning her blood to sludge in her veins.

Anna closed her eyes as tight as she could, twisting the ring around her finger out of habit as she remembered the way his arms had circled around her, the way he’d pressed his lips to her cheek and promised such pretty things to her, the way the sunlight had glinted on his hair as he disappeared from view. If that was the last she saw of him, if that had been goodbye–

She screwed up her face, willing herself not to cry, but the tears came anyway, burning as they rolled down her cold cheeks. She had told him she was angry with him, that she wouldn’t forgive him until he came home, but her fury had faded away the second she had lost sight of him, and now she was the one who wanted to beg for mercy, to tell him over and over again how sorry she was for spending the night on the moor waiting for him to betray himself when she could have spent hours in his arms, holding him and telling him how she loved him until the dawn.

If you come home to me, she thought then, as if it were a prayer, I’ll spend the rest of my life doing just that to make it up to you.

—

It wasn’t supposed to be happening like this. There were thousands of them, highlanders and lowlanders alike, drilled in rushing forward with a battle cry and startling the enemy into a retreat, the same way they had that had carried them through the fall, but somehow this time it had failed, and now half the army was back at Inverness, and the rest of them were here fighting as best they could through the mud and melting snow as the struggle quickly turned into a slaughter.

He was half out of bullets already, trying not to choke on smoke as he charged towards where Callum was trapped beneath a fallen horse, ignoring the pitched battle all around him as he sprinted forward, thinking only of the woman with curly hair and the blue-eyed babe in her arms standing straight-backed beside Anna and refusing to give in to tears, and then there was a scream and a sword and a burst of red and he was too late.

He stumbled back in horror, a cry bubbling out of his throat as he raised his gun to his shoulder, taking aim, but suddenly there was a shout behind him. On instinct, he turned, the musket ball firing uselessly into the air, and came face to face with a snarling man on horseback, his sword extended, and then there was a blinding pain tearing from his hip to his knee.

He blinked, too stunned to cry out, and suddenly he was lying in the mud, his vision already going gray around the edges. He clenched his eyes shut, willing himself to stay conscious, to stand again and keep fighting, to avenge Callum and the rest of his clansmen and fight his way through the entire army if he had to, if that was what it took to keep his promise.

He opened his eyes with a gasp of pain, and somehow there she was leaning over him, as solid and real as the earth beneath his back, grace in her eyes as she smiled at him, the ring on her hand glinting as she reached down to caress his cheek.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely, and she opened her mouth to reply, and then he blinked and she was gone, and in her place there was a soldier in a red coat with his rifle raised high, and he swung it down hard as if it were a hammer, and Kristoff saw no more.

—

a/n: thank you @kristoffbjorg and @ronnieiswriting for the idea of how he would know how to make her ring the right size

#sorry LOL #but theres two more chapters So #ptk #my fics #old scotland au

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sweetdreamsjeff · 5 years

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LAST GOODBYE the lost Jeff Buckley interview

One of the most revealing – and spine-chilling – interviews of Jeff Buckley’s short life was conducted for a fanzine with a small readership. Phil Smith resurrects it here, with thanks to Andrew Truth for the interview and extensive contributions

In 1995, fanzine journalism was giving the established music press a run for its money. Andrew Truth had been producing Plane Truth since 1988 but issue 15 (circulation: 500) was to be his last. It had interviews with the usual unusual selection of bands, some fondly remembered and some largely forgotten.

Lurking at the back of the fanzine was an encounter with Jeff Buckley, son of Tim and on the way to becoming a legend in his own right. Andrew had conducted the interview on 3 September 1994, before Buckley’s show at what was then The Hop & Grape (now part of Manchester Academy). Buckley had only just released Grace and started touring with a full band, which Andrew remembers him enthusing about. The album was yet to slow-burn its way into the hearts of millions. He had been recording a Mark Radcliffe session and playing Reading Festival and likened the part he played at the latter to being “a circus performer”. He was about to leave for the continent for further dates. His father’s reputation preceded him and for that reason, Andrew steered away from questions about family. They got on like a house on fire, Buckley rambling excitedly about his favourite music, playing live, his choice of cover versions, songwriting and immortality.

Buckley introduced himself by impulsively diving onto Andrew’s cafeteria table. He launched unprompted and with a distant air into part of one of his favourite interview topics, a solo LP by Deep Purple’s Jon Lord, as if transmitting thoughts from a superior galaxy and with a mischievous glint in his eyes. He dabbed sandalwood oil behind his ear while mimicking a cockney accent and singing jauntily: “‘Now we’ve made it, I’d like to do my orchestral piece called Gemini Suite about the signs of the zodiac.’ [Lord’s LP is] Great! It’s partly Bonanza, partly every horrible cliché. Like in Warner Brothers cartoons, Bugs Bunny music. It’s the funniest shit alive, all that 70s stuff. I can’t listen to it for long [though]. There’s a difference between indulgence and exploration.”

It had been Buckley’s questing approach in addition to his poetic soul and natural vocal talent that had drawn Andrew towards him at this early stage in his international career. Buckley settled into the interview, describing his nomadic upbringing as “a preparation and a curse, but everyone’s childhood is. It’s made it easier [for me to tour]. You’re the stranger constantly. People will find occasions where they’re readily accepted but other times, equally [the] weight of hostility comes towards you for no reason at all. I still attract the same things from childhood. People come to the shows and either run away screaming or really like it.”

Andrew expressed his contempt for middle-ground mediocrity in music. Buckley was more nuanced in his response, describing its fleeting effect: “Nothing [from the middle ground] comes to mind, that is ’cos I’ve forgotten it already. I’ve forgotten the effect and which art it was that gave me the effect. Either you remember Bob Dylan or you remember Michael Bolton.” Bolton was another Buckley interview hobby horse and appears to have been the bane of his life, and he was arguably a collective figure of hate for all alternative music fans at the time.

At the gig, Andrew described Buckley as bouncing about in a style that induced cries of “Kangaroo!”, his face dramatic and furrowed in anguish, seeming to curse injustices with disbelief. “People project tremendous amounts of personal low self-esteem and high self-esteem upon the stage, in equal parts sometimes. That’s the catharsis of going to a live show. If the performer is right, this is very co-dependent, but people go there to unload. There is this loud person who has come to a few of my gigs and her friends insist that she’s a very nice person but she can’t help but shout at me up on the stage. It’s something I just accept. It’s not like when Murphy’s Law played at The Plaza and four or five fights erupted within the space of 46 minutes. I don’t look out to see whether I’m connecting because it’s not up to me. I look out to see where the music should go. If the crowd is hot because their skin is hot due to the temperature, the set will be different. Or if it’s very cold outside and still, I’ll want to be the fireplace as best I can though sometimes I can’t accomplish it. I’m aware of the energy in the room. Moods and music fly about of their own will and they have no order and you can be either open or closed to them and that’s how the gig will go. Either from the stage or the audience, people open to emotions, movement, stories, feeling and dancing.”

Andrew asked Buckley about the unusually high number of cover versions on his first couple of releases. “It’s usually everything about [the song that attracts me], not just one thing. It’s different in the case of [Van Morrison’s] The Way Young Lovers Do. That came about because my friend Michael, who eventually joined the band, had a dream about me and him singing [it]. On a whim, I got it together and performed it one night. Then it became something else because the tempo I liked, the feel of it; the words and the song got into me. Any time I take a cover and wear it on my sleeve, it’s because it had something to do with my life and still marks a time in my life when I needed that song more than anything ever.”

Andrew expressed some shock at how good a rescue job Buckley had done with his Lilac Wine cover, as he previously disliked the Elkie Brooks version. Buckley said: “The version I’ve heard is Nina Simone’s. I’m not even sure who Elkie Brooks is. I don’t think it’s always a fair decision to have homogeneity for its own sake. I think that human beings contain many people… I do believe that there’s this one soul that lies directly through Edith Piaf and the Sex Pistols, I really know that exists: Joni Mitchell and John Cage; Billie Holiday and Bad Brains. An album in itself is a moment and the music may require for me to make an album that’s totally homogenised but not as a rule. It’s good to be varied because without knowing what sides there are to you, knowing your depths, you pretty much die. You never change and you stay in the same unbeatable format but, sooner or later, you become obsolete.”

Failure to evolve is to stymie yourself, suggested Andrew.

“That’s true. I’m not even that concerned with changing,” Jeff replied. “Just with discovery, because through discovering you may stay on one thing for a long time. Just evolving is important. Deliberately changing all the time is like making off with somebody who must change position in order to get into every [sexual] position and you never get anything started. ‘Would you please keep still, throw away the Kama Sutra and love my ass!’”

Buckley confessed to a couple of songs to which he would feel unable to add anything: “Parchment Farm Blues by Bukka White and Well I Wonder by The Smiths because I always end up doing it exactly like Morrissey does. The impetus for having covers was necessity. In the middle of a show taking people into a world that was completely my world, ‘boom’, right over there we’re into I Know It’s Over from The Queen Is Dead.”

In a segment of the interview which Andrew admits makes him a little queasy now, he picked up on Buckley’s Eternal Life and asked him if he desired immortality. Tim Buckley died young of a heroin overdose and his son was to tragically drown in 1997, only a few years after the Plane Truth interview.

“It is possible and it happens all the time, but just not in the way you want or expect it,” Buckley Jr said. “Beyond death, I know nothing but in human life… some people have a love for people around them that is so powerful and carries so many gifts with it that even when they die, people are still accomplishing things through this person’s love in them, because this person said, ‘I see you’re a writer. I see this postcard here and you’re killing me in this, you’re a great writer.’ And he’s saying, ‘I never thought about writing before. ‘But anyway, you’re a great writer and this is a great piece of work. I don’t even want to touch War And Peace, this is it,’ and, ‘boom’, he gets hit by a car and this person goes on to be a great writer or remembers that belief, against his own hope. It’s very strange, in that way, he’ll become immortal, he’ll always be remembered. He’ll be alive in people’s hearts, inside people.

“Then there’s books, records, movies, images. Here’s immortality in a nutshell: Marilyn Monroe, James Dean. They’re all around you but they don’t exist. That’s immortality in my cynical world. That’s Tinsel Town immortality, which is bullshit. They’ve lost immortality because they’ve lost their appearance as mortals. They’re symbols, gods, tools and puppets for people. There’s a fine line between being a god and a puppet...The Bible is used as a puppet and it’s untouchable and sacred but people use it as a pair of roller-skates or joke toilet paper with a psalm on every sheet. Being mortal and rooted in the earth is a very excruciating joy and not a lot of people can take it. Sometimes they just want to be famous, with no substance underneath, no work, no reason. To be famous and known and loved. They think it’s being loved but it’s just being worshipped and idolised and that’s not even being understood. It’s not even in the ballpark. It’s better to have people around you who understand you and when you come up to people in the street and talk about bagels and talk about the game, to have that connection there, it’s very important to me.

“If I wanted to be famous, I’d assassinate the President. There’s no life in it. There’s nothing wrong with being famous for something you do well or uniquely like if I invented the cure for AIDS, I wouldn’t mind being very famous. It’d be a great achievement. Or if I wrote a song that everyone loved, I wouldn’t mind that. It wouldn’t mean everything. That wouldn’t be the object or I’d be a junkie for fame, ‘I wasn’t famous for my orange juice song. It’s a great song but nobody likes it! I must suck!’ I have to be attuned to that and must have an everlasting relationship with this particular thing that there’s a public and then there’s me. At any given time, I am the public and Evan Dando [Lemonheads] is him and I understand that exchange. It’s a very strange arena and lots of people get thrown to the lions. Lots of people come away victorious for a time but then they’re out of the arena, that’s the end of it.”

Andrew ended the interview by asking about whether Buckley regularly wrote songs based on dreams, as Mojo Pin had been. “Dreaming, both waking and asleep, [is] a reservoir of mine. The thing is, there’s no difference for me between dream states and living. They both carry truth to them. I can read them both. I feel things in my dreams and I feel all the things that human beings’ lives bring them, except sometimes there are purple monsters or a chocolate dog trying to wake you up, but it’s still all very valid to me and I read situations in waking hours just like I read them in my sleeping hours, my sleeping hour, my lack of sleep world.”

#Jeff Buckley #LAST GOODBYE the lost Jeff Buckley interview #phil smith #andrew truth #lost interview

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blueboxesandtrafficcones · 5 years

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The French Connection - Chapter 4

A HardyxMiller AU

Ellie Miller is left to go on her honeymoon alone after a devastating secret about her fiance comes to light - halfway through the wedding ceremony. Sitting in St Pancras International in London waiting for her train, she runs into none other than her uni rival/best friend Alec Hardy, on the run from his own recent heartbreak.

They decide to make use of Ellie’s pre-paid trip, rekindling their friendship and escaping real life; yet, it turns out their years at uni are the hardest to outrun. Based on this prompt from @timepetalscollective

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday. Beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma

Masterlist | AO3

---

Despite Hardy’s playful jabs, Ellie had built free-time into the schedule for them to do as they pleased. Given that the trip had been intended as a honeymoon she had expected to spend that time in bed, but with Hardy as her travel companion instead, they decided to lounge by the hotel pool, relaxing and playing in the water, earning themselves plenty of disapproving glares from the other guests.

After showering and changing they headed out for the day, strolling past the Louvre again to the Place de la Concorde, where the Champs-Elysee began. The most famous street in Paris, they quickly located a café charming enough for Ellie’s standards and had pastries for lunch.

Once fed they continued on down the boulevard towards l’Arc de Triumphe, Ellie oohing and aahing at all the expensive shops they passed.

“Can you imagine having the money to spend along here?” she wanted to know, when he all but forcefully dragged her away from a Louboutin shop. “To just shop to your heart’s content, money no issue. As much as I love my job, I can’t deny I wouldn’t mind a better salary.”

“We’re not in it for the money,” Hardy rolled his eyes, palm pressed firmly between her shoulder blades in an attempt to keep her walking straight without getting sidetracked. “Besides, this is all just… stuff. It’s not inherently better than more reasonably-priced items, people just think it is ‘cause it’s got a ‘name’. Who cares?”

Ellie peered up at him, smirking slightly. “So you have no interest in that Paul Smith store?”

His head automatically turned in the direction she gestured, before his back stiffened and he glared down at her. “Not funny.”

“There actually was one, next block over from the Tuileries.”

“Shut up, Miller,” he fell back on an old standby, before pointing at a store front. “Don’t you have something from ‘Lou-is Vut-ton’ already?”

“Oooh!”

Once they reached Place Charles de Gaulle, they stopped to stare at the roundabout, with easily a hundred cars flying around and off onto one of the dozen streets that spread out from there.

“How the hell are we supposed to get over there?” Hardy wanted to know, staring incredulously at the throngs of people inside the roped-off section of the circle, where the Arch itself sat. “Teleport? Walk through traffic? Call Mary fucking Poppins?”

Ellie shrugged, before a sign caught her eye and jogged her memory. “There’s a tunnel!”

“A tunnel?”

“Yes, a tunnel,” she repeated, already heading in that direction. “Keep up. It takes us under the roadway.”

He was muttering behind her but she paid him little attention, starting down the steps amid a throng of other sightseers. Barely three minutes later they came up just in front of the Arch, and having enough presence of mind to step out of the way, she stopped dead to gape.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she whispered, yelping when someone brushed her elbow.

“It’s just me,” Hardy grumped. “Right, so what’s so special about this?”

She studied his face for a moment, before judging him to be more troublemaker than ignoramus. “Shut up. We’re going up to the top.”

“Why?” He trailed behind obediently anyway, as they joined the ticket queue. “What’s up there?”

“‘What’s up there?’” she mocked. “A gorgeous view of the city, feel the wind in your hair… honestly, you’ve been such a grump since we left the hotel. It’s Paris, just try to enjoy it and not be… you for a while, yeah?”

“Fine.” Hardy made a face and she made one right back, distracted out of her irritation by the small giggles of the children in line behind them. Smiling awkwardly at them she turned to face forward, glad to not be looking at Hardy when she overheard the conversation behind them.

“Mummy?” the little girl attempted to whisper, “Why were they arguing like that? Aren’t they happy to be here?”

The mother answered her daughter quietly, though clearly not quietly enough – “They weren’t arguing, they were bickering, like how Daddy and I do.”

“What does that mean?”

“That even people in love sometimes get annoyed with each other, but even when they say mean things, they still love each other, and they both know it, even if they don’t like each other in that moment.”

“Like when Daddy leaves the toilet seat up? Or Jason steals my Barbies?”

“Exactly.”

Ellie’s spine stiffened, listening, and she fought very hard not to peek at Hardy’s face to see if he’d heard.

In love? Us? Not bloody likely.

They took their time going back up the Champs-Elysee on the opposite side, Ellie doing her best not to look at or speak to Hardy any more than necessary, ideally without his noticing.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he finally asked, when they passed the third bakery in a row that Ellie gave no attention. “Was it that garbage you had for lunch? I said you’d regret it.”

Ellie scowled. “I am in France,” she said sternly, “so I am eating French food. Why is that such a difficult concept?”

“Then what’s the problem?”

He mustn’t have heard them talking behind us, she realized; she’d been too focused on avoiding him to notice he was no different. Thank God.

“I’m just thinking about dinner,” she lied, grimacing as she remembered the reservations they had.

“D’you have somewhere in mind?”

“Actually… I have reservations. Ones already paid for, unfortunately.”

“Where?”

Ellie gave him her best sweet smile, hoping in vain to butter him up. “Restaurant 58.”

He stopped dead, crossing his arms and arching an eyebrow. “I’m not playing twenty fucking questions. Just tell me.”

“All right.” She tilted her head, walking again, waiting for him to catch up to say, “It’s on the first level of la Tour Eiffel. A guaranteed view of the Trocadero, the park that’s on the other side of the river that you always see in pictures of Paris.”

“Sounds romantic,” Hardy said cautiously, looking genuinely concerned. “You sure?”

“Already paid for,” she repeated. “And the weather’s supposed to be beautiful, thank God. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Please?”

He sighed, reluctantly unfolding his arms, before nodding. “‘Course. Your trip.”

“Brilliant!”

Once back at the room they started getting ready for an early-for-Paris seating, Ellie taking the shower first so Hardy could be in there while she fussed with her hair and makeup.

She was just struggling with her zipper when Hardy knocked on the door, and she called him in. “Perfect timing! Zip me up?” she asked, turning her back on him as he entered the room and sweeping her hair out of the way.

“Erm, sure.” He came up behind her, and she was hyper aware of him as nimble fingers pinched the dress together and pulled the zip up.

“There’s a button, too,” she mentioned, and he did that as well, before easing her long, loose tresses from her grip and fluffing them along her back, before smoothing his palms over her shoulders.

Ellie’s breath hitched, his touch stirring up surprising emotions. It was light, barely touching her, but she felt it like an electric shock, crackling through her.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, stepping away.

“Thanks. The dress is new.” Unsure of what to do with her hands she smoothed the skirt of the dress down. She’d bought it for the trip, a sexy little dress expected to make Joe’s knees weak. Navy blue and lace, the off-the-shoulder wide bands kept her neck and shoulders bare, perfect for a summer evening out. She felt beautiful and elegant, and utterly alone. Much as she’d tried to not dwell on it, and having succeeded most of the day, preparing for an admittedly romantic dinner had made her long for her almost-husband. The betrayal still stung, burned really, a dark mass in her gut that made her blood burn just to think of it, but forty-eight hours previous she’d been preparing to spend her life with the man.

That didn’t fade overnight, much as she prayed it would. She’d wasted three years of her life with Joe, hoping and planning for a future that had evaporated in a puff of smoke. She was angry, humiliated, a righteous indignation stiffening her spine. Yet the way Hardy looked at her, treated her as if nothing special or unusual had happened, helped. She didn’t want to be coddled, like her sister would’ve tried to do, or patronized and made to feel guilty and at fault, like her parents had berated her.

She wanted to be uni-Ellie again, challenged and equaled. Hardy would pull no punches, wouldn’t sugar-coat anything. He would just let her be in the moment.

“Ready?” he asked, shifting awkwardly and breaking her from her spell.

“Yes.” As they headed headed for the lift, she admired his navy suit, amused to find he’d coordinated himself with her dress.

“You look nice.”

“Thanks.” He offered her his arm, guiding her to the lobby as she ordered a car on her phone.

The Uber driver took the scenic path, which cut in front of the Louvre and passed the glass pyramid, making her smile at the famous sight. Crossing that bridge to the other bank they rode along the river, taking in the happy couples and families strolling along the path. Everything seemed so bright, and peaceful, and everything she’d hoped it would be.

“I have to let you off here,” their driver said abruptly. “Security reasons. Is this okay?”

“Fine, thanks,” Ellie smiled brightly, waiting until Hardy had slid out to follow him. They weren’t far, could easily see the tower, and she didn’t mind a little extra walk. Her heels were comfortable, and she was in Paris – c’est la vie.

Once on the sidewalk he offered her his arm again, and she had to admit as they walked that it improved the experience. “It’s nice, approaching on foot. Gives you more a sense of the magnitude.”

“It is pretty impressive, I suppose,” he agreed. “You know it was built as the entrance to the 1889 World’s Fair?”

“Really?”

“Everyone hated it. Was only permitted for twenty years, but by then it had become a landmark.”

“Hard to imagine Paris without it.”

“Right?”

Ellie had pre-printed tickets, so they were able to go to a special line that took them right up to the restaurant. The ride up the lift through the leg of the Tower was a thrill, and she was grinning widely by the time they stepped off. “This is gorgeous!”

The walls were all glass to improve the view, curving with the shape of the Tower. She’d paid for a guaranteed view of the Trocadero, and they only had to wait a few minutes to be seated. The restaurant was minimally decorated, subtle in design so as to not take away from the specialness of the location and views.

“This is nice,” Hardy admitted as they settled in their seats, taking in the view before looking at the menu.

“Right? It won’t get dark until we’re done, but once we are we can go outside – dinner included the price of the ticket for the Tower itself.”

“Great.”

They studied the menu, sitting in a calm silence until after their orders had been placed and their wine poured.

“Hang on,” Hardy blurted, as she brought wine glass to her lips.

“What?”

He held his own out towards her. “To… to finding the silver lining. Or the open window. Or whatever trite motivational fortune-cookie saying you prefer.”

“Well said.”

“Shut up. Point being…” Hardy hesitated a moment, glancing around the restaurant and out the window before settling his eyes on her, sincerity shining there. “I’m very glad I ran into you, and I’m happy to be here with you now. I hope you can say the same.”

A small smile bloomed on her face. “I can,” she said honestly. “Better to find out before the wedding rather than after, I suppose. And it is good to see you again.”

They clinked wine glasses, drinking to the strangest toast she’d ever heard.

And yet somehow it still felt right.

After a meal where the food was as enjoyable as the company, and an awe-inspiring sunset, they exited the restaurant onto the first level to join the throngs of other tourists trying to take in the city by moonlight.

Ellie’s good mood soured slightly; she’d had the naïve but romantic hope that somehow, she and Joe would be alone on the Tower after dinner, like something out of a movie. I should have expected this.

“El.” Hardy tugged her by the elbow, and she turned to him, frowning.

“What?”

But he had disappeared into the crowd, and sighing, she eased her way past the groups, mostly couples, in the direction he’d gone. Finally she found him at the steps up to the next level, waiting impatiently.

They went up together, Ellie clutching tightly to the handrail just to be safe, unused to climbing steps in heels. After the first dozen Hardy came onto her step, resting his hand on her back to offer support.

When they reached the second level, she looked up at him and said dryly, “We are so taking the lift down,” before noticing the view and promptly forgetting her complaint. “Oh, look at this.”

It was far less crowded on the second level, and they were able to find a relatively private spot. Ellie leaned against the railing, almost pressing her face to the protective lattice-work keeping anyone from falling. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah.” Hardy’s voice was heavy with emotion, the same way it had been the previous morning watching the sunrise, and she was afraid to look at him for a moment.

“Thank you. Thank you for coming with me. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know if I would’ve gotten on the train,” she confessed, staring determinedly at a boat making its way along the river. “I probably would’ve just checked into a hotel and slept the week away, or something, and missed out on the beauty and wonder. God, to think I’d have given up the trip of a lifetime to Paris for a bloke.”

Hardy leaned against the railing beside her, sighing. “I had no idea where I was going to go. I’d even been considering going up to Glasgow and visiting family.” He shivered dramatically in disgust, making her laugh softly. “So, thank you for the invite. I hadn’t known how much I missed you until I saw you again.”

Touched, she turned to face him at last, giving him a watery smile. “I missed you too.” Rising up on her toes she leaned in, aiming for his cheek. Later, when she would spend half the night lying awake replaying this moment, she wouldn’t be able to tell if he moved because of bad luck or if he’d misunderstood, but Hardy’s face turned to her at the last possible second, and instead of the innocent kiss to the cheek she had intended, her lips landed squarely on his.

Oh my God, she thought, freezing in surprise at the admittedly delightful feel of his mouth against hers. Then he leaned forward slightly, into the kiss, and the only thing running through her mind was what the fuck?

Jerking her head back her jaw dropped, as she stared up at him, watching his eyes widen and his throat work as he swallowed.

What was that?!

#bbatcfic #broadfic #Broadchurch #HardyxMiller #Alec Hardy #Ellie Miller #AU #The French Connection #platonic honeymoon fic

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kalluun-patangaroa · 5 years

Text

An Audience With… Brett Anderson

UNCUT Magazine

December 2010

Interview: John Lewis

Brett Anderson has some fans in odd places. This month, Uncut’s email boxes are positively heaving with questions from adoring fans in Peru, Serbia, Japan, New Zealand, Belgium, South Africa, Slovenia and Russia. “I’m quite popular in odd places,” he says. “Suede had No 1s in Chile and Finland. We were massive in Denmark. If asked why Denmark, my stock answer was that, well, I’m a depressed sex maniac and so are most Scandinavians. We toured China long before most Western pop groups. I remember playing Beijing, to a crowd divided by armed soldiers facing the audience. That was pretty scary.” Anderson is currently back in the Far East, speaking to Uncut as he overlooks Kowloon Harbour, preparing for solo dates. Later in the year he’ll be in London for a big O2 show with Suede (sans original guitarist Bernard Butler, although the two remain good friends). “I wanted to check out what the stage was like at the O2 Arena,” he says. “So I went to see The Moody Blues with my father-in-law. Come on, you can’t argue with ‘Nights In White Satin’. What a tune!”

I presume you’re aware of the ‘reallybanderson’ Twitter account purporting to be by you. Amused or offended? Helen, Birmingham

Twitter is one of those strange things, like Facebook, that I don’t have anything to do with. But I have to grudgingly admit that the reallybanderson Twitter updates are rather funny [starts giggling]. And the guy doing it is obviously a bit of a Suede fan, because there are some very detailed references to b-sides and bla-di-blah. I can’t exactly complain about it without coming across as a real tit. It’s just fun and no-one really thinks it’s me, it’s a cartoon version of me reflected through some fairground mirror. I don’t think anyone reads it and thinks, ‘Oh, Brett Anderson has Jas Mann from Babylon Zoo doing his washing up, or Brett punched Damon in the street.’ It is, ha ha ha, quite witty. Having shown them the picture inside the Best Of Suede CD, my kids would like to know why you refused to feed me for five years? Also – can my mum have her top back? And are you around for a trip to the Imperial War Museum? Bernard Butler

Yes, what most fans don’t realise is that we kept Bernard in a cage for five years, and fed him edamame beans and tap water. Regarding his mum’s top – he should know that it’s long been ripped up and destroyed by the front row of the Southampton Joiners, or somesuch venue. Now, the Imperial War Museum – me and Bernard were talking about getting older the other day and he said: “Are you finding yourself increasingly interested in British military history?” And I have become oddly fascinated with watching WWI docs on YouTube. It’s not just the personal tragedies, but the sense of it being a shocking transition point between the Victorian world and modernity. The idea that they were going into war on horseback, and by the end of it they were in tanks. Blimey. So tell Bernard I will be going to the museum, soon… What’s your favourite Duffy song? Kris Smith, Wembley

I thought “Rockferry” was a very beautiful, stirring track. So that’s the only one I know well, but I’m really pleased for Bernard that that was a big success [Butler co-wrote and produced much of the album]. He’s an incredibly talented person and works incredibly hard, and he’s one of those people who is just obsessed with music. People like that deserve success. Did I ask him to join the Suede show at the O2? No. I told him about it, but he’s moved on so far from Suede that it would have been odd, and we’ve had a completely different lineup since he left. I don’t think he’d want to be jumping around a stage again! He’s much happier doing what he does now, I think he’s really found his calling. Do you still have your cat, Fluffington? Claire Vanderhoven, Holland

Unfortunately, he’s ascended to cat heaven. He had 15 long years of adoration. Am I getting another cat? Well, I recently got married, and my wife brought two Italian greyhounds with her. I don’t know if anyone is aware of them, but Italian greyhounds are like little cats. Ours are eight years old but look like miniature foxes, bonsai greyhounds. But incredibly fast, like little bullets. When they’re not running they spend their whole life under the duvet. Someone once told me they were bred by the Pharaohs as bedwarmers! Brett, do you have a copy of the single I recorded with Suede: “Art” b/w “Be My God”? If so, could I have one? Mike Joyce

Mike, I think I destroyed my copy years ago. I’m not one to keep memorabilia. They’re about 100 quid on eBay. Mike was an early member of Suede. We were advertising for a drummer and listed The Smiths as an influence. Then at an audition, their drummer pokes his head through the door and says, “Hello, lads!” Ha! It was a bit Jim’ll Fix It. I don’t think anyone thought it was going to last, Mike was far too big a name for us. But he just took us under his wing, guided us through the industry, and was so charming. I still keep in contact with him. What’s the weirdest story you’ve heard about yourself? Badabingbadaboom

Someone once told me that they’d heard a story about me wanting to shit in someone’s mouth. But I also heard the same story about David Byrne, so I think it’s one of those urban myths that gets transferred from one slightly kooky pop star to another. That’s probably the most unsavoury thing I’ve heard about myself. Maybe I should give it a go. Which actors would you like to play the lead members of Suede in a biopic? James Kumar, Manchester

This is the kind of thing we talk about on tour. Matt Osman is convinced I should be played by Peter Egan, who was in Ever Decreasing Circles. I think Nic Cage should play Matt. Arsène Wenger reminds me of Bernard. That’s what Bernard will look like when he’s 60. Billy Idol could play Simon Gilbert, couldn’t he? Would you ever consider working in musical theatre? Neil Tennant

It’s funny he should ask that, because only the other day, I was listening to the album Neil and Chris did with Liza Minnelli in the late ’80s. Results, I think it’s called, with “Losing My Mind”. That sounded great, so emotive, and real. I’m a big fan of the Pet Shop Boys, they’re one of those amazing bands that almost created their own genre. But anyway, musical theatre. Yeah, I think I would. Sondheim? Rodgers and Hart? Definitely. I’m always open to new ideas. Musical theatre sounds like it’s going to have camp undertones, but I’d love to do it in an interesting way. What’s the worst song you’ve ever written? Mark Catley, Christchurch, NZ

That’s a good question. I wrote lots of terrible songs that were never recorded in the early days. But there’s a song called “Duchess” – a B-side to something from the Head Music era [actually to 1997 single “Filmstar”] – which is pretty rubbish. I’ve often regretted the production on certain songs, like “Trash” and “Animal Nitrate”, even though they’ve been pretty good songs. But you can’t go messing around with things like that. You start to interfere with what people originally liked about it. I also think people like your mistakes, as they give your work humanity. I quite like that about Prince. He seems to throw stuff out – some of it genius, some unlistenable – but all quite honest. I respect that. Do you enjoy art? Excited about Gauguin at the Tate? Katarina Janoskova, London

Absolutely. I’m a big fan of Gauguin and the post-impressionists. My favourite visual artist, if I had to narrow it down to one, would be Manet, the pre-impressionist. Not Monet, who doesn’t do it for me. But Manet had this revolutionary technique of painting on black, which gives his pictures a real depth, there’s something very sumptuous about his paintings. And further back, the kind of medieval-style stuff like Holbein and Brueghel – they’re so well observed and so real. You look at these pictures of people who lived 500, 600 years ago, you can imagine them walking down Tottenham Court Road now, the same face, they’re so real. It’s a little window into the past. I’ve quite got into art recently. It’s all part of expanding yourself and your education, appreciation of beauty in life, innit? Now that you’re no longer coming to work in Bow, how are you coping without the salad pitta? Leo Abrahams, musician and producer

Ha ha! I’ve been working on an album with Leo, in his studio, and I have an unhealthy obsession with East London’s kebab shops. You don’t get many good kebab shops in west London. It reminds me of being a student. I’m surprised Leo’s got the time to email you questions! He’s far too busy producing Eno or Grace Jones or Florence & The Machine. He also does these bizarre things where he plays entirely improvised gigs, no rehearsals. And that inspired the latest solo LP I’ve done with him. It was based on improvs. Me, Leo, Seb Rochford on drums, and Leopold Ross on bass just jammed for days, cut up them up and improvised, and did overdubs. It’s a full-on rock record. I love Leo, he’s great. He never takes the easy option. He pushes you a bit, which can be terrifying. Can you give us not-so-slim-in-2010 Suede fans some health tips? Simon Quinton, Oxford

My wife is a naturopath – she’s conscious of what she eats, so we eat a lot of sushi and seeds. I’ve got into cycling recently, particularly living in London, through the parks and the backstreets. It makes you fall back in love with the city. I cycled to Bow the other day from my house in Notting Hill. So that’s staving off the fortysomething belly. I’m sure I’ll get it when I’m fiftysomething. I’m looking forward to that. What do you think of Gorillaz? Ruiz, São Paulo, Brazil

To be honest, I don’t know much about them. I like the drawings. I guess that’s a veiled question about my relationship with Damon? Well, we don’t have a relationship to talk about. We all have things that happened years ago, rivalries and so on, and people assume that they’re still on your radar and part of your life. It’s like some musical soap opera, often one that’s been fabricated, without much substance. I have different issues in my life now. Is the art of songwriting dead? If it isn’t, who is flying the torch? Paloma Faith

Oh, it’s not dead at all. I’m constantly inspired by new music. If you look on YouTube, there’s a clip of me singing Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful”. When you’re covering stuff it’s interesting to try things that are out of your genre, which gives it a frisson. So I always try songs that aren’t, you know, British indie, stuff like Blondie, or The Pretenders. That Christina Aguilera song is amazing. I try not to look at songs as the finished product, I look at it as the chords and the melody and the words, like sheet music to be interpreted. You’ve got to keep moving with your musical appreciation. I loved the last Horrors record, I liked The National, The Drums, These New Puritans, lots of stuff. I never listen to the records I grew up with. Why bother? It’s all in my head! Brett, you’re from Haywards Heath. What’s the deal with the swimming pool there? It’s deep in the middle, not at one end. What’s your take on that? And were you ever caught out by it? P Newman, Brighton

I don’t know what they’re referring to at all, but funnily enough my dad used to work there as a swimming pool attendant. And I don’t really know how he got the job because he couldn’t swim. It’s lucky there weren’t any accidents. Every Tuesday, we had to troop down to the local pool, and everybody would be pointing at my dad saying, “Oh look there’s your dad, he’s working as a pool attendant.” And I was hoping none of them would start drowning, ’cos my dad wouldn’t be much use. Still, this was the early ’80s, and I guess we all thought the world was going to end any second with a nuclear bomb. Ha ha.

#suede #brett anderson #press #interview #bernard butler #mike joyce #neil tennant #leo abrahams

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shalegas34 · 7 years

Text

bizarre love triangle chapter 3

It's hard to identify without hindsight the things which are going to change your life forever.

One of those things was starting this job. The second one was what happened next.

"Hi Sally," I said, addressing a young Chinese woman sitting in the otherwise deserted waiting area.

"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong person," she replied. Oh god.

"Are you looking for me?" a voice said behind me with a hint of a smile.

I pivoted around and found myself facing a tall, broad-shouldered woman with killer black hair and the most Caucasian facial features I'd ever seen.

"Sally." I managed to keep my voice on even keel, but I was mortified. Don't fuck things up with Sally Zhou.

"Nice to meet you. You must be Macquarie's new runner."

"Yes..." I said. "I’m Aurizon. I'll show you upstairs."

"Can we stop on level 6 for a coffee?"

I did a double take. "...Sure," I remembered to reply.

The lift ride began in awkward silence.

"So, how's things been with you?" I ejected into the empty space, immediately regretting my entire existence.

Sally laughed. "The weather's nice… No, I'm just playing. Things have been hectic. Sharon, that's my sister, can't get her shit together for her wedding, so of course I'm having to plan everything. How are the kids?"

"The... Yeah, not too bad," I fabricated. Kids?

We stepped out of the lift. Sally led the way to the coffee room and in a flash of divine inspiration I remembered to text the sister's name to Macquarie.

"I heard Mattie made a district under-11s team," she said suddenly.

I was lost. "Cool, right?" I managed.

"Can you do me a favour, Aurizon?" she said abruptly.

"What do you need?" I started to sweat. It was past 11. We'd better get upstairs.

"Give this to Jule please." Sally surveyed the room almost imperceptibly then handed me a folder. "Let's get up there."

Macquarie was going at his emails behind the glass partition. He saw Sally and straightened up, but he was unmistakeably tired. Jamie Sykes had evidently given him a beating.

I peeled open the folder after they'd closed the door and settled out of sight in the meeting room. As I tugged at the flap, I got the feeling too late that the seal had been made deliberately robust.

Northstar Copper jumped out at me from the first line. Hybrid security NST60. Some details about the mine locations, expected production rates, and long-term debt facilities. I was probably only uneasy because I'd never seen these forms before and the jargon was throwing me for a loop.

I snapped a quick picture of the front summary in case Macquarie ever wanted me to write a report. Maybe I'd impress him with my initiative.

I picked up the phone and dialled 2833.

"Prudentials, Jo speaking."

Jo, or Jule...?

"Hi, this is Macquarie's office. Can I speak to Jule?"

"Sure, I'm putting you through now."

"...Cheryl?" Jule came on the line a couple of seconds later.

"I'm Aurizon. I just started today."

Jule let out a long breath. "Hi Aurizon. What do you need?"

I read off my list. "Macquarie wants to make a meeting for this afternoon, he needs forms for the Sundance deal, and I have the Northstar Copper papers for you."

There was a long pause. Jule came back, business-like. "I've put him in for 3.30. I'll email you the forms before that, you'll just need to fill in your office details and send them back. Drop the folder in my pigeonhole, level 13."

"Thanks."

I went to hang up and heard a muffled "Fuckin S-" before the line went dead.

Time to send Matilda's PTI forms. I sneaked a call to Sydney but their phone was off. I didn't even know what year the kid was in. I could see why Cheryl gave up.

Sally and Macquarie's meeting was brief, but their farewell went on for quite some time as they caught up on personal life.

"Wanna get some lunch?" Macquarie asked, waving me over after she’d left.

"Sure," I said. "Rowan from Morgan Stanley called about Northstar."

Macquarie's face soured. "Thanks."

"Oh, and what year level is Matilda?"

"3, why?"

"I'm getting your PTI forms in. How's next Wednesday?"

"Sydney was meant to do that," Macquarie said. "I'll take care of it, leave it for now."

We settled in at the Subway on the ground floor.

"You get through to prudentials?" Macquarie asked after a period of tearing into his meatball sub.

"Yeah, don't worry, everything's sorted," I reassured him.

Macquarie's mouth cracked up into a smile. "Effortless. Thanks. See, I knew you were the right person for the job. I didn’t have to wonder if you'd sink or swim; I knew you’d handle it."

"Cool, I'm happy about that," I said, blushing. It was good to be appreciated.

"You want something a bit harder?" he said with a wink.

"Sure," I said.

"I need an investment update by Friday; it goes out to all the clients. There isn't anything new this month besides Sundance, and once you get the papers from Jule you'll be able to write it up. You can put in a note about the Northstar hybrids as well. I'll send you April's report, but this is a bit different now we have a big deal going through. You're smart though, you can figure it out."

I wasn't so sure about that.

"It's just formatting," Macquarie reassured me. "The information is all in the papers. I'll check it anyway, before you send it off. I can go home a bit earlier on Friday that way. I'll throw in an extra hundred on the side," he added when he saw me dithering.

"No need," I protested. He was rich so wouldn't miss it, but I didn't need pity. I'd be doing okay, even after rent. "I'll get to know the business, right? Say we both saved on my training."

Macquarie grinned. "That's the spirit. Give everything a go, and have a bit of fun where you can, okay? All of this is as interesting as you make it."

His meatballs were cooling down. He hurried to catch up on their consumption.

"How'd it go with Sally?" I asked.

"Fine," he said shortly. "Thanks for the text."

"No problem."

With a bizarre surge of energy, Macquarie suddenly started talking about his favourite bands from the 20s. "We fucked around so hard in uni," he said, chortling. "This time me and my friends all drove to Splendour and sneaked backstage with the Smith Street Band. We got fully destroyed by security, but I put up my shitty car as collateral and we sang AC/DC as a peace offering. Then there was the time I took Sydney to this AGM for the free booze and we all ended up puking behind the trees."

Macquarie was really cracking up by now. I laughed along, mostly incredulously. This was the first time I'd been friends with my boss, and it was a bit fresh.

"Bottlemen tickets go on sale in a couple of weeks, wait around and grab some for all of us. I'll shoot you the visa details."

Macquarie continued to describe his nerdy ascent towards a 99.95 ATAR in school, before admitting it really wasn't worth shit out in the real world. "Things like that can't tell you where your life's gonna go. Keep good people around and keep your chin up, that's the most important."

A bit rich coming from the guy who was a millionaire by 25, but a lot can change in ten years, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Uh, Macquarie, this is probably a stupid question,” I said in the sudden pause. “What’s a hybrid?”

“Huh?” He seemed surprised. “Well you know debt and equity, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, mortified. I was about to get schooled.

“Hybrids are preference stock. They’re in between. Fixed dividends like a bond, but they don’t have to pay if there’s no profit. That reminds me. I need to talk to Rowan about getting an interest swap on those. It’s a bit left of field but I want to try talk a couple of percent out of her; it’s better than gambling on those mines.”

I was confused. Why buy the securities in the first place if you were going to swap the earnings elsewhere?

“Once in debt, always in debt,” Macquarie said shortly with a wink. “Puts and calls are fine but I work better on fixed-income debt. A billion cute ways you can hedge.”

I listened to Macquarie describe his favourite options and derivatives (what a blast back to the Tassal farm, not that I thought about that anymore). The way his face lit up was really touching. It was honestly nice to see this part of old Macquarie, especially because I felt he wasn’t happy here. Maybe he needed this job for the kids. Maybe things were different now.

“Shauna,” Macquarie gasped, looking over my shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Same time I always get here,” the woman replied with a smirk. “Long lunch again?”

Macquarie looked back at me. “It’s almost 2. We’d better get back.”

So much for introductions. Macquarie was in and out all afternoon as I slogged through the legal documents Jule had thrown at me. Incidentally, the Northstar forms were fine; identical to what came through for Sundance.

By the time I’d sent everything off and taken a trip up to 13, it was almost five and time to go home. Armed with last month’s investor update, the Sundance papers, and my Northstar photo, I shut up the empty office (I had no idea where Macquarie was, but he had his own key) and headed home to work on the report with my cats around. I never cared about work this much, but Macquarie was so keen on me I really felt like giving it my best shot.

I’d do a bit of research and even get something about interest swaps in the Northstar proposal. This was gonna be sick.

#this might actually be going somewhere eventually lol #i know real life probably isn't as interesting as i think it is which is why ive included this northstar drama #who is sally and what does she want :P #also we're gonna meet the kids sOON #this hasn't happened to me in real life but i imagine it lol #special tag 4

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lettertocara · 7 years

Text

Cara.

Why do I try?

I don’t know why I want a famous girlfriend so bad. I guess I’ve been turned down so much it seems that famous women and every girl I grew up with expect the same things. So why not shoot for the stars? I just can’t randomly meet a girl on the street or at a grocery store and beg her to marry me. I don’t have a problem with begging. I don’t think it’s desperate. It’s honest. Why do men do half the things they do anyway? I don’t even know who you are. I just found you on twitter. I was following Karlie Kloss and I found you. I was following Taylor Swift years ago and that’s how I found Karlie.

There’s no way I could have lived and not heard of Taylor Swift. No matter which way I turn I’ll hear her on the radio or I’ll see her on a magazine. I don’t want to fall in love at the hands of random fate. I don’t want her but I’ll have someone I found through someone I found through someone I found through her. No one seems to understand.

I think there’s a woman out there I’m supposed to be with. This can’t be a coincidence. No matter how infinite the number of events that lead to my existence in this realm are, I think love is the most powerful feeling and the most important thing in life, the meaning of life, and it’s exclusive. If you do read this and I do intrigue you, so what? What are you gonna do about it? I’m tired and I need rest and I don’t know what to do.

I need you. I do.

twitter.com/EmoWorldOrder

Let’s spar. Please.

Look, baby.

youtu.be/SXY_BG3Pvz0

I just wanna exercise. It’ll be fun, let’s learn Tae Kwon Do.

I’ll keep my twitter if you marry me. I made that account in 2014 and the first post is in 2017. It’s unprofessional. I need to delete a bunch of my e-mails including the one I made that account with. I need to start over. I need to erase myself.

Have you ever responded to a tumblr message? Can I be your first? Just say go away?

I know. I’m a freak. It seems that way. I doubt myself. People like to talk about “steps.” Why not just do it, you know? What STEPS? I want a WIFE. How is that a STEP? If someone LOVES ME… SHE WILL MARRY ME. I want someone that’s gonna love me no matter what step I’m on. There are no steps. Steps are a delusion. I’m right here. And you’re right there. There aren’t any steps except for the steps that are between us. I’m stepping as close to you as I can.

Come here, baby.

CAN I SING FOR YOU? I’m crying listening to this.

youtu.be/tk8LQ68x9lk

Emo is short for emotional. Emo kids like me have felt so much oppression that we see the important things in life like flat irons.

I’m not doing this with you. I sent you some tweets and I’m writing you something on tumblr. That’s legit. All right? God, for the love of Christ, LIKE something on Twitter for me to let me know you’re listening. It’s like making eye contact with me from across the room to tell me to come talk to you. And no, I can’t stop you from seeing other guys. But I’m not gonna lie, I’m generally pretty horny. I’m sorry you need a good enough reason to make a move. I don’t know what that reason is. What do you want? A youtube video? A demo temporarily posted to a myspace? That would be more professional than a youtube video. I don’t have the money to post music on youtube and most of the people posting music on youtube don’t have any clue what they’re doing and that’s why bands like Green Day and artists like Swift are so successful. My generation, oh, excuse me, our generation, I’m a month older than you, we’re fucked up. We’re a mess. It’s not cool. It’s really sad. I want to present myself professionally. My Twitter right now is fine. I used that to get your attention and if it worked it doesn’t have to be professional because marriage is more important than a career. And if someone says you need to focus on your career before you think about marriage, well, that’s really, really sad. Sure, you needed a successful career in order to get MY attention. If I have to do that to get your attention then fine but I don’t think it should be like that. I’m marrying up. That’s a fact.

I love you, Cara.

I'm gonna make an acoustic playlist for you. No one needs to know about it. It's just a bunch of acoustic tracks kids found and posted on youtube. I wish there were a better way for kids to get those tracks out there.

Post-Hardcore is an acquired taste and it can be overwhelming but we sing acoustically too.

Cara. </3

Also if anyone tries to warn you about me don't listen to them they're just jealous. :)

Cara Smith looks fine. But if you don't wanna change it, I get it. If you want me to change mine, we can talk about it.

Here you go, baby. I've been meaning to do this for myself for a while anyway. I'll put some Saosin and Chiodos on it too, give me a few minutes.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0wlVmEzXc4XqmJLQ0AxNCtbLiwc-cuWW

I love you.

Cara, I love you.

I'm sure you get that a lot. And I'm sure you get guys acknowledging that you get that a lot too.

I don't know what makes me think I'm so god damn important. I'm sorry.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL0wlVmEzXc4XqmJLQ0AxNCtbLiwc-cuWW

I wanna go acoustic. I'm gonna be a god damn beach bum with an acoustic guitar and I'm going to be famous. OR you can just marry me. I like option 2. I want your body.

I'M SCARED, ALL RIGHT?

I don't think I can run a twitter page. It's too stressful. I don't have anything to say. If I marry you and it's kind of a big deal and I get a few followers, what the fuck would I post for anyone? Pictures of you, I guess.

I really actually thought you were telling me to shut up. You posted SHHHH four minutes after I sent you 76 Tweets. I'm too scared to post anything else. I'm sorry if that's lack of confidence.

I don't know what you're thinking. Telling me to shut up isn't really communicating.

Your opinion, Cara, you decide what you think about me. Don't develop an opinion about me based on what you think other people would think about me. What do YOU think about me? I think I'm kind of crazy sometimes. If I'm hurting you. If I'm bothering you at all. Well, maybe you're crazy for letting something so small bother you.

Cara. Have mercy on me.

I don't want to have to get a book published to get married. Why can't a woman just love me when I'm broke?

It's communication, Cara. I shouldn't have to keep repeating myself. I should be able to say everything I have to say to you in the next few minutes.

Say someone sent you a bunch of Tweets and you kind of responded by posting something right after he stopped. Then he wrote you a nice letter on tumblr. Then you went and found him in real life and filmed the whole thing. I'd rather be caught working on a novel than writing you on tumblr.

Listen to this fucking song.

youtu.be/cavLbU9K_7I

Are you making a youtube channel? Is that what it's about? Whatever. I hope you post something soon. I love you, Cara. Maybe I'll send you a letter. I don't think twitter and tumblr is going to work. Cara, I love you. You're beautiful. You have personality. I fell in love with you. All right?

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