#blocked bathroom sink London

[yetanothersparrowofthedawn]

Happier than ever

Pairing: Jake x Reader

Genre: Angst, hurt, ex!Jake

Extended Masterpost

Context: Y/N is so so so perfectly happy *practiced smile* yay marital bliss.

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language, so I apologize in advance for mistakes and awkward wordings to come. Also, I guess this fic could be triggering for some because it’s kind of sad and angsty.

Word Count: 2.5k

Previous Track: Honeymoon (3 months prior)

Chapter soundtrack: Happier than ever – Billie Eilish

When I'm away from you, I'm happier than ever. Wish I could explain it better. I wish it wasn't true.

The London night hung heavy outside the windows of the elegant townhouse YN now called home. She sat at her desk, surrounded by scattered sheets of lyrics and half-empty coffee cups. Despite the late hour, her mind refused to rest.

Ever since returning from her honeymoon, YN had been trying her best to bury herself in work. As she sifted through the papers, her phone buzzed insistently, breaking the silence of the night.

She glanced at the screen, the number displayed unfamiliar once again. Another anonymous call, just like the countless others that had become a regular occurrence since her move to London three months prior.

With a sigh, she hit the decline button and tossed the phone aside, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

At first, she dismissed it as a nuisance, perhaps a misguided fan or a random prankster. But the calls persisted. She had tried blocking the numbers, changing her settings, everything she could think of to put an end to it, but to no avail. The rare times she’d picked up, silence had greeted her before the caller abruptly disconnected.

That night, though, she noticed something. The International dialing code seemed different from usual. A quick google search informed her it was Brazilian.

Her thoughts drifted back to a short conversation she’d had a few weeks prior. Josh. He’d mentioned the band's upcoming tour in South America.

No, YN thought, there’s just no way. She brushed off the thought.

Still, she found herself lying in bed a couple hours later, checking Greta’s Instagram account. There was just no way. Only, she was met with a photo posted just an hour before. The description read, “Thank you for a remarkable show. See you soon, Sao Paulo.”

Fuck.

--

A week later, the glow of her phone illuminated the dark bedroom. Another call, another unknown number, another international code.

With a quick glance at Harry's sleeping form beside her, YN slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb him. She tiptoed towards their bathroom and quietly locked the door behind her.

The girl leaned against the sink, her fingers trembling as she answered the call. Silence greeted her on the other end, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest.

Enough of this.

"Jake?" she tried, her voice barely a whisper. But there was no response, only the empty void that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

"Is that you?" She tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. But still, there was nothing, only the echo of her own words bouncing back at her.

Frustration bubbled up inside her, mingling with the deep-seated concern that gnawed at her from within.

“Jake, I know it’s-” the call abruptly disconnected. Her heart sank, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

--

For the following three weeks, YN found herself in a semi-constant state of anxiety, her eyes darting nervously to her phone at every passing moment. Nights offered no respite, each small noise in the house sending her heart racing as she scrambled to check her phone.

Finally, on yet another sleepless night, her phone lit up. American dialing code. The boys might have returned to the States before embarking on the European leg of their tour.

Silently slipping out of bed, she made her way to the kitchen and answered the call. Without surprise, she was once again greeted by silence.

After a brief moment, she spoke into the void. "Are you alright?"

There was no immediate response, only the sound of uneven breaths on the other end of the line.

"It's late," she stated firmly. "I'm going to hang up now—"

"I wanted...” the caller suddenly spoke. Her breath was caught in her throat. She’d been right. “I wanted to hear your voice," his voice was rough, his words slurred. YN sighed.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, her tone annoyed. But there was no reply, only the quiet of the night surrounding her.

Suddenly, a noise erupted from the other end of the line, a distant car horn echoing through the darkness.

"What was that?" YN's voice rose with concern. "Was that a car? Have you been driving?"

She knew too well of Jake's reckless habits, the demons that had haunted him like a shadow. The thought of him spiraling out of control in some far-off corner of the world sent a chill down her spine.

"Fucking say something," she snapped, her frustration boiling over. But before she could receive an answer, the call abruptly ended. She winced.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Panic began to gnaw at the edges of her mind as she struggled to make sense of the situation.

“Love,” a voice broke her train of thoughts, “what are you doing up?”

Harry.

“It’s Patty” YN said, turning to face him. “Go back to bed, I’ll be right behind you.”

Harry's brow furrowed with concern. "Is everything alright?" he asked, his eyes searching hers for any sign of distress.

"Yeah," she replied hastily, attempting to brush off his concern with a forced smile. "Just... schedule stuff." She shocked herself with how quickly the lies kept on tumbling out.

“Okay," Harry nodded, turning to head back to bed.

YN couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that ate at her conscience as she watched him leave the room. She hated lying to him, but she couldn't bear to burden him with the truth of her worries, not when she didn't even know how to confront them herself.

When the bedroom door clicked shut behind Harry, YN wasted no time. With trembling fingers, she dialed a number and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" Josh's voice, groggy with sleep, came through the line.

"Do you know where he is?" YN's hushed words rushed out.

"YN, it's like 1am over here, what—" Josh started to protest, but she cut him off.

"Do you know where he is?" she repeated, her tone insistent.

"Where is wh—"

"Jake," she interjected, her voice trembling. "Do you know where Jake is?"

Josh paused for a moment before responding, his voice serious. "At his place, I assume. Why? Wh-what's going on?"

YN struggled to find the words, her mind racing with a million thoughts at once. She quickly explained the situation, knowing that Josh would understand without needing further explanation.

Josh fell silent for a moment. He, too, knew the root of her concern, and understood what scared her to death.

"I'll take care of it," he assured her, his voice firm with determination. "Don't worry."

Relief flooded through YN as she hung up the phone, though she couldn't bring herself to return to bed. Instead, she sat on the sofa, her nerves on edge as she waited anxiously for an update.

 The minutes stretched into hours, and the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the window when she finally received a text from Josh.

"He's okay," it read.

Exhaustion gave way to mounting frustration and anger. That’s it? She thought. She’d been staying up all night for this shit; lying to her husband for this shit. She sighed heavily; biting the inside of her cheek so hard she could taste blood.

Fuck this.

YN texted back, “Thanks. Tell him to leave me alone.”

__

After a couple of weeks of silence, with no calls disrupting the uneasy calm, YN began to hope for long-lasting peace. She almost felt guilty for her earlier frustrations, often wondering whether Jake was doing better.

However, any hopes of tranquility were shattered when a storm erupted in the Greta Van Fleet online fandom.

A fan's comment on one of Jake's posts caught fire, igniting a frenzy of speculation. The comment read, "Okay, I was at last night's concert and let’s just say, it was not it. I feel like that's been happening a lot recently. So, what is it my man? Trouble with the fam? or did some bitch do you dirty?"

To everyone's shock, Jake had replied to the comment.

 Two words.

 "The latter."

The internet exploded, and although Jake deleted the comment an hour later, the damage was done. The news reached YN like a punch to the gut.

She couldn't believe it. To have Jake talk shit about her on the internet was a new low. Though no one outside of their inner circle knew he was referring to her, the mere implication cut deep. And there was nothing she could even do or say. Especially from halfway across the world.

YN stood on the balcony, gazing out at the sprawling London skyline, but instead of feeling captivated by its beauty, bitterness flooded her senses. Jake had somehow managed to make her hate this city. Worst, he’d made her resent Harry for simply asking her to move there. The constant rain felt like a mockery, and the distance from where she truly belonged only amplified her sense of displacement.

And the most infuriating part? She had let him. Her thoughts were blinded by anger as she put pen to paper. Even after all this time, she had allowed Jake to ruin everything good. Perhaps it was a good thing she found herself far away from him. All he seemed capable of doing was bringing her endless sorrow.

Harry, on the other hand, was the epitome of reliability. He always showed up on time. Got along with her friends, got along with Patty. Did everything right.

So why was Jake the one occupying her thoughts day and night? It was like a poison, slowly corroding the good in her life until all that was left was the bitter taste of regret and anger.

As YN stood on the balcony, her phone suddenly lit up. Jake's name. He finally had the guts to call her with his own phone.

She reached for the device, her fingers curling around it tightly. She stared at it for a moment, considering her options. She could let it ring. Or she could reply. For what, though? She thought. Some half-assed apology? Telling her how it’s all some big misunderstanding?

Without a second thought, she clenched her jaw and, with a determined flick of her wrist, let her phone drop over the railing, watching as it plummeted towards the ground below.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the night as the device met its demise on the pavement.

It was a stupid but cathartic gesture. With a sense of finality, she turned away from the balcony, leaving behind the remnants of her broken phone and the memories it held.

--

Two weeks later.

Jake stumbled along the hotel hallway. The band had just wrapped up a show in Glasgow, which had gone rather well considering the blinding hangover that had been clinging to their lead guitarist throughout the tour. Jake had therefore rewarded himself with a local treat, that is, the now half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand. When in Rome, right?

Feeling for his keycard in his pockets, Jake cursed softly as he came up empty-handed. He decided to try the room across from his, hoping his baby brother hadn’t gone to bed just yet. He pressed his ear against the door and breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of a TV playing inside. Bingo.

With a drunken knock, Jake announced his presence before the door swung open to reveal Sam. "What's up?" he greeted.

"Lost my key," Jake mumbled, brushing past Sam and collapsing onto the nearest bed. " m’tired," he added, his words slurred from the alcohol.

However, amidst the haze of his drunken stupor, Jake noticed something amiss.

 It was too quiet.

“Why d’you turn it off?” Jake asked, curious.

“Mmh?” The bass-player replied.

“The TV” Jake specified. He had a feeling something was up.

"Oh, uh, nothing good is on right now," Sam replied nervously, his attempt at nonchalance falling flat. "British TV sucks ass," he added hastily. The youngest Kiszka had never been much of a good actor. Jake stared for a moment and Sam knew he could see right through him.

“Jake-” Sam tried protesting, but his brother had already snatched the remote and turned the TV back on. The bright light of the screen suddenly lighting up their features and the sound of laughter filling the hotel room.

There she was. Seated elegantly on the talk show couch. YN exuded confidence as she engaged in conversation with the host.

“So, tell me something,” the host leaned in, a glint of excitement in his eyes, “when are we going to get some new music?” A ripple of anticipation coursed through the audience, and a mischievous smirk danced across YN’s lips.

“Well, I actually just finished recording a bunch of tracks, so—" Before she could finish, the audience erupted into deafening cheers, their excitement palpable. “I know, I know, it’s exciting,” YN continued, her voice barely audible over the enthusiastic applause, “I can’t wait to get back on the road.”

“Back on the road?” the host raised an eyebrow, a playful tone in his voice, “Have you grown tired of Hubby already?”

YN chuckled. "Well, who says I'm not packing him in my suitcase?" she quipped. The audience laughed at her comeback.

"Talking about Mr. Harry Styles,” loud cheers exploded at the host’s mention of YN’s husband, “a little birdie told me you two just purchased a house in our fair capital, is that right?”

“Uh,” YN looked slightly surprised, feeling a pang of discomfort at the invasion of privacy, “yeah, we did get ourselves a little nest-”

“-a 9-million-pound nest” the host joked, eliciting laughter from the audience.

YN let out a polite chuckle. “Yeah, it is ridiculously grand, actually.”

“Is it your first time owning a place?” the interviewer asked.

“It is, yes, see, I’m originally from New York, so renting appartments has always been the way for me.” Jake’s mind drifted to their little apartment back in Nashville.

“Must be quite a change” the host declared.

“Kinda, yes,” she added, “it’s got a bunch of rooms that I haven’t seen in a while, like an actual laundry room, who knew that was even a thing?” the audience laughed, “and a foyer, whatever that is, and a-”

“-Nursery?” the host filled in. The audience leaned forward in anticipation.

“Well, aren’t you curious?” she said, maintaining a playful façade at the interviewer’s lack of tact, “But no, no nursery,” the audience could be heard huffing in disappointment.

“Ah well,” the host remarked, “someday soon.”

“Sure,” she replied with a forced smile, “someday.”

As Jake listened to the conversation, a thought crossed his mind: YN had always been unequivocal about her reluctance to have children. Then again, she had also once been adamant about her aversion to marriage. And yet, here she was with a ring around her finger. The bile rose in his throat.

“Well, we’re running out of time here,” the host abruptly announced, glancing at the monitor. “It’s been a real pleasure, and I think I can speak for everyone here when I say that the world is thrilled to see you embrace this newfound happiness, is that accurate?”

“Oh absolutely,” she replied with a tight smile. “I’m,” she paused, something unseen briefly flickering in her eyes, “happier than ever.”

--

YN never knew why but, after that night, the calls stopped.

--

Next Track: The Bomb

Extended Masterpost

Hope you liked it! Once again, I am begging you all to interact and leave comments it makes me so happy to get feedback and reactions xxx

Also, this is only the beginning lol. I have a billion drafts for other chapters so stay tuned, peaceful army.

Taglist

@aintthatapity

@sinarainbows

@vanfleeter 

@gretavanhockey

[eyra]

winning arguments without crying

Three years ago I liked you and now I think you’re hideous That’s really all it is. Crumbling stone above your sink in a houseshare bathroom that feels like an aeroplane toilet. A corona of snakes that couldn’t be saved by a beautiful tragedy. You have to train them, you see To bite beautifully and in a tragic sort of way A literary way You can’t just wash your red hair and let it dry like that. I would know. Mine are revered and I think people are afraid of them but in a beautiful sort of way.

That’s another story that I’m trying to write and I wish I could block you from the pages like I’ll block you on Instagram.

I think you’re hideous A gradual  and then very sudden descent into a cramping hatred like the way you think hot weather is just fantastic and I think the sun is fucking obnoxious Like you A loudly epic microcosm  A study in how to learn to hate a stranger measured by unprecedented times and a handful of afternoons eating  blue cheese and crackers on London grass waiting for the time to pass If nobody likes you and everybody likes me then does that make me awful too? or does it just mean I’m right

You glittered like a mirror for a morning our sisterly reflections in mourning A summer snapshot from the lens I’m still in charge of Now you’re a black hole or something worse probably an empty shell pretending to be a whole person. Boring boring boring Everything about you is boring I’m bored with how boring I find you This poem is boring. It’s boring to talk about you but I can’t stop none of us can stop we’re all awful. You were a mirror and isn’t that funny considering how much you fucking love looking at yourself now Is this fucking play about us? as long as it’s all focused on you Tell us to knock the f-stop back as far as we can until it’s just The You Show again but you’ll say you hate the lens I’m standing behind. Apparently it’s all so condescending of me but I think you just don’t understand what that word means and what you actually mean is I’m older than you and know how to win arguments? What you actually mean is I can fight without shaking and my face doesn’t turn red when I’m angry? and I’ve always thought that a very lucky trait to have I think I probably got that from my dad although he doesn’t really get angry. I think you should write a poem about what you got from your dad But you’ll never do that even if  it’s the easy pick to the door you say someone else bolted you behind screaming. I unpicked mine when I was twenty and I’ll always shoot if someone slags off my closet And you think you’re the gunmaster here

But that’s a totally separate conversation and I can’t be bothered having it with you so can we just move on because you’re too narrow to get that.

The most caring person in the world until empathy starts unearthing your enemies As if you don’t already have a thousand. And none of it feels important anymore so I’m embarrassed that I even care but it’s not a caring sort of caring. If you’re compelled by right and wrong I’m compelled by love and hate I think that’s my coin and one day soon I’ll stop spending it on you But for now I’m solvent Even if I’m letting you steal from me and your steel city state is richer than my ancient woodland but your vaults are beneath iron girders of fantastic and thanks so much and so it becomes a girlish and quietly-biting sort of coin that burns lips and makes everything taste like copper mine is just a mist and then you accuse me of being non-confrontational when actually I’ve always quite liked confrontation.

It’s something I’m good at

and yet you keep trying and honestly I find that mortifying But you’re a child so I don’t even care. Maybe I should swaddle you but you said you're wise beyond your years so I guess let’s go with that? And if everyone hates you and nobody hates me then maybe you should go back to your mirror and look there instead of at your front-facing camera because that’s mortifying too  and you should’ve gone to university because you would’ve met other mirrors there And at least I know I’m a bitch

I met my mirrors ages ago.

But you run from reflection and choose your front-facing camera instead because it does that thing where it flips the image and you get to pretend that you’re the opposite thing to the thing you actually are and you get to tell yourself that you’re so tiny and the world is the Big Bad pecking at your nest. But you’re the awful thing And everything is backwards And everything is mirrored to you And if I saw myself in you then send me the invoice and finish your email with  thanks so much  for teaching me how to be something else because honestly if I became what you already are I think I’d just die  I can see you rolling your eyes on the playground because someone else was enjoying the swings but in a stupid way and the tarmac was hotter in Germany but that doesn’t make you more interesting. God I wish I could tell you that.

I told you once that sometimes I pretend I’m on Graham Norton when I’m in the car I thought everyone did that but apparently they don’t But that’s fine I think and you didn’t need to laugh about it with your fiancée But she's left you too and I found that funny So let’s call it even.

I dive headfirst into the oil when it comes to you because it feels so hotly delicious  To nestle in the anonymous ranks of whatever armies you think you did nothing to provoke You’ve got spears for crutches but your armour is accountancy note paper With lecture notes too boring to comprehend I don’t think you’re actually interested in investment risk and taxation or fraud analytics Is anyone? It’s just something else to put on your brown sash and on your HER profile. Tell them about how you’re on every battlefield and I’m just softly at home writing a stupid poem about you And if you’re reading this now because you keep tabs on everyone and everything and if you were waiting for me Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t about you. Because I already don’t remember how old you are but I think you get a notification when I post an Instagram story of myself as a child.

I have a pitchy black well of everything that you don’t have and I throw myself into it and you screw your face up lime-sour when actually I think you’d love to build one for yourself  but you can’t stop looking at your Instagram followers for long enough to work out  How to cast bricks or divine water or whatever else you need to build a well

You don’t even have the land for it yet.

I’d rather write a stupid poem than be your blank piece of paper I’d rather write myself as a villain than play your antagonist  Write me out of your boring story I’m begging you. It’s been a year and you’re still looking up how to spell my name  Between notes about investment management and derivatives And I don’t even know what that means Thank God. God it’s so boring But I’m laughing at the idea of one day forgetting your name.

I can be rotten but I think the thing that saves you from Hell is the welcoming of the rot and if I can be this but also sleep with my friends and love my American cereal and the little squares of sun my mirrorballs cast to my blue walls Then what does it matter I don’t think it matters. But you can’t be told about any of that Because you’re too busy romancing your front-facing camera and  one-hundred-and-thirty-three people in fluorescent ceiling panels who won’t ever clap at a volume that fills you So I’ll leave you waiting for your lean applause And I’ll just be lighter.

I watched a video today of my niece on a ride-on lawnmower Grinning with my dad in the field behind our house and that was me twenty-two years ago. God I love that I can love.

[parkert01]

Unrequited - Aaron Hotchner

You haven't been working at the BAU for a long time, straight out of college, you started working at your dream job. When you first met Aaron, you felt drawn to him, you didn't quite understand at the start but as time went by, it started to make sense. You were head over heels for him, the team seemed to pick up on it, if he noticed he never mentioned anything or dropped hints that he felt the same. 

You were there with the rest of the team when Aaron ran the triathlon. You were then when a woman walked up to him, hugged him as he introduced her as Beth, he didn't say they were together but you could tell that's what it was. All the hope you had of Aaron ever noticing you disappeared in that moment, as you heart broke, the team sending you sad looks while patting your back. You went home after that, without saying bye to Aaron, he had been looking for you and saw you get in your car and drive off.

You slowly started pulling away from Aaron, only speaking to him within work hours about work, calling him sir or Hotch. It hurt him, he didn't have any idea what he had done. It had been months since the triathlon, and nothing had changed. He always tried to speak to you but you either nodded or gave short word answers. 

You ended up breaking down and crying in the bathroom, Emily unfortunately ended up walking in, rushing up to you and pulling you into a hug. "Why doesn't he love me. Of course he falls in love with her, she's perfect and I'm just me. She is everything he would want".  She knew exactly what you meant by that, it was no secret that you compared yourself to others despite everyone telling you that you were beautiful, it never seemed to sink in that others could see you in a different light. From that day on, Emily started treating Aaron differently,  she still talked to him with respect because he was the boss but she couldn't look at him without seeing you weeping over him. 

One day you decided enough was enough, you couldn't stand by watch him love someone else who wasn't you, you loved to see him happy but it hurt that it wasn't you bringing him lunch, sneaking kisses and sitting in his office for long talks. You decided to resign, when you placed the notice on Aaron's desk, he looked at you shocked and refused to accept it.

"Please accept it. I can't be here anymore. I need to leave"

"Why? Why do you need to go?"

"Sir, don't. You don't want to know that answer"

"Tell me"

"I am completely in love with you, I can't sit by and watch you and Beth fall in love with each other. I am so happy that you met someone, you deserve that but it hurts me. You are such a good man and Beth is such a good choice for you. She is exactly what you would want"

"What do you mean?"

"She is everything I am not. I am so stupid to think a man like you could love someone who looks like me"

Aaron stands up and goes the pull you into a hug. You stopped him. "Please don't. It will hurt worse. Tell the team I am sorry". You rush out of the office, quickly grab your things from your desk, and walk out of the office, not looking back just in case you changed your mind. When he broke the news to the team, they were hurt that you left with out saying goodbye, some of them blamed Aaron, some understood. You did keep in contact with them all except Aaron, you blocked his number and none of the others ever mentioned to him. Eventually you ended up with a new job in London.

It was just another day in the office, when your boss rushed in and quickly explained to you that the FBI was here, which meant that for the first time in a couple of years, you and Aaron would be in the same room again. You had told your boss this when you first arrived which explained why she was in such a rush to see you. You never got to respond before the door opened when all the old team walked in. Emily rushed up to you and hugged. You hugged the rest of them until you stood in front of Aaron. 

"Y/N" He said while having a big grin on his face

"Hotch"

"I think we need to -" 

"Shall we start" you interrupted Aaron, you really didn't want to have the conversation with him. You quickly turned around and started walking away from him until something he said stopped you dead in your tracks

"We aren't together anymore". 

You turn back around and send him a sad look "I am so sorry, you were a good couple".

"She wasn't you"

"What?"

"I love you. I think I always have. It took me a while to get here and I am sorry but I am here now. If you don't feel anything towards me anymore then I completely understand and I will not talk to you for the rest of the investigation".

You look at him shocked, speechless you walked towards him, put your hands in his and whispered "How can you say that. I have always loved you, you were it for me. I just thought you deserved someone better"

You didn't notice but everyone had left the room, leaving you and Aaron, giving you both privacy. You were too wrapped up in eachother and these new found feelings to notice, you eyes never leaving Aaron's. 

"Better? You are the best"

"Aaron, I am not. Beth and you made perfect sense, she was like Hayley. She was exactly your type. Skinny and confident" You looked down to floor, afraid that if you looked at him, he would see you the way you see yourself.

Aaron removed his hands from yours and put his hands on your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss. Your first kiss together. "Stop it. You are beautiful. I will spend a lifetime reminding you. I love you, you are the only person for the rest of my life". He wiped the tears flowing from your eyes.

"Say it again"

"I love you. So so much"

You smiled, possibly the biggest grin ever your cheeks started to hurt. You laughed at your stupidity, if you were just honest, you could have been with him a long time ago. You pulled him for another kiss, both of you smiling, while you both held each other tight afraid to let go. 

The teams were watching you and Aaron with smiles on the face, eventually leaving to get coffee, leaving you and Aaron completely alone in the building so you can spend more time together

[jake-g-lockley]

Hey there ! You can Marc Spector x reader reader she’s have bad day ? And Marc Spector

Sanctuary  (Marc Spector x reader)

Masterlist | Spotify Playlist

Parings: Marc Spector x gn!reader

Warnings: Nothing much, a little bit about anxiety, other than that it's fluffy fluffy fluff.

EEE thanks for this request!! It’s my first time writing one of these and I hope it's not too long-winded hehe. (I also accidentally made this gender-neutral without realizing haha)

Word Count: 1.2k

Winters were the worst part of London. It was always damp, absolutely freezing and was due to put anyone in a bad mood. But here you were in your class being berated by your math lecturer for not understanding an equation. You had tears in your eyes and all you wanted to do was sink to the floor and never wake up anymore. 

Today was possibly the worst day you've ever had in your life. For a start, you woke up late, not hearing your alarm and had to rush to university for the exam that you spent all night preparing and worrying about your boyfriend Marc, who had yet to return from a mission. Your anxiety makes you check everything in the flat you and Marc shared about fifty times before leaving your place but in doing so, it makes you miss the bus. You spend 20 quid on an Uber to your university only to be stuck in the jam. 

You pray to whatever god is listening as you impatiently study your notes. Finally you got there and found out that you were 3 minutes late and you had to beg the invigilator to let you in, contemplating on whether you should be getting on your knees. They reluctantly let you in and you sped through the paper with ease, thinking that the bad luck you experienced in the morning was slowly fading away. 

That was until the math period. You were so tired from the night before that you found yourself swimming in a drowsy lake of sleep, struggling to focus on what your lecturer was trying to say. It took him exactly three tries to get your attention, whacking the heavy ruler he was carrying to bring you back from woozy land. 

You abruptly stood up, all thoughts of sleep forgotten as a new wave of fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, making your heart thump in your chest cavity. Your lecturer asks you a question that you were of course unable to answer because you were not paying attention to what he was teaching. That's when the berating began. 

When he finally stopped to continue the lesson, you sank down into your seat, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone around you. You felt embarrassed and you could feel yourself deteriorating by the second; hungry, cold and tired. 

“Get to the bus, get home, sleep.” The same words echoed in your head over and over as the class dismissed. You were glad that you didn’t miss the bus again but your last bit of happiness slipped away as you saw the rain and the absence of your little umbrella in your bag. You had to walk a few blocks from the bus stop to your place and you knew that it was not going to end well.

You arrived at your final destination, threw open the door to your home and saw your beautiful boyfriend holding a glass of water and some pain medication. Just laying your eyes on him opened up the floodgates and you collapsed as he rushed to grab ahold of you.

You clung onto him like he was your life line as you sobbed, breathing in his light sandalwood scent, telling him how badly your day went and repeating again and again about how much you missed him. He runs his hands through your wet hair and smooths you over with sweet words until your sobbing subsides and you are left with hiccups. 

Marc looks at you, not disguising his worry as he wipes your eyes and brings you closer to him, as if you were close to falling into a deep abyss of pain.

“Let's get you warmed up shall we, sweetheart?” Marc murmurs in your ear as he scoops you up and makes his way into the bathroom, settling you down on the toilet with a flourish. You stare up at him, eyes welling up with tears again as he runs you a bath, rushing around to gather supplies. You relax slightly, inhaling the scented candles that he had lit as he sprinkled bath salts into the water. You take off all your dampened clothes and soaked your whole body into the steaming water. 

You sighed, letting the water cascade around you, washing your worries away. Marc gave you a small smile and kissed your forehead. He turns to leave and you catch his hand pulling him towards you, a sad pout on your lips. 

“Baby, I’m not going anywhere, just gonna go make you some dinner, gotta get some fuel in you darling. Just relax, I will be right back.” He winked and kissed you again. 

20 minutes later, you got out of the tub, already feeling much better than before. You then caught a whiff of something heavenly as you pulled a big fluffy robe around you and shuffled out of the bathroom, slipping on the fluffy slippers that Marc left outside for you. 

You’ve noticed that Marc had removed all your things from your wet bag and there were textbooks and notebooks hanging to dry on the chairs around the little dining table. You were too worked up to realize that the rain had done so much damage but you were grateful to Marc for trying to save your books and notes. 

“Feeling better, babes? I made your favorite! Fried noodles for milady.” Marc said bowing slightly and chuckling as you grabbed the bowl away from him, the pang of hunger consuming you. 

He grabs a fork with one hand and your hand with his free one and drags you to the sofa, sitting you down and grabbing the bowl back to feed you. You knew that this man before you would literally do anything for you and you would do anything for him too in a heartbeat, without any question. You eat in silence and you can’t help but feel guilty as he catches your eye. 

“I know what you’re thinking about, and I want you to stop and focus on me. You've had a stressful day, let me just take care of you for a change?” Marc said without missing a beat, as he feeds you the last forkful.

After you got dressed and Marc had put all the dishes away, you both curled up the sofa as you watched an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine with hot cocoa. You had your head on Marc’s lap as he aimlessly brushed his hand in your hair. A few minutes later, he stopped and you realized that he had succumbed to his own tiredness. You got up, grabbed the remote and turned the volume down and turned to stare at the sleeping figure beside you. 

You grabbed a small cushion and slowly pulled his head towards you, trying not to wake him up as you slipped it behind his neck. He didn’t stir. His face was relaxed, a big contrast to the hardened look that he constantly had etched upon his face. The mercenary was only vulnerable with you around him and you felt a surge of warmth and safety rush over you. You laid your head back down onto his lap, lacing your soft fingers in his large rough ones, knowing that you have found sanctuary with this man. 

☾ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Reblogs are appreciated <3 love you all so so much *muah*

[because-she-goes]

nineteen hundred eighty five

warnings: masochism/sh, couch scene, eating raw meat, Nora and Matty as intellectuals, a dash of sub!matty w/ dom!nora, swearing. Enjoy!

They were six months out from the album being released. Of course Nora had heard what they were working on so far and loved the live, organic energy. Her voice even hidden deep under layers of guitars and bass in some tracks. Matty had promised her no one would be able to know which song or hear her, so she agreed. What she didn't plan on, was him asking for her creative input on an interlude he was planning that would separate the “Being Funny” and “Greatest Hits” section of the concert. When he had first brought it up to her they were sipping their morning teas in their cozy California home. A much larger space than their New York and London apartments, especially with their studio spaces. The home wreaked of “art couple”, pictures plastered everywhere, flowers in unique vases sporadically placed on tables and counters, massive his and hers studios next door to each other that they had used two bedrooms for, a sitting room complete with library and sketch pads with markers for jotting down quick ideas for lyrics or paintings, a media room filled with DVDs of movies and vinyls they love, large open kitchen with windows everywhere for beautiful natural light and lastly a cozy yet romantic dining room with candles and fairy lights everywhere. Truly like someone had taken their brains and turned them into interiors. Greenery everywhere, ivy crawling up the white brick cottage’s walls, picket fence, the whole nine yards of a quaint american-english home. Nora was the main planner/buyer of the operation what with Matty being in New York and London every week working in the album with Jack or Jamie, but she made it a point to ensure the home felt warm and lived in - a place where he could come home, dump his shit at the door and relax. Not have to think about work or the band, just be himself, not Truman or Matty. Obviously, she didn't dare touch the home recording studio, all of that being left up to him and George to decide what he’d need. She also let him pick stuff for their bedroom and bathroom since she wanted him to still feel a part of the whole ordeal. This was their forever home so why shouldn’t he have input. He opted for a jade-green tile shower with twin wooden sinks and a block bathtub. For their sleeping situation, he wanted a big platform bed with blackout curtains covering their floor to ceiling windows (“Nike, my jetlag will be terrible coming home from traveling, they’d be so helpful!” He explained one evening over the phone) and two wood bedside tables with artwork. Keeping the space calm, zen and relaxing.

Getting back to the interlude, he had told her that the general idea of it - and tentative title - would be A Depiction of Masculine Romanticism. They had started planning and researching almost immediately, checking out books from their local library that afternoon about performance art and certain ideas Matty had already had: using Bukoswki interviews, The Virgin Suicides and Buffalo ‘66 clips to be playing in the TV sets behind him, discussing how people fake certain aspects of themselves or hypersexualize themselves to appeal to potential partners, as well as the whole ridiculous idea of Matty being a sex symbol in today’s world. Hearing all of this, it made Nora think of Yoko Ono’s Cut Piece where she sat full dressed in front of an audience and on a PA system granted them permission to cut her clothes and take the piece with them - some approached her shyly and cut small pieces out of the hem of her skirt or top while others were bold and began cutting the center of her blouse or chunks of her bra straps. Ono herself describing it as a “give and take” between the participants and her - much like a romantic relationship. There was also the instruction given in her book Grapefruit, Nora remembered, where she instructed a group of individuals to simply touch each other and it was up to each participant how far to go with said message. She brought this up to Matty that evening while in bed, showing him the book and exact message. Glasses slipping down his nose, wild curls in every direction, stubble dotting his jawline as he carefully flipped through it and read each passage.

“This is wonderful stuff, I was already contemplating taking my own shirt off and playing into the whole machismo thing with my tattoos and stuff. Thanks, baby!” He pecked her cheek, continuing to read on.

“Handsome, would you pass me that stack of Bukowski books? I want to highlight some stuff you could post across the TV.” She asks saccharine sweet, and he hands them across the bed sheet.

“Find something you love, let it kill you… I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of…A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.” She mumbles to herself, orange marker inking the pages.

“Nike love, remember that movie Buffalo ‘66 we watched one night, and how the guy is telling the girl to fake being in love with him? To sell the idea of them being married or something? I think that could work right like that bit?” He asks, brown eyes facing hers.

“Yeah, that would be really good! Plus, it would play into the clown character you do in the videos sometimes when you have a love interest like the Change of Heart couple.” She adds, thinking back to hearing him mention the other day on the phone to Jamie how he wanted to reprise the role for a new song off their album. “Plus, if you wanted to use The Virgin Suicides like you mentioned, practically the whole movie is about men exploiting young girls for their bodies and playing with their emotions so that would definitely work.”

“Have I mentioned how much I love you and your brain, Nora Downey?” He sweetly prompts, taking her cheek in his hand and rubbing the apple of it with his thumb.

CONTENT WARNING START: SH, MASOCHISM

“Only a few thousand times, Handsome… and I love you and yours too.” She melts, moving closer to him and tucking herself under his arm, now reading his book about Gina Pane and the use of her body as the vessel for artistic expression - st times even using the act of masochism and how people react to it as the art itself.

“In Unanesthetized Climb (1971) she climbed, barefoot, a ladder with rungs studded with metal protrusions, stopping when she could no longer endure the pain. For the installation series Action Notation she mixed photographs of her previous wounds with objects, such as toys, glass, etc., from her previous actions…” Matty’s hair falls in his face as he speaks, a hand rakes through it combing it back out of his eyes. “The process was controversial since it almost always involved an element of masochism: cutting her tongue or her ear, sticking nails into her forearm, smashing through a glass door, ingesting food to the point of nausea.” An idea sparks, he’ll come back to it later. He yawns. Nora’s eyes trained on his mouth like a hunter waiting for just the right moment to attack. God, how were his lips so pink? “Pane no longer based her approach on direct bodily experience, although the body remained pivotal and retained its symbolic significance through figures (cross, rectangle, circle) and materials (burnt or rusty metal, glass or copper).” Matty continues, breath shaky. He knew this was good, but he himself was not a masochist of this caliber yet, however Truman Black could be. Nora noticed the gears in Matty’s brain start to turn once he stopped reading. Despite the graphic content, she was fascinated with Pane’s work. She could see the clear connections between this physical mutilation and the emotional trauma women endure. One of Pane’s performances making this exact argument, it involved her laying on a mental frame with candles underneath, her body unmoving and unyielding to the slow burn - physically representing the pain some women experienced in their own bedrooms, with a partner or simply during sexual relations. Nora grimaces at the thought, bitterness suddenly soaking her tongue.

CONTENT WARNING END: SH, MASOCHISM

“…Okay! Think that’s enough of that for the night.” Matty swiftly states, ends of the book clapping together. “Do you want some tea or anything before bed, Darling?” He asks, getting up and making his way to the door. Her mind turns. Why has he been making the tea every night? Where did all her sweets go?

“Oh very smart, Matthew! I knew you’d been sneaking the chocolates at night while making the tea!” She gets up, chasing after him as he giggles over his shoulder - face bright red like a thief caught in the act.

“But they’re so good!!” He exclaims, running down the hall.

The following week, Matty is sat up in bed reading. Nora asleep in a heap next to him, snoozing away calmly. Bags under his eyes darker than normal and stubble more pronounced. Unbeknownst to Nora, Matty had spent every night for the past week reading about different performance artists, in an attempt to keep up with Nora during their meetings with Jamie and Patricia every few days. He was tired, but he liked the quiet evenings of studying - missing out on it during the ages where he would normally be at college or uni, as his brother now called it. He’d bring whatever book he was reading with him to the studio with the guys and read while George made the backing tracks.

“Mate, a tour isn’t a thesis essay. We can just have 10 minutes of us talking and the fans would be happy.” The giant points out in his deep voice.

“I am just reading so I don’t seem like a wanker when talking about this stuff to Nora, Mate.”

“Oh her? You’ll never outdo her. She’s got a brain the size of The Shard!” Ross cracks back at him.

“Yeah, Matt. She is like an oxford scholar or something with all the stuff in her head!” Adam chirps.

Matty grumbles something about his friends talking about her head as his nose goes back to his book.

Some months later, Matty has his interlude finalized. Nora hasn’t seen anything about it since those first few weeks, but here she was on opening night of At Their Very Best. Her black outfit matching his all black suit perfectly. The patent leather gleaming in the concert lights. Her brunette hair is worn down, gently caressing the small of her back.

The first half is going great, the fan’s screaming every lyric as if they themselves wrote it. Nora now hears the music she had suggested to Matty for the performance - “Nothin In The World Can Stop Me Worryin Me Bout That Girl” by The Kinks. It was a song from a movie she loved as a kid and it talks about a girl being unfaithful and her partner still loving her despite the pain. Matty, now up on the stage before her does as he told her moons ago, takes off his black button down to the cheers of the crowd. Nora’s stomach sank when he started doing the following action, something they certainly never discussed or something she never got a warning about. He saunters over to a crinkly leather couch, takes some puffs of a cigarette, hollowed cheeks accentuating his lips perfectly. He puts an oxygen mask to his face and continues to do things only Nora has seen when Matty is needy, pleading for her and aching to be touched. He feels his thighs, his own hands drifting everywhere hers wouldnt on those nights where she teases. His breathing goes erratic, chest starts to heave. Nora’s thighs begin to burn and at the apex of them she feels like a flame is being held to her skin. Her leather skirt suddenly feeling too restrictive. She is frozen, mouth agape, eyes unblinking. He simulates things only she has seen while on FaceTime while he toured and missed her. Her mouth drools. She looks at him like someone who has been starved for 6 years and suddenly sees a feast in front of them. Ravenous.

It is then that her Matthew bucks into his hand, head thrown back, jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. Cheers and screams of lust fill the room, it is deafening. She can’t hold it together anymore, sprinting to the side entrance to the stage, flashing her lanyard to security. She halts only when the edge of the spotlight is just about to hit her boots. Surrounded by the guys, Patricia, Sam, Jamie and the band, she is in shock.

He gets up off the couch, takes one final drag of a cigarette and as if he knows she’s there like a radar is in his brain, he fucking looks over his shoulder and winks at her with a devilish grin. Now the music shifts: an instrumental of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones. He kneels like a disciple in front of the TVs as they flash on. Bukowski’s words flashing across them with the footage of Buffalo ‘66 and The Virgin Suicides. Matty lays his head down in a sort of down-ward dog yoga pose, lanky arms outstretched - his shoulder blades jutting out like a fallen angel’s wings. Music taking over him as his chest heaves even more. He shifts a bit and moves to do push ups. Nora is now like a rabid dog at the side stage. Practically foaming at the mouth. He has her right where he wants her. George has to physically hold her back to keep the girl from running out onto the stage. Her brain analyzing each inch of his marble skin as it squeezes and contracts into the exercise to hold his weight suspended.

He comes to a stop and pivots on his knees. The music crescendos. Mick Jagger’s screaming now being played with the choir and guitars. Piano plays manically. Choir builds. A tomahawk steak is brought out to him, he takes a glance to the audience and to Nora, another wink. The audience goes to a level 10 wild. He devours the raw steak, holding the bone and gnawing down on the flesh. Picking some out his teeth and sucking his fingers clean.

Nora is baffled. All lust and the fact that she is married to the guy aside, it is some of the best performance art she has ever seen. Artistically, she is stunned at the fact that the toxic masculinity radiating off of him was not only being encouraged, but adored by the crowd. He has every single person in the building in the palm of his hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he crawls to the largest TV. Pushing the screen open, he plummets like Alice going down a rabbit hole. The crowd thunders. Nora is out of herself, brain alight. Amazed by his creativity and his ability to make at least 20,000 people feel every emotion he wanted them to, to have all of them at his whim. She is in awe, she knew he was a great performer and someone beloved, but she never knew he had this in him. That her Matty had this power at his disposal to use whenever, that he could switch that power on and off.

He, now out of character, steps to the group and wipes his face with a towel - out of the audience’s view. The sound of the sea of people cheering still consuming the building. She takes one look at him.

“I love you, Healy.” She mouths.

“Love you too, Downey.” He smirks as he gets pulled away to get dressed. All Nora can think is that no-one on the planet will ever come close to him for her, he’s it for her. Her mom always told her he was the one, but she didn’t actually think she’d be alive to see the day Matty fucking Healy was hopelessly in love with her. More than anything though, one thing was true. He was the best thing going for her in her life, and she would always be thankful to whatever angel sent him to her.

Thankful for her Matty. Her husband.

[mesaryth]

Last night i dreamt a new Bob Dylan song. It was one he always meant to write, but never got around to making. He listed all the horrifying, newly commercialized street corners of New York, London, and Paris; Tribeca, Hudson Yards, Bedford Ave and 7th, Rue Charlot in the Marais, that canal that's in East London. All these places had huge wheat-pastes promoting his new album. It was a black and white photo of his face with big text that said "DYLAN", right next to an ad for the new Jack Harlow bowl at Sweetgreen. He thought about making a song about these places, in an effort to prove to the listener that all art eventually becomes part of the machine, that everything transgressive is bought and sold as a commodity, that being transgressive is the least punk thing you could be, maybe even that the most punk person on the block is Jack Harlow, smiling on a billboard, happily eating his custom salad from Sweetgreen. Maybe it'd be cooler to not have that tattoo from that huge studio in [location]. The one right by the plant store that sells monstera plants for like 70 dollars. Yeah, that's where they're promoting Dylan's brand new album. He's pissed about it, he's not happy at all, he still has an excellent radar for who's cool (who's cool), who's a poser (who's a poser), who's a ripoff (who's a ripoff), who's a dreamer, he hasn't forgotten the beats, the lessons he learned along the road, and when he's in his Uber Black to Electric Lady Studios on 8th Street, he passes the newly condemned McDonald's that people only used to use as a bathroom. He passes Blank Street Coffee, and gets nauseous, cause right outside that Blank Street Coffee on the sidewalk is a massive ad for his brand new album. He wants to stop the car, walk up, rip it off the walls, sink his nails into the chipped green paint of the construction board behind it, tear at all the shreds and shed a tear about where did he go wrong. Is this what success is? To have your album promoted right by the Blank Street Coffee, where it used to be a cool stoop that you'd smoke cigs on? Tribeca, Hudson Yards (Tribeca, Hudson Yards), Bedford Ave and 7th, Rue Charlot in the Marais, that canal that's in East London, Tribeca, Hudson Yards, Bedford Ave and 7th, Rue Charlot in the Marais, that canal that's in East London, Tribeca, Hudson Yards (Tribeca, Hudson Yards), Bedford Ave and 7th (Bedford Ave and 7th), Rue Charlot in the Marais (Rue Charlot in the Marais), that canal that's in East London (that canal that's in East London), Tribeca, Hudson Yards (Tribeca, Hudson Yards), Bedford Ave and 7th, Tribeca, Hudson Yards...

[weirdfishy]

to be forgotten but not forget

(pic is not mine)

my ko-fi

words: 1k

Peter Parker, forgotten to the world, is still the beacon of Spider-man. It's...draining, this new song and dance, when you've only got a dwindling hope in your chest and surrounded by the world you've been cast out of.

idk how it just slipped my mind to post this but i have had this done for abt a month lol. enjoy!

~

After a fight, Peter is always cold.

His body is warm, running borderline hot as he heals from being thrown into buildings, but when the dust settles and he’s a city block away from the cocoon of webs left for the police, everything in Peter’s mind is a fog rolling over London.

Chilled, as the rush of the battle dissipates like steam, leaving him empty.

Because when the battle is over, Peter Parker does not get to drop into an alleyway to retrieve civilian clothes and walk out into a life of bustle and hubbub amongst friends and family, of apologizing to a boss or a date for being late, or of soft beds and home cooked meals.

When Peter Parker, genius in his own right yet barely over the legal age, stops being Spider-man—the friendly neighborhood vigilante that more often than not can be seen pulling drunkards out of trouble and walking people home—he hollows out. As he takes off the last thing of his life as an Avenger, a recognizable suit with strains in its seams, Peter Parker scoops out every bit of himself that feels useful, wanted, and seen. Everything that makes him feel human, in the large aspects of it; he knows humans are social creatures, and the only time he feels like it is when he dons the red and blue. When he goes to look for trouble, or for someone to help.

It’s like clockwork nowadays.

Help how he can, leave, go cold, don’t think, eat if able, sleep, and wake to do the same come morning.

But not today.

Today he got shoved through rebar, his shoulder blade amongst other impossibly fragile bones shattering before he could even feel it. Pulling himself out of it was three scoops of hell and a cherry of bloodied anguish on top. Getting away before the cops came—making sure he’d given as good as he got, the enhanced self-righteous asshole still wrapped in a blanket of webs—was the worst, filching clothes off lines and stopping in a once-in-a-lifetime gracefully unlocked public bathroom tucked into a corner of an office building.

When he finds the lock permanently busted, he shoves the odd folding chair under it, seemingly already used for this purpose. The molded floor is wet, there’s a musk seeping from the rusted cracks in the walls, but it serves Peter the most privacy he could possibly ask for at this moment. The dusty and swooning vigilante slowly extricates himself from the skin-tight suit, not for the first time bemoaning the symbol it holds for his reputation and credibility.

He shoves it in a plastic bag he found floating about, unraveling a paper towel roll sitting atop its empty container so he can wipe himself down.

The water is ice against his heating skin, the cheap paper rough on the scrapes and scars already marking his body. Peter finds it maddening, sometimes, that his enhanced healing doesn’t heal the scars, merely hastens their creation. Such a condition has left him with more scar than unblemished skin, texture under his fingertips every time he runs hands over himself distractedly—reminding himself that he well and truly exists. That while his mind goes white with its severe lack of equilibrium and his stomach clenches around nothing, Peter Parker lives and breathes.

Peter gets around to cleaning the small nicks and scrapes, clearing debris before it can be healed around and infectious. But once he gets to his shoulder, the rest of him damp with water, blood squelching out, there’s a single leaking line running down his torso.

Finally processing the extent of his injury makes him crumble an already cracking corner of porcelain sink between his fingers, nausea washing over him like a thundering storm. He refuses to throw up; he’d finally found a new kitchen to eat at and he doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but he’s not about to go retching up that kindness because he still can’t deal with being hurt.

Except it’s not that.

He can handle being hurt. He can deal with wounds this large, this gut-churning. Peter hurts and he heals in hours. He can deal with the quick pace of hurting and healing his body, with the scars that come of it. Peter prevents people from being hurt and lets that feeling smother his own aches, so he can handle it. He helps people and doesn’t think about anything but that in the hours between the action, chasmic heart freezing over like the vacuum of space touching human skin.

Peter is used to it, so it’s not that.

It’s the reminder of being somewhere to call home, where he could lay on a well-loved couch instead of trembling into a creaking folding chair in a shitty bathroom. Where he would find worried faces and gentle hands to help clean the opening in his back, to wrap proper bandages around his shoulder instead of torn shirts, and hitch him to an IV for rest instead of trusting him to stumble back to his equally as forgotten corner of New York, half-delirious.

But he has none of that anymore. No Aunt May and Mr. Stark, or Ned and MJ.

Peter Parker is alone, in his world of being forgotten as the person he was born as. In his world of only existing well and truly as a symbol. A name and face not his own.

And it’s entirely his own fault, so what else can he do but survive until his body gives out? What else could he possibly throw himself at to try and put enough good in the world to balance the shit he caused it? What else is there to do, having received his sentence?

He doesn’t know. He probably never will. He doesn’t think to look, either. He’ll just continue to cling to the idea of Spider-man, and what it represents.

Until he dies.

A sob catches in his throat as he wills himself to sleep, shoulder aching viciously.

Until he dies.

[ap-emergency-services-24h]

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[miltonsplumberuk]

Miltons Plumber Near Me Greenwich London is a family run company of local plumbers and emergency plumbing and heating services and drain services.

Central Heating and Boiler servicing, repairs and installations.

local plumbing services. 30 years of experienced plumbers and gas safe plumbers near you.

100s of 5 star reviews across London.

Plumbing and heating covering bathrooms, kitchens, central heating, boilers, leaks, blocked drains, bath, shower and sink installations, tap and fittings replacement. Bathroom fitting and kitchen fitting. Greenwich. 77, Babbage Point, 20 Norman Road, London, SE109FA . 02045716892

Website: https://miltonsplumbernearme.co.uk/plumber-greenwich-london

Business Hours: Monday to Sunday: 08:00 AM - 20:00 PM

Contact Email: enquiries@miltonsplumbernearme.co.uk

[miltonsplumbernearme]

Miltons Plumbers Near Me Kensington

Miltons Plumber Near Me Kensington & Chelsea London is a family-run company of local plumbers and emergency plumbing, heating, and drain services.

Central Heating and Boiler servicing, repairs and installations.

local plumbing services. 30 years of experienced plumbers and gas safe plumbers near you.

100s of 5 star reviews across London.

Plumbing and heating covering bathrooms, kitchens, central heating, boilers, leaks, blocked drains, bath, shower and sink installations, tap and fittings replacement. Bathroom fitting and kitchen fitting. 121 Old Brompton Rd, South Kensington, London SW73BX. 02045716896

Website: https://miltonsplumbernearme.co.uk/plumber-kensington-london/

Address: 121 Old Brompton Rd, South Kensington, London, SW7 3BX

Phone Number: 02045716896

Business Hours: Monday - Sunday: 08:00 AM - 20:00 PM

[miltonsplumber]

Miltons Plumber Near Me Finsbury Park

Miltons Plumber Near Me Finsbury Park Islington London is a family-run company of local plumbers and emergency plumbing, heating, and drain services.

Central Heating and Boiler servicing, repairs and installations.

local plumbing services. 30 years of experienced plumbers and gas safe plumbers near you.

100s of 5 star reviews across London.

Plumbing and heating covering bathrooms, kitchens, central heating, boilers, leaks, blocked drains, bath, shower and sink installations, tap and fittings replacement. Bathroom fitting and kitchen fitting. 2 Fonthill Rd, Finsbury Park, London N43HX 02045716890

Website: https://miltonsplumbernearme.co.uk/plumber-finsbury-park-london/

Address: 2 Fonthill Rd, Finsbury Park, London, N4 3HX

Phone Number: 02045716890

Business Hours: Monday - Sunday: 08:00 - 20:00

[emergencyplumber12]

How to Remove Blockages in Your Drain Pipe

One of the things that makes you feel uneasy in your very own house is the nasty smell that comes from a blocked drain pipe. Besides, the sight of a sink full of dirty water as a result of a blocked drain can provoke you and make you sick especially if you are an exceptionally clean person.

However, you do not have to leave your home as a result of this when you can easily remove the blockages in the drain pipe on your own or with the help of an emergency plumber near me or anywhere in London. Before checking the essential things to do to get the blockages in your pipe removed, it is very paramount to look into the causes of a blocked drain.

What Are The Causes Of A Blocked Drain Pipe?

Drains are designed to allow free flow of water but they get blocked due to reasons that can be avoided especially if you have a bad drain maintenance culture. A few of the major reasons include;

Hair Build Up

Hair can block your drain as a result of the continuous process of it falling off your body or head especially when you wash your hair every day, thereby causing your drains to get blocked as a result of this.

This continual buildup can render your pipes useless and cause further blockage if it is not removed immediately, which will require you to contact an emergency plumber for plumbing repairs.

The Toiletries

Most homeowners know that disposing of toiletries such as diapers, baby wipes, and sanitary pads can block the drains but they find it convenient to dispose of it that way. The truth is that the drains will not be blocked at first but the accumulation of these toiletries will eventually block your pipe.

Besides, the material from which the toiletries are made, especially the diaper, absorbs moisture, size increases and eventually blocks the drain pipes . WhWhenyour the drain is blocked through this medium, it might be hard for you to fix it on your own which will demand that you employ the services of an emergency plumber near me or anywhere in London.

Foreign Objects

This is another major reason attributed to blocked drain pipes and this occurs due to mistakes or nonchalant attitudes. The mistake might either be from you or your kids and a few of the foreign objects that can serve as a blockage when flushed down the toilet include; kids’ toys, toothbrushes, pegs or bar soap.

Kitchen Waste

This is mostly overlooked by homeowners as they believe the drains are made to transport cooked crap, cooking oil or other things into the sewer. However, it is not as cooking oil does not flush down the drain, it rather coats the pipe and holds on to the food scraps flushed down the drain, thereby serving as a blockage.

Based on most plumbing repairs and maintenance carried out by plumbers in other cause of blocked drain pipe includes;

Tree Root Intrusion.

Kitty Litter.

Mineral Build up

Leaves and other things.

How To Remove Blockages In Your Drain Pipe

The best thing to do when you want to remove blockages in your drain pipe is to locate an emergency plumber near me or anywhere in London. You can also solve minor issues on your own but you have to be very sure what you are dealing with is a blocked drain pipe so as not to cause further damage leading to spending extra cost on plumbing repairs.

A few of the signs to look out for be sure your drains are truly blocked include the following;

Slow draining which causes a pool of water in the sink.

Overflowing of drains

Noise from the pipes.

Pungent smell from the bathroom, toilet and kitchen.

After you have confirmed one or all of the signs, do the following things to get rid of the blockages in your drain pipes.

Remove The Hair.

It is a cheap thing to do if the hairs are pulled out of the bathtub immediately after washing your hair or after a long shower as the hair is still close to the surface but if the hair has gone deep into the drains, you might need to use a drain cleaning device or contact an emergency plumber as they have special equipment for such removal

Moreover, ensure you wear your hand gloves when pulling out the hair to avoid contracting infection which could lead to contagious diseases and do not apply chemicals to the pipe for removal purposes as this could weaken and eventually damage the pipes.

Dispose of The Toiletries Properly.

The best way to fix this issue is to dispose of the toiletries the right way, by wrapping them properly, disposing of them in the bin and packing them out with your other garbage.

However, if the deed is done, do your household a favour by employing the service of an experienced plumber from our reliable company, my plumber London as they will remove the toiletries within a few minutes.

Remove The Foreign Objects Professionally.

The foreign objects can only be removed professionally by an emergency plumber; they have to go through a few processes and use professional equipment to get them removed, especially if the objects are flushed down through the toilet.

Apart from attending to drain blockage issues and fixing them as appropriate, you can do other things when you notice the water in your sink is moving in a very slow manner or is not moving at all.

Such things that can be done include;

Flush your pipes with boiling water.

Making use of natural cleaners or plungers to get rid of the blockage.

Do regular checkup

It is very good to check your pipe out yourself as this will save you from spending on the service of an emergency plumber.

However, you should contact us to help you get rid of the blockage as a few blockage issues are beyond repair as you do not have the perfect equipment such as a Drain pipe CCT, hydro jet, and other special plumbing equipment.

[rareplumbing]

What Makes Plumbing Services Essential? 

Introduction: a plumber is a technician who helps you fix, fit, and repair pipes, fittings, or other water supply, sanitation, and heating systems. He is a hardware specialist that makes housing structures more useful with the drainage and heating systems layout and maintenance. Plumbing is the act of fixing, laying or maintaining these fixtures. So, why are plumbers and plumbing essential to every house owner? Can you live in a house without calling a plumbing company once or often? Below, we find out why these services are useful.

Why Do You Need to Have an Emergency Plumber on Call? 

(a). Are you trying to install or replace your boiler? Or is it routine boiler servicing?

To be safe and warm with all house maintenance systems working well, maintenance should be done frequently. It saves you all the pain and inconvenience. Boiler installation and replacement, if done by experts gives you peace of mind. And your service costs and system longevity are rational. It pays when you trust the professionals. 

(b). Are all your household drainages and electrical installations well set?

Sometimes a simple electric short circuit or wiring issue may cost you so much. It is vital to make sure everything is well-laid out. It can be a great way to block off or prevent any serious damage to your household belongings. Or even prevent a serious fire outbreak. Checking and validating all drainage and electrical fittings is the first step to avoiding serious issues in the future. Most fires and electric & drainage-related house issues can be avoided with regular checkups.   

(c). When you have clogged sinks, blocked or broken pipes, and overflowing bathrooms due to blockages.

Sometimes even basic and standard attempts at unblocking the water flow may fail. That's when the services of an expert plumber can help. You can deal with the issues within a short timeframe. Moreover, clogged drainage systems, if left to persist, may lead to bigger maintenance costs and budgets. It's better left to the skills of an expert plumber.   

(d). When your household heating ad cooling systems stop in the middle of the season, they are needed most.

You can imagine your heater or boiler giving way right in the middle of the night of a very cold winter. It is hard to live in a very cold house with the basic need for warmth not met. Or when your cooling system stops in a severe summer. It's essential to have emergency plumbing services to address the problem immediately.

Summary: it's impossible to tell when you will need plumbing and heating servicesor, better still, plumbers. That is why for most people, prevention is better than cure. It's better to be prepared than sorry with emergency plumbing service provider access. That can save you a lot of pain and discomfort in tough weather situations and conditions. Whether it is residential or commercial plumbing services, with rare plumbing services, your house systems will be in perfect working condition at all times.   

For More Info :- 

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Source URL :- https://sites.google.com/view/rare-plumbing-and-heating-ltd/home

[gritninjaltd]

At Grid Ninja Ltd we provide professional services by using the high-pressure jetting method for drain unblocking and cleaning, get these services at the nearby areas of Drainage services across Kent, London, Surrey, Sussex, Essex. To know more visit us: https://www.gritninja.co.uk/

[erodasfishtacos]

The Brits Dilemma

” Prompt: Harry & Y/N go to the Brits. It’s the first time they’ve been away from their baby. Y/N is struggling but doesn’t want to ruin the night for her husband.

Word Count: 1.8 k +

Warnings: Depictions of breastfeeding

+++++++

The award show was going well. It was the first time Y/N had been out in nearly three months besides a few brunch dates and grocery shopping.

Usually, she was pretty confident in what she wore to accompany her husband to all of these flashy events - but not tonight.

Her bump had deflated but she was still attempting to get rid of the stubborn pouch that stayed after the baby had been born. It wasn’t anything out of the norm - just still trying to lose it.

She was breastfeeding and her breasts were much larger than before. They felt heavy and too big for her body. Not to mention, they were constantly swollen and achey. Pads were a must so she doesn’t leak through the tight satin black dress.

The dress was a beautiful custom design by Gucci that complimented Harry’s sharp suit but nothing felt right. It was digging into her sides and made it hard for her to sit on her chair.

The Brits were held in the O2 Arena which wasn’t very far from their London home but she felt like she was lightyears away from her baby. Even though she knew Sasha was in good hands with Anne.

Y/N was so proud of Harry for being up for five - yes, five different awards. It was a record for him and she didn’t want to let him down by complaining. It was his night. He’s been such a devote father - he deserved a break too.

So she swallowed down the anxiety she was feeling about being away from their little newborn for the night along with her worries about her changing body.

There was milling about between the tables before the show got started. Harry had people coming up him constantly - congratulating him on the album, the nominations, the baby.

Married life and fatherhood suited him well. A dazzling wedding band on his left ring finger, a necklace with an S for his daughter, along with her name freshly inked on right above his butterfly tattoo.

The open jacket he wore with is his barely buttoned dress shirt displayed it proudly. It was beautiful, done delicately in a timeless cursive. The font match his wife name that was tattooed on his hand.

He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t excited to have a night out with his wife. He had Jeff booked a hotel for the night to have some alone time with you while his mum got to enjoy a night with her only grandchild.

Y/N was counting down the hours up until tomorrow when she could go home to see her baby. She should really tell Harry that she wants to go home and not out to a club and the hotel.

But the it just slowly starts to deteriorate further when a bald, plump business exec comes to greet the two of you. He gives his warm wishes about the birth of your child before smiling at Y/N and stating, “The baby weight will come off soon enough.”

Her throat closes up a bit and she self-consciously tries to push her chair closer to the table. It was the last thing that she needed to hear. Confirming all of her worst insecurities.

Harry glares at the man before turning to his wife, “Hey, you look s’perfect, my love. I’m so bloody lucky you’re mine.”

He’s truly trying his hardest to bring a smile to her face but he notices it’s never quite meeting her eyes. 

It get even worse when Harry gets his first award, male solo artist of the year. 

As she’s standing and clapping for him - she realizes she’s beginning to leak through her nipple inserts.

Y/N excuses herself in the middle of his acceptance speech to rush through the string of tables - out into the corridor. The last thing she wanted to do was for it to show up on a very expensive dress.

The echo of his voice can still be heard, “Love to thank my beautiful wife who makes writing sappy love songs easy and was the main inspiration for my recent album. She also just gave birth to our beautiful baby.....”

She feels awful when she tunes him out, finding the bathroom and hurriedly rushing in. There’s a gorgeous woman standing at the sink, washing their hands. 

Fucking Taylor Swift.

Any other time it’d be awkward and uncomfortable - running into an ex who wrote multiple songs about her husband.

But she couldn’t careless right now, “Hi, erm, this is really weird but could you unzip my dress? I’m leaking and - shit that was way too much information.”

But Taylor smiles kindly, “No! It’s okay, totally. No worries. Congratulations on your baby - you look so hot tonight.”

Y/N laughs and thanks her for unzipping the dress before going into a stall and locking the door. She slides her bra straps off her shoulders and disposes of the soaked pad in the sanitary bin.

Luckily, she has a clean burp rag that she gently swipes at her breast - wincing as it brushes against her swollen nipples. Even the soft fabric felt too rough on them.

It’s a minute or two before the bathroom door swings open, “Y/N? Lovie? Are you in ‘ere?”

She feels guilt at the panic in his voice. Managing to croak out, “I’m in here,” before leaning forward to unlock the door.

Harry waste no time in sliding into the stall before latching the lock again. Taking in the sight of his wife in front of him.

“I-I started leaking, M’sorry,” Y/N whispers, she has no reason to feel embarrassed but she is. “I missed your speech.”

“None of that, baby. I’ll give more speeches for you to hear - I only care that you’re okay. I’m sorry y’leakin, lemme help you, pet.”

In true Harry fashion, he takes the rag and turns on the sink - running it under warm water before carefully cleaning his wife up.

“Are they botherin’ you? They look irritated and super swollen, darling,” Harry frowns, a very gentle thumb coming to brush against her nipple. Then cupping her swollen breast in his hand, thumb rubbing at the pink skin.

“Just a little bit,” She lies, they’re absolutely on fire with chafing and skin irritation from the bra she’s wearing. She never thought she’d miss her nursing bras and sports bras this much.

He nods and helps place new inserts in her bra. Who’d think this is what Harry would be doing between accepting awards. Everyone unassuming in the arena.

**

Harry has been four for four thus far into the ceremony. They’d only had him go up and give two acceptance speeches. His hand firmly planted on his wife’s thigh throughout. 

When he went up for his second award, the camera zooms in and the crowd coos are he plants a kiss on his wife’s lips before pulling her into a hug - whispering something into her ear the audience can’t hear.

He was much more focused on his wife. He could read her fairly well - he’d like to think. Enough to know she’s having much fun. But he didn’t want to bring it up and make her feel bad.

Harry sees the way she keeps adjusting her bra, fidgets with his rings when his hands in his lap, and not even really looking up while one of her favorite artist - Dua Lipa -performs.

Y/N loved a good party before the baby. So Harry was hoping going to the Brits afterparty would make her feel better and then going back to their hotel room for a some alone time.

**

Y/N has been increasingly quiet when they’re exiting the arena after the final award artist of the year - which Harry had also won.

He was on cloud nine and admittedly a little distracted as he joked and laughed with a small group of friends on the way out. 

“Alright, should we all just pile into a cab for the ride to the party?” Nick Grimshaw asks everyone.

Everyone is in agreement - including Harry -as he calls to order one - standing in the blocked off area away from fans and paparazzi.

Y/N wants to tell him she wants to go home to Sasha but when she hears him say, “Can’t wait to get to Exhibit - haven’t been there in forever. One of my favorite clubs.”

She bites her tongue. Harry is enjoying his night out - why can’t she?

In the taxi, she’s sat on Harry’s lap as they make their way to the club. His one hand is on her inner thigh and the other is on her waist holding her steady.

In the morning, she’ll blame her post-partum hormones and anxiety. But she doesn’t even realizing her eyes are filling with tears and when she blinks they spill down her face.

She wouldn’t feel as embarrassed if she wasn’t in the car full of literal celebrities who are filled with adrenaline and excitement. Chattering and drinking from little liquor bottles they’d snuck in their jackets and clutches.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Rita Ora asks from her seat - noticing the streaks ruining your makeup.

She nods pathetically, wiping at her eyes but Harry is turning her to face him. His bright green eyes filled with concern as he studies her face.

The previously very obnoxiously loud cab becomes silent as they try to give the couple a semblance of non-existent privacy.

“What’s happening, dove? Are you hurting?” Harry panics, coming to wipe the smeared makeup away.

“I don’t want to go to the club,” Y/N sniffles, squeezing her eyes shut at how embarrassed she is of her behavior. She would usually never act this way - especially in public. And Harry knows that so it makes him even more concerned.

“That’s okay, pet. We can go have a night in, when the cab stops - we can uber back to the hotel,” Harry soothes, surprised when that brings on fresh tears.

“N-no, I want to go home. I miss the baby, I want to- need to see our baby. I-I can’t do this. My anxiety is through the roof, Harry. What if she can’t sleep? Or isn’t taking the bottle?”

“Baby, breathe, breathe. We can go home. I miss the bub terribly too. Have been worried about her all night.”

Harry tugs his wife into his chest further - tucking her head into his neck as he shoots his friends grateful looks. They all nod, sympathetic and understanding - despite them not having kids of their own.

**

“I ruined your night,” Y/N says softly in the back of the uber home. “I leaked during the show; cried in front of all your friends.”

Harry takes her chin gentle but firm until she meets his gaze, “You didn’t ruin anything f’me. All I care about is you and the baby - not some stupid award ceremony or party.”

He continues on, “You just gave us Sasha three months ago - y’bloody amazing. Best mum, best wife. Sexiest too - know you don’t think that right now but your body literally grew my baby. I get a hard-on everytime I see you.”

They both laugh, Y/N leaning forward to capture her husbands lips in a meaningful kiss of gratitude and thanks.

**

Anne smiles kindly when the two of them arrive home. A very fussy, red-faced swaddled baby coddled in her arms. 

“She hasn’t settled for quite a while now - she missed her parents very much,” Harry’s mum tells them, transferring her into her father’s arms. He’s automatically rocking and running his thumb over her cheek.

“Ooh, we missed you. Was Nana nice to you?” Harry coos. Sasha has already quieted and is blinking tearfully up at her smiling father.

“Such a good girl, best girl,” Y/N sighs, leaning in to kiss her downy hair. Harry’s hand coming to wrap around his wife’s waist as they peer down at their perfect little daughter.

Anne smiles at his son and daughter-in-law fawning over their little creation with so much love and adoration.

After a minute of chatting -Harry’s mum makes her way up to the guest room after a long night with a miserable baby. They make their way to their room where Y/N strips out of her tight dress and awful bra. 

She sits against the headboard in just a pair of soft cotton panties. Harry is gently shushing her and humming a melody as his wife gets situated. He knew she was anxious to feed the baby.

“That’s it my sweet thing. Y’missed us, hm? We missed you too, bub. Nana said y’wouldn’t take the bottle. Only want your mumma, hmm?” Harry coos, kissing her chubby cheeks.

He’s then giving Y/N the baby, who ferociously latching within seconds and begins eating like she’d been starved for the last week. Making weak little rumbles as she does so.

They both giggle fondly, Y/Ns fingers come to touch her fluttering cheek - memorizing her over and over again.

Harry gets onto the bed and settles next to the both of them. Watching his baby feed in amazement at what his wife was capable of. He smears a few kisses against her bare shoulder - hand on his baby’s back.

How strong she was - as he knew it had to be at least a little bit painful with how irritated her nipples had been. He can tell when she winces every once in a while.

He plants a few more kisses to her warm skin - noticing her eyes getting a bit droopy as Sasha feeds at a slow, suckling pace.

“If I’m being honest, being with you - watching you feed our baby...I’d rather be here than at any club.” 

Y/N snorts, rolling her eyes, “Sure.”

Her husband frowns, “M’serious, this is all I need, baby.”

“I love you, congratulation on all your Brits,” Y/N murmurs, pecking at his lips.

“I love you too. I meant it, during my speeches. I wouldn’t have been able to write those songs if you hadn’t inspired me. You’ll and the bab will always be the best muse.”