#but the jumper is new and jaunty

[fortjester]

actual outfit i am wearing right now

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Ten

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Swearing (v strong), suggestive language, ableist language, World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 7.4K

Note: Surprise! New chapter a day earlier than planned. I took down the poll as most people were voting for one longer chapter, so here it is!

January 1940

The new decade began blissfully for Bess Vaughn. True to his word, Tom indeed popped round the morning of New Year’s Day, on the pretense of spending time with Albie. When Cora told him that Albie was still in bed, having “over-exerted” himself the night before, Tom said he’d wait and was contented to listening to the sisters’ chatter while running his finger along Bess’ thigh under the table.

When Albie came down, washed but bedraggled, all but Bess and Tom had left for work. Not a minute after Bess had seen them off did Tom run back in.

“Told your brother I forgot something.”

“And did y-” Tom silenced her with a kiss. Then another. And another.

“Albie...will be wondering…where you are-” Bess said between kisses.

“Let him wait,” And with his hands cupping Bess’ neck, Tom rolled his tongue over hers and melted at the contented sigh it produced from her. “Still on for later?” He asked when he pulled back to look at her.

“Still haven’t found another girl that wants to go with you?”

“No need when I’ve got the best girl in Manchester.”

“Only Manchester?”

“Well, you didn’t see some of the girls in Port Stanley.” Bess slapped his shoulder. Tom winked and darted into the street to meet Albie.

“I’m off to see the girls,” Bess announced that evening once her family had demolished their dinner.

“Give Roberta and Hattie my love,” Fergal said from his armchair. “Back by eleven,” he waggled his finger jovially.

“Yes, dadda.” Bess kissed his cheek and left by the back gate. The first thing she saw when she stepped into the ginnel were those blue eyes gleaming at her. A cigarette hung jauntily from his lips. Bess raised her eyes at his attire; navy slacks and jumper underneath his blue jacket.

“Got to get a few perks from being in the navy,” he said with a smirk.

Bess tutted and took the cigarette from his lips, puffing smoke seductively into his face when she was finished. Every now and then, Tom made a gesture so unexpectedly romantic Bess’ heart skip a beat, and just that happened when he took Bess’ hand in his, kissed it and led her on their way. “Belle Vue, here we come.”

Tom was right. Wearing a uniform did bring its perks. Free entry to Belle Vue, a free round at the bar, free entry to rides and numerous handshakes.

“Do you always take girls on such cheap dates?” Bess teased. Tom answered by buying her candyfloss, and winning prizes for her at the coconut shy and hoopla. When Bess said she’d rather the coconut than the prize, Tom laughed.

“What? I’ve never had one before.”

“Good luck fitting that in your purse.” Once more, he was right, and Bess carried the coconut around for the rest of the night, the only exception when she left it at the carousel operator’s booth. Bess begged and begged Tom to join her, and he agreed on the condition he didn’t have to sit on a horse. Owing to the restriction of her skirt and bulk of her coat, Bess sat side saddle, with Tom stood at the neck of the painted horse. When the carousel sprang into life, the jaunty tune rattling around Belle Vue, Bess squealed. Tom never thought stoic Bess Vaughn capable of such a noise, and he watched her glee with awe. Bess caught him staring her.

“Mam loved the carousel. She used to bring us down when we were little and it was all we wanted to go on.” Tom, too, used to come down with Lois and his mother. Somewhere was a photo of the three of them stood by the carousel, taken by Douglas. Behind them the carousel was a blur, spinning out of reach of the camera’s capabilities.  

On the horse behind Bess and Tom, a little girl was being held by her older brother. She couldn’t care less about the carousel. Her eyes were watching Bess’ hair, the greens and pinks of the bulbs giving the copper a hazy halo. Bess tipped her head back in enjoyment, and the little girl’s eyes lit up. Tom watched the little girl watching Bess and smiled. He should have done this sooner.

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“How was it last night?”

“Eh?” Tom looked from the cigarette dwindling between his fingers to his father.

“Last night? How was it?”

Tom nodded. “Fine, yeah.”

“Lads all ok?”

“Yeah, they’re good.”

“Walter Watson’s in a bit of a state. Saw him this morning at the corner shop.”

“Probably deserved it,”

Douglas hummed. Pacifist or not, after Walter terrorised Bess as a girl, Douglas had considered giving him a thump from time to time. The pair fell silent and an unspoken conversation hung in the air. They both knew it was coming, but who would be first over the breach? A minute passed.

“I thought I was finally doing something for the right reasons. Something good.” Tom didn’t look his dad in the eye. His voice was firm, quiet. “But when I came up for air, and I saw our lads lying dead, something of them looking more like meat than bloke to be honest dad,” Douglas flinched, heartbroken his son now had the same memories as he. “I knew the German lads had the same.” Tom paused, waiting for his dad to speak. When he didn’t, Tom continued.

“I was right to be bad all along. So, where’s the sense of risking my life?” he caught Douglas’ eye. “You know? I’m-I’m done.”

“I think you should go back.” Douglas said without hesitation. Tom’s eyes fluttered with confusion and his anger roared into life.

“You want me to go back? To war? That you hate?”

“No, don’t want you to go back,” Douglas pinched the bridge of his nose. If Etta was here, she’d know what to say. “I just think that you should.”

Tom felt like he’d been kicked. “Because it’s me?”

“And because it’s me.” Douglas said quickly, making sure Tom didn’t misunderstand. “They’ll use you, to get at me. And they won’t register you in a million years”.

“You don’t know that dad,” Tom whispered, though he already sounded defeated.

“If the peace movement accept any lad who goes AWOL, then it’ll make us look like we’re encouraging deserters, no genuine conscientious objectors-” Douglas spoke with more passion than his son had heard in a long time, and wished his father would speak about him that way.

“And I’m not genuine? You don’t think I’m genuine?” Were it not for the sadness creeping into his bones, he would have screamed at his dad. Douglas watched him momentarily.

“Are you, son?” Father and son watched each other.

“I can be.” Tom whispered, sincere. “If you coach me.”

Douglas ignored this statement, Tom at once confirming the intentions of his plan to desert and admitting his fear. “And what if you get court-martialled for going AWOL? You could be hanged for desertion,” Tom’s eyes flickered to his cigarette and the thought of Bess. “Or getting beat up to a pulp in prison every day, eh?”

Tom nodded with a finality that made Douglas’ heart sink. “You know what? Yeah, you’re right.” He finished his cigarette. “Daft idea.” The chair scrapped against the kitchen floor as he stood and made his way to the stairs.

“No,” Douglas tried to keep his son close. “I just think you should think it through,”

“Yep. Not my strong suit dad.” Upstairs, the door to Tom and Lois’ room slammed.

Lois arrived home that night to find Douglas reading by the fire.

“Tom out?” She asked, hanging her coat and putting the kettle on the stove.

“He’s upstairs.” Douglas said without looking up.

“Nice evening?” This time her father didn’t reply. “House full of bloody cheer.” Lois roughly placed a cup of tea in front of her father, still angry at him for telling Robina Chase she was expecting Harry’s baby, and made her way upstairs.

“Tea for you.” Tom was lying against his pillow in his undershirt, smoking a cigarette and sulking. He didn’t reply, not even a word of thanks. She knew of her brother’s plan to desert and had spent the last few days waiting for her father to tell Tom he should go back. Deep down, although she selfishly wanted him to stay, she knew her father was right. “Do you want me to talk to dad?”

“He's a pacificist, but he wants me to go back and start killing people. Why don’t you ask him to explain that?” Tom gesticulated with his cigarette, his face a mixture of confusion, hurt and disgust.

“Maybe he thinks you aren’t a very good shot,” Lois ginned over her cup of tea.

“Ha-ha,” Tom said sarcastically. “That one of your ENSA jokes?” Lois’ smile faded when she saw the sadness in her brother’s eyes. “You know, for a moment, I thought he might be pleased. Just for a moment-”

“Go back down there and fight him then! Don’t just give up!”

“Why does it matter to you either way?” Tom was trying to keep his anger at the situation in check. It would be a damn sight easier if people trusted in him enough to speak their mind rather than this cryptic nonsense.  

“I need you to stay here. I need my brother.”

“What, you? You’ve never needed anything off me, all my life.” Lois looked away from him when he asked this and sipped her tea. “Fine.” Tom rolled over on his bed, not bothering to get under the covers. After a few minutes, he heard Lois put her cup on the table and switch off the light. Through the thin curtains, Tom could see the faint glow of the house across the street, and he thought of Bess. She’d be sat by the fire now, reading or playing the piano. Imagining the warmth of her soft lips and dark gaze of her eyes, Tom drifted into a sleep not plagued by nightmares, but filled with warmth and copper hair and ragtime.

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“What did you tell them?” Bess panted, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she approached Tom. The long coat she wore over her jumper and slacks was undone, and she looked unusually agitated.

“That I’m ill, what about you?” He said with a smile, watching as she tried to regain her composure.

“That I had a meeting with Robina Chase about her spring wardrobe. Dot wanted to stay behind and chat about it. Almost had to force her out the door, didn’t want to miss the showing.”

Gone with the Wind was still on at the picture house, and Tom had bought the two of them tickets. Quite honestly, he couldn’t care less about a three hour melodrama, but spending those hours with Bess in a darkened room certainly enticed him. By the time the afternoon showing had finished, Bess was glad for the winter. Four o’clock and the sun was just setting, perfectly hiding the mess of her hair and lipstick. Tom, rebellious by reputation, looked devilishly dishevelled and no one batted an eyelid at his swollen lips and tousled hair. In case Douglas was home from work, or Lois back from visiting friends, Bess led Tom down the ginnel behind the Vaughns’.

“The girls and dadda won’t be back from their shifts for at least another hour, and Albie’s paying Frank a visit.”

Tom took a step closer to Bess and held the lapels of her coat. “Miss Vaughn, are you inviting me inside?” He looked down his nose at her, chin turned up so she couldn’t reach his lips. Tom pulled her coat so she stumbled into his chest.

“I’m prepared to ruin my reputation for you, Mr Bennett.” At the suggestiveness in her voice, Tom’s eyebrows raised and he fought with every fibre not to lift her over his shoulder and carry her inside. She unlatched the gate and unlocked the yard door. No sooner had he stepped inside was her hand in his, leading him silently up the stairs. This wasn’t the first time Tom had been in the Vaughn girls’ bedroom, but it was the first time he had been in through the door. And during the day.

Bess made her way to the wardrobe by the vanity and hung up her coat. Tom looked at around; it was so different to the room he shared with Lois. There were dried flowers in a vase, make up scattered across the vanity and a makeshift washing line strung up with hosiery. The blankets, clearly heirlooms or made by Bess and her sisters, were in warm, faded colours. A picture of their mother hung on the wall next to a crucifix, and as Bess turned on the lamps, a homely glow doused the room. The only things that were the same as his own room were the two beds to accommodate them all, the peeling wallpaper and the cold of the rattling windows.

“Dadda’s not hiding under the bed, you can sit down.” Bess smiled as she drew a folding partition across the corner of the room.

“Wouldn’t put it past your ‘dadda’,” Tom said as he kicked off his shoes and lay on his side.

“I know you wanted to wait, but can we tell them soon? Please-”

“I just think they’d find it odd, us having grown up together.” Tom stretched on the bed.

“I’m fed up of all this sneaking around, Tom. You’ve just got your dad and Lois, but there’s five of us here at the moment. I can’t keep it up much longer,”

“I know, I know,”

“Before you go back? Please?”

Tom nodded noncommittally. “Before I go back.” He watched as she stepped behind the screen and seized the change of subject. “Don’t you girls get undressed in front of each other? All hanging around in your underwear-”

“I can hear the smirk on your face, Tom Bennett.”

He smiled and took out his cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” Bess hummed by way of a reply and Tom struck a match. The light of the room flickered. Through the thin fabric of the changing screen, Tom could see Bess as she moved around in front of the lamp. Saw as she pulled her jumper over her head, then her blouse, and tossed them at the chair in the corner. Saw as she bent over to remove her slacks. Suddenly, there were her legs. There was the dip in her waist after the curve of her hip. She stretched, oh so slowly, lazily bringing her hands to her hair. Next thing, Tom watched as shadowy tendrils of hair fell around her shoulders. He'd seen a naked woman before. Didn’t really think much of it, a body was a body, a means to an end. But the suggestion of Bess awoke in him a different beast entirely. He shifted on the bed and adjusted his trousers, tantalised by this unexpected striptease. Bess disappeared from the lamplight’s reach for a moment to root around the wardrobe. When she returned and bent over to step into a skirt, Tom flung his head back against the pillow and supressed a groan. What he wouldn’t give to collapse that bloody partition and watch her shimmy back out of the skirt. A fresh jumper, no blouse, was next and she folded the screen away.

“Are you alright?” Bess asked, for Tom was lying back on the bed she shared with Dot, his hand across his eyes, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Mmm,” Bess smiled at the feeble response. She never lit the lamp when she was changing, but knowing Tom was on the other side to see, it was too tempting to tease him. She laughed warmly and Tom opened his eyes. Her hair was loose, like she had just woken up, the jumper she wore too large and slumping of her shoulder a little. The skirt she had tucked it into met halfway down her calves and was cut loosely. No hosiery. Tom bit his lip and watched Bess blush as he looked her over. He continued to stare, revelling in the effect it had. Enjoying how flustered he could make the famously unflappable Bess Vaughn. Bess clearly didn’t and picked up Dot’s pillow. She flung it at Tom’s head, only to miss when he ducked with a shout and the hit her bedside table instead. A book fell to the floor.

“Bloody aggressive,” Tom muttered jokily as he leant to pick up the book. “Well, hello. Keep me on your bedside table, do you?” Between his fingers he held his photograph, which had fluttered out of the book’s pages. Bess sat beside him and took the picture, running her finger across his sepia face. She looked from the photo to the real thing beside her. One brow was cocked, mouth curved in a lopsided smirk.

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back. It was like, if I kept you where I could always see you, you wouldn’t get hurt.”

Tom shook his head, self-belief still rattled after his conversation with his father. “But why me?”

“Why not?” Bess said simply, at her quiet and secretive best. “I have something for you.” She leant across Tom’s lap and from the drawer of the bedside table, pulled out a piece of card wrapped in tissue paper and handed it to him.

The paper fell away, and the dark eyes of Bess gazed softly up at him from a photograph.

“Now I won’t have to use my imagination,”

“God, Tom,” Bess kissed him suddenly. With one hand, Tom placed the picture on the table and then brought it to fist in Bess’ loose hair. He pulled firmly and exposed her neck to him, placing lazy, hot, open-mouthed kisses to her neck. The moan that left Bess was sinful. Tom pushed her back roughly against the bed, and she had barely gasped when his mouth was on her again. Sidling up to the side of her body, Tom ran one large hand along the side of her hip, her ribcage, grazed her breast and then tangled it in her hair once again.

“Fuck,” he hissed. One of Bess’ legs had hooked around his own and brought it between her thighs. Bess pulled her face away from his and place a hand on his cheek. She studied him and tears began forming in her eyes.

“I don’t want you to go back,” she whispered.

Tom kissed the side of her head as a tear fell into her hair, brushing some of the copper away from her face. He searched her amber eyes and took a deep breath. “I don’t want to go back either.”

Bess frantically kissed the corners of his mouth, his neck, the flash of collarbone exposed by his shirt. “Stay,” she whispered, continuing to pepper him with kisses until she found his mouth.

“I’m trying-” Tom said against her lips. Bess stopped.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m trying-” He huffed and sat up, leaving Bess bereft at no longer having his body against hers. “I’m trying to get dad to sign me up. As a conchie.”

“But you don’t believe in it,”

“I don’t know if I believe in killing people either.” he replied hotly. Bess didn’t say anything, just continued to look at him curiously. Tom looked at his hands, stood to pace around the room, sat at the vanity, then stood again and moved to the window. All the while Bess watched him, and waited.

“It’s just-” he turned to face her, perched at the end of the bed. For a split second, those dark eyes diverted his attention. He looked to the door instead and spoke quickly. “It’s just I fucking hated life here. Always making a nuisance of myself, disappointing dad and Lois, and with absolutely no direction. I thought that by going, I’d avoid jail, see the world and if I died then so what? Everyone would either think I was a hero or be better off without me.” Bess gasped. Her shock was not derived from his words, but from the tone with which he spoke them. He was neither angry nor sad; Tom seemed to have accepted long ago that this was other people’s opinion of him. That this was his opinion of himself. She hurried to the window and took his hands as he continued speaking.

“Out there,” he looked at their entwined fingers. “You’re just another body. Another tiny cog in the machine. And it’s exactly the same for the Germans as it is for us. We’re just pawns in some big man’s game. And watching your mates get blown to pieces-” The tips of his ears were turning pink with repressed anger. When he looked back at Bess his eyes were wild with fury. “I’m not going back to shoot at people like me. What’s the point of it all? It doesn’t stop anything. Look at our dads! ‘The war to end all wars’ they called it! What a load of fucking bollocks.” He spat and turned away. “And now…now I’ve finally got something worth staying for. Someone who doesn’t think I’m no good.”   

Slowly, Bess moved herself between Tom and the window. She placed her chin on his chest so that he was forced to look at her. “You are good, Tom. You’ve always been good.” His solemn eyes took her in. Bess let him look at her, willed him to see the honesty in her eyes. Tom was terrified of the feelings she stirred in him, but in some sick way, he loved it. He couldn’t get enough of how scared she made him of himself.  Brushing it way, his mouth twisted into a grin, and he touched a finger to his lips. Bess rolled her eyes as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Palms flat against her back, he rubbed her nose with his and kissed those delicious, rosebud lips of hers.

On the street below, Cora was walking home from work with Dot and their father, the two chattering arm in arm. Albie pushed his bike alongside them, the ticking of the wheels and clack of the girls’ shoes the only sound as the sun set.

“-and then dadda, listen to this! Then, she had the cheek to tell me that it was Henry Fonda, not Humphrey Boggart.”

“And what did you tell her, my girl?” Fergal smiled as he patted the hand of his youngest child.

“Well-” Cora smiled as Dot launched into a tirade about the factory gossip and Albie laughed at her. They were almost home, the light from the house already warming Cora after the cold walk home. She looked up. The light came not from the kitchen, which was utterly dark, but the bedroom window. The bedroom window where their sister was in a passionate embrace with Tom Bennett.

“We need to go round the back.”

“What, why?” Albie stopped pushing his bike.

“I forgot, the door jammed this morning when we left for work.” Cora was already making her way back down the street. “Remember, Dot?”

“No?” she replied, confused.

“I’ll just give it a shove-”

“Don’t be stupid, dadda!” Cora all but shouted. “We don’t need you taking it off the hinges. It’ll be easier from the inside. Hurry up, I’m freezing!”

When the door to the yard opened and the raucous voices of her family filled the small house, Bess swore and near shoved Tom out of the window.

“Steady on!” He laughed.

“They’re home,” She pushed open the sash. “Hurry up!”

“My shoes! And my coat!” Tom was halfway out of the window.

“I’ll throw them.”

“Give us a kiss,”

“Tom!”

“I won’t go without a ki-” Bess silenced him with her lips. He winked when she pulled away, and disappeared down the drainpipe. Once he was safely on the street, Bess tossed down his jacket, then one shoe-

“’What light through yonder window breaks?’” He held one hand to his chest, the other extended to the open window. Bess lobbed the second shoe at him.

“Ssh!” The door opened behind her and Bess spun round. Cora stood in the doorway.

“Bit cold to have the window open.” She eyed her sister suspiciously.

“Thought I heard something in the street, must have been you lot coming home.”

“Mmm,” Cora murmured through pursed lips and left, shutting the door behind her. When Bess looked back to the street, Tom was gone.

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Next day, and Bess was stood watching the blacksmith finishing cutting the metal for her work at the factory. Hand on her hip, the other touching her mouth, she kept replaying the moment Tom pressed his body to hers on the bed. How hungry he looked for her. She shivered.

“Better come back down to earth before you get up there,” the blacksmith said, gesturing to the Lancaster plane behind her. Queenie was already at work with some of the other girls, drilling enormous rivets into the wings of the mammoth war machine as their legs dangled over the edge. Below them, Roberta was unloading equipment from a truck.

“Cheers,” Bess took the metal parts and made her way to the ladder leant against the body of the beast. Between the screeches of the drill where the screeches of Queenie’s giggles. Bess took a deep breath through her nose, determined not to let anything ruin her day. Tomorrow, Tom would either register as a conscientious objector, or go back to war. Tonight, he was taking her dancing at the Palais. Bess told the foreman she had to leave early to see her doctor. Really, she was going to walk through Alexandra Park with Tom.

The metal was hoisted up to Bess once she found her place on the wing, opposite the giggling girl, and she got to work. Queenie was harmless. Irritating, yes, but harmless. The hum of the drill drowned out Queenie’s gossip for an hour or two, but as the women polished the wing free of scratches from their work, it became impossible.

“What did you think of Hattie’s new fella, Roberta? She could do better than a farmer, but I suppose beggars can’t be choosers-”

“Did you see that Gone with the Wind? I fell asleep-”

“I could never leave the house without makeup. I’d be mortified if a fella saw me without my lippy and at least some curls in my hair-” Bess held her head a little higher at this statement.

“Have you seen Walter Watson? Got beaten up on New Year’s Eve but won’t say who-”

“That battle off the coast of Argentina sounded awful. You, know, the one that Tom Bennett was in?” Bess stopped polishing when Queenie said this. It was the most sensible thing she had said all day. The moment didn’t last long. “He lost one of his little friends, Vic I think he was called. And another fella, Henry, lost an arm. Awful. But at least they have more fun than the army,”

“You think a battle where you fear being blown up or drowned is fun?” Bess put her rag down and rested one arm on her knee. She faced Queenie in challenge. The other woman didn’t seem to notice.

“Oh don’t be like that, Bess.” Queenie said, as though she were talking to a misbehaving child. “But at least they get shore leave from time to time. The army never get a break. And from what Tom said about his time in Port Stanley, they certainly have a lot of fun.”

Bess felt her cheeks redden.

“It’ll be straight to the pub for rum and beer, before hitting the town. All hands on deck there, if you see what I mean.” Bess could see Tom’s scratched writing in her mind.

“Not that they had as much fun as they’d planned, that bulldog of an able seamen Henry-” Queenie cut herself off. “I shouldn’t speak ill of a cripple. Anyway, he was breathing down their necks the whole time. Still, Tom managed to buy a little canary in Port Stanley and they placed bets on the ship for when the dear thing would lay an egg. Don’t think they could do that in the army.”

Bess’ blood ran cold. She had been with Tom almost every day since he had returned home. Nearly two weeks. When had he found the time to tell Queenie all this? Certainly not the one dance they shared on New Year’s Eve.

“How do you know all this, Queenie?”

Queenie lowered her eyes and giggled. A few of the other girls looked up or leaned in. “Well,” she said suggestively with a smile. “From Tom’s letters.”

The bell rang. Bess was first to the ladder, leaving the excited whispers above her as she landed on the factory floor. From somewhere nearby, she heard Roberta ask if she was ok. She couldn’t respond. As fast as her feet would carry her, she hurried to the changing room, removed her boiler suit and bolted to the factory gates. Shame, long buried, welled up from somewhere deep within her and fat tears threatened to spill from her eyes. Creep, ugly, Paddy, witch. A memory stirred and the stench of stale milk filled her nostrils. The image of Tom saving her from childhood taunts turned sour when she remembered his words.

“I’m not jealous of a bloke who can’t kick his way out of a wet paper bag, is shorter than your dad’s temper and dances with the only girl who doesn’t say no because she doesn’t say anything at all.”

Bess’ breath became ragged as she hurried away from Queenie fucking Warren.

“You didn’t see some of the girls in Port Stanley.”

He was just teasing, her.

“I just think they’d find it odd, us.”

He wanted to hide her.

“This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn.”

Walter’s voice rattled around her mind. She’d never be able to escape him, not as a girl, not as a woman. Anger rose up the hackles of her spine and, mixed with her shame, made a potent concoction.

“Perhaps you could make yourself a dress next time.”

“Teach her about dressing and acting like a woman.”

The voices of Tom, Walter, Dennis Warley and even her father hounded her, and with a gasp the first hot tear fell from Bess’ cheek. The January day stung her face, which was red with rage, and she took great lung-fulls of the crisp air as she stepped into the street. She smacked into broad shoulders and was knocked backwards. The kind, concerned face of Douglas Bennett was looking down at her. That fucking peace paper, she thought.

“Everything alright, love?” He asked, holding onto her shoulders as he tried to look at her.

“You’re an odd lass.” She thought they were friends. Wrenching herself from his grip, Bess ran down the cobbled road towards home. By the time she made it to their street, Bess’s rage had turned into full-blooded fury. Marching along the cobbles, intent on banging down the Bennett’s door, she stopped suddenly. A beautiful, burgundy Rolls Royce was parked outside her house. Matching her car, and wearing the immaculate suit that Bess had made her, was Robina Chase. However, she didn’t seem to be waiting for Bess. She seemed to be talking to someone across the road. Bess’ heart sank as she approached and overheard the conversation.

“But if you’re not a mate of his then what do you want with him? Hm?” It was Tom. Bess watched Mrs Chase’s stunned face and for the first time, she pitied her. Apparently, Tom wasn’t just a twat towards her and men that looked at him the wrong way. He was a cunt to everyone. “Did he give you the wrong change on the last bus home?” He laughed mockingly at the woman and shut the door on her.

Bess could feel her blood boiling over. “Mrs Chase!” She hurried forwards.

“Miss Vaughn?” Robina seemed stunned by Bess’ grubby attire and even more so by her dishevelled face. Bess tried to ignore her stare, and push the memory of the last time she saw Mrs Chase from her mind. Before she could say anything further, the door to the Bennett house opened.

“Hang on, missus.” Tom leant nonchalantly on the door. He needed a slapping. “I was only pulling your leg. If my dad’s got a fancy woman on the go that’s his business.”

Robina floundered. People were staring and she’d never encountered a young man like this before.

“He’s at the Tait and Somers factory. I’ve just seen him there.” Bess said quietly, and for the first time, Tom noticed her. Noticed her red cheeks and puffy eyes. Noticed the fast rise and fall of her chest. His heartbeat quickened.

“Thank you, Bess.” Robina said, jolting awkwardly. Bess thought she’d received an electric shock, but when she noticed Mrs Chase’s hand lower to her side, she realised Robina had been tempted to show her some affection. Hastily, the older woman got into her car and drove away.

“What’s happened?” Tom was at Bess’ side in an instant. “Was it Walter?”

“Get away from me.” Bess whispered lowly.

“I’ll kill him,” Tom muttered, reaching out to touch Bess. The moment his fingers made contact with her arm she pushed him away.

“I said, get away from me.” She didn’t shout, but her teeth were bared, her brows a singular straight line.

“What the fuck, Bess?” He hissed. “Tell me what’s happened-” Bess watched Tom’s own anger flare behind his eyes and she wanted to laugh. It was nothing, nothing, compared to what she was about to unleash.

“Queenie. Fucking. Warren.”  

“Eh?”

“Now I know why you told me to leave her alone.”

“What?”

“In your letter,” Bess took a sudden step forward so she was an inch from Tom’s chin. “’Lay off Queenie Warren. I know she’s annoying but she means well.”She quoted.

“Right,” he said slowly. “I still don’t understand what I’m meant to have done,”

“Then think.” Bess spat quickly.

“Bess, people are staring.”

“You normally love the attention.”

Tom stared down his long nose at her. His nostrils flared, and his mouth twitched as though he wanted to speak. There was a beat of silence, then he grabbed her arm and dragged her towards his house. “Get off me!” Bess tried to keep her feet firmly on the ground but Tom was too strong. He flung her over the threshold and slammed the door. Bess span around as Tom advanced on her.

“Someone’s put money in the metre,” he growled at her. Bess pushed him away again.

“Don’t you start on me-”

“You’re the one shouting at me like a fucking banshee!”

Bess stared at him. His brow was set into a hard line, the blue eyes shadowed beneath them were cold. The broad shoulders he’d inherited from his father were squared and pushed back, and the jaw that Bess always admired was pushed forward. He continued to look down at her. This wasn’t a defensive stance. It was a challenge. Somehow, it proved to Bess that he knew. Knew what she was about to say. The shame returned and, defeated, she spoke quietly.

“When did you start writing to Queenie?”

There was that familiar pout, just quickly, and the scrunch of his nose that he always did when he got caught. Bess took a deep, shuddering breath and Tom snapped.

“So I’m not allowed to write to other girls, am I?”

“Of course you are,” Bess drooped sadly. “It’s just-”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“Oh shut up, you fucking hypocrite! A more jealous man never drew breath.” Bess’ anger returned as she shrieked at him. “Going around beating up anyone who so much as looks at me.”

“I apologised about that dickhead. And I don’t see you defending me when he’s the one that got me arrested!”

“You beat him to a pulp!”

“And if he hadn’t squealed like a fucking pig, I wouldn’t have nearly been blown up!” Tom roared in her face.

“There have been other times-”

“Did you want me to leave you and Walter to it then?” Tom laughed cruelly. “Enjoying it were you?”

SMACK

Bess struck Tom across the face. The force of it caused him to stagger, strands of his perfectly set hair coming loose. He looked back at her, stunned. A red handprint was blooming on his cheek.

“Bess, I’m sor-”

“BE QUIET!” They watched each other, though Bess’ eyes were unseeing. Instead, she watched flickers of memory speed before her eyes. Everything was piecing together in her mind. There was a knock at the door. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose then opened it.

“Mrs Mason.”

“Is everything alright? I heard shouting,”

“Everything’s fine.”. Tom shut the door and turned to Bess. His rudeness made her laugh, sadly. The anger had waned once again, and her eyes were brimming with tears. He waited for her to speak.

“Of course, you’re allowed to write to other girls. And yes, I’m jealous. But when you left we didn’t have an understanding. I wasn’t your girl. I wonder if I even am now.” Tom took a step towards Bess but she held up a hand and continued. “You’re allowed to write to other girls, but what breaks my heart-what breaks my heart-” She started to cry. “What breaks my heart is that you didn’t ask Queenie to keep it a secret.”

“Bess, I-”

“Nothing’s changed, has it? It’s why you always snuck in at night, it’s why you asked me not to tell Douglas and Lois about our letters, it’s why you don’t want to go back to war, and it’s why you’ve made me sneak around like your dirty little secret. You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

The anguish eating away at Tom was bulldozed by defence. “I’m a coward for not wanting to die!?”

“You’re a coward because you won’t admit it. It’s because you ‘don’t believe in war’, it’s because you ‘don’t want to go to jail’, it’s because ‘you’re a conscientious objector’. Why can’t you just admit that you’re scared? Why can’t you just admit that you’re ashamed to be seen with me?” Bess broke down before him and Tom had no idea what to do. What to say. His silence confirmed Bess’ fears. Tom Bennett was embarrassed to be seen with Bess Vaughn.

With nothing left to say, she made to leave. She tried pushing past Tom in the narrow hallway when a hand came to her waist. She stopped, waiting. Breath fluttered against her face, and all Bess wanted to do was look at him. Look at those beautiful eyes. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she watched the pulse accelerate in his neck, and the way it hollowed as he inhaled. His hand fell from her waist. The words didn’t come, and he let her go.

Mrs Mason, Mrs O’Connell and Mrs Flaherty startled as the Bennett door opened. They watched Bess stride into her own home, and scurried away when shouts and crashes emitted from the house she had just left.

 ✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

When Tom came downstairs the next morning, kit bag sling over his shoulder and naval uniform already itching, he scoffed at the sight of Vera on the table in her cage. He dropped the bag and Douglas looked up from his newspaper.

“I bet the fucking canary doesn’t have to go, does she?”

Douglas sighed. “Tom, I wish you’d understand, we can’t register any lad who comes back from war and says he’s a conchie-”

“It’s not any lad, is it? It’s me.” Look at me dad, look at me.

“I know, I know, and as I keep saying, that’s part of the problem – you’re my son. They’d crucify you.”

“The problem is for you- the problem is that I am your son. And you can’t see anything of me in yourself,”

“Oh, no. I can see a lot of your mother though. That bloody-minded streak of hers,”

“Nice try, dad,” Tom said bitterly, looking at the floor. “Still doesn’t taste good.”

“No.” Douglas didn’t know what to say. He never knew what to say, it seemed. He tried to find the right words but stopped when Tom’s hand appeared before his face.

“I refused to shake this lad’s hand on the Exeter. I never got a chance to put it right. It’s the only think I learned from the whole shitty thing.” Douglas’ warm hand slipped into his son’s, and overwhelmingly, Douglas didn’t want to let go. Tom nodded to himself and slipped his fingers from his father’s grasp. He shouldered his kit bag.

“Look after yourself. Keep ducking.” Lois muttered into his shoulder as he hugged her. With one last look at his father, Tom left for the station. He had thirty-five minutes until the train departed and reasoned with himself to visit the house across the road. He knocked twice and hoped the door would open. When it did, his heart sank.

“Tom! Oh, are you heading off?” Cora stepped onto the front step and wrapped her arms around him. She pulled back with a quick kiss of his cheek. “Keep yourself safe for us.”

“Thanks, Cora. Look, I haven’t got long. Bess isn’t in, is she?”

“I’m sorry, Tom. She left to deliver some clothes about twenty minutes ago. Can I give her a message?”

Tom thought for a moment. “No. No, it’s ok. Bye, Cora. Give Roger a handshake from me.” Cora chuckled and watched him walk down the road. Closing the door, she turned to the person hovering in the kitchen doorway.

“Bess-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Bess,” Cora pleaded patiently. “You might never see him again.” Her sister turned away and trudged back to their bedroom. Five minutes later, the back door slammed, and Cora saw Bess hurrying down the yard.

She took the tram into central and sprinted to Manchester London Road station. Past soldiers, crying families, past Royal Infirmary and help needed posters. She hurried through the ticket barrier and yelled at the porter to tell her which platform was departing to Portsmouth. Steam billowed left, right and centre. Platform four. Uttering apologies and excuse me’s, Bess pushed through the crowd.

“Tom?” She was calling out to him. “Tom?” A sailor, tall and blond, was up ahead with his back to her. Bess ran forward and gripped his shoulders, but when he turned his face was brutish and rugged. Not her Tom. The doors of the train began slamming shut and she was struck by the urge to leap into a carriage.

“Tom!” Her voice was frantic now and, as the whistle blew, a sob tore from her throat. The coupling rods began turning the wheels, and the train pulled away from the platform. From a walk to a run, Bess’ feet carried her along the platform as she looked through the windows of the carriages. Maybe he didn’t go after all. Defied Douglas and registered as a CO. She saw him. His eyes, it was always his eyes, watched her sadly through the glass as she ran to keep up with the train. He stood from his seat, pulled down the window and watched as she struggled to run alongside. She was crying, and no sooner had she called his name, was she disappearing behind the steam from the engine. When the air cleared, the platform was empty.

Bess stood on the platform for an hour, buffeted by passersby, watching the spot where she last saw Tom. He was gone.

Note: I’m sorry. See you soon!  

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

[steelycunt]

oh my goodness RIDI happiest of birthdays to you!!! say hi to r in the jar for me im bopping his nose im ruffling his hair im gifting him the tiniest green jumper i knit especially for him!! its the size of my pink nail!!! didn’t want him to feel sad and forgotten amidst the huge toppling spilling-from-my-arms pile of gifts that ive brought for YOU!!! (also pls say hi to your little reggie and you can give the boat shoes one a firm but jaunty handshake if that’s the kind of thing he might like <3) MWAH hope have the bestest day ever you are such a strange delight and whimsical presence always xoxo

THANK YOU MY LOVE!! r LOVES his new green jumper he looks soooo cute in it im making him do a little twirl to show it off and he is blushing and hiding his face but secretly he’s thrilled xx gansey would LOVE a firm but jaunty handshake that’s EXACTLY the sort of thing he adores!! and reggie too he is wandering around maybe eating some carrot xx and for ME too?? you are too sweet!! ‘strange delight’ probably the best compliment i’ve ever gotten you have such a way with words teehee i love you soooo much bab thank you <3

[writethehousedown]

Things Are Really Cool (In Nazareth) (Ninex)- Ortega

a/n: wow hi, welcome to whatever the hell this is? this is a sort of a kind of a n19f verse/masp verse crossover set some years after the originals take place (but you don’t need to have read either to read this), borne out of the semi-autobiographical experience of my last few weeks at work trying to teach five year olds mid-pandemic. basically Nina’s a stressed primary teacher and Monet is her primary teacher girlfriend. this is fulfilling the prompt “Nice” only ten days late and also probably has one million and one typos in my haste to get it out in time for at least Christmas xo regardless, i hope u all enjoy and in the words of boyband JLS, “mewwy cwistmas”.

disclaimer: there are a couple of lines i’ve yoinked out of tv shows here- “lesbian having a panic attack” is adapted from Kimmy Schmidt and the “what are you, forty?” ones are from Always Sunny. leave me alone i’m too tired to be funny at this time of year xo

fic summary: When Nina’s headteacher asks her to pull a Nativity play out of thin air with only a week to organise it, Nina is simply too nice to say no. As a consequence, she is blindly oblivious to what her girlfriend Monet is planning, with useless lesbian results.

Nina knew she was a people pleaser. Always had been, always would be. She was simply too nice to say no to anyone. She had never been one to say no to anything.

She’d never taken the last remaining teabag for herself way back at uni; she’d always elected to leave it for Brooke or Yvie, knowing that Brooke would be grumpy all day if she didn’t have her morning cup of tea and not wanting to deal with the caffeine crash Yvie would experience if she made coffee as a substitute.

It had even started way further back in her life than her twenties. The most rebellious thing she’d ever done in high school was to pull out one of the cables of her German teacher’s computer at the back so she’d spend the whole lesson fixing it instead of teaching their class. In Primary, she was the stereotypical, insufferable goody-two-shoes: didn’t ever lose a minute of Golden Time, finished both her set tasks and the extension work that accompanied them perfectly, and was the worst kind of tell-tale.

(At the time, she thought her teachers loved that- the fact that she acted as their five-year-old corporate spy, ready to report any wrongdoings to headquarters. Contrarily, now that she was a teacher to five year olds, Nina thought that if she heard one more story about who skipped who in the line she would climb very slowly and very carefully into the staffroom microwave and blow herself into fifty million partially-heated bits.)

So when her headteacher ducked her head into her classroom on a cold, wet, rainy Wednesday after all the kids had been dispatched home, Nina panicked. Her eyes darted up to the displays on her walls. Fuck, there were still Halloween pumpkins blu-tacked up there. There was, so far, nothing on her December learning journey wall. And there were still Very Hungry Caterpillars made from bottle tops pushed into dollops of paint stuck to bright green backing paper which had been there since the kids’ first week at school back in August.

Well. Red and green were Christmassy colours. Right?

But Mrs Del Rio didn’t seem all that interested in the state of her wall displays. She’d come to ask Nina if she could film a Nativity play with her class.

“It’s for the parents really,” Bianca had rolled her eyes, folding her arms in her usual no-nonsense way. “Just something they can watch and share with the families since we can’t do a real Nativity. It doesn’t need to be anything big- just a few songs…one, two…say four. And then just have the kids in their costumes with a couple of lines. With a backdrop, y’know, there doesn’t need to be props. Just the baby Jesus…the gifts for the three Kings….maybe a couple of no vacancy signs for the innkeepers…that sort of thing. Just for before we finish up term. Maybe if it could be done by next Friday. That okay?”

And Nina, because she was a people pleaser, had nodded and said yes! and of course! and Bianca had nodded curtly at her in the frostiest thank-you the world had ever seen before leaving.

It had only taken the time in which Bianca’s heels had slowly disappeared from hearing distance for the reality of the situation to sink in for Nina. She’d just agreed to do a whole Nativity play, with songs, and costumes, and props, in the space of eight days.

She was going to be sick like little Jack had done that day he’d come into class and projectile-vomited halfway onto the carpet and halfway into Nina’s outstretched hands.

Nina was so consumed by the all-encompassing panic that she didn’t even flinch when there was a loud, jaunty knock at her classroom door.

“High Court Enforcement,” came a loud, brash voice, Nina finally turning to see who was there with glazed eyes. Willam leant against the doorframe, her messy blonde waves falling over the shoulders of her dark blue jumper like curly vines. She was the only teacher who could match the sass levels of the Year 6s and was a colleague that Nina both loved and feared. Loved because she was straight-talking and blunt and altogether hilarious, but feared because her girlfriend was the deputy head of the school and anything Nina said to her would definitely be reported back as gossip.

Also because she was, for all intents and purposes, a pint-pot riot.

“Nina. Nina. Nina,” Willam said repeatedly, her voice monotone and her persistence irritating. Nina mumbled something out.

“What?”

Nina raked her hands through her shock of frizzy blonde curls and sighed, her stress levels already rising. “I said I’m a lesbian having a panic attack.”

“Oh, that’s a mood. I was sent round to do the collection for the support staff but I’ve already spent forty minutes chatting to Alyssa instead of doing what I was asked. Got a grand total of a fiver so far,” Willam shrugged blithely, coming into Nina’s classroom and perching on one of the tiny munchkin-sized tables. “What’s up?”

The pressure-cooker that her mind was rapidly becoming told Nina to throw caution to the wind and vent, so she told Willam everything in a series of babbles barely comprehensible in the English language.

“So you’ve just agreed to doing a full Nativity video in the space of a week?” Willam cocked her head, pulling a confused face. “Why didn’t you just tell Bianca to fuck off?”

Nina paused, feeling all her panic momentarily leave her body as she fixed Willam with a glare. “Are you expecting me to answer that?”

“No, no. Shit, wouldn’t it have been amazing if you had, though? What d’you think would’ve happened? Maybe she’d’ve shouted so loud at you her lungs would’ve just exploded.”

Nina couldn’t help but blurt out a small laugh. “That’s way too dramatic. She wouldn’t even fire me on the spot because that would mean management having to go in and cover my class tomorrow while they tried to find my replacement.”

Nina regretted the small barb at their management team as soon as it was out, but Willam seemed nonplussed.

“Yeah. Court’s way too impatient to deal with your lil’ rugrats.”

“I’m too impatient to deal with them. I’m too impatient to deal with them on a day to day basis. How I’m going to teach them four Christmas songs in the space of a week, fuck knows.”

Willam cocked her head again, her smile becoming patient. “Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Willam’s words were a small source of comfort to Nina. Suddenly everything seemed doable. She matched her colleague’s smile, glad she’d arrived in that moment. “Thanks, Willam.”

As soon as her words were out, she saw the small, playful twinkle in Willam’s eye. “Because nobody else would’ve been mad enough to agree to the damn thing.”

***

Getting her class sorted and organised for the day couldn’t really be likened to herding cats. No, this process was far more chaotic than that. At half past nine each day what could only be described as a minor tsunami of children hit Nina’s classroom: throwing their jackets into the designated tubs with wild abandon and subsequently knocking anything and everything off her adjacent desk, unloading every possible snack in their lunchboxes into their trays and Nina’s pleas for them to only take one snack out falling on deaf ears, spilling their water bottles and getting the zips on their jackets stuck and wanting to tell Nina a billion and one things that seemed to have happened in the 18 hours they had spent outwith her care.

During the month of December this chaos only intensified. Hats, scarves and gloves littered the classroom floor as they fell off the kids like baubles off a dead Christmas tree, shrieks filled the air as they discovered a new chocolate in the advent calendar, and at least half the class surrounded Nina like festive zombies as they all battled to win the competition of “Who can tell Miss West about what their elf on the shelf had got up to overnight the loudest”.  

Nina hammered the little bell she kept on her desk with the palm of her hand, stress levels already rising. “Okay, Reception! Jackets in tubs, snacks in trays and bums on carpet!”

As her class giggled about their teacher’s use of the word “bum”, Nina sat down in her wheely chair and waited for them all to join her on the little strip of carpet in front of her smartboard. It was moments like these where she’d be hit with a sort of out of body experience; she was someone’s teacher, she was this class’ first teacher. She was sitting in front of her class waiting to take the register and start their day. It was slightly overwhelming, even though she’d been doing the job for a number of years now.

Eventually her kids were all organised and she’d taken the register and made sure they all had a lunch to eat that day. Nina made sure to put on her best excited face as she prepared to tell them about the Nativity.

“Right, Reception!” she said, injecting lots of mystery into her voice like a storyteller. “I have got some very exciting news for you all today!”

Their little faces all grew equally excited as they were expectant, and Nina’s heart almost popped. Just then, Harry, a boy with enough gel in his hair to single-handedly keep Brylcreem in business for a year and huge bottle-top glasses’ hand went up.

“Yes, Harry?”

The boy bounced on the carpet, incredibly eager. “Can I tell you what my elf did last night?”

Ten more hands immediately shot up, and Nina’s heart sank. Great.

But she was still teaching four and five year olds and this was truly the most important thing in their little lives, so she fixed a bright smile on her face and tilted her head inquisitively. “What did your elf do?”

Harry was now sitting on his knees, towering over the other children and threatening to knock himself over with every passing second as he swayed in the nonexistent breeze. “He did a poop in my Dad’s shoes!”

The rest of the class shrieked with laughter in response. Internally, Nina was rapidly reaching her wit’s end. Love it. A bit of toilet humour to start off the Nativity rehearsals. Great. Exactly what’s needed. “Oh my goodness! What a cheeky elf!”

“He did three poops! And you know what else? They were cola jellybeans! I ate them!”

Sophie, a girl with long ginger hair in a low ponytail and a gap in her smile where two baby teeth once lived, gasped in horror. “You ate the elf’s poop?!”

The rest of the class fell about laughing. Nina had to get control back of the situation.

“Well thank you very much for sharing, Harry! Okay everyone, let’s pop our hands down.”

There were still ten hands waving proudly in the air like rebellious flags.

“We can do more elf stories at the end of the day if there’s time!” Nina lied. There would not be time. There was never time. But it placated most of her class enough for them to follow the instruction. There was, however, one remaining hand up which belonged to Jason, a boy with hair so platinum blonde it seemed otherworldly.

“It’s not an elf story! I’ve got a question,” he insisted, shouting out despite the fact his hand was already up. Nina relented, just in case he did have something important to ask. Maybe he was about to pee himself. Highly likely with the Reception kids.

Jason, pleased as punch that Nina was allowing him to speak, put his hand down. “Can I tell you a rhyming word I’ve just thought of?”

Nina’s smile grew all the more gritted, and the muscles in her face all the more tense. This was going to be the longest week she had experienced in living memory.

***

Nina would never get tired of living with Monet. The sound of her singing as the shower provided a backing track, the unholy racket she seemed to make when she cooked (a symphony of swearing, the banging of kitchen utensils, and the clattering of saucepans and baking trays). The smell of the Dior Sauvage she used instead of perfume and the Cantu hair custard she combed through her hair after she washed it. The fact that Nina could get a cuddle from her any time she wanted and the soft squash of her arms around her.

But living with Monet was best at Christmastime. The endless arguments they got into about their Christmas decorations and what looked best where, both stemming from a fierce loyalty to their own family traditions. The way they’d write their Christmas cards to their friends with a Christmas film playing in the background, and the way Monet would tease her about having such picture-perfect, font-like, primary-teacher handwriting. The way Monet would get too excited in the supermarket and load party food into Nina’s shopping basket like a child trying to sneak chocolate.

Even though Nina was completely exhausted, she still felt herself smile as she turned her key in the lock and heard her girlfriend loudly singing along with Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree, paired with the blast of the extractor fan.

“Hello?” Nina sing-songed as she closed the door shut, shedding her heavy jacket and her scuffed trainers and her backpack full of jotters that had been haphazardly stuffed in as she left work.

“Hello!” Monet chirped back, in what had become their tradition since moving in together all those years ago. “Your timing’s perfect, I just finished dinner.”

“Ooh. What is for dinner?”

Monet gestured to the pile of grated cheese, pan of bubbling baked beans, and loaf of white bread. “Beans on toast.”

Nina snorted and leaned against the counter. “Wow, don’t I have the most perfect domestic housewife! That must’ve taken, what…two hours?”

Monet reached over and squeezed her side, eliciting a yelp that would probably give their downstairs neighbours the wrong idea. “Shady bitch. It’s this or two rice cakes that’ve been in the cupboard for so long I swear they’re turning fossilised.”

“No, I’m kidding. Of course I’m hungry, thanks hun. I’ll make dinner tomorrow,” Nina promised, sliding into one of their second-hand wooden dining chairs as Monet plated up.

“No you won’t,” Monet frowned. “You look dead. What’re your kids doing to you, beating you with their tiny little chairs?”

“The fucking Nativity,” Nina sighed, pausing to thank Monet as she placed two slices of golden toast covered with beans and flakes of grated cheese down in front of her. Admittedly it did look like absolute heaven.

“Have you told Bianca to piss off yet?” Monet scowled, stabbing her toast so hard she threatened to break the plate in two.

“What kind of fantasy-land school do you work at where you can tell your headteacher to piss off and she actually listens?” Nina cocked an eyebrow at her, and Monet shrugged in agreement as she chewed a mouthful. “No, of course not. I’m going to make it happen, though, even if it kills me. We started learning the songs today, which you would think was a simple enough endeavour. Except my class, who usually can’t shut up if their lives depend on it, have all the singing volume and skill of one of Yvie and Scarlet’s cat’s chew toys. They don’t even sound like cats being strangled, that’d probably be louder. It’s like trying to have a sing-song with a room full of laryngitis patients. Except it’s not a room, because apparently we’re not allowed to sing inside because of covid. But I can teach Phonics and the kids can all make the ‘p’ sound at me until their hearts’ content and shower me with their spit like the world’s shittiest production of Singin’ In The Rain? Anyway, we have to rehearse outside. In December. I think my feet actually fell off.”

As Nina finally finished what had unintentionally become a fully-fledged rant, Monet attempted to compose herself as she wiped away a small tear of laughter from her eye and clutched at her belly. Nina watched as her girlfriend took a few deep breaths, then fixed her with a humoured grin. “But apart from all that, how was your day?”

Nina stuck her tongue out at her in response. “Shut up. How was yours?”

Monet rolled her eyes as she speared a bean. “Awful. Tried to assess time with my class today. God I love them, Neens, but they’re so bad, how can they be that bad?”

“If anyone can help them progress, it’s you,” Nina smiled encouragingly, only getting a shaken head in reply.

“No, I can’t. Nobody can. They’re beyond help. Some of the answers I got today wouldn’t even be believable if they were part of some TV comedy show. What month is Christmas in? ‘Santa’. The kid answered Santa. How many months are there in a year? ‘Sixty six’. How many days are there in a week? ‘Two’. TWO!” Monet cried, outraged. Nina couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in her throat, and Monet pointed warningly at her in response. “Don’t you dare laugh. This is my reality.”

“Hey, you laughed at my Nativity nightmare!” Nina giggled, to which Monet chuckled guiltily. Nina paused to swipe a bit of toast around the plate with her fork, mopping up any stray tomato sauce. When she looked up from her plate, she saw Monet tapping at her phone. Nina frowned disapprovingly. “Hey. No phones at the table.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Monet apologised quickly, though didn’t put her phone down yet. “Monique’s just sent me a screenshot of her friend that’s getting engaged. Look at the damn size of this ring.”

Monet turned her phone to show Nina. Pictured was a diamond the size of a small Pacific nation and a band encrusted with tiny gems on the finger of somebody she’d never met. Nina couldn’t help the way she screwed her face up, which made Monet blurt a laugh in response. “Not a fan, then?”

Nina pulled a face in thought. She was sure that kind of ring made some girls happy, but to her it just seemed tacky and over-the-top, not to mention heavy. “I’m sure she likes it, but I wouldn’t want something that huge. Imagine working in a Reception class with that?! Play-dough stuck in all the little crevices. And Jesus, what if you lost it? Nah, it would stress me out owning that. I would just want one simple little gold band and one singular tiny diamond. Much less of a burden.”

Monet snorted a laugh as she finished her last mouthful of dinner. “You are the only girl I’ve ever met that would consider an engagement ring a burden. Christ on a crucifix.”

“Well!” Nina protested, before realising she didn’t really have anything else to defend herself with. Then, she narrowed her eyes at her girlfriend playfully, kicking her under the table. “Why’re you so interested in my engagement ring opinions, anyway? You asking?”

Monet chuckled as she put her phone face-down on the table. “Bold of you to assume I can afford council tax, never mind a diamond.”

Nina smiled, shrugging in agreement. “Yeah, fair. What should we do tonight? I have Maths jotters to mark but then that’s me done.”

Monet tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “I would say fucking our shit days out but I don’t even have the energy to operate a vibrator.”

Nina almost choked on her food as she laughed. “Christ, that’s a mood. Finish dinner, pyjamas, rewatch The Office for the ninety billionth time then bed at 7pm?”

“Sounds good, babe,” Monet smiled, lifting her glass of water up to cheers with as if it was sparkling wine.

***

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! Oh McFun it is to ride in a waffle sofen sleigh, HEY! Jingle bells, Jin-”

“Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah,” Nina cut in, waving her hands frantically and stopping the twenty-three five and four year olds that had previously been singing their little kidney bean-sized lungs out. “What are the words?”

Her class stared back at her as if she’d just asked her what twenty-eight times thirteen was. Although Jeremiah, who was already working at Year 5 level, could probably have worked that out given enough time.

“Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh,” Nina said, rhythmically and clearly. “You try.”

The children all parroted it back to her in their little voices, word-perfect. Thank God, thought Nina. Jingle Bells seemed to be the only song they recognised, so if they turned out to not know it after all then Nina would very probably need an inhaler despite the fact she wasn’t at all asthmatic.

“Let’s try it with the music!” Nina said cheerfully, making sure the bluetooth speaker she’d brought outside was still on.

“Miss West,” a small voice piped up belonging to Amber, the human embodiment of a whine. “I’m cold!”

“We’ll get inside soon!” Nina replied patiently. “Just let’s practise it one more time!”

“I’m cold too,” piped up Joshua, Amber’s male counterpart.

“I’m freezing,” Amber offered again.

“I know, it’s very cold outside!” Nina smiled sympathetically, even though her teeth were gritted. “But we can’t do our singing inside because of the virus!”

“Why not?” Amber pouted.

Nina didn’t really know. The answer was because of the care inspectorate guidelines, but that was incredibly far beyond the realms of a five-year-old’s comprehension. Just then, an idea struck her.

“Well we need to sing our songs outside so that Santa can hear them when he’s taking his sleigh out for a test drive!” she said animatedly. The wide eyes and ohhhh-s she received in reply made her feel like a genius. Move over, Steven Hawking. “Okay, one more time with Jingle Bells. Nice and loud for Santa!”

“Miss West?”

Nina blinked slowly and heavily, taking a small breath before answering the newest child that demanded her attention. “Yes, Sophie?”

“I’m cold.”

“I’m cold!! We’re all cold!!” Nina replied quickly, just that shade away from snapping so that her class knew she meant business. “We’re doing the song one more time and then we’re going inside! So nice big smiles, nice loud voices, and here…we…go!”

Nina pressed play on the song before any more children could regale her with tales of how their body temperatures had dropped to that of a snowman’s.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!” they all enthusiastically sang. “Oh McFun it is to ride in a waffle sofen sleigh!”

Nina rubbed so hard at her tired eyes that she thought they might disappear into her skull. She was momentarily glad of the fact that she didn’t have a teaching assistant to help her, as to have any other adult witness this would be embarrassing in the extreme.

Just then she noticed around five parents queued up at the nursery adjacent to the playground, watching with wry smiles on their faces as they waited for their children.

“One more time!” Nina cried, as she stopped the music with freezing cold hands.

***

“So Nina, when you gonna wife your girlfriend?”

Nina very nearly spat out her tea, a horrifying milky brown hurricane only just avoided. She hadn’t been expecting to answer deep, meaningful life questions in the staffroom during a lunch hour, but Willam was the human incarnation of petrol on a campfire and with her around things were always in danger of going from zero to a hundred very quickly. To Nina’s relief Courtney was also in the staffroom, and she whipped around from the countertop and gave her girlfriend daggers.

“Willam!” Courtney chastised her in a hiss that Nina wasn’t quite sure was meant to be audible. Willam only gave her an incredulous glare, affronted that she seemed to be the voice of reason in the conversational chaos.

“What?! Just askin’. I mean you’re what…twenty-nine? Twenty eight?”

“Twenty-six,” Nina replied. She was now at the age where being assumed she was older than she was was a curse, not a blessing. (If she’d told seventeen-year-old Nina that one day she would be disappointed at no longer being ID’d for wine at Sainsburys she’d have laughed in her face.)

“Exactly. That’s wifeing age. Mid to late twenties.”

“Hey, I passed that stage long ago, where the hell’s my ring?“ Courtney asked Willam, stirring the coffee she’d poured into one of the many, many “World’s Best Teacher!” mugs that littered the staffroom cupboards. Willam responded by turning around in her chair and positioning her pencil skirt-clad ass in the air.

“Right here, bitch!”

“Christ Almighty,” Courtney turned away from her, rolling her eyes so hard they looked like little spheric dice. As Willam gave her best impression of a seal on laughing gas, Nina cast her eyes over to Sasha who was sitting at the other end of the staffroom. As they caught each others’ eyes they shared a long-suffering smile that mourned the death of peace and quiet.

Nina was glad the conversation had been diverted from the subject of her perceived lack of marriage plans. Until Sasha opened her mouth, that is.

“I wouldn’t worry, Nina. Me and Shea haven’t had that conversation either. I mean we’d both love to, but there’s more important stuff for us right now, you know? We’re saving for a house and I think we’d rather live in a place we’ve chosen for the foreseeable future than just having one singular big lavish day.”

“It’s all about what you want to do with the person you love the most, isn’t it? Not just doing what society wants you to do,” Courtney chipped in, her voice warm and kind. “Like me and Willam used to be total party girls before we got our shit together. And now, like…there’s nothing I’d rather do of a weekend than curl up with her on the sofa and get all cosy with a film and a blanket and a cup of tea.”

Willam scoffed affectionately. “That’s your ideal weekend plan? What are you, forty?”

“Yes? As are you?” Courtney replied incredulously. Nina heard Sasha snort in her chair. As she turned her gaze back to the other two girls she realised that Willam was still looking at her expectantly. Nina sank back into her seat, a little reserved.

“It’s not really something we’ve spoken about? Well…no, we have spoken about it, obviously,” she babbled, watching as Willam took on the look of someone witnessing a victim of cardiac arrest. “Like we both want to get married. To each other, of course. But teaching is just such a busy job all the time and…you know, we only bought our flat last Summer and…I don’t know, it’s nice not to have everything happen all at once, right?”

Courtney nodded emphatically in agreement. “Of course! And I mean, if she asked, you’d say yes, right?”

Nina had to stop herself from pulling a face. How am I having this conversation with my boss? “Well, yeah. God, I couldn’t imagine life without her at all.”

Willam pretended to gag, which Nina thought was pretty rich from the woman who had begun the entire conversation. Courtney seemed to pick up on her girlfriend’s distaste.

“I don’t think Willam has ever said anything that cute about me!”

Willam turned around to look at her girlfriend, disbelief on her face. “Yeah, I only left my damn husband for you. Fuck me, right?”

Nina’s eyes widened as Sasha gave a yelp from across the staffroom. That was a small piece of workplace gossip she hadn’t expected to learn today. As Courtney’s face turned red and she shot Willam a warning glare, she turned to Nina once more.

“Nina, how’s the Nativity going?” Courtney beamed artificially at her, moving the conversation along with all the grace and decorum of a one-wheeled snow plow.

Considering the question, Nina thought that she’d rather be discussing marriage plans with her boss and colleagues again. “It’s going.”

“That’s a ringing endorsement. I’m sure that was on the poster of Titanic too,” Willam chipped in.

“It wouldn’t be any less disastrous than the actual fate of the Titanic, at least the passengers could’ve probably remembered the words to fucking Jingle Bells,” Nina deadpanned, causing Willam to break into fits of clubbed seal laughter.

Sasha pouted sympathetically from the other side of the room. “It’s those cute bits that the parents love, though, isn’t it? They won’t mind if they get the words wrong.”

“I’m sure there needs to be a foundation of at least an audible tune though, Sash,” Nina smiled resignedly back at her.

“If Bianca wants a Nativity so bad, just tell her to come teach your class,” Willam half-suggested, half-yelled. “Or get Court to teach them! They prolly don’t need to be in tune anyway!”

Courtney’s expression appeared to be the same as Nina’s after her morning’s rehearsal. “Do you ever stop talking shit?”

“You think I’m bad? That bell is going to go for the Comp’s lunch break in five minutes, Bob is gonna arrive, an’ then it’s RIP our eardrums,” Willam said, pointing to the staffroom door for dramatic effect.

“At least Bob has never presented his clothed arsehole to his partner in front of his colleagues,” Courtney cut in at once, her tone deadpan and making Nina splutter a laugh.

“Aw, c’mon Court! That’s just banter. These girls don’t mind.”

“It’s unprofessional!” Courtney clutched her chest. Willam only snorted in response.

“Unprofessional? What are you, forty?”

“We’re the same age!!” Courtney cried in response, her incredulous tone only setting Nina off in a further fit of laughter.

It was only later on that night once she had driven back home, parked, and approached her and Monet’s flat that Nina remembered the staffroom conversation. She cast her gaze up to their first-floor window in their red brick building, almost being able to feel the way her heart gave a swell at the sight of their Christmas tree framed proudly within the glass. And as she got in through the front door, Monet greeted her with a hug and a takeaway leaflet.

“We’ve got nothing in the fridge, so I thought we could get noodles? This came through the door today and I think-” Monet raises her eyebrows, slapped the leaflet into the palm of her hand decisively. “- it’s a sign from God.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Nina laughed, shrugging off her coat and feeling grateful for not having to cook.

It was only when they were both curled up on the couch, empty pad thai containers in front of them, that Nina turned to Monet and saw the lights on the tree reflected in her eyes. She turned to her girlfriend, threw an arm round her and snuggled in to her side.

“What’s up?” Monet asked, her voice soft and sleepy and a little concerned.

“Nothing,” Nina sighed. It was true. There wasn’t really anything up, and she was the happiest she’d ever been. But she still turned to Monet, tilting her head up inquisitively. “You don’t feel under any pressure at all, do you?”

Monet snorted. “I feel under pressure to get fifteen children who can’t write the word cat on their own to magically be able to write a sentence by the end of the year, yeah.”

Nina rolled her eyes. “No! I mean, like…in life. You didn’t just…buy this flat with me because you felt you had to, right? You wouldn’t do anything because you felt obliged to?”

Monet raised a single eyebrow back at her. “Yeah, I decided to piss my life savings away on a deposit for a flat because I felt I had to. Jesus Christ, Neens.”

“No, no, I know,” Nina chuckled, realising how silly the whole thing now sounded. “But I just mean…in life, like milestones and stuff. You’d never do stuff because you felt you had to keep up, in some way? Reach some goal by a certain age?”

Monet brought an arm around Nina and cuddled her closer, kissing her hair and resting her chin on top of her head. “Everything I do in life, I do because I want to. Especially when it comes to you. Promise.”

Nina gave her girlfriend a squeeze, happy. She took a deep breath, smelt the fabric softener on Monet’s jumper that they both used but just seemed to smell better and feel softer on everything Monet wore.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

***

Nina sat in a child-sized chair with her knees practically up to her chest, a crumpled, printed-out script on her lap that she’d hastily typed up on her work iPad’s notes app the following evening. Her class sat behind her in costumes pulled on over their school uniforms, with books and pens and pieces of paper with botched photocopying on the back under strict instructions not to talk until the whole thing was filmed.

“Okay, Amber!” she smiled breezily at the small girl whose school blouse was sticking out under her angel costume. “You’re kicking off the video. So your line is two thousand years ago, an angel came to a woman called Mary. Practise it for me?”

Amber gripped the hem of her taffeta skirt in two tiny white-knucked fists. “I don’t want to.”

Nina bit her lip. Great start. Fantastic. “We can give it a try together?”

Reluctantly, Amber parroted the words in tandem with her. So far so good.

“Okay. Now do you want to go up against the backdrop and I can film you doing it?”

Amber’s ponytail full of flyaways swung wildly as she shook her head. Nina thought for a moment. Then her eyes came to rest on Hazel- the class’ Mary and, coincidentally, Amber’s best friend.

“What about if Hazel stands with you?”

That seemed to change things and, only slightly hesitantly, both girls got up in front of the hastily staple-gunned silver tinsel.

“Okay Amber. Two thousand years ago, an angel came to a woman called Mary. Ready?”

A nod in reply.

“Go!”

Amber took a deep, shaky breath in. “Two thousand years ago….a woman called Mary.”

Nina stopped filming, fixed the girl with a kind smile. “An angel came to a woman called Mary. Try again?”

The iPad was back in filming mode, and Amber went again. “Two thousand years ago, a…a…a little cute angel came to Mary.”

Nina stopped filming, fixed Amber with two thumbs up. That’ll do.

Things seemed to be going well as Hazel and Oliver (or, Mary and Angel Gabriel) got through their lines without too many bumps in the road. Then, it was time for Amber to take to the stage (or blue curtain with a tinsel border) once more.

“Okay Amber, so your line this time is…Mary told her husband Joseph. Want to practise?”

“Mary told her husband Joseph,” Amber repeated, with all the enthusiasm of a patient about to undergo a colonoscopy. With two days til the deadline, this would have to suffice.

“Perfect! Ready? Three…two…one…go!” Nina smiled encouragingly, as she hit record.

Amber stood beside Mary and Joseph, a little grin on her own face. “Mary told her husband Joyce.”

“…Joseph,” Nina reminded her. Where the fuck had Joyce come from? She hit record again.

“Three…two…one…go!”

“Mary told her husband Joyce.”

Nina couldn’t stop herself from bursting out laughing. “Joseph, Amber!”

The little girl nodded earnestly. “Joseph Amber.”

Nina spluttered. “No…Amber is your name. Joseph is Mary’s husband.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

Nina shook her head, amused. This was what she loved about teaching. None of the other girls working from home could say that they got to spend their day feeling like they were stuck in an episode of You’ve Been Framed.

“Go again. Mary told her husband Joseph. Three…two…one…”

“Mary told…em…um…I can’t remember,” Amber giggled. Nina could feel her own giggles bubbling up inside herself, but she had to stop otherwise it would set her whole class off.

“Mary told her husband Joseph,” Nina repeated, both Amber and Hazel now giggling to each other. “Shh shh! Okay…three…two…one…”

Amber composed herself, took a deep breath. “Mary told her husband Joyce.”

Christ Alive. Nina gasped incredulously, unable to help herself from laughing now. The whole class, Amber herself, and Nina was pretty sure God, were all doing the same. She put her head in her hands, her whole body now shaking with laughter. “Joseph!!”

She already couldn’t wait to tell everybody she knew this story. Not least so she could cement in her mind that it was something that actually happened to her, and not just simply the script of a comedy show she’d dreamed up. Miraculously, mercifully, she managed to get the rest of her class settled down and for Amber to say the correct line on film, even if Nina could be faintly heard frantically mouthing “Joseph!” in the background.

Eventually they reached the innkeepers. Easy enough, in theory.

“Okay, Carter,” Nina smiled encouragingly at the first innkeeper. “When Mary and Joseph ask for a room, you say ‘no, sorry!’. Okay?”

Carter nodded, half a finger stuck up his nose. Nina gestured to him to put his hands down, then began filming. As directed, Mary and Joseph asked if there was any room at the inn.

“YES,” the little boy shouted. The whole class burst out laughing. Nina did not.

Just then, Willam walked past the open door with her class. She gave her a look of inquisition, shooting her a tentative, questioning thumbs up.

Nina put her head in her hands in reply.

***

By some miracle of nature (although it could also have been Nina giving up on work that afternoon) Nina had made it back to the flat before five o’clock. This never happened- five pm was usually the time she left work, but a day full of recording Nativity clips and then putting them together on iMovie while her class played (read; caused havoc) had been tiring and she needed Monet, chocolate, and Merlot.

Only the first thing she heard when she opened the door to her flat wasn’t Monet singing, or the hum of the extractor fan. It was the grainy crackle of a Zoom call and an incredibly distinctive voice.

“So when you doin’ it? Do it tonight. Do it when she gets home from work.”

Monet’s voice- humoured, long-suffering. “I’m not doing it then, Vanj, she’ll be exhausted.”

“That was honestly your best suggestion? When she gets home from work?” Brooke’s voice. “Aren’t you the pinnacle of romance!”

Nina had realised that Monet was on a Zoom call with all the girls, from the way Vanessa had obviously kissed Brooke on camera was being met with half a dozen cries in protest from the others. She excitedly shrugged off her coat and unwrapped herself from her scarf, eager to see her friends again. Part of her was intrigued, though. Why were they all calling each other without her?

“My question is how you’re going to do it,” Akeria’s voice came, as questioning as always. “It needs to be good but it better not be too damn cheesy.”

“An’ you better make sure she got her nails done, she might say no if she ain’t got her nails done!” Silky came shouting through Monet’s Macbook speakers.

“Yeah, you better make it as romantic as you can, Mo,” Scarlet added, making Nina wonder what the hell it was they were all talking about. Before she could wonder any further, she heard Yvie’s distinctive snort of a laugh.

“You are in no position to speak about romance, I mean, need I remind you how you asked me?”

“Shut up,” Scarlet replied, her tone a little bashful as the other girls laughed.

“Monet I could hire you a plane if you really wanted,” Plastique offered, making Nina snort despite the fact she had no idea what the conversation was about.

“Shut up, bitch,” Nina could practically hear the roll of Akeria’s eyes.

Nina toed her shoes off and finally padded through to the kitchen, where Monet’s eyes grew wide when she saw her, her body visibly flinching.

“Hey, babe!” she smiled, looking a little startled. “You’re home earlier than usual!”

“Oh sorry, am I interrupting your Zoom call with all your side chicks?” Nina deadpanned, forcing her way onto Monet’s lap to see her friends on the screen.

“Ninaaa!!!” Vanessa’s face popped up first, her friend waving excitedly as she sat on her sofa in Brooke’s arms. “How are you, girl?”

“Shattered,” Nina sighed, rubbing her eyes harshly. “Just filmed the whole Nativity with the rugrats today. Think it took ten years off my lifespan. How’re you?”

“Good,” Brooke smiled back through the screen. “We ordered our Christmas food today. Trying to convince this one that we don’t need twelve pigs in blankets between two people.”

Vanessa scowled back at her from their position on the sofa. “Uh, yes the hell we do!”

“Twelve pigs in blankets as well as the turkey, stuffing, and all the veg? Y’all are gonna explode,” Akeria said disapprovingly.

“Kiki! How are you?” Nina cried with delight, seeing her friend’s tired but smiling face appear on screen.

“Good. Don’t stop work for a while yet, but it’s fine. Still flat hunting.”

“How’s Pri?” Nina asked, heartened by the way Akeria looked down, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

“Yeah, she’s good. Still batshit crazy. Horny all the time.”

“The ideal girlfriend, really,” Yvie said, a wry smile on her face.

“Nina!” Silky suddenly cut in, yelling. “Did you hear any of what we were talkin’ about before?”

Nina frowned, shook her head. “Something about planes and nails. And cheese. I’m too exhausted to have paid enough attention. Why, were you having a mad bitchfest about me?”

“Trying to ask the girls how best to dump you,” Monet deadpanned. Nina shot Monet a look and squeezed her leg, resulting in her girlfriend yelping and cracking her knee off the table.

Whatever the previous conversation was was soon forgotten about as excited catchups took over. Silky was excited as she was interviewing some singer that Nina had never heard of and wanted the girls to help her work out what questions she was going to ask her. Yvie and Scarlet were lamenting the fact they had to host both of their families for Christmas and had bought a turkey so big Scarlet wasn’t sure it would fit in their oven, and Plastique was telling them the weirdest things she’d been gifted by companies desperate for her to endorse them on Instagram.

“I got a box of sex toys from LoveHoney. That was probably the most random. Me and Naomi had a wild fucking night that night.”

“STOP BEIN’ GROSS,” Silky had yelled down the line, causing Nina to hammer Monet’s volume down button.

Eventually the call came to an end, but not before lots of promises to catch up soon once the situation across the world was better than the shitshow it was currently. As Monet closed her laptop, Nina threw her arms around her neck and nuzzled into her side.

“I miss them,” she sighed, and Monet patter her back comfortingly.

“I know, babe. I miss them too.”

There was a moment of pensive silence, and then Nina spoke again, the Nativity never too far away from her mind.

“I can’t export this video.”

“What?”

“The Nativity video. I can’t export it,” Nina muttered pitifully against her girlfriend’s shoulder.

Monet kissed her hair, making to stand up. “You get a cup of tea. I’ll fix your video.”

“You’re the best,” Nina sighed gratefully, walking over to the kettle.

It was only after she’d sat down with a cup of tea and Monet had promised she’d sorted her video that Nina thought about the conversation she’d walked in on earlier.

She had a strange feeling that it had something to do with her.

***

When Nina arrived at work that morning, she could tell something was…a little different. She couldn’t really tell what it was. It started with the slightly knowing smile Tatianna shot her from across the corridor.

“Congrats, Nina!” she shouted down to her before she ducked into her own classroom.  

“Uh…thanks,” she replied a little too late. Okay, the Nativity process had been stressful, but did she really need congratulated?

She supposed she appreciated it. It had been a whirlwind of a process, after all.

Only the odd thing was, it continued. The congratulations came pouring in; Alaska, Ivy from the Nursery school, Alyssa had cooed and gushed for ages about how exciting it was and how happy she was for her.

Nina had only blinked in reply, a little bewildered. “Thanks, Alyssa. It was a stress, but they managed to pull it off in the end.”

Alyssa gave her a funny look, then realisation seemed to dawn on her. “Oh…they’re non-binary! You know I never knew that, sorry sugar. Well congratulations to you both.”

With that, Alyssa hurried away only leaving Nina more confused than ever.

What in the fuck?

When the bell rang and Nina went to collect her class from the line, things only got weirder. Before she could hurry her class inside, Harry’s Mum waved at her from behind the school gate, beckoning her over. Nina’s heart began to sink- she was going to ask her why Harry was only a shepherd, wasn’t she, or why he didn’t get a solo during Little Donkey, or some-other-bullshit-like-that.

To Nina’s surprise, she held up a sparkly gift bag.

“Hi, sorry for bothering you!” she beamed at her. This was already unheard of- a parent apologising for taking up her time? Nina was beginning to question if she had slipped through a crack in the fabric of reality while she’d been sleeping when Harry’s Mum spoke again. “Me and the other parents had a quick whipround and got you a couple of things and a little card to say congratulations! We thought it was the least we could do given your lovely news.”

It was only after Nina had thanked her profusely, taken the bag and led her children into class that her words sank in. What lovely news was she on about?

Nina taught that morning in a daze. Well, ‘taught’ was pushing it; the last few days of term were always movie days or games days, and today was the former. Nina had decided to inject a bit of an educational element to it by showing her class Nativity and then asking them if they thought the film’s play was better than the one they’d put on. Despite it being one of her favourite Christmas films, though, she still wondered why everyone had been congratulating her today. Maybe her Nativity video had really been so amazingly good that people just had to comment on it. Nina decided that this was the only plausible explanation, and so was feeling particularly spirited as it reached breaktime and she sent the kids out to play.

She was sitting in her classroom reading all the messages she’d missed on her group chat when Willam practically crashed through her door.

“Oh my God!” she yelled, practically vibrating with excitement. “Congratulations, you lucky fucker! That’s gotta be the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I mean Bianca probably wants your head on a plate for keeping it in, but still! How’re you celebrating? Should we go to the shop at lunchtime and get prosecco? I mean it’s the last few days of term, I’m sure drinking on the job’s allowed. Court wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Willam was talking with such speed that it took a few seconds for Nina to register everything she’d said. “Why…would Bianca want my head on a plate?”

Willam snorted. “I mean it’s kinda obvious. You don’t think she’s gonna be pissed about it? Then again, maybe she won’t. I don’t know, I can’t get inside her head. I’m not on that Honey I Shrunk The Kids kinda bullshit.”

Nina felt her head was so clouded that even if she possessed the brightest fog lights in the world she still couldn’t see what Willam was trying to say.

“Willam,” she asked, slowly and carefully as she rested her head in her hands. “What the hell are you talking about?”

There was a pause as Willam froze, then as her eyes became huge and wide as she slowly raised a finger to point at Nina. “Jesus Harvey Christ. You…you don’t know, do you?”

Nina frowned, bewildered. “Know what?”

“Oh my God. You don’t know. This is the best thing ever. You don’t even know!” Willam howled with laughter, then, before Nina could ask what she was meant to not know, Willam had dashed out of her classroom and had begun yelling into the hall. “Courtney! Court! She doesn’t know!”

Nina began to feel her heart beat in heavy thuds as the bell went to signal the end of playtime. What didn’t she know?

Eventually Nina managed to reach the end of the day. How, she didn’t know. She was so confused by all the different odd events of the day that she felt she didn’t properly make sense at any point to her class, but that probably didn’t matter as they were all so wrapped up in Christmas nonsense that Nina could’ve left the classroom and they wouldn’t have given a shit.

She was just getting ready to leave work for the weekend when Bianca stuck her head into her classroom and made her almost jump fifty feet in the air.

“Nina,” she began, in her own blunt, abrasive way. She didn’t wait for Nina to greet her as she continued. “I know you must be wandering around with your head in the clouds at the moment, but next time do you think you could maybe just run the video by me first? I mean you’re very lucky that the parents took that well. I mean it’s really about the kids, y’know?”

Nina could only blink at her wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights, getting into trouble but not entirely sure what for. Loath to say anything in response, she simply nodded.

“I mean you should’ve really kept it out,” Bianca frowned. She let the awkward, tense silence hang in the air for a few moments before a humoured smile appeared on her face. “But congratulations. I’m very happy for you.”

Without stopping for Nina to reply, Bianca had turned on her heel and left her classroom. Nina could only look at the space she’d previously been standing in. Maybe all of this was a dream. A fever dream. She’d probably contracted some sort of illness and was experiencing some hallucinogenic vision.

She didn’t know how she made it home without causing a crash, but she managed, and as soon as she was through the door she began to vent to the person she loved most.  

“Monet!” she called through to the kitchen, hanging her belongings up. “I’ve had the weirdest fucking day in living memory. So first all the teachers were congratulating me…then I got a present from the parents…then Willam was screaming about me not knowing something…and then Bianca gave me a row at the end of the day…but I still don’t know exactly why…but then she said congratulations to me too?”

It was only when Nina stopped and walked through to the kitchen that she saw the kitchen table all done up with candles and laid beautifully, Nina’s favourite meal (slow cooker beef and buttery mash) on two plates, and Monet sitting at the table with her makeup done, dressed in a backless blue bodycon that Nina had once very nearly broke the zip of trying to rip it off her one weekend away.

“Uh…” Nina frowned, more confused than ever. Slowly, as a smile spread across Monet’s face, she began to connect all the dots of weird and the picture it presented illustrated that somehow her girlfriend had to be behind it all. “Okay, what’s going on?”

Monet got up and leant against the kitchen counter. She very gently took both of Nina’s hands in hers. “You didn’t watch the whole video once I exported it, did you?”

Something like dread crossed with excitement began to pool in Nina’s gut. She narrowed her eyes. “Monet…what did you do?”

Wordlessly, Monet reached back across to the table where she picked up her phone and loaded up the Nativity video. Skipping to the end, she got past the end of Jingle Bells and showed the video to Nina. The screen faded to black, and then, Nina watched as another little title card faded into view.

To the teacher that always gives so much of herself to others, I now want to give all of myself to you.

Miss West, will you marry me?

Love, Monet x

And suddenly everything in Nina felt as if it was made of fire, adrenaline and jet fuel. Her eyes flew open, her hand smacked against her shocked, gaping mouth. Her pulse raced and her heart hammered and all of her limbs turned to jelly to the extent she wasn’t sure she was able to stand any more. When she took her eyes off her phone screen and looked at Monet, her girlfriend was down on their kitchen floor, down on one knee like in every princess movie Nina had ever seen, her hair soft and curled and loose on her shoulders and a bright smile on her painted taupe lips. Gemstone tears brimmed in her dark eyes and hung from her lashes like icicles, and there, in her outstretched hands, was an open navy box.

Inside was a ring - gold band, one small diamond - and it was when Nina saw it that she gave a sob, her own tears springing from her eyes like a broken fountain, uncontrollable and erratic.

“Oh, baby, c’mere,” Monet gave a small laugh, shaking her head and immediately rising from the floor to wrap her arms around her in a hug. Nina took a few shaky, shallow breaths, pawing at Monet’s chest to release herself from her grip and look her in the eyes.

“You! You knew…all this time, and you…you put it in the video, oh my GOD, Monet, I could’ve got in so much trouble…I did get in so much trouble, oh my God…and you didn’t even tell me-”

“I thought you’d at least watch the damn thing through before you uploaded it!” Monet burst out laughing through her tears, and Nina joined in in a lightheaded, giddy way.

“I can’t believe this is real. Fuck. My whole body feels like that time we did poppers in Crete. Oh my God. Is this happening? You want to marry me?”

“Well, I would love to marry you, but I’m waiting on an answer,” Monet smiled bashfully, bringing her arm out from around Nina’s waist and holding the ring up so Nina could see it.

The diamond only seemed to glisten more when she saw it through the tears in her own eyes, and the gold shone warm like the brightest star. It was an engagement ring- her engagement ring- and it was real, and it was surreal, but Monet was in front of her waiting for an answer with tears in her eyes and hope in her heart that matched her own.

And Nina had never been one to say no to anything.

[chaoskirin]

Reversed (Reworked) Chapter Two

Chapter Title: Sirensong Word Count: 5764 Rating: PG Genre: Fantasy/Gen

Summary: A little more description of this new setting, and a wild Freddie appears! The quartet is complete!! As always, reblogs and comments are very appreciated. <3

Read Chapter on AO3

---

Throwing open the nearest washroom door, Roger parked himself in front of a mirror and grimaced. "Are they going to do this every night?" he hissed, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes--both the white part and the iris--were inky black and eerily deep, filled with stars. Just like they had been the night John first cursed him. He could see, though, which was why the condition had gone unnoticed for days.

John narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips together in what he hoped was a contrite expression. He wasn't particularly good with friend freakouts, mostly because he hadn't had a friend before Roger and Brian came along.

"What! What's that face?!" Roger demanded. "Is that good or bad?"

Brian ducked into the washroom behind the others. "John's face is permanently unimpressed," he replied.

Roger repeated. "Are my eyes. Going to do this. Every night?!" He gestured at them, as if John hadn't yet noticed. "Because this is not okay. It's creepy." He glanced at the mirror again, fake-startled, and added, "See? I'm scaring myself."

John couldn't find any words to express how sorry he was, or how he'd thought Roger was okay with what happened to him, or how he really just wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

"Rog, it's okay," Brian said. "It's at night. They'll be fine tomorrow."

"This is a lot more noticeable than purple," Roger said.

"It is a curse," Brian replied, glancing at John. "If it wasn't unpleasant, it'd be called a charm. We can get you sunglasses or something, if it bothers you."

"It's bothering me!"

John still couldn't even squeak another "I'm sorry." Maybe he'd reached his quota for the day. Or maybe the way Brian was staring at him, angrily waiting for him to say something, robbed him of his ability to speak. He couldn't be sure.

Thankfully, someone chose just that particular moment to walk into the bathroom, and John didn't have to think of anything to say. In fact, even Roger shut up, turning away from the newcomer, as Brian tried (and failed) to appear casual, leaning against the row of sinks.

It was a Ghittan student, wearing the earthy amalgamation of colors characteristic of the View, albeit with a bright red collar that drew attention to his rather sharp features. He stared at them for a moment, before snorting a quick chuckle. "Well then," he said, stepping up to the sink and turning it on. "This isn't suspicious at all. A Vexxzus and an Oerris hanging out together in the loo?" After splashing his face, he pulled an elegant laced kerchief out of one pocket and dabbed himself dry. Smirking, he allowed rather large, protruding upper teeth to show for a moment. "And a Kyyra referee? Should I go get a professor? Or popcorn?"

"You could just bugger off," Roger said. He was hyperventilating, almost out of breath, and pale. John put a hand on his shoulder.

"He okay?" The Ghittan asked, entire tone shifting. It sounded genuine enough. "You aren't beating the stuffing out of him, are you? I think that's a Vexxzusian thing to do. eh?"

John looked at the floor. He had a thousand witty things he could say, but unfortunately, they wouldn't pop into his head until after the Ghittan left. Such was his own curse.

"He's..." Brian started. Roger nodded just a little, and Brian finished with, "Fine," and an obviously strained smile.

"He's not," the Ghittan said in a sing-song voice. He sauntered around Brian and John. For a second, Brian looked as if he might reach out to stop him, but the Kyyra seemed to be entirely non-confrontational, from what John knew of him so far. And John, of course, was almost useless in the face of someone new. If he had even a small measure of bravery, he could have hauled this newcomer out by the hood of his robe, given him a kick in the rear, and told him to mind his own business.

John did all that in his head. He was a hero there.

Eventually, the boy stood directly in front of Roger.

And he stared, dumbfounded and horrified. "Oh, your eyes darling! They're hideous!"

Roger whimpered. It was just the tiniest noise, just the whisper of tears, that caused John to snap. Considering he was already feeling guilty and fairly protective of the boy he cursed, he found it quite easy to locate his backbone.

Reaching into his pocket, he expertly flipped the stopper off one tiny vial and crushed the beetle within it in his hand. Power suffused him, a spell instinctively clawing at his throat to escape.

He smeared the crushed beetle against the Ghittan's jumper. The boy said, "ew."

John smiled. He hadn't meant to smile. It didn't seem like a very smile-worthy moment. Then he said, "I can curse you, too, if you like it so much."

Awkwardly, Brian took John's shoulders and turned him away from the intruder. "Ah--how does one stop a Vexxzus from cursing? He has no gem to take. No wand...? Deacon, no more cursing people. Let's deal with one problem at a time."

Regardless, John struggled free, meeting the Ghittan's eyes. They were wide, his hands raised in shock. Fear. John shook his head, rubbing his temples. "Sorry... S-sorry," he said, tangling his fingers in his hair. "Just--He was making it worse. He was making it worse."

Brian took John's shoulders again. "I know. But we gotta work on that temper. You can't just do stuff like that. Okay?"

John nodded.

"Is this a new thing?" The Ghittan asked. "The hideous eyes, that is? I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound, as it were." He glared at John, suspiciously, then asked Brian, "Did you want me to get a professor?"

"No!" All three of them shouted at once, leaving the poor boy utterly confused.

"It was really an accident," Roger clarified. "I did challenge John to a duel. That's John, by the way." He nodded at the Vexxzus, who raised a hand to wave while still keeping his eyes down. "And I'm Roger. The tall one with the crazy hair is Brian."

"Crazy hair?" Brian asked.

"Freddie," The Ghittan said.

"Anyway, he didn't mean to. Or, I guess he did at the time," Roger said, scratching his chin. "But he feels bad about it, and it'd be really awesome if you didn't tell anyone he did it? We told the Head Matron that I accidentally cursed myself."

"Even though Roger would never be able to pull off a curse that advanced," John said. There! He'd told somebody. He felt much better now. "...Sorry, Roger."

"Oh, no, you're right."

"The staff doesn't know that though," Brian said. "And we'd rather nobody be expelled over this. We're dealing with it."

"Well, I know a thing or two about keeping curses secret," Freddie said. "Maybe this'll make you feel better, eh?" He hopped up on the sink, the old plumbing creaking under his weight. "I am one, you see. A curse, I mean, dears. So what you've got? It's nothing. You'll get used to it, I bet, so don't feel so bad."

"It's not nothing," Roger said. "My eyes are black holes. I've been scaring first-years all week, and someone just now told me I should look in a mirror. I mean, they're only like this at night, so I guess... I guess you're right. It's not so bad." He turned to look in the mirror again, turning his face this way and that. "It'll be amazing on Halloween." He looked at Brian, then John. "Why didn't you guys tell me?"

"We, uh. Meant to?" Brian said. "Anyway, didn't you hear him?" He nodded at the Ghittan.

"Freddie," Freddie said again.

"Right, Freddie. You can't be a curse," Brian said. He rolled his eyes back, thinking. Then he muttered, "Unless you're the one--May I?" He reached for Freddie's hair.

Freddie nodded. "I suppose. I was going to tell you anyway. But don't be surprised if I bite."

Brian tucked Freddie's long, black hair back, revealing both the intricate pattern of scales on the sharp jawline, as well as one severely mutilated ear. The edge was covered with green scar tissue. Brian quickly pulled away, and Freddie's hair fell back, covering the scales again.

As Freddie crossed his legs, John noticed he wasn't wearing shoes. A light smattering of scales sparkled on his pale skin.

"Your ears are--" Roger started.

Freddie interrupted. "Yes! Beautiful, aren't they? Oh, I love telling a good story just as much as you like hearing one, I'm sure. Turned out I possessed the wild magic of humans despite my half-siren lineage. So rare. So special." He paused to smile. "And you know what happens when a human displays magical aptitude."

Everyone groaned. Nobody liked school. Then again, learning magic on top of maths and sciences at least provided a respite to an otherwise boring day.

"Yes, exactly," Freddie continued, pulling a sequins-decorated pouch out of one pocket. He twirled it around his fingers. "Of course I fitted into the Ghittan View. But it turned out, I also suffered from the siren's curse, as well. Dear me... My first week here, I accidentally started humming a jaunty little tune, and before I knew it, there were well over a dozen people following me. Silently. Waiting for me to tell them what to do."

John and Brian glanced at each other. John almost mentioned that they didn't need a life's story, when Brian said, "but the ears...?"

"Oh, yes. Quite mundane. My mum cut them off when I enrolled. Don't worry," he hastily added when Brian gasped. "It was a mutual decision. We thought I'd blend in more if I didn't have fish ears."

"Yeah," Roger said. "You're right, that's worse."

"Excellent," Freddie said. "I do like winning."

"Do you know," Brian asked, his tone almost conversational. And yet John felt the looming storm about to crash down as Brian continued. "...if they intend to admit more creatures to Vale Rest?" John only had time to say, "Oh, Brian, no."

"Creatures," Freddie repeated, his entire demeanor turning icy. It wasn't subtle at all--John definitely recognized the signs of an oncoming anger hurricane, since he was prone to fits himself. Still, he couldn't say anything quickly enough to prevent the inevitable tirade.

Maybe, John wondered, Brian deserved it.

Brian blustered, fumbling for an answer.

"Listen very carefully, darlings," Freddie growled, his brows darkening his eyes.

Then, he began to sing.

It was a beautiful song, in beautiful tenor, with an undertone of something uncomfortable. It was a series of clicks and whistles that Freddie seemed to produce without meaning to, or without realizing it. Almost like whale or dolphin song. And it wasn't long before Roger's and Brian's faces were completely blank, devoid of any expression whatsoever. Freddie hopped off the sink and pointed at all three of them. "Now, you all stay put here until this wears off, then get to your dorms. Got it?"

Roger and Brian nodded obediently, expressions still slack.

"Good," Freddie said. He sighed--sadly, John thought--and headed for the door.

John caught his sleeve, and Freddie whipped around, meeting John's eyes with surprise.

"Are they going to be okay?" John asked.

"Er, yeah. It lasts a few minutes, darling, but they'll be fine. Why aren't you under?"

"Am I supposed to be?"

Freddie looked at the other two. Brian was actually slack-jawed and drooling. "Well, it's not selective. It just affects everyone who hears it. Or, I thought it did. Hm. Lemme try again."

John clapped a hand over Freddie's mouth, and glared. "None of that. You've already got them in a state. You want 'em brain-dead, too?" Still with his hand over Freddie's mouth, he looked past the boy's shoulder and tried, "Brian? Roger?" No answer. Not even a reaction.

Freddie pushed John's hand away. "But why aren't you...?"

"I don't know," John replied, curling his lip. "Why'd you do that to them, anyway? And you were just going to leave them like that? Everyone thinks Vexxzuses are bad. This is just cruel."

"It wears off after a bit, I told you," Freddie said. "I mean, they'll be a bit fuzzy for a while, so that's why I told them to get to their dorms after. It's just hypnotism, you see. They wouldn't do anything against their own self-preservation, or I don't think they'd have let me into Vale Rest. I'm not a full siren." He turned to Brian, getting right up in his face and adding, "And I'm not a creature."

Brian didn't even blink. It was quite disturbing.

"Is that it?" John said. "That's why you--what. Mind-controlled them? With Brian, that's a compliment. I've only known him for a couple weeks, really, and all I know about him is that he loves animals--" John paused and amended as Freddie scowled. "Non-humans, I mean! It's what he's studying here! It's his best subject. He wants to write his thesis on werebats. I think he was kind of happy about maybe getting to know you better."

Freddie blinked, confused. John pushed past him and gave Roger's shoulders a shake. "C'mon, Rog." "They won't listen to you, dear," Freddie said quietly. "Brian studies non-humans?"

"He does. He knows practically everything about them, too."

"Oh." Freddie muttered. "Well. I'm. I'm a being, first of all. But, I'm sorry."

"Maybe tell him when this wears off," John said.

"Oh, he heard me. It's just that he can't do anything at the moment." Freddie turned to them and added, "Besides, I shouldn't be here when they snap out of it. They're probably terrified. It's the whole reason I do this, you see. No one bothers me twice. Nod if you're terrified."

Roger nodded. Brian didn't.

John laughed. "Tell him to nod if he thinks this is the coolest thing in the world."

"Er, okay. Nod if you think this is cool."

Brian nodded.

"I told you," John said. "Non-humans. Beings. Whatever. If you'd given them a chance..."

Freddie didn't say anything. He stared at Brian for a while, then turned his attention to Roger, putting his hand on Roger's cheek. Roger reached for it, and Freddie said, "Don't be scared. It'll wear off, I promise."

Roger nodded.

Freddie tried to remove his hand, but Roger held on, wrapping both his arms around Freddie's.

"Oh, wonderful," Freddie said.

"He's a hugger," John said. "Does this mean it's wearing off?"

"Yeah, if they're acting on their own. But... They won't be very good conversationalists when they snap out of it. Trust me on that."

John waved a hand in front of Brian's face, though the Kyyra didn't even blink. His eyes might have moved, just a bit, but he was still obediently staying put, waiting for the siren's spell to wear off. "They can hear everything we're saying?" John asked.

"That's the horror of Siren Song," Freddie said. "It's why humans don't like them. You're fully conscious as you're made to do things you don't want to do. If I was a full-blood siren, I could make them do anything. They wouldn't even question it. They wouldn't be able to." He turned to Brian and Roger again, stating for their benefit, "But I'm not. Like I said, this is no more than hypnotism. I couldn't make 'em follow me into the ocean and drown, if that's what you're worried about."

"Sounds to me like you're the one that's worried about that," John said. "I mean, they haven't said a word. And apparently I'm immune, so."

"Yes, strange."

"Anyway, you're gonna have Brian following you around like a puppy now, so good job there," John said. He did feel a little bad, making fun of the Kyyra when he couldn't fight back. Still, it was true. Brian could talk for hours about dragons and hippogriffs. Why not sirens? "And it was Roger's idea to lie about who cursed him, so he's already forgiven you, I'm sure."

Freddie hopped up on the sink again, despite Roger's grip on his arm. He brushed the beetle bits off the front of his uniform. "Maybe this is fate, then, me meeting you three."

"Well, I don't believe in fate," John said. "But if you need friends, then I think you got yourself a few." He attempted to hop up on the sink as Freddie had done, but his arms weren't quite up to the task. Giggling, Freddie grabbed the back of his jumper and hauled him up.

"Ugh, why did you have to be a Vexxzus, though?" Freddie asked.

"Look, you're a Ghittan. I feel the same way about you. I mean who uses dirt to do magic? It's weird. The Headmatron used it to heal a broken arm I had a couple weeks ago and it's... It's just..."

"Dirty?" Freddie drawled, smiling.

John grunted. "Trust me here. These two are all right, and these View rivalries are pointless anyway."

"Says the one who cursed a poor, defenseless Oerris."  

"He had it coming."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roger nod.

"How much longer, you think?" John asked.

"Any second now, probably." Freddie snapped his fingers next to Brian's face, and he actually blinked this time. "They're moving on their own, which is a good indication. It'll be tomorrow before they're themselves again though, I'm afraid. There's a sort of fuzziness that comes along after you break out of Siren's Song."

"Everything is pink and fluffy," Brian mumbled.

"I think I'm gonna get married," Roger said, dreamily.

"Welp. Here we go," Freddie said. "Let's get these two back to their dorms so they can sleep it off."

~*~

The lowest floor of Vale Rest was called the Recreation Well. Most people just called it Rec, or the Well. Located seven floors underground, Rec was a sprawling complex of fields, an enormous hot spring, a gaming compound for those who were Virtuatekk inclined, and a vaulted cave ceiling which held all manner of glowing spell-lights and naturally glowing mosses. It had its own weather patterns overseen by students; understandably, things sometimes went awry in the Recreation Well, but those events were few and far between.

It also featured a well-developed shopping area, ironically called the Weald. Unfortunately for the students, the Weald remained off limits except with special passes, or on certain days. Located behind a magical barrier, a separate entrance admitted the outside public, who found the little underground town quaint and relaxing.

Most new students found it absolutely astounding that someone could fit what amounted to an entire town under Vale Rest's ground, but once they spent the majority of their free time in the Recreation Well, most came to call it home.

"That's just the thing, darling," Freddie said, reaching across their picnic table to take Brian's book away. He scrunched up his face at the picture. "It's not something I can stop. I know you mean well, but  this...?"

"And we're not letting you cut him open," John added. "It's barbaric."

"I wasn't suggesting..." Brian snatched the book back and laid it out on the table. These people had absolutely no imagination whatsoever. Still, he felt bad, after offending Freddie. It wasn't the end of the world, but he hadn't expected the half-siren to be so vocal about his idea. In hind-sight, he should have. "We're mages. If we can find a spell..."

"But I like what I can do," Freddie said, tapping his chest with his fingers. "It's me. I mean, maybe it's a pain sometimes, but it's fantastic defense, isn't it? Against... You know. Vexxzuses."

John elbowed him. "Not against me."

"Which isn't fair," Roger said. With the weather within the Well mirroring the sunny weather outside, his eyes were a bright, golden yellow. Sometimes fluffy clouds would drift across the spell-lights, and his eyes would turn silver. "It's a little frightening. I wish I was inane."

"Immune," Brian said. "You know the right word."

"I do, but it was still funny. Freddie laughed."

"I didn't, dear."

Roger shrugged. "You meant to."

Freddie tapped the picture. It was a mostly humanoid creature, with the tell-tale signs that it was something else entirely. Long, webbed ears, for example, and webbing between each of its fingers and toes. The latter was something Freddie never had to worry about, he'd said. "You know, they probably dissected a siren to get this much detail in the drawing."

Guiltily, Brian pushed the book away. "Well, these illustrations are hundreds of years old. I'm sure it wasn't, er... Related. Look, I'm just trying to help. Sirens are so badly understood..."

The others stared at him. Roger curled his lip a bit and said, "Uh. Freddie is right here."

Brian sighed. "I'm not helping. I'm sorry, it's just that--The creatures I study don't... usually... Talk back--I'm going to stop now before I shove my other foot into my mouth, too." Stifling a groan, he put his head down on the table, curly hair splaying out in all directions.

Freddie patted his shoulder. "Oh, come now, Brian. It just frazzles you so, when you think I'm angry."

"You're not?"

"No! Of course not. I'm the center of attention. It's right where I ought to be."

"Prat," Brian said. He reached for the book, but Roger climbed up onto the table, lifting it from his reach.

"So your ears looked like this?" he asked.

"Smaller, but all sorts of colors." Freddie smiled sadly, and sighed. "They'd sparkle in the sun." "Well, we would have been your friends anyway," Roger said. "Even if you hadn't hacked 'em off."

"I know, that's what makes it so tragic that they're gone." He rested an elbow on the table, and lay his head in his hand. "It would have been too much of a risk, though. I mean, most of the Views get along, but there's always some Kyrra who don't see you as human, then there's the Vexxzuses who're a bit specist. It was better that people got to know me, in all my wonderful glory and humility, before they discovered my deep, dark secret."

John rolled his eyes. Roger turned another few pages in the book. "Green blood, too?"

Freddie nodded. "Oh, that's the coolest part. Look here." He searched around on the table until he found a splinter, and pried it loose with his fingernails. Holding up a thumb, he gave his skin a light stab.

It wasn't exactly green. More like a muddy greenish-brown. Still, very odd, and very cool. "Don't touch, though," Freddie said as he wrapped it in a fresh kerchief. The cloth sizzled. "It'll burn."

"Sirens sound wonderful," John muttered.

"They are," Freddie said, grabbing the book off Roger's knee. "I'm sure I could make some proper edits here and there. Make this chapter much less sensational. This is all fear-mongering stuff."

"So sirens don't lure people to their deaths?" Roger asked.

Brian couldn't help it. He held his breath, while John stared at Roger with surprise. Both of their expressions must have said what words couldn't--how could Roger possibly say something like that, with Freddie sitting right there? And poor Freddie looked distinctly uncomfortable, glancing away. Realizing he was still holding the book, he tossed it on the table, which echoed thunderously through the Well. "Freddie," Roger said.

Freddie held out his hand, stood, and retreated toward the stairwell.

Roger started to stand. Brian reached for his wrist, taking it and shaking his head. "Are you actually an idiot?" Brian asked. "Because sometimes I don't think you actually..."

Freddie appeared directly in front of his face, smiling. Brian squeaked, nearly falling backward off the bench, as Freddie laughed. "You know, it's incredibly difficult to walk off in a proper huff if no one follows and fawns over you. Were you three coming, or...?"

Roger arched his eyebrows. "Are you an idiot?" he asked Brian, who was still trying to slow his pulse. "You did not know he was going to do that!" he called after Roger and John. Standing, he hurried to catch up, too. "You didn't! Dammit, Freddie."

"You should have seen the look on your face," Freddie chuckled.

"I'm laughing," Brian replied, glaring at Roger and John. "They didn't know, either." "We were all in on it," Roger said. Brian elbowed him a little harder than intended. Roger guffawed through a pained "Ouch!" Which just caused John to start chuckling, too.

"They weren't, it just played out so well," Freddie said. "I do love you guys."

"I am sorry about the whole... luring people to their deaths thing," Roger said. "We were just chatting. I wasn't thinking."

"Oh, I'd be offended if it weren't true," Freddie said, his voice growing theatrically dangerous. "Most sirens don't like humans. The ocean is full of trash. Even my father wasn't fond."

"Is this a love story?" John asked. "If this is a romance, I have somewhere else to be."

"Oh, shut it. My dad's a perfect gentleman. Mum was on holiday. He saw her cleaning the beach. I think he was just curious at first, but then he had himself silenced so he could get to know her." Freddie smiled. "It's hard to stop a siren from singing, you know. He had to learn. But he figured it out eventually. It's sad, though. He has such a beautiful voice... I do wish mum could hear it."

"See? It's a romance," John said.

"Right, that's the point I was trying to make. Thank you, John."

John smirked. "You're welcome."

"What I'm saying is that... Maybe it worked for my dad, being silenced. But I don't want to be. I want to be able to talk to you guys. I haven't had friends in years, and, well, I've got a lot to say."

They passed into the central staircase, which stretched all the way through the two aboveground floors. The steps were carved out of the gnarled tree's roots; each one was alive, and often grew offshoots of new staircases, which very often led to nowhere. Some of the stairways were carpeted with moss. Others, ancient beyond understanding, displayed the deeply grooved surfaces of dozens of generations of students. Some were carved or decorated, while others were left to wither away at the tree's whim.

John and Freddie walked ahead, with Roger just behind them. Brian brought up the rear, his head down, hands in his pockets. How could he have even thought that silencing Freddie would be a good idea? Perhaps it would work for an animal... You could silence one of the louder ones and it would barely care. Somehow, he thought Freddie might even appreciate the notion, but now that he really considered it, Brian knew he wouldn't want to lose his voice, either. He was just trying to help. Good intentions. Good intentions often led down the worst roads. But he had another idea. A better one. He hoped.

"Oh, what, are you having a sulk now?" Freddie asked. "Come on, Brian, it's fine. You academics just can't help it. I understand. If you don't constantly invent problems to solve, you languish away."

Brian ignored the insult as Roger had a good chuckle at his expense. "No, it was a stupid thing to suggest. But... I think I can make it up to you. I'm doing really well with non-human healing. We just started, of course, but if I study up a bit, I bet I can figure out how to heal your ears." Unguarded, Freddie brightened. It may have been the first genuine reaction he'd seen from the Ghittan. "You think you could?"

"Yes! I do! I mean, not now..." Freddie's face fell a bit, and Brian hurried to add, "But in a year or two, once I get a good grasp on healing magic. They're some of the hardest spells to master, and regrowing lost ears, with your... physiology. Give me some time. I promise I can do it."

He absolutely could. It was the best consolation he could offer. Freddie, giddy, wiggled a bit. "Yes. Okay! Apology accepted. Let's go to the library and see if we can find some books for you to read. Might as well get a start!"

Brian blinked. "What, now?"

"We've the time!" Freddie said.

It was a fair point, with classes starting later in the morning. They could pop into the library, and with his record, he could likely check out a book more advanced than he'd normally have access to. Shrugging, he followed, as Freddie hummed a happy little tune.

In fact, Brian was so relieved, he almost felt as if he were floating. His mind emptied of all its worries, and soon he could only focus on--oh.

Oh no.

He couldn't say anything. Couldn't deviate from the path set out before him. Couldn't act against Freddie's wishes. Silently, he willed Freddie to stop humming!

They made it up a few more flights before John, quirking a brow, glanced over his shoulder. "You're awfully quiet back there, Rog. Are you sick, or... Ah. Freddie."

Freddie stopped. Brian stopped.

Freddie turned, confused, and realization dawned. He covered his face with his hands, muttering something completely unintelligible. Since his attention was entirely focused on the half-siren, Brian could almost see the conversation playing out in Freddie's mind, even though he said nothing. "This is so frustrating," he finally mumbled. "I didn't mean to do this again, guys."

Brian couldn't do anything. Couldn't say a word of reassurance or even move his eyes. They were locked onto Freddie. Everything the Ghittan did caught Brian's attention. He was stuck.

It was truly amazing how quickly it worked, though. Freddie couldn't have been humming for more than a few seconds before John caught him. But even then, it was too late. Amazing magic, and completely innate, too. No need for a focus.

"There's nothing we can do, either," Freddie went on, pacing back and forth along a step. "I'll--I'll get you guys somewhere safe. Maybe we can talk about that silencing spell after all. Or maybe I'll just command them to stay away? I think I can do that. Yes, it's in their own best interests, so they'd follow the command to the letter, I'm sure. Then again, I'd be down two friends, and I don't want to--"

John shuffled up a couple steps, reached around Freddie's shoulders, and once again covered his mouth.

Freddie swore.

"Freddie, it's hypnotism," John said, removing his hand. "You said it yourself. Right? That's how this works." "Essentially," Freddie replied. His voice was higher, distraught. "I can't keep doing this to them, though. Harmless or not, it can't be comfortable to--Well, look at them!" Brian did feel himself drooling again. That was embarrassing.

"I've always called this the suggestion phase. Right now, I could literally tell them to behave like chickens for the rest of their lives, and they might do it." Freddie quickly amended, "I wouldn't, guys. Promise."

"You said 'might,'" John observed.

"Right. Because eventually it'd go against their sense of self-preservation and they'd stop. At least, I think so. I'd hope so." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Roger, though..."

"Huh," John said. "Hang on."

Setting his bag on the nearest landing, John sat down, shuffling through his things until he found a notebook. Brian would have loved to spy what he was writing, but his attention remained comfortably on Freddie as he waited for that all-important suggestion. He had no choice. Even so, his consciousness remained intact, if not wholly confused by the whole ordeal.

Worried, Freddie chewed on his fingernails as John scratched away at the paper. Eventually, John stood, holding the notebook out. "Tell me this won't work."

Freddie read it over. "Well, you've certainly accounted for everything. I don't know. I can try."

"Go on, then." "Should I just read it?"

"Like I wrote it," John said. "I think I've covered all the loopholes."

"Okay." Freddie nodded, holding the paper in front of him. "Brian May and Roger Taylor. Next time I say 'now', if you hear my song, you're to behave entirely normally, how you would if I wasn't singing at all. From this point forward, my song has no effect on you whatsoever, but you're to remember this suggestion." He paused, then added, "Do you understand?"

Brian felt himself nod.

Freddie looked at Roger, who nodded.

Freddie said, "Now."

And the curse fell away. Not slowly, like before, but immediately. Brian barely had time to reach out as the step jumped up to meet him. Grunting, he seated himself and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear away the last of the lingering fog. "Ooh, that's going to freak me out every time it happens," Roger muttered. "That's bloody scary." "Hopefully it doesn't have to?" Freddie suggested, crouching in front of them. "It's genius, if it works," Brian said. "Go on, then. Sing something." "What? Now? Already? You've just come out of it!" Freddie looked at Roger, who'd grown very still at the suggestion. "Yes," Roger said. "Do it while I’m expecting it. Better if I know it's comin'."

Freddie gave them one last Look, as if they were both daft, and he sang.

It wasn't like the last times. It wasn't beautiful and otherworldly, nor did it melt over him and wrest control of his mind before he realized what was happening. As Freddie sang, Brian felt a certain fuzzy feeling behind his eyes, but when he looked down and checked if he could still move his fingers, he found he wasn't stuck like before. This time, there was something under the song that Brian hadn't heard previously, which was almost grating. It was high-pitched and whiny, borderline unpleasant. Freddie trailed off, and Brian shrugged, glancing over at Roger.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Roger said. "That was terrible, though. What'd you do to your voice?"

Freddie actually cried. His eyes were wide--stunned and almost wild--as a giant grin broke out across his face. He paced a step or two, before throwing his arms around John and sobbing into his shoulder.

"Oh, go on," John said, embarrassed. "It was no more complex then figuring out a puzzle."

Freddie backed away, laughing, then turned and threw himself at Brian and Roger, who somehow managed not to fall face-first down the stairs. John knelt next to them, putting his hand on Freddie's shoulder. No one said anything. Nothing needed to be said.

[bettycooperoutfitwatch]

4x10 Chapter Sixty-Seven: Varsity Blues

Betty is in investigation mode; sweaters and school spirit abound. 

We only see this sweater for seconds (although we’ll return to this chair repeatedly), but it’s actually quite striking. The stripes have a sporty, all-American vibe that’s apt for the episode, and the shoulders bring to mind military epaulettes. 

I just appresh that you can see the fiber of the sweater well in the light contrast here, at left.

The shoulder buttons are certainly not new for Betty, but are a motif we’ve only seen a smattering of times. Shoulder buttons suggest a military influence (see also the previous sweater), which further implies she’s down to business.

The plaid mini is jaunty; pink and khaki is preppy and yet I’m not sure we’ve seen Betty in that combo at all. 

The low v-neck. Season 4 certainly has much more cleavage, right? 

I am 99% certain that this is the Blue & Gold set redressed. 

This knit is a deep cut, one we last saw way back in 220, in a moment Betty was in deep-suspicion mode (towards her father), much like she finds herself here (towards Bret, and Stonewall at large.) 

Boots, backpack, pen. 

Perhaps we ought to have a count of this pen’s appearances, and also one for this tape recorder, too. 

Not pictured: Elizabeth Cooper. (Cousin Betty would never.)

This oatmeal turtleneck will appear later in this season’s timeline, as we’ve previously glimpsed it during a fast-forward (in 409.) The rusty colored corduroy jumper (in the American use of the term) is new to us. 

I’m flashing back to my third grade class photos, where I stg I wore a near identical jumper with a rainbow-stripe short-sleeve mock-neck knit (it was the 90s, but honestly that look is back.) 

Please note the purse, which first appeared in 402, on a tour of Stonewall Prep, the current subject of Betty’s investigations. 

Lotta cleavage for Jug in season 4 too. Equal opportunity. 

The mustard gold turtleneck! Obviously everyone is showing their bulldog, blue-and-gold spirit (even Jughead, in his multicolor tartan coat), but this outfit screams “co-ed at the big game”—echoes of the Sweater Girl. 

She’s gunna murder u Bret, back the fuck off.

Anyway, ear muffs!! Last seen: 209. 

Were it not for good soul @stillscape​, I wouldn’t know that these mittens were of the flip-top variety, and from Old Navy. (They also come in a pink marl knit that is very Betty.) 

The blanket and the coat are appropriately blue. 

(That’s a lotta foliage for—consulting my Jeremy Bearimy—’January.’)

Polka dots are a subtle season 4 motif that we’ve seen a few times (see also 402 and 407.)

The bow (not quite a lavallière, or a pussy bow, but nodding towards that) continues a bizness motif that’s appeared throughout the episode. She’s on it. 

Again, she’s gonna get u. Why do people even trifle? They have no sense. 

Please note also the subtle Juliet shoulder puffs of the three-quarter length sleeves. 

And how those puffs are echoed in this striped sweater. 

(Adore the raccoon eyes, what a detail, the height of melodrama.)

Nice coordination between the sweater, with its red stripes, and the rusty red of the trousers—cropped! 

Are there truly no other photos of Betty-and-Jughead together in-universe? 

Summary: Seven, including a flash-forward outfit.

Is Betty a River Vixen??: N o, decidedly not, she’s firmly on the sidelines. 

Backpack 2.0?: Backpack 2.0 all over the place in this ep.

Best outfit: I’m partial to that initial sweater, with the striped shoulders and sleeves.

[radishannibalblog]

WIP-un-Beta’d, not Brit-picked.

TW: Depression, past assault, PTSD, mention of anti-depressants, redheads being called ginger, bad Britishisms and probably worse French.

~

Corsica, 1979

“Go away, Adam! Stop annoying me!”

"Va-t'en, Adam! Arrête de m'embêter!”

Adam pursed his lips and fought back the tears. “I hate you! I hope you die!”

"Je te déteste! J'espère que tu mourras!"

~

London, 2004

“He’s rich, he’s handsome— what more do you want in a man, Adam?”

“Excuse me? Were you in a coma a year ago when yours truly almost got killed by a rich, hot, blind date? Oh, no, you weren’t, you wrote an article about it.”

“Adam, I care about you, and the best way to get over your trauma is to do a therapeutic version of it. Make happy memories to retrain your brain—trust me, I write for the abnormal psych column.”

“You write for the News of the World, you delusional cow.”

“My research is always thorough, Adam. Just go with it—I’ll vouch for him!”

The ginger devil hands a card to Adam, cocks her head snappily with a plastic smile, and click clacks off in her Pradas.

Adam looks at the card wearily. He’s avoided hookups and dates for the last year; and he felt no obligation to his tabloid writer nemesis, occasional best mate and fuck buddy. But he was getting resentful of his fearful self—and he was getting sick and tired of the cyclic self hatred.

“Where did you go off to, Adam Towers?” He lamented.

~

“Oh, bugger.”

No matter how well Adam had wormed himself into the posh upper crusts, his meager freelancer pay was never enough to grace himself at a three star Michelin restaurant in London. When he was notified of the place, it was too late to turn back. He’s definitely way too underdressed. A tell tale handiwork of that bloody Freddie Lounds, he was sure.

Unfortunately, where the old Adam would’ve jumped into Topman and snagged a suit en route, the new Adam on antidepressants was uncaring to a fault. Besides, he definitely didn’t want to go home with this most-definitely-a-serial-killer-date, anyways.

He walked in, blinded by opulence, feeling the confused gaze of the host.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Um...reservation for Lounds and company?”

“Oh, yes. Please follow me sir.”

Adam follows, thankful for the disciplined host to not to scoff at his simple jumper and leather trou. Then, his heart stopped.

Cor...Freddie Lounds was right.

His Hitchcock date was handsomely dressed in all black, dark hair set immaculately and, oh dear, has he got heterochromia? Oh, a scar—how did he get injured? Christ, those cheekbones—fucking hell, he’s gorgeous!

“Mr. Towers?” The odd eyed man stood, searching, a polite smile playing on his pouty lips.

“Ah, yes—wait, you know my name? Freddie didn’t give me yours.”

“Jean Duran. I apologize. I am in need of much discretion due to my work.”

Scoop. Scoop. Scoop.

“You must know then, that I am a journalist?”

“Yes.”

~

Adam shook his hand and sat, putting on his jaunty reporter smile. “Well, now you must tell me. You’ve peaked my interest.”

Jean looked up amused, the menu in his hands. He orders for both, Adam deferring. “I am not averse, as long as I may hear something about you.”

“I’m sure you’ve had me surveilled, what can be left to learn?” Adam half joked.

“Something from your childhood, perhaps?”

Adam looked up, taking a sip of aperitif as he gauged how much danger he was in.

But, he wanted a scoop.

Wanted it SO BAD.

“Name the age.”

“Six.”

The Londoner chased his memory to filter out what he could part with.

“I lived in Corsica.”

“Corsica? Interesting. Visiting a relative?”

“My turn? For fairness' sake. What is it that you do?”

“I am a banker. My previous question?”

“No; Dad was on sabbatical. Is any part of what you do illegal?” Wiggles his brows cheekily.

“Yes. What was the worst memory you had while there?”

Woah, there—a bit too honest isn’t he? Interesting…

As for the question aimed at him, this was tricky.

“I had a fight with a friend I made there. Do you fund illegal activities?”

“Depends. Why did you two fight?” Jean remained nonchalant.

“I don’t remember well, really. I’m sure he was being an arse. As I was a delightful child.” He grins.

“Tell me about all parties involved in one of your illegal dealings.”

“No.”

The waiter arrives with the first course.

“Ok, then.” Adam concludes. Tucking in for his soup.

“Is this the end of conversation for us? Are we to eat quietly like a couple on the verge of divorce?” Jean smirks.

Adam takes a moment. “Of course not. How do you know Freddie?”

“I know her through Dr. DuMaurier.”

“That makes more sense. I couldn’t imagine you even remotely being acquainted with that ginger pest.”

“Such a terrible remark for a friend. Do you have many?”

“No. Not close ones. You?”

Jean wipes his mouth with the napkin and looks up.

“No. I find the term friend to be a very vague term for a person who is not useful, but leeches your time, money and energy.”

“God, you’re a cynic! You make me feel so much better about myself.”

Jean just raises his eyebrows and smiles.

“He...was a friend to me. The one from Corsica? I followed him wherever he went.” Adam looked down, a bit embarrassed about that part.

“Such pity then, that you’d lost him.”

Adam looked up from the second course, mind blank but to reply vaguely.

~

The courses came and went, their Q and A not heating up the way Adam anticipated. Adam declined dessert and ordered coffee.

“So, Mr. Duran, why on earth did you come on a blind date? A bit of a risk—as you stated in the beginning.”

“I was bored.”

“Bored?”

“Yes.”

“Wha—“

“Same question. How about you?”

“I...Freddie assured me that you are rich and handsome. And I trusted her, stupidly—I mean, the illegal dealings part. I do find you very handsome, and clearly, very rich.”

“So, this will end here then?”

“Normally, yes. I’ll just write up a storm about you. But, since I have experienced near death under similar circumstances, I am not inclined to do so. And because I am very, very attracted to you. Except... you also frighten me just as much.”

“The Tramell case?”

Adam looks away and nods. Dessert arrives. The old Adam would have put up an air of nonchalance, but now, he felt too tired to do that. He felt his interest suddenly leave him. It happened a lot with his medications. A sudden and consuming numbness.

Jean studied the change in Adam’s demeanor and held forth a spoonful of chocolate mousse.

“Mr. Towers, I insist that you must try this mousse. It is utterly decadent.”

Jean looks at Adam playfully. Adam’s numb heart jolts something hot.

He considers the offered spoon and hesitantly allows Jean to dip it delicately in his mouth.

The bowl of spoon stroked Adam’s tongue suggestively before slipping out. Adam fluttered his eyes closed for a moment, the intent of seduction palpable and highly irresistible. The younger man’s soft moan was only audible to them. Adam savored the bitter chocolate and swallowed—trying and failing to center himself. He licked his lips and locked eyes with Jean.

“I should go,” Adam uttered.

TBC

[hd-learns-korean]

The perfect Christmas?

Hi all! Sooooo it’s nearly Christmas! who else is excited? I know I am! :D I just wanted to write something real quick about the quest to find ‘the perfect Christmas’ and how in reality there is no such thing. 

Year after year people stress out about not buying enough presents, the right presents, how to react when they receive a present that they don’t like ‘Oh thanks I love it!’ ‘It’s like you read my mind I always wanted a novelty carrot peeler thanks great Aunty Margaret!’

People stress out about having the best dinner, who’s sitting next to who at the family table, who’s monitoring grandma’s Brussels sprout consumption, who needs to keep that one loud mouthed uncle in line before he says something so outrageous even Rudolph blushes as bright as his nose, and who has the best novelty christmas jumper! 

I just wanted to give every one a gentle reminder....here it goes;

1.) Everybody’s Grandma will fart at least twelve times during the family meal...there I said it! And yesss she will try to pass the blame onto small children or the family dog! 

2.) Remember that you can’t please all of the people all of the time, or even some of the people some of time. If people don’t like the gift you got them it’s no big deal! Christmas is not ruined just because your great great uncle hated his novelty tie...it’s Christmas, tacky presents are part and parcel of that!

3.) I think people get too caught up in the thing of having ‘THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER!’ that it sort of takes the fun out of things. Relax. Yes presents are nice and all but at the end of the day it’s about spending time with family and friends that in my opinion really counts....those memories don’t come with a receipt and are non returnable! 

4.) Everybody’s family will get on each other’s nerves at some point during the holiday season. There will be fights over the turkey, fights over board games and fights over what film everyone should watch. To me it’s not Christmas unless somebody is shouting ‘NO I SAID THIS LAST YEAR AND THE YEAR BEFORE WE ARE BANNED FROM PLAYING MONOPOLY AS SOMEBODY ALWAYS CHEATS!’ :D 

So to wrap things up *shakes head at terrible terrible pun* this was not a rant but a reminder that nobody has a Christmas like they portray on adverts or the movies (I.E everyone sat round a heaving table that is groaning with food, whilst little timmy plays an annoyingly jaunty tune on the piano and the whole family break out into sing song.) A normal Christmas is messy, funny and loud. It is not picture perfect. 

I hope that everyone has a really lovely time during this holiday if you celebrate Christmas or not I hope that you can all spend time with your family and friends and relax before the madness of 2020 begins! (OMG 2020!) 

With much love I wish you all a very merry Christmas and a wonderful new year! Bye my lovlies! :D 

[mochalattaehyung-blog]

☆彡 Part 2

Summary: Late night texts lead to strange diner meetings and a handful of inappropriate questions. But you’d expect nothing less from Jungkook or Taehyung.

The minute you arrive back at your apartment, something within you bursts and you can’t help but smile. The feeling is like coming back from one of those inspirational movies and instantly wanting to turn your life around. Well, the most you do is open your window, but it still makes you feel refreshed. The night sky has a darkish gleam to it that brings a shadow to your room. Turning on the fairy lights above your bed, you sigh with delight. What are the chances that you’d meet two handsome people and have the time of your life after a week of absolute despair?

Changing into a bright yellow top that reaches halfway down your knees, you are calmly humming to yourself when your phone buzzes. The feeling of your stomach churning returns for a millisecond. What are the chances that it’s Jaehwa trying to pry you back into their life or Seohyun blaming you for something? Your invisible barrier that Taehyung and Jungkook has placed up for you drops to the floor as you rush to grab the stupid thing.

[Tae 🐯] 9:18pm

Are you home?

You chuckle at the contact name he gave himself. Now that you think of it, he does kind of resemble a tiger. His stare is still imprinted in your mind, wild smile the kind you’d expect from a wild animal beneath the shadow of the jungle leaves. Shaking your head, you try to perk yourself up a little after the dampening thoughts and bring yourself to reply.

[You] 9:19pm

Yeah, I’m about to get into bed :) Thanks again for tonight!!!

You want to cringe at the creepy-looking smiley face you added, immediately wanting to toss your phone somewhere into an abyss where you no longer have to look at it. Technology can be extremely hard sometimes.

Not expecting an immediate reply, you jump under the covers, marvelling in the instant heat your little burrito provides you. You’ve always been one for wrapping yourself in your covers, after all, it provides protection and support! That’s more than most of your friends have ever offered you, if you’re really to go there . . .

[Tae 🐯] 9:20pm

Me and Jungkook really enjoyed. We’d love to meet up again.

Your heart almost stops at the text message. It seems so foreign to have a genuine invitation for once. Tapping your finger against your mouth, you sit up in your bed to think of a suitable reply. It’s a Sunday tomorrow and you most definitely aren’t busy, but is it too soon to ask them? Perhaps you’ll just let Taehyung decide what time?

[You] 9:20pm

I would really like that too!! When do you want to meet up?

You once again are unable to look at your phone, a giddy sense of excitement making you jump a little. You can’t help but think about the both of them. They were so nice to offer you their company, and whilst they did give you a reasonable excuse you also can’t help but wonder what they saw in you that day? Was it pity? Are they just doing this because they feel bad? Your complex mind yet again ruins your happiness, causing you to pummel into your bed sheets. Well, at least he texted you first. That has to be a good sign, right?

Taehyung doesn’t reply for a while and you figure it’s because he’s talking to Jungkook. They’re both University students, maybe they share a dorm or an apartment similar to yours? They didn’t say exactly which university they go to, but considering the way they carry themselves you’re positive it’s one of the top three.

[Tae 🐯] 9:24pm

Monday?

Taehyung is a blunt texter, you note. The worst kind for someone with your type of personality. His lack of words equal lack of enthusiasm to you and instantly you feel like a bother. Trying to shrug away the thoughts is even harder and so you walk around your bedroom, completely abandoning the idea of sleeping.

Once you actually read the word, you let out a low huff. Of course you can’t make Monday! You have an assignment due and plenty of classes to get through. It’s one of the busiest days of your week. Must be witchcraft. The universe clearly isn’t on your side.

[You] 9:26pm

Sorry, I have an assignment due the next day. I can’t miss the deadline. Again.

You will admit that when it comes to deadlines, you are useless. Your ‘creative flow’ (which really is just a fancier term for procrastination) needs time and patience and it’s usually late into the night when you actually get your ideas. Thankfully, Taehyung has managed to remind you that you actually due have an assignment due and you should probably work on it.

Panic emits throughout your entire system and your already jaunty body is now rushing towards your school backpack where you know your notebook is idly sitting, waiting to be stared at for a few hours and then thrown away as it always is.

[Tae 🐯] 9:26pm

That’s naughty, you should never miss a deadline. Tuesday?

His words make you a little tingly, which worries you to a certain extent. He seems like a kind person, from what you can recall. Somehow laid back, but also like a hawk, aware of everything and constantly alert. You expect he’s most likely strict with himself and is just reflecting it onto you. That’s the obvious explanation, anyway.

You find yourself in your kitchen, stuffing into the leftover pizza you had stored the previous night in your fridge. It’s quite a comical scene really, here you are in your oversized t-shirt with leftover pizza in your rather sweaty hand. Stupidly, you don’t want to think about it. You aren’t ‘quirky’ like the girls on Instagram who probably do the exact same thing as you do, take a picture and then leave it. You’re just as basic as the next person, which is another reason as to why you are so unsure of this whole thing.

Get a grip, Y/N.

You contemplate on what to reply, pizza grease causing your phone to slip from your hand. You almost manage to curse as it hits the hard floor, luckily bouncing on its corner which saves your precious glass screen.

[Tae 🐯] 9:30pm

Tuesday. 4:30.

Does he know he’s had an affect on you? The text shows brightly on the screen, words burning into your mind. Part of you is ready to text him back telling him that you are independent and can sort it out yourself, almost wanting to be offended in order to ensure your sanity, but you can’t help but feel the same tingly feeling as before. A part of you is okay with being dependent on him. As well as Jungkook.

Your assignment is handed in right on time and all is well until the bell for lunch rings. It’s like a chime signalling the end of days to you, the sound echoing in your ears. Everything is muted aside from that one haunting sound as you walk to the lunch hall, letting yourself be knocked and bumped like a rag doll as your steps are soulless and unmotivated. You can’t pretend that everything is alright forever. Not when you see them all sitting there.

Haeun is the first to notice you, of course. Her outfit is a simple sleeveless jumper on top of a crisp white shirt, presentable and modest. Her skirt however, is inches away from revealing everything. Once again she is a mastermind when it comes to fooling her parents. You hate the feeling, almost wanting to go and talk to her about how she managed to pull it off. It takes effort for you to walk past them without looking, because you can feel their burning gaze with each step.

“Hey, Y/N!” Seohyun’s voice is unrecognisable above the crowd of rowdy teenagers. You instantly shoot your head in their direction, completely and utterly letting your guard down which causes you to sink away behind a few people before you actually do something.

There, sitting in the middle, is Jaehwa. Her bleach blonde hair looks almost natural now that she’s had her roots done, her school blazer discarded beside her leaving her tight shirt on show. You’ve never felt such impending jealousy in your life. You’re a stupid bitch for feeling this way because you know what she’s like, but a part of you just can’t help but want the vibe she carries with her. She is untouchable. Surely, she didn’t cry at home like you did.

She gives you one of those sly finger-waves, barely moving as a smirk begins to form on her lips. You can already picture it, like some dumb movie scene. You are the helpless victim whilst your ex friends continue to torment you endlessly. It makes you sick to your stomach, so much so that your tray is no longer of any value to you and you leave it where it sits, ignoring your rumbling stomach. You will not be the damsel in distress. You just wish you hadn’t left your damn pasta.

It’s 4:15 and you’ve never been more stressed in your life. Taehyung had asked you last night to meet in the diner you had last time and you couldn’t be more pleased. You loved that place, it seems so vintage. You don’t exactly know what to wear, freaking out over which top to choose. Your clothes are much less than revealing, in fact you don’t think you’ve ever even shown skin on nights out.

“Oy vey.” You sigh as you hold up a baby pink dress and a baby blue one. You’ve decided t shirts may be too casual even if it is just a meet-up with some new friends. How do you even dress for these kinds of things? It’s not a date. It’s not a date. Besides, there’s two of them. All of your thought mould into one when you finally go with the blue dress, putting a plain white T-shirt underneath it because your mindset still tells you to be modest. Maybe it’s just your confidence? You’ve always accepted whatever people wear, so what’s the problem when it’s you?

Realising the time, you lock up your apartment and run out of the door, quickly waving at a few of your neighbours before dashing to the diner which sadly is a little too far for your liking. You almost regret adding a beret since it almost falls off every waking second, but you wear a beret with almost every outfit as it is a crucial part of your life.

The neon sign glows against the slowly darkening sky. As you open the door, you halt your steps. There’s a ton of people here. Almost every booth is full. Last time you came here there was barely anyone here, which makes you gulp. People seem rather skeptical of your arrival, most dressed in strangely coordinated outfits.

The one booth that isn’t fully cramped is the one you walk towards, not recognising any of the people that stare you down with a look of pure hatred. Thankfully, you find Taehyung and Jungkook sitting there, immersed in conversation.

“Hey.” You murmur shyly, completely hating yourself for the ugly introduction. You hate how cowardly you seem, plopping yourself down next to Jungkook as awkwardly as humanly possible. Jungkook feels warm beside you, so much so that you have to resist the urge to snuggle up to him.

“Hi, Y/N.” Jungkook welcomes you hushfully, tilting his head downwards to smile at you. It makes your heart melt a little and you have to look away like some horrible lovesick girl from a romantic comedy; the kind of films you are an absolute sucker for.

“Y/N, you look troubled.” Taehyung announces, his elbows on the table as he leans in, an eyebrow quirking upward. You notice that his hair is much lighter than previously. Rather than a ruby red, his hair is now a light peach, verging on pink.

“Well, people here didn’t seem to p-pleased to see me I guess. I don’t know. . .” You turn away to look at everyone. They’re minding their own business, but in an ominous kind of way. As if it’s just something they’re doing to pass time. You look around, biting your lip suspiciously.

“Are they bothering you?” Jungkook’s usual soft-spoken voice sounds darker, which makes you whip your head around to meet his eyes. They are equally as dark, like something out of a horror movie. He looks like he has a thought in his head, one single thought. If you say yes to the question, what exactly would he do?

“No!” You laugh nervously, your hands performing some awfully paced waving motion in order to stop Jungkook from doing anything stupid. You hadn’t expected him to have such a hard exterior in situations like this. Part of you now feels silly for underestimating him.

“A lot of them are part of a gang, this is where they come. It’s their territory too and unfortunately that means sharing our beloved pizza with them. Just ignore them, they probably think you’re not good enough for them or something. In my opinion, you are fa better than they’ll ever be.” His voice is somehow coy, the kind that you’d use to speak to a young and impressionable child. He’s trying to convince you to believe his lie, the only obvious assumption you can think of.

Your sensitivity seems to heighten a little, suddenly the eyes on you become so much more noticeable. The lingering stares are certainly not calming in any way, “So, this gang—“

“Don’t even go there, they’re dangerous. They have this crazy pack mentality and all they do is deal crappy drugs. They aren’t what they project themselves to be.” Jungkook’s looming voice settles you slightly, but you are also shocked to hear him speak so much in one go. He isn’t at all how you’d portrayed him in your head. His presence is more of an observant one, you notice he isn’t one for joining in that often.

Your curiosity is practically burning through ever vein in your body. You want so badly to pry further as you normally do, ruthlessly rip into all kinds of questions. The look both Taehyung and Jungkook throw at you, however, makes you wish you hadn’t even thought of the idea.

“Anyway, let’s change the subject. You look particularly nice, what prompted this look?” You take the compliment to heart, since he seems so interested in fashion. Taehyung is wearing an extremely expensive jacket, smooth and colourful but somehow just enough.

“I didn’t know if this diner was casual chic or just simple so I went for an in between?” Your answer sounds like more of a question and you hunch your shoulder out of instinct to display your confusion. Jungkook scoffs, which you are mildly unsure how to take, “this place is in no way chic, I’m pretty sure you’d get away with wearing your pyjamas in here.” You chuckle , noticing something keen in Taehyung’s eyes. When he meets your stare, he clicks his tongue.

“Wanna bet?” A devious smile rests upon Taehyung’s face, his fingers playing with one of the napkins provided on the table. You snicker at the thought of Jungkook actually wearing pyjamas in here, but you aren’t entirely sure he wouldn’t do it.

“Sure. If I come in here tomorrow morning in my pyjamas, you have to give me,” Jungkook trails off for a moment, and you stare at him in awe. Is he actually going to do this?

“Whatever I want on the menu, no price limit.” Scoffing, you let our an exasperated sigh. He looks at you, as if to say ‘what’s wrong with that?’ Personally, you would have asked for money. After all, payback is fun. When you do it right.

“Deal, Kookie.”

Finally, a waiter comes over. You are sad to see that it isn’t Namjoon from the previous night. Instead it’s a scrawny boy who doesn’t seem to peak either of the boys’ interest, suggesting they are strangers. Since it’s nearing noon, you decide to treat yourself. That makes no sense, why does the time of day mean you can treat yourself, Y/N?

You order a milkshake and some fries, as well as a humongous burger. The people around you, although painfully attractive, are not going to stop you and your ravaging sidekick, ‘super stomach’. That was lame.

After you order, Taehyung and Jungkook still ramble on about the stupid bet, insisting you waste your precious early in hours in order to see Jungkook in his pyjamas. Although it would be a heartwarming sight, you aren’t sure it’s physically possible for you to wake up before 8am.

“Okay, I know we know quite a bit about each other, but it’s not really getting anywhere with this stupid bet. Come on, tell me about me about yourselves.” You urge the boys to tell you about themselves. Curiosity is practically flowing through your entire body at the moment, that paired with undoubted cynicism on what exactly the people around you are doing. Taehyung and Jungkook seem completely unbothered by it, almost familiar to it. You aren’t saying that you doubt them in any way, but when you think about it you don’t even know an awful amount about them.

“Well, Jungkook here is a bit of a sadist.” Taehyung blurts out, picking up one of his french fries as if he’d said something normal, when in reality you’re here practically choking on your drink. You’ve quickly accumulated through mild conversation that Taehyung is blunt and incredulous when it comes to silence.

You look over at Jungkook with a raised eyebrow, because what the heck? Does he just like hurting people on the daily or is it more of an in bed kind of thing. Either way, you want to know.

Taehyung is damn good at controlling conversations.

“Well, you wanted to know more...” Jungkook simply says, his head held downwards as he is unable to look at you. That’s his answer?!? THAT. You almost can’t fathom the surge of feelings coursing through you at this very moment. Jungkook’s hunched back and blushing face paired with Taehyung’s feline smirk. Nothing is making sense in your mind. It’s like your nerves have jumbled up into what looks like those strawberry string sweets. Your palms are uncomfortably sweaty and your face is beet red. Thanks, hormones.

“Okayyyy; that’s not exactly what I was expecting. So Jungkook, you like hurting people?” You ask, knowing that your pushing yourself a little too far as you place your head in your hand, eager to hear a reply. It’s a bit wicked of you really, but it feels too good all the same.

“Well, in that context it sounds villainous of me. But yes, in some senses.” Jungkook seems all the more intrigued, his shyness seemingly gone, instead replaced with a dominant aura. You feel your thighs clench at his words—you hate yourself for it. This was meant to be some lovely friendship that would swoop away your lonesome thoughts, but you just have to get attracted. Surely, it won’t escalate to anything further.

“And in what context exactly, does it not sound so villainous?” You twirl a strand of your hair on your stubby finger, really stumbling from your comfort zone at this point. You don’t think you’ve ever acted this way in front of a Male, since normally it ends in you becoming so paranoid that you cut off all ties. Something about Jungkook makes you not want to do that, even if it is a spur of the moment kind of thing.

“Barf. This is utterly gross.” Taehyung interrupts your rather sensual moment, making ‘you come back down’, if you will. Your elbow is off the table in seconds, thighs rubbing together as you shut your eyes out of your sheer stupidity. Why are you so awkward?

“Well, Y/N. Taehyung here likes to be called ‘master’ in bed, should you ever need any pointers.” Jungkook gets his own back, leaning further into the leather of the seat, the booth suddenly becoming extremely tight-fitted. You find yourself choking on air once again as these unbelievable boys stare each other down into some sort of spiritual realm. What is going on? Did they precept your ‘wanting to get to know them’ differently or are they doing this on purpose?

“In fact, Y/N. I love it.” Taehyung’s gawk is fixated directly on you, his coffee coloured eyes not even hesitating to push tension and all kinds of emotions straight into your little bubble. This is meant to be the part where you describe his ‘orbs’ in excessive detail, but you are completely unable to over the desperate throb you feel in your lower region.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it. You’ll lay awake thinking about it for months if you do it. You’re going to regret it.

“Do you really, master?”

You can’t help it, all three of you burst out laughing, tears almost forming at your eyes as you watch Taehyung holding his gut in an attempt to suppress his own laughter. You replay the cringey purr in your mind, laughing again. Breathing almost seems an inconvenience at this point.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” Taehyung shrieks, his roar of laughter making you feel somewhat warm. For someone who seems so poised and in charge, his goofy laugh really lets him down. You don’t understand your feelings at the moment. Jungkook is an amazing person, beautiful and reserved but sentimental and challenging all the same. It’s not like you to observe someone so closely, but you find yourself doing the same with Taehyung. He is electric, part of every conversation but also aware and focused. You aren’t sure, slipping into a headspace of ultimate confusion as you watch the two sneakily converse and bicker with each other.

Oh no.

↳ A/N - Thank you for the support on my first chapter of Lonesome!!!! I definitely did NOT expect it!! I hope y’all (🤠) like this one as much as the last!! Things will be uncovered about Taehyung and Jungkook very soon so stay tuned! 🐸☕️

[thesausagequest]

Pig Hands (No Body)

It has come to my attention - and to yours as well if you too have a controlling interest in a profitable calendar company as I do - that a new year has begun. A week ago, in fact, but then I didn’t attest to the quality of the calendars we sell. Instead of March they say Morch and August is just an ok photo of a parking space. 

However a new year is indeed upon us, like a dog who will not be told not to jump up, despite us now being a bit scared of dogs after 2021 - also a dog - ate one or more of our sweet children and laughed at us when its owner wasn’t looking but we saw. 

The end of each year gives us a break, a chance for growth and a sense of rebirth. The nights are becoming shorter, the days more full of light. There’s a crisp, new leaf of paper lying in front of us, waiting for us to write our stories. 

I also froze a shitload of these:

To me, the pig in blanket - as well as being a bit of a mockery of pigs, since the sausage is in a blanket also made of pig meaning that even the slightest second of additional thought about the name paints a deeply grotesque picture - is the most delicious and exotic of the festive snacks. Therefore I refuse - REFUSE - to limit myself to just the month of December. I’m similar to one of those people who celebrates Christmas every day of the year with all the lights and fake snow and music but instead of that I eat sausages and my kids still speak to me. 

Also the ones pictured above with my hand - more on that later - were bought in Morrisons on Holloway Road, north London. They say Market Street to make it sound more quaint but imagine that quaint Market Street with a fight at the tills and getting home and someone has ripped all the mailboxes off the wall of your building and you’ll have a closer idea of how much of a mockery Morrisons are making of your imagination. 

Without further ado - there has been much ado I know but it is still Chraismas according to my calendar so please indulge me - here is the cooking process for the shrouded heartburn grenades I lovingly cooked - this is a very generous term - in my own oven that I rent. 

The use of tinfoil makes this appear more like a fashion shoot, which is very appropriate given how fashion forward these sausages are (Jackets: Models’ Own). Here we are with stage one, a delicious catwalk. 

Here is a closeup in case you want to see what sodium metabisulphite looks like up close and personal. Following this stage they all went into the oven and after an indeterminate amount of time because I forgot to check, this is what came out. 

My my sausages what a transformation! From pink little adventurers all bundled up to face whatever mysteries lay ahead to slightly overcooked little adventurers who saw horrible things on your voyage about which you will never speak. 

Now, normally there would be a series of jaunty photos here as I measure the sausages against various household objects, children, sunglasses, a postage stamp with a ski jumper on it (this is June in the calendars we have), but this time a troubling sequence began. 

Here is the standard, the classic, the bread and butter, the cheese and ham:

It is my oddly-proportioned hand holding a pork product aloft, displaying it to the lesser pork products so that they know a new leader has been born to take them to greener pastures. This sausage leader has burst through their cape, such is the uncontainable volume of their wisdom. 

Turning the pork prophet around for a better glimpse of the future of these proud people, however:

Whose hand is this? Why are there so many crevices? Has age caught up with me in the specific area of my palm? Why am I sticking a pinky out? Do I believe myself to be a sausage aristocrat? So devastated was I to discover that instead of a hand I know have a counterfeit leather handbag, I couldn’t find time to appraise the sausage, which was delicious! The hand, however. If that’s what lift buttons see when I press them I am surprised the other lift buttons don’t recoil into their little button slots in disgust, thus pressing the button for every floor and making me as unpopular a lift co-passenger as I would deserve to be for having the hands of a sad monster. 

Leaving aside my hand - honestly it looks like a topographic map in a fantasy novel about monsters made of ham - these pigs in blankets were fine. They were cheap pigs in blankets held aloft by a man with apparent water retention issues. They were salty, fatty and a bit crispy, just the way they should be and for that I applaud them with whatever these things are on the end of my wrists. 

As a final insult, I emailed these photos from my mobile phone - oh yes it is 2022 in this household yes sir - and this is how the email showed up in my inbox:

Wonderful. 

CURRENT LENGTH - THESE ARE VERY SMALL BUT I ATE SIX AND I SUPPOSE THAT ANSWERS SOME HAND QUESTIONS I HAD SO 750CM

SAUSAGE RATING - 6/10 THEY WEREN’T REALLY VERY GOOD DESPITE COMING FROM THE BEAUTIFUL MARKET STREET 

[lirlovesfic]

The Choice

A Doctor Who fanfic

Summary: After GitF, the TARDIS brings the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey back to the estate to solve a problem involving the TARDIS herself. But when they see a familiar face, the face of someone who should not exist, they realize the problem is deeper than they thought and could endanger the Doctor’s very existence. Primary characters: Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Jackie Tyler. Genres: Romance, mystery, adventure, drama, character study, HN AU, fobbed!Nine, sick TARDIS. Pairings: Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose Rating: Adult

Warning: None for this chapter

a/n: I am currently working on editing this chapter-by-chapter, with the hopes of completing a chapter a day until I catch up with myself. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m doing it to try to get back into the swing of writing and to build some momentum in order to finish this. Also, there have been some tiny things nagging at me for a while (grammar, punctuation, etc.) so I’ll be correcting as many of them as I can find as I go. The story will not change. In fact, most of the changes are going to be so minor that I doubt anyone (besides myself) will notice. But to keep me on target, I’ll be posting it all here as I go, with links to the other websites it’s on. I hope you enjoy it.

Catch up: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

This chapter: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

Chapter Ten—The Time Vortex, one hour after leaving the Powell Estate, and Dallas, Texas, 22 November, 1963

As he adjusted his dark grey silk tie, Mickey examined himself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the wardrobe.

The Doctor had told him that, although jeans and T-shirts were becoming common in the era, in order to be close to the route the presidential motorcade would take, they needed to be dressed conservatively enough that they wouldn’t stand out in the crowd lining the streets. Mickey needed to change.

Mickey hadn’t known what to expect when he’d been sent to the Wardrobe Room, perhaps a cupboard with an outfit or two, or perhaps something like the Menswear Department at Marks and Spencer, but whatever he’d expected, this wasn’t it. The TARDIS wardrobe was a cavernous space, absolutely massive, several stories tall and easily rivaling a football pitch in area, with spiral staircases strategically placed every twenty feet or so that led to the upper floors. It was jam packed with clothing—and their coordinating accessories—from what looked like, to Mickey’s untutored eyes, every culture and every era of human history (both past and future, based on silvery, space age jumpsuits he saw) and probably hundreds of other planets as well, given the jackets with far too many sleeves than necessary. It also seemed to be less organized than a church jumble sale. Cricket whites, miniskirts, Indian saris, and Japanese kimonos competed for space with velvet frock coats and silk evening gowns. There was even a short blue dress that looked like it was made of bubble wrap. Mickey, who had volunteered on occasion at the British Museum and had been privy to the massive storerooms there, had never seen anything like it.

Lucky for him, this suit was located near the front of the room, hanging from one of the staircases, otherwise he never would have spotted it. He still would have missed it, in fact, if a spotlight, emanating from somewhere above, hadn’t turned on, illuminating it just as he’d begun to walk past it.

He had never been one for suits. He did own one, of course, which he usually only wore to weddings, but the last time he had worn it had been to his grandmother’s funeral several years earlier. Afterwards he had shoved it in the back of his cupboard, intending to never wear it again.

But this suit was as different from that one as a Rolls Royce was from a Mini Cooper. It was made of fine grey wool lined with satin, the cut of the jacket and trousers were in a timeless style, the cotton shirt was crisp and pure white, and the tie was neither too narrow nor too wide.

He had slipped the clothes on and discovered that not only was everything his size, it all fit him like a glove. After admiring himself in the mirror once more, he placed a felt fedora on his head and adjusted it to a jaunty angle.

Mickey grinned. “I should definitely wear a suit more often, because I look good.”

Several minutes later, minus the hat, Mickey returned to the console room to find the Doctor standing at the console, staring into the monitor and frowning.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

The Doctor barely spared him a glance. “It’s fine.”

“Because there was a hat there too. I can go back and get it…”

The Doctor didn’t answer. Instead he began to flip a switch back and forth over and over again so hard he looked like he was going to break it.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked.

“The TARDIS doesn’t want to land,” he answered. “I’m going to have to force her to. Hang on!”

The mere fact that the Doctor was warning him of a rough landing, when he had never given him a warning before, made Mickey grab onto the nearest coral strut and hang on for dear life. The Doctor rushed around the console, flipping switches, pressing buttons and spinning dials. Last, he yanked on a large lever. The TARDIS evidently wasn’t responding the way the Doctor wanted it to, because he grabbed a mallet hanging off the edge of the console and began hitting the controls.

With that, the TARDIS console room rocked violently back and forth and began to echo with the sounds of materialization. Despite his best efforts to hang on, Mickey was thrown to the floor. He landed hard on the metal mesh grating.

“Ow,” he complained. Wincing, he stood and rubbed his bum.

The Doctor ignored the complaint as he stared into the monitor again. “I’m already here,” he said.

“Well, that’s why we came, yeah? Because he’s here?”

“Yes, but I was hoping to arrive before he did. If we had arrived first, we’d have been able to track him from the moment he left his TARDIS.”

Mickey yanked on his collar in a futile attempt to make it more comfortable. Although the suit fit perfectly, he’d never get used to wearing a tie. “Didn’t you say you could sense him?” he asked. “In your head or somethin’?”

“If I can sense him, he can sense me, and that’s the last thing we want.” The Doctor let out a huff of irritation. “Now we’ll have to do this the hard way. We’ll just have to look for him.” He picked up his long brown overcoat and pulled it on. Mickey frowned.

“Aren’t you gonna change?” he asked.

“Why bother? Pinstriped suit? It’s a classic,” the Doctor informed him. “Wearing this I fit in anywhere. Well, almost anywhere. I did have to change into a toga while we were in ancient Rome. And then there’s this little planet named Xerbet in the galaxy Andromeda where all forms of clothing are absolutely forbidden. Against the law, in fact. See, the Xerbetians value honesty above all other virtues, and they see clothing as a form of deception. They consider the hiding of one’s body to be the hiding of one’s true self. Quite liberating, actually, albeit a bit chilly.”

“You didn’t take Rose there, did you?” Mickey asked.

The Doctor didn’t answer, but a smirk spread across his face. He headed towards the TARDIS exit and Mickey quickly followed.

“Seriously, you didn’t take Rose there? You’re just windin’ me up again, yeah?”

Ignoring the question, the Doctor flung open the doors of the TARDIS. “Mickey Smith, welcome to Dallas, Texas, 22 November, 1963.”

The TARDIS had landed in a narrow alley between two tall brick buildings. Thankfully, the alley was deserted. Because of his own experiences having seen it appear and disappear and even plummet from the sky, Mickey didn’t know how strangers would react to what looked like a British police box suddenly appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, on a city street in America, but he assumed it wouldn’t be good.

“Looks a bit boring,” he answered, looking up at the metal fire escapes that clung to the walls of the building. “Could be any alley anywhere. You sure we’re in Dallas?”

The Doctor gave him a look before heading out of the alley.

Mickey followed him out to the street. His jaw dropped. He stared around himself in amazement. The storefronts looked like many of the older shops on the Estate, with old fashioned cafés replacing modern takeaways, but the street...

The street was filled with Packards and Plymouths, Buicks and Chevys, some of which he had only seen in photographs before. All were ancient vehicles to him, but they weren’t ancient here. They were new, brand new in some cases.

And the people also seemed to come from another era. Which they did, he reminded himself. The women all wore dresses that fell below the knee, and the men all either wore suits or trousers paired with collared shirts or jumpers. Mickey suddenly understood why the Doctor had insisted he change out of his T-shirt and jeans. He would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Unreal,” he said. “Looks like a movie set. But it’s real. It’s really, actually real. We’re really in the past.” He grinned. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! And Dallas, 1963! History in the makin’!” he said excitedly. A couple of passersby stared at him, and he lowered his voice. “The grassy knoll, the second gunman…”

“Ah, so you’re a conspiracy buff?” the Doctor asked.

“A little,” he answered. “So, what was it? Did Lee Harvey Oswald act alone or was there a second gunman? Was he hired by the KGB or in league with the Mafia? Did the CIA order the hit?”

The Doctor chucked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I try to stay away from fixed points. Too easy to muck things up.”

Mickey shook his head in disbelief. “Wow, we’re really here. We’re actually here.” When he saw the Doctor smirking at him again, his smile disappeared. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“I’m still angry, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, just because we ended up where we meant to go this time doesn’t mean you aren’t still a bloody wanker.”

Again the Doctor shot him a look. “Well, there we are then.”

“Right. Just so long as we’re clear about that.” Mickey looked around. “So which way do we go?”

The Doctor pointed directly in front of them. “About three blocks that way is Dealey Plaza and the Texas Schoolbook Depository. If I’m here, that’s where we’ll find me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s where I’d go,” the Doctor said simply. He took two steps forward and then stopped short. “Almost forgot,” he said. He rummaged deep in one of the pockets of his trousers. After a moment he pulled out what looked like two tiny hearing aids which he pushed into his ears.

“Telepathic dampers,” he said, answering Mickey’s unasked question. “Don’t want him to sense that we’re here. Of course, the downside is that I won’t be able to sense him either. We’ll just have to look for him.”

“If you had those, why didn’t you wear them before, when we were lookin’ for him on the Estate?”

“Didn’t have them before. I made them while you were getting changed. It’s not as if I didn’t have enough time. You took longer to get ready than Rose does.”

“Oi, I’m not the one who gave me the wrong directions to the Wardrobe Room! I got lost three times on the way there.”

The Doctor ignored the accusation. Instead he began to lecture as they headed in the direction of the Plaza. “The ‘60s were an age of enormous turmoil and massive contradictions in America. The Cold War, race riots, the Vietnam War, the space race… Just a few months ago, Martin Luther King gave his iconic ‘I have a Dream’ speech, spurring on the peace movement.” He came to a stop and paused for a moment. “And in an hour’s time, an assassin’s bullet will end the life of President Kennedy, leaving behind a widow, two small children, and a nation in mourning.”

They were both silent for a moment before they continued on down the street. They passed a variety of shops: a butcher’s, a bakery, a tobacconist, a bookstore. All were common to Mickey’s home and era, but somehow they looked different in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Ahead he heard the strains of music. Next to him the Doctor grinned.

“Ah, a record store. And playing the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley! I bet Rose would love to meet him! Maybe after this is all over…”

As they walked down Main Street, they joined the crowd that already begun to form. There were people from all walks of life lining the street. Young and old, rich and poor, all races and creeds, all were gathering to catch a glimpse of the presidential motorcade.

Despite himself, Mickey caught the excitement of the festive atmosphere. Red, white, and blue banners fluttered overhead, suspended on wires that crisscrossed the road. Children darted back and forth, weaving in and out of the crowd while their parents scolded them. Older men congregated in groups smoking cigarettes and cigars, while older women stood apart and gossiped. Police officers wandered up and down the street, while photographers snapped photos of the crowd.

Mickey stopped and looked around, taking in the surroundings. He’d never been to America, never been back in time, and he wanted to memorize all of it if this was going to be his last trip with the Doctor.

Beside him he heard someone giggle. He turned to see a group of girls looking at him. One, a pretty young woman in a yellow dress and white cardigan, smiled shyly at him. He smiled back.

“Come on, Mickey,” the Doctor snapped. “You can flirt later. We’ve got a job to do. We’ve got to find me before I get myself into trouble.” He strode quickly down the street, his coat flapping behind him. Mickey had to jog to catch up.

“Why don’t you use your sonic screwdriver to track down your TARDIS like you did last time?” he asked breathlessly.

“Because I don’t want to find the TARDIS, I want to find me.” The Doctor stopped short and scanned the crowd on the other side of the street. “The photo of me here, do you know from what vantage point it was taken?”

Mickey shook his head. “I didn’t see it. Rose did.”

“Hmm. If you were me, Mickey, where would you stand?”

“I dunno. I guess as close to the street as I could.”

“But that’s assuming that the reason I came was to see the motorcade. If I just wanted to see President Kennedy, I’d have gone to his inauguration. No, there’s something else going on here.” He closed his eyes. After several long moments his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “This is a fixed point.”

The Doctor opened his eyes and jerked his head towards a building. Mickey nodded and they left the crowd.

“What’s goin’ on?” Mickey asked.

“I told you about fixed points,” the Doctor said quietly. “The Kennedy assassination is a fixed point. It has to happen. But something’s wrong. Something here is in flux. Something could change. And I don’t know what it is.” He looked around. “Just our being here, our very presence here could change something. And since I’m here twice… We have to find me. And fast. Before I change history.”

If Mickey had thought Main Street had been crowded, that was nothing compared to Dealey Plaza. It was wall to wall people on either side of the road. The Doctor led the way as they fought their way through the crowd, searching for the younger Doctor.

“I don’t see him. You. Whatever.”

“Neither do I,” the Doctor said. “And it’s almost time. The motorcade will be here within minutes.”

“Which one’s the Depository?”

The Doctor pointed to a tall building about a block back the way they came before returning to scanning the crowd.

“He’s there right now, isn’t he?” Mickey meant Oswald, rather than the younger Doctor, but the Doctor understood what he meant.

“He works there. By now he’s been in the building for hours, biding his time, waiting for everyone to leave so he could set up his rifle.” He huffed in frustration. “There’s too many people. We need to be higher up.”

“How ‘bout over there?”

They fought their way across the street to a sloping grassy area that was high enough to see most of the crowd. The Doctor pulled a pair of opera glasses out of his pocket.

“Much better.”

“Got another pair of those?”

“Yep.”

With the aid of a second pair of opera glasses, Mickey scanned the crowd. “I don’t see… Got ‘im. There he is. Behind that fat guy over there.” The younger Doctor was at street level near the Depository, waving something back and forth. “Looks like he’s looking for something with his sonic screwdriver.”

“What?”

The Doctor turned and looked where Mickey had indicated. “What? What am I…”

In the distance, the crowd began to cheer, and Mickey turned back to looking at the street. “Doctor! Doctor! I think the President’s here!”

As a plain, white Ford, the beginning of the motorcade, turned the corner onto Elm Street, Mickey’s heart began to pound. The excitement that he had felt earlier had disappeared, and now he felt sick. This was history for him, he knew what was going to happen, but somehow knowing and doing nothing made it worse.

The next few moments seemed to be in slow motion. As he watched, the white car pulled ahead while a midnight blue convertible, President Kennedy’s car, moved at a crawl around the corner, followed by police escort. Just as Mickey spotted the President and First Lady in the back of the car, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. The President slumped forward. As the First Lady tried to aid her husband, several people in the crowd began screaming.

Eyes wide with shock, Mickey gasped for air, sickened by the realization that what he had heard was the shot of a sniper’s rifle rather than a backfire, and that he had just witnessed President Kennedy’s assassination.

He had just seen someone murdered. He fought down the urge to vomit.

But it wasn’t over. As confusion reigned, Mickey turned back to look at the younger, leather wearing Doctor. Another shot rang out, and then possibly a third. At the same time, he saw the Doctor lunge to the side, knocking a young woman to the ground.

As time returned to normal, police began to swarm over the hill.

“Doctor!”

The Doctor stood next to him, still staring through the opera glasses, seemingly frozen in shock. Mickey shook his shoulder.

“Doctor! We’ve got to go! Now!” He yanked on his arm. “Run!”

They ran in the opposite direction of the crowd, making a large loop around the Plaza before heading back the way they came. When they reached the TARDIS, the Doctor fumbled with his key before letting them inside.

“I really need to make an electronic key for the TARDIS,” the Doctor said.

Beside him, Mickey wheezed for air. “I really, really need to work out more.”

The Doctor circled the console, setting the controls. The Time Rotor began to move up and down and the sound of dematerialization echoed through the room.

“Where are we goin’? Aren’t we gonna go back and try to find him again?”

“No need,” the Doctor answered. “Whatever injured both the TARDIS and me didn’t happen here.”

“What did happen?”

“He saved someone’s life. Someone, a young woman who originally died from the ricochet of a bullet fragment, didn’t die now.”

“Didn’t you say that this was a fixed point?”

“The Kennedy assassination was a fixed point,” the Doctor told him. “Her death wasn’t.”

“So you saved someone’s life.”

“It appears so.”

“Is that why you went there, to save her life?”

“I honestly don’t know. I still don’t remember any of this, and that worries me. Really, really worries me.” At Mickey’s questioning look, the Doctor continued. “If I was involved with this situation, if I had somehow met him, to maintain the timelines my younger self would have had to forget this happened until it happened to me, this me. If that had happened, if my involvement here had caused him to force himself to forget this had happened, then the memories of today should be returning to me now. And they’re not. Which means that my memory loss has been caused by something else, something that affected both me and the TARDIS.”

“Which means we’re back to square one.”

“Which means we’re back to square one,” the Doctor agreed.

“So now what?”

“Now we go on to the next place I know I was, and we look for something that could have affected both me and the TARDIS.”

The Doctor moved around the console, setting the next coordinates.

“How do you do it?” Mickey said quietly. “How can you go someplace like that and not do something? I mean, a man was shot, murdered, right in front of us. How can you just watch that happen and not let it affect you?”

“Who says it doesn’t affect me?” the Doctor said in a low voice. “This is why I don’t go to fixed points. The temptation to do something is too great.” He turned to face him. “This is how I see the world, Mickey. Every second of every day of my life, I see what is, what could be, and what can’t. I know what’s right, what has to happen, and more importantly, what’s wrong and mustn’t happen.”

“Is that what happened with Madame de Pompadour?”

“Yes. Her death at the hands of futuristic robots was wrong. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. I had to stop it. I’m just sorry that you and Rose were hurt by it.”

They both fell silent for a moment, and Mickey was overwhelmed by a glimpse of what it meant to be a Time Lord and by a new sense of what life was like for the Doctor, how he must be filled with agonizing choices every day. He didn’t know how the other man could handle it, day after day, year after year, and if what Rose said was right, century after century. If it was him, he’d want to escape it. Run away, as far away from all of it as he could.

But the Doctor didn’t have that choice.

Finally the silence between them became oppressive.

“We never found out, did we?” Mickey said, mostly to lighten the mood.

“Found out what?”

“What happened. Whether there was a conspiracy. Whether there was a second gunman. We didn’t even see who was on the grassy knoll.”

The Doctor chuckled. “No, as far as whether there was a conspiracy, whether Oswald acted alone or not, that will have to remain a mystery. But as far as who was on the grassy knoll, I would have thought you’d have figured that out.”

“Who?” Mickey asked. And then the penny dropped. “Us?” The Doctor gave him a nod. “But if we changed time by being there, how could it have been us?”

“There may not have been anyone there before,” the Doctor told him. “Witnesses were divided about that. Or maybe two other people had been there before who weren’t there now because we were. Or perhaps there was a ripple effect from our being there. Who knows? Most people consider time to be a straight line, a strict progression of cause to effect, but really it twists and bends, curves and circles upon itself. You can wake up in London in the year 2007 and spend the day creating the seeds of a conspiracy theory in Dallas in 1963.”

Mickey shook his head in disbelief.

The Doctor gave him a rueful grin. “Mickey Smith, welcome to time travel.”

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Fast Forward.

I hope this appeases @internallydeceased MWAH - Mod MBD. 

I will find a link to all parts and post them with the request as soon as I get chance to search them all out, thank you lovelies for your patience. 

The knocks came intermittently, but Claire didn’t move to open the door. Twenty-four hours later and Jenny had given up trying to get Claire to come out of the room, leaving her to her own devices.

Jamie hadn’t come up at all.

Claire saw it as a sign. Had he felt any warm feelings towards her he would have certainly followed Jenny up to check that she was alright -surely.

Pulling her robe aside, Claire sat with her back to the mirror. Her cheeks were pinked, her nose still red from crying but she’d ceased her endless sobbing, at least for the moment. Looking at her spine she traced the angry red welts as the snaked down and under the furry material of her dressing gown with her eyes.

Foolish, that’s what she had been. Jamie and Jenny had been her constants in a confusing and new world. Claire had let those small moments that she’d had with Jamie build in her mind but looking at her healing injuries now she could see what she hadn’t before.

How could anybody love her like this?

Running her fingers over the tops of her shoulders, Claire felt the ruptures, over the scabs that were now just thin and twisty but deeply gouged into her flesh. She was forever scarred. Although she knew that it didn’t mean a whole lot in this time, where she was from it was the mark of a criminal. She’d already seen a couple of responses, peoples reactions as they stared in horror and then walked away.

Admittedly, there hadn’t been many opportunities for her to have her top low enough for members of the public to see, but on occasion her shirt would slip as she was at work in Ray’s shop and customers would catch a glimpse of the scars.

“Claire,” Jenny whispered through the door once more, her heart in her mouth as she tried for the last time to get Claire to come out. The door had been locked for nearly two days and though she had access to water, she must be starving by now. “Are ye going to come to tea? It’s my last night as a Fraser, it would only be you and I…?”

“No, thank you Jenny,” Claire replied, biting her lip and closing her eyes as she tried to quell the anguish that was filling her once more. She did not want to start crying again, not after it had taken her so long to stop the first time. But the request had tugged at her heart strings and she felt terrible that she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave.

“But ye have to come to the wedding lass?” Jenny questioned, unsure anymore as to whether she actually would or not.

Hiding her head in her knees as she turned herself fully away from the mirror now, Claire shook as she tried to answer Jenny. At this moment in time she didn’t want to see anyone at all. But how could she not attend? Not when Jenny had pulled out all the stops to have an extra meal added at such short notice.

“Just not today, Jenny, please…” she begged waiting until the footsteps had disappeared before darting from the dressing table and crawling back into bed again. The duvet still smelled faintly of her last long sleep, the stench of her own body clinging to the fibres but Claire couldn’t bring herself to care too much. She hadn’t bathed since she’d locked herself in the guest suite but then again, she hadn’t needed to.

Dozing on and off, Claire lost another day to her increasing melancholia and by the time the morning of the wedding came around, she had built her internal walls so high that not even Jenny could coax her from the bedroom.

Having spent a good ten minutes with Fiona by her side, Jenny tried everything she could to get Claire to join them in their celebrations downstairs. Cursing her brother’s grand plans, Jenny gave in and went to call the only other person she knew who might have significant influence over Claire.

--

Ray stood with his forehead broached against the hardwood of the bedroom, he smiled a sad smile, his lips lifting only slightly as he knocked quietly. “Claire, ma cherie? Are you alright in there. Jenny says you haven’t eaten for two days. They’re all worried about you, lassie.”

He heard the door lock click and moved back a little so that she could open it for him. There had been no objections, no talking through the door at him. Claire had simply obeyed his request, her hunger imposed fatigue had taken control of her body and mind. Since Ray’s confession to Claire, she had felt this increasing bond with the man who’d somehow saved her life and his soft French lilt had broken down the barriers she’d carefully constructed around her.

Sneaking through the small gap, Ray entered the small suite and closed the door behind him. It took him a moment, but when he first caught a glimpse of a very bedraggled Claire the breath caught in his throat.

“Claire, lass,’ he choked out the shock settling in his bones as he reached a shaky hand forwards, “you must cease this now, come out and have a decent meal, yes?”

Biting the inside of her cheek to stop the tears forming, Claire swallowed back the bile that had begun to rise along her throat. “Is it always this hard?” She whispered, her hands fiddling nervously with the hem of her oversized jumper.

“Is what hard?” Raymond questioned, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. He knew all of the story having heard it from a very apologetic Jenny only an hour or so before but he hadn’t wanted to make assumptions without hearing from Claire first. Jumping in his car and whizzing over to Lallybroch, he’d suspended any thoughts on the matter and having seen her in such a state, he hadn’t thought about it since.

“This,” she said, her left hand resting softly over her heart as she spoke, “...love.”

--- --- ---

Snaking her way through the crush of bodies, Claire snuck into the elaborate reception hall, along the wall and into the throng of people gathered around the buffet. Raymond had sat patiently and listened to her side of the story before hustling her into the bathroom to clean herself up. Now, suitably dressed and scrubbed, Claire tried her best to blend in with the wedding guests. She had missed the entire ceremony and the lunchtime meal, but Ray had made it incredibly clear; she couldn’t spend her time hiding away from either Jenny or Jamie. The longer she left it, the harder it would be - and he had been right, of course. But now she was here, trussed up in the evening gown Jenny had lent her for the occasion, Claire couldn’t help but feel even more out of place.

“Ye shouldna push your way into a queue, you know, Claire,” Jamie whispered, his warm breath fanning over the exposed expanse of her neck as she froze in place.

Claire had been so panicked, her thoughts blurred as she’d tried to stealthily enter and join in with the wedding party as sneakily as possible that she hadn’t noticed Jamie’s eyes upon her. Instead of avoiding him, he’d clocked her the moment she’d arrived and had made sure to be out of sight until she’d let her guard down enough for him to get close.

Claire’s heart was beating a forceful thrum in her chest as she glanced over her shoulder, her face a nice vibrant red as she looked up at him from under her lashes. “S-sorry,” she stuttered, her mouth going completely dry as words failed her. She felt like a blithering idiot as she stood in his shadow, the music blasting around them as the party continued unawares.

“Will ye dance with me, Claire?” Jamie asked, his tone hopeful as he rested his hand lightly on her elbow, hoping to guide her decision with a brief touch.

“I don’t think I can…” she returned. Fear gripped her as she recalled dances she’d been invited to in the past.

“Och,” he said, “you can. It’s all in the leading. I promise I willna steer ye wrong.”

Nodding, Claire turned, letting her arm slide towards her him, allowing Jamie to take her hand in his and tug her gently towards the partially empty dance floor. The music changed as they were moving, sliding effortlessly from a more jaunty rock and roll tune into something more delicate. Claire blinked slowly as Jamie took her in his arms, pulling her body flush with his as they moved with refined ease in a small circle.

“Did you truly cook for me, Claire?” He asked when he had her safely cocooned against his chest. He felt her fingers tighten around his but she made no move to run away. Guided by his movements, she swayed, his bicep neatly holding the majority of her weight as her ribs vibrated with the intensity of her heartbeat.

Claire didn’t want to think about her failed romantic meal and she hid her head, trying desperately to avoid the loaded question.

“Tell me, aye?” He said, his voice a mere whisper in her ear as they danced on the spot now.

Claire nodded, her mouth too dry to even consider answering out loud...again.

Her ears pricked at the sound of his reply, but it had been quiet and in Gaelic. She couldn’t pick up enough of the words to understand what he’d said, but the word ‘gràdh’ made her chest burn with desire. The wounds on her back forgotten, his endearment sent a pulse of desire shooting through her and she (unconsciously) rolled her hips against him as she panted out an uneven breath.

“Claire,” he sighed, the subtle keen in his tone drawing her head upwards as she squeezed her eyes shut before opening them fully. Looking at him properly for the first time in days, Claire saw the desolation that lay behind his sea-blue irises. She could see the bags around his eyes and the slight blurred redness that now marred his otherwise perfect stare.

She gasped lowly under her breath as she swallowed. Maybe it had been exacerbated in her imagination, but it didn’t seem as if he’d had much rest in the last few days either; mental or physical.

“Yes,” she answered a beat later, her lips barely moving as she tilted her chin further upwards.

Jamie leaned his head to one side, his eyes half closing as he drank in every inch of her.

“May I kiss you, please?” He asked politely.

“Oh,” she returned, pleasantly surprised at his genteel approach.

“Because I think that I’m falling for you and I dinna wish to wonder what ye taste like any longer. Please, Claire, kiss me,” he said, moisture gathering on his lower lip as he spoke.

“You...like me?” Claire replied, shocked. After all, she hadn’t suspected he had feelings in return.

“Aye, Claire,” he said, “I believe I do. And maybe it’s more than like, but I canna ken for sure until…”

“Yes,” Claire broke in, her whole body aching to meet passionately with his, “yes, you can kiss me, Jamie,” she finished, her hands trembling now with some force as his grip intensified.

Now he really was keeping her upright.

Not wanting to waste another moment, Jamie licked his lips languorously, his tongue peeking out for just a second as he dipped his head as Claire tilted hers towards him.

The feel of his stubble against her chin was electrifying. That was her first thought as Jamie’s lips pressed delicately against her own. The second was that he tasted like whisky and a fine summer's harvest. Grass scents lingered on her tongue as Jamie slid his gently into her open mouth. It was divine. Soft and damp, warm and fresh, soft yet punishing as the feelings she’d been beginning to experience before crashed over her like surf on a sandy beach. Claire felt as if she might drown as their kiss seemed to go on forever. She couldn’t even recall whether she’d taken a breath since they’d begun - but nor could she bring herself to care.

Slowly but surely, Jamie pulled away, his hand (his fingers partially buried in her hair whilst his palm rested perfectly along her jawline) twitched as he forced himself to end their embrace.

“Christ, yer beautiful,” he murmured almost to himself. The ringing in his ears intensified as he pulled himself out of the trance she’d imposed upon him with her ethereal beauty.

“...you don’t care about my back, about my past?” She said, worry gurgling in her gut as she spoke.

“About yer back?” He said. “No, of course not. Had I kent yer feelings for me, Claire, I wouldna have lingered in town that night, trust me.”

“You would have come?”

“Ach, aye.” Jamie chuckled, extinguishing the anguish that had overcome Claire in the days following her failed date. “I wouldna have missed it for the world, mo nighean donn.”

[lukajoyelliott]

Interesting Pointers...

With The Lonely Londoners - idea of creating a new persona/identity/alternate character as an escape. It’s a world of fantasy (Five Stair Steps song). Impact of shock when placed in these uncomfortable and unfamiliar settings.

Jojo Rabbit - idea of hope, letting all things happen to you; beauty and terror. No feeling is final. 

Remember that BFI short film event in 2018/19. One film featured a girl who carried this contraption/mask round with her and thats what gave her confidence/the thing she carried was counter cultural to her family life. One beautiful scene with her in a swimming class underwater as she used it with the instructor becoming angry but she blocked the noises out. 

Spoke about FMP ideas with Emily. Some of her suggestions and our discussions...

Listen to a brush with: Rachel White. Podcast on Spotify. Her famous house playing on the idea of negative space but she was accused by the people who live there of taking up their space. 

Could interview Emily’s mum Becky - someone coming from growing up in very specific area in Kansas which sharply contrasts to her way of life here in London where she has been living for many years.

There was a male artist who looked into the life of Rosa Parks and found her house completely destructed so flew its pieces from mid west America to Belgium. Jaunty experience. Physically and literally trying to recreate home but family were angry - not possible to entirely recreate experience, necessary to adapt depending on location? Why did this artist have the power to do this.  People migrating from South to Midwest. Emily’s cousins living in Hill City, Nikodeamus Kansas. Removal of spaces and seeing them again in a completely separate and contradicting context. We found her grandma’s university college on an Urban Outfitters vintage jumper. 

Stamford Hill in London - example of a preexisting culture being so visceral and vibrant in somewhere so far away from the original context. Examples of this elsewhere in London? Whitechapel?

There is an Art Fund that has the power to move sculptural works every 10 years. Changes the context?

[fashiontrendin-blog]

The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

http://fashion-trendin.com/the-best-new-menswear-pieces-to-buy-right-now-16/

The Best New Menswear Pieces To Buy Right Now

Topman Red Flannel Shirt

If you want to stand a chance of anyone jumping your bones this season, steer well clear of novelty Christmas jumpers. Instead, channel your inner St Nick in this cosy flannel shirt from menswear behemoth Topman. No, it doesn’t give you a license to get hotties to sit on your lap, and equally no, that’s not why it’s called Lapland.

Buy Now: £35.00

Dr Martens x Engineered Garments Monkey Boot

Anglo-American relations could be on the up if this collaboration between New York-based Engineered Garments and British stompy shoemaker Dr Martens is anything to go by. Reworking the retro Monkey Boot, the pair has added contrasting textures and additional eyelets, all presented in a UK/USA cotton bag.

Buy Now: £209.00

Idle Man Slim Prince Of Wales Wool Suit Trousers

Great news for anyone starting a new job in 2018, The Idle Man has relaunched its suit offering, and very smart it is too. Honing its tailoring expertise, the menswear e-tailer has come up with a four-strong contemporary collection of slim-fitting suits made from (sweat-patch-free) breathable fabrics in classic colours.

Buy Now: £65.00

Miansai Fusion Pendant Necklace

New York accessories house Miansai has built a name for itself turning out the kind of jewellery blokes actually want to wear. Case in very stylish point: this pendant necklace, which pulls on the latest trend for mixing metals.

Buy Now: £350.55

Sunspel Shetland Wool Sweater

Made in bonnie Scotland on a traditional circular knitting machine that ensures a smooth construction (trust us, a good thing), we’re barmy for this army green jumper from Sunspel, the brilliant brand that brought us boxers.

Buy Now: £185.00

Carhartt WIP x Underground Resistance Simple Pant

Impossibly cool workwear brand Carhartt WIP has teamed up with Detroit-techno-collective-cum-political-activists Underground Resistance for a collection of everyday essentials. Made up of a parka, beanie, hoodie and these awesome heavy duty chinos, it’s everything you need to withstand a brutal Michigan winter.

Buy Now: £65.00

Vintage Artwork Guinness Cans

It’s Christmas, so accessorise your look with a glass of something cold. Happily, Guinness is celebrating what would have been the 120th birthday of John Gilroy – the artist who helped to shape the brand’s identity – with a run of limited edition cans splashed with his work. And because it’s the season of goodwill, we reckon you can have tou-cans.

Buy Now: £12.00

Ami x End Heart Logo Hoodie

Hooking up with young Parisian label Ami, the team at forward-thinking menswear retailer End has crafted an exclusive collection of oh-so-soft hoodies complete with an embroidered heart logo and subtle tonal branding on the back. Très chic, we say.

Buy Now: £169.00

Freedom to Exist Watch

The creative director of ultra-swanky members’ club, Soho House, and Marks & Spencer’s furniture chief have joined forces to produce a series of sleek, unbranded watches that have more than a dash of Scandi style about them. And at just £155, the price is pretty minimal, too.

Buy Now: £115.00

Stone Island Brushed Cotton Shirt

Once the preserve of football fans yelling obscenities in the terraces, Italian technical brand Stone Island has undergone a resurgence of late, and we’re pretty happy about it because it whips up cool coats and expertly aged shirts like this could-be-vintage brushed cotton example.

Buy Now: £260.00

Eastpack Killington Backpack

Beginning life as a supplier of tough-as-nails backpacks and duffle bags to the military, US bag brand Eastpak is embracing its heritage this season by making use of the very on-trend army green and camo print. If enlisting looks this good, where do we sign up?

Buy Now: £95.00

Adidas Prophere

Inspired by its impressive nineties archive, Adidas has created its chunkiest silhouette yet. The all-new Prophere lifestyle runner is no wallflower – packed with futuristic details like a textured sculpted sole and pops of neon in the fabric.

Buy Now: £90.00

H&M Merino Wool Cardigan

Dressing like your old geography teacher doesn’t begin and end with corduroy. To properly shake those sartorial tectonic plates you’re going to need a cardigan like this Merino wool version from H&M. And if you want to get really ballsy, try tucking it into your trousers.

Buy Now: £39.99

River Island Faux Fur Trim Hooded Parka

If most of the time you live on a diet of staple navies, blacks and greys, make this the season to add some mustard into the mix. This parka from River Island, which is finished with a faux fur trim hood, looks good enough to eat from where we’re sitting.

Buy Now: £90.00

Weekday End Leather Gloves

With spring just around the corner, you might have to wait until next year to get the most out of these gloves. But thanks to their simple design and timeless black goat leather body, they’ll look just as good then and every winter after.

Buy Now: £30.00

Belstaff Steadway Stretch-Cotton Shirt

With its neat nods to classic military style, it’s safe to say heritage outfitter Belstaff has nailed it with this shirt. In addition to being spliced with tonal topstitching and finished with a logo print patch on the sleeve, the jaunty pocket is just slanted enough to make you wonder whether you’ve knocked back too many mulled wines.

Buy Now: £150.00

Oliver J Woods Abyssinian Clay

With a client list that includes Jude Law, Brad Pitt and Daniel Craig, you can trust your locks are in well-trained hands with Oliver J Woods. The hairstylist to the stars has just released his own grooming line including this matt clay styling product.

Buy Now: £28.00

New Era 9Forty Premium Adjustable Cap

There’s only one way to wear camel this season, and it’s literally head-to-toe. This textured wool-blend cap from the new premium range by American headgear giants New Era seems like a logical place to start.

Buy Now: £25.00

[personofnorank-blog]

MacConnell’s

It’s 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon. I’ve spent the day meandering through Glasgow’s Kelvingrove park, making my way along the river with the pigeons and squirrels. It’s a beautiful, crisp fall day with frost dusting the leaves on the path.

After a few hours and miles, I fancy a pint. The exterior of MacConnell’s proclaims it to be a “traditional Scottish haunt”, which sounds like just the place.

Behind the bar is a dark-haired woman in a black tank top who I expect is likely younger than she appears. She greets me with a warm “Hiya” and serves up a frothy pint of Guinness as she banters with the two older men at the bar.

They each have partially completed crosswords in front of them, but have paused in their progress in favor of jaunty discourse.

Peals of laughter erupt from the only other occupied table in the small pub, where four gray-haired men in jumpers are deep in joyful debate. The guffaws are punctuated with frequent “Fowk Yewh!"s. The controversy seems to involve the height of a particular sporting figure, from what I gather.

"Hey, Natasha! Come Google this for us!”

“Aye, I will do. Give me two minutes.”

The liquor delivery has arrived and her attention turns to the transaction.

Meanwhile, two new arrivals have joined the group. Standing height comparisons are made, bets taken, and I catch something about “allowing for shrinkage” which provokes much loud applause.

Natasha returns, serves the newcomers their beer, pulls out her phone, and the question is posed to her: How tall was Italian footballer Franco Baresi (whose stellar career ended in 1997)?

The answer comes back: 5 feet, 9 inches, and there are cries of triumph and consternation as bets are won and lost.

One may well ask, “Who Cares?”. But they would be missing the point. Of course it doesn’t matter how tall Franco Baresi was. What matters is these people, right here and now, taking these moments as they are and enjoying them in their companionable perfection. I silently bow to them, grateful to have been a party to it.

My glass is empty. Time to move on.

[jenna-lec-uni-blog]

Subcultures - CHAVs

research :

“Male Chav: Sportswear - the bigger the brand name, the better. Mr Chav would never dream of wearing his Burberry cap at a jaunty angle. He uses the peak to hide his identity, as though he is about to mug you. 

Female Chav: When not wearing her baseball cap - badly-dyed hair scraped back into the tightest bun possible.”

“Prada, Moschino, Evisu. Reebok Classics. JD Sports. JD & Coke. UK Garage. Charlie Chans, Opera House, Eros. Dealers in Beemers. Dressing up to go out. At the time it was hardly recognised, never mind celebrated, outside of itself. Rude Boys, Chavs, Lager Louts, Hoodies – labels were thought up to demonise young men who carried on the traditions of those born into similar circumstances before them. From neglected urban jungles to decaying seaside towns, association with these types could destroy a fashion brand’s credibility (and in the case of Burberry it almost did)”

“This culture was once considered to be the iconography of what papers at the time would politely call "scum." Associated mostly with the working-class north of England and born of a longing for acceptance via the medium of very nice Adidas Trabs, you were considered the enemy if you so much as had the temerity to dress like one of them. And now it's been reduced to not much more than a vertical in the Urban Outfitters online store.”

“ flashy shit with big logos and all that.”

“Reebok classics, an Adidas tracksuit with a Champion jumper and a Nike TN hat”

��Somewhere and somehow the borderlines between being a chav and being cool have become blurred. Chav culture, the culture that comes with an unruly amount of bad press is now seeping across the UK wearing Versace glasses, a Moschino shirt and shell-toe Adidas.”

“What I’m saying is this isn’t really a fad, its almost a uniform. Young people are in this world together and are going to have to walk arm in arm through the shitty swamp that is british society, at least do it looking like a straight up, mother fucking G.”

Notes from youtube videos:

Brands (Adidas,Nike,Umbro,Burberry,Lonsdale) - “We do what the fuck we want” - Maccies - T2+HtwoO - Wanna be mc - Stella+fags - Jeremy Kyle - Tracksuits+snap backs+trainers - Hang around parks - Cheap booze - “Fuck the police” - “Fuck the government” - Frosty Jacks - Spitting - Graffitti - Start fights - Council House And Violence - chavscum.com - Attitude - Hoop earrings + gold chains - Burberry - Not trying to be anyone else - Tramp Stamp - Young mums - Shell suits - Side bag - “you cool blud” - Tracksuit tucked into socks - Sovereigns - They don't care - Middle finger - “don't see it as a crime its their way of living” - Vandals - “its fun, it gives us something to do” - Rob people 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMcjoP670so

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R6C4m85BXk

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs8D39aopIY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugNeWkeGYm8

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ur4eAR5nIqY&t=5s

http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/world-news/how-to-spot-a-chav-1597537

https://hypebeast.com/2016/1/fashion-british-working-class

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/this-britain/high-fashions-debt-to-the-lowly-chavs-78560.html

http://www.complex.com/style/nu-lad-working-class-fashion-trend-the-guardian

https://thealternativeviewing.wordpress.com/2015/04/13/how-chav-became-the-new-chic/