#i am rusty on race weekend routine

[overtake]

👀 | bahrain 2024 driver's parade

[talesfromthesnogbox]

Stuck Here With you

Rating: M (Rating for explicit conversations about sex) 

Words: 3,586

Summary: Richie and Eddie are stuck quarantining themselves together... what could possibly go wrong? OR based on this tweet: "@cjkasulke: APPARENTLY you have all just been *waiting* for this moment to confess your love to your roommates, so many of you live with people you have been silently in love with for y e a r s"

Notes: This is so stupid. Yes, I wrote a quarantine fic. Yes, this whole thing is a serious matter and I am an adult who's working from home and it all sucks, and there are people dying all over the world, and I do care, but I just thought people needed a little bit of a laugh, ya know? Anyways, this is wildly out of character and not good in general, but drop a comment if you like it, or if you think I'm a horrible person, whateves.

AO3

*~*~*~*~*

Richie woke from his catnap with a startled jump as he heard the front door slam shut.

“Jesus Eds, is it 6:30 already? Did I sleep all day?” He asked with a laugh.

“No asshole, it’s noon.” Eddie slammed his briefcase on the breakfast bar and worked his tie open. “This pandemic bullshit has gotten out of control.”

“Is that why you’re home right now…”

“Yes! Jared that fucking lunatic went off and brought some girl home last weekend and now he’s got a fever, so we were all sent home, and I’m stuck in isolation.”

Eddie was pissed, but Richie could see through his thinly veiled layer of anger; there was fear.

“Oh. Do you hang around Jared a lot at work?”

He sighed. “No, no I don’t, but it’s just a precaution until he can get tested properly.”

“That’s good then, right?”

It was good. After seven full days, Eddie finally emerged from his room with a cheery smile. “Jared’s in the clear, turns out he just picked up some STD, and I get to go back into work tomorrow.” He plopped down on the couch.

“That’s great Eds, but I hate to break it to you…” Richie pointed towards the TV where the headline read “California officially shut down”.

The first few days felt like any weekend would. They had extra groceries delivered, they binged some true crime documentary on Netflix, they had a group Skype session with the Losers, they did pretty much anything that took their minds off the current situation. But then the fifth day hit.

It was only 7am when Richie dragged himself out of bed for a coffee. Sure it was early, and he had nowhere to be, but time meant nothing anymore.

Usually Richie’s clamoring about the kitchen woke Eddie up. The first few nights that Eddie moved in after Derry were rough; turns out, Eddie was a pretty light sleeper, and Richie was loud. But today, there was no Eddie in sight.

He continued on his way, pouring himself a bowl of cereal when he saw it through the window to his backyard… and promptly spilled milk all over the counter.

On the bright side, Richie had found Eddie. The only downfall was he’d found him in a pair of tiny running shorts and a tank top doing squats on his deck.

“Fuck!” Richie swore, grabbing a tea towel to clean up the mess he’d made.

“Richie?” Eddie stopped his squats and ran into the house. “What the fuck happened dickwad?”

“N-nothing, nothing happened, it’s just early and I lost my grip.”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“So um… what’s happening in the backyard there, Jillian Michaels?” Richie giggled.

“Fuck off. I usually go to the gym before work, but now that the gym’s closed, I had to improvise.”

“Ahh, I see, trying to pick up the new future Mrs. K with…” with thighs I want to wear as earmuffs and that tight ass? He was glad there was an entire counter between them to hide the fact that he was currently at half-mast.

Eddie gave him a strange look and shook his head. “Shut the fuck up. I’m a divorced 40-year-old living with his best friend, I don’t think I’m going to be picking someone up that easily at the gym. Besides, Santa Monica women aren’t really my type…”

“Oh? Well when this is all over, I know a few places we can go pick up chicks. West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, hell even Studio City. Name your type Eds, we’ll find her.”

“Aren’t you gay? How do you know so much about picking up women?”

“Closet case my boy.” Richie winked and took a bite of his cereal. “I’m as good of an actor as I am a comedian.”

“No wonder there were never any articles about how much of a playboy you were then.” Eddie said straight-faced, walking back out to finish his work out.

“Eds gets off a good one!”

*~*~*~*~*

After that eventful morning, Richie tried his hardest to stay in bed until after Eddie’s morning routine was done. One almost-embarrassing situation in his pants was enough to last a lifetime around his best friend of however-many years, he did not need it to escalate from there.

As the days passed on, the two of them found ways to entertain themselves. Eddie took to reading on the deck in the mild April weather, and Richie decided to pick up his guitar again for the first time in years.

He was a little rusty, but after a few hours of practice, it was like riding a bike, and before he knew it, he was back playing the tune he’d spent hours playing as a teenager.

Richie hummed along to the tune of “Eddie My Love” as his fingers formed the familiar chords with ease. He didn’t even realize Eddie walking in from the backyard, a stunned look on his face.

“Rich?” He jumped, startled at the sound of the other man.

“Hey Eds, sorry was I being loud?”

“N-no.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know you played.”

Richie chuckled. “Yeah, I picked it up in high school after Went agreed to teach me a bit. I was in a band in college, but we kinda sucked.”

Eddie scoffed. “You don’t suck, that tune is lovely. What is it?”

Richie’s face felt hot all the sudden. “Uhh, I can’t really remember the name, just something I used to play a bunch. It’s an oldie my mom really liked.”

“Can you teach me?”

His eyes widened. “Y-yeah, here, come sit.” He moved more away from the body and more towards the neck of his acoustic, allowing Eddie to sit nestled between his folded legs. “Okay, um so you hold it like this, and your fingers go here.” Richie curled Eddie’s fingers around the neck of the guitar, placing them in the correct spots on the frets. “So we start with a G chord.” His other arm snaked around Eddie’s shoulder to show him how to strum the chord.

Eddie shivered, completely engulfed by his best friend, noticing for the first time how much he loved his arms being wrapped around him like this.

“Then we move to an E minor.” Richie shifted Eddie’s fingers again and strummed. “Then A minor, and up to D.”

Eddie moved his fingers, pliant beneath Richie’s big hand. His heart beat fast, and he could feel Richie’s breath warm on his shoulder as he played.

For a moment, Eddie could convince himself that Richie felt the same way about him, but only for a moment. They were best friends, and just because Richie was gay, it didn’t mean he was interested in Eddie, no matter how hard he wished that he was. He would never have Richie, but he’d always have this moment.

*~*~*~*~*

“Alright, that’s it. We’re getting drunk.” Richie pulled out a rather large bottle of vodka and a few other spirits. “I’m mixing you up a quarantini.”

“A what now?”

“Quarantini, Eds. We’re getting shitfaced.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Rich, there’s no way in hell I’d—” he paused. Maybe this was the perfect way to come on to Richie. Lowered inhibitions were a great excuse to do something potentially stupid, and if it all went sour, he could blame it on the alcohol. “You know what, fuck it. Mix me a quarantini.”

“That’s the spirit!” He mixed the drinks and dragged Eddie over to the couch. “Alright, we’re indulging tonight. I want not a peep from you. I never got to do any of this gay shit before, and now is the perfect excuse to start a new series. We’re watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.”

Eddie nodded his head. “Drag racing, okay cool, I like cars.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No asshole, drag race… like drag queens.” He popped on a random season and hit play.

Four episodes and many quarantinis later, both Eddie and Richie were yelling at the TV.

“How could they send April home, she’s like the hottest one there!” Eddie put his hands up.

“Right? Look at how hot he is ugh I just wanna…” Eddie glanced over at Richie with a smirk. “Shut up.”

“No, no, I see it.” He pulled out his phone, April’s instagram profile already loaded. “The scruff is driving me mental.”

Richie chuckled. “Eds, that sounds kinda gay.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” Eddie said, face heating up. “Um, surprise?”

“Oh… shit dude, yeah, um, congratulations. Thanks for telling me.” Richie brought his friend into a tight hug, the alcohol running through his system making him feel a little light headed.

“Thanks for being cool about it.” Eddie mumbled, pulling away a bit, but still resting within Richie’s grasp.

“Hey man, I get it… I’m a closet case too.” He laughed.

The two were silent for a moment, content in each other’s grasp, until Eddie couldn’t handle the silence anymore. “Come on, next episode. I hope Laganja gets booted, I can’t stand her.”

Many episodes and quarantinis later, Eddie was fully shitfaced.

“Come on, bedtime for Eds.”

Eddie giggled. “Yeah Rich, take me to bed.” He waggled his eyebrows in a way that made Richie’s heart stutter.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough from you.” Richie deposited Eddie onto the bed, helping him with his shirt, when Eddie pulled him down hard.

“Oops, sorry Rich.” He giggled. “’s not my fault, you’re trying to get me out of my clothessss.”

“You’re wearing jeans, I can’t let you go to bed in jeans Eddie. What kind of asshole wears jeans in quarantine.” Richie giggles, undoing Eddie’s zip and pulling his jeans down his hairless legs. Fuck, his legs are amazing. “Eds, do you wax?” Richie giggled, rubbing a hand up his thigh.

“Pffftt, we’re in isolation shithead, I haven’t been to my wax girl in weeks.”

A jubilant laugh bubbled from Richie’s chest. “Shit, I’ve learned more about you tonight than I have in all the years I’ve known you. You really are a twunk.”

“A what now?”

Richie planted himself down on the bed beside Eddie. “Twunk, hunky twink.”

A look of realization dawned on Eddie. “Ohhhh, that makes a lot of sense. The dude at the checkout told me I was a twunk when I went to buy those underwear without the butt.”

Richie’s brain went blank. “Eddie, do you wear thongs?”

“No asshole, the other thing without the butt. Jock something, I can’t remember.”

“A jockstrap? Eddie are you trying to kill me right now?”

“Shut the fuck up asshole! They’re good for working out in. And they don’t give me lines in my nice suit pants.” Richie was speechless. “So if I’m a twunk, what are you?”

“I—I—I think it’s time for bed.”

“Oh.” Eddie said sounding dejected. “O-or we could just hang out?”

Richie was at an impasse. He knew they were walking a thin line right now, and he shouldn’t stay, but he wanted to see where this would take him, he didn’t want to leave Eddie’s side.

“I think I could hang out for a bit.”

Their “hanging out” didn’t last very long. Within ten minutes, the two men were out cold.

Richie woke up first the next morning and left the soundly sleeping Eddie to go make a pot of coffee. His head was pounding, and as much as he knew the bright sunlight was going to burn his eyes, the fresh air couldn’t hurt.

He’d never been more thankful for his manager who also happened to be a fantastic decorator. The outdoor couch may have seemed stupid to him when he first bought the place, but at times like this, it was a great choice. He could relax, and look out towards the ocean, and forget everything that happened the night before.

That is until Eddie decided to join him.

Richie’s breath left his lungs once he got a good look at his friend. It was like a blast from the past seeing him in a pair of tiny red running shorts, much like those he wore when he was a kid, but now… now they were so much more. Richie’s mouth watered when his eyes caught a good look at how Eddie’s ass filled out the shorts. A large tank top donned his torso, one that Richie had been gifted, and definitely not been too comfortable wearing himself judging by how low cut the arm holes were. He looked hot, not that he wasn’t always attracted to Eddie, but this felt like something had changed, a sexual awakening of sorts, and Richie would never look at his friend the same way.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungover.” Eddie complained as he sat beside Richie. “That stupid drink went down like water.”

“Yeah man I hear you, I feel like shit.”

“I had fun though, it’s been a long time since I’ve had that much fun.”

Richie looked over to him. “No regrets about spilling your guts then?”

Eddie winced. “Okay, maybe you didn’t have to hear about what kind of underwear I prefer.”

Richie burst out laughing. “No, I definitely appreciated that tidbit of information, Eds. I’m proud that my twunk theory was right.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward.” Richie mumbled to himself.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“N-nothing.” He said, darting inside. “Going to work on my new show, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Richie had to get out of there. Last night was a lot, sure, but something felt different today. Seeing Eddie in his boxer briefs felt almost safer than whatever the hell he was wearing today. It’s almost like… almost like he’d purposely dressed up for Richie, and it was killing him. He didn’t know how much more he could take before he combusted.

Unfortunately for Richie, this new look seemed to be Eddie’s new uniform. Richie could tell that now Eddie was out to him, he felt more comfortable being himself, but Richie hated every second of it.

He dreaded seeing Eddie in the morning, dreaded knowing what fresh hell lay beyond his bedroom door in the form of a 5’9 firey bundle of sex personified.

Nearly a month into their quarantine, it was finally warm enough for Richie to sit out by the pool. He donned the brightest swim trunks he could find and rubbed his pale skin down with sunscreen, soaking up some vitamin D.

He’d been out there for just under an hour when he heard (and felt) a splash from the pool where Eddie jumped in.

“Okay, I take back everything bad I ever said about you having a pool when the ocean is right there. The pool is definitely more relaxing than the beach.”

Richie giggled. “I told you, asshole.”

“Oh, and I totally figured out what you are now. If I’m a twunk, you’re an otter.”

“A what now?” Richie removed his sunglasses and moved to sit on the edge of the pool.

“An otter.” Eddie rested his elbows on Richie’s thighs as his calves framed his torso. “At least that’s what I think. It’s like a softer bear. You’re not quite as big and not enough hair to be a bear, and you’re still too thin to be a cub, so you’re an otter.”

“I understood exactly none of what you said except for ‘bear’. I met a bear on Grindr just before Derry that made me realize I like being the bigger body in bed.” Richie winked saucily.

“So you’re a top then Trashmouth?”

Richie’s brows rose into his hairline. “I—I—we are not talking about this right now, not when you’re this close to my dick.”

“Oh come on, you used to talk about your dick all the time.”

“Yeah, I was a closeted kid who’s balls hadn’t dropped yet, obviously I wanted to come off as heterosexual as I could.”

Eddie laughed. “Okay, good point.”

The two sat in the same position for a few minutes, exchanging no words between them. It felt intimate, it felt like Eddie was flirting with him, but he’d never been good at picking up signs. Could Eddie want this too?

“I am though.” He said quietly, finally breaking the silence.

“You’re what?”

Richie’s heart thudded in his chest. “A top, I guess. I don’t mind bottoming, I like it, but I guess I just…”

Eddie grinned. “You like being in charge?”

“No, fuck no.” Richie laughed.

“Really? Huh, okay.” Eddie nodded, mostly to himself.

“Hey, what the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all Tozier.” Eddie pushed off of Richie’s legs and floated on his back towards the inflatable lounger.

*~*~*~*~*

The week that followed was agonizing. All Eddie wore was those stupid shorts and a variation of t-shirt/tank-top/fucking crop top, and it was driving Richie mental. He felt like a teenager again, he’d never had so many hard-ons in one week in his life.

It was only a matter of time before Richie snapped.

Richie was descending the stairs from his room one fateful morning and groaned rather loudly when he saw what was waiting for him.

The shorts seemed shorter, tighter on his ass (damn all those squats he does) and his already short shirt seemed to rise up, showing the lovely dimples on his lower back as he reached for a bowl from a high shelf.

“Hey Rich, can you help me… what’s wrong?”

He huffed out a laugh. “What’s wrong? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Wh—did I do something?”

Richie stared at Eddie in disbelief. “Did you… did you do someth—the shorts man, what’s with the shorts!”

“The shorts? I always wear the shorts.”

“I fucking know you always wear the shorts, that’s the problem!” Richie’s stomach rolled. He thought he was going to throw up, he’d never been this candid about his feelings in his life.

“You have a problem with the way I dress? Fuck you, dude.”

“Fuck me yourself you coward!”

Both men fell silent. The tension could be cut with a knife, it was so thick between them.

“Richie?”

“Fuck man, I’m sorry I freaked out on you like that, I just don’t know if I can take this anymore. We’ve been cooped up for a month and I swear I’ve done more jacking off in the last month than I ever did as a teenager.” As good as it felt to spill his guts, he definitely thought he was going to pass out any second.

“I—I don’t…”

“The worst part is, it’s not even just that I’m horny. It’s you! Shit man, I’ve been dreaming of you since we were fucking teenagers. And now… now here you are looking like a goddamn… a goddamn what’s the word… a goddamn snack, telling me shit about the sexy underwear you buy, and asking me if I’m a top. Eddie, I don’t know if you’re flirting with me or not, but Jesus fucking Christ, it’s taking every single fiber of my willpower to not rip your clothes off right now.”

Eddie held back a smile. “Wait, I’m sorry, what? You couldn’t tell I was flirting with you? Are you fucking blind? Actually don’t answer that, I know you’re fucking blind.”

Richie was sure he was gonna get a nosebleed any second. “S-so you were flirting with me?”

Eddie laughed out loud. “Yes you idiot! Literally since the moment I got here, I have been flirting with you. You didn’t get the hint that I have feelings for you?”

“What the fuck, no man! Like you said, I’m fucking blind. I thought you were straight until a few weeks ago!”

Eddie moved to lean against the island, closer to Richie. “You dumbass, I tried so hard the night I came out to you, why do you think I told you about what fucking underwear I wear?”

“I don’t know man, I’m not good at this shit.”

“Clearly!”

Richie cast his eyes down. “S-so, so you really like me?”

Eddie reached for his hand and interlaced their fingers. He pulled Richie closer to him, so he was pinned between Richie and the island. “I love you, dickwad.”

Richie huffed out a laugh. “I love you too.” He blinked rapidly, looking up towards the light. “Oh god, why am I crying.”

“Get over here you big baby.” Eddie detangled his fingers from Richie’s and brought his hand up to the other man’s cheek, bringing him in for a kiss. It was sweet, it was chaste, it was everything Richie wanted from Eddie when they were younger.

But he wasn’t a teenager, and he wanted more.

He dove forward, tongue clashing with Eddie’s. It was hot, it was toe curling good. He snaked his other hand down Eddie’s side, curling around his hip and moving to squeeze his ass. Eddie groaned and ground himself into Richie’s thigh.

“Fuck.” Richie said pulling away. “Fuck, how are you so hot? We’re fucking forty man.”

“Me? Dude, look at you. Your arms… your chest…” Eddie snaked his hand under Richie’s shirt, scratching at the smattering of hair on his pecs.

“Jesus man, I’m not gonna last… fuck… bedroom?”

“Bedroom.”

*~*~*~*~*

The two men finally emerged from Richie’s bedroom for dinner later on with kiss bruised lips and satisfaction plastered on their faces.

“Anything good on?” Eddie asked as Richie turned on the TV. “Rich?”

Richie laughed. “You better come see this.”

“QUARANTINE LIFTED” The headline read as news anchors happily recounted the fall in new cases, and the rise in recoveries.

“You’re fucking joking.”

[welovekpopscenarios]

Encounter (Daehyun x Reader)

Admin: Candi Request/Idea: How can Daehyun resist going back to the woods after encountering the most beautiful thing he has ever seen? Fandom: B.A.P Member/reader: Daehyun x Reader Genre: Angst, Horror, Smut Warnings: Gore Words: 2k Authors note: I finally did it, please go easy on me since I am a bit rusty but I still hope you enjoy it! I decided to write for B.A.P finally.

           When Daehyun first stepped foot into the forest he didn’t know what powers it held, he didn’t know that he’ll be drawn to it like a moth to a flame and he would have no clue as to why he wanted to go in deeper into it. The first time he visited the forest was with his friends, Yongguk had the great idea of letting loose and having a few drinks in the forest with a fire. Everyone seemed to be into the idea, so they drove deep into it where no one could find them, there was no phone service, they completely disappeared.

           “What if we get attacked?” Jongup played with his fingers and looked down.

           “By who?” Daehyun scoffed.

           “Or by what?” Youngjae added, trying to scare Jongup.

           Yongguk laughed and reassured Jongup that they’ll be fine. As time went on and the drinks were starting to take away every bit of sensibility that the boys have left they decided to call it a night. Camping wasn’t on the agenda, but everyone was quite intoxicated, so they slept in the truck. As they got in, Daehyun couldn’t shake the feeling of someone staring at him, he kept looking around but eventually he blamed it on the alcohol. He got into the truck and got the window seat, he rested his head on the window and admired the shadows that the moon painted on the soil. His eyes shifted and caught a glimpse of something between the trees.

           “Guys! Look there, between the trees!” He screamed out and pointed.

           “What?” Himchan scrunched his eyebrows. “You’re just drunk, you’re fine.”

           Daehyun could have sworn he saw something, it appeared to be a human figure. His mind was racing with questions, but he calmed himself down and ended up convincing himself it was just his imagination. Throughout the night Daehyun kept waking up, he felt like he was being watched but he promised himself he won’t freak out. He got out of the car quietly, looked at his phone, still no service.

           “It’s only 4am, I just want to go home.” He whispered to himself. He took a short stroll around the woods, not straying too far from the car. He looked up and could see the sky full of stars and the moon shining through the branches of the old trees. He was breathing in the fresh air, the smell of the fire still lingered in the air.

           “Hello?” Daehyun left his trance as he heard a branch break on the floor, as if someone stepped on it. “Probably some animal.” He breathed out and turned back around. He froze, he could clearly see a human standing right between the trees. The person got closer to him until he could make out that it was indeed a woman. She was wearing fur that covered her most intimate areas and had strange marks on her face but she was the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Daehyun still couldn’t move, it was like someone cast a spell on him, he was in a state of complete paralysis. She got close and caressed his face, his heart was racing, he wanted to scream and run but it was no use. Her mouth opened wide, tearing the sides of it to the point of blood gushing out, her teeth were sharp and stained with blood.

           “Daehyun! Daehyun!” Yongguk shouts out. Daehyun wakes up, sweating and panting. “What the fuck happened? What did you dream about?”            “What?” Daehyun wiped his forehead, sweat dripping down his cheek. “I-I swear it was not…” The dream felt so real he didn’t know whether it happened or not but after thinking about what happened he presumed it was only a nightmare.

           “Are we ready to go home?” Yongguk asks and everyone hums in agreement.

           On the way home, Daehyun was pretty quiet, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that it was only a dream yet it all felt so real. The group stopped to grab some food but Daehyun couldn’t stomach anything at that moment, his mind was invaded with thoughts of the witch from the forest.

           They arrived back home by afternoon, everyone dropped their bags and found the nearest spot to rest and all sighed out in unison, the lack of sleep was getting to them and they were all hungover on top of that.

           “I’m gonna go for a nap, don’t know about you guys.” Zelo announced. Everyone seemed to scatter off but Daehyun, he stayed on the couch and fell asleep there.

He was walking through the forest, searching for the beautiful witch he encountered last night. The air was so fresh, wind so warm and trees so vibrantly green.

“Yo wake up it’s 9am we have practice.” Yongguk wakes up Daehyun.

“I slept here all night?”

“Looks like it. Come on, the management is going to kill us if we’re not there practicing.”

They hurried down and spent most of the day practicing for their upcoming concert.

“Man what’s wrong with you?” Himchan sits down next to Daehyun and asks. Daehyun has been pretty distracted all day, he wasn’t managing to follow the new routine like he always did.

“I just, I can’t stop thinking about my dream. It felt so real, I’m almost sure it was real.” Daehyun answered to Himchan and unfortunately Himchan didn’t know how to help him.

After about a week Daehyun was slowly starting to go insane, all he could think of was the being he saw in the forest. He sat down on the couch and searched for his phone in his pocket, he felt something and took it out, it looked like pieces of wood with weird markings on them. Those were the same jeans he wore during the camping trip. He needed to go back and prove to himself that what he saw wasn’t real but how was he going to explain it to the guys? “I’m going to the woods by myself to prove that the witch I saw wasn’t real!” That’s insane. He needed a plan and needed to come up with it fast before he went insane.

“Hey guys so I was thinking, the camping trip was really fun right?” He starts.

“Right.” The group responds.

“Why don’t we go again this weekend? The weather is meant to be really nice and we need to relax before our show.” He stands there for a minute before the group all agree and decide that it’s a good idea.

Finally, the weekend is here after what it felt like forever. Daehyun wakes everyone up and hurries them to get to the car. They took off quite early in the morning, he’d have plenty of time to explore the woods and look for the breathtaking woman he knew he saw. Once they got there he dropped all of his stuff and legged it into the woods while he told the others he’s gone exploring. Hours went by and he found nothing, he finally gave up and started heading back to their site. When he finally came back everyone was relieved to see he was safe, he was gone for hours and they started to get worried about him. Daehyun sat down looking disappointed as ever and accepted the fact that everything was just a dream. For the rest of the night they all sat around the fire, sipping beer and singing songs, eventually everyone fell asleep.

Daehyun woke up and looked around, everyone was still asleep, he checked his phone and it said it was 4am. He went to the car to get some water.

“Guys?” He heard the rustling of leaves behind him. “Is anyone there?”

“You came back.” A soft voice spoke to him, he instantly froze and told himself it was just a dream. He felt a hand on his back, it travelled to his chest and turned him around.

“I’m Y/N. I haven’t stopped thinking about you ever since you came into the forest the first time.”

“Who are you?”

“Do you not remember me?”

Of course, Daehyun remembered you, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

“You came back because of me, didn’t you?”

“What’s going on?” Daehyun stood there breathless, confused as to whether it was a dream or not.

“Come with me.” You dragged him deep into the woods, not saying a word. He had a lot of questions, but he didn’t know which one to ask first, it’s like the lost his tongue. The deeper he went in the more his anxiety went up, he was being dragged by a stranger deep into the woods but for some reason, he couldn’t stop. It was like he was under a spell and he enjoyed every minute of it, he didn’t want this trance to end. The woods got so thick it was hard to avoid trees but after walking for a while he noticed a little cave which he assumed was where you were all this time. You both went in and he sat down on one of the chairs in the cave.

“Why am I so attracted to you? Why did I feel the need to come back here?” He asked and you made your way over to him, put your hand in his pocket and took out the wooden pieces with marks on them.

“This lured you back to me. I needed you to come back.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” You smile at him and make him feel at home while you go off into a room that was separated by hanging leaves and feathers.

“What did I just get myself into? I should leave” Daehyun was scared and wanted to go back to the group but no matter how much he tried to convince himself to leave he just couldn’t. He sat in the chair until you came out, his jaw dropped, and he was instantly drawn to you. You stood naked right in front of him, waiting for him to get closer.

“See, I’m a witch and I lure people in.” You whisper in his ear while his fingers get tangled in your hair.

“Oh yeah?” He says breathlessly, standing over you. You can feel his warmth on your skin. You press his lips against his and push into him, he lifts you up and brings you into the other room where he slowly lies you down on the bed that was covered in different furs. He kisses your neck and nibbles on it while his hand massages your breast and plays with your nipple. You moan out his name and he lowers himself to your folds and runs his tongue through them. He slipped two fingers into you and started pumping bringing you closer to an orgasm, you pulled him up before you got the chance to cum. You got on top of him and slipped his throbbing cock into you making both of you moan. He kissed your chest while you bounced up and down his dick edging both of you closer and closer.

“I lure people in here because I feed off them.” You moan out.

“What?” Daehyun stopped and fear clearly made an appearance in his eyes. You kept moving your hips making it hard for him to concentrate. Before he got the chance to react you grabbed the dagger that was on the table next to the bed and stabbed him straight through the chest. Blood splattered everywhere, it wasn’t long before you were covered in it and he was taking his last breaths.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, you were one of the prettier ones.” You rest your hand on his cheek and kiss him while he was on his last breath.

“We need to go back and report this to the police.” Jongup panics.

“We can’t just leave without him.”

The whole group starts arguing about what to do. Daehyun has been missing since this morning and it was 3pm already, they needed to go back to their dorms and inform the agency of Daehyuns disappearance.

“Idol Jung Dae hyun missing since last weekend, the group went to the woods to camp and he went missing that night. There have been no leads so far and no one knows his whereabouts. His bandmates decided to cancel all of their upcoming shows until he’s found. If anyone has any information, please contact your local police station.”

[the-revisionist]

Hi! Just to say, I LOVE your fics! Could you possibly write Things you said on New Year's Eve for Caroline and Gillian? If that's not a good one, then literally any of them will do I'm sure you'll write it perfectly! Thank you

Anon, hope you’re still reading…thank you for kind words and the prompt! Sorry this took longer than anticipated! 

This is a companion piece to “Completely Undressed and Mostly Sober in the South of France.”  @farminglesbian had suggested a continuation of that in some way and since she controls the Lesbian Empire on the European Continent in an Unspecified Rural Location Where They Are Inclined to Wear Lederhosen I must obey or I may never be allowed in Europe ever again.  

This story is a bit of an exercise in style. For dialogue I did not use traditional quote marks. So, you know, it might work, it might not, it’s OK and you can say so, I’m a big girl and I have a lot of wine at the ready, but please don’t be a twat about it. 

This one is post-series 4. 

faithful misrepresentations

i. it’s time to get the brioches

At 5 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, she apologizes for not shaving her legs.

The morning, blue and black with jagged frost etched across a darkened windowpane, rests at the edge of Caroline’s mind. It’s so terrifyingly early that she doesn’t really want to know the time but cracks open a reluctant eye anyway; the bedroom’s digital clock coolly burns a 5:05 on the inside of her eyelids, the blunt serifs morph into an SOS and she thinks, good God, I am awake at 5 in the morning, this is what I get for sleeping with a farmer. Because Gillian stirs warm and restless against her, driven by the undeniable rhythm of blood that always has her racing against the sunrise and who, because she is apparently the master of not only the unwanted spontaneous confession but also the truly baffling nonsequitur, opts not to say good morning but rather randomly and needlessly apologizes for not shaving her legs before this, their trip to France.

Blind as a kitten, Caroline reaches for her and, half-asleep through a tangle of warm limbs, hones in on her calf; the soft hair tickles, the solid muscle undulates, the raspy glory of skin warms Caroline’s palm. There is a scar on this calf, invisible in the dark but vivid in her mind as a distinct but delicate comet tracing a pale horizon. It was, Gillian told her, caused by a jutting, broken spoke on a wheelbarrow.

That’s when I learned not to do farm work while wearing shorts, she had said.  

Caroline replies to the apology by mumbling don’t mind into a pillow; sleepiness translates it into dun mime. She’s cresting the wave back into sleep when she realizes that Gillian is not moving, not rising out of bed with a stretch and a groan and a curse word. Which is odd, because Gillian likes routine. Every morning they’ve been here she’s up before the sun, making herself tea, reading for a bit, and then walking a mile to the village to fetch brioches from a baker amusedly tolerant of an Englishwoman who flirts with her grown son and insists on conversing in rusty French. By the time she returns the brioches are stone cold but she revives them in the oven, makes coffee, and wakes up Caroline by cannonballing onto the bed like a kid on holiday. Winter clings to her skin and clothes but her morning kiss is persistent and sweet and like waking into a warm, summery daydream and not a chilly old French farmhouse lacking proper heat.

She forces herself into a higher level of coherence, clears her throat, firms up a question: You’re not getting up?

Not yet, comes the reply.  

In the dark she aims badly for Gillian’s forehead and gently smashes her palm against a nose.

Are you sick?

No. It’s just—we don’t have much time left. Here, I mean. Want to enjoy it.

They return home the day after tomorrow.

By staying in bed as long as possible, Gillian adds as needless clarification.

Under two blankets and a comforter movement is heavy and surreal, a sluggishly sensual underwater ballet. The blankets move as Gillian slides on top of her, exposing Caroline’s shoulder to a rousing chill, which is briefly warmed by Gillian’s mouth before moving along the inlet of the collarbone toward her breast. She spreads her legs, Gillian settles in between them and presses into her, and even though it’s all so new between them—so wonderfully new, she thinks, as Gillian traces the inside of her thigh—she identifies the variance in tempos and moods better now and knows this time will be slow and sweet and hopefully she won’t bang her skull against the quasi-antique headboard again.

You’re giving up brioches for me?

Nah. I’ll get ’em later. Just delaying gratification, as it were.

So—how delayed is gratification when all you’re doing is merely sublimating it with another pleasure?

Even though they can barely see one another in the porous dark, a bluish outline of morning light traces the contours of Gillian’s face and hair and Caroline can see a hitch of expression, a shift of lines as she smiles.

Shut up, you, she says.

ii. continental beauty

For one horrible aching moment—while wiping down a quartz countertop aged to such an extent that it looks as if it’s survived a hundred years of everyday bacchanals, and this is why housework is dangerous and housewives go mad, she thinks, it sets the mind loose to dwell on so much of life’s chaotic cruelty—Caroline realizes that she never had this opportunity with Kate, that is, a long romantic getaway and not just a mucky weekend at a nearby hotel. Even on that modest level she fucked it up nearly beyond repair. Even on vacation with her husband of eighteen years always she felt—she knew—she was a fraud, nothing but a character in one of his novels. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe it means something. Here in this farmhouse in the Rhone Valley hundreds of miles away from home, she waits for the shoe to fall into a dreaded Grand Canyon of unspecified anxiety.

They spent months not talking about what they needed to talk about. It was easy enough to blame a host of things for this: demanding work schedules involving obstreperous students and sheep, parenting thickheaded boys, coparenting a toddler with a knobhead whose taste in women was obviously on the decline, a bountiful supply of excellent wine from a beautiful young woman who simply would not go away, and complete, sheer cowardice. Acceptance of the status quo has always come easily to Caroline, particularly in this instance because she was getting good wine and properly laid on a regular basis—thus her mother’s interrogations and condemnations, her secretary’s prurient questions (“You have it off with Brokeback Shepherd yet?”), and generally everyone’s bewilderment and clumsy emotional tap-dancing around the subject were all easily ignored.

Then last month, during one of those boisterous family dinners where, as was not uncommon, Gillian looked at her in an indescribably aching way—followed by a self-chastising frown, slight shake of the head, and a protective hunch of her shoulders that seemingly closed off any possibility of rapprochement—Gary announced to all present that renovations to his vacation home in France were finally complete. During this interminable period he had gone from referring to the house as a chateau to deeming it a money pit. It was actually an eighteenth-century stone farmhouse, its interior now as rustically authentic as one envisioned by a nouveau riche entrepreneur from Yorkshire, and Caroline twitchingly recalled Gillian’s proposal earlier in the spring—that they would go there for a few days during the summer and work shit out. But summer ripened and withered away and the promise, representing everything that was seemingly lost between them, lingered bitterly.

After dinner Caroline stood in the doorway of Gillian’s kitchen observing their motley, contented family—Raff playing Legos with Calamity and Flora, Lawrence attempting to show his grandfather and Gary how to play Halo Wars 2 on an Xbox, and Celia, post-two glasses of wine, going on about the life of the theater to the clearly bored yet admirably patient Ellie. She felt Gillian’s presence at her side—churning and restless as a spoon stirring a pot, staring at her feet, then a lamp, then her son, and finally fixing that burning gaze of hers on the woman next to her while the back of her hand glided over Caroline’s knuckles, thus causing the latter to force out a surprising hybrid of a squeak and a gasp.

Let’s—let’s do it, she said. Come with me to France.

Five minutes later they were purchasing plane tickets on the mobile.

Five days into this trip she has learned many things about Gillian: she slavishly embraces routine whenever possible, she likes brioches, she’s reading Middlemarch for the third time now but Caroline cannot imagine why because she herself has never made it past page 50, she’s capable of lingering over a cup of tea and not gulping it down because she’s not running late or has a hundred things to do in a day, she thinks MI6 was involved in Princess Diana’s death, she’s takes no firm side in the great over vs. under toilet roll debate—don’t people have anything better to do than argue about toilet paper? she had said—

—and she is an admirer of great beauty because now she barrels through the door after tromping around the countryside for an hour and breathlessly announces, I’m in love.

Caroline imagines herself unseeded by either the baker’s handsome son or the buxom young woman who works the vineyard nearby, the latter spotted the other day during a wine-tasting tour and whose sumptuous cleavage was the focus of surreptitious glances from Gillian. After half a lifetime of stealthily admiring the physical beauty of women, Caroline knows these covert maneuvers when she sees them. Alas, all she has to counter these continental beauties are certain oral skills and her talent for making a certain orange-ginger biscuit that Gillian loves and who knows, perhaps that will save the day, perhaps even as sun perpetually sets on the English empire all that truly matters is cunnilingus, tea, and biscuits.

I’m confident of your ability to attract, she wants to tell Gillian. But not my ability to hold you.

But while hanging up her coat Gillian starts rambling about a ram, a sheep with a fancy French name. She saw him posing on a hillside, broodingly apart from the herd, a Heathcliff among sheep. His markings and coloring exquisite, his horns symmetrical, his poise exceptional—

Before Gillian can declare herself high priestess of this mythic creature’s cult, Caroline—dimly aware of the unseemliness of jealousy over a sheep—interrupts rudely: What’s it called again? A rum-ball merino?

Gillian rolls her eyes. Rambouillet, she says. She grabs a cup for tea. A Rambouillet merino.

Ripe for plucking, the word hangs in the air and Caroline ravenously seeks its source in a kiss. She holds Gillian’s lower lip gently between her teeth, tongue running the plush length of it, tasting salt and mystery because, frankly, women have always been unfathomable to her.  Sweetly, wonderfully unfathomable. She starts to unbutton Gillian’s thick, lined plaid shirt—only to discover, underneath, a second plaid shirt thin and soft with age. At which she breaks off the kiss and bursts into laughter.

Jesus Christ, you’re like a flannel onion. Layers and layers.

It’s cold, in case you haven’t noticed, Gillian says—also laughing—as she sits the empty cup on the counter.

I’m trying to warm you up, Caroline replies as she sets in on the second flannel layer. In case you haven’t noticed.

Tossing her arms around Caroline’s neck and pulling her into another kiss, another embrace, Gillian says, I’ve noticed.

She doesn’t feel too distressed about fucking Gary’s sister on Gary’s distressed leather couch—burnished leather, she thinks he called it and the color was Churchill cigar—because there is an old blanket on it and as they fall onto it she doesn’t care about much at the moment except the wonderments and sensations of skin and taste, wondering if Gillian has ever called anyone else baby, Caroline can’t quite imagine that she has and would like to reserve that titular honor as her very own, wondering when the last time someone went down on her properly because her reaction and sheer enjoyment of it make Caroline feel like Aphrodite incarnate coming down from on high and she has to cling to Gillian as if she’s riding a rollercoaster by the skin of her teeth.

Afterward she’s sprawled on the couch wrapped in the comforter Gillian dragged out the bedroom, staring at the crisscross of the ceiling’s dark wood roof beams and with her head pillowed on Gillian’s bare thigh. With one flannel shirt back on, Gillian sits cross-legged while drinking one of Gary’s very pricey local Syrahs and pretending to read Middlemarch, pretending because she’s humming, which she usually does while absorbed in the comforting repetition of a task like washing dishes or mending a shirt or soothing a baby and in this instance the task at hand seems to be slowly, rhythmically running her fingers through Caroline’s hair. I like your—your hair, she had said the other day, shy and stammering and nervous after they made love, as if the gentle offering of a compliment would somehow be virulently rejected, and while Caroline loved the sweet awkwardness of it she hated the man who made Gillian terrified of revealing the slightest vulnerability.

She stares at the shadowed, foreboding ceiling beams, thinks that Gary should have picked a wood of a lighter color because the dark beams make her think of crucifixions.

Say it again, she says to Gillian.

What?

The name of the sheep.

Rambouillet.

Oh, she sighs, that’s lovely.

Unexpectedly Gillian drags her finger, damp and dribbling Syrah, across Caroline’s lips, as if soothing an infant with a taste of milk. You’re really weird, she says.

I’m not the one in love with a sheep, Caroline replies.

iii. the search for intelligent ovine life in the Rhone Valley

The afternoon winter sun, useless and pale, emanates as much heat as the moon. They are out in search of the great Rambouillet merino. Gillian insists she needs to get a better photo of the sheep so she can submit it to something called “Google sheep view” and Caroline, who is perfectly fine with not knowing what the hell that is, is nonetheless curious to know what the fuss is about and accompanies her. Leading the mission, Gillian stalks the dirt backroad that runs behind Gary’s farmhouse with her usual dogged, determined pace. She’s been in a bit of a mood since lunchtime and Caroline knows enough to let her be until she’s ready to talk; it’s likely, though, that she dreads the thought of returning home to the questions, the judgments, the expectations that will be laid at their feet.

She trails behind. Outside of the Yorkshire countryside she has navigated most of her life, her sense of direction is rubbish and she hasn’t a clue where they really are. She sighs and burrows deeper into her scarf. It’s the coldest day of the trip thus far. The stiff, expensive boots she purchased for the trip are pinching her toes and the too-high arches dig into her soles. In the distance she sees the vineyard that they visited days ago, the spherical red caps of the buildings distinct against the pale sky, and has a wince-inducing guilty thought about Olga.

Shortly after committing to this journey, she officially ended it with Olga. It was not so much a breakup as an act of disengagement; some days she actually convinces herself of this. Regardless it required some semblance of fortitude to finally override the guilt-ridden, passive-aggressive lust that propelled the relationship on her part. Olga took it well. She also took a case of an amazing Chenin Blanc from the Loire Valley that she had initially gifted to Caroline and now presumably would bestow upon another boozy, middle-aged lesbian—or, more likely, her ex—both nonetheless worthy of her considerable charm and refined palate, while leaving Caroline to the tender mercies of a sheep farmer overfond of cheap Lambrusco.

She stops for a moment to look at red roofs jutting into milk-white clouds and dwell in the newness of everything—place and memory, time and love—while accepting the sense of loss that perpetually nips at her heels. Snow flurries waltz to the ground.

Then she notices that up ahead on the road Gillian has stopped and turned around. Head tilted, she critically eyes Caroline as she would a lagging, miscreant ewe—as if to say, come along now.

Grimacing, Caroline takes long strides to catch up. She apologizes on arrival, insincerity muffled through the cashmere scarf.

Gillian carries a long, sturdy branch found earlier on the road. Alternately she’s been using it as a walking stick and brandishing it as a weapon, whacking at husked, brittle weeds lining the road, sadistically poking at stones. Idly she whips it around her body while frowning at Caroline.

What were ya doing back there? she asks.

Contemplating life’s mysteries. Appreciating the sublimity of nature. Oh, and staring at your ass. Not necessarily in that order.

Bashful at the compliment, Gillian lowers her head and grins. Then, wryly: So you weren’t stopping ’cause those boots are hurting you?

Not a bit, Caroline lies.

You’re limping, she says, and then nods in the direction of the winery. D’ya think they send out Saint Bernards with little wine flasks to rescue snotty English bitches who don’t wear proper footwear whilst they wander about the countryside?

That would be marvelous.

Gillian points up ahead at a copse of trees. The gesture is so startling and beautiful and confident that Caroline wants to seize her hand—ungloved, snowflake caught and melting on her thumbnail—and kiss it.

Right up there, she says, past those trees, is a shortcut through the wood to the vineyard. If you can make it, we could walk there. Couple glasses might revive you for the walk home.

And if it doesn’t?

Reckon I’ll have to drag you back somehow.

Cavewoman.

Nah. I’m not that strong, Gillian says with a roll of her shoulders, but I’ll give it a go.

Au contraire.

That’s the first bit of French out of your mouth since we got here.

You’ve been doing well enough for both of us, Caroline says, so why bother? She leans into Gillian, quietly pleased at the arm that automatically wraps around her waist. Then she presses her face into the crown of Gillian’s hair, kisses it, and says, I’ve always believed—she begins shakily, pauses clumsily—always known—you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

Gillian pulls back and stares at her, unsure if what she’s saying is an obvious revelation or a faithful misrepresentation of the brutal facts that comprise her life. She thinks that Gillian usually skews toward the latter as a default viewpoint, and realizes it may take a lifetime for her to sort it, to undo it. If ever. What surprises Caroline is not this but the belief, settling into her bones and countering her own misguided self-assessments, that she is finally brave enough to be fully present in Gillian’s life.  

On the walk home, both of them tipsy and tired, they see the Rambouillet merino ambling across an open field into the setting sun. And he is beautiful.

[daveywankenobie]

Christmas and new year’s day suddenly appear to be a distant memory – and I found myself this week exiting the bubble-like time capsule of the festive season in a slightly sub-par frame of mind.

When January the 3rd hit (the first day back to work for most of the UK) even though I don’t (yet) have a job I was suddenly reminded of the need to make progress in life.

This in my case isn’t just limited to employment. All of a sudden I feel slightly overwhelmed with the stress of needing to demonstrate to the world and myself that my time off for the last five months has not been wasted and that each day represents some form of incremental progress.

It’s probably not going to come as a surprise to anyone that in this respect I can probably be too hard on myself – but I feel the need to rekindle a sense of purpose that maybe began to relax a little bit in December. I’m beating myself up a bit about that.

I doubt I’m alone in this though as both the parks and countryside where I’ve been walking over the last few days have routinely been crammed with joggers and runners – all of whom appear to be wearing suspiciously pristine clothes and trainers.

I guess I’m witnessing the annual January miracle, where those previously unable to leave the sofa or put down their bags of Doritos are suddenly propelled into the outside world by new years resolutions clothed in nothing but spandex and propelled by dreams of smaller waistlines.

For my own part I’m not yet in lycra (the thought of it chills my blood) and my start isn’t new – but I feel like I’m still at something of a crossroads.

I wrote recently about the fear of a plateau and it’s still dogging me. I feel continually like I’m not doing what’s required of me and I’m beginning to let it get me down. I’ve genuinely struggled with food this week and I need to re-focus somehow – to zero in on the positives of life.

Today the outside world looked wonderful, and thankfully I’d pre-arranged a walk along the Stratford Greenway (link) with a friend.

The last time I walked this was in 2008 when I first lost a lot of weight. Back then myself and two friends made the slight tactical error of walking the entire five mile length into Stratford from the start and then back again to my car – which resulted in some rather unpleasant blisters.

I remember that my companions at the time felt exactly the same as me and by the time we’d finished the day none of us seemed enthusiastic about repeating the experience in the near future. This time however (with the benefit of advanced age and wisdom) we decided to take two cars, leaving one in Stratford to begin with and then once we’d finished going back to the start (where we’d also parked a car) to pick up the other.

I think it’s highly unlikely that we could have randomly chosen a better day for our walk, and as we exited the car at the start there was almost complete silence. The air was crisp and fresh and the world was totally still. Although the temperatures were well below freezing at the start of the day (and for most of the morning) the sun was out and the sky was a pure, cloudless blue.

Constant warm rays slowly thawed the world around us as we walked and talked.

  Neither of us were planning on setting any speed records today so we ambled along at a relatively sedate pace (Apple Watch tells me on average that was about 24 mins per mile).

The walk isn’t a complicated affair – and it’s one where it’s pretty much impossible to get lost. The Greenway is completely straight and level track thats ideal for prams, cyclists, dog walkers, runners, the disabled and ramblers. Although I no longer need them these days there are also plenty of spots (every mile or so) where you can sit down on a bench and sip tea if you’ve brought a flask with you.

The route follows the path of a disused railway, built in 1859 by the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway companies – and later absorbed by the Great Western Railway. It originally linked Stratford and the Midlands to Cheltenham and the South West of England -and for a time (whilst owned by British Railways) carried ‘The Cornishman Express’ to and from the West Country until the line’s eventual closure in 1976.

After a time falling into disrepair it was reclaimed by the local authority and remodelled as a recreational walk. It still has some of the old railway features along the way such as cafes in old railway cars, (in Milcote and at Stratford – open only at the weekends after 10am it seems and currently not very photogenic) the remnants of the old Milcote platform and a delightfully rusty railway bridge.

Shortly after this there are also some pretty nice views of Stratford race course.

Mostly the walk is through open farmland – and because of this there’s a lot of incidental wildlife. There were tons of birds flying overhead (noisy geese seemed to be a feature of the day) and there was seemingly always a squirrel making a hasty getaway out of the corner of my eye from whatever crime scene it had recently visited.

Walking in the frost also has an added element of child-like joy and wonder attached to it, thanks to icy puddles – otherwise known by me as nature’s bubble wrap.

It’s next to impossible to stop yourself stepping on these virgin patches of ice when you find them – purely to hear the fracturing and cracking beneath your feet when the surface gives way and splinters. It’s a wonderfully addictive sound and sensation – and I couldn’t help but notice other walkers doing this as well as we passed them.

  All in all the walk (thanks to the scenery and spirited twalking) absolutely flew by. Two hours after starting we were standing at the end of the path in Stratford next to the Holy Trinity Church.

Despite Stratford only being several miles around the corner from where I live it’s somewhere that I almost NEVER visit, so this was quite a treat.

I do rather like the place!

For Christmas it seemed like various groups in the community had been knitting decorations for the trees that were still in situ. Pretty much all one the ones in the nearby graveyard had winter coats on them and further into town many also had knitted baubles for the branches as well – giving the whole place a rather twee ‘little town’ feeling (even though it’s a busy tourism hotspot)

As we sat by the (mostly frozen) river and dock watching the seagulls perched on the surface and drinking a well earned McDonald’s coffee (black with sweetener of course) I felt like the weight of the worries I’d started the walk with had (at least temporarily) dissolved in the sunshine and melted along with the frost.

Both my friend and I agreed that soon (now that I’m not so terrified of fitting into ‘normal sized’ seats) we would have to come to Stratford again and visit the theatre for something high brow and Shakespearean with famous thespians in it.

I haven’t been to a play since I was at university internet – and I think it’s high time I re-introduced some culture into my life. Getting fit is great – but I am beginning to realise that I need to start feeding my mind with new thoughts as well as repairing my body.

Maybe that (and a job) will take my mind off over analysing my ‘successes’ or ‘failures’….

Davey

Frosty Greenway Christmas and new year's day suddenly appear to be a distant memory - and I found myself this week exiting the bubble-like time capsule of the festive season in a slightly sub-par frame of mind.