#i remember reading this in a magazine for people getting flu shots and i never forgot it for some reason

[uncanny-tranny]

One tip I learned as a young kid that I use now for my IM injections is to relax the muscle I'm injecting into make it as painless as possible. The idea behind this is that when your muscles are less tense (i.e., when it is relaxed), the needle will have an easier time penetrating into it to administer medicine.

Here's how I, personally, relax my muscles for injection:

Put on music or a YouTube video that piques my interest

Make sure I am focused on exactly what I'm doing to ease my anxiety; basically, being intentional and mindful

Sit myself down since I inject into the thigh, then slightly position my foot further than I normally would when I sit

Jiggle my thigh a bit before prepping it with an alcohol wipe (I don't know why, but this helps me so much)

Take a deep breath before injection, making sure the injection needle is at a 90° angle

Look away! (helps because I have very shaky hands that get worse when I look at what Im doing. Do check on your progress as you push the plunger down, but I find I don't have to look to know now)

This will be different than if you do SQ injections, so this is geared toward folks who are doing IM. These tips are things I find, personally, to be helpful, and so I implore anybody reading to realistically explore if it would work for yourself.

[nosferatvpussy]

distorted lullabies [chapter VIII]

Word count:  5,459

Warnings: none

Pairing: Dracula x female reader

AO3 link

A/N: Not much Dracula in this chapter and I apologise for it! I'm trying to progress the story while keeping it entertaining. Still hope you can enjoy it. 

Also, as I was reviewing this I realised not everyone might get a reference I threw in there (you'll know when). If you're curious about what I'm referring to, just watch this clip at the 2:40 mark (do NOT watch it around other people).

____________________________________________________

My gaze crossed with his over the table. He took a knight between two fingers, hovering in the air in thought. The dull light of a cloudy day streamed in at our right, creating shadows on the chessboard and making the pieces look bigger than they actually were. My eyes flickered to the ticking clock next to the chess board and then back to his. He frowned at my smirk. The knight hung ominously over my remaining bishop and I raised an eyebrow.

“I taught you that,” Renfield complained, pointing his knight at me. “It doesn’t work on me.”

The clock chimed, signaling that his time was over. I gave him a toothy grin as he stared in shock at the sequence of zeros on display. With his clock zeroed, mine started counting down from 3 minutes. 

“Doesn’t it?” I giggled, plucking the white knight from between his limp fingers and placing on the square it had been before. I pushed a black rook forward across the chessboard very slowly, the prospect of victory swelling inside me and making me outright laugh at the defeat on his face. I knocked the knight I’d just placed with my piece, leaving nothing in between his king and my rook. Renfield pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and swore as I retrieved the downed piece. “Good luck getting out of this. Check.”

I clicked the button on top of my clock to finish my move. Renfield stiffened, shooting me a cold look.

“When did you get so devious?”

“Don’t be a sore loser. You won all the past matches! This loss will be good for you, you’ll learn humility.”

“Funny,” he said, although he didn’t laugh, shifting his calculating eyes back to the chessboard.

Renfield supported an elbow on the table, fingers resting on his temple, like he was conspiring against a prosecution. I blinked, trying to stop the smile that threatened to overcome my mouth. Were it not for the sterile environment and the annoying ambient music, I could’ve thought we were back at work. My phone buzzed on top of the table, attracting both of our gazes. 

“Is that Count Dracula?” He inquired, gaze focused on the chessboard again, doing an excellent job of sounding uninterested. 

“Of course not, it’s ten in the morning,” I said as I reached for the mobile. “Isn’t he supposed to be in his cof--uh, bed?” I corrected, glancing at the nurse, Margaret, sitting not far from us. She had her head buried in a magazine but every once in a while I would catch her leaning her ear closer.

“He’s got a regular bed, Y/N,” he murmured, rolling his eyes. 

I unlocked my phone.

“I know. It was a j--” 

“Oh, do you?”

“Are you twelve?” I snapped and Renfield giggled, only reinforcing my suspicion. “Time is flying,” I indicated the chessboard and Renfield stopped laughing. I blew out a breath as I read the text that had made my phone buzz. “Since when is Evelyn getting married?”

“She sent the invites ages ago.”

“She did?” I raised my eyebrows, trying to remember if I’d seen it in my pile of mail back at home. “We work in the same office. Couldn’t she have hand delivered it?” He shot me a look. “I see what you mean. She thinks she’s bloody Posh Spice.”

Renfield’s hand stopped mid-air, on his way to move a rook but changed his mind at the last second, tapping his temple again. 

“Who?”

“Oh, you’ll get on my case about Dracula like you’re a schoolgirl but don’t know who Posh Spice is?” 

Nurse Margaret snickered, raising her magazine to conceal her affected grin, only confirming my suspicion that she could hear snippets of our conversation.

“The Beckham girl, of course I know,” Renfield glanced at Margaret, furrowing his brow. “I was very absorbed in my game and wasn’t listening,” he uttered the last bit louder, staring directly at the nurse. Her face became as red as a tomato. She skittered up from the couch she’d been sitting on, moving swiftly towards the nurse station on the other side of the room. Once she was out of earshot, Renfield said, “Is Evelyn asking you to RSVP?”

“Do I have to?” I grimaced. “The wedding isn’t even in London. I don’t like her and I have to travel all the way to Berkeley?”

“You know you have to.”

“Maybe I’ll get the flu. An aneurysm, if I’m lucky!”

“Her surname is on our calling card, Y/N.”

“Damn it.”

Renfield just looked at me and I slumped down on my chair. It didn’t matter if I was winning at chess when I was absolutely being defeated in this subject. I couldn’t not go to Evelyn Seymour’s wedding, the only remaining direct descendant of Edward Seymour, one of our firm’s original founders in 1821. Her surname was first in line when talking about the most prestigious law firm in London, followed by Sterling and May. From birth, she had a seat reserved for her at the firm, her birthright if I wanted to get poetic about it. Although her surname didn’t instantly grant her power over the entire business, she treated everyone like it did and that was precisely why I didn’t like her. My arrogance was an easily dispensed front but Evelyn’s owed hers to bad parenting, if I had to guess. 

“I can’t go, obviously. I imagine all the other partners will be there, except me,” Renfield sighed and set the piece he had on his fingers to the side. He leaned forward, peering at me over his spectacles. “It’s only proper that you go to represent me,” he lifted a hand before I could protest. “Yes, you. Y/N, you’re my sole pupil I’ve taken in 30 years at that firm and only because the other partners forced me to,” he scoffed. “I was less than happy with this at the beginning, as you well know, but it’s the one thing I can be proud of in my many years of practise. As I’ve been told by many people, I’m uncaring, rude and outright despicable at times. I struggle to find many redeeming qualities in myself, although you seem to pick them out effortlessly. Somehow, under my tutelage you’ve grown to be a brilliant lawyer and, while all credit can’t be mine, I believe I’ve had a finger at shaping you into the person you’re today, which is infinitely better than me,” he cleared his throat and removed his spectacles, suddenly interested in cleaning its lenses on his shirt. “Regardless of what’s come between us, I will have nobody else representing me at that wretched woman’s wedding. It will serve her well, too, for spurning you for so many years. Let’s not spare her our spite, shall we? Do try and sneak a picture of her face at the wedding party when you sit at the partners’ table. It will do wonders for my recovery.”

I used my ring fingers to tap the inner corners of my eyes, containing the tears that threatened to spill over. 

“Damn you,” I sniveled and laughed.

“Yes, well. I had to say something to convince you to go. Did it work?”

That, that was the Frank Renfield I knew. He had to still be in there, whole. His eyes were just blue, without a trace of otherness behind them as he spoke, and I grappled onto that to remain firm on my quest against Count Dracula, no matter how unlikely the odds against me.

“Of course it bloody worked. Will you try to kill me again if I give you a hug?”

He put his spectacles on, summoning a serious expression although his eyes were still welled up. 

“Let me win this match and I’ll do it. No promises if I lose.”

“Do your best, then,” I smiled, gesturing to the board. 

He averted his gaze to each of our pieces, analysing their positions. I left him to his devices while I typed a text back to Evelyn.

“Do you have a dress in mind?”

“Um,” I made, scrolling the screen up to check when the ceremony began. A twilight wedding should be pretty. It wasn’t the easiest time of day to choose a dress befitting of it, though. Not too fancy and not too simple wasn’t something one usually found in London’s evening wear stores. “I might have to go and get one.”

“Wear purple. It’s Evelyn’s favourite colour and she’ll be wearing white on her wedding day. Imagine her face--”

“Christ, you’re a teenage girl. How have I never noticed it before?”

“I’d been reading celebrity magazines before you brought me my books. They got to me. I’m still not over their effects, it seems,” he shuddered.

I chuckled and sent the text to Evelyn, confirming I would be there.

“Purple it is then. It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. I’ll see if Diana wants to go with me, I’ll make her wear purple, too.”

I put my phone aside just in time to see Renfield’s next move. 

“I heard that Evelyn’s fiancée is rich but not the most fetching gent. If you really want to send her into fits, take Count Dracula as your plus one. Checkmate.”

My mouth fell open as I watched him replace my king with a pawn. A pawn, of all things. I glanced between the chessboard and Renfield’s conceited grin, trying to find out how on Earth he managed to pull that off. Had I not taken that pawn into account? 

“Sneaky bastard,” I said, stunned. “I wanted a win!”

“Better luck next time, I guess. At least you get a hug as a consolation prize.”

I looked at him, shaking my head.

“I’ll take it but what I’ll not take is Count Dracula to the wedding, no matter how much I want to annoy Evelyn.”

Renfield leaned back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. 

“You’re still resisting him?”

“Please, don’t sound surprised,” I frowned. “You know I don’t take well to being underestimated.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t offend you like that,” he gave me a smile which disappeared a second later. “Frankly, I’m more surprised that he hasn’t just taken you for himself,” his voice grew thicker as he spoke.

“He won’t do that unless I give him consent.”

“And you think he won’t break that deal of yours if he grows tired of waiting?” he tilted his head like a bug.

I narrowed my eyes. His eyes had lost the bright shine that I was so used to seeing, especially when we were in court, and acquired a dreary gleam that immediately sent a shiver through me. I could only suppose that my refusal to take Count Dracula as my plus one was what set him off. From now on, I presumed that whatever I told him would be reported to his “master” so I had to choose my words with diligence.

“I’d like to think he respects me enough to keep to our deal.” 

Renfield chortled, a sound so unnatural to him that I almost doubted it came out of his throat.

“I do wonder,” he started between a few more laughs, “how is it that you manage to resist him. I thought it virtually impossible.”

“There’s a disconnect, I think, between mind and body for whatever concerns Count Dracula. My body responds in one way,” my mouth went dry as I thought about his mouth on my neck and I shook my head, “but I’m still quite capable of seeing what he is.”

“Which is?”

“I don’t have to explain it to you, do I? You told me that you have love for him,” I said and he nodded, “if that’s so, you love everything in him, even the worst parts. People love the whole while acknowledging the bad and choose to ignore it. So you know that he’s a manipulative monster who has killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people simply for the fun of it and--” I interrupted myself before I got carried away by my bitterness.

I shut my eyes, taking a moment to allow the rising wave of emotion to settle. The tightening on my throat told me there was more than bitterness but I wouldn’t trouble myself with exploring what that meant. Not now in front of Renfield. 

“Y/N,” Renfield said my name with such gentleness that my eyes shot open and when I stared at him, I was met with the dark blue eyes I had grown accustomed to. He had leaned forward, an open hand extended to me over the table. I put my hand in his without a second thought. “I understand that it’s hard but do yourself a favour and surrender. Surrender with arms wide open or he’ll hurt you and those around you. Listen to me. He will. He might shower you with what you think is affection and perhaps you’ll find yourself falling for him,” he squeezed my hand in his when I started shaking my head in denial, “but at some point he’ll become impatient if you keep stalling and he’ll do it. There is no way out.”

“I know,” my voice didn’t come out, so I tried again, “I know.”

People were supposed to have choices. And while I didn’t want to be hurt more than I already was, I had to try. I had to be free of Count Dracula. If what Renfield said was true, how could I possibly be with someone who was just as willing to care for me as he was to hurt me? 

My phone rang. Recognising Zoe’s number, I grabbed it and stood up. My hand and Renfield’s were still joined and I used it as leverage to bring him into a hug, forcing him to stand up. He stiffened for a second but then his arms went around me, patting my back awkwardly. His heart beat steadily and I smiled into the hug.

“See you later,” I said as I stepped back, holding tightly to his forearms. “I’ve got to run to lunch with a friend.”

“It’s still early.”

“It’s on the other side of London,” I lied. “You’re doing better. Keep doing whatever it is they have you doing here.”

“Not like I have a choice,” he said.

I almost asked him if he even wanted a choice since he was a willing slave but decided against it by giving him a smile and leaving. 

________________________________________________

“News?” Zoe asked me as she organised vials inside her briefcase.

I rolled down my sleeve and let my hair down now that we were done doing ‘business’. I settled myself on a more comfortable position which wasn’t difficult since Zoe’s car was the epitome of comfort.

“He came by,” I said, putting on my courtroom face. Zoe whipped her head around towards me, frowning. “Out of nowhere. It’s not like I could have told him to hold on and call you.”

“Where did he take you?”

“We stayed in and watched telly.”

“Watched telly? That’s it?” She questioned, closing her briefcase and letting it slide to her feet, near the car’s pedals. I shrugged. “You swear?”

Her disapproving tone reminded me of my mother’s and I scowled.

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“You have every reason to lie to me. Last time we met, you told me there was a bond between you two. Had I known this in the first place, I would--”

“Would what? Waste a perfectly good opportunity to capture Dracula because of a damned bond that’s not even my fault?” I raised my eyebrows at her and she pressed her lips in a fine line. “I’m not on his side. Or yours, for that matter. I could care less about the importance of your research, Zoe. I haven’t questioned the Jonathan Harker Foundation, have I? It’s shady business but it’s not my business. All I want is to be out of danger.” A tiny part of me questioned where would be the fun in that and I pushed it aside. That had to be the bond making its presence known. “We watched films together. Period.”

I stared at Zoe, waiting for her to chew on that.

There was no need for her to know about what happened halfway through Interview with the Vampire. Or about him carrying me to bed. After my encounter with Renfield, I wanted to forget how lovely it felt, sleeping on the Count’s arms. Dracula hadn’t done that for anyone’s benefit except his. I had to understand that.

“I don’t know if what I’m about to say will make you happy, considering-- nevermind,” Zoe shook her head. “With the samples you’ve been giving me, I’m close to synthesizing a pill that can possibly block his access to a person’s memories.”

“Possibly?”

“We’re still in initial stages of trials but it’s not like we can be certain of anything without the Count in our custody. However, I’m almost sure this pill will definitely work on you since it's being manufactured based on your genetic data.”

“Possibly and almost won’t keep him from killing me if he is able to read my memories.”

“We’re working on it, Y/N,” Zoe bit out. “One of the side effects, however, is short term memory loss. It only lasts for as long as the pill’s in effect but I’m doing my best to mitigate it.”

“What are the other side effects?”

“Heartburn, headache and mild paranoia, usually specific to loud sounds. So far that’s what we’ve got from our human subjects. None of those symptoms last very long either,” she paused, examining me. “Does Count Dracula trust you?”

“I don’t think he trusts anyone. I think he regards me… differently… than he does other people.”

“Why do you think that?”

I thought about the haunting sorrow I’d seen in Count Dracula’s eyes when he spoke about his late wife and how he immediately shut down after that. I doubted he had told many people about her.

“I just do,” I shrugged. “How long until you can give me this pill?”

“A month, if nothing goes wrong. You’d be willing to use it?”

“Can you get it ready in two weeks?”

“Two weeks! Why?”

I took a deep breath for what I was about to say.

“There’ll be a wedding, up in Berkeley. It’ll be in Berkeley Castle--”

“Huge place.”

“Exactly. I’ll take Count Dracula as my plus one. Everyone will be focused on the party and there’ll be plenty of opportunities for you to capture him--”

“We haven’t planned anything, Y/N,” Zoe interrupted, shaking her head vehemently. “It’s too soon. No, no. Absolutely not. We’ll get killed, not to say about the possible collateral damage with the guests. No.”

“We won’t get many chances like this,” the words stumbled out of my mouth in my hurry to get them out before I regretted this. “Berkeley is our best bet. Dracula will be distracted. I’ll do my very best to guarantee it. I’ll even pull a Sharon Stone if I have to. Just, please.”

“Y/N, no. I told you. It took months of planning until we could move on him and get him out of the sea. This has to be rehearsed. We would need a team of people infiltrated at the wedding, a deep knowledge of the property, not to mention contingencies set in place… It’s too much work for only two weeks.”

“I don’t care!” I slapped my thigh in frustration. “I’ll be hanging on his arm all night. If he senses something is off, I’ll know and we drop the plan. We’ve got to try.”

Zoe frowned at me.

“Why are you suddenly so desperate?”

I straightened on my seat and cleared my throat. 

“He’ll grow bored of me, eventually,” I said, remembering Renfield’s sudden sympathy. “There’s no way we can know when, so I’d like to be rid of him sooner rather than later. If we wait too long I might be having this same conversation with you in a few months except I’ll have fangs on my mouth. Or not at all, in which case I’ll be six feet under.”

If I was to take everything Renfield said into account, it scared me. However, I was more frightened at the idea of losing control over the bond. Losing control over myself. From day one, sordid ideas about Count Dracula drinking my blood had pestered me. Whenever I was around him I found myself captivated by him, almost beyond reasoning. Like I always had an unseen force pushing me towards him and consuming me with nothing except raw craving. Never in my entire life had I felt such forceful desire and it terrified me. The leash, as Count Dracula had put it so well at the museum, could break at any second and I wasn’t ready for it to happen yet.

“Get your phone,” Zoe said at last.

“What for?”

“To see if we can find clear pictures of Berkeley Castle’s grounds and decide on a possible course of action,” Zoe said matter-of-factly as she secured her hair on a ponytail.

The turmoil inside me calmed down, for the most part. 

“So we’re doing it?”

“Only, and only if I can have this pill done by then. If not, I’m calling it off.”

I flashed her a smile as I pulled my phone from my back pocket.

“I’ll take that.”

“Were you serious when you said that about Sharon Stone? About the Basic Instinct thing?” Zoe made a face but there was nothing in her eyes if not amusement. 

“God, no,” I said and she raised an eyebrow. “Last resort thing only, if it comes to that.”

Zoe laughed, shaking her head to the sides at me.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Me, too.”

As our laughter died down, we dove into every website we could find that had pictures of Berkeley Castle. We struck gold when the property’s floor plan and aerial view simply popped up during our Google search. According to Berkeley Castle’s own website, wedding ceremonies usually took place in the Great Hall or outside on the gardens. The reception was almost always hosted inside the castle.

Zoe’s phone ringing momentarily interrupted us. Gaze still focused on my phone’s screen, she answered her own without checking who the caller was.

“Hello?” Zoe stiffened at once, listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. “Jack. Jack. Jack, calm down, I can’t understand you,” the voice grew loud enough for me to make out the words “friends”, “Foundation” and “suicide”. I remained focused on my phone, scrolling through pictures, like I hadn’t heard anything. “No, I didn’t know. Where are you? Okay, stay there. I’m on my way and then we’ll talk.”

After more reassurances, Zoe ended the call and looked at me.

“Go. We can do this some other time,” I told her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Well, no. No. One of my students at the Foundation,” she gestured to her phone, “needs me. An emergency. I have to go. Now, actually.”

She would’ve made a terrible lawyer. Terrible voice pitch when she lied and with the way she babbled, she would be eaten alive in a courtroom. I would’ve wiped the floor with her. From what I could tell, this was the first time I had caught her in a lie and I wondered why now. I could ascribe it to the dodginess surrounding anything to do with the Foundation but my intuition told me there was more to it. 

Prying would probably result in more lies. 

“Of course,” I said, flashing her a brief smile, “I understand. Call me when you can.”

______________________________________________________________

My ears buzzed inside the lift as I tried to keep my courtroom face on. I couldn’t wait to get home and sit in silence to cleanse my head from an entire day listening to office gossip.

“I’ve got this lovely dress,” Mallory was saying, “It’s this really beautiful champagne colour--”

“Isn’t that the one you wore to Jamie’s wedding?” Sarah asked.

“You can’t wear a dress you already wore before,” said Chelsea with a sneer.

Mallory furrowed her brows, looking anxious. 

“I remember the dress,” I intervened in Mallory’s defense. “It’s very pretty. You shouldn’t keep it hidden in your wardrobe, Mal. Wear it. I’m sure nobody will be rude enough to ask you about it,” I looked pointedly at Sarah.

“No,” Mallory countered and both women stared at her. “It’s another one. I happen to like the colour, is that a crime?” she asked indignantly. Sarah shrugged. Mallory eyed me, “Do you know what you’re wearing, Y/N?”

I’d gone shopping two days earlier with Diana during my lunch break. She’d pouted when I said I couldn’t take her as my plus one but immediately dropped the act in favour of a smile upon hearing the name Count Dracula come out of my mouth. 

“The Count? The one that gave you the hickey?” she’d whispered the last part during dinner at her house on Sunday.

“The very same,” I’d replied. Little did she know the extent of that hickey.

“Dating royalty, Y/N--”

“Drop it, Di. Will you do me the honours of going dress hunting with me? It must be purple.”

“Purple?”

“Evelyn’s favourite colour.”

“Oh, you’re evil!” She’d laughed. “We’ll find the perfect dress. You’ll look so gorgeous that he’ll faint when he sees you.”

Diana’s excitement over my love affairs had made me wonder if I was so much of a lost cause that any person remotely interested in me should be celebrated with buying an evening dress. On Wednesday, we’d browsed half the stores in Strand before Diana convinced me to hop on the tube towards Belgravia with the promise of gorgeous boutiques in which I would definitely find a dress to my liking. Diana got to flex her marketing muscles to persuade me into getting the one I liked the most, despite the steep price. She’d taken the dress home with her so I wouldn’t have to return to the office with it. 

“L/N?” Mallory touched my shoulder.

“Oh, sorry. I zoned out thinking about all the dresses in my wardrobe,” I blinked at her. “I’m not sure what to wear yet.”

“You should make up your mind quickly, then,” Sarah said in her usual brisk manner. “We’re one week away from Evie’s wedding.”

Evie, right, like they were friends. Of all the women, Mallory was the only one who could call herself Evelyn’s friend and, sadly, between her, Sarah and Chelsea, she was the one I most got along with. Mal and I had started our internships at around the same time and we’d suffered through college together, too. We barely talked now that she’d gotten close to Evelyn. I’d stopped being Y/N to her and became simply L/N.

The lift finally opened and we spilled out. Freedom! I thought, tightening my pace towards the lobby and putting as much distance between me and my colleagues. Through the exit doors, I could see the last rays of sunshine reflecting on the glass plated buildings that seemed to be a requirement at Canary Wharf.

“We’re renting an Airbnb together in Berkeley,” Mallory said, catching up with me. “Me and the girls. It’ll be cheaper that way.”

“Okay…”

“There’s a spare bedroom,” she continued, swiping her baby blonde hair that had fallen on her face in her effort to keep up with me. 

“Oh,” I blinked, stopping abruptly in front of the exit. Mallory nearly tripped over me. “You’re inviting me to stay with you guys?”

“Yeah,” she paused. “I know you aren’t fond of them but you can ignore what they say. It’s what I do half the time I’m with them.”

“Then, why do you spend so much time with them?”

“Trying to climb the ladder, professionally speaking,” she shrugged. “All of you guys were trained by one of the firm’s partners except me. All my efforts go unnoticed because of it.”

“Mal, you could’ve just kept talking to me if that’s what you wanted,” I frowned. “Renfield would--”

“Not a chance. Renfield doesn’t like anybody at the office except you.”

I acquiesced with a shrug. I loved the man but he wasn’t the nicest person to people.

“I’ll think about the Airbnb,” I told Mallory.

Me in a house full of girls when I had a vampire on my heels? Big no. But after years of distance from one of my best friends, I wasn’t going to simply dismiss her because I didn’t like the people she socialised with.

“You still like going to Camden for drinks? Peace offering?”

“Peace offering,” I grinned.

Mallory laced her arm with mine and led the way out. I frowned up at the sky, searching the rays of sun I’d seen moments ago but all I found was cloud upon cloud upon cloud. Hearing the rushing pair of high heels towards us made me cringe and stop on the sidewalk.

“Girls!” Shouted Chelsea. “Did we hear something about drinks?”

“I’ll get rid of them,” Mallory whispered to me in an exasperated tone before putting on a blinding smile and turning to face Chelsea and Sarah.

As Mallory tried to talk them out of it, a sleek black BMW slid to a stop in front of me. I had little more than two seconds to take in the tinted windows, dark enough to make me wonder if they were inside the legal limits, before the passenger's window started going down. The voices behind me quieted as the driver leaned across the seat. He had sunglasses on but I’d recognise that face anywhere. I bent forward, leaning on the car’s door.

“You had to get the flashiest car available, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, dear, no,” Dracula drawled. “The flashiest one was yellow. Black suits me better.”

“Um, Y/N… Who’s that?” Chelsea’s flirty tone made me roll my eyes.

“An impertinent client,” I said without turning to look at her.

“Is that what I am?” 

“Amongst other things that shouldn’t be spoken out loud,” I muttered.

“Your client?” asked Sarah. “L/N, are you breaking the code of ethics?”

“Renfield’s client,” I corrected, glancing briefly at Sarah. 

When I looked back at Dracula, he was grinning.

“Hello, ladies,” he waved at them, eliciting giggles. If I hadn’t known them for years, I wouldn’t have guessed they were adult women considering their behaviour. “Is that jealousy I see?” he said in a low voice. 

“You wish,” I retorted. In a whisper, I said, “It’s still daylight. Aren’t you going to burst into flames?”

“I might if you don’t get in the car.”

“Tempting. I’ll just stay here.”

“Stay, then. The sun will set in precisely seven minutes and when it does, I’ll get out of this car.”

“And do what?”

“Right now, throwing you over my shoulder seems appropriate.”

My knees quivered at that thought. I had to learn to stop baiting him into conversations like these. At some point, he would carry out his threats and I would probably enjoy it, which wasn’t ideal if I wanted to come out of this breathing.

“Um, Y/N?” Mallory’s voice was a gift sent from heaven to make me look away from the Count. “Do you want to postpone our drinks or--”

“Oh, drinks? Where are we going?” 

“There’s no we--” I glared at him.

He smiled innocently, surprising me that he was actually able to.

“Camden, I hear,” Sarah chimed in.

“Lovely Camden! Why don’t I give you ladies a ride?”

“I’m okay with that,” Sarah said, followed by Chelsea’s nod.

I already had a flimsy hold over my own libido, I wouldn’t attempt trying to control Chelsea’s and Sarah’s too. As much as I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t wish Count Dracula on them. With that in mind, I flung open the BMW’s door and threw myself in. 

“Maybe some other time, girls. He’s mine,” I announced, already regretting my choice of words. Turning to Mallory, I said in an apologetic tone, “Lunch tomorrow so we can catch up?”

She grinned at me, glancing briefly at Count Dracula, who was most definitely staring at the back of my head. 

“Sure,” she affirmed with a wink. “Bye.”

I was still waving at her when Dracula accelerated, leaving his parking spot. I stared out the window without registering where we were headed, waiting. Tension grew until I began feeling smothered. 

“What’s that about me being yours?”  

I shut my eyes and threw my head back against my seat. 

“Just… shut up.”

.

.

I know it's a bit mean that I ended the chapter there but I didn't have any time left to write. I'll try posting chapter 9 earlier next week (wednesday or thursday, maybe) to make it up to everyone.

Taglist: @rheabalaur​ @festering-queen​ @feralstare​ @girlonfireice​ @deborahlazaroff​ @thorin-smokin-shield​ @mr-kisskiss-bangbang​ @dreamer2381​ @apocalypsenowish​ @a-dorky-book-keeper​

[forever-more-never-again]

In your head (An Avengers Request)

Requested: Anonymous

Word Count:2244

Pairing: Platonic! Elizabeth Olsen X Reader, Platonic!Avengers X Reader

Warnings: Deals with issues of Depression and Self Harm. Do not read if this will trigger you!

Request: Heyo, can I please get an angsty avengers cast x fem depressed reader where R is one of the cast, but mainly Liz and R though. Where like R is usually really bubbly but zoned out sometimes. And maybe they see the cuts while the reader is changing for a scene or something and Liz comforts her. Sorry if it’s long. Love your writing by the way. 😊I’m the anon with the Liz x R fic request, and that’s okay. ☺️ Maybe Wanda instead of Liz?

A/N: I didn’t think it would end up as long as it did, and it does get a bit angsty with the topics. If you are dealing with Depression! Know that I am always available to talk and that you are not alone!

Masterlist

“[Y/n]!”

You jolted with a gasp and your eyes focused in on the worried face in front of you. Smiling sheepishly, you rubbed the back of your neck, “Hey Elizabeth….What’s up?”

The woman’s green eyes squinted in suspicion as she leaned over where you were sitting in your director chair waiting for your next scene, “I’ve been calling your name for a few minutes. Are you okay?”

You laughed away her concern, “I’m fine Liz...really. Just tired. It’s been a long day of filming.”

And that wasn't technically a lie. It was currently six in the evening and filming had started at five am. And your character was a main character in the new Avengers movie, so you had a lot of scenes.

Elizabeth Olsen, who played the Scarlet Witch, was one of your closest friends ever since you got into the industry.

“You’ve just been zoning out a lot lately, [Y/n]. And I’m not the only one who's noticed.” Elizabeth sighed, knowing you were stubborn.

And true to her assumptions, your pouted and crossed your arms, glaring over at where the other cast members stood chatting, “If they have an issue, they can take it up with me.” Your tone softened as you rested a hand on Elizabeth’s arm, looking at her, “But I promise, it’s just fatigue. I’ll be right as rain after a nap.”

Elizabeth smiled at you and walked over to where Sebastian and Anthony were picking on Tom Holland.

You watched them laughing for a few minutes, heart heavy with guilt. It wasn’t just fatigue that made you zone out. But you didn’t want to trouble your friends with your inner demons, and you definitely didn’t want them to look at you different, and you also needed this job!

So, just like you did everyday, you took a deep breath, and shoved those dark feelings down to the pit of your stomach.

“[Y/n]! We’re ready for you on Set five!”

You plastered a forced smile on your face and stood up and listened with half an ear as the directors instructed you where to stand and when to start.

The bright lights were blinding, but you were trained not to squint. You glared viciously across the staged classroom at Captain America and Iron Man.

“You’re all a bunch of Hypocritical Righteous assholes! What do you care about people like me?”

The stern voice of Captain America rang out as his shield lowered slightly, “[Y/C/N]! We don’t want to hurt you! We can get you the help you need like we did for the Winter Soldier!”

You laughed, but the sound was bitter and wetness shown in your eyes. You turned to the side, making sure you got your markings right so that the camera could catch the slight tremor in your hands as you clenched them into fists.

“I’m not broken like him! Not everyone is bad because of brainwashing! There’s no reason for my rage except that Jerks like you leave us to starve in the streets and struggle to survive!”

Tony Stark stepped out of his suit and you quickly stepped backwards, making sure not to trip on the thin wires hidden in the ground. Your body tense and poised to pounce.

“We know about your mother..”

You snarled, “Don’t.” One word, spoken soft but deadly. You strained your eyes so you wouldn’t mess up the shot by glancing up at the boom mike hovering over your head.

But he didn’t, “The Flu that took her. We know that you robbed a drugstore but that it was too late. We know about her death.”

Perfectly timed, you cut him off with a roar of pain and sprinted across the set up classroom and slammed out the door.

“Cut!”

At the director’s scream. You let the tension drain out of your body.

Turning back, you watched RDJ mess with his CGI suit and laugh with Chris Evans.

You walked over with a smile, “Nice job guys.”

Chris giggled at you, his blue eyes bright, “You were amazing [Y/n]! The way you almost started crying! It was so realistic!”

Your smile felt frozen. You hadn’t meant to let your despair get so close to the surface during the scene, but your character’s horrible and sad past, made it hard to seperate acting from reality sometimes.

Anthony Russo called out, “Alright! I want to shoot the scene with [Y/C/N] and Black Widow and Scarlet Witch next! Costume changes and be on set in ten!”

You sighed, waving goodbye to the men as you headed to the dressing rooms.

Entering you saw Elizabeth and Scarlet already there and in their suits chatting.

You gritted your teeth, you could change fast without them seeing anything. You were quite skilled at it now after so many years.

“Hey [Y/n]! You ready for this scene?” Scarlet called out, her blonde wig sitting slightly skewed on her head.

You hid a giggle behind your hand.

She turned to Elizabeth, “What?” Elizabeth shot me a look before she also started laughing, “Your wig..”

Scarlet reached up and grimaced, “Shoot. I’ll be back in a second.” And with that, she left to find a hairdresser.

You were lucky enough to not need a wig for your character. Rifling through the racks, you found the outfit needed for the scene and walked to a corner of the room.

“I was watching the scene on the screen and you were awesome. I’m really glad you got this part.”

You laughed, your clothes falling in a lump at your feet, “Of course! What would you do without my friendship?”

Maybe you were too sure that she wouldn’t see. But next thing you knew, your outfit partly on, your wrist was wrenched in a cool grasp.

“Wha?” You gasped as your body turned and your eyes widened in horror.

Elizabeth stood before you, her hand gently cradling the wrist she had grabbed. The fingers of her free hand gently tracing tons of old and fresh scars the littered your wrist.

You froze. Daring not to speak. Praying this was all a dream. You had managed to hide your depression from your family and friends, casting agents, directors and the whole cast. But now, here was one of your closest friends and castmates, staring at the proof and shame of your life.

She gently moved to your other arm and gasped softly when she saw similar lacerations.

Her green eyes swam in tears as she grasped your hands and pulled you into her embrace.

It was her warmth and soft gasps of tears that broke you. Your legs gave out and you fell against her, your combined weight causing you both to slide to the ground in a crying mess.

Her hand reached up and smoothed your hair. After a while, she pulled back and looked into my eyes. I couldn’t bear the sight of pity and sorrow in hers, so I looked away.

“How long?”

Two words. Whispered in the large space.

Your mind ran with excuses. Anything that would make this a joke and let her leave you alone. So that your shameful secret would never see the light of day.

But your friend knew you too well. She shook your shoulders, and when you met her eyes, they were like steel, “Don’t you dare lie to me, [Y/n]. How long have you been hurting yourself?”

Your shoulders hunched, your body trying to disappear under her gaze. You barely whispered your answer, praying she wouldn't hear, “Ten years.”

But she did. “Ten years..” She drew you once again into a hug.

“Hey guys, Anthony and Joe want us on set, what’s going…? What’s going on here?”

You jumped and turned, once again terrified as Scarlet walked into the changing room.

You crawled backwards, neck whiplashing as you glanced from Scarlet to Elizabeth in a panic.

Elizabeth sighed and stood up, “[Y/n].” Your name made you look at your friend. Her eyes held hope and a wordless plea.

Finally, you stood up. Wiping away some stray tears that managed to escape, you put on the rest of your costume and set your shoulders.

Scarlet still stood, confused, at the door.

You addressed both of them, “I’ve struggled with depression since I was a kid. But I didn’t know what was causing me to feel so sad and weak and worthless all the time. I skipped school. I stayed in bed for days, saying I was sick. I lost my passion for certain avictities.” You drew in a deep breath.

Elizabeth and Scarlet walked closer to you, both laying a hand on your shoulder in comfort.

You closed your eyes, intent on getting the whole sordid story out in one go.

“I knew something was wrong with me. But it wasn’t until college that I turned to the blade. I was so stressed out about finals. And drama and my parent’s pressure. And I felt that familiar tiredness and…,” You drew in a shuddering breath, “and-and nothingness coming back. It was too painful and I couldn’t handle it. When I saw the blood run down my arm, I felt peaceful. Some of the pain left...But everytime the sweet release got shorter and shorter, so I had to return to the blade more and more.”

You felt the tears slip from your closed eyes and trace a cold path down your cheeks.

“I was going to get help after I graduated. But then I got a call about a role for the new Avenger movie and I didn’t have the time after I got the role. And then it just snowballed. I didn’t want you guys to find out and be ashamed of me. I didn’t want to lose this amazing opportunity. I didn’t want the stigma and shame and pity that comes when people find out!”

Your rant ended with a harsh, angry whisper. Your mind remembering all the torrid gossip magazines that slandered actors, actresses, and celbetired alike when they came out about an addiction, or mental health issue.

Being on the front page of one of those magazines for your depression was one of your continuing nightmares.

The silence stretched on. Your eyes stayed tightly closed. You couldn’t face them now that they knew.

“We would never judge you [Y/n]. You’re so strong for going through all that by yourself. But you’re not alone.”

Your eyes flew wide and you turned, shocked, to see all your friends and castmates crowded in the door of the changing room. Anthony and Joe Russo standing in front.

Chris Evans, who spoke, took a step forward, a soft smile on his face, “Sorry for busting in, but we got worried when you guys didn’t come to set.”

A ragged sob left your lips and you raised a trembling hand to your lips. Your head shook frantically as you felt the waves of panic and terror take ahold of you.

A warm hand on your wrist. You looked over at Elizabeth, “Breath [Y/n]. You don’t have to fear. We’re here for you. We won’t judge you. You’re our friend.”

Her words were soothing, but didn’t completely calm the storm inside you.

“We’ll help you get the help you need and keep you from the scrutiny of the public.” Tom Hiddleston piped up.

Tom Holland jumped in next, his boyish charm coming through his words of encouragement, “You’re amazing [Y/n], and I’ll make sure you know that everyday!”

A small chuckle escaped your lips at that.

“I have a great therapist who’s discreet and can help you talk through your issues.” Chris Hemsworth offered.

“And I can guarantee your position in this role and in this family. You’re family [Y/n]. and we always help family when they’re struggling.” Anthony said. A smile on his face as his arms crossed over his chest.

Your heart felt ready to burst. You looked over the faces of friends and family you had spent the past couple years with.

“You don’t hate me? Think I’m weak for...for hurting myself?” You whispered.

This time Scarlett spoke, from next to your shoulder. “We would never hate you or think you’re weak. You have been struggling to stay afloat for a long time doing the only thing you know to help relieve you of your pain, but you’re not alone anymore, we’re your life preserves and you can always lean on us when you feel like drowning.”

This time your sob was one of happiness and relief. You ran to the people standing in the dressing room.

Warm arms and smiles welcomed you.

“Alright! I’m dying here! Whose hand is on my ass? Tom! That better not be you!”

Everyone broke down in laughter at Anthony’s indignant yell.

It would take time. Lots of time. And you would slip and fall along the way, but you finally felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

Looking around at everyone, you realized they really were family. A dorky, dysfunctional family. But one filled with love and laughter and support. And they supported you. They would never judge you, or hate you, or think you weak. They just wanted to protect and help you.

And asking for help wasn’t a bad thing, You realized.

Looking over the top of Paul Rudd’s head, you caught Elizabeth’s eyes.

You mouthed to her, ‘Thank you.’

She smiled and nodded once.

FOREVER Taglist: (Strike through means I couldn’t tag you)

@sxph-t @mialeelavellan @rainydaysrnevergrey  @platonic-plots @sociallyawkwardcircus-freak-hi @ayyidkeither @mcuimxgine @mythixmagic @chas-z @iflew-onabus @thefridgeismybestie @strangersstranger

Avengers Taglist:

@jadepc

[percywinchester27]

Unconventional Roommates (Part-5)

Word count: 4K

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Warnings: Fluff-ish? ;)

Series Summary: Now that his brother is at Stanford, for the first time in his life, Dean does something for himself. He takes a step towards chasing his own dreams and moves away from Lawrence to start college, which is both thrilling and scary at the same time. Only catch, in this unknown town, he is stuck with the MOST infuriating female on the planet- the roommate from hell!

A/N: Yes they’re talking!! ;) This is also written for @spnfluffbingo

Square filled: Slow burn

Thanks to my Darling @deanssweetheart23 for beta reading this. This wouldn’t have been possible without your love and encouragement. Love you <3

Unconventional Roommates masterlist

"Why do you look like someone died?" Cas' voice was curious, but his expression was borderline pitying when he found Dean on the lone bench in the quadrangle with his head in his hands.

"It's me. I'm about to get butchered in there," Dean sighed.

"C'mon, it can't be that bad."

Dean looked up to meet Cas' eyes. "You know exactly how bad it is."

It was Friday. In an hour and a half Zachariah's class would begin and Dean would be thrown out again if not failing for the whole semester. He had just one set of drawings done along with the assignment written one and a half times. That asshat of a professor was going to bury him alive. But Dean knew he couldn't have done any better. With all of his college work drowned, he had other subjects to take care of, too, and yet, he had put in every free second into this stupid redo.

So much for wanting to be in college.

Cas nodded sympathetically because he knew of the flooding tragedy that had befallen Dean, but then he smiled, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Well, my dear friend, I have some good news for you."

Dean doubted it but he still tried to put on an interested face while internally trying not to drown in doom.

"Zach's class is cancelled today."

"You're kidding!" Could it really be possible? Could such good luck have really befallen him?

"Yep," Cas smiled. "I was just at the office and the assistant was talking over the phone trying to reschedule Zach's lecture to Wednesday. Apparently he has the flu."

"You're me telling the truth, right?" Dean asked, barely believing his ears.

"Hundred percent," Cas grinned.

Dean got up, smiling for the first time in the past couple days. "You're a frigging angel or something."

"Barely," he said. "You deserve a break, man. It's been coming at you from all sides, all the time. How about you join us tonight? There's a party at the beach and you can tag along with me, Meg and the other guys."

Beach sounded tempting, but given the chance, he would rather stretch his legs and complete the backlog at a more comfortable pace than the desperate speed he'd been working at.

"I'd love to come, but I think my sanity would thank me for a full night's sleep now that I have the option."

"Well you have to go there two weeks later anyways to click pictures for the paper, it would be nice to get to know the area."

This was going to be his first assignment for the magazine. "What're the pictures going to be about?"

Cas' face brightened up. "Oh, there's going to be the fall fair there. Ferris wheels, games  and all that stuff. We cover it every year for the paper."

Again, Dean was tempted to say yes, but he knew better.

"Thanks Cas, really, but I think I'll just have a quiet evening. I could use some quiet about now."

"Alright. Let me know if you change your mind."

Dean watched Cas walk towards his class, thinking about how people seemed to actually have a life here, while he was stuck trying to grasp the pieces to keep it all together. At least, there was one person whose life seemed to be as boring as Dean's. He hadn't seen her since the broken tap debacle. God knows what she did in the day, but, by the time he got back home, her bedroom was always locked.

He'd spent most of those nights in the living room, drafting the sheets on the small table in front of the TV. It was large enough to mount an A0 sheet. More times than necessary, his eyes had flitted towards the red door, even though he knew there was no one behind it. Dean had tried his best to forget the look of absolute panic on Y/N's face when he'd asked to enter her room and he found himself wondering what could possibly be in there. Years and years of filthy clothes? Maybe that was it, maybe she hadn't cleaned the place in a while and was embarrassed by it.

Then there was also the question of what she did. About that, Dean had some idea though. Only the night before, when he'd left the work table alone to make himself some coffee at 3 in the morning, he found math books had been laid out on the counter in front of the coffee machine. They were all worn out and from what Dean could guess very advanced math. She'd probably put them out to dry after the water in her room. So, she was a university student too, either she took night classes or it was correspondence.

That gave Dean some perspective about her life. She attended the night classes and took up a job immediately after. Maybe a call centre? But that seemed unlikely given how uninterested she was in any sort of conversation. He'd laughed out loud to himself even picturing her speaking to anyone politely. What an impossible idea. But no matter what, Dean could see she was taking so many efforts to learn. He could respect that. For all he knew, she worked a day job, too. He was just never around to ascertain it.

Dean spent the rest of his day trying to figure out how to finish his work. It seemed impossible in  every way, but he was sure going to try. When the last lecture for the day ended, he quickly picked up his bag, flung the leather jacket over his shoulder and got out of his seat, only to be obstructed by Meg.

"Where you heading, pretty boy?"

"Home. You guys have fun at the beach."

Her brows furrowed. "You're not coming?"

Before Dean could reply, another guy from behind her spoke up. "Oh, he needs to figure his shit out first. Trying to ace the class and all."

Nick, Dean remembered. His name was Nick and he was the asshole who always snickered in the back of the class when Zachariah gave him a hard time.

"He's better at this than all of us put together," Meg shot him down, but Nick only smirked and sidestepped Dean to walk out of class.

Dean couldn't care less. He did thank Meg for extending the invitation though. She'd been very supportive of him in the class and otherwise. He knew that he could trust her and Cas without question, and that was something.

Dean didn't pay any attention to the door on the opposite side out of habit when he got home. Since the rare opportunity had presented itself to him, he just walked into his room, pushed the jacket and the bag in a chair, stripped down to his boxers and threw himself on the bed face first.

Sleep. He needed some sleep to function and before he could even complete that thought, Dean was out like a light.

The room was immersed in complete darkness when he woke up, and Dean sat up bolt, his heart pounding, before he remembered that it was Friday evening and he still had 5 days to finish the stupid assignment from hell. He let himself breathe in and out deeply a few times before pushing himself off the bed. On his way out, he grabbed his black T-shirt and pulled it on. He took a minute to splash water on his face before dragging his feet to the kitchen to boil water for instant noodles. That would have to do. Only when he turned around did he notice a small figure huddled in the corner of the sofa scribbling furiously on a small notepad. Black shirt, black tracks and a black beanie. Y/N looked ready for ninja action.

"What're you doing here?" Dean asked, all sleep suddenly gone.

"Uhhh I pay the rent?" She replied. "More than you."

Oh, how he had missed the snark.

"I meant why are you home at this time," he said patiently, going to sit on the sofa opposite to her. "You work nights, don't you?"

"I took this weekend off," she said, without looking up from her little notepad.

"Why?"

She looked up this time, judging whether or not it was worth telling him, then muttered quietly. "I'm visiting my family."

That seemed fair enough, but another thought had stuck Dean- if she had to request an off, that meant she worked weekends, too. That looked like a lot of hard work.

"Does your family live close by?"

"Close enough," she muttered, her tone effectively ending the conversation. Dean left her to it, going back to his noodles. He briefly wondered if he should ask her if she wanted some, then decided he would make for two anyway. If worse came to worst, he'd have to put the rest in the fridge and reheat it the next day.

She looked up again when he put a bowl in front of her.

"Chicken noodle," Dean commented, taking his seat back. "Eat."

And she dead ass picked up the bowl and emptied it in a minute flat. All Dean could do was stare.

"You want me to finish yours, too?" She grinned, clearly smug about his shocked expression, then shook her head a little. "Thanks for the noodles. I was hungry."

"Yeah, I could tell," he murmured, trying to scarf  his own noodles.

"Why are you up at 1?" She asked, and Dean realized he'd never actually checked the time. She probably had her sleep cycle inverted anyway.

"I've got to finish my assignment," he said.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "It's Friday night. You got nothing better to do with it?"

Dean had a retort somewhere about how she wasn't doing anything too exciting with her life either, but it got stuck in his throat, because the remnant of her grin was still visible in her odd eyes. It was distracting. He just blurted out the truth. All of it, from the delayed assignment that had to be done five times, to the ruined sheets from the water.

Her face was a delicate mask of horror when he was done.

"I don't blame you for any of it," Dean clarified quickly. "I just don't know how the hell I'm going to finish it."

"How much are you done with?" She asked, and even without looking, Dean could hear how sorry she was.

"One set of the sheets. That's a total of 5 sheets and the assignment one and a half times."

"Hey you have one set done, the rest is easy right?"

Dean stared. "How is that easy? It took me the better part of 4 days to get 5 sheets drafted. I just have 5 days for 20 more sheets."

"Just Glass trace it." She shrugged, like it was the simplest solution.

"Excuse me, what?"

She looked at him like he'd suddenly grown a third eye, but elaborated all the same. "You have one set of all drawings done, so just trace it."

"How?"

She grinned cockily again. "Wait here."

Dean watched as she disappeared into her room and appeared with a light bulb, a holder and an extension cable. She screwed the bulb to the holder, attached it to the extension, which she then connected to the nearest switch.

"Hand me some scotch tape," she ordered and Dean followed her instruction, curious to see what she was up to.

Y/N carefully taped the bulb to the underside of the glass surfaced table he'd been using as the makeshift drafting board.

"Hand me your completed sheet," she said and Dean did. Y/N mounted the sheet on the table. She then placed another blank sheet over it, perfectly aligning the edges, then turned on the bulb.

At first, nothing happened, but when she turned the lights off for the whole living room, with only the bulb under the table glowing, he understood the term "Glass tracing" exactly. The bulb was illuminating the lines drawn on the sheet below to reflect it on the sheet above. The section, isometric view and components of an diesel engine were perfectly visible on the new sheet, too. All he had to do was take a pencil and trace it out now.

"I'll be damned," he swore softly and somewhere over him in the dark, Y/N's soft chuckle sounded.

She turned the lights on.

"That should help," she said. "I can't believe you didn't know about this. What sort of Mechanical student are you?"

Dean was asking himself the same question. For crying out loud, he'd been an assistant in college for 3 years. How did he not know?

"Let me take a look at your report," she asked, and he handed that to her, too, mutely, still lost in his own thoughts about the trick.

"This seems easy enough," she commented, reading through his assignment. "Calculating the load on the engine, I see. If you get the formula correct, the derivations are easy enough. This is good math."

He nodded, mentally realigning the time-table he'd drawn for himself in his head. He had a lot more time on his hand now.

"Tell you what, just get done with all your sheets while you are at it. Who knows, maybe after the weekend, you wouldn't have to worry about them at all."

She turned to leave for her room, but Dean stopped her.

"Hey, Y/N!" He called. "Thanks."

Her Y/E/C eyes were ambivalent. "For what?"

"For… for letting me know about this trick."

She didn't dismiss him quickly, like he'd come to expect, instead, she tilted her head to a side and then murmured, "You surprise me, Dean Winchester."

He hung his head, expecting as much. "Because I'm stupid enough to not know about it?"

"Because you are sincere enough to not know about it," she said, not as praise, but as a statement. Somehow that just gave more meaning to her words. "Not very many people are that sincere… they all know the cheat codes… except you, apparently."

"Thanks… I guess?" Dean frowned, unsure what else to say.

"Get some sleep, Romeo. I'm sure you can afford some more of that now."

Long after Dean had settled in his bed, her words still hung in the air. Something about the way she'd said it made him think that sincerity was a quality she valued. If only she wasn't so cryptic, he'd know what to make out of her.

The next day he'd fried enough eggs and bacon for two. When he went over to knock on her door, it was locked. Again. Who knew how early she had gotten up to see her family. Dean wondered if they were as weird as she was.

Having the whole house to himself for the weekend made him restless, and it was hard to believe that just a week back he had been hoping for this very thing with all his heart. Nevertheless, he put his time alone to good use, tracing all sheets to the best of his abilities. He was smart, he knew better than to just blindly trace, so he made sure that all the drawings had light guidelines in the background to make it look like they had all been drafted individually. It took a little more time, but it was thorough. It assuaged some of the guilt he felt for tracing.

Come Sunday evening, Dean found himself lounging back on the sofa, phone in his hand. He'd been so busy that he'd never had time to reply to Sam's hundred missed calls or messages.

His brother picked up on the second ring.

"If I didn't know better, I'd have thought that you disinherited me," Sam jibed and, even thought Dean could hear his brother's scoff, there was also a petulant hint of accusal in it.

"I'm sorry," Dean said, running a hand over his face. "Things have been crazy around here."

"Crazy enough to forget that you have a little brother? You could have at least picked up one call."

Dean wanted to laugh out loud, not because Sam's worry was hilarious, but because it was comforting. Over the last year since he'd started at Stanford, Dean worried if Sam would grow distant, love his new, exciting life more than the one Dean could provide him in the dusty town of Lawrence, but Sam had never fallen back on his calls, and even though Dean used to be rueful about the two or three calls in a week, turned out Sam was much better at keeping contact than he was.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I know you must've been worried."

"Worried?" Sam said. "I went so crazy worrying that I almost drove over."

Oh. That wasn't good.

"But you didn't," Dean tried meekly. He was really feeling bad now.

"Yeah, only because Jess said I should call up the University pretending to be a worried kin. But, I was a worried kin."

Dean smirked. "Jess, huh? At least you're talking to her."

That calmed down Sam some. "Some student body person told me your attendance checked out and I know you wouldn't pull a bunking stunt in the first week. That's how I knew you were alive."

Sam lecturing him like a mother? Oh how the tables had turned, but secretly it made Dean feel all calm inside.

"Tell you what?" Dean tried to placate him. "I think I have the next weekend free. How about I drive over? It's like 6 hours. We can grab a few beers and I'll tell all about my misfortunes."

"Misfortunes, huh?"

You have no clue little, brother.

"Something like that," Dean smiled, because not all of it had actually been unfortunate.

"Sounds like a plan," Sam smiled. "I'll look forward to it. Don't stand me up."

Would the kid ever stop whining? "Do I look like the busty blonde who bolted on you yesterday?"

Sam chuckled on the other side of the line. "This one didn't bolt. Sleep on that." With that call ended.

Dean looked at the phone for a hot minute. Even Sam was getting action- Sam, the eternal virgin Sam! While, he, the apparent leather- jacketed stud the rest of his class thought he was, was stuck doing homework.

Such was life.

Monday morning was relatively more cheerful. If he stayed up for the rest of the two days as well, he'd manage to get the assignment written, too, the remaining three and a half times. That way he could catch up with rest of it before weekend and then he'd be free to go see his brother. It sounded like a lot of work, but, at least, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Even Bobby noticed when he caught him whistling.

"You're happy, boy!"

Dean nodded, putting his head back into fixing a bike that none of Bobby's other boys could figure out what was wrong with.

"Is it the girl?" He asked, and Dean threw back his head, laughing.

"Who? Y/N? God, Bobby no. It's not like that. She's a crazy girl."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Dean considered. "Nothing actually, but it's not like that." He'd be getting way more action if it had. But he answered Bobby's question more fully now. "I'm happy cause I'm going to see my brother next weekend… if there's no work here that is."

"Go on, boy… there's nothing that we can't manage here," Bobby said gruffly. "Didn't know you had a brother."

"I do, a little brother. He's up at Stanford," Dean said proudly.

"Two University boys? Your folks must be proud."

Dean started working back on the bike, fixing the wench under the engine. "They're both dead."

"That's… uhhg-"

"It's okay, Bobby. It's been a while now, we were kids then."

Dean drove back thinking if he should have told Bobby the truth. The full truth that is, about his parent's death. Sure his mom had died when he was a kid, but his dad had been alive up until a few years ago. Dean just wasn't sure he was ready to talk about him yet.

He walked up distracted. Absentminded enough to even realise that the lift was working. Finally! He was all the way up and almost to his room when a voice that seemed too familiar called out to him.

Y/N was standing by his makeshift worktable, looking harassed.

"What happened to you?" Dean asked, rushing over. "You look-"

"Like someone drowned me 5 times and was brought me back just as many times?"

"Well… yeah." She looked exhausted, sleep deprived and ready to kill." Knowing her, he wouldn't put that past her.

"The traffic on the road sucked!" She said. "I thought I'd never make it back home in time."

"It's okay, you're back now," Dean urged. "Sit down, you look ready to fall."

She shook her head, then pulled out something from the puffy satchel hanging across her frame, and dropped a thick bundle on the table. "Here."

"What's that?" Dean asked curiously.

"Your assignment done five times over." She looked pleased with herself.

His eyes widened as he bent down to pick up the neatly stapled bundle of papers, scourging through leaf after leaf of tall pointed handwriting, neatly compiled into what was now the assignment.

"When? How?" This was better than he could have expected.

She hesitated, the way she did when she was sharing something she wasn't sure if she should. "Me and my sister did it together. I wrote it, looking at the one you'd already done and she drew all the diagrams. I mean, you're new, it's not like that douchebag professor would know your handwriting to notice the difference. Besides, all your assignments from now on would be typed, anyway. This will never come up."

That was probably the longest speech she'd ever uttered.

"You spent your time away with family writing my imposition? Why?" Dean was astounded. It was all beyond him. The girl worked so hard so she could get a weekend away to meet her family and then she uses that time slogging through his work? Wow, she was crazier than he ever gave her credit for.

Y/N stole looks from under her long lashes. "Well, it was my fault you had to do it anyway and then some of it got drowned… also because of me." She paused for a second, looking him  full in the eyes. "And, also, because my sister isn't like me, she's a nice person who didn't mind carrying my guilt and helping a stranger."

"Well, looks to me your sister is a lot like you… Good," Dean mumbled, still shocked. This cleared up his week completely. He would surely get to see Sam now. "Thank you so much, Y/N. This just- you just did me huge favor."

"Just don't ever mention it," she all but warned. "Ever."

She hurriedly readjusted the satchel and then turned to leave.

"Where're you going?"

"Work! Now shut up, so I can leave."

But Dean just couldn't let her go yet. "You'll go to work in those?" She was back in the baggy black pants, grey hoodie and beanie.

"Oh, I can always change when I get there," she smiled unexpectedly, like it was her own private joke.

"Hey, Y/N," Dean interrupted her again, just to annoy her and her expression didn't disappoint when she turned around.

"What now, Romeo?"

He simply grinned. "Try not to murder someone tonight."

She winked. "I'll try." Then the door slammed shut, leaving Dean grinning in its wake. Maybe not everything was unfortunate after all.

************************************

A/N 2: Any guesses about where this is headed? 

A/N 3: Please do consider reblogging my work and leaving feedback. Reblogging helps spread it, and also helps against the “best posts first” option tumblr has. The more the notes, the less chance of it getting buried beneath others posts. And the comments are what keep me going. I love you guys and I’ll be in forever grateful <3

Here’s my side blog @percywinchester27-writes. You can give that blog a follow and turn the notifications on to know about updates.

UR taglist:

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[givemesnekboiasap]

Photo Booth

Here’s a one-shot inspired by @ikesenhell Glitter and Gold. Set in Modern AU

Some Fluff, Some NSFW, overall my first attempt at 3 person relationship. Hope you’ll enjoy.

@cherryb0mb79 ​sorry about the delay on the Mitsu-chan continuation. I’ll edit it a bit before posting within the next 24 hrs. In the mean time, hope you’ll enjoy this little doujinshi

 @deathbyotome a little something for you to read, heehee

Japanese honorifics - sama, dono, san, chan, kun (rank in according to formality)

“Tell me why am I doing this with the both of them……”

“Well...technically, you lose the bet and you promised to clear the forfeit by today and since you cannot make a decision, the 11 of them, excluding myself, draw lots and those who drew the longest stick wins

“Longest? I thought it was supposed to be the shortest….”

Sasuke whispered, “the thing is, none of them find it a chore to perform the forfeit, especially if you’re the prize...” the last sentence nearly muffled as he covers his mouth. Kelsey Lee looks at him, her cousin cum childhood friend. She counts the familiar faces that always hangs around with her nerdy cousin and those who she seen before in her workplace in the cosplay cafe.

“...why is Mori-dono doing among them?! He knows my boss!”

“He’s a friend to Shingen-sama and Kenshin-sama. I’m sorry about this, had I know about your connection with him, I would never would have asked him to join in. He’s one of four among them comfortable in cosplaying.”

“Let me guess, the other 3 would be Oda and Date and Shingen himself then….ahhhhh, fine! Let’s get this over with...which of the guys am I partnering with?....No...not them…...please, Sasuke, please tell me it’s not them...”

The silence speaks for itself, as the two males, one with ebony hair, the other chestnut mane, chiseled faces, toned bodies, long legged swagger and confident strides brought them to her doorstep.

“Seems like we’re your escorts today, kitten. Right, Nobu?”

She scrowls at the both of them, especially Nobu, who gives her a smirk that sets her teeth on the edge. Kel turns away from them, walking to the booth to get their costumes.

Today, there’s an anime festival for otome games, and they need change into costumes to cosplay as in-game characters. She has to stand-in for a fellow colleague, who’s down with flu, when the guys dropped a bomb on her head, telling her she needs to fulfill the forfeit now; which is to date with one of them, according to Nobu. Her manager, Ms Hana, takes one look at the gathering and propose an alternative; cafe mascot cum dating. Kelsey nearly expires on the spot when Ms Hana said she needs 2 male volunteers dressed up as famous warlords.  

“Hurry up, we haven't got all day!”

“If you’re not out by the count of 10, I’m coming in...1...2...3...”

“!!!...Wait! I’m...having problem...the sash...”

Nobu had enough of waiting and pulls the curtain aside, causing Kel to shout at the top of her voice.

“GET THE FREAKING ‘ELL OUT OF HERE!!!” Nobu winces but ignores her command. He slides the curtain back and takes a long look at the source of her problem.

“Next time, call for help….stubborn female...” He holds the heavy obi sash for her and tighten it as she ties the obi coil in place.

“...even if you and Masa were the last males available….” she stops as she recalls the last time she did that, she was being kissed within an inch of her life by him, of all people. His lips curve into a teasing smile as he too, remembers how this conversation ends up.

“Done...I must commend you on your appearance. You truly look wonderful in traditional kimono.” His hands lingers on her obi, she can sense the heat and the heavy presence of his appendages just below her bustline. Her breathing deepens unintentionally, syncing with him. If she tilts her head back, she knows he’ll look down and that would lead to complications. Neither wants to make the first move, cocooned in the tiny changing closet.

Masa’s voice shatters the intimate moment as he draws the curtain open. “Are you ready? Your manager is hounding outside. Seems like we, as new additions, has caused a surge of customers hovering outside the cafe….ooohhh, well now...I must say you look absolutely gorgeous, Kelly. You should wear kimono more often.”

Luckily Nobu already had his hands removed from her person and took a step back when the curtain is drawn. Releasing a sigh, she squares her shoulders and look at her partners cum dates for today and smiles.

“Let’s get started. Today is going to be a very busy day...I wish to the both of you to have the patience and stamina for the day.”

……

Break arrives and the trio hunker down in a private booth at the back of the cafe to rest. The cafe is closed in preparation for guest arrivals of other cosplayers. The guys had no idea that modelling for avid fans to take snapshots after snapshots of them as the in-game characters would be this tiring. And some of those fans are professional photographers, representing famous magazines catering to the otaku industry. The poses and fighting stance they had to put up with taxed their arms and backs. Then there were the females who wants to take selfie with them. Kelsey chuckles as she watches them shudder in reaction.

“Hey, Kelly...how did you stomach people, completely strangers pawing you in the name of taking photos?” She is not surprised that Masa is the one who voiced it. He hates confinement and being pinned in to take tons of photos is making him ansty.

“Aww, my poor baby feeling put out? Don’t worry, the worst is over. We can go for our ‘date’, I don’t shrink from my promises.” She pats his cheek, giving the wild stallion of the gang, a teasing smirk. As she start to withdraw her hand, Masa catches her hand and lifts it to his lips, giving her a kiss on the top of her palm.

“......Masa...” she squeaks, her face flushes pink rapidly. Nobu, who is sitting on her left, turns to sit behind her and pulls her back to his chest with his right arm. Masa starts to nibble her fingertips, causing her breath to hitch. Nobu bends forward, his lips at her ear, whispering

“Relax, he knows. He’s fine with it, I’m fine with it. He already told me of the accidental kissing incident...hold it!” He tighten his grip of her when she starts to struggle out of his embrace.

“It’s your fault, you know. All that fire and energy, when you channel it towards something, it’s fascinating to watch. When you do that to a person, especially a guy, like us, it’s like an unspoken challenge to take you, tame you and own you...” Masa comments as he continues showering affections on her hand with his velvet lips. The eyepatch currently covering his right side made his left eye more brilliant as it glows with banked desire.

Nobu relaxes as she stops all signs of escaping and shifts her onto his lap. “Not to worry, Kelsey. A promise is a promise, this is a date. We will not proceed any further from first base without your verbal consent. What’s more, we need to take a photo to commemorate our official first date together. Masa, let go of her hand. She needs to cool down before we bring her out. I’m not willing to display her current expression to any prying eyes, especially from our group.”

Kelsey’s mind is still spinning from the revelation the two had heaped on her head. How? When? Why me? She still doesn’t understand her appeal; they must have cracked their head from doing too many stunts...wait, that’s more to Masa’s alley. Nobu is the rational one, despite his autocratic attitude. As she tries to figure out what’s going on in their mind, the trio manage to rejoin everyone and they enter the convention hall for the festive celebrations.

Masa found those sticker photo booth and drags everyone there for photo sessions. When Kelsey asks him why, he just shrugs, “This is different from those photo sessions, I can do whatever I like.”

She just shakes her head, chuckling softly. As soon as everyone is occupied with taking photos of themselves, Masa pulls her into one of those booths with a full-length curtain, concealing them once the divider flips down. Nobu steps in a few seconds later, holding her body close to his as Masa fiddles with the touch screen, scanning through the choices available. Kelsey had to whisper to avoid the others from listening into their conversation.

“You do know that this is a one-time deal? After that, we’re going back as friends...” The guys show no indication of letting this ‘date’ slide, with Nobu giving her an arrogant look, and Masa chuckling softly.

“Lass, you can wait for all eternal but there is no way we’re going back as friends...especially after a revelation of my reaction while watching you getting touched by males during the photo sessions” Nobu’s eyes took on a deeper shade of red, something akin to garnet when he speaks.

“...I know you’re worried about how people might look at you if they found out about the threesome. Indeed, that is something I have considered and discuss with Masa. We will, for appearance’s sake, remain as friends. However, you’ll have to limit the point of contact on your person from other males. Neither of us will hold responsibilities when the line is crossed…...behind closed doors, you are ours. Understand?”

“Crystal but I still don’t think….hmph…!!!”

Her protests are being drowned under the onslaught of Masa’s kisses as his lips come into contact with hers. Fingers being entwined by another, her arms pulled back as Kelsey is being squeezed in the middle of two muscular torsos. Nobu grazes her ears, nibbling the outer shell as Masa tilts his head for a deeper penetration. Only when she slumps against the devil’s chest did the dragon releases her to surface.

“......There, perfect for the photo shoot.” Masa grins down as he adjusts her kimono and turns her to face the camera. With his arm on her shoulder, Masa stands on her left as Nobu took her right, placing his left hand on her head. “One, two, three…” CLICKS

…………

By the time Kelsey is aware of her surroundings, the machine has printed out the stickers and Masa retrieves it from the dispenser. After taking one look, Nobu gives a tiny smile. He took it out from the chestnut mane male’s grasp and tucks it into the folds of his kimono. Masa grumbles about someone being possessive, he walks out with her, his arm sliding around her shoulders and keeps her close to his side. Nobu follows behind at a much slower pace, enjoying the view of his interest and rival hand in hand, noting to himself that this is going to be an interesting experience.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “The Gourd You Give” (Rated PG)

It’s just another day at work for Kurt when a handsome man bursts through the door and begs Kurt for a pumpkin. (1577 words)

A/N: This is a re-write. Warning for mention of illness. Meet cute.

Read on AO3.

“Help me! Quick! I need a pumpkin!”

The words fire out so quickly from the man’s mouth that his request is finished before the bells over the door stop jingling. Kurt looks up from the issue of Vogue open on the counter he’s sitting behind and straight into the eyes of the most desperate man he’s ever seen – harried for certain, curls that have been gelled down within an inch of their life breaking free around his hairline, hazel eyes shimmering from the cold, his cheeks flushed from running (Kurt assumes, since he’s panting like a tired dog). Plus, the door has a brand new dent from where the man slammed into it before he realized it was a pull door and not a push.

“Uh … okay.” Kurt puts a worn business card into the binding of his magazine to mark his spot, then closes it to handle his manic customer. “You do realize you’ve just entered a costume shop, though. Not a supermarket.”

“I know.” The man nods vigorously, taking a deep breath. “I need a pumpkin costume.”

Kurt sits up straighter, intrigued by this man’s request, as well as his adorable, slightly antiquated clothing choices - a sweater vest, a button-down, a bowtie, and a vintage U. S. Navy peacoat. Paired with his dapper good looks, the man pulls it together nicely. Kurt’s eyes zero in on his brightly-colored shoes and go wide. Where on earth did he find a pair of Moods of Norway suede wingtips in pink? They’re sold out everywhere! Kurt has to find a way to ask.

Kurt also can’t help but notice the pride flag pin fixed to the collar of his coat - the new version with the brown and black stripes. Kurt grins.

His recent string of dull afternoons might finally be looking up.

“A pumpkin costume for yourself?” Kurt asks.

“No.” The man shakes his head, a bashful smile splitting his lips. “For my little man, Andy.”

“Oh,” Kurt says, only minorly disappointed at the mention of a son. But children have never been a deal breaker for Kurt. He loves children.

“He’s six,” the man explains, “and when his mom asked him what he wanted to be for Halloween, he said he wanted to be a pumpkin.”

Okay, wife is definitely a deal breaker, Kurt thinks, but he chuckles at the thought of a little boy, who Kurt imagines looks somewhat like this man – raven hair, possibly the same hazel eyes, and olive complexion, waddling around the streets of New York dressed as a giant, gap toothed Jack-O-Lantern.

“He doesn’t even want to be a Jack-O-Lantern,” the man grouses, stunning Kurt into wondering if he hadn’t voiced that thought out loud. “A Jack-O-Lantern costume I can find. He wants to be a regular, boring old pumpkin.”

“How adorable,” Kurt says, giving the man a flirty smile when he knows he shouldn’t. He can’t seem to help himself. Something about the way this man is freaking out over trying to find his little boy a pumpkin costume is too endearing.

“I tried to talk him out of it. For weeks actually. I’ve bought him every costume under the sun that I thought he might like – Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, Fluttershy …”

“Fluttershy?”

The man chuckles, but waves the topic off. “That’s a whole other story entirely.”

Maybe for another time? The words almost make their way out of Kurt’s mouth before he mentally slaps himself in the face.

Married. With a kid married. Gear down, Hummel.

“Anyway, he won’t budge. And his mom, she’s a really awesome seamstress, but she’s been sick …” He pauses and swallows after the word sick, and Kurt feels his heart double thump. He’s using the same inflection Kurt remembers his father using when he would tell people that Kurt’s mother was sick. It leads Kurt to believe that ‘sick’ might be a vague reference to something more devastating than the flu that’s been going around.

“Oh,” Kurt says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

The man nods, pinching his lips between his teeth to keep from going into it. “It’s been kind of a tough time for the little guy. So I thought, you know, if he wants to be a pumpkin so badly, let him be a pumpkin. Only, I can’t sew to save my life.”

“Did you try papier mache?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” The man looks subconsciously at his hands. Kurt peeks and sees bits of dried plaster embedded underneath his nails. “But I thought that a professional costume shop might have something like a really kick-ass pumpkin. I’ve checked online, but I’ve had no luck. I even tried calling some of the performing arts schools, but nobody has one. I guess nobody ever plays a vegetable in a school play anymore.”

“I guess not,” Kurt says sympathetically. He looks at the distraught man and sighs. Kurt feels for him. He really does. He seems like a nice guy – sweet, kind, and caring to a fault, racing around New York City, trying to fulfill a little boy’s wish. Even with his bittersweet story, he’s a nice change from the customers this shop usually gets – cosplayers, Ren Faire folk, and, during Halloween, teenagers looking for whatever sexy comic book character they can get their hands on. In the close to four years since Kurt’s been part-timing here, it’s been a while since he’s had anyone come in asking for a child’s costume. They did outfit the Atlantic Children’s Playhouse performance of Cinderella a year back, but the pumpkin from that performance was six feet tall, and got trampled in the last act.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says, “but we don’t have any pumpkin costumes here.”

The man stares at him blankly, lips parting an inch as if he’s about to argue, unwilling to accept what Kurt is saying.

“How about a squash?” he asks sadly.

Kurt’s heart breaks a sliver. “We don’t have any fruits or vegetables … or food costumes in general. I’m so sorry.”

The man sighs, looking about a foot shorter when he’s done.

“Well, this was the last store on the list. I can’t believe in all of New York City …” The man taps the counter with his hand, like putting a period at the end of his sentence, stopping himself before he unloads his grief at this situation on Kurt. “Thank you, anyway.” He smiles weakly, then turns to go out the way he barreled in.

Kurt watches him leave and knows he can’t let him. So, maybe the most compassionate (and probably the most handsome) man Kurt’s met in ages is married, but that’s not the issue, dammit! His kid still deserves to be a pumpkin!

“Wait,” Kurt calls out before the man’s hand reaches the door. “You know, I’m majoring in Musical Theater at NYADA …” The man turns back slowly, that hopeful look returning to his face. “I make a lot of my own costumes. Maybe I can help you.”

“Do you … do you really think so?” he asks, walking back to the counter.

“Yes! If I can make a Joan of Arc suit of armor in a day, I’m sure I can whip up a pumpkin. I mean, how difficult can it really be?”

“Oh my God!” The man jumps up and down, doing a tiny dance. “Are you serious?” Kurt nods, chuckling at the man’s ridiculous jig. “You’re a life saver! That would be … that would be incredible!” But then he stops dancing, and his face falls again. “Oh, but I’m afraid I probably can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

Kurt bites his lower lip. What he’s worth. He’s been so jaded by fair-weather friends since he’s moved to New York, he didn’t know there were people out there who worried about things like that anymore.

“Meh,” Kurt says. “I’ll take a ton of pictures and put them in my portfolio for school. Chalk it up as work experience. Just pay for the material, and the labor’s on me.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.” The man shakes his head to decline Kurt’s generosity, but with the widest smile growing on his face. “That’s too much.”

“I insist. I need the extra credit points,” Kurt lies. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

That seems to sit okay with the man because he stops shaking his head.

“Well, can I at least buy you dinner while you’re toiling over construction of this gourd?”

“Absolutely,” Kurt says without thinking. Then his mind skids to a stop. “Uh, will your … wife be joining us?” Oh, please don’t be a cheater, he prays in his head. I’ll lose all faith in humanity if you turn out to be a cheater.

“My … wife?” The man’s brow wrinkles, and he looks as confused as Kurt feels. “Oh no! No no no! Andy’s mom is my sister-in-law, not my wife. Andy is my nephew.”

“Oh!”

“No, no. I’m single.” The man emphasizes the word single. “My boyfriend and I separated over a year ago. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, my name’s Kurt.” He sticks out his hand, and the man takes it.

“Blaine.” He holds Kurt’s hand for a moment after he shakes it, giving it a gentle squeeze that makes Kurt’s toes tingle. “So, can we consider tonight a date then?”

“Absolutely. Meet me here tonight at seven,” Kurt says, “and we’ll turn your nephew into a pumpkin.”

[areswriting]

a x e : xxiv

“No one has seen us yet, we can just make something up.” Says Jason. He casually thumbs through a magazine and misses the look I give him.

“What this time?” I say, looking at my reflection against his black computer monitor. “Because if we say we got into another fist fight—”

“We’re not going to say that,” he interjects. I turn my head to see him casting me a look similar to the one I had just given him.

“What then?  Another hockey injury? Because honestly, Jason who in their right mind will let us play if all we ever do is injure ourselves?”

With a loud sigh, Jason sets the magazine down and slowly sits himself upright on his bed. “Look, Abram, I’ve been doing this a while—and people ask less questions than you think. We’ll just say our Uber driver mugged us.”

My mouth falls open—full of questions that I won’t ask. Jason is right—people don’t want to know the truth. Lies, no matter how grand, are easier to digest. I force my lips into a thin line and nod. I like mugged by a stranger more than beat by my father.

▲ △ ▼ ▽

New text message: 805-555-9811

I miss you.

(message read)

I just feel like I need to reiterate that I love you.

(message read)

I try to focus on my calculus homework, but the incessant vibrating from my phone won’t let me. I flip it screen up to see a third text from Sylvia.

I love you so much, Abram. I wish things were different, easy. I wish I could rewrite our story. Undo all of the damage, delete the bad chapters, write myself into someone worthy of you.

I send a read receipt and look up. On the other side of the library I see Elise behind a pile of books, and she looks away almost instantly. My whole body tenses as I recount our last conversation.

I love you.

It doesn’t mean anything if you don’t remember in the morning.

But you will remember.

I set my jaw and push my pencil against the paper with so much force that the tip of the lead snaps off, leaving only jagged remnants. I wonder—is this what my heart looks like?

My phone vibrates again and I pick it up with an agitated sigh. To my surprise, it isn’t Sylvia—it’s Brody.

Pookie did you see the new game schedule?

There’s a new one?

Yes.

Ok?????

Lol

wtf what is it

my man the typhoons and tigers can’t play for the next two weeks, they all have the flu.

shut up

see you on Saturday loml

REALLY?

yES in Boston

YOU ARE LYING

NO I’M SERIOUS

you swear??????//

I PROMISE.

klasdjskaljsa

same!!

New text message: Ellie.

You better bring Elise.

I glance up from my phone and back to the table Elise sits at. Her head is bowed and she clicks a pen beside it, one foot tapping against the floor. I don’t know if she’s deep in thought, or aware of my staring. Regardless, I look away.

I screen shot Ellie’s text, along with Brody’s and send them to Elise through Instagram.

@Dyer: you’re wanted in boston this weekend.

@lislaire: only by ellie?

@Dyer: no, not only by ellie. I want you there, too.

@lislaire: I’m literally twenty feet away, you could have just came and told me.

@dyer: you looked really busy over there.

@lislaire: you were staring at me?

I look up from my phone to see Elise looking back at me with an eyebrow raised.

@dyer: more like admiring, like I’m looking at art.

@lislaire: you are so cheesey, abram dyer.

@dyer: so why are you blushing?

▲ △ ▼ ▽

The week drags by so slowly that when Friday morning comes, I’m close to imploding with anticipation. I’m the first person on the team to climb into one of the black Mercedes vans, and I’m on the edge of my seat the whole way. A drastic difference to Jason, who sits beside me, sunken into himself with his headphones in and his hood pulled well over his head.

We go directly from the buses to practice at Boston Newton High School. I wish I had considered how much it would hurt to come back to the last place my mother hugged me. I can still see her in the stands when I look at them—pinpointing the last place she cheered for me from.

The sound of the buzzer pulls my attention back to the ice, and practice starts. It ends just as abruptly, and while I file in line behind my teammates to go to the visitor’s locker rooms I hear whistles and yelling from the bleachers. I’m not the only one who turns their head—but I’m the only one that matters. At least to the three people making the noise.

Brody, Ellie and to my surprise, Elise, stand in that order at the boards. Part of me wants to skate and jump the boards—but that same part of me knows Coach will have my head if I do anything but walk forward.

“I’m glad to see your friends made it,” says Jason from behind me.

I glance back at him. “They go to school here, Jason.”

He mumbles something under his breath, and I chose to let it go, because I understand his anger. I shower and change and all but run out of the locker room—my eyes on my phone as I type a message to Brody—and straight into someone else.

I look up and all I see is black fabric and blond hair as Brody throws himself at me like he hasn’t seen me in months or years instead of weeks. And I hug him just the same.

“I swear, one day I’m going to wake up to a note on my pillow from Brody telling me that he and Kai finally eloped,” says Ellie.

“Aw, are you jealous, Ellie?” I say, arms still wrapped around Brody, my chin resting on his shoulder.

“I mean, no, but sometimes I think I should be,” she says. “He doesn’t hug me like that.” She looks at Elise. “What about you?”

“Nope,” Elise laughs. “He’s never been that affectionate to me.”

I place a kiss on top of Brody’s head. “What are you doing here, Elise? I thought you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow.”

“I took a personal day,” she says.

The locker room door opens and the four of us turn our heads. Jason looks as surprised to see us as we are to see him. But his face contorts to something else—something rabid as he takes in the sight of me and Brody, still tightly embraced.

“Hey, Jase,” says Brody as he pulls away from me.

Jason rolls his eyes, moves to walk around us, but stops short. “Oh, that’s cute. Of course you’re here.”

“Jason…” Elise tries to say, but he steps around her and stomps away from us.

“Bless his heart,” says Ellie.

“When did you become a sassy southern woman, babe?” asks Brody.

“I wasn’t being sassy!” she replies. “I genuinely feel bad for him!”

“Thanks, Els,” I say. “That’s doing a lot for my guilt right now.”

“But that’s not what it means when you say bless your heart,” Brody goes on. “Its actual translation from southern to northern is: Wow, you’re so fucking stupid.”

Ellie rolls her eyes at both of us. “Whatever—Kai, what do you want to do first?”

I clinch my jaw and push my hair behind my ear. “I want to see my mom.”

▲ △ ▼ ▽

Emilia Monroe Dyer

For love is always with you,

and love is stronger than death.

I read the words on my mom’s tombstone five times—love is stronger than death. And I can’t feel anything but anger for those five words and how they mock me. Having no one else to do this for her—I know those words were handpicked by my mother. Part of me wonders if she always knew she would be the epitome of only the good die young—and if she did, why didn’t she warn me?

My throat tightens and my eyes burn with tears that I can’t contain. And I drop to my knees. An uncontrollable, shoulder shaking sob leaves me and I am quick to cover my mouth.

Two hands touch my shoulders, one firm, one soft—I don’t need to look to know that they belong to Brody and Elise. I faintly hear Ellie whisper something, and Brody unclamps his hand while Elise kneels down beside me.

When she wraps her arms around me, I fall apart between them, face buried in her hair, fingers clinging to her dress. My body shakes and my cries grow louder, but she only holds me tighter.

“For love is always with you, and love is stronger than death,” Elise whispers. “She left that for you, Abram. It’s Oscar Wilde. Her love for you will always be here.” She places her hand over my heart and I hold onto it.

She holds me until my breathing is steady and helps wipe tears from my face.

“I should have brought flowers,” I say. “Tulips. They’re her favorite.”

Elise produces a package from her purse, and when she opens it, I see that it’s a bag of new pens. “What about something a little more useful?” she says as she offers them to me. “Your mom wrote everything by hand.”

“How did you know that?” I ask, gingerly pulling one of them out.

She smiles. “I have been obsessed with her since I was thirteen—I know everything—I mean…”

“No, it’s ok,” I say with a sniffle. “I am that way with Simon.”

“Flowers whither,” Elise says. “But pens—”

“Dry out,” I say half-heartedly.

“That’s why I brought a whole pack,” she says. “And next time we can bring more. Besides, she’s obviously getting flowers from other people. Even tulips.”

I look at the pile of fresh flowers, only then really noticing them. I wonder who could have brought them, then realize my mother had a life outside of me. Friends, boyfriends, readers.

I stick a pen tip down into the dirt, then offer one to Elise.

“Thanks for thinking to do this,” I say. “And thanks for coming with me…This is my first time being back since she was buried.”

[hellanoragami-blog]

Chapter 74 Thoughts

Wow!! There sure is a lot of subliminal foreshadowing for such a silly chapter!! Unbelievable. :) Now I get to dig in and dissect it!

We’re told right off the bat that Fujisaki hasn’t been attending school. Though I don’t believe it’s because of the flu. (Quick note here, it really is flu season! Please go out and get your flu shot, if you haven’t/can! It’s pretty nasty this year. I just got over the worst of it, myself!)

If I had to guess, it’s most likely due to his injuries. Remember, Fujisaki’s body is human. That assault by Bishamon looked pretty nasty, so it would take some time to recover. But I bet you, he’s still keeping watch via Mizuchi. He’s still plotting for later, undoubtedly.

A quick pointer, the date says the 27th on Hiyori’s diary. As @fast-moon pointed out in their translation notes, Yukine’s “birthday” would be the 29th of November. Previously thought the 24th, but this correction is more accurate.

And in the beginning, we see the word ‘unforgettable’ quite a lot. I get the feeling this is foreshadowing something for the future. What, I’m not sure. But it’s very obvious, and I’m certain that it’s going to carry over into future events--especially because of Hiyori’s dialogue.

“This looked like it really would be an unforgettable memory...”

There’s not really much to report on, as far as the practice goes. Although, I kinda relate to Hiyori here; this whole chapter screamed ‘second-hand embarrassment’, haha. But y’know, Yato’s very...extra, when it comes to showing how much he cares. It’s still very endearing, though, no matter how embarrassing it is.

The next thing I wanted to point out was the three sacred treasures summoning Yato. Not Amaterasu. I’m still willing to bet that the whole thing of how a shinki appropriates a God is coming into play here. They’re the ones who seem to be in control of everything. Not Amaterasu. I believe this is what Adachitoka were trying to hint at, without making it obvious: we shouldn’t be holding Amaterasu accountable. At least, not completely. The treasures are seen as Gods themselves, practically, so it’s no wonder that they’re seen as important figures in Heaven’s political system.

There’s not really much I can say about the talk regarding the God’s Greatest Secret...although, it is established that they decided to leave well enough alone--at least for now. (Haha, it’s implied that Takemikazuchi was eavesdropping a little. I wonder what he’ll take away from that conversation?)

The group returns home and it’s pretty obvious that Yukine’s been tending to the shop and waiting up for them pretty much all day. He’s adorable and is a good boy. (I’m not dismissing Hiyori’s next dialogue; maybe we should be looking out for Yato’s well-being, also. Though, it’s best to assume no one is safe, being the series it is!)

The next morning, Yukine finds the shop empty again, and remarks how irresponsible they’re being by leaving the shop unattended. He prepares to take over, but is soon interrupted by the appearance of Coo Phone. Not gonna lie, if I got a letter from a family member to meet up somewhere when they could have just told me before, I’d be a bit uneasy, too.

Mizuchi is shown next, and from what I can gather, her body language says that she is reluctant. It’s obvious she is debating whether or not to approach Yukine. Yukine spots her though, and moves quickly to approach her himself. (Obviously in a more open and hostile way. Mizuchi is actually pretty closed off, which isn’t that unusual given her personality.)  Of course, Hiyori interjects him next which leads to a pretty problematic page.

“It was so easy to cross over to that side.”

That’s some pretty troubling dialogue. It’s obvious that Yukine still harbors quite a bit of bad feelings from when he struck Bishamon, and he’s worried that he became too much like Mizuchi. While it’s clear that he does not wish to kill, he does wish to protect Yato at all costs. Which...means that he isn’t above killing, now. At least if it ensures Yato’s safety. This is where Hiyori may be a bit wrong in her thoughts.

I’m not saying that Yukine and Mizuchi are entirely alike. But the more paranoid Yukine becomes regarding Yato’s well-being, the darker his heart will become. As Tenjin said, humans can be unreservedly cruel, when they have something they want to protect. It doesn’t make Yukine a bad kid. It just makes him desperate. Yato is like family to him, and he doesn’t want to lose him. 

Being that he was most likely abandoned by his own father in a way, he may have a few issues with losing those he’s close to; especially after being sealed away in that sarcophagus. If Yato were to disappear again like he did in the Underworld arc, Yukine would probably--ahem--McFreakin’ Lose It.

Hiyori next takes Yukine back to the shrine where they first met. What follows is the dance routine that Yato has staged, which is both equally heart-warming and embarrassing. (Go hard or go home! I really liked it, in all honesty. It was very sweet.)

Yukine of course feels quite grateful for everything, and goes to be by himself to reflect. He even starts crying, which could be a mix of both happiness and sadness. (But mostly happiness at having found a place where he truly feels that he belongs, with people that really care about him.)

Then, there is of course, the kiss. Oh, I’m gonna talk about it, alright. It feels like something that just jumped out of a fanfic. (To be perfectly honest, a pixiv user does have me crack-shipping the two; though I never expected it to take an indirectly canon turn? What the hell, Adachitoka. This was not something I wanted. What are you two doing?)

We don’t yet know the meaning or intention behind it. Does Mizuchi really love Yukine? Notice the ‘dai’ inflection in front of ‘suki’, in the Japanese version. That does seem to indicate more love, instead of just like. But taking their history into account--especially Mizuchi’s personality--it’s kind of hard to piece together how she truly feels. Although, it is quite clear that Yukine stirs her up in a way that she isn’t used to. She doesn’t usually allow things to get to her, but Yukine is canonically the first one to ever bring out her more extreme feelings.

First, she felt irritation with him. It’s hard to say if she still hates him, but I’m not sure it’s love, either. The most puzzling fact is that Mizuchi doesn’t have a history of lying. She may hide things, and have a warped view of how to treat others, but she doesn’t lie. At least, she hasn’t before.

There’s a lot of speculation as to what the kiss could mean, though. A few fans, both in the English and Chinese region, seem to believe it could be connected to Liberation. Some believe that Mizuchi can perform that ability while she is in her human form, and just inflicted Yukine again. Although this isn’t a certain thing, it is something to consider. A short spoiler from the end of the magazine reads, “What does Yukine see in Mizuchi’s eyes?”

Basically, this could bring bad or good. Most likely bad. Yukine has expressed his hatred for Mizuchi, and judging by his expression, he definitely didn’t want it to happen. He’s shocked.

This is kind of a recurrent theme in the manga though--stolen first kiss, I mean. A stolen first kiss can make one feel tainted, and seems to depict a loss of innocence, to an extent. (Especially if it wasn’t consensual, which this clearly was not.)

We don’t ever get a good look at Mizuchi’s face at any point in this chapter, so it’s really too hard to say what she is feeling. I think that’s going to be shown next chapter, which will hopefully make it easier to decipher exactly what direction this development will go in. Noragami is, before anything else, a Shonen series, however. So I don’t really expect anything substantial to come out of this kiss; at least where romance is concerned.

Ahhh, we’re gonna be facing something sinister again soon...

[savagegardenforever]

TO THE MOON AND BACK Rolling Stones Magazine - Australia june 1998

All Darren Hayes could think was "This is not happening!" It was a mantra the Savage Garden vocalist kept chanting to himself, but it wasn't taking. The nascent pop star went to take a sip of his Powerade, but then the Edge cracked a joke and Hayes involuntarily laughed, spitting purple liquid all over himself. Supermodel Helena Christensen giggled as the singer coughed and spluttered. The rain clouds were clearing in the aftermath of the Sydeny leg of U2's PopMart tour, and Hayes had climbed the various levels of celebrity patronage - the shitkicker VIP tent; the serious VIP tent where Midnight Oil were rubbing shoulders with Keanu Reeves and Samuel L. Jackson - to here: U2's dressing room, "The Bunker". He was on his own. The other half of Savage Garden, the calm, assured keyboardist Daniel Jones, was back on level two. "This is not happening! This is not happening!" he told himself. When Bono's assistant bought Hayes in, he walked past Adam Clayton and had to remind himself to be cool. But f**k it, there he was, sitting there in the corner wearing a boxing hood and those black wraparound shades: Bono himself. The Fly, McPhisto, the man who wrote "One", the man who'd just left 50,000 people enthralled. Darren Hayes's goldstar was sitting a few metres away. It was happening. Hayes was dripping wet. The Powerade had simply added to the downpour he'd already stood through, dancing at the tip of the catwalk, alongside the other true believers, lost in the music. He'd had the chance to meet Bono the previous August, when PopMart was in Los Angeles. Hayes had been transfixed bu the show but decided not to go backstage. He didn't want to be the millionth hand Bono shaked, another beaming face to be forgotten. It was different now. Over the last year Savage Garden had sold approximatley four million albums around the world - they were on the course to double that - including a phenomenal 800,000 in Australia alone. They'd scooped the 1997 ARIA Awards and had a number one single in America with "Truly Madly Deeply", the first Australian act to do so since INXS with "Need You Tonight" in 1987. But Darren Hayes didn't want to meet Bono because he felt successful. He would never dare compare Savage Garden's achievements to U2. No, Darren Hayes wanted to meet Bono because he was starting to realise the baggage that came with the success. Savage Garden were in the midst of a sold-out national tour and he was starting to feel like he had nothing more to give, that he'd been stretched so thin he would either break in two or simply dissipate. A few nights before, in Tasmania, he'd been asking himself before a show if he could go on, if not tonight, then next week, or next month in New Zealand, or the month after that in Asia, or the looming months beyond that in Europe and America. He was wondering why they'd become a teen sensation, if he could keep his marriage out of the public eye. All of these thoughts were racing through Darren Hayes's mind. And then Bono was looking at him, gesturing for him to come over and talk ...

Let it be said again: Savage Garden are a phenomenon. Together with the Spice Girls they have spearheaded the return of pop music to the top of musical charts around the world, giving focus to the desires and needs of a generation of teenage, on the whole female, fans. But behind all this is two young men from suburban Brisbane. Polite, inquistive young men who worry a lot about what's happening to them, how they should handle success, how they can prove that their brand of pop is one which will mature and grow, which will reach for resonance and a sense of belief. When I first meet Savage Garden they are preparing to have thier photo taken. It is a Saturday afternoon and Savage Garden are standing in a Sydney hotel suite, looking at clothes, prior to shooting new press shots for America. On the Sunday and Monday, with a show also scheduled on Sunday night, they're to shoot a high-budget clip for the US release of "Break Me Shake Me". Hayes is wearing all black, most noticeably a pair of jeans armour-plated with PVC. With his locks now cropped, his dewy features have lost some of their femininity. He moves around constantly, even if he fights the flu, breaking into snatches of song, delving off into varied topics of conversation without warning. Now he's appraising outfits. "How much is this stuff?" he asks the stylist, who's lacing up Hayes's boots for him. "$290 for the top and $220 for the pants, less 10%," comes the reply. Hayes pauses, then snorts. "Tell 'em to get f**ked," he retorts. Sitting on a bed, patiently having his makeup done, Daniel Jones laughs. The keyboardist is tall and rangy, with blond, spiky hair. Up close, you can see the handful of acne scars which pit the right side of his face. When he smiles, which he does often for someone so observant and low-key, his angular face becomes quite disarming. He watched the PopMart show at the mixing desk, standing beside Helena Christensen. "I said hello and then spent the rest of the show trying to smell her," he notes, grinning broadly. Because they own their very successful records - they only lease them to Roadshow Music in Australia and New Zealand and Sony Music for the rest of the world - Savage Garden have a degree of control most bands can only dream of. "There's not one cent spent, not one colour used on a front cover that we don't approve," Hayes later explains. "It's very comforting." Right now, Savage Garden are working it for photographer Robin Sellick's camera. Hayes is a natural, staring off into the middle distance while standing in the foreground, masking his face in the very definition of broodiness. Jones stands behind him, biding his time for a practice he clearly doesn't place a great deal of faith in (although he's never less than professional). As the shoot moves from hallway to penthouse, Hayes takes front and centre in every shot. "I'm always aware that I'm in the front in every photograph, but it's not because I step in front of him," he says. "Daniel takes two steps back. People just assume I'm an egomaniac." The first album that both Hayes, age 25, and Jones, age 24, bought was Michael Jackson's Thriller. George Michael is a name they both mention with respect. Out in the suburbs of Brisbane both youngsters were pop fanatics, giving vent to their obsessions. Jones was so taken with the video for "Thriller" that he and a friend started digging graves behind his house so they could recreate the video; he even began work on making the famous red jacket. Hayes went one better: he built a paper maché ET and rode around with it in the basket of his bike. But the divergent paths the two took towards Savage Garden illustrate the differences between them. By the time he was 13, Jones was more interested in making music than listening to it. He'd started buying keyboards and sequencers, creating musical beds for songs. On the New Year's Eve of 1989, aged 15, he did his first two gigs back to back, with a covers band, and walked away with $400. He never went back to school after that. Financially astute, by the time he was 17 he owned his own PA, which he regularly loaded in and out of every pub and club in Queensland. "I kind of miss those moments," Jones recalls. "I enjoyed some of those innocent pressures more than these serious ones." Darren Hayes had far more trouble realising his dreams. "My whole life," he declares, "being a singer or performer was all I ever wanted to do." But growing up in one of Brisbane's rougher suburbs didn't make this easy. There's an undercurrent of anger in Hayes when he describes those years, as if he's still upset at how people tried to deny his dreams. "Most people I went to school with had two babies before they were 20. One guy is in jail for armed robbery. Another one died in a car crash while on cocaine. Another one is a pimp. That was the level of my peers. I didn't know a single person who was even a singer. My family weren't that encouraging - which is not a criticism - but my career choice was the most alien thing you could do in my family." Hayes started studying journalism at university, but then threw it in. "My mission was to be a star," he remembers, speaking with an earnestness which can easily veer into melodrama. With his then girlfriend, a fellow Madonna fanatic, the pair auditioned for theatre college. "I got in, she didn't, so I gave it all up for her. And three months later she dumped me. I was gutted." Hayes started a Bachelor of Education majoring in Primary School Teaching, "something I did not have a drop of passion about." Still obsessed with his dreams of fame, he was sitting in a lecture in 1992, reading a Brisbane street paper, when he saw a "Singer Wanted" ad for a local covers band, Red Edge. Replying to the ad he found himself in a band room, being stared down by Jones and the rest of the band. Red Edge didn't know any of Hayes's favourites, while the prospective vocalist ("I always knew I could sing, I knew I had soul") hated their Oz rock/top 40 repertoire. He sang a piece from Little Shop of Horrors, and even though his voice broke halfway through, he was in. It was not an easy adjustment. Hayes is not technically inclined, and he perversely refused to learn the words to the band's set, relying on lyrics sheets instead ("I still don't know the words to 'Khe Sanh'," he announces with pride). The experience, he concludes, was "hideous". Hayes is walking down a corridor to a meet and greet. In the lounge, Hayes is joined by Jones, fresh from dinner. Five girls - before some shows the number has been as high as 50 - appear breathless and nervous. There's nothing studied about teen hysteria, it has an immediacy which distances it from the adult world. Savage Garden are comfortable with it. "So, would you like us to sign some stuff?" asks Jones genially. Tickets, CDs and a stuffed bear are produced. Photographs are taken. One of the girls is red in the face because she's not taking in enough oxygen. "You all go to school, don't you?" asks Hayes. The girls indicate yes. "Well let me give you a lesson about school. All the kids that were popular end up on the dole with babies. All the nerds end up pop stars." "Hey!" retorts Jones. "I was never a nerd." "Darren is brutally honest, even to himself," answers Jones when asked to describe his bandmate. "Sometimes he's his own worst critic. He's so honest that anything he's feeling comes to the surface, which really helps clear the air in the type of intense relationship we have. He reminds me of a kid, not in a bad way, but in his naivity." Asked the same question, Hayes replies, "He's probably the most intelligent person I've ever met in my life. He doesn't say anything unless he's thought it through and it's right. It might take him two or three days, but he'll come to you and say, 'I think you look really insecure when you do that. I'm just being honest.' And you'll go red because he's absolutley right. Intelligent. Calm and confident. He's devoid of insecurity." When U2 brought the Zoo TV tour to Australia in 1993, Red Edge was scheduled to play a residency in Alice Springs. Darren Hayes didn't have to think for long. He left the band. But the other thing he was pondering was writing songs with Daniel Jones. The two had slowly developed a rapport, and Hayes was impressed that Jones and several other band members already had a music publishing deal. The actual songs, however, he hated. "They were watered down 1927," he laments. "It wasn't really my thing," says Jones. "But then I hooked up with Darren and left that band." The pair began to experiment. Happily working by himself at home, Jones would create the musical backing, Hayes would suggest refinements and then add his vocals. The fourth song they wrote together was their astral retooling of "She's Leaving Home", "To The Moon & Back," and afterwards they knew they were on to something. "I turned around," says Jones, "and said, 'This is as good as anything out there. It's as good as U2, or a Seal song - the benchmarks.' That's when we became really serious." Savage Garden's five song demo - the duo envisaged themselves as a studio project and were heavily influenced by U2's Atchung Baby - was well-recieved, although the pair were disheartened by the amount of music industry players whose first queries to them were, "What do you look like?" and "Can you dance?" The duo eventually signed with veteran manager John Woodruff (Baby Animals, Diesel, Icehouse) in 1995 and he remains the linchpin of the Savage Garden organisation and their business partner. It was a relationship forged in adversity. Because they couldn't get a record deal (whether because no one could see the band's potential or because no one was willing to give Woodruff a deal for his own record label is unclear), Woodruff self-financed the album, bringing the pair to Sydney for eight months to record at the home studio of veteran producer Charles Fisher )Hoodoo Gurus, 1927). Hayes first choice for a producer was George Michael. Living in a Kings Cross Hotel on a diet of noodles and missing their families, Savage Garden struggled to finish their album. Their doubts were constant, their aims shifting each month. Woodruff licensed the album to start-up label Roadshow Music, whose early signings had been anything but auspicious. Their first single, "I Want You" - a Hayes tale about an extraordinarily vivid dream where he met and fell in love with someone so deeply that when he lost them upon waking he became depressed - was released in June 1996. "What makes me laugh about our record is that we couldn't get a deal, so we signed to the joke of the industry, Roadshow," Hayes explains. "We had dodgy artwork, dodgy videos. We had trouble getting airplay at the start. Basically, we fulfilled every criteria to be unearthed by Triple J." [Triple J is an Australian youth radio station that plays alternative music] "The day I realised how commercial we were was the day I realised that Triple J didn't playlist 'I Want You'. I was thinking that it would be an indie-pop hit that they'd play. Then it was like, 'Actually, you're the most played band on the Austereo network.'" He pauses, then smiles. "And I'll take that any day." The band did their first in-store appearance as "I Want You" climbed to number three on the charts. "All these 13 and 14-year-olds turned up, screaming 'Darren! and 'Daniel!'" remembers Jones. "I was like, "Oh f**k!' I didn't want to go through that." By the time "Moon & Back" and then "Truly Madly Deeply" had gone to number one, to be followed by their self-titled debut album in March 1997, Savage Garden had acclimatised to their new surroundings. Hayes and Jones make no bones about making commercial music, but under that banner they see a world of subtle differences. "I think the best pop is the one that shoots from the hip," asserts Hayes. "What troubles me sometimes is that we've always wanted to be completely true to ourselves, but people always assume that since we make pop music it has to be calculated and all about marketing. It was never that. There are a lot of pop bands and vocal bands which just aren't real. They're not coming from a real place." "What's so magical about the record we made is that it's so innocent and earnest. It went out there and said this is what we want to be. We didn't care about hip or cool. It was unassuming. I think we write really good pop songs, we have a great ear for a melody and we have a directness when it comes to emotion." Savage Garden's show is mildly choreographed, well-designed and given to U2 homages (which Hayes happily admits to) that the young audience (seeded with the over-30s brought in by "Truly Madly Deeply") scream along to. With just one album and a handful of b-sides to draw on, there are noticeable low points. But live, Savage Garden are a guitar band. Jones plays more guitar than keyboards, while their stage sound is fleshed out by a rhythm section, extra guitarist and backing singers. "I think we're a pop band desperatley wanting to be a rock & roll band and I think that's what's funny about us," claims Hayes. The strangest moment is when Hayes, who has so much desire and extreme emotion projected at him from an audience he works relentlessly, dedicates a song to his wife, Colby. Fans want their pop stars to be free and magical, not married with a home in the Brisbane suburbs. Hayes is vocal on every topic bar one: his wife of three years. "I think it's strange to be young and married," he says, choosing his words carefully. "Imagine being young and married and a pop star. It's tough. We refuse to be an example pf a happy marriage to anyone. The reason I very rarely talk about Colby or do a Women's Weekly spread about our new glamour house is that it's hard enough being married without being a celebrity couple. When you're happy together they love you, but Jesus, when there's problems they don't care, they tear you to bits. And I'm not ready for that." Both Hayes and Jones (who is also in a long-term relationship) decided from the start not to discuss their private lives with the media. On their first tour in May 1997 a tabloid journalist who wanted to follow up his interview with Hayes with a quick phone chat was directed by Woodruff to call him on his mobile: "His wife Colby has it." "The next day he writes some article in the paper: 'Exclusive: Singer Tries to Hide Wife!'" spits Hayes, recalling the spectre of John Lennon, who really did keep his first marriage a secret under management orders. "When did I ever say I wasn't married? When did I ever say I wanted to talk about my private life? What the f**k does it matter? Is my music different because I have a wedding ring?"

For one second I knew what it was like to be Savage Garden. After their solf-out show I leave the Entertainment Centre. Their road manager directs me out the door to the car park. As soon as I open it the 500 fans awaiting the band's departure scream in anticipation. It is electrifying, even a little scary. But when they see it's only an anonymous figure, 500 fans go, "Ohhhhh." Pop music is a cruel, cruel mistress. Last October, the flight to Sydney for the ARIAs, where they would clean up 10 awards, Daniel Jones told Darren Hayes that he couldn't take it anymore and that he was ready to leave Savage Garden. The music, which is all Jones really cared about, had been overtaken by promotion. Instead of being allowed to hide away in a recording studio, Jones was giving 40 interviews a day in America, traipsing across Europe miming on TV shows in every country. "It was pissing me off. Music was becoming more about talking about it than actually making it. I had to get back to the studio. I enjoy it and I miss it. The whole moster size of this machine takes it away from you," he notes. "The whole pep talk I now give video directors and photographers is that I don't want to be up the front. I've drawn a line for myself, and that's the compromise I had to make to deal with being in this band. Now everyone understands what it is about these two people. One wants to be here, the other wants to be here." He holds up his hands to indicate the difference, the gap between them is a metre wide. "That's the deal we made around the time of the ARIAs, but to be honest I think I've always done it," claims Hayes later. "I've always been lumbered with it because everyone assumes I love it. And lately I'm the one saying I want out, I can't do this anymore. If we ever broke up it would be because one of us wanted to be George Michael and one of us wanted to be Dave Stewart." Right now though, the topic the pair are focusing on is their next album. "We matured faster than the album," Jones says. In their mid-20s now, they're not always comfortable playing the songs they wrote as 19 and 20-year-olds. At the end of their concert Hayes tells the cheering crowd, "We have to go away now and think it all up again." "It's seriously not about chart position," clarifies Hayes. "I want a career, so if it sells half as well as this one, thank you, I'll take that. I believe a career is about ups and downs. It shouldn't be a steady gradient. The next record has to be true to itself. It won't be a knee-jerk reaction to critics. To turn around and make a Portishead album would be a big mistake. We'll f**k around with technology, we'll f**k around with drumbeats. We're courting William Orbit at the moment, because we heard the new Madonna record and I thought, 'I like what you added to that record. You added spice and flavour without taking over.' And that's what we're looking for. We want to grow up a little bit. And we're prepared to do whatever it takes." Darren Hayes was thinking that Bono was a wise old man, a wizard. The icon was talking about life, how he searches every day for new inspiration, music, their show, and Hayes was rapt, once more the little boy in love with a mysterious extra-terrestrial. And then he started to tell Bono how he felt, like a rag doll that had been twisted around too much. How sometimes after a show he considered himself a prosititute because he had to give so much from his soul to every person in the room. Bono leaned closer to Hayes and grabbed his hand, putting it to his chest. Hayes could feel the pulmonary kick of the Irishman's heartbeat. And then he spoke: "As long as the music comes from here," he said, pushing Haye's hand harder against his chest, "then it's going to scream louder than any of the kids will." And for the few seconds that followed, Darren Hayes felt at peace with himself.

[s0022527a2film-blog]

Creative Investigation Y1 Summer work.

Stanley Kubrick.

Stanley Kubrick was an American director, editor, screenwriter, producer, cinematographer and photographer. Kubrick is often seen as one of the greatest and most influential directors in cinematic history. His films were mostly adaptations of novels or short stories which covered many genres such as: Drama, Horror, Sci-fi, Adventure, Mystery, Comedy, Crime, War and Film Noir, many of which were categorized as Psychological Thrillers as well as other genres. His films as generally known for their realism, unique cinematographic style and dark sense of humour.

Born in Manhattan, his parents were Jewish immigrants from Romania, Austria and Russia. Kubrick was considered an intelligent child, despite his poor grades. He was sent to live in Pasadena, California to live with his uncle, Martin Perveler when he was 12 years old in hope that the change of scenery would somehow have a better effect on his grades. He returned to live in Bronx, New York City at 13 bringing with him, little change in attitude towards school (William Howard Talt High School). Desperate for his son to use his intelligence for some purpose, his father introduced him to chess. Kubrick took to the game passionately and later on would use its ideologies to deal with uncooperative actors and using it at an artistic motif as a whole. An even smarter idea of his fathers was giving his son a camera for his thirteenth birthday. Kubrick became an avid photographer, later selling a photograph to Look Magazine at 17 years old. After this, Kubrick began to associate with the staff and was offered an apprentice there. During his time there, Kubrick taught himself all aspects of film production and directing, became a regular movie-goer and had read his first book for pleasure at 19 years old.

He made his first major Hollywood film, The Killing in 1956 but as reported, this was not a pleasant experience as differences with his ex-wife, Toba Metz, led onto their divorce in 1957. Kubrick went on to collaborate with Kirk Douglas, who, was one of the last living people of the Hollywood Golden Age, for Paths of Glory (1957) and the praised Spartacus (1960). Shortly after, Kubrick had moved to the United Kingdom in 1961 due to creative differences between himself and Douglas and a general distaste for Hollywood film studios as the system did not allow for much creative control over his movies. He had spent the majority of the rest of his life in a home at Childwickbury Manor in Hertfordshire with wife Christine Kubrick. Moving to the UK, allowed Kubrick almost complete creative control over his films with the rare advantage of having financial support from major Hollywood film studios.

His first British productions were Lolita (1962) and Dr. Strangelove (1964) with Peter Sellers. As mentioned, I had gathered that Kubrick was a demanding perfectionist and made sure that he had much of the creative control over his films, making him a considerable Auteur. He often asked for countless retakes of the same scene in a movie which, expectedly caused some conflict between him and his actors. Despite the difficulties during filming, Kubrick managed to break new ground in cinematography when he had released 2001: A Space Odyssey in 1968 with the innovative special effects and scientific realism. The film earned him his only personal Oscar for ‘Best Visual Effects’. Spielberg regarded it as one of the ‘Greatest films ever made’. When Kubrick was in the process of making The Shining, he was one of the first directors to have used a Steadicam for stabilized and flued tracking shots.

Many of Kubricks films faced some mixed reviews and backlash for their controversially violent, sexual, and indecent scenes. This was particularly the case with A Clockwork Orange (1971), Film critic, Stanley Kauffmann commented ‘Inexplicably the script leaves out Burgess’ reference to the title’ and Roger Ebert called it an ‘Ideological mess’. This was such a controversy at the time that Kubrick himself made sure that it couldn’t be viewed in the UK to avoid even more issues. Despite this, the film had grossed over 26million on a budget of 2.2 million and had won an Academy Award for ‘Bets Picture’. Kubrick accepted this award with the now quote ‘Anyone who has ever been privileged to direct a film knows that, although it can be like trying to write a War and Peace in a bumper car at an amusement park, when you finally get it right, there are not many joys that can equal that feeling.’ Along with Night of the Living Dead, Straw Dogs, The Wild Bunch etc. the film is considered a landmark in the relaxation of control on violence in cinema. Kubrick completed his last film, Eyes Wide Shut (1999), before his death of a heart attack at the age of 70.

Why do you find this topic for consideration interesting?

I find this interesting because I like his cinematographic style. I enjoy his movies not only because of the aesthetics but also because they’re thought provoking. Many of his films leave many people thinking about them days later, I like that you can’t just watch and forget that you ever watched one of Kubrick’s films twenty minutes later. I hope find out exactly how much I can imitate his style with the limited resources and millions of dollars that I do not have. I’d like to explore whether Kubrick can be considered an Auteur or not.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

I have chosen this film because of it’s ground-breaking cinematography that I would like to look into in much more depth.

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

Seen as though I am going to explore whether Kubrick can be considered an Auteur, I wanted to include this film as I think the Mise en scene and Cinematography, even plot, displays his cinematic style very well.

The Shining (1980)

The shining also has many scenes which could be described as Kubrick exclusive. I think his adaptations to the plots of the novels that he became inspired by would also be an interesting topic for exploration.

Quotes

‘I think Stanley got it in his head, he was a man of theory, and unless they could be disproved quickly, you could be in an awful lot of trouble’ - Malcolm McDowell

‘There was one actor that, I think did two days worth of takes, on one line that never made it in the movie’

‘Stanley's approach was very simple, he wanted to test everything’

Kubrick Remembered (2014) by Gary Khammar 

These quotes are useful to me as they show exactly Kubrick’s way of working and how particular he had to be in order to be able to create the works that he did. They are even more useful ad they were drawn directly from the people that he had worked with. 

Outline of my rough idea

I will create a film sequence totaling no more than 5 minutes. with only being in the early stages of the film coursework process, I am not entirely sure what the film is going to be. It is going to be a challenge attempting to recreate Kubrick’s style of cinematography, let alone the ideologies. I’m Thinking of perhaps creating a short in which I explore genres such as , Thriller, Dark Comedy and Drama. The idea is a murder that had just occurred and the murderer, who will look innocent, will be documenting this murder directly to the police and the whole thing will be based off of the initial phone call. Again, I plan to develop this idea much further but, that would be a very brief concept.

[mysteryshelf]

BLOG TOUR - Church of the Holy Child

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

The Church of the Holy Child

by Patricia Hale

on Tour August 15 – October 15, 2017

Synopsis:

A woman with a history of domestic abuse is missing. Her sister hires private investigators Cole and Callahan.

When the woman is found dead, her husband is charged but when a second body appears showing the same wounds, questions arise and what looked like a slam-dunk becomes anyone’s guess. The case goes to John Stark, a veteran cop and close friend of Griff Cole.

The bodies are piling up, and one person knows where the killer is. Father Francis, a priest at The Church of the Holy Child, listens to the killer’s disturbed account of each murder and wrestles with the vows that bind him to secrecy.

The case takes an unexpected and personal turn when Cole’s ex-wife goes missing and a connection to his past points to the killer.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Suspense Published by: Intrigue Publishing LLC Publication Date: August 15th 2017 Number of Pages: 259 ISBN: 1940758599 (ISBN13: 9781940758596) Purchase Links: Amazon 🔗 | Barnes & Noble 🔗 | Goodreads 🔗

Read an excerpt:

Inside the wooden confessional there’s a man who talks to God. At least that’s what my mother told me the last time we were here. But a month has passed since she disappeared so today I’ve come to the church alone. I no longer believe that she’s coming back for me like she said. Instead, I’ve become her stand-in for the beatings my father dishes out. That’s what he calls it, dishing out a beating, like he’s slapping a mound of mashed potato on my plate. He swaggers through the door ready for a cold one after coming off his seven to three shift, tosses his gun and shield on our kitchen table and reaches into the refrigerator for a Budweiser. I cringe in the corner and make myself small, waiting to hear what kind of day he’s had and whether or not I’ll be his relief. More often than not, his eyes search me out. “’C’mere asshole,” he says, popping the aluminum top, “I’m gonna dish out a beating.” If anyone can help me, it has to be this guy who talks to God. I open the door of the confessional with my good arm and step inside.

Twenty-three years later

ONE

His breath was warm on my neck, his lips hot and dry. His tongue searched the delicate skin below my ear. Heart quickening, back arching, I rose to meet him.

The phone on the nightstand vibrated.

“Shit,” Griff whispered, peeling away from me, our clammy skin reluctant to let go. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and flashed me his bad-boy, half-smile. “Cole,” he said into the phone.

At times like this, cell phones rate right alongside other necessary evils like cod liver oil and flu shots. I leaned against his back and caressed his stomach, damp dunes of sculpted muscle. Not bad for a guy north of forty. Griff still measured himself against the hotshots in the field. But in my book he had nothing to worry about; I’d take the stable, wise, worn-in model over a wet behind the ear, swagger every time.

He pried my fingers from his skin and walked toward the bathroom still grunting into the phone.

I slipped into my bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. I have my morning priorities and since the first one was interrupted by Griff’s phone, coffee comes in a close second.

Twenty minutes later he joined me dressed in his usual attire, jeans, boots, tee shirt and sport jacket. Coming up behind me, he nuzzled my neck as I poured Breakfast Blend into a travel mug. Coffee splashed onto the counter top.

“Gotta run,” he said taking the cup from my hand.

“What’s up?”

“Not sure yet. That was John. He said he could use a hand.

“Sobering up?

Griff flinched like I’d landed one to his gut.

“Sorry,” I said. “Cheap shot.”

“Woman found dead early this morning.”

“When’s he going to admit that he can’t run the department with a pint of scotch sloshing around in his gut?”

“The job’s all he’s got left, makes it hard to let go.”

“I’m just saying that he shouldn’t be head of CID. Not now. I’m surprised Haggerty has put up with it this long.”

“There’s a lot going down at the precinct. Internal Affairs is having a field day after that meth bust.

They’ve got so many guys on leave right now that a bottle of Dewar’s in John’s desk is the least of Haggerty’s problems.”

“I just don’t want you to get sucked into CID.”

He slipped his hands inside my robe and nuzzled my neck. “No chance of that. Nobody on the force feels like this.”

I pushed him away halfheartedly.

I’ll call you when I know what’s going on.”

The door closed behind him.

I sank onto a kitchen chair and flipped open the People magazine lying on the table. Griff and I had just finished an investigation for an heiress in the diamond industry whose sticky handed husband had resorted to blackmailing her brother as a way around their pre-nup. The ink on her twenty-thousand-dollar check made out to Cole & Co. was still wet. And being that I was the & Co. part of the check, I’d earned a leisurely morning.

The phone rang just as I was getting to the interview with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell on the secrets of a long-term relationship. Caller ID told me it was Katie Nightingale, our go-to girl at the office. Katie kept track of everything from appointments to finances to take-out menus.

I lifted the phone and hit ‘answer’.

“Britt?” Katie spoke before I had a chance, never a good sign.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“Missing woman.”

“Since when?”

“Last night.”

“What makes her missing? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”

“The woman who called said her sister was leaving an abusive husband and was supposed to let her know when she was safe by ringing the phone once at seven-thirty. The call never came. Now she can’t get hold of her. She said her sister carries your card in her wallet.”

“What’s her name?”

“The woman who called is Beth Jones. Her sister is Shirley Trudeau.”

I nodded into the phone. I can’t remember every woman I encounter, but Shirley’s name rang a bell. Since giving up my position as a Family Law attorney with Hughes and Sandown, I’d been offering free legal aid for women who needed advice but couldn’t afford it. Mostly I worked with wives trying to extricate themselves from abusive marriages. Given the reason I’d abandoned my law career, it was the least I could do. Shirley hadn’t been living at the women’s shelter, but she’d spent enough time there to have Sandra, the shelter’s director, hook her up with me.

“And Beth thinks Shirley’s husband found her?”

“That’s what it sounded like once she’d calmed down enough to form actual words.”

“I’m on my way.”

I set the phone down, making a mental note to call Sandra. She’d upgraded from a caseworker in Connecticut to Director in Portland, Maine a few months ago. I’d stopped by her office to introduce myself when she started and left my business cards. Our paths didn’t cross that often but we respected each other’s work and always took a few minutes to chat. I knew she’d been on the swim team in college and that she could bench-press her weight. We were close in age and like minded when it came to the politics of non-profits. No doubt Beth Jones had called her too.

After a shower and a quick clean up of last night’s wine glasses, Chinese takeout containers and clothes that we’d left strewn around the living room, I locked the apartment door and began my fifteen-minute trek to our office on Middle Street. I savored my walk through the Old Port, the name given to Portland, Maine’s waterfront. The summer heat that a month ago had my shirt stuck tight against my back was a thing of the past and the snow and ice that would make walking an athletic event had not yet arrived. The cool, crisp air was like a shot of espresso. As long as I didn’t let my mind wander to what nature had in store, I could enjoy the rush.

I hit “contacts” on my phone and scanned the names for Sandra’s.

“Sandra, it’s Britt,” I said when she answered. “I wish this was a social call, but it’s not. Shirley Trudeau is missing.

“I know. Her sister called this morning. I’m on my way in now. How did you find out?”

“Her sister hired us to find her. “Was someone helping her leave?”

“She had a caseworker, but I wasn’t in on the plan. I’ll know more once I get to my office and talk to the person she was working with.”

“Okay if I call you later?”

“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to tell you. You know the rules. If she was on her way…”

I stopped mid-stride and lowered the phone from my ear. Sandra’s voice slipped away. That dead body that Griff went to look at… my gut said, Shirley Trudeau.

***

Excerpt from The Church of the Holy Child by Patricia Hale. Copyright © 2017 by Patricia Hale. Reproduced with permission from Patricia Hale. All rights reserved.

  Author Bio:

Patricia Hale received her MFA degree from Goddard College. Her essays have appeared in literary magazines and the anthology, My Heart’s First Steps. Her debut novel, In the Shadow of Revenge, was published in 2013. The Church of the Holy Child is the first book in her PI series featuring the team of Griff Cole and Britt Callahan. Patricia is a member of Sister’s in Crime, Mystery Writer’s of America, NH Writer’s Project and Maine Writer’s and Publisher’s Alliance. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and two dogs.

Catch Up With Our Author On: Website 🔗, Goodreads 🔗, Twitter 🔗, & Facebook 🔗!

  Tour Participants:

Stop by these awesome hosts to learn more about Patricia Hale & her amazing book, The Church of the Holy Child. Plus, there are some great reviews, interviews, and giveaways!!

  Giveaway:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Patricia Hale. There will be 1 winners of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card! The giveaway begins on July 16 and runs through October 19, 2017.

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BLOG TOUR – Church of the Holy Child was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

[laurenthulett-blog]

Prince William Opens Up About Missing His Mom and Why We All Need to Talk About Mental Health

No need for the flu shot use The Hydrogen Peroxide Ear Treatment

This article originally appeared on People.com. 

Prince William is opening up about the death of his late mother Princess Diana in his most honest and revealing interview ever.

William, 34, spoke with British GQ and posed for a series of intimate family portraits with Princess Kate, Princess Charlotte and Prince George for they magazine’s July cover story.

The royal admits that he is “in a better place” about the upcoming 20th anniversary of Diana’s death but also revealed that he is sad that she isn’t able to meet her grandchildren.

RELATED: Lady Gaga FaceTimed Prince William to Talk About the Importance of Discussing Mental Health

“I would like to have had her advice,” he said. “I would love her to have met Catherine and to have seen the children grow up. It makes me sad that she won’t, that they will never know her.”

Still, he is coping better with her tragic death.

“I can talk about her more openly, talk about her more honestly, and I can remember her better, and publicly talk about her better,” he said of Diana. “It has taken me almost 20 years to get to that stage. I still find it difficult now because at the time it was so raw. And also it is not like most people’s grief, because everyone else knows about it, everyone knows the story, everyone knows her.”

William also revealed that he wouldn’t be able to cope with his very public role if it wasn’t for Kate and their children.

“Stability at home is so important to me,” he said. “I want to bring up my children in a happy, stable, secure world and that is so important to both of us as parents. I want George to grow up in a real, living environment, I don’t want him growing up behind palace walls, he has to be out there. The media make it harder but I will fight for them to have a normal life.”

The prince also talked about Heads Together, his joint mental health campaign with Kate and brother Prince Harry. William explained that the trio is aiming to smash the taboo surrounding mental illness in the U.K. and trying to open up the conversation among families about mental health.

“I cannot understand how families, even behind closed doors, still find it so hard to talk about it,” he said. “I am shocked we are so worried about saying anything about the true feelings we have.”

RELATED: Kate Middleton Just Wore the $65 Sneakers You’ve Been Looking For

Dylan Jones, the editor of GQ said in a statement that William’s honest interview was unprecedented.

“Never before has Prince William talked with such honesty about the death of his mother and his attitudes towards the tabloid press, together with insight into one of his chosen charities,” he said. “[Interviewer Alastair Campbell]’s interview is complemented by pictures which we believe amplify The Duke and Duchess’s engaging determination to spearhead a different side of sovereignty. We are enormously proud of this interview, not least because we’ve been able to bring the issues supported by Heads Together to a wider public.”

This isn’t the first time that William has appeared on the cover of a magazine. In June 2016, the royal made history by taking part in a cover story for British LGBT magazine Attitude.

Kate has also been a cover star in her own right. In April 2016, the Duchess of Cambridge posed for a portrait for British Vogue‘s 100th anniversary issue.

See the full shoot in the July issue of British GQ, on sale Thursday, June 1, and to download from Tuesday, May 30.

[Read More ...]

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Prince William Opens Up About Missing His Mom and Why We All Need to Talk About Mental Health was originally posted by Health Nutrition And Strange Science News

[marisdoner]

Prince William Opens Up About Missing His Mom and Why We All Need to Talk About Mental Health

No need for the flu shot use The Hydrogen Peroxide Ear Treatment

This article originally appeared on People.com. 

Prince William is opening up about the death of his late mother Princess Diana in his most honest and revealing interview ever.

William, 34, spoke with British GQ and posed for a series of intimate family portraits with Princess Kate, Princess Charlotte and Prince George for they magazine’s July cover story.

The royal admits that he is “in a better place” about the upcoming 20th anniversary of Diana’s death but also revealed that he is sad that she isn’t able to meet her grandchildren.

RELATED: Lady Gaga FaceTimed Prince William to Talk About the Importance of Discussing Mental Health

“I would like to have had her advice,” he said. “I would love her to have met Catherine and to have seen the children grow up. It makes me sad that she won’t, that they will never know her.”

Still, he is coping better with her tragic death.

“I can talk about her more openly, talk about her more honestly, and I can remember her better, and publicly talk about her better,” he said of Diana. “It has taken me almost 20 years to get to that stage. I still find it difficult now because at the time it was so raw. And also it is not like most people’s grief, because everyone else knows about it, everyone knows the story, everyone knows her.”

William also revealed that he wouldn’t be able to cope with his very public role if it wasn’t for Kate and their children.

“Stability at home is so important to me,” he said. “I want to bring up my children in a happy, stable, secure world and that is so important to both of us as parents. I want George to grow up in a real, living environment, I don’t want him growing up behind palace walls, he has to be out there. The media make it harder but I will fight for them to have a normal life.”

The prince also talked about Heads Together, his joint mental health campaign with Kate and brother Prince Harry. William explained that the trio is aiming to smash the taboo surrounding mental illness in the U.K. and trying to open up the conversation among families about mental health.

“I cannot understand how families, even behind closed doors, still find it so hard to talk about it,” he said. “I am shocked we are so worried about saying anything about the true feelings we have.”

RELATED: Kate Middleton Just Wore the $65 Sneakers You’ve Been Looking For

Dylan Jones, the editor of GQ said in a statement that William’s honest interview was unprecedented.

“Never before has Prince William talked with such honesty about the death of his mother and his attitudes towards the tabloid press, together with insight into one of his chosen charities,” he said. “[Interviewer Alastair Campbell]’s interview is complemented by pictures which we believe amplify The Duke and Duchess’s engaging determination to spearhead a different side of sovereignty. We are enormously proud of this interview, not least because we’ve been able to bring the issues supported by Heads Together to a wider public.”

This isn’t the first time that William has appeared on the cover of a magazine. In June 2016, the royal made history by taking part in a cover story for British LGBT magazine Attitude.

Kate has also been a cover star in her own right. In April 2016, the Duchess of Cambridge posed for a portrait for British Vogue‘s 100th anniversary issue.

See the full shoot in the July issue of British GQ, on sale Thursday, June 1, and to download from Tuesday, May 30.

[Read More ...]

This feed powered by Look Within

Prince William Opens Up About Missing His Mom and Why We All Need to Talk About Mental Health was originally posted by Health Nutrition And Strange Science News