#majority of the playlist is varied though I SWEAR

[im-no-jedi]

me: I need to be more varied with what songs I put on the OTP playlist

also me: *adds yet another Hozier song to the OTP playlist* welp 😩

[musicprincess1990]

The Best of Me - for ILY Anniversary 2021

This is inspired by the song by The Starting Line.  I was listening to my #TeenYears playlist (yes, that’s the title I picked, sue me), and I noticed the album cover featured the words, “Say it like you mean it.”  Um, hello TFP vibes!  And then I started the song over, paying attention to the lyrics, and BOOM!  A fic was born!  Starts out with a bit of post-TRF pining, leading up to a TFP finish. And it’s a long one, so catch the whole story below the cut.

Happy Sherlolliversary, everyone!  😘

*

Here we lay again, on two separate beds

Riding phone lines to meet a familiar voice

And pictures drawn from memory.

*

It started after the fall… some months later, in the midst of yet another doomed-to-fail relationship with some other not-him bloke.  Molly didn’t know why she seemed to measure time both by her own failed relationships, and by his major life events, but there you go.  After a ten-hour shift, a disappointing date, and an extra glass of wine, she was more than ready to pack it in for the night.

She’d only just hit the mattress when her phone buzzed, and she whimpered in dismay, assuming it would be Mike needing her for a last-minute post-mortem.  She considered ignoring it and claiming she’d been asleep, when a second text sounded. With a sigh, she rolled onto her side and unlocked her phone.  It wasn’t Mike after all, but two messages from a blocked number.  Again, she thought about ignoring them, not keen on starting a conversation with a stranger, when a third text came through, and she began to wonder… Sitting upright, she tapped on the notification and opened her messages, her heart leaping to her throat as she read:

IN A SAFE HOUSE IN SARAJEVO.  

COULD DO WITH A FRIENDLY VOICE.

MOLLY?

It had to be him… it just had to be!  No one else she knew had any need for a “safe house.” And besides that, no one else would have been so cryptic, so confusing.  Sherlock Holmes never talked about his feelings, in fact, half the time he pretended not to have any.  This was bordering on soul-baring for him!  Why?  Why now?  Why her?  Well, she supposed it the fact that the rest of his friends thought he was dead might have something to do with it.  Even so, what had happened to make him seek her out like this?

A fourth text came through, interrupting her thoughts.

MAY I CALL YOU?

Sherlock Holmes, asking for permission?  Now she’d well and truly seen everything!  Anxious and delighted and terrified all at once, she quickly tapped out a reply in the affirmative, and waited.  It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds before her phone lit up with the incoming call.  In her haste to answer it, she dropped the silly thing on the floor, swearing loudly as she flopped onto her stomach to reach for it.  And, of course, to her embarrassment, the line was connected, meaning he heard it all.  Molly pressed the phone to her ear and whispered, “Sherlock?”

A loud exhale, and then a familiar voice, “Hello, Molly.”

She let out a watery laugh.  “Oh, my God, it’s you!  How are you? Oh, God, stupid question—”

“Molly, it’s fine,” he cut her off.  “I am… as well as can be expected.”

Her brow creased with worry.  “Are you okay?  I mean, is it… going well?”

A beat of silence.  “As well as can be expected,” he repeated.

Clearly, she was not going to get a wealth of information from him on that front.  Not that she was certain she wanted all the gory details—knowing who he was dealing with, “gory” would most definitely be the right word.  Still, he had instigated this phone call, she wouldn’t let him get away with perfunctory answers.  Shifting a bit so that she was leaning against the headboard, she asked, “What made you decide to phone me?”

“You weren’t answering your texts.  Figured you had gone into shock.”

She chewed on her lip a moment.  “Well… you’re not wrong.  It did surprise me.”

“Yeeeesss, I’d gathered that,” he drawled in that posh, pompous tone of voice she never thought she would come to miss.

“Truth be told, it wasn’t just the fact that you texted that came as a surprise, it’s what was in the text.”  She paused here, waiting to see how he would respond.  When he said nothing, she went on, “I suppose even the great Sherlock Holmes needs to phone a friend once in a while.”

“Don’t do that,” he said abruptly.  “I’m not ‘the great Sherlock Holmes’ now, am I?  I’m just…” he hesitated for a moment, “…just Sherlock.”

Molly’s breath came out in a whoosh.  So that was why.  Just like she had before, when he looked sad, she saw him clear as day… even if she couldn’t physically see him.  This mission, this seemingly insurmountable task, she couldn’t even imagine how difficult it must be.  It had to be taxing, even for Sherlock, who always seemed so detached from the situations. But deep down, he was still a man, he still felt things, and he still needed friends.

“Molly?”

His tone was soft, but filled with anxiety, and she realized she’d been silent for some time.  She put on a smile, making sure he would hear it in her voice, and whispered, “I’m here, Sherlock.  What do you need?”

A quiet laugh sounded on the other end of the line, followed by a one-word answer: “You.”

*

*

We turn our music down, and we whisper,

“Say what you're thinking right now.”

Tell me what you thought about

When you were gone and so alone.

Sherlock’s phone calls became something of a regular thing after that. Whenever he felt a little too human, or when he didn’t feel human enough.  Molly was happy to act as his anchor to his old life, to keep him afloat when he could easily drown in the work, the pain, the loneliness.  Even when being his anchor often meant being woken up in the middle of the night.

She never asked him to explicitly talk about his thoughts and feelings, knowing what a minefield that conversation would be, but she always asked what he was doing, usually regarding his mission. That was familiar territory for him, talking over the details of a case, discussing the possibilities and bouncing ideas off another person.  It was this familiarity, she thought, that most soothed him, reminded him of home.

These calls varied in frequency and length over the years, but they always came.  Through the horrors he faced in dismantling Moriarty’s network, through her engagement to Tom, through his four-minute exile (ooh, she’d had some choice words for him about that), and though Mary’s tragic death.

He called her almost daily after that.  She wasn’t entirely sure he really wanted to hear her voice, or if, while John was being a git and ostracizing him, any friendly voice would do. She decided not to care, and to just be there for him anyway.

One call in particular stood out to her, the night of his birthday. They’d gone for cake earlier in the day, and he’d been pleasant enough, but awfully silent.  John had seemed almost back to his normal self, and Rosie was an adorable bundle of energy, effectively distracting all three adults from their own loneliness.

That night, she returned with Sherlock to Baker Street, for the “night shift.”  After a few minutes spent scrolling silently through his emails, he announced he was going to bed.  Molly waited a bit before shuffling up the stairs into John’s old room, which had been converted into a guest-room-slash-laboratory.  The door was left open in case Sherlock started puttering about in the middle of the night, she would hear him and be down to help him, if needed.

Molly had just settled onto the bed when her phone rang, and Sherlock’s name appeared.

What?

“Sherlock?” she answered hesitantly.

“I realize you’re just upstairs, and I could easily have gone up there or had you come down here, but this seemed a bit more…”

A little smile tugged at her lips.  “Familiar?”

He exhaled slowly.  “Yes.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him.  “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Molly.  For everything.”

*

*

Jumping to conclusions

Made me fall away from you;

I'm so glad that the truth

Has brought back together me and you.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s making tea.”

“Yes, but why isn’t she answering her phone?”

“You never answer your phone.”

“Yes, but it’s me calling…”

*

“If it’s true, just say it anyway.”

“You bastard.”

“Say it anyway.”

“You say it.  Go on, you say it first… Say it.  Say it like you mean it.”

“I-I… I love you.”

*

Molly dropped her phone as the line went dead, then slid to the floor as sobs wracked her entire body.  She didn’t… she couldn’t begin to think… why had he asked that of her? After all the years he’d known her, all the time he’d been calling her out of the blue… She’d never once asked him to…

Her stomach lurched, and she scrambled up to her feet just in time to vomit into the sink.  Her body felt hot and cold and shivery and aching all at once.  Funny, the scientist in her thought, how a broken heart can have noticeable physiological effects on a person. She was in fact ill, bit of a cold, but it was that horrible conversation, not a silly little virus, that had made her stomach decide to violently expel its contents.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though.  No, the worst part was finding an old letter Sherlock had written, sometime during his absence from London, near the end.  She remembered getting it in the post, and quickly shoving it into a safe, secret place, where Tom wouldn’t find it.  He was at her flat no more than five minutes later, picking her up for a date. He proposed to her that night, and she completely forgot about the letter… until today.  She’d found it while rooting around her cupboards, looking for her favorite citrus tea, the one she always made whenever she felt ill. Its contents had nearly shocked her cold right out of her system.

Dear Molly,

I don’t know if this letter will reach you. There are so many unknowns at the moment.  I don’t even fully know why I’m writing.  I simply wished to express my gratitude for everything you have done for me.  I know that I have caused you pain many times, and in all probability, I will do so again.  And yet, after seeing the absolute worst of me, you are still my friend.  That fact baffles me more than any other mystery I have encountered.

When I return, yours is among the first faces I look forward to seeing again.  I wish I could offer an estimated time frame, but that is one of the many unknowns I now face.  But the one thing that I know is certain, the one thing I can cling to, is that you are, and always will be, a dear friend.  You matter more to me than you realize, Molly Hooper.

Love,

Sherlock

Tears had welled in her eyes, and anger pulsed in her veins, boiling her blood with every word.  Anger toward him, for writing such a letter, instead of calling her.  It was cowardly, no matter how lovely the letter was (dear God, was it lovely!), and when he returned just a few months later, he said nothing.  He gave no indication that he even remembered the letter, or the fact that he’d written it!  Why?

Because you were engaged, a traitorous voice whispered. And then her anger shifted, now aimed toward herself.

If she had read the letter before Tom proposed that night… she would have said no.

And then she was angry with him again, for not fighting for her, not saying what was clearly visible between every word on every line of that damned letter.

He loved her.

Or so she had thought.

After that phone call… she couldn’t be sure of anything.  If he really loved her, how could he do this to her?  Forget making her say the words, as impossible as that felt, how could he treat it all like an experiment? Treat her like an experiment?  Her anger and her desperation battled through the entire conversation, with anger eventually winning out, though it expressed itself with an eerie calmness.

You say it first.

Well, he had.  But only because she’d told him to.

God knew he’d never have said it otherwise.

Molly trudged into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, washing away the sour taste in her mouth.  She never had finished making her tea, but she was too exhausted to even contemplate remaining upright for another minute longer than necessary.  Instead, she went straight into her bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, falling quickly into a fitful sleep.

*

The knock on her door startled her awake, and somehow she knew exactly who it was, even before his voice followed the pounding, begging her to let him in.  She scowled in the direction of her door, rolled onto her other side, and smashed her pillow over her ear.  Eventually, one of her neighbors would complain, maybe even call the police. That, or he’d pick the lock… and if he did, she’d call the police.  Probably Greg, oooh, he’d love that!  There wouldn’t be any real consequences—big brother Mycroft had far too much pull for that—but it would be humiliating for Sherlock.  Served him right, after he humiliated her.

The pounding and the shouting stopped suddenly, and she foolishly let herself believe he’d finally gone.  But a moment later, her phone chimed with an incoming text.  Then another, and then another after that.  Equal parts annoyed and curious, Molly finally sat up and grabbed her phone to read the idiot’s texts.

PLEASE LET ME IN.  LET ME SAY IT AGAIN.

I DON’T WANT TO DO IT OVER TEXT.  YOU DESERVE BETTER THAN THAT.

PLEASE, MOLLY.

Unless…

Molly’s head spun by the end of the third text.  Say it again?  Did he mean…?  Oh, of course he meant that, what else could he be talking about?  But why the hell did he need to say it again?  Wasn’t once—well, twice—enough torture for one night?

A fourth text lit up her phone.

IF YOU WON’T LET ME IN, WILL YOU AT LEAST LET ME CALL YOU?

She almost laughed.  Answering his call was what got her into this mess, wasn’t it?  And yet, against her better judgment, that cursed curiosity forced her to type out a reply.

OK.

*

Sherlock sighed at the response, his hand shaking as he pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.  He ran through a thousand opening sentences in his head in the time it took for her to answer the call, and the moment he heard her voice, forgot every single one of them.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

Her voice was raw, probably from crying, and oh, how he hated himself for doing that to her.  But broken as it was, her voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

“You,” he replied, his own voice matching hers.  “Always you.”

She sobbed, and the sound went straight to his heart, piercing it, shattering it.  “Then why—” she was interrupted by another sob, “—how could you—”

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said quickly.  “Everything you need to know, but not like this.  For now, I just need to say one thing.”  Sherlock drew in a breath, bracing himself.  “I love you, Molly.  I’ve loved you all along, before I even realized it.  I don’t know if… there was a letter I sent, but it must have gotten lost… I should have said it when I came back, but when I saw that ring on your finger…”  He swallowed. “I thought I’d lost my chance, that you weren’t in love with me anymore, that—”

The door opened, and there she stood, still wearing that ridiculous jumper, eyes filled with tears, and holding a piece of paper in her hand.  The letter.  His hand dropped to his side, phone still in hand, staring in wonder and confusion.

“I hadn’t read it,” she explained in a small voice.  “Not until today.  That’s… part of why it wasn’t a good day.  I’d gotten it the day Tom proposed.  Right before he picked me up.  I panicked and shoved it in the cupboard where he wouldn’t find it.  He never touched the cupboards, always left it to me to cook or make tea or… anyway,” she finished lamely.

“You didn’t read it?”

Molly shook her head, gnawing on her lower lip.  “I wish I had.  I wouldn’t have gotten engaged.”

“I am so sorry, Molly.”  His eyes fell shut against the pricking of even more tears.  “I should have told you every day, with every phone call…”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, prompting him to open his eyes.  “I’m sorry for letting my anger get the better of me.”

He gave her a tentative smile.  “Understandable, considering the circumstances.  I tend to bring out the worst in everybody.”  To his delight, she laughed, and his heart lightened at the sound. In a more serious voice, he added, “You, however, bring out the best in everyone… including me.”

Molly went still, and Sherlock worried he’d somehow hurt her again, until she suddenly sprang at him and wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest.  Warmth erupted along his skin where she touched him, and his arms found his way around her, clinging to her, locking her against him.  He rested his chin atop her head, eyes squeezed shut to fight back the now-constant threat of tears.  Good Lord, he was a sop now…

Well.  If it meant Molly would continue hugging him like this, he’d be whatever she wanted him to be.

“You smell like algae,” she commented, her voice muffled against his shirt.

He must have been in shock, or otherwise delirious, for at her words, he burst out laughing.  Fortunately, Molly joined him, leaning back her head and grinning wildly.  “I suppose there’s a story that goes with that?”

“Quite a long one,” he nodded.  “And not a very pleasant one.”

Molly seemed to consider this, then gave a slight hitch of her shoulders.  “Later,” she said.  “I think a bath and a good night’s sleep are in order.”  She took his hand and led him inside, and Sherlock followed, happily leaving the worst behind them.  There was still much to say—so many words unsaid, his mind quoted at him—but for now… he just wanted to be with her.

Finally.

*

*

The worst is over,

You can have the best of me.

God, that took forever… I’ll be honest, this is still open to editing and rewriting.  There are a lot of things I want to add to it.  Hell, maybe I’ll even add a second chapter.  I don’t know.  But this song, OMG!!  Go look it up, listen to the rest of the lyrics.  ALL THE SHERLOLLY FEELS!!  Thanks for reading!

[themildestofwriters]

Writing Ask Game

Thanks to the magnificent @gottaenjoythelittlethingzz​ for tagging me in this wonderful little tag.

I don’t think I’m going to choose one WIP rather just the universe itself – The Divine Intervention universe. By that, I mean I’ll be doing it for these two novels I’m working on: Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality? & The Trials and Tribulations of a Virgin Goddess.

1. Describe the plot in one sentence.

Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality? 

A goddess and a girl meet at a bus stop and while things are a bit awkward at first, they soon begin hitting it off and begin regular correspondence, however, there’s something more lurking under the surface that neither of them wish to peruse and that one thing is forgiveness and love respectively.

The Trials and Tribulations of a Virgin Goddess

Sex and Babette go together as well as water and oil, yet it was not always this way and in this story she decides to heal herself, to improve herself, and to choose love over her almost selfish desire to dwell on the past and wallow in a pit of guilt and suffering.

2. Pick one sight, smell, sound, feel, and taste to describe the aesthetic of your novel.

Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality?

Flashes of blood, death and gore in the small hours of the night. The smell of petrichor as rain descends. The sound of deathly silence. The feel of soft arms holding you tightly. The metallic taste of blackened blood coughed from the lungs.

The Trials and Tribulations of a Virgin Goddess

Bodies intertwined in a lover’s embrace. The smell of lust in the air. The sound of ceaseless screaming. The feel of suffocating pain and smooth stone. The bittersweet taste of lip balm.

3. Which 3+ songs would make up a playlist for the novel?

Because I’m not very knowledgeable on music myself, this list is filled only with songs I have on my phone.

Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality?

“Viva La Vida” by Coldplay; “Accidentally In Love” by Counting Crows; “Superman (It’s Not Easy)” by Five for Fighting; “Stressed Out” by Twenty-One Pilots; “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran

The Trials and Tribulations of a Virgin Goddess

“Somewhere Over The Rainbow” by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole; “All of Me” by John Legend; “Let Her Go” by Passenger; “Like A Virgin” by Madonna; “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri

4. What’s the time period and location in which the novel takes place.

Both books take place in the modern era and mostly in Salisbury/Adelaide, South Australia. WCAI? takes place in 2016 and TTVG takes place in 2017. However, at least specifically in TTVG, it does take place in other countries with Babette visiting Japan, America and perhaps even England as either a part of her job (Street Performer) or as the plot demands.

5. Is this a standalone or a part in a series?

Well…

6. Are there any former titles you’ve considered but discarded?

For WCAI? I only had Divine Interruption and for TTVG there was “Babette Visits A Sex Shop” “Babette Visits An Adult Shop” and The Weird and Wonderful Sexual Awakening of Babette Mewlyn.

7. What’s the first line of your novel?

I have a tendency to only have a single line to begin a book.

Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality?

“The sky was a dark crimson haze.”

or

“It was supposed to be a bright and sunny Saturday morning in suburban Adelaide.”

The Trials and Tribulations of a Virgin Goddess

“We had planned this for nearly an entire week now and today was the day.”

8. What’s a dialogue you’re particularly proud of?

“ “心配しないで,” she said, a devilish smirk twisting onto her lips. “少なくとも 見る かわいく 、ジョセフィーン様.” “ – Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality? Chapter 2(draft)

If you’ve got a problem with my Japanese, please tell me because I’m winging it on Google Translate and outdated information.

“ “It—it hurts.” It took all my power to just say that and once I did, I was hit by a new wave of grief—of agony—of heart-rending guilt. ” – The Trials and Tribulations of Babette Melwyn Chapter 3(draft)

9. Which line from the novel most represents it as a whole?

“It—it hurts.”

10. Who are your character faceclaims?

Babette… well, I’m tossing up between these girls: Jaimie Alexander; Abbey Lee Kershaw; Amanda Seyfried; Astrid Berges-Frisbey; Zoey Deutch; and Willa Holland.

For Josephine, she’s a bit difficult to find a face claim for. If you’d like to help, that would be appreciated but so far, I’ve not found anything that fits her yet.

11. Sort your characters into Harry Potter houses!

Babette Melwyn – Slytherin

Josephine Williams – Hufflepuff

Henrietta Phillips – Ravenclaw

Maria Camhain-Schmidt – Gryffindor

Kurt Schmidt – Gryffindor

Flynn Camhain-Schmidt – Hufflepuff

Adrien Williams – Hufflepuff

Samuel Meric – Gryffindor

Sofía Meric – Hufflepuff

Harrison Williams – Ravenclaw

Alyssa Williams – Gryffindor

Samantha Bailey – Ravenclaw

12. Which character’s name do you like the most?

Respectfully, I love them all, specifically the girl’s names. Henrietta, Josephine, Babette, Alyssa, Maria, Sofía.

13. Describe each character’s daily outfit.

Babette Melwyn; Babette’s daily outfit could be summarised as well cared for rags with a history with radioactivity. By this I mean, Babette hasn’t changed out of the dress she wore when a group of revolutionaries decided to nuke her. While incredibly old, magic makes a great cleaner and preserver for the cloth and during the course of this novel, she’s usually seen wearing it often. It’s a plain black form fitting V-neck dress with long sleeves that reach up to her hands. The skirt used to be long and flowing, but since being nuked, it’s much shorter, ending around her calves—jagged and looking like some kind of tattered flower blooming from her waist down.

Aside from the dress, she wears leather strapped calf-high sandals and her ruby necklace—her ruby necklace is a constant with every single last outfit she wears.

After settling down on Earth, she finds herself wearing other bits and pieces. She feels comfortable outside her tattered remains and has a small wardrobe filled with a verity of clothing. Her aesthetic could best be described as gothic and Victorian gothic. Expect lots of lacy black dresses of varying lengths along with several sundresses and perhaps a few gowns. Hats are usually wide-brimmed and floppy, and she will not wear heels.

Josephine Williams; Josephine doesn’t have a daily outfit because she’s a normal person who doesn’t have a set outfit and often changes as the clothes she wore previously gets dirty. However, she has that kind of… art student vibe to her, befitting her artistic inclination, though she does were certain jewellery or outfits that have a certain Hellenic aesthetic. What you’ll mostly see her around in is either some kind of cardigan, perhaps a really large jumper while wearing a dress, whether short or long with some leggings underneath. She mixes it up, shirts and shorts, pants and with different colours as well. She keeps her options wide and varied but if you spent enough time with her and paid attention, you’d notice similarities.

Heels, like her girlfriend, is a no-no, but her outfits are certainly more colourful then Babette’s who prefers black and occasionally other colours.

14. Do any characters have distinctive birthmarks/scars?

Babette has a lot of scars but specifically there’s the scars across her heart—two, specifically, one on her back and on her chest, both from being impaled by a weapon that wiped out all life in a galaxy. It wasn’t fun getting that one.

Josephine once had a scar on her calf, but I think she might not have any major scars nor any tattoos—yet. I might give her a distinctive back tattoo that’s basically a string of astronomical symbols which relate to the Underworld in Greek Mythology.

15. Which character most fits a character trope?

I wouldn’t be able to say for sure but I’m sure that Babette and Josephine both fit into a character trope/archetype.

16. Which character is the best writer? Worst?

Babette, hands down. Babette’s not so good at writing songs and whatnot but she’s an academic and a Bard, having transcribed ancient texts, her own stories and a few she’s plagiarised from Earth because Earth Copyright doesn’t exist outside of Earth. Out of the main characters, I’d say that Josephine isn’t so good at the writing of things and prefers visual art. Like, she could write a story, but it’d read like a synopsis.

17. Which character is the best liar? Worst?

This entirely depends on when we take the characters. Before Babette was unceremoniously dethroned, she was a magnificent liar who would often use the skill in her youth on the run. However, at the same time, she’s spent literal aeons alone and her skills at lying have atrophied. She still does it, she’s just noticeably worse. I would say the worst liar would probably be Adrian because out of the children characters, he’s younger and got the biggest tells out of the lot of them. And yes, I have to pick children because everyone else are massive liars whether it’s lying to themselves, their parents, or others. In my experience, everyone lies at least once and their skill isn’t proportional to how much they

18. Which character swears the most? Least?

Henrietta swears like a fuckin’ sailor, Josephine can swear but only does it rarely—or at least where people can’t hear her.

19. Which character has the best handwriting? Worst?

Babette, again due to living for millions of years and the necessity she had to perfect her handwriting. So far, I’ve described her handwriting thusly:

‘…it was clear that it was one-hundred per cent handwritten, and it was a masterpiece. Each letter, each word was written in a way that made reading it clear and easy to read, but also incredibly pleasing to the eye. Cursive, almost like calligraphy but written in clear bull-point pen, as if someone managed to distil handwriting into an artform then decoded to perfect it because why not?’ – Divine Intervention or: What Comes After Immortality? Chapter 4(draft)

Unfortunately, she’s not so good at art unless it’s literally putting the image in her mind onto paper using magical means. Nevertheless, I could see her girlfriend asking Babette to do some calligraphy for her blog.

Flynn has the worst but honestly you can’t blame the kid… he’s a kid!

20. Which character is most like you? Least like you?

I’d probably have to say Babette, but it’s a close tie between her and Josephine because both of them contain facets of me but are also their own people with different desires and personalities.

Least like me are the other characters, pretty much. Henrietta, Maria, Kurt, Samuel, Sofía, Flynn, Harrison, Alyssa, I’m not really like these characters at all.

21. Which character would you most like to be?

Josephine. Hands down, Josephine. Listen, I like Babette and all and she’s an extension of myself in some ways, and, honestly, I’d feel a lot more comfortable in her skin then my own, but Josephine is just a quiet suburban girl with her own slice of the Earth doing her own thing. She’s an artist, she’s got a loving family, a healthy online presence, a healthy sleeping schedule, and… yeah.

To tag some folks, I think I’ll tag: @randomestfandoms-ocs; @rose-writes-and-drinks-tea; @ariellaskylark; @focusdumbass; @i-tried-and-i-loose; @undinisms; @alixismad; @sweet-scribes; @sunlight-melodies and literally anyone else who wants to try it!

[my-5sos-babes]

TDMAR || Part 6

Summary: Luke is feelin' and reelin'. Ashton is gorgeous, per usual. Mike and Cal fight a bit.

Word Count: 3260

Triggers: swearing, band(?)

Publish Date: 9/21/18

a/n: trying something a bit new this chapter bc i'm not digging the first person anymore. also sorry for changing the tense in the last two updates?? i totally didn't notice that, i'm v sorry. p.s., I listened to some coffeehouse playlist while writing this chapter, so i'm guessing a lot of the tones in my writing came from that lmao, i'll try to make this story less trash. ALSO, if y'all would like, I can change the whole thing to third person, if it makes the story more cohesive. just lemme know. p.p.s., I saw 5sos the other day, pls talk w me about it <3

He sighed heavily, unable to repress it.

“Good, mate?” Calum asked.

Luke glanced up from his phone. “Oh, no, yeah. Just thinking about my anatomy notes for tonight,” he lied. “Lots of bones.”

Cal, unable to catch on, continued the conversation. “Ugh. Why would you take anatomy and physiology? It’s such a terrible class. Notes every night, tests every week? I couldn’t fathom having that much work every day.”

“Yeah, I can’t fathom that you know the word ‘fathom’,” Michael quipped. Quickly the conversation devolved into some squabble after Calum shoved Michael rather aggressively. Luke, while amused by the fight--and having no intentions to stop it--got caught up in his own headspace.

That seemed to be the norm these past few weeks. He wasn’t sure if anyone actually bothered to notice, but he hadn’t been talkative. Luke had been trying to look better, though, and that was something that people noticed.

He decided that he was tired of the emo-grunge look, one day. Almost out of nowhere. Well, not nowhere. He had some inspiration (from the kid who made his heart beat out of rhythm). 

To Luke, Ashton always looks so comfortable in his clothes: button down shirts with loud patterns, suave shoes of varying styles, and an occasional necklace or two. Luke, feeling partially intimidated--and partially turned on--realized that he would have to start putting more effort into his look if he wanted to make an impression. He wasn’t sure how, yet he knew he was going to do it.

With the help of his mother in the purging of his closet, Luke bought nicer clothes, better shoes, and even some accessories. The trip to the store had been interesting enough with the outfits, but when they passed the jewelry section, things got a little awkward.

“Luke? Where’d you go, honey?”

“Over here.”

“In the… accessories aisle?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“... Okay.”

That weekend, he spent time preplanning outfits and coordinating his jewelry so nothing clashed. He felt strangely proud of his work, as he looked at the clothing strewn about his room. He even threw on a few ‘fits and checked himself out in the mirror, admiring the way they fit his body. Luke had never really had such fitting clothing before and was--while apprehensive--unable to keep himself from thinking, Hot damn.

The day he showed up to school in new clothes, though, that pride plummeted. Everyone who knew him stared at him, everyone who didn’t was staring as well.

Oh, Jesus, I’m an idiot. Who the fuck would come to school looking like they just came off a knock-off Gucci mannequin.

Michael and Calum were perplexed at this sudden change in image more than anyone else.

“Woah, dude. What’re you wearing?”

Luke tugged at his sleeve, his confidence falling straight through the floor. “New clothes. Went shopping with my mum on Friday. She insisted.” He added on the last part as an afterthought, as if that would sway his friends shock. It helped a little. He was relieved when they bought his bluff.

   “Finally got tired of your rebellion, huh?” Calum queried good-naturedly.

“Sure. Something like that.”

Michael scoffed, “A true punk wouldn’t have let the rebellion fade.” He smirked afterwards.

Luke chuckled. “Guess I’m not a true punk-rocker anymore.”

At first, he found himself pulling his collar up his neck, like he couldn’t cover up enough skin. It wasn’t until someone complimented him during first period that he felt validated again. Gradually, kids every so often would approach him and say something like, “Nice boots!” and “Lookin’ good, Hemmings”; yet, it wasn’t until he saw Ashton for the first time that day that he felt most insecure.

“Luke?”

“Oh, hey, Ash,” Luke said, trying his best to be nonchalant.

“You’re lookin’... different.”

“Well…” He tried to not let the older boy’s word choice bother him. “I mean, felt like a change. Got some inspiration.” The younger boy nudged the other in the ribs.

   “Ah!” Ashton replied. A furrow appeared in his brow, his gaze lingering over the new threads adorning Luke’s skinny frame.

If Luke didn’t know any better, he’d say Ash was checking him out. Of course, that wasn’t true. Ashton’s the kind of guy that just does stuff like that. He probably thinks it’s weird. I’m weird for liking his style.

Luke mentally chastised himself. If he feels weird about it, he’s covering it up really well. Christ. Just don’t say anything stupid.

The two surprisingly didn’t speak for just a moment. Luke was astonished by this.

Ashton spoke first. “You did a decent job, Hemmings. Not bad at all… Although,” He circles around the other boy, a hand to his chin, “I think I would’ve chosen a wider pant leg. Skinny jeans just feel too tight for the shirt you have on--in my opinion, at least.

“As for your jewelry… I like the watch, it’s classy. I would’ve taken out the lip ring, though.”

Luke unconsciously reached for his face, wondering what the hell to say to that. Ash saw this immediately.

“Wait, oh, God--sorry. I just gave you a fucking review like I’m Miranda Priestley or some shit, didn’t I?” The older boy chuckled. “Wow… Jesus, I’m sorry if I made you self-conscious. You do not have to listen to me, just--just ignore what I said.”

The younger boy quickly shoved aside Ashton’s comments. “No, dude! That was awesome. I’ll take notes next time, seriously. That’ll help me so much. But you like it?”

That totally didn’t sound needy, dipshit.

Ashton nodded vigorously. “Yeah, definitely! You are stylin’!” He glanced at his phone, then. “Oh, shit. Better get to class. See you later!” He hurried down the hall. “Stylin’!” He reiterated, already far enough away to shout.

Luke called after Ash. “Aces!”

Luke. Who the fuck says ‘aces’?

Band rehearsal nearly every night meant that Luke couldn’t wear his new (lowkey restrictive) clothes in the afternoon. As soon as he got home, he changed out of whatever button down and jeans he wore that day and swapped them out for shorts, t-shirts and sandshoes. He couldn’t complain, however. He’d rather be comfortable at rehearsal anyways, with how demanding the show was this season.

Tonight was quite a rough run-through. The band director hadn’t been satisfied with the formations or the sound quality; to Luke, Watkins was downright scary.

Everyone else in the band could tell that rehearsal wasn’t going well. Something was just putting them off, but no one knew what.

Calum, who was up on the podium, grew more irritated by the second. Of course, Luke wasn’t able to pay much attention to that since he was busy running across a turf field with a six foot pole in his hands, which was adorned with several square feet of silk, all while dodging disgruntled clarinetists and trombonists. Whether he was fortunate or not, he only caught glimpses of Cal’s stiff arm movements and stern face.

The band dragged on miserably for the next hour. Luckily, when it finally came to a close, Watkins didn’t even bother with a speech; their band director sighed disappointedly and let the kids go. Luke, quite ashamed of himself, began wrapping up his silk while walking off the field. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see Ashton pop up at his side.

“Yikes. Tonight was bad,” Ashton put plainly.

Luke snorted. “Tell me about it.”

They walked together for minute, stewing in their misery. Then, “Think I need to take my mind off it. Blow off some steam or something.”

“Me too,” the younger boy exhaled.

They continued a little longer, both simmering with dissatisfaction and something indescribable that always comes after a bad rehearsal.

“Would you wanna--” Ashton adjusted his harness, fingers twisting at the screws,“--would you wanna go get some pizza? Just veg out and stuff?”

Luke considered it, not expecting a request such as that. “Uh… yeah! Sure.” He smiled wide, looking at Ash. Suddenly he stopped both of them in their tracks. “Wait, is it cool if I invite Calum and Michael?”

Ashton remained quiet for a moment. Luke, of course, took this the wrong way. Before he could let a word out, though, the older boy spoke.

“Of course, mate! Yeah, no sorry--bit of a mental lapse. Yeah, no, that’s cool.”

“Sick, be right back!”

   Luke ran towards his friends, both way back on the practice field, doing drum major duties of some kind. By the time he made reasonable distance, he changed his pace back to walking. Luke, pathetically, was winded by that short run, and he strained to control his breathing. When he could hear more than the rush of blood in his ears, he heard Michael and Calum’s voices. They were arguing rather intently.

   “... just, Mikey, c’mon, we’ve been over this. It’s not very likely that it’ll happen.”

   Michael, ever the dramatist, fired right on back. “Okay, Cal. Whatever you say. I still think it’d be a good idea! I don’t get why you’re so closed-minded about it.”

Luke hung back, not sure if he should be hearing this.

To that, Calum only sighed and shook his head. “The answer is ‘no’, Michael. It will always be ‘no’.”

Luke could feel the fire fueling between his friends. Unconsciously, he knew that there needed to be a metaphorical fire extinguisher, and quickly. So, he happily threw himself into the fray.

“Hey, guys!”

He got a few disgruntled sounds from Michael (unsurprisingly), but Calum gave a more mature response.

“Hey, Luke… Have you been there long?”

   Luke shook his head vehemently. “No! Just, uh, just rolled on up. Wanted to talk, you know?”

   Calum eyed him suspiciously, but soon enough, let his suspicions go. “... M’kay. What did you wanna talk about?”

   “Oh, uh.” Luke had to remember why he came over here in the first place. “Well, uh, Ashton wanted to hang out and get some pizza… Care to join?... Both of you?”

   Calum and Michael, with very tense movements, glanced at each other and abruptly looked away.

   Michael spoke flatly. “Not tonight, mate. Got some games I planned on beating and shit.” With that, the crazy-haired boy left, slapping Luke on the shoulder as he went.

Calum, a frown dancing on his lips, attempted a friendly smile. It was half-hearted at best. “Thanks, bud, but me neither. Homework... I appreciate the offer.” He walked past Luke with his mace and some stray band equipment bundled up in his arms. “Have fun tonight.”

Jarred by his best friends’ transgression, Luke slouched his way to the band room, trying to wrap his head around what just happened. As he expected, the band had already cleared out, the drum majors lingering in Watkins’ closed office for some official business. What he didn’t expect was Ashton Irwin, sitting in the corner of the room, waiting. He couldn’t help the words as the tumbled out of his mouth.

“Ash, you’re still here?”

The older boy abruptly looked towards the Luke. “I was waiting for you, dude. Pizza? Remember?”

“... Right, I just didn’t think you’d wait.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Pause.

“So what’s the verdict?”

“On…?”

“Calum and Michael. They coming?”

“Oh!” Luke shook his head. “No, they, uh. I think they have stuff going on.” He checked back over at Watkins’ office, where Calum had emerged. “Or something like that.”

“Alright, cool. Let’s get going.” Ashton twirled his keys around his fingers. “I’ll drive.”

“You sure? We can go separately if that’s easier for you--”

“Nonsense! I don’t mind.”

Luke, unaccustomed to being the one taking rides from others, suppressed all his objections after that and followed Ashton. With the setting sun, it would’ve been hard to make out any shapes in the dark. The parking lot lights were on, and Ashton happened to park directly under one, which made maneuvering easier.

It was quite old, the car. A bit rusty here and there, and it groaned like a dinosaur when the engine turned over. However, the inside seemed homey. The seats were worn soft from time, and it smelled musky. Like… teakwood? Something manly, Luke thought to himself. The radio had been on some rock station, but the volume was turned low, so it was only a soft murmur in the background.

Luke found himself sighing.

Ashton, pulling out of the parking lot, glanced over, eyebrows knitted together. “Good, mate?”

He sighed again, relaxing into the seat. “Yeah, Ash. I’m good.” 

The pizza was everything they needed it to be. It was cheesy and gooey and just greasy enough. The two boys heartily chowed down on the large platter in front of them, barely bothering with plates.

The diner Ashton had brought them to was unfamiliar to Luke. In fact, he had rarely been to this side of the city. That didn’t hinder him any from the joy of the incredible, wonderful goodness that was this diner’s pizza.

   In the neon lighting, everything was cast in some ethereal glow. Some odd greens, blues and reds scattered throughout the tiny, empty room, and formed interesting shadows on the floor. The ‘50s theme--with squeaky leather-like cushions and cool silver metal framings--was a design Luke hadn’t seen often in the area. There were approximately two employees and two customers in attendance.

   Luke paused in between bites, studying Ashton’s features. Ashton pushed on, unaware of the boy’s stare. In the lighting, Ash’s face aged significantly. Not in a bad way, of course. He just seemed to look more wan, more tired--but also prettier. Luke couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe Ashton always looked this pretty, but he’s just now seeing it. He wondered if he looked the same.

   Don’t be stupid, dude. Ashton isn’t into that.

   Luke felt a harsh tug in his gut anytime he even thought about the boy sitting in front of him. The mention of his name, the sight of him, a scrap of his homework, anything. Anything sent his head spinning.

   Luke knew that this meant he was something he didn’t want to be. Something that he never expected to be. When Ashton wasn’t there merely two months before, Luke ignored any doubts he may have had about his sexuality, and with ease. He simply brushed off his attraction to men as jealousy… but since the minute Ashton appeared, his walls came crashing down.

Probably around three in the morning a few days ago, Luke whispered, admitted, under his breath:

   I like guys. I like Ashton.

   Seeing him now, in the late-night glow of this decrepit hole-in-the-wall, Luke really knew this to be true. He couldn’t not like someone as beautiful, someone as genuine, as Ashton Fletcher Irwin.

   He bit into another slice of pizza, pondering. A question slipped past his lips into the space between them.

   “How’d you find this place?”

His voice almost disappeared into the abyss, it seemed. Everything was so quiet. So gentle.

   Ashton smiled, swallowing his last bite. He smiled like he had a secret, an old memory. “Few months ago… I was just driving around and saw it. Was kinda hungry, so I stopped in. Now, it’s uh…” he fiddled with some leftover crust, “it’s my favorite place.” The corners of the older boy’s mouth turned down slightly, yet Luke didn’t notice. “You know, I’ve never actually brought anyone else here before.”

   It was supposed to be question, but came out as a statement.

   Luke’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Really?”

   Ash nodded. “And, honestly, I don’t care for pepperoni. I’m typically a just-cheese kinda guy.”

   Luke glanced at the scraps of pepperoni pizza and back to Ash, unsure of how to process this information. “Um. I feel honored?”

Was that the right question?

   Ashton physically shook himself from a pensive thought and replied. “Yes. Yes, you should definitely feel honored.”

   Luke smiled shyly. “Then, I do.”

   A second passed between them with no words spoken, just little grins and twinkling eyes. There was a spark in Luke’s chest. A hopeful, teensy flicker of a flame. Maybe Ashton felt it too.

Their waitress sauntered in, breaking the charged air.

“Hey, boys! How you doing? Need anything?”

“We’re doing great, Shirley. Thank you,” Ashton put kindly.

The pretty waitress--as if from nowhere--then procured a glass she had been hiding somewhere; Luke didn’t want to imagine how she was able to keep it hidden.

“Aw, Shirley, I can’t--” Ashton started.

“Of course you can. It’s on the house! For my favorite customer.” With a wink, the dark-haired girl went behind the vintage-style double doors, leaving the room an empty void again.

Ashton, shaking his head with good humor, picked two straws out of the nearby dispenser and held one out to Luke. “Like some? It’s strawberry…” He let out a small giggle.

Luke couldn’t resist his smile as it crept onto his face. “Love some.”

He grabbed the straw from Ashton’s grip, unwound the wrapping and plopped it into the glass. The older boy motioned to the cherry on top, but Luke shook his head. Ashton,  plucked the fruit from the whipped cream and tantalizingly dangled it in the air. Luke watched as Ash’s jawline protruded sharply under the taut skin. Ash chewed slowly, and, whether he was aware of it or not, and smirked sinfully. Luke swallowed thickly.

God damn.

The younger boy pushed aside the images in his head and focused solely on the strawberry milkshake. He focused on the closeness of their foreheads as the sipped from the glass at the same time. He focused on how when they both reached for their drink, their hands brushed for just milliseconds. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat.

He assumed he was imagining the blush on Ashton’s cheeks. Probably just a trick with the neon. Yeah, it’s just the lights.

He chuckled to himself, knowing he should know better. And he chuckled at the mantra that repeated in his head again, like clockwork. Nonetheless, Luke brushed off all of his unwanted thoughts and focused on the moment and the beautiful boy before him.

Not much later, Ashton dropped Luke off at school, where they had left Luke’s car hours earlier. Ash carefully parked right next to the old machine and shut off his engine. Together, the two sat in the still air, neither wanting to break this peaceful lull they were experiencing. It was something precious, fragile, new. They knew, though, that it was inevitable.

“Do you even know what time it is?” Luke asked from the passenger seat.

Ashton squinted at his watch in the dark. “Almost midnight, I’d say.”

The boys looked at each other and immediately burst into a fit of giggles.

“My mum’s gonna kill me,” Luke managed between splutters.

“Me too,” Ashton chimed, breathing heavily.

They tried to sit a while a longer. Luke, however, knew he had to go before his mother actually murdered him.

“Hey, Ash?”

“Hmm?”

“Um. Thanks, for tonight. I had a lot of fun.”

Ashton smiled through the darkness. “Of course, Luke. Thank you. I don’t think I’ve laughed like this in ages. It felt nice.”

Luke said nothing in response, only gave a soft smile; reluctantly, he opened the door and heaved his lanky frame out of the seat. In his own car, he pulled on the seatbelt and turned the engine over. At that, Ashton did the same, and once he was certain Luke was ready, set off himself.

The younger boy sat just a few minutes longer, relishing the new memories. He smiled once more to himself, shifted the car into gear, and took his time on the ride home.