#mr. skint

[moonlarkandpinetree]

I just remembered I listened to parts 3 & 4 of the green ring conspiracy and forgot to post my (incredibly long!) list of thoughts

Here we go!

Btw, I will be naming who said each quote so nobody gets confused

Ok, I like Penny a lot, but which of the writers was overtired or something when they made her last name Wise?

"Did you call me a kid?" Lol (Eugene's quote btw)

Sorry to interrupt this but my cat is being a potato

I hope nobody actually ships Buck and Emily cuz...in this album she's eleven and he's fourteen. Like let's not ship tweens and minors who aren't only one year apart

Connie is so relatable, cuz, nobody ever tells me anything either

Monty's mother is Jana, right?

Is it just me, or, Mr. Skint would be a really cool character if he wasn't bad

Excuse me, but, is Buck homeschooled or not I'm confused.

"You have beautiful handwriting" (Emily to Buck) first of all, thank you AIO for breaking the 'only girls can have neat handwriting' stereotype and secondly, I'm pretty sure I headcanoned Buck having nice penmanship so that's good it's canon

I just realized Buck definitely doesn't sound this Southern in recent episodes...he's losing his accent guys

"I'd have given Big Ben fangs" (Connie about her art) lol

I've probably said this before, but, I ❤ Connie and Eugene's friendship

Also, I ❤ Katrina. Her voice is just perfect for her character

the music is so good

Have a nice day everyone!!

[editorandchief]

Relays Of Information | Shelby!Daughter

Summary: Tommy founds out he has a daughter he never knew about. Or The long lost Shelby daughter raised as a widow comes face to face with her father.

Request: Nah

Warning: description of violence

Walking into the club in downtown London, Tomas Shelby let his eyes scan the crowded establishment in search for the young woman he had seen earlier that day.

Flashback:

"Mr. Shelby," Devlin called as her entered the office. "Your next meeting is here." He informed. 

"Alright, send 'em in Devlin." Tommy replied putting away the paperwork her was been working on in her time between meetings. 

Entering the office once again, this time with a woman following close behind. "Ms. Kitty Jurossi." He introduced causing Tommy to halt in his movement for a moment before looking up at the woman.

"Thank you Devlin." Tommy says continuing to put the papers away. 

Once the two were alone they sat in silence for a few moment, through it felt equally as eternal for them both. 

"Hello Tommy." Kitty greeted the man nervously. "Or do you prefer Mr. Shelby now?" She asked with a slight chuckle. 

"Tommy is fine, Kitty." He answered with a close lipped smile. "Please have a seat, feel free to have some tea." He offered gesturing to the seat at the end of the table with a fresh pot of tea sat in front of it. 

"Thank you." She replied shuffling over and taking a seat in the wooden chair. "It's been a long time, how have you been?" 

"I've been fine Kitty and yourself." Tommy asked squinting his eyes at the sister of his former lover, a sense of unease creeping in. 

"I've been fine as well Tommy," She replied. "It took me awhile after Greta passed on and I think I can just about put it behind me and move on. Which is why I've come here." 

Remaining silent Tommy sustained his gaze in the woman allowing her to continue with her story.

"I've wronged you Tommy a great deal, before  you left for the war Greta confided in me that she was pregnant." Kitty revealed. "She didn't have the heart to tell you knowing you may not have made it home to meet your child. She knew she was sick and that she most likely wouldn't have that chance either. She asked that when she died I take care of the child and if you returned that the child should be with their father." she continued tears began filling her eyes.

"But that didn't happen." 

"No that didn't happen, Tom." She confirmed. "It was hard after Greta passed, I had just lost my sister, I had this baby I had no idea how to raise and no one knew how long the war would last or if you'd even make it back." Tears falling down her cheeks.

"I have no idea how they knew about the babe or why but about a month after it was born some people came to me, they said they would pay me a lot of money to let them have the baby, they said they would give it a good home a good family." She explained wiping the tears from her face. "I was skint and couldn't provide for it, so I said yes and I took the money." 

"I have a child." Tommy stated. 

"After I heard that you had returned from war it was too late, the child was already gone and I felt that it would do no good for you to know about it seeing as Greta had passed on, knowing you had also lost a child might have broken you."

"But I didn't loose a child did I Kitty?" Tommy asked shaking his head. "You sold 'em."

"I know I've done an awful think Tommy, its been eating me alive all these years." Kitty said now sobbing quietly in her seat. "Which is why I've come here today, to confess, I only hope that one day you... and Greta, may she rest in peace, can find it in your heart to forgive me." 

"where is he now?"

"I don't know Tom, But I heard of you, I know you have money, connections things that would make it a hell of a lot easier for you to find them." She answered. "I know most men have no interest with raising a child and I'm not asking you to, I have myself together now, a job and house and they deserve to know about their family about Greta. I can raise 'em take care of 'em now, I just need your help to find the child Tommy, please."

For a while Tommy sat simply staring at the crying woman in his office, a woman who he would have once been his sister-in-law but had sold his child, a living breathing legacy of her sister, her own blood.

"Alright Kitty." Tommy finally spoke breaking the silence. "I'll look for the my child and I will find 'em" 

"Thank yo-,"

"And you'll not come anywhere near him." Tommy interrupts. "This will be you first and final warning Kitty, I'll let you walk now, but if you ever come near my family again. I will kill you." 

Hanging her head Kitty Jurossi gave a slight nod before standing from her seat heading to the door. "Tommy," Kitty called as she opened the door turning to face him once again. "You should know, the baby...it was a girl. You have a daughter." 

It took longer to find her than Tommy would like to admit, but there was obviously no paper trail for the deal Kitty Jurossi had made. Tommy sent men out to search hospitals on any record of Greta giving birth, one came back the all records of the birth and the child itself was taken by a man claiming he was from a home for orphaned girl in London, though he spoke with a Russian accent. 

More digging and with the help of his friends (Alfie) in Camden, Tommy found the was one girls home that received many shipments to and from Russia.

‘The Red Room Home For Orphaned Girls.’

Four days Tommy waited outside the home, watching, waiting but for what he didn't know. Yet on the forth day all his waiting paid off as he spots a young woman walking down the street, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at an almost exact replica of Greta Jurossi. She shared nearly every feature with her late mother save a few her and there, but the one thing that wiped away any doubt was her eyes, even from across the street Tommy could see the deep blue color of them. His eyes.

With confident strides she walks up the stairs of the building before entering the door. 

"Where have you been for four days?" Tommy muttered to himself never taking his eyes off of the building as he reaches into his breast pocket pulling out a cigarette. What also caught his attention even more was that an hour later she was once again walking through the door and heading off down the street. "What the hell kind of girls home is this?" 

With a quick honk of his horn Tommy caught the attention of the blinder down the street, nodding in the direction of the girl, a second later the man began following the unknown Shelby down the street. 

[<_>}

Irina sat in the club, small smile on her face, enjoying a glass of champagne as she watched the people around her dance, do drug, have sex and more. 

She casually scanned the crowd waiting for her eyes to lock on the man she had followed here. Paul Lipton, he was in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with a pretty blonde women that most definitely not his wife. She knew that for a fact because that was the exact reason she was here, turned out Mrs. Lipton wasn't the type of woman to just set back and let her husband cheat on her.

Downing the rest of her drink Irina stood from her seat heading straight for the dance floor, Spinning and twirling as she attempted to blend into the crowd, making her way toward the unfaithful man she reached for the knife that was strapped to her upper thigh. Getting closer and closer to Paul she raised her arms, doing once final spin as she passed the man quickly dragging the knife across his throat. 

It took Paul a few second to realize what was happening to him, she watched as the smiles slowly slipped from his face before his hands shot up to his throat in an attempt to stop his blood from spilling out of his wound. It wasn't until he fell to his knees that his partner noticed that something was terribly wrong. Seeing the red spill from his neck and down the front of his suit drew a scream from the blonde that pierced the ears of nearly everyone in the club. 

In an instant the panic started as everyone began to scramble in all directions to what they hope would be safely. 

Getting the feeling she was being watched Irina once again scanned the, now panicking, crowd. She had to admit she didn't expect to lock eyes with a man standing on the other side of the club dressed on a long black trench coat, blue eyes nearly completely covered my the peaky cap sat on his head.

After a few seconds of eye contact she took a step back disappearing into the crowd. 

[<_>]

Pulling up to the large house 'Arrow' as it was called, Irina took note of the men standing causally outside. Guards, though not very good ones she would say. 

 "Ne nuzhno derzhat' mashinu v rabochem sostoyanii, ya chuvstvuyu, chto eto zaymet nekotoroye vremya." She said to the driver as he opened the door for her to exit the vehicle.['No need to keep the car running, I have a feeling this will take awhile.']

As she approached the door one of the men broke from the group stepping in between her and the door. 

"Can I help you ma'am?" He asked looking down at her.

"No, I don't think you can." She replied rolling her eyes as he blows smoke in her face. "I have a meeting with a Mr. Shelby." She informed trying her best not to punch the man in the throat. 

Looking over to one of the other men a bit away her nods his head in the direction of the door before turning back to her as the other walks inside. The man in front of her stares at her for awhile scanning her body ever once and a while. 

"You know if your going to see Mr. Shelby, I'm afraid I'll have to search you for weapons." He smirked at her flicking his finished cigarette away.

"Touch me and it will be the last thing you do." She smirked back at the man already prepared to take him out. Her smile only grew as the man took a step forward.

"Mr. Shelby will see you now." The man from before announced sticking his head outside the door. 

"Oh lucky me." She says sarcastically, side stepping the man in front of her, coming shoulder to shoulder with him she stops. "And extremely lucky for you." She states before walking up the steps and entering the home. 

"Right this way ma'am." An older women in the other side of the door directed her though a hall that came to a large door way. On the other side was a dining room with a large table occupied by a approximately 13 people. 

"Mr. Shelby, your guest has arrived." The woman says gesturing over to you. "Shall I take your coat?" She asked causing you to shrug it off allowing her to take it as she exits. 

"Irina," The man sat at the head of the table greeted. "Thank you for coming, please have a seat."

Walking over to the table she approaches the seat Tommy had gestured to next to him. Across from her was a blonde woman who she noticed was in a very large portrait above the fire place, she sat next to a small child, obviously her son. 

"Mr. Shelby." She greeted back taking a seat. "I have to say when I saw you at the club this isn't the exact way I pictured we'd meet again." 

"No?" 

"Well most of my clients don't usually introduce me to their family." She informed. "It's not really a family friends profession." 

"Are you a whore?" The blonde woman asked looking at you from across the table. 

"No...well, maybe." Irina smirked. "I like most people offer a unique service for a price, everyone is a whore is you think about it, just selling different parts of themselves." 

"And what service do you provide?" A ginger haired boy a bit down the table asks. 

"Finn." 

"No its alright Mr. Shelby," She assured. "Well, Finn to put it simply. I kill people." 

"Are you serious?" Finn asked looking around the table with a nervous chuckle. 

"Deadly." She smiles. "Which is why I was wondering why Mr. Shelby called me here, its no secret that the Shelby family tends to handle grudges on their own." 

"So you've heard of us?" A man sitting next to Finn asked with a smirk. 

"I prefer to know who I'm working for." She replied. "I asked around about you 'Tommy Shelby the man who could make an enemy out of god himself', So Mr. Shelby who is it that now even the all powerful Tomas Shelby can kill?" She smiles excitement shining in her eyes.

"I'm afraid you may be quite disappointed," Tommy says looking away from the young girl and over to the woman sitting next to her. "I haven't asked you here to have anyone killed."

Slowly the smile slips from her face as she turns her attention to the head of the table, leaning forward with a glare on her face.

"So you've wasted my time?" She asks staring down the blue eyed man. 

"I've called you here to offer you some...information you may find interesting." Tommy corrected. 

"If I wanted interesting information, Thomas." She started leaning forward some more. "I would have went to a fucking library." 

"Not this information love." The older brunette sitting to he left states. 

"I don't know how to say this so I'll just come out with it." Tommy started.

"Please do." 

"about sixteen years ago, before I went off to war, I was involved with a woman by the name of Greta Jurossi." He explains. "She died while I was still in France, but before that she had a child. My child." 

"Is this what coming out with it means to you?" 

"A few months ago, her sister came to me to let me know of the child." Taking a moment to clear his throat Tommy finally 'came out with it.' "That child is you." 

All eyes were now on Irina as she looked down at the table cloth in front of her. Tommy took her silence as a sign to continue speaking and began introducing the various members of the Shelby family to the newest member.  

Having gone down the table Tommy finishes looking back over to his daughter, after a few moments of silence a small chuckle was heard as her shoulder began to move more and more as her laughter became louder. 

"I'm sorry," She apologizes as she looks around to see no one else laughing. "I just find this whole story a bit ridiculous."

"You think we’re lying." The younger brunette with a short hair cut asked seemingly offended.

"Yes...No...well, weather I believe it or not doesn't really matter." Irina said waving her had dismissing the topic. "But you were right Mr. Shelby this wasn't a waste of time after all. Because I have some 'interesting' information for you as well."

reaching down in a small pocket in her skirt pulling out a bullet setting it upright on the table. On the bullet a name, crudely etched into the side. 

‘Thomas.’

"I'm sure you are familiar with a name by the name of Sabini?" She asked rhetorically. "Well it seems you have offended him in someway seeing as he contacted me sometime ago with the request that I end your life." 

"Imagine my surprise when I not only spot you in London, alone, unprotected, but then you invite me to your home." She laughed in disbelief. "So I guess the question now Mr. Shelby is, Mr. Sabini paid a lot of money to have you killed, How much are you willing to pay to stay alive?"   

Part 2(?)

[alittlebitofloveliness]

can you please write something angsty about dally helping out darry after discovering how stressed he is or maybe finding him crying

Hi anon! Sorry this took so long, but here it is. Gonna tag @chained-sweater and @johnnyburntcake because they both asked to be tagged when it was finished after reading my out of context snippet. As with most of my stuff this is unbetaed so sorry for any mistakes or typos

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

Dallas Winston needs a lot of things. His boots are held together with duct tape and about fourteen different layers of mud, his jeans are worn, torn, patched, and torn again, and his number of material possessions is probably something less than twenty- he never had much in the first place and he pawned just about everything he had when he ran from New York five years ago. But despite all the things he is lacking, all the things he’s never had and the things he could use, what he wants most right now is a fucking break.

Dammit but he didn’t think moving out to rodeo country would involve caring so much. His gang back in New York had been a proper gang- more organized and even crueler than Shepards outfit, a group of tough as nails dealers and muscle, who’d just as soon shoot a kid as they would give them a chance. Hell, he’d been scared of them back in the day, for all he’d been smarter than most of them, because that kind of casual violence only came from the joy of hurting something, not from necessity. Only an idiot wouldn’t be scared of those sorts of people. Here though, in sleepy little Tulsa Oklahoma his gang is…a drunk, a dropout, two high schoolers, one recent high school graduate, and tagalong middle school kid- and yet, Dally finds himself far more loyal and goddamn committed to the ragtag group of big hearted losers than he ever was to old Alfie and his ring of coke dealing miscreants. It’s maddening. It’s wonderful. It’s horrible. It’s tiring is what it is, and Dally needs a goddamn break. Who wouldn’t after the night he’d just had, which involved practically dragging a nearly hypothermic Johnny Cade out of the cold and trying to warm the kid up? And as if that hadn’t been bad enough, he’d then had the dubious honour of driving Ponyboy to school this morning. Something about the kid’s zombielike stare and hunched shoulders had left him thinking of how bright those eyes used to be, just three months ago, which led to him thinking of Mrs. Curtis’ stern demeanour but kind face, and it was all just too much. Dallas needs a break. He wasn’t meant for this sappy caring shit. He’s done his mourning- he doesn’t need to be knocked all off kilter because of two kids who think of themselves as gangsters but in reality are nothing more than battered kids, bruised in different ways. This is the problem, Dally has found, with gangs that are more family than function- they’re made of people instead of parts of a machine. You can’t care about someone who is replaceable- but no one in the Curtis gang is replaceable, not by a long shot. That wasn’t the case back in New York.

Whatever. He’s done thinking about this now. He’s going to go back to the Curtis house and watch shit tv and maybe steal some food if the kitchen doesn’t look too skint this week. He is not going to think about kids who aren’t his problem (and yet completely are because he’d joined this stupid excuse of a gang and made them his problem in the first place), and he is going to stop being so fucking soft. Geez. If Tim could hear his thoughts right about now he’d lose just about all his street cred. 

Of course, because he’s Dallas Winston, and life has never thrown him a fucking bone in all seventeen years of his life on earth, his hopes for a peaceful afternoon are dashed the second he steps through the door. 

Darrel Curtis- six foot two, two hundred pounds of pure muscle, cool headed Darrel Curtis- is parked at the worn kitchen table, head in his hands, a water bill and something Dally is reasonably sure is property tax forms sitting in front of him.

 And he’s crying.

Darry Curtis doesn’t cry. In all the time Dally has known him, he’s never seen the guy so much as sniffle- not even at the funeral three months ago when Darry buried both parents in one horrible day. Soda had broken down immediately, and Pony had stared wide eyed, rivers of silent tears pouring down his cheeks- but Darry hadn’t. He’s crying now though, and not just a little bit either, huge gut wrenching sobs tearing from his mouth and shit Dallas doesn’t really know what to do. What he wants to do is pretend he never saw this, pretend it never happened and leave, let Darry have his well earned breakdown in the solitude he clearly believed he had. Of course, he would have had to have the foresight not to slam open the screen door for that to even be a possibility.

Darry jumps at the noise, shoulders squaring immediately, letting out one last sob that he could easily explain away as a gasp of surprise as he regains his barings. 

“Oh,” He clears his throat, valiantly trying to pretend like his eyes are bloodshot and his stubble covered cheeks covered in tear trcks, “hey Dal. There’s sandwich stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

In that second he sounds so much like his mother that it punches Dally in the chest a little bit. Something about the ocean of feelings quickly locked behind a kind word and a carefully controlled expression is so reminiscent of Mrs. Curtis that Dally almost finds himself nodding a yes and escaping into the kitchen. He can’t though, because as much as Darry acts like her, he will never be his godlike mother. Instead, he is his kind hearted self, a twenty year old with the custody of two kid brothers he couldn’t bear to be separated from, and all the pressures of adult life most people don’t even start having to worry about until they’ve had time to really live. Mrs.Curtis had taken care of all of them, even Dally when everyone else only ever looked at him as a lost cause. Darry can’t do that though, can barely look out for Soda and Pony. Anyone with eyes can see how he’s been struggling since the funeral, nevermind the way Soda’s endless energy has turned anxious and resentful, grades slipping, while Pony gets quieter and moodier, a thirteen year old ticking time bomb. 

“You stay outta trouble for me Dallas,” Mrs. Curtis said to him once, “I know you ain’t a good boy but you’re a loyal one and sometimes that’s more important. So don’t go gettin’ yourself locked up for a bit, savvy? My boys need you more than they know.” 

She hadn’t just been talking about Darry, Soda, and Pony. The whole gang was Mrs.Curtis’ boys and everyone knew it, but Dally had held those words close to his heart more times than he could count, a balm on his perpetually blackened soul. Mrs.Curtis had known the score, known that goodness wasn’t the same thing as love, and she’d loved him anyhow- unconditionally and more than his own sorry excuse of a mom ever had. She’d trusted him too, never babied him or tried to fix him the way every other adult was always trying to, just patched him up when he got into trouble, and scolded him for not being smarter. You wouldn’t have survived this long if you were stupid Dallas, so don’t go pullin’ a stunt like this again. C’mon and git some dinner now, there's casserole in the fridge.

It would break her heart to see Darry like this now, so small and defeated, two things her eldest son was never meant to be. But she isn’t here right now, never will be again.

But Dally is.

My boys need you more than they know.

Damn Mrs.Curtis and her all knowing ways, because she knew what she was doing when she took him in because now he’s stuck with this stupid gang in this stupid town forever because she made him love her and love them all too.

“What’s goin’ on Darry?”

“Nothing,” Darry lies, fingers twitching a bit to pull the papers closer to him.

“I ain’t Soda, you don’t gotta lie to me like that.”

Shame twists his handsome features and he looks down, fidgeting with his high school ring.

“I don’t got enough.”

“Enough what?”

“Money Dallas,” he snaps, “I don’t get my first paycheck from that new job until next week, and both these are due on Friday. I bought groceries yesterday, and paid the hydro on Monday, no matter what I’m short.”

There’s such fear in his eyes. Dally remembers what the social workers said when Darry got custody, how militant they’re going to be checking up on him. One missed bill could have Soda and Ponyboy taken away before any of them could cry ‘unfair’.

My boys need you more than they know.

Dally can’t let that happen. It would kill Darry, Soda might go full crazy and Ponyboy…the kid was already sensitive. He’d never make it in a boy’s home. 

“How much?”

“What?” Darry blinks at him and Dally rolls his eyes. Darry Curtis has never been stupid, so he doesn’t know why he’s acting stupid now. 

“How much money do you need?”

“Four fifty.”

Dally winced. That was more than he had on him right now, more than he could get from Two-bit and Steve if he asked on the down low. None of them ever had that kind of scratch just lying around- unless Steve’s dad had recently paid him to come back home, but the old man had booted Steve out two days ago and chucked a bottle at him yesterday when he went back to grab spare clothes so they probably weren’t back to playing happy family yet, and likely wouldn’t be for  while.

Still. There’s other ways to get money.

My boys need you more than you know.

“Leave it to me.” Dally promises.

“No.” Darry shoots him down immediately,  “It ain’t your responsibility Dallas-”

“It ain’t all yours either.”

“That’s exactly what it is!”

“Are we a gang or not?” Dally glares, “I know you Curtis boys are wicked at acceptin’ help but like it or not you need it right now! I ain’t watchin’ the state take Soda an’ Pony away because of your fucking pride Darry!”

Darry stares at him a moment, eyes hard before he sighs, shoulders drooping, suddenly looking the same type of bone deep exhausted that is becoming an all too familiar look on him. 

“Just…don’t do anything illegal, ok? The boys can’t handle you bein’ locked up right now.”

For some reason the words sting. It’s true the gang’s all been a wreck since the Curtis parents died, but Dally is under no illusions as to his place in their ragtag little group. They survived well enough before him, and they’ve survived every time he’s been in the cooler since knowing them, and it won’t be any different if he gets locked up now.

He must have scoffed or something because Darry glares at him. “I mean it.”

Whether he’s talking about the gang needing him or about him not doing anything that could get him into trouble with the cops, Dally doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. Instead, he turns on his heel, a plan already forming in his mind.

Buck Merril is just about the most pigheaded cowboy Dally’s ever met in his life, but he’s always running about half a dozen money making scams at any point in time, and he jumps anytime Dally offers to help because he gets stuff done and keeps his trap shut good. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, working for a guy he hardly likes and doesn’t respect, but money is money and Darry needs money desperately right now so he swallows his pride and asks Buck what needs doing.

He ends up two towns over, at a rickety trailer park off the main road, two kilos of smack stashed under the seat of Buck’s car. He makes the drop, bullies the buyer who wasn’t willing to cough up Buck’s agreed upon price, and ignores the way his stomach twists at the way he just gave someone else the very thing that destroyed his sister’s life, a million years ago back in New York. 

Buck claps him on the shoulder when he gets back. Dally shoves him off, takes his cut of dirty money, and leaves before he can punch someone. 

Warm light spills out the window of the Curtis house when he gets there. Ponyboy is leaning against Johnny on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, Johnny murmuring something to him that the kid doesn’t seem to be really hearing. It’s frightfully domestic and frightfully sad, the bruise on Johnny’s cheekbone almost black in the dim evening light, Ponyboy looking so skinny and tired Dally has the urge to tell him to go to bed. He doesn’t of course- it’s not his place, and Pony isn’t his brother. Instead, he ruffles both kids' hair as he passes them, tells them to get inside so they’ll have enough folks for a round of poker, and goes to find Darry.

Darry’s in the kitchen, scrubbing purple mac’n’cheese off a saucepan when Dally finds him. He watches for a minute, sees the tension in Darry’s broad shoulders, the viciousness in the way he’s scrubbing the pan. Desperation, Dally knows Is all consuming, bleeding into every thought, every action, every facet of life. For all he’s a different kind of desperate, Darry Curtis is as desperate now as Dally himself is.

He spares a quick glance over his shoulder. Johnny and Pony have trooped inside, the latter robotically shuffling a deck of cards, while Soda and Johnny chat quietly. Steve is flipping through channels on the radio, and Two is nowhere to be found. None of them so much as glance at the kitchen. Good.

“Dar.” 

Darry jumps, turns. 

“Glory Dal, scare a man to death, why dontcha!”

He rolls his eyes. “Ain’t my fault you weren’t payin’ attention. Here.” He holds out an envelope, and Darry’s eyes light first in understanding, then in hope.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t be offerin’ if I wasn’t.”

“Dal…”

“Take it,” He shakes the envelope, “before the others see.”

Hesitantly Darry reaches out, but as soon as his hands close around the paper he all but snatches it from Dally’s hand.

“Dal…I…thank you. I can’t tell you-”

“Whatever man,” Dally can feel the discomfort that comes anytime he is thanked or treated half decently raring in his chest, “I told you I’d take care of it and I meant it.”

“I’ll never be able to repay you for this.”

“It ain’t a loan, it’s just helpin’ out.”

“That’s not what I- nevermind,” Darry shakes his head, mouth twisting in a rueful half smile, “There’s dinner in the fridge, I made sure Soda saved you some.”

Dally fixes himself a plate, glaring down at pasta that was never meant to be purple, and he and Darry join everyone else in the living room. Johnny grins when he sees him, scooting closer to Ponyboy to make room on the sofa, and Steve steals the cards out of Pony’s hands to start dealing, having finally found a station playing half decent music. 

Dally eats his dinner and plays poker, pretending he doesn’t care half as much as he does when he loses. He wins half of Soda’s cigarettes and quickly loses them all to Johnny, pretending the feeling in his chest isn’t softer than anything he usually lets himself feel.

These boys don’t know it but they need him more than they know, and he’ll keep them safe. For Mrs, Curtis, but for himself too. 

After all, he’s always been a selfish bastard. 

[cherubnthechaoschoir]

THANK YOU, MR. MILLER - bfd!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: caught up in the devistation of you parents ever crumbling marriage, you seek help and comfort from your older neighbour.

a note from lucy: this is one my faves i've written so far. I hope you enjoy because I did.

playlist

wc: 7789 warnings: 18+ MDNI! no outbreak au! bfd!joel, angst, fluff, smut, p in v smut, fingering, oral - fem receiving, light choking, age gap (reader is twenty one, joel is in his forties), swearing, mentions of infidelity and divorce.

Most days you wished you could tie your fluctuant thoughts together in a neat little bunch with a ribbon, maybe yellow or blue, knot it into a bow. Like a bouquet of flowers. Except they were not flowers. They were brambles and stinging nettles and those weird little dandelions that only stay pretty until a gust of wind strips them bare to their stalks. 

To spite this, you had an avarice for perfection. As a result of all the times life seemed to spiral out of control. Like ivy up the trunk of the oak tree in your back garden. You cried the day your father had to saw it down; Only being Eight and watching through the sliding glass doors of your living room. Your treehouse came down with it. All that was left was a stump now smothered by your mothers prize winning hydrangeas. Tonight seemed to be one of those moments. One of those life altering experiences that are jarring even if you see them coming. 

Deep down, in the pit of your gut that formed first at the family dinner table through awkward conversation, you knew it was coming. Your brother who left home a year before you, yet to return even once from the army, knew it. Everyone else on the street did too. Heck, maybe the whole of Austin’s suburbia knew? Knew about the pathetic crumbling foundations your parents’ marriage sat on. It was tilted at an alarmingly steep angle as pillars of salt corroded, eroded, dissolved. It was jarring in a way that knocked air out your chest and winded you. A way that blew your eyes wide. Now, without you or your brother in the house, they had no reason to keep up appearances behind closed doors as well as in the open, and they slipped.

It's why you found yourself staring at the front door of the Miller household. Praying that the only friend you had in close vicinity, heck in Austin, full stop, could hear you rant about the shit you encountered barely mere moments ago. The same shit that was happening under the roof of your childhood home. In your parents’ marital bed. 

Just like the decay of a loving vow, It was no secret you had changed over the time away. You filled out your clothes more, despite losing a little weight from how skint college made you. Long gone were the awkward blemishes to your skin, and growth spurts that made your jeans too short in the leg, and growing pains of puberty. You had a little skip in your step. One that was no longer weighed down from the dull life you lead when back home. Your first year of college was difficult to begin with. But you slipped into routine there. And you found your people. A few friends, some on your course, some not. But coming back after your third year…it was…new again. 

And the way Joel’s eyes roved over you for a split second upon seeing you at his door— it made an invisible shiver of something jolt down your spine. A shiver that rattled each vertebrae. It had you smoothing over the hem of your shirt into your stupid little gym shorts. You chose to wear them because it was comfortable to travel in. But now you felt cold and small under his gaze, like an ant under a. His face softened when he saw the shimmering streaks of tears run down your pretty little face, eyes red while you reached up to wipe your nose and sniff. God, the ground should just open in a gaping hole and swallow you, bones and all.

“Uh, sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Miller.” You choked, closing your eyes and holding in  breath, cursing how easy it was for you to cry. Your mother often chided you for it. Said ‘no one likes a crybaby’. And your father would butt in with ‘stop having a bubble’. Words that still sting as they yelled out in echoes in your mind while you stood on his doorstep. “Is…” another sniff, “is Sarah in?” Joel’s head tilted to the side slightly, only askew as he tutted slightly and offered a sympathetic smile of pity, “No. She’s with her boyfriend. Ain't been back yet.” 

“Oh.” You nodded. How foolish you had been to think that your end of term dates aligned with hers. “Okay. Thank you anyway.” You turned to leave, only getting about ninety degrees in your turn on his doorstep before he stopped you. 

“Do you want me to give her a message when she gets back tomorrow?” He watched as only your head turned back towards him, your feet staying firmly planted to the floor. Jesus Christ, you missed the sight of him. Missed seeing him in the mundane setting of suburbia. It made it so much more interesting. His shirt, it hugged his torso, the sleeves clinging to his large biceps like a second skin and stretching the dark fabric taut. A deranged part of you slipped back to your 18 year old self, peeking through the window to see him pushing the lawnmower across his front lawn in the dry heat, a dark patch of sweat collecting on the dip of his lower spine and across the wings of his shoulder blades. 

“No. That, uh…it's not urgent.” You tried, the corners of your lips tugging a smile, a sad little one that made you look far worse. A lie smeared across your now pale face. 

“You look tired, Sugar.” He said, the words seeping into the very marrow of your aching bones, wrapped up in that southern drawl you missed hearing through your open bedroom window. In the morning’s when he called out to his brother if he picked him up for work. Tommy, you remembered, was his name. “You got somethin’ weighing on your mind?” You willed yourself to shake your head, but you couldn’t bring it within yourself to lie right now. So instead you just nodded. “You wanna come in for a second?” He asked, glancing between you and the house across the street. The one unspeakable acts of infidelity were currently happening just beyond the white picket fence, and the manicured green lawn. It made your stomach twist into knots and your belly churn in a queasy mix of bile and the muffin you got at the airport that early morning. His eyes, however, stayed on you when you too glanced back, swallowing dryly when he saw the soft curve of your ass hang out the bottom of your bunched up shorts, the soft, malleable skin teasing him, making him hot beneath the collar. He had to adjust his jeans slightly as they got a little tighter, the nasty thoughts of how the swell of your rear would ripple with the dents of his fingertips if he was rough enough. Would they leave bruises on your skin? 

Fuck. Joel cursed himself in the tangled confines of his mind. Damining for the sexual frustration that caught him off guard. He hadn’t had a good fuck in years, but the way your tear stained cheeks glowed in the dim light of his porch had him caught up; Wondering if you’d cry like that for him as he bent you over his kitchen counter, tits pressed to the linoleum, cheek smushed under his hands, your body jolting from erratic thrusts, his hips sapping into your behind. Would you cry out his name? Or would you resolve into whimpers and whines? Joel would admit, using the sight of you as a way to set his dick wet was the lowest of low, a depth he didn’t think he’d reach even in the throes of painful, biting sexual frustration. But it seemed to have boiled down and condensed together over the years. And being parched of the sight of you, your innocence over the time you were away — to then have you flung back at him? It had him growling in his own mind. Clawing at the yellow wallpaper. Just shy of a year since seeing you last over the street. That’s all it took for desire to light a fire in the pit of his belly and set up camp. And it wasn’t a traveller anymore. It was there to stay until satiated. The length in his jeans wanted him so gravely of that. 

Pervert. He thought to himself bitterly, laced with a vehement venom. It neighboured his lust for you. 

“Okay.” He found himself blinking once, twice, a sharp inhale of air waking him up as it shot through his nose. You replied with the affirmative! 

“Okay.” He nodded back, jaw ticking, the muscle in his neck flexed under the pressure of his teeth biting together, making you want to mimic it with your thighs— to ease the ache just slightly.

He stepped to the side. 

With an audible gulp, one that made you cringe, you tiptoed on a proverbial tripwire, a livewire, into the foyer of his house, past him. A breeze followed you through with gusto, making a mockery of your senses as it blew his scent into your face when you turned back round to face him. He closed the door and you felt a relief, one that was short lived because you were now surrounded by him. His smell, his sight. Everything about him, it was clinging to the walls, painted a white that you imagined glowed a warm, mellow yellow in the morning light. An oddly domestic thought to be having given you were thinking of all the ways he might just make you fall apart just two seconds ago, drooling over him his tight fucking t-shirt.

It did look so warm, though, a faded black from being washed so often, the Rolling Stones album cover printed on the front was cracked, like the canvas of an old oil painting. Specks of white fluff clung to the fabric, a normal sight. But it did nothing to help your want for him. It would smell so richly of him, so lavishly of Joel. You knew it. 

‘God, this was so inappropriate!’ You scolded yourself in your head, letting him lead you into his kitchen. If you had a tail that little fucker would be folded shamefully between your legs, curled in sin.

The only sound in his kitchen came from a fan that hummed weakly as it oscillated on the counter. It reminded you of a thought you had when leaving university for the summer. Would I miss the cool rain of Colorado? You felt a lot like that fan. Pathetic. Swinging meekly between left and right. Never able to stick to one side due to the instability you grew up around. Smothered in. 

“College good? People treatin’ you well?”Joel asked as he filled up a glass of water for you and slid it across the counter your way. You nodded tentatively, wetting your lips with your tongue before raising the glass to them. He watches with a secret hunger as the cool glass met your lips and you take a small sip to soothe your parched dry throat. 

“Yeah.” 

“Where'd you go again? Washington, right?” “Colorado.” You corrected him.

“Colorado. Right.” 

He paused after nodding…and the air was once again stagnant due to the fall of conversation.

“What major?” He asked again, making you look up at him in a skittish movement. Like a fucking deer in headlights. You wanted to bolt like a rabbit at the sound of a shotgun instead. I’m your disgust, your feet stayed firmly planted into the linoleum tile of his floor. 

“Uh, I'm studying education.” He nodded, pursing his lips as he mulled the thought over in his head with a nod. 

“You wanna teach then?” He inquired. You nodded, “Sounds about right. You were always so giving. Very selfless of ya.” You set the glass down, swallowing down the sip you took just before. You can’t help but smile a little at that, eyes closing as you let yourself feel — for just a moment — that you were meant to be laced up in his words; Wrapped and held in place by a little bow. Like a birthday gift, or something under the decorated tree at Christmas. 

This little second to yourself didn't go unnoticed by Joel. It made his heart thrum rapidly, pinch behind his lungs in the cage of his ribs. It had him up in arms again over his riling thoughts. They stuck to the walls of his mind, clinging to them like a rabid animal. If you’d let him, he'd sink his claws and teeth into the action upon those images. Spur it into play. Maybe sink his teeth into the plush of your skin too. Would you like that? To be carnally desired. Would you consent to that horror born of lust? He thanked the separation of the kitchen counter hiding his cock that pressed to his thigh under his jeans, blood flowing south as you held back tears again after a wave of short lived relief. 

“What’s up, pretty girl?” He asked. Making your eyelids spring open again to meet the dark chestnut of his irises. The warm hue from the under cabinet strip lights illuminated the individual honey gold flecks in them. You swore your knees buckled, joined groaning. “You got a lot running round that head of yours.” He pointed out, noticing the tight scrunch of your brow. It would curl like that out of pleasure, give him half a chance. He was sure of it. Fucked out and overstimulated, limbs sprawled out beneath him like a wire in a snare trap. 

Your silence was deafening and he sought out to fill it when giving you another once over. Her rounded the kitchen counter, praying your eyes stayed on his because the way your shirt swallowed you whole had him wishing he was the one doing that instead, covering you with himself. Holding your naked self to his chest. Feel. 

“You wanna sit for a bit and talk about it?”

You gnawed at the tip of your thumb, a nervous habit that had Joel wrapping his large hand around your wrist and pulling it back. His digits engulfed your wrist completely. His size compared to yours was startling. His smile was kinda, masking the thoughts of what those tiny hands would look like, wrapped round his dick as he hissed at the friction your smooth plans would give him. Would it wrap round the girth perfectly? Would your thumb meet your middle finger as you took hold onto him? Probably not. 

He swallowed, trying not to think the same for your lips as you once again darted your tongue out to draw the plush pink of your bottom lip between the whites of your teeth. 

Instead, he settled for pulling you gently forward, cheating you round towards the living room with a steady palm to the small of your back. He felt the jolt you made, and then the way your muscles eased, the arch of your spine soothing and straightening out. 

With a gentle touch, he led you to the sofa, sitting beside you. Waiting for you to speak. 

“E-everyone saw it coming.” You croaked out, an annoyance and intolerable hate for yourself and your dumbfounded stupidity pinching at your sides. “Even I saw it coming! I just don’t understand why I had to find out in such a-“ Joel watched your eyes dart around the carpet of his living room, as if the answer would lay right there, nestled between the threads and fibres, “a messy way…” you continued with a small voice. He titled his head towards you, raising his brows with gentle ardence for what you had to say. 

And so you spoke. Told him of the messy tangling of your fathers limbs with another woman’s. The sound of them. Disgusting. Gut wrenching. How they mingled with the bedspread in a frantic assembly of passion and appendages. 

Joel’s face turned into a grimace. He knew. He saw the two of them enter your home together when washing the dishes of his meal for one. Drunk, cheeks flushed with the secret they carried. An infidelity. He’d seen your mother commit a similar sin earlier this very week. He cleared his throat, resting a careful hand on your thigh, one that would make him lose control had it not been for its place just above your knee. Any higher and he was in hot water. He knew it. 

“Sweetheart,” he started in a soothing, sympathetic but also telling manner, “Adults don’t always get it right. We…we ain’t perfect either.” He tried. He felt like he was having a conversation with Sarah. A torture of de ja vu. Way back when. Years ago she asked what happened to her Mummy. And he had said the same line of truth. A bitter, harrowing truth. But one everybody discovered sooner or later. He wished you knew it before and he wasn’t the one to twist those pretty features into pain instead of pleasure. He was silently begging to whatever higher power that was watching, that he wasn’t being perverted. That you didn’t see this is some little trick to get you vulnerable, in a headspace where he could fuck you until you felt better. Or until you entirely forgot. Forgot all but the way to mouth out his name in a shrill cry. 

If you even knew in first place all the things he wished to do with you. To you. 

“Sometimes you just find someone who ain’t right. They might be at the time. And you feel so sure ‘bout it that you make promises.” You listened, relayed it in your mind while you bit the inside of your cheek in futility. It wasn’t easy. Not by any means a conversation you wanted to have. But it was needed. The two of you knew it. A twisted part of you was glad it meant you got a chance to talk to him. To have him touch you gently. 

He reached forward, tucking a single lock of hair behind your ear to see the hues of your irises. The way they gleamed slightly with tears. It was the prettiest sight of total devastation he had seen. Joel was no man of hubris, but he’d be damned if he didn’t think that getting you on all fours, crying a little for him in pleasure would boost his ego. 

You glanced up at him, grinding your teeth together nervously while the ghosting of a calloused fingertip skimmed the top of your right cheekbone. If it weren’t for your thighs sticking uncomfortably to the leather of the sofa in this heat, you would have decayed to submission and slipped to the floor. 

Joel let his knuckles that he cracked together to feel the grounding of physical pain, feel a comfort instead as they skimmed down your jawline. Physicality was so much tamer to him than emotion. There was the promise of knowing when you’d feel better that came with the ache to his joints and lower spine. 

'`Thank you, Mr. Miller. It’s okay.”  You sniffed, “I- I’ll be okay. I think.” Joel let a kind smile spread over his face. 

“I know you will. You're a strong little lady. But please, call me Joel” Your eyes closed again and you swallowed. But opening them – that was the damning part. Because the moment they did, you saw how he flickered between each of your eyes. It must have been the intimacy of having the permission to use his first name, because it had you inhaling deeply in need of him. 

You were surely frozen to the spot, his hand moving slightly higher up your thigh in a gentle caress before dragging back down to squeeze your knee. You let yourself have the pleasure of gazing at his lips. A mistake because it made you yearn to kiss him more. How would rough hairs of his upper lip feel against your cupid's bow?

It seemed your body moved of its own accord, for your lips met his. It was unlike anything you could have imagined when in bed, two fingers buried in your pussy, imagining they were his. His hot breath fanned over your lips, making you want more. But it was cut short when he pulled away with a groan. 

Your skittish nature took hold of the reins and you jumped back, springing to your feet, hands tugging in your hair. “Oh, god- Joel- I…” You stammered, tears once again welling in your bloodshot eyes, “I’m so sorry. I thought…”

What? What did you think? That something would come of kissing your older, very age inappropriate neighbour? Fuck. 

He stood up quickly after you, fists balled as if he was holding something back. Joel watched as you paced the floor once, twice, stopping at the far end of the room by the wall, distance yourself from the magnetic pull you had to him. “Hey, it's okay.’ He assured, taking a tentative step closer, hands now flat, fingers spread slightly as he tried to calm you down. “I’m not mad, sweetheart, okay?’ You took a breath in through your nose. Let it out again in a tremble of breath. 

Another step closer. He was closer than needed, but you weren't the one making that call. He was. So you took it as a good sign, still pleading for his forgiveness though. 

“Sorry.”

“You don't have to apologise for nothin’, Sugar.” He assured with that slow southern drawl again. It stretched out his syllables and smoothed out his vowels with it. God, it was a beautiful sound. One you wanted to muffle with your lips, with your legs over his ears. He was now an inch away from your chest, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “I’d be lyin’ if i said I hadn’t wanted it.” 

The sentence sent a jolt throughout you. 

“Look at you.” He mumbled into the crook of your neck, the junction of your throat. A swallow passed through it, the cartilage of your windpipe flexing under his lips. “Too beautiful not to be touched.” 

Those words struck a certain chord on your heartstrings. Plucked away at them like a harp. Made the beating of that very organ thrum in song. A tuneful symphony he felt through your pulse. 

Too beautiful not to be touched.

No one had said that to you before. No one. And it was like a life altering experience. A mere ‘thank you’ didn’t feel like enough to respond with. It felt pathetic to say in comparison. And silence was so much more pathetic. But you couldn’t really articulate anything to say back. You just…stood there in awe of him as he continued to place careful, open mouthed kisses to your neck. 

“How would you do it?’ You asked breathlessly, eyes closing, lashes fanning out over the tops of your cheekbones, “T-touch me?” You stuttered through fragmented, beating breaths. His kisses, they grew messier by the second now, and he hummed in amusement into your skin. Into the heat of it that crept up your throat. This was so wrong. So perverse it hurts is what he thought. But the pleasure from just his lips — it stung at the backs of your eyes like a prickling of tears; Oh god, it felt right. Right. Real. So, so…real- it was real. Repeating the word in your mind had it losing its meaning for a second, a jumbled up sound in the voice of your inner ear, your articulatory process working overtime just to feel into him. Feed the need for him.

“First.” He started, pushing you gently by the slope of your shoulders, until your back collided softly to the painted plaster of his living room wall, “I’d push you up against the wall.” He paused, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your collarbone, the shallow skin that was teased into view for him as he hooked a finger into the crewneck of your large t-shirt. “And then, I’d pin you down.” The thought made you whimper, a pulse of pleasure aching between your legs. Unquenchable, not able to be soothed by anything that wasn’t the touch of his rough fingers, the calloused pads of his digits. Middle and forefinger. 

“You want that?” You nodded frantically in reply, breath catching your throat as he tugged at your shirt more. “Words. Use that pretty mouth of yours for words, sweet thing.” 

“Y-Yes, Joel.” You stammered. Pathetic. Embarrassing. But it was impossible when his whole weight, his broad frame, toned with years of manual labour, pressed you into the wall. “Yes.” He let out another amused hum, except it tailed off into more of a growl now. A guttural one that rumbled in the back of his throat and reverberated in your ears. Rattled your ribs until they ached. It pinched them. The skin over them too and the lungs under them as well. Lungs that shivered from his touch.  

“You wanna feel pretty.” It was not a question. A statement of understanding. One that made you think he once cracked open your skull and read each thought. The pages of your diary, even. Back to front. Cover to cover. Scour each word, ravage it of meaning the same way you wanted him to do with you. To your cunt that pulsed and soaked the fabric of your underwear. It made the skin of your inner thighs sticky as it dripped down gluttonously. “You want me to make you feel pretty, hm?” 

“Please.” 

He pulled back, a gleam in his eyes, and an almost evil smirk to match curled at the corner of his chapped lips. “I can do that, sweet thing.” He cooed, lulling you into a false sense of security. “I can make you feel pretty. Matter of fact, doll. I can make you feel fuckin’ beautiful.” You were now waving a white flag over your head to him. In that battle between your morality and lust, the turmoil of your needy, disgusting thoughts that echoed in your bones. It filled the hollow space between them. He stole away into it. He would make you feel pretty. Beautiful. He said so himself into the skin of your neck that now prickled violently with goosebumps. They made his words physical, scribing them out. A beautiful collision. And a stunning one it would be if he defiled you with the thrust of his hips. He’d make space for himself anywhere and you'd let him. Let him make roots in your mind. And not just the thought of him that you conjured up. No. He’d anchor himself there. Without your help. He’d make them himself. Without your involvement or investment.  

It was no longer a question of how much you were willing to let up to him. How much of yourself you’d give up to him and set in his possession. It was now the complete certainty of how much he wanted. Or needed. You saw in his eyes he needed it. A comfort, a release of clashing teeth and viced limbs to his waist and back. It frightened you how easy it was to give that to him. To let him take that pleasure and make it his. His. His, his, his. Carve out a chunk of yourself from your arms that you hoped would surround him in the throes of messy heat. Give it to the man on a silver platter, surrounded by pomegranate, cherry and apple. Sweet fruits of you. Your fruits of your labours to him. 

“We should stop—” Joel said into the skin of your neck, hands grasping at your hips, upper thighs. His fingers sank and embedded into flesh. He kept changing his mind, you kept changing your mind. But the actions he bought on, pressed to your skin by crafted lips, a little too far away in his own head — they went against his inhibition. Perfectly encapsulated the erotic stimulation as his hand slipped down your side to tangle messily with the hem of your shirt. 

“We should.” You agreed breathlessly, immediately, chest in tandem with his, it’s rise and fall as they beat ceaselessly together, touching up to one and other. 

“—But I can’t.” He continued. 

“Neither can I. So please don’t.”

Being wanted. Wanting too much. It fed the idea of him but left you starving as you found those roots you made of him in your head being overgrown and overtaken by his own now. It was happening. In his own living room. Behind the closed curtains as he drew closer, closer, the windows seemingly fogged up to the outside. The suburbia that held its messy and primitive life, guarded by picket fences. Greying and peeling picket fences. Not white. Not pure. Not anything but decaying. Oh, you’d decay into him in a heartbeat. Give it all to him. Let him take it. Going through to the beating of your heart and crashing through your ribs. Rip it out your aching, pinching chest. A gaping hole left behind.

He didn’t stop. And thank god he didn’t. Because the way his hand smoothed between your thighs, between the seam of your shorts. Maybe it was something that was so taboo no one spoke of it? Maybe you too wouldn’t even speak of it after this. But it was too addictive to bother you. It seemed to flare your synapses, send shockwaves of rolling pleasure, cascading from your slouched shoulders as you slumped slightly more into him and off the wall. Your head spinning in circles loosened your chemicals. An endorphin rush. Pulled out your centrefold, staples bent and mauled as your pages fell from the book and onto the floor in front of him. Letting him tear you apart column by column. 

“Lean back, pretty girl.” He commanded softly. Deftly. It made you feel like fine art, sculpted veins of his hands that flexed as they palmed your cunt through the two thin layers of fabric, slick clinging to them. You obeyed so well.

Joel’s curved, rigid nose ran along your carotid artery. The one that thumped with your quickening pulse. This anticipation and forbidden pleasure made him realise he was always more comfortable in chaos. In something a little out of the ordinary and unstable. Unhealthy. Joel gave into the temptation of low hanging fruit because it was there. And you got so little from anyone that what small intricacies you were handed, you let him. Let him as he snatched it up and bit a hunking chunk out of your soul. A souvenir for himself. Pulled the apple from the tree in the garden of Eden, sank his teeth into it, let the sweetness seep out of the core onto his tongue as it unravelled into addiction. 

You were his apple now, and your teeth were bared to him, like his were to the delicate, shallow skin of your neck, the ridges one slopes of your collarbones. While his fingers, long and thick, slipped past the hem of your shorts, deeper past the little bow in the centre of the hem of your underwear. The crown of your head fell back gently to plaster, and mouth fell open with a small high gasp as he finally made contact with your clit. He hummed again. The slick you offered him made it so easy to give an experimental circle of his fingers. 

Middle and forefinger pinching it slightly, circling it the way you felt you circled each other before now. 

“Don’t wanna break you, sugar. Gotta be careful.” He said as his fingers coaxed you into bliss. Toes curling in your socks and high top converse. 

“Please- I don’t care if you do- just—“ More. You needed more. Nothing, no matter how much you dreamed of this, seemed to be enough yet. “More. Please let me have more.” 

“How much more?” He growled, rolling his hips into your thigh as he lost a little composure. It was just as he thought. Your begging was so sweet. Did God feel this way when he heard prayers?

“Inside. I want to feel you inside.” 

His breath hissed in his throat as it caught between the walls of his windpipe and the strings of his vocal cords. With a slow, dragging pace of rough fingertips, he moved further down your slit, spreading your lips apart and holding a single pad of his digit to your hole, teasing you at your entrance. He growled again, teeth and mouth parting as he sank them into your shoulder. It made you cry out in a sharp wail when he slipped a single finger into your fluttering heat, cunt suffocating his digits. He was up to his middle knuckle deep in you, pulling out to do the same with two now. Middle and forefinger, curling them. Physically be king you towards a release. Your legs tensed and relaxed as each wave of pleasure rumbled through you. Hips bucked slightly into him and his free hand grapes at the flesh of your hip once more to slam your ass back into the wall. 

“Good girl. Such a pretty little lady. Beautiful little cunt for me.” He cooed after unlatching his mouth from the purple bruise of a bite mark on your shoulder. His hot breath kissed the shell of your ear and made the ache settle into pleasure deep in your walls. Right at the end. Right there. “Is it all for me?”

“Yes!” You whimpered, “Yes— all for you, Joel.” 

“Mhm. Good girl. Beautiful little lady.” 

His fingers seemed to pick up a pace, but it was hindered by the tight material of your clothing. So he opted to shove it over the swell of your ass, down to your mid thigh. Not bothering for want and need of pressing his fingers back into you. Plunging them back into your tight heat. The warmth and wetness lead to lewd sounds squelching between your quivering thighs, the meat of your flesh. 

“Good girl.” He whispered again, grasping your chin in a vice grip and pulling you closer, crashing his lips to yours in a clashing of teeth and mingling of moans. “So fuckin’ needy. So fuckin’ Love it.” Joel growled, “And it’s all for me. Makin this old man feel so special, doll.”

Tears burned your eyes with the white hot pleasure that coarser through you like a racehorse. They slipped from the threshold of your waterline, and the moment he tasted them against your lips, he pulled from them, licking a hit stripe up your cheek. He lapped them up, inhaling deeply through his nose, caught up in everything your body gave him. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ beautiful. Make you forget about it all. Only want you to remember my name.” You nodded, his fingers now up to the hilt in your tight little hole that clamped around him, threatening to spasm as you lost control.

 It burned in your lower belly. The crying, shrill screaming promise of climaxing. 

“You’re so close. Can feel it.”

“Yes, Joel.”

“Want you to come for me. Let that pretty little cunt of yours come on my fingers.” It was purely debaucherous, disgusting how fucking good it felt. It made you angry for some reason unknown to your mind. But your orgasm was so tangible at the time you couldn’t bring yourself to care. 

You cried out, your slim fingers gripping at his hair, fisting the curls between your nails and palms. It burned you up inside. Or was that from his fingers? Fuck, the thought of his cock and what pleasure it would unfold inside your anatomy had your mouth watering. 

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He growled obscenely into your ear as the most animalistic howl you had made yet tore through your bronchioles and rattled in his ears; Bounced from the walls. 

The moment your walls stopped squeezing him he pulled his fingers from your messy heat and shoved them past your lips, teeth scraping at his knuckles. “Taste it. Ain’t it beautiful? Ain’t you just the prettiest little gift to me?” You nodded, eyes locking zealously with his while you cleaned his fingers of your release. The tang of your juices had your eyes rolling back in your head. And Joel wanted more. So he pressed them further into the cavern of your mouth. His blunt nails passed the hard palate of your mouth, pressing into your soft palate nod. And the gag you gave out had his already angry cock twitch viciously in protest behind his zipper. 

“Gonna get you naked now, Sugar. Gonna see what pretty little body you’ve been hidin’ away from me all this time.” 

You nodded frantically, these moments of oblivion being all that you needed now. The infidelity of your parents’ now a thing of the past, cast to the attic of your mind palace. The walls are now painted in colours of him. Lifting your arms to aid your own undressing, he yanked the hem of your shirt up, tossing it aside, large hands now hooking into your bottoms and pulling from your still quivering legs. Those same hands, ones that you were convinced were crafted and out into this very earth for your pleasure, hooked under your thighs, lifting you up into him. Legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation while he carried you to his stairs, ascending them with haste burning in his stomach. Your hands tugging at his hair and your lips to his neck made his strides larger, taking the steps two at a time. 

You were well into the belly of the beast now. Consumed and swallowed, wallowing in a haze of postcotial bliss.  

His foot kicked open the door of his bedroom, and you felt the spring of the mattress under your back, pushed down from the rebound as he found himself once again on top of you. His hips now met yours, still clothed and he could feel your wetness seep through the waters of clothing.  

“Please, Joel, wanna feel you.” He was slowly going at you with a stitch picker, pulling you apart from the seams of your fabric. And he relished in it. You both relished in it. “Wanna see you. All of you. Please?” 

A hand of his hooked behind your calf, pulling each of your shoes from your feet, followed by your socks and he smirked devilishly down upon you. “Oh, yeah?” He asked, chuckling evilly to himself. A sound that made you writhe atop his bedspread; Made you want to creek into his skin and barks yourself between his spine and ribs. Any free space of him. 

“Yes! Please.” You begged, reaching out to grasp the hem of that shirt he wore. It’s faded fabric bunching in your meagre handfuls. He growled, dragging you closer by the swell of your thighs, pressing the hard and defined line of his dick through his jeans into your wanting slit. Pink and puffy cunt swiping against denim. The friction made you jolt. 

“Sure thing, Beautiful.” – ‘I’ll make you feel fuckin’ beautiful.’ It echoed again in his words and wanting, hungry actions. – “As soon as I taste that gorgeous pussy of yours.” 

He sank to his knees, joints not clicking because he felt young. Fucking Alive. A hot stripe made by the flat of his tongue made you mewl, a hand in his hair once again. The other splayed out on the covers, propping you up to get a view of him buried so deeply between your thighs, nestled into their apex, tongue fucking into your fluttering hole and the tip of his nose pressed to you clit. Your brow scrunched, jaw unhinged. Like him. With every slight roll of his head, the defined curl of his nose brushed your clit deliciously, each nerve ending of the bud was alive, live a livewire. It rattled in your bones, steam through your blood. Tingling as the sensation spread through your limbs, almost like pins and needles. 

The angle was altered ever so slightly as he hooked both of your knees over his shoulders, inhaling the sweet musk of your cunt. He growled into it, lips smothered in your juices that gushed onto his tongue.”Come on, little lady. Wanna taste you gushing over my tongue.” Joel mumbled drunkenly between your parted thighs, his eyes boring deeper holes into your already blown pupils. Dilated and wide. 

It was all the coil needed to burn brighter and tighten in its twisted knot, snapping clean in half as you reeled. You shoulder blades crashed back down to the mattress, back arching, strung tight in a deep curve while you writhed. He tugged you closer, moaning lowly into the seam between your thighs, slurping needily at what your body gave him. He hummed, addicted now. That taste was fatal. He had his forbidden fruit and he’d jump to far higher branches to get another taste if it came to it. 

“Taste so good. So fuckin’ good, doll. Like sugar.” He cooed again, pulling back once he had his fill for the time being. A good thing because the way the scruff of his chin rubbed at your thighs was starting to become harder to ignore. 

You watched through heavy, half lidded eyes as he pulled off his shirt to reveal sweet skin, the slight pudge of his stomach. You followed the smattering of hair in his happy trail down to his jeans, just as he popped the button. 

“Gonna fuck you real good, now, Sugar. Gonna make you feel so beautiful.” You believed him. Every word as it became gospel to the pair of you sinners. “Gonna me you want it even after this.”

“Always wanted it, Joel.” You mumbled, hypnotised by his fingers as they hooked into his jeans. He tugged them down over his hips, dragging down his adonis belt, softer, less harsh compared to the contours of the rest of him, such as his arms. He pulled them down in one swift motion with his boxers, his heavy cock slapping onto his lower abdomen, thich, red, the tip swallowed and leaking, drooling gluttonously with a rivulet of precum down the underside of his length. 

His hand wrapped around it, the large splay of his palm did nothing to dwarf its size with he jacked himself once, twice, three times to the sight of you. Fucked out from merely his tongue and fingers. He squeezed the base of his cock with hiss, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth after cursing under his bated breath. 

“Promise it’ll only hurt for a bit, Sugar.” He swore sweetly at the sight of your anxiety. How you shifted slightly atop his covers. He was able to read you so well, like a book he had scoured the ages of every night before bed. It made you feel special. Sacred. The way he did it so easily. It was everything you wanted. Someone to tell you and assure you of your safety even when you didnt voice a single concern. “I’ll make you feel so good.” 

He ran the tip up and down your slit, having to hold back from slamming into you when the bulbous head notched at your entrance.

“You on birth control, beautiful?” He asked as he leaned over you, bent at the waist, wrapping your legs around him securely. 

“Y-yeah.” 

Joel took that as a go ahead to push into you, pressing his hips flush to yours as you swallowed him inch by deliciously thick inch. 

“Good girl.” He crooned, spelling both of his psalm over your hairline sweeping the hair that stuck to your forehead in the sheen of sweat atop your skin. His large hands dragged over the top of your skull to the crown of your head, down the back of your neck. The delicate dragged of roughened skin made a trail of goosebumps rise over your skin, blazing in his touch’s wake. He trod a path with his hands down to your breasts, kneading each one between his palms, still buried to the hilt inside you. How he had so much restraint, he didn't know. And neither did you. But the needy roll of your hips into his showed just how desperate you were. He groaned at the start of the friction between you, and slowly dragged back out of you, moving just as slowly back inside. 

The motion turned into a needy clash of his hips to yours. Again. Again. Again. Somewhere along the sting of passion and heat, his hand wrapped around your throat, feeling the flex of it as you swallowed under his palms. He bit down into your neck, reaching out from you as his hips slammed erratically. His heavy balls slapping against your ass. 

Your cunt drooled down his shaft, down to the base, down the sensitive skin of his cock. He growled and ground and hissed in your ear, grip tightening in your neck. You felt it tighten. And tighten. Right in the pit of your stomach, deep in your sopping wet cunt. Suckong him back in as the angle of his hips snapped up into the spot that had you seeing entire constellations. They darted to and fro across your vision. It blurred the edge, spotted slinging over the back of your eyes that now burned with tears of pleasure. 

His fingers gripped tightly at your hip, thin brushing over your hip bone down your mouth to toy with your clit. And action that sent you spiralling, babbling his name nonsensically among a string of curse words. So pretty and fucked out beneath him. Joel couldn't help but stare in awe as your eyes rolled back into your head when your orgasm hit like a freight train. 

He came undone coon after, his climax hitting a crescendo with a growl bitten into your shoulder, leaving another beautiful purple mark on your flawless skin. His thumb still rolled over your clit gently, helping you ride that experience out for all that it was worth. 

And then he scooped you, took care of you, let you stay the night. And when you were asleep, wrapped up in his sheets, clean, loved. He stole away downstairs, gathering your clothes, bunching up your panties in his fist, hiding them away in his nightstand. 

Not that you would have cared. 

You didn’t have to gather your thoughts anymore. Joel replaced them and the stinging nettles and the brambles and the dandelion stems with pretty sunflowers, lavender and sweet peas. And he tied them up with a sweet little ribbon of pure gold. Just for you.

[ostensiblynone]

Mr Brightside, in particular, was The Killers trying to one-up Noel Gallagher. In 2002, the skint Flowers was mooching outside the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas when a kindly stranger took pity and gave him a ticket to Oasis, who were rounding off their set at the hotel’s 4,000 capacity venue. He stepped in just as Noel was flexing his eyebrows and encoring with Don’t Look Back In Anger. Noting the audience’s enthusiasm, a lightbulb flickered in Flowers’s head.  “I walked into the Hard Rock Hotel to see a roomful of people singing along along to Don’t Look Back In Anger,” he would recall. “It shook me. It changed me. Mr Brightside is a some sort of answer to that song. It is somehow connected, whether I like it or not.”

The Killers' Mr Brightside: how Noel Gallagher and a cheating girlfriend inspired the Glastonbury anthem

by Ed Power | 29 June 2019 | The Telegraph

[ghostduck]

Tagged by @renatayaga Rules: Spell out your URL using song titles. Then tag G - Germ Free Adolescent - X-Ray Spex

H - Hey Mr. DJ I Thought You Said We Had a Deal - They Might Be Giants

O - Off The Hook - CSS

S - Science Genius Girl - Freezepop

T - Thanks Bastards - Mischief Brew

D - Dance Music - The Mountain Goats

U - Up Against The Wall - The Skints

C - Canny Man - Hannah Werdmuller

K - Kick, Push - Lupe Fiasco

Rennie made a playlist of her songs and I thought that sounded fun so I made one toooooo

Tagging @atapi @squeezybeez and @brutewyvern why not

[dannymillerfansite]

Emmerdale Spoilers 28 April - 02 May

John & Chas/Liam related. No Aaron mentions.

Monday 28 April

John listens to a voicemail that Cain has left for Nate. He then panics when Nate's phone gets another call and accidentally answers it.

Eventually deciding to end the call, John throws the phone, unable to cope with his own web of lies.

With Nate's birthday coming up, dejected Tracy hands Cain a card she and Frankie have made for him, asking him to pass it on.

Cain then tries to call his son and leaves a voicemail – which is picked up by John, who pocketed his mobile before he chucked his body off a viaduct into the water below.

When Cain fails to get a response from Nate, he calls him again and in John's panic, he answers it!

Ringing off, John tosses the mobile, overwhelmed by the sick situation he's created.

Meanwhile, Chas and Liam are disheartened when the police confirm an iron-clad alibi for Ella. Liam and Chas's shared worry is clear when they're no closer to finding out who attacked Liam.

At the Woolie, Chas and Liam are gutted when PC Swirling calls in with an update on the attack.

Convinced that Liam's ex was behind the assault and a string of other crimes, the couple are gutted when he reports Ella has an iron-clad alibi.

Will the copper continue his investigations and start to realise that the culprit behind a whole heap of recent trouble is John Sugden, who's living in plain sight and due to marry Chas' son Aaron?

Tuesday 29 April

When John sees Cain leaving a voicemail for Nate, he sees he has another fire to put out.

Assuming he's being ghosted, infuriated Dingle mechanic Cain is leaving his son another message when John Sugden – Nate's secret killer – walks past.

Clocking the situation and masking his horror, John strikes up an innocent conversation with Cain.

With the Dingle clearly not about to give up on the search for Nate despite the bad blood, John's going to have to do something about it.

Is he going to attempt to silence Cain?

Wednesday 30 April

Tracy confides in John.

Thursday 01 May

John comes round to check on Tracy but is nervous to hear that Cain's going to find Nate.

When Moira encourages her husband not to give up on his AWOL son – who furiously disowned his dad before he left – Cain's given a boost.

Popping into see Nate's ex, Tracy and daughter Frankie, the grandad is disappointed that his son has seemingly abandoned them.

Galvanised, Cain tells Tracy that he's had it with phone calls, he's going to Shetland, where Nate's been working, to find out what's going on and to try to repair their severed relationship.

Playing Mr Nice, John calls in on Tracy to see if she's OK and offers support to the skint single mum.

To his horror, with the subject of Nate raised, Tracy goes on to mention that Cain's going to Scotland to track him down.

What will the killer do now?

Friday 02 May

Tracy is baffled. Is her confusion Nate-related?

Digital Spy / What to Watch

[duel-of-the-dolls]

Polly Pocket Punch Out: Dolls (Round 1)

[ijustwantedtobeoneofthestrokesuk]

Time For Heroes

London

The Strokes might have been the leaders of this new generation of “indie” but The Libertines were already causing chaos in the capital…

Jay McAllister (Beans On Toast) “The Libertines were very important. They took it to a wider audience and soundtracked it.” 

If you were looking for the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll cliche for the 21st Century The Libertines ticked all the boxes. A band who were constantly on the edge of self-destruction but brilliant when they were on form. Charming, poetic, funny, punk, loveable, mythical, The Libertines had it all, they understood the internet, they used it to create a community with their fans but their downfall (mostly drug-related) was played in the press like a soap opera. 

Alfie Jackson (The Holloways) “The Strokes and The Libertines are two of the most influential bands of the last 20 years. Everyone was inspired by these 2 bands, there was a lot of shite music between Oasis and the arrival of The Strokes.” 

Like with The Cribs, who were unconsciously making music in their bedroom in Wakefield that would become the new era, The Libertines were on a similar path in London. It wasn’t until they heard and saw The Strokes that things fell into place for The Libs. Once romanticising poetry, wordsmiths and old-school comedy while being notorious in underground London, Pete Doherty and Carl Barat’s sound took a new direction. 

Carl was at uni studying drama in 1997 when he met Pete who was visiting his sister, who was living with Carl. Pete was a dreamer, he loved football, The Smiths and Oasis, he was in awe of Carl and his skill with a guitar. The teens clicked instantly, their friendship was intense. They ended each other's sentences however, they fell out over petty things too. Carl had no interest in music, being in a band or fame but Pete's enthusiasm pushed him into it.

They lived in grotty flats, shared a single mattress and blagged their way through life. Their first gig was at their flat, then they would host cabaret nights in pubs. Pete craved attention, Carl would need booze to get on a stage and their lineup was ever-changing. In the summer of 2001 The Libertines were fizzling out, singer Scarborough Steve was skint and left London while bassist John Hassall went back to school to do his A-Levels. Johnny Borrell briefly stepped in but there were already 2 stars in the band, there wasn’t room for a third. Mr Razzcocks, a drummer in his 50’s completed the line-up but he was giving up on Pete and Carl’s mystical Albion dream too. 

When Gary Powell, a session musician who’d just finished drumming for Eddie Grant was introduced to Pete and Carl by friend (and Libertines manager) Banny Pootschi the 3 immediately hit it off. They bonded over jazz and The Beatles, Gary was drawn to Pete and Carl’s relationship. They were fun to be around and as Mr Razzcocks left the band they needed a drummer, Gary jumped in, he was immediately impressed with the songs Pete and Carl had written, band practice was fun at first, just another extension to hanging out at the pub. John returned after the 3 of them started playing together, Pete and Carl would share bass duties on stage in the meantime. 

The Libertines are a 4-piece but it’s the frontmen that make them exciting, you never knew what you were going to get. The times when Pete was absent (jail or drugs) it just wasn’t the same (they did regret continuing without Pete when he was kicked out of the band in 2004 but they couldn’t afford to cancel). There was something captivating about seeing the double-act share a mic on stage and wrestle for attention. Pete and Carl had a special relationship. They were obsessed with each other, jealous of each other over the most trivial things, inseparable at times, brothers and lovers, always fighting to be in the limelight. They would argue who was the better songwriter but they would also be a comedy duo, Pete was highly intelligent and charming while Carl was intense. It was this relationship that made The Libertines, they were a gang with 2 leaders, 2 very different leaders.  

Steev Burgess (lyricist and collaborator with John Hassall and The April Rainers) “I met them as “people'' first, rather than as a band. John and Carl worked in the theatre serving drinks, selling programmes and ushering alongside 3 other friends of mine and I frequented late-night bars like Shuttleworths and the Soho arts bar where all the theatre people went. 

In my first conversation with John we got chatting about music over a drink and bonded over a mutual liking of The Beatles and The Kinks. I was impressed with his knowledge of the lesser-known bands of the 1966-68 era like Tomorrow, as most people I'd met didn't know of them. 

I worked a lot at night back then, so I only saw The Libertines sporadically and they were growing more wild, punky and The Strokes like. When the first album came out I could hear the melodies coming through too and I knew it was a bit special. One thing that set them apart was the mythologising about the Good Ship Albion seeking Arcady and such. I liked that a lot and how it came through in songs like "The Good Old Days". At the same time, it was very real, with songs like "Time For Heroes" referencing the wild Mayday events and riots of those days, and Pete's quirky turns of phrase.” 

The Libertines quickly gained a reputation for being a bit wild and drugs crept in which destroyed the band on many occasions. Both Carl and John dabbled in heroin in the early days, it was when the touring got demanding that Pete started using, initially to calm his anxiety, but he got hooked.  

Gary was involved in several projects already, he was experienced and focussed, exactly what Pete and Carl needed so when he dropped his other bits to concentrate on The Libertines he pushed them to work hard, practice and be the best they could be. Pete and Carl were skint, they were sleeping on friends' couches so they put their lives into the band. Gary occasionally offered advice into their songwriting but it was rarely needed. 

Gemma Clarke (Babyshambles) “The Libertines changed everything. They created a scene, a vibe, a gang. Everyone felt part of that gang! They were accessible, beautiful poets. Still are.” 

Pete’s obsession with The Smiths put a record deal from Rough Trade as a priority. They had a gig booked at The Rhythm Factory in Whitechapel which James Endeacott from Rough Trade was coming to but they had no equipment. After begging and borrowing from friends it was a mess, Pete and Carl took turns with the bass, guitar strings broke, the drum kit was a shambles but James saw something in them and signed them. After years of testing and trying, the good ship of Albion finally set sail and Rough Trade had the UK’s answer to The Strokes. London was burning.   

Bill Ryder-Jones (The Coral) “The Strokes changed everything but The Libertines gave something to England. Not the England we as The Coral we arsed with but it was special.” 

After signing the deal in December The Libertines released their first single, a double a-side What A Waster/I Get Along, produced by Bernard Butler from Suede in June 2002. 

Conor McNicholas “The Libertines were organic, so ramshackle and it wasn’t a major label, it was Rough Trade, they were a passion project, mostly driven by James Endeacott who was a massive Sex Pistols fan back in the day and for him, The Libertines were the new Sex Pistols, and, in a way, they were. They were driven by belief, there was no hype machine. They were almost pre-Strokes and Stripes, they weren’t necessarily influenced by them.  

Any press person who has worked with The Libertines has just tried to control them, they generated stories themselves, and publicly, we were all over it. That soap opera that they created was a godsend for a weekly magazine. We were connected to, getting exclusives, it was proper journalism, to make sure we were outside prison when Pete came out, no other press were out there because no other press knew it was going to happen. We were on the inside, our job was to be part of it and tell the story. Pete and Kate’s relationship was a weird one, he became a hotter property and it gave the mainstream press something to talk about at Glastonbury as Kate was with somebody from our world. Suddenly Pete was being covered in Bizarre columns as much as he was in the NME but we still got the exclusives.  

The Libertines defined the London scene and inspired a load of bands who followed. We were checking .org (The Libertines online fan forum) all of the time.” 

Dave McCabe (The Zutons) “I saw The Libertines at the Zanzibar they were great a lot going on, a lot of chaos but they had this energy about them.” 

They rehearsed for the debut album at a studio on Caledonian Road, Mick Jones from The Clash met them before recording and they all got on from the start. They had never properly recorded before going to RAK Studios for the Up The Bracket sessions. The album isn’t slick and luscious but it wasn’t supposed to be. Mick wanted to capture the raw, energetic feel to it, charged with emotion. He would get the band to play the songs over and over again until they were comfortable with it enough that it would sound natural. It was relentless as they recorded 22 songs in 5 days. Gary is a perfectionist whereas the others were happy with mistakes as it captured a moment.  

Ronnie Joice “I saw a live performance on Jools Holland of their title track from their debut album, Up The Bracket. Fuck me, it hit me like a bolt out of the sky. Somewhere, somehow, the stars had aligned at this moment. The opening noise that Pete Doherty makes, somewhere between coughing up phlegm and an actual lung, rang bells of celebration in my ears. 

I was hooked immediately… watching this scuzzy, frenzied performance with my pulse racing, realising I had found something fucking special. Despite listening through my tinny, very shitty laptop speakers, an audiophile I was not. I felt like I’d discovered the greatest fucking band in the world. 

Being well-versed online already, it didn’t take long for me to discover The Libertines forums. There were two, the .org version which wasn’t as user-friendly, and the org.uk one which was a lot more annoying for adults, but as a pretentious teenager, perfect fodder for my incessant posting and allowed me to indulge myself in every band cropping up from that scene. 

I literally lapped up every single band I could listen to. I hadn’t really given parlance yet to how good things were, obviously, certain stuff hit me quicker. I also indulged myself in all the Libertines demos, Legs XI etc, the Babyshambles demos and readied myself for the release of the second album…

The community The Libertines created online translated into a fucked-up, warped ‘safe space’ for a lot of disenfranchised, lost young people in the 2000’s. Their early gigs were easily accessible, but I was still too young to go, and also, I got into them between the first and second record. 

However, their legacy lived on for many years past and while publications like Vice have mocked that legacy, at the time they were truly bastions of a really important subculture for kids like me. Kids who knew there was more to life than getting a job in insurance, your first car at seventeen, and saving for a mortgage before you were thirty. 

Part of me wishes I’d done all that, I’d be a lot less fucking anxious as an adult but I also am so thankful I lived that fast life chasing the Albion dream with so many other kids. 

The first-ever London gig I went to was Pete Doherty playing a huge outdoor gig for free in Trafalgar Square, for Love Music Hate Racism the summer before I started the second college I went to, in Worthing. I went with a mate who wanted to see the grime acts like Roll Deep and Lethal Bizzle on the bill below him. 

That day, I probably made more friends who spoke to me and I felt I had more in common with, than from an entire year at a college in Horsham. London kids grow up quicker than country kids, and their parents all seemed to be more liberal when it came to them staying out late and I suppose they were just happy their kids were coming home safe with their pals.

The London indie scene allowed me that exit from home life, and I could indulge myself in an exciting world, that seemed free from peril. It's interesting to realise that, years on. I don’t think any of the kids who I hung around with had come from easy backgrounds, there were a few who were a bit more comfortable than others financially, and as the scene became more mainstream obviously the posh kids lapped it up but at the beginning, it felt like most of my peers were from working-class, lower-middle-class backgrounds. 

We were kids who were just soaking up being young and free, at the perfect age you could do that with little to no responsibility. It felt beyond liberating to leave Storrington each time, and it would depress me as soon as I returned. London stole my heart and presented to me the reality that you could be who you wanted, and it was down to your own prerogative who that person was. 

That escape to London helped me have the best formative years and molded who I am today… 

Although albeit very dysfunctional, I’ll never forget those innocent memories of those first few trips to London.” 

Expectations were high for the band ahead of the release of Up The Bracket having already been on the cover of NME. They had also supported The Strokes and Supergrass where The Libertines were a bit messy but they were put in front of a potential fan base who went on to adore them. The band got bigger but the shows remained chaotic, stage invasions, bordering on riots were not a one-off. 

Paul Melbourne “I had heard a few tunes in 2002, I Get Along, Mayday and What a Waster and had downloaded them, I remember the first week of October in Burton where I'm from it's the local funfair that everyone goes to every year, I was 17 and I said to my mates shall we go to the fair or shall we go to see this band The Libertines who were playing The Vic Inn in Derby on the same day, it was a toss-up and we decided to go to see Libs and am so grateful I did!  

There were about 30 people there and I remember getting on stage and getting a signed setlist at the end, this was in 2002 just before Up the Bracket came out, and then after that I was hooked and followed them about everywhere. The Libertines were more than just a band. They broke down the barriers between fan and band, partly through .org where Pete used to post all the time and advertise all the flat gigs.” 

In June 2003 Pete decided not to play shows at Rock AM Ring and Rock AM Park festivals, expecting his band members not to either (if he wasn’t) but they went ahead without him, they had to, financially, they needed the money and they didn’t want to get sued. Anthony Rossomando, who lived with fellow American Gary in Hackney stepped in for the German dates and the following American tour and dates in Japan. The 4 of them got on and it was fun like the old days. The pressure was off, Pete’s behaviour had become toxic. Then, as they landed back in London, Carl got a call from his sister with the news that Pete had broken into his flat. Everything fell apart.  

This led to Pete being sentenced to 6 months in prison, which was cut to just 2. However, Carl met Peter as he walked free, they were best buds again and celebrated with an iconic gig at Tap 'n' Tin pub in Chatham, Kent. There was still tension between the pair and not all was forgiven. Pete felt betrayed and he documented this on the band's most successful single, Can’t Stand Me Now, some of it was written in prison.  

Laurie Wright “The Libertines were everything. It was The Strokes on crack, and British. I was too young but I felt a part of it. I started playing guitar immediately.” 

What made The Libertines and the scene around them different to anything before or after was their accessibility. They broke down the barrier between band and fans, it was anti-Knebworth, Carl hated the idea of being a “rock star” and having “fans”, he never felt comfortable with being looked at as different. While the band was on the cover of NME, being played on the radio and headlining huge gigs they were still accessible for fans. However, this was pre-social media, there was still mystery surrounding the band. They didn’t have a marketing team managing online accounts, the band would often post on the forums and Pete used his Babyshambles site to announce last-minute gigs and share demos. These last-minute gigs were often in a flat, fans were asked to meet at a mysterious location, there’d be led to a flat, pay a tenner on the door, Pete (occasionally Carl too) would turn up and play. Sometimes there’d get shut down by police but Pete would have some money for his drug addiction. 

Paul Melbourne “The Libertines changed everything in the indie scene in the UK at that time, they took what The Strokes were doing and made it achievable for all of the other bands coming through and so many good bands came from that scene, and are still going now.” 

Despite the success of the debut album, main stage festival sets, huge tours and Top Of The Pop appearances they were skint due to bad management. Banny had taken them as far as she could. Alan McGee, who had experience dealing with difficult double acts when managing Oasis was brought in to make things a little more professional but the ship was sinking. His first job was to get them out of London, away from distractions and focus on a second album. 

Blaine Harrison (Mystery Jets) “New York had The Strokes and London had The Libs. The big difference was that so many of the other bands of that new wave were so precisely considered, in both how they played and how they styled themselves. With The Libs, it was complete chaos and disorder. And I don’t just mean the drugs; musically, it was all over the place. There was a musical-hall influence in there, and beautiful little acoustic ditties as well as the balls-to-the-wall anthems like Death on the Stairs or Horrorshow. I feel like in time they will be remembered as our generation’s Clash. But to me they were more like The Kinks with out-of-tune guitars and Marshall stacks.” 

The Libertines were set to work on their second album with Bernard Butler from Suede who was hired as a producer in early 2004 but the band didn’t turn up, they ended up working with Mick Jones from The Clash again. To steady things, he encouraged them to get into the studio and start work on a second album.  

Alan McGee hired two bouncers to ensure that Pete and Carl turned up to the studio and avoid potential scraps. The band had been so busy working on relationships they had forgotten to write any songs. Pretty much everything was done in the studio, old material was pieced together. Writing, learning and recording on the spot, a completely different experience to the debut which they’d rehearsed until it naturally flowed. Pete was erratic and struggling with his addiction and he was often told not to turn up to the studio. Gary was surprised the album was finished. 

One of The Libertines' most joyous occasions was their biggest tour to date in March 2004, they were in fine form as they sold out venues up and down the country ending with 3 shows at Brixton Academy, after all the highs, the tour ended in a typical low as Pete left the stage because Carl looked at him funny during Can’t Stand Me Now when singing the line about Pete breaking into Carl’s flat. 

As all of this was going on, Pete was the vocalist on For Lovers, a song written by his friend, Wolfman. The gentle, romantic number charted at no.7 in the UK in April, higher than The Libertines had yet to reach was a contradiction to the character tarnished by the media as the most dangerous rock star of the time. 

Just The Libertines was preparing to release the second album Pete was exiled from the band for his drug use and behaviour while waiting for a court trial for carrying a weapon but the band couldn’t stop now.  

In August Pete had a solo show at The Barfly in Camden, the fans were waiting, he turned up, the bouncer said something that offended him and he just left. He was then booked for a gig at the Scala, another no-show which led to a riot. Pete’s reputation was worsening and his band were having to do their biggest moves without him. Can’t Stand Me Now reached no.2 in the UK singles charts, the band played the main stage at Reading & Leeds Festival (Pete had been replaced by Anthony Rossomando) then the self-titled second album topped the album charts.   

When the band played without Pete in 2003 Carl felt like he was the villain, that fans thought he was the reason Pete wasn’t in the band and he had to carry the weight on his shoulders. Pete's behaviour in 2004 was much more public and Carl felt supported, both the band and fans understood the situation, Pete didn’t. he still felt betrayed, he didn’t understand why he wasn’t in the band when he hadn’t seen Carl in months. He felt robbed, that he was The Libertines, that it was his story. 

Carl was emotionally exhausted, he knew The Libertines was just as Pete’s band as his, but he couldn’t work with Pete when he was chasing the dragon. After completing a European tour, The Libertines were over. Their last gig took place on the 17th December 2004 in Paris.

NEXT CHAPTER

[scarlettjade420]

Pt. 2

for pt one go to here to see my previous blog with the first part. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I start my walk towards my new school, walking for almost an hour to get there. I used to go to a school closer to me, but it was shut down due to poor funding and the fact that the building and staff were of poor quality.

Soon enough I'm almost there to my new hell hole for this year. Yippy. I make my way in, grab my schedule and locker code and go to try to find my locker. “In my first class I had English. Everyone in there was so loud and always talking. But everyone, including the teacher, Mrs. Wilson, they were all nice. So I guess it wasn’t too bad. The second class was history, which was similar to English in that it was loud. Not so similar in the niceness factor. But at least they left me alone. Following that was band class, that class was fine, nothing much to say on it. Following that, Biology, which had people similar to english. Then was Theater class, then Art class. Both of those were fine, people left me alone and the teachers were chill. Then, finally I had health and math. Those both sucked.” I said, telling Kai about my day and about school once I got home for the day. “It felt like the day was never gonna end” I joke, earning a laugh from Kai. 

“Do you get lockers?” I nod. “Lucky, that stopped giving us any lockers in middle school!” Kai says dramatically, acting like an angry toddler. We both laugh and continue making banter and jokes about school. I think my sibling is probably the only one in my family I can get along with; they're the only one who doesn’t try and hate me for having power. We’re both the black sheep of the family, just for them it’s because of their identity. Kai’s an 8th grader still, only a couple years behind me.

The following day repeats. I wake up, get coffee, talk to kai. Go to my room, get ready, go to school. English, History, Band, Biology, Theater, Art, Health, Math. i'm going home. Finally, As I walk home I pass by Kai’s school from the other side of the street and stop as I wait about 10 minutes till I hear the bell. As they walked out from the building, I watched them walk in a hurry even before seeing me. Something’s wrong. Once their across the street they instantly give me the biggest of hugs. I stand their, holding them, trying to calm them before we got home.

The following day starts repeating, except, this time someone comes up to..talk to me? I was in history class, I sat on the ground against a wall. I looked up as a figure, not much taller than I would be, standing next to me. They had medium length hair dyed purple and black that was put up in a half-up-half-down look. They wore a band t-shirt, tucked into some skint=y jeans with a flannel over top. They had accessories as well with jewelry like chokers, bracelets, rings, belts and belt chains, ect. As i notised them standing next to me, they introduced themselves. 

“Hi! I’m Alex, he/him” he said with a googy grin and an abnormal amount of energy I could only dream of having at 10 in the morning. “Onyx, he/they. Did you need something-?” “Noo just wanted to talk to you.” “Talk to me?” “Talk to you.” I gave him a confused look, but he seemed confused by my confused look. “Why?” I ask.“Why not? You seem interesting. May i sit next to you” I shrug “um, sure.” with that, he sat is bag down and sat next to me with his back to the wall. “Sooo what’cha dooooin” he said, dragging out his words. I think he’s trying to just be silly. “The homework he assigned” “WAIT, there was homework??? We just started school two days ago!” “yeah..he just assigned it 10 minutes ago?” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

let me know what you think of this so far! oe leave any suggestions/constructive criticism. also let me know if you have any suggestions of what to name this story.

[moonlarkandpinetree]

✨Idk what to title this✨

Ok so I re-listened to the green ring conspiracy again tonight, but I only had enough time for parts one & two. But seriously, why can't we have good stories on Odyssey like this anymore. At least give us twelve-episode albums again.

Anyways, some random quotes from the episodes and stuff cuz why not. Oh and they're probably out of order too

Wow Emily sounds exactly like I do when I'm moody at home. But what can I say? I'm just a girl.

+1 for memorable dialogue.

Wait Monty appeared on Odyssey before this? I really need to listen to older episodes...

Ooh Buck...but ew to Mr.Skint

"because you're my cat, aren't you m'lad, meoooww"

"I would love to stay and chat, but that would keep me from leaving" which one of you has that in your bio I know one of you does. Also, I ❤ this quote

I keep forgetting that Buck, is in fact, fourteen in these episodes, and wow. Mr. Skint is sending a fourteen year old to do some crazy things.

Ok why did Jay sound strangely sad when he went to ask his uncle if he went to jail?

I always forget that this is when Detective Pulhouse (is that how it's spelled cuz idk) first appears.

I'll be back soon for the rest, also an update on the roleplay is suggested. See you later ❤

Bonus: sketch I did while listening of Buck (yes I gave him freckles and acne I can draw him however I want)

My style changed for the 100th time but it's out of my control🤷‍♀️

[24worldnewsnet]

Best-selling author Frederick Forsyth, known for thriller novels including The Day Of The Jackal, has died at the age of 86, his agent has said."We mourn the passing of one of the world's greatest thriller writers," Jonathan Lloyd said in a statement.Forsyth published more than 25 books, also including The Odessa File and The Dogs of War, and sold 75 million books around the world, he said.His publisher Bill Scott-Kerr said: "Still read by millions across the world, Freddie's thrillers define the genre and are still the benchmark to which contemporary writers aspire. He leaves behind a peerless legacy which will continue to excite and entertain for years to come."Born in Kent in 1938, Forsyth joined the RAF at the age of 18 before becoming a war correspondent for the BBC and Reuters. He revealed in 2015 he also worked for British intelligence agency MI6 for more than 20 years.Many of his fictional plots drew on his real-life experiences around the world.He made his name with his first novel, 1971's The Day Of The Jackal, which he wrote when he was out of work."[I was] skint, in debt, no flat, no car, no nothing and I just thought, 'How do I get myself out of this hole?' And I came up with probably the zaniest solution - write a novel," he said.It is a gripping tale, set in 1963, about an Englishman hired to assassinate the French president at the time, Charles de Gaulle.The Day Of The Jackal was turned into a 1973 film starring Edward Fox as the Jackal, and then became a TV drama starring Eddie Redmayne last year. Forsyth died on Monday after a brief illness, a statement said."We mourn the passing of one of the world's greatest thriller writers," Mr Lloyd said."Only a few weeks ago I sat with him as we watched a new and moving documentary of his life - In My Own Words, to be released later this year on BBC One – and was reminded of an extraordinary life, well lived."After serving as one of the youngest ever RAF pilots, he turned to journalism, using his gift for languages in German, French and Russian to become a foreign correspondent in Biafra."Appalled at what he saw and using his experience during a stint as a Secret service agent, he wrote his first and perhaps most famous novel, The Day Of The Jackal, and instantly became a global bestselling author."Michael Caine persuaded Forsyth to allow a film version of 1984 novel The Fourth ProtocolMr Scott-Kerr said working with Forsyth had been "one of the great pleasures of my professional life"."The flow of brilliant plots and ideas aside, he was the most professional writer an editor could hope for," he said."His journalistic background brought a rigour and a metronomic efficiency to his working practice and his nose for and understanding of a great story kept his novels both thrillingly contemporary and fresh. It was a joy and an education to watch him at work."Singer Elaine Paige, a friend of Forsyth, said she felt "total sadness" at the news of his death. "His academic knowledge of places, palaces and geography was bar none," she wrote on X. "He'll be much missed for so many reasons." English composer Andrew Lloyd Webber, who worked with Forsyth on Love Never Dies, the follow-up to Phantom of the Opera, said: "He really understood the romance and thrills which make the Phantom such an alluring character."Thank you Frederick, for creating stories which will live on for generations in your honour." And Conservative MP Sir David Davis said his "great friend" was a "terrific man" and a "fabulous wordsmith". "He was a great believer in the old values - he believed in honour and patriotism and courage and directness and straightforwardness and [was] a big defender of our armed forces," he told Sky News.Forsyth followed The Day Of The Jackal with The Odessa File in 1972, which was adapted for the big screen in a film starring Jon Voight two years later.The author had written a follow-up, Revenge of Odessa, with fellow thriller writer Tony Kent, which will be published this August.His other best-selling works included 1984

[tremolo]

The Libertines - Up The Bracket: Early Demos

01. I Get Along (Nomis Demo Version) 02. Tine For Heroes (Nomis Demo Version) 03. Never Never (Nomis Demo Version) 04. Horrorshow (Nomis Demo Version) 05. Boys In The Band (Nomis Demo Version) 06. Up The Bracket (Nomis Demo Version) 07. Begging (Nomis Demo Version) 08. What A Waster (Nomis Demo Version) 09. Skint & Minted (Nomis Demo Version) 10. General Smuts (Nomis Demo Version) 11. Bangkok (Nomis Demo Version) 12. Mayday (Nomis Demo Version) 13. Mr. Finnegan (Nomis Demo Version) 14. Tell The King (Demo Version) 15. Death On The Stairs (Demo Version) 16. Time For Heroes (Rough Demo Version) 17. I Get Along (Rough Demo Version) 18. Horrorshow (Rough Demo Version) 19. Boys In The Band (Rough Demo Version) 20. General Smuts (Rough Demo Version)

[whatsonmedia]

Thursday Thrills: Summer Festival Extravaganza Starts Today!

July is here, and the festival season is in full swing! From music festivals to food festivals to cultural celebrations, there's something for everyone to enjoy this month. So step out into the sunshine, embrace the warm weather, and let the magic of July take you on a journey of discovery. Big Love Festival 14 – 16 July Big Love Festival is an independent music festival held in the beautiful hills of the Welsh Valleys. The festival is known for its eclectic lineup of live dance music, woodland discos, circus & cabaret, and street food. This year's lineup features some of the biggest names in electronic music, including DJ Marky ft LowQui, DJ Yoda, A-Skillz, The Orb, The Skints, and CVC. There will also be performances from Mad Apple Circus, Midnight Zu, Johnny Cage & The Voodoo Groove, Katalyst b2b Ransom, Natty Lou, Double A Side, Gene On Earth, Marc Parsons, Matt Owen, Tom Auton & Bottlebreakers, and Banshi. In addition to the music, Big Love Festival also offers a variety of other activities, such as yoga, workshops, and a silent disco. There is also a dedicated children's area, making Big Love Festival a great family-friendly event. If you're looking for a weekend of independent music, love, and laughter, then Big Love Festival is the perfect place for you. Tickets are on sale now, so don't miss out!Tickets & More Info> biglovefestival.co.uk Funk Up The Farm 14 – 17 July Back to the Future is a 3-day drum & bass rave festival in Kentisbury, North Devon. With a capacity of just 1,000 people, it's a small festival with a big heart. The lineup is stacked with some of the biggest names in the scene, and there will be no massive queues or walking for miles. Just three days of pure unadulterated rave. In addition to the music, Back to the Future will also have a variety of other activities, such as workshops, yoga, and a silent disco. There will also be a dedicated children's area, making Back to the Future a great family-friendly event. So if you're looking for a weekend of dancing, fun, and good vibes, then Back to the Future is the festival for you. Tickets are on sale now, so don't miss out!Tickets & More Info> funkupthefarm.com Soul Sessions Festival 15 July Soul Sessions Festival is a one-day dance party in the beautiful surroundings of Colesdale Farm in Hertfordshire. The festival is family-friendly and features a lineup of over forty artists playing house, tribal/soulful house, amapiano, and UK garage. The lineup for this year's festival is incredible, featuring some of the biggest names in the soul scene, such as Booker T, David Bailey, Groove Assassin, Kismet, Mark Radford, Masterstepz, Neil Pierce, DJ Spoony, Supa D Feat Cold Steps, Sy Sez, Wookie, Angie B, Antony Ranz, Buzzard, Carlos Aries, CKP, Mc Fro, Gemini, Gavin Peters, Lady T, Love Precious, Missfly, N:Fostell, Knowledge, Noushii D, Nse, Onyx Stone, Owen James, Paul Fist Funk, Petchy, Petite, Pivotal The Wizard, Secret Agent, Mc Snoops, Solly Brown, Teaser, Terminal 4, Tippa, Ubiquity, Wesley Jay, Wigman, and Dj Zigz. If you're looking for a day of dancing, fun, and good vibes, then Soul Sessions Festival is the perfect place for you. Tickets are on sale now, so don't miss out! Tickets & More Info> wearesoulsessions.com Beat-Herder 13 – 16 July Beat-Herder Festival is a popular music festival held in the Ribble Valley, Lancashire, England. It has been running since 2006 and has grown in popularity over the years, with a capacity of over 20,000 people in 2023. The festival has a diverse lineup of music artists, including Alison Goldfrapp, Bad Boy Chiller Crew, Bcuc, Cloonee, Confidence Man, Sarah Story, Dub Pistols, Stanton Warriors, Eats Everything, Ewan Mcvicar, Friction, Gardna, Gerd Janson, Hannah Laing, Have Mercy Las Vegas, Horace Andy & The Dub Asante Band, Seb Fontaine, Tall Paul, John Haycock, Jungle Brothers, Lf System, Pendulum, Peter Hook & The Light, K-Klass, Mr. Scruff, Bad, Skream, State Of Satta, Venbee, Wilkinson, and many more. In addition to the music, Beat-Herder Festival also has a variety of other activities, such as workshops, circus performances, and a silent disco. There is also a dedicated children's area, making Beat-Herder Festival a great family-friendly event. If you're looking for a weekend of music, fun, and good vibes, then Beat-Herder Festival is the perfect place for you. Tickets are on sale now, so don't miss out! Tickets & More Info> beatherder.co.uk Read the full article

[theaiofancaster]

Mr Skint, Two bit Matthews, Felicia Larson,Wally Hagler,Dr. Trask!!!!!!!

Josh Holloway as Mr. Skint

His portrayal of Sawyer in Lost just made me think of Mr. Skint.

Miss Michael Learned as Felicia Larson

Russell Crowe as Wally Hagler

Daniel Craig as Dr. Trask

Idk who Two Bit Matthews is off the top of my head and AIO wiki isn’t working so that one may take a while.

[long-live-the-gobop]

Okay, so I was listening to “Simple Man” by the Charlie Daniels Band, and there’s a little acoustic guitar riff, and it sounded so familiar the whole time, and then it suddenly hit me: it sounded extremely similar to the tune that plays every time Mr. Skint shows up in GRC.

And I mean, I don’t know if they did that on purpose, or if I was mistakenly remembering it, or if it’s just one of those “coincidences”. But it sounded so very like it, and it blew my mind. I literally said “whoa” and had to take a moment to process it.