and less like a hobo

  • 7/27 Tour
  • Camila: [talking to the AwesomenessTV cameras] You know, sharing a bus with Dinah, not as bad as you think.
  • Dinah: [to the camera, in the back lounge] Sharing a small space with Camila, worse than you might think.
  • Camila: But you wanna know the hardest part about sharing a bus with Dinah?
  • Dinah: The worst thing about living with Camila?
  • Camila and Dinah: Sleeping less than five feet apart.
  • Camila: I swear, Dinah snores like a hobo with a sinus infection.
  • Dinah: Camila mumbles in her sleep, LOUD.
  • Camila and Dinah: It sounds kinda like... [Camila and Dinah both imitate the other sleeping] Try sleeping with that!
  • Camila: But, even though Dinah can keep me up at night, I love that girl.
  • Dinah: I'm hungry. [walks off screen]
  • Camila: I mean it's pretty fun sharing a bus with Dinah alone on tour, and she has turned me on to a lot of cool music, and- [snaps fingers] Mustard! [goes to fridge] Mustard, mustard, [Dinah takes the sandwich] mustard... Anyway, I guess the important thing to remember about sharing a small space is to be respectful of each other and she took my sandwich, didn't she?
  • Dinah: [back in the back lounge] Mila may talk in her sleep, [takes a bite of the sandwich] but kid makes a good sandwich.
  • Camila: Dinah!

It blows my mind when I read posts by 24-year-old trans girls who are worried that it’s “too late” to transition, or that hormones “won’t make any difference.”

I started HRT at 37. I’m 39 now. I used to look more or less like a unkempt hobo. Now I’m a cute girl with a body more voluptuous and womanly than I ever could have imagined.

Know hope.

Almost 132,000 notes??? Wow!
Banana Split, part 2

You wanted it and you got it. Part 1 can be found here


You received your eighth email of the day, congratulating you on the success of your open house event. It had gone fantastically; you managed to sort out all the issues in time (your favourite chair arrived an hour before you were due to open the doors), and everyone thought it looked superb. Your combination of rich colours and muted notes, patterns and plains, had been highly complimented and there where loads of journalists and interior decorators still contacting you for quotes and information. Your boss was thrilled with you, and had hinted that your yearly review would be a pleasant experience all round.

You sat back on the sofa and huffed miserably. You should have been over the moon with all the praise, your hard work had paid off, but you couldn’t help but feel like the sacrifice wasn’t worth it. You tossed your phone aside and put Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet on. You’d been crying solidly for the last two days, why stop now?

It had finally hit you that Jack was gone. Before the event you had thought he was just staying away till after it was over to give you some space. Both being stubborn, neither had tried to get in contact with the other, so you’d had no reason to assume he wouldn’t come back. You had been desperately lonely without him, sure, but you’d thrown yourself into the last few days of preparation and plastered a smile on your face on the day, so hadn’t allowed yourself the time to think about him. But when he didn’t show up to the event, or come home the next day, you started to fear that you’d screwed things up for good. You been up half that night crying, torturing yourself and raking over every word you’d exchanged with Jack, every fight, every venomous comment. You finally cried yourself to sleep, and moped about in bed for half of the next day. You eventually got up at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and trudged to the corner shop in your pyjamas for lots of chocolate, ice cream, and a few bottles of wine. You hadn’t consumed anything else, apart from tea, since. You’d never hated yourself more. Jack was the best thing in your life, you loved him more than you could comprehend, but somehow, you’d managed to push him away. You fucked things up so royally that he up and left, and it looked like he wasn’t coming back. You tried calling him 57 times. When you went to leave a voicemail the words dried in your throat and all you could manage to splutter out was “Ummm, I- um… Jack…” before hurriedly hanging up. You’d broken down into guttural sobs again after that.

Throughout the movie you blubbered, a pile of tissues growing on the sofa beside you. You spooned ice cream lazily into your mouth and moaned throatily when the titular characters finally lay in eternal sleep, side by side in a candlelit church. You were an absolute wreck. When your phone rang, the sound sharp in the lonely room, you jumped and rushed frantically to pick it up. Finally, finally, it must be Jack calling you back. You located the source of the noise but your heart sank when you saw the caller ID – it wasn’t Jack, it was your sister Jenny. You answered the phone to hear her bubbly voice greet you.

“Hi Y/N, it’s Jen.”

You mumbled a hello.

“I just wanted to hear how your work thing went, did it work out?” she chirped.

“Yeah it went really well thanks,” you murmured morosely.

“Aren’t you happy about it then?” she queried.

“Thrilled. I think Jack and I have broken up.”

You heard her gasp before gushing, “Oh love, I’m so sorry! What happened?”

You proceeded to explain to her everything that had gone on over the last month, battling the tears constantly, and losing. She sighed sympathetically when you finished, and offered her condolences. “So how do you feel?” she ventured.

“Completely shit, unsurprisingly. I can’t believe I messed this up.”

“Hey now, don’t be too hard on yourself. It sounds like he was being a bit of a dick to you.”

“Only because I made his life miserable! I told him it would be better if he wasn’t there, Jen. I said those words. I pushed him away.”

You broke down again and it was a good few minutes before you could get any words out, your sister trying to comfort you the whole time.

“Right, that’s it,” she said decisively, “I’m coming to say with you for a few days.”

“But what about the kids?”

“Matt can look after them, they’ll be fine. Right now, you need me more.”

She hung up not long after to make plans for her visit.

Jenny arrived that evening with a bag of proper food and a hug. You rushed into her arms and let her hold you. Being older, she had always been a source of comfort to you and she somehow knew the right thing to say at any given moment.

“You poor chicken,” she purred, stroking your head.

It didn’t take her long to switch into action mode. One look at you and the apartment told her all she needed to know about how deep your funk was. She ushered you off to have a bath, running it for you and tossing bath-bomb in. The water eased your aching bones – everything ached – and the perfume that lingered in the air breathed freshness into your lungs. You washed your hair and tried to stand a little taller when you got out. I didn’t do much but you looked a little less like a hobo. You came out of the bathroom to find that Jenny had cleaned all the empty wrappers, cartons and bottles, as well as the tissues, away. She had put clean sheets on your bed and had a homemade lasagne in the oven that she’d brought with her. She handed you a cup of tea and you sat at the kitchen table with it, expressing your thanks.

You ate the food in relative quiet, Jenny attempting to make small talk but finding an unwilling recipient. You ate the food, enjoying a substantial meal for once rather than wine and chocolate. A headache thumped inside your head so you popped a few paracetamol and gulped some water down thirstily.

“When was the last time you got out of this apartment?”

“Wednesday,” you mumbled.

“Y/N that was three days ago!”

You shrugged, not knowing what to tell her.

“Look, I know you’re devastated but you have to take care of yourself,” she said, placing a loving hand on your arm.

You nodded slowly as fresh tears stained your cheeks. “I thought was going to marry him Jen,” you sniffed.

“We all did, love. We all did.”

Jenny stayed for the weekend, encouraging you to eat properly and get outside. She even managed to drag you out to a café for lunch and you wandered round an art gallery for the afternoon. In every painting you saw your broken heart. By Sunday evening she had to go, to get back to her husband and children for the start of the new week. You were due to into work, having been ‘working from home’ for the last few days, which you were completely dreading. The thought of seeing people, your colleagues, and pretending to smile and thank them for their compliments, made you sick to the stomach.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Jen,” you mumbled as you hugged her goodbye.

She pulled away and held you firmly by the shoulders, “Of course you can. You’re a tough nut Y/N, always have been, you can do anything. It’s gonna suck but you’ll get through it.”

You nodded, unconvinced, but smiled a little as she kissed you on the cheek and said a final goodbye before heading out the door.

You sat, alone again, in your apartment. The craving to hold Jack in your arms, to kiss him and tell him how much you love him, suddenly overcame you. You sprang to your feet, needing to find some piece of him, some memory to cling onto. You ran to the bedroom and rooted through the drawers. He had taken a bag of clothes and toiletries with him when he left, but pieces of him were scattered everywhere. You pulled out an old hoodie of his; it was worn and frayed in places but his familiar scent clung onto it, deep and rich and luscious. You put in on, wrapping yourself in the ghost of him. You put a playlist of love songs on and took a cardboard box out from under the bed. You placed it on the mattress in front of you and, taking a deep breath, opened it. It contained two years’ worth of memories: ticket stubs, polaroids, scraps of napkin covered in scribbled stanzas or lyrics from love songs, stolen hotel keycards from weekends away, pressed flowers from the first bouquet he ever bought you, a page ripped from a book that he once read out to you and had made you both cry, snippets and snapshots of the life you had built together. You took each item out one by one. You held it, noticing the texture, how worn or tatty it was, reminiscing over the memory that it elicited, grieving for the lost opportunity to make more. The unbearable sadness hung heavily over you, like a black cloud, casting you in shadow. You cried silently until you reached a photograph near the bottom. It was a little shabby around the edges, but the colours glowed from it, bright as ever. It showed you and Jack, sat on a bench, giggling at some long-forgotten joke. He has his arm around you and your head rests lazily against his chest. Your eyes are closed but his are fixed firmly on you, drinking in the sight of your joy. You looked at the photo and saw love. You lingered on it for a long time as twilight crept into the room. Tears dripped from your eyes, one landing heavily on the photograph. You turned it over and saw Jack’s handwriting scrawled over the back, saying ‘On the bench where we met, one year later’. You had gone back on your first anniversary and asked a stranger to take a photo of you. You remembered Jack making you laugh just as it was taken, his usual sarcastic humour never failing to send you into hysterics. For a moment you felt a golden glow illuminate your insides and your heart sang a soft melody from a time long ago. But the crushing reality of your loneliness soon returned and that black cloud rained all over the hope burning in you.

A lone moment of clarity descended upon you as the urge struck to go back to that bench. It was in London, in a park only ten minutes’ walk from your flat. You pulled on a pair of boots and a fluffy coat over Jack’s jumper, grabbed your keys, and left before you could come to your senses. It was a cold autumn night and you were a woman walking alone in the dark in London. It certainly wasn’t one of your better ideas, but you marched purposefully along the quiet streets none the less.

When you got to the park your feet took you in the right direction, your body remembering the exact spot more than your mind did. But when you saw it, there was someone already sitting on it. You faltered, as you hadn’t anticipated the possibility of having company. You almost turned around and went home again, but something drew you closer. The figure sat, elbows resting on knees, shoulders hunched and head hanging down. As you got closer you saw it was a man, tall by the look of it. He had what you guessed was blonde hair, but it was illuminated with dusky grey in the moonlight. You took a few more steps and felt a desperate loneliness radiating off him.

“Jack?” you ventured, your voice sailing across the quiet night.

His head snapped up and you saw the face of the man you loved, so familiar but painted with a sadness that was alien to you. His usually bright eyes were a deep blue-grey and his laughter lines had been replaced with threads of grief etched deeply into his skin. You rushed to him as he stood to meet you. You leapt into his arms and flung yours around his neck. You clutched each other tightly, silently breathing each other in and revelling in the comfort of your lover.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” you muttered, like a prayer.

You felt him shake his head and his chest hummed as he murmured, “Me too.”

You held his face, warm against your icy fingers, and felt stubble there – he clearly hadn’t been looking after himself either. He looked shattered in every sense.

“I didn’t mean it, all that shit I said. I want you with me, always. Please, don’t leave me Jack, please, please…”

He kissed your forehead and you felt a teardrop land there, “I’m righ’ here. I’m no’ goin’ anywhere, I promise.” You looked up to see him sobbing too.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered, curious.

“I’ve been here every night. At first I just wanted to come and sit, and think. But I guess I’ve been waitin’ for ye, hopin’ ye’d come back too.”

“I called you… so many times.”

He nodded sadly, “I couldn’t bear to hear yer voice. I thought ye were going to tell me ye wanted to end it for good, or ask me to move my stuff out. I thought if I didn’t pick up then I could cling onto ye for a little longer. I know it’s daft…” His head dropped, but you slipped your fingers beneath his chin and pushed him to meet your eyes again. “When I heard yer voicemail, listening to ye, Y/N, I crumbled.”

You hovered your lips above his, brushing against them ever so softly. You felt him sigh into you, and you kissed him, tenderly.

“I want you, for the rest of my life,” you breathed.

“It’s no’ gonnae get any easier.”

“I don’t care. If the last few days have shown me anything, it’s that I don’t want to live in a world where you aren’t mine. The tough times are worth it for how happy you make me. For better or for worse, right?”

He smiled into your neck before kissing you there. “Right… I love ye.”

You kissed him again and smiled, “I love you too.”

Next up for #Inktober - An entry for the prompt “Found.” HR co-creator @kerosenekate requested I get at least one image of Fawkes looking like less of a scruffy hobo, and the only time that ever happens is if he’s making an effort for his lady, Moira, or if she insists he sits still long enough for a trim and a haircut herself. Turns out he’s a handsome chap when he doesn’t look like he’s growing a shitzu on his head. Consequently, moments like these, the pair of them find proper peace - hence the prompt. (And holy hell, next time I’m making this MFer wear a shirt! 😂)

2

Phoenix Wright doodle

You are my dentist and I have the biggest crush on you and one time you give me too much laughing gas so I end up telling you that
___________________________________________

Going to the dentist surely was no one’s favorite activity. It hadn’t been for Jean, not for the longest time at least.
His teeth had always caused him problems, they were crooked and had holes in them more often than not, even though he brushed and flossed regularly.

Old doctor Bodt had once told him it had to do with the composition of bacteria in his saliva, that it was much more aggressive than it normally should be and started damaging his dental enamel more quickly.
At that point it had annoyed Jean to no end that he still wasn’t through with worrying about his teeth after spending the better part of his childhood as well as his whole adolescence wearing all different kinds of braces. That had corrected his teeth to somewhat normal – there were still some gaps but nothing too obvious – but sadly couldn’t change the fact that his own saliva tried digesting them all day.

It actually was a lot less gross than it sounded, he was not contagious or long-suffering or anything. Using special antibacterial mouthwash helped a lot with making him feel less like some  hobo who didn’t know what a toothbrush was by keeping the whole milieu relatively clean.
But even the best hygiene couldn’t save him from his visits to doctor Bodt. The old man had been friendly enough for the 25 years they knew each other. It wasn’t his fault that, due to his condition, Jean had enough memories of bad treatments to last him a lifetime and couldn’t stop himself from panicking whenever he set foot into the practice.

But when old doctor Bodt became, well, too old to manage all the patients on his own and his son began working at the practice as well, something changed.
Marco Bodt was a very capable, young dentist, specifically trained in dealing with phobic patients, always kind and patient and deserving of all the respect Jean could show him.
He was also hot as all hell, Italian charm and tight ass included. Jean tried not to be too obvious about his instant crush on the sexy doctor but it was hard when Dr. Bodt Junior took such good care of him.

First of all the treatment room he used for his phobic patients was that much nicer than the one his father had treated Jean in for years. It wasn’t as glaringly white, still somewhat sterile – of course, it was a treatment room, after all – but with nice frilly curtains, colorful pictures on the walls and warmer lighting.
Marco also switched from injecting the analgetic with that big, scary needle that always made Jean even more nervous, to using laughing gas.
Sweet and simple, not at all panic inducing and it also gave him some kind of euphoric rush every time, without fail.

It only took three months of gentle coaxing and empathetic care until going to the dentist became Jean’s … well, still not his favorite activity, that would be crazy, but he sure didn’t panic anymore. That had to count as a win.
The thing was, those three months had also worsened his pathetic crush on the doctor.
Now when he came into the practice he wasn’t jittery with nerves but with childish glee, excited to see young Dr. Bodt again and chat a little after he’d come out of delirium. Those chats helped him get to know the dentist better than he’d ever expected.

He knew now that Marco Bodt had three younger sisters, but none of them wanted to study medicine. He knew how the man liked his coffee but that he preferred tea, knew which shows he binge watched whenever he had time to do so and that he got most of his tricks from a psychotherapist friend of his.
They had established that little ritual, the friendly conversation after his treatment, to ground him again when he came to. That way he knew he was still safe and it would all be over soon.

The doctor had talked him through all the small steps they’d take to ensure Jean didn’t get too nervous anymore, explained some of the psychological background to each measure before even taking a single look at his teeth. Jean would’ve had listened to him if it hadn’t been for the fact that this had been their very first encounter and he’d been busy staring at the man.

One day, after the filling of some particularly nasty holes – god that sounded so dirty, now that he was lusting after the dentist like the protagonist of a cheesy porno – Jean felt decidedly more woozy than usual when he slipped back into consciousness.
His eyes were still closed but the room didn’t always feel like it was spinning around him and his senses were unusually fuzzy.

“Mr. Kirschtein? Can you hear me?”, Dr. Bodt’s gentle voice reached him through the fog in his ears. Jean tried to nod but wasn’t sure if the movement came across as such. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine. I overdosed a little on the laughing gas, I’m so sorry. But there should be no side effects, you’ll just need some more time to adjust.”
He nodded again, this time more firmly and succeeded in opening his eyes on the second try.

“’s no problem, doc”, he slurred, tilting his head to the side and searching for Dr. Bodt’s silhouette in the dim room. It came into view right next to him, his face illuminated by the warm light, practically glowing. It was a wonderful sight to wake up to.
Without really thinking about it – he couldn’t do much of that, at this point – Jean slurred the first thing that entered his mind: “Holy shit, you’re gorgeous” He needed another few tries to get his eyes to actually focus, then hummed at the surprised expression. “Mean it. So pretty, doctor…”
The dark, drawn-up eyebrows lowered again as a kind smile spread across Bodt’s face.

“You’re really out of it, huh?”, he asked and leaned back into his chair a little. “It’s okay, just breathe. You can close your eyes again until the effect wears off.”
Jean reflexively did as he was told, eyelids slipping shut, but only for a few seconds. Then they fluttered open again. Dr. Bodt didn’t understand, he thought this was some joke, but it wasn’t and Jean had to tell him!
“Really, Marco! You’re so pretty, so attra …. acttr … jus’ really hot, ‘kay?” Dr. Bodt laughed at that, amusement in his voice but no spark of evil intent when he said:
“I get it. You’re high, Mr. Kirschtein. We can talk about this when you’re yourself again.”

“I am. And you’re hot. Honessly. I’ve liked you since … for months, you know?” Somewhere, deep in the haziness of his mind there were alarm bells going off, telling him that this was not something he should ever share with this man. But they were way too far away right now and he just kind of giggled at his own words. “You’re just so fuggin perfect…”
Another laugh, this one a little breathy and a quiet, bashful “Thank you.” before they both fell silent. Dr. Bodt was still leaning back in his chair and Jean was still staring adoringly at his cute little smile.

“You know…”, he started again after a while, not that out of it anymore but still loopy enough to utter the following “We should get coffee sometime. Or … tea. Aaand … and you should tell me jokes.” Jean giggled again, the memory how they had once tried out-joking each other crossing his mind, hazy and diffuse. “I … like the way you laugh. You laugh before you’re even finished. Every time. It’s cute.”

His tired eyes could be playing tricks on him but from this angle it looked like Dr. Bodt was blushing.
“That sounds really nice. But you’re my patient, I’m afraid I’m not allowed to let you take me on a date.” Jean let out a deep sigh at that, shoving his bottom lip forward in the best pout he could muster like this.
“Not even for tea…?”, he whined. But Dr. Bodt just shook his head, then reached out to squeeze his patient’s hand for a few seconds.
“I’m sorry. Not even for tea.”

Jean spent this evening burrowed under his blankets, cheeks flaming with embarrassment as the realization that he could never go back to that practice sank in slowly.
But then, when it was way after midnight, a whole other realization dawned on him. That Marco Bodt hadn’t exactly said no.
It took him two weeks and a dentist switch to finally get his tea-date. The return of some mild panic attacks every few weeks wasn’t too bad when he had his very own doctor at home to kiss it better afterward.

(This is possibly one of the most embarrassing things I’ve ever written. Here is a cheesy Kate and Leopold AU for patater ft. Russian baron Alexei Mashkov and NHL Kenny who takes in and houses time traveling barons and this scene)

“Good morning, Kenny,” Alexei says, and places a mug in Kent’s hands. He presses a kiss to Kent’s temple. “I make breakfast, you see?”

Kent does see. Two plates of unburnt toast spread with cream cheese and sliced strawberries. Next to that sits a pitcher of juice. And behind the chair that has been obviously pulled out for Kent was Alexei Mashkov, a self-proclaimed, real-life time traveling Russian baron from the 19th century. The very same Alexei who, three weeks ago, Kent found wandering around the beach at midnight fully decked out like he was going to a costume party for historical reenactment enthusiasts. Who, three weeks ago, Kent almost called the cops on but in the end decided that Alexei probably had some sort of selective amnesia and needed a place to stay (and okay, he had a bunch of empty guest rooms, and yes, maybe he was feeling shitty and lonely after his last meeting with Zimmermann where they officially ended everything, sue him; besides, it wasn’t like Alexei was hard on the eyes and he was probably not a crazy murderer). Who, two and a half weeks ago, had a visibly apparent internal battle when Kent straggled in late with a guy he’d picked up from the bar and bumped into Alexei, who had set up camp reading on the living room couch.

(Alexei had quickly retreated into the guest room then. Kent lost his boner and shoved the guy out, who grumbled but more or less complied. He himself was having his own internal struggle deciding whether or not to explain to Alexei—but what would he even explain? Sorry, I forgot you lived here. I was bored and lonely and horny and oh yeah, this is a stranger whose dick I am about to suck. But I will do it in the privacy of my room and we can pretend this never happened. God, Kent had thought. If Alexei had some retrograde amnesia that made him believe he was a time traveling baron, the extent of Kent’s history knowledge all pointed to the conclusion that chances were probably pretty fucking high that being anything other than straight was a huge no-no in Alexei’s book. He had been about to arm himself with a hockey stick before he went in to explain to Alexei—just in case—when Alexei emerged all on his own, seeming to have composed himself.

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@donewithholmesshit John peeks out from behind a tree and nods seriously. “I understand….but how did you find me Tony? I live in a bloody park!”

He gestures upwards. “I own satellites that were government designed - my design - and they can find a stray dog in another country just by it’s breed within a day. Finding a single man in a city in even less time. Now my turn. Why are you living like a hobo?”