He makes the boy go through his entire free skate twice before seeing where the chip in it is beginning to spindle into a full-blown fracture. “You don’t bend your knee enough before your triple combination, and because you’re not getting enough height you’re not getting enough rotations. It’s sloppy! I don’t know how you managed to get this far with such mediocrity. Get out there and do it again, and if you don’t bend your knee at least 40 degrees, I will get up and leave.”
Crossing his arms, Yakov sits back and waits.
For the shouting. The high-pitched whining. The crocodile tears and the rending of spandex. Or, as a bonus, threats to destroy his reputation by going to the press to expose his fascist ways and then have unruly fans burn his house down. Coaching Yuri Plisetsky for the last two years has primed him to expect just about anything.
Except Katsuki gives him a serious nod, bows low, and says with a gratefulness that borders on uncomfortable, “Hai! Thank you, Coach Feltsman!”
Okay, so I work at a children’s museum and one of our “exhibits” is an art room. Now, like everything in the museum, the art room is hands on. We have your standard markers and paper, some cutting crafts, and a few face paints. But the real cream of the crop is the TWELVE cups of paint that we have. And not like nice, watercolor paints. I’m talking if this crap dries it will leave a lovely little stain wherever it splattered kind of paint.
So one day I’m cleaning up the art room after a field trip of over 150 kids, kill me, and this mom walks in with her toddler. Now mind you, I’ve just spent the past 3 hours with screaming elementary school children destroying every room in the museum so I look like a hot mess and am on the verge of tears.
Anyways, this mom walks in, sets her baby on the ground, and proceeds to place cups of paint around him so he can finger paint on a piece of paper on the ground. Then she sits down and stares at her phone. Now, in my lovely museum we are not allowed to tell parents/kids how to behave, we just have to wait to clean up the disaster after it happens. And what do you know, the lovely darling figured out how to unscrew one of the lids to the paint cups and dumps the entirety of its contents onto himself and the floor. The lovely floor I had just cleaned that will now be stained for all eternity. And as he’s smacking his hands about and smearing it everywhere, his mother finally looks up from her phone, sees the mess, and then turns to me and starts yelling at me for not paying attention to her child. I’m just standing there like, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was your child’s babysitter. And as her tirade continues, first for 5 minutes, then for 10, about how incompetent I am, and how she should be compensated for her child’s ruined outfit, and blah blah blah something in me snaps, and I just turn and walk out of the room. (Probably not the best thing to do but honestly it was either that or like start crying.)
Long story short, the woman gets refunded her entry price, I get written up, and sometimes parents are the freaking worst.
Regular readers will know I do most of the copy (words) for The Full Cup Bra whilst much of the other business is done by my co-workers. I had therefore hoped I’d escaped the underwear-try-on that my bigger-busted colleagues indulged in last week. Alas I was, this morning, presented with a filigree of straps and lace that is apparently the Implicite Addiction. As I type I’m wearing this and gracing my peers with a view of my insubstantial boobies. It’s comfortable enough, although that underband takes no prisoners. I’m looking forward to slipping my jumper on later.
Sherlock was deep in his mind palace
pouring over old case notes when the tickle on his face finally
pierced his concentration. With an annoyed huff he started to pull
his mind back to his transport and the sunny flat it was laying in.
He was already rising a hand to scratch at his nose when he opened
his eyes. Blinking in the bright light it took a second for him to
focus on the source of his irritation. He froze in panic when he was
confronted with a pair of solid black eyes and huge, menacing
mandibles only centimeters from his eyes.
“Aargh! John, help! I have a bee on
For a second only silence greeted him
and he worried that while he was thinking John had gone out for a
pint or work or one of the one asinine things that took John away
from him. He was relieved when a he glimpsed a bit of movement out of
the corner of his eye.
John’s response was less comforting,
with a long suffering sigh he asked, “Yeah? So what?”
“It is going to sting me!”
“Drama queen, it is not. That is a
honey bee, they almost never sting.” John said, but Sherlock could
see that he was standing up now and there was the rustling of a
newspaper being folded.
“Whatever, just kill it!” he shot
back, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation for blow landing.
Instead he felt something come to rest
against his upper lip. His eyes flew open in time to be treated to a
close up view of John’s strong hand gently shooing the bee off his
nose and into the cone of rolled newspaper he held in the other.
“John!” he said with more than a
little bit of whine in his voice.
“Hush. It was never going to hurt
you, and honey bees do too much good to just go killing them. They
pollinate one-sixth of all flowers and a lot of our food crops.”
John lectured as he cupped one hand over the open end of the paper
and walked towards the open window. “His little guy is part of a
species that is in danger of becoming extinct and leaving us a less
colorful and more hungry world.”
He held the makeshift trap out the
window, shaking it until the bee flew off. Sherlock saw sadness
beneath John’s smile as he watched the little insect disappear into
the noise and bustle of London.
“Oh! Someone in your childhood kept
bees, probably your grandfather, and you used to help them.”
“Half right, it was my uncle. Harry
and I use to go out and spend a couple of weeks every summer with him
and his ‘good friend.'” The way he said it left little doubt as to
what sort of friend he meant. “As dad got worse and especially
after Harry came out the time I spent there was the happiest parts of
my childhood. It was just before I got shot that my uncle passed, I
missed his funeral…”
He shook himself out of the memory, and
tried on a smile, “And yeah, I helped him with his bees and he
taught me a lot. Like a honey bee will always be drawn to the most
beautiful, interesting flower it can find.” During this little
speech John had walked back over to where Sherlock was sprawled on
the couch. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s cheek, and said, “And
he didn’t hurt you, did he, Flower?”
Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes and
say someone snide about the nickname, but looking into those kind
blue eyes all he could do was love John, love him so much it hurt.
Thirty years later, as Sherlock slid
the last frame back into the honey supers box, one curious bee braved
the smoker he had set next to him and alighted on the tip of his
nose. He smiled, recalling that long ago conversation, and left his
tiny passenger alone as he stood on creaking knees to place the
supers box back on top of the hive and put the cover back on. Only
then did he wave the bee off his face and back towards its
Satisfied that the bees were coming
along fine he gathered up his tools and headed back towards the
little cottage, hoping that John would be there ready with a kiss and
maybe a cup of tea.
oh how you thrill me (all my nerves are wired with you)
A/N: hey everyone, I’m Caroline aka jiilys/deadlilys. If you haven’t read anything I’ve ever written before be prepared for a lot of weird imagery and to much purple prose. Have a good day and try not to think about your OTP dying in 23 days!
In the entire scope of the universe, it is hardly important. This… thing. You take comfort in that at least. That the fact that you find her completely wonderful will barely matter at all one day.
You find your own imminent nothingness rather relaxing. It’s nice to know that one day you will simply cease to exist and that nothing will matter. Sirius says that it’s actually: ‘scary as shit, you fucking moron. Who likes the fact that one day they’ll be dead?’ but Sirius is Sirius and if at least four people aren’t thinking about him at any given time he feels as if he may disappear.
She steals your defence notes and then writes swear words in the margins, pulls your air back when she walks past you at breakfast, talks to you about energy charms while leaning bony elbows on the library tables.
‘James.’ She says on one Thursday morning, ‘I’ve decided I’m going to ditch History of Magic with you’
‘How do you know I’m ditching, Evans?’
‘Because you haven’t been to that class since we were twelve. Also, Sirius told me’
So you sneak down to the greenhouses and climb onto the roofs. You lie flat with her beside you, aware of every time she breathes. She talks to you about how she wants to be a potion maker once she leaves at the end of the year, live in a cramped muggle apartment full of papers and no room for chairs surrounded by potion making equipment. She’s spread out next to you when you hear the crack of stressed glass, and before you can think you’ve pushed her off the roof into the bramble patch bellow and rolled in after.
You both have to go back up to the castle after that, frequently screaming ‘SHIT’ AND ‘OH FUCK THEY’RE IN MY BRA.’ The latter mostly coming from her.
‘Evans, I just saved your life back there’ you say later while lying in the hospital wing, ‘what do you have to say to me’
‘There is a bramble on the inside of your ear Potter, and I spat in your water jug while you were in the bathroom.’
She’s a lot funnier than you are, sarcastic and full of wit. Pretty too. With shocking hair that is orgasmic and thrilling, curling around her neck in the mornings at breakfast when she hasn’t tied it up yet. In the back of Transfiguration you sit next to each other, passing notes and kicking each other under the table. You can’t answer any questions in that class because then she’s looking at you and you can’t focus on anything but her eyes and her face and fuck. What was the question again Professor? You’re very aware of where she in in relation to you all time, like being aware of the sun.
The real kicker is that you don’t deserve her. You never have. When you were fourteen you developed a crush on her in the middle of the night, but fourteen year old you had barely discovered girls. You didn’t understand their soft bodies and swelling hearts, girls were pretty things you liked to look at that happened to have strong laughs and nice eyes. You had a crush on a new girl every week back then; it’s just that that the one on her seemed to stick.
‘James what are you looking at’ she asks with her legs spread across Sirius’s lap in the common room.
You. I’m looking at you. I’m always looking at you.
‘Just checking if you can see Sirius’s bald patch from the front. You can.‘ You say instead because you can’t say the other thing. Because this is the ultimatum, you can have this friendship thing where she sits next to you at dinner and laughs at your shitty puns or have no Lily at all. The thought of no Lily at all is like someone has rolled up your insides into a jumbled ball with everything still wired, so you keep quiet and will your crush away instead.
It’s mid-summer and you’re all spread out across the grounds. Sirius lying across Remus with Marlene sitting on top of the both of them, filing her nails. Peter groaning from the base of the tree they’re under while Mary and Evangeline take turns throwing rolled up paper at him and telling him to shut up. Lily is half in the sun and half not, shirt pulled up to reveal her pale torso and arm flung in from of her eyes. She is all sharp angles and freckles, milky white legs sticking out of her skirt and tangling themselves together near the top of Evangeline’s head. You can see her hip bones sticking out of her stomach at this angle, and want to tap your fingers on them, hear the hollow noise. You swallow and turn your head the other direction. This is a lot harder than you thought.
Occasionally you think you catch her looking at you, but she looks away too quick for you to be sure. Maybe you dreamt it, you’re not sure. Maybe you dreamt her entirely, she seems like she is something from a dream.
For your birthday she gets you a glass jar full of brambles and a card that reads:
ENJOY THIS JAR OF HORROR. KINDLY EMPTY THEM INTO REMUS’S BED AT SOME POINT BECAUSE HE TOLD ME I: ‘COULDN’T LET THINGS GO’ YESTERDAY AT BREAKFAST. WHAT A RIDICULOUS AND UTTERLY UNTRUE STATEMENT, RIGHT?
You look up after reading it and she grins at you, then reaches up to kiss your cheek. The world seems to be unmoving for a minute, and she’s still grinning at you when she pulls back. All at once things start moving again because Sirius is demanding a kiss on the cheek to and Remus has stolen the card and is reading it aloud with horror to a laughing Marlene. It’s the best gift you were given the whole day, and that’s including the ‘power of friendship’ gift you got from Sirius, because he lost a bet to Peter and had to pay up 12 galleons and 17 sickles so he had ‘no money. But he did have the power of friendship and that’s worth more than a gift, am I right Prongs?’
Later that week, you push her into the lake but she grabs your hand on her way down. You end up just splashing each other and yelling swearwords until Slughorn finds you, her pushing herself onto your shoulders and you calling her a: ‘GARBAGE CAN FULL OF TOAD PISS, EVANS YOUR FOOT IS ALMOST UP MY ARSE.’ The next day she makes herself a badge that says ‘GARBAGE CAN FULL OF TOAD PISS’ and when you see it at breakfast you fall backwards off your chair from laughing so hard.
She lends you books she likes; you bring dinner up to her when she’s cramming for Astronomy tests. You brush your teeth as she leans against the doorframe of your bathroom, telling you to hurry up or you’ll be late for Transfiguration. Sirius and Peter plaster the great hall with pictures of Mrs Norris and Filch with the heading ‘FORBIDDEN LOVE’ and Remus takes a photo of you and her underneath them, both looking mock scandalised. She rolls her ankle and you carry her up four flights of stairs to the hospital wing while she tells you about the time she saw a rabbit at the park when she was seven and fell in love.
Two weeks later you’re at a party, because Hufflepuff beat Slytherin which means they are out of the running for the cup and that’s always something to celebrate. You’re mildly drunk but not completely so, having too much fun watching Remus dance on table while Peter throws knuts at him. She appears next to you from out of nowhere, draping herself over your shoulders forcing you to crop your cup. ‘JAMES’ she yells, fumbling over the word and tipping a bit to the side, ‘YOU DROPPED YOUR BEER’
You grab her by the waist before she can fall. ‘Lily, how drunk are you on a scale of one to ten?’
‘What is a ten?’
‘Right’ you wrap her arm around your neck and carry her toward her dormitory before you remember that you don’t know how to get past the repealing enchantment ever since McGonagall found Sirius up there last month and then hit him over the head with a throw pillow (according to Sirius, who is an unreliable source).
You lug her up the stairs to your room, sitting on the side on your bed and propping her up against the headboard. She won’t stop looking at you like you’re something, so you pull up your blankets and ignore her. ‘James’ she sounds sloppy and very tired, ‘James I keep thinking you’re going to kiss me but you never do’
You freeze, but she’s still going, ‘I really, really want you to kiss me James. And if you don’t do it soon I’m thinking about making out with Sirius to make you jealous and I really don’t want to do that. It would be like… kissing a toilet brush who is also my brother.’
You snort because even when she’s so drunk she can’t remember what the number ten is, she’s funnier than you. Shit, she’s utterly lovely and you’re just you, sitting on the edge of your bed looking at her like always.
‘I’ll make you a deal Lil’ you bargain ‘if you still want me to in the morning, when you’re sober, I’ll kiss you. But only if you let me tell Sirius you called him a toilet brush.’
‘Deal’ she mutters through sleep, as you slide off your bed and onto the floor, grinning into the dark.
- * - * - * - * - * - * - *
HAPPY TWENTY-NINTH BIRTHDAY, YOU ARE OFFICIALLY OLD. CONGRATULATIONS. ENJOY THIS JAR OF HORROR/BRAMBLES THAT I PICKED JUST FOR YOU WITH HARRY AT THE PARK. I HAD FORGOTTEN HOW MUCH THEY FUCKING HURT, THE BUGGERS.
SIRIUS REMAINS ETERNALLY A TOILET-BRUSH, AND I REMAIN ETERNALLY YOURS.