sugar strike

a collection of les mis headcanons

- jehan is actually seven foot three, and all limb
- bousset sleeps with a teddy bear named alfred. he has one eye missing
- marius collects happy things. most of his collection is in a small notebook he keeps in his back pocket, just little reminders scribbled out like ‘saw a dog on first avenue. 11:30 am’ or ‘found out cute girl’s name and favourite colour. cosette, pink and teal’
- enjolras takes his coffee with four sugars, whatever syrup strikes his fancy, and lots of foam. this dude has been known to buy a babycino with his coffee, just for the extra foam. someone stop him. 
- bahorel is afraid of needles
- combeferre alphabetises his bookshelf. its relaxing. 
- courfeyrac re-organises it by colour. for ferre, this is not relaxing (courf is also five foot two. hes tiny and sparkly)
- eponine has a really freaky, hyper-realistic tattoo of gills on one side of her ribcage, because no matter how deep she gets, she’ll never drown. 
- grantaire writes. he’s been writing a memoir of sorts, maybe a journal. somewhere to vent his love for enj, his friends, his art. also somewhere to write 30 page essays on why he can appreciate warhols ‘fuck you or whatever im rich and fake babes!!!!’ approach to art, he doesnt fucking care about the fucking soup can, all of warhols art is pretentious and flimsy and awful, and YES he knows thats the point that doesnt make it good or worthwhile, please stop putting this on the syllabus and making it worth 30% of my final grade or ill personally go to warhol’s grave, empty a can of campbell’s over it, dig a hole, and hump warhol’s soup soaked grave i swear to fuKCINg god.
- joly’s favourite animals are bunnies
- musichetta has bad skin and shes not insecure abt it
- cosette has a lisp of sorts, her “sh” and “chs” dont come out right. they sound sort of… gummy and airy
- feuilly’s favourite food is chicken carbonara, which bahorel cooks terribly but often. feuilly is v grateful. 
- gavroche loves disney channel, les amis have lots of slumber parties that serve a dual purpose; giving gav a place to sleep, and fuelling his disney obsession. 
- parnasse is incredibly intelligent, with a wide knowledge bank of everything from psychology to animal behaviour to trigonometry to the history of maritime engineering, but he cannot read or write. 

The Signs as Maroon 5 Songs

Aries: Misery
Taurus: If I never see your face again
Gemini: Moves like jagger
Cancer: Sunday morning
Leo: Animals
Virgo: Makes me wonder
Libra: Payphone
Scorpio: She will be loved
Sagittarius: Sugar
Capricorn: Lucky strike
Aquarius: The man who never lied
Pisces: Maps

Three Strikes: CatDog Is Out

     I had spent the day writing and reading a fascinating book. I did my best to ignore the fact that I would spend my evening with the CatDog. I knew I was exaggerating my reluctance to spend time with him. He was not a horrible man to be around. He was interesting to talk to when he stopped his monologues about things and circumstances that could not have possibly interested me, and the sex was boring, easy, and over quickly. I never had to ask where my allowance was. It was always handed to me casually. Perhaps it was the monologues that made it so difficult. I smiled. The thought that it was the talking, not the sex, that made things difficult amused me.
     

     We had dinner at one of his favorite hole in the wall spots. The food was delicious. The remainder of the evening was to be spent at a little theater seeing a play and we’d maybe have a drink after. The play was well done for a little theater. The play was where I started to make mistakes. I know that this is work. I understand that sugaring is a business for the baby and a pleasurable escape for the daddy. The successful baby runs her business by making sure her daddy never has anything but an exceptional time. I was quiet during the play. I am not good at small talk. Especially not with him. He’s maintained a constant monologue throughout our time together. I didn’t know what to say to him when during intermissions he’d finally decided to shut up. I also tend to become introspective during artistic and educational experiences. I wonder how what I just saw can be translated into how I present my writing, my paintings to the world. He wanted to talk. I wanted to think. Strike one. 


     He commented on my silence as we made our way to the bar. Was I upset with him? No, I wasn’t. Had he done something upsetting I needed to know about? He decided this was an excellent time for a sexist joke. Did a man have to do something for a woman to be upset? He thought that was just something we arbitrarily decided to do. This, I reminded myself, was why he had made it through the majority of his life unmarried. Sexist jokes weren’t enough however. He wanted to continue our ride but discussing #BlackLivesMatter. I managed to stay quiet until he began to say that there was no real reason for protest, no real reason for anger, no real reason for riots. There had to be diplomatic solutions, quieter solutions. I might have snapped at him that as a white man in America he had no idea what it was to be black. His lack of experience should probably be taken into consideration when he expressed his completely erroneous opinion. He tried to continue the conversation. I continued to be short with him. Eventually he began to sulk. He didn’t want there to be things we couldn’t talk about. My inner self burst into gales of laughter. There were so many things we couldn’t talk about, shouldn’t talk about. There were so many thoughts that weren’t ever going to be shared with him. What in the world was he thinking? When was the last time he had been in a real relationship? When was the last time he’d checked in with reality?
     

     I patiently explained that, of course, there were going to be some hot button topics that we shouldn’t address until we knew each other better. He didn’t like that. Strike two for me.

     We arrived at the bar and each ordered a drink. I thought it was over. I thought we could move on. I was wrong as I so often am. It was not enough that we had had a heated discussion in the car. He wanted to try again. The conversation delved deeper. I was too busy drinking to notice that he was only pretending to be relaxed. My refusal to agree with him, to comfort him were making him angry. My logical answers to every single nonsensical thing he said were making him angry. I waded deeper and deeper into territory that I shouldn’t have entered into with a man who was paying me to make life pleasant. I addressed white privilege. His absolute shock and disbelief that his race played a part in his success, that America was not a land of equality, that Obama was not enough, and his condescendingly told stories of the self serving things he’d done to feel better about racial relations in this country benefitted him more than the African American race were staggering. When I threw in sexism? He walked away. Strike three.

     He wasn’t so upset that he couldn’t very briefly engage with me sexually. I was naive enough to believe this meant we were okay. He went away on business the next day and text and emailed me as if things were fine. I stepped away from my easel a day or two later and saw that I had two unread emails. The first was a hollow and weak article about hiring practices in the city. The second said that he wanted peace at this point in his life. He didn’t think we could have that. We would always be arguing. He knew I would have no problem finding someone new and wished me the best. I was in shock silly girl that I am. I thought the sex was enough. Wasn’t that enough to heal all wounds?

     The answer is no. Do I regret it? No, not really. He needed some learning, as my grandmother would say. Is he really gone? Not according to the emails he’s sending me. The real question is: will I take him back?

Sugar Strike

So it’s no secret my sweet tooth is about the size of my face. (& I just had this scary image of a really large tooth protruding from my mouth and reaching higher than the crown of my head…. ick!) So I’d like to at least try to remedy this.

So I shall start small. 1 week, no added sugars. I’m not going to be crazy about this, but the typical things you would think of will be a no. Such as: baked goods, pop, ice cream, chocolate bars or gummy candies, sweetened Starbucks drinks, etc. Wednesday Aug 7 at 12am to Wednesday Aug 14 at 12am. Things like fruit, dates, and tea are highly encouraged. I even got a few sugar-free lollipops for when I am feeling desperate.

It’s just 1 week out of 52 in a year. I can totally handle this. So far so good, anyways (shh I am aware it’s only been 9 hours since Wednesday began).

Today in labor history, September 9, 1924: Filipino sugar cane workers - on strike for higher wages and better working conditions - and police clash at a strike camp in Hanapepe, Hawaii. Outarmed by police, strikers fought with cane knives, sticks, and a few guns. Sixteen workers and four policemen died. Striking workers and their leaders were arrested, tried, and imprisoned; many were later deported to the Philippines.

Nights at the Trader’s.2

Characters: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter ; Ellie Miller, Paul Coates, Ben, Bambi, Duncan.

Rating: Adult

Summary: Film Noir AU 

London, 1951. Hardy has recently moved to the city and is staying at The Trader’s Inn, a seedy hotel on the bad side of town. He’s a by-the-book cop and prides himself on being more upstanding than most of his colleagues. Until Duncan approaches him with an interesting offer: his mistress, Hannah, has gone missing, and he’s willing to pay the DI a lot of money in exchange for his collaboration and discretion. With the help of his resourceful secretary, Mrs. Miller, he will uncover truths that threaten his own secrets.

Many thanks to the brilliant fadewithfury for the beta, all mistakes are mine.

Catch up here or on Ff.net or on  Ao3

I.

A woman approached him from the right, even before seeing her face, he recognized her perfume: sugar plums, Lucky Strikes and decadence.

“Hello Belle.”

He kept his eyes ahead, hiding a smile behind his glass as he took another sip of whisky. He watched her reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles. She sat on a stool, brushing against him as she did so. Putting his glass back down, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes.

“Have you got a light?” she asked.

He fished a matchbook out of his pocket, stroked a match and brought it to the tip of her cigarette. She looked straight at him as he held the flame for longer than necessary. It illuminated her features in the dim pub and turned her hazel eyes to a bright amber colour. From between her ruby lips, a tendril of smoke escaped.

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