#Cotswold Downs

[musette22]

Hi hello friends, greetings from Liverpool! 💛 I just arrived in the UK for a vacation (l know I only just got back from a trip but that one was a sort of last minute, and this one has been planned for ages 🙈) and I'll be doing a UK roadtrip over the next week or two, finishing next weekend in London, and then going back home on the 20th. I'll be on the road a lot, but I'll definitely drop in from time to time! I'd miss you all and the boys too much otherwise 🥰 Hope everyone has a beautiful weekend ahead, sending lots of love!! ✨️💖🌈

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Forbidden Fruit.

That’s the thing about Declan - he always gets what he wants. It might be wrong… but it feels so right.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. use of the c word. age gap. cheating. declan’s filthy mouth needs its own warning.

word count - 2.3k

authors note - that man is a munch and I cannot be convinced otherwise. my crush on aidan turner has returned tenfold and i’m about to make it everyone’s problem. read declan’s dialogue in that gorgeous irish accent of his for the full experience.

masterlist. inbox.

You’ve fake laughed so much this afternoon that you can’t remember what your real one sounds like.

Finally breaking away from a conversation with Freddie’s wife, you swan across the garden in your sundress towards the food and drink table. You absentmindedly pick at the strawberries, hoping and praying that no one bothers you for a moment. All you need is a minute to yourself, away from all of these faux smiles and boastful exchanges.

Reaching towards a raspberry, you feel fingertips ghosting across your back quickly.

“Y’alright?”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere, of course, and not just because he’s the only Irish man in The Cotswolds.

“Bored out of my mind, actually.”

“You’d never know.”

“I’m a good actress, these days. I’ve done one too many of these stupid garden parties.”

He chuckles all genuine and honeyed, and you’d be lying if you said the sound didn’t settle warmly in your bones.

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

He’s keeping his voice low, inconspicuous. You’ve both turned so you’re looking out over the garden, backs to the table, watching the crowds of people and their gossiping. To anyone else, it looks like an innocent conversation between two acquaintances. They can’t see his hand playing with the hem of your dress behind you, or the way his fingers keep brushing the backs of your thighs, sending shivers down your spine.

“My boyfriend is coming over. You know that.”

“What time?”

You roll your eyes but answer anyway.

“Nine.”

“So what I’m hearing… is that you’re available from whenever this crap finishes until then?”

“That’s a stupid idea.”

“You usually love my stupid ideas.”

“Well maybe I’m trying to be smarter.”

He laughs with his full chest while you fight to keep the grin off your face, shaking your head.

“You’re already the smartest person here. Any smarter and we’re all doomed.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Declan.”

He pauses for a moment, pressing his side into yours and running his thumb across the soft skin of your thigh underneath your dress.

“I think we both know that’s not true, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters as you will yourself to get it together, desperate to not repeatedly give in to his murmured promises and flirty remarks. It’s wrong. You know it is, both of you do, and yet…

“I want you gone by eight at the latest. I don’t need the two of you bumping into each other on my front step.”

He smirks like the cat that got the cream, looking down at you with lust drunk eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Promise to make it worth your while, yeah?”

“You always do,” you breathe out, so quietly that you’re surprised he hears.

He’s about to reply when you’re both startled by Rupert, striding over with the confidence of ten men and a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Have they run out of glasses, CB?”

He slings an arm around your shoulder, laughing that rich man’s laugh right into your ear.

“Live a little, darling. Walk with me, will you? I have a story that might be worth your time, and I thought I’d bring it to my favourite journalist before anyone else.”

Rupert all but drags you across the garden, already chattering on about a scandal in the local constituency of the Conservative Party. You cast your eyes back to where Declan hasn’t moved, his gaze roving over your figure as you walk away.

He winks cheekily, dirty smirk slapped across his face.

You hate the way it sends electricity running through your veins in anticipation.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

It’s six forty five when there’s a knock on your door.

The devil himself is standing on your front step, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hi darlin’.”

His accent is like molten honey, golden and warm and laced with sweetness. There’s mischief running through it though - as there always is.

“Come on,” you urge, grabbing his tie and pulling him inside, worried that one of your neighbours will see.

He laughs as he shuts the door behind him, unphased by your urgency.

“Thought you had a meeting. CB was telling me all about it earlier.”

“Rupert would tell you anything,” he chuckles. “He’s got a soft spot for pretty girls.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you giggle, undoing his tie from around his neck and hanging it on your coat rack.

“No. I have a soft spot for one pretty girl.”

“Sweet talker,” you tease as you roll your eyes, undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. “How about you put your money where your mouth is, hmm? We don’t have all night.”

He clicks his tongue, hands finding your hips to pull you against him.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning in so his lips brush yours. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Less talking,” you scold, grabbing at his biceps to kiss him desperately.

Declan pushes you up against the wall, hips pressing into yours as he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like cigarettes and whiskey and those mints he keeps in a tin in his back pocket. He scatters open mouthed kisses across your neck, licking across your skin and sucking the spot underneath your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he mumbles. “Ever since I saw you in this dress.”

“You like it?” you breathe, head rolling to the side to give him more access.

“I fucking love it.”

“Good. Bought it for you.”

He groans, grinding his hips into yours.

“You’re a minx,” he pants, biting at your shoulder. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

With that, Declan wraps his arms around your middle, practically dragging you into the living room to throw you onto the sofa. He pulls your dress over your head, throwing it onto the floor with reckless abandon.

He instantly gets on his knees in front of you, spreading your legs with rough hands.

“Been waitin’ for this cunt all fuckin’ day.”

Your underwear is tugged down and discarded before you can blink, leaving you naked and high on the anticipation of it all. Your lungs are heaving, hands shaking as you will him to do something.

Declan sits back on his haunches, making a show of rolling up his sleeves. He looks so broad and commanding in his blue jeans with his shirt undone. He might be the one on his knees, but he’s definitely still in charge here.

You tangle your fingers into his dark hair and tug, pulling him closer.

“Please, Dec.”

“You sound so beautiful when ya beg.”

He grips your thighs tightly, ensuring they stay apart, as he leans in and presses kisses to any skin he can find.

“Don’t tease.”

“Or what, hmm? What are ya gonna do, sweetheart?”

“Stop it,” you chastise, head dropping back onto the cushions. “Please, baby.”

He chuckles before diving forwards, licking a stripe through your core. He wastes no time, tongue flicking over your clit like he’s done so many times before.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, fingers gripping his hair tightly. “Fuck, Declan.”

You’re convinced he enjoys this just as much as you do. He’ll eat you out for hours, never once expecting something in return - happy to feel you fall apart on his tongue again and again and again.

He knows exactly which spots will have you arching your back, how much pressure to use to have you writhing on the sofa cushions, where to put his hands to push you right over the edge. He can play you like a fiddle, observant and experienced.

His nose nudges your clit as he fucks you with his tongue, messy and wet and completely committed. The grip he has on your thighs is getting tighter and tighter, fingertips bruising your skin. You pray you’ll be able to see the marks when you look in the mirror tomorrow.

You’re teetering on the edge of your release, legs shaking and abdomen tightening. Declan can read you like a book, knowing exactly where you’re at - and taking advantage of it.

Just as you’re about to come, he pulls away and sits back, grinning like a deviant.

“No,” you’re panting. “The fuck are you doing?”

He laughs, leaning down to rest his head on your leg. He looks up at you with a gaze that’s half lust and half mischief, biting at his lip as he watches your chest heave.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

You pout at him, tears welling in your eyes.

“Come on, let me hear you say it. I want you to beg me to make you come. Tell me how you’ve been waiting for it all day, sweetheart.”

“I-Declan, I just-”

“Come on smart girl, use that big brain of yours. Why don’t you tell me all about how you think about me when you touch yourself? No - why don’t you tell me how you think about me while he fucks you?”

Your hips buck up into the air, desperate for any kind of friction. Declan laughs cruelly, wrapping his arms around your thighs again to pull you to the edge of the sofa, the strength he exerts only turning you on more.

“It’s okay,” he soothes against your core. “You don’t have to tell me. Your dripping wet cunt tells me everything I need to know, darlin.”

All you can do is moan, breathing like you’ve run a marathon. All you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel is Declan O’Hara.

“If we had the time, I’d edge you some more. Eat you out until you cried. You always look so pretty when you’re crying f’me.”

He finally takes pity on you, curling his tongue inside you as his nose repeatedly bumps against your clit. He’s practically making out with your core, saliva dripping down your thighs and onto the sofa. You can’t bring yourself to care about the mess, more focused on the older man’s mouth and the skills it possesses.

You’re whining, fingernails digging into his scalp as you grasp for something to hold onto. He’s groaning too, having just as much as fun as you are.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how fucking beautiful you look.”

Your back bows off the sofa as you grind against his face, riding out your climax. Your thighs tighten around his head, desperate for him to keep going for as long as possible.

“That’s it. Atta girl. There we go.”

You’re trying to catch your breath as Declan stands up, sitting down next to you and pulling you into his side. His fingers draw patterns on your hips, absentmindedly calming you down as you nestle into him, seeking out his body heat.

You lean up and kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth eagerly. He tastes like you, and the realisation makes you whinge.

“Let me return the favour, please,” you whisper against his lips.

“As much as I’d love that, darlin’… we can’t.”

You quirk a brow at him in confusion, his rejection more than unusual.

“It’s twenty past eight.”

“Oh, shit,” you groan, finding your underwear and pulling them up your legs.

“I wish I could stay,” he reassures as he kisses you again sweetly. “You know I do.”

You nod, running your fingers through his sweat soaked locks to move them out of his face.

“Promise I’ll repay you next time.”

“I’ll hold ya to that.”

The phone ringing startles you both, your heart jumping in your chest. You pick it up quickly, wrapping the cord around your finger.

“Hello? How are you? Ah, good. Yes, fine. Alright, I’ll see you then. Yes, see you soon. Mhmm… I can’t wait either.”

You put it down just as quickly as you picked it up, finding your dress from the floor and pulling it over your head.

“That was Patrick. He’s at the train station, about to start the drive back here. He won’t be long.”

“I best get going then,” Declan says as he buttons up his shirt. “Don’t need a family reunion in your living room now, do we?”

You shake your head, scoffing at his attempt at a joke. Walking him to the front door, you press his tie from the coat rack into his hand so he doesn’t forget it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, won’t I? You’re coming for lunch at the house?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say as you lean up to kiss him, sighing at the taste of his lips. “I’ll wear that lacy white lingerie under my dress just for you.”

“Great,” he groans. “Now I have to think about my son seeing that on you when it should be me.”

“You might,” you tease, smoothing out his shirt. “There’s a lot of rooms in that house, Declan.”

“You’re a minx.”

He kisses you once more, big hands cradling your face as he pulls you in.

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.”

“Yes, you will.”

You watch him go from your front step, making sure no one sees him leave. As soon as he’s out of sight, you’re shutting the door, trying to tidy the living room frantically. You open the windows, lighting a candle and picking up everything that was knocked to the floor in the lust filled frenzy. You’re covering your tracks as best you can, just like you’ve done countless times before.

You don’t need Patrick asking why the room smells like his dad’s aftershave.

You don’t need Patrick asking questions at all.

a little gift for you, as promised…

@do-it-for-kicks @whytheylosttheirminds @laverna-fanfictions @graceflorence

and of course, if you enjoyed this - throw me a little reblog if you so wish… help a girl out… <3

[daenerysmacfarlane]

Wonderful Christmastime - Rupert Campbell-Black

Rupert Campbell-Black x fem Reader 18+

Authors Note: You know the brainrot is real when you write smutty fanfic for the first time in fucking forever. Annyywayyyy... enjoy. Smut warning, Helen Macaulay warning. Spoilers for Jilly Cooper's Riders and Rivals. I don't own Marcus, Tabitha, Rupert, Helen or Malise. Characters belong to Jilly Cooper. First time publishing my writing on Tumblr so please be kind :)

One couldn't really say that not a creature was stirring on the night before Christmas at Penscombe Court. Rupert's horses were frolicking in the snow earlier and probably still are. The pups are running around like crazy having just been washed except for Beaver, the black Labrador, who is sniffing the presents under the tree to see if there's any treats wrapped up for him.

I hum along to Frank Sinatra on the radio as I place the final touches of the Christmas decorations in Penscombe's massive foyer. I hear Rupert chuckle as I struggle to reach the last shelf and place a piece of holly and ribbon.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Help me, I'm short." I smile looking back at him.

Lo and behold, Rupert is standing there in a Santa suit but bare chested with a very wolfish grin on his face. He sighs and helps me put the decoration on the shelf. He pulls me into his arms.

"It looks incredible my love. Very well done."

I hum and look around. "Yes the back pain tomorrow will be very much worth it"

The foyer sparkled, especially after all the new renovations. It had been a banner year for Rupert and for Venturer. Not only had we married but Venturer had retained its franchise license and signed a new multi-year contract, the first in its kind unless you're the BBC.

After getting rid of Helen's godawful decor, the Georgian Penscombe looks as it should. Classic and regal. Mahogany wood and forest green walls accompanies the Cotswold stone floors, the Christmas tree lights gleaming off them, with a red runner carpet just to give a little bit of grip. I couldn't wait to see the look on Haughty Helly's face, as Rupert and I call her. She's pompous and spoilt with the most ridiculous taste.

Rupert's hands pull me out of my thoughts, roaming my body before slipping under the waistband of my pants. I gently place mine over his and he immediately stops. Rupert's lovely face begins to pout.

"As lovely as that would be, Tab and Marcus are going to be here soon." I chide. As per the new rules in the divorce agreement, Rupert and Helen alternate years for Christmas and this year they would be spending it with us. The last thing my stepchildren need is the sight of their father getting naughty and naked, under the Christmas tree.

He nuzzles my neck and presses gentle kisses. My resolve slowly crumbles and I turn in his arms. My hands run down his sculptured chest and I kiss him, passionately. He looks up and I follow his eyes to the mistletoe I hung up two hours ago. He begins to back me up against the wall next to it and slowly makes his way down my body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake until he is eye line with the zip of my pants. Undoing the button, he slowly unzips me and pulls them and my underwear down. He groans at how wet I am, the wetness betraying my noble thoughts to be good in case we're caught. Hooking my leg over his shoulder, he begins to eat me out like a man starved. It feels like he's been there for ages and I gasp and moan as his incredibly talented tongue makes patterns on the little bundle of nerves. Just the feeling of that brings me close to the sweet release and Rupert smirks as he reads my body and reaction.

I thread my fingers in his dark hair and growl, "Pull away and you'll be having a very blue Christmas."

He moans in response and the vibrations tip me over the edge, body shaking out my release. He makes his way up my body taking my shirt off in the process. His face lights up when he doesn't see a bra.

"Oh Mrs Campbell-Black! How naughty..."

"That's not what you said last night, Rupe." I unbutton the Santa pants and push them down, finding him sans boxer briefs, intimidatingly large and standing at attention.

He picks me up by my thighs and instantly slides into me. We both moan as he sinks into me and I feel that oh, so familiar stretch, wrapping my legs around his waist.

"Christ I'll never get over the feel of you, my love." He mutters earnestly and begins to roll his hips in the most delicious way possible.

I grip on to the back of his coat as his lips come crashing down on mine, hips still rolling as if he was cantering across the field. My fingers grip harder and harder as the familiar pressure builds and my muscles clench around him.

"Fuck, do that again and I'm not going to last." His hips stutter for a moment before falling back into rhythm.

Moans and the sound of skin on skin ricochet around the foyer. He slips a hand between my legs and rubs my little nerve while increasing his pace, fucking me senseless. The pressure builds and builds until I tumble over into bliss. With a great thrust, Rupert follows suit. We hold each other and catch our breath. He kisses me deeply and gently bites my bottom lip.

"Merry Christmas Mrs Campbell-Black." He smirks.

"Merry Christmas Mr Campbell-Black. Thank you for that wonderful gift." I smile.

"I always try to give you exactly what you want."

"This year I want a corgi."

Just as he's about to respond, the sound of tires on the gravel outside filters in. We look at each other.

Rupert scoffs, "Talk about timing. Oh fuck and she's early too."

We both rush to make ourselves presentable for Helen and the kids and make it just in time, Tabitha barreling in. She looks around with her mouth agape.

"Wow who did the tree?" She asks.

I smile at my dear stepdaughter. "I did, do you approve Ms Tab?"

"Yeah looks way better than Mummy and Malise's." She nods and giggles.

"Looks like she got her fine tastes from me. I always knew she was well and truly mine." Rupert snorts.

We hear a familiar shake of an asthma puffer and Marcus joins his sister in admiring the tree and decorations. Rupert's ex-wife, Helen and her new husband, Malise Gordon, who was Rupert's chef d'equipe when he rode for Team Great Britain, follow closely behind. Helen looks around at the changes we've made, replacing everything trace of her and the lands on our disheveled appearance. Her face sets hard, looking like she's almost popping a blood vessel.

"The renovations look lovely. So do the decorations." Malise smiles.

"Thank you, Malise." I return the smile.

"Looks a bit dark and gothic, quite primitive actually if you ask me." Helen sneers.

"All wifey's wonderful choices. Sets the tone perfectly for a nasty, hard and hot fuck not that Penscombe's last decorator knew what that was." Rupert retorts and his hand slides from my back to rest on my behind. He gives a gentle squeeze.

Helen is seething and Malise takes her arm to lead her outside, saying goodbye to the children at the same time to not ruin their Christmas with Rupert. Tabitha sighs at the sight of her mother.

"Poor Malise. Mummy's going to lose her shit in the car."

Marcus takes his puffer. "Bad words, Tab."

"Oh shush, now which one of these gifts has my pony in it?" She says as she picks up the gift neatly labeled Tabitha.

[tinycoffeeroom]

farm love | italian bach

face claim: none ♡

request: here !

requested: Could I request an Italian Bach imagine inspired by Arthur’s vlog to Jezza Clarksons farm?? Maybe on that trip or maybe they just go on a cute little remote trip in the country farm? In their own private cabin (maybe a hot tub on the deck?👀) I feel like Bach is always a great bf but when he’s with friends he’s in his comedy/entertaining mindset so it’s subtle sweet gestures whereas when it’s just them he’s super clingy and boldly romantic

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📍 Cotswolds

👤 georgeclarkeey, arthurtv liked by y/nstagram, arthurtv and 298,017 others

italianbach me and my 2 boyfriends were invited down to the lovely Diddly Squat Farm to experience farm life and preview #/ClarksonsFarm season 3! Huge thank you to primevideouk for the invite!

y/nstagram and where are my pic creds? ↳ italianbach sorry who are you? ↳ y/nstagram oh, you're sleeping in one of the other huts tonight ↳ italianbach babe no george's snoring will interrupt my beauty sleep :(((( ↳ y/nstagram too bad didnt ask xx ↳ italianbach now look what you've done georgeclarkeey arthurtv ↳ georgeclarkeey wtf did we do?????? ↳ italianbach idk be sexy or something?

fan bach not even posting his gf but has time to post these two muppets

fan we want y/n!!!!!! ♥️ y/nstagram

fan george please give me a chance

fan arthur wrapping his arms around his two little omegas, we love a true alpha ↳ arthurtv what the fuck ↳ georgeclarkeey can't tell if i'm offended by being called an omega... ↳ italianbach i am?? we all know i'm a beta!!

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You were surprised to have been invited along to the Clarkson's Farm premiere alongside Arthur, George and Isaac. You didn't really have a following, mostly people coming from Isaac's constant posts about you to see who his girlfriend was.

The coach ride there had certainly been... something. Arthur annoyed the others by vlogging the entire thing, constantly asking Isaac and George to repeat their jokes so he could catch it on camera and having to redo shot after shot when the footage came out shaky or his finger had been covering the mic at the bottom of his phone.

You'd chosen to sit behind the group of lads, plugging your headphones in to play a small town farmer romance audiobook. If you're going to be subjected to dirt and the trio for the weekend, you were going to take advantage and daydream about a buff farmer sweeping you off your feet.

Isaac made sure to keep an eye on you, well aware that you were too engrossed in your audiobook to notice him. Knowing you were slightly camera shy as well, often choosing to be behind the lens and film his tiktoks, he chose to text you instead of drawing attention to you, conscious of the fact that Arthur could whip out his phone for another vlog clip at any moment.

Midway through the first meeting of the MC and the strong, beefy farmer, your phone lit up. At the top of the screen, you saw a few Instagram notifications and two texts from your boyfriend.

Isaac <3 You ok babe? x We should be stopping at Oxford services in about 20 minutes x

Looking up at your boyfriend, his attention was half on you and half on George who was, once again, jokingly shouting at Arthur who had asked him to repeat himself for the 20th time since you'd stepped onto the coach. Smiling briefly at the trio, you looked back down at your phone to reply.

My Love <3 I'm good angel xx May nip in and grab a sandwich or something, I'm kinda hungry :( x

Two seconds after the read receipt appeared beneath your message, a hand thrust a packet of Malteasers between the seat gaps. Grabbing the packet from your boyfriend, you sent him a grateful smile, quickly tucking into the chocolate.

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After a day of trekking back and forth across farm land, cudding cute little piglets and being stuffed full of the most gorgeous food and wine Clarkson's Farm had to offer, you and Isaac say goodbye to George and Arthur, waving them off as you walk up the little path to your cabin.

Despite it being later on in the day, the sun was still shining thanks to the British summertime. You immediately open your suitcase, grabbing a bikini and swapping your muddy tracksuit bottoms and band top you'd stolen from Isaac at some point. Isaac catches onto your thinking, also grabbing some trunks from his suitcase and changing into them.

You grab the bottle of champagne gifted by Prime Video and open the back patio doors which lead to small set of patio chair and a large hot tub.

Whilst Isaac double checks that the front door is locked, you slide into the water, sighing as the warmth soothes your aching muscles. It had been a while since you had spent this long on your feet and the last time you checked your watch, you'd done 35,000 steps.

Closing your eyes, you allow yourself a moment of silence, taking in the faraway bleats of the sheep in the meadow opposite your cabin. A warm breeze flows through the air, making a few stray hairs on your face sway gently.

You hear the doors behind you open and close and an affronted noise comes from your boyfriend. Cracking one eye open, you look back to see him frowning at you in the hot tub.

"What's up, babe?" You already know, but it's sweet to see how clingy Isaac gets when it's just the two of you.

"Budge up." He queues up a playlist on his phone, connecting it to the outside speaker before stepping into the hot tub, staring at you with a playful pout.

You comply, moving to the side so he can sit in your spot. As he settles down, one arm snakes around your waist, lifting you up and dragging you onto his lap under the water. His other arm joins the first, a strong interlink ensuring you won't go anywhere. Not that you'd want to.

"Better?" Grinning up at him, you slide your hand to rest at the base of his neck, fingers tangling in the chocolate brown curls there.

Isaac hums in lieu of a verbal response, face coming to rest in the curve of your neck. Feather light kisses trace along your skin, starting at the juncture between your neck and shoulder, trailing up to below your ear.

You giggle at the sensation, twirling the strands of hair entangled in your fingers round and round as he playfully nips your ear lobe once before pulling away. You untangle your fingers from his hair, moving your hand to the front to swipe his fringe away slightly to get a good look at him.

His eyes seem to twinkle in the now fading sunlight as he takes a moment to trace over your face. "You're so beautiful."

You can feel the blush rising hot up your neck, splaying out dusty pink on your cheeks. Even after being with him for so long, he still manages to fluster you every time he calls you beautiful. Normally, it's a throwaway comment, something he mentions whilst in the middle of something else. But here, just the two of you in the quiet British countryside, your heart seems to skip a beat, thumping a clumsy rhythm in your chest.

Wrinkling your nose to hide the way the statement made you feel, you run a finger gently across his cheekbone, dragging it softly down his cheek to the corner of his jaw. "And you're handsome."

His eyes are glued to your cheeks, smile widening as the blush only deepens, now crimson pink and burning hot. "I mean it. I know I say it a lot, but right here, in this moment, you're ethereal. I'm just so lucky you finally agreed to date me. Knowing that I get to wake up everyday and see you when you first wake up, that I get to walk into any room you're in and watch your face light up when you see me, and that I get to fall asleep holding you every night... Honestly, I don't think I could ask for a better life."

Your eyes are lined with unshed tears, mouth trembling as words of adoration spill from your boyfriends lips. He's a known secret romantic, you had the anniversary cards filled with paragraph after paragraph of him waxing poetic about you; but to hear it come directly from him, his voice warm and syrup soaked, your heart beat another treacherous beat, yearning to burst out and reach for the man below you.

"Isaac... I love you. So much." Your hand cups his cheek, thumb rubbing lightly over the skin below. "I couldn't ask for a better life either. This is the best relationship I have ever been in, and I have you to thank for that. Thank you for showing me a love I only thought was possible in movies."

Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to his lips, revelling in the delighted hum it pulls from your boyfriend. His arms wrap tighter around you, twisting you in a way so the two of you are chest to chest. He pulls you in deeper, mouth warm and insistent against your own.

When it feels like he's pulled every last bit of breath from your lungs, he pulls away slightly, murmuring a soft "I love you too" as he presses one final kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You move your head to rest in the crook of his neck, enjoying the warmth of the water and your boyfriend's body as the sun sets slowly behind you.

You're almost lulled to sleep, cocooned in the arms of your lover. Isaac's hands move in a repeated rhythm along your back, dragging up and down in slow circles as he hums along to the song playing softly from the speaker in the corner.

Before you can drift off, he mutters just loud enough to be heard over the bubbling of the hot tub. "Wanna go in the pool tomorrow?"

Nuzzling down further into the crook of his neck, you nod your head lightly, already smiling at whatever stupid Tiktok's he'll make you film. "Fuck yeah."

His chest vibrates with laughter in response and you close your eyes, pressing one last kiss to the skin beneath your lips as the two of you welcome the sky full of stars.

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a/n: first italianbach fic ! welcome to my gaggle of men mr isaac xo first of the ac3may hc's and my lil fingies are flying working through the rest !

[sitp-recs]

Oh, i also just read Minor Fall, Major Lift and loved it! It made me think is there more "down and out Harry"? I only that "down and out Draco"; I tried looking in your fic recs lists but I couldnt find that term

Isn’t it fabulous? I really enjoyed that one, such a creative take on the trope and the dream magic was chef’s kiss. Not sure I’d categorize it as a “down and out Harry” since he was doing it for charity and there was no social stigma, but I think there are interesting ways to explore this trope beyond money or fame (I’m thinking depressed, abused, failed or dysfunctional Harry). Thank you for this ask, it’s so exciting to find a trope I haven’t recced before. My interpretation was a bit loose but I thought these made sense, hope you enjoy!

Walk Right Through Me by @floydig (M, 2k)

Every day, Harry drinks Polyjuice to disguise himself as he lives on the streets. Today, he observes a gaunt, shirtless Draco Malfoy walking around Knockturn Alley and is immediately drawn to him. However, sometimes the truth is much darker than what the mind perceives.

Unseen by astolat (M, 11k)

When he wasn’t wearing it, he got jumpy, always waiting for someone to come at him wanting something—and now they did it even more urgently, if they ever saw him, because most of the time, nobody did.

Put a Price on My Soul by lamerezouille (E, 12k)

Harry has become used to being a whore in the crapsack Wizarding World that’s now governed by Voldemort. Everything changes when Malfoy becomes his new pimp.

Poor Unfortunate Souls by @doubleappled (E, 20k)

Draco is a potioneer. Harry is trying to save his sex-challenged marriage. Everything is a mess, but at least there's an octopus in the lobby.

Famous by @fw00shy (E, 24k)

It's a couple of years after the war, and Harry's bored of models now, the same way he's bored of Ron's constant nagging, bored of his Weasley monogram knitwear, bored of the same fucking grin that greets him when he hands his fire-truck red Bugatti over to the valet every night. He wants to find—well, he isn't sure what he wants. Anything but models.

A Year in Training by Omi_Ohmy (M, 25k)

Harry is finally living his dream and training as an Auror, but nothing seems to be going right: he’s just so angry all the time. And Draco Malfoy’s presence on the programme really isn’t helping with that, either.

The Last of What the World Left You by @xanthippe74 (T, 25k)

If the wizarding world won’t give Draco a second chance, he has a plan to survive: live in his Animagus form, a carrion crow, in the Forbidden Forest. Not only does Harry Potter come along and ruin it, he’s radiating a strange aura of power. With nowhere to go and a Life-Debt to his mother that Potter insists on repaying, Draco puts himself into the hands of the reclusive Boy Who Lived.

He Who Must Not Be Normal by lettered (E, 41k)

Potter has fame and fortune and posh clothes and all he wants is a simple life. Draco has a flat and a cat and a steady job and all he wants is a complicated life. Which makes you think this story has something exciting like body-swapping, but it doesn’t.

If an Injury Is to Be Inflicted by @shealwaysreads (E, 45k)

Harry Potter disappeared a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, and with him went all hope for true change in magical Britain.

The Bolthole by aideomai, GallaPlacidia, Tepre (E, 54k)

Harry is a hoarder, Draco is grief-stricken, and both are capable human adults who can definitely spend a month in a cottage in the Cotswolds together without ever talking about the time they slept together in eighth year. Yeah, no, totally.

Meet Me at Midnight by @the-starryknight (T, 57k)

Harry was beginning to wonder if he’d ever make anything again when Malfoy stormed through the door of Harry’s furniture shop. Now Harry’s got an impossible Ministry commission to finish, and even less energy than ever to deal with his elusive muse. That is, until he stumbles upon the surreal and beautiful world of a mysterious fae creature…

Kept in Cages by @sweet-s0rr0w, @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm (E, 77k)

Deep in the heart of the Ministry lies the Beast Division: a hidden room where ancient beasts roam, and winged creatures soar, and grumpy giant ferrets eat all your biscuits unless you keep them well hidden. Draco Malfoy would know – he’s been working there for five years now, after all.

In Free Fall by @kbrick (E, 81k)

Since the war, Draco Malfoy has become a serious university student whose idea of a good time is translating Ancient Greek texts and having game night with his small circle of friends. Harry Potter, meanwhile, has turned into a hard-partying adrenaline junkie who’s happiest when he’s leaping from an airplane or hurtling over a waterfall in a kayak.

I Am Not Who I Became by mab_di (E, 93k)

Draco left England after the trials and has travelled the world meeting wizards and Muggles from different cultures and with vastly different relationships to magic, each other, and the natural world. Now he's a fisherman in Finland on commercial vessels. Harry has been struggling since the war and has become a recluse while trying to write his autobiography.

Who we are in the shadows by @quicksilvermaid (E, 100k)

What happens when you’re forced to become the very thing you despise? Ex-Auror Harry Potter, tossed out of the Ministry for something he had no control over, has been looking for a way back to his former life. When he comes across Draco Malfoy in the criminal underbelly of Wizarding London and in need of protection, Harry figures bringing him in to face the Ministry's justice is his ticket back to everything he's lost.

[bearprofessorr]

a second chance.

sometimes getting stood up is the only way to find what you really needed.

ship: declan o'hara/fem!reader. tags/warnings: drinking, making out, no y/n. word count: 3.8k.

(crossposted on ao3)

---

The night was young, and you had plans. A date. One of the boys that helped out with the Cotswolds Round-up plucked up the courage to ask you out after a few weeks of idle chatter in the breakroom. You dressed up for the occasion - even if it was only for a drink at the one proper pub in the area. It wasn't often you would be asked out; normally you would be making the first move, hoping that it was reciprocated. Not tonight. 

You arrived slightly before you planned to meet him, wanting a drink to steady your nerves as the clock got closer to 8. you finished your first drink - a simple vodka coke - and looked back at the clock, now reading 8:15. Panic rose in your throat, but you kept it down by ordering another drink. Thankfully, there was a TV behind the bar that you could watch to pass the time, distract yourself and try and convince the other patrons of the pub that you were really enthused by... golf. 

The night continued to pass, and the golf blurred as you stared at the screen instead of watching it. The clock hit 8:45 and you had to swallow the pain of being stood up. You looked around the pub, seeing if anyone was looking at you - no one spared you a glance. There were faces you recognised, some from Corinium's other departments, but none that you spoke to at all; Until you looked down the bar, in a dim corner, noticing Corinium's prized jewel; Declan O' Hara, slowly nursing a glass of whiskey with his eyes just as glazed over as yours were, staring at the TV. Rumours had been circulating around the offices of Declan's wife being scouted for work in London after prized director Malhar Verma was spotted at the O'Hara's New Year's party. Although you knew nothing of Maud personally, she had been in some of your favourite films as a kid, and you were sure her return to the acting world would be well-received. However, from the looks of things, Declan wasn't taking the rumours too well, and from where you were sitting, it was unclear to you whether Declan was even sporting his wedding band. It wasn't as if you could go over and strike up a conversation, though. You had spoken to Declan in passing, mostly because your team helped Cameron with research and analytics - taking the analysis of audience retention and opinions off of her plate so she can do what she's best at. 

Whether he noticed you looking at him was another uncertainty - but you noticed his head move out of the corner of your eye, and you decided to act very interested in the golf again. When he stood up, you took no real notice, until he walked up next to you, got the bartender's attention and ordered another glass of whiskey. 

"Did Tony send you?" He leant his forearms on the bar, looking you over for anything he deemed suspicious behaviour, "'Cause if he did, tell him to fuck off, will you?"

"What?" You asked, more confused than defensive. 

"You work at Corinium, do you not?" Declan mirrored your expression, eyebrows furrowed as he waited for you to respond.

"Yeah, but I'm no spy - promise." You put your hands up in defence, giving Declan a weak smile and a shrug to try and calm his nerves. The bartender came over with Declan's drink before he could speak, so he quickly thanked him and took a long sip before continuing.

"So you just come to the pub - all dolled up and alone, for fun?" 

"I wasn't supposed to be. I got stood up."

"Oh. Sorry..." He awkwardly patted your shoulder, in some kind of apology - or sympathy. 

"Don't be. It was my mistake to assume he was being genuine."

"Men are cunts, take it from me - don't waste your time on them." His mind immediately darted to Rupert Campbell-Black, and his attempts to court his daughter. A small part of him looked at you, noticing you and Taggie appeared similar in age and he chastised himself for the thought. He went to say your name, but realised very visibly that he couldn't recall it, even though he recognised you. You noticed this and held out your hand, introducing yourself like you were taught to.

"I work with Cameron on research." You smiled, appreciating his gentle grip as Declan took you hand in his to shake it, placing his other hand on top to solidify the gesture. "We've actually been in the same meetings for the last month."

"Ah, that explains why I've seen you around - wait, are you-"

"Brainiac, yeah. Tony called me that once - probably not in the nicest way - and it just... stuck." You rolled your eyes at the memory, sighing, detaching your hands to run your fingers through your hair, "But I would prefer for that to stay at work. Obviously."

"Obviously," He parroted, "Of course." He noticed he hadn't reciprocated the greeting, and hated the fact he assumed people knew who he was, "I'm Declan."

"I know that." Declan winced ever so slightly at your response. You smiled without thinking, for the first time that night, "You're the golden goose of the network; and working with Cameron, I do research for your show. I think if I didn't know who you were through all that I'd be kicked to the street."

"Right." Declan chuckled, looking defeated as the conversation fell into a lull. "If you don't mind me asking," He presented the question, his journalistic instincts kicking in, "Who was it you were supposed to be meeting here?"

"Sebastian." The name rang a bell, with Declan recognising him for around the offices, mostly tailing Cameron wherever she went. Before he could make a comment, you spoke back up, "He... well- he said we would meet here and go for dinner, but that clearly isn't happening. I'd rather not dwell on it, if that's alright." You gave a flat smile, taking a long breath to stop the anxieties from crawling back into your mind. "I should have been realistic, he's... he's him, and I'm-"

"Don't sell yourself short. You're a beautiful woman, and it's a pity for him he hadn't recognised that." Declan cut you off, a stern look on his face. He took a moment to truly look at you then, in a way he hadn't dedicated the time to before - what self-respecting married man would spend his time gazing at the women he worked with? 

As much as you would have wanted to believe him, wrap yourself in his kind words, you simply couldn't. What did it matter if you were beautiful if no one was around to treat you as if you were? Actions and words meant very different things - both needed to be true if you wanted to believe it. This came across clearly on your face as you turned away to stare into your glass, both hands interlocked around it on the bar. 

"Thank you, but that doesn't change anything." You sighed, draining the last of your drink into your mouth, pulling your bag onto your shoulder, "I'm sure you didn't come here to comfort my bruised ego - I'll get out of your way so you can actually enjoy your night."

"And what enjoyment do you think I came here for?"

"I don't know," You shrugged, scanning the room before looking back at the TV, "Maybe you just wanted to watch the golf."

He laughed at that, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, leaning his back against the bar as you stepped away from it, "Really?"

"Look, what else am I supposed to say?" You looked down at his hand around his whiskey glass, noticing he was still wearing his ring, but the words came out of your mouth before you could hold them back, "That you've come here to drown out your troubles? I'm not like you, Declan, I don't pry."

He noticed your eyes dip from his, and a part of him wanted to hear you say his name again, in that perfect accent of yours. It was that same part of him that he kept locked away for fear of turning into the men he criticised. The small glint in his eye at that quickly disappeared, not without you noticing. "Maybe you should. You'd learn a lot about a person that way."

"You look like you're dying to tell me why you're actually here," You stood your ground, relaxing your posture, "so, go ahead."

"I wouldn't say dying to, but if you insist-" Declan teased, shrugging while he gestured with his glass for you to sit back down, but when you didn't, he nodded to acknowledge your lack of action and continued, "I came here to avoid Taggie sitting me down and trying to stop me from falling into 'old habits'." He exaggerated with the curl of his fingers. 

"Old habits like the one in your hand?"

"Bingo."

"Maybe you should listen to your daughter, Declan."

"Maybe you should mind your own business, darling." He mocked, enjoying the anger that immediately rose to your face, only to be concealed - except the lingering red around your ears.

"You're the one who-" You scoffed, noticing the smile playing on Declan's face and taking an audible breath, turning on your heel, "Forget it. Enjoy your habits, just try not to leave when the bar closes - makes you look like you have a problem."

"It's only a problem if I leave alone." Declan called out to you, and he watched as you stopped mid-step and placed your foot down delicately.

You paused, still facing the door, hands tensing as you considered your options. There were two ways this could go, if you stayed - and misread his signals, you go home disappointed. If you're right about the undertone of his words, and you stay, you can forget Sebastian and enjoy some good company - maybe more.  Already having been disappointed by one man tonight, the only way that has the potential to change is if you stay. 

"Is that so?" You turned, your head tilting to emphasise the playful nature of your question. "In my mind that would just be two people fuelling each other's addictions, but if you'd prefer I stay to make sure you get home in one piece-"

"I can take care of myself, you wouldn't need to carry me home." He paused, "If anything, the opposite's more likely."

"I think you underestimate how many people I've drunk under the table who've thought they can hold a light to my drinking prowess." You were bluffing - you'd only competed against one person, who was already pissed and was half-way to the bathroom after the first drink. 

"And you're the one saying I've got a habit? Looks like you've been practicing yourself."

"Only on weekends." You joked, and by the look on his face, it was clear Declan understood you were playing up your tolerance, and made space for you at the bar as you stepped closer.

"Right." He chuckled, "It's not for sport, then?"

"You could say it's more a hobby." You smiled, taking your seat facing Declan, while leaning an arm on the bar. "There's not much else to do out here."

"It's fair to indulge every so often." He gestured with his glass to the bartender for another round, taking the last sips from it, "Less destructive than hunting."

You rolled your eyes, the reminders of your summer job at a range leaving a sour taste in your mouth that was quickly replaced with a drink. "It's a hobby for assholes with delusions of grandeur, as far as my interactions with them have gone."

"So, the whole of Cotchester?" Declan raised an eyebrow, eyes following yours.

"Unfortunately so." 

"I'm certain you've heard everything there is to know, then?"

"Not that isn't already common knowledge."

"You'd be surprised - like how we all 'know' about Cameron and Tony-" The commonplace gossip slipped from Declan's mouth before he could think, but since it was only to another Corinium member, he realised it was safe to speculate. When you cut him off to fill the rest of his sentence, he breathed out a small sigh of relief.

"But his wife's none the wiser, yes I'm aware. I don't have the protections you do to go around telling everyone's business to any ears that'll listen." You shook your head, relaxing it to rest on your hand, propped up on the bar.

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?"

"You're Declan O' Hara. Your whole schtick is digging up people's pasts, making a living off of the skeletons in their closets." You accused with a flourish, taking a long sip from your glass.

"Not always."

"But you have, right? Like with Rupert - you didn't say what it was but I know for a fact you had something catastrophic." There was a sparkle in your eye at that, the thrill of the chase, Declan knew that tone - he used it himself when he knew he had someone pinned. Backed into a corner, ready to strike. "You reached for something. I saw. Twice during that interview when you were readying yourself for the question, you reached," You reached across, poking the side of his chest. "Right there, for your blazer pocket."

"I was bluffing - to throw him off, and it worked like a charm." Declan brushed your hand away, lightly closing his hand over yours. Your heart fluttered at the contact, "Now, if I did have something on Rupert, as soon as I made the choice not to say it on air, that information never really existed."

"Because of your daughter?"

The question caused him to pause, the words hanging in the air. 

"What?" He tried to regain his balance, his gut tossing itself to the side. Thankfully, you didn't notice, and kept talking to fill the silence. 

"I overheard people talking about her bursting into the building to track him down during the break - did she know?" You interrupted yourself, "Was that what you were going to expose him for?"

Declan shook his head, trying his best to mask the disdain he felt for Rupert's advances on Taggie, "No, there wasn't anything to expose. Rupert's life has been incredibly public, everything I said was already out there, public knowledge."

"Tony and Cameron public or actually public?"

"Front page of 'The Times' public."

"Hmm." You didn't look fully convinced, but dropped the subject simply because of the look Declan was giving you - stern, final. "You two seem... friendly."

"We are." Declan agreed, adding with a knowing smile, "He's better than people assume he is - once he comes back down to earth." 

You chuckled at that, knowing the stories that filtered through the area of his specific brand of ego. The alcohol had fully seeped into your bloodstream now, if the dull pulse of your heartbeat in the back of your head was anything to go by. The lights seemed to shine a little brighter, haloing Declan in a warm glow. You didn't say anything, didn't feel the need to. You simply stared, observing how in the silence, Declan turned to face ahead of him, leaving you with the side profile of his face. He was tired, that much was evident - the light beginnings of unshaved stubble rising on his cheeks, a similar shade to the bags under his eyes, half-hooded eyes that threatened to close without forceful blinks every so often. It was only once you hand made contact with the side of his face that you realised it had moved to brush against his cheek, a slow, soft movement with the backs of your fingers. Declan moved his eyes before his head, an equally soft look and light glisten of water in them as they noticed the touch. 

Your eyes widened, your hand froze, you took in a short breath and held it tight in your chest. As soon as your hand twitched to move back, his rushed to hold it, trying to form the sentences in his mind to express what had made his heart stutter. All that came out of his mouth, like a plea, was the simple question;

"Can I kiss you?" 

You barely had time to process your head nodding, your instincts answering for you, before his lips met with yours for the first time. The first thing you noticed was how he tasted, of whiskey and cigarettes, combining with the scents of cedarwood - it was addicting to say the least. He pulled back, Declan's hand lingering on your cheek. Your eyes looked into his to try and find any hint of hesitation, of regret, and found none.

It was the light jeering of a table off in the corner that took you both out of the moment, made you duck to hide your blushing face from the other patrons of the bar. 

"Don't listen to them," Declan used the hand on your cheek to guide your face to look back at him, "They're only playing around."

"It's hard not to, not when I can feel them looking at me-" You cut yourself off, draining the rest of your glass. It was almost abrupt, the way you stood, grabbing your bag. Declan put a hand on your arm, trying to slow you down, and you answered his question with your own before he was able to ask it, "Are you coming or not?"

It took a moment for his mind to catch up, but as soon as he met your eyeline again, saw the light reflect in them, he nodded and slid his hand down your arm to lace your fingers together - the bar had his card on file, they would charge what they wanted. Frankly, he couldn't give a shit about how much he had spent, all he wanted was to follow you wherever you decided to go. That was good enough for you, and the pair of you left the bar to light cheers from the same table as before. As soon as you were outside, as soon as Declan knew there were no more eyes on you but his, he pulled you closer, feeling the goosebumps from the chilled air on your skin.

Declan's eyes were focused on your lips, physically restraining himself from devouring you there. You took the initiative in a rare moment of confidence, hovering over his lips before pressing them together, breaking apart for a moment only to return open-mouthed, deepening the kiss; His hands rushed to pull you closer, tangling into your hair and around your waist, fabric bunching under his grip. You pulled away, the chill of the night forcing you out of the moment. Declan chased your lips with his, instead electing to brush their noses together before pressing his forehead to yours. "What's wrong, darling?"

You smiled at that, had to stop yourself from breaking down into a puddle of laughter at how soft the situation had turned, "I- We might freeze to death out here if every ten paces you stop and-" You dodged his lips again, turning your head so they pressed against your cheek, still giggling all the while "-God, if you don't let us actually get to where we're going, I'll never forgive you."

It was almost childlike, how Declan pleaded with you, how his round brown eyes tracked yours, "I'll keep you warm, sweetheart, I swear."

"Declan-"

"No-" He interrupted, running his hands down your arms, interlocking your fingers once he reached your hands.

"As much as I would love to take your word for it, I can't feel my hands right now."

"They're fucking freezing." Declan commented, pressing both of your hands together so he could cup his around them in some attempt to warm them up. 

And at that moment, the bright lights from the unfortunate turn of a car into the driveway of the pub caught you both off guard, and something in your gut felt the need to make significant distance between you and Declan. Luckily so, since as the car pulled up, Declan recognised it and winced, knowing what was going to happen already. Not Taggie, but Rupert stepped out of the family's car first, with his daughter in the passenger's seat. 

"Fuck."

"Declan! Man of the hour, thought I'd find you rotting away here!" Rupert cheerily leant on the bonnet of the car, a shit-eating grin on his face as he crossed his arms. "Look, I'm not one to judge what a man does with his time but-"

"Fuck off Rupert." Declan rolled his eyes, pulling his blazer across himself. You were glad you hadn't been noticed, and tried to just start walking home when Rupert lifted himself off the car and walked with a brisk pace to step in front of you.

"Not so fast, sweetheart." He placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, not quite meeting your eye, "I know the last thing you want to do is talk, but I'm not about to stand here and let you walk home by yourself."

He turned around to look back at the car, watching how Taggie had stepped out and was standing face-to-face with her dad, chastising him for staying out so late. Declan looked over for a moment, offered a small wave to you and Rupert and resigned himself to the justified beratement from his daughter - he knew in the bottom of his heart that she was right, but drinking was the easy way out and they both knew that. 

Taggie carted him into the front seat of the passenger's side, and beckoned Rupert over with a stern but tired look on her face. Rupert patted you on the shoulder, leaving you with a small, "Just one second, alright?" before jogging over to Taggie. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but with the vague gestures that Rupert made to you and the glances you caught from Taggie, you assumed they were talking about you. It made you want to dissolve, but that was the risk you took. And, at the end of the day, you were glad of the rest of the night you had, even if it ended prematurely.

Rupert, ever the gentleman, walked you the 30 minutes home, in relative silence. He broke it only to ask your name and if you were alright, both questions that you answered with the least information required. 

After a particularly awkward walk, you got to your door, and as you fumbled with your keys, you paused, took a breath and turned to face Rupert. "Look, I don't want this to become a whole ordeal-"

"Don't worry, I won't tell a soul." Rupert smiled, and it looked more genuine than the ones he flashed on Declan's show, "Your secret is safe with me." He reassured, nodding goodnight as you disappeared into your house to sneak into bed, alone.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

141 Headcanons: On Holiday

John Price is 100% a dad type. He likes golfing and fishing and sailing. Activities that let him unwind, sometimes make new friends in the shape of other middle-aged men at the country club or at the docks or at the lake. Rents a little cabin by the lake, where you can take a soak or sunbathe, while he goes out with his little fishing boat and try (and fail) to catch something nice for dinner.

Johnny MacTavish is an adventurous type. He likes hiking and camping, stuff that lets him stay busy, and will definitely explore some forest or national park or mountain range. But he also likes fun activities. Music festivals, for example. He'll definitely book you all-inclusive 3-day-long tickets even though there's only one or two artists/bands you want to see, just so you can have that experience and have fun together.

Kyle Garrick is a family lad. His family is big and loving and they book a little trip every year somewhere fun. It might be a new destination, or it might be somewhere they've been before, or maybe somewhere to visit family. But he loves bringing his love along, go do all the touristy things, see all the landmarks, take loads of pictures, try new restaurants and new food, and do cultural things like reading all the plaques on statues and fountains and monuments.

Simon Riley likes peace and quiet. That's the jist of it. Needs it, in fact. So, prepare to rent a little historical cottage in the Cotswold, or maybe a beach condo, or a cabin in the woods. Doesn't matter, what matters it's that it's fairly isolated, with no neighbors to really bother him. He can sleep in late, with no one to force him to do things he doesn't want to do, no schedule to uphold, no people to answer to. He'll roll out of bed at noon, make himself tea and go sit outside and feell the breeze on his skin for once.

Crack headcanons: Beach Day Episode™️

John Price tends to burn, instead of tan, surprisingly. Probably because his uniforms tend to cover him from neck to toes, leaving only his hands and face showing... And if you'd expect his face to be immune to burning, you'd be wrong. Especially because he's terrible at applying sunblock. By the time you notice, his cheeks, nose and forehead are red, and there are white lines around his muttonchops/beard where the sunblock didn't absorb... so he just looks ridiculous.

Johnny MacTavish likes to say he's not English/British... until he goes on holiday to southern Europe and he's suddenly the perfect example of the stereotypical English tourist. Football jersey, denim shorts, socks and slides/sandals, his entire skin is burned to a crisp and red, and, of course, he's wearing the most stupid-looking sunglasses you'll ever see... And then he gets to the beach, takes off his shorts and he's wearing a red speedo.

Kyle Garrick is 100% the type to disappear off his towel while you're sunbathing and, by the time you notice, he's in a completely different side of the beach playing beach paddle ball, beach volleyball or beach football with a group of other blokes or even with little kids. And he does all this while wearing his little cap (but backwards) and while absolutely covered in tanning oil. Does he need it? No. But he likes the feel of it.

Simon Riley would not be caught dead in swimming trunks or a speedo. The man needs full coverage. He's in a wet/surf suit and wearing a facekini WITH his stupid dad sunglasses and, maybe even, a visor. He gets fidgety if he has to sit in his towel for too long so he's also the type who'll go for a walk out of nowhere, down the beach, and, eventually, cross paths with an Asian grandma who's wearing the same exact outfit as him.

[princeloww]

rivals plot summary (including content warnings)

What to expect from the new DT show, basically. Vague spoiler warning.

Tony Baddingham, DT's character, runs a British television company in the Cotswold area. He is a lord and, as you might guess, extremely rich. He tends to manipulate people and spend their money instead of his, so that when his ventures go wrong, other people are left scrambling to pick up their losses, while he's completely fine.

He has a long-lasting rivalry with the tory minister for sport, Rupert Campbell-Black. Rupert is extremely charming and athletic, and has a new mistress every week. He is divorced and does not see his two children very often. He's an athlete at heart, and adores his horses more than people --- but politics are a lot more stable than that.

The plot follows a very large cast of characters, which can be quite confusing at first. I had to go back and work out who Beattie Johnson was, for example, because I'd completely forgotten who she was and who she was involved with. There are lots of wives and husbands and mistresses and children, so it gets a bit complicated. Most of the characters are somehow linked to Corinium, Lord B (Tony Baddingham)'s TV company.

Tony hooks up with and employs an American director/writer, Cameron Cook. She moves to England to work at Corinium. Her arrival and bad attitude forms tension in the Coriunium workspace, and the tension furthers when Declan O'Hara, an Irish TV presenter and author, arrives at Corinium. He is a leftist (in contrast to the conservatives around him) and often discriminated against for being Irish. At times he is accused of having IRA links, mostly just to make him look bad. He and Tony's personalities clash, leading to a fall out at Corinium. Declan, in a drunken rage, quits his job and falls into a bit of a bad state.

Recovering from the publicity of his departure, Declan groups up with Rupert Campbell-Black and a few others (including Tony's brother, Basil Baddingham) to create a rival television company, Venturer, to challenge Corinium and Tony for the franchise.

There is a lot of romance and a LOT of subplots. Declan's daughter, Taggie O'Hara, is a dyslexic cook who struggles to find work due to her inability to read and write. She develops a crush on Rupert, who is considerably older. If I start talking about how much I despise their relationship, I will never stop. Taggie will probably be quite a main character in the show, I'm guessing. Declan also has a wife, Maud, who is a failed actress and spends all of his money.

Tony's wife, Monica, is very charitable and employs Taggie despite Declan and Tony's rivalry. She is aware that Tony is having an affair with Cameron Cook. An affair which, while Cameron is under his employment, becomes extremely toxic and abusive.

I'm sure the show will be rounded out a bit for modern audiences, but warnings wise (at least in the book), Rivals includes themes of sexual assault (particularly groping), misogyny, domestic abuse and much more. A big majority of the characters are rich and extremely corrupt. Tony, the baddie of the story, has some of the worst moments. There is a scene where he hits and throws a woman until she is bleeding, because she's 'betrayed' him. He also threatens to kill somebody. On a separate occasion, he tells a distraught SA victim not to tell anybody, because the attacker is somebody who he needs on his side, for money. There is also, obviously, given the kind of characters we follow, a lot of classism. Valerie Jones, for example, exists as a punching bag for a middle-class Northern woman who wants to be like the rich Southerners.

Tony might be the bad guy, but Rupert, who we're supposed to like, is also awful. He's Jilly Cooper's little golden boy, despite being horrible. I hate him so much but Jilly clearly loves him. He gropes eighteen-year-old girls and objectifies every single woman he speaks to.

Again, I'm sure a lot of this will be toned down, but watch with caution. The story has light moments and lots of romance, comedy and drama --- it just occasionally dips into dark themes. There will probably be lots of dinner parties, as every other scene is a giant social gathering. As much as I have issue with Jilly Cooper, she is absolutely excellent at writing large social scenes with dozens of different subplots combining.

There's also a weird theme of characters describing 14-year-olds (specifically 14-year-olds) in weird predatory ways. It's weird though, because a strange amount of characters do it -- to the degree where I think it's just Jilly Cooper describing them weirdly. She acts as though being a teenage girl is a woman's prime and that she is wasted after that. She has also gone on the record to state that she hates feminists. I'm not a giant fan, frankly.

On a lighter note, if you want to tell who's supposed to be a good guy, just remember that the good guys always quote poetry and like animals.

Despite its many flaws and dark themes, Rivals really is an interesting read. Jilly Cooper says the weirdest, most fucked up things ("she's like a little sister", thinks Rupert, right after staring at the 18-yo's ass) but the story really supports itself. It's interesting, gossipy, raunchy and very well written. Cooper is an expert at big scenes, and works so well with the giant ensemble cast. I disagree with a lot of things she says, but I think the show will be really good. I'm super excited and can't wait to watch it. There's a particular scene with David's character that I'm looking forward to; while in the book it was a bit scary, because we know how Jilly is with teenagers, there's a scene where Tony drives Declan(his enemy)'s daughter home, and is actually very nice to her before realising who she is. I think DT will do this scene a lot better, and it might actually be a bit endearing. Idk, I don't wanna jinx it, but I think it has potential to be a sweet scene, with the charm DT typically brings to these roles.

If anyone has any plot-related questions, or about David's character or anything, please feel free to ask! I'm more than happy to ramble about this book, because I do really like it. I see and dislike its flaws, but personally I am able to look past them and appreciate the story and characters. They're all horrible people, but let's be honest. They're politicians and rich, tory lords in the 1980s. They were always going to be horrible. You can like something that contains problematic characters without necessarily, immediately condoning and agreeing with those things. People online and especially on places like TikTok seem to struggle with this concept, but I'm a firm believer in media literacy and accepting flaws. You can like something that is bad. You can like villains. It's fine.

Declan is my favourite btw. Live laugh love Declan O'Hara

[warnersister]

“Tea in the Cotswolds” Michael Gray x Reader

Michael Gray x Reader

When Thomas has business with Archibald Wentworth, a prestigious delegate in the Cotswolds, Michael is tasked with occupying the man’s adult daughter - getting more acquainted than expected.

The Blinders had expanded their business - all the way to the Cotswolds, Tommy had taken John and Michael for the ride; leaving Arthur back in Birmingham as he didn’t find this the right environment for any sort of negative articulation to be breaking out; especially at Wentworth Family Manor.

The houses became progressively larger as the carriage rolled down the cobbled street, some with drives too large to be able to see the house it belonged to at all. But eventually, the vehicle came to a stop at the looming house; substantially larger than all others. In his head, the only similar build Michael had seen to this was Buckingham Palace - large and awe-inspiring enough to be the encasings to a proud museum, contents sacred and protected.

But potentially Michael’s imagination wasn’t too far from reality.

“Right,” Tommy began, eyes flicking between the two men whom had accompanied him. “Today is a very important meeting. And i need to leave a good impression on the Wentworth’s. So we leave our egos and our guns in the car.” John’s brows creased in confusion. “Leave our guns?” “They’re not dangerous. This is legal business; real estate - dabbling a bit in the illegal side of things but not enough go start a fight. Mr Wentworth is an extremely prestigious man, as is his wife and daughter.” He told them calmly. “I’ll talk with Mr Wentworth, John you’ll talk with his missus and explain what we do: nicely. Michael - I’ll leave you to get acquainted with his daughter, yn.” “You’re leaving me with the child?” He asked, confused. “Yn is twenty.”

They were welcomed into the home by several butlers, two to open the grand doors - three to take their caps and the others to lead the family to their guests. “Thomas Shelby.” They heard, and a dignified gentleman descended the stairs, an unnecessary cain in one hand, the other wrapped around his wife as they descended the central staircase to the visitors, a young lady trailing behind.

“Archibald Wentworth.” Thomas smiled at the man and nodded out of respect. The man walked up to him and shook each of their hands firmly. “How longs it been old chap?” He asked Thomas. “Too long, old friend.” Thomas replied, and they engaged in friendly conversation as neither had seen each other since their fathers dealt with similar business in their own youth. The elder woman approached John who kissed the back of her hand and she curtsied, him remaining respectful as their shared introductions. You however, approached Michael who looked back at you fondly. You curtsied to him and he bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure Mr Gray.” You say, voice soft and unbroken. He took your hand and kissed the back of it gently. “All mine, Miss Wentworth.”

“And please, do call me Michael.” He told you, smiling gently. “Well in that case you’re compelled to call me Yn.” Michael studied your face; never in his twenty one years of existence had he seen such beauty before. Your skin was fair and undamaged - soft to the touch. Your nails were clean and manicured with a neutral colour. Your hair was cascading down by your ears, as if instructed to sit perfectly, framing your face. You eyes were innocent yet appeared all-knowing - your mouth formed into a graceful smile. And you carried yourself with such proper dignity; it was admirable.

“Yn my darling?” Your father spoke from beside him and you turned to face him on command - trained to do this. “Yes father?” “Please will you accompany Mister Gray into the living area? I’m sure you’ll both be quite comfortable in there.” You nodded once at the man. “Certainly, father.” “It was a pleasure to meet you gentleman, and see you again Mister Shelby.” You say to the other two, before leading Michael into the living area - which was nothing short of double the size of his childhood home.

“May i offer you some tea?” You ask, as you settle in the room. “That’d be lovely, thank you.” You nod as the maid by the for stepped out to grab tea. “Normally I’d make it myself, however it is improper to leave your company unaccompanied.” You joke and he laughs in response. Soon, the tea arrived and you served it for Michael, who took the cup and saucer thoughtfully and nodded in thanks.

“It’s a lovely home you have.” You smile up at him. “Thank you, I’m sure my father works tirelessly to afford it.” “You’ve no job?” He asked, awaiting the words that he was utterly and totally in love with you. “No, I’m trained in etiquette - to be polite, to cook and to clean.” Michael listened to you thoughtfully. “So you’re kept awfully busy then?” You nod. “Busy however I don’t mind it, I get to live in this glorious building with a loving family and life skills. What more could a girl want?” You confirm and he was sure his eyes were forming hearts.

“And I’m sure you have quite the line of suitors with your beauty.” You giggled but tried to compose yourself. “No sir.” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Surely you’re already married, how has a man not captivated a lady such as yourself. I’d do it myself if it wasn’t for the line of men ahead of me.” You looked down, blushing, before looking back up at Michael. “There is no line and there are no suitors. It is simply me, myself and I.” You tell him.

“And you Michael? Have you a wife?” You asked, batting your eyelids. “No, in your words it is simply… ‘me, myself and I’.” “And what business do you do yourself, Mr Gray?” You ask. “That is not the sort of information for a lady’s ears. It is not good business.” He almost scolds and you nod. “Oh I understand, my father is not too dissimilar. Staying safe in your business, I hope?” He basked in the way you simply understood, didn’t pry. “Not quite.” He said, raising an eyebrow. He rolled up his left sleeve slightly and you gasped. “Oh you poor man,” you say. “You must treat these with oil, that way they shall heal better.” You scold, touching his skin gently. “Well if you were my wife you could sort it out for me.” “Oh certainly Michael, I wouldn’t allow you to come home damaged as such without properly patching you up.” You say, seriousness written all over your facial features.

“And what do you do with the rest of your time, this afternoon per se?” He ponders, sipping his tea. “Well as you said yourself I’m quite a busy person regardless of what I occupy my time with.” You peer down at the dainty wristwatch wrapped around your wrist, Michael estimated the small device at a hefty sum. “At two o’clock I have etiquette lessons.” You say “and at three?” “At three I read in my library” “how about four?” “At four I have a date.” His face dropped. “A date? With who?” “William Wordsworth.” You giggled at his expression which sighed a breath of relief. “Oh I see, she lives the poems she could not write.” He says, quoting the famed poet. “More like she writes the poems she could not live.” You reply, and Michael notices a longing stare as you probably imagine the life you would have, if not the heir to an infamous delegate.

“And no man has yet compared me to a summers day.” You admit. “You have not yet met your Shakespeare.” You smile, enjoying how he understood your references. “Nor my Victor Hugo” “ah but you have not yet died so nobody may quote ‘Demain, dès l’aube’.” He spoke matter-of-factly. “For I am always the poet, never the poem.” You speak; in words of your own. And Michael cannot stop himself from reaching up with his free hand to caress the soft skin of your cheek gently. “It is impossible. How can a man write anything short of a novel about a maiden so fair?” He question, and you find yourself absentmindedly leaning into his light touch.

“You’re a charmer, Mr Gray” you speak, voice barely above whisper “I’m no charmer, just a man who knows what he wants” he leans to whisper in your ear “is it working?” He meets your eyes with a cheeky grin on his face. “Certainly.” You both finished your tea and the trolley was taken away, miscellaneous chatter arising from each of your lips.

“Madam?” A voice squeaked from the door behind you both. You spun on a pivot to look at the young maid by the entrance. “Yes Beth?” “Mister Wentworth has requested you and Mister Gray return to the foyer” she said, avoiding your stare. “Thank you Beth, we shall be there shortly.” The woman nodded before clicking the door shut behind you to allow you to make your own way there along with the company. Michael’s face contorted: annoyed, but relaxed it when you faced back to him.

“I believe it is time for us to depart.” You tell him. “When may I see you again?” He asks, holding your hands in his own. “Whenever you wish, Mister Gray; should my father allow.” You tell him, before slowly leading him back to where you originally met. There, the rest of the men along with your parents stood as you’d left them - engaged in unwavering chatter. “Ah, Mister Gray - treated well I hope?” Your father asks and Michael nods at the man. “Certainly.”

After some goodbyes and a hug for your father’s old friend Thomas, Michael smirked at you and kissed the back of your hand and whispered promises that you shall meet again.

The men walked back to the car in silence, Thomas lighting a cigarette once inside. “How’d you like her?” He asked, eyeing Michael before nicotine smoke billowed from his lips. “She’s a lovely young lady.” Michael tore his eyes away from his cousin and back to the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you as you drove away; but to no avail.

“She’s a gentle lass. Innocent and proper.” Thomas continued and Michael squinted at him, wondering what the man was getting at. “Doesn’t need corrupting.” “I know that Tommy, what you on about?” “We’ve come to a business agreement with Archibald Wentworth. They in exchange for protection and a good deal of Shelby business, his daughter would marry a gentleman.” Thomas stubbed the last bud out on the leather of the car. “I trust you can fit that role?”

[wolfstarhaven]

Christmas additions 2024

It’s tiiiiime! You can find my earlier Christmas recs here. I just wanted to add some others, mainly some adorable Christmas fluff.

the oldest recipe for parsnip soup (32k)

By: eyra

Christmastime in the Cotswolds: cold hands, crackling fires, and Remus's indefatigable quest for parsnips.

Themes: winter; muggle!au; food; strangers to lovers; ED; past trauma and some dark themes; pov sirius; very soft; Remus is sunshine in a person; so very well-written!!

like a dog at the foot of your bed (16k)

By: drowsyanddazed

Three years since Remus had stared down at that hand, a bit bewildered, before reaching out to grasp it and Sirius had smiled up at him, butterscotch sweet, and his hand had been soft and warm and Remus hadn’t wanted him to let go. The feeling has never gone away.

Themes: Halloween+Christmas+new years; muggle!au; past friends with benefits; pining!!!; domestic fluff; love in the kitchen is my favourite thing; honestly the revelation scene is to die for.

Through the white night (3k)

By: soufflesaregay

“What is this, Sirius?” Remus interrupts, shifting sideways, hands hovering. He looks wrecked and broken open and bloody and Sirius wants to reach into his heart and wants Remus to reach into his. Wants him to lick his ribs and suck out his blood. “What are you saying?”

Themes: Christmas; mistletoe; eggnog; confessions; fluff; absolutely adorable.

Christmas 1977 (6k)

By: nightswatch

Sirius is bored during the Christmas holidays and convinces Remus to visit him at his new flat in London.

Themes: mistletoe; pining; kissing; fluff.

Need a little Christmas now (2k)

By: aryastark_valarmorghulis

Remus stays at Hogwarts on Christmas Eve.

Themes: Hogwarts Christmas; awkward confession: fluff.

A Good League Hence (15k)

By: eyra

A country hotel in the wintertime. Plenty of snow, plenty of mulled wine, and a feeling that this Christmas might be different.

Themes: wintery; muggle!au; strangers to lovers; countryside; fluff.

This Love We Got Is the Best Of All (3k)

By: Engie_Ivy

Sirius is the town’s most eligible bachelor, and while home for the Holidays, everyone seems eager to get him coupled up.

Themes: muggle!au; strangers to lovers; coffee shop!au; fluff.

The Season's Upon Us (1k)

By: shadow_prince

Sirius is drunk on a table singing, and Remus is too smitten to be mad.

Themes: Hogwarts era; drunken confession; pining; fluff.

Wolfstar Short Stories - The Christmas Collection (43k<)

By: Engie_Ivy

Seasonal Wolfstar Oneshots! Mostly fluffy get-togethers, with various December and Christmas themes.

Have a lovely December!

xx Elliot❄️

[jbaileyfansite]

GQ Magazine Interview (2024)

It’s about four hours before the Los Angeles premiere of Wicked, and the actor Jonathan Bailey, who’s playing the male lead Fiyero in the feverishly-anticipated movie musical, is busy… playing Lego?

“I’m currently constructing,” he tells me, “the Atlantic Ocean of a globe, which I'm building as I travel around the globe [for Wicked].”

In a sunny Santa Monica hotel, in the middle of a whirlwind international promo tour for Wicked—director Jon M. Chu’s screen adaptation of the megahit Broadway musical, starring Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo—the award-winning star of Bridgerton and Fellow Travelers says that playing with Lego has become one of the things helping him stay centered. “Lego’s 18+ Adult level, that's what gets me going these days,” he says.

It is, after all, a high-stakes moment for Bailey. Fan expectations for Wicked are sky-high, and every detail of the project’s rollout has been the subject of intense scrutiny.

Even Bailey’s seemingly innocuous decision to wear shorts to a photocall for Wicked in Australia made waves, and photos of Bailey in black pleated shorts and a sheer black long-sleeved polo by Giuliva Heritage quickly went viral—the gams seen ‘round the world.

“The idea of a very relaxed, elevated day look is something I've always enjoyed,” Bailey tells me, about the fit. “And of course, in Sydney and down under, we should be showing down under.”

“It's funny,” he continues. “Sometimes, you feel like what you decide to wear chooses you. The waist, the cut of the trouser, the pleat, and the waist—it made me feel very elegant.”

When the photos spread on social media, comments sections buzzed with people wondering about Bailey’s leg workout. Inquiring minds want to know: how does the Winkie prince get those legs?

“Well, they should be dancing from a very young age,” he says, laughing. “It's encouraging your sons to dance and do ballet. I played rugby growing up as well, and I play a lot of tennis now. I did ballet for a good few years, and I think the way that the body responds to that and gymnastics, I think, that's the key… Lots of handstands and deep squats.”

Another moment on the press tour that’s already gone viral is a video where Bailey talks about a small travel mishap during pre-production, in which every part of his Fiyero costume wound up stuck in airport limbo—except the footwear. "There's an amazing photo,” Bailey teases in the clip, “that no one's ever gonna see of me, in nothing but my boots, which sort of felt right for Fiyero somehow.”

When I bring it up, he reiterates firmly: “Never to be seen.” But maybe, I propose, that photo finally makes an appearance in a future museum retrospective on his career, the kind London’s Victoria and Albert Museum does for Britain’s most iconic performers? “Literally, let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, laughing. “There'll be maybe some shed in the Cotswolds that will be some sort of weird relic to my former career. Maybe it will be laminated there.”

It’s been exciting to watch Bailey’s red-carpet evolution in the last few years. Early in his career, the actor mainly stuck to more traditionally buttoned-up suit-and-tie looks. But recently, there’s a newfound confidence and playfulness to his red carpet style, a willingness to flip some red carpet traditions—and a frisky inclination to show off that body.

Part of that confidence has to do with just how fit the actor is. “I probably am in the best shape I've ever been,” he says. But it goes deeper than that: “I honestly think it reflects a confidence in identity, in one's self,” he says. “You realize how important it is just to be completely yourself.”

“Jonny is a whimsical, mischievous delight, so we try to show that through his sartorial choices,” says Emma Jade Morrison, his stylist. “He is joyful and cheeky, with an old soul, so I love to modernize classic shapes through colors, materials and saucy bits of skin.”

For the Los Angeles premiere of Wicked last night, Bailey once again turned heads in an exciting ensemble—this time, in custom Versace, in a slinky, body-caressing chainmail shirt paired with immaculately white trousers, ruby-red slippers and a poppy boutonniere. (The cherry on top? A mischievous tuft of chest hair peeking out from that Versace shirt.)

“It was Donatella’s idea to allow me to wear the chain mail, the iconic Versace chain mail,” he says. “It's so part of the Versace DNA, and I wanted that DNA pumping around my veins tonight. It's a beautiful thing to wear.”

Bailey, who calls himself “obsessed” with the ‘90s, remembers the iconic image of Kate Moss in a Versace chainmail dress from 1999. “The thing that I remember is the way that it clings to the form of the body. It feels sculptural and sexy,” he says. “All I can see is the way she moved, [the way it] caressed every nook and curve and cranny… I'm excited to be celebrating nooks and crannies tonight.”

“From my moodboard, Donatella and her team honed in on two images of Errol Flynn and Cary Grant and put their iconic Versace twist on them,” Jade Morrison tells me. “We kept the shapes classic and the shirt a bit slouchy to stay true to Jonny’s style. There is literally no material as sexy as Versace chainmail and using chainmail felt like a princely nod to the Winkie Prince.”

“We loved the red slippers with the poppy—as Dorothy says, there’s no place like home, especially since the LA premiere was the weekend before Remembrance Day in the U.K.,” Morrison continues. “Versace also made us a Winkie Prince bomber—a perfect ode to varsity jackets of the 1930s and something that Fiyero would absolutely wear himself.”

“That's the thing about Wicked, and that's the thing about Oz,” Bailey adds. “It's like visually and thematically so inspiring to so many generations that when you work with creators like Donatella, and you work with fashion houses who have so much to say and [we have] so much respect [for] and so much in archive that we feel so nostalgic about these fashion pieces, it's like everyone just goes off like fireworks. And you come up with something incredible.”

Last time Bailey and I spoke, we were doing a mini pub crawl through Manhattan’s West Village with his Fellow Travelers co-star Matt Bomer last year, to talk about their work on the acclaimed series. During that interview, Bailey talked about the tricky balance he had to strike in order to shoot Wicked, Bridgerton and Fellow Travelers simultaneously. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, he sees how the projects inadvertently informed each other—and emboldened him as an actor.

“I just look back on Fellow Travelers with such fond memories,” he tells me now. “The confidence in telling that story, I think, is actually present throughout Fiyero. Wicked is so about identity. The resonance of the themes is even louder I think on film... Playing Tim [on Fellow Travelers] just beforehand allowed me to sort of maybe expand the part in a way that I wouldn't have done otherwise.”

At Wicked’s Sydney premiere last week, Bailey experienced a full circle moment that left him in tears. “I sat with my sister, who’s based in Sydney, and had my two nieces watching it for the first time in front of an audience. And I felt a volcanic sense of emotion,” he says.

“Me and my sister went to the back and had a pint and we both just had a good cry. What Jon Chu has achieved in this film is exactly the sort of cinematic experience, that my whole entire family loved [when I was] growing up, and it's what inspired me in the first place to want to [become an actor].”

At 36, Bailey is a veteran of the stage and the screen—he’s stolen scenes in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s acclaimed pre-Fleabag series Crashing, held his own with Patti LuPone in a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Company, and broken hearts in his award-winning turn on Fellow Travelers. But he’s hardly jaded and still finds himself overcome with emotion during various career milestones. “The wonder hasn't left me,” he says.

It’s that same wonder he hopes to impart to young viewers watcing Wicked. “The idea that some lads somewhere might turn to their mom and dad and go, ‘I really want to dance’? That's what it's all about.”

“And also,” he says, with a laugh, “they'll get bloody good legs in the process.”

Source

[honeylullaby]

“I wish I could stop thinkin’ about ‘ya.”

(Rivals) Freddie Jones x Lizzie Vereker

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / After weeks, Freddie finally manages to get hold of Lizzie at the Rutshire annual ball…

18+ FANFIC / Just some super soft Fred-Fred & Lizzie 🥺 My first time doing something a bit different to my usual! Hopefully you enjoy 🩷

“You’re not wearing that, are you?” James Vereker questioned, staring at his wife’s gold iridescent wrap-around skirt and low cut charcoal black blouse. Lizzie was pinning up her copper curls in front of the mirror, and felt her lip wobble, anticipating her husband’s criticism. “Yes, why?” She asked, meeting his gaze only through his reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t bare to meet those adjudicating eyes face-to-face. “Jesus, Lizzie. You’re not 26 anymore.” He huffed, rolling his eyes and returning to choosing a shirt for tonight. Vomit green or piss yellow, Lizzie thought to herself. Freddie Jones would’ve told her that her outfit was fit, in that marvellous Cockney accent of his. But, unfortunately, she was stuck with James.

Beginning the drive to Rutshire Village Hall, James spoke only to ask whether his shirt was the right choice — he had chosen piss yellow — and to warn Lizzie to stay away from the buffet. “There will be lots of important directors there tonight, and Tony will be watching me like a hawk, of course. I don’t want him to see you stuffing your face with scotch eggs.” He hissed, fingers impatiently tapping the tune of Cotswold Round-Up against his steering wheel. Lizzie hummed in response, watching the willow trees create the most hilarious shadows against the night sky.

-

Once they had arrived, and exchanged usual pleasantries at the door, James had immediately separated from Lizzie, almost making an effort to schmooze with people at the other end of the hall to her. “Hello, darling. How are you?” Rupert Campbell-Black spoke, handing Lizzie a rather enormous whiskey, which she graciously accepted. “Okay. I’ve been warned against eating too much, speaking too much, doing too much.” She grunted, swallowing the amber liquid down without breathing, leaving only a small sip. “Oh, just tell him to fuck off,” Rupert snapped, paused for a moment and then sighed, “I’ve been here for bloody ages. I was waiting to see you before I could slope off. Freddie’s asked me three times if you were coming.” He winked, nudging a suggestive elbow into her side. Lizzie tried her best to disguise her grin, but Rupert could read her expressions with lightning speed.

“Oh, really? What did you say?” Lizzie feigned nonchalantness as she spoke, scratching behind her ear. “I said you’d be here soon, hot and ready.” He chuckled and handed her his glass of whiskey. “Right, darling. I’m off. Drink that, and many more. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Rupert gave her a soft kiss on her left cheek as he spoke and sauntered towards the door, shooting her an enthusiastic thumbs up before he left.

There was no sign of Freddie anywhere. Lizzie had already drank the equivalent of two large bottles of whiskey, and had already put back as many scotch eggs as one could muster. James was talking to Sarah Stratton in the far right corner, running his fingers through her golden hair and exchanging sultry whispers. “Hello, swee’art. I was wundrin’ when you’d arrive.” That familiar Cockney voice boomed from behind her, rounded belly straining against his crisp white shirt. Lizzie’s denim blue eyes ignited with exuberance as she spun around on her heels to be greeted by Freddie Jones, who was balancing a flimsy paper plate loaded with potato salad, sausage rolls and fairy cakes. “I ‘af to eat this as quick as possible, before Mousie catches me.” He grins and waves the plate under her nose, prompting her to pinch a sausage roll.

“I’m sorry about… You know.” Lizzie sulks, flakes of pastry snowing from her lips. Just over three weeks ago now, they had arranged to meet up at a hotel just outside of Cotchester — serene and away from prying eyes. But, Lizzie, ever faithful to Mr Vereker, hadn’t attended. “S’alright. I understand,” Freddie softly informed her, “I’ll wait for you.” The words made Lizzie’s heart sink. She had never been this besotted with anybody before, not even James in their very early days. On more than one occasion now, she had stood Freddie up without explanation but to him, it didn’t matter. Lizzie could take the rest of her life to muster the courage, and Freddie would be but a phone call away.

“Sharif don’t like it, rocking the Casbah, rock the Casbah…” The Clash began to wail from the speaker systems dotted around the lavish hall, provided by Freddie, of course. “Ah, I fackin’ love this one! Come on, Lizzie, dance wiv’ me.” He simpered, clamping onto Lizzie’s hand and dragging her onto the dance floor. Showcasing the least fashionable dance moves of the eighties, Lizzie and Freddie became an awkward jumble of limbs, her copper curls breaking free from the pin and soaring through the air like the wings of a freed Phoenix. The combination of her untamed dancing and numerous tumblers of whiskey had induced a soft rosy glow to Lizzie’s cheeks, that made Freddie stop dead in his tracks.

“Lizzie…” He begun, and Lizzie’s smile faded as she recognised the solemn look across his face. “I wish I could stop thinkin’ about ‘ya.” He confessed. “Oh, Freddie.” Was all Lizzie could mutter from her stunned mouth. Freddie brought his thumb to her cheek, caressing it softly. For that moment, he could only see her. “Lizzie, what did I tell you about bothering people? Sorry, Mr Jones.” James Vereker spat from behind her, ushering Lizzie away from Freddie, who could only stand and watch in silent sorrow.

[ginandoldlace]

Broadway in the Cotswolds

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

[sicutpuella]

The Other Woman (Reader & Captain Price)

size difference, mild sexual content, infidelity— Capt. Price is in a political marriage, a forbidden and secret affair, AFAB, she/her pronouns

Divider by @iluvpooks

Past midnight on his private estate in The Cotswolds, the only sounds are their deep breaths, the crackling of the fireplace, and the faint jazz record playing.

Sitting upright, her head nestled against his chest, their eyes lock in an unbroken gaze. With delicate fingers, she traces soft circles upon his breast, her gaze catching the scars that mark his rugged frame. A silent understanding passes between them, for she is well practiced in the art of unspoken observations. Never does she mention the marks that adorn his skin; such matters are left unsaid. A tranquil silence envelops them both, a shared accord that requires no words.

His hands wrap around her waist, one on her soft, smooth back, and another around her small frame. She is safe here; that is sure. As he looks into her eyes, he senses her admiration for him and her affection. It is all a beautiful sight: her touch and her warmth, her gaze and her aura. Everything.

With tenderness, he caresses her arms, his touch gentle as he fears his roughened hands might mar her delicate and tender skin. She finds solace in his soothing strokes, feeling as though she were a lamb, cherished and protected. In his affectionate manner, he refers to her as "his lamb," a term of endearment that bestows warmth upon her heart.

Leaning in, he kisses her; their bodies press together. Their lips meet softly but with passion, melding seamlessly, as if they have always belonged together. The kiss deepens and becomes more sensual, his tongue exploring her mouth, his lips caressing hers. Each kiss intensifies, filled with passion, tenderness, and desire. Their eyes gaze at each other, breath quickening as they kiss. He pulls her against him, hands gently holding her hips. It is a perfect moment.

"Already told my driver to bring you back to London by morning," his voice, tinged with the rasp acquired through years of indulging in cigar smoking, rouses her from her reverie. She sighs, a gesture that has become all too familiar within their routine. He intimately kisses the back of her neck, his lips lingering on her skin, relishing the soft, silky feeling against his tongue. He pulls her close to him, the heat of his breath grazing her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

“I hate leaving you…”

"I know, love." He kisses her neck softly again, his voice husky, tinged with yearning. "But duty calls, and I need to get back. You know how it is."

“More like your wife…”

"You know I only have eyes for you." He leaned against her, pressing her closer, his hands tracing her skin softly, his breath hot on her neck.

“When… when will I see you again?” Her eyes drooped with sadness.

"Hmm... Perhaps in January," he mused, his voice trailing off. "I... I cannot say for certain. It’s December now… you know how my wife is with the holidays.”

She sighs, pulling away from him a bit. “A month without you…” She softly spoke.

"I know," he sighed, reaching forward to stroke her cheek lovingly. "But we'll speak every day, and I'll think of you. You'll be in my thoughts, I promise."

“I hate that… I can’t be with you on the holidays.” She spoke so painfully; it was the reality of being his mistress—the holidays, the important days were spent with his wife, not her.

"I would take you to my cottage in Scotland if I could," he sighed. "My wife won't come, but you can't come because of... the circumstances.” He sighed. "You know, if I could divorce her, I would, no second thought. But I can't."

“I know…” she sighs, pulling away slightly.

"If I'm honest..." he leaned in against her, their bodies pressed together. "You mean more to me than she ever has. And it breaks my heart knowing she's the wife and you're not."

“That’s…” she couldn’t speak properly, “I’m so touched by it.” She whispers, kissing him on his cheek.

"I wish I could marry you," he whispered back, his breath brushing against her cheek, his heart pounding in his chest. "That's not an option, though. But know that you're my heart."

He leaned his forehead against hers, their breath mingling together. It was a tender moment between them, and although his words couldn’t express the love he felt for her, the way he looked at her spoke volumes.

“I’ll be in Switzerland with my family.” She shares, her head stuck to his chest again.

"I'll miss you," he whispers, leaning forward, their faces only inches apart. "Be on your best behavior over there; don't get up to no trouble. Don't want you stealing the local men's hearts."

“Oh… shut it… you’re my only old man.” She laughs.

"Old man?" He scoffs. "You really gonna call the man that can pin you against the wall and kiss you into oblivion an old man?"

She giggles into his face, taunting him, “Oh yes. Definitely.”

"You little... you wanna go that route?" He smirks, pulling her in towards him.

“Make me!” She stands up, running to the far corner of the bedroom.

He sprints after her, pinning her to the wall once more, his breath warming her neck. Their bodies are so close; she can feel his heartbeat thumping.

He lifts her up, taking her by surprise.

His hands grip her thighs, her legs hanging over his arm as if she were a princess in a fairy tale. She feels light and small in his arms, yet, despite her weight, she feels entirely safe. His eyes bore into hers, his expression darkening, and his breath is hot as he leans in, his lips a mere inch away.

“Seems like the old man still has it.” She laughs.

"So you're a wise-ass, then." He scowls, but underneath it, his eyes sparkle, and his cheeks are flushed. He lifts her leg upwards, bringing her higher onto him. She can feel the pressure of his frame on hers, the force of his strength, and his warmth. He's so much bigger than her.

She shakes her head playfully.

His hands caress her smooth legs, her breath catching at his touch. His fingers trail up her thigh, his breath hot against her sensitive skin. His eyes are fixed on her face, but his mind is elsewhere.

“So you’re a dirty old man too?”

"I'm a gentleman," he growls, his voice tinged with masculine intent. Her leg is still in his grasp, her thigh still brushing against his hand.

She gasps as he carries her back into his bed.

He sets her down into the bed, her frame pressed against the mattress, her legs wrapped around him. His body covers hers almost entirely, her waist in the space between his thighs. They share an unspoken understanding, their gaze unwavering as he inches closer to her…

It was perfect… this night was just perfect. His estate here in The Cotswolds made sure to let them forget the outside world for a minute, to forget their responsibilities. In this little world they have here, she’s not just the mistress—the other woman. In fact, he detests calling her his mistress; he loves her more than his legal wife. Their entwined bodies spoke a language only they understood, a silent declaration of their love.

As the first rays of sunlight pierce through the curtains, casting a soft glow upon the room, he holds her a moment longer.

But he can't. She must go. The driver's already parked outside, only missing is her and her bags.

She looks back at him, while seated in the leather car seat. He kisses her once more on her lips, and he closes the car door, kissing her goodbye for now.

[itsduckinghard]

INTERVIEW

James May: ‘I don’t think you realise quite what a catch I am’

The TV presenter, 61, talks about motoring, middle age and the perils of running a pub

Friday December 20 2024

James May thinks he was slightly drunk when the words came tumbling out of his mouth. “Possibly also a bit aggrieved and feeling a bit pompous,” he adds with a shrug. That’s when he told his long-term partner Sarah Frater: “I don’t think you realise quite what a catch I am.”

May is sitting in the study of his west London home. He shows me a home-made cushion with those words beautifully cross-stitched into it. “Sarah thought it was so funny she went away and immortalised it for me,” he says. “Whenever I sit on it I feel I’m the man I always wanted to be.”

May is about to turn 62. He looks ruddy-cheeked and happy having just enjoyed a weekend of playing music (piano and flute), cooking, cycling and “making things”. Of course, he’s best known as one of the larking uber-bloke presenters of the BBC’s Top Gear and latterly Amazon’s The Grand Tour, but it sounds like he’s ready to take himself a bit more seriously.

“Maybe it’s just reaching the age where you don’t care so much what others think,” he says. “My resolution for 2025 is: be a bloke. Don’t be ashamed of it. I think blokes are having a bit of a hard time at the moment. That’s not to say women are not too, but there is a small but vocal group who hold middle-aged men in contempt. We are supposedly boomers who had it too easy but I don’t believe that. I think most men are OK and need to stand up for themselves a bit more. Our job is to be practical, dependable, philosophical and, yes, poets to some extent.”

May was always the thoughtful, practical, dependable one in his long-running partnership with Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson, and was christened Captain Slow by the latter for his efforts. The trio announced their retirement from The Grand Tour earlier this year. Last month May started a new Discovery+ series called James May and the Dull Men, on which he lugubriously talked us through his collection of Japanese chisels. Is he basically in mourning?

“No. I think Jeremy, Richard and I gave the format a really good thrashing and now it’s time to let a younger generation have a go,” he says generously. “The idea was to land the car show format safely and not fly it into a cliff. We only cleared the cliff by a few feet but I think it will survive. I do my best to be a contemporary human being and embrace new ideas, but we were very much rooted in an Eighties and Nineties view of what motoring is about. It needs a fresh take because the subject has never been more interesting.”

On paper it’s been a tough year. May was paid a reputed £7 million a season for The Grand Tour and his travelogue series (also on Amazon) Our Man in … was also cancelled this year. “But I’m not one to sit around in an easy chair farting and thinking about what’s for dinner,” he says. “There is still so much I’m interested in — things I’ve neglected while rolling my eyes at Jeremy in exotic locations.”

Despite their obvious differences (May has previously called Clarkson “an arse”), the two men share similar interests. Clarkson opened a Cotswolds pub, the Farmer’s Dog, in August, four years after May bought a share of the Royal Oak in Swallowcliffe, Wiltshire, near where he has a second home. Clarkson also co-owns a brewery, while May has launched his own line of gin with the help of a Wiltshire microbrewery.

He insists this isn’t a simple branding exercise. He actually sat down with a local distiller and they came up with a rather esoteric range of botanicals that includes Asian Parsnip, which fuses “the dampness of England” with his love of Asia, and London Drizzle, which was inspired by “the smell of rain on hot London pavements”.

That sounds like a joke, but don’t say that to May lest you unshackle the nerd within. “No, no, no, it’s a real thing,” he insists. “After rain in the capital the water re-enlivens decaying organic herbaceous matter and their spores give rise to the distinct petrichor smell. With exactly the right type of beetroot, juniper and other ingredients you can create that flavour. It’s wonderful.”

If May is excited by his venture (it seems odd there isn’t a Captain Sloe Gin), he is having a tougher time with his pub. He was approached by a TV company to make a series about his struggles similar to Clarkson’s hit show about running a farm, but said no. “I declined because it’s a brutally hard business, and who wants to watch a man throwing his savings down the toilet?” he asks. We run through some of the landlordly hardships. Prawns are now so expensive they’ve had to remove them from the menu. The septic tank needs attention. The 18th-century building needs constant repair. “Basically there’s an endless list of countryside bollocks to attend to,” he sighs.

But you can tell May knows what he’s doing because Clarkson, despite having barred both May and the prime minister Keir Starmer from the Farmer’s Dog on the day it opened, has actually been in contact asking for advice on how to run it.

“Jeremy Zoom-called me to ask whether it was a worthwhile project and I told him, ‘Do it for your community, but don’t expect to make money.’ Even a really, really good pub will only break even. Most fail and the budget has only made things harder.”

May insists he is a terrible businessman and will not make any money from his pub or gin ventures. However, booze is clearly central to his life. While away filming The Grand Tour, he and Hammond formed James & Richard’s Drunk Philosophical Debating Society, in which they’d get sloshed and discuss conundrums such as: “How do you know a dog is a dog?”

“I have yet to hear a satisfactory theory,” he says. “The variety of shapes and sizes is much broader than with cats, so how do you define it?”

What with the gin, the pub and being a vintage wine connoisseur, I know a lot of people who’d think … “Yes, I know, I know,” he says before I can finish. “People assume you are a raging alcoholic.”

Do you drink every day? “Yes, it’s fairly unusual for me to go an evening without a drink. I have a very strict six o’clock rule, though sometimes I’m watching the clock at half-five. Of an evening I will often have a gin and tonic, some wine and a few beers in the pub. I don’t think it’s harmful. I think it’s good. I recommend it wholeheartedly because even though it’s cliché to say, ‘It’s a social lubricant,’ it’s true. Drinking makes it easier for shy people to have sex, which means more children and therefore a bigger workforce.” May and his partner never had children. In the past he has said it was too late for them (they met when he was in his late thirties), even that older parents raising children was “unfair”.

“Maybe ‘unfair’ was a bit strong,” he says. “But when I was at school there was a boy whose dad was the same age as my granddad and it felt weird. And that actor who recently had a child with a much younger woman? [He means Al Pacino, who became a father again at 83 with his 29-year-old partner.] He’s not going to be around very much is he? Then again, you can be young and still not be around much, so who knows?”

May would be a great dad, I say. All that practical knowledge. What child wouldn’t want to see their father attempt to cook dinner in a washing machine (one of May’s recent experiments in the Dull Men series)? “I have a ready audience of nieces and nephews,” he says. “But listen, if anyone wants their child to learn how to fix a puncture, send them to me.”

He and Sarah will spend Christmas at home with family in London and then head to the Royal Oak for new year celebrations. May says they do a very good feast which includes wines and his gin. He has even got over the fact they removed his signature fish pie from the menu without telling him.

“It was there for about three days but then quietly withdrawn,” he says. “Sometimes in life you have to accept that people know better than you. That might sound like something I saw cross-stitched on to a cushion too, but it’s also true.”

James May’s perfect weekend

Wine or spirits? Both

Car or bike? Bicycle because it is one of the greatest inventions of all time

Piano or flute? Piano

Gammon or woke? Even with all its problems, woke

Bar queue or bar scrum? Scrum

I couldn’t get through my weekend without … … a gin and tonic

[chelemlem]

For the prompts: 5 times Oscar takes care of Lando and 1 time Lando takes care of him Back!

ty anon! hope u don't mind that i combined 2 prompts + made it LOVE ISLAND AU ↓ (why is this 1k)

"Watch your step," their driver says sharply, half a second before Lando's loafers slip on a particularly wet patch of earth climbing out the car.

"Cheers, mate," Lando says, heart thundering. Jesus. Fine way to start off his reality T.V career. Week one and out of the running 'cause he split his head open on some fucking rocks. 

Lando extracts his fingers from around the guy's bicep. Huh, not bad. He wasn’t trying to cop a feel, but.

"Anytime."

And he’s back to squinting at something on his digital notebook. Pale and rumpled, he looks out of place in the Majorca sunshine. There's a subtle furrow between his brows, like he’s got a long list of tasks to get through, and Lando’s just the first.

"That was close," George fusses, strategically sliding an arm around Lando's shoulder in a way that both highlights their height difference and show off his delts. One of those posh Cotswold types; harmless enough. Lando'd picked him for his first date because at the end of the day, they wanted the same thing—to win.

"Yeah, scary," Lando blinks up at him. Giggles for the cameras.

 

Lando's going to quit. 

Or like. Sue someone. He stares down at his pre-packaged meal, stomach turning. This was the one thing, the one thing he listed as part of his dietary restrictions, and still—

A shadow falls across his lap.

"Here," the PA from before says. Brown hair, thighs. Oscar?

Lando eyes the unmarked takeaway box hovering in front of him with suspicion. It smells okay. And anything's better than fish.

"Chicken rice," Oscar clarifies, handing him a spoon to match. "Thai okay?"

Oh. Lando gives him a smile, small but genuine. So someone did read the profile they made him write. Who would've thought?

Oscar clears his throat. "If you need anything else, just—I'll be over there."

He hightails it to where Luisa and the other girls are holding court around the firepit, sliding his headset back on as he goes. Nice arse too. 

Crew aren't allowed to speak to the islanders, if Max’s rudimentary Reddit trawl is to be believed, but whatever. Lando's not one for rules anyway.

He tucks into his chicken rice and tries to think of other things he needs. 

"There's a new bombshell arriving today," Oscar casually lets slip at mic-up. Quietly, under his breath.

The fuck? It's only been forty-eight hours since Nyck got here. Or maybe longer—who the fuck knows with the way time passes in the villa. There's nothing to do but tan and flirt, the sun setting on the same listless, lazy day forever. Forever. 

But more importantly—

"They hotter than me?"

Oscar's face does this put-upon little thing before sliding back to neutral. Instead of responding, he winds the mic pack around Lando's waist, bending down to secure it at his hips. 

Lando knows how to do it himself by now. Oscar knows Lando knows.

"By a fair bit, I reckon," he says finally, and escapes before Lando can call him a liar. 

"Also, you've got a terrible poker face. At least pretend to be touched when he surprises you with breakfast." 

"He made me eggs and toast, mate. Not exactly Michelin-star, is it?" Or chicken rice, for that matter.

Oscar sighs. "Next week's vote's going to the public. Just so you know."

Lando's not worried. He's survived this long—longer than Daniel, even, who won fan favourite, week two—so clearly there's something he's doing right.

He sort of wants out, anyway. He misses his phone. God, he misses sex. Everyone talks a big game, but when it actually comes down to it they're fucking, like, shy about doing it in front of the cameras. And the cameras are bleeding everywhere. Lando would know.

The only reprieve, or something like it, is—Oscar. 

He's not exactly forthcoming with chatter, but through the power of being cute and annoying, Lando learns a lot about him anyway. 

Like how he's a fan of the cricket. And he's got three sisters, none of whom give a fuck about the show. And how apparently being a former cub scout makes him some kind of authority on tying people up. 

"Just saying those knots seemed loose, is all." 

Lando feels a smirk coming on. "Watching, were you?" 

Oscar rolls his eyes. "I review the Hideaway footage to make sure it's fit for broadcast, yes."

"Kinky."

"Good job. Really defended my honour there." 

"Fuck off," Oscar says, surprisingly calm for someone with bruises trawling the side of their face.

"Dunno why you thought you could take him. He's got like two stone and six centimetres on you. And Charles heard he's done amateur boxing—"

"Got one decent one in there, at least?"

"Element of surprise, s'all it was."

Lando gives up with the bandages. He has no idea what he's doing—and his hands are shaking too much to be of any real use. Best leave it to medical.

"Oscar," he says, rubbing his eyes. His thumb comes away damp. Christ, this better not end up on telly. "The fuck were you thinking, mate." 

Oscar exhales long and hard. His voice is softer when he says: "Sorry. Wasn't really… thinking."

Lando punches his arm lightly—the good one.

"Next time, just. Ask me out normally, alright?"

"They're not firing me," Oscar's voice sounds stunned through the phone, coloured with relief. It's the most emotion Lando's ever heard out of him. Well, second most. "Did you—?"

"My agent said me and Carlos can call it quits two months after the finale," Lando interrupts. It's important, after all.

There's quiet over the line. He can hear Oscar breathing. In out, in out. 

"And what did you say?"

Lando leans forward, against the dash of his borrowed McLaren. The one he's being paid to drive around in, posting selfies with wine and roses in the passenger's. 

Runner's up is first loser and all that, but. It's still a pretty good deal.

"Told her I'll do two weeks."