#First Black MP

[larrylimericks]

13Mar23

Louis’ sartorial choices In Tokyo all but destroyed us: Black suit, scoopneck showing His chest piece, eyes glowing; “Yes, Daddy” said all of our voices.

[thursdaysbagman]

.

[marlinspirkhall]

#also: is she REALLY the only black person in the WHOLE government????

No, Kemi Badenoch isn't even the only Black Conservative MP, though she did say "only black woman in government" (which also isn't true), though it's likely she meant "cabinet" which is a more specific term referring to Tories appointed by the Prime Minister.

[Relevant]

This is all happening while the government are trying Marieha Hussain for "racially aggravated public order offense" because she held a sign at a protest. But, remember, Rishi really cares about free speech 🥺

This image may offend Conservatives:

[X]

okay im not british and i admit my understanding of british politics is not great but i found out that david tennant's speech when he accepted the lgbt celebrity ally award made british politicans BIG mad. the way conservative transphobic politicans will weaponize any part of their identity to silence criticism agaisnt them is so disingenious and shitty.

THIS is what he said. okay

and this was the reaction of badenoch and sunak

literally weaponizing her identity as a woman and a woman of colour to distract from how dangerously transphobic she is. like what the fuck. anyways i just wanted to bring this up because it's something that terfs do constantly. especially to shut up trans woman and cis male allies. not to mention david tennant is a father of a non-binary child and i believe one of other kids is queer. he's not just being a performative ally, trans rights are important to him and his family. anyways fuck sunak fuck badenoch.

[gloomwitchwrites]

The 141 boys and the TikTok trend “everybody knows that I’m a good girl officer”

Firstly, I want to say that in this house, we say "fuck the police (derogatory)" every single day. However, I will indulge in this instance because it's our 141 boys and I think the trend with them would be absolutely smoldering. But I will change it up slightly, and pull from my Bodyguard!141 AU Post as well as lean into a security detail aspect for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, flirting, secret relationship

Word Count: 1.5k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Price adjusts the ear piece in his right ear.

The blasted thing doesn’t fit right. It keeps slipping. It’s irritating but it’s manageable. Not like Price is running anywhere. At least, he doesn’t plan on moving too quickly. His job is to stand and observe. To make look after a certain MP’s daughter, and to take her back to the hotel when she tells you she’s ready to leave.

You are no stranger. Far from it.

And it goes far beyond the grounds of appropriate behavior.

Price has completely stuck his foot in it, bedding you when he isn’t supposed to. Stealing kisses in dark corners, and fucking you behind closed doors. He was hired by your father to look after you, and instead, John has taken it much further than that.

But he doesn’t fucking regret it.

Not at all.

John adjusts his ear piece and scans the room from left to right. You’re not in sight but that doesn’t bother him. This ballroom is packed full of rich schmucks who couldn’t give a shit about him.

He scans the room again, and this time he finds you.

You’re walking toward him, hips moving in a sultry sway that steals John’s resolve. You’re gorgeous. Perfect. And he can’t stop staring.

The corner of your mouth quirks with amusement, and John straightens his shoulders, making himself appear bigger. He needs to look professional. He needs to look like he’s not thinking about all the ways he wants to fuck you.

But it’s hard to focus, and when you approach, you glance over your shoulder at him, words leaving your mouth that John doesn’t entirely catch at first. Your foot pops in the air, and the friend you’re walking with giggles, her hand pressed to her painted lips.

Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.

A good girl.

Yes. You are.

You’re John’s good girl.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

High-stakes missions have always been part of Kyle’s life. It is what he knows. What he thrives on. But between the missions, Kyle keeps working, and not with SAS.

Kyle mostly signs up for security detail at different places around London. Sometimes he might work as a bouncer for a club, or be monitoring people entering a music venue. Sometimes the gigs are swanky, and sometimes they’re not. Kyle doesn’t really mind as long as he’s paid.

That’s the whole point.

He’s saving. Wants to buy a house. Maybe find someone to settle down with. Life is going by fast. He needs some stability amongst all the violence.

And tonight? Tonight, he’s nothing more than a glorified security guard.

He looks the part in all-black tactical gear, and he isn’t the only one. There is an entire group of them all lined up in front of large windows, creating a bit of barrier. The event coordinator expected protests. All there is are a handful of people across the street with signs. They’re harmless.

Kyle doesn’t pay them any mind.

He does watch the regular people walking by on his side of the road. Some people are here for the event and others are just passing through.

Standing on the corner nearby is a small group of young women. They’re all dressed up like they’re heading to the clubs. Kyle pretends he’s not looking, but that would be a lie. There is one he keeps glancing at.

You’re fucking stunning. A beauty.

But Kyle has to remain calm. Aloof. He’s not here for you or anyone except the job at hand.

“Go over there.”

“I can’t!”

“Girl. He is so cute. Do it.”

Kyle casually turns his head, only to find you striding toward him. His throat drops into his stomach, and you waltz past him, pausing just to his right, flipping your hair, and batting your eyelashes at him and then your friends.

“Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

Your friends scream, and then you hurriedly run back to them as if you’ve done something you shouldn’t.

A good girl? Sure you are, love.

Kyle smirks and looks away, doing his best to hide a growing smile.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon sits in the driver seat of a large, black SUV. His fingers are itching for a cigarette. He needs the smoke—to feel the burn. To rid himself of some of this agitation.

It’s not annoyance. It’s not frustration. And it sure as shit isn’t anger.

No. Simon has a fucking rager in his pants, and his thoughts are filled with images of you. You—who he’s supposed to be protecting. Escorting you to and from events, pushing back the crowd, and keeping a firm lock on where you are at all times.

The black dress you’re wearing tonight is made of flimsy material. It clings to every curve and swell. Simon is hungry—a feral animal that couldn’t stop stalking you throughout the event.

Now, he’s about to take you back to your hotel. And he knows you’ll invite him in. He knows that the little black dress you wear will be nothing but a pile on the floor in due time.

But this need in his bones isn’t just Simon’s fault. You were a fucking tease all evening. You were bad. Openly flirting with other men in front of him, drinking more than you should have, and genuinely being a little terror to his sanity. All this behavior will only get you punishment. A punishment he’s happy to deal out once he has you behind a closed door.

A car door clicks, and Simon glances up, expecting to see you slide into the backseat. You’re not there. You’re next to him. In the front passenger seat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Simon, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

You shrug and settle in. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, leaning on the middle armrest.

Simon can smell your perfume. “Buckle up,” he growls, and you do so casually, as if you don’t hear his irritation.

He pulls out into traffic, and the moment the two of you are clear of the building, Simon feels your hand on his thigh moving dangerously close to his dick.

“This bad behavior needs to stop.”

Your body shifts and you sing-song the next words out of your mouth. “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

The words are bit slurred. You’re completely pissed, and Simon cannot help but laugh. No punishment then. Not tonight at least.

But tomorrow?

Absolutely.

John "Soap" MacTavish

This isn’t Johnny’s usual job, but it’s easy work.

Usually, hired security and local police take care of concerts and sporting events, but the military has been called in for this one, and Johnny is fine with that. Again, it’s easy work, and they’re paying him more for it.

He stands in one spot, scans the crowd, and acts casual while looking downright intimidating. The intimidation isn’t hard. They have him completely decked out in all-black tactical and balaclava included. All you can see of Johnny are his eyes.

It’s fun, actually. When he put it all on, he pretended to be Simon, only to receive a swat upside the head for it from the man himself.

Johnny has his hands casually resting on his bulletproof vest. No one is really looking at him, and those that do quickly look away. But there is one he can’t stop looking at.

You’re so damn cute, and you can’t stop glancing at him either. You’re with friends, and you keep smiling in his direction. If this were any other night, Johnny would approach you, flirt a bit, maybe even ask for your number. Might even take you home with him if you were open to it.

But Johnny is on the job, and he can’t afford to do that.

As you move closer to him through the crowd, one of your friends keeps saying something to you, moving their hands as if urging you to do something. Johnny isn’t sure what, but he’s curious. You don’t look like danger, and there is nothing about your demeanor that says that you’re looking to cause trouble.

Maybe it’s the balaclava. That seems to be a thing now.

As you approach, there is a pop of your foot, a quick flip of your hair, and a stunning smile. Your friend holds up her phone and you turn away from Johnny briefly to say “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

I bet you fucking are, love.

Your friends giggle with pleasure, and you quickly move away from him but not before you glance over your shoulder one last time, mouthing a silent “thank you.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@arrozyfrijoles23 @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @vrb8im

[holyblonded]

jealousy, jealousy | birds of a feather

pairings: paige bueckers x black!oc

summary: rocky schedules cause a drift in paige and cecilia’s relationship

warnings: jealous paige jealous paige jealous paige

notes: y’all i hate nova this time of year. everyone is on guard (rightfully so!) and tell me why i saw a tr*mp truck on my way to school 😐

Paige never considered herself the jealous type. Heck, she even bragged to many of her teammates that's the word didn't exist in her relationship. She loved Cecilia, Cecilia loved her. The same story for years now and everyone knew it. But, with the two of them both being in season and traveling, their window for their usual FaceTimes has shrunk and their texts have become brief. Paige's security in the relationship was shaken.

"Hi, I'm Cecilia and this is-" Cecilia pointed to her two friends on either side of her.

"Gavi-"

"and Pedri."

"And this is the best friends test," They all said together, Cecilia sounding much more upbeat than the other two.

"Here's how to the game goes, we all take turn asking questions and the other two write it down on the whiteboard so whoever gets it right, gets a point," Cecilia explained to the camera.

Cecilia grinned at the camera. "Alright, let's kick this off. First question: What's my favorite color?"

Gavi and Pedri scribbled furiously on their whiteboards before holding them up in unison.

"Yellow!" they both said at the same time, sounding like a rehearsed choir.

Cecilia clasped her hands together, looking touched. "Awww, you guys know me so well!"

Pedri smirked. "That was the easiest question ever."

"Don't get cocky," Cecilia shot back, flipping her cue card. "Here's a harder one: Who did I make my debut against?"

Both boys froze, their markers hovering over their boards.

"Uh... Sevilla?" Pedri guessed hesitantly.

"No, no, it was Espanyol," Gavi said with the confidence of someone who was absolutely wrong.

Cecilia gave them both a disappointed look. "Wrong and wrong. It was Real Madrid."

Gavi's eyebrows furrowed. "Your debut was El Clasico? That's crazy, why would they do that?"

"Cause I'm the greatest. But, yeah, no pressure or anything," Cecilia shrugged nonchalantly. "Just 90 minutes of running in the biggest game against Spain at the age of fourteen. Totally chill. Just another day being the best.”

"Shut up," Pedri rolled his eyes.

Cecilia laughed as she wiped the imaginary dust off her hands. "Okay, my turn's done. Gavi, you're up!"

Gavi smirked as he grabbed the question card in front of him. "Alright, let's see if you two actually know me. First question: What's my go-to meal after a hard match?”

Cecilia and Pedri immediately started scribbling on their whiteboards.

"Pizza," Cecilia said confidently, holding up her board.

"McDonald's," Pedri countered, grinning as he turned his board around.

Gavi pointed at Pedri. "He's right. McDonald's all the way."

Cecilia groaned. "Seriously? You're an elite athlete, and you're eating McNuggets after games? Nourish your body, dummy."

"Don't judge me, C," Gavi defended. "Next question: What's my biggest fear?"

Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "Oh, this is easy." She quickly wrote something down.

Pedri hesitated, tapping his marker against his chin before finally scribbling something.

"Alright, show me," Gavi demanded.

"Spiders," Cecilia said, flipping her board.

"Practice after a game with a lot of yellow cards," Pedri guessed, his grin wide and teasing.

Gavi's face dropped as Cecilia and Pedri laughed. "Haha, so funny Pedri, but the answer is spiders."

Cecilia pumped her fist in the air. "Finally, some points for me!"

"Alright, it's my turn," Pedri said, leaning back in his chair with a smug look. "Let's start with an easy one: What's my favorite TV show?"

Gavi rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, we all know this."

Cecilia wrote something down quickly, her tongue poking out in concentration.

"Ready? One, two, three!" Pedri called.

"Money Heist," Cecilia said, holding her board up.

"Money Heist," Gavi echoed, flipping his board.

Pedri nodded. "Yep. Too easy. Next question: How old was I when I scored my first professional goal?"

Cecilia furrowed her brow. "Ugh, this is a trick question. I know it."

"Why would it be a trick question?" Gavi asked, already writing.

"Because everything with Pedri is a trick question," Cecilia replied, jotting down her answer.

"Alright, answers?" Pedri said.

"Seventeen," Cecilia guessed.

"Sixteen," Gavi said confidently.

Pedri shook his head, grinning. "You're both wrong. I was seventeen and three months."

Cecilia groaned. "You're the worst. Who even remembers the months?"

Pedri smirked. "A winner, that's who."

After a few more rounds, the three friends were in tears from laughing, their boards covered in half-erased answers and doodles.

"So who won?" Gavi asked, leaning over to tally the scores.

Pedri squinted at the paper. "Cecilia. By half a point."

"What?" Gavi exclaimed. "That's rigged! She probably cheated."

Cecilia gasped dramatically. "Excuse me? I'm just smarter than you two combined."

Pedri shrugged. "She's not wrong."

Gavi crossed his arms, pouting. "Next time, we're doing a test where I get to choose all the questions."

"Good luck with that," Cecilia teased. "We all know you'd still lose."

The video ended with the three of them laughing, Cecilia tossing an eraser at Gavi, who pretended to dodge it in slow motion.

Paige watched as the video faded to black, her chest filling with an indescribable feeling. A rather uncomfortable warmth accompanied by a sharp tug in her chest and a knot in her throat that made it hard to breathe.

"P," Nika called out. "You good?"

"Yeah," Paige's teeth were clenched. "I'm good."

Paige was head over heels for Cecilia and when they missed a day of talking, it felt like withdrawals. While Cecilia found this trait of Paige endearing, the same cannot be said for her teammates and friends.

"Paige! Shut the fuck up, please," Azzi groaned.

"I miss her, Azzi. My heart hurts," Paige complained as she clutched her chest dramatically. "My heart feels like it's going to explode."

"Let it," Nika mumbled in passing.

Paige sighed and trudged to her room throwing herself on the bed. She opened TikTok and went through her routine whenever she missed Cecilia, watching her edits.

Paige scrolled through the app enjoying the many thirst trap edits of her girlfriend when a certain in came across her screen. It's started out normal but a clip from an interview with Jana popped up and it turned on to a ship edit to the song Glue by Beabadoobee.

Paige knew she shouldn't have, but she clicked on the comments.

the ultimate barca couple 🗣️

they need to get together already 😭

bruh they are so cute

That same unsettling warmth filled Paige again. An uneasy, persistent ache grew in her stomach as she quickly swiped out of the app.

"Hey, Amor," Cecilia smiling face took up Paige's phone. Paige instantly sent her a smile yet. This is the first time she saw her girlfriend the whole week with their schedules keeping them apart.

"Hey, baby. I was thinking-" Paige was interrupted by a voice calling for Cecilia.

"Cari!" The voice of Ona Batlle rang through the small hallway where Cecilia was hiding. " Per què t'amagues aquí? (Why are you hiding here?)"

"Parlant amb la Paige sense que la Pina i la Patri em molestessin (Talking to Paige without Pina and Patri bothering me)," Cecilia answered as she smiled up at Ona from the floor.

"Okay, Cari," Ona planted a quick kiss on Cecilia's cheek before patting her head. "Assegureu-vos de dinar, d'acord. (Make sure to get lunch, okay.)"

"Si, si," Cecilia dismissed and swatted Ona's hands away before the older girl made her way to the cafeteria. "What were you saying, Amor?"

Paige gave her a tight lipped smile, with the unpleasant warmth filling her chest, "It's not important, don't worry about it, babe."

Paige tossed and turned, before she settled on her back, staring at her dorm ceiling. After a Google search and looking at advice videos on TikTok, Paige has chalked up the odd emotion she's been feeling was jealousy. She had never felt the feeling before in her relationship with Cecilia. With both of their careers taking off their usual everyday talks had dwindled down, and seeing Cecilia getting shipped with her teammates hurt Paige.

The blonde looked at her alarm clock that read 11:04 pm. She knew it was 5 in Barcelona but her brain moved on autopilot as she reached for her phone and dialed Cecilia's number. After the second ring, the call was answered by the groggy twenty year old.

"Amor? Are you okay?" Cecilia asked, attempting to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

"Are you in love with someone else?" Paige blurts out. Cecilia then sat up in bed, wide and awake.

"Amor, what?"

"Do you love Gavi or Pedri or Ona or anyone else in Spain?" Paige restated.

Cecilia shook her head, not comprehending what Paige could be asking right now. "What? Amor— no. There's no one else I love. What's been up with you lately? Háblame."

Paige sighed, her free hand coming up to rub at her temple as she tried to find the right words. "I don't even know where to start. It's just... lately, things have felt different, and I've been overthinking everything. You're all the way in Spain, and I'm here, and we barely get to talk like we used to. And then I see those videos of you with Gavi, Pedri, Ona, and your whole team..." She paused, her voice catching. "And I see the way people ship you with them, and it just... it hurts, Cece."

Cecilia's heart sank as she listened. "Paige," she said softly, her voice laced with concern.

"I know it's stupid, okay?" Paige continued, her words tumbling out now. "I know they're just your friends, and you're close with them because you spend so much time together, but I can't help it. I've never felt this... jealous before. And I hate feeling this way because I trust you—I do—but my brain just won't shut up."

Cecilia stayed quiet for a moment, letting Paige vent. Then, she took a deep breath and spoke, her tone calm but firm. "Amor, listen to me. You're the only person I love. You're my person. Always and forever. Not Gavi, not Pedri, not Ona—none of them. They're my friends, yes, and I love spending time with them, but it's not the same kind of love. What I feel for you? It's on a completely different level."

Paige sniffled softly, her fingers gripping her phone tightly. "But you're so far away, Cece. And they get to see you every day. They get to laugh with you, be around you, while I'm just... here. I feel like I'm losing you, even if I know that's not true."

"You're not losing me," Cecilia said with conviction, her voice softening again. "I promise, you're not. I know things have been tough lately with our schedules, and I hate that I can't talk to you as much as I want. But no matter how busy things get, you're always in my heart, Paige. I think about you every day, and I can't wait for the moment I can hold you again."

Paige let out a shaky breath, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just needed to hear that."

"And I'll remind you every day if you need me to," Cecilia said, a small smile creeping into her tone. "This is new for us, being apart for this long, not finding time to visit, but we're a team, remember? We'll figure it out, like we always do."

Paige finally let herself relax, the tension melting away from her body. "I love you, Cece. I'm sorry for being so insecure."

"Don't apologize for how you feel," Cecilia said. "It's okay to feel like this. Just talk to me, okay? No more holding it in until you're randomly calling me at five in the morning.”

Paige laughed softly, the sound making Cecilia's heart swell. "Deal."

"Good," Cecilia said warmly. "Now, get some sleep, Amor. I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll figure out a time to talk more often, okay?"

"Okay," Paige murmured, a soft smile forming on her lips. "Goodnight, Cece."

"Goodnight, mi amor. Sweet dreams."

[r3starttt]

KISS ME

PAIRING: Jackson! ellie x reader

CW: request. outbreak | tlou universe.

SUMMARY: Ellie takes care of you after patrol.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | - ellie taglist: @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages

The night sky stretches above you, a deep canvas of blue-black, with only a few stubborn stars daring to puncture its vastness. The moon, however, shone with an almost ethereal glow, casting a silvery light that softened the edges of the night. It illuminated your path home. Yet, its light did little to ease the weariness clinging to your body. Every muscle ached, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your tired limbs.

The ground beneath your feet felt distant, as if you were walking on shattered glass, each step a jagged reminder of the day’s relentless toll. It felt as though the very bones in your feet might shatter with the weight of the exhaustion that clung to you, heavy and unyielding.

From the moment you left the safety of yours and Ellie's shared walls, it was a relentless march through the wilderness, every mile weighing down on you like a stone.

The hours went by in a haze of heat and sweat, the sun’s unforgiving rays beating down on you until you felt as though your very essence was melting away. The memory of that heat still lingered, a phantom pain that sapped what little strength you had left.

Your legs had carried you far beyond what should have been your limit. Every patrol was a test, pushing you to the edge, but it was always the final stretch—the steps that brought you back home—that hurt the most. The pain of a long day wasn’t truly felt until you stood on the threshold of safety, when the body, sensing the nearness of rest, began to unravel, finally allowed to release.

The night was quiet, the crickets were quieter tonight, their usual chorus subdued, as if they, too, were tired. Instead, the usual symphony had been replaced by the distant air, a murmur of voices- the sound of the town coming alive in the evening.

People greeted the returning patrols, their voices carrying a mix of relief and fatigue, like echoes of a world that still held onto some semblance of normalcy. Your own group had been particularly weary tonight, the day’s struggles etched into the lines of their faces as they shared tired smiles and half-hearted jokes. Last voices you heard were tinged with exhaustion, drifted to you, words that blended together in a chorus of shared fatigue.

But the sounds of the night could not drown out the ghosts that clung to your mind—the groans and cries of the infected, the hollow echoes of what once were human beings. Their twisted forms a grim reminder of what awaited those who let their guard down.

A smear of dried blood clung to your cheek, the crimson stark against your sweat-streaked skin. Every inch of you was covered in the grime of the day, the sun having left its mark in the form of a relentless burn that sapped your energy and left you feeling hollowed out.

The bruises and cuts scattered across your body throbbed with a dull ache, a heavy weight that seemed to settle in your stomach, twisting it into tight knots. It felt like you’d been running on empty, forcing yourself through sheer willpower, and now that you were so close to rest, the pain was finally catching up to you.

Your fingers brushed against the rough wood of Ellie’s porch door, the familiar texture grounding you for just a moment before it was pulled open. The door swung inward with surprising ease, and there she was—Ellie. The first thing you saw was her eyes, green orbs filled with worry as they drank in the sight of you. She had been waiting, her anxiety palpable in the way her fingers fidgeted nervously, tangling together as if she could knit away her fear.

Without a word, she reached for you, guiding you inside with a gentle hand on your arm. You stumbled through the doorway, the weight of your body dragging you down, but before you could even think to shrug it off, Ellie was there, the moth tattoo peeking out from beneath her sleeve as she motioned for you to turn around. Your body moved on autopilot, dragging itself to obay her command, sluggishly.

Ellie had barely waited for you to move before she was easing the heavy backpack from your shoulders, her fingers deftly undoing the straps as if they were second nature. Too enveloped in the warmth, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights adorning the room and adding to the feeling of safety that she always manages to create around you- barely registering the weight of your backpack being lifted from your shoulders.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was soft, a quiet melody tinged with concern, though you could only manage a nod, your throat too tight to form words. The day had stolen your voice, leaving you with nothing but the heaviness in your chest. But Ellie’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing in its familiarity.

The space enlightened in a gentle, golden hue. It felt like a safe haven, a sanctuary where the world outside could not reach you.

You stumbled toward the couch, your hands fumbling with the laces of your boots. On your ears echoed the faint rustle of fabric as Ellie hung up your—her—jacket on the hook by the door, the simple act somehow grounding you even further.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmured, her gaze lifting to meet yours, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Despite the exhaustion pulling at your very soul, you found comfort in that smile, in the way she always knew how to take care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Yet the calm faded with a frustrated groan that escaped your lips as you encountered a stubborn knot, the simple task suddenly insurmountable in your current state. Ellie noticed immediately, her eyes softening with sympathy as she was already there, kneeling down in front of you, "Stop, you’re gonna make it worse,” she chided gently, her hands brushing yours aside with that lopsided smile you knew so well.

“Let me,” her whisper insisting once again, preventing you from even thinking on fighting her back. Ellie's tone low and husky, a sound that always sent a shiver down your spine. Her fingers worked deftly at the knot, untying it with ease, her touch careful and deliberate. As she did, she glanced up, her voice dropping to a softer, more husky tone, as if trying to coax a response out of you. “Did you hear what I said?”

You managed a half-hearted reply, more of a mumble than anything else. “Get me cleaned, yes.” her fingers finally loosening the stubborn knot, helping you out of your boots. It felt as if the weight of the day begin to lift, replaced by the comfort of knowing that you had her with you, in this very moment to finally provide you safeness.

She would never say it, but you could see the relief in her expression, the way her worry eased just a fraction realizing the same thing. After a long day, she had you there, safe.

"Come on," you groaned, tilting your head back as you sighed deeply. Inside your mind, you counted down from five before finally taking her hand and standing up.

The stiffness in your feet began to ease as you pressed your feet against the cold, hard concrete floor. Its coolness and firmness, in contrast to the warm flesh, added just enough pressure to make you feel better.

Ellie led you into the bathroom—it was only a few steps, really. Her hand was a steadying presence, her fingers resting gently on your opposite arm with each step you took. The small space was dimly lit, a single candle flickering and casting soft, dancing shadows on the walls. Ellie’s bathroom was simple but functional—a small tub, a sink, and a water system. A barrel of water sat near the ceiling, connected to a series of tubes that fed into the showerhead, sink, and toilet. It wasn’t much, but it worked, and in this world, that was everything.

The absence of her touch contrasted with the tender atmosphere. From your viewpoint, you could see her hair, messily tidied into a bun, with a few baby hairs and stray strands adorning her neck and the area behind her ears. You wanted to kiss them.

She knelt by the tub, her movements loud as she filled a bucket with water. The sound of the water splashing into the bucket was soothing, a gentle reminder that you were finally safe—finally home.

Ellie set the bucket down next to the tub and looked up at you, only then realizing you were already looking back. It was quiet, aside from the sound of the water, but everything felt blurry in her presence.

You shifted slightly, resting the back of your arms and elbows against the sink to keep your composure, making enough space for both of you and allowing her to stand up.

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the dried blood that clung stubbornly to your skin. "Arms up," she said with quiet determination, an unspoken promise that she wouldn’t let anything else be a struggle tonight.

You nodded, too tired to do much else, and let her help you out of your clothes. Each piece of fabric that left your body and fell to the floor felt like another layer of the day’s grime and exhaustion being peeled away. By the time you stood there, bare and vulnerable, you felt lighter—still weary, but no longer weighed down.

The tub was cold and stiff, making your bones ache. But it was all easily forgotten. Ellie dipped a sponge into the bucket and began to gently cleanse your skin. She worked in silence, her touch tender and methodical as she wiped away the dirt, blood, and sweat that clung to you. The water was cool against your overheated skin, soothing the burns left by the sun and the aches buried deep in your muscles. The sponge moved across your body with a kind of reverence, as if she were handling something precious. In that moment, you were—precious to her, and safe in her care.

When the sponge had done its work, Ellie carefully poured the dirty water over you, rinsing away the last remnants of the day and ensuring your hair was thoroughly wet. The water cascaded down your body, carrying away the grime and blood, leaving you feeling half-clean—both physically and emotionally.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling as though the water was rinsing away more than just dirt. It was washing away the tension, the fear, and the exhaustion, leaving you with nothing but the comfort of being home, of being with her.

Ellie reached for the soap, lathering it between her hands before gently running them over your skin. The smell of it—something mild and earthy, a scent she had traded for a few weeks back—filled the small bathroom. The soap felt comforting against your battered skin, and Ellie’s hands moved with the kind of care that came from knowing just how fragile you felt in that moment.

She repeated those same motions later, with the soap on your body, her fingers careful not to apply too much pressure whenever there was a cut, bruise, or anything that could cause pain.

“Let me know if it hurts,” Ellie murmured, her voice a low, comforting hum that resonated in your chest. You managed a weak nod, closing your eyes as you surrendered fully to her care. The world outside ceased to exist, reduced to the sound of water splashing against porcelain and the feeling of Ellie’s hands moving over your body in a slow, rhythmic dance.

Finally, she reached up and pulled the chain that controlled the flow of water from the barrel, letting a gentle stream of water fall over you from the showerhead. It wasn’t much—she had to be careful with how much water was used—but it was enough.

"Here," she whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead as she handed you a small towel. It was barely enough to properly dry your hair, but you always managed to make it work.

Too focused on the wet sounds in your ears coming from your hair being dried, you barely noticed the commotion Ellie made while searching for a proper towel for you. She swore she had a clean one left—or maybe she had just convinced herself earlier to avoid doing laundry today. But you didn't know that, so she had to hurry.

When she finally appeared in the doorway, you tilted your chin up, meeting her hands first and then the towel she held. "Come here," she murmured. In a matter of seconds, she had the towel wrapped around your shoulders and was guiding you out of the bathroom and, much to your relief, into the very desirable bed.

She knelt in front of you again, her hands busy with the towel, drying you off with the same care she’d shown throughout. As she worked, her eyes kept flicking up to meet yours, as if she needed to reassure herself that you were really safe, here.

"Can I?" she asked, her fingers lightly grazing the skin of your thighs. Her hazel eyes, dilated pupils, focused on all the bruises, all the wounds. And again, you didn't reply verbally but simply moved the towel aside, exposing yourself before her and allowing her to reach every inch of skin that needed the tenderness of her touch.

It took some pain, hisses, and a kiss here and there. The needle was probably something no human could ever get used to, nor the sensation of the thread between your skin. But you made it work; you had to.

Ellie was gentle, helping you into a clean set of clothes—something soft and warm that smelled faintly of her. You could barely keep your eyes open by this point, the weight of the day catching up with you now that you were finally clean and comfortable.

"Hey," Ellie called softly, taking your hand and gripping it just enough to reassure you. You turned your chin up, meeting her pretty eyes and that sheepish smile. "Let's go eat, come on."

As you did every morning, you forced yourself out of bed. Just as you had done with the couch when you first came in, you took a deep breath, counted to three, and stood up.

Dinner most nights was something she threw together while you were out on patrol. Today, the aroma of a hearty stew filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of herbs.

Usually you’d joke about her cooking, mocking her “chef talents”—she wasn't the best. But tonight, the words stuck in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion and the thought of simply touching the bed again, it looked so inviting.

You slid into your seat at the table, the day's exhaustion making your limbs heavy. Ellie chuckled, her usual dorky grin present but softened by concern. "It's not fancy, but—" she said, sliding a plate in front of you. "It's edible."

She watched as you took tentative bites, her hand resting on your back, offering silent encouragement. As usual, she didn’t touch her own food until she saw you eat.

The silence between you was comfortable, the warmth of the stew seeping into your bones, grounding you after the chaos of the day. Yet, as the meal progressed, your appetite remained low. You gave small glances at Ellie, considering your usual reluctance to eat her cooking.

"I know you’re tired, but you haven't had proper food since breakfast."

You knew that if you refused again, she’d let it slide, waiting until you were sound asleep before eating anything herself just to avoid an argument.

But after all she’d done to take care of you tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to fight her on this. "I’ll wait with you. We can eat together.” With a quiet nod, you picked up your spoon again and took another bite.

Relief. Ellie could only stare at you with relief. The adrenaline of every time you went out on patrol never really fading until next day- for her, it wasn't only the thoughts of you getting hurt, but killed, taken by anyone and being hurt. She feared humans mostly.

And then, seeing you in front of her- yes, hurt, but nothing else- it was like all the anxiety finally made any sense. What would it be if any day you didn't come back, how could she ever manage to eat dinner herself, alone.

Having you in front of her, so close. Feeling the warmth of your skin under her hoodie- the fact that you're the one on her clothes, right next to her. The fact that she's having to force you to eat. It's always a relief, to know you're here, with her, that she has you.

It wasn't until her brain finally realized it was all good that she started to eat.

You always finished first. Only waiting for your stomach to feel full enough, with a gentle move, you pushed the plate away slightly to let her know you were done. Ellie always replied with a nod and a quick glance. Her hand on your thigh as she finished the last few bites of her meal.

The usual banter and teasing were absent, replaced by a quiet understanding—a silent agreement that tonight was about more than just food or sleep. It was about taking care of each other, about finding comfort in the little things. Like—no dishes to be washed tonight. That's future you both's problem.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to your tired mind.

You didn’t argue, letting her lead you to the small bed you shared. The sheets cool against your skin as you slipped under them, Ellie sliding in beside you. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you in a comfortable and tight enough embrace that felt like the safest place in the world. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your back lulled you.

You could feel the rhythm of her breathing against your neck. It all creating the most desirable sanctuary. And after hours that felt endless, you could close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of normalcy—the simple, precious moment of being held by someone who cares deeply, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brings, you'd wake up next to her, ready to face it together.

[bloodhailmp3]

my huge moomin mittens on the bus 💅

i love my huge moomin mittens

[batmanlovesnirvana]

— ‘the frenchwoman.’

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK x FEM!READER

words : 4k

synopsis : You’re no journalist, but a last-minute favor thrusts you into an interview with Rupert Campbell-Black, the infamous Olympian-turned-MP. You hate everything aristocratic, a sentiment no doubt rooted in your French ancestry and your country’s history with the elite. Still, the lines between duty and danger blur with every word.

A/N : English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. I’m not entirely sure what I just wrote, but I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)

THE RUTSHIRE COUNTRYSIDE unfolded before you like a scene from a postcard: undulating hills, pristine fields, and the occasional splash of wildflowers in vivid hues.

It was undeniably beautiful, yet to someone who’d grown up in Paris and now lived in London, where beauty was always wrapped in the chaotic buzz of life, it felt unsettlingly perfect—almost too serene.

You weren’t a journalist—not by any stretch. Your expertise lay in veterinary medicine, not in chasing headlines or conducting interviews.

But when your friend had called, her voice trembling with desperation and barely holding back tears as she tried to explain why she couldn’t make it to England for an urgent assignment for her boss at a high-profile media firm, you hadn’t been able to say no. She’d stammered through her plea, insisting it was a last-minute decision, that none of her colleagues could take her place, and that you were the only French person she knew living in England—making you the perfect stand-in.

She wasn’t famous, but the company she worked for certainly was. Thankfully, they didn’t have a photo of her on file, just the knowledge that a French journalist was coming to interview the infamous womanizing MP.

You fit the role perfectly—or at least well enough to fool them.

So, with a deep breath and every ounce of courage you could summon, you stepped into her shoes, ready to play the part.

The house—no, the manor—loomed ahead, a lavish testament to old money and unchecked arrogance.

Stepping out of your worn-down car, your high heels crunched against the polished gravel of the estate’s driveway of the Campbell-Black estate.

Already, you regretted your choice of footwear, but it was necessary—you had to look the part.

Dressed in a sharp, polished red blouse and matching skirt, you quickly verified that the notebook containing the questions your friend had painstakingly prepared was still tucked safely in your bag. Adjusting it under your arm, your fingers tightened momentarily as you glanced at the grand manor towering before you.

God, you just hoped you wouldn’t embarrass yourself—or blow the cover entirely. The sheer weight of history and expectation seemed to hang in the air, pressing down on you as you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the charade that lay ahead.

“Ah, and here she is.”

The voice, smooth and laced with amusement, came from your left. You turned to see him leaning against a sleek sports car, arms crossed and radiating an air of smug privilege.

Rupert Campbell-Black.

He towered over most, tall and broad-shouldered, with an air of infuriating self-assurance that seemed to demand attention without even trying. His smile, sharp and knowing, was the kind that could either make you want to roll your eyes in disbelief or, if you were feeling particularly bold, slap it right off his face.

Everything about him screamed aristocrat, from the crisply tailored blazer that looked like it had been made for a throne to the way he carried himself with an effortless arrogance, as if he owned the world and was simply letting the rest of us pretend we had a say in it.

It wasn't that you hated him—not exactly. It was more the idea of him, the things he represented, the polished, perfect image he projected of old money, entitlement, and an almost offensive ease with the luxuries of life.

You despised that.

But your irritation with him had mostly been built from the things you’d read in the tabloids. You didn’t want to buy into the gossip, but it was hard not to when everything you read painted him as the worst kind of privileged, pompous snob. Still, like everyone else, you couldn’t help but feel a certain curiosity toward him.

And when you saw him in person—standing there with his smirk and that goddamn perfectly disheveled hair—you had to admit, he was more handsome than you'd imagined. The kind of handsome that made you want to look away just so he wouldn’t notice how much you were looking.

Of course, you wouldn't let him know that.

“You must be the journalist,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like the kind of tone one might use when speaking to someone far beneath them.

He straightened up, his movements calculated and assured as he began to saunter toward you with that predatory grace, as though he had just spotted an interesting mouse.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with deliberate calm. “And you must be the aristocrat who thinks it’s still 1815,” you fired back, taking in his perfectly polished shoes, the tailored cut of his suit, the way he walked as if he were the only person in the room worth noticing. You couldn't help but scan him from head to toe, that critical, discerning eye you had well-practiced over years of dealing with people like him.

He halted in his tracks, his smirk widening as though your words had delivered precisely the challenge he’d been anticipating. “French, then?” he asked, his tone laced with a hint of amusement, underpinned by that ever-present air of casual superiority.

Of course, Rupert already knew the journalist was French—he would have done his homework before agreeing to the interview. No, this was just him, toying with you.

“Oui,” you replied with a quick glance and a little more bite than usual, your arms still crossed tightly over your chest. "Is that going to be a problem?" you added, the challenge in your voice clear, daring him to say something, anything, that would prove your impression of him wrong—or, more likely, confirm it.

“Not at all,” he said smoothly, with a flourish of his hand toward the house. His voice carried a casual, almost theatrical quality as if he were performing for an audience. “In fact, it’s quite refreshing. Most journalists they send are painfully polite. You, on the other hand, seem… different.”

You rolled your eyes, a small, exasperated laugh escaping you. “If by ‘different,’ you mean I’m not here to stroke your ego, then yes, I suppose I am.”

Rupert’s laugh rang out, deep and assured, as if he were privy to some private joke. The sound both irked and intrigued you. Without missing a step, he fell into stride beside you as you neared the entrance. “Miss Duvallet, is it?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, ready to correct him with your real name and a sharp insult, but then it hit you—you were supposed to be Miss Duvallet.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you simply nodded and replied with a curt, “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, taking on a hint of curiosity, “why take this assignment if you’re so clearly opposed to everything I represent?”

You shot him a look, your response as blunt as ever. “Work,” you said simply, shrugging as if that were the only answer that mattered. “Not all of us have the luxury of inheriting a manor.”

“Touché,” he replied, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, before he opened the door for you, ushering you inside.

The manor greeted you with all the grandeur you’d expected—high, vaulted ceilings, furniture so polished it seemed to shine even in the dim light, and walls adorned with heavy portraits of ancestors whose eyes followed you as you moved. It was all so… much.

You paused, taking it all in, trying to stifle the small twinge of awe that prickled at your insides.

“Impressed?” Rupert asked, his voice light with amusement, clearly savoring the effect his surroundings had on you.

Yes, you were impressed. It was a beautiful place, no denying that. But you would never let him know that.

You glanced at him, your expression flat, even though a part of you was bristling with the impulse to give a biting reply. “If by ‘impressed,’ you mean mildly nauseated, then yes, I suppose you could say that.”

Rupert’s laughter rang out again, deeper this time, full of genuine surprise. The sound was so unexpected that it caught you off guard, making you wonder if you had misjudged him. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, clearly entertained by your response.

Shaking your head, you redirected the conversation. “So, where do we start? I assume you’ve prepared some kind of agenda.”

“Of course,” he said, leading you down a grand hallway. “But first, let me clear the air about one thing.”

You stopped, turning to face him. His tone, while still light, carried a sharper edge.

“I don’t know what you’ve read about me, but I’m not quite as terrible as I’m made out to be.”

You tilted your head, a small, skeptical smile playing on your lips. “Let me guess. You’re not like the other rich men?”

His grin widened, wolfish and unapologetic. “I’m worse.”

You hummed, clearly skeptic about him. "Very well, Mr Campbell-Black."

“Rupert,” he corrected smoothly. “If we’re going to spend time together, you might as well call me by my name.”

“Fine,” you said with a shrug, keeping your tone professional. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m here to work, not to feed into whatever thing you think this is.”

“Perish the thought,” he replied with mock solemnity. “But I should warn you—things around here can get… unpredictable.”

You sighed, the weight of the situation settling on your shoulders. Already, you were questioning your life choices. “Wonderful,” you muttered under your breath, yet you forced a polite, practiced smile—one honed through years of dealing with difficult interview subjects.

Rupert led you into another room, as grandiose as the first, if not more so. He referred to it as the green tea room, a name that seemed almost as carefully curated as the room itself. Emerald green walls framed the space, accented by high ceilings and sculptures that, if you had to guess, cost more than a year’s salary. The furniture—rich, heavy pieces that seemed to whisper of luxury—only reinforced the wealth that dripped from every corner of the manor.

He guided you to a plush, velvet-red canapé, the cushions soft beneath you as you sat. “Drink?” Rupert asked smoothly, uncapping a whiskey bottle and beginning to pour himself a glass.

“No, thank you,” you answered, your tone firm.

But Rupert, ever the charming host, wasn’t easily deterred. “Not even wine?” he pressed, his gaze flicking toward you with mild amusement.

“I don’t drink,” you replied, trying to maintain your focus.

He raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. “Tea, then? I can call the maid to prepare us some,” he offered, as if suggesting something as simple as breathing.

You leaned back slightly, your patience thinning. “With all due respect, Rupert, I’m here to discuss politics. Shall we start?”

For the first time, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, his posture shifting as he registered your refusal. His usual easygoing charm was momentarily unsettled. “Straight to business?” he asked, amusement creeping into his voice. “Not even a little foreplay? Do all French journalists lack a sense of occasion, or is it just you?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with an evenness that only made his grin widen. Then, uou inhaled deeply, willing yourself to remain professional. “Again, If you think I’m here to flirt or fawn, you’re mistaken. Let’s just say I’m not your usual… audience.”

Rupert’s laugh was low and lazy, like a cat stretching in the sun. “Oh, I like you. Sharp. Refreshing, really. Most people who visit spend the first ten minutes fawning over the place.”

“Then let me save us both the trouble,” you said crisply, gesturing vaguely at the ornate surroundings. “It’s very big. Very… lovely. Now, can we start ?”

Perching on the edge of the overstuffed armchair, you pulled out your notepad, determined to stay focused.

“So,” you began in a neutral tone, “the Tory Party. What inspired your allegiance to them?”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, yet his confidence radiated with every movement.“Allegiance? That’s a bit strong for my taste,” he said with a faint smile. “Let’s just say I appreciate certain efficiencies, the kind that get results. I’ve always been drawn to winning teams, the ones that know how to play the game and come out on top.”

His eyes sharpened, the casual tone shifting into something more calculating. After a brief pause, he swirled the liquor in his glass, the crystal catching the light. “And as for ‘inspiration,’ that’s a bit too lofty for me. I’ve always believed in the importance of tradition, in maintaining order. That’s what keeps everything running smoothly.”

You jotted his response down but didn’t look up, deliberately keeping your tone sharp. “Do you think the party reflects the realities of modern Britain?”

His eyes sparkled with a challenge as he met your gaze. “That depends. Whose reality are we talking about? But you’re French, aren’t you? Tell me—what do you think of it all?”

You met his gaze without flinching. “I find the British fascination with monarchy and class structure quite intriguing, especially for a country that prides itself on being ‘modern,’” you finished, emphasizing the word with two fingers forming quotation marks.

His smile sharpened, full of challenge. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like a revolutionary.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “Don’t worry. I left the guillotines at home.”

“For now,” he added, his grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If we’re done with the banter, let’s get back to the topic. Do you believe your policies address the needs of modern Britain, or are they focused on preserving this… tradition and order you mentioned?”

His expression grew thoughtful, though the amused glint in his eye remained. “A good politician knows how to balance the old and the new,” he said. “The past is what grounds us, but the future… that’s what keeps things interesting.”

You jotted down his words, biting back the urge to challenge him further. Rupert Campbell-Black might be as infuriating as he was charming, but he was certainly keeping your interview lively.

“Are you always like this, or do you save the charm for interviews?”

“Only when the company’s as delightful as this,” he replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “But tell me, do all French journalists enjoy poking the British aristocracy, or is that just your particular specialty?”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn in. “I ask questions. Whether or not they’re uncomfortable is up to you.”

His chuckle was low and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. “Fair enough. Though I do hope this isn’t all business. You’d miss the best parts.”

You ignored the bait, your pen poised over the notepad. “Let’s stick to the topic. How do you think the Tory Party’s policies address the concerns of everyday citizens?”

Rupert tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment before he responded. “That’s a rather broad question. Perhaps you’d like to narrow it down. Or would you prefer I give you the polished party line?”

"Why don’t you surprise me?” you countered.

His lips twitched in a faint smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if weighing his options.

"Minister of Sport—it’s quite the title. How did that come about?” you pressed, switching tactics.

He relaxed further, his expression a mix of amusement and pride. “I suppose you could say it was a natural fit. My background in racing and polo gave me some credibility, and my, shall we say, people skills helped me secure the role.”

You snorted softly, scribbling in your notebook. “People skills. Is that what we’re calling it?"

“Well,” he said with a self-assured grin, “knowing which hands to shake and which backs to pat is half the battle in politics, isn’t it? Or did you imagine my ascent was purely a matter of sporting excellence?”

You smirked, meeting his gaze head-on. “I imagine most ascents, political or otherwise, involve a little grease on the ladder.”

His laughter was warm, though tinged with challenge. “I suppose your right. Do you apply the same cynicism to journalism? Or do you reserve that for the likes of me?”

“That depends,” you shot back lightly. “Are you going to give me a real answer, or keep playing the charming aristocrat?”

“Ah, but why not both?” he replied smoothly, his grin widening, leaning slightly forward. “I’ve always believed in a balance between charm and substance. Something I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

You gave a small, knowing nod. "I’m starting to see that."

"Careful," he warned, though his tone was light. “I might start to think you’re underestimating me.”

“Never,” you said, matching his smirk. “But I am curious—what’s your vision for British sport? Surely it’s not all polo matches and champagne receptions.”

Rupert’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of genuine focus. “It’s about more than just the elite sports, though they’re important. Grassroots programs, improving facilities, getting kids involved in physical activity—that’s where the real work is. If we want to compete on the world stage, we need to start at the bottom and build up.”

It was an unexpectedly thoughtful answer, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook. “And yet, critics have accused you of focusing too much on prestige projects—Wembley renovations, international events, things that benefit the few rather than the many. How do you respond to that?”

He chuckled, but there was a sharpness to his gaze. “Critics always find something to complain about. But let’s be clear—those ‘prestige projects’ bring in revenue, jobs, and attention. They’re investments, not indulgences.”

You tapped your pen against your notepad. “Fair point, but how do you balance that with ensuring access for underprivileged communities? Because from where I’m sitting, the gap between elite and grassroots sports seems to be widening.”

Rupert’s jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, you wondered if you’d pushed too hard. Then he nodded, as if conceding the point. “It’s a fair criticism. And it’s something I’m working on. But change takes time, and unfortunately, not everyone has the patience for that.”

You leaned forward, deciding to test the waters further. “And does your political affiliation ever get in the way? The Conservative Party hasn’t exactly been known for prioritizing social programs.”

His laugh was low and sardonic. “There it is! The classic dig at the Tories. Tell me again, do all French journalists come armed with clichés, or is it just you?”

You shrugged, unfazed. “I call it like I see it.”

“Well,” he said, his tone softening, “to answer your question—yes, politics complicates things. But if you spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, you’ll never get anything done. My job is to fight for what I believe in, even if it ruffles a few feathers.”

“And what do you believe in?” you asked, genuinely curious now.

He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability crossing his face. “Opportunity,” he said finally. “The chance for everyone—no matter where they come from—to excel at something. Whether it’s sport, business, or, hell, journalism.”

You arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t peg you for an idealist.”

“Don’t let it get out,” he replied with a grin. “It would ruin my reputation.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not in the habit of sharing state secrets—yet.”

Rupert chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Good to know. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

You smirked, tapping your pen against the notepad. “And what exactly does that reputation entail? The charming, polo-playing, politician with a knack for public appearances?”

His eyes twinkled, but there was a hint of seriousness behind his smile. “I’d say it’s more about the vision—being able to see the bigger picture and making things happen, no matter how tough it gets. The rest is just...window dressing.”

You studied him, weighing his words. “So, you’re not just about the photo ops and the VIP events?”

“Not by a long shot,” he said, his tone firm. “But sometimes, you need the spotlight to shine on the issues that matter. If it means people pay attention for a moment, then so be it.”

You nodded, impressed despite yourself. “Okay. But what happens when the spotlight moves on to the next shiny object?”

Rupert’s gaze softened, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if he was weighing your words carefully. “Then you keep working, quietly if necessary, until the next opportunity comes along. The real work doesn’t stop just because the cameras are elsewhere.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the silence stretch between you both.

Then, with a deliberate motion, you snapped your notebook shut, the sound cutting through the still air like a signal.

Rising to your feet, you extended your hand, offering a final gesture of professionalism. “Thank you, sir, for the meeting.”

He looked at your hand for a heartbeat before raising an eyebrow, his voice tinged with amusement. “We’re back on formalities, then?”

“The interview is over,” you said simply, your voice unwavering, though there was a subtle shift in the air around you. You felt the pull of something lingering, a moment that hadn’t quite finished yet.

But then, in a smooth, almost predatory motion, he reached for your hand. Instead of shaking it, he pressed it gently to his lips, his breath warm against your skin. It was an act of such quiet intimacy that it caught you off guard, the sudden closeness making your pulse quicken.

For a split second, you hesitated, caught between politeness and a strange surge of discomfort. But before you could think too much about it, you jerked your hand away, the movement sharp, almost defiant.

Rupert chuckled lowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he remarked, the words laced with amusement but underpinned with something else, something harder.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you turned away, taking a breath to steady yourself.

The conversation, the unspoken tension—it was all unraveling, leaving behind the brittle veneer of professionalism that had kept you in check.

Despite your protests, Rupert insisted in accompanied you to the grand entrance of the Campbell-Black estate, his presence beside you unexpectedly warm despite his usual aloofness.

There was a slight tension in the air, an unspoken undercurrent that made the walk feel longer than it should have.

Perhaps it was the way his casual remarks seemed to chip away at your defenses, or maybe it was something in the way his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary. You couldn’t decide.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you’re really not going to tell me anything about your life in Paris?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the sudden shift. “Paris?” you teased, a grin forming on your lips. “Do you know that I live in England? In a town, not far from London.”

He chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose Paris could get a little too chaotic. But I imagine life in an English town must be… more peaceful?”

You shrugged playfully. “Peaceful, yes. Maybe too peaceful. I mean, quiet streets are more my speed than the… vibrance of Paris.”

He smiled, clearly amused.

Before you could reply, a loud bark interrupted the moment, followed by the pitter-patter of paws on the marble floor. Two large, slobbering dogs came bounding around the corner of the hall, tails wagging enthusiastically.

They spotted you instantly, and before you could react, one of them lunged toward you, nose twitching excitedly.

You froze, your eyes wide and your heart pounding. Dogs. You hated dogs. It was strange, considering your work as a veterinarian, but when it came to dogs, you always braced yourself. Most of the time, they were calm, and if not, someone was there to help. But seven dogs charging straight at you? Yeah, no.

“Woah!” you squealed, taking an instinctive step backward, hands raised in a panic. “Oh my God—”

Rupert’s laughter boomed through the hallway, but there was no mockery in it, just pure amusement. He quickly stepped in front of you, guiding the dogs back with a firm but gentle hand. “Sorry about them. They’re a bit enthusiastic.”

You were still frozen, trying to suppress the irrational panic building in your chest. “I—I’m not really… a dog person,” you managed, your voice tight.

He raised an eyebrow, a playful curiosity in his gaze. “Really? Then what do you like?”

You were still half-hidden behind him, trying to avoid the dogs, and your brain, in a panicked scramble for an answer, came up with something entirely ridiculous. “Cows.”

Rupert blinked, clearly taken aback. “Cows?”

You rushed to explain, the words tumbling out in a flurry. “Yeah, you know... they’re calm, low-maintenance. I grew up on a farm... in the countryside, and—” You trailed off, realizing just how absurd you must sound.

Rupert’s smirk returned, though this time it was softer, less mocking, almost like he was seeing a different side of you. “Well, that’s a first,” he said, the amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ve never had a woman tell me she prefers cows to dogs.”

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, embarrassed, but oddly relieved by the absurdity of it all. “It’s the truth, though. Cows are just... easier to handle.”

“Fair enough,” he said, stepping back to give the dogs a little more space. They sniffed you cautiously, their noses twitching in curiosity but respecting the invisible boundary you’d created. “I’ll make sure they keep their distance from now on.”

The dogs seemed to sense the shift, obediently sitting beside Rupert, their tails giving a lazy wag, as if in approval. The air between you both lightened, the earlier tension dissolving into something a little more comfortable, though still charged with an undeniable undercurrent.

Your eyes met his briefly, and in that fleeting moment, there was something unspoken between you—a spark, perhaps, or just the ridiculousness of the situation. You couldn’t tell. 

As you walked toward the door, Rupert’s presence beside you was oddly comforting, though you couldn’t quite shake the awareness that something else lingered in the air between you.

Just before you reached the door handle, one last bark echoed from behind you, and you turned to see the dogs sitting, tails wagging furiously.

Rupert glanced back, a grin spreading across his face. “They’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, then added with a laugh, “And for the record, I’m still more of a cow person.”

He shook his head, still grinning. “I’ll remember that. Cows, not dogs. Got it.”

The door clicked shut behind you, an uneasy feeling lingered in your chest. The awkwardness, the subtle tension, his smile that never seemed to falter—all of it replayed in your mind, leaving you wondering what just happened and how everything had shifted so quickly.

You shook your head, trying to push the lingering thoughts away. It was over. You’d never have to face him again.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Still, a quiet, persistent voice deep inside whispered that this was only the beginning.

As you glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the manor shrink into the distance, you whispered to yourself, A bientôt, Monsieur Rupert.

[anneapocalypse]

So this may not be news to others, but this is the first I've come across it! According to Leonesaurus, who uploaded this capture:

Urianger was being roleplayed by a Square-Enix dev and interacting with players for his first appearance in-game before they implemented him into the story as an actual character. This took place at Camp Horizon on the old Selbina/Ridill server in 2011. Urianger would give players who visited him a 10 min buff for Quickened, Regen, HP and MP increase! Arcanist powers galore! Speaking of Arcanist, you can see on his back the original Arcanist weapon that was intended by the old FF XIV 1.0 team before Yoshida took over and retconned them into wielding books instead from ARR onward.

And here's the key dialogue:

Outside the Adventurer's Guild in Ul'dah:

Alfgar: Hearken adventurers of Eorzea! Ware you the venomous words of false prophets! Alfgar: Adventurer! I ask that you heed not the foul lies of those claiming knowledge of future happenings! Player Character: Who are these false prophets? Alfgar: They appear near aetheryte camps, bedraped in shadowy robes, preaching their untruths to any and all who will listen. Keep your distance, traveler, lest you become tangled in their web of deceit. PC: Are we in any danger? Alfgar: We are all in danger, for fear can drive a man to terrible deeds, and it is seeds of fear that these farls prophets wish to plant in our hearts and our minds. They are not the Archons of legend. They are not our saviors. They only foster unrest.

At Camp Horizon:

Urianger Augurelt: A shadow hangeth o'er the realm, growing blacker with each passing day!

Urianger Augurelt: Darkness descendeth, but surrender not to despair! For the future is forged in the flames of the present!

Urianger Augurelt: I am a mere messenger, entrusted with words of prophecy.

Urianger Augurelt: Awoken but recently to the truth, I come to stir those yet aslumber.

Urianger Augurelt: Ne'er till land consumes sun can sea bear moons. Heavens spew crimson fire, hells seep black dooms.

Urianger Augurelt: The senary sun yields the septenary moon - expelling the Astral, beckoning the Umbral. So saith the eternal wisdom of Mezaya Thousand Eyes.

Urianger Augurelt: Open thine eyes, ye seekers of truth! Stand and bear witness to the path that must be trod!

Urianger Augurelt: Awoken but recently to the truth, I come to stir those yet aslumber.

Urianger Augurelt: To spread word of the coming darkness and stoke the flames in your hearts, that they may light the way.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - January 15, 2024

🎊 - As we embark on another journey around the sun, I am thrilled to bring you the first newsletter of the year, packed with inspiring, informative, and sometimes downright amusing stories.

1. Marijuana meets criteria for reclassification as lower-risk drug

Marijuana has a lower potential for abuse than other drugs that are subjected to the same restrictions, with scientific support for its use as a medical treatment, researchers from the US Food and Drug Administration say in documents supporting its reclassification as a Schedule III substance.

2. South Korea passes law banning dog meat trade

The slaughter and sale of dogs for their meat is to become illegal in South Korea after MPs backed a new law. The legislation, set to come into force by 2027, aims to end the centuries-old practice of humans eating dog meat.

3. After 20 years in a tiny cage, these 'broken bears' are finally feeling the grass beneath their paws

These bears, termed "broken bears" due to physical and psychological trauma from years of abuse, are treated at the Tam Dao rescue center with individually tailored diets, physiotherapy, and medical care. The bear bile trade, which involves extracting bile for traditional Asian medicine, has been illegal in Vietnam since 2005, but a black market still exists.

4. France just got its first openly gay prime minister.

Gabriel Attal is France’s youngest-ever prime minister at age 34 and the first who is openly gay.

5. Australian ‘builders without borders’ repairing war-torn homes and schools in Ukraine

Manfred Hin, a 66-year-old builder from Townsville, Australia, spent most of 2023 volunteering in Ukraine to rebuild homes and schools damaged by Russian attacks. Having contributed to over 50 house and a dozen school renovations, he worked with Ukrainian charity Brave to Rebuild, mentoring young volunteers and sourcing three tonnes of donated tools.

Inspired by Hin's story, Tasmanian carpenter Hamish Stirling also joined the efforts, learning Ukrainian, traveling to Europe, and volunteering for three months to help rebuild homes.

6. The age-standardized death rate from cancer has declined by 15% since 1990

The age-standardized death rate from cancer declined by 15%

Cancer kills mostly older people – as the death rate by age shows, of those who are 70 years and older, 1% die from cancer every year. For people who are younger than 50, the cancer death rate is more than 40-times lower (more detail here).

7. Germany Reached 55% Renewable Energy in 2023

In 2023, 55 percent of Germany’s power came from renewables — an increase of 6.6 percent, according to energy regulator Bundesnetzagentur, reported Reuters. Europe’s biggest national economy has a goal of 80 percent green energy by 2030.

---

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation here:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog this post with your friends.

[theguywithaplan]

List of Video Games turning ten (10) years old in 2025

Alone in the Dark: Illumination (if you thought the AitD game from last year was bad, check this shit out).

Angry Birds 2 (yes, there was a 2).

Animal Crossing: Happy Home Designer

Animal Crossing: Amiibo Festival (two AC games from 2015 and neither of them were what people wanted).

Assassin's Creed Syndicate (the Bri'ish one).

Atelier Shallie

Axiom Verge

Batman: Arkham Knight

Battlefield: Hardline (the last game from Visceral Games, the guys who made the Dead Space series).

The Beginner's Guide (the second game from the creator of The Stanley Parable).

Bloodborne (anything for the 10th anniver-- no. Never gonna happen).

Broken Age

Call of Duty: Black Ops III

Chibi-Robo! Zip Lash

Cities: Skylines

Crypt of the NecroDancer

Devil's Third (one of the rarest Wii U games ever).

Disgaea 5: Alliance of Vengeance

Disney Infinity 3.0

Dragon Ball XenoVerse (the first one. not the second).

Dying Light

Evolve (these guys would go on to make Back 4 Blood).

Fallout 4

Fatal Frame: Maiden of Black Water

Final Fantasy Type-0 HD

Game of Thrones (the Telltale game)

Guitar Hero Live

Halo 5: Guardians

Hatred (a game so edgy and terrible that it got itself kicked off of Steam).

Helldivers (the first one).

Heroes of the Storm (the Blizzard MOBA).

Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number

HuniePop (for all you pervs out there).

I Am Bread

Just Cause 3

Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes (the quintessential VR game)

Kerbal Space Program

Kirby and the Rainbow Curse (one of the few Wii U games that hasn't been ported to the Switch. And probably never will be).

The Legend of Heroes: Trails of Cold Steel

The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask 3D

The Legend of Zelda: Tri Force Heroes

Lego Dimensions (a crossover game with about a billion different franchises).

Lego Jurassic World

Life is Strange (controversial opinion: I sacrificed Chloe and felt nothing).

Mario Party 10 (the only MP on the Wii U)

Mario Tennis: Ultra Smash

Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain

Monster Hunter 4 Ultimate (back when the 3DS was single-handedly keeping MH alive)

Mortal Kombat X

Need for Speed (the reboot)

The Order: 1886

Ori and the Blind Forest

Pillars of Eternity

Pokemon Super Mystery Dungeon

Prison Architect

Rainbow Six: Siege

Rare Replay

Resident Evil: Revelations 2

Rise of the Tomb Raider

Rock Band 4

Rocket League

Saints Row: Gat Out of Hell (RIP Volition. You were too good for the modern day).

Shadowrun: Hong Kong

Skylanders: SuperChargers

Soma (the best horror game ever made. Play it if you haven't yet).

Splatoon

Star Wars: Battlefront (the EA reboot).

StarCraft II: Legacy of the Void (RIP StarCraft. You were too good for modern day Blizzard).

Steven Universe: Attack the Light!

Story of Seasons (the very fight one)

Super Mario Maker

Tales from the Borderlands (the best thing that Telltale EVER made).

Tales of Zestiria

Tembo the Badass Elephant (published by Sega and developed by Game Freak... the Pokemon guys).

Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 5

Total War: Attila

Transformers: Devastation (RIP PlatinumGames. You... kinda started sucking after Astral Chain).

Undertale (yep, it's happening).

Until Dawn

Warhammer: End Times - Vermintide

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt (just in time for the 4th game)

Wolfenstein: The Old Blood (remember, kids: Nazi lives don't matter).

Xenoblade Chronicles X (finally escaping the Wii U this year).

Yakuza 5

Yo-Kai Watch

Yoshi's Woolly World

[tvmusiclife]

Jimmy Carter really fought off d*ath just to vote for the first [black] female president, but crashed out just before another Tr*mp presidency

[battlecrazed-axe-mage]

While we’re on the subject, what’s the weirdest party finder experience you’ve had?

Oh boy. So this one's a couple years old now, but I will never forget this guy.

We (my fiance and I) were going through MSQ for the first time and were in early Endwalker, I think, and our raid lead wanted to take us through an unsync of E12S. Enough of a savage fight to get a taste for if we wanted to do the real thing, but not too overwhelming for a newbie. At the gear level of the time, you had to do up to Titan phase in phase 1, and all of Basic Relativity/a couple mechs after in phase 2, so she was confident we'd be able to manage it. But we didn't have a whole group together, so we put up a pf for the last couple slots.

Enter Mumbo*.

Mumbo said they had watched a video and understood the strats. It immediately became clear this was not the case. For those who don't play the game or haven't done E12S, let me introduce you to Dwayne the Rock Johnson strat**:

You get a colored shape above your head and the diagram shows you where to go with it; this happens three times, and then you're (probably, depending on your damage) done and the boss phases into a cutscene. It's super doable but it also NEEDS to be done or else the party explodes.

Mumbo could not do this. No matter how many times we reset and tried again, or re-explained the strat, or showed them graphics like that one. Also, after a handful of pulls, our lead noticed something bizarre.

Mumbo was on black mage. Except they were ONLY using ice spells.

For those who don't know, the basic gameplay loop of black mage is: you spend your MP with more powerful fire spells, then get MP back with weaker ice spells. There's lots more to it than that, black mage players are more powerful than I could ever be, but that's the basics. When used properly, it's a pretty powerful job. When used like this...it was gonna be a long fight.

We did make it through phase 1, somehow, getting it just right enough to scrape people off the floor after getting exploded by rocks. Then it was time for phase 2, which you absolutely cannot do by vibes. Especially for the dps role, which is what Mumbo had to do.

At this point we regretfully had to part ways with our new friend Mumbo the Ice Mage. But he lives on in our memories***, to this day.

*not their real character name; it's been long enough that they may have mended their ways, so I don't want to put them on blast

**I don't know why it's called that either. FFXIV savage strats often have silly names

***and is referenced when we find someone else who similarly does not fundamentally know how to play their job; i.e. the two Mumbos the White we met in DT trial 2 who were curefishing for their lives

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟏

Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part One: The making of a rivalry.

Part Two: here

July 1984: Los Angeles Summer Olympics

The day Lady Francesca Wellington met Rupert Campbell Black he could've been stark naked dancing around in circles and she still wouldn't have noticed him. 

Standing upon a podium in the middle of the prestigious arena belonging to the Santa Anita Racetrack, Francesca felt her skin burn under the heat of the sun. Unlike in England, the sky of Los Angeles was clear. The Californian heat bared down upon her without mercy. She felt the collar of her blazer rub uncomfortably against her neck; the red material becoming damp with sweat as time continued on. Her riding hat shifted slightly as she looked upon the cheering crowd above her. 

The crowd that was cheering for her. 

The uncomfortable heat did nothing to subdue her feelings of utter euphoria. Her body felt like it had been set alight. Her veins were filled with fire. Sweat beaded down her forehead; its salty path flowed from the tip of her head and settled on the edge of her upper lip.  Her mind was chaos: her thoughts bounced between her ears.

She couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. She didn't care one bit. 

She was given the  gold medal by a man. His tan fingers graced the side of her face as he placed it around her neck. It was heavy, heavy with the weight of accomplishment. She didn't look at the man, her eyes were fixated upon the medal as he briskly stepped away. 

She lifted the medal from her chest and placed a cheeky kiss upon its golden side. The cameras flashed excitedly as Lady Francesca Wellington's lips grazed the cool surface of the medal in glee. 

Every eye in that arena watched in admiration as Lady Francesca Wellington claimed her title as the first woman to win an Olympic gold in individual showjumping. 

Every eye except Rupert Campbell Black. 

The day Rupert Campbell Black met Lady Francesca Wellington she could've been Mother Theresa reincarnated and he still wouldn't have liked her. 

Being given the "honour" of handing out the gold medal for show jumping in the first Olympics since he had retired felt like a knife jabbed directly into his stomach. He had been coerced into it by his old riding friends, the Tori party and a few members of the Olympic sports committee. They told him it would be good for his image as an MP to remain present in the riding community. He felt as if it was all a cruel joke reminding him of his failures. 

His failure as a rider forced to retire. His failure as a husband, a father,  a politician. 

His failure as a man. 

Rupert stood in the sand of the blistering hot arena. His ears rang at the sound of the adoring crowd as he was faced with the man he used to be. A rider, a star, a man who dominated show jumping with ease. He was greeted by memories: memories of him as a boy riding ponies around his estate to days spent galloping with his friends.  

He watched her with a diplomatic smile as she claimed the first place position on the podium.

It felt as if he was bearing witness to the erasure of his legacy. 

The British anthem sounded on the loud speakers as he picked up the gold medal from its designated case; the very same anthem they played for him four years prior. The soft skin of her cheek grazed the side of his hand as he placed the medal around her neck. She looked down towards her medal with glee. He looked at her with jealousy. 

Only a few selected riders in the world could understand the high of winning a gold medal for showjumping. A high he would do anything to feel again. He stepped away from the podium in haste and marched out the arena, his assistant running behind frantically. 

All eyes were on Lady Francesca Wellington as she reached the epitome of her riding career. 

No one noticed Rupert Campbell Black walk away from his. 

[stelly38]

I've been meaning to share this and finally got 'round to it. Occasionally, I write some review/recommendations for a group I'm in. This was my five cents on Rivals.

Rivals is pretty much everything the press said it would be, and then some, although it doesn’t start out that way. The first two episodes are slow and light on content as characters are introduced and plot points are set. But hang with it—the story really picks up from the third episode, when everything begins falling into place.

I’d been looking forward to this series mostly because it stars the deliciously hairy and handsome Aidan Turner, delightful in the role of Declan O’Hara, hard-hitting journalist and TV presenter fresh off his job with the BBC. He’s lured into indie TV by Lord Tony Baddingham, played by the always-entertaining David Tennant, who is terribly, wonderfully evil in his role as the director of Corinium Television, the biggest company in Rutshire County, where the story takes place. The other main character, Rupert Campbell Black, (Alex Hassell), is a filthy-old-money-rich and famous ex-Olympian, cad, and MP, as well as the Most Handsome Man in all of England™. Lord Tony has hatched a plan to ruin Rupert (the two are sworn enemies) by inviting him to be interviewed live on Declan’s new talk show. Intrepid journalist that he is, Declan has unearthed the dirtiest dirt on Campbell-Black, and he’s just itching to smear him in an effort to keep him from sniffing around Taggie, his beautiful, too-young-for-Rupert daughter.

Add to this mix Declan’s flirtatious and frustrated wife, Maud (Victoria Smurfit), as well as a cast of other colorful, endearing characters, all tangentially connected to Corinium, and the stage is set for all sorts of accurate-for-the-era shenanigans, some of which may be shocking to viewers who weren’t around for this decade. Think British Dallas or Dynasty with nudity and sex, backstabbing and adultery and corruption, and a much better sense of humor. There is full-frontal nudity (Alex Hassell), and many, many pairs of breasts, so be prepared for that.

David Tennant has the bitchiest and best lines, and I laughed good and long at those zingers. Tony is a truly detestable character, but it is difficult to hate him, because David is so wonderful. My favorite scene (barring any naked Aidan Turner) in all eight episodes is when Lord Tony throws an epic tantrum. I’ll leave it there. (FYI, the final episode ends abruptly on a cliffhanger, as the series only goes about halfway through the novel by Jilly Cooper.)

Speaking of Mr. Turner, we get to see quite a bit of him (just not that bit), as well as a huge, ridiculous mustache à la Hal Linden in Barney Miller. The mustache is so big, it kind of makes up for the bit of Turner we don’t get to see… a girl can dream, right? Turner, as Declan, appears mostly naked in the kitchen while getting ready for work; in the tub, scrubbing up; and in various rooms of his home, satisfying his wife. I shed a tear of horny gratitude that television producers have finally refrained from touching Turner’s chest hair, save to comb it, perhaps—those lucky, lucky set groomers.

In a nutshell, the show is a snapshot of 1980s English society folk, framed around the power struggles within the independent television industry. It’s good, silly fun—trash—in a word, that is well aware it’s trash. In fact, it wears that badge with pride. While actual trash has zero value, Rivals manages to sprinkle some sharp and insightful social critique in among all the teased hair, orgies, blue mascara, and insane parties of Rutshire County.

Here’s hoping for a second season.