#LIFE JUST BEEN BUSY INNIT

[perriwinklesblog]

SINCE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT IT AGAIN.

THOUGHT ID REBLOG

What is your ficccccc I wanna know

Okay so. It is the only fanfiction I’ve written.

And contrary to what my blog may suggest, it is not even minecraft fic.

It’s a continuation of The Society which I had started before it got cancelled.

It’s unfinished, there are grammatical and spelling errors throughout, no beta we die like Cassandra

But I love it. I like reading it. And whilst I deviate slightly from the series, I hope it’s still satisfying. I do also plan to finish it eventually. I know how it ends and I know what I want to do with each character. It’s just life can get so freaking busy.

If you do want to read it, it’s After by Ilikewrite

[phagodyke]

ah shit only just realised its september now.... lets hope the rest of this month isn't like this.....

[swxxtsxcchxrine]

Hi idk if you're taking asks but if you are can you please write Miguel with a pregnant wife?

Thank you in advance!!

i'm so sorry i'm replying to your asks so late, ive been soooo busy bro like im so fucked cuz i might be in legal trouble but like life happens innit.

anywaysssss, this ask is soooo cute omdss

after the birth of your daughter, Miguel has been obsessed with the idea of you being pregnant. him finding out that you were pregnant with another child had him jumping for joy. the man wouldn't let you lift a finger even if it was to change the TV channel. "princesa, make sure you take care of mommy for me, ok?" he says, giving his daughter a fat kiss across the cheek. your due date was soon approaching and the house was bare of groceries. "daddy, where do babies come from?" the 5 year old ask curiously. "ok, that's enough, daddy needs to go shopping," you said, picking up your child and telling Miguel to pick his jaw up off the floor. "come on bubba, lets go bake an apple pie," you waddled to the kitchen.

2 hours of chasing your daughter around with flour flew by, and before you knew it, your husband was home with several bags full of shopping. hearing the persistent screams of terror and her squeals of joy had Miguel standing on edge. he opened the door to the kitchen to find a horror scene. flour, milk eggs and butter was splayed all across the kitchen. the pie dough had just been made and was sitting haphazardly in the pie pot in the middle of the island. both you and your daughter froze, both exchanging looks of concern.

"i left you too alone, for 2 hours. and i come home to this mess you created. how could you do this to me. how could you have this much fun without me?" Miguel feigned hurt. "i can't believe-" he was cut off by a big fat splat on his face and the tale tell sounds of a high pitched giggle. a mixture of eggs and flour was dripping down his stern face. "oh, you are so getting it now," he sneers as his daughter squeals and runs around the kitchen. the sounds of her small feet slapping against the tiled floors.

his daughter cowed against a wall. realising she had nowhere so go, her shrieks increased in pitch. "now i've got you were i want," Miguel chuckles lowly. "now i've got you where i want," you exclaim raising your hands to dump half a bag of flour on his big head. you can't help it as you let out a loud laugh. Miguel sighed in defeat, smiling as he watched his two girls in pure joy. your bulbous belly had you waddling up the stairs with your daughter to go and wash her up before bed as it was getting late and there were eggs in her hair. Miguel had agreed to clean the kitchen and after some argument - since you were the one to mess it up - Miguel briefly shut you up and told you wash up and get ready for bed because tomorrow you guys had to go shopping for the baby and see if Miles was available to babysit your daughter when you went in labour.

your daughter was sound asleep and you'd just finish your skincare routine by the time Miguel came out of the shower. his towel hung low, just below his v-line. his abs glistening in your low bedroom light. his hair dripped down his neck. "you ready for bed, baby?" he asked, coming up behind you to put your butt-length braids into your bright pink bonnet matching with your pjs. he walked over to your shared bed, as you followed soon after. "she most definitely takes after you," you chuckle, facing your husband. "don't even. you and i know damn well she takes after you," he snaps. "well either way, she's honestly the best thing to have happened to us. and now we have another thing coming," you sigh rubbing your belly. "i wonder who he'll take over," Miguel says.

[cumikering]

F1 John Price x reader

2.7k | fluff Price raced for Mclaren. You didn’t know that (part 2)

No human body was made for this: jetting across continents and time zones for nine months out of twelve.

Even after the years, John Price hadn’t got used to it. Neither was he used to flying from Las Vegas to London for a photoshoot only to hop on another plane the day after for his next race in Qatar.

He groaned internally, his body aching as he plopped down onto the backseat of the cab before taking his black surgical mask and cap off. He didn’t get a proper rest with how turbulent his flight was.

“Oh, I’ve seen ya mate!” the middle-aged driver exclaimed, eyeing him from the rear-view mirror. “You’re famous- you’re the F1 bloke, innit?”

John gave him a polite smile.

“Could you sign something of mine?” He popped open his glovebox. “Wait, this wouldn’t sell so high…” he muttered as he rummaged through it.

The cars behind started a cacophony of honks.

“Am in the way.” He chuckled sheepishly as he pulled away. “You better not run off before I find something!"

Downtown London was packed at the hour. The driver had plenty of time to look through every nook and cranny of his car, but cursing when he could only come up with a yellowing notepad and a drying pen. John made do.

“Could you also put your name down, please?” He held the pad over his shoulder after he’d inspected it. “So we know who you are.”

And he did, with another rehearsed smile.

“Cheers, mate.” With a pleased grin, he tossed the pad onto the passenger seat, not even bothering to make eye contact amidst the traffic.

At the red light around the corner of the magazine HQ, the taxi halted in front of a coffee shop. He glanced at his watch - he was 20 minutes early and he desperately needed caffeine.

John pulled his mask and cap back on before exiting the car. The cap was still stiff, one with a French flag patch he grabbed at random at the airport with a grumble. He’d misplaced the plain one he liked.

He kept his head down as he stood in the short queue.

“Hot Americano, double shot, please.”

His phone chimed when he waved it over the payment terminal. He was going to regret this. He wasn’t a big coffee drinker.

“Can I get a name for that?” You looked up from the cup you scribbled on.

“JP.”

You smiled, glancing at his cap and wrote his name down. “Like Jean Pierre?”

He chuckled, only now making eye contact with you. It was a joke between him and his teammate, Kyle, or Gaz as the fans called him. You must be one of those well-meaning people pretending to not recognise him, giving him a slice of normalcy.

He always appreciated the gesture, especially the more years passed. As glamorous as life had been since F1, John discovered he wasn’t about all the glitz and glam.

He didn’t care about looking immaculate all the time, scripted speech in designer clothing or driving expensive cars. Have you seen the state of London’s streets? Everything was PR, PR, PR - like this wasn’t even his life he was living anymore. He wanted to be home on his racing simulator or get the neighbourhood takeaway in his thick hoodies without anyone shoving a camera in his face. He just wanted his old, quiet life.

You worked the coffee machine, your back to him, and his gaze wondered to the pastry display as he leaned on the counter. The cookies were massive, thick in the middle, probably chewy too. They would be perfect with his coffee.

He glanced at the line which had grown longer, and at you at the register now, scribbling another customer’s order onto a cup with a smile. It was odd that no one else was in sight to help you at the busy time.

A quick peek at his watch: he didn’t have the time to queue again. He’d just have to come back later after his business.

“Enjoy.” You flashed him a smile as you placed his order on the counter.

It didn’t hurt that you were easy on the eyes.

Sure enough, hours later after a photoshoot and an interview, caffeine still buzzed in John’s veins. He could only imagine how long he’d be up later that night, but it was worth it. At least he didn’t look like a zombie in the footage.

His mask didn’t hold off the gust of wind - cold against his cheeks as he stepped out of the building. His stomach rumbled. While pubs had started to fill up with people in work attire, the lights were still on in your shop. He crossed the street only for the sign to read ‘closed’, the last couple exiting the door.

His shoulders sagged, but he pushed the door open anyway.

You looked up from the tablet you fumbled with, your smile apologetic. “Hiya, we’re closed. Sorry.”

He glanced at the display, empty safe for two remaining cookies. He pointed at them. “Hi, so sorry to bother, but I just wanted those, please. I didn’t get the chance earlier.”

Recognition flashed in your eyes. “Oh, I remember you. Jean-Pierre.”

“It’s me.” He laughed.

You slid the bag of two cookies across the counter. “On the house.”

“No, no. You’re doing me a favour already. Have one with me at least?”

You hummed. “Why not.”

At the nearest table, he had taken his cap and mask off. You set down a mug of milk.

“You’re spoiling me.” He chuckled, taking a bite of the cookie. “Oh my god, it’s spot on,” he groaned.

You smiled. “I’m glad you like it. It took me a while to come up with the perfect recipe.”

“I’d thought about this for hours and it doesn’t disappoint, but I bet it tastes even better warm.” His gaze couldn’t help but fall to your untouched cookie.

You laughed, pushing the paperbag across the table.

“I’m sorry, this is so, so shameless.” He gave you a sheepish grin. “But it’s wonderful, really. I’ll be back. Definitely.”

“You’re very welcome to.”

“Can I place an order? For my team. Three dozens for tomorrow morning, or is that a bit last minute?”

“Yeah, no, I can do that.” You smiled. “If I may ask, what do you do, JP? Sounds like a big team.”

He frowned. “I thought you knew?”

You tilted your head. “Sorry, I don’t think you told me?”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. Heat crept up his neck from the presumption. “I work with cars.”

“Like a mechanic?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh, that’s impressive. You must have steady hands.”

“I do, I suppose.” He held your gaze for a moment. “Oh, sorry, you were about to close. I’ll just finish this-“

You waved your hand. “Do take you time. I hadn’t had the chance to sit down.”

“Busy day?”

“Very. One of my girls is sick so I worked alone today.”

“I can stay a bit, if you don’t mind.” He smiled. “Actually, would you like dinner? I’m famished. I can get something for us?”

“That sounds fantastic.”

“I saw a kebab shop a block away. Are they stingy with their chips?”

“Of course not. They wouldn’t be my favourite otherwise.”

He dashed out the door with a grin.

When John returned with dinner, you called out from the kitchen as you put away the cookie dough you’d just prepped for his order.

“I make the dough at least 12 hours ahead. That way the flavours have a chance to mingle.” You sat across him.

“Is that why they’re so good?”

You shrugged, smiling, as you unwrapped your dinner.

“I’ll be back for this too.” He nodded approvingly at the kebab, bursting at the seams with chips.

“They’ve got great food around here.”

“All the more reason I’ll have to be back.”

You chatted over the meal, about the area and its hidden gems. He was convinced he didn’t even know half of the city even after living there for many years.

“Thanks for dinner, Jean-Pierre. You can go now if you want.” You put away the wrappings. “I don’t want to bore you with all the cleaning I’m going to be doing.”

“It’s John, and I can do the dishes.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“You said you were tired, and look how long I held you up.” He gestured at the dark sky outside.

You chuckled as you shook your head.

“Come on, let’s get to work,” he said over his shoulder as he sauntered to the kitchen.

You wiped down the counters and did the floor as John helped with the dishes, asking about you and your shop. While he didn’t like doing chores, doing them with you didn’t feel troublesome.

In fact, it was nice to spend some time out, not cooped up all alone in his apartment. It was refreshing to not be talking about racing or cars, to get away from it all. You laughed so heartily, so bright at his jokes. Within these four walls, maskless, he didn’t have to pretend.

He wore his mask as you locked up, but not before sliding in a few bills into the tip jar when you weren’t looking.

“So.” He turned to you, hands jammed in his pockets.

“I’m taking the bus.”

If he had his car he’d have offered to drive, but it was just as well he wasn’t driving. What if he wouldn’t want to leave?

So he walked you to the bus stop before calling a taxi for himself, back to his own reality.

While John was away for a Grand Prix weekend, between media day, qualifying and other preparations, he didn’t have the chance to be alone with his thoughts. However, as soon as he lay in his hotel bed that Sunday night, adrenaline still pumping in his blood from the race hours before, his mind drifted to you. He wondered what you were up to, if you’d thought about him since Wednesday morning when he picked up his order.

See, his problem wasn’t that he didn’t ask, but that he asked too easily and often came off too strong. He didn’t want that, especially not to you, someone the slightest bit more than an acquaintance now, a funny and pretty one at that.

But he should have asked for your number. He had so many chances to: during dinner, while walking you to the bus stop, or when he swung by the day after. You would have loved to know how everyone flocked to him when he walked into the room, oohing and aahing over your cookies.

He’d just have to wait until the next day.

Monday was his favourite day of the week because it was his day off, allowing him to not even leave his penthouse apartment if he so wished. But in the afternoon when he arrived back in London, he had somewhere else to be. On his way home from the factory, he took a detour, parking around the corner from your shop.

He wasn’t supposed to think so much about you, let alone miss you, but he did against his better judgement. He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face when you greeted him as he approached the counter.

“Hiya, what can I get you?”

“I’d like to place another order for tomorrow. Everyone loved your cookies.”

“Sure.” You smiled. “You know, you could just give us a ring, yeah?”

“Right, about that. I was wondering if you fancy dinner with me tonight?”

“Oh, I’ll have to prep for the cookies-“

Behind you, a young lady at the coffee machine quipped over her shoulder with a stifled smile. “I can handle that.”

You turned and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her. “Where to?”

“Anywhere you want. I’m driving.”

When you sent him to wait at a table with a cup of hot chocolate, his smile faltered. He didn’t think this through. He was driving his Mclaren. Shephard, the boss, made up this silly clause in the contract for him and Gaz to drive their own McLaren to and from the factory. Good for PR, he said.

 He hurried outside as he dialled.

“Kate? Kate, I’m at that coffee shop.”

There was a beat. “Okay?”

“Would you please drive my GTI over?”

“Why, did your car break?” She chuckled. “A towed Mclaren isn’t a good look. Shephard won’t be impr-”

“No, I need my GTI in-“ he glanced at his watch. ”Exactly 52 minutes.”

“What? John, I’m your manager, not your errand boy.”

“Please! I’ve got no time to explain, just do it.”

“Or what?” she said dryly.

“I’ll tell your wife in Qatar there was a lighter in your coat pocket which smelled an awful lot like smoke.”

There was a pause followed by a huff. “Fine. Text me the address.”

Kate rolled up in his Golf GTI in time for your shop to close. You picked a place not too far from your flat, and he was thankful it wasn’t packed. You sat at the table in the corner and kept his cap on.

It was evident you were less tired that night, more playful with your jokes. He could listen to your laugh and look into your eyes all day. But before it was too late, much to his chagrin, you called it a night.

He pulled up at your flat. “I promise no more last-minute orders.”

“Just give us a call next time.”

“Rather call you.”

John Sloane, he typed into your phone.

You smiled, sliding your phone back in your pocket. “See you soon, John.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You held his gaze for another moment before giving him a quick peck on the cheek. His heart soared, but before he could react, you’d shut the door behind you with a supressed smile.

He grinned to himself as he drove home.

“Gaz!” Soap bellowed at the door. “Sorry am late. My alarm didnae go off.” The engineer hurried to the table to see Kyle munching happily. “Och, did ye get more cookies, Cap? I’m starvin’.”

Everyone on the team wore a cap, but Price was the only one who couldn’t be caught without one, therefore the curious nickname. That, and he often swore up a storm on team radio, like a bossy sailor. Simon, his engineer, could only remain silent witnessing the outbursts like he wasn’t even there. He earned his moniker Ghost that way.

John chuckled. “Help yourself, mate.”

He popped open the box, groaning after a bite. “Aye, that’s the one.”

“You sure you don’t want one, Ghost?” Gaz teased as he grabbed his third cookie. “You’ve been staring.”

“Alright, just one.”

“Oh, that didn’t take a lot of convincing,” Soap quipped between bites.

Ghost gave him the side eye. “Would you rather I eat the whole box, Johnny?”

Soap pouted and took his seat next to Gaz, and the team meeting for the upcoming race commenced.

As always, the crew flew out on Thursday, but this time, he had you to text. And he did, between the press conferences and briefs, or work, as he simply told you. If he was home, he would ask you out again in a heartbeat. Texting couldn’t compare to seeing that smile in real life, but it would have to do for now.

Abu Dhabi was the last race of the season. He was very much looking forward to winter break, even more so this time, because for the first time in years, he had someone to come home to. Okay, maybe that was too generous a statement. There was someone he would very much want to see, to say the least.

John landed in London Monday evening, still thrumming from his P1 win and finishing second for the season. He went straight home to switch cars before picking you up at work for dinner with a giddy smile.

He had a few days to himself before leaving for Liverpool for Christmas, which hopefully meant one more time of seeing you, if you let him, that was. But when you gave him another peck on his cheek when he opened the car door for you, he decided it was impossible to stay away from you.

I’ve missed you too much.

Ex boyfriend Price Masterlist

@tiredmetalenthusiast @le16erc @keegansshark @kyletogaz @footyandformula

[invisibleicewands]

‘I wanted to be seen as the greatest actor of all time. Then I realised that was nonsense’: Michael Sheen on pride, parenting and paying it forward

He’s the feted star who cracked Hollywood, but it was only when he swapped LA for his home town in Wales that he was able to do his most meaningful work yet

By Simon Hattenstone

Michael Sheen has been fabulous in so many TV dramas and movies, it’s hard to know where to start. But perhaps his most memorable appearance came earlier this year in a TV show that didn’t require him to do any acting at all. The Assembly was a Q&A session in which he took questions from a group of young neurodiverse people. Sheen didn’t have a clue what would be asked, and no subject was off limits. It made for life-affirming telly. The 55-year-old Welsh actor was so natural, warm and encouraging as he answered a series of nosy, surprising and inspired questions. I watched it thinking what a brilliant community worker Sheen would be. And, in a way, that’s what he has become in recent years.

“The Assembly’s had more response than anything else I’ve ever done,” Sheen tells me. “Almost every day someone will come up to me and mention it, particularly people who have children with autism. They say it was just so lovely to see something where the interviewers were empowered. I had a fantastic time.” He replays some of his favourite moments: the young man Leo who took an age to start talking, and then delivered the most beautifully phrased question about the influence of Dylan Thomas on Sheen’s life; the woman who asked what it was like to be married to a woman only five years older than his daughter; and the question that came at the end: “What’s your name, again?” He smiles: “And Harry with the trilby on. Just the nicest man ever.” You came across as an incredibly nice man, too, I say. “Aw well, it’s hard not to be when you’re among all those amazing people, innit.”

Today we meet in London, ostensibly to talk about A Very Royal Scandal, a gripping mini-series about Prince Andrew’s infamous Newsnight interview with Emily Maitlis – the disastrous attempt to defend his honour that sealed his fall from grace. But we don’t get to the show till it’s almost going home time. Sheen’s too busy discussing all the other stuff that matters to him, away from business.

Six years ago, he swapped life in Los Angeles for Port Talbot, the steel town where he grew up. These days he calls himself a not-for-profit actor – a term he happily admits he’s invented. “It means that I try to use as much of the money I earn as I can to go towards developing projects and supporting various things. Having had some experiences of not-for-profit organisations and social enterprises, I realised that’s what I want to do with my business. And my business is me.” He grins. There was a suggestion that he might stop acting in order to do good works, but he says that never made sense; only by getting decent gigs can he earn money to put back into the community.

It has to be said he’s got the air of a not-for-profit actor today – scruffy black top, sloppy black pants, black trainers. With a bird’s-nest beard and a thicket of greying curls, he looks nicely crumpled. But give him a shave and a trim, allow him a flash of that electric smile, and he could still pass as a thirtysomething superstar.

Sheen is best known for transforming into household names – Brian Clough in The Damned United; Chris Tarrant in Quiz; David Frost in Frost/Nixon; a trio of films as Tony Blair (The Deal, The Queen, and The Special Relationship); Kenneth Williams in Fantabulosa. His Prince Andrew is compelling; by turns petulant, pathetic, monstrous and poignant. He has a gift for inhabiting famous people – voice, body, soul, the works. He’s equally adept as a regular character actor – the dapper angel Aziraphale in Good Omens, pale and pinched as spurned suitor William Boldwood in the 2015 film of Far From the Madding Crowd, the tortured father of a daughter with muscular dystrophy in last year’s BBC drama Best Interests. He even plays a winning version of himself alongside David Tennant (and their respective partners Anna Lundberg and Georgia Tennant) in the lockdown hit TV series Staged.

But the work that changed his life was his 2011 epic three-day reimagining of The Passion on the streets of Port Talbot, involving more than 1,000 people from the local community. It was years in the making, and during that time he decided he would leave Los Angeles to come home. Initially, home just meant Britain, probably London. But the longer he spent with his people, the more it became apparent to him that home could only mean one thing – returning to Port Talbot, and helping the disadvantaged town in whatever way he could.

He admits that for many years he didn’t have a clue about the reality of life in Port Talbot. He had always lived in one bubble or another. His parents were hardly flush, but they had decent jobs – his mother was a secretary, his father a personnel manager at British Steel, and both were active in amateur dramatics. Sheen was academically gifted (he considered studying English at Oxford University before winning a place at Rada), a talented footballer (he had trials with Cardiff and Swansea) and an exceptional young actor. Then came the bubble of Rada and London, followed by the bubble of LA.

It was only when he started to work on The Passion that he began to understand his home town. One day he was rehearsing with a group in a community hall when he was approached by a woman. “She told me she was the mother of this boy who’d been in my class at school called Nigel. When I was 11, he fell off a cliff in an accident and died. It was the first time I’d known someone to die. She said, ‘I’ve started up a grief counselling group here. I have a little bit of money from the council because there is no grief counselling in this area.’” She’d had no counselling when Nigel died, nor in the 31 years since. “And all these years later, she’d set up a little grief counselling thing with a bit of money, so that was extraordinary to hear.” Next time he returned he discovered that the group no longer existed because of council cuts.

Every time he went back he discovered something new. He met a group that supported young carers. Sheen doesn’t try to disguise how ignorant he was. “I said, ‘All right, what are young carers?’ And they said, ‘They’re children who are supporting a family member.’ And I’m like, ‘OK, this is a profession, they get paid, right?’ And I was told, ‘No, they don’t get paid and our little organisation gives them a bit of respite – once a week we take them bowling or to the cinema.’ I went bowling with them one night and there were eight-year-old kids looking after their mother and bringing up the younger kids. This one organisation was trying to take these kids bowling one night a week, and then that went. No funding for that, either. That kind of stuff was shocking.”

As a child, SHEEN says he was oblivious to struggle because he was so driven by his own dreams. First, it was football. By his mid-teens it was acting. West Glamorgan Youth Theatre, which he calls “one of the best youth theatres in the world”, was on his doorstep. “The miners’ strike was on when I was 15 in Port Talbot and I wasn’t really aware of it at the time. That’s how blinkered I was, because I was so obsessed by acting at that point.” Acting wasn’t regarded as a lofty fantasy in Port Talbot as it may have been in many working-class communities. After all, the town had produced Richard Burton and Anthony Hopkins.

In his late teens, heading off for Rada, Sheen feared he would be surrounded by giant talents who would dwarf his. When he discovered that wasn’t the case, he suffered delusions of grandeur. “I wanted to be recognised as the greatest actor in the world,” he says bluntly. In the second year, the students did their first public production: Oedipus Rex. “I thought, well obviously I’ll be cast as Oedipus, then we’ll perform Oedipus to the public and when the world sees me for the first time I’ll be carried shoulder-high through the streets of London and hailed as the greatest actor of all time.” I look for an ironic wink or nod, but none is forthcoming.

Sure enough, he was cast in the lead role. “We did our first public production and I thought I was brilliant.” But nothing changed. It didn’t bring him instant acclaim. By the third night, he could barely get through the performance.

Were you a bit of a cock back then, I ask. He shakes his head. “No, I was having a breakdown. I was crying most of the time. I just fell apart. I spoke to the principal of Rada and I said, ‘I can’t continue at drama school, I have to leave.’ And he said just take some time off, which I did, and two or three weeks later I slowly came back and then completely changed the way I acted.”

Until then he believed acting was just about what he did. “I thought you just worked out how to say the lines as cleverly as you could; it had nothing to do with responding to other people or being in the moment. It was showing off, essentially. And there’s a ceiling to where you can get with that. That breakdown I had was because I’d reached the ceiling and didn’t know how to go any further. That’s why I fell apart.”

He gradually put himself and his technique back together. Was he left with the same ambition? “No. The idea of being considered the best actor of all time becomes nonsense.” In 1991, Sheen left Rada early, because he’d been offered a job he couldn’t turn down. He made his professional debut opposite Vanessa Redgrave in a West End production of Martin Sherman’s When She Danced. Theatre was Sheen’s first love, and his rise was meteoric. From the off, he was cast as the lead in the classics (Romeo and Juliet, Peer Gynt, Henry V, The Seagull) and the 20th-century masterpieces (Norman in The Dresser, Salieri and Mozart in Amadeus, Jimmy Porter in Look Back In Anger).

Sheen was doing exceptionally well when he and his then partner Kate Beckinsale moved to LA for her work in the early 2000s. She was four years younger than him, and already a movie star. Their daughter Lily, now an actor, was a toddler. He assumed that his transition to stardom in LA would be as seamless as it had been in Britain. But it wasn’t. His theatrical acclaim counted for nothing. In 2003, he and Beckinsale split up, but he stayed in LA to be close to Lily.

The first few years, he says, were so lonely and dispiriting. “I found myself living in Los Angeles, there to be with my daughter but just seeing her once a week. I had no career there – it was essentially like starting again. I had no friends and spent a lot of time on my own. It was tough. Slowly I realised how it was affecting me.” In what way? “I remember coming out of an audition for Alien vs Predator, to play a tech geek computer guy with five lines and really caring about it, and then thinking: ‘I can be playing fucking Hamlet at home, what am I doing, what’s this all about?’” He says he’d been so lucky – always working, never having to audition, getting the prize jobs. And suddenly in LA he was an outsider; a nobody.

He and Beckinsale are often cited as role models for joint parenting by ex-couples. In 2016, Beckinsale, Lily and Sheen staged a hilarious photo for James Corden’s The Late, Late Show, recreating the moment of giving birth 17 years earlier. Beckinsale reclines on a kitchen table with Lily sitting between her legs, as an alarmed-looking Sheen stands to the side. Have they always got on well since splitting up? “We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re very important in each other’s lives. It would be really sad if we weren’t – like cutting off a whole part of your life. I’m not saying it doesn’t have its challenges, and I’m sure it’s been harder for her than for me.” Why? “Because … ” He pauses and smiles. “Because I’m more of a twat!” In what way? Another smile. “I’m not going to tell you that, am I?”

Sheen’s break in America came when he was spotted by a casting director who told him he would be perfect for a new project. Ironically, it was to play former British prime minister Tony Blair in a British TV drama called The Deal, directed by British film-maker Stephen Frears and shot in Britain. The Deal led to Frears’s The Queen, about Elizabeth II’s frigid response to the death of Diana, Princess of Wales leading to a crisis for the monarchy. Again he played Blair, this time riding to the rescue of the royals. The movie was nominated for six Oscars (Helen Mirren won best actress) and he never struggled in America again.

The longer he lived in LA, however, the more rooted he felt to Port Talbot. And the further he travelled, around the world or just in Britain, the better he understood how disadvantaged it was. “If you’re in Port Talbot one day and then the next you’re in a little town in Oxfordshire where David Cameron is the MP, it’s fairly obvious there are very different setups there. And that was connected to a political awakening.” He started to read up on Welsh history. In 2017, he returned his OBE because he thought it would be hypocritical to hold on to an honour celebrating empire when he was giving a Raymond Williams lecture on the “tortured history” of the relationship between Wales and the British state.

He began to reassess his past. “I became more aware of the opportunity I’d had in an area where there wasn’t much opportunity. At a certain point you go, Oh, people are having to volunteer to make that youth theatre happen that I’m a product of.” You’d taken it for granted? “Completely. I was happy to think everything I was doing was because of my own talent and I was making my own opportunities, and as I got older I thought maybe that’s not the whole story.”

In 2016, the long-running American TV series Masters of Sex, in which Sheen starred as the pioneering sex researcher William Masters, came to an end. Lily was now 17 and preparing for college. “I suddenly thought, Oh, I can go home now.” And six years ago he finally did – to Baglan, a village adjoining Port Talbot. Since then he has been involved in loads of community projects.

He mentions a few in passing, but he doesn’t tell me he sold his two homes (one in America, the other in Wales) to ensure the 2019 Homeless World Cup went ahead as planned in Cardiff. Nor does he mention that a couple of years ago he started Mab Gwalia (translating to “Son of Wales”), which proudly labels itself a “resistance movement”. On its website, it states: “Mab Gwalia believes that opportunity should not only be available to those who can afford it. The ambition is to build a movement that makes change.” Its projects have supported homeless people, veterans, preschool children on the autism spectrum, kids in care, victims of high-cost credit, and local journalism, which is a particular passion. “In the early 1970s in Port Talbot, there was something like 12 different newspapers. There are none now. None. Communities don’t feel represented, don’t feel their voice is heard and don’t know if the information they’re getting about what’s going on in the community is correct or not. Those are terrifying things, and without local journalism that’s what happens.”

Perhaps surprisingly, he’s even found time for the day job. Earlier this year, he played Nye Bevan in Tim Pryce’s new play about the founding father of the NHS. He also made his directing debut with The Way, a dystopian, and prophetic, three-part TV drama about the closure of the Port Talbot steelworks that results in local riots spreading across the country. How does he feel about the rioting that has scarred the country in recent weeks? “I feel the same way I think most people do. It was awful and terrifying. I worry about how much a hard-right agenda that has been growing for a long time has moved further and further into the mainstream and has clearly got more connected. It’s frightening.” Does he think the new Labour government can deliver the positive change it promises? “Pppfft.”He exhales heavily. “More optimistic than the Conservatives being in power.” Who did he vote for? “That’s my God-given right to remain a secret, isn’t it? It wasn’t the Tories!”

I ask if he’s in favour of Welsh independence. “I don’t know how I feel about it one way or the other, but I would like there to be an open discussion about everything that entails. The problem is when it gets shut down and you don’t get to talk about it.”

Would he ever go into politics? He looks appalled at the idea. “Oh God, no. No! I’d beawful.”Why?“Because I don’t want to say what other people are telling me to say if I don’t agree with it. Look at all those people who voted against the two-child benefit cap and had the whip taken away from them. That’s bollocks. People say I should go into politics because I’m passionate about things and I speak my mind. But then you get into politics and you’re not allowed to do that any more. I’ve got far more of a platform as myself. I can say what I want to say.”

Fair enough. I’ve got another idea. A couple of years ago he gave an inspired motivational speech for the Wales football team before the 2022 men’s World Cup, on the TV show A League of Their Own. Would he take the job as Wales manager if offered it? He looks just as horrified as the idea of a life in politics. “No!” Why not? “Because it’s a completely different profession. You need to know about football. I played football when I was younger, but I wouldn’t have a clue. Wouldn’t. Have. A. Clue. Just because you can make a speech doesn’t mean you’d be any good at that sort of stuff.” He says he was embarrassed about the speech initially, but now feels proud of it. “Schools get in touch and say, ‘We’ve been studying it with the class.’ I put hidden things in. There are rabbit holes you can go down.” He quotes the line, “You sons of Speed” and tells me that’s a reference to the idolised former manager and player Gary Speed who took his life in 2011. You can hear the emotion in his voice.

I’ve been waiting for Sheen to mention the new TV drama about Prince Andrew. Most actors direct you to the project they’re promoting as soon as you sit down with them. Let’s talk about the new show, I  eventually say.

This is already the second drama about the Andrew interview. Did he know that Scoop, which came out earlier this year, was already in the works? “Yes, I knew before I agreed to do this.” Was it a race to see which would get out first? “There was no race, no. We always knew ours would come out after.” What would he say to people who think it’s pointless watching another film on the same subject? “Ours is a three-part story, so it’s able to breathe a lot more. There’s a lot more to it. In our story, Andrew and Emily are the main characters whereas they were very much the supporting ones in the other one.”

Did it change his opinion of Andrew? “No. It showed the dangers of being in a bubble, having talked about being in a bubble myself! The dangers of privilege.” He talks with sensitivity about Andrew’s downfall. “The thing that really struck me was when Andrew came back from the Falklands there was no one more revered, in a way. I didn’t realise his job was to fly helicopters to draw enemy fire away from the ships. I couldn’t believe they would put a royal in that position, so he was genuinely courageous. He was good-looking, a prince, and had everything going for him. Since then everything has just gone down and down and down.” He’s had so little control over his life, Sheen says. Take his relationships. “He was told he couldn’t be with [American actor] Koo Stark any more because of the controversy. He was essentially told he had to divorce Sarah Ferguson because the royal family, particularly Philip allegedly, was concerned that she would bring the family into disrepute.”

Did he end up feeling more empathetic towards him? “No!” he says sharply. Then he softens slightly. “Well, empathy? I felt I understood a bit more – because that’s my job – about what was going on. But he’s incredibly privileged and has exploited that. It seems like he has a lot taken away from him but probably rightfully so.”

A Very Royal Scandal is like The Crown in that it’s great drama but you’re never sure what’s real. Are Andrew’s lines simply made up? “It’s a combination of research and stories out there, and little snippets and invention.” While Emily Maitlis is an executive producer, Andrew most certainly is not. “Well, that’s the real difficulty for our story,” Sheen says. “On the one hand, you’ve got Emily as an exec, so you know everything to do with her is coming from the horse’s mouth. But everything to do with Andrew, not only is it really difficult to get the actual stuff, also we don’t know what he did.” He pauses. “Or didn’t do.” He’s talking about Virginia Giuffre’s allegation that Andrew raped her, which he denied. In the end, Giuffre’s civil case was dropped after an out-of-court settlement was reached on no admission of liability by Prince Andrew, with Giuffre reportedly paid around £12m.

I had assumed Sheen would be a staunch republican, but he doesn’t feel strongly either way. “There are lots of positives about royals, and lots of negatives.” His bugbear is that the heir to the throne gets to be Prince of Wales. “Personally, I would want the title of Prince of Wales to be given back to Wales to decide what to do with it, and I definitely think there’s a lot of wealth that could be used better.”

The biggest change for Sheen since returning to Wales is his family life. In 2019, he revealed that he had a new partner, the Swedish actor Anna Lundberg, that she was 25 years younger than him, and that she was pregnant. They now have two daughters – Lyra who is coming up to five, and two-year-old Mabli. As well as Staged, the couple have also appeared together on Gogglebox. They look so happy, nestling into each other, laughing at the same funnies, tearing up over the same heartbreakers. She also seems naturally funny. Given that two of his former partners (Sarah Silverman and Aisling Bea) are comedians, have all his exes had a good sense of humour? He thinks about it. “Yes. Yeah, you’ve got to have a laugh, haven’t you?” And he’s always got on well with them after splitting up? “Yeah, pretty much.”

When asked about the age difference between Lundberg and him on The Assembly, he acknowledged that they were surprised when they got together. “We were both aware it would be difficult and challenging. Ultimately, we felt it was worth it because of how we felt about each other, and now we have two beautiful children together.” He also said that being an older father worried him at times. “It makes me sad, thinking about the time I won’t have with them.”

Does being a dad of such tiny kids make him feel young or old? “Both,” he says. “My body feels very old. But everything else feels much younger. I’m 55 and it’s knackering running around after little kids. Just physically, it’s very demanding. And I’m at a point in my life where I’m aware of my physical limitations now. But in other ways it’s completely liberating, and I’m able to appreciate it more now.”

Has he learned about fatherhood from the first time round? “Yeah, I think so. I’m around more now. That’s a big part of it. When Lily was young, I was in my early 30s and doing films for the first time, so Kate would stay in Los Angeles with Lily and I would go off and do whatever.” Did Beckinsale resent that? “I don’t know that she resented it. Kate was doing better than me in terms of profile at the time, so it was different. Given that we then split up and I saw Lily even less, I very much regretted being away as much. So this time I wanted to make sure that wasn’t the case. That’s partly why I’ve set up a Welsh production company. I don’t want to work away from them as much.”

Talking of which, he says, what’s the time? “I’ve got to get back to my kids.”

On his way out, I ask what advice he would give his younger self. He says he was asked that recently and gave a glib answer. “I said buy stock in Apple.” What should he have said? He thinks about it, and finally says he’d have no advice for his younger self. He��d rather reverse the question, and think what his younger self would say to him if he tried to advise him.

“I saw an amazing clip of Stephen Colbert saying your life is an accumulation of every bad choice you’ve made and every good choice you’ve made, and the great challenge of life is to say yes to it. To say, ‘I love living, I embrace living.’ And in order to do that you have to embrace all the pain, all the grief, all the sadness, all the fucking mistakes because without that you don’t have all the other stuff.” He’s on a roll now, louder and more passionate by the word. “And I’d hate it if someone came and went, ‘Don’t do this, no do that.’ Then you just sail through your life. It would be death, wouldn’t it? So I’d tell my older self to go fuck himself.”

[diejager]

I HAVE A (kinda) stepdad!König+DBF!Horangi

so it was a while ago but I reealllyyyy liked the one u did where reader’s sort of hooking up w/ soap and ghost on the side?? If u remember that

I was wondering if you could do a story where they’re sort of just hooking up occasionally (as often as reader can get away) but clearly both the boy like them and want to further it but she’s worried about König and Horangi finding out.

pretty much they notice her exhibiting really weird behaviors in and out of bed towards them?? She’ll freak out if they approach her a specific way (not knowing König and Horangi take advantage of her that way) or sort of doesn’t rly care about her own pleasure cuz she’s sacrificing it for theirs…just sort of stuff that makes Soap and Ghost go “uhhh 🧍🧍‍♂️that’s kinda weird innit” (they’re presenting traits of being groomed/manipulated/raped/etc)

anyways somehow Soap and Ghost find out ab what’s going on at home and….yeah they’re not happy 😬😬

Thank you for your consideration!!!

— 🌘 !

Cw: DARKFIC, STEPCEST, DUB-CON/NON-CON, implied smut, abuse, implied kidnapping, possessive behaviour, implied one night stand, implied crush, kinda poly, tell if I missed any.

They weren’t saints. If anything, they were the farthest thing possible from good-natured men, with kind hearts and sound morals. Ghost and Soap were sick men, soaked in bloodshed and tragedy, gunpowder and tears, they weren’t good men, they were simply men doing another’s dirty work to keep the world safer. They’d seen their fair share of filth on this earth, the most depraved and savage monsters that found pleasure in plundering and killing, covert crimes done under the nose of most civilians, and hushed exchanges for prizes. They, themselves, have committed unforgettable and unforgivable acts, torture, murders, arson, and so, so much regrettable things that would forever scar their victims.

But this- your situation was gut-wrenching, in a way that twisted their guts and made their throats tight, deathly silent in the brewing rage. From Simon, who had an abusive up-bringing and torturous life, morals and ethics twisted beyond normalcy and comprehension; to Johnny, who’s busybody life turned darker and darker with every life he’s taken, bodies piling over bodies, a permanent reminder that he wasn’t the same bright-eyed and goodwilling saint he was when he first enlisted. 

They were mad: Simon enraptured in wrath, burning hotter than hell’s fire, whose rage rivaled one of God; and Johnny bubbled with rage, running through his veins like rivers of magma, scorching everything on his path to ash and rock. They were enraged to see the way you were used and forced into a new purpose by older men —much, much older men that they knew. Whereas Simon seethed silently, Johnny screeched loudly, words stumbling in a crazed frenzy.

It just- it simply wasn’t a good-natured frenzy. Ghost and Soap were not good men. It stemmed from jealousy and emotional possession. The many dates that you’d suddenly canceled, calling in a rain check that they had listened, were because you’d been fucked numb, legs too weak to walk or support you, tied to your bed or filled with another man’s cum. How rarely they met you outside of simple bar nights with your girlfriends before you’d hookup with them for the night until you had to leave. Or your reoccurring bruises, hidden under the clear lie of being clumsy, a white lie, truly, but a lie nonetheless and they hated liars. 

And the worse thing, the one that hits the most, was that you were being fucked, and abused, and taken advantage of by men they constantly butted heads with. Once enemies, always enemies. They didn’t forgive or forget in their business, and their rivalry would continue until one or the other had died. Ghost would plan, scheme your taking and Soap would take care of you, a man much softer than his rough hide. Soap would gently introduce you into your new life, and if it does work, then Ghost would have to step in, eyes dark and heart frozen over. 

You’d eventually like living with them. At least you liked them.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @lucienbarkbark @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @223princess @maylovesyousomuch @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[hikarry]

I imagine Crowley, in his long existence, has never ever even attempted to cook or bake something. After all, eating has always been an excuse to take Aziraphale out and hang out. And it's not even like he eats a lot. He clearly prefers drinking.

And yet, when they move to the South Downs, it's a bit different, innit? The South Downs is no London where in every corner there's a restaurant or a bakery and there's always a new spot to discover. If they want to eat out they have to drive for a while and it's not like they have a lot of options. All in all, it's just not very efficient. But Aziraphale likes food. And Crowley loves to watch him eat.

I have no doubt Crowley becomes the cook of the household, all for the love of the angel. And he also ends up liking it cause he likes to follow recipes and keeps his mind busy. Aziraphale's smile is just a bonus, really.

Alas, it takes a while for him to get good at it and the first time he tries can be described as one of the most frustrating ventures of his life.

At first he decides to wing it. Something simple, out of the stuff they have in the refrigerator and the pantry. How hard can it be? Humans have been doing it since de beginning of time! It turns out it can, indeed, be quite difficult. He burns everything, makes a mess of the kitchen. Somehow there's flour in the counter tops and he hasn't even touched the flour! Or was it sugar? Regardless, he didn't use sugar either!

He ends up caving in and pulling his phone, searching for EASY and BEGINNER FRIENDLY recipes. The angel doesn't need to know about it.

Welp, even following the recipe he ends up with his sleeves soaked with water, an egg on the floor, somehow the flour is back even tho he miracled it away 10 minutes ago and a burned hand, that he heals not before screaming bloody murder. Luckily Aziraphale wasn't at home.

Eventually, in between all his failed attempts, he starts running out of supplies and starts miracling them as he needs them.

After 3 hours, and 10 minutes before Aziraphale is due to arrive home, he is finally successful and extremely exhausted because of all the miracles.

When Aziraphale arrives, Crowley presents him with a somewhat fancy grilled cheese sandwich (yes. He started with proper meals and ended up in sandwiches).

"Oh dear, you made this?"

"Yup."

"I didn't know you could cook!"

"It's a sandwich, angel. Can't really be considered cooking."

They walk to the living room, when Crowley remembers you can see the kitchen from said living room, and it still looks like a war zone.

"It looks scrumptious, nonetheless!"

"Yeah, thanks." He snaps his fingers behind his back to tidy up the kitchen and close the window he had opened because of the smoke and the smell of burned food before they actually arrive in the living room. "Do you want some tea with that?"

"That would be lovely."

Okay, tea he could do in front of Aziraphale. Tea is easy. Just some warm water and leaves. He has done it a million times before for the angel. He can't fuck it up, right? After the most humiliating 3 hours of his life, he isn't so sure.

[rosellacwrites]

Sharp Dressed Man — Part 1

summary: every girl crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man. Especially when he’s a superhero.

pairings: Steven Grant x AFAB!Reader (otherwise undescribed), implied Marc Spector x AFAB!Reader, implied Jake Lockley x AFAB!Reader

rating: M for this part (reader’s horny). Subsequent parts will be E like whoa.

warnings: suit kink, mention of violence (Moon Knight against the bad guys), did I mention suit kink because that’s really all this is, folks

word count: 794

author’s note: This was not written for the Moon Knight Spring Bingo @moonknight-events, and is not an official entry, but subsequent parts will be, so I’m reposting this now. (I’d have reblogged the original but I can’t fucking find it, thanks, Tumblr.) Happy reading!

dividers by @firefly-graphics

You know everything about your boys, by now. Or at least you thought you did. 

Mostly, these days, Jake’s the one handling the work for Khonshu, which is why you see him the least of the three. He’ll come home once in a while, wrecked and needing shelter, and you do your best to patch him up, heal his hurts and fill him with love and care before you have to send him back out into the gods’ world.

But sometimes, Khonshu’s business requires your other partners too. They do their best to keep their life with you strictly separate; you’ve never met Khonshu, and you’re content to have it stay that way. Marc and Steven won’t talk about their secret superhero lives much, not wanting you to worry about them, but you’ve occasionally caught a glimpse of Moon Knight on the news, doing his vigilante thing. 

His superhero suit is interesting, you think. The long cape seems impractical, but you can’t deny it’s got style, and the gleaming crescent blades he wields are alluringly forbidding. The one thing you don’t like is the mask; you’d like to be able to know for sure which one of your boys is on duty on a given evening. It never occurs to you that there might be a much simpler way to tell. 

You’re home alone one night when you learn the truth. The door to your flat creaks, and you hear the noise of the key in the lock; Marc, Steven, and Jake are all sticklers for making sure your door is locked at all times. They know what can happen, if it’s not. 

But the suit that strides through the door is not a suit you know. Head-to-toe in dazzling white, this suit is a — suit. Three pieces, all so perfectly fitted you think whoever’s supplying the supes these days must have trained on Savile Row: knife-creased trousers flowing like water over his long legs, shawl-collared waistcoat showcasing his broad shoulders and trim waist, and jacket in a rich textured brocade that invites your fingertips. You want, suddenly, to take your shirt off and find out what it feels like against your nipples. You want to learn it with your tongue. 

Even masked, you know your man, his brow adorned with a crescent moon. “Fuck me running,” you breathe, flattening your palms against his chest. “This is — incredible. What an upgrade.” You can’t stop touching him; every part of the suit has its own subtle texture, rich and opulent. He just stands, patient, letting you stroke him all over, and it’s not long before you’re pressing harder, feeling for the muscle underneath. 

And you still don’t know who’s wearing the suit, but given the fact that he hasn’t moved or spoken since you first put your hands on him, you’d put your money on Steven. He’s by far the most patient of your three. But then he waves a hand and his mask vanishes, and you’re proven right; Steven smiles at you. “Hello to you too, sweetheart. Rather dashing, innit?” 

Your eyes go wide, and you grab him by the tie and haul him in for a filthy, desperate kiss. His blood must be up from the fight still; he’s just as fierce as you, giving no quarter, devouring you as though starved for love. A messy night, then. Heavy wet heat has been gathering between your legs since you first touched him, and your cunt clenches when the cool leather of his glove meets your skin. 

“Bloody hell,” he pants, leaning his forehead against yours to catch his breath. “That’s quite the welcome home.” 

“Fuck, Steven,” you sigh. “Who let you out in public looking like that? Did the powers that be decide to improve stats by making everyone too horny to do crimes?” 

“I’ve always had this suit. Didn’t realize you’d only ever seen Marc’s monstrosity.” He laughs, flushing a little. “If I’d known you’d like it this much, I’d have worn it home ages ago.” 

“I never even knew you had two different suits.”

“Different fighting styles, love.” He displays a couple of strikes and parries, showing off for you, and the smooth, lethal grace of his body weakens your knees. He knows exactly what he’s doing right now, and he knows you know it too. 

“The mask part. Does it…” 

He seems to know what you’re asking, a wave of his hand restoring the mask and vanishing it again just as quickly. “You’re wondering if the rest comes off like that too, yeah?” At your glassy-eyed nod, he chuckles again. “Don’t think so. You’ll just have to take it off me the old-fashioned way.” 

You shake your head, and it’s his turn to look at you wide-eyed. 

“Leave it on.” 

to be continued…

[lovingmayday]

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

warnings : fluff, cursing, innacurate-ish depictions of hobie's speech

notes : hobie is about 16-17 here (and so is the pov). halfway writing this, im overwhelmed by how much of an extrovert hobie actually is 😭 btw, i know nothing of classical music concerts so beware! all of this just because i wanted to write hobie sneaking in your window but i didnt even get to fit it in 😭😭

Two words that you've used as an excuse and an apology when you couldn't join your friends at house parties, when a classmate asks you out, or when your phone notifications go crazy because you still weren't home at 5 PM — it was a tiring cycle.

You know they were simply looking out for you but you can't help but feel overwhelmed and exhausted for always being monitored and left out. You couldn't possibly ask your peers to adjust to your parents' standards, you thought it shameless because they already had a hard time with your folks reaching out and interrogating them about your school and social life.

With so much of your life being tracked by them, you deserve at least one thing in your control, right?

Hobie Brown, the school troublemaker. Skips class, vandalizes school property, and actively participates in movements against authority. Frankly, he just does whatever he wants. And he had your respect (+ jealousy). It must've been nice to be so free.

You and Hobie were never given the chance to befriend each other before — you had some classes together but he rarely ever showed up to any of them. You had no reason to approach him and vice versa.

Until, Wednesday — your cello performance. God, you don't know why you insisted to your parents you could handle commuting to the concert venue on your own with the heavy as fuck cello slung around your torso. You had your book bag with you as well because you had just finished school. The bus stop was a few more blocks away but you were tired.

You weren't paying much attention to your surroundings, busy focusing on your aching shoulder. So once you saw the pedestrian lane green signal, you didn't think twice before walking, failing to notice the bicycle riding full speed to your direction. Your eyes widen when a strong force pulled you back, making you stumble a bit and see the bike dart just in front of you.

"Aye, watch it!" you hear the cyclist exclaim.

You back was leaning against the tall figure, looking up to see a familiar face. You regain your balance and face him — Hobie Brown, the boy that just saved your life. "I-It was green– green meant it was safe to walk... I should've looked first, 'm sorry," you say quietly.

"Nah yeah, it's straight. He was the arse," he replies, hands in his pockets. "Dunno where he got the audacity to tell you off when he was in the wrong. Don't worry abou' it." He gives you a reassuring smile, noticing your still dazed expression.

"Thank you, Hobie," you say, a small polite smile on your lips.

He smiles back and nods, "'Twas nothin'." His eyes hover on the unignorable instrument case you were carrying. "Ya headed somewhere?"

"Uhh, yeah," you say, watching the pedestrian stop light turn red again and pouting a bit. You probably won't be late to the performance but you'd miss most of final rehearsal. "Nueva Hall. I have a cello performance in a bit."

"Nueva Hall.. That fuckin' massive, fancy lookin' museum along 5th Ave?" he asks, his eyebrows rising a bit from amazement. "Didn't know you were a big shot musician. Let me get for ya, then." He swings the case from your torso and starts walking across the street before you could protest.

"Hey!" you exclaim, running after him, dodging the other pedestrians walking past you.

"It's a bit distant from here, innit? Let me take you there, I got time. Wouldn't want you to croak before the big show," he jests, turning around and walking backwards. "If it's fine with you, [Name], of course."

You weren't too keen on traveling alone; you only did so so that your parents would think you were independent enough. You consider it for a few moments. "Are you sure I wouldn't be bothering you with this?"

"'Course not. 'Was the one who suggested, wasn't I?" He smirks before turning back around to walk properly and you catch up to his side. "What're you playin'?"

"Tchaikovsky, Rococo Variation. It's a cello and orchestra performance and I got to play cello," you say excitedly. "You're in a band, right? It's like a lead singer but cello!"

He smiles softly at your energy, feeling his cheeks warm up a bit. "How'd you know I was in a band?" he asks almost teasingly.

"I walked by one of your public concerts with my family. I would've stayed if my parents let me," you answer with a small laugh. "You were amazing, by the way."

"Thanks, mate. You're probably not too bad yourself," he says, chuckling as you playfully hit his shoulder.

It was safe to say you hit it off well, which was surprising since you didn't think you would. You thought your personalities would clash, you being at the quieter side while Hobie, you could hear his ruckus from another dimension (and there was a tiny part of you that was intimidated at him, at first).

You arrived at the venue earlier than expected — still late to rehearsals but not by much. "Hey, thanks again. I really appreciate it," you say to him just outside the concert hall doors.

He handed you your cello and waved off your thank you. "It was a pleasure," he teases and you roll your eyes. "Break a leg, [Name]." You thank him once again before he turns around to leave.

Seeing him walk away gave you an unfamiliar ache in your chest. After a much needed self-courage-boost, you let out a soft but loud enough "Wait." for him to hear. He turns around with a small smile and raises an eyebrow, silently asking you to go on. You wet your lips before taking a deep breathe. "Do you want to stay for the show?"

His smile widens, a handsome grin reaching ear to ear. "Finally. 've been waitin' the entire trip for that offer." He laughs and jogs back to you.

He sits at the back row. When he entered the room, he got a few stares and hushed whispers from the other audiences but he couldn't care less, his attention was unwaveringly stuck on you. It was just rehearsals but it overwhelmed Hobie to think about how you'd do in the real thing. He was entranced by you the entire time. The movement of your bow and the emotions you protrayed. It was magnetic.

Once practice was over, the musicians left the stage for a bit as audiences started to pour in. With guests on the older side with more formal attires, it was so obvious that he was out of place.

Meanwhile, you were panicking a bit because after you got changed out of your school uniform, you neared the stage's curtains to check up on Hobie. Your mouth gapes when you see him sat at the back row, almost directly behind your parents. Your parents! You forgot about your parents!! How did you forget about your parents??! They'd go crazy once they knew that you had invited this boy to your performance — you never invite your friends, let alone anybody, to watch your performances.

The second it was time for the musicians to come on stage, Hobie's head rises from his phone and looks for your figure immediately, smiling once he notices your wardrobe change. It was a simple long-sleeve black dress but it was pretty on you. Hobie thought so.

Your take deep breathes to calm your nerves before situating the cello between your thighs. You wait for the violins, the flutes, and the organ to start playing the intro before propping up the cello's bow. With your head held high, you play the first few notes — the position of your hands finding its own way around the fingerboard like muscle memory.

The music closes to an end, claps and praises erupt the venue. You smile and stand to find Hobie. He was already making his way to you. You leave the cello leaning safely on your chair as you scurry to the stairs of the sides of the stage.

"Hobie!" you greet as you reached him. "How did I do? Was I rushing? What'd you think of it?" you ask, rambling almost. If Spiderpunk gets his adrenaline from his fights, you get it from instances that make your heart feel like its about to burst into a million burnt pieces of flesh in your chest.

He smiles back at you, amused. He's never seen this side of you before. He's never seen anything of you other than your surface-level calmness and pliance. "'ts not usually my thing but I know to appreciate talent. Credit when credit is due and all tha' and, luv, you absolutely smashed it!" he exclaims as quietly as exclaiming can allow, placing both hands on you shoulders and shaking them.

"Thanks," you giggle out, placing your hands on his arm. From the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice your parents on their way to you, confused looks on their faces. Your smile falters as you gently loosen Hobie's hold on you, the adrenaline slowly dying down.

"[Name], amazing as always," your mother says, holding your hand in hers' and caressing your cheek with the other. "Who's your friend?" she quickly asks. Her judgmental eyes scan his appearance from head to toe, attempting to hide her expression with a faux smile.

Hobie was about to introduce himself when you cut him off. "–He's a classmate, Hobie Brown." You look into his eyes apologizing and almost pleading to him to go along with whatever you were about to say. "He came here by pure coincidence, could you believe that?!"

"Yeah, a friend gave me an invitation," he follows up seamlessly, a polite smile on his lips. "'Didn't know your daugh'er was performin'."

"Well, it's a nice surprise, isn't it?" you mother says, pulling you to her side.

Your father had yet to contribute to the conversation so you checked up on hi.. He was glaring at Hobie so harshly you could see burn marks starting to appear on his forehead. "Did you enjoy the show?" he finally asks, tone almost threatening.

Your cheeks start to flush in embarrassment. It wasn't uncommon for your parents to ask about the boys you talk to but it never felt any less humiliating every time it happens. You see each and every one of them get uncomfortable and you couldn't do anything to stop them because they'd think you were hiding something.

"Yeah, I enjoyed [Name]'s performance a lot. You must be very proud of her, Mr. [Last Name]," Hobie answers. You've talked to him long enough to notice the slight teasing in his voice. He smirks at you which makes your father's hands turn into fists.

"Honey," you mother calls, "We'll be late for our dinner reservation. It was really nice to meet you, Hobie, but we have to go." Her smile was still plastered across her face, you wonder why her cheeks hasn't hurt yet. She tells you to collect your stuff and you do so quickly. You bid Hobie an apologetic goodbye before you leave.

On the car to the restaurant, you were given the 'no boyfriends' talk again. You tried to respond with 'mhmm's and 'uh-huh's here and there but you weren't listening to a thing — having heard them repeat the same points many times before. You wondered how to approach Hobie the next day, thinking of stuff to say, how to bring it up, and how to act once he says he doesn't want to get involved with you anymore. It was a shame since you really enjoyed his company.

You wished that Hobie went to school the next day and he did, surprisingly. After classes, you catch up to him leaving the building to speak to him.

You were supposed to explain to him the situation but it seemed he was already up to pace and accepting. "The things is," you pause for a bit, "I really liked hanging out with you.." you confess.

"Hey, wait up!" you yell, running to reach him before he got too far. He paused in his tracks, hands in his vest pockets as he watches you catch your breath. "About yesterday..–"

"Nah, I get it," he interrupts you. "Strict parents and shit. It's cool if your folks don't want you hanging out with me anymore. It sucks but I get it." He was disappointed but chill about the entire thing which made your heart sink. You really didn't want to stop seeing him again. You wondered if he felt the same.

A small gentle smile stretches his lips. "I really liked hanging out with you, too. A lot. Best time I've had in a while, honestly."

You contemplate on what to say next — whether to let them out or not. You mouth gapes open, waiting on your next words. You were about to give him an apology but seeing his eyes, hearing that he liked your company maybe as much as you did, it made the decision so much more difficult. ..Fuck it. "I'd like to continue spending time with you.. even if it meant disobeying my parents. If it's alright with you, of course." You feel your ears heat up as you look down, scared of what the other's reaction might be.

It was rather obvious that Hobie didn't expect it, his eyes widening by a fraction. A big smirk appears on his face as he leans down to catch your eyes. "'Must've left quite the impression on you, huh?" he teases. He watches your eyes roll as you playfully shove his shoulder. "Well, I do love a good rebellion."

"It's not a rebellion."

"It's painfully close then, isn't it?"

[elliethefroggy]

Roy Kent: Minder Extraordinaire

(for those of you who prefer reading fanfics on tumblr instead of ao3)

Summary:

What if Jamie had actually done as Roy had asked all the way back in season 1 when Roy told him to get Colin and Isaac to stop messing with Nate? Or Roy Kent accidentally becomes Jamie Tartt's minder and regrets every step of the process until he doesn't.

Chapter 1: Roy Kent Has Regrets

The first reluctant step in their respective redemption arcs.

When Roy goes up to Jamie to ask him to get Isaac and Colin to leave Nate the fuck alone, he doesn’t have much hope that the little prick will listen to him.

When said little prick laughs in his face, Roy considers glaring at him into submission or knocking his teeth out.

Instead, Roy finds some relic of self-control within himself, a pool of patience so shallow it might as well be called a puddle.

“Look,” Roy says, “I get that you don’t give two shits about Richmond—”

“And you do?” The prick interrupts him. That puddle gets a lot smaller. “The way I see it, you give about as much a shit about Richmond as I do. I’ve been here for months, and what? Now you’ve decided to act like the fucking captain? Finally remembered that there’s actual shit that comes with that fancy title? That Alzheimer's really kicking your arse, innit?”

“Just fucking do it,” Roy says. Pauses. Very reluctantly adds, “Please.”

Jamie looks at him, eyebrows raised, a fucking bewildered expression on his dumb fucking face. And yes, okay, Roy doesn’t say please much, he’ll admit to that, but the twat’s been here for a while now; Roy has definitely used that word in front of him. Right?

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie says, looking at Roy like he’s got something contagious, “If it means that fucking much to you. I’ll take care of it; Nate’s a good lad.”

And because the magic fucking word was so effective, Roy decides to use another one, see what that can get him.

“Thanks,” he says, and walks away, leaving Jamie to his weights. He catches Jamie’s face as he steps out of the gym. Definitely one of the funnier expressions he’s seen on that prick. All scrunched up and confused.

The things is though, in some dark little corner of his mind, Roy knows he’s being a shit captain (not that he’ll ever say that out loud because fuck if he’ll admit that Tartt is right). He’s too stuck in his own head to give a shit about Richmond, too worried about how bleak his fucking future’s looking. Retirement striding closer and closer every time he steps onto the pitch with his bum knee.

The great Roy Kent, too busy raging over the end of his fucking career to actually do his fucking job properly.

And some not insignificant part of him thinks why bother putting in the effort now. Why not just finish up his career coasting at Richmond like he’s been doing, and then fuck off to become irrelevant like so many footballers before him. It’s practically a right of passage in this life.

However, now that Ted Lasso has come to darken the club’s doorstep, that plan is looking less and less feasible as the days go by.

(He decides to ignore that somewhat less insignificant part of him that’s relieved by that.)

Later, Roy rounds a corner to the locker room and sees the prick talking to Isaac and Colin. Roy backs away before they can see him and peaks his head around the corner.

“You’ve had your fun. It was a good laugh. But maybe ease up on Nate a bit, yeah?” Jamie says, doing that stupid thing he always does with his shirt, hands tucked underneath it, stretching out the fabric, “Don’t want the gaffer to think we’re a bunch of animals, right?”

Colin and Isaac look almost as confused as Jamie did in the weight room, but they nod solemnly and say ‘yeah, no problem’, before walking away, Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-fucking-dumber.

Roy steps back into view, “Now, was that so fucking?” he asks and takes great satisfaction when Tartt jumps out of skin like the little baby he is.

“Fukin’ hell!” Jamie clutches at his heart, the dramatic idiot, “The fuck you doing sneaking around like some senile old ninja?”

“Making sure you keep your word.”

“Keep your fucking tartan socks on, grandad. I did what you fucking asked.”

“And I’m sure it must have been very painful for you. Are you alright? Did you pull something? Do you need to have a sit down?” Roy asks because he’s mature like that.

“Fuck off,” Jamie says, and storms away, further proof that he’s a fucking baby.

Roy thinks that that’s that; Nate can rest easy, Roy can congratulate himself on his good dead for the year, and he can go back to ignoring Jamie ‘The Prick’ Tartt. Except, of course, fucking Lasso has to go and put his moustachioed fucking nose where it isn’t wanted.

Sitting at the same table as Jamie fucking Tartt, about to be sold off like fucking cattle all in the name of the children was not Roy’s idea of a good time. Fuck Ted Lasso. And fuck his fucking moustache. Roy would pay the fucking charity triple whatever he was sold for if it meant he could go home and leave this fucking farce behind. Unfortunately, that wasn’t allowed; he’d checked.

Though admittedly, messing with Tartt, telling him he would have to fuck that old lady was fun enough, until Tartt stormed off again, Keeley chasing after him. The little prick has been doing that a lot lately.

But then Roy starts thinking about what Jamie said. About Roy being a shit captain. And watching Jamie walk further and further away is no longer fun. And no amount of beer seems to make it fun again.

After a while, Roy sighs and, against his better judgement, decides to be a decent fucking person tonight.

He regrets getting up as soon as he’s on his feet. Regrets every step that takes him closer to the prick.

He finds Jamie at the bar, peeling off the label from a beer bottle and ripping the paper to tiny, little shreds, Keeley nowhere in sight. Roy stands next to him and regrets it. Jamie doesn’t look up, his eyes fixated on the beer label, the bits of paper getting smaller and smaller. And Roy realises something (he regrets that realisation).

“This auction really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Roy watches as Jamie tenses, just enough to be unnoticeable had Roy not being properly paying attention.

“Fuck off.” Roy watches as Jamie’s hands let go of the shreds of paper and try to worm their way underneath a shirt that isn’t there. Jamie’s hands drop when they don’t find the fabric.

More than anything, Roy regrets that he’s starting to get concerned about Jamie Fucking Tartt. The world really is going to shit.

“You don’t actually have to sleep with them, you know,” Roy says.

“Yeah, I’m not fucking stupid.” But Jamie had believed them, hadn’t he? When Roy and Keeley had ganged up on him. He’d believed them, and he’d looked panicked.

And Roy is feeling shittier and shittier the longer this conversation goes on.

“Anyway, it’s just sex, innit,” Jamie says, “Not like it’s a big fucking deal.”

Except this was starting to look like a big fucking deal, because Jamie was still so tense, and if Roy looked hard enough, he could just about see Jamie’s hands, fisted at his side, shacking slightly.

“You don’t have to fuck anyone you don’t want to,” and Roy doesn't know why he says that, doesn’t know why he’s reminding a fucking grown adult about fucking consent. Only with the way Jamie’s acting, it’s starting to feel fucking necessary.

Silence, and then, “Yeah,” Jamie says. And Jamie took too long to answer, and now Roy's really starting to get concerned, and being concerned about Jamie Tartt feels fucking awful.

But before Roy can get into whatever the fuck that’s about, the auction’s about to start, and they get called back to their table.

Roy has many, many regrets.

Roy doesn’t even think when he does it. He’s starring at Jamie up on that stage looking as uncomfortable as Roy’s ever seen him, their conversation and the fucking awful implications behind it playing a constant loop in Roy’s head.

Then that perverted Shetland pony matriarch bids five thousand quid. Jamie starts looking desperate. Roy feels himself lift his arm up.

“Six thousand.” Those words come out of his mouth before his brain can even kick in and decide that no, that’s a fucking stupid thing to do.

He sees Keeley look at him as she places her unused paddle back on the table, bemused as fuck. Because of fucking course Keeley was going to bid on her own boyfriend; she’s the nicest person he’s ever met even if her taste in men leans towards those who are pretty and shit in equal measures.

And he knows that Jamie’s digging holes into his head with those fucking eyes of his much like Cheryl fucking Barnaby is doing, only he refuses to look at Jamie, because what the fuck is Roy even doing.

“Well, well, well,” Fucking Rupert Mannion opens his mouth, and why is he even here? “It seems the Richmond Captain wants a bit of one on one training with the gorgeous young man to my left.” And why the fuck did he say it like that?

Cheryl Barnaby bids seven thousand, probably wondering what Jamie looks like on a fucking Shetland pony. And because Roy’s already started this, he’s fucking finishing it.

He bids ten thousand and decides then and there that he’s disappearing off the face of the earth and moving to some fucking remote village in South America where nobody’s ever heard of him.

Cheryl keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t lift her paddle again.

Roy’s won.

Fuck.

Roy goes back to the bar and finds Jamie where he left him last time. Roy leans against the bar, his shoulder jostling Jamie’s. Neither talk for a moment.

“The fuck was that about?” Jamie asks after the silence becomes awkward enough.

“I was being fucking nice; it happens sometimes,” Roy says. You looked uncomfortable, Roy doesn’t say. “Unless of course, you want to spend a night with Cheryl Barnaby, Shetland pony breeder extraordinaire.”

“Fuck no,” Jamie says immediately. He takes a drink, so does Roy. Then Jamie asks “Was I, like, meant to return the favour?”

“Fuck no,” Roy repeats Jamie’s words, “This is weird enough as is.”

“I’m not going to fuck you no matter how much you paid for me.”

“Did you not hear that whole conversation we had about consent?”

“Just saying.” And then more quietly, “Thank-you” so quietly Roy barely hears him.

And Roy doesn’t want to thing about the vulnerability leaking into Jamie’s voice, so instead he changes the subject because Jamie is looking small and uncertain, two things that Roy refuses to associate with Jamie under any circumstance.

He brings up his old dickhead teammate, Doug Stashwick, and thankfully Jamie follows the change in conversation.

By the end of it, they’re both smiling and laughing together which is fucking weird but at least Jamie doesn’t look so small anymore.

Though, knowing that the prick had a poster of Roy on his wall when he was a kid makes the whole Jamie situation just a little bit shittier.

Ch2

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

What happens in the Apothecary... doesn’t stay in the Apothecary.

When the Core 4 return on the Isle, Harry is just finishing his shopping in Maddy’s Apothecary. It is only natural he decides to steal their bikes and run. It is... probably less natural that Maddy decides to join him and Gil on the ride.

I borrowed Malvina from @tiredflowercrown cos I’ve got plans for this and I think Audrey and Chad would have absolutely marvelous time babysitting Malvina Mim.

Harry stalks through the hovering shelves of Maddy’s Apothecary, idly pushing the odd item just slightly out of its proper place, and only raising the corners of his mouth in a parody of smile when darling Maddy hisses at him. 

Gil sighs as Maddy’s hisses slip into ancient curses – probably – and Harry doesn’t know what’s the fuss about, really.

He’s gonna pay.

Eventually.

Probably. Maybe.

But even so: Uma is not there to see. Uma is not there, and so Harry hardly finds it in himself to care.

He blinks away the memory of her and sweeps away a little package of poisonously coloured candy; it lands with a dull thud. (It doesn’t break and shatter, scatter all around. He isn’t suicidal enough for that, is he?)

„Oops,“ he says with approximately no regret in his voice as he grins at Maddy.

Fine, so maybe he was lying earlier, but can you blame him? There’s no one to hold him accountable for his lies. No Captain to answer to.

For that thought, another package joins the first one on the floor, and a phial disappears into his pocket. He doesn’t bother reading the label.

Gil says something that must be an apology to Maddy, who in turn points to the rules scrawled violently vivid over the grim wall.

We do not give first aid.

We do not give refunds.

Do not ask about correct doses, do not ask about opening hours.

Keep your relationship problems outside. 

Harry giggles: As if Maddy would actually throw him out, what with all the profit he’s been making her lately.  She’s a bitch, alright, but she does have a mind for business, that she does.

She screeches something that sounds suspiciously like „Go have your existential crisis somewhere else and stop sulking about your non-existing love-life in my shop,“ and Harry slips another vial into his pocket.

And he won’t be paying – that’s just what she gets for the love life comment.

Cold-hearted bitch.

Harry gives it a moment of consideration and sneaks another – different – package into his pocket. Maybe if he mixes all this stuff together, it’ll be worth a damn. Worst case scenario, it kills him, and considering his current predicament, Harry figures there are worse things.

He figures not to push his rotten luck any more and disappear the english way before Maddy notices the disappeared proviant; he turns to Gil to tell him so.

„We’re–“ he says before he notices unusual movement outside. It’s barely recognisable through the cloudy, scratched window, but Harry knows a traitor when he sees him. Not that he could mistake the red-black-white of the youngest deVil anyway, no one’s clothes shine like that on the Isle.

Disgusting, if he can say so.

He twists his features into a smirk as he finishes a different sentence than he started: „– going on a field trip!“

A heartbeat of silence, and then: „Maddy, darling, you should join us.“

„And why the fuck would I do that?“

„Also, where are we going?“ adds Gil.

Well, Harry is only too happy to explain: „Oh, why. The traitors are back. They just run by on bikes – we’re gonna nick them and we’re gonna be out in a nick of time, we’re gonna find Uma!“

„Amazing,“ deadpans Maddy, insultingly unimpressed, „Go do that and get the fuck out of my shop.“

Harry blinks as the possible scenarios shift through his mind and no, no, he can’t just jump out there and expect his Captain to do all the work. He ought to figure out some means to find her; he zeroes on Maddy. 

She’s magical, innit, she could find Uma–

She could find Uma, and therefore she must go. He tuts in response to her crude comment and raises on hand: „Oh, sunshine. We can get out. Out is Mal. And magic,“ he raises both of his hands, as if weighting the words, „Mal. Magic. Perfect revenge.“

„…I’m listening,“ allows Maddy reluctantly.

„Amazing,“ Harry states with such amount of poison it rivals some of Maddy’s substances, „Now lets hitch a ride and get the fuck out of there.“

He stalks to the exit, Gil half-a-step behind, but Maddy’s voice stops him.

„Wait.“

Great, what the fuck does that harpy want now?

„Malvina!“ she screams at the top of her lungs, „Move your bones and get up there this instant.“

A scrawny figure scurries just barely into sight and Maddy pulls her into a ray of light. The child blinks in confusion as Maddy says „We’re going out,“ with a decidedly nasty smirk.

Ah, that’s terrific. That little bloodsucker is coming along for the ride – Harry glares at the Mims and mutters curses in a language he thinks the kid doesn’t understand yet though Maddy does, and he makes sure she hears, too. 

She only smirks more as she says: „And if you complain, Hook, I’ll curse your mouth shut so bad not even your beloved Uma will be able to fix it.“

Harry sneers at her. He‘s sure Uma could fix it. She might just decide to wait for that a little bit.

And either way: „Let’s go, there’s no time to loose.“

„No time to die like today.“

„Cheers.“

[mrsfrecklesmarauders]

"What are you going to do?"

Remus felt guilty that because of him Grant was in this predicament. Even if he insisted it wasn't his fault.

"Don' worry, luv"

"Of course I worry, this is my fault..."

"Nah, it's not..."

Grant was smiling. How could he be smiling if Remus had tears in his eyes? Grant was not only bruised but he had lost Fen, the boys who were his family, everything. And if Remus hadn't gone to Hogwarts after Sirius, his childhood crush, like a stupid fool, Grant wouldn't have had to lie. And Fen wouldn't have been pissed. And the boys wouldn't have gotten it even on Grant.

"I would 'ave pissed Fen anyway" Grant added, reading Remus's mind "I wan'ed out a long time ago. I wan'ed be'er than stealing and selling drugs"

That didn't make Remus feel better. He felt even worse. Grant had been so good with him. Remus had been caught up in teenage drama, pranks, parties and pining over Sirius. He didn't think constantly on how Grant and the others were doing. Maybe Fen was right. He had been busy playing to be a posh boy.

"You should come with me to Hogwarts" Remus begged "You can stay in my dorm..." he thought about what the other boys would say... They were friendly anyway "We can get you a job at Hogsmeade... We are friends of the owner of one of the bars, Madam Rosemerta. She's nice. You can work with her. Or in the Library, anywhere you want... There is a cool candy store, from where I buy the finest chocolate...."

Grant smirking amused.

"That sounds great, luv" he said making Remus plan everything in his head "But I can't..." he added, popping Remus's bubble of dreams. "That's yer place and yer world... Not mine..."

Remus was taken aback.

"But..."

"I wan'yeh to finish yer last year in peace. Without distractions or taking care of me" Grant said "You're the smart boy, remember? I want'ta see yeh in a good Uni"

Remus blushed because Grant always made him feel special. Like he was destined to great things. When it was not actually the case. He was average. He did well at school but there were people that killed to be better. Like James and Lily for example.

"Where are you going to go then?"

That didn't mean that Remus wanted Grant to go. Remus was able to stand all the superficial comments of everyone at school and all the questions of teachers to keep Grant safe.

"Brighton" Grant smirked "That's where I'm from supposedly, innit?"

Remus blinked in surprise. Brighton? Remus didn't want him to leave London.

"Are you looking for your parents?"

Grant snorted "I don' think those bastards would care for me. No"

"But how are you going to get there? You don't have any money left"

Grant didn't have anything left. All his life was with the boys. But right now, Remus wanted to do was spike Grant's guns, so he would stay.

Grant shrugged "I'll figure it out, darlin'"

"I can give you the money for the bus ticket"

Remus had forgotten that Sirius was there. He had been so quiet and peaceful. Not common in Sirius. Just letting the two long time friends have a conversation.

Now both of them, turned to look at him, acknowledging his presence.

Remus was furious. They had been talking about Grant's poor conditions. How they had all shared Fen's tiny flat and they didn't have more opportunities than stealing and selling drugs. Now Sirius was giving his money away. Like the stupid brat posh he was.

"Nah, it's alright!" Grant waved off nervously, eyeing at Remus's penetrating eyes on Sirius.

"It's okay" Sirius ignored him "I reckon my Uncle left some money around this flat"

"Sirius..." Remus grunted.

"He has a safe box somewhere, maybe we can crack it open..."

Only Grant would smile in a situation like this. He was pure sunshine.

"Grant, would you give us a second?" Remus said, eyes still on Sirius.

Grant looked between the two. Then rised to his feet.

"Alright... I'll have a fag in the balcony..." he extended his hand "Luv..." Remus gave him the pack "Cheers" he sniffed before walking away, whistling happily on his way.

There was a brief silence after that. Remus wished Sirius didn't look so adorable, so beautiful, like a lost puppy without knowing what he did wrong.

Remus swallowed his desire to kiss him.

"What the fuck was that, Sirius?"

"I was just trying to help, Moony"

"By giving away your money!!"

"It's not my money, technically it's my Uncle's..."

Remus groaned. He didn't know if he loved or hated Sirius more.

"The point is that you don't get to go around offering money to people. It's offensive, you stupid posh boy!"

Sirius kept looking at him with that same innocent expression.

"He needs the money, I don't. So I don't see why I can't just give it to him" Sirius shrugged.

"You are such a twat that doesn't understand anything"

"He's your friend and I am simply trying to help him"

Remus shook his head in fury.

"It's that simple. He can leave if he wishes" Sirius carried on "But maybe you're just pissed because you want him to stay"

Remus would have loved how jealous Sirius sounded if he wasn't so pissed. Now he showed interest. When he had competition.

"He clearly wants to leave"

"And you would want him to go, wouldn't you?" Remus snapped "So you won't have competition? Let's talk about how Grant's presence makes you feel insecure, Sirius!"

When Remus got angry, he bit until he tasted blood. And now the calmed expression that Sirius had until now, was gone.

"Stop being an idiot, Remus!" Sirius spat back "It is not about that..."

"Oh really?"

"I just want to help"

"Why?"

"Because I love you and he is important to you!!" Sirius yelled.

Remus was taken aback by the use of the words 'I love you'. Sirius hadn't said them upfrontly. He had kissed him with desire. He had said he was sexy. Remus knew he cared about him as friends. There was no doubt of that. But love him? Never.

"And yes, fuck it, I am really jealous"

When Sirius pulled him for a kiss, Remus knew he was just doing all of this to mark his territory. Because Sirius didn't love him like that. He just wanted to prove that nobody would have him except for him.

And Remus kissed him back. Because he was an addict that knew his drug was bad but couldn't stop.

'Have some dignity, Remus!' A voice said in his mind. It sounded suspiciously close to Lily's for some reason.

Then he pushed Sirius away.

"You wanted to kiss me so he would see, ha?"

He gestured towards Grant who was indeed looking from the balcony amused. But when he was caught, he looked away into the street, waving awkwardly to the people passing down.

"Moony..."

Remus got up furiously before Sirius could say anything else. What a wanker! What a wanker! What a wanker!

Remus ignored Sirius as he called him again, and walked towards the terrace. Grant raised an eyebrow to him. He didn't look offended or anything. He was enjoying this too much. Remus felt pathetic.

"So... Do you really want to leave?" Remus asked. 'To leave me?' he thought.

Grant smiled with cigarette between his lips and all.

"You haff foun' where yeh belong, darlin'" Grant said flickering his eyes towards Sirius, and Remus didn't like how that sounded "I need ter find my way, don't I?"

Remus's eyes filled with tears. They used to belong together. But not anymore. It was true. Remus couldn't fit him with the rest of his Hogwarts friends. Grant would probably become friends of all of them. But there were many things they didn't share. It had been a shock for Remus. And he hadn't lived the life Grant had.

"I might let Sirius pay your ticket..." Remus said as he crossed his arms "He owes me a lot anyway..." he heard Sirius snorting in the back "But only with the condition that you'll call me all the time... And let me come and visit you"

Grant's smirk became wider. Remus wasn't surprised when he pulled him in for a tight hug.

"Of course, darlin!" Grant laughed like a little kid on Remus's ear "You'll never get rid of meh, yeah hear me?"

Remus was silently crying at this point. Because he would definitely miss this boy. So he buried his teary face on his shoulder.

He knew Sirius was looking. He didn't want to think about it.

When the two boys broke apart, Sirius was standing next to them. He didn't look jealous or possessive. Just careful. And God, why was he so freaking beautiful? And why did Remus love him so much?

"It's settled then" Remus said to break the ice, wiping his tears away "Let's break Alphard's safe box... But first, I am going to the loo"

He didn't look at Sirius, just smiled at Grant as he stepped inside.

But he stopped...

"And now that you're offering money, Sirius. Why don't you invite us breakfast? I'm bloody starving"

Remus was still acting pissed. Although Sirius was smiling. What a prick!

Remus was walking to the loo, when he heard Grant laughing. So he stopped to listen more.

"Little Rem is really pissed at yeh, ain't he?"

"I know" Sirius sounded so formal next to Grant. "He's been like that lately"

"But he's properly in luv wiff yeh, yeah? He's always been" Grant sniffed, but Remus could hear the smile on his voice.

Sirius took a bit longer to answer.

"I love him as well" he said "Of course I do"

Remus wished he would explain in which way.

"Now I'll have to tell yeh that if you'll ever hurt my little Rem, I'll have to find you and punch yer pretty face, mate!"

Remus smiled because he knew Sirius was blushing.

"I won't. I promise"

Grant tutted "Good!" he said "And thanks for the money, by the way"

"My Uncle Alphard would have loved to give his money to a queer boy. He did that on life anyway"

Remus rolled his eyes. Sirius thought he was so clever, didn't he?

Probably Sirius didn't expect Grant to laugh like he did.

"Yer funny, not jus' a pretty posh boy"

Oh Jesus, was Grant low key flirting with Sirius? He would've paid to see Sirius’s face now.

"And you're cool, not just a street junkie"

Grant laughed even louder. Remus even heard Sirius giggling, so he smiled. He figured he could leave them alone for a bit.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Hi Fen!!! Popping in to ask what you think the moon boys’ hobbies would be (if they weren’t so busy moon knighting). (For Steven, I feel like studying ancient Egypt is more like a passion, so like what else do you think he’d be into?)

K. Love you! Byeeeee.

IDJIDHVDHFH Oh my gosh, I love this ask so much! Thank you so, so, SO much for sending it! ❤️(ILY!) Did I think about this at work for a good 1 and 30 mins instead of working on a spreadsheet? No, of course not, I would never do that… 👀

I have narrowed it down to one each to save everyone from seeing my absolute madness.

Moon Knight Boys Headcanons & Hobbies

Rating: PG  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged?

Warnings: Swearing

Steven: Cooking

Okay, here me out. So, I’ve seen opposite ends of opinion on this one (both are valid) but I’m going with Steven is a very good cook, and he likes cooking. 

He’s been vegan for a while and it’s only in the last couple of years that food places have really been trying with vegan and vegetarian options that aren’t salad… bread… (chips if you’re lucky) So, I think he enjoys making lots of different recipes. 

It started out with him just making vegan ones and then, over time, became him changing other recipes to make them vegan and coming up with his own. 

Absolute master at vegan cakes, no one can ever tell the difference, and, in fact, a lot of people compliment him on ‘the best cake they’ve ever had’, ‘so light and fluffy? How do you do it?’ “Well, that’s the secret, innit?” (whisk the aquafaba like your life depends on it and sweet potato) 

Steven is absolutely horrified by the food Marc makes himself. (Plain chicken, rice, spinach) 

“Where are the flavours Marc? At least some herbs? Spices for fuck’s sake? I can’t believe you’re eating plain steamed chicken?” (He doesn’t even care that it’s meat, it's just the lack of flavour.)

“It’s boiled chicken actually.”

Steven loses his goddamn mind. 

“I don’t care what bloody macronutrient you are monitoring, you are not eating that.”

It’s not that Marc can’t cook, he just doesn’t see the reason to put the effort in when it’s just for himself (doesn’t feel like he deserves it.)

Steven grumbles to himself and refuses to let Marc cook his own dinner if he can help it. “If you’re going to eat meat, at least treat it with respect, yeah? Bring out the flavour?” He usually preps something for Marc, so he can cook it quickly when he’s hungry. 

Makes so many cakes and pastries for Jake. Leaves them in boxes with ‘Jake :)’ written on a post stick note on the top. Jake is always so touched and surprised when he does. They have taken to playing a little game where sometimes the food is vegan and sometimes it’s not and Jake has to guess. He’s more accurate than most people, but it still only averages around 70% right. (69% if we’re being exact, and Marc is sure Jake’s messing with the correct statistics on purpose.)

Marc: Fantasy Baseball and Fantasy Football

Literally takes it so seriously. Has spreadsheets filled with information and pours over every single statistic like it holds the answers to the universe. It only got more intense when he found a forum for people with the same interest and he literally will spend hours talking online about it.

“It’s not about getting the best players, it’s about making the best team.”

Jake has joked that he puts Steven and his love for history to shame and if those spreadsheets weren’t saved on the computer Marc would have boxes and boxes and folders upon folders of printed out info and then there would be zero space in the flat. 

When Marc annoys Steven, Steven tells him to “go play with your pretend american cricket and american rugby” to piss him off. 

(Marc retaliates by incorrectly pronouncing UK places. 

“Steven, maybe we should take a trip to Ed-in-b-row” 

“It’s Ed-in-bruh.” 

“How about Sus-SEX or Es-SEX?” 

“It’s Sus-SIX and Es-SIX.” 

“I do love Green-WITCH at this time of year.” 

“IT’S GREN-ITCH! Jake, you're from New York, how is Greenwich pronounced?” 

“I’m not getting involved.” 

“Ha! That’s because he agrees with me!”

When things get really heated, Marc threatens to make a cup of tea in the microwave. Steven says he doesn’t care because he makes coffee in the microwave all the time and it’s fine. Jake puts an end to it by saying hot chocolate tastes best with water and then laughing when both Marc and Steven gang up on him. 

“I cannot believe you think that mate.”

“You know how many different types of milk there are?”

“Absolutely disgusting.”

“Cow, goat, soya, almond, coconut, literally any of them instead.”)

Jake: Knitting

Wanted something to keep his hands busy, that he could pick up and put down, and that he could take in his cab when he was stationary and waiting for fares. 

Took to it a lot quicker than he thought it would, and can just zone out and knit. It helps keep him grounded. 

He feels like he has spent a lot of his time destroying and there is something so satisfying about being able to create. 

Once he mastered the stitch he quickly moved onto making clothes. Before Marc and Steven knew about him he used to knit jumpers for Steven and hide them in the wardrobe. 

Jake makes Marc a cartoony style baseball jumper that he also loves, and a thick cardigan for Steven that is covered in hieroglyphics (he spends months researching the language to get it to make some sense, and works in a dig at Khonshu in there and has Steven crying with laughter.) 

When they know about him Steven excitedly requests the “most garish and over the top Hanukkah jumper anyone has ever seen!” Jake does his best, presenting it to Steven (and trying to hide how nervous he feels) Steven loves it and refuses to take it off all winter. 

Most people think Jake has a stern glare when he wants, but you can never be sure if he’s planning your destruction or trying to work out how many balls of wool it would take to make someone your size a jumper.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @welcometostayingawake @mbakubabe @solobagginses @melodygatesauthor @romanarose @pimosworld @jake-g-lockley

If you'd like to be taken off the tag list please let me know here

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 14

Prompt: gifts

cw: implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

Sometimes gift-giving ain't all it's cracked up to be, and sometimes it is. - A series of moments from Jamie's life.

Here on AO3

Age 4

Gasp! “Is this for me? Did you make this? Oh, Jamie, it’s beautiful, I love it. Come on, now, give mummy hugs.”

Age 7

“Oh, thanks baby. That looks wonderful. No, I do, I do like it! I do! Mummy’s just really tired today, I promise. Soon as the holidays are over, I’ll go back to working my normal shifts.”

Age 9

“Did you make me breakfast in bed? That’s so sweet! Thank you so much, love. …Was this by any chance the last tin of beans in the cupboard?”

Age 11

“What the hell is this? Did your mum put you up to this? Bit cheap, innit?”

Age 12

“No, of course I’d love to come to your match, Jamie. But you know with this new job I started, it’s not a good look if I ask for time off so soon.”

Age 13

“Did you think that I wouldn’t already have the new kit? Huh? You think I’m broke? Is that the kind of garbage your mother’s been filling your head with? Teaching you how to disrespect your old man?”

Age 14

“Look, junior. I know things got a bit heated between us last time I came around. Just the way it is with us men sometimes, am I right? I’m sure you said some things you regret too. But your mom and I, we’ve been talking, and I think I’ve got a shot there. Make us a proper family again. Now, what do you say you and me, we celebrate the occasion by taking ourselves a little father/son bonding trip? Ever been to Amsterdam?”

Age 15

“We can make a day of it. Get lunch, maybe go to the cinema? Oh. Oh, no, that’s all right, love. I didn’t know that you’d made plans with your friends already. Right. Right. Well, if you think you’ll be home in time for dinner-“

Age 16

“-right. Uh huh. No, I know you’re busy, love, but I was thinking. I know how stressed you’ve been lately and how hard you’ve been working. Maybe later this year, you and I can take a trip, hm? Around New Year’s? Just the two of us. Get away for a little bit before you skyrocket into superstardom.

“No, you don’t have to help pay for it any of it, Jamie-”

Age 17

“-No, I know you’ve got a match, Jamie. It doesn’t have to be this weekend. I told you, whenever you’re free-“

Age 18

“Now that you’re making money, I think it’s only fair you treat your old man to a drink.”

Age 19

“New fancy contract, and you’re telling me you can’t afford to do something nice? For your own dad? C’mon, son, I’m not asking for a Porsche here-“

Age 20

“I’m not saying you have to like him, Jamie! But Simon’s important to me, and I’d like you to actually meet him before-“

Age 21

“-lazy, uninspired, waste of fucking space on the pitch! Is it any fucking wonder that Pep’s got you warming the bench for the real players when you’re out there bottling penalties? Hey. Hey! You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you-!“

Age 22

“I know you’re still screening my calls, but I just called to thank you for the flowers. I’d ask about your birthday, but I’m sure you already have plans.”

Age 22

SMACK.

Age 23

“Oh, babes, I wish you’d told me. I already promised my mum I’d go ‘round hers for the holiday. Only she’s just moved down here, and she hasn’t been able to meet anyone yet- no, you do not want to meet her, trust me. But hey, you have fun in Spain- wait you didn’t already buy the tickets, did you?”

Age 24

“Would you look at that? City wins on my son’s birthday, and he ain’t even here to see it. All because he let some stupid yank make him soft, and now he’s too much of a pussy to stick it out when things get tough. What’s wrong, junior? Did Roy Kent calling you little bitch on TV hurt your widdle feelings? Huh? You gonna cry? You gonna cry about it?-”

[“Dad”]: Don’t you fucking hang up on me

[“Dad”]: Jesus Christ, no need to be so sensitive

[“Dad”]: Did you sort my tickets for the next match?

Age 24

“Yeah, but, you know, some folks might also consider that buying affection, you know.”

Age 24

“Jamie? Oh… we didn’t expect you to call. No, it’s fine, we aren’t going anywhere; Simon’s tinkering around in the kitchen… You tried them? Really. That’s- ahem, of course. Of course I’ll let him know.

“SIMON! Jamie tried your gluten free lemon pound cake! He said it was ‘fucking tasty’! His words!

“Jam, Simon would like to know what your nutrition guidelines say about – love, is this a list?”

Age 24

[Isaac]: Alright, everyone. Jamie’s birthday is coming up, so it’s time to start making plans.

[Sam]: Did you remember to remove Jamie from the group chat before you sent the text?

[Isaac]: Shit

Age 25

“...and this is going to sound so weird, but I promise I am not a stalker. I’m Roy’s sister. Yes, that Roy. Uh, you may be aware that he has a niece – Phoebe, yes – and she has something important she would like to ask you.”

“Hi Jamie! It’s Phoebe! Would you like to come celebrate Uncle’s Day with us?”

Age 25

“I love it.”

[somuchbetterthanthat]

A little Gwen&Alice with heaavy alice/sam, because I needed to write something after that last ep and tumblr ficlets are less intimidating than full fics.

In hindsight, hiding in the loo is dumb. Sam's making her dumb, which is aggravating and bothersome and does not horribly ache like it used to, before, in those last few weeks they'd stayed together in the same flat while Sam prepared his trip abroad. Alice's a Cool Girl. Cool girls don't hide in bathrooms because their best friend who just so happen to be their ex arrived to the office at the arm of another woman with the sparkly bubbly smile that screams I had such a good time this weekend Celia is awesome at sex.

Then again, Alice's pretty sure her Cool Girl's crown's been stolen the moment Celia walked in with those stupid donuts for the first time (and it is painful, in a way, that Celia is cool to hang around with; pretty and fun and chill and blessed with the same ability Sam has to be friendly with everyone she meets immediately).

Whatever; Alice's excellent at building new narratives and looking away to survive. She'll withstand having Sam back in her life and then feeling like she's loosing him all over again like a fucking champ -- but she has to admit, hiding in the loo was just not a good move, 'cause now she's got to not only deny her sad moody depressing feelings, but also the fact that Gwendolyn Bouchard is clearly weeping on the stall next to hers.

"Hey," she whispers, after three long minutes of wondering whether she wants to deal with this, then deciding it's the sort of night where she'd definitely rather think of someone else's problems than her own.

There's mouvement on her left, then a sharp exhale. "What?" hisses Gwen.

"Want to tell me what this is all about?" Alice asks, staring at the door.

"No," Gwen snaps. Then: "We're in a bathroom, Alice, for god's sake, do you have any sort of decorum--"

"Exactly!" Alice cuts her off. "We're in a bathroom. That's basically being in a confessional for us ladies, innit? Sure we're not drunk out of our heads at the club or whatever, but I think this qualifies all the same. Everything you'll say is sacred in here my dear. Any sin is between you, me, and those awful scratchy paper roll that we're always out of. Hope you've got an handkerchief ready, by the way."

It must strike a nerve, because Gwen stays silent for a good thirty seconds before she mutters: "Anyone could come in."

"Oh, please," Alice snorts. "We both know Lena's not human enough to have to use the loo and Celia's too busy getting lost into Sam's eyes, we're fine."

"Why do you say that?" Gwen asks, her tone suddenly more alert.

"...'Cause Celia is getting lost in Sam's eyes? I mean, I know you have your whole thing going on and you're wayy better than us now that you got that shiny promotion you wanted so much, but they've literally been building this whole sickening little office romance just in front of our noses for like, two months, surely you haven't missed that. Kinda surprised you haven't actually told them this was against regulations or whatever."

"No not Celia, I don't care about her, or whatever's going on with Sam (Lucky you, Alice thinks meanly, and has to bite her tongue very hard). I mean about Lena. Do you think she's --" Gwen stops, exhales shakily. "Now, that'd be ridiculous. Obviously. She's nothing like --"

Oh, Alice thinks. Oh, Gwendolyn. She wishes people would listen to her, when she says to look away. Sam and Gwen are similar that way, she notes. All too ready to dig themselves into messes that are much too big for them to take on.

"I was making a joke," she tells Gwen. "I do that, sometimes. Oh, not very often of course, you know me, all too serious for this sort of nonsense, but I have heard before that it can lighten the mood here and there--"

"God, you are unsufferable."

"Is that how you talk to your priest, Gwendolyn? Shame on you."

"I'm leaving now. This is all pointless, and we've got work to do anyway."

"Do we ever," Alice sighs.

"You've been here for like, twenty five minutes, by the way," Gwen adds. "If you want to keep pretending you're not the one mooning over Sam, you might want to come out soon."

[asherloki]

helloooo :)

i was wondering if u could write somthing about anderson disrespecting reader when they join cases with sherlock, but always behind their backs

but then sherlock hears and he starts (trying) to beat him up, and anderson puts up a good fight, however sherlock still wins

he goes home to 221B and reader is shocked asking who hurt him and what he did, but he doesn’t give away anything, and simply tell them not to worry about it. whilst reader is patching up his wounds, john comes back and starts saying how cool, dangerous and reckless beating up anderson for reader was and they’re just flustered and shocked, saying thank you to sherlock (maybe a first kiss scene?)

reader also gives anderson a piece of their mind - not because he disrespected them, because he beat up sherlock :)

tysm and ur work is amazing!!!!

Detective's doll

Bbc Sherlock x reader

Word count:- 840

A/n:- listen guys, just one or two fic will come this month, once October is here I'll be doing Halloween fics! I've shared some prompts do check! Fandoms you know, otherwise check my masterlist.

"you think I can help you with this case?" I enquired to Sherlock not believing he asked my help suddenly for a case. I've been fond of him since I moved in. He can seem cold, unfriendly, some people may describe him as arrogant as well. I was no exception, however living with him taught he's actually pretty lonely. Especially since john watson was married. Sometimes when he's working or sitting with his microscope he looks as pure as a child who just needs a hug. I do want to hug him tight sometimes but he's not very fond of touches innit? So I never dared.

"that's why I asked you, look this case includes information about victorian literature and by seeing your side of the bookshelf " he said pointing to our bookshelf, his side was filled with books about chemistry, science, anatomy and mine was filled with victorian classic novels, mostly, "I think you can help us with this".

"okay then" I must admit I was over the moon. A real life adventure was calling me, how could I not be thrilled.

In evening we went to Scotland yard, I felt excited about being able to help these men. Especially Sherlock, he introduced me to lestrade and informed him that I'll be joining their quest. His agreement confirmed my involvement before I went with him to his office to get some information about the case, I thought Sherlock was following me however I turned around to find out he was going to a different direction, he was walking towards Andersen. Perhaps he had business with him, but one question still lingered, he doesn't quite like Andersen that much.

When I came back with a folder in my hand which contained some information put inside, not in an organised way, I looked around for Sherlock, it seemed like he was gone, and for some reason people or I must say other officers there stared at me. I wondered why, maybe because I don't usually visit their office. Though their furrowed brows told some different story.

After I got to Baker Street I found the flat's door already open,

"Sherlock?" I called, to make sure it was him who opened the door, and not some break in, "is it you in there?" I walked in showing some bravery, trying to make least noise possible to find Sherlock struggling with the first aid box.

"gosh" I went closer to him and I gasped as I found out he had a cut along his cheek bone, and some more wounds accompanying "what the... what happened?"

"nothing" replied the detective, still trying to get the box open. I noticed his knuckles were hurt too as they were all red, it was the reason for his struggle with the first aid box. They were hurting him as he tried to open it.

"fine don't tell me" the only thing I couldn't bring myself to like about him was his habit of keeping things hidden, "do me a favour and sit" I wonder if my eyes reflected all the concern I felt for him. It may have, for he stared at me for a few seconds then obeyed without any objection. I took some medicine in cotton to apply over his cut.

"ow" he pulled away as the medicine on the wound felt like burn.

"I know it might hurt but please.." as I said and he nodded in agreement, it appeared to how much I fancied this moment, me taking care of him, even though he was hurt, and that was the part I disliked. I continued to do my job until John Watson came bursting in,

"oh gosh you're here, you did amazing" he seemed overjoyed and I bet I could see all his 32 teeth the way he smiled.

"let's not talk about it" said Sherlock softly. My confusion rose at this point, does john know what happened?

"no wait" I forbid him to interfere, "what happened john?"

"wait you don't know?" he asked in a way as if I'm the one who should be knowing this before others, although he was well aware how secretive his friend can be.

"how's mary? Is pregnancy bothering her?" Sherlock interrupted again, with his terrible skill of small talk.

"shhh" I hushed him "speak up John".

"Sherlock beat up Andersen" He spoke finally.

"he did what?"

"yes, because..."

"you said enough" Sherlock forbid him again.

"no he hasn't" I said, "because?" I turned to John.

"because Andersen said shit about you" John's words left his mouth and hit me, one because Andersen said something bad about me? but I never were mean to him even for once, why would he do that? and two, Sherlock beat him for that? For me?

"it wasn't just.." Sherlock started to say something, he was lacking excuses so he stuttered until I spoke,

"really?"

"yes, Andersen is beaten up terribly by him" replied john, "and you shouldn't bother about what he said".

That only meant it was very mean, "I'd still like to know"

"dumb doll of the detective" said Sherlock, "that's what he told you, you're dumb, a doll who's is controlled by me"

I gasped at this not knowing what to say.

"an opportunist" followed by a few seconds of quietness, "he said more but..."

It felt terrible, no wonder other words were far more worse that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to speak.

"anyway" John said breaking the silence. "I better go home, Mary might need me."

Waving us he went and left us wondering about the situation. I turned to Sherlock as I was yet to understand all those cuts and wounds he endured, were all to protect my image? To protect me from words? He knew then how sensitive I am under the cover of a strong person, "you fought him for me?"

He nodded in response, followed by the heavy exhale.

"and why?"

"because you don't deserve disrespect, and obviously not from someone like Andersen." he replied.

I don't know why but that moment I didn't care if he likes being touched or not instead I wrapped my arms around his neck and placed my chin on his head, sniffing his hair and realising his shampoo has a decent smell, no wonder his curls were like a soft pillow. It forced me to lean my cheek too with a smile that appeared on my lips, "you didn't have to, but thanks"

"no problem" he said taking my hand, and caressing it, as if it was an assurance, a promise that my palm was safe in his hand.

Next day Sherlock, john and I went to Scotland yard where I found the sight of beaten up Andersen, oh how... terrible honestly. I felt bad how wounded he was but atleast he'll think twice before disrespecting me, or anyone. Sherlock made sure of that.

"you guys go inside, I'll be with you in a minute" I said walking to Andersen, although Sherlock pulled me a little by my wrist to say,

"listen" Sherlock said, "don't put up a fight I did it already"

"I won't" we exchanged smiles and I went to catch Andersen,

"Andersen!" I called.

He looked horrified yet fuming at me he said, "you? what do you want?"

With some strength in my voice I stated, as politely as possible yet stern, "next time if want to say something, make sure it's on my face, but if you dare again, my detective will kill you, I'm his doll afterall, he won't let you play with me like that" then I went a little closer and replied in a hushed voice, "I'm his to love, his to keep, his to adore." This may haven't scared him but infuriated him even more, so I stepped backwards with a smile, now that my threat did it's job and walked away, just one more time I turned around to wave him, a mocking wave to be more clear, "see ya".